PLAYED BY: David Lambert
CHARACTER NAME: Torvin “Tor” Inazuma
GENDER: Male
PRONOUN(S): he/him/his
CLASS: Cleric
AGE: Don’t ask
RACE: Human
HAIR: Silvery brown
EYES: Hazel
OCCUPATION: A member of the Bardbarians
KNOWN SKILLS: Sailing, Singing, swinging dangerous things
BIRTHPLACE: Small port town in Aldoria
APPEARANCE: Rather disheveled but in a wise and learned way
NOTABLE TRAITS: Has an attuned and practiced sense of humor, remembers the old world, and loves telling stories, especially about his amazing conquests.
RELATIONSHIPS: The Bardbarians, his adopted son.
RUMORS: He has had some pretty crazy adventures with his son.
BIO / BACKGROUND HISTORY: My childhood was an uncomplicated matter. I was born and raised in the beautiful trade port of Ciryndor in Aldoria, the greatest of lands. There was much beauty in my youth. I was raised by the sea, the sun on the water, the lapping of the waves, living off the bounty that the sea provided. While harvesting the sea’s bounty my father would create shanties which my mother and sister would weave into enchanting harmonies. These are my oldest memories.
In my youth I was also taught of the deity known as the Sea Hound, the god of the seas. It fascinated me, and I soon learned the language of his form. My devotion to the Sea Hound meant that I was a favorite of the local dogs due to my tenderness, and perhaps the fact that I always carried something to feed them. One dog in particular, a black behemoth I named Goliath, adopted me and became my inseparable companion. The majesty of the sea and my love of the Sea Hound resulted in my joining a merchant ship to explore the world at the age of 15. I am convinced that my connection to the fiercely loyal Sea Hound has guided and protected me during my life journey.
As a swabbie I did things such as scrubbing the deck until my hands were raw, hauling on lines, managing the sails, working on the masts and, if needed, rowing until my back felt it was going to break. It was hard and dangerous work, but I loved it. It was a small price to pay for life with the Sea Hound. For the next two years, with Goliath by my side and my dad’s shanties on my lips, I seemed to be a welcome companion to the seasoned sailors who taught me their tips and tricks of the trade. The captain, Silas Sunsail, a devout worshipper of the Sea Hound, took me under his wing and expanded my worship of the Sea Hound by helping me become well versed in the “barking prayers.”
One fateful day the ship’s minstrel, Jareth Truthweaver, asked to speak with me. He said that he’d heard my singing, saw how hardworking I was, and had gotten permission from Captain Sunsail to offer me a position as his apprentice. I eagerly accepted, and he began teaching me that very day. The next 6 months were quite formative for my future, Jareth provided me with song after song until my throat was sore.
However, one day, after a huge storm, the captain called me to his cabin. At first I thought I was in trouble until he told me that Jareth had fallen from the mast into the water and was swept up in the boat’s wake. I was devastated by the death of my friend and mentor. That night, during an ensuing storm, while most of the crew was below deck, I was atop the mast, lost in my grief. I screamed to the heavens, “Why?!?!?” And the heavens responded. I heard the Sea Hound’s gruff, barking voice in my head, as clear as day: “Be not sorrowful that he has joined me beneath the waves. Now you must fulfill your duty. Sing the song of the Sea Hound across the seas.”
The next five years were anything but simple. I carried the song across distant lands, bore witness to a resurrection, leapt from a tower, took more arrows than I care to count, and at one point had an axe lodged in my arm. I bought a ship. I sank a ship. Just your everyday kind of chaos.
Then one day we were sailing south toward the port town of Silver Cove in Vandregon, hugging the coastline, when I saw her on the lighthouse. Something about her held my gaze. She moved with quiet purpose, tending the great lens with practiced hands. The rising sun caught in her hair which, dark as ink, moved like ribbons in the wind. “She’s new,” said my First Mate, catching my stare. “Took over last winter, I heard. Name’s Ioelenia.”
Ioelenia.
The moment I saw her I knew I loved her and that one day we would marry. I boldly told her as much when we met. She thought I was insane, and to an extent I thought I was too. But the more we spent time together we knew we were made for each other. I decided to leave my ship and tend to the lighthouse with her. Occasionally we would visit the taverns in Silver Cove to sing songs of finding one’s forever love. We spent nearly four blissful years together, before war came knocking at my door once again. Word came from my family in Aldoria that Ciryndor was under siege. They warned me not to come, but thinking of my family being in such danger I knew I had to fight.
There was a small fleet departing that day, and Ioelenia reluctantly walked with me to the harbor. I still remember the last time I saw her. She touched my face tenderly and said, “Stay safe and come home soon.”
