Renvar Dararcath

Shadowed by the grand mountain of Kakamala, there sat an aruxfeld, a village, small but not underpopulated, widespread but not spread thin. The sole species that lived there were the dragonborn of the clan Dararcath, meaning 'the dragonborn spellscale'. In that village, there were a large diversity of ages and interests, wonders and teachings. Coinciding with the clan's name, the dragonborn of this village were well versed in magics and sorcerous powers, collecting and sharing their knowledge within themselves and down to each and every generation. The physical looks of the Dararcath clan showed primarily in the crimson red of their scales that they wore with pride, eyes of yellow and touches of auburn and peach running through their tails and horns.   Renvar was one of this clan, a strong male of respectable manner and peaceful existence, similar to many others there. By the time he was close to maturity at the age of fourteen, equivalent to seventeen or eighteen in a human, he had learned and could recite most of the core lore of his clan. With tradition, he had taken up the learning and wielding of a weapon, and over time his clan came to see that he had a particular skill with a sword or a staff, being able to win a duel against any other with a grace and ease that did not come commonly. He fought not with a feverish anger or brute force, but a simple way of moving and gliding across the ground, taking up new techniques and ideas like seeds on a wind.   The dragonborn of this clan, akin to how many clans operated, loved and lived with peace amongst each other, be it family of friends, a way of thinking that Renvar also was with, as many would argue it is the best way to live. Therefore, anything that a single or a couple dragonborn faced, they faced together as a clan, supporting and representing one another in all situations where it may nessasary. They ate communally at mealtimes, and trained together by the fading shadow of the Kakamala mountain.   When Renvar had just marked the passing of his sixteenth there came an event that not a single one in the clan Dararcath expected or was prepared for. The winter of that year had not been particularly bad, and the snow that capped the top of the mountain was mostly gone, spare for a few patches. The summer that was coming promised to be a good one though, with the indications of the trees regaining their leaves already showing. There were no signs that anything unwelcome was about to arrive, the day bringing the sun with its usual heat and showful light, cresting Kakamala before noon as expected. The day progressed typically, with the dragonborn celebrating the starting of the summer season.   Nearer the evening, with light still in the sky, the day that had been as peaceful as always turned for the worst possible alternative. It started with just a simple sense, an almost pressure-like feeling, but one that was commonly associated with a fey rising, the crossing of fey creatures from the Feywild plane. The sense was felt by all the dragonborn of the clan, and although it did not go unchecked, when investigated nothing was found out to be amiss, but the feeling remained all the same.   From the lowering sun in the sky, there then came a horror of truly terrible proportions. With a crashing rumble, a huge hulking form came hurtling through the air, shattering though the top of the Kakamala mountain and roaring into the sky above the village. The form, seen quickly by some of the clan then just after by the rest, resembled a giant flying monstorusity, wings and wicked horns and jagged teeth, an ancient red dragon. The beast was incomprehensibly large, screeching down upon the village and bringing an instant and awful fear to everyone below, freezing every single one of the dragonborn in place, or it would have if they had not been so well taught in scenarios of combat.   Even they all knew exactly what they were facing, the face of death and imminent destruction that was the dragon, every able bodied dragonborn armed themselves, not a single one even thinking of running. One of the elders, by the name of Tarinrek, caught a glimpse of the face of the dragon and as soon as he did, he broadcast it to every dragonborn of the clan with all the power that he had reserved. Xeldar. A dragon god who's power outdid his reputation by factors in the hundreds. Almost none knew of him in any detail, just that he was one of the mightiest forces, only intent on malice and destruction.   To take up arms against a beast this terrible was courageous, but as the ancient dragon swooped down upon them, a piercing glow of red in its maw, spears and arrows arching towards it leaving trails of torn air, its intention was seen clear. Faster than anything of its size should have been be able to move, it dove down upon the village, spewing a million ton rain of fire and magma, decimating the village with screams and roars of pain and death. The dragonborn of the clan Dararcath burned and died, their blood soon joining them in death, sizzling and boiling out of existence.   With another deadly swoop, the dragon cast more fire over the village and into it, and no matter how many or how strong the magical barriers that were put up were, they were burned through just the same, the very essence of the magic disintegrating under the power of Xeldar. Giving not a single change of hope for the dragonborn, the dragon threw arcs and waves of magical death at them, tearing up the earth and rock. Although few dashed and dove out of the paths of fire and magics, so many were still killed and slaughtered by the dragon, indiscriminate of age or gender, power or appearance.   Renvar felt the same deep-rooted anger and fear that the rest of his dying clan felt, an all consuming terror that was defied by no other feeling. A slash of fire swept a hair's breadth in front of his eyes, brutally killing the dragonborn just in front of him whom he was trying to save from the path of fiery destruction. He threw his sword in hand with all the anger and rage and might that he had, roaring and yelling out in wholly felt anger and grief for his family. The sword tore through the air and parted the very fire that was the cause, piercing the dragon's hide right to the hilt, but it mattered not, for the dragon just kept on his way of genocide.   This murderous horror continued until the only sounds that remained were the crackling and scorching of the destructed earth, the dragon perched upon the shattered peak of the mountain, jagged claws digging into the stone like butter as he wore a grin that resembled nothing more than pure malice. He turned and started off into the distance again, the air rending to the great beating of his wings.   Renvar, the supposed only survivor of the massacre, had run from the burnt earth that remained of his village from fear, from hate, from having no other option. He did not know if there were any other survivors but he assumed that there were not from such a horrific killing. Marks and blood covered his body, wounds and cuts riddling his scales, leather clothes torn and burnt. He ran with tears and with sorrow that threated to knock him down and drown him for sure, but what remained was a well taught self-discipline, and that entirely new sense of hate for the dragon that had done this, his name burned into Renvar's mind like the fire that had burned his clan.   He had run for many days, until his legs would not carry him anymore, and there was no strength left in his body, the hollowness that he felt and the opposing hate being the only two senses that kept him going, although even now those were not of use. With desperation, he had managed to kill and consume a rabbit or two to regain his strength, slaking his thirst in a stream than ran through a creek.   Over the next four years he travelled and hunkered in the shadows, sometimes getting stuck in a city for several months at a time. His skill of weaponry never ceased though, and neither did a single memory of his clan, or that wrenched dragon that had slain them. The lore of the magics he had been taught remained with him, and through hard-tried practice, he was able to utilise them, but a mere shadow of what the power once was. That grace and lightness with which he fought had been taken like his clan, replaced by a swift ferocity and a cold stare.   Over those four years he had found few allies amongst the strays that knew of his family, but he had never once seen a member with his crested name, all hope that they could exist gone from his soul. The grief that he felt never left him, although over time he was able to take control and bring himself up from the seemingly bottomless well of despair. Anytime even a single thought of ending it for himself entered his mind, it was wiped away by the pride of his clan, as they were remembered solely by him, and through that he was able to gain some of his confidence back.   The venturing allowed him to learn of the world beyond the ranges of his birth, to gain knowlage of the world that sourrunded the place he had once called home, introducing him to other dragonborn and learning of their stories.

Features

6'6, Red scales, 'resting bitch face'. Strongly built body with clawed hands and feet, and a tail ending in a tip rather than a point.

Traits