Dragaharlin Heavysword better known simply as “Arlin” was never born a Heavysword. Truth be told, no one truly knows what clan he came from. The caravan records were burned, the survivors butchered, and whatever name he once carried was left somewhere upon a bloodsoaked trade road deep beneath the mountains. What remained was a child. A furious one.
Dragathorn first found him during one of his earliest expeditions beyond the walls of his father’s hold. At the time, Draga was still young for a dwarf, though already proving himself a capable commander. His unit had been dispatched after reports of goblin raids upon merchant caravans traveling between the deeper holds and surface trade routes.
By the time they arrived, the battle was already lost. Wagons burned along the roadside, dwarves and manlings alike lay butchered across the stone, and goblins still picked through the dead like cave rats fighting over scraps. Draga and his warriors fell upon them immediately, cutting the creatures down before they could scatter back into the tunnels.
It was only after the fighting ended that they heard the noise coming from inside one of the overturned wagons. Growling. Not weeping. Not fear. Growling.
Inside they found a dwarven boy no older than eight winters, drenched head to toe in goblin blood. One goblin corpse lay beside him inside the cramped caravan, its throat torn open so savagely it looked more like the work of a beast than a child. The boy himself still had goblin flesh between his teeth.
Most dwarves stared at the child in stunned silence. Dragathorn laughed.
Not mockingly, nor cruelly, but with the deep startled laughter of a warrior witnessing something so utterly ferocious it demanded respect.
When they returned home, Draga brought the child before his father, Dragadraga Heavysword. The old dwarf listened to the tale in silence before looking down at the bloodcovered orphan and grunting, “Any lad stubborn enough tae bite a goblin tae death deserves a proper name.”
And so the boy became Dragaharlin Heavysword.
If Dragathorn had been shaped by discipline, Arlin seemed born in defiance of it. The Heavyswords attempted to educate him properly. Tutors were hired, priests lectured him, and warriors drilled him endlessly. None of it truly took. Arlin learned just enough letters to recognize tavern signs and enough counting to know when someone was cheating him. Beyond that, he cared little for learning.
Discipline fared no better. He was loud, filthy, impulsive, and forever fighting. The cooks complained constantly that he would eat nearly anything placed before him. Once, he attempted to roast and consume a cave lizard that was still partially alive because he claimed he “wanted tae see if it tasted angrier warm.”
Dragathorn spent years trying to shape him into something resembling a respectable dwarf. Years spent dragging him from tavern brawls, forcing him to bathe, pulling strange objects from his mouth, apologizing to offended elders, and teaching him repeatedly that axes were not suitable eating utensils.
None of it worked particularly well.
Yet beneath the grime and violence, Arlin possessed two qualities no one could deny. He feared absolutely nothing, and he loved his family with terrifying intensity.
As he grew older, that fearlessness naturally turned toward war. Where Dragathorn fought like a commander, Arlin fought like a cavein given flesh. He hurled himself into battle with reckless joy, swinging massive axes hard enough to break shields and shatter bones through armor. Pain barely seemed to slow him. Thought rarely entered into it at all.
Many assumed Dragathorn would eventually cast the troublesome dwarf aside. Instead, the opposite happened. The more difficult Arlin became, the more protective Draga grew of him. Though neither would ever openly admit it, somewhere through those long years the relationship stopped resembling brotherhood entirely.
Dragathorn became a father in all but blood.
Arlin followed him with the absolute certainty only a child can place in someone they believe unbreakable.
That certainty shattered the day Dragathorn returned from the failed expedition during the Longest Year. Arlin never fully understood what had happened. He only knew that his brother returned quieter, harder, and filled with a bitterness he had never carried before. The disciplined commander who once spoke proudly of the Deep Realm now answered mentions of magic with suspicion sharp enough to cut steel.
Then one day, Dragathorn left the hold entirely.
No grand farewell. No dramatic exile. He simply departed in search of purpose elsewhere.
Arlin remained behind only briefly. Long enough to realize he hated the silence. Long enough to realize that wherever Dragathorn had gone, that was where he belonged too.
