A word of opening about Zerek
Zerek, in some ways, represented the end of a circle for me. Way back in the fall of 1994, I started playing D&D in Houston; I've been playing RPGs more or less continuously since then. My very first character was a half-elven thief/mage named Zerek Half-Elven. He was quite different from the version below. I had only a very rough sketch of who the original Zerek Half-Elven was. He was half-drow, and his mother was from Dambrath. He was raised more or less amongst prostitutes, and as a result, had some very schizophrenic attitudes towards women. He was very nice to them, and extremely protective of them, until they began to flirt with him (though he had a low Charisma, it was largely because he was anti-social, not because he was bad-looking). Once that happened, he would turn cold towards them, seemingly wanting to avoid any contact with them.
In making this Zerek, I've shown how I've changed. This character is now almost completely story-driven, rather than simply being a vehicle for mayhem as his original had been. I've removed the drow aspect from him, as it would make the character unplayable and didn't work in the story, but kept many of his personality features... his mistrust of his mother, his connections to the Harpers, and his general desire to carve out a life for himself in a world that refuses to accept him for who he is.

The gods can play some interesting tricks on us. If I had been the son of my mother's ex-husband, I would be the son of a respected, wealthy Sembian merchant, likely living the good life and learning the ropes of business. I'd look a couple years older, probably be married, with a rich wife, a child or two, and likely a mistress who my wife pretends to not know about.

But I was not. I slid out of my mother, and the tips of these ears showed who my blood father was. Because of him, and my mother's inability to take a simple dosage of herbs when cheating on her husband, I was born a bastard half-elf, my mother exiled to Grandfather's holdings in Elversult. Of my blood father, I know nothing save he must have been either a Fool's Gold or Bent-Copper elf… no one in my fair-skinned, dark haired half-family has coloring like mine, so it must be his. Mother, bless her empty little head, never quite got his name.

We had money enough, my mother living on Grandfather's charity. Every summer, we'd "vacation" in Selgaunt, my mother checking with Grandfather and begging for more money. I, meanwhile, was relegated to dark rooms where they didn't have to see my all-too-elven eyes and ears… but you know us elves, we like the dark, so there wasn't anything wrong with treating their only grandson like a leper.

Back in Elversult, I'd return to my usual boyhood activities… running with a human gang who called themselves "The Pure Ones." To them, I was little better than a mongrel dog, one who they threw scraps to so it would fetch things. To me, they had what I wished for… complete humanity, with all its warts and flaws. So I played their mongrel, doing their dirty work and learning to avoid their boots, like any good mongrel should. That lasted from about the time I turned eight until I was almost fifteen. Until Lady Yanseldara's rebellion overthrew the Lord Necromancer of Elversult, and Vaerana's guards took out most of the gangs.

The battle against the Lord Necromancer took more than an hour, I'm told. I can tell you that the battle against the gangs took three days of bloody violence. Most of the gangs weren't willing to back down, and several had the support of the Zhents, the Cult of the Dragon, or some other power player. The fighting was often street-to-street, gang members relying on their knowledge of their territory to strike hard and fade quickly. Occasionally, I heard a boom as some secret cache of smoke powder was touched off, or a fireball destroyed a house. I saw the rest of the Pure Ones gearing up for a fight, dripping arrogance. The other gangs were weak, they said, letting in the sub-humans. Aside from their dog, they didn't have any sub-humans… they would trash these invaders, and take over the city themselves. One of them, a big guy called Mace, suggested that they get started by killing the mongrel.

