A Band of Misfits
A Song of Friendship
These five… oh, friends, I could sing their tale until my voice gave out, and still I’d never tire of it.
Yet let me confess before you: when I first laid eyes on them, I thought them little more than another clutch of eager sellswords chasing glory. Their names carried no weight then, and truth be told, my gaze lingered only on the cleric - for she bore the symbol of Shelyn, my muse and my goddess, patron of all art and lover of beauty.
I thought I knew their measure. I thought I’d seen it all before: restless Pathfinders, noses in mysteries, feet in trouble, chasing dangers that would claim them in the end. Worthy of a passing verse, perhaps, but nothing more. Just another band headed for fleeting triumph and inevitable ruin.
But gods, how wrong I was.
Davina, Einar, Alycia, Gus, and Agr’ro… each different, each scarred, each carrying burdens that should have broken them. Yet together they stood, and in standing, they reshaped the world. They were no mere adventurers. Without meaning to, they became fire to my words, storm to my song, a wellspring of inspiration I still drink from to this day.
And more than that - more than their epic adventures or the monsters they laid low - they gave me something rarer still. They gave me friendship.
And, I tell you now, that for a bard, there is no greater treasure. Don’t believe anyone who claims otherwise.
Fire: Davina Blake Bhelen
Davina Blake… what is there to say? She was fire long before she ever learned her first spell. Born in Folkland - a small, quiet village of humans - she never truly fit: half-elven, her father unknown, marked as the bastard child who didn’t fit. And if you’ve ever seen a flame trapped in a lantern, you know what it does: it flickers, it strains, it hungers for air.
So did she.
Then came her magic and with it, her voice. At last she had something the world could not deny. She left her village behind not as some lost outcast, but as a rising blaze. She chased secrets, sought knowledge, wrapped her hands around arcane power most would never dare to touch. To this day, much of what she learned remains a mystery even to me.
Yet, don’t mistake her for some cloistered wizard with her nose burried in a book or a parchment. No, no, no... Davina lived her fire. Reckless, brilliant, stubborn, and all heart. She was a mother, fierce as any lioness. A lover, impulsive and fevered. A friend, loyal to the point of madness. And in time, she became a ruler; one who cared for her people just as much as she burned for her kin.
The Shoanti called her Runeflame, and if ever a name fit her, it was that one. She carved her will into the world in letters of fire, and if the blaze scorched her, she bore it with pride. She burned again and again, and never once turned aside. So, if you are to remember only one thing about Davina, let it be this: if there was ever a proof that passion is both a curse and a salvation, she was it.
Storm: Einar Bear-Claw
Einar… ah, Einar really was the storm made flesh. Born of the Bear Claw Clan, Shoanti and Ulfen both, he was the youngest son of a chief and a chieftess. You’d think that would make him proud, but no. He was a boy at heart, wide-eyed, simple, and honest to the bone. He walked into cities like a bear into a marketplace, clumsy and blunt, never quite fitting in.
He set out not for gold or glory, but because an ancestor spirit told him to. That’s how his story began. But what he found on that road was a curse as much as a blessing: a fury that gnawed at him, made his strength greater but his heart restless.
And yet, the storm carried him further than any of us guessed. He rose to lead the Tamiir Quah - the Shoanti Wind Clan and his mother’s people - bearing a chieftain’s mantle he had never sought. Gods, how it weighed on him. To keep those he loved safe from the fury inside, he often would walk apart, alone, wrestling with himself.
But do not mistake his solitude for coldness. No man I’ve known ever loved as fiercely. He became a father, a protector, a shield. His heart was as open as his roar was loud. Yes, he was naive. Yes, he was tormented by shadows he could not shake, but when he loved, he loved with the strength of a hurricane.
So, please, raise a mug for Einar, friends. Remember him not just as the tempest that broke his foes, but as the shield that held fast for his kin. He was the storm, aye - but he was the calm after it, too.
Love: Alycia Deverin
Alycia was never what the world expected her to be. Born of noble blood, yet shunned for her half-orc heritage, her family sent her away to Windsong Abbey; hidden in this monastery, as though her very presence were a shame to be erased. Many would have broken under that weight. But not Alycia. She bore it as a lesson, and she rose stronger. In those cloisters she found Shelyn’s call, and when the time came, she returned not as the girl they had cast aside but as the woman who would one day lead her house with a dignity none could deny.
