Jazrok had a great life as a young hobgoblin soldier in the Spine Thresher tribe. Until he didn't. The Chitterwood Caverns provided protection and ample opportunity to raid surrounding villages, and Jazrok excelled at getting many of his peers and dozens of goblins to follow his lead. As his drum roared, rage would well up within the members of his training squad and drive them on to greater violence. His first raids brought back food and scalps, and Jazrok reaped the rewards. There was nothing that he couldn't do, especially after his mastery of the mystical arts began to manifest in spellcasting. His spells kept him fighting on his feet in battle and improved his position among the tribe, until Grazbite the shaman came to praise the young officer and witnessed his magic firsthand. The arcane arts are anathema amongst the hobgoblin legions, and that was that. Jazrok's comfortable life was over, and he was cast deep into the caverns that the hordes called home.
Jazrok enjoyed a comfortable life as an entertainer owned by House Rasivrein. Until he didn't. Wandering deep under the Chitterwood Carverns, Jazrok would soon enter the drow-patrolled territories surrounding Zirnakaynin. A House Rasivrein slave caravan picked him up on the way into the city and threw him in with the blood stock for the gladiator pits, but the resourceful young hobgoblin distinguished himself with the wild stories he would weave. Iliakoth, the youngest daughter of the caravan boss, took a liking to his tales. Jazrok found himself bound for the Rasivrein palace rather than the blood pits he had been promised to. In the palace he was a curiosity. The drow mocked him as an ugly, pitiful caricature of their own perfection. His tales, however, kept his matron and the rest of the family entertained. He recited coarse verses on the fanged heroes of the goblinblood wars and wove them into epic narratives. As that material wore thin, he began to adapt other stories of ancient battles into an ongoing story of a mythical hobgoblin general. As he was Iliakoth's favorite, he was fed and clothed well and slept as comfortably as any slave in Zirnakaynin, especially on the rare evenings that a more curious member of the household would call upon him. At times he would be forced to act out the deeds that he recited against other enslaved. Eventually, his stories grew tired and the drow grew bored. The mockery of the drow grew more fierce as they became bored, and Jazrok's gratefulness at avoiding the gladiator pits cooled off and congealed into resentment, shattered pride, and cold hatred. The mythical hobgoblin general of his stories soon began to rout implausible armies of dark elves against impossible odds. Iliakoth's patience with the hobgoblin's defiance was shortlived and he soon found himself made a gift to House Volatexia's arena. To complete his shame, he arrived at the pits in an ill-fitting Isgeri drummer boy uniform with a crude general's crest fashioned to the helm. The gladiator pits had claimed him at last.