Andara is Dead. All that remains of my past is the dark wood music box she gave me as a young boy. She said it belonged to my father. I used to sit at the edge of the meadow and listen to its tiny gears pluck away for hours as the small human figures danced to its tune.
I have always known I was different. Age does not burden me like it does the others. Those who know me wither and pass while I am cursed to stay the same. Well, mostly the same. Truth is I age, it’s just much more slow than your normal folk.
In the early days I lived a somewhat basic life; cobbler, tailor, soldier, hell, I was even a farmer at one point. But then the thirst sat in, and rodents and forest animals just weren’t doing it anymore. I developed a taste for richer blood, and with it came a whole bunch of complications.
Look, I’ve been ran off before with torches, hunted like a beast in the brush, and more than one holy man has mistaken me for a devil. But the fact of the matter is I am no different than any other predator and the rules of the game are the same. I must feed to survive, so I do. I try not to kill when I can avoid it, but things don’t always go as planned.
I am often forced to re-locate, call it an occupational hazard. On the bright side, I have been around and seen a lot of things. This wanderlust is actually what led me to becoming an aesthetic, and ultimately what brought me to Kenthar. The beauty of its consorts is legendary, and an excellent opportunity for me to study the Elven form.
Among all else, I hope my journeys lead me to my father, though I do not know what he looks like or what his name is. Do I wish to know what I am? No, I know that all too well. I am predator, I am the eye and hand of the artist, I am wanderer, and I am seeker. The question that carries me over and under hill, to far away lands and on perilous journeys is Why? Why do the Dhampir exist? Why me?