Balmor Bellerak
Balmor Bellerak is a red dragonborn. He has tough, hardened scales of dark crimson, with a dark purple hue on his more reinforced regions. Due to his lineage, he is much more draconic than many other dragonborn lineages, with his finned tail and more carved face. His eyes are a pale white, and lack any pupils. Despite being naturally built, Balmor has much more muscle density within his arms and legs than anywhere else. The rest of his body is still thick-skinned, including his tail, which makes for a good natural weapon if needed. He wears the monastic uniform of black and white, a gift from his master, being a combination of black and white, being tied together at the waist. He also dons wrist guards that extend out to cover his fists for warmth. Only recently did he start to also wield a bo-staff, capable of being set aflame during his encounters of combat. Along his side, he holds ten darts with their own holsters upon his pseudo-belt.
Descending from the brood of a Red Dragon, the Bellerak family was one that did not continue the innate urges of tyranny and lusting of power, but instead lived simple lives. As farmers within a place of no renown, the family was stuck to the confines of growing food for the masses. Balmor Bellerak should’ve been no different, but yet he was. Something inside of him, locked away for generations, was about to reawaken, and cause turmoil to both his name and his livelihood. He just did not know it yet, or for decades to come. Within his childhood, he often volunteered to aid his family, even if they did not expect him to help. He was kind, and a thoughtful child to those around him, very much more than any other adolescent of his region. Alas, even with a kind heart, his blood-red scales made him an outcast. Those that were human were afraid of him, and what he may cause, thanks to simply being dragon descendent. Isolated, all that he had was his family, until tragedy struck.
Before adulthood, Balmor was often helping out within the fields themselves, south of his family home. If he worked anywhere else, he would’ve been dead, just like them. Hunters, of red dragons, had caught rumours of the dragonborn of the bordering parish having become a disturbance, a fallacy that was not true. These hunters took to arms prematurely, and would march to the family home at noon, when every member of the household was away from both their defences and the home itself. They were alone, easy to pick off. Both his parents stood no chance, but Balmor was able to hide from the hunters that threatened his life. They left after bringing his home to rubble. Balmor, now the last of the family name, would be met with anguished feelings, urges of anger that he has never felt before. Something inside him had awoken, temptations he was not taught had broken through his soft scales, eventually hardening them. The dragon’s malice, the one he came from, had begun seeping through.
He ran, no way could a mere boy take on a whole guild of hunters, with decades of experience between them. He had to plan. His anger brought him south, into thick forests, giving into the names he was called, the things he was told by those who only saw him as a draconic freak. He hunted, killed, and ate anything he could find. Loss was the one thing connecting him to his brood, and yet he had no way of controlling it. That was, until his journeys took him to a clearing in a forest. Seemingly alone, he feasted upon a warm meal he found within the centre of the opening. The weeks he spent by himself felt like mere moments, his anger still burned within him. The meal, however, was a lure for Balmor. A master of the martial arts, his prowess unmatched after centuries of training within a Demiplane. The sort Balmor has never heard of. Magic, even, was alien to him. The only instance he saw of it was when his family died. Balmor, still in his rage, would charge the stranger, only to be deflecting by his palm into the ground beneath him. Each violent, feral attack was absorbed, deflected, or parried. Hours passed, and having not broken a single line of sweat, the elf simply placed his hand onto Balmor’s shoulder, and hugged him. A single act of kindness broke Balmor out of his feral instinct, and the dragonborn was eager to learn how the stranger got so strong.
Master Verada is what the man went by. A powerful warrior that held the strength to open a Demiplane. One outside of time, it continued on its own accord. Most dragonborn can barely live past a century, but thanks to this, Balmor was given the opportunity to grow in strength over centuries of time, which only passed in mere days for everyone else. In that time, Balmor became the powerful combatant he is today. Under the teachings of Verada, Balmor was trained in the way of the open hand. Draconic rage suppressed, he went on for what’d seem like centuries within the demiplane, all within a moment in the Material Plane. Whilst Balmor did not age, the same could not be said for Verada. In secret, Verada aged, and aged, until the end of his days came. Balmor did not know, and when Verada soon passed, the Demiplane closed in on itself, propelling Balmor back into the field he was found in. However, the dragonborn did not understand. To him, it seemed as if he was banished from the world. The lack of any words given, and with Balmor’s misunderstanding of magic, there’s little chance that he’d know what truly happened.