For the group of our Misfits, she was far more than priestess or diplomat. She was the "mother" of the band, though she’d never call herself that. She carried their tempers, confronted their doubts, tended their wounds, and made sure they didn’t fall apart. She was calm when calm was needed, but don’t let that fool you. When Alycia’s temper cracked, her fury was relentless. I pity the fool who stood in her way.
Her strength was her determination. Alycia sought peace where others reached for war. She chose compassion where cruelty was easier. Time and again, she bore sacrifice in silence so her friends and kin might be spared its weight. That was her way, and it marked everything she did.
So who was Alycia?
She was Shelyn’s grace given flesh. Love with thorns of steel. The heart that never ceased to give, the voice that never failed to steady those around her. She was the living proof of her goddess' creed: that love can survive when nothing else does.
And in her presence, others learned to believe it too.
Craft: Gusgroot Gearloose
Gus was the eldest of the Misfits, and perhaps the one most haunted by the shadows of his past. He came to them a fugitive, hunted by his own people, carrying secrets he never spoke aloud. The weight of them bent his shoulders, dulled his eyes, and left scars deeper than steel could ever carve.
Once, in Janderhoff, he had been a teacher of craft - member of Janderhoff's Engineers - and a name spoken with praise and promise. But something broke there; something that could not be mended. What followed was exile, blood, and silence. From that day on, Janderhoff called him murderer and traitor. And Gus…
... Gus never denied it.
When he joined the group, he was a man already half-buried, hiding behind smoke, soot, and addiction. Yet little by little, they uncovered what lay within: a heart stubbornly golden, and a mind sharp as any blade. He began as a rogue, surviving by guile and shadow, yet in time he turned back to his craft. If you ask me, it was the strange things they uncovered together that lit that spark again. And once lit, it burned bright. From broken relics, Gus built wonders. Out of wreckage, he made hope.
He spoke rarely, but when he did, his words landed like hammer on anvil: heavy, certain, final. More often, he let silence do the talking, and in that silence his companions learned to trust him more than any boast or vow. To some, Gus was a criminal. To others, a madman. But to the rare few who truly knew him, he was both rock and spirit: the steadiest of friends, and the keenest of minds.
Salt: Agr'ro
Agr’ro was never meant for peace. Even his name was born of mockery: a sound twisted from the growl of a child fighting to master the rage in his blood. He grew up an orphan in the coastal town of Roderic's Cove, marked by fury, feared more than cherished. And yet, against all odds, he found love. A wife, a child, a life worth building. For a time, he even carried another name, a truer name of his own choosing. But the gods showed him no mercy. Both were taken from him -wife and newborn son alike - and what was left of Agr’ro broke with them.
And thus, he fled to Riddleport, to salt and smoke and knives in the dark. There he honed his magi and his steel, became sharper and crueler than the pirates he served beside; indispensable because he was always one step quicker, one thought more dangerous.
It was there, beneath the shadow of the Cyphergate, that he met the other four. And though he never said it plain, they gave him something he had lost long ago: a place to belong. That did not come easily. Betrayal cut him more than once, and his wrath nearly tore him from them forever. But they did not give him up, and in time, neither did he.
Agr’ro would often swear he wanted no part in adventure, that he longed for nothing more than quiet. Yet the truth was much different: he had fallen into the most dangerous snare of all. He cared too deeply to walk away. He cared for his companions, for a love found and lost time and again, for the blood of the family he never thought he would had and for the sister whose kinship he discovered by coincidence.
When I first met them all, I wondered why such a dangerous man walked at their side. Later, I understood. Agr’ro carried his grief like a weapon and his love like a shield. A man of contradictions, he could wound with a word, kill with a glance, and yet also laugh, protect, and forgive.
If you knew him, you'd understand: he was as dangerous as the sea, and just as necessary.
A final note
History, my friends, will remember them as heroes - and rightly so. Their names are carved in stone, their deeds sung loud in halls from Magnimar to Korvosa and beyond. Cities rose because of them, crowns cracked, and more than once Varisia bent beneath their choices.
But don’t let the statues fool you. What bound them was never just glory. It was love and loyalty, betrayal and forgiveness, secrets heavier than you can imagine, and scars no bard’s verse could ever polish clean. They were a tangle of tempers and wounds, of stubborn hearts that refused to stay broken. And that, more than any monster they have slain is why they became legends: not because they never faltered, but because, despite their faults and flaws endured.
Of course, this tale isn’t finished. Not by half. Tonight you’ve only heard the first chords of a song that winds and twists through years of struggles and adventures. There are more nights, more verses, more truths yet to come.
So drink deep, friends, rest your bones, and keep your ears ready; for the next chapter waits just beyond the dawn.
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