Sorcerer King Ghown

"You want to know who my father was, I take it. No, don't be surprised; that is almost what everyone wants to know. At least this fanciful device of yours seems suitable to keeping my words honest. Some revere him as a goddess made manifest, others an evil without compare–I cannot even say I knew him as a father at all. Although I am his daughter, he always stared through me, seeing something I cannot begin to imagine. But, I ramble.   My father was one of the first–those who were, before we were baarham. It will sound strange to you, but we had a name before then, when we were slaves to the dragons. I don't know if he coined the name or merely adopted it, I wouldn't be very surprised if he claimed he started it all.   One day, after he'd displeased his dragon mistresses, they burned his head with fire, and cast him aside. Only his healing magic kept him alive, but nearly all his skin and fur were gone. I don't know how he continued on, but as he always said, "I wouldn't let them win". My father, I don't think he became king because he was born great or because he had the power to.   Really, I just think he climbed atop a mountain of bodies, and no one was left to stop him.   I was born a couple centuries later. I don't know who my mother was, but I'd bet my life on her being a whore or concubine of his–he never was the sort to marry. He always kept men to serve his needs, though, so I can't imagine she had any other purpose than me. That is, after all, how things were back then.   Life went on, as they say, and I was beside my father, dutifully learning how to rule through him. I feel like I always disappointed him, because I could never muster the same cruelty or hatred he did. Anything that was not us–that was not baarham–he despised, defiled, and destroyed. Of all the times I could see the light shine in his skull-like face, it was when he could judge others any way he pleased.   Uncle Blerthorn hated the violence more than me. Those were ... trying, times. I was glad to have someone different than my father to trust–I hated seeing them argue, it almost always meant something somewhere would get blown up. The fight they had when they split up was a kind that honestly should have done tremendous damage.   I think, though, it was the only time I'd ever seen my father fall silent.   Not too long after–and yes, a few decades is not that long–we were exiled by the goddesses.   I don't very much want to talk about where we went, but we did return, eventually.   My father wanted revenge, not just on the dragons and what they'd done, but on all the world. I'd never been afraid of him before, but what he was then, it is not something to think about lightly.   And, so, revenge we served to him, on lakes of blood, and hills of corpses.   I think you know that part well–at least, those foxes have it recorded in excess already.   What stopped my father?   Well ...   We kept going, and eventually, we heard a familiar voice cry out. I'd never seen him move so fast, or kill so many just to get them out of his way. When we arrived, we found people like us, but different–the baatari, and among them was Blerthorn. The other forsaken had done well in tearing them all apart, but even half-dead, Blerthorn kept fighting.   Still, my uncle had lost a lot of his power in the years separating us, and he had changed–become weaker, rejected power. His wounds were too great, and he died in my father's arms. As my father sat there, dumbstruck like a fool, I surveyed the lands, and found we had been attacking our own people, not even realizing it.   He ... my father, I'm not sure what happened to him. The constant, seething anger he exuded around him just disappeared. He set uncle down, stood up, and then started killing–one by one, dozens by dozens, and so on. He attacked the very forsaken we allied ourselves with, and ever loyal to our king, we baarham obeyed, and fought.   It was a long battle.   My father went to the grand warlord at the head of the host, and dueled to the death. Even with his heart destroyed and his body crumbling, he kept fighting; beating that undead vermin into the shattered veltron. And so, in a crater of bodies and blood, my father died, slouched over and broken.   ...   Ah, that does bring back such uncomfortable feelings.   ... Ahem, anyway.   You could say a lot about him, and I will not deny his cruelty or evil. We study what he did, to teach ourselves what not to do now. It is thanks to him we arose to greatness, and it is thanks to him we survived our fall. People can argue the rights and wrongs all they wish; at least we are here to argue about it at all.   Ghown was, at his heart, baarham–ever seeking power. A saying that, even now, your languages struggle to understand properly. I do not know if I can speak for him as the daughter he never loved, but still, I would like to. It eases this powerlessness in my heart, my own inability to save my father from himself.   Call me petty, if you wish."

— A testimony from Vanzkah zahd Ghown