Hyperion Arran of Dragonholme
Human Fighter Noble
Arran is in his early 60s; his curly hair is grey as is his short well kept beard. While he moves slowly, with great creaking, his vigourous training maintains much of his youth’s strength and endurance. His gear and clothes are simple, but are kept in immaculate condition.
Despite my noble birth, I do not place myself over other folk. We all have the same blood.
If you do my family an injury, I will crush you, ruin your name and salt your fields.
Family. Blood runs thicker than water.
Nothing is more important than family.
I am too trusting and too quick to see the good in everyone, even if it isn’t there.
The Minor Son of a Minor House Arran was born the middle child of House Galkas, often lost between his charismatic older sister and his beloved younger brother. House Galkas possesses a venerable pedigree, but little else. Its ancestral lands are mountainous and arid, producing little wealth. The family occupies Dragonholme, an ancient citadel looming over the Axe, a rough pass through the treacherous Redfoot Mountains in the northwest of Holmsroyde. For centuries House Galkas has held the Axe against the Talabriga’s many enemies. Resolute in its duty, implacable in its determination: “Duty above all”. Only once has the House failed, when the grim legions of High Tyrant Dunhak, the hobgoblin warlord, stormed The Axe, overwhelmed House Galkas’ hoplites, and slaughtered the family. Only the children, hidden away in Dragonholme’s deepest cell, survived.
Despite the house’s glorious past and reputation for honour, it has little influence in the Ducal Council, where gold commands respect. Though the other nobles pay perfumed compliments to the illustrious history of House Galkas, they do not listen to its prudent counsels.
A Life Quite Ordinary As his older sister took up the role of heir, and his younger brother of folk hero, Arran was handed the task of exchequer. For forty years he carefully managed Dragonholme’s meagre income. Even so, his grim parents insisted that he train in battle alongside his golden siblings and the Immortals, Dragonholme’s fearsome hoplites. But Arran saw only the clash of coin, never of war. Arran would often drive simple goods in his rickety wagon to the one town in his family’s lands, Bristleboar. Arran executed his duties without reproach and without complaint.
Janus Smiles A bloody flux scythed through Dragonholme, killing young and old alike. The insatiable pyres burned day and night. Arran’s granite father and luminous sister both succumbed, where he endured. His aged mother, weakened but ever iron, took the throne, but knew her reign would be short. All eyes fell on Arran, unknown in the Ducal Council and unloved by the commoners. Arran renounced his claim to Dragonholme, clearing the way for his younger brother and, eventually, his wise and ferocious niece. In gratitude, Arran was given the honorific of Hyperion of the Immortals and leave from his duties as exchequer. Arran now travels the kingdom, looking to explore its ancient secrets and to bring the light of justice to its darkest places.