Donjon grew up a child of slaves in the dark tenements of Shibi Mal Tan. His father was a brawling human who managed to survive the gladiator pits until Donjon was eight; his mother, a tired elven servant to the demanding twin hobgoblin masters Zhou and Zhang Tsui. The day Donjon learned to kill, surviving his first brutal gladiator fight, was the day he learned of his mother’s death. He felt little pain—sentimentality was a quality distinctly absent from early life in Shibi Mal Tan.
Even less so in the gladiator pits. As a slight, wiry half elf among larger, stronger races, Donjon had to learn quickly to be more ruthless than his opponents. His incredible speed and inventive maneuverability both helped keep him alive, and helped him develop a modest level of notoriety.
Still, you live life long enough in the game, you can tell when the winds are starting to turn against you. Donjon had seen more popular fighters fall to match fixing by their greedy owners, so he had no illusions to his own expendability. And when he first sensed a distancing by his fellow combatants, he immediately looked for a way out. It was desperate, and foolish, and more than likely bound to fail.
Perhaps he prayed to the right god that day.
His escape had cost three lives, that he knew of—two that he took himself, necessary eliminations, and one of his partners in flight. He’d no idea what fate befell the pretty concubine who helped smuggle them out through the harem district. He hoped one day to find out.
A return to that city, though, is out of the question. One does not escape the clutches of the Tsui clan and return to brag about it.
His escape took him along many routes—first to the high mountain pass of Mergut, where he found some refuge with the noble minded Goliaths. The high mountain air was good for his body and soul, as was the companionship of one Gorun. However, the first trading group to arrive from Shibi Mal Tan with casual questions about ‘escaped convicts’ prompted his flight north through the wilds to the city of Hofveld. He managed to survive by finding various laboring jobs. Each hint of possible danger, though, would trigger another departure, further and further from the realm of his incarceration.
It is perhaps not too peculiar that Donjon, having spent so many months avoiding capture himself, would turn to the profession of bounty hunting. He held no particular allegiance to those on the run like himself—most, he had come to discover, were not refugees fleeing unjust persecution but criminals dodging heinous crimes. The pay, at first, was not great. But it did give him some measure of self worth. The numerous gods he prayed to each day, often at every intersection of every street, must have been looking over him.
It was his improbable capture of the criminal named Silk that brought him to the attention of the League. That she then escaped her prison was not his fault; however, during their epic chase across the rooftops of Krandor he was able to retrieve the three magical foci that she stole from the Magus Katsuro. Where Silk has gone to now Donjon has no idea; each night he burns three sticks of incense to Brandobaris, Eachthighern, and Dalt to ward off what vengeance of hers he knows to be coming.
Brogia has since found Donjon’s skills to be very useful, and for his part, Donjon is quite pleased to finally have found a home, at least of a sort. He makes sure to avoid the inevitable downfall as long as possible by never stepping on any of the cracks in the floor of the Great Hall (except for the 7th and the 71st), and bowing to the northwest before sitting down—unless his seat already faces the northwest, in which he makes the sign of the unicorn to the south. Of course.