Before adulthood, Balmor was often helping out within the fields themselves, south of his family home. If he worked anywhere else, he would’ve been dead, just like them. Hunters, of red dragons, had caught rumours of the dragonborn of the bordering parish having become a disturbance, a fallacy that was not true. These hunters took to arms prematurely, and would march to the family home at noon, when every member of the household was away from both their defences and the home itself. They were alone, easy to pick off. Both his parents stood no chance, but Balmor was able to hide from the hunters that threatened his life. They left after bringing his home to rubble. Balmor, now the last of the family name, would be met with anguished feelings, urges of anger that he has never felt before. Something inside him had awoken, temptations he was not taught had broken through his soft scales, eventually hardening them. The dragon’s malice, the one he came from, had begun seeping through.
He ran, no way could a mere boy take on a whole guild of hunters, with decades of experience between them. He had to plan. His anger brought him south, into thick forests, giving into the names he was called, the things he was told by those who only saw him as a draconic freak. He hunted, killed, and ate anything he could find. Loss was the one thing connecting him to his brood, and yet he had no way of controlling it. That was, until his journeys took him to a clearing in a forest. Seemingly alone, he feasted upon a warm meal he found within the centre of the opening. The weeks he spent by himself felt like mere moments, his anger still burned within him. The meal, however, was a lure for Balmor. A master of the martial arts, his prowess unmatched after centuries of training within a Demiplane. The sort Balmor has never heard of. Magic, even, was alien to him. The only instance he saw of it was when his family died. Balmor, still in his rage, would charge the stranger, only to be deflecting by his palm into the ground beneath him. Each violent, feral attack was absorbed, deflected, or parried. Hours passed, and having not broken a single line of sweat, the elf simply placed his hand onto Balmor’s shoulder, and hugged him. A single act of kindness broke Balmor out of his feral instinct, and the dragonborn was eager to learn how the stranger got so strong.
Master Verada is what the man went by. A powerful warrior that held the strength to open a Demiplane. One outside of time, it continued on its own accord. Most dragonborn can barely live past a century, but thanks to this, Balmor was given the opportunity to grow in strength over centuries of time, which only passed in mere days for everyone else. In that time, Balmor became the powerful combatant he is today. Under the teachings of Verada, Balmor was trained in the way of the open hand. Draconic rage suppressed, he went on for what’d seem like centuries within the demiplane, all within a moment in the Material Plane. Whilst Balmor did not age, the same could not be said for Verada. In secret, Verada aged, and aged, until the end of his days came. Balmor did not know, and when Verada soon passed, the Demiplane closed in on itself, propelling Balmor back into the field he was found in. However, the dragonborn did not understand. To him, it seemed as if he was banished from the world. The lack of any words given, and with Balmor’s misunderstanding of magic, there’s little chance that he’d know what truly happened.
Nowadays, Balmor Bellerak has begun wandering once more. With his extensive teachings of form, theory, and sparring, he is able to prove himself as a powerful warrior, but on his own, his draconic instincts may kick in once more. His lack of a mentor, or parental figure, has given him returned memories of a name, a name that he heard once his parents were dead. Captain Storm. A potential leader to the faction that ruined his once-peaceful life. He knows that if fists won’t finish the fight, he may need to use a weapon. Verada only taught him in the way of fighting with fists, and so he manufactured himself a bo staff, ignitable on either end with his draconic breath of flames. One day, he’ll find Storm, and put an end to their evil. The question is, will he do so with Verada’s teachings, or the origin of his bloodline’s draconic instinct?
Alignment
Neutral Good
Current Status
To hunt down Captain Storm
Age
20
Children
Current Residence
Scyllia
Sex
Male
Gender
Man
Presentation
Masculine
Eyes
Pale, White
Skin Tone/Pigmentation
Red, Scaled, Hardened
Height
6'0
Weight
400 lbs
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