Wrak was born upon the frozen tundra north of the Ten Towns, near the foot of Kelvin's Cairn.  He was the first (and only) son of the Chieftain of the Rimebite Tribe of Dragonborn.  His mother, the Chieftain, taught him of their lineage, silver scaled Dragonborn brought to Faerun by the spellplague, surviving in harsh environs by accepting them and being molded by them.  She taught him of Bahamut, the Platinum Dragon, and his war against Tiamat.  She trained him in the way of the Barbarian. To walk that path was to accept the primal rage of dragons and channel it, but to be of his blood meant to also temper it with the wisdom of Bahamut and duty to protect the weak.

Wrak is not, by most reckonings, an adult Dragonborn.  It was this fact that let a rival barbarian, Garruk, wrest control of the tribe away from him, from his family's lineage.  Wrak, though his heart demanded he fight, fled in the face of Garruk's rage and the slings of his sycophants.  He wandered south, taking work as a manual laborer, a tavern tough, a caravan guard, anything that would gain him the coin to keep moving.  Eventually, he arrived in Silverymoon, but the great city was not so welcoming to one who'd been raised so long in the wilds.

Wrak is strong willed, but not wise.  He is brave, but his courage is not tempered by introspection or esperience.  He is strong and charismatic, able to charm and intimidate by turns.  Perhaps his most redeeming feature, however, is that he is ardently devoted to the idea of justice.  While he adheres to no codified structure of justic, his barbaric nature too wild to pin down one set of ideals, he has a keen sense of right and wrong and rarely can he tolerate a villain.  He believes that trials are set before him so he might strengthen himself, whether for some more worldly challenge ahead or simply to return and best Garruk, he is not yet sure.

Character exploration:

His mother's body still lay on its pyre when Wrak was approached by Garruk.  The elder Dragonborn snarled at the teenaged Wrak, backing the teen into the Chieftain's tent, which had been Wrak's because it was his mother's but would not be if Wrak could not face and overcome the trials leading to his own installment as Chieftan.  First among them this discussion with Garruk.  And so he would face it.  The blade upon the stone.

Wrak stretched to his full height, managing to crest above the other Dragonborn's own not-unremarkable height.  Garruk growled again.  "Chieftan Odeyar lays dead.  The tribe is without leader.  And yet the pup sits here, mewling over a lost parent.  What of your greater family, pup?  What of the tribe?"

Murmurs of agreement came from without the tent.

"Have you no shame, Garruk?  We honor our lost, it is our way."

"Excuses," Garruk hissed, silver scales catching the light of the pyre.  "Talk in place of action."

Wrak reached out to brush past Garruk, but the elder Dragonborn gripped his arm, held him in place.  He sneered.  "You cannot run, son of Odeyar."

Shaking free, Wrak forced his voice to calmness, saying, "I will face the trials, Garruk.  The mountain.  The gauntlet.  The word.  I know them.  I will do as my mother before me."

"The gauntlet.  Now."  Suddenly, Garruk dropped back, gesturing.  Outside, in the night, twenty Dragonborn stood with weapons readied.  Garruk smiled.  Wrak drew a ragged breath.  Twenty.  Of course any who lay claim may join the gauntlet.  So many.  So many of those of age.

"Perhaps you thought only the minimal four would stand?  Not so many eager to follow a child, you see."

"Garruk, this is not the time."

"The challenge is laid, son of Odeyar.  Ignore it and ignore..."

"I know what I ignore!" growled Wrak, his anger causing the air around his muzzle to chill and frost to form on his lips.  Garruk smiled.  Wrak stepped fully from the tent and towards the gauntlet.

"Oh, but I am first..."  Lightning fast, a club smashed into Wrak from behind, sending him sprawling to the feet of the Dragonborn he'd assumed would start the gauntlet.  Before he could roll over, the club came down on him again, cracking something inside him.  Wrak twisted, trying to fight back, trying to free one of his own weapons, but paused, remembering that blades were not allowed in the gauntlet.  None of the collected Dragonborn offered him a weapon as was traditional, but not required.  They show me every sign that I am unwanted.

Wrak rose, but Garruk was already there, waiting.  The club smashed along Wrak's nose, dropping him prone once more with the force of the blow.  Again Wrak rose, again Garruk smashed him to the ground.  The nearby Dragonborn laughed.  For what seemed like hours, Wrak attempted to mount an attack, but was rebuffed at every turn.  Finally, he began to crawl.  Not towards the gauntlet, but towards the edge of the camp.  Garruk paused in his assault.  "Have you accepted it, pup?  That I lead this tribe now?  If you beg for my scraps, I may let you stay."

Wrak, finally given a moment to breath, pushed himself to his feet.  He glanced over his shoulder, eyes burning from blood and sweat, but he could not bring himself to turn back.  He slipped into the darkness, Garruk's laughter haunting him until the sun rose.  The blade upon the stone.