You spent much of your youth following roving fairs and carnivals, performing odd jobs for musicians and acrobats in exchange for lessons. You may have learned how to walk a tightrope, how to play a lute in a distinct style, or how to recite poetry with impeccable diction. To this day, you thrive on applause and long for the stage --

Phineas Meadowlark grew up in the rolling fields of halfling country, where every breeze carried birdsong and the laughter of kinfolk. But while most of his kin found joy in simple farming and hearth fire comfort, Phineas always heard something more in the wind — a whisper of stories waiting to be sung, a call to wander further than the next hill. He carried his willow flute everywhere, believing its notes could catch the spirit of places he visited and weave them into song.

When he arrived in Bastille, he was welcomed not just for his music but for his willingness to lend a hand. Though small of stature, Phineas proved eager and resourceful:

• By day, he worked beside townsfolk, helping raise the new lumbermill. He hauled timbers, steadied beams with rope and pulley, and fetched tools that always seemed just out of reach for heavier hands.
• He became a familiar sight at the well, hauling buckets of water to the town’s storage barrels. Though the task was simple, he did it with a whistle on his lips, and many claimed the water felt cooler when carried to the tune of his flute.

But it was by night that Phineas truly shone. When work was done and muscles ached, he sat by the fire with a flask of fine wine — a touch of luxury he always seemed to find, no matter how humble the place — and let his flute sing. The firelight would dance in his hazel eyes as he played lilting tunes of meadow winds, or deep, haunting songs that stilled even the rowdiest lumbermen. Some said his music carried the fatigue away, others whispered it stirred dreams of far-off places.

Now, with Bastille’s mill nearly complete, Phineas has found his restless spirit tugging once more. The town speaks of ore-rich hills nearby, and a band is setting out to mine them. Though Phineas has little love for pickaxes, he knows the company of adventurers is fertile ground for new tales. To him, this is more than work — it is a chance to hear new stories, to inspire weary miners with song, and perhaps to discover melodies hidden in the echo of cavern stone.

As he packs his flute, cloak, and a small wineskin, Phineas promises the folk of Bastille that when he returns, he will bring back not only ore, but songs forged in the heart of the earth itself.