A Little Backstory...

I grew up in the desert. We suffered from hunger and unending thirst, as most of my people do. My family succumbed to the thirst. I did not. I joined a group of gravehunters passing through town on their way to a job, spent a few years with them. One of our missions took us to an old dwarven ruin. Most of us died there--I only survived because I found something special. A weapon, but also something greater. It spoke to me, guided me, promised me power in exchange for some questionable deeds. Desperate as I was, I accepted the deal. I got out alive, managed to save one of my pact members. We left the gravehunters after that, but we continued working together. That friend of mine had some...associates, in Graystone, who welcomed me into their fold and taught me that there were easier ways to make a living than hard work. I found my place among them as an informant, the power given to me by the blade lending itself well to the work. Recently, though, there was a disagreement among us, and I decided to part ways with my old gang and head off to a city with a little more opportunity. Turns out I left just in time. From what I hear, things got pretty bad in Graystone after my departure.