I knew who he meant. I drew the dagger I'd stolen the week before as they circled around me. Most of them had clubs or daggers. Mace, paradoxically, had a sword. I didn't give myself good odds… I was better than most of them in a one-on-one fight, I was pretty sure, but not against twelve of them, and certainly not better than Mace. I feinted left, watching to see who fell for it. Him I kicked in the crotch, slamming the butt of my dagger down on the base of his skull as I threw him past me. I felt the crack of my ribs as someone slammed me in the back with a club, but I kept moving, whispering a prayer to Tymora that I get out of this with all my limbs. I ran for a window, hoping to break through without too much injury, my ears barely picking up a softly sung chant, which was followed closely by a riot of sound and the screams of my former gang-mates, neither of which I could have missed. I jumped through the window, cutting my shoulder deeply. I stumbled six steps down the street before I felt myself falling, my head swimming. As the blackness took me, I remember being glad that I fell in a doorway, so I wouldn't be trampled.

I woke up in a bed, my shoulder and ribs bandaged. I could feel a burn in my shoulder, and a matching on in my ribs, but I could move, and I was alive. In the corner, what appeared to be a pile of old clothes rested on a chair. When I tried to stand up and gave an involuntary groan, the pile of clothes started, lifting its head to resolve itself into a more mannish shape.

"So, you managed to survive, hmm? Sorry I couldn't help you out when you were encircled, but I didn't want to risk hitting you with the Sound Burst."

I must have looked confused, because my savior took off his broad-brimmed hat, revealing a delicate elven face, marked by a certain human coarseness of nose and cheek. "I am Soren Braegan, bard by trade. What I saw was a half-elf about to get the shit kicked out of him by a gang of toughs. Why don't you tell me what I really saw?"

Slowly, I told him. I told him about seven years of degradation, sucking up to humans in hopes that they would accept me, accepting terms like "mongrel" and "half-breed" because that's what I was. I told him of theft and violence and rape, of hiding in dark corners every time my mother decided we should flee to my family's estates to beg for more money from our relatives. I told of rage and hatred, and of the sense of powerlessness that I felt within my own life.

After I spoke, he sat quietly for a time. I was too spent, emotionally and physically, to contribute any more. He looked at me with his all-to-elven eyes… eyes so like mine… and began his own oration. He spoke of his life as a half-elf in Evereska, withdrawing quietly from contact with his half-family. He spoke of never having friends… those his age were toddlers, those his size were five times his age, and all were so frail compared to him. He took his refuge in the spoken word… his voice was too human to sing with elves, but the deepness of his chest and the passion of his words gave him an edge in debate and oration. He left Evereska at twenty, in the company of a half-elven bard, who had in turn left his home in Calimshan with another, downward through the years. We talked long through the night; by dawn, I was his apprentice.

Though I wished to, we didn't leave Elversult. Soren, I learned, was a Harper, working with the new Lady of Elversult, and couldn't leave. Instead, he taught me what I needed to know. While I learned mundane things from him… how to charm and flatter, how to judge when a man was about to draw his sword and when he's not quite there, and songs of bardic magic, he also taught me something far more important, something that seemed far more magical. He taught me pride. He taught me stand up straight even when someone was looking down their nose at me, and showed me how to use my looks as an asset, not a liability. For both humans and elves, he said, I had a touch of the exotic, without being fully alien. Amongst men, I must act half an elf… amongst elves, half a man. When Mother took me back to Selgaunt that summer, I was changed beyond belief. Rather than hiding in dark corners, I threw myself into the balls and parties that Grandfather held, maintaining the reserve of an elf as Soren had taught me. I ignored those who made comments on my parentage behind my back, and challenged two who made such comments to my face; I was blooded both times, but neither of them escaped at least a touch of my blade. I returned home to Elversult, not a man, but a half-elf.

I was ten years an apprentice to Soren, learning all the things that a bard must know. He slowly introduced me to other Harpers, introducing me first as his apprentice, then as his son. He had me do his work in the city when he was otherwise engaged, setting me free each summer to return to Grandfather with my mother. I knew the Grandfather was slipping in age and infirmity… Mother had been the last of his children, and he had been nearly sixty when she was born. Last year, near the end of Nightal, we were summoned to Selgaunt for his funeral. Mother was lost throughout the