Lightfoot Halfling Sorcerer
I am Sternaaier. Adventurer. Sorcerer. Third generation from a migrant family fleeing from the Spellplague’s effects in Luiren. My father’s father opened The Moon and Star, a tavern catering to races of all kinds (so long as they didn’t complain about bonking their knees nastily on the tables) upon his relocation to Neverwinter.
As a child, I would see the Cloaktower from my seat at all twelve meals, dreaming of the day that I would study impossible feats and tricks by abracadabra and prestidigitation. My dream was to be a great wizard. Therefore, wizard imitation consumed me, and stories of how I could create the most powerful illusory effects, or of my terrible evocations, began to waft around the children of the city center. They were just stories I made up. These costumes really were a disgusting sight. Imagine me, a tiny Halfling, wearing a wizard’s hat! People mistook me for discarded laundry sometimes. Little did they know that the pile of laundry they saw in various places was the subject of the stories they told each-other, as well as the creator of these tall tales.
Fifteen years later, at the age of 25, my father had saved enough money and hired a wizard to mentor me. Little did he know of my mentor’s selfish heart. For, in truth, through his poor tutelage I began to give up hope on becoming a wizard.
One particularly bad day (for you see, I was very upset with my mentor for failing me and wasting my father’s precious and waning gold), I was eating some Orthin with Belbuck for third breakfast. My view? Let me paint you the dismal scenery. sneers The Cloaktower. As I saw my mentor talking to a different erudite, my blood began to boil with anger at such an evil man. I grabbed the nearest spoon for something to clench to attempt to alleviate my anger. I’m a little blurry with what happened just after that. All I can recount to you is that I slammed my fists, one clutching the spoon, on the table, and next thing I know, my mother is hooting and hollering, in only the way an old Halfling woman can, calling for buckets of water! I came to, only to see her dear and precious Lantan-designed oven aflame. You see, my father’s father had it made for her as a wedding present. Oh, how I fondly miss that oven. Oh, the pasties it could produce! And in such voluminous amounts! Would that I could gorge on my mother’s pasties once more…*daydreams and sighs*
Anyway, I decided that, on the small chance I couldn’t talk my mother out of directing her wrath at me (for, you see, she knew I was and am still an accomplished liar), I would set out on adventures with a few goals in mind. First and foremost, to figure out what’s happening to me and my spoon. Perhaps it has something to do with my blood line being affected by the Spellplague. Maybe not. Maybe it’s just a coincidence. Second, to make more than enough gold, I mean mountains of gold, to replace my mother’s oven with an even grander one! Maybe this one will be three times her size instead of just twice…That’s some high pasty potential. ALSO! I must make something of myself, unlike my wretch of a so-called mentor. He will one day see that his evil ways a consummate thaumaturge doth not devise.