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Darryn

So, this young half elf, devoid of familial connection, or consistent source of sustenance, was moving through, instead, the familiar motions of a survivor. Pick a pocket here, shiny object there, mov...

🧑‍🎤 Overview

  • Full Name: Darryn Van Helrich
  • Race: Half-Elf
  • Class: Rogue
  • Alignment: Chaotic Good
  • Age: 24
  • Background: Thief / Pirate

🎭Core Traits:

  • Clever & Resourceful: Quick-witted and adaptable, Darryn can think on their feet and get out of (or into) trouble effortlessly.
  • Charming but Distrustful: While they can be disarmingly charismatic, deep down, they struggle to trust others.
  • Rebellious Streak: Strongly opposed to authority figures, especially those who abuse power.
  • Loyal to the Few They Trust: Despite their cautious nature, Darryn will risk everything for those they truly care about.

Flaws & Weaknesses:

  • Reluctant to Rely on Others: Years of fending for themselves have made them fiercely independent, sometimes to their detriment.

  • Haunted by Guilt: There’s a moment in their past—perhaps a betrayal, a loss, or a crime gone wrong—that still lingers in their mind.

  • Overconfident in Their Luck: Darryn often takes risks, assuming things will work out. Sometimes they do. Sometimes they don't.

Personal Goals:

  • Find a Place to Belong: Whether it’s a crew, a cause, or a family, Darryn is constantly searching for something that feels like home.
  • Settle an Old Score: Someone wronged them or someone they cared about—Darryn hasn't forgotten. (Arcane)

⚔️ Combat & Skills

📖 Backstory

A young half-elven being stood there, the dark hood over head concealing their dark grey eyes, and long brown hair. They pierced their searching glare into the tavern, the strong scent of booze filling their nostrils. Darryn was searching for the next economic ‘donation’ to their pouch.

This isn’t a new song and dance; make port, jump ship, head into whatever town or city they had called at, try your luck at the local tavern. It’s a familiar routine. Darryn had been doing this little ritual since life had rocketed downhill – or, rather, since life had hit rock bottom and then learned how to dig.

To truly understand this behaviourally chaotic being, there is several points of reference I wish to call to your attention, my dear reader. For much like their actions, their history is one that requires immense emotive understanding. So please be aware that the story I tell is one in chunks, as I feel these best represent the aspects of this Genetic Outcast, and explains them for the context of the greater story I am yet to tell to you.

Darryn grew up in what they considered to be paradise. The small, cramped cottage that they proudly called home, alongside their Father, was decorated with all manner of beautiful shining objects. Glossy stones collected from the shore lined the windowsills, feathers and trinkets were strung from the exposed rafters and gleaming metal daggers were kept polished and sharpened on the highest shelves.

Their Father was different from Darryn in most ways; his skin was dark and rough in places, like the pads of his fingers or where his stubble grew on his face, whereas Darryn’s skin was light and smooth and unblemished in youth. Father was tall, reaching high enough to hide things from prying eyes and sticky fingers on the top of wardrobes and cupboards. Darryn had to get more creative, prying up floorboards and squeezing into the spaces under beds to hoard their treasures.

Father was loud, cheerful, forever with a story up his sleeve or a joke to tell. Darryn was quiet, mischievous, a ready audience to the world’s stage. Father knew everything there was to know. Darryn was happy to ask every question and explore every answer.

Father was human. Darryn was not.

Occasionally, Darryn is able to beg whoever’s in charge of the port, or a boatswain of a recently docked ship, or anyone with dirty work they were unwilling to do, for a few hours of labour in exchange for a small handful of cash. Sometimes they even blag their way onto a ship ‘til it next makes port. Those are the better of times.

Other times, that little bird in their brain would spot something shiny and start cheeping away until a new treasure was safely stowed in Darryn’s pocket. There were always one of two outcomes to that – either they would spook, and move as far away from the scene of the crime as they could; or they would get caught. Either way, it usually didn’t end well. A night on the hard cobbles of a back alley was hardly better than the straw-covered floor of a cell. Still, better than a box around the ears.

