Braghus and Obin

Braghus is the only name he gives. There was another name once, but that was a long time ago. One could nearly say it was a different dwarf. That dwarf loomed large in his mountain hold, doing the best he could to make something of his station, low though it was; the son of a powerful baron and a common whore. He never knew his real mother, only knowing the shame of her past when he was a dwarf grown. But his father had enough compassion and fondness for the poor wretch who died in childbirth to provide a home for the child, though the curse of his birth would haunt Braghus all his days.

Frustrated ambitions and intrigue bereft of profit occupied much of Braghus' first century of life, though somewhere in that span of time he found himself with a family of his own. Of that time he smiles at first, but in short order he begins to stare into the distance, his wild blue eyes growing wet, and says no more. He isn't certain exactly when he left. For years he wandered the land learning to survive on his own, sticking to small and ever wilder places as he travelled.

One year while long hunting in the mountains he got trapped by a snowstorm. He had tried to prepare for such a thing but wasn't prepared enough, and there was nothing to hunt or forage. Desperately low on supplies and with no end to the storm in sight, he had no choice but to try to brave the storm and find a way out. It was no use. He walked for what seemed like years, each step a colossal effort. At last there was nothing left and he collapsed face down in the snow. Within moments he could feel the snow begin to cover him, and try as he might he didn't have the strength to rise. There in the snow, starving and freezing, he pleaded to the stars, to Moradin, or whoever would listen. It was the last thing he thought as the blackness slowly took him, the words coming out no louder than a whisper in the roaring wind of the snowstorm.

Buried completely in the snow, he felt his body rising, like he was being pulled on a mighty string into the sky. It was death, he knew it, and his soul was rising out of his body. But then he felt the freezing air on his face, rousing him to something that resembled consciousness. Then he was moving, slowly, through the storm, suspended from above. There was something there, something in the snow with him, but he couldn't see or move, still so weak. It was impossible to tell how long had passed, or how many times he passed out, but when he came to it appeared to be the next morning and the storm had completely stopped. That was the first thing he was aware of. The next was that there was something large and warm next to him. He sat up to see a young brown mule looking at him. As Braghus stood and examined himself, he felt what felt to his hand like large tooth marks on the back of his tunic, right about where he had imagined his body was suspended in the fever dream that was the exodus from the storm.

From that day forth he and Obin have been inseparable. It's patently obvious that the dwarf has no truer friend in all the world. Braghus has never understood exactly where Obin came from, but since that day he's paid homage to the gods of nature every day. And whether from them or somehow from Obin himself, Braghus developed a connection with the natural world that amounted to a growing competence as an adventurer. He and Obin have traveled about since, solving problems that are often violent. It's been a grand time, but the dwarf and the mule are both showing more grey hair with each passing year. Braghus thinks it's time they put down roots somewhere, and by Dwarven standards that means sometime in the next few decades. The dynamic duo just needs one or two big adventures with big paychecks and then it's the easy life for the dwarf and the mule.