King Merlokrep

King of the Truecale Kobold Tribe


Merlokrep is a physical paragon of kobolds, and his imposing powerhouse frame belies the usual
assumptions about his pathetic reptilian race. The king’s one good eye peers from his skull with a fierce aspect, smoldering with rage at the party’s intrusion


The reign of Merlokrep, first of his name,
all-mighty Dragon King of the Truescale
Kobolds, has suffered misfortune from the
day of his coronation. When his consort,
Vreggma, slipped on the dais steps and
poked out the king’s eye with one of the
bristly points of his own crown, he should
have known his rule would be ill-starred.
But the sturdy resolve that saw him through
the murder of his eighteen siblings and
cleared his path to the throne did not allow
Merlokrep to heed this inauspicious omen.
Even when a third of his subjects perished
in a haphazard mining excavation to retrieve
more “shiny good-good” for his demanding
consort, Merlokrep remained undaunted.
When the foul “creeping shadows” rose from
the dark caves below and withered his finest
warriors to skeletal husks, the Dragon King
finally took the hint. He gathered his most
sycophantic followers and, taking only what
they could carry (mostly shiny good-good),
they fled up and away from the spreading
darkness. Exiled from their comfortable
warren on the lower levels, the kobolds now
live directly beneath Droskar’s Crucible, a
monastery devoted to a once mighty and
malevolent dwarven god, whose only legacy
is the rocky mountain and the odd ruin that
still bears his hateful name.
Merlokrep and his few surviving followers did their best to eke out an existenceamong the other dangerous denizens of
their new home, but kobolds are frail creatures. Merlokrep’s tribe continued to shrink
with each passing week as accidents, attacks
by their new monstrous neighbors, and the
king’s own homicidal outbursts of rage
over both, claimed more and more of his
beloved people. Growing trepidation over
the slew of hardships faced after Merlokrep
ascended the throne finally jarred the memory of the tribe’s elderly shaman, the everabsentminded Jekkajak, called by many “He
Who Forgets More Than You or He Knows.”
At a tribal dinner of stewed goatherd, Jekkajak suddenly lurched to his feet and babbled forth a dread prophecy long tucked in
some cobwebbed corner of his crusty mind:
“When the Doomed King sits the Throne,
our great tribe merk-merks its last! To save
our people, wash our troubles from the
crown with the blood of pink-skin-spawn!”
As the last word left his mouth accompanied by a dribble of stew, Jekkajak slumped
face-first into his bowl and Merlokrep’s
path became instantly clear. The only way
to save his tribe from annihilation lay in
the blood of the pink skins’ squishy children

King Merlokrep

Dohman Padgett