Legacy of the Dragons
Algar the Gifting Minstrel DAVID DAVIDSON
128
Algar spent his human childhood in a small tribe on the jungle coast of Naveradel, living in near squalor. His mother, a deeply unhappy woman who simply tried to make the best of her life, offered little in the form of parenting. His father, Koman, was a rugged, tough-love type of man who let nothing slide. Koman provided for his family as a middleman, trading between local terrig hunters and verrik coastal ships. He put Algar to work at a young age. It was not an easy life—exotic forest beasts could turn you to stone with but a glance, the back-breaking lifting and loading never seemed to end, and the condescending stares of the verrik bored through your very soul. Poverty, fear, and hard work filled his days, but Koman gave no ground with his son: Algar was going to be what he wanted him to be. The man’s words stung worse than a physical blow. Algar hated his life, and he hated his father for forcing it upon him. One particularly bad summer, a relentless monsoon thrashed what few possessions they had, including Algar’s cherished secret savings. With a hatred that churned his insides, Algar confronted his father at the docks. Angry words led him to grab Koman by the throat, intent on squeezing the life out of the man. In the same moment, the monsoon swelled, causing the docks to crumble beneath their feet. Algar and his father suddenly found themselves scrambling underwater to reach the surface amid the flotsam of the smashed dock. In a desperate moment of selfpreservation, Algar placed his foot on Koman’s face and kicked, propelling himself up to the surface. The kick caused Koman to swallow water and he vanished from sight. As Algar dragged himself to shore, he knew his father was dead—he’d seen Koman’s lifeless body sucked west into the tumultuous Gulf of Firesight. Plagued with anger and selfloathing, Algar set out west along the gulf once the weather had calmed, following the path his father’s body had taken. He hoped that finding the body would put his mind at ease. But by the time he reached the eastern shores of the Wildlands of Kish, he had found no body. A parched mouth, empty gullet, and weakened spirit were his only rewards. A reptilelike humanoid named Vinathar took him in; later Algar learned it was a mojh. For weeks, the determined Vinathar worked on Algar. His well-chosen words wove through Algar’s mind like a poison through the veins, stroking the boy’s pain: “Shed your nonmojh skin and humanity’s mundane destiny with it. How can you enjoy all of life’s fruits with only one century? Learn the secrets of magic that only a mojh lifetime can show you. Replace mediocrity with power.” Vinathar’s promise of a better life consumed his thoughts. Algar decided to forsake his humanity and underwent the transformation to mojh. The ceremony was held at a large crater lake known as the Rune Sea in the western Wildlands. The swirling runes of the black lake turned almost blue as they danced and sang ever louder, as if cheering the event. The music wrought a terrible chord in Algar’s mind, however,
at the exact moment of his metamorphosis. He knew down to the very core of his being that he had made a terrible mistake. The transformation had not washed his sin clean. It revealed no answers. His life was no more meaningful now than before. Under the scrutiny of Algar’s new mojh intellect, Vinathar’s promises were empty. The new mojh—no longer male, nor any gender at all—fled the Wildlands, wandering aimlessly northeast for weeks, disgusted with itself. Nightmares plagued Algar’s sleep. In one recurring dream, its mind gently touched the collective memory of all living beings. The dream-touch had an almost tangible sensation, like that of melting ice on the back of the neck. Wisdom of the past dripped into the corners of Algar’s mind. For the first time, Algar understood that one cannot escape one’s self by donning scale in place of skin. Salvation lies within. From that day forward, Algar decided to live in contrast to its tortured soul, to be the unexpected. Not hide behind cloaks like other mojh, but display itself in full view. Not dwell in isolation, but become heavily involved in communities. Not follow the path of magic and the intellectual, but that of skill and artistic pursuits. Today, Algar moves from town to town, bringing joy as a performer to those in despair. The mojh hopes to prevent its past from becoming another child’s future. To that end, Algar swore an oath to fulfill this ongoing task till the end of its days—no small thing for one with a life span of centuries. Whatever money Algar earns is immediately reinvested locally to buy goods. These Algar gives out during performances in the next town, spreading one community’s delicacies to another. Not only does this promote trade, but it has earned the mojh the title of the “Gifting Minstrel.” Children can hardly contain themselves when Algar arrives, wondering what trinkets the visitor has for them. The mojh’s engrossing stories have children gasping and rugged men crying. (In one of Algar’s favorite stage acts, a dramatic tale of a blinded hero who must make his way over an acid pit on a decrepit bridge, the mojh illustrates the words by walking a narrow pole over a vat of hot oil while blindfolded.) So well known are Algar’s performances that the mojh has been invited to Sormere to entertain at Lord Uthelor Katanis’ annual gala. Even Neverin, mojh leader of the capital’s akashic guild, has recently invited Algar to De-Shamod for some hidden purpose.
Combat Algar tries to use its amazing diplomatic skill to get out of any situation that could result in violence. When pressed, Algar tries to flee—unless the combat directly involves its oath, in which case the mojh uses unarmed attacks.
Using Algar Some things have not changed for Algar. Rare is the night it does not awake caked in sweat. It has been thus since the transformation, for the dark deed of the past is not easily undone.
