Drawn to the clamor of the forge at an early age, you have become quite skilled working for the monks of the keep, and have kept them supplied with whatever tools are occasionally required. Inspired by your foster father's tales of ironclad heroes, however, you know you would much rather swing a blade than a smithy's hammer. One of the Watchers has been kind enough to take you under her wing, and has trained you in the basics of the deadly arts. You yearn to leave the safe walls of your library home and venture forth along the Trade Way, a trusty weapon at your side.

You know little of how you came to be a ward of Gorion's, but over the years you have gleaned something of your mother's tale from his vague allusions and from the words he sometimes uttered in tear-filled sleep. She was a human from Silverymoon and a friend of his for many seasons. As you have no memory of her, nor any keepsakes to remind you of her existence, you have come to believe that she died while giving birth to you. Perhaps it was the pain of such a parting that led Gorion to cloister himself within the narrow halls of Candlekeep and raise you as his own. Of your father, you have learned nothing.