All my life I’ve been a slave. Nearly as far back as I can ever remember, my life has been about serving others. It’s never mattered whether I wanted to, it’s just how it was.
First they kidnapped me when I was five, and tried to apprentice me to a wizard. He treated me about as fairly as expected, but eventually my talents as a spy (nobody suspects the children, they never do…) shone through, and that is what I was put to work doing. Reading lips, running errands, serving food at parties, all of it to gather information to report back to my masters. As I grew older they felt I needed a better excuse, and I was apprenticed to a troubadour. From then on I slid through the crowds at parties reciting poetry while reading lips, and I navigated the streets in a different costume while running errands for the wizard. Each day I would assume one of a random scattering of personae, each with their own dress style, their own quirks, their own sayings based on what I’d picked up in the city.
And then, much like the day I was pressed into slavery, everything changed for the worse. A creak alerted me to the intruder’s presence. I’d fought off enough of the serving boys in the house to keep my wits and a heavy night pail within reach of the bed. Sitting bolt upright I swung the pail overhand and unleashed foul hell upon my visitor. Everyone established in the house had been trained to knock long ago. As he grunted and fell to the floor I bolted out the door of my room only to be tackled, bagged, and beaten.
When I awoke… A mine full of slaves greeted me. Shortly after that, a mine full of the dead…and undead.
This just keeps getting worse…