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Amid the joyous clamor and jostle of a typical night at the Broken Barrel, when for most, the day’s work is done and the ale flows freely, there sits a dour and obviously inebriated Dwarf who seems to be making every effort to replace his very blood with firewater. He is comprised of truly epic proportions, at least as far as Dwarves go, towering over most of the Stead’s other inhabitants by easily a foot and carrying enough mass that he may as well be two Dwarves fused together. He sits alone tonight, as he does every night, his eyes perpetually cast down into his cup of spirits. Every time he drains his cup, he simply holds it aloft, sometimes for as much as a quarter of an hour, continuing to stare at the spot on the table where once his cup had rested until someone comes by to refill it.
It is not as though he is easily overlooked, aside from his great size and his stark white hair –not hair that has become white with age, but the kind that is so utterly blonde as to be almost colorless- he is also covered neck to toe in ratty, stitched together clothes made up of tiny fragments of animal hides too small to be used for anything else, and too numerous to count, and over this, the entire skin of a large, black, bear. Indeed, it is not because he blends into the background, but rather because he stands out that he is ignored; this Dwarf is known to everyone in the room, as are his deeds. Asbjørn, he is called, and though once he had a family name, it is no longer his to claim. Instead he was given a new name all his own when the old one was stripped away: ‘Oathbreaker’.
Uerythtar would not be considered a large city by any civilized being who had ever actually been to a city, but of course, no one from Uerythtar ever had. At least not any Uerythtarian still alive today. In a community such as this, where none come and none go, one who did not have their bulbous, whiskered nose buried deep in their neighbor’s affairs would be thought unsociable. Here, the Dethek word for anonymity fell out of the vernacular over six centuries ago. Today, it is little more than a theory discussed by bored Lorekeepers.
Be that as it may, this Dwarf is known better than most throughout the stead, not so much famous as he is notorious, and perhaps even a little reviled. At least when he is not within earshot. Even the very foolish know better than to poke a bear with a stick in close quarters, no matter how deeply the beast seems to be slumbering. Many more minutes pass and still he sits, his cup held in the air above his head unfilled. Most nights, he seems contented enough to sit quietly and drink only enough to forget, enough to sleep without the horrible dreams of a future lost ripping him from his respite several times per night. But tonight is not most nights, tonight is an anniversary, remembered perhaps by he and he alone, and tonight, he has already had far too much to drink and the barmaids know it, even if he does not. More minutes pass and he slowly looks up from his spot on the table, a pair of younger Dwarves nearby scurrying away as he does. “DRINK!!” he growls out across the din of the bar, causing a sudden hush to pass through the cavern before everyone continues to ignore him. It is a scene that has played out more times over the last few years than anyone cares to recount, but things were not always thus…
In his youth, it seemed that Asbjørn had been smiled upon by the whole of the Morndinsamman themselves. Born to a reputable (if somewhat small) clan, the son of a great Hero, blessed with great size and immense strength, nimble hands, and a keen mind. It seemed he might have learned whatever trade he chose, he was possessed of enough raw ability to have studied under nearly any Guildmaster in the Stead, perhaps even the priesthood. It was obvious to all that he, like his father before him, was destined for greatness, but greatness does not always mean prodigious, for greatness can also be had in misfortune.
Asbjørn is considered clanless, an outcast, having been disowned by his family after a failed marriage to a prestigious daughter of the Worldthrone clan in which, after several years, he failed to produce any heirs. Unable to accept this slight against her long, proud, line his wife, Unnrei, became increasingly termagant over the ten years they were together and finally insisted on a divorce. Though almost unheard of among Dwarvenkind, the law of the Stead did allow for divorce in a union without heirs where great amounts of property or title were at stake. Unfortunately for Asbjørn, it also imposed a penalty upon his family, taking half of their worth and nearly all of their pride. His Uncle, now head of his small clan after the fall of Asbjørn’s father at the side of Osk Blackalbryn, quickly decided that ostracizing Asbjørn was the only way for his clan to save face. After all, he himself had many other sons.
“MORE DRINK, WENCHES!!” He growls out, rising from his seat. The strain of holding such a massive arm above his head for so long finally takes its toll. As Asbjørn stands to reiterate his statement, his numb limb falls clumsily to his side, sending his empty cup clattering across the floor. The sudden rush of alcohol-thinned blood surging back into the massive limb leaves him lightheaded and he stumbles, knocking over his table as well as the stool upon which he sat. The table slams into one adjacent to it, sending food and drink all over its occupants as the fallen stool works itself under Asbjørn’s feet bringing him crashing to the ground. He barely registers the uproarious laughter that ripples through the bar in waves, he is only slightly more aware of the angry blows that fall upon his face and body before he is dragged out into the hall and left face down that he might serve as a warning to any other arrival at the Broken Barrel who might be considering taking more than their fair share of drink.
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