You were presented at an early age to the arcane council at Acyrna, where you spent the majority of childhood, adolescence, and early adulthood training under the great masters of your field at the Arcane University, towering above Lake Mystuum. Upon passing your exit exams and receiving your diploma (with all the rights and responsibilities thereto), you go out into the world to pursue scholarly endeavors in independent research. One of your leads on a new arcane research project leads you to take water samples in the forest town of Esham.
For the past forty years, the military council of Escardona has been given free reign by the warchief for special recruiting operations on Shadowfell Island. Civilian crowding in Batun led to the military requiring the testing of any third or fourth (or later) born child to be tested for arcane aptitude and offered for training in the Black Fist, an elite military unit comprised of assassins and battlemages. You were a “third” – and you were chosen. Your masters were cruel during your training at the Black Citadel, floating high on the horizon from your hometown of Batun, but their fire forged you into a weapon – a fighting machine bred only for destruction. But yet, you feel as though some part of you was lost in your less-than-typical childhood. You don’t let it show around your comrades, of course, as that would be weakness. You are on guard duty at Esham, scrying the countryside for miles in every direction and positioned to sense any arcane attacks from Geador.
You grew up in the small village of Torkos, just downstream from the northern Escardonian city of Karka. Torkos is but a simple farming community, and you grew up assuming that you would either take over your father’s business as a cattle rancher or you would buy land and farm it yourself. However, when you were twelve, a merchant’s caravan passed through town. As soon as you saw the exotic, tatooed armed guards accompanying the merchant, your dreams and ideals were shattered. You wanted to be THAT. Your father caught you one day swinging a garden tool around as if it were a sword and gave you a firm beating, in hopes to beat this senseless idea out of you, but it didn’t work. On your eighteenth birthday, much to the chagrin of both of your parents, you loaded your pack and set out for the big city to find work as a guard. Of course you knew nothing of the work, but your first employer took you on at half salary and the other guards began teaching you everything you know of fighting today. Your latest caravan escort gig just finished up down the river in Esham, and you are awaiting a new caravan that needs guarding to show up.
As one of the nomadic halfling peoples, you claim allegiance to no-one, though the people in the little villages along the Vitos River are much nicer than any of the city-folk, in your experience. You grew up as part of a caravan of hafling wanderers, never settling down in any place for more than a month, except during hard winters when the wagons stayed circled for two or three. Your people are peddlers, cobblers, smiths, fixer-uppers, and odd-job-doers as they travel from town to town, and you have a bit of jack-of-all-trades in you because of that background. However, something has drawn you to leave the safety of the caravan and settle in Esham. When the caravan passed through, some 15 months ago, you just felt at home in the forest town along the Vitos. Now you rent an apartment in the eastern district from an old, nearly-blind orc named Mukboon, and make ends meet by performing odd jobs as you are able. Many evenings you wander the streets, trying to find your purpose in life and determine what you want to do with your life.
Mountain Dwarf, Noble
You are of the Goldhammer Clan, the family in power in the mostly-subterranean dwarven metropolis of Bardeholm, nestled at the feet of the Rosham Mountains. The Goldhammers are renowned for great craftsmen, and this reputation has let them rise in power over the decades to more or less rule the city. You are the heir to the Goldhammer power. Or, you would have been, had your twin brother, Dwali, not framed you for larceny and gotten you ridden on a rail out of Bardeholm and told not to return. Ever since, you’ve wandered far and wide in the world looking for a place to ply your crafting trade – but somewhere far enough away that the other Goldhammers wouldn’t be threatened by your divulging of the family recipes and secret designs. You carry a few ornately shaped pieces of jewelery you consider “failures” (though they still look pretty damn good) and a very thick book labeled “Trade Secrets” which you keep very close to yourself at all times.