The Tale
Nerevar Aldemont-Vasiel the Third was born the fourth son of a house that history has politely forgotten. He grew up beneath oil portraits of ancestors who had done magnificent things and parents who had done none, and somewhere between the third and fourth retelling of his great-grandfather's exploits, young Nerevar vowed that the name would ring through the halls of legend again, and that it would ring in his voice. He was admitted to the prestigious Aurelian Conservatory of Bardic Arts, where instructors noted he possessed "an undeniably pleasant voice and a truly extraordinary opinion of himself," and which he abruptly left a full year before graduation, claiming the school "had nothing left to teach him," though faculty wonder whether the headmaster, or his wife, might recall it differently. He severed ties with his family the same week, declaring that no true artist could be shackled to a modest fortune and a comfortable manor awaiting his return.
A starving artist he would be, and starve beautifully he did, in tailored doublets he could not afford. He drifted from tavern to tavern in search of a legend worth lending his voice to, and from bed to bed in search of, he insists, the same thing. Every lover, he assures us, was essential to his craft. "One cannot write of passion," he explains, refilling a stranger's wine, "without extensive field research. I owe it to the work." The work, notably, has yet to be completed.
Which brings him to the Flaming Barrel, where he holds court nightly as host, performer, and self-appointed legend-in-residence. There our Nerevar is waiting (patiently, magnificently) for the right hero to walk through his door. Somewhere out there is an adventurer whose deeds are worthy of his pen, and when fate finally delivers them to this bar, Nerevar shall immortalize their saga in verse and, by glorious extension, restore the Aldemont-Vasiel name to its rightful place in song. Until then he pours drinks, plays his strings, makes the occasional hopeful pass at Bobby, and assures every patron who will listen that they are very, very lucky to be here on the night the legend was still warming up.
How to spot him
My friend, how would you spot a peacock in a flock of gulls?