Keroki

contemplative • stubborn • gentle

Keroki is non-typical for a dragonborn. He is quiet by nature, but he is often thrust into the speaking role as the most intimidating partymember. He hates intimidating others- but he's found it's often the best way to avoid the fight, with a spit of unexpected acid often all he needs to continue progressing. He holds the sun and its light in high esteem, though he chose a human's god of justice to follow. Whether it is because he feels that Bahamut would not accept him or he just fears the call of Tiamat, he chooses no side in their war despite his efforts to be good.

Keroki enjoys reading poetry. He writes a little of his own, but he considers himself a poor writer and prefers learning the works of others. He finds it calms him, taking his mind off of the chaos- it lets the ghosts vanish for just a short time. Left to his own devices, he spends his time like any giant reptilian carnivore- sleeping in the shade, half-submerged in the water, and eating horsemeat.The dark shields his poor eyesight. Water soothes his fragile scales, easily burned in sunlight thanks to his complete lack of coloration. The red around his eyes? That's just paint.

Egg

Laid to the clan Talmorgn on a night the moon turned red and every star was blinked out by clouds, a white dragonborn hatched alongside two black clutch-brothers. The clan only had a matter of hours of peace before Tailbiter and Runner earned their childhood names- the third, Loyal, an awful tattle-tail, preferring to stick closer to whatever adult was nearby over mischief. Tailbiter quickly learned his unusual coloration was more of a curse than a blessing. As fun as it was to surprise his friends with acid instead of frost, the sun burned and he often tired quickly. He was always noticeably weaker than his black-scaled brothers. Though he was energetic and mischevious during the day, he began to spend long nights wide awake and listening to the sky. It whispered to him, he said. It knew him in a way the others did not. His brothers heard it too, having been born in one clutch- but it wanted him. He was special.

Larva

The whispering had meaning, Tailbiter soon learned. He only heard it on moonless nights, first faint and indecipherable, but slowly turning to the rough, gutteral words he knew. They called him. Something stirred in his heart- a longing, a deep pull toward the voice. He turned his head skyward and found the mouth that formed the words that drew him away. He looked upon the terrible teeth, the black expanse of power and destruction. It was bigger than anything he had ever seen before. It swallowed the light, spitting the young dragonborn into the dirt. It hurt his head. He was too young to understand. Tailbiter was terrified of what he saw, but cowardice was dishonorable- and he was being called upon. The sky-mouth gave him a quest, and he followed, obedient and suppressed. He took a winding path through the mountains as per its instructions, finally coming across a book- half buried in the mud, yet completely spotless. Tailbiter brought the curious thing home against his better judgement. The pages within were blacked out entirely, ink spilled across every page, effort clearly put into covering it all. It fascinated him.

His clan disagreed. The dragonborn of Talmorgn were not friendly to mysterious tomes that were more than likely cursed- and Tailbiter was swiftly taught not to follow orders from the sky. A dragonborn's first loyalty is to the clan, not gods- no matter who those gods may be.

Pupa

The book became a fact of life regardless. Despite the clan's best efforts to destroy it, it always reappeared the next day. Talmorgn Keroki- who, at the age of ten had decided he was too old for childhood names- had learned to ignore the voices in the night, burying the book every night just to be rid of it for a few hours.

The Dark Star had no need to be listened to. It existed beyond the senses. It burrowed its way into the young Keroki the moment his eggshell first cracked. The dragonborn held a hunger in him- one that showed. His clan was proud of its ability to protect itself, but Keroki fought like he cared less about the clan he was to protect and more like he wanted to see his opponent destroyed. He was hungry for blood. He preferred teeth and claws over axes and swords. His brothers, loyal Esturr and quick Vallryk, felt it too- the thrill of raw, bloody battle. They grew large and tall, even by dragonborn standards- Keroki stood at 7 feet by 15. They were shaping up to be good- if brutal- warriors. If they could keep their clan values in mind...

Beetle

They could. Keroki could not. He could not resist the call forever, and it was easy to forget the fragility of others in the heat of the moment. Really, he didn't mean to hurt anyone. But the deed was done, and his clanmate lay dead.

There was no greater crime. Keroki faced his exile with stoicism- a failed attempt to keep what little honor remained. He left the only home he ever knew with nothing but the clothes on his back, his awful book, and a black dragon charm stolen from the ones he loved. He spent months wandering, eating what he could catch, before he found people again- people who did not know him. People who could trust him. He could not let that go. Having betrayed his dragonblood, he took to the gods he was raised to scorn- a god of justice, and hope, and light he could never achieve. The sun still burned, yes, but with his new faith it burned with the fury of divinity. He learned to believe in redemption. If justice can be obtained by turning to the light, couldn't that mean he could be good too? He, too, could swear off the violence, the ghosts that began to gather around him, as long as he did what was Right? The idea was appealing. If they could do it, if they could shed their bloody pasts and become something new, then maybe he could too.

He took the oath, donning the silver-and-gold regalia of a paladin. His faith for Tyr was secondary to his pursuit of redemption, a replacement for the clan values he once denied. He would protect people, regardless of what he hears at night. Regardless of the mornings he wakes up with blood on his snout and acid in his teeth. Regardless of the draw to violence. Let him take up his hammer only when he must- and never use a blade again, lest the spilling of red tempt him. Let him be good, and honorable, and maybe someday he can come home.