Appearance
Physical Description
Tall and burly. Muscular, but without chest armor it is clear he has a bit of a belly.
Body Features
Scales form a natural armor on his hands and feet, leading him to not wear gloves nor shoes. Tail is capped with a sail (bone spikes connected by skin).
Facial Features
Bronze scales on his head look like a skull-shaped mask, encapsulating everything except his eyelids and lower jaw.
Identifying Characteristics
Two large, ridged, curved horns sweep out behind him from the side of his skull. The look almost like a lyre and go more horizontal than vertical. Towards his skull they are dark gray, but the tips end in the same gray-brown color as his three smaller head spikes.
Apparel & Accessories
Heavy, well crafted plate with his initials carved into it. Wears a bronze chain around his neck, which is barely visible under the high-collared shirts he wears beneath the armor. Carries a hammer and warpick, which also look carefully crafted, that he calls "strength" and "precision".
Special abilities
Can juggle with his tail, and can make a pretty nice beat with it
Mentality
Personal history
Balkul was born in 326 tucked away from the world. Tired of adventuring, hoping to leave out the rest of their years in peace, his parents built their own small farm far away from it all, tucked into the side of a mountain on the border of Myringlad and Ardun. Knowing the rarity of their people, they did their best to teach him all they knew. In doing so, they instilled in him the idea that family, above all else, is the most important thing in the world. He was told that one day he too would have the wanderlust that they once had, and as lifechanging as it would be, eventually he would look to settle down and create a family of his own. Growing up, Balkul learned everything his parents felt would be invaluable for his travels. From his mother, Navayla, a bard with a deep love of history, he learned the stories of his people and gained his penchant for drawing. From his father, a rigid fighter with a talent for smithing, he learned the ways of strategy, war, and the importance of crafting. From both, he learned to care for himself, through basic survival, hunting, and even a bit of farming. Just as he was at home with writing and fighting, he grew to be at home anywhere in the world.
He knew a life filled with love and boundless attention as his parents’ only child. However, while he was alone in terms of siblings, he was not alone in his own mind. Balkul recalls well the first time the voice spoke. At three years old he stared at a burlap sack filled with a rare treat for his family: apples. As he went to grab the first in the pile, a gentle, melodic voice floated into his mind. “Not this one, child. The one beneath.” Despite not knowing who it was, he listened well, and grabbed the one beneath. He remembers it as the sweetest apple he ever tasted, each bite bringing the largest smile to his young face. His father, eager for a similar treat, grabbed the original apple. But instead of sweetness, he got a taste for worms. Laughing, Balkul told his father that he should’ve listened to the voice. His father gave him a quizzical look but shrugged it off as the child’s vivid imagination.
From that day forward, Balkul always heeded the words in his mind. At first, it talked to him nearly every day, telling him to avoid a certain food, to complete chores a certain way, to study a particular book. As he aged, the voice became less frequent, yet it never disappeared entirely. It was always there to give him a nudge in the right direction.
At 15, the voice gave him a strong command: “go”. Now an adult, he eagerly followed the voice. Armed with armor and weapons forged by himself and his father, and with a new journal in hand, Balkul left the small world he knew for a much larger one. Off of the advice of his parents, he avoided the xenophobic Firnvale, and headed south. When he reached the coast, he travelled through Grynmont towards Tyrvakar. He began on the very western coast and header deeper and deeper inland until he found himself far to the east. The wooded region reminded him of a home he hadn’t seen for two years.
Despite now being 17, he was still quite impressionable. A village he meant to stay in for a month, maximum, quickly turned into a place he would spend years, and all for one simple reason: love. He cannot recall the exact moment he knew he fell in love with Zyldi, just that he did not want to ever leave her. A bookish woman, she never treated him as anything but one of her fellow wood elves. Their relationship started simple; they were fast friends, both intrigued by the stories of the other’s people. By the time Balkul had planned to move on, he felt he had too much to learn to simply leave, not to mention he began falling for the elven woman. He fondly recalls how her pale green eyes lit up when he told her that he planned to stay indefinitely. The villagers, too, were quite happy to have such a kind yet imposing dragonborn in their midst. It only took a few months before he felt like he did on his parent’s land: surrounded by love.
Years passed and Balkul found himself betrothed to Zyldi and deeply involved in the village’s going ons. She knew everything about him, even the voice that called to him, and still treated him as anything but a monster. He, too, knew everything about her. Their hopes, dreams, and fears were one. Her family felt like his own, and he promised her one day she would meet his. Her younger brother, Yinneiros, looked up to the dragonborn, even going so far to proclaim he would become a great fighter rather than ranger like his father.
