A tall young man with a passion for friends and whiskeys.
“life is a journey; each day is a new story.”
Male Half-Elf Bard 5
Str 12 (3)
Con 11 (2)
Wis 10 (4)
Speed: 30 feet
AC: 18 = 10 + 4 [chain shirt] + 1 [light steel] + 3 [dexterity]
Touch AC: 13
Init: + 3
Will: + 4
Common, Dwarven, Elven
Feats & Skils:
Weapon Finesse, Lingering Performance, Spellsong
[1d6, crit 18 x2, one-handed, P]
Musical Instrument, Masterwork ; +2 Perform
Succubus Belt Buckle (30 g) (Arumn) – for the sex appeal
Wand of Burning Hands (1500 g lvl 2 w/ 27 charges remaining)
Wand of Magic Missile (2250 g 22 lvl 3 w/ 24 charges remaining)
Before his memories had gained that tangible, fixed narrative that take root in childhood, Arumn was sent to Silverhall. No more than fluttering butterflies wings remain of his mother, only the coarseness of his fathers beard and the rich scent of leather and steel. Dorn Deshard is the figure fixed in Arumn’s mind. Neither kind nor cruel, Dorn’s even hand was set to guide Arumn through the awkward years of his youth. Keeping the boy occupied was difficult as his interests strayed from one subject to the next and he seemed to have little regard for what was ‘supposed’ to be the way things were done. The child’s sharp mind and easy smile made him many a friend. Through unknown support, his needs were seen to and he could occupy his time with learning the many different skills of those he now called friends. Above all Arumn was drawn to the tap room of The Dizzy-eyed Harpy where travelers would come and share their tales. Each story and poem pulled at his imagination, and wrote itself into his mind, as if the rhythm of the words were governed by the pace of his heart Arumn would join the stories.
A beautiful life that, but every story must go on and so does Arumn’s. While he harbored nether love nor wrath for Dorn the man was an anchor around which Arumn could drift. When Arumn returned home and the grey-bearded man was not there to greet him, it was odd, but not peculiar. When he did not return the next morning Arumn was concerned more about where to find breakfast than the whereabouts of the old man, for he was a constant. The coming of two more dawns left Arumn without direction. He knew not where the man had gone, and knew not where to begin to look for him.
So Arumn did what any immature youth would do; he began to play without apparent consequence. He was know well enough that he was allowed to run up a tab; soon he was know even better and not allowed to run up a tab. It was then that he began re-telling the stories he’d heard from the travelers. It was enough for a time. Then his curious nature got the better of him. Were there really skagoraths in the Gronzi Forest? Did the people of the Golushkin Mountains tie ropes to their ankles to learn how to fly? And what of Winter Break Bay, were there really fish shaped like squirrels that attacked ships?
Once the idea struck him he couldn’t believe that it hadn’t occurred to him sooner, nor could he remember what he was going to do before. Now he knew only one thing, he must go on an adventure.