Denzorax gripped the ship's railing with sustained annoyance. His white scales gleamed like fresh snow in the morning sun. Great ice floats littered the bay of Eiselcross as he gazed out from the deck of the sailing ship, The Whispered Mistress. The voyage from Icefall to Eiselcross had been long and arduous, even for the ice-cutting vessel. After the long night of winter, it was the first bookable voyage across the Thin Sheets. He had been eager to put the pirate port and lawless city of Icefall behind him, memories of the place fueling his annoyance further as he shook his horned head—years wasted.
For years he spent time among the pirates, smugglers, and drunkards of Icefall studiously observing, learning from, and taking notes as he been taught. Trying to decipher the underbelly of the world and so called Pirate Code. His background as a sage and the doctrines Lazereth commanded that with enough knowledge Order could be found in all things. Frustrated in his findings the dregs seemed to only offer society chaos.
Even as the city came into view he could hear the drunken ramblings if the vagabond crew and other passengers.
Half-heartedly, Denzorax departed the ship, setting foot in the city of his youth. For a gifted few, those with talent for reason, knowledge, and the arcane, the orphanages of Lazareth could be a place to thrive. Denzorax was one of those blessed few.
The unwashed masses that filled the docks and scurried about gave the Dragonborn, a priest of the Lord of Winter, a wide berth as befitting his station. He observed them dashing about in great hurries—to find drink at the nearest tavern, trade their trinkets in the market square, mind their wayward offspring. What would it accomplish? What would history remember them for? Nothing.
Today, he felt like one of them as he passed the great church of his Lord. The gothic spires, embellished with skulls and runes, towered over the streets of the mundane. What would scholars write about him? What had he to give them?
A court session ended from the great cathedral, and the attendees spewed forth, adding to the chaos of the square. Hawkers, criers, petty thieves, clerks, beggars swirled around the Dragonborn like a maelstrom of madness. His Lord Lazareth deserved better. He could do better.
A bell rang through the din for Denzorax, as clear a sound as he had ever heard. The Dragonborn's eyes narrowed as he scanned for the source of the sound. A banner rose, and recruitment tables were set—North Wind Alliance, hiring for caravan guards to Winter Shield.
The largest and greatest city in the world, half a continent away and the sacred city of Lazareth. It was a sign. Surely the secret of societal order could be found there!
The sage cleric parted the masses like an ice-breaker, making his way with renewed purpose. He'd been called.