So he packed his axes, spent the last of his coin on ale, punched a miner unconscious for suggesting he would not survive the journey, and followed.
Dragathorn first found him during one of his earliest expeditions beyond the walls of his father’s hold. At the time, Draga was still young for a dwarf, though already proving himself a capable commander. His unit had been dispatched after reports of goblin raids upon merchant caravans traveling between the deeper holds and surface trade routes.
By the time they arrived, the battle was already lost. Wagons burned along the roadside, dwarves and manlings alike lay butchered across the stone, and goblins still picked through the dead like cave rats fighting over scraps. Draga and his warriors fell upon them immediately, cutting the creatures down before they could scatter back into the tunnels.
It was only after the fighting ended that they heard the noise coming from inside one of the overturned wagons. Growling. Not weeping. Not fear. Growling.
Inside they found a dwarven boy no older than eight winters, drenched head to toe in goblin blood. One goblin corpse lay beside him inside the cramped caravan, its throat torn open so savagely it looked more like the work of a beast than a child. The boy himself still had goblin flesh between his teeth.
Most dwarves stared at the child in stunned silence. Dragathorn laughed.
Not mockingly, nor cruelly, but with the deep startled laughter of a warrior witnessing something so utterly ferocious it demanded respect.
When they returned home, Draga brought the child before his father, Dragadraga Heavysword. The old dwarf listened to the tale in silence before looking down at the bloodcovered orphan and grunting, “Any lad stubborn enough tae bite a goblin tae death deserves a proper name.”
And so the boy became Dragaharlin Heavysword.
If Dragathorn had been shaped by discipline, Arlin seemed born in defiance of it. The Heavyswords attempted to educate him properly. Tutors were hired, priests lectured him, and warriors drilled him endlessly. None of it truly took. Arlin learned just enough letters to recognize tavern signs and enough counting to know when someone was cheating him. Beyond that, he cared little for learning.
Discipline fared no better. He was loud, filthy, impulsive, and forever fighting. The cooks complained constantly that he would eat nearly anything placed before him. Once, he attempted to roast and consume a cave lizard that was still partially alive because he claimed he “wanted tae see if it tasted angrier warm.”
Dragathorn spent years trying to shape him into something resembling a respectable dwarf. Years spent dragging him from tavern brawls, forcing him to bathe, pulling strange objects from his mouth, apologizing to offended elders, and teaching him repeatedly that axes were not suitable eating utensils.
None of it worked particularly well.
Yet beneath the grime and violence, Arlin possessed two qualities no one could deny. He feared absolutely nothing, and he loved his family with terrifying intensity.
As he grew older, that fearlessness naturally turned toward war. Where Dragathorn fought like a commander, Arlin fought like a cavein given flesh. He hurled himself into battle with reckless joy, swinging massive axes hard enough to break shields and shatter bones through armor. Pain barely seemed to slow him. Thought rarely entered into it at all.
Many assumed Dragathorn would eventually cast the troublesome dwarf aside. Instead, the opposite happened. The more difficult Arlin became, the more protective Draga grew of him. Though neither would ever openly admit it, somewhere through those long years the relationship stopped resembling brotherhood entirely.
Dragathorn became a father in all but blood.
Arlin followed him with the absolute certainty only a child can place in someone they believe unbreakable.
That certainty shattered the day Dragathorn returned from the failed expedition during the Longest Year. Arlin never fully understood what had happened. He only knew that his brother returned quieter, harder, and filled with a bitterness he had never carried before. The disciplined commander who once spoke proudly of the Deep Realm now answered mentions of magic with suspicion sharp enough to cut steel.
Then one day, Dragathorn left the hold entirely.
No grand farewell. No dramatic exile. He simply departed in search of purpose elsewhere.
Arlin remained behind only briefly. Long enough to realize he hated the silence. Long enough to realize that wherever Dragathorn had gone, that was where he belonged too.
So he packed his axes, spent the last of his coin on ale, punched a miner unconscious for suggesting he would not survive the journey, and followed.