A Collection of Fan Fiction from WoW, SWG and more!

The Tale of Dairli Wildwanderer (D&D)



As some of the storytellers in Waterdeep say, “I was born, I grew up…” And while such of a sentiment is fact, it’s what truth (or lies) that live between the words.  Right where that comma is.  I was born into a family of juggling monkeys who threw me far from the trees because I did not look like them.  Not a terribly entertaining story… but it is mine.  I’ll pay you platinum if you truly believe me.  After I steal it from your coin purse, of course. 

Truth is between the words.  Between the lines, the sheets, the rocks and the ales.  It’s never right in front of you.  I was born in Waterdeep to the Kender people who reside there.  And I say the Kender people, because if you know them, they don’t tend to stay in one place for long.  Therefore, my parents are my people.  Whichever Halfling the streets handed me to became my meal ticket for the day or night.  It’s this way of life that builds up our souls for the roads to come.  It’s what keeps us from becoming Hairfoots or Tallfellows. Halflings too scared of the larger folk to even leave their own homes.

It’s a big world out there.  Especially if you’re my size.

Waterdeep is the capital of Faerun, for those of you who haven’t picked up a map.  It’s a bustling hive of scum and nobility. I was more on the scum side of things, just a few steps above bacteria.  Lucky for me, that’s where most Bards live unless of course they’re in the palace.  A natural predilection for music and a voice that “danced upon the wings of sparrows” was hardly ignored.  Rather, it was nurtured and evolved.  Before I reached the age of fifteen years, I had risen above my scum stage.  Not far mind you, just to Tavern Rat.  Some of the keeps had hired me into their ranks to entertain the drunken slavs.  This was an unfortunate circle of propositions, broken mandolins and black eyes (patrons not I.)  Though, you could say it had a fortunate outcome.

The Black Adders came calling one day.  Promising me a life of prosperity and loose morals.  I was twenty three and that infamous Kender  wanderlust had set in.  For fifteen years I followed them in many disguises.  I played distraction for more heists than I care to try to count.  And, as promised I earned not just prosperity beyond my expectations, but gifts both in adoration and as pay.  My favourite being a set of leather armour, specially made for my small but womanly stature.  Fine black leather with dragons made of silver sewn onto the bodice.  Armour made by a master.  For a Kender!

I would’ve traveled with them for a lifetime, except love made me settle down in the thieves den of the Dragons Coast.  I fell in love with a tavern.  The Blackstone. Rough joint, with great appreciation for music and fabulous wenches, not to mention the best cider in all the land.  With the coin I had earned travelling with the Black Adders, I became the co-owner.  My contribution in turn cemented the fate of this little tavern, it would survive.  And I would remain in one spot.

Well, sort of…

Rather than grandiose adventures, I would take side trips up and down the coast every few days.  I often used the excuse of scouting out the competition, but I just needed to keep moving.  I will not however, deny the convenience of having a place to call home.  I will never admit that the Hairfoots might be onto something.

Though, if this fog continues, I might…

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