Jarvey – The Scribe of Wandering Hearts

Race: Firbolg
Class: Bard
Background: Noble Exile
Alignment: Chaotic Good
Age: 73
Height: 7 ft 2
Weight: 256 lb
Size: Medium
Gender: Male
Eyes: Bright gold, with a soft glint that always seems to ask a question.
Hair: Dark red, kept in a loose braid often decorated with bits of leaf or thread.
Skin: Greyish blue, like moonlight on a quiet stream.
Faith: Fairy tales—Jarvey does not believe in gods or doctrine, but in stories with meaning, lessons, and heart.

When the wind croons across the glittering rooftops of Waterdeep, old gossip resurfaces—one tale in particular stirs anew: that of Jarvey, once Phorosaer Jarvael Rosznar, now bard, exile, and keeper of forgotten truths. Born into the hallowed halls of House Rosznar, a noble line famed for its enchanting potions and scandal-cloaked legacy, Jarvey’s early years were wrapped in silk and ignorance. He knew only the sweet bloom of dreams and the curious pull of strangers' stories. Magic ran through the Rosznar blood, but so too did poison. A fact he would come to learn far too late.

Jarvey’s heart first cracked the day he met Myyre, a dwarven girl enslaved to his family, digging tunnels beneath the estate. She sang not with lips, but with soul, and in her whispered histories, Jarvey found verses worthy of the high courts. Her tale ended in silence—murdered by poison when her knowledge became inconvenient. His family’s hands, once perfumed and applauded, were now stained in truths he could no longer unsee. With the theft of his mother’s enchanted Scribe’s Pen and the ink of betrayal still wet, Jarvey vanished from Waterdeep on the eve of his 27th birthday. Thus was born the bard with no name—only “Jarvey,” a melody unmoored from legacy.

His wanderings took him far across Iridia, a land where even the stones remember sorrow. He performed beneath the humming shadow of Batès Lamina, where the Followers of Irion once wept at his ballad “A Whisper in the Cellar.” In Triz Valley, he busked alongside traveling botanists in the Verdant Divide, the valley of living resonance, his lyrics stirring the glowing flora into soft dance. In Arkona, a town near The Dense, he bartered tales for nights of ale and unspoken friendship, sometimes earning cautious smiles from the guards who knew too well the price of truth.

Over the years, Jarvey’s diary—bound in old Rosznar vellum, ironically enough—has swelled with stories. Not all are his. Some are half-lies gifted by drunk priests, others myths gleaned from quiet rebels of Gorgrath’s Wrath, who offered him sanctuary once when a performance insulted a noble’s uncle (twice removed). And still others? Perhaps they're the whispered dreams of the scales themselves. He claims one of the flickerstorms in the Divide sang him a lullaby once. No one believed him. Yet the melody exists, etched in sheet music he’s only shown to Miss Terry in the City of Or, where rumor says she laughed so hard she spilled a customer’s drink and made them thank her for the privilege.

Now, the world changes again. The Rosznar name resurfaces. Jarvey returns, not to reclaim honor, but to ensure the past cannot bury the future. Beneath the twinkling lights of the Yawning Portal, pen in hand, cloak trailing like a memory too persistent to shed, Jarvey watches. Listens. Writes. And waits—for the story that will be his last... or his greatest.

He may no longer be noble, but in the hearts of the silenced, in the hidden verses of Iridia, Jarvey is royalty.

“Every story deserves its ink. Even the ugly ones.”
– Jarvey, beneath a scale’s light, to a dying bandit who asked for a song before the end.