6'2" 200 lb. Tabaxi Bard. Middle aged, rough edged with a tiny sprinkle of smart ass.
“The street is a hard life. You either get out of it with bite marks or get swollowed by it. It doesn’t matter how much you distance yourself from it. It stays with you as much as you leave a piece of yourself in it.” This was one of the many lessions that the then young Savattarius was given by the group of musicians who took him in from the cold, unforgiving streets.
At the age of eight, his Father, a widower and common man by the name of Rusitarus, was taken from him on a seemingly normal night on the town with his Son. Perhaps it was a wrong turn into the wrong part of town, maybe it was just an easy target. A group of men came from the shadows and before the Father could even ask what they wanted, they pounced on them like hungry wild beasts. Knocking Savattarius out cold. When he came to, battered and blood staining his fur, his only welcome was the sight of his mortally wounded Father. Stripped of the coin he had to take his son to his favorite eatery and his wedding band, a simple gold ring with the words “In Labor Et Salutem” etched on the outside from his deceased wife. Despite Savattarius’s pleas and cry’s for his Father to get up, he remained still. The young Tabaxi stayed there until morning, sobbing and clutching onto his fathers wide brimmed hat that he always wore until he was found by a passing by guard.
Through his teenage years, Savattarius spent his time in a gang known as The Dirges. Robbing people and generally causing touble for anyone who was stupid enough to approach them. One night, on a dare, Savattarius snuck into the back of a tavern and was going to steal the instruments of a band that was playing that night. What he found instead was a performance like no other that he has seen before. From the slip of the curtains, he watched the players dance around the stage like men possessed, wildly playing their instruments. Once the show was done, the musicians ran right into the spying Savattarius. Flabbergasted, they demanded to know what he was back there for. Though known for his wit, he told them the truth and apologized. The group consisted of an orc drummer named Dulrik, an elf hornist named Serivin, and the human lute player and singer Hetkinson. Instead of simply kicking the troublemaker out, they offered to sit and talk with him for a while. Savattarius learned that the three were also on the streets as children and the way they played was a way to remember their past and use it as inspiration. Eventually the three asked if he wanted to join them, offering food, shelter, and lessons in exchange for keeping their instruments in good condition. the offer was too good to pass up for the kid that was going nowhere fast.
Life traveling from town to town goes by fast. Soon, Savattarius was middle aged, barely making enough to get by, even having to resort from the typical eight strings to six just to keep costs down. While he did his own performances and the aging musicians did theirs, they still looked out for each other. The well, eventually running dry, prompted a need for change. Deciding that Returned Abeir wasn’t pulling in the crowds as well as it used to, the four pulled their resources together and booked passage across the Trackless Sea to Faerûn. Straightening his fathers hat, he steps onto the boat, filled with hope that he would finally find the better part of his life that was eluding him all these years.