Language

DRAGONBORN OF BAHAMUT warm, eat some food, and continue on her journey. She ordered a bowl of stew and a mug of ale. Once her fi ngers stopped tingling and she could hold her spoon without shaking, she began to eat and take notice of her surroundings. Murmured conversations around her spoke of crops, spring planting, livestock, and a local sport that involved a frozen pond, a ball, and an intricate scoring system. This was a farming community, peaceful and mundane. Only one individual, other than she, seemed entirely out of place. He was human, like most of the tavern patrons, but his unkempt appearance gave him a disreputable air. He sat alone at a table at the edge of the room. No one greeted him or engaged him in conversation. He wore no armor, but a greatsword in a leather sheath rested against his chair. Nerissa tried to assess if he posed a threat to her. Perhaps he was a brigand? But no, he wasn’t paying any attention to her, a lone traveler. His gaze was fi xed at some middle distance, not looking at anything in his surroundings but at some internal thought or memory, far from here. Her instincts told her there was a story here, a good story. She bought a pitcher of ale, walked up to his table, set the pitcher on it, and sat down. Nerissa noticed that he didn’t have the scars or weathered skin she expected of a warrior. He must have been returned to life by powerful magic fairly recently. Indeed, while his hands looked muscular, they didn’t have the hard calluses of a swordsman. “Looks like you’re going through a hard time. Might help if you talked about it. I’m Nerissa, a listener by trade.” “I was dragonborn,” the stranger said with resignation. He obviously expected ignorance or disbelief. Few folk knew what a dragonborn was, but Nerissa did. She had even met one on her travels. Indeed, Nerissa thought, even if one did know the truth about him, this scruffy human bore no resemblance to the great draconic emissaries of Bahamut. “What happened?” she asked. He sighed, took a long draught of his drink, and refi lled his cup. “I failed,” he said. She looked at him encouragingly, leaned forward, and tilted her head. “Surely there’s more to it than that.” He succumbed to her coaxing. “I was born a dwarf in the Ironforge Clan, the chieftain’s only son, and was named Orral,” he said. “I became a fi ne warrior.” He studied his hands, shaking his head in disapproval. “I was groomed for leadership. Everyone expected me to succeed my father. Although I led a privileged life, I wanted to do more. I craved adventure. For my fortieth birthday, to celebrate my becoming an adult, my father told me I could name whatever I wanted. I announced I was going out to see the world.” He drank again. “I was given the name Morkas, which means ‘bold seeker’ in Dwarven.” Nerissa gestured to the barkeep to refi ll the pitcher. “The world’s a big place,” Morkas said. Nerissa nodded sympathetically at this insipid remark. After a long pause, he began again. “I saw much in my adventures. What struck me most was the carnage wrought by a black dragon. A halfl ing caravan had been entirely wiped out. Their little bodies . . .” He balked at remembered horrors, closed his eyes, and regained his composure. “Suddenly, I knew what I wanted from my life. I wanted to stop this sort of awfulness. At that moment, I heard Bahamut call to me, offering to make me his true son, to better fi ght evil dragonkind.” He smiled, for the fi rst time since she sat down. It was the fi rst time in a long time, Nerissa speculated. “It was fantastic,” he breathed. “My new body was magnifi cent. Vigorous. I managed to accomplish so much. For two years, I led a group that was able to do great things. We protected a village from a green dragon. We defeated a strange, red dragon-creature with many legs. Ah, the times we had!” He sighed and looked at his empty tankard. “And then?” Nerissa prompted. “What went wrong?” “I became overconfident. Prideful. We tried to take on a green dragon. It was mightier than we suspected. As we crept toward its lair, expecting to surprise it, the dragon attacked us from behind. Totally unexpected. Our wizard Natha died without ever having the opportunity to cast a spell. The dragon went after the paladin next. Once she fell, the other two scattered. I fought on alone. It grabbed me and pinned me. The last thing I remember is its stinking breath as it lowered its head to bite me. Later, I learned that Tessa, our scout, had been eaten. Desig the druid lost her dire wolf, but she managed to escape. She searched for our remains and managed to retrieve a fi nger. Mine.” “Reincarnated. That’s why you’re human now,” Nerissa guessed. “Yes. Desig called me back to this body and left, saying she never wanted to have anything more to do with dragon hunting. Now, what am I? A failure. A miserable human. No claim to clan and no claim to Bahamut’s legacy.” “But surely Bahamut would welcome you back. You could undergo the Rite of Rebirth again.” He looked at her with despair. “I know. That’s what I’m afraid of. . . .”

Dragonborn speak Draconic whenever possible. To speak in the tongue of dragons is to honor Bahamut, and dragonborn prefer to converse in it with each other and on matters of importance. However, they do speak other languages when necessary. (For more information on Draconic, see page 146.)

NAMES

Most dragonborn choose a new name upon completion of their Rite of Rebirth. This name is always a Draconic word or phrase that the individual feels epitomizes her character. Many append their original birth race and/or name to their new names after the Draconic word “tibur,” which means “born as.” In this way, names become very important to dragonborn. Their names tell who they are and who they were. Many choose the Draconic word for platinum (“ux”) as part of their new name.