Dogfael was born as the younger of two brothers to the local baron’s stablemaster and his wife. Childhood was relatively normal and it consisted of lessons at the church’s school in the morning, followed by goofing off in the afternoon (after chores, of course). Something remarkable is that the baron, Lord Mandak, had allowed Dogfael and his brother to play with his children. Alas, this would not last long, for their father was promptly imprisoned for having an affair with the baroness, who had shortly claimed coercion by blackmail to save face, after which he was executed by hanging. After their mother too was imprisoned, the two confused children, with the younger being only six years old, were hastily brought under the care of their uncle, a priest, in fear of further retribution.

In the Parish of Rurikid, Dogfael lived humbly in the church and was tutored by diligent nuns who did not at all spare the branch. Even heavier chore-work burdened the tender child, and it was obvious that he was rather unhappy there instead of the castle grounds. His uncle did not have much time for him and was rather indifferent but had expressed hopes that he, too, would follow his path as a man of the cloth. With his elder brother dying of the Great Pox, contracting the disease in a local outbreak, Dogfael went through his childhood well enough, and was sent at sixteen to a prestigious university quite some distant away to continue his education, secured through his uncle’s powerful contacts.

As a youth, it was in the university that he had acquired a gluttony for drink and a passion for women. As the institution allowed more freedom than his home, he was often away from the gaze of nuns, and that allowed and his friends to go on some rather unspeakable adventures, with a particular one ending up with Dogfael waking in the local village’s stable, next to a dog that was giving birth, and another one that had him running through the streets half-naked, being chased by an irate burgher whose daughter merely looked on dreamily from the window. Indeed, he would come to think of his teenage years as some of the best in his life.

But all good things must come to an end, and so he, with the blessing of his uncle who was now bishop of Babenburger (and thus the only bishop in Othea; though this means little as the Order has only small areas of influence in the country), became a priest of Rurikid Parish at age twenty-four.

But who says priesthood can keep you away from the tavern, eh?

The unambitious Dogfael continued his hedonistic streak as he imbibed in alcohol and women. While his Order promoted moderation and restraint, the local villagers had no such qualms, and came to like him as one of their own. After all, it’s hard not to trust a man after you’ve had a couple of drinks with him and shared a good whore together. His uncle was unsure how to act: on one hand, Dogfael was being a scandalous wastrel, on the other hand, the villagers rather liked this fun priest who would even volunteer to buy the two ritual pigs every seasonal feast so they could put them in a cart and roll them into the river His method of preaching was also highly controversial, with lively jokes and stories interspersed with lulls of passionate litanies.

Almost thirty years of this has earned him oh so many good friends. With his ancient but magnanimous uncle refusing to die even at age eighty and with his gregariousness earning the religion more popularity, he has gotten away with it all. Ah, but old age has slowed him down, and he can no longer drink too much, and his little friend has gone into his eternal slumber. At fifty-three years old, he had taken time to reflect upon his life, and found it good. He was never ambitious in the first place, and not once had he thought that being a priest would have been so much fun! He doesn’t know how many of the little scampers running around the fields were his own, but he sure as hell wasn’t obligated to recognize any of them or marry their mothers!

This would change, however, with the inevitable death of his uncle a year later and the installation of a new bishop, who had immediately placed Dogfael as the leader of a relic hunting party and sent him to some dreary abandoned fortress down to the south. Dogfael could do naught but comply as he and his party went down the muddy roads, headed south.

As if going away from home this far and for this long was bad enough, the entrance to the fortress was swarmed by a particularly thick growth of wood. Branches in his face, always branches in his face, snapping the twigs off in exasperation while the seminaries waited for him up ahead.

It was in the throne room (or so he had assumed, the damage was too terrible to know for sure the purpose of the room) that he had found the mace, atop a pedestal and being gawked at with awe by his younger party members while he held his hip at having to climb so many flights of stairs. Tiredly, he had ordered them to put the damn thing in the bag, but they wouldn’t comply, so transfixed were they in the concrete symbol of the holiness of their Gods -- whom Dogfael did not believe utter squat about, of course -- and so he grabbed the shaft of the mace to do it himself.

And he blacked out.

Waking in an inn surrounded by worried seminaries but feeling extremely liberated in a physical sense, he was duly informed that he had bonded with the artifact. When asked if they were sure, the seminaries had simply pointed at his right hand for him to notice that he had been holding the mace with a vice-like grip. Brow furrowed, he examined the artifact, turning it round and, perhaps mistakenly, seeing a sort of destiny the moment he regarded the image of the seated king on one of its flanges. Never had he experience this sudden rush of warmth and sense of purpose in his life, not even when in between the legs of an eager, lonely debutante who had taken up his offer of comfort.

And on the way home, Dogfael killed the three seminaries after they had refused to run away with him and taking the artifact for themselves. Gods and Church be damned, he had power now! And he wasn’t about to hand it over to some self-righteous bishop so he could place it in a glass case and keep it away from the world; no, such things should be enjoyed, that one may live his life easier and with more pleasure. Neither Light nor Idris had it right; Dogfael had his own philosophy. A better philosophy.

With extra gold from the seminaries’ purses, he then decided to travel further south and east and into the Othean capital of Amaryth. After all, with the King’s birthday coming up, there should be many opportunities for great fun in the near future.