As we arrived at the harbor in Ciryndor, the sun was just beginning to rise over the familiar silhouette of my hometown–then came the horns of war. The enemy was waiting. They were waiting for us. Twenty ships entered the bay. Two made it out. The galley I was on was severely damaged when the main mast was knocked down by an undead with an axe. I mustered what little strength I had left and blasted the beast into oblivion. Only seven of us (three of whom were seriously injured) made it to a longboat to escape. We rowed like our lives depended on it. At one point I looked back and saw several ships were on fire, while others were being boarded. Watching my fellow sailors being slaughtered. Some thrashed in the water, others floated face-down. It was the saddest thing I’d ever seen.
In the chaos our longboat was somehow able to make it out of the bay and we found sanctuary in a hidden cove a mile up the coast. I did what I could to treat the wounded, but I was exhausted from the previous assault. When we woke the next morning we had lost two men. We continued in the longboat and began following the coast towards home.
We stopped within sight of the docks. What I saw shocked me and will stay with me for the rest of my life. Hundreds of people, maybe thousands, boarding ships. In that instant, I understood—this was the end of all we knew. The fate of humanity was dependent on these people’s lives. Our salvation, our freedom. Our last hope.
I made it onto one of the ships to help those that were sick and dying. Many didn’t make it—I count myself lucky to have gotten the berth I did. From the whispers of the passengers, I learned that Vandregon’s Southern Army had held back the Undead scourge from those docks until they fell. I learned that these ships were bound for a new land: Mardrun. I’d heard the name before, the chatter and rumors of tavern tales, but I had no idea what waited across the sea.
The voyage was long and grueling. My sea-worn skills kept me useful—but I could not sing. Of all the hardships we faced, none weighed on me like the uncertainty of Iolenia’s fate. I didn’t know if she’d escaped. I didn’t know if she was even alive. In my grief—for Iolenia, for my family, for all who had been slaughtered—I had lost my voice, my will to sing.
At last, we reached land. Mardrun. A new world. I found work on the docks of Newhope, hauling crates, so that I could watch for my wife among the disembarking survivors. Every new ship arriving stirred fresh hope—and dread. During the day I asked around when I could, pestering sailors and merchants who might recognize her name or beauty. At night I would have nightmares that she wouldn’t recognize me anymore.
Years passed. Life in Newhope left me with no hope. The sea called to me again and I took a job on a northbound cargo vessel, carrying my grief like a song, always playing in the background. Before I left, I returned to the rented room that had been my home, packed my meager belongings, and stepped away from the only stability I’d found since the Fall.
And so began the voyage that would change everything. A week into the journey, a monstrous storm crippled our ship and as I was swept overboard, I prayed that the Sea Hound would welcome me into his watery embrace. I awoke on a beach with the sun in my eyes and sand in my mouth. It was there, among the wreckage of the ship and my heart, that I screamed to the heavens, “Why?!?!?” And the heavens responded once again. I heard the Sea Hound’s gruff, barking voice in my head, as clear as day: “It is not time yet for you to join me beneath the waves. Your sorrow will deepen your song, not with bitterness, but with truth. You must sing again, sing the many songs of the Sea Hound across the land. Go forth with renewed purpose, and your fortune will find you.”
The next three years were anything but profitable. I wandered from town to town, selling whatever I had on me—songs, stories, trinkets, favors. Most places eventually kicked me out. Some didn’t like outsiders. Others didn’t like my devotion to an almost dead religion.
And then came the boy. It was in a dusty little town deep in Nightriver territory. I’d just been tossed out of the tavern for suggesting the ale could be improved with less mud in it. I was nursing a bruised rib and my pride on a bench when he approached. Thin. Sharp-eyed. Probably fifteen, though he carried himself like someone older. Clothes too big for his frame, hands twitching like he was ready to steal something. I asked him what he wanted.
He didn’t answer at first. Just stared at my staff—the one carved with the Sea Hound’s sigil—and said, “You’re the one who sings weird songs.” I nodded in the affirmative. “They say you talk to dogs.” I smiled and nodded again. He sat beside me. “Teach me.” I blinked and asked, “To talk to dogs?” He answered simply, “To matter.”
That was the first time I truly saw him—not just a street rat or a curious kid, but someone adrift. The same way I had been. The same way so many were in those years. I asked him what his name was. “Drake,” he said. “Drake Carrion.”
And so began the second half of my life. Drake became my apprentice and I began teaching him the craft of song. He would become the son I never had, a reason to keep going. He was a quick study–the best, if you asked him. He was impatient, stubborn, cocky beyond his years. But by the sea hound, he had heart. Where I brooded, he joked. Where I hesitated, he leapt. I sang with a voice that had finally begun to return—not the same voice I once had, but something deeper. Weathered. True. And for the first time in years, I laughed like I meant it.
We traveled the width and breadth of Mardrun, surviving on music and mischief. We had our share of adventures, which, if you ask Drake, I’m sure he’d be happy to brag—ahem, tell you—all about them (like the time we accidentally started a small cult in a mountain village). But we also helped people. Our songs gave hope. Our laughter gave light and brought people together—if only for a night—around fires and mead and old stories. That’s what bards do. That’s what I had forgotten in my grief.
And the rest, as they say, is history.