The Fairwealde Campaign
A gruff, stoic tiefling warlord bent on clearing his people's name.
He came from the farming town of Dawnfall, though where he came before that was a matter much discussed among the town’s citizen. He was gruff, hard-spoken man, bearing the scars of battles long past on his pale red arms, yet his eyes betrayed a sad kindness. But only a few could see into his eyes. All the rest were hypnotized by the short, sharp horns curling out of his head.Thick black hair covered his scalp, but one could still see the tips of his horns arching from beneath.
His name was Igor Duradam, and he was shunned by many.
Appearing in town one day with nothing but shattered armor clinging to his body and a wailing babe in his arms, he calmly bought out Farmer Mugger’s farm with a small bag of riches that finally made the old man smile and wring his hands.
“Son,” he said, “You must be the richest son of a bitch in all the land! Where are you from, horner?*”
Igor stared at the Farmer. “You have a day to remove your belongings.”
Farmer Mugger didn’t need a day. He was gone within hours of receiving that small bag, and he rode off to Jorvan as fast as his old mule would carry him. Igor shut himself up in the old man’s broken farm and barely came out for weeks, often just leaving to collect food.
Within a few months, however, people began to notice a change on the farm. The state of the buidling got better and better. A new coat of paint on the door. A newly paved path. Crops in the small field that soon grew to a larger field as he began to buy out the other surrounding farmers who had long ago given up raising a crop in the land. Before long, Igor Duradam had the most successful farm in Dawnfall, and people began to migrate to buy his invigorating fruits, for he had vast citrus orchards lining his property. Dawnfall became known as the town of the orange, a fruit seldom seen in the region. Soon it became well known that the land was ripe for the taking, but all who tried to enter the business found all the good earth already holding the fruits and workers of Igor Duradam’s citrus farms.
But despite his fame, it did not bring him friends. Igor preferred to work the land with his own hands, shunning all but the closest of company. Only his child, now the young man Mikar, could ever guess his true thoughts, and even then they were just guesses, as many of the townsfolk believed. For though Mikar was a strapping young man of the village, they all knew he was not his father’s son, for no horns ever grew from his dark hair.
When the day came that Igor disappeared from the town leaving Mikar as his only heir, many were not surpised that the stranger had finally left. It was almost as if it was expected. The few who did ask Mikar where his father had gone received this answer for years on end:
“He has gone to seek his past, and when he has found it, to steer it onto the course he longs to see.”
Thus ends the prologue of Igor Duradam!