Duncan Seevy grew up in the town of Char at the edge of the Burning Lands. The town was incredibly poor, kept that way by Lord Bathor who collected not only taxes but food, weapons and anything of value.
Duncan would roam the streets scrounging for scraps of food, looking for anything to bring home to his mother and little brother. Sometimes, he would find a small morsel, too tiny to be much good. His stomach would growl and he would take it into his mouth. He fought the urge to swallow, knowing to sate his own hunger was taking from the others. Eventually, the pain in his belly would win out and the food would scrape its way into his stomach.
As he grew older, he ventured into the Burning Lands to look for unfortunate travelers. Often, he’d find their scorched bodies in the lava fields. Their packs full of burnt supplies, but a burnt loaf of bread would last a couple days and the hard black crust was unnoticeable if one was hungry enough. He gathered smashed armor and broken weapons. Some he could sell and some he kept for himself. His favorite find. A broken green bottle that most likely held ale or wine. It gave rise to fantasies of wealth and decadence.
One day he returned home to find his brother missing and his mother beaten nearly to death. The henchmen of Lord Bathor had come to collect what wasn’t there, so they took their payment in brutality and his brother.
“Don’t do anything foolish,” his mother pleaded.
Without any provisions, Duncan set out into the Burning Lands to find the dungeon. It was a long journey. At dusk he would see the dragon, Lisastrat, carving its way through the sky. He couldn’t beat it alone but he might be able to find someone to help. He would get that treasure if it was the last thing he did. He’d buy back his brother and take him and his mother far away into the Hallowed Plains where opulence was commonplace.
