Thordan's Lost Story

Thordan alongside several others, discovered a secret cult of blood mages underneath the city led by strange beings. After his last adventure at sea, Morub, together with his friends, arrived in a city named Neverwinter. Uncertain of what the future would hold, the group decided to split up. The events of that adventure lead to him acquiring a lot of gold and with that Thordan had finally paid off his debt after 30 long years. Through this arduous journey, he had learned that not all companions were to be distrusted. The shadows of his murky past, filled with betrayals and doubt, were dispelled as he made peace with those who mattered, shaking hands in newfound trust. He realized that not everything and everyone posed a threat—except, of course, for those who had a peculiar fondness for Good Pears. They were still, undoubtedly, harboring sinister thoughts. Once his debt was settled, Thordan, tired of working under others, retreated into the wilderness. There, he lived a quieter life, only taking on small tasks when absolutely necessary to earn some gold for vital supplies. During this time, he mastered the art of growing his own food and creating remedies from the forest’s bounty. His secret weapon? His beloved frying pan, which always produced dishes with an impeccable, magical flavor.

Living in relative isolation meant that Thordan never married, nor did he have children. It was a quiet ache in his heart, one he would soothe by occasionally visiting the more adventurous women in the village.

But everything changed the day Thordan learned that his only true friend, Bhjörd, had gone missing. Without hesitation, he grabbed his trusted bow and ventured out in search of his friend. Rumors say that Thordan stumbled upon a group of feral men in the wild. His instincts told him they knew more than they let on—one of them was wearing the very scarf Thordan had once made for Bhjörd with his own hands. Tragically, this was the last anyone heard of Thordan. Days later, a passerby found him, lifeless, the scarf drenched in blood still clutched in his hands.