Waelan Roaringhorn

Standing 6 ft tall, he is lithe and often slightly unkempt -- looking, at times, as if he belongs in the rat warrens.

Description:
Bio:

Standing 6 ft tall, the lithe an slightly unkempt looking man doesn’t strike most observers as the young Waterdhavian noble’s son that he his. Though, his sometimes aloof manner and tendency to get bogged down in details should probably give that away. Waelan is knowledgeable about horses (having spent much of his youth on the Roaringhorn horse ranches of Amphail).

He has loosely embraced the teachings of Tymora – more as a safeguard against the leanings of Beshaba if his inner heart was known – but he’s also a fan of Waukeen (as many Waterdhavian’s are, taking some pride in the fact Adventurers used their fine city to enter the heavens and rescue the goddess from the Abyss). As a fledgling Harper he’s still getting his feet under him, doing the odd spy job, and just being nosey. It would appear to him that the Harpers think nobles might make good snoops…he couldn’t say why.

Waelan Roaringhorn
Class: Swordmage (Defender)
Race: Human (Waterdhavian)
Alignment: Good
Affiliations: House Roaringhorn (Waterdeep & Amphail), Church of Tymora (loose)

Waelan was born in the year of the Behir (1342 DR). His Uncle stands as head of the house in Waterdeep, while another Uncle’s fortune is centered in Amphail (where his six arcane adept cousins live…all of them females). His father was declared lost at sea in 1358 during the Godswar. No one knows what became of the vessel, but in the wake of great tumult it was better not to ask too many questions. Waelan’s mother was of house Wand (her cousin being that infamous card: Marco Volo).

Waelan would winter in Amphail with his mother, spending time with his cousins and their friends. He spent the remainder of the year in Waterdeep attended by private tutors and being well…the prototypical noble’s son. That is to say all too often useless.

In 1359, Year of the Striking Falcon, almost one year after his father’s disappearance the 16 year old Waelan and his friends Ioulan Wand (his second cousin) and Finrik Cormaeril (whose father was a minor Cormyrean noble)] hid in the City of the Dead on a lark from their oft-rival Ganth Cragsmere; falling pray to the goad principally because Finrik was enamored with Ganth’s cousin Vanouva (who, as fate would have it, was “cursed” while visiting Luskan with her father some years later — she’s now a man and loving it — Finrik still doesn’t know what to make of the change). Trapped in the city’s graveyard after sun down, the boys were hounded by a zombie, being chased around the grounds for the better part of an hour before a young acolyte of the fledgling faith of Kelemvor came to their aid. His name was Henrik_. He was of lowly birth, and had been apprenticed at a young age to a mortician (and closet mostly-_Murkulite).

As fate would have it, Waelan became friends with the young priest-to-be/mortician’s apprentice and the two began meeting and discussing the philosophy of life and death on a semi-regular basis. Where Henrik embraced fatalism, Waelan embraced the life of a sensate, and began loitering around Sunite services whenever possible. He didn’t fare very well, being of average looks, and average disposition. He also displayed a tendency to get distracted — this never went well with girls (he had a wandering eye and mind).

Sunites proved too focused (or as he’d say “fixated”) for a young man with little direction and too many resources. Eventually, as 1361 dawned (Year of the Maidens) and Waelan turned 19, his mother sent him to Amphail with a purpose. He was to learn horse breeding from his Uncle. Instead, he found he was more interested in studying with his cousins (as they learned the arcane arts) and by the exploits of his Uncle’s bodyguard (a Moon Elf named Holwynn Brightmoon — Holwynn had lived for a time in Cormanthyr, and later in Silvermoon). It was here he learned the basics of his future calling as a Swordmage.

After a two years in Amphail, Waelan was tasked by his Uncle to accompany his trusted servant with the delivery of a horse to Athkatla (his first foray into the Lands of Intrigue). For the Roaringhorns as a family the trip was a success; but for the now 21 year old Waelan it proved a wake up call. While his Uncle’s trusted man slept, he whisked into the night and found a den of vice. He had the ill fortune of gambling and winning. In so doing he made a fool of a Calishite pasha’s son (Izrak yn Olaum of Calimport) — he not only fleeced him of his coin in a game of daggers and crowns, but in doing so won the amorous affections of the hired ladies the pasha-to-be was spoiling himself with. The young Roaringhorn found this out while drunkenly making his way back to his appointed room. The young girl on his arm never saw the dawn, and he earned himself a deep scar in his back. The assassin failed, but the message was clear in Waelan’s mind: Beshaba is a bitch, and wining isn’t always winning, fate can be a twisty road.

1366 (Year of the Staff) dawns and Waelan finds himself slacking in his study of sword play and the arcane. He is once again playing the Waterdhavian noble, and finds himself wrapped up in the excitement of the founding of New Olaum, the bardic college. Seeking the eye of many a pretty lass studying music and/dance from the local masters. Somehow, and he’s sure it had to do with an unwelcome amount of firewine, he found himself volunteering as a test subject for a class on bardic magic. His gift for the arcane, and his interest in detail and wandering soon came to the interest of Tennan, a visiting instructor from Silvermoon. When Tennan learned that Waelan had been offered a position in his Uncle’s house in Amphail, the bard asked the young noble to present himself to a friend in that city, as the elder ex-adventurer may have need of Waelan’s talents.

Waelan’s tendency to get bored in one place has served him well thus far. But his travels and earlier bouts with excess, have left him…distant, or more accurately distracted with the consequences of actions, “you can only be where fate would have you, and you can only suffer that which fate presents, so why worry.” Of course, in a world of conflict, this looks too similar to apathy (as opposed to resignation to the daughter’s of Tyche).

One week ago, caught in a heavy storm at the fork in the Trade Way (right being the road to Baldur’s Gate, and left being the more obscure road to Soubar) he flipped a coin. “Heads we seek Baldur’s Gate, tails we head toward dwarves and disentary_…tailsok, best two out of three_…tailsok, three of five if this is Tymora’s willtails…<sigh>, dwarves it is.”

Waelan Roaringhorn

In Service of Mystery Deedyn estrolof