Belac stands 7 and a half feet tall, with a heavy, muscular build and golden, shimmering scales. He has an outrageous scar across his neck and upper chest, and the scales that grew back are more dull in shade than the others.
It’s hard to tell where his golden enameled suit of scale armor ends and his own body begins, but what really grabs attention is the total lack of a heavy, bladed weapon. Instead, a simple leather whip hangs at his belt.
When I was a young lad, barely old enough to remember any such things, I was abandoned. I’ve never been able to quite figure why I’d be given up, but I was left at the doorstep of a temple with a note scribbled in parchment affixed to my tunic with a pin. I still have that pin, though the parchment is long since destroyed. I’ve used what little information that was written on it to search for my parents. I have so many questions, first among them, of course, is “Why?”
I’m in my 30s now, and although the time for such foolishness as embarking on a grand journey to find my parents should be at an end, I should be settling down, opening a business or something, the question still burns in my chest. Why?