Wesmille Groston

[fearman182]

Name: Wesmille Groston

Homeland: Neverwinter

Race: Half-elf

Current position/occupation: Guard of Candlekeep

Appearance: Wesmille isn't a large man by any means. He has a somewhat wiry frame, and typically a feathered hat covers dark orange hair, messy and uncombed. His eyes are a pale blue, and his tipped ears give away an elven heritage. While he is often mistaken for a full elf, he is, however, only half. He is almost never seen without his hat and blue cloak, although each is worn for different reasons. A Candlekeep Guard's uniform is worn as well.

Personality: Cheerful, quick to joke, and at times impulsive, Wesmille typically acts relaxed and informal, whether he be speaking with a poor farmer or the Dreadlord of the Zhentarim. A conversation can rarely pass without a flurry of puns escaping him. He is also fiercely loyal to those he calls his friends, sometimes to the point of blindly following. The half-elf can be somewhat prone to procrastinating, and at times lacks observational skills. He often blames himself for things entirely beyond his control, especially when he was present and/or it hurts those close to him. He is intelligent, though his behavior may obfuscate that at times, and he's certainly far below many of those he spends his time with in that regard.

History: Growing up in Neverwinter, Wesmille was an excitable, easily distracted child. This was much to the consternation of his wood-elven father, especially when it occasionally caused them to lose an animal when his father brought him into the swamps to hunt. Despite his father's best efforts to teach him, he was never a very good bowman or ranger.
His father supported the family of three with money from his hunts, and when Wesmille was old enough, he began working at the docks to help. He was fascinated by the tales sailors would tell of far off lands, tragedies, victories, by figures who seemed too great to be real.
At 39, he joined a group of childhood friends off to poke through some of the older ruins deep in the swamp. They managed to find one such place; and despite his doubts, he could not bring himself to leave them as they descended into the dark. Down there in those ruins, the group soon came to know the truth of those tales sailors told; that those figures who slew dragons and broke cults were not them, a group of young men too far out of their depth. The ruins were inhabited by a cult, back then. The party was slowly broken as they descended deeper, picked off one by one. At last, three remained. One of them begged to turn, to leave that terrible place; a roar from below interrupted them. Not far below, either; but alongside it came the screams of cultists who had, like Wesmille's friends, come too far out of their depth. They had summoned a devil too powerful, and it had not been restrained properly.
Screams. Death. Blood. Hours later, a lone half-elf escaped those ruins, leaving behind stones filled with dead, both friend and foe. The devil had been sent back to the lower planes, but only Wesmille and a few cultists had survived the ordeal. 'I should have...' 'I could have...' 'If I had only...' were the thoughts that plagued him; not of his wounds, not of the sky darkened overhead, but of how he had simply stood there shocked as friends died before his eyes.
'I should have helped.'
He came to a tower, deep in the swamps. The home of a fey, although he didn't know that at the time. It was simply shelter, he had thought. He entered, weary and wounded. He left standing straighter, a bargain made that he would never be unable to help again. He felt a power coursing through his fingers. Exhilarating; exciting; immense and untapped.
Unfamiliar.
Unknown
And then, uncontrollable.
His emotions, flaring with the energy that now infused him, met new highs. Dangerous lengths, flips from joy to rage and back again.

And then, the accident. She'd been his friend. Had been. And yet, she had to say that, and just like that he was angry, he raised his hands, there was a scream, then another. A body, blood on the stone tiles.
He ran from Neverwinter, his home. And for a long time, he hid from what awaited him. From what he believed he deserved, but was too cowardly to face. He fled. He wandered for a year before arriving back on the Sword Coast, though still far south from his home. Baldur's Gate.
A new home.