Then there are the times when their five fingered discount is more intentional. Those are the days that Darryn makes their way to the nearest tavern or pub, and lets their hands wander into the pockets of others. They’re not a fool, of course – it’s usually those with the gilded clothes, the ones with rosy cheeks and a booming laugh, the people with handfuls of gold in their purses and a focus on someone in the other direction. It’s easier to keep that chirping bird quiet when the choice between a shiny knife or a pocket of coin is the difference between eating that night or going hungry.

One evening like many others;

“Where did I come from?”

It was a question Darryn had asked many times before, but the answer Father gave was one of their favourite stories. As always, they could see a smile tugging at Father’s mouth from where he sat on the opposite side of the dinner-table.

“I found you under a mulberry bush.”

“But why was I there?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you grew out of the earth like a flower. Or maybe magic put you there, because I hadn’t found you anywhere else.”

“That doesn’t make sense!”

“Does it have to?”

A bubbling, childish laugh. Darryn pushed their food around their plate with their fork. “And then what did you do? After you found me, that is?”

“I bundled you up in my cloak and snuck you onto the boat to home. Hid you right between the sacks of spices and the barrels of gold, tucked up like a little rabbit in their burrow.”

“But I’m not a rabbit!”

Father laughed, a warm and gentle sound, and added some more vegetables to Darryn’s plate. “Surely if you weren’t rabbit, then you wouldn’t be enjoying your greens so much.”

“I don’t think that makes sense either,” Darryn said, swinging their legs. “What did you do when we got home? Back when you first found me.”

Father sighed, and a sad sort of smile spread across his face. “I promised to love you, and to hold you close, and to keep you safe. I told everyone in the village that I would keep you in my home, make sure you were warm by the fire, and that you were happy.” He leaned across the table and buzzed a kiss on Darryn’s cheek. “So, are you warm, my darling? Are you happy?”

“Yes,” Darryn replied. Father’s eyes crinkled.

“Are you sure about that? Is that not an icicle growing at the end of your nose?”

“No!” Darryn whined, and pushed their chair back with a laugh as their Father leaned close to hug them. “I’m warm, and I’m safe!”

And the games of chase that always followed would last the whole evening. What bliss.

“Get back here, now!”

Darryn runs, winding between all manner of people crowing the pier as they dash towards the treeline. The boat they had stowed away on had finally docked in a small fishing village to buy more provisions, as when the first mate had been taking stock of their rations, she had discovered they’d burned through more food than expected.

Of course, when Darryn had attempted to depart the ship, they’d unwittingly crawled out of their hiding space to the main deck in full view of the captain – a Dragonborn, with more than enough smarts to put two and two together. And more than enough temper to demand retribution.

And so, Darryn was running. Still running, in fact, when they hit the treeline of the forest encircling the little seaside village. Still running, until they were leaping over fallen logs and bubbling creeks. Still running, until the sun dipped low enough to cast shadows from the treetops and the world was in shades of black and grey, and Darryn realised they had no idea where they were.

In reflection, Darryn doesn’t actually remember a lot from that night in the woods. Just flashes of panic and fear, vague memories of crawling under felled logs, echoes of cries for someone long gone.

When they wake in the morning and stumble their way somehow back to civilisation, Darryn has tear tracks down their cheeks, several trinkets missing from their satchel, and a gash down their forearm. They’re not even sure how they got it, whether they scraped it on a rock or branch, or if some manic rodent attacked them.

Darryn’s not even sure if this is the same little village the last ship docked at. Still, just in case someone recalls the stowaway hubbub from the night before (was is just one night?) Darryn hurries onto a new boat as soon as they can. Cloak’s hood up, long hair down to obscure their face, and no looking back.

They can’t scream for help. They can’t cry like a child. They can’t act as if every situation they push themself into will work out for the better, because there’s no safety net anymore. There’s no one to catch them when they fall.

Darryn remembers the square in the village they grew up in. They’d always thought it more of a star than a square, five roads all leading up to a grey, granite statue right in the middle of town. It was of a man, holding the hilt of his sword with both hands, head bowed under his hood as he rested the point on the ground as if weary from some great battle.

