It was on the outskirts of a small village where heard, from a small farmer whose crops he had saved, a tale of a dragon, to the South, which was said to rule the neighbouring city. Stopping at the village for some more info, he was at the bar when a horde of goblins decide it’s probably fun to torch the place. Somewhat annoyed (Aran enjoys his coffee cold..), he fights off the mob with an amazing display of force, and the small help of two bands of adventurers. When it calmed down, his heightened panther senses heard some kind of disturbance to the East, and went to help there too.
For a job well done, Aran was awarded a pouch of magical dust. His inability to recognise not-primal magic dictated that experimentation would be a good way to find out what it was. Along with the pouch, the promise of even greater riches, should he be able to recover that which the goblins took, was given to him by Head of town council, Troyas. And, ten hours later, Aran and his team arrived at the old castle ruins where, he thought, the goblins had set camp, controlled by some higher power. Such is his astonishment, when all they find, room after room, are the battered corpses of the Red Hand. After successfully destroying a Flan, for having taken too much time admiring a strange painting, the team finally detects live opponents. In mere seconds Aran sets up the ambush. And as he surprises his prey, he is surprised himself, for recognising some of the idiots from the bar. Aran is relived for only being able to see one of the dragonborn, although he was quite sure that, sadly, that one was the pyromaniac pyromancer, and not the weird devout of the platinum dragon. Behind the group was someone way past his time upon this world. Probably one of the villagers. Probably, that meant riches. Alternatively, it was food for Monty. The adventurers’ reactions gave no margin for doubt. There was only one option.
Monty had assumed the best position. Hidden behind the massive painting, the python immediately strangled a robed human. Benat charged a small lump of metal, a quarter his size, and Orton, son of Benat, followed through, only to be halted by two longswords to the side, and was suddenly more interested in whatever had made him hurt. Meanwhile, the mad dragonborn rained ice and fire; a hooded giant of tremendous agility swinged and stabbed with his shiny rapier; some ranger fought Orton, and the lump of metal (which, Aran curiously noticed, appeared to have a beard) was shouting challenges of war at everything it laid its eyes on (so, probably not much…). In a corner, the old man quaked with fear,and in the other, Monty toyed with his lunch. Aran, on the back, commanded. Spectral rats manifested with the wave of his hand. All insects in the castle coalesced, buzzed and bit. Knots and roots from ancient trees, buried under stone for ages, would revolt against anyone who would step on them. For a while, the battle was his. But the winds changed and, in that room, the gods would vanquish the spirits. Beam after beam of intense sunlight, Monty perished, finally releasing the human. Benat felled the giant, and Orton took others to the doors of the other world, but was not enough. More than once would an opponent fall to the ground, only to rise moments later. And when Benat and Orton fell, Aran thought it nice to lay down arms. He was no good dead.
So would Aran find the band of morons to be not that moronic. As a token of appreciation for a duel so epic, he offered the team the dust. Sprinkling some of it over the giant, his wounds twitched and the flesh quivered, and then fell together. The skin reknit and the spirit returned to the now only lightly damaged body. Aran gathered and healed his friends, and then talked to the adventurers. It was only fair they would be the ones to finish the job. Aran offered them his services, hoping for a new life, with both friends and meaning, and returned to Brindol, where he remains to the point, researching.