From Loranon
Born as Rymlli Flamebullion, this dwarf is now known as Malic Citrate.
Description
Background
Rymlli Flamebullion
Deep Dwarf Cleric of an Unknown, Faceless God
Rymlli, a deep dwarf of the Flamebullion Clan, peeked out
from the crevice through the tiniest of slits between his fingers.
The light was blinding and harsh. If all of the forges of the
Flamebullion Clan were made to fire at once (a feat not
performed for many hundreds of years), their combined
intensity would be nothing compared to this all consuming
power. Rymlli rotated his head trying to locate the roof of this
new cavern. Much to his surprise there was none. High in the
sky burning brighter than any object Rymlli had ever seen was
what could only be Moradin’s Sky Forge.
Rymlli had never left the Underdark before. It had taken
him over thirty sleep cycles to reach the surface since his flight
from the Flamebullion Clan hall. The first nine sleep cycles had
simply been a blind flight—an attempt to get as far away from
the hall as fast as possible. It was only a matter of time before
the council of old men would cease their debate over what
exactly had happened during his spellcasting examination.
Honor-retrievers would soon be dispatched to bring him back.
Rymlli only knew of one person who had ever evaded the
honor-retrievers. His great uncle Mekda had also departed
when he was Rymlli’s age. Rymlli was pretty sure that Mekda
had successfully escaped. Of the five honor-seekers sent after
Mekda, only one returned alive—and the survivor had not
spoken of the foray to anyone outside of the council
chambers.
Rymlli rubbed his eyes and turned away from the light that
spewed forth from Moradin’s Sky Forge. As his eyes regained
their darkvision he saw the bodies of the two “half an orc” that
he had slain during the previous sleep cycle. Rymlli knew all
about Gruumsh, the one-eyed god of cruelty, from his religious
teachings. Gruumsh was an orc and while the creatures that
he had slain fought like orcs, they did not possess the stark
green skin, scars, or the stench of years of filth that Rymlli had
been told that all orcs possessed. These two creatures smelled
more of fear, sweat, and travel than of filth. Rymlli felt that the
term “half an orc” fit them well.
During his confrontation with the two “half an orc”,
Moradin’s Sky Forge had not been lit. Instead, Moradin’s tears
had rained down and it was just as dark outside as it was inside
the crevice that Rymlli now occupied. The two “half an orc”
had huddled just inside the crevice too afraid to stay in the
rain, but also too afraid to head any deeper into the cavern.
As he remembered the fierce battle, Rymlli reached out and
gently ran his fingers along an arcane symbol that someone
had etched into the cave wall long ago and knew why the
“half an orc” had not ventured any deeper.
For the final twenty-one sleep cycles (after the original
blind flight of nine), Rymlli had in fact been following the
arcane symbols etched into the walls during his ascent.
Amongst many of the great Dwarven clans—hill, mountain, and
deep dwarf alike—wizardry was verboten so it was very unusual
to find such items clearly marking a path upwards to the
surface from the Underdark. When Rymlli first saw them, he
hypothesized that they were Mekda's and he felt full of power
whenever he was near them.
Rymlli double-checked that both of Mekda's scrolls were
still intact in their case in his backpack. It was these accursed
items that had caused him to flee in the first place. Rymlli had
been given Mekda's old forge and tools when he come of age
to strike the white hot Flamebullion for himself. Tucked away
inside a secret compartment below Mekda's anvil were the
scrolls. Rymlli made it a point to steal away and study the
scrolls whenever possible. He learned many things from these
scrolls, but chief among them, he learned words that would
make his healing spells more powerful. The words had
accidentally sprang from his lips during his final spellcasting
examination before he received the blessing of his clan and
became an ordained Cleric of Moradin—blessed protectors of
the Flamebullion Clan. Once the words were said they could
not be unsaid and Rymlli had been forced to flee. The penalty
for wizardry amongst the Flamebullion was death.
It was just after the third sleep cycle of his blind flight from
the clan hall that Rymlli first realized that he had fallen out of
Moradin’s favor. No longer were his prayers answered nor were
divine magics granted. Distraught Rymlli had fretted endlessly
over his now useless holy symbol. He had passed it from hand
to hand, turned it over, spun it, shook it, but no matter the
action, his spells did not return. It was not long before the holy
symbol itself had been worn perfectly smooth from Rymlli’s
rough hands. No likeness of Moradin remained.
Rymlli’s spellcasting ability returned when he first
discovered one of the arcane etchings. His now faceless holy
symbol had felt hot in his hand when he first gazed upon the
deep scratches in the cave wall. With his newly energized holy
symbol in hand, Rymlli ceased his prayers to Moradin, and
began his worship anew to this faceless god that had taken
pity on him.
Rymlli kicked the body of one of the “half an orc” and
began rummaging through its pockets looking for anything of
use. He located a few gold pieces for his troubles. He stashed
the gold away in his own pocket and turned back towards the
opening of the crevice. He knew that his new life on the
surface would not be an easy one. Rymlli once again placed
his hands over his eyes and opened the tiniest off slits between
his fingers. With his eyes protected, he exited the darkness and
strode boldly into the world bathed in the light of Moradin’s Sky
Forge.
PC:Malic Citrate
Character Sheet (print)
