You've probably never heard of it...
Born to Yashan and Bulko Garj, your father Yashan is a accountent for the local magic viscera cleaning department. Your elvin mother Bulko sells lead based cosmetics at the local Avon branch. Your father has always distained adventure and the world outside of his record keeping books, counting cursed and dismembered limbs, processing reimbersment checks and balancing the ever shrinking municiple budget. This has only been exacerbated by your mother’s hyper tension disorder, probably brought about by the use of her lead based make-up. To be fair, your father had a rough childhood having lost his family in still yet unexplained accident, causing him to live a cautionary life, holding carefully onto what he had managed to gain. Your mother has always been an enigma, as elves go she is no stunner, probably prompting her obsession with cosmetics, but amonst her human neighbors she is better than you privately would expect your father to be able to get. You don’t really know what got her from her elven colony to your father’s side, something about hating sushi, but that has always been quickly hushed up. Your father’s fear of loss and your mother’s self esteem and hyper tension problems combined to give you a thoughtful but stifflingly controlling upbringing, that you have tried from an early age to break away from. While you suppose privately that you are not ungrateful to your parents, you want to get as far away from the doldrums of the recording keeping halflings that are your father’s workmates and your mother’s gossiping cohorts, as you possibly can. This has driven you explore the more obscure and alternative sides of life, at age eight your decided that your were going to learn Draconian AND Sylvan only because your grade school teacher seemed to think that it wouldn’t come up in that year’s examinations (it didn’t) and wouldn’t be worth your while. But oh, you showed her, and when it was suggested that if you went to all that trouble you could perhaps become a wizard, you promtly decided that music was your passion, ‘cause everybody wants to be wizard, right? And you? No you’re special, you want to see all the other things people don’t choose to do. Still the magic could lead to some cool things so you memorized a few spells that were mentioned in few a editions of the “Wizard Angst” magazine you pulled out of the dumpster. The "Unnatural Lust’ spell particullarly caught you’re eye, but at nine years old at the time you admit that you only decided to learn it because your mother tried to snatch the magazine away when she saw what you were looking at, which must mean it’s pretty edgy. Still, the music gig did appeal to you, it at least got you exposed to some interesting characters at the local Grog ‘N Coffee you started to hang out at. After the many verbal sparing matches with your father about “economic viablity” and “someday people will have to depend on you” nonsense you gained a keen skill for orretory. It didn’t matter if you were right, just if you could make it more trouble than it was worth for others to prove you wrong. Taking this skill to town you made a small scene for yourself delivering slam peotry renditions at local parks and church gatherings. This got you kicked out of said church gatherings, at which point you decided you’d have nothing to do with church gatherings, ‘cause eff church gathings. Dieties are so mainstream, others drown in the mainstream but not you. Maybe it was your half elf nature but you always felt like you didn’t belong in the world around you, with their boring economically stable lives, their focus on usefull spells, and affinity for long swords. It was just all so thougtless and common, you found a sickle in ditch on your way home from Grammar school once and decided that would be your weapon, who ever used sickles in combat? You do now. Eventually at the age of 16 your quarrels with your father drove you to set out on your own, you’re smart and capable, who needs filial support anyway, with a silver tongue and a sickle in hand you’d make your way in this world, while expanding your slam poetry career. It was then that the cold bitch slap of reality found your face. Turns out that you can’t get a livable wage selling magi-eight-tracks on street corners of your latest jam. It was those damn record labels, edging the independents out of the game. Still if nothing else you had your pride and undistorted perspective on reality, so despite being only one village over from mom and dad, hell if you’re going back to them. Eventually, however the acceptance that you can’t satisfy hunger with pure angst and poetic freedom you decide to seek out a job if only a temporary one. Turns out, with no real work history and an affinity for argumentative persuasion the only job that you can seem to get is selling magic pest control. You hate the hickish farmers and peasants that you sell to but at least it puts food on the table. Your co-worker, the exterminator that accompanies you Valan Durenheart, is a short, fat dwarf that smelled strongly of musket powder, is affable enough, though has a tendency wax verbose while making your rounds. He tended to go about his prowess with all kinds of firearms as a child “Oh, Aye tellya ladie I could drop a birddie from two furlongs when Aye was still a wee sprout”, or about how his birth had been foretold “34,372 yeerss agow the’ alriddy talken aboot me”, or most frequently about his “wee lass awaiten for ’im back in ole mine”. As much it was tiring to hear the same tales each day, your wanderings had made you a bit lonely and you appreciated his company more than not. Still, this was not the life for you. You wait, wait for a day when something different would happen, when a chance to show your worth and free the world with independent poetry would come. You hope this day will come soon, but fate is not yours to govern.