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Personal history

Nestled at the foot of the Tolosau Peaks, a clan of bronze Dragonkin known as the Forgeborn held an esteemed position as master craftsmen and Guardians of the Flame. Among them was an awkward but friendly gheor named Urne, who possessed an unmatched talent for metalworking and an unwavering dedication to his craft.
 
From an early age, Urne showed an extraordinary affinity for the art of smithing. He spent years perfecting his skills, channeling his boundless focus into creating exceptional weapons and armor, each piece a testament to his meticulous craftsmanship. Urne's creations were renowned throughout the region, sought after by warriors, adventurers, and nobles alike.
 
But Urne's passion extended beyond the realm of traditional metalworking. He longed to bring his creations to life, to infuse them with a spark of sentience. In his head, the idea of creating a perfect friendly companion consumed him. In the depths of his secluded forge, Urne toiled tirelessly, experimenting with intricate mechanisms and enchantments. He imbued his creation with the essence of fire and the strength of earth, infusing it with a portion of his own indomitable spirit. Gradually, the automaton took shape, its metallic form emerging from the molten metal.
 
With a final strike of his hammer, Urne completed his creation. He named it Goat, an embodiment of strength and unwavering loyalty. Goat stood tall and sturdy, a marvel of craftsmanship and engineering. Its eyes glowed with an inner fire, mirroring Urne's own passion.
 
Urne and Goat became inseparable companions. Where Urne's skill with the hammer was unmatched, Goat possessed a tireless strength and an unyielding determination to protect its creator. The Forgeborn elders were impressed with Goat's abilities and granted Urne the title of Protector of the Flame.
 
However, while Urne's creation impressed the others, they still maintained their distance from Urne, unsure how to interact with Goat or his earnest creator. Urne continued tinkering with Goat, determined to get him "right" so that Goat—and by extension Urne—could finally be a friend to all. One fateful day, while he toiled away in his forge, a mysterious enemy force launched a surprise attack on the Forgeborn's village of Varras. The invaders laid waste to the dragonkin's territory, pillaging their resources and dragging off dozens of helpless citizens.
 
But Urne, lost in the depths of his work, failed to heed the calls of his people. His absence during the crucial hour left his fellow Forgeborn defenseless and abandoned. The invaders ravaged their land without mercy, leaving a trail of destruction and despair in their wake.
 
When Urne finally emerged from his forge, he was met with scorn and disappointment from his clan. The elders, once filled with respect for his craftsmanship, now viewed him as a betrayer. They accused him of forsaking his duties and abandoning his kin in their time of need. Stripped of his honor and banished from the clan, Urne was left to wander the land, burdened by the weight of his failure and the loss of so many potential companions. The once-renowned artisan became an outcast, shunned by those he had once called his own.
 
Vowing to continue his work perfecting Goat, Urne tried to find a peaceful hamlet to settle into, but quickly found that the quirks of his personality and the wonder of his companion made him stand out too much in smaller settlements. He then thought a place where he could disappear into the crowds would be ideal so he travelled to Freywich. But there he quickly realized how difficult the Tower races had made it for outsiders, particularly gheor like himself. Despite his best efforts, Urne made a few too many enemies in the big city and decided instead to try somewhere more in the middle.
 
After carefully poring over a map and travelogues, he settled on the island province of Grasmere, which boasted a smaller Keep known for commerce and shipping where he felt he could blend in but still find access to the materials he needed for his work.
 
Grasmere proved to be more or less what Urne had hoped for, but he also quickly found that his contributions in traditional blacksmith and artisan shops were poorly received. He lost six jobs in a matter of a few weeks and as his savings dwindled under demand for food and lodging, he began to grow desperate and wonder if he'd wind up helpless and homeless like so many other Unaf urchins along the Waterfront District.
 
Then, with his last few sunsets worth of gold growing lonely in his coinpurse, Urne came across a job posting quite by accident. The post was not affixed to any job boards, and seemed to just appear outside his room on a small yellowish card in a sealed envelope. It read:
 

Wanted

Tradesman, crafter, or outfitter willing to work for room and board with special assignments.

Special skills highly desired.

Must be comfortable with movement, music, brewing equipment, and discretion.

Inquire sunrise Lavanda-11 at The Stewed Prune.

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