The buildings along the streets were ramshackle, each unique in shape and size as if they were trying to find some way to differentiate themselves from all the other drab, brown houses. Darryn preferred their home with Father. He had painted flowers below some of the windows.

There was a butcher’s, a fishmonger’s a greengrocer’s, even a bakery. There were a multitude of other little stores, that were so small they sold odd combinations of items to get more customers. They’d stopped in such a store one day, walking home from the fields Father was paid to tend to – Father always brought Darryn to work with him, it was one of their favourite things; the other children were stuck in schools and nurseries, but Darryn got to spend all day with Father. He taught Darryn all the letters and numbers and words, too, and he was the best teacher. None of the other children would be rewarded with a treasure hunt around the garden after a hard day of school.

The little shop they stopped by sold ink and quills and pens and pencils. Father had been talking about picking up some more paper, too, as they had crossed the threshold of the door. He stood over in the corner, frowning at the prices on different stationery sets. Darryn wandered through the rest of the winding shelves, idly running a finger over the worn wood.

The little shop also sold charming little teacups and saucers and little pots to keep sugar in, the kind with notched lids so you could leave a teaspoon in it. They were decorated with paintings of sprawling vines and blossoming flowers, or with people dressed in bright clothes dancing around the rims of plates. Darryn picked up a teapot and held it close to their eye. It was patterned in blue, lines like smoke drawing close to the spout. If they tilted it to see the bottom, there were shapes almost like water that the painted steam seemed to be rising off -

“Put that down!”

A large pair of hands snatched the teapot out of Darryn’s grip. Their eyes snapped up to meet the shopkeeper’s furrowed gaze, who had seemingly left the till to loom over Darryn’s shoulder, and they startled backwards with a surprised noise. Their back bumped against another shelf, and they heard the clink of other tea sets knocking against each other with the impact.

The shopkeeper was fuming. “Foolish child!” he snapped, spittle flying from his lip. “Don’t you know how easily fine china shatters? Tip a teapot upside down and the lid will fall off – I thought your kind were supposed to be wise.”

Father appeared at the man’s side. “Just what do you think you’re doing?” he said, voice hard like ice. “Have you no sense? They’re a child! They’ve done no wrong, now back off.”

There was a vein popping angrily in the other man’s forehead. “I won’t stand for this, Lowun! I’ve seen that child of yours around the town, I’ve seen the way they eye up fine things, and I don’t trust them in the slightest! Don’t you recall the wars? The pain and suffering that those wretched elves put our grandparents though, the way we still suffer today? Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten why we keep our town so closed off from the outside world – beings like that only bring trouble. They’ll take, and take, until we’ve nothing more to give, and then they’ll take some more to see us scrounge in the dirt.”

“They’re only half elf, not a true elf. And surely you wouldn’t blame wars on a child too young to have been born when they ended?”

“They’re certainly not human, that’s the point of it. They haven’t fought to be free like we have. And half elf is a half too much – now out of my store.”

“Gladly.” Father dumped the paper he was holding – now crumpled from his tightened fists – into the shopkeeper’s arms, then grabbed Darryn under the arms to hoist onto his hip. He stormed out of the shop, the banging of the door against its frame loud enough to drown out the parting yells from the shopkeeper, and marched away from the square towards home. From their place against his front, Darryn could feel how Father’s breaths were coming in great heaves like a warhorse after a battle.

They spent the walk in silence, through the winding roads of the village all the way to the well-worn path up to their little cottage on the outskirts of town. The creaking of the front door cut into the quiet, and as if it had ended a spell, Father let out a deep sigh and set Darryn down on the floor in front of him.

Darryn avoided their Father’s eyes. Why do they hate me?”

Father pressed his hand to Darryn’s cheek. It felt cold. “They don’t hate you, my darling. They just don’t understand.”

Darryn pushed the hand off. “Don’t lie! They do hate me! I see how they look at me in the street, the way they act like I smell bad or something. I heard some of the other children whispering to each other, saying that the schoolmaster banned me from attending classes because I would be too dangerous, or I wouldn’t listen, or I’d steal everyone else’s books. And then I saw their parents taking them away when they saw I was listening in! Why do they hate me?”

