Zair Alkovoran's page

Zairis Nyrin Alkovoran (Zair to his friends and allies) was born of a human mother and an elf father in the city of Magnimar. Soon after his birth and naming, his father left to return to his home, and Zair was left to be raised alone by his mother.

His life was comfortable, all things considered. His mother was a knowledgeable herbalist, and more importantly a skilled alchemist and made a living as such selling components and potions. A single healing potion brought in more money than most families made in a month, and so he never wanted for anything.

Due to his elven heritage and highly intelligent mother, it was no surprise when Zair turned out to be an inquisitive and quick-witted child himself. He quickly took an interest in his mother’s craft, and she obligingly began teaching it to him. The herbal knowledge was interesting to him, but the mixing of chemicals and the strange reactions they had enamored him more, doubly so when his mother showed him how to mix a little of his own essence into the chemicals to give them supernatural properties. By the age of twelve he was an adequate alchemist, and his insatiable desire for knowledge didn’t stop there. Zair read every book he could get his hands on, and frequently went out into the city to “play”, performing all manner of scientific experiments of his own with the same zeal most children would put into playing with a new toy.

Of course, as he grew older these simple experiments no longer scratched the same itch, and the alchemical art his mother practiced he began to see as simplistic, only very shallowly dipping into the infinite possibilities of the craft beyond simple healing potions, and draughts to induce euphoria.

At fifteen, he announced he was leaving to see the world. Predictably, his mother forbade it. Clearly she didn’t understand him and his desires! Or so he thought, and ran away from home in the middle of the night.

That night was one of the best of his life, or so he felt. Freedom to do anything, go anywhere he pleased, and see all the things he’d never seen before.

The next day was even better! The light of day brought out all sorts of new details, and he put quite a bit of distance between himself and Magnimar.

By the third day, he realized he’d made a terrible mistake. Lost in the midst of the Mushfens, running low on food, and realizing that simply reading books on how to survive in the wilderness did not translate to actual skill in doing so, he found himself in quite the pickle.

The day worsened when his luck finally ran out, and he finally encountered a pack of spear wielding Boggards, without so much as a walking staff to defend himself with (not that he would have been able to do much had he possessed one regardless). The lead Boggard stabbed forward with its spear, a wicked grin on its face, and Zair flinched and closed his eyes, waiting for the blow to fall.
It never did.

He opened his eyes and was stunned by the sight of a hatchet embedded in the creature’ head, dropping it stone dead. The other boggards looked n confusion, then horror as they whirled on their adversaries: A party of six heavily armed and armored dwarves.

The boggards were quickly dispatched, and the dwarves looked on Zair curiously. “What in the nine hells is a wee pointy ear doing all alone in these parts?” one of them wondered, and then looked at Zair expectantly. He explained, the dwarves having to stifle laughter at how unprepared he was for such an excursion, but nevertheless impressed by him having the balls to do it if nothing else. They told him to tag along with them at least far enough to get out of the marshes.

They explained on the way that they were the Hammers of Torag, a group of dwarf mercenaries originally from the city of Janderhoff. They sold their services to the highest (reputable) bidder and did dangerous work, like exploring the abandoned Thassilonian ruins of the Mushfens for archaeologists and scholars too weak to look themselves.
Zair had been waffling on whether he should head home or continue his journey, but these men cinched it: He wanted to be like them. And he couldn’t do that if he gave up now.

He asked to join…and as might be expected they laughed in his face, that such a green youth would want to join a mercenary band, and that it would be irresponsible to let him trek into dangerous ruins untrained regardless. However, they MIGHT need someone to do the cooking and cleaning and tending the fire when they made camp, and since he’d made himself so conveniently available…

Zair jumped at the chance, and did his work well. He even spiced up their cooking a bit with some herbs he knew tasted good. Though he was far from a good cook, he was better than the dwarf who had done the job before, and so everyone was quite happy with the arrangement.
And as they journeyed, Zair began to learn things. Where to step and where not to step to avoid being seen, even in heavy armor. How to spot traps in woodlands, marshlands, mountains, and dungeons, and how to disarm them. And importantly, he learned how to fight.

One of the dwarves in the party was a traditionalist, and used a weapon that was falling out of favor in recent years: The Dorn-Dergar, or Chain Flail. Zair was mesmerized by this weapon whenever he saw it in action. Unlike the utilitarian hacks of the axe, or strokes of the hammer, this weapon seemed…elegant. Snapping forward to a length of 10 feet, perfectly aimed so the ball would strike the opponent, then snapped back to hand. Flung, the chain used to trip, bind, or cut the opponent. The way a shortening of the grip made it a powerful close-rage weapon if need be. Everything about it, Zair loved.
Being a forthright sort of person, Zair told the dwarf so. Being a forthright sort of person in return, he offered to teach Zair, and he accepted.

It took years to fully master the weapon, if indeed he even has, but he eventually learned how to use it well. Years of traveling and swinging a ball and chain had toughened Zair, making his muscles as powerful as his brain, and he finally began to accompany the dwarves on the dungeon delves proper, they satisfied that their “mascot” could handle himself in a fight now, especially with the potions and concoctions he'd perfected over the years to help with more practical things.

They raided tombs, fought boggards and dragons and worse, and helped people where they could for a long while, but all good things must come to an end. The dwarves had been away for a few years when they took up with Zair, and hadn’t been home since. The oldest missed their families, and the youngest wished to start them, and so they decided to go home. The offer to join them was extended to Zair, but he still wasn’t prepared to settle down. Reluctantly, he declined, and so soon they’ll be parting ways.

But, for now, they’ve stopped in the town of Sandpoint, to enjoy the fruits of the Swallowtail Festival. One last hurrah before Zair’s oldest friends and surrogate family take their leave of him.
What could possibly go wrong?