In the the dwarvern town of Karak Azgal, there was a chieftain. This chieftain was named Rornir Nordar, from the Nordar clan. Rornir had two children with his wife, Frina Nordar. These children were named Orsik and Nirin. These children were also twins, and so they had equal opportunity to become the chieftain when Rornir passed on. Orsik, the younger by a few minutes, grew to be very interested in swordplay and war tactics, along with smithing and mining, and had no interest in being a leader, only a warrior. Nirin, on the other hand, became interested in power. He desired to be chieftain. At a time when Rornir was growing old, but not yet weak, around the age of 400, he declared that Orsik, at this point having 60 years of age, would be the next chieftain. Nirin was furious with this development, but he did not let it show. He was a careful planner, and would overcome this obstacle with strategy! And so, Nirin convinced Orsik to come delve into a dungeon with him. Orsik desperately wanted to chance to prove his might in real combat! And so, they delved into a nearby dungeon, Nirin and Orsik, and slayed many a goblin, avoided many a trap, and dodged many a beard-curling rune. Finally, Nirin found what he had come to the dungeon for: A magic sword that would give him the ability to fight just as well as Orsik! He took the sword, and he and Orsik began to retrace their steps. As they were leaving the dungeon, Nirin sealed the entrance, trapping Orsik in the dungeon. With the sword in his possession and Orsik "dead in an accident" no one would challenge his right to rule! He left for Karak Azgal, leaving Orsik crying out behind him, begging him for freedom. Five years later, Nirin was chieftain, as Rornir had died in an unfortunate "accident" a year earlier. Orsik, meanwhile, had delved far, far deeper into the dungeon then the tomb of the magic sword, discovering unimaginable horrors, staring down hell hounds without flinching, eating lichen off the walls. But one day, the tunnel sloped up instead of down, and he was released from his prison, the dungeon. It has been so long that he remembered only sparingly his past life, before the swinging of his sword arm and the raising of his shield arm. He did not remember his name. The cave entrance he had come out of was near a village of Damaran humans. When they saw the ragged dwarf, who had eaten next to nothing for years and wielded only a heavily battered shield, a deformed lump of metal, really, and a broken sword, more akin to a metal pole that vaguely had the shape of a sword then an actual sword, they decided to restore him to health. He rested there, under the care of an old woman named Katernin Bersk, healed by the gentle magic of a travelling druid and the long passage of time. He was given the name Ivor, since he remembered not his own. After a long year, Ivor decided to leave the village for the army, as there was a stronghold nearby. He went, with warm thanks to the villagers, to enlist, and did so. Ivor stayed in the army for 15 years, earning only the rank of standard bearer, denying all promotions, before finally leaving the army, having found it meaningless. Ivor decided to become an adventurer, so he could forever bask in the one thing that he found purpose in: The deadly song of an iron blade whistling through the air.