Bard Spells:
LVL 0:
Detect Magic: Detects spells and magic items within 60 ft.
Flare: Dazzles one creature (–1 on attack rolls).
Ghost Sound: Figment sounds.
Resistance: Subject gains +1 on saving throws.
Light: Object shines like a torch.
Dancing Lights: Creates torches or other lights.
LVL 1:
Cure Light Wounds: Cures 1d8 of damage +1/level (max +5)
Comprehend Languages: You understand all languages.
HP:
8
Daevin's Journal:
This is The Journal of Daevin Arkinfald: The man who tried to be a legend and hopefully doesn't die because of that freaking Vanara
In all seriousness, if I die because that monkey can't stop trying to prove himself to, I don't know, his pre-conceived notions of who his father wanted him to be, I am going to come back as a really pissed off ghost and haunt his worst nightmares by coming up with the worst poety and songs that I can and reciting them to him in a broken falsetto for the rest of his miserable monkey existence. Seriously, one of them will be a two hour long sonnet about Vordrel, the awkwardly shapen prostitute who could do some mind bending things with her fake leg and a crutch that would make any priest gouge out his eyes and turn hermit faster than Asmodius would take a person's soul from their still beating heart. There's an idea, maybe I can sell the monkey to Asmodius as a pet. I would look at him and say "We call the monkey Jack, would you like him? He's really good at climbing and he has an affinity toward getting good people killed. I would be willing to sell him to you for an ale. Not even a good or magical ale. Like, if you were to appear in the local dingy tavern, buy an ale, appear before me and say "Here, I want the monkey. He will now be in charge of cleaning my latrine." I would say "Sold!" without even blinking." But seriously, why does he feel like he needs to lead everything? I am not going to follow that monkey into the grave, but if he somehow unintentionally kicks me into a grave, I want whoever is reading this to avenge me. Seriously, go now. His name is Jack. He is a Vanara. He has the personality of a tripped over chamber pot. He was last seen on his way to Heldren. Avenge me. When you do, make sure you look at him and say "Daevin says" and then proceed to shriek like an angry banshee while occasionally hissing like a wet cat. Thank you in advance. It will not have been in vain. Time to go, the monkey is about to earn himself a good shriek-killing, I think.
Second Log
Well, much has happened since last I wrote. I almost died. That was fun. Nothing like almost getting eaten by a giant dragon-monster that makes a person want to kick every lizard in sight. I suppose it doesn't help that I dreamt it turned into my father. Speaking of people whose nethers I would love to have engulfed in flame, I wonder where he and Jaelin are. I hope they aren't back in Heldren with that thrice damned monkey. Speaking of Jack, that snaggle-toothed regret dispenser almost died. Ironically, were it not for him, I might not have almost died.
Shriek killing?
I think yes.
Anyway, tomorrow we set out from this cave and I should rest up.
Back story:
The wastes of the North. Daevin raises his eyes from The Saga of Baergar of the North that, before the presence of the cool afternoon breeze, had entirely captured his attention. Such a harsh place. Truly a man could prove himself in the North. he glances at the saga, Men like Baergar... Men like my father... he spits at the thought of Baeldric Arkinfald. In truth, there was a time when he loved his father. A time when there was laughter in their house and Baeldric would tell his sister and him stories from the north as his mother prepared the evening meal. A time before his mother fell ill with a slow, wasting disease that took her life and the heart of his father with it. As the loss forced Baeldric deeper into alcohol and depression, his father's lack of capability forced Daevin into heraldry for an honest wage and fighting to supplement where the days news fell short.
Now, with his father having moved Jaelin, the only real family he loves, and himself to Heldren, Daevin finds himself at the outskirts of the city, hoping to find them. Hoping that Jaelin hasn't had to work the streets to provide where their father has not. Hoping that he is able to make enough of a name for himself so that he can help provide for her until a proper suitor comes along.
His eyes settle north as a grin replaces the angry grimace that had occupied his face. He stands and stretches from where he sat in the shade before he gathers his belongings and the epic he was reading. Someday, Baergar, I will have a tale like yours. After all, a man can prove himself in the north. A man like me.
