Alaric Dayne

History

• Biography

  Alaric is the fourthborn son of Vardis Dayne, a wealthy lord with minor titles and holdings. Being the second youngest of five sons, Alaric was often ignored and neglected throughout his childhood. His eldest brother, Adelmar, was groomed for lordship since birth. Father's favorite. His youngest brother, Arian, was coddled by his mother all his life. Mother's favorite. His second and third eldest brothers, the twins Arrick and Arrin, preferred the company of randy peasant girls over family and so were rarely seen about the family estate.
  That left Alaric. Alone. The moment he learned how to walk, he was causing mischief, breaking the rules. This ofttimes cost him more than a few lashings from a birch branch, Lord Vardis' preferred method of punishment for Alaric in particular. Not because of some deep-seeded desire to shape his son into a respectful young nobleman, mind you, but because he'd be damned if he let a snot-nosed fourthborn besmirch his family name. The lashings hurt Alaric, but deep down he was content that he was at least getting acknowledged. He was happy with just not being forgotten.
  But that was long ago. He was just a boy back then, young and stupid, . Eventually, as most young men do, he outgrew the need for paternal affection. The idolization he had for his father, nearly overnight, was replaced by spite and white-hot hatred. Without any hesitation Alaric left home one night while the entire estate slept. He took what he pleased from what was once his home. Gold, jewelry, garments of noble bearing, and most importantly his father's prized saber, of which he had acquired on an expedition to foreign lands. For the decades to follow, the blade never left Alaric's side. It was a fine blade to be sure, but it's sentimental value far outweighed its usefulness. It was a reminder of the payback he got for a childhood of misery. But more important, its theft ensured that his father would never push the self-exiled fourthborn from his thoughts ever again.
  Alaric's noble upbringing and love for mischief gave rise to a hedonistic sellsword whose name was often said in tandem with words like "The Great Dane" or "Red Dog". He liked the monikers, they were good for business. "A sellsword whose deadliness and bloodlust rival that of a wild dog," they'd say. Half right, Alaric reckoned. For he had no real urge to kill. Though, simultaneously, he had no distaste for it either. Regardless, he was damned good at it. The benefits of growing up with access to a battlemaster to teach you how to use a sword. And with the coin he left home with, lessons from real masters were just a business transaction away.
  By the time he reached his fortieth winter, Alaric amassed a modest fortune and a not-so-modest band of mercenaries, named simply and accurately the Mutts. They adored him, showed him absolute, unadulterated loyalty. For he treated them not as soldiers nor thugs. He treated them as family, as sons and daughters he'll never have. To the Red Dog, they were his pups.

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