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      "0": "Alain's mother was a local girl, Maria Hare. The Hare family had always carried a hint of sorcery in their blood, and it was rumoured that Alain's great-grandfather was a mage of no small ability. The adults of the village remember Maria as a small, detached person, always staring off into space, lost in her own little dream world. She did not survive childbirth.\n\nAlain's father, Karl Blake, bears more battle-scars that most. He was a career soldier for twenty years, before settling down in Riverthrow. From the lash-scars on his back, it was widely rumoured that he was a deserter from some unknown armed force, hiding in a small, backwards village to escape retribution. These rumours have some truth in them.\n\nRaised by his father alone, the Blake's were possibly the poorest family in the village, as Karl's long-forgotten smithing talents and raw strength faded with the years. Nevertheless, Alain grew up on stories of mass cavalry charges, skilful duels, tactical advances and heroic deeds. The vast majority of his Father's stories were exaggerations.. But he believes them to this day. \n\nTo others, his father is a somewhat suspicious character, bearing the lash-marks of a deserter and bragging of absurd 'noble deeds'. To Alain, his father is a real-life, honest-to-god hero... A preconception that he will defend with his fists, if necessary. His father is still alive, but has deteriorated with age... He never truly managed to get over the death of Maria. During Alain's early teen years, his father became more and more withdrawn, disinterested in the actions of his offspring. \n\nAll Alain has ever wanted is to be a hero. Impulsive and reckless at times, he is incessantly stubborn, piling huge amounts of effort on whatever he has set his heart on. Somewhat naive, he always saw things in simple terms, right or wrong, black or white, light or dark. There was no middle ground with him. Not too bright, but very dedicated. Ideal hero material.\n\nHowever... There was a problem. He just wasn't very good at it. He lacked the bulk to be a strong fighter, and lacked the dexterity to be a nimble swordsman. He used to train daily with a variety of weapons, but he was never anything beyond proficient, no matter how hard he tried. He was not overly clever or wise, and although his youthful features were comely enough, he could never seem to muster the verbal charm to make use of them. His vast ambitions always seemed to land him in situations he simply cannot cope with. \n\nAlthough... He always seemed to get out of them again. Sheer determination has allowed him to fight boys twice his age before, simply refusing to lie down and be beaten. Always trying to one-up himself, Alain knew Vanthar as the only one with the patience to keep patching him up, expending vast amounts of healing salves on the innumerable bruises and breakages he incurred as his latest attention-seeking 'quest' went far beyond his capability. Vanthar actually encouraged him somewhat, feeding him more stories of far-away places.\n\n\n\n\nGrowing up, Alain tended to flock to those older than him, his nature pushing him to compete with those who had nearly four years growth on him. He seldom won anything, but it never seemed to put him off. He would simply sigh, walk away... And a week or so later, ask for a rematch. And lose again. and again. But each time he would lose by a little less...\n\nAlain was always a stand-out, of not by his behaviour, then by his bloodline. The sorcerous heritage of his mother's family is stamped plainly across his face, even though he exhibits no actual power... His eyes change colour, seemingly at random. For the past six months, they have been a shade of deep purple. For the first three years of his life they changed almost daily. This earned him praise or taunts alternately, depending on the ever-changing moods of children everywhere.\n\nPerhaps the strangest thing about him, though... Is some thing he has no conscious control over. Around Alain, odd things happen. The unlikely seems to turn up far more often. Not to his advantage, but just more often than expected. Handfuls of dice all landing on the same number. Mock duels where both weapons break at once. He once flipped a coin, only to have it land perfectly balanced on one edge. Somehow, around Alain, the odds seem weighted in favour of the unlikely.\n\nAttention seeking, stubborn yet not particularly talented, with several odd little quirks, Alain tended to have few close friends, more of an 'audience', who followed him around to either cheer him on or laugh as he fell. This made him comparatively popular, or at least gave him the illusion of it.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nWhen he was sixteen, he left the village, lying about his age to join up with a mercenary group. It was there that he first heard of Tymora, the Goddess of fortune, a deity much-loved by those who gambled their lives for coin. He was intrigued. The mercenaries outfitted him, gave him little training... And three months later, he saw combat for the first time.\n\nIt was sunset, a surprise attack upon an enemy encampment. Rain was washing down over both sides, as ugly grey storm clouds gathered overhead. Armed with a longsword, Alain ended up facing the enemy commander, a man who seemed invulnerable. He totally outclassed the young Alain, shearing first his shield, then his sword into two pieces. Punched to the ground, dazed and weaponless, Alain had nothing else to do but pray...\n\nNigh-insensible from loss of blood, he still isn't really sure he saw the youthful, red-haired girl, grinning at him over his opponent's shoulder, one slim finger pointing upwards...\n\nThe world went white. Something glowing red-hot skimmed past his ear, leaving a neat burn-mark on one cheek. What remained of the enemy commander slumped, sizzling, to land at his feet.\n\nLightning. In a melee of over eighty metal-clad people, lightning struck only his opponent, seconds before the kill-stroke.\n\nAfter his first year, he left the mercenary band, using what pay he had gained to buy a humble living. Aside from the burn, which is his one and only battle-scar, he was untouched. But something had changed, some vital realization that had hit the moment that pure luck saved his life.\n\nA little research on his part revealed that although there were orders dedicated to Torm, to Lathander, to Tyr... There were no paladins of Tymora. It didn't seem fair. She was far more important to him than any of the other Gods. He didn't understand justice, or mercy, or suffering.. But he understood pure luck when he saw it, knew how incredible it could feel to succeed against all the odds.\n\nWorking for months, he spend some time making his own suit of armour... By his accounting, he owed his life to Tymora, and he wanted to repay that debt. A soldier of fortune... Someone who would travel, giving people a little more luck, a helping hand wherever he went. He liked the sound of that. It took up nearly all of his savings to make it, and he was no master smith... But he was proud of what he had made. Finally, he had something solid to show for his dreams.\n\nHis 'holy symbol' is the coin he once flipped, the one that landed on edge. He has lost it a dozen times or more, but it always seems to turn up again, somehow. It might not even be the same coin. He thinks it is, though.\n\nSo now, having heard the news, he returns home to pay his respects. He carries with him little more than a makeshift suit of armour and a vague idea of what he wants to be. "
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