Tameroque, the largest continent of the 9 Isles and supplier of essential cargo to its lesser neighbors was undergoing disputes between the four factions that controlled it, be it for land, money, or otherwise.
The war was filled in ranks by mostly Warforged, machines produced en masse to fill the ranks of the richer and more talented sides. This was to stop as much bloodshed as possible, but ended up backfiring.
Many of the robots had sentience, realized they were being used, and subsequently turned on their masters.
Most of the casualties were the creators of the bloodthirsty machines, and the war was settled on an uneasy truce to destroy every last one of the damnable constructs. Borders dissolved, and settlements were founded on previous encampments -- peace was achieved, but no one understands how it's lasted this long.
Aestus was neutral through the war, it catered to the refugees and treated the wounded.
Both Egris Faebane and Dramel Dratynn arrived on the island on a refugee boat after a wave of warforged wiped out their towns, Egris was in his teens at the time, and Dramel was half that.
While the dwarf had his family with him, the elf did not.
His mother had died shielding him from shrapnel of a burning munitions building, and with no one to turn to, fell into a life of petty thievery and gambling.
It wasn't until a chance encounter with a botanist who was embezzling funds he was celled with opened his eyes to his calling: alchemy.
Egris loved learning since he was young, but his surroundings weren't kind to him and he had to struggle to survive. The botanist showed him some simple recipes for salves and weaker potions he could sell, rather than having to steal for pay.
Sell he did.
A young elf known for picking pockets now stood center in a shantytown plaza, renouncing his actions and serving his atonement with free samples.
Skepticism mixed with curiosity fueled the confounded populace, citizens of De'tash couldn't afford healthcare and as a result cleared out his stock.
He needn’t enforce a price, after the illnesses plaguing the town started to clear, donations spilled in. Enough so that he could start pursuing his new-found love through an academy, paying his way with profits ever-escalating as with the strength of his elixirs.
Dramel Dratynn was a spoiled child. From the age of 8 when he had arrived on Aestus, he was enrolled in the best academy on the island. Coming from the wealthy entrepreneurs from which his last name was given and a loving family, he hadn't the faintest taste of struggle.
That was, until he had opened his first shop in the town of Kes'tain at age 25.
During its first night, the building was broken into and being robbed by what he assumed were unmissable delinquents.
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A *CRACK* broke through the stillness of that night. A flintlock shotgun had closed the pages on all three robbers.
Kes'tain, full of retirees, happened to also be full of their rowdy, rambunctious children.
One of the would-be thieves, the son of the then head-of-law division of the island, lay dead in his store. The guardsmen conducting an investigation of the sound recognized the boy cold on the floor. Holding loyal to their code, they bit their lips and heard the dwarf's story.
The next day came with an air of dread. Dramel was cleaning the site of the last night's events with a heavy heart when he made out a faint tapping on the closed storefront.
Three soft taps separated by a few seconds of silence.
The same guards stood behind the glass.
Without hesitation, the dwarf was jailed. No fair trial, dead to rights, no remorse from the stone expressions the jailors kept. From their faces he made out only one emotion; bitterness.
The jail time did the opposite to him as Egris' did. Dramel rotted in the prison for 5 years, dreaming of the great businessman his fathers were, the one he'd never become.
His drive only led him to survive, but only by a thread. Dramel lost most of his weight, chewed his nails until his fingertips bled. He became a walking corpse because he knew he was never leaving.
He was ready to die.
As the dwarf was ready to lie down for the final time, a tapping of an officer's shoes echoed down the hall, reverberating less and less as they grew louder and halted.
Three soft taps at the bars.
Dramel glanced at the man. The same guard that had arrested him stared with a quiet look of disgust.
"Captain Gosteau extends his hand with an offer." The disheveled dwarf was at a loss for words.
"The war." He said, "They need soldiers. You were the last we could ask. Your sentence still has 175 years, every year you serve in ranks would count as 3. You'd be free in about 60 years, or when the war ends, whichever comes first."
Dramel was enlisted, paying for every year held against him through the horrors of the war that he escaped.
With more war to spare.
His service would've earned him a medal, had he not be a prisoner in a soldier's clothes.
Throughout the fighting he held onto his hope of living up to his family's name, and with the majority, it was the only thing that made him push on.
He returned to the island many, many times older than when he left, and went to his family for one final grant. Just enough for a shop.
Closer to a shed was what he got.
Only one lot in possibly the busiest part of Aestus, if not Distem. Cho'lain, a port town devoted to all imports and exports, to and from the island. Any shopkeep worth their salt would've killed for the location, but the size kept most away, and the price the rest.
What it lacked in outward space it made up abounds in height. The building was easily confused with a church in its construction, tall and narrow.
Much similar to the poor sod who had wandered in. "Hello? Anyone here?" a voice attempted to shout. The dwarf spun around to see an elf standing in the doorframe. "Yes... may I help you?" replied Dramel.
The elf held a confident pose, juxtaposed against his voice and now sweating forehead. "I saw the building and assumed I'd find service being held, I'm not to continue with my assumption, should I?"
Dramel was as confused as he was, tagging his odd behavior as one from a tourist. "I suppose ya shouldn't. What're ya after, though?" The elf shifts, breaking his character more, letting his very apparent awkwardness peer through.
"Well, if it were a church, I'd ask if they would be willing to trade any herbs they were growing. I'm running low on sage and rosemary." Once again he shifts,
"I'm... I'm sorry, where are my manners?" He shakes his head and sighs, "My name is Egris, I'm a... purveyor of sorts. I make potions and the like."
Dramel cocked an eyebrow, his idea of a bar just got a bit more interesting.
"M'name's Dramel. Dratynn."
Egris' eyes shot open at the last name, he knew of it from the security that wrestled him off of a property on more than one occasion for selling without a permit.
"Ya look'n like ya saw a ghost, boy." Egris fully drops his act, stammering more than speaking, "I-I-I really ought t-to see myself o-out, sorry for b-being a bothe-"
"I was wondrin' if ya wanted a job."
"Wha-?"
"Also, does Grobb sound like a friendly name? Got it when I was in the war, thought it might add some charm to the title."