Biography Balasar the Dragonborn: A Biography This is the story of Balasar. Come closer, my friends…for I can only speak at a whisper- my throat is scarred from years of breathing lightning. I knew Balasar when he was no more than a concept: a concept conceived by my beautiful wife, Berglind, although, I suppose I must have contributed something as well. His birth came at a great cost. As our child, Balasar, filled with life, entered the world from the womb, my fair Berglind suffered terribly. With each incremental movement Balasar made into this world of men and gods, dear Berglind payed with a pint of her blood and five years of her life, and by the end, in sum, no life was added to this earth. I wept over my beloved's body, my tears falling onto the cold scales of my new son, our cries mixing in the air like the steam from our breath. For months I looked at my son with terror, just as I had that night, when we were first introduced. Wrapped in the furs and the woolen blankets Berglind and I had collected in preparation for his arrival, I would place him to sleep in the corner. Rarely did he sleep, and so, rarely did I sleep. I quickly realized that although he was the embodiment of my love for Berglind, although his cells were made from hers, I would have to let him go. I could not raise our son alone. I wrapped him in his furs, tied him to my back with his blanket, and carried him to the nearest trading village, Winterhaven. I had been to this village before, it was a Dwarf settlement, which was well known for its metalwork, both fine and functional. Although I knew nobody there, I did know that in this city he would have the resources to be cared for appropriately. And it was close enough to my home, that I might be able to keep an eye on him over the years. In the dark, I looked for a house that appeared to be in good repair: walls well mortared and a densely thatched roof. That night, I gave up my child, on the steps of a stranger's house. I prayed that Berglind would forgive me, but I vowed to watch over Balasar as he grew. I later learned that this was the house of Ragnar Ironbeard, the master blacksmith of Winterhaven. From what I have heard, by the wind and the moon, Ragnar was kind to Balasar, and raised him as his own son, despite the noticeable lack of resemblance. Ragnar was a dwarf, a devout follower of Moradin, and my child had surpassed him in height by the start of Balasar's sixth year. In addition to the Dwarven language and a powerful devotion to Moradin, Balasar learned the art of smithing from Ragnar Ironbeard. He began with horseshoes, though he would grow to be far too large to ever ride a horse. They were dull objects, horseshoes, simple compared to the sort of work he might one day master at the right hand of his master. Unfortunately those were skills he would only develop far in the future – a future that never arrived, for Winterhaven was besieged by a terrible band of invaders with nothing but evil in their hearts. They came at night, destroyed the statues to Moradin, set fire to the temple, and by morning the village was empty. I could see the smoke billowing up over the hills and made my way as quickly as I could. When I arrived, there were piles of dwarven bodies lying in streets, all adults. There was not a child to be seen. And most importantly there was not my child to be seen. I searched through the rubble of Ragnar Ironbeard's house, no longer in such good condition, for the body of my son. All I found were the bodies of the great master blacksmith, his wife, and the charred corpse of a third. I recognized the charring patterns as the products of a lightning strike, the same lightning bolts I breathed during the War in Daginfurr to defend our land. Filled with the hope that my son might still be alive, that he might have defended himself with a lightning breath that I passed down to him in my genes…the only thing useful I may have ever given him, I searched the rest of the house for him, but it was empty. Not empty in the way that a house is empty after being robbed, but packed up, as if prepared for a move, or a journey. That was the last I ever saw of Balasar's physical life. But by the wind and the moon, I hear that he is alive and searching for those who would destroy the only family he ever had.