Drofuir "Oinid" Droranath
The Drunken Dwarf
As a young dwarf of 63, Drofuir was overly trusting and naïve, but his instinct for mining precious metals brought a wealth and prestige to his clan which they had never known. In particular, his discovery of a large vein of silver in a previously abandoned shaft is seen as one of the great precious metal deposits in the Mror Holds. He dragged his clan into the spotlight and garnered himself a position on the Iron Council on which he sat as a clan representative for nearly 6 years. It was simply a matter of time though before his new political friends bent his unnaturally trusting and loyal nature to a breaking point. Even his so called allies schemed against him in order to secure large portions of the clan’s assets for themselves. In the beginning of his fifth year on the Council the clan’s wealth and power had dwindled to a small fraction of its previous size. He had lost precious territory to neighboring clans and his clan had him forcibly removed from his seat in mid-congress. Word of his disgrace spread like plague. He earned the nickname “Òinid” or “fool” and was practically mocked out of the Mror Holds.
That was nearly a life time ago. Drofuir left the Mror Holds and began life as a travelling artisan, living in small settlements and camps, making jewelry, repairing weaponry or the occasional plate mail for mercenaries. Drofuir, now finding himself a respectable 96, befriended a human woman named Alana to whom, contradictory to his now weathered disposition, he found himself speaking to plainly and openly. She engendered trust like no one he had ever known before. Nearly a year passed and, now settled firmly in the small village of Shavalant near the southern shore of Silver Lake and far from his Mror Holds home, Drofuir now spends a good deal of time with Alana sharing the stories of misadventure from his childhood and young adult life; always careful though, as Dwarves typically are, not to delve into the intensely personal matter of his disgraceful exodus from his homeland. As the season began to change from fall to winter, he began to notice that Alana would frequently be out when he would come to call, and her visits to the modest house he had built became sporadic. When she would visit, her inquiries into his shameful past became more prevalent, even forceful. She would ask specific information about locations and details about his time with the Iron Council, and about different alliances and feuds between the clans. Finally after trying to call on Alana at her home, Drofuir decided to try to find her. After asking several of her neighbors he found a shop keeper smoking outside his shop. He said that he had seen her pass by not an hour before, heading into a house down the road. Following her he began to hear shouting coming from the home as he approached and when he was nearly ready to break through the entrance, he caught a glimpse of the arguing parties through a shaded window standing face-to-face, clearly in an intensely heated discussion. Neither was Alana, in fact one was a half-elf man, and the other was a clearly a changeling female wearing hooded robes to disguise her face. Listening to their conversation, Drofuir discovered that they were involved in some sort of conspiracy involving a large covert operation. Their mark was not providing the information needed and more drastic measures would need to be taken. Fearing that Alana was in danger somewhere within the house, Drofuir quickly and a bit clumsily stood from his hiding place beneath the window causing a loud thump against the window. Both character’s eyes snapped toward him, and as the changeling did so, her appearance changed to that of Drofuir’s dear friend. Everything clicked into place, from the moment he had met Alana to now had all been a plot to infiltrate the Council – to blackmail members of political influence. Drofuir’s spirit was shattered by an explosion of rage, he charged into the room where the two had been arguing and, not carrying a weapon at the time, crushed the skull of the half-elf with his bare hands, knocking the changeling to the ground in the process. She panicked and scurried into another room and slammed the door, locking it in the process. Drofuir quickly broke down the door, but discovered the room to be empty, the window in the room open to the free air outside. He fell to his knees, pressing his bloodied hands to his face one word escaping his lips: “Òinid.”
Bent on finding the changeling who engendered his trust so quickly only to betray him, Drofuir left his home and began working as a mercenary—traveling, fighting and watching for the changeling. He no longer uses his given name and instead calls himself Òinid, so that he will never forget the deceit he has fallen prey to, both from his kin and kind, and also from those who would play his loyalty and trust against him.