If Rasp had a life before the fire, he certainly can’t remember it now. His earliest memory was the stench of his burning flesh and the sound of his own screaming. It’s hard to say how old he was; he was always a small child. But if he had to guess, he must have been 6 or 7.
It was the year of the Avatar Crisis, and a homeless, burned waif wasn’t going to garner much sympathy in Baldur’s Gate, even at the best of times. And if not for the spontaneous sympathy of a band of half-orc thieves, he might never have survived at all. But he did. At least long enough until he could take care of himself, which by the half-orcs’ estimation wasn’t long at all.
He had burns covering every inch of his body and a voice that sounded like nails scraping down a chalkboard. In retrospect, the nickname “Rasp” was practically a kindness from his fellow misanthropes.
Alas, he wasn’t cute enough to make any coin begging. But a growing boy had to eat, so he soon learned the tricks of the trade. He wasn’t the strongest, the fastest, or even the smartest. But he was patient. And when needs must, he could be as still as a shadow, and as silent as a grave.
He was a tiny thing, and frail, so when he picked the wrong pocket he was easily overcome. It turned out the old man he had pegged for an easy mark was made of sterner stuff. When Rasp awoke from his thrashing, he was laying in a bed in a nondescript tavern inn -- one of the many that dotted the wharf of Bauldur’s Gate.
The old man, Gorian, was a Mage, a Scholar and more formidable than he looked. And while Rasp fully expected to be turned into the city watch, he was pleasantly surprised to find himself being fed a good meal. The only thing Gorian asked for in return was that he answer a few questions.
He didn’t want to know much; small things really. Who were the local toughs, what were the names of the most influential Thieves’ Guilds, where could one find a bed for a night in a pinch -- things of that nature. Rasp answered him. These weren’t exactly closely guarded secrets, and it wasn’t as if he was in a position to argue, even if they were.
Afterward, time and again, Rasp would come back for a meal, and he would provide Gorian with whatever he asked about. And after a while, Gorian stopped asking things. It occurred to Rasp, years later, that Gorian may have been his first friend.
Then one morning, about a year after he met the old man, Rasp arrived at the tavern for his weekly meal. But Gorian was gone. His equipment was missing, his bed had been ransacked, and a trail of blood led out the window. But no matter what, Rasp could find no further sign of the old man. And if anyone knew anything, they certainly weren’t telling.
Rasp joined a guild about a year later. He was resourceful, and competent. And if he wasn’t liked, he was certainly at least respected after a measure.
But he wasn’t happy. But then he never had been. Except perhaps...
Years later, on a chilly winter morning he received a letter. It was from Gorian. His hands shook as he read it. The old man was alive and well, and asked him to meet him in Candlekeep. Candlekeep! It turned out he had left him some money. Nothing much, but at least enough to charter a boat.
Rasp balled up the letter, threw it to the ground and spat on it. He ranted, and cursed the old man and all the Gods. All these years. All these years! To the bloody Abyss to Gorian and Candlekeep! He hoped that… He hoped…
He hoped he was well.
The next week, Rasp was on a boat to Candlekeep.
