Quint's father was a tinker, and he travelled with him from town to town in an old wagon that had been repaired so many times that it if you parked it in front of a trash heap, it could go completely unnoticed. Quint's favorite part of that life was negotiating trades with people they met on the road, because it gave him the chance to meet new and interesting people and acquire new and interesting things.
One of his favorite items that he acquired in trade was a narrow dueling sword blade with a triangular base and elvish markings. The hilt of the sword had been crushed when its owner was thrown from his horse and landed on it, and the blade broke near the base (raising doubts that it was actually of elven construction). It was an interesting piece nonetheless. Quint's father noticed his interest in the item, and convinced the down-on-his-luck courtier who carried it to hand it over as payment for reshoeing his horse. Over the course of a few months, the pair forged a new hilt over the base of the blade, turning it into a small rapier.
When they came across an elven traveller and asked him what the symbols meant they turned out to be gibberish in elvish letters. Seemingly by pure chance, one side had a word that ended with the letters to spell "song", while two of the words on another side, when run together, contained the sequence for the word "wind". Since every good sword needs a name, and the way the larger blade had broken left the new sword exceptionally light, Quint decided that "Windsong" was a fitting name.
Quint would play with the weapon, pretending to be this or that great hero that people told stories about. His favorites were those who blended swordplay with magic, and Quint dreamed of joining the Arcane Order when he was older. Quint had a bit of a knack for magic himself. At a very young age, he learned to create small illusions. When he played with his sword, he would create and subsequently vanquish illusory monsters like the ones in the stories. His sword always found its mark, at least when his wild red hair didn't get in his eyes.
His father didn't like the way he played with the sword. It was a real weapon, not a toy, and he was afraid that Quint might hurt himself. Quint would wander deeper and deeper into the woods so that he could play with his sword, free from his father's objections.
One day, when he was 9 years old, Quint was returning when he heard boisterous voices coming from camp. He picked up his pace, eager to meet the new people and trade. As he got closer, he got the feeling that something was amiss. He didn't hear his father's voice among those coming from around their fire. He approached from the other side of the wagon, and when he got close enough, he could see their possessions scattered around the ground around the wagon.
He saw something glint on the ground under the wagon. It was the tin that his father always kept in his pocket. He used the grease he kept inside for everything from lubricating the wagon's axles and other mechanisms that he was repairing to shaving and keeping his hair out of his face while he worked. When Quint crouched down to pick up the tin, he was startled by a bloody hand that shot out toward his. The face attached to it was pale from blood loss, and its eyes were wide. It was Quint's father.
"Run." He said, in a hoarse whisper that was all he could still muster. Quint stood perfectly still. "RUN!" his father repeated, coughing up blood. The voices at the fire fell silent, and Quint ran, more out of fear than obedience. He heard his father cry out, and heavy footsteps crashing through the bushes behind him but Quint didn't look back.
He ran and ran, until he didn't think he could run anymore, then he found a hollow log that he could just squeeze inside. Then he waited. He listened to the footsteps and muffled voices as they grew closer, and closer, until they eventually grew further away, but he didn't move or make a sound. Quint fell asleep in that hollow log, and didn't climb out until morning.
Quint searched, but he couldn't find his way back to camp. It was two days before he found his way back to the road. Or maybe it was a different road. He couldn't be sure. By the time he made it to the gates of Rydwyrna, he was half dead from walking, and sick from eating some bad berries. He knew eating strange berries wasn't safe, but by then he was too hungry to worry about such things.
