Backstories

Silver.Hawk: Araaz, Human Monk / Cleric
Dramasailor: Baerkhom, Dwarf Druid
Coachthor: Cailean, Human Monk

Araaz Syl'a Var'ran was born of an elven male and a human female. His father Adran Daleth Var'ran, an ambassador from the capital of Mela Lenora in the elven kingdom of Erabaen, met his mother, Tessele Evenwood, in the Lyn's Acendance castles gardens and he fell in love with her at first sight. He continued to visit her whenever he traveled to, and after some time, she reciprocated his love. They wed and returned to Mela Lenora. The elves loved his mother for the beauty she brought to their city in the form of exquisite gardens. A year after she came to Mela Lenora, she conceived Araaz. The birth was not a smooth one and his mother remained sickly and bedridden for many years afterward. His father spent every available moment tending to his mother, hiring healers and pleading with physicians to try to cure her malady. He often neglected his duties in order to stay by her side until he was forced to again resume them. It was while he was away on one of these trips that his wife passed away. Araaz, a spindly boy of a mere 15 years of age, had been by her side in his fathers absence and was there when she passed, asleep with his head on the bed and holding his mothers hand. He awoke to her still lifeless body, smiling in quiet repose and, not knowing what was wrong but fearing the worst, he called for help. The healers tended to her body and pronounced her deceased. The next day his father returned and, on hearing the news, went to the garden she loved spending most of her time in when he was away and wept. Araaz went to his father to share in his sorrow and they wept together, his father for the wonder that his wife had been, and Araaz for the mother that he would never fully know.
Araaz, though loved by his parents, was never truly accepted by his fathers people. Especially after his mothers sickly condition after his birth and her subsequent death years later. They loved his mother for the beauty she brought to their city in the form of exquisite gardens. But in their eyes, Araaz was the blight that took away that beauty and they shunned him for it. Araaz didn't understand this growing up and only realized it in his late teens.

At the age of 20, his father decided to send him to a monastery in, in hopes of giving him a happier life. Though reluctant in the beginning, Araaz soon grew to love the discipline and quietness of mind that the training brought. He also helped in the forge and through the combination of training and hrs spent in the forge, he soon grew out of his spindly form into a well muscled and healthy young man. His father visited occasionally to see how Araaz was doing, and though Araaz appreciated the visits and still loved his father, he loved the monastery just as much. Soon after his 2 year of training, he was sent on a pilgrimage to further his understanding of the world (maybe a plot or something later). It was on this pilgrimage that he met his current companions and decided to travel with them on their adventures. He has since been with the current group. He still plans on finishing his pilgrimage, but for the time being he is comfortable staying with them.

Baerkohm Frostbeard was born like most dwarves in the world: in the deep dark of a mountain fortress replete with the sounds of hammers on anvils and searing forges melting the precious ores from the land into ingots of their trade. At that time, he was the fourth son of Dendar and Beckah Forgemaul, called Baer Forgemaul. His father was a smith of low ranking and his mother was a passable healer from a clan of no importance. At an early age, it became painfully obvious that the boy wasn't fit to train as a smith. His physique was one of a slender build, damn near gnomish. His father was disgusted with him, but continued to try molding his son like he did iron: force and pressure. He took the small child out of the mountain on a quick trade route when he was about eight years old, determined to show him how the dwarven crafts were respected throughout the world. As they trundled along the grasslands on their way to whichever far-flung city was set to buy the dwarven goods, they stopped for the night, setting up camp near a small wooded area.

Dendar fell deep into his cups, swilling pint after pint of heady ale. It didn't take long before he was nothing but a drunken rambling fool. When he stumbled into the tent where his son sat up reading a book he had spirited away from somewhere, it was enough to set his anger into a towering inferno. He slapped the book out of his hands, and followed it with a stroke across the boy's face. When the tears sprang to his eyes, Dendar slapped him again, knocking the boy unconscious. He scooped him up over his shoulder and made a run for the woods. Finding a small cave, he put the boy down and went back to camp, passing out. When he woke the next morning, he didn't remember any of the violence from the previous night. When he saw that the boy was gone, he assumed he had run off and continued his trek.

When Baer woke up, he was terrified and awestruck. He hadn't ever really seen trees like those that were outside the small cave. his terror was further heightened when the ominous growling of an alpha wolf filled the cave behind him. As the lithe creature advanced on him, a second wolf stepped in between them and growled back at the alpha. The female that protected him apparently saw something in the small dwarf and adopted him as a cub of her own.

The next forty years or so passed by and he lived as a wild creature. He learned to hunt next to the wolves, used fire to keep the pack warm. He grew somewhat stronger but mainly wiser and heartier. As the original pack died, and new wolves were born, he looked after them as well. Over and over he did this, attuning himself to the pulse of the land, avoiding population, all but losing his languages. When the pack stopped growing, and the last of his wolf companions died off, he didn't shed a tear. He packed his meager things and left, wandering as far as he could. He found a community of hill dwarves that lived off the land and they took him in, confused but happy to welcome a dwarf to the fold. He slowly learned how to speak again, learned how to brew ale from the simple foragers of the Frostbeard clan, and generally learned that life wasn't always pain and cold and hard. After a relatively short period, only ten years or so, Baer adopted a fully new name as a full member of the clan: Baer Forgemaul was no more, in his place Baerkohm Frostbeard emerged.

