Hando was born in a quaint village of the Raevir culture, on the fifteenth night of The Deep Cold. His village was sat due east of the nearby river Hynx, raised as a single child to a somewhat peculiar family. His father being a man-at-arms of his lord turned blacksmith, and his mother being the local witch-doctor of the town. Whether or not her bone charms and fancy sayings had any weight to them, he never knew, as she did have the reputation of being nothing more than a sooth-sayer, there to whimsy coin from naive travelers on the way. He’d switch off here and there, either working with his father to make nails and the occasional weapon, and to practice with the latter to some extent, learning at least basically how to defend himself. Along with that, he took to learning to read from some of the dusty, suspicious looking books from his mother’s ‘ritual hut’. His childhood went on without very much in terms of tragedy or other sorts of radical events. At nineteen, his father passed of some foul mixture of his age and stress, and a devastating illness took his mother to the cold ground a few years after. Now alone in this vast, vast land, he decided to pack up his meek set of belongings and set up a trip with a merchant ship to Arcas, perhaps out to make something more of himself.
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