Father ran a hand down his face, and his next breath seemed to catch in his through. “So young, to be having a conversation like this,” he murmured. He didn’t seem like he was talking to Darryn.

He crouched down so that their eyes were level. “People, Darryn – humans, they like to understand things. They like to know the way things work, and then when they know how things work they can’t imagine them working any other way. The people here, of this village, they think they know how elves work. There was lots of fighting, a long time ago, between these humans and a group of elves and everyone wanted to hurt and take from each other. The humans think, because of that, that all elves work the same way – that they’ll hurt and take just like they used to.”

Father pulled them into the circle of his arms, and Darryn let him tuck them close enough to hear his heart beating. “They’re scared, really,” he continued. “They remember how things used to be, and can’t fathom that things may change, and they’re protecting themselves before they get hurt. On some level we can’t fault them for a wariness they’ve come by honestly.”

Darryn fiddled with a loose thread on Father’s jacket. “So they’re scared of me because I’m an elf.”

Another deep sigh. “You’re not an elf, my darling. You’re a half elf – but you are in no way half a person. Even if you were a full elf, or a human, or a bird in the sky, you’re no less deserving of a place in this village.” Father held them impossibly tighter. “Some people are just blind to things beyond the end of their nose. We’ll avoid that shop from now on.”

Darryn let out a wet laugh. “But we still need paper,” they whispered.

“Then we’ll learn how to make it ourselves.”

The nature of moving is such that the landscape changes from day to day. Darryn’s always found that the land doesn’t change so much as the people around them.

The town they’d grown up in was isolated, tucked away on a tiny portion of a huge island, and yet they never strayed beyond the village’s boundaries. They grew their own crops, their won livestock, made their own clothes and pastries and anything else they could ask for. Their population was entirely comprised of humans, and the few visiting boats to their docks were no more varied either.

Since they left, Darryn has seen more than they ever could have hoped to; humans, yes, but also dwarfs, and halflings, and gnomes, full-grown adults still reaching only to around Darryn’s waist. And still, people who towered nearly twice their height, with all kinds of colours on their skin and fabrics across their shoulders. People with hooves, with wings, with weapons bigger than Darryn’s head. Still, they were most wary around the humans.

Darryn remembers landing once in an elven town. They remember the excitement of finally finding a place filled with people like them, of finally being understood. They remember the gleaming white grin of the bartender in the tavern when they’d wandered up to the bar. “You with the others over there?” he’d said, gesturing to the corner. Darryn turned to look.

It was a group of adults, loud and cheery, with children dashing between their legs. There were some closer to Darryn’s age, talking and laughing with each other, playing with the children and chatting with their parents. And every one of them was human. Darryn’s beathing stuttered.

“Yes,” they said, hastily plastering a smile on their face. They shook their head to clear their thoughts and felt the swish of their long hair covering over their pointed ears. “I’m with them, yes. Could you serve me a meal, quickly? My brother is feeling a bit faint and needs to eat, our mother said she’ll come over with coin in a second.”

The elf served them amicably, and when he turned his back on them, Darryn made for the door, plate and all. It hit them, then – that they were entirely unrecognisable to elf-kind. That they truly had no kin or claim to that community. Darryn no more belonged to the elves than to the happy human travellers in the tavern’s corner.

Darryn tried not to think of the smiles passed between the little family. They didn’t let their mind linger on the looks they gave each other, the ones that said I know something no one else does, but you know too, because we are one and the same. They didn’t think about rough hands to hold or sunny little cottages.

And crouched in a quiet spot on the streets, when every last crumb of their stolen meal was gone, Darryn noted that the plate was patterned with soaring birds.

Father held out his hand. His expression was entirely unimpressed. “Hand it over.”

Darryn huffed, and passed him a set of metal bangles, clinking together musically. Then they reached into their other pocket and produced a simple shining ring and a fancy hairpiece. Father raised his eyebrows and waggled his fingers. With a sullen expression and a flick of the wrist, Darryn’s last treasure - a decorative coin - fell into Father’s hand.

Father gave them a look. “I’ll be handing these back to their owners tomorrow, then.”

