Muradin Dazellar never quite fit the mold expected of a dwarf. While his kin carved their legacies into stone halls and clan histories, Muradin wandered. He claimed to be a historian - "a chronicler of the world’s forgotten corners," as he liked to put it - but truthfully, he was better at collecting stories than recording them. His journals were a jumble of half‑finished notes, water‑stained sketches, and rambling observations. Still, he had a knack for being in the right place when someone needed a steady hand or a splash of clean water, and that was often enough to earn him a place in a caravan or a campfire circle.
His devotion to Pharasma ran deeper than his wandering habits suggested. Muradin had seen too many things that should have stayed dead rise again, and each encounter carved a little more steel into his heart. He believed that life and death were sacred cycles, not to be twisted by necromancers or restless spirits. His strange gift—water that answered his call, healing that flowed through his hands—felt to him like a blessing from the Lady of Graves herself. He used it freely, cleansing wounds, soothing fevers, and purifying food and drink for those who traveled with him. In return, he asked only for a place to walk and a story to hear.
Muradin joined Silas Gribb’s caravan for the simplest of reasons: it was heading somewhere, and that was good enough. Gribb wasn’t the sort of man Muradin would trust with anything precious, but the pay was fair, and the caravan needed someone who could keep a record of the journey without charging a scholar’s fee. Muradin’s hydrokinesis made him doubly useful—fresh water on demand, clean rations, and a healer who didn’t rely on dwindling supplies. He kept mostly to himself, scribbling in his journal or muttering prayers to Pharasma when the reliquary wagon rolled past, though he never got close enough to draw Gribb’s ire.
He didn’t think much of Belhaim when the caravan first rolled into the sleepy town. It looked like the sort of place travelers passed through without remembering the name. But when the caravan became stranded and rumors began swirling about old superstitions and strange happenings, Muradin felt that familiar tug in his chest—the sense that Pharasma was nudging him toward something. The locals were wary, unwilling to poke at whatever haunted their outskirts, and Muradin understood that fear better than most. Undeath had a way of poisoning a place long before a corpse ever rose.
Whether he’ll stay in Belhaim once the trouble is settled is anyone’s guess. Muradin has never been one to plant roots, but he’s also never turned his back on a community in need. If the people of Belhaim come to trust him—if they let him share their stories, their worries, their hopes—he might just find himself lingering longer than expected. And if not, well... the road is always waiting, and Muradin Dazellar has never been afraid to follow where it leads.
