Fynius’s Story

When I was a child, my perspective of the world was greatly influenced by the songs my father, Fyn’Loer, sung to me: romanticized tales of glory and valor, from the many adventures he had with the great elven warrior, Tar’ron Balmaer. His songs brought my father fame and adoration in our city of Shar’Norl. It is likely you will still hear “Flight of the Owl-Bear” or “To Be Holding the Eyes of the Beholder” being sung in taverns throughout the city to this day. As a child, I would listen to his songs and imagine being at his side, as he and Tar’ron fought off demons or corrupt sorcerers that sought to prey on the innocent and defenseless.
My mother fell gravely ill when I was three years old, and passed away soon after – leaving my father to care for me on his own. He decided to give up life as a bard and opened a shop where he made and sold musical instruments of all sorts. He was skilled as a craftsman, and through his studies he was able to imbue his instruments with magical enchantments that granted abilities far beyond creating melodies.
Being well renowned, as he was, it wasn’t long before musicians and bards from every corner of Alduras came asking him to craft their instruments. After a time, he began to receive so many requests that he would only craft instruments for those who could pay top coin – unless it was a musician he truly admired.
Years later, on a trip with my father to deliver an enchanted lute to a nobleman in Bran’Dellin, our wagon was set upon by bandits as we left the city limits of Shar’ Norl. As they approached the wagon, I can remember my father slowly raising his hands – speaking in a calm and steady voice. “We don’t want any trouble boys. Me an’ my son are just making a delivery. There isn’t much of value on the wagon, but you’re welcome to what we got.” As he gestured to the lute to show what he had to offer. A nervous sniper hiding in a tree loosed an arrow – piercing my father’s chest. He looked down to where the arrow hit, and almost seemed confused as he saw the blood soaking through his tunic. His eyes turned back towards me and he opened his mouth to speak, but instead of words only a faint wheeze came out. The look in his eyes turned from confusion to a blank stare. His body slumped forward and rolled off the side of the wagon to the ground. One of the bandits on the ground turned and shouted up to the trees, “What in blazes are you doing, Mick?! He was just going to show us what he’s got to give!”
“Sorry! I thought he was grabbing for a crossbow!”
As they squabbled I saw what could be my only chance for escape. I grabbed the lute and jumped from the wagon; and ran as fast as I could.
One shouted, ”Get back here you little rat!” – But none gave chase.
After that day, my childhood was spent on the streets begging, stealing, and grifting to survive. I quickly discovered that the world is much more complicated than my father’s songs had lead me to believe – with no real heroes or villains who can clearly be seen to be good or evil. In certain circumstances, anyone can be driven to do bad things out of desperation, or do good things when they possess the means to do so.
I practiced day and night at playing the enchanted lute – which was now my only real possession, save ragged clothes on my back. I would play the songs my father had written on the streets for coppers and scraps of food. After a time tavern owners and inn keeps began to invite me to play at their establishments. For the next few years, this was how I got by.
One night an old friend of my father’s, Ter’Lyn Faerwick, was at a tavern where I was playing. He recognized me and offered to take me into his home. After years on the street, I finally had a place that I could call home – yet it didn’t feel like home. I was grateful to Ter’Lyn, but a large part of me felt resentment that he wasn’t my father – yet reminded me so much of him. Over time, memories of my father’s face faded and became smeared together with the face of this other person – this stranger – who tried so hard to be a father to me in spite of my resistance and misplaced contempt.
Ter’Lyn, like my father, was an accomplished bard and craftsman – and he took me on as an apprentice to teach me the finer points of lore and song. He taught me how to invoke emotion in a crowd, how to paint vivid pictures from words and melody – and how to control the magic imbued in my lute. Thanks to Ter’Lyn, I was soon one of the most sought after performers in my little corner of Shar’Norl – and for a time it was bliss.
