Dar 'Gottem' Gearnut

Dar Gottem was never cut out for the forge. Other gnomes of New Wilhelmdale hammered steel into swords or armor; Dar hammered scraps into makeshift wings, plates, and a tail he swore would let him pass as a dragon. His obsession was plain to anyone who heard him roar from behind the smithy or saw him gnash his teeth at passersby.

Then, one day, Dar got it in his head to set out alone and see a real dragon for himself. Maybe he sought a reference for his next suit. Maybe it was simple curiosity. Whatever the reason, he trudged across the Western Lowlands, through the forests of Blackmoor Basin, and into the foothills of the Jagtooth Mountains. High above the clouds loomed Mount Redwyrm, the tallest peak in the range and lair of Rage, the ancient wyrm, and his flight of reds. No sane soul would’ve dared approach.

Dar approached. His patchwork suit rattled like a death knell. He ascended the slopes and clambered up rocks and cliffs until he stumbled upon the entrance to a cave. Inside the cave, he found a tunnel leading into Mount Redwyrm.

The labyrinth seemed endless until, finally, the mouth of a massive cavern gaped ahead, scorched black by millennia of fire. Treasure spilled within like a river of gold. Dar’s eyes widened as he stared at the hoard, and his gaze fixed on an hourglass pendant glowing among the coins, baubles, and relics.

He rushed forward, stumbling as the coins slid beneath his feet, and plucked it up. He clasped it around his neck just as something stirred in the darkness. Rage swung his head, saw Dar, and roared. Fire erupted from his maw. Dar bolted, armor melting, lungs burning. Yet when the smoke cleared and the flames died away, he still lived. The pendant pulsed hot against his chest.

When Dar staggered back into New Wilhelmdale, he told anyone who’d listen that he had faced Rage and survived. No one believed him. They laughed, said he’d found the pendant in a junk heap, said his scars came from falling into his own forge. But Dar knew the truth.

Since that day, the locals have endured his antics. He charges through alleys, chasing rodents, pretending they’ve stolen his hoard. He bellows, “Come back here with my treasure!” before crushing them with his oversized mace. Then he throws back his head and screams his victory cry:

“Gottem!”

To the villagers, he’s a mad gnome in dragon’s skin. To Dar, he’s only waiting for his wings to grow.