Dalostod Battlemaul
One would not know it by looking at his youthful features, but the curly red-haired dwarf Dalostod Battlemaul has called the Mythrite region home for nearly a century. The son of a family of prospectors, Dalostod grew up in the back of a wagon scouring the rocky hills of the once wild region. In the days before the discovery of the Mithril motherlode, miners like the Battlemauls would subsist off of shallow surface veins of semiprecious stones and ores barely worth the effort of digging them up. Dalostod knew even at a young age that it could be as little as a couple of weeks before they were tapped and the clan was forced to move to the next site.
The work was brutal, dangerous, and so often unrewarding yet Dal was a very happy child despite his circumstances. The eclectic community of migrant workers and miners that worked alongside his parents in the dark of the earth became honorary aunts and uncles to the young dwarf. These tumbleweeds, eking out a meager living on the ‘arse end of nowhere’ would share their stories in the mines and around the campfires, bringing old tales from around the world to fill Dal’s imagination. They doted on Dal, seeing in his eyes an eager appetite for the folklore of their homeland.
Despite the harshness of his upbringing, the warmth of his community ensured Dalostod grew to be unusually open and warm for a dwarf. Upon coming of age he parlayed his natural interest in stories and his innate charisma to earn a living as a traveling storyteller. Over the last several decades he has scoured nearly every dark and obscure corner of the region, earning a reputation that would earn him welcome at any campfire.
When Mythrite was founded, the young at heart dwarf was among the first to arrive in the fledgling town eager to trade stories with the newcomers. And perhaps, although he would never admit it out loud, recreate the community of his childhood to fend off the looming specter of middle age. With his wealth of experience he quickly became a mentor and guide to the newcomers, and moreover, a close friend and confidant to many. Yet over the months, his friends have been killed off one by one by disease, murder, crime, accidents in the mines, or in the crossfire of of skirmishes between the various factions. With each death, Dalostod’s dream died a little as well.
The slow heartbreak has dampened Dalostod’s spirit somewhat and he tries to keep his distance behind a reserved mask to avoid more pain. Nowadays he is trying to drown his regrets in a swash of alcohol and money he gathers selling secrets he gathers under the cover of his folklorist profession. He takes no more newcomers under his wing, he can’t bear losing anyone else. He tells himself he doesn’t care anymore, but at his core his heart still crackles with the flame of who he once was.
Wealth & Financial state
Middle class
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