Zeilo Mayers, the Bardsmith.
He was born as a Highlander/Hearthlander hybrid in the slums of Carolustadt. He went outside every day, begging for food. Hearthlanders have always laughed at him for being filthy, sometimes calling his mother a wench for giving birth to a hybrid. His pride couldn't take it. As each day passed, he'd get less and less food up to the point of eating once every two days. He hoped that he should've died, yet something rang in his ears. He'd trace the sound which leads him to an inn where everyone's happy. Warriors in metallic armor raised their mugs of beer, the maidens kept giggling as they flirt with a tipsy old man, and the sound of drums getting hit and the strings of a lyre getting pulled. As the songs went on and on, he felt his body move with him rocking his upper body back and forth, and his feet jumping around and shuffling. Everyone went quiet. He felt awkward as the warriors, the maids, and the bards stared at him until they laughed. "Give the boy some mead, place it on my tab!", said the warrior in heavy armor. Zeilo felt what he needed the most, the comfort of companions. He'd smile for the first time and as he danced, silver coins were thrown near him. He'd dance all night long until the bards stopped playing. He'd look at the silver coins and he didn't feel that it was right to take them. He'd glance at the innkeeper and the innkeeper nodded, reassuring him that it was fine. He took the silver coins with a smile, and a bard walked up to him. The bard asked if they could come with them, as he'd be a nice addition to their crew. The bard offered Zeilo money, but Zeilo's long-lost father's last words played in his mind. His father was a fisherman. "Give a man a fish, and you'll feed him for a day. Teach a man how to fish, and you'll feed him for an eternity.", his father said. He shook his head but instead, he said that he'd accept the offer if they teach him the ways of a bard. The bards agreed and they formed a group called "Falcon's Reach". They hoped to wander free and reach high as a falcon would. Together, they'd play in various villages and they grew successful, having a private caravan to transport themselves from village to village. Everything was nice for Zeilo, until he was nearly 14. On a misty night, the horse kept neighing as if they sensed danger. They were right. Various arrows came down on their caravan, striking a bard down. Everyone was panicking, except Zeilo. He always felt calm during tragedies. He'd look around, and he'd notice swords cutting the sheets of their caravan. He'd turn around, and everyone kept getting struck by arrows. He had no choice, but to run. He bolted as soon as he can, leaving everything behind. He ran down the nearest road as much as possible, reaching a city near the docks. Large ships were anchored there, and it was almost pitch black in the night. He'd look around and he felt familiar. He picked a shady corner and he slept, hugging his knees. He woke up the next day and he picked the nearest tavern he could find. There were lots of filthy people and amputees. It was quiet. He thought that he could spread the positivity that he got... from his dead comrades. He'd sing their favorite song to honor their memories until he was knocked out cold with a solid punch to the chin. He woke up on the floor, with everyone spitting on him. "This ain't a nice place, kiddo. You'll always be livin' on edge. Either cut with a dagger or cut yourself with it.", said a man with two prosthetic legs and an eyepatch. The man threw the dagger at his legs, nearly hitting the shin but instead, it just grazed it. Zeilo remained calm. "It's a dull dagger.", he muttered. By living in the slums, he saw sharper shivs than that dagger. The man was intrigued. "Come wit' me boy, I got a lot for ye.", said the man. Zeilo would follow the man only to find that he was a blacksmith. The anvil sign nearly fell, and it looked like the anvils weren't getting much of an action nowadays. "Sharpen the dagger.", the man briefly said. He'd walk up to a grindstone, and he'd try to sharpen his dagger. His finger touched the grindstone for a second, and bits of flesh were quickly scraped off his finger. He'd get a punch to the shoulder for failure. Knowing that he had nothing to lose, he'd thought he'd keep working for the rest of the days as a blacksmith until his master passed away from a disease. He made an anchor and he threw his lifeless body to the sea with an anchor on it, to act as a proper burial for the old man. Now that he lost a master and he couldn't stand the unforgiving place, he packed. He thought he could make a name for himself as the Bardsmith. He knew both sides of life, living in harmony and living knowing that at any second, someone can stab you in the back. He ventured far from the roads, without knowing where he'd end. He sustained himself by selling his wares and performing at inns. Even he didn't know where he'd end up.