In early 351, rumors of a new settlement only three days travel away formed by less than welcoming folk, potentially escaped bandits, began spreading about the small village. When scouts confirmed it, Balkul took charge and began to organize the village’s young men into a militia. Used to peace, the men only knew how to hunt. They knew nothing of defending themselves against an intelligent enemy. For the first time in his life, Balkul truly had to put his father’s lessons into practice. He felt immense pressure to prepare these men for war. He couldn’t imagine losing his village, his friends, his love. Adding to the pressure was Yinneiros’ insistence on joining the others in battle, despite barely having become a man. Unwilling to disappoint the young elf, Balkul could not say no, and none stepped in to ruin the elf’s desire to help the village. They set off for the enemy underprepared and undersupplied.
It was no surprise when the bandits easy overwhelmed them. However, the men were surprised that they were spared from death. While the others believed it was a sign from the goddess Tymora, Balkul felt something was wrong. The group fled for as long as they could, managing to get a day’s travel away before the most heavily wounded desperately needed rest. The least injured, and as their leader, Balkul tasked himself with guard duty. As he watched the dark woods they had come from, he heard the voice in his head for the first time in over a year: “Child, they follow you. You will lead them to the village. They will burn it down. They will kill her. You know what must be done.” As he peered deeper into the woods, he felt eyes staring back, but he could not locate them. He glanced behind him. The younger elves huddled together by a meager fire. He could hear them cheering each other up, spreading hope and laughter to mask their fear and sorrow.
“You must kill them.” He closed his eyes and steeled his resolve. Reaching deep inside him, he felt ancient lightning swell in his gut. As his eyes opened, the locked with Yinneiros’, the young elf reaching out with a half his rations. Balkul watched as his smile turned to fear, but it was too late to stop himself. Lightning poured from himself and struck deep in the hearts of the young elves. In less than a second, their voices were extinguished from the world. The dragonborn dropped to his knees, tears falling from his cold eyes as he looked over their lightning-scarred corpses. He knew any that looked at the bodies would know his guilt, and so he knew he could never go back. How could he? One look at Yinneiros, and Zyldi would never see him as anything but a monster. That thought alone made him determined to run.
He collected himself and pulled out his journal. Flipping through the pages, he lingered on a detailed drawing of Zyldi and Yinneiros before ripping it out. He then stared at the next drawing, a sketch of his betrothed. It took all his will to not begin shedding tears again. He whispered a sincere sorry before flipping to the next, empty page. There he wrote his first letter:
Their bodies lay two days travel north. Bring a cart so you may bring them home. They deserve a warrior’s burial. Walk with the wind.
He tore the page out and moved onto the next one. He wrote in draconic, knowing that the only one who would be able to read it was the only one the letter was meant for:
I had to listen. I’m sorry, my love.
He carefully wrapped the drawing into the second note and grabbed a nearby flower, Zyldi’s favorite, the foxgloves. He tied the pages closed with the stem, held it close to his chest, then placed it in his pack with his journal and the other note. Slowly, he made his way to Yinneiros’ corpse and took the delicate silver chain off his neck, placing it in his pack. He snuffed out the small fire then left the grizzly scene behind him without so much as a backwards glance.
He walked without rest for a day and a half to the hollowed-out trunk the village used for scout reports. There, he carefully placed the notes he had written. With one last longing glance towards the village, he headed off to the one place he knew nobody would expect him to go: Firnvale.
Education
His mother, a retired bard, taught him Draconic and Common, as well as the stories of his people. His father, a retired fighter, taught him about strategy and war. He also taught him how to forge his own weapons and armor.
Learned both Sylvan and Elvish during the eight years he lived in Eastern Tyrvakar. Also learned quite a bit about the wood elves while there.
Employment
Has experience as a farm-hand, smith, and militia soldier. Now works more as hired muscle who completes small, odd jobs. Avoids fighting for any army, no matter the gold offered.
Accomplishments & Achievements
Excellent forger of intricate armor, rings, and weapons.
Tamed an owlbear cub and named him Norfir.
Helped keep the abyssal lord Juaku out of the material plane.
Reunited with the love of his life, soon to be married.
Failures & Embarrassments
What happened in Tyrvakar and his past abandonment of Zyldi
His father, who he sees as a worse traitor and coward than himself
His teenage years in the Great Oasis, where he earned the moniker "The Bronze Butcher"
Mental Trauma
His last days in Tyrvakar
His murders + gang life in Ardun
Intellectual Characteristics
Humble, empathetic, persevering
Morality & Philosophy
Will do what needs to be done.
If the gods are true, they are cruel and worthless.
With Zyldi back in my life, I must do everything to stay alive and be the man she sees me to be.
person.sexuality
Straight
person.gender_identity
Male
Taboos
Ignoring personal space and property
Prying about the past
Being called a dragon
Known Languages
Common, Draconic, Sylvan, Elvish
Social
Birthplace
Myringlad
Current Residence
Faversham