J'ydan's Background
The tall half-elf sauntered into the Copper Barrel and made his way to the bar, his keen orbs taking in the atmosphere and patrons with a thief's scrutiny. Motioning the barkeep over with two slender fingers, he took a seat on a tall stool.
"What'll it be?" the barkeep queried, wiping the oaken bar with a rag that looked as if it would do more harm than good.
J'ydan looked the man in the eye. "Orcwater."
If the man was surprised at the request, he disguised it well.
"Who recommended you to this fine establishment?" he said.
"Dathan Blackmoor," J'ydan replied stoically.
"You know the price?"
J'ydan pushed a small pouch across the bar with his fingertips. The barkeep picked it up, weighing it by feel, and slipped it into his vest. Drawing a mug of ale, he set it down in front of J'ydan, and then pulled something from beneath the bar.
"Don't open it here," he said, sliding the object - a piece of rolled parchment - across the bar to the half-elf, who tucked it into his shirt similarly.
"How do you know Dathan?" the barkeep asked offhandedly.
"He taught me everything I know." The half-elf patted the sword on his hip. Flashing a winning smile, he drained the proffered mug of ale, and tossed down two coppers.
Making his way out of the tavern, he strolled down the busy street towards the inn he'd called home for the past three weeks... twenty-two days to be precise, and thirty-six since he'd found they'd buried his mother.
Her death hadn't been a surprise - she was old, and hadn't been well for some time. The scroll, on the other hand, had been quite puzzling. It was a simple piece of parchment, sealed with a wax thumbprint. Inside, one name was written: Nivek Caaran.
Information on the name had not been easy to come by... nor cheap. Having exhausted all avenues through his guild, his weapons master had pulled a few strings and gotten things moving in a more positive direction. It had taken three weeks, though, and had depleted J'ydan's savings - and then some.
Yet, here... now... he held the information in his hands. With trembling fingers, he broke the scroll's seal, and began to unroll it.
The words were written in high elven, and the penmanship gave much to be desired. J'ydan's eyes poured over the script.
"Nivek Caaran," he read aloud, "Noble son of Syrin Caaran and Anyia Deinor of PLACE... born blah blah blah..."
His eyes skimmed along the small bits of information.
"Warrior class...."
His dark orbs locked on at date: Eleasias 14, 1350.
"Eleasias 14, 1350 - denounced for his relationship with a human peasant who was carrying his unborn child and was imprisoned HERE until his escape two years later."
J'ydan stared at the date, it's numbers burning an imprint into his mind. Eleasias 14, 1350. That was eight months prior to his birth.
His mother had always told him she would tell him about his father when he was old enough to understand. When that age finally came, J'ydan had decided he didn't want to know. Why should he care anything about a man who had abandoned his lover and unborn child?
The half-elf supposed he should thank the man. After all, he'd made him the thief he was today. Not that they'd ever been in desperation. His mother had been a skilled seamstress, and it hadn't taken her long to carve out a simple, but fruitful life. Her earnings had been meager, but more than enough for the necessities. Still...
A smile crept up the corners of J'ydan's lips as he remembered almost fondly the first time the urge for theft struck him. It was a girl, of course. Women had always been his weakness.
This particular female had been named Fayre Silverblade. He could still remember those golden curls. Chuckling, he remembered the lashing his attempt at impressing her had gotten him as well. He'd thought himself pretty sneaky when he'd palmed the silver bracelet. Apparently, however, he'd neglected to realize that the chosen merchant had a bit more experience recognizing attempts at pilfering than a first time offender had at looking innocuous.
His arse had ached for days. He was lucky, though. It could have been much worse.
Oddly enough, his failure didn't deter him, and his next attempt was awarded with a kiss from the lovely Fayre. Oh how her eyes had twinkled when he'd presented her with the tiny pearl brooch.
Chuckling again, he shook his head. "And thus began my roguish career," he mused aloud.
Eventually, he'd honed his skill to a degree noticed by the thieve's guild. It wasn't a positive experience. J'ydan rubbed his shirt absently where the crescent-shaped dagger brand lay beneath the smooth silk. Thieves don't like their territories infiltrated by unguilded amateurs. He'd been lucky this time, too. Dathan had come to his rescue, and had very well saved his hands. The brand had been painful, but still... He'd paid his dues and become a "proper" thief. What hypocrisy.
Shaking the recollections from his thoughts, he scanned the rest of the document. Apparently Nivek wasn't so noble any longer. A short list of known discretions graced the parchment, and the thief knew from experience that there was always more that wasn't reported than was on an account of ones criminal activity.
"Well now... I must take after dear daddy."
A humorless laugh drifted across the common room of the inn he'd scarcely realized he'd reached in his stroll engrossed excursion, causing a few heads to turn his way. Flashing a winning smile, he bowed charmingly to the two curious maidens, thinking how nice it would be to entice one - or both - to his room for the afternoon.
Shrugging off the thought, he proceeded to his room alone to gather his belongings.
"Nivek Caaran, I think it's time you met your son."
With a wry grin, the thief slipped out his balcony window and pulled up his cloak, setting off in the direction of his father's last known location.