The men who executed my father never knew his name, or cared. All they knew was that powerful merchants had bags of gold for anyone who would put an end to the scourge cutting into their profits. My father died at their feet. And I hid in the shadows, a boy too young to avenge the big-hearted hero who had raised his son to survive before all else.
With my father's death I was an orphan. I had never known my mother's name, and father would tell me little of her. Wherever he is now, perhaps he's found her again, the Drow woman who had loved him since the day he broke her free from the slavers who had taken her up into the land of sunshine and cruelty. She loved him until the day she died, giving birth to me. I've been alone for years now, hunting the ruins of Dracomoore for the fame and glory my father never found, knowing that he was right about slavery being a devil whose day has passed. The world that survived plague and war is one where the law is what you make it, and I will make something new.
In this, I will have help. My father knew a secret that he passed on to me: the name of the greatest of all gods.
Krom.
The god of the narrow path of righteousness, Krom lives in the spinning blades of balance that deal swift death to
those who stray from the pure passage and find extinction in the tangles of selfish waste and foolish excess.
That's what my father used to say, anyway. Mostly he said it to scare his foes. It doesn't work quite so well for me.
Yet.
But I know that Krom is great before all the gods, and I know he hears my call so long as I stay on his path. And so long as my blades do his bidding.
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