I soon found it wasn’t enough, though. Most of the songs I sang were not my own. And those that I had written were merely imagined exploits that never actually occurred, or banal re-tellings of tales known by everyone far and wide. I decided to set out in search of adventures of my own to become a great bard, like my father.
I left the gates of Shar’Norl, travelling east, not knowing where the road would lead me – and that excitement felt better than anything I had ever experienced. The exhilaration I felt upon leaving Shar’Norl did not last for long, though. Soon after I crossed the border into Gracia the weather turned, and the next week of travel brought horrendous rains and wind – which soaked through the tarp on my wagon, and ruined a good portion of the provisions I had brought. My spirits weren’t dampened, however. I had spent years in the gutters and was used to the feeling of being cold and wet -and what good adventure doesn’t have trials and hardships? I turned towards the north after passing through the foothills of the Wyrmshire Mountains, in an effort to avoid further onslaught from the storms of central Gracia’s rainy season. There was no escaping the storms, though, so I decided to stop to wait it out when I came upon an inn several miles outside of Riverdale.
The storms continued without respite day and night. The roof of the inn leaked constantly, and the winds blew through the walls as if they weren’t there. The conditions were easy to endure next to the constant boredom, though. There were no other guests in the inn and the only people to talk to were the inn keeper and his brother – both of whom I quickly found out were racist. The only reason they let me stay in the first place was because they liked coin just a little more than they hated elves. After two and a half weeks, the rain finally let up and I was once again on my way – heading north, past Riverdale.
I continued on for days, traveling through rolling countryside and thick forests – sleeping beneath the stars at night. I passed by Placid Lake – which was the setting of one of my father’s songs, “Turbulence Swirling Beneath the Placid Lake”. It was peaceful, but something seemed unsettling about it. Suddenly, there was a loud popping sound, and a wheel on my wagon broke. I quickly found that this was no accident, when 4 bandits rushed the wagon from behind the bushes lining both sides of the road. I was instantly transported back to the day my father’s wagon was ambushed and lost control – going into a blind rage. I looked at them and saw the bandits who had killed my father. It felt as though the gods were trying to mock me – making me relive the single event that had shaped and scarred me more than anything else ever had. I grabbed the dagger on the seat next to me and lunged, stabbing one of the bandits in the throat. I turned and slashed another bandit across the gut, but was quickly tackled by the other two – who both stabbed me in the back once I was on the ground. One knife pierced into a lung, the other through muscle in the lower back. They jumped onto the wagon and fled, leaving me for dead. With them went all of my possessions, save the bloodstained clothes on my back. As I lay there, struggling to breathe, I looked over to see the bandit I had stabbed in the throat had also been left behind. He was gurgling blood, struggling to draw breath. I could see the fear and regret in his eyes – and soon after, the realization that this was his last moment on this plane. He looked back at me and coughed out his last two words: “I’m sorry.”
I desperately tried to get to my feet, but the more I struggled the harder it was to breathe – so I tried to crawl. The world around me began to blur and spin, changing colors from red to black. I collapsed on the ground and lost consciousness.
I do not know what happened to me after that. I have a vague memory of seeing a very small woman and a tall man with a grey beard – and hearing wisps of music, but it may have been a dream. When I awoke, I was in an alley lying on a pile of straw, next to a sleeping dog. I asked a woman passing by the alley where I was. She looked at me incredulously, “Well, I’d guess you must have just been at the church last night by the looks of you.”
This just confused me more. “Church?”
Her disbelief seemed to turn to disgust “How much did you dream last night anyway? You seriously don’t know where you are?” I shook my head.
“The Dregs…Kell Na’Dar?”
“How did I get here?”
Her annoyance was palpable. “ How the fuck should I know? You look like you’ve been on a bender for weeks. You know, you lot really make me sick. You don’t do shit, but lay about rotting your mind – then you expect the rest of us to come and help you!”
She spit in my direction and shuffled away muttering.
I just laid there in pain, hungry, and disoriented -wondering what to do next.