Mosholu

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Mosholu is still trying to figure his way in this big crazy world. He likes to read and write, but also doesn't mind picking the pocket of a wealthy merchant. He is still very wary and distrustful, rarely revealing his real name and keeping his image hidden when he can. He helps out the poor and needy. He's a young wizard and a rogue. His two favorite things are his spellbook and his cat, Bruno. Try and take either and he will definitely get them back!

I grew up on the edges of the city of Freestone, in between the outer and inner curtains. My family had a small wooden house (floors built out of the hard clay the city is famous for, wooden walls and a stone fireplace. There was a loft where the entire family slept, my parents on the north side and the children on the south side. Before he disappeared, my father was in the middle of replacing the leaky and drafty thatch roof with slats built of bark and birch planks.) very near the gatehouse to the inner city. Father always dreamed of moving to the more exclusive and swanky section of the city closer to the keep. Once I spent some time there I began to wonder why he was so concerned with living near those people, but more on that later.

My young father was a not very powerful wizard in one of the guilds in the city. He was a bookish type and spent much of his time conducting research but he had many friends who would come to the house for dinner or a meal before setting out on adventures. We kids would pester them for stories and news from outside the gates of the city (it was only recently that I passed through these gates to the fields and forests of the rest of the world for the first time). We would love to play with their knives and swords and smash each other with their shields. It was from these visitors I learned a few weapons and how to ride a horse, though none of these very well. To everyone's great surprise I was quite good with a bow, provided it was small enough for me to pull.

One day my father came to us children and explained that he had to leave for a few weeks, but he wouldn't go if we didn't want him too. He was to go adventuring to prove a magical theory he had and to "fill the leaves in my book." We were excited and proud that our own father was setting out on adventure and urged him to leave immediately. My parents thought this was hilarious and father felt much better about going. We had a small party the morning he left and that was the last time we saw him, three years ago.

My father left a good-sized purse, but just as soon as he left the man in charge of the roof repair discovered "structural damage" that would take more time and money to repair.

I took a job at the guild where my father worked a few weeks after that. It was a favor from one of the more senior mages, and I spent most of my time sweeping up, sharpening quills, and filling inkpots. The work wasn't strenuous and I must admit, a little boring, but after a few months I was given a position as a scrivener. I copied whatever they put in front of me, I was so happy not to be handling the inkpots and the mop. I copied maps, directions to get here and there across the Civilized Lands, adventure reports, research summaries, and the mages' notes. All the while I waited in vain to hear from or about my father.

After I left the guild much of my time was spent following people through the city, hiding in shadows, listening to their conversations, reading their lips if I was too far away, picking up whatever information I could. And then, I would take them for what I could get, either by acting like a clumsy oaf or barreling into them at high speed, as if I were being chased, aiming myself directly at their purse. Sometimes I would steal a chest from a wagon or break into a house. I had enough success to feed myself and not end up in the clink.

Spending weeks like this made me realize how tenuous our livelihood is. I watched as many merchants changed prices from one customer to the next, or deliberately lied to customers based on how much money the bastard thought they had. The more time I spent in the markets the more I realized how the poor are taken advantage of constantly. I followed many of these wealthy exploiters back to their houses in the inner city, and after seeing how they lived, I made sure I only stole from them and their kind. No more robbing hardworking laborers, farmers or artisans. Many times I found myself protecting these people from other cutpurses.

There were more regular jobs here and there: at the stable; as a rigger's apprentice, helping build the huge tents the city constructed for fairs and festivals; and finally as a mason's helper, which sounds glamorous, but all I ever did was haul on the ropes that lifted the stones to the top of the wall.

Eventually I got steady work serving ale at a pub (the Full Sail Tavern) on the opposite side of town. The job provided me with ample targets for picking pockets and collecting useful information to sell (or exploit). I made a decent wage, considering the current health of the kingdom, and often took money back to my mother, brothers, and sisters. It was a bit strange, breaking into my own house, but as with all the other heists and break-ins, I got used to it. Besides, these visits were to give, not to take.

On the last trip to my house I found the place empty, my mother had left a note for me, nailed to the ladder leading to the loft. She was to head of to another city in look for work. Two of my three brothers were staying here, but traveling when they could to the north and west to look for my father. My remaining brother and two sisters were, thankfully, planning to travel with my mother.