While he was out on a solo trip to get more of the herbs the clan needed to make their brew, he got strangely turned around, something that hadn't happened ever before. A strange mist rolled over him and when an uncommonly stiff wind blew it away, he found himself surrounded by three figures in odd garb. A human, an elf, and a gnome. The elf, strangely, was the first to speak.

Brother Frostbeard, we have searched for you for many years. he said in dwarvish.

The three druids explained to him that he was blessed by a nature spirit, and that he had been marked since his birth to serve the land. The spirit marked his soul and saw fit to ensure that Baerkohm underwent all the necessary trials to have a primal appreciation for the power of the world. He struggled with leaving the clan. The druids understood this and traveled with him to the clan's village so he could speak to them. He was expecting them to be sad, to fight him on the leaving. Instead, they rejoiced! The nature spirits saw fit to bless a Frostbeard with a small piece of divinity. They encouraged him to do whatever the druids wanted. Thus was the start of Baerkohm's next chapter.

For forty more years, he studied and toiled, learning the ways of the druids. He learned how to twist his form into that of animals, learned to read and predict the weather, how to summon raw fire from nothingness, how to speak with the plants to learn their secrets. He proved especially adept at harnessing natural magics, enough so that he devoted himself to the circle of the land, drawing strength from the very grasslands he rediscovered his dwarvishness.

At the end of the forty years, as an accomplished druid, his elvish mentor Acarnayth granted him a single branch with a series of mushrooms and leaves and swirled bark. No matter what happened, those plants wouldn't yield, wouldn't die, wouldn't wither. He found that he could channel powerful nature magic through the staff. With these tools in hand, he set to move among the races of the world, learning their ways and ensuring that nature was respected in full balance as their cities grew.

It was during this journey that the strangely appearing desert adventure finds him.

Cailean grew up as the 9th child to a simple farmer. After the 5th child nobody really counted or cared. The clothes were all hand me down, and the food was first come first served, and if ya don't scrap yer way into a spot at the table then yer going hungry. As the youngest, he barely got enough food, but he got a first rate education in the pugilistic arts. His father, seeing no chance of anything in his life, decided the best thing for this youngest child was to be dropped of at a monastery in the middle of the mountains because good riddance thats why, there's still 8 more young'uns to be fed. His father learned of the monastery through his barley wholesale buyer, who would buy all of the barley from the community, plus any hops, and wheat, never corn. So, at the age of 9, Cailean was left to the Order of the Oaken Barrel.

At one point this place may have been based on a religion, there were odd pieces of liturgy and strange ceremonies every week, but the purpose of this place was in finding perfection, through the proper brewing or distillation of the sacred liquids, Whisky. Single Malt of course.

Now brothers didn't always succeed and find perfection in their distillations all of the time, it was a struggle. If a sacred liquid was foul, the liquid was poured out like the dirty bathwater. But if it was drinkable, just not perfect, well that wasn't good either. The sacred liquid couldn't be sent out if it had flaws, so it must be destroyed by the brothers to make sure that it didn't ever go out to the masses. The only way to properly dispose of this liquid was of course to use their own bodies, their livers technically, to ensure that the liquid would not sully the reputation of the order.

Of course the truly perfected sacred liquids would also be imbibed by the brothers in order to give the proper thanks to the sacred liquid. In return, the sacred liquid gave enlightenment, understanding, fearlessness, and wisdom beyond compare.

After several years of doing the chores, Cailean started off with the initiates, brewing simple beers. The only way to move to the next level was for an initiate to create his own recipe. Cailean, ever the over achiever, created two; a wheat ale for the spring and summer, and a nice dark stout for the fall and winter. Once a brew is perfected, celebrations, rituals of imbibing, and sacred gatherings of the brothers were held to rejoice in the accomplishments of the initiates, and of course much thanks was given to the sacred liquid.

Whenever the brothers took part in their imbibing rituals, disagreements would occasionally break out over the best recipe, how to properly age, or the dreaded to blend or not to blend, and eventually the brothers would settle their disagreements through feet of strength, or fists of strength, and sometimes headbutts of strength, whichever they can use first. These disagreements would be forgotten in the morning, much like many of the previous nights ceremonies.

The monastery supported itself through the selling of their sacred liquids, when there was a surplus of course, to various royal families, fine establishments, or whoever will give up the coin. Cailean was always sent with the brothers to deliver the sacred liquids to the establishments and take part in the ritual of the tapping of the keg. Before the sacred liquid could be sold, it must be sampled, thanked, and much merriment usually took place. Cailean became well versed in these rituals and in the many feets of strength that usually happened after large orders were delivered, sampled, and partaken in, and during those chaotic moments of worship, a new sense of peace and tranquility would take over Cailean.

When Cailean was of age, he was tasked, as all initiates to the brotherhood, with traveling, sharing his sacred liquids with others, achieving new levels of understanding and oneness, and of course improving his own special brew until it can be considered perfection.

Cailean joined this ragtag group as a way to both fund his "research", explore new lands and sacred liquids, spread the word of the sacred liquids, and try to find a way to experience and unlock the bodies secrets of tranquility and inner peace, through the imbibing of the sacred liquid of course.