Swipek Bronzeborn Atianna, the Forgotten Kobold Heir
Swipek was born in the shadowed tunnels beneath a crumbling estate, deep within the ruins of what was once rumored to be a noble dragon-blooded lineage. His clutchmates saw themselves as mere scavengers, eking out an existence on the fringes of civilization, but Swipek always knew he was destined for something greater. Unlike his kin, who groveled before powerful masters or fought over scraps, he carried himself with a quiet arrogance, convinced that the fire in his veins was no mere accident—it was the birthright of a true heir.
The stories of House Atianna, a proud noble line said to be blessed by a mighty celestial bronze dragon, were whispered through the ages. Most dismissed them as the dreams of old bloodlines clinging to fading glory, but to Swipek, they were truth. As a whelp, he would sit in the darkness, tracing the faded crest of the house etched into the ruined walls, listening to the wind whisper secrets through the broken halls. Other times, he scavenged lost scraps of lore from forgotten books or half-rotted scrolls, piecing together the legacy stolen from him. Unlike his kin, Swipek had learned to read, a skill he considered both proof of his noble mind and a weapon to wield against those who dismissed him.
His obsession centered on the house’s last true matriarch, Lady Beluvial Atianna, a sorceress of unmatched power. Legends claimed she could summon storms with a whisper and command legions with a single glance. Many believed the bloodline had weakened in as the generations dilute her blood, that her so-called descendants had strayed too far from their draconic origins, tainting their celestial heritage with mortal frailty. But Swipek knew better. The others were pretenders, weaklings clinging to a name they no longer deserved. He was different. He bore the true mark of House Atianna, a tail of bronze.
The proof was written on his very form—or so he claimed. Swipek would gesture to his shimmering bronze-tinged scales, a hue obviously reminiscent of his celestial dragon foremother. The spark in his golden eyes was not mere cunning, but the divine fire of the storm, waiting to be rekindled. Though he lacked the raw arcane might of a sorcerer, he saw this as further evidence that the lesser heirs had squandered their birthright. His power did not manifest in cheap parlor tricks—it resided in his mind, his cunning, his ability to outmaneuver and reclaim what was lost.
Lacking magic, Swipek honed his skills in other ways. He became an expert in deception, sleight of hand, and the art of moving unseen. Where others saw theft, he saw rightful reclamation. Every lock he picked was another barrier between him and his true inheritance. Every treasure he pilfered was not mere wealth—it was a fragment of what should belong to House Atianna. And if those soft-handed nobles called him a thief? Let them. A dragon takes what is his by right.
Swipek moves through the world with a roguish charm and an indignant pride, seeking proof of his birthright while mocking the “lesser heirs” who parade around in their finery. Never to their face, of course. He is no fool—nobility is a game of shadows and whispers, not open confrontation. He plays the long game, weaving lies into truth and truth into legend, until one day, there will be no question that he is the rightful heir of House Atianna.
And when that day comes? He will not beg for his title. He will take it. After all, what is nobility if not the cunning to seize what is owed?
