Z Portrait of Zarok

Zarok Stormscale

Dragonborn — Anauroch

Paladin — Oath of Glory

7 Level
53 HP
18 AC
30 ft Speed
STR 17 +3
DEX 10 +0
CON 13 +1
INT 12 +1
WIS 8 -1
CHA 16 +3
View full sheet on D&D Beyond

Put backstory here.

Absent: The Tower

The bloodstone took Zarok before the party left Nightstone. The same shimmering distortion that had pulled Dustin and Kürbis into the Ethereal Plane reached out for the dragonborn without warning — one moment standing, the next gone, his outline blurring into grey nothing. The party had no time to wait. The road to Triboar called, and the bloodstone returned people on its own schedule, not theirs.

Back with the Party

The Ethereal Plane released Zarok inside Zephyros' tower — the bloodstone depositing him back into reality with its usual lack of ceremony. He materialised mid-stride, hand already on his axe, as if the grey half-world had simply been a door he'd walked through. He looked around, took in the cloud castle and the giant, and asked no questions. Dragonborn adapted.

Absent: The Road North

The bloodstone pulled Zarok into the Ethereal Plane during the party's time in Luskan. By now the pattern was grimly familiar — the shimmer, the blur, the absence. The party rode north without him. There was nothing to be done about the bloodstone except wait for it to let go.

Arrived in Fireshear

The bloodstone spat Zarok back into the material plane in Fireshear, armour and all, as if the Ethereal Plane had simply grown tired of housing a dragonborn paladin. He found the others already settled in town. He did not comment on the experience. He never did.

Leaving the Caravan

The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the dusty Black Road. Zarok trudged alongside the merchant caravan, guarding the merchants' goods. The monotony weighed heavily on him. He longed for adventure and a purpose beyond counting crates and fending off bandits.

It had been a long journey — back and forth along the Black Road, from the desert of Anauroch where he joined the caravan, to places like Llorkh and Loudwater and eventually to the Sword Coast.

As they approached Daggerford, he noticed colorful posters plastered on walls. They depicted a grand festival in honor of Lady Velrosa Nandar in Nightstone. The words caught his reptilian eyes immediately: "Seeking strong men to keep peace during Nightstone Festival."

Zarok's heart quickened. He envisioned himself standing tall in the town square, a guardian among revelers. It was a chance to prove himself, to find meaning beyond the mundane, to find again the honour he sometimes felt he'd left behind by leaving his clan.

That evening, he shared his thoughts with Garven, the grizzled caravan leader. Garven tried to convince Zarok to stay, feeling safe in the presence of this mighty wielder of battle axe. But to no avail — Zarok's mind was made up, and Garven knew that trying to change that was impossible.

And so Zarok found himself on the trail to Nightstone, using the cover of night and avoiding the eyes of men not used to seeing dragonborn. Until he heard the chatter and music drifting from a campfire by the road.

A Beacon in the Void

Trapped in the mists of the Ethereal Plane, Zarok felt an unfamiliar sensation ripple through his scales. The haunting melody of Dustin's song, echoing tales of ancient giants, reached him like a beacon in the void. Each note resonated with his very essence, vibrating through his scales and igniting a spark of hope. The song's powerful verses painted vivid images of towering giants and their legendary feats, providing Zarok with a sense of direction and purpose. In the midst of the endless expanse, Dustin's song became his guide, a comforting reminder that he was not alone and that his path, though shrouded in mystery, was still illuminated by the courage of those who came before. Yet, amidst the solace, a pang of longing struck Zarok's heart. He wished he knew more about what had befallen his trusted companions, their fates unknown and their absence a heavy burden on his soul.

The Mending

I said it lightly. The worg had me good.

The beast came from my left where I should have looked. I did not look. That is how a paladin becomes a corpse — not from lack of strength, but from one inattentive breath at the wrong moment.

And yet I am alive. Don Juan saw me fall and was there before I knew I had fallen. Kürbis pulled the beast off me as if pulling a blanket from a child. The bard kept the rhythm of the fight steady when my own was failing. I did not have to call for help. The help was already there.

This was not the discipline of the caravan, where each sword was its own and the watch was paid for. This was something older. Something I had read about in the tales but had not yet stood inside.

The worg's blood is on my scales tonight. So is a great deal of mine. I will mend. The mending will take longer than I would like. That is fine.

Older Than Mountains

The clan storytellers spoke of dragons the way other peoples speak of gods. Older than mountains. Older than the First Speech. The blood that ran in our scales had once run in theirs, before the world had cooled and the lines had branched. Every Dragonborn child grew up hearing it. Every Dragonborn child grew up wondering if they would ever see one.

I had not. I had walked the deserts. I had crossed the Black Road. I had passed under more skies than most of my clan ever would. And in all those skies, no dragon had been kind enough to fly above me.

Until today.

She was silver. Wings like beaten metal. The way she held her arc above the tower was the way an elder of my clan would hold a blade — without effort, without doubt. She was not hunting us. She was carrying allies, the way a mountain might carry a road. She did not look at me. I do not think she needed to. The looking was mine to do.

Some children dream of speaking with dragons. I had stopped dreaming of it years ago — there had been too much desert and too little wing in my life. And then she banked, and the cloud parted, and the dream came back to me whole.

I do not know if she will ever pass this way again. I do not know if I will ever stand in a sky she shares. But I have stood in one once. That is more than my father did, and more than his father did, and more than the storyteller who first taught me the tales ever did.

That is what I will carry from this tower, whatever else is taken from it.

Where Not to Camp

I knew the name before the sound of it finished.

Not from the storytellers. They gave me dragons the way a priest gives you gods — enormous, distant, owed reverence. They never gave me this one.

This one I had from the road. Caravan men do not tell stories at night. They tell each other where not to camp. North and east of Ascore, past the last good well, where the old ruins come up out of the sand like bad teeth — you do not stop there. You do not water there. If the wind turns hot after dark, you walk the beasts through the night and you do not strike a lamp.

I asked once whose ground it was. The man I asked did not answer with a story. He answered with a name and went back to his work.

Once, a caravan out of Parnast did not arrive. A whole crew, and no wreck on the road, no bodies, nothing burned. Garven took us the long way round for a good while after that, lost money doing it, and never explained himself to the merchants.

So. Today I have seen two dragons.

One of them carried allies over a tower and never looked down at me, and I will carry that to the end of my life.

The other has just told us her name, and I find there is nothing in me that wants to look at her at all.

The Mark Again

Inside of the right forearm, low, where a sleeve sits over it. That is where they put it, so it can be shown and covered in the same motion.

I saw the same mark on the woman at the Nightstone Inn. She had a crossbow inside her reach and a story that arrived too neatly, and once, reaching, she let her sleeve ride up.

I said nothing then. She had been helpful, the village was full of dead, and I had no better reason than a mark on an arm.

I have seen it on the Black Road as well. Men who wear it do not guard caravans. They own them, or they own the man who pays for the guards. Garven paid someone every season and never told us who. Every caravan master does. It is not a thing you ask about twice.

So: one of them was sitting in a village that had just been emptied, and another has walked out of an inn in a town the giants are already coming for.

Dustin looked at me and waited for more. I did not have more. I had the mark, the inn, and a bad feeling, and two of those are worth saying out loud.

04 The Mighty Dragonborn 2:24