“They’re only little things,” Darryn whined. “And none of them look particularly valuable!”

“It’s not always about what money can buy, my darling. Sometimes items carry the weight of the heart, too. I wouldn’t be best impressed if someone stole my favourite jacket, for example.”

Darryn stalked towards the kitchen to throw themself into a chair. They draped their forearm across their eyes. “They were only small. Doubt anyone even noticed they’d gone.”

Footsteps shuffled towards the doorway. “They want you to start working, you know. Give you something to do full time. Give you less chance to get into trouble.”

“Fine,” they replied. “I’ll start joining you in the fields again, then.”

“No, I know you too well for that. You’ll get bored, and then your mind will start wandering again, and before I know it you’ll have taken a field’s worth of barley just to see if I’d notice.”

“Then where?”

“The docks are looking for children willing to learn different trades. Kids your sort of age. There’ll be a variety of work, and enough eyes on you for you to keep yourself in check.”

Darryn rolled their eyes, and Father gave them a tired grin.

“Honestly, Darryn, it’s as if there’s some raven or magpie living in your brain, squawking whenever you see something shiny.”

“No,” they smiled. Father walked closer and ran his hand over their brow.

“Really, by the state of your hair, it’s no wonder something would be nesting in there.” He smiled wider and tugged gently on the dark, chin-length strands.

Darryn leaned into his arm. “No!” they said again, though they knew joy would be sparkling in their bright blue eyes, just as it was in Father’s amber gaze.

Darryn thinks, sometimes, about how everything went wrong round about when they started working at the docks.

It certainly wasn’t the dock work itself that brought their entire world crashing down around them, to be fair. In fact, they’d rather enjoyed the work. Weaving nets, accounting for who came into port a whole selection of jobs and people to learn from. Most were even patient with Darryn – for a given definition, of course. Someone like them didn’t make most people inclined towards patience. And none of the teachers were as good as Father.

Working at a port in a small town meant Darryn and the FINISH LATER

“Why can’t I just work in the fields with you? You used to take me there all the time, anyway.”

“The village council decided it wasn’t in anyone’s best interests.”

“And what does that really mean?”

“Means they now you too well; you’d get distracted by interesting pebbles on the sides of the fields, or try to eat an ear of corn before it ripened.”

“And they hate elves.”

“You’re still not an elf, just my child whom I love very much. And really – you would be bored in a job like mine. I remember you teaching yourself a decent amount of Infernal sitting in a tree while you watched me harvesting a year or so ago.”

“It’s not too hard of a language!”

“Try telling that to someone without your head for words. Anyway, dock work is perfect for you, millions of things for you to learn there. Why look so glum?”

“Because I’ll miss you. Don’t pull that grin at me! We spend most waking hours together, feeling your absence will be logical!”

“I know. I’m smiling, but truly I’ll miss having my little shadow, too. Just remember that I’m not far, just through the village to the fields, it’s hardly a pilgrimage to find me. And at the end of the day, I’ll be there waiting for you, with warm food and an ear to lend. No matter how far you roam, I’ll always welcome you back, and I‘ll never be far. Nothing you do could ever separate us, not for long. I will always be there for you.”

I’ll always be there for you.

But you’re not here anymore. You haven’t been for a while.

(I miss you)

So, this young half elf, devoid of familial connection, or consistent source of sustenance, was moving through, instead, the familiar motions of a survivor. Pick a pocket here, shiny object there, move to the next village, or town, or city, and pawn off what they could to hopefully put the stitching in their money pouch under some stress.

Nestlebrook, an fairly common looking village to Darryn, if not for the surplus of farmers within this particular one. Tavern seemed to be lively quite early, maybe a celebration. Celebration called for booze. Booze meant drunk people. Unobservant drunk people.

Sure enough, as entering into the Mystery Inn, a human oppose the door sat their slumped slightly over the bar counter, recently tended to by the keeper. A strong set of battlement lay upon his shoulders, but notably a shield lay to rest against his stool.

The music from Darryns right held the power of a great distraction, and the crowed seemed to have been enveloped in its beauty. Not a bad time to make a great score.

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