Tales from the Forgotten Realms: Tarakhin Grimscale

Chapter 1: An Unfortunate Beginning

Rivers of sweat coated the deep red scales of the female dragonborn. The labour had lasted 13 hours. "You need to push!" shouted the midwife, she was the fourth one to have to come, each successively taking the place of the one prior. Another cry of pain. Another push. No luck.

"We have to think of what to do, sir," began the rather timid looking midwife, "who would you rather save – your wife, or the child?". The large male dragonborn remained unshaken. One life taken, another gained.

"The child", he growled, hardly even taking a second to think. He stood like an oak tree, a hulk of a creature, even for a dragonborn, with the stresses of his station etched deeply into the scales of his face. The midwife looked shocked, not expecting an answer so callous and so quick, but when the leader of the tribe makes a decision, one can only obey.

"One demand, however", the leader continued, "it must be done with the family sword". The leader unsheathed his sword, a gargantuan blade, almost 6 feet long, half silver, half iron, sitting atop a black hilt with an inlaid obsidian gem. The sword was as long as the midwife was tall, taking two dragonborn to carry as they readied the tool. The mother let out another scream of anguish, as the elders of the council gathered around to witness the birth of the future leader of Clan Belrak.

"You can't do this to me", protested the mother, "we can have another son!".

The leader only stared, his gaze as unwavering as his decision, as he gave the instruction to make the incision. The instant the blade touched the mother's scale, the flesh split and bubbled, slicing deep into her abdomen as she bellowed a torrent of flame into the air. In reached the midwifes hands, and spurts of red, fiery blood showered the stone walls of the hut, melting all the fabric it came into contact with.

The screams died down and a stillness washed over the group. The mother's life faded, and the swords obsidian gem shimmered a deeper shade of darkness. There was waiting, and waiting, and waiting, for what seemed like an eternity. But then there it was, piercing the stillness of the dark night sky was a solitary wail, as the infant emerged from the inferno of childbirth unharmed, and unaware of the life taken in its name. The red dragonborn, despite its infancy, was remarkably heavy and large, and in its closed fist there was a large clot of blood – a sign, said the elders, that the child was destined for greatness.

"It's a boy, sir", said the midwife, "what would you like to call him?". The father could only think of one appropriate response, letting a smile cross his face as the name flashed into his mind, in the old draconic language of their forefathers.

"For he that is born of death", said the leader, "only one name can be given."

The midwives looked expectantly.

The leader smiled. "The boy's name... Tarakhin".