Barradock the Bard was born in Dhag Modir, far north up the mountains of Folkmar, being the 9th child of 14. He was the son of Lothgar the Mighty and the Lady Tertia, the fabled Dwarven beauty unrivalled in looks by any other stout fellow. The family’s blood was practically tarnished black through the mining of iron, coal and the practice of smithery; the skill passed down from their great ancestor Balhut the Great, the Dwarf who was renowned for his spectacular skill with the hammer and tongs. Many of the sons and daughters of Balhut grew to become great and noble warriors of Cyrethia and would too take the honorifics of Legends. Barradock somehow was not blessed with those spectacular genes. Of his 14 siblings, 7 took to the mines, the rest to the blade and shield. It was only fitting that Barradock took to the bagpipes. Whilst his family clearly looked down upon his obsession of music and metre, they never took it upon themselves to steer him towards a more suitable role, befitting of his culture. His younger years, to the age of 60 were spent within his local tavern, reciting in verse the legends of old, whilst playing, at intervals, his trusty set of bagpipes.
 
Unlike many Dwarves, Barradock inherited all the handsome (and to some, rather beautiful) characteristics of his mother Tertia. With his long flowing, well kept golden locks, and his tamed blonde beard, he was often mistaken for a stocky halfling rather than a Dwarf. His nanny, in his infant days often remarked that he was burdened with the eyes of Tertia; eyes of pure Jade green. As he aged, wrinkles and scars didn’t ruin his complexion. He remains, even to this day, a rather pretty creature. Though, inherently a Dwarf, and with many of the same characteristics, he is often seen as being well spoken (to a degree) than most other Dwarves. Though, in comparison to a lot of Dwarves, the only thing Barradock does better is that he doesn’t naturally create a bar brawl in every pub he goes to. Just most pubs.
 
When Barradock reached the young age of 70, the battle for Mogh Lodar took place. His father, as well as his skilled brothers and sisters, fought hard to defend their city, but in the end the Dawn Legion was too powerful to defend themselves from. A griffin-riding knight threw a spear that hit his father Lothgar in the shoulder, and he was mortally wounded. Lothgar lay on his deathbed, primed to bestow the torch of Balhut’s great legacy upon the next mighty bearer. Whilst the thirteen siblings gathered around his dying and heavily wheezing remains, they waited with bated breath to learn who was the next successor to his title. Though, as Lothgar’s old and sunken eyes looked between the faces of those young and prodigious Dwarven kinsmen, he could see no sign of his Bardic son. Thus, on his last breath, Lothgar called forth his name. Shocked, confused and horrified that the mighty Lothgar had chosen the family drunk as their patriarch, the thirteen took to the tavern, the natural nesting place of their degenerate kin. They found Barradock had spent the battle ale drenched, half-naked, with blonde hair matted against his merry rosy cheeks, playing perhaps the last song he ever would play within that cosy Dwarven tavern. With no need to debate, the family swiftly took it upon themselves to exile Barradock mid-jig, using their combined stout strength to chauffeur the Bard (in a rather violent manner) through the tavern doors and swiftly out of the city, which lay in mostly in shambles. As he lay, still heavily drunk, with only his bagpipes and tankard in hand, those Dwarven siblings had no words to express as they watched their humiliatingly exposed kin drenched now, not only with ale, but the piss and blood stenched water of the puddle he now bathed in.
 
Disgraced, without home or warmth, Barradock had to overcome his profound Dwarven prejudices against other races whilst wandering the winding roads which spanned outside his Dwarven realm. Intermingling with the folk outside the creature comforts of his home city Mogh Lodar, he roams the earth in search of coin for his talents. Though having a massive chip on his shoulder about his humiliating past, Barradock remained truthful to his bardic roots, and as such plans to travel far and wide to entertain the masses. Though quick to become horrifyingly intoxicated, he can still perform a compelling show if committed. Deep inside of him, he yearns to overcome his foolish past, and to show his face to his siblings once more; not as a drunkard, but as a hero, known to all for his feats of bravery and courage. That said, he still retains the embarrassing Dwarven honorific, known by all in Folkmar: “Barradock of the Pissy Pipes”.
 
As he made his way southwards, towards the nearest large city outside of Folkmar, he found his ancestral land in shambles. The Kingdom of Korvald had fallen, most of it's cities either ruins or husks of what they once were. This also contributed to his decision to take life more seriously from now on, and powered the strength of his hatred of the Dawn Legion and the Etherien Republic. As he made his way towards the city of Fynderth, he stopped for a night in a small town called Oar's Rest. Here, he spent a night drinking and partying in a small, mostly empty in called The Fox and the Lady, and in the end ended up getting kicked out. Unfortunately, this was the first night of snow of the year - he found a comfortable place under some trees in the bushes and fell asleep there. He awakens, freezing and wet, to an unexpected noise that may change his life forever...