Adventures in Eschatos
The Dragon with No Name, Battle Lover, Humbled yet Unafraid
== Created Using Wizards of the Coast D&D Character Builder ==
Usurper (Regeth), level 2
Build: Harrier Battlemind
Psionic Study: Persistent Harrier
Dragonborn Racial Power: Dragon Breath
Dragon Breath Key Ability: Dragon Breath Constitution
Dragon Breath Damage Type: Dragon Breath Lightning
Background: Dragonborn – Dishonored, Created, Birth – Prophecy (+2 to Bluff)
FINAL ABILITY SCORES
Str 10, Con 20, Dex 14, Int 8, Wis 11, Cha 12.
STARTING ABILITY SCORES
Str 10, Con 18, Dex 14, Int 8, Wis 11, Cha 10.
AC: 19 Fort: 16 Reflex: 14 Will: 14
HP: 41 Surges: 14 Surge Value: 15
Insight +6, Athletics +6, Intimidate +9
Acrobatics +3, Arcana, Bluff +4, Diplomacy +2, Dungeoneering +1, Endurance +6, Heal +1, History +2, Nature +1, Perception +1, Religion, Stealth +3, Streetwise +2, Thievery +3
Level 1: Melee Training (Constitution)
Level 2: Harrying Step
Battlemind at-will 1: World-Slipping Advance
Battlemind at-will 1: Conductive Defense
Battlemind daily 1: Living Fortress
Battlemind utility 2: Dimension Slide
Warhammer, Scale Armor, Light Shield, Adventurer’s Kit, Dagger
== Copy to Clipboard and Press the Import Button on the Summary Tab ==
It was the insults and taunting that hurt most. The rocks and bludgeoning were secondary, if only because my scales deflected most of the blows. Scales, heh, what a novel and unappreciated thing. But hearing my own people yell to me – “Usurper,” “Falseborn,” “The Unwelcomed,” they screamed – this was unthinkable in my youth. It was foretold I was their salvation.
Having lost utterly everything, my people had every right to despise me; I was destined to deliver them from their woes – the one who breathes lightning and parries with mind. Born not of dragon yet unquestionably Dragonborn, my “birth” was described centuries before my creation. It was said that a Dragonborn not of-the-egg but of-the-mind would deliver his people from a great blight, a pestilence unlike any other before seen by our people. Scales dropping from hide, the plague swept through my homeland, creating disfigured and shunned Dragonborn – scale-less hideous monstrosities; shells of the great Dragons they once were – who ultimately succumbed to exposure, or, worse, ridicule and murder by their own. My own.
Unknowingly, my powers were misinterpreted. I suppose that’s forgivable, given my power was never truly understood, not even by myself. When I laid hands on the first of the afflicted, a young Dragonborn no older than one and twenty, the bending of space caused her immediate death. She was to be my bride. A truly beautiful Dragonborn with scales as gilded as treasure, but infected nonetheless. Her beauty never waned, not in my eyes. But I am responsible for her death. I killed her. And my people watched in horror as I committed this act.
The very essence of who I am is in question. Was I truly created of nothing, as I’ve been told my whole life? Or did it happen as they now whispered: “The elders hid away his real mother, the whore who introduced this blight, reduced our numbers and produced this despicable Dragonspawn called Regeth.” They now say that the Elders killed my real mother shortly after I hatched because she was the origin of this plague. If so, why do I remain uninfected? I suspect the Elders perpetuate this lie to create the illusion of a prophecy unfulfilled; that another Savior is yet to come.
Making me the pariah suits the Elders’ designs all-the-better. This has always been about elevating their station within our race, I see that now. I was a pawn in a grand design. They care little of the Dragonborn; they care only about their place at the top of our order. If only there were a way I could make my people see who the real villains were, maybe they’d take me back…
No, it’s better this way. Having failed to fulfill their prophecy, my existence is now one of dishonor. My people despise me – I despise myself – yet something within me refuses to face the end. Tradition would normally see me honorably die by my own blade, and yet here I am, walking away from this. Shamed, cowardly, yet strangely at peace. I am no longer Regeth, Bringer of Hope. I am Falseborn. Bringing this life to an end would surely be sweet respite, but something in my mind tells me this isn’t the end. There are other prophesies I’m destined to fulfill. Or destroy.
This isn’t the end, it is only the beginning…