Varyn Longscribe

History is recorded by those who survive.

Backstory:

He grew up in the shadow of Red Mountain, in a time when the old stories were already turning to dust.

His family were not warriors or nobles: they were record-keepers, loosely attached to the remnants of Temple authority after the fall of the Tribunal. His mother preserved hymns that no longer had gods to honor, while his father copied histories no one cared to read.

He learned early that truth was… flexible. That what was written mattered less than who survived to tell it. So he became very good at telling it.

When the Temple lost its grip, he adapted. He turned scripture into song, history into performance, and grief into something people would actually listen to. He traveled the Ash-choked villages, Refugee camps, Noble courts clinging to relevance. He learned how to make a crowd love him, make a guard trust him and make an enemy hesitate. Because sometimes, survival isn’t about strength. It’s about saying the right thing at the right time.

He did not remain in the ash forever.

At some point—whether by chance, patronage, or sheer persistence—he made his way to Waterdeep, far from Red Mountain and the ghosts of fallen gods. There, he earned entry into New Olamn, the most respected bardic college in the city—a place where words were sharpened into tools as precise as any blade.

At New Olamn, he did not go unnoticed for long.

Among the instructors and performers, one in particular took an interest in him— Danilo Thann, archmage of Olamn and keeper of the Ollamh Harp.

Where others saw a talented student, Danilo saw something deeper: a mind that did not simply learn stories—but dissected them.

And unlike many in positions of power, Danilo did not discourage it.

He welcomed questions. Encouraged doubt. Allowed his students to grow—not into reflections of himself, but into something entirely their own.