Gather round children. Let me tell you a tale of a time before time, when the dragons ruled the earth, and the elves were still hunted, naught but creatures of the night. But most importantly, a tale of our lord, Vagabond.
When he was born; yes children; he was born once, he wasn't always as he is now; he was but a slave, oppressed and beaten every day of his life. Until he fled, across the blood red plains of his homeland and into the woods; into the eternal fire that raged there as the dragons tried to conquer the last safe haven of the mortals and fae. He was taken in by the elves, and he grew among them and learned their ways. It was here that he learned the ancient art of stealth, and here that he first learned magics. But, sadly, all things of men and mer must come to an end, and so it came to pass that a traitor entered their ranks and sold the lot of them for a few silvers.
And so they were punished, and as was the custom of the dragons, they were hung over a chasm bound by their wrists. They weren't bound as many are bound now, but by an infernal metal that burned them whenever their wrists touched. And how the torments were heaped upon them then, nothing was too low for the guards to do to them, and many died within the first week. So it continued for ages and days, or many weeks and months, no one could tell in that bleak place, least of all the prisoners. Yet, he wasn't dead, and that was all that he needed. Eventually a dwarven raid freed him and many of the other prisoners.
They took him and the others before their elders, to decide if these vagrants would be granted refuge for as long as it took them to heal, or if they would be allowed to stay indefinitely as bondsmen if they so desired. The dwarven council decided that they would be allowed to stay, for as long as it took them to heal, and then after that for as long as they were useful. And it was from the dwarves that he first learned the ways of the warrior, how to choose your fight, and how to turn your enemy's movements against him.
He left the enclave though, fearing the destruction that he would bring upon them if he stayed. For now his was known among the slaves as the twice free, and the dragons hunted him with a fervor that signaled that they wouldn't allow this simple slave to defy their empire again. And so he wandered the wastes at the edge of the world, content simple to roam and learn from the outcasts and thieves that lived there. Learning how cruel and kind man can be to himself, and how to survive off the land herself. And it was here that he found a shrine to Nyarlathotep, the god of fate and change. It was here that he first dreamed the true dreams, the ones that told of the fate of the world. He learned that the age of the Dragons was swiftly coming to an end, and that he was to be the tool of the gods' retribution. He learned that Aen, the first to awaken, was displeased that the dragons pride had clouded their judgment so, and that they had displeased him so.
And so he waited, for years untold he stayed. For now he was neither god nor man, he had transcended mortality but hadn't achieved immortality. Then one day, at noon, a star appeared in the west. It was time, his task was at hand. As the sun set, casting a bloody shadow over the lands; the star passed over head, and then into the east. Soon after, over the great sea, on a small island in the eternal waters, an explosion lit the night sky. And so he knew that all the pieces were set in motion, and the time for turning back was gone.
So he traveled again, eastward and north, across the seas and through the dragons' lands, onward to his future. And finally he reached the dead star, around it the trees all bent away, as if a great wind had pushed them down with the star being the eye of the storm. He quickly set to work, cutting off and refining pieces of the star. He fashioned it into a spear, 7 cubits in length with a single crosspiece 2 and 1/2 cubits from the head. The spear was blacker than the night sky, and seemed just as cold. Almost as if the star's death had affected it so much that it could never even hold the heat produced by another.
But it proved a mighty weapon, blessed by the gods to wound even the greatest dragons deeply, and hasten their trip to retribution. Now he was ready and he set out upon his journey, to hunt down and destroy every last dragon, to make his cruel taskmasters suffer as they had made him suffer. He hunted them down, roamed to the 12 corners of the world, and even went to the base of the Tower in his quest to kill them all. It was there that he defeated the last of them, the only one so proud as to set himself up as the new ruler of the world, claiming the top of the world as his throne. N'Fien N'Tehra'Matar, or Ender Worldender, the dragon was the last to fall, the greatest of the dragons in both pride and power, more powerful himself than some of the gods.
Not all was death then though, for it was then that he found us, after N'Fien N'Tehra'Matar fell, we came out of our tunnels under the Suongre'rus (Blood Roses). It was then there, in the shadow of the Tower that he taught us, Il'henta (The People), the ways of the world. He taught us how to interpret our dreams, how to survive the wilds where the people will never understand, and our magics. But the most important thing that he did there will forever be killing N'Fien N'Tehra'Matar.
That, children, is how our protector, Vagabond the Wanderer, the Persecuted, the Obscurer, came to rid the world of the dragons, and came to be our protector. If any of you doubt me, go to the base of the Tower, that none have seen in ages, and look upon the corpse there. It lies in Il'Cumpe'D'Il'Rus, and his spear lies there with it, awaiting the beginning of the next age, when it is told that the dragons will be allowed to ravage the world again. When a new hero may need to take it up to destroy them.