Scrum Ten-Inches was once a name whispered with dread on the roads of Faerûn, for he was a member of the notorious Trouser Snake Army, a ruthless band of outlaws that prowled The Trade Way between Baldur's Gate and Waterdeep. Their crude moniker became more than a vulgar joke—it was a curse upon the lips of every merchant who dared the journey.

But for Scrum, the Trouser Snakes were more than just a gang - they were the family he had never known. Torn from his homeland as a child, Scrum had known nothing but cruelty at the hands of others. Sold as a slave in Amn, then as a gladiator in Athkatla, and finally discarded in a noble’s dungeon to be tortured for sport, he had endured a lifetime of suffering before fate intervened. The Trouser Snakes found him there, shackled and broken. But instead of leaving him to die in that hellhole, they freed him, clothed him, and gave him something he had never had before: belonging.

Seth, a charismatic and ruthless lieutenant of the gang, took the young half-orc under his wing. Where others saw a weapon to be used and discarded, Seth saw potential. Under his guidance, Scrum learned to hone his rage, turning it into a finely-tuned instrument of destruction. And as Scrum’s legend grew, so did the bounties on his head. Yet the deeper truth was this: Scrum didn’t care for gold or infamy - only for the brotherhood he had found with the Trouser Snakes, and the bond he shared with Seth.

But bonds of loyalty are fragile things, and trust is the most dangerous currency in the world of outlaws.

One night. It was supposed to be a simple job, an easy target. Some pompous merchant from Baldur's Gate with more coin than sense had set up a vacation manor near Loudwater, just along the mirror-like edges of Highstar Lake. Scrum’s scouting party had done jobs like this a hundred times. But this time, something felt… off. The forest was too still, the air too heavy, as if the night itself was holding its breath. Scrum’s instincts, honed through years of survival, whispered caution, and a shiver made him order a retreat back to the Trouser Snakes' main camp. When he realized that his party had been followed, it was too late.

Arrows rained down from unseen attackers, cutting down the Trouser Snakes before they even had a chance to draw their blades. Chaos erupted in the camp - shouts, screams, the wet sound of steel meeting flesh. Scrum fought with the ferocity of a cornered beast, his twin axes carving through enemies with terrifying precision. But amidst the carnage, one face stood out. A face he had never expected to see among the enemy ranks.

Seth.

Their eyes locked across the melee, and in that frozen moment, everything became clear. Seth’s cold, emotionless stare told Scrum everything he needed to know: this was no mere ambush. It was a betrayal. The Trouser Snakes hadn’t been outmaneuvered by some rival gang or bounty hunters - they had been sold out by the one man Scrum had trusted above all others. And as quickly as their eyes met, Seth disappeared into the shadows without a word, leaving him to face the slaughter alone.

When dawn broke, the Trouser Snake Army was no more. Their camp was reduced to ash and ruin, bodies strewn like broken dolls among the wreckage. Scrum, battered and barely alive, crawled from the carnage, his heart a twisted knot of rage, grief, and confusion. Everything he had known, everything he had believed in, was gone. Destroyed in a single night by the one man he had called "brother."

From that moment on, Scrum became a ghost. His life, once driven by loyalty and belonging, became consumed by a single, burning obsession: to hunt down Seth and uncover the truth behind his betrayal. Why had he done it? Was it for gold? Power? Or was there something darker lurking in the shadows of their past?

Scrum’s hunt took him across the Sword Coast and beyond, from the towering spires of Waterdeep to the desolate sands of Anauroch, from the fetid swamps of the Marsh of Tun to the ancient ruins of Fort Ilbratha. He retraced the steps of his shattered life, even returning to the slave markets of Athkatla where his suffering began. Each lead brought him closer to Seth, but every time, the man slipped through his grasp, leaving behind only more questions. The knot of rage in Scrum’s heart tightened with each passing day.

And then, the whispers came. Seth was dead. Killed in a deal gone wrong, or perhaps something far more sinister. The rumors were wild - some claimed he had been slain by a rival gang, others spoke of dark pacts with infernal powers, of bargains made with gods and devils. Bhaal, Beshaba, Cyric, and even Asmodeus himself - each tale named a different member of the pantheon, but all the tales had one ending: Seth’s soul was damned, cursed to wander the Nine Hells for all eternity.

But the news brought Scrum no peace. Seth’s death didn’t ease the torment in his heart. It only deepened it. If anything, it made his obsession stronger. The knot of rage and grief twisted tighter, suffocating him. Seth's death wouldn’t stop Scrum. Not now. Not after Seth had taken everything from him. And even if Scrum had to tear through the layers of the multiverse itself, he would find him and the answers he sought.

But deep inside Scrum, a seed of something resembling doubt grows. A small, insistent voice that asks the question he refuses to confront: Once he gets his answers, what then?

It is a question Scrum cannot answer. Not yet. For now, there is only the hunt, and an unanswered promise of vengeance.