A half-elf bard who has been chased his whole life, with luck that kills his pursuers before he finds out what they want. Is it good luck or bad luck?


“That’s quite the ring you have there. Wish I had one like it.”

It had taken some effort to get that half-elf to leave his friends in a dim taproom and walk into the alley with him. Offering to cut the others out of the deal had done the trick, and now his quarry was right where he wanted him.

“I guess some people have all the luck…”

A small smile crept across his face. No need for disguises any longer. As the illusion of wind scarred features and hazy eyes melted away, so did the smile’s warmth and mirth. He had sailed from the Moonshae Isles to Waterdeep to bring some half-rate shanty-singing bard back, but the crafty half-elf had tried to elude him, stole some coin, and now thought he’d skate away. Let him know his pursuer, he thought. Let him know that there’s no easy escape.

“…don’t you agree, /Davorin?/”

Davorin took a gulp from his tankard, concealing a hard look look at the man’s hands. He had feigned interest in the offered coin purse. The hands changed each time they met. Once cut by rope, stained by salt the following day, tattooed in the curious style of so many pirates and cultists that had come before another… Now just the manicured hands of some mage-for-hire and the mention of luck. He was not surprised when the illusion dropped; the man had been careless with his illusions.

Good luck? Davorin played along with the thin disguise, looked to be taken in, and managed to get some information out of the man. In fact, he and his companions made some good coin on the side doing some minor errands for the “ol’ cap’n” looking for lost shipmates. Bad luck? It wasn’t enough information to figure out any of the gaps in his memory or his past, and now Davorin realized that the “lost shipmate” was him.

That uncalloused hand slipping into the folds of his robe couldn’t be a good thing. As Davorin clamped a hand down over the man’s sleeve, he suddenly felt some sort of wand or rod in a curious sheath. This was an unexpected development. So it /was/ a mage, after all. He had seen men like that before…

Davorin wondered why the man looked so surprised that Davorin had grabbed onto him. He thought he should save that expression for the exact moment when the tankard in Davorin’s hand came crashing down into the man’s forehead.

Good luck? He had earned the first strike and was rewarded with the sickening crunch of bone giving way. Bad luck? He would learn nothing further from the man after it was delivered.

The blow had caved the man’s face, and yet he still struggled hard against Davorin’s grasp. Davorin’s hand tightened on the concealed wand, and a word pressed itself from the back of his mind to the tip of his tongue — a word Davorin had never heard before, some strange gibberish that would have been comical if not for its sudden effect.

Good luck? A song of arcane power wove itself through his mind. Bad luck? He had no idea what it would do.

It was suddenly very quiet in the alleyway. A crackle of violet energy struck the man full in what was left of his mangled face. The man’s head slumped suddenly forward, pulped by what Davorin suspected was a magic missile.

Good luck? The alley was deserted. Waterdeep hadn’t stirred a bit. Bad luck? Eventually, somebody would notice that the man hadn’t died in some mugging or robbery gone bad.

In one movement, Davorin hoisted the man by the lapels dumped him inside a barrel of refuse. With any luck, the poor sod would be hauled off without anyone being the wiser.

Turning up his collar against the chill, Davorin caught the glimmer of his signet ring in a small puddle. It troubled him…


Would they have missed him? Davorin unbuttoned his fly to make it appear as if he had relieved himself in the alleyway and stumbled back into the taproom to find his companions: a tiefling who wanted to go straight, a dwarf far from the undermountain, and a former guild enforcer that suddenly decided to freelance.

It took a spilled drink, a broken wrist, and nearly getting strangled to bring them all together but together they shared an important vision: to go into business for themselves!

For the past few days, he had told them a story of a lost nobleman who had become a roving bard after forgetting his name. The story went that the kiss of a pure-hearted maid would restore his memories and thus his fortune. And if /that/ didn’t work, well.. there was always the magic show, some healing for coin, and a deft hand in someone’s coin purse to help pay the bills. Together, they could make a decent adventurer’s company well away from the things they left behind. Adventure and riches would surely come looking for them!

“I’m a plucky little dandy, who finds a blade quite handy, and sings a cheerful song.. but I would stop all my travels and have a pile of wealth and baubles… If I only knew my name…”

It was clear from her coy smile that she was no pure-hearted maid. Davorin considered his options. Bad luck? No girl like /that/ would help him recovery his memory. Good luck? He was pretty sure that she could help him forget for a while.


Dagger5E tulsapathfinder