Deceased. Killed by Remorhaz.
Long ago, like three years or something, I was a cobbler. Mostly an honest mistake, when my parents asked me if I wanted to become apprenticed to a cobbler, I thought they wanted to know if I’d like some peach cobbler. And like most tales, we all followed through with it even though anyone at any point someone could’ve pointed out the misunderstanding and I could’ve done something I enjoyed. But that’s not how stories work, and life is the greatest story of them all so in short, life doesn’t work like real life it works like fiction, and the whole thing keeps going on until BAM, you’re head explodes.
So anyway, I was operating a roadside shoe repair shop, I didn’t get many customers but I had nice little garden and my mother would come by with extra food about once a week, so I did okay. All the while I would spend my copious amounts of free time playing the bagpipes (this may have been one of the many reasons the business wasn’t doing so well) and reading any book I could get my hands on.
Then one day, during a particularly sorrowful performance of Going Home, with a crash and a thud, a donkey smashed through the roof my little shop and I knew that my life had changed forever. Surely the gods sent this as a sign, a sign that they were all mad! Then a finely armored gentleman came through my door and I realized what I must do. I would travel with this mad stranger. I would record his deeds and make his legend grow to epic proportions or at least make some money off the pure comedic gold that surely was staring me right in the face.
Over time I grew to not only become a fine musician and teller of tales, but also an adventurer in my own right, a weaver of the magic that is found in the heart of us all.