My story begins in the western Malakine Hills, a place of towering
peaks, sulfurous springs and rich mineral deposits.  The lore
suggests that the Sorethumbes, one clan of several who migrated
northward from Zhensh but stopped short of the forbidding
Icewalls, discovered a nugget of pure mithril resting on a sand
bar in an icy creek, and established a camp on the spot.  When
exactly this came to pass is unclear, at least to me, but by the
time my mum dropped me into a pile of straw in 468 T.A., the 
tunnels into the mountain were as long as the shadows cast by 
Khore's Finger as the sun touches the Taslamaran horizon.
My pap was the chief of the clan, and I his eighth child of 
fourteen, which meant that I toiled reduced hours in the mine 
when I was wee, and also that I'd never hold much sway in the 
affairs of the clan.  My pap must have seen some spark in me, 
something more than that of steel on granite, for he 
determined that I would make a fine candidate to send to the 
surface to seek my fortune in the name of the clan.  So, on my 
fourtieth birthday, my beard reaching finally below my belly, I 
tied my twin braids, dropped a loaf of miner's tack in a sack and
set off to the southwest.  My pap had made allegiances to the
kingdom of Taslamar, and the writ he gave me afforded easy 
admittance to the Salle in the City of Exile.  There I trained 
with sword and with axe until I was ready to seek my fortune in 
the realms.
As I began to see more of the world, my place in it became much
less certain.  While my path in the mines of my youth could
scarcely have been more clearly defined, my path as a mercenary
on the surface was somewhat more murky, and I began to seek
a higher calling.  Impressed with the skill of a whirling
dervish the name of Khalin, I sought out his wife Arkania, a 
cleric with an unmatched talent for healing both body and soul.
It soon became apparent that my temper was a bit too short and my
reliance on my axe a bit too deeply ingrained to shake, and so my
search did not end in the embrace of Kshama.
It was Fresk Whitefeather who opened my eyes to my true calling
as a champion of the free exchange of Knowledge.  He set me
about books, and I found I had a knack for it.  His preaching
won my soul, and thus became I a supplicant to Lord Zarathustra.
When my mentor Rinyon Goen, the Lightningblade, fell from grace,
I chose to adopt the role of Protector of Knowledge, and committed
myself to opposing Tyranny and Oppression in all its forms.  For 
where fester these evils, there cannot prosper Civilization, and 
where there is no Civilization, there cannot prosper Knowledge.
My skill with an axe and my commitment to my principles brought me
into favor with the crusaders known as the Hammer of Light.  In 
the early days, we battled the dogs of Zynor.  We fought, and we 
died, but in the end were victorious.  As the Hammer rebuilt, a 
new generation of zealots gained the Queen's favor.  I have since
sunk my axe into many foes, some worthy, some not, but all 
embracing shadow, and bleeding the same color.  I have fought with 
vigor and with the strength of my righteousness, and I have, in 
every action, attempted to carry myself as a shining beacon, 
casting light into the darkness, exposing those would remain 
unexposed.  I have ever attempted to achieve the just end, with 
axe and with word, to bring glory to Zarathustra and to my Queen.
In reflection, I have not followed the path conceived for me by my
pap these 71 years past.  But in dedicating myself to causes 
greater even than the mining of mithril, I hope I have brought 
glory and good reputation to Clan Sorethumbe in my own way.