It was a day like any other, that fateful day. A poor, middle-aged gnome was out for a stroll in the hills just north of his home village. He had been out looking for mushrooms, berries and any good herbs he might happen across. It wasn't so much that he was starving, he was simply tired of the same old gruel at the house; he needed some flavor, some nice spice to kick things up a notch. Anyway, it was a lovely day, with but a few wispy clouds floating high above, slowly gliding along. Gerpan, for that was his name (a fine Gnomish name it was too!), was enjoying himself and decided to wander further north than he usually did, up higher into the mountains where the trees were thinner and the air seemed fresher.
Suddenly, his refined sniffer happened to catch a whiff of something which one should not smell up in this region, that of smoke. As he snorted a few quick breaths in and looked about, he also detected a slight rank odor in the distance, mingling in with the smoke like a drop of ink in a river. Scurrying along in the sort of half run, half waddle that typified a gnome in a hurry, he followed his perceptive proboscis until he came upon what was, especially to a peaceful gnome, a horrifying scene. There was an overturned wagon of the size commonly used by the human traders who sometimes visited his village, and large puddles of blood and bits of hair where horses had previously been haltered. But perhaps what was the most assailant upon his nose and eyes was the stench of sight of what appeared to be nearly a dozen bugbear bodies and four human corpses.
The bugbears seldom bothered gnomes, but did have a reputation for ambushing caravans and traders. These particular bugbears however, seemed to have only partially succeeded in their attack. While the lone merchant had been killed, he had apparently also hired some bodyguards. Unfortunately, they too were dead. They had however, somehow managed to slay the bugbears in a most brutal fashion, Gerpan noted, as he studied the various disemboweled, decapitated and de-limbed bugbears. Most notable was the one who had been chopped completely in half at the waist, and the one whose head had been cleaved in twain all the way from the crown to the mouth, a broken sword blade still lodged in its final, gruesome, resting place. The human guards, two men who could almost have been twins in life, and a woman, seemed to have died from club blows and massive blunt force trauma received during the encounter.
Doing his best to ignore the surrounding carnage, Gerpan waddled over to the wagon and began rummaging through it, hoping to find any valuables. Unfortunately, this wagon had been carrying flour, meal, and spices to trade, and most of them had been damaged in the attack. Bugbears weren't particularly careful in attacks, and anyway, they would probably have preferred to eat the humans than the plant based food and spices in the wagon. Knowing that no bugbear would have any decent loot on him, Gerpan steeled himself and went to search the human bodies before leaving this gruesome scene. He was sadly disappointed with his findings however. The merchant proved to have a small purse with gold and some various silver pieces in it, so, Gerpan thought, it wasn't a total bust here. He then went on to inspect the bodies of what had to have been mercenary guards, as he could tell from their armor and weapons. These humans appeared to be poor mercenaries and from the two dark haired men he found merely a few rings, and those were of brass and copper, with cheap and low valued stones set in them. As he approached the dusty haired woman, he detected a slight movement. Cautiously, he rolled the body over and, lo and behold, there was an infant clutched tightly in her left arm, and a very nice bastard sword in her right. The child was still alive, and appeared to be calm, but hungry and slightly disoriented. Taking a cursory glance at the woman, Gerpan sighed and scooped up the bundle. Despite the hassle it would cause, his upbringing would not allow him to leave a baby alone in the wilderness. Taking a longer look at the mother, he noticed a light chain with a lute pendant around her neck. He decided that perhaps the child could use a memento of its past. Hanging it around the infant's neck, it was almost as long as the child was tall, and the child was fully half as large as poor Gerpan. Gerpan also attempted to take the mother's bastard sword, but as it was taller than he was, and he was almost encumbered with the child, he was forced to leave the resplendent blade behind, certain to meet other looters or to decay in the elements as time wore on. The gnome waddled slowly back to his village that day, with a human child, some extra cash, some almost worthless rings, and a story that would perhaps intrigue his fellows at the local pub for some time to come. That night, as he confronted his wife with his hapless burden, she asked him one question alone.
"What should we name him?" she pondered.
"I really hadn't thought about it. What do you think? Eh little guy?" he quizzically nuzzled the baby.
For the first time since he found the child, the infant opened his mouth and made a strange sound. "Ara awwaaa ara ara."
Laughing out loud, Gerpan's wife spoke up, "that'll work nicely. We'll call him Ara, but that's too short perhaps. Let's make it something fancy. How about Arathamus? That's a fine name!" she said. Spying the lute pendent around the child's neck, she offered these words. "Yes, we'll call him Arathamus. Perhaps someday he'll grow up to be someone great: perhaps a bard of renown, someone who will bring honor upon our hovel."
If she only knew what the future held, she may not have been so hopeful. But not all are gifted with future sight, and for now, she was happy. Gerpan was happy, and somewhere deep within the infant's mind, perhaps he was happy. And why should they have not been? The darkest villain who ever lived may surely have had a mother who loved him, and Kings who decided the fate on nations and bore the weight of responsibility for thousands of lives once had a family who cared. Even the poorest, most disease ridden beggar lying in the gutter, drunk on cheap ale may once have had someone who held them dear. So, indeed, why not grant the same to Arathamus?
The years would come and go as surely and as seemingly quick as the ebb and flow of the tides for this family. Arathamus grow into a strong, playful young human child with green eyes that flashed a laugh and dusty brown hair that hung playfully over his eyes. By the age of twelve, he had already reached a height twice that of the gnomes in his village, but even despite from the pranks he commonly played upon them, he was generally liked and accepted among them. Taking the suggestions of his adopted mother, he pursued a career as a bard, and by the age of seventeen, he was a regular performer not only at the local tavern, but among the inns and taverns of the surrounding villages and occasionally even the nearby dwarven port city. Yes indeed, all was going well for Arathamus. That is, all was going well until that fateful day…
A/N: Oooh. Foreshadowing! Don't you love it? Find out what the fateful events are in the next chapter.