The Ironshaper family were a prosperous family of dwarven smiths. For generations, they ran a grand forge in the dwarven mountainhone of Mithril Hall. The youngest of the seven Ironshaper children, Khadar, had begun apprenticing in the family trade when he turned 30 (still a child in dwarven eyes). He was a bright pupil, and quickly grasped the techniques his father and older brothers showed him. Fifteen years passed, and Khadar had grown into a very skilled young artisan. He would regularly set out with his brother, Khazlen, to sell his crafts in neighboring towns and villages. During one of these journeys, the Ironshaper brothers were ambushed by bandits. Before either of them could react, an archer had shot two arrows straight into Khazlen's chest, killing him. At the same time, another bandit had snuck up alongside the wagon and blindsided Khadar with a warhammer. The dwarf slumped over and fell out of his seat. Fading in and out of consciousness, Khadar watched the pair rifle through his wagon, grabbing the purse holding the profits from their trip, as well as some weapons and armor. One of the bandits noticed Khadar was still alive and looked to his partner. "This one's still breathing, boss. Should I open him up?" "Nah," the archer replied. "Leave him for the beasties. They like their meat warm." And with that, Khadar succumbed to his injuries. The dwarf awoke to a cool feeling on his forehead. After a moment, his eyes focused on an old man with a damp rag in his hand. The old man stood up, and smiled, putting the rag on a table and drying his hands on his robe. He was very simply dressed, wearing an old, orange robe, with a number of fresh-looking blood stains on it. He wore a simple chain around his neck, with a pendant in the shape of an armored right hand dangling from the end. "You've decided to stay with us after all, then? I'm very glad to see that. I don't think these old bones could manage digging another grave. Tell us then, what's your name?" The dwarf tried to speak, but as he opened his mouth, he couldn't seem to find the right words. He tried again, but he was unable to bring any words from his lips; only some weak grumbles and moans. After awhile he gave up, with a frustrated look on his face. "They really knocked you around, didn't they? Well, I can't say I'm surprised. When i found you, your head looked like it was a feather's touch from bursting like a ripe tomato. I had to camp on the side of the road for two days just to get you stable enough to move." The dwarf looked around and learned he was in a small house. On one wall was a small statue, made in the same shape as the man's pendant, with a few candles around it. He also saw a simple bedroll in one corner of the room. "It's okay, lad. You're in a house of Torm," the old man said soothingly, then added, looking around, "Well, a shack of Torm, but a blessed place, and plenty of room for me." "Oh!", the priest exclaimed, "How inconsiderate of me! You not telling me your name is forgivable, but for me not to tell you mine is just rude. I am Lishan, priest of Torm." He held out his hand, out of habit; but quickly realized his gaffe and withdrew it with a chuckle. "Now, we need to think of something to call you, at least until you figure out how to reconnect your brain and mouth." The priest pondered for a moment, getting lost in his own thoughts. Suddenly, his eyes refocused and he got a very pleased grin on his face. "I've got it! The only sounds you've made since you got here, aside from that attempt at a sentence has been your snoring! It really is a racket but at least it let me know you hadn't died yet. The last few days have been trying, though, with your constant 'RRRRRRR-SSSSSSSSS' over and over again. So, until you can tell me your name, I'm just going to call you Urist!" The dwarf nodded understanding and fell asleep, completely drained from the brief encounter. The months passed, and Urist slowly recovered. As he regained his strength, he began to help the old priest around his home, cleaning up and helping with minor repairs. The dwarf slowly regained his speech, but once he did, he found himself unable to remember his name, where he came from, or really anything from before he woke up that first time. He didn't seem to mind though, and embraced his new identity. As he and the priest spent time together, Urist learned about the teachings of Torm, and their focus on duty and loyalty. Months turned to years, and as Urist grew stronger, the priest grew older and weaker. One day, the priest fell ill, and quickly began to lose the last of his vitality. On his last night, the priest gave Urist his amulet of Torm and told him of the temple where he had trained in his youth. The next morning, Urist buried the priest and prepared to leave for the temple, vowing to spend his life in the service of Torm, like the man who spent the last years of his life in the service of a complete stranger. He packed up some provisions and took down an old, battered mace from its mounting on one of the walls of the shack he had called home for ten years. To be continued.
