Rowan was born in Brost, the city of mushrooms. It was a wet and dim place; homes had been dug amongst great toadstools, and soft lights glimmered through the omnipresent fog. Her parents were woodsmen, chopping pale lumber in the shadowy groves outside the city's walls, and although they had little coin, they had enough food, fuel, and affection for their daughter. She grew up with mud on her boots, auburn-red hair perpetually tangled by the wind from the woods, and a voice that would echo through the narrow lanes of Brost.
When she was a child, a band of outlaws raided the road as her parents returned home, killing them for the bundles of wood and the few coins they held. Rowan was left alone, with very little money and a heavy heart. To survive, she took odd jobs in taverns, marketplaces, and the busy yards that catered to caravans and long-distance traders. Soon, Rowan discovered that pity was a commodity best spent sparingly; what you got was an hour or two of comfort, at most.
Charm, however, on the other hand... Charm, combined with good timing, could keep you fed for weeks on end.
She found solace in music over the years, but found she soon developed ambition alongside it. She imitated the work songs of the dockworkers and the tavern-keepers and the folk songs sung for travelling merchants by bards more gifted than she, and repeated the grand tales the adventuring sorts had spoken until they sounded grander from her own lips than theirs. In time, she found that wealthy travellers both annoyed and fascinated her; they would pass through Brost clad in velvet, reeking of perfumes and spices, and chattering idly about jewels, gold coins and fine homes.
Rowan felt that such wealth came too easily to them, with little thanks given for it; if fortune had played fair then surely she deserved some of it as well, rather than a life of drudgery. Rowan gained some minor renown among the people of Brost for her auburn-red hair and her clear voice, and while at first she would gladly sing for anyone willing to listen, from the lowliest pub-dweller to the finest noble passing through the mushroom city on his way to the west, she soon learned that nothing worth doing should be done for nothing in return.
It was said in the inns and markets of Brost that you could make fortunes if you knew whom to flatter and where to strike. There are things and people, Rowan thought, who didn’t seem to belong at the table, and perhaps she deserved a better place. With a song in her heart and a pack of food on her shoulder, Rowan boarded a merchant caravan bound for Muraan, the vast, greedy city at the mouth of the great river. She had always known, even when she was still a child, that there were silken bed sheets somewhere, in a fine manor perhaps, and Rowan was going to climb her way there. She was determined to make her fortune, one note at a time, no matter who needed climbing over on the way.
When she was a child, a band of outlaws raided the road as her parents returned home, killing them for the bundles of wood and the few coins they held. Rowan was left alone, with very little money and a heavy heart. To survive, she took odd jobs in taverns, marketplaces, and the busy yards that catered to caravans and long-distance traders. Soon, Rowan discovered that pity was a commodity best spent sparingly; what you got was an hour or two of comfort, at most.
Charm, however, on the other hand... Charm, combined with good timing, could keep you fed for weeks on end.
She found solace in music over the years, but found she soon developed ambition alongside it. She imitated the work songs of the dockworkers and the tavern-keepers and the folk songs sung for travelling merchants by bards more gifted than she, and repeated the grand tales the adventuring sorts had spoken until they sounded grander from her own lips than theirs. In time, she found that wealthy travellers both annoyed and fascinated her; they would pass through Brost clad in velvet, reeking of perfumes and spices, and chattering idly about jewels, gold coins and fine homes.
Rowan felt that such wealth came too easily to them, with little thanks given for it; if fortune had played fair then surely she deserved some of it as well, rather than a life of drudgery. Rowan gained some minor renown among the people of Brost for her auburn-red hair and her clear voice, and while at first she would gladly sing for anyone willing to listen, from the lowliest pub-dweller to the finest noble passing through the mushroom city on his way to the west, she soon learned that nothing worth doing should be done for nothing in return.
It was said in the inns and markets of Brost that you could make fortunes if you knew whom to flatter and where to strike. There are things and people, Rowan thought, who didn’t seem to belong at the table, and perhaps she deserved a better place. With a song in her heart and a pack of food on her shoulder, Rowan boarded a merchant caravan bound for Muraan, the vast, greedy city at the mouth of the great river. She had always known, even when she was still a child, that there were silken bed sheets somewhere, in a fine manor perhaps, and Rowan was going to climb her way there. She was determined to make her fortune, one note at a time, no matter who needed climbing over on the way.