Please consider the tale of Ragrim "Ravager", dwarven warrior of Bane.
Ragrim had escaped to Sanctuary with the burning desire to inflict the same cruel and sadistic punishments on the unsuspecting residents, as the drow had heaped upon him. Hatred and malice burned in his heart, but he knew he needed to build up his skills and strength before he could challenge the weak, pitiful leadership of the city. Thus, he concealed his intentions beneath the mundane exterior of another faceless escaped slave turning to sword work to pay for his keep in the demanding economy.
Months passed as Ragrim honed his skills and observed his future foes. Wih only the ever-complaining paladins denouncing him, he had made a name for himself as a reliable and courageous warrior - oft sought after as a companion on the innumerable "jobs" adventurers lent their skills to. Slowly but surely, Ragrim approached the levels of skill with his blade that would allow him to put his plans in motion.
And finally the day came - he had it all worked out. He would slay a Spellguard and nail the mage's head on the door of the House of Light. They would feel the fear and impotence to defend themselves as he used the corpse of one of their defenders to spread his message.
He had it all worked out - secret messages and juicy tidbits of information had led an agent to meet with him regularly. But this time would be different. This time their meeting in the wilderness would only result in the trade of death - the mage's death on his sword. This time, Sanctuary would learn why he had secretly nicknamed himself "Ravager". The carefully carved plaque secreted in his pack would proclaim this to all, when he pounded the nails into the door of the House of Light.
But when the fateful moment arrived, it was not Bane who guided his sword, but Besheba. The hand-carved deep lizard bone pommel of his sword flew off as he swungguiding his sword into the dirt and not the agent's neck. With goddess of ill fortune's cackling echoing in his ear, the world disappeared into a mist of flame, coloured lights and black, senseless unconsciousness.
It wasn't "Ravager" they called after that fateful day.
Wandering adventurers had come across him, naked as his name-day. Curled up in a ball, healed of his wounds, and covered in grease - next to a rothe cow that had been trussed and staked into a position only described in the worn pages of the books discreetly located in the back of the rare book shop on the top shelf.
"Ravager" was the name he had chosen. "Ravager" was the name he had inscribed on the plaque. But that wasn't how they called him in the following days. The accursed mage's elegant script had added "Rothe" in front of "Ravager" - and that was what all called him in the city.
Take heed, ye unwary, and remember - a nickname is what your peers bestow upon you. Not what you choose for yourself.
All characters in this tale, living, dead, undead or any state inbetween are purely fictional and are purely the product of the author's imagination.