Dorn was born into and grew up with a group of Dwarven travelers, moving from town to town plying their trades, selling exotic foreign goods, and providing much needed entertainment. Dorn's father was a great storyteller, and every night would tell one of what seemed to be an endless supply of tales. Stories of great heroes, rescued princesses, and fabulous treasures. Stories where the true of heart and strong of arm protected the weak from those who would do them harm. These stories taught Dorn that as long as you only act with good in your heart, you will always triumph over evil, and in time

 When Dorn was 30, still a child in Dwarven eyes, their troupe threw a grand celebration for his Father's 300th birthday. There was singing, dancing, and a LOT of ale. Dorn's father told stories late into the night, and Dorn fell asleep to the story of his grandfather, who famously defeated an entire Oricish warband from the Sharptooth clan, sparing their leader out of pity. The Sharptooth clan survived, eking out a meager existence. It was a tale of courage, of bravery, and of mercy.

 When he awoke, it was to the screams and cries of his troupe. The caravan guards, lulled by too much drink, had nodded off at their posts. Truthfully, the mixed raiding party of Orcs and Goblins would likely have been too much for their few guards in any case, but their timing was bad none the less.

 Thoughts of his grandfather still in his head, he jumped to his feet and drew his axe. Though young, he was strong, and fast, and good with an axe. He ran through the camp felling goblins and orcs, shouting his Father's and Mother's names. He found them near the main fire; his father cradling the limp body of his mother, a giant of an Orc looming over them. He ran towards them, but he was too slow. A single leisurely swing of the Orc's giant double axe and his father's head fell from his shoulders.

 In a rage, Dorn charged, bellowing a wordless cry. The orc turned, and when he did, Dorn saw that he was a member of the broken-tooth clan, the descendants of the orc that his grandfather spared in his father's story. Dorn screamed and swung his axed wildly. The orc dodged the blow easily, and brought his axe up to meet Dorn's, shattering the blade. With a second swing he clubbed Dorn off his feet using the flat of his blade.

 "You want be Hee-ro, pup?" the Orc growled at him. "I show you what happen to hee-ros." He brought his foot back and kicked Dorn savagely in the ribs, driving the breath from his lungs.

 Two of the Orcs grabbed him, and bound him to the wheel of one of the wagons. Then one by one, they dragged the surviving members of his troupe before him, and forced him to watch as they died. For every throat they slit, they gave him a cut too, savaging his face until it was a mangled wreck. When there was nobody else to kill, the leader of the Orcs leaned in close to Dorn's ruined face, and spoke.

 "Your clan is weak, should have killed Sharptooth when they could. Brokentooth now strong, and you will die."

 With that, he drove a spear through Dorn's chest and walked away.

 When Xanben, a monk, happened across the scene of the carnage two days later, he believed there would be no way he would find anyone alive. So when Dorn lifted his head and stared out through the ruin of his face, two shining gold eyes amidst a sea of blood, Xanben came very close to breaking his vow of silence.

 He cut loose his bonds and tended to his wounds. He broke off the head of the spear, which had gone clear through Dorn's body, and carefully removed the bloody shaft. before he could toss it away, Dorn's hand closed around it and held on with a grip he could not remove. Over the course of the several days it took to drag Dorn's broken body back to his school, the school of the voiceless dragon, he never let go of that bloody shaft, and never spoke.

 Slowly, Xanben and his brothers coaxed life back into Dorn's body. When he was strong enough, he trained with them. They showed him how to use fist and foot, how to turn away arrows in flight, and how to calm the rage burning in his heart.

 When many months had passed, the leader of the monks, who was their voice, returned from an extended journey. It was the first time since the night of the slaughter than anyone had spoken to him, so when the leader asked him his name, the words seem strange and foreign to him. The leader asked him again, and Dorn was surprised to hear himself croak "Hee-ro. I am Hee-ro."

 When his first year of teaching was complete, he left the school. He took with him only a single staff, delicately carved and polished, and stained black with his blood on one end, the end that the Orc leader had thrust through his chest.

 Early in his travels he learned that his scarred and twisted face, which had never bothered the monks, revolted anybody he met on the road. He took to wrapping thick cloth around his face to cover everything but his eyes.

 His travels brought him back to the site where his old life ended. Naught but bones and mouldering wagons remained. He buried what bones he could find, buried them deep and built a cairn to cover them. He gathered whatever remnants of his people that he could find, trinkets and keepsakes, and placed them in the middle of the cairn.

 The only thing he kept for himself was a set of masks used by the performers in his caravan. One angelic, beautiful; the other, dark, twisted and demonic. The masks evoked in him an understanding of the nature of the world. He knew now goodness was not enough to stand on its own, that compassion and love by themselves would not build a better world. He knew that sometimes violence, cruelty, and force were required. His people had long known that to make stronger steel, it must be tempered by many blows from a careful hand.

 Sitting in front of the cairn, he resolved to be that hammer, to strike the blows precisely where needed. He knew that goodness led his grandfather to spare the life of the Sharptooth clan, but he also knew that his mercy was a weakness. A weakness that he would not share. It was a weakness that Dorn would have carried with him all his life, but Dorn died when the Orc drove the spear into him. Now he was Hiro.