The hero of our story is the bastard child of the king of the moon and th- oh, screw it. My family runs a tavern outside Hjemhavn; Dad hunts and handles supplies, Mom serves and handles the household stuff, my baby brother Ingvar poops his diaper, and I listen to the neat stories drunks and travelers have, basically a vagrant. What? What's confusing about using present tense? I'm going to talk about my childhood, don't rush me! Is this non-linearity too confusing for you? Fine. If you're wondering why I have such a dorky name, it's probably because I'm a dork. The story I always heard was that I was birthed while Mom was doing laundry, so she had me right there in the brook or whatever. I'm pretty sure the truth was that they'd been drinki- what does my name mean? Seriously? Pick up a book…but not right now, you're ruining the story. Granted, I'm helping by humoring your interruptions. Where was I? Ah yes, so my family has a long line of hunters but also a long line of storytellers. Presumably one of my ancestors wove some brilliantly bullshit tale about slaying a golden goose, I totally would have. So growing up, there were always plenty of books and other things. Guess I kind of forgot to think about what I wanted to do while I was reading them or listening to travelers in the tavern. Not like I was a total bookworm, I still got out and met people, but…well tavern people aren't the sort you generally invite to meet your folks. That should probably cover up most everything until about the time the war started.
So it turns out unless you're selling bullets during a war, there's a good chance you get screwed. Especially if you live in a relatively small port town, where you have the good fortune that the existence of a blockade, embargo, a ship getting sunk, or say foreign occupation in important trade centers is probably going to set at least one of your local industries back. We did fine for a bit at the start of the war, since I started helping Dad on his hunts so we kind of ran a side business as a butcher shop. Unfortunately the idea caught on, and there were only so many animals to be shot. We still managed to stay afloat for a while, but as it turns out my parents are still in love and Ingvar was born. With the extra mouth and the meat profits drying up, literally both of them, Miles had some early medical issues that certainly didn't help with the money matters, and he was a terrible chimney sweep, so we h- I'm kidding of course, sit back down! Where are you g- if you leave, you're paying your tab from the last week now. Attaboy. As I was saying, we were sinking faster than a fat lady in a cake money-wise, and I wasn't being particularly useful at that point. Well one day, one of our most loyal patrons is telling me some war stories, and lo and behold I hear about these girls with crazy arcane powers fighting for king and country. Yes, I know they don't technically have a king. It's a fig- alright let's just blame the booze. Anyways, I did the math, found out that by not having to support me my family could make enough to remain afloat, at least for a little while. And even more fortunate, after talking with some of the other sons and daughters of local establishments in the same predicament, we had a pretty tight-knit community, so enough of us found other vocations that by pooling the money saved in food and whatnot, everyone remaining behind could live in relative comfort! So off I go, to see if I'm any good a- ARGH!…you're not dead are you? Was it my story or the ale? Ah, oh well, you probably won't be able to escape the rest of the story during tomorrow's hangover. G'night!…oh fine, I'll get you a pillow. But it's double rent if you vomit on it.