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Few things make the heart of a true Barbarian beat faster than the promise of glory in battle. As children, they grow up hearing the tales of great heroes whose strength and fame alone rallied mighty armies to their side, won them immortality in the sagas and legends. Many of them live and die with the dream of one day taking their place in the pantheon of ancestors revered throughout the generations.

That was Roric’s childhood too. Unusually strong and built like a mountain, he bore the weight of expectations from his  earliest days. His family hoped he would grow up to be a great warrior, and so as a young boy he oft sat at the fire, listening to the elder’s tales about those who came before. It inspired him to excel at his training and aspire to greatness of his own.

His skill at arms made Roric popular among the clan’s youth, and on occasion he led them on forays into the wilderness. For the most part, they hunted and scouted the land for signs of trespassers, but one fateful day they stumbled upon a cave that had been marked with ancestral runes carved into the cliffside. The ancient script spoke of treasure hidden within, but also of grave peril. Undaunted, Roric advanced into the dark jaws of the mountain with his merry band following close behind.

Long had they wandered the caverns that had never seen the light of day until, at last, they arrived at the heart of that sprawling tomb. There, its guardian stirred after years of slumber - a pale wyrm, the likes of which often dwelled in the mountains. Such creatures were still common in Roric’s time, and one making its nest close to the clan was a portent of disaster. Overconfident, perhaps, the young warriors charged into the fray in hopes of catching the beast unawares. 

That hope proved to be a vain one, and the wyrm incinerated three of the barbarians before they had a chance to strike. Roric would have perished too, were he not pushed out of the way by one of those warriors, but even so the creature’s fiery breath scorched his face. Though blinded by pain, Roric bellowed a mighty warcry and lunged the wyrm, swinging his hammer to shatter its skull.

The fight between them was terrible to behold, and Roric had almost been eviscerated once more as the beast twisted and thrashed. Yet he emerged victorious, claiming his fallen foe’s fangs as a trophy to mount upon the hammer. He returned to the clan alongside his surviving friends, and news of their deed spread like wildfire. Roric’s tale had truly begun on that day, and a life full of adventure and battles lay ahead of him.

Wyrmbane is a moniker well-earned, for that dragonling he killed in the caves near his clan’s holdings was but the first monster Roric had faced. He ventured out into Teleria soon after coming of age, seeking out the greatest beasts to hunt and slay for glory. It is no surprise the Arbiter had recruited a Champion of such renown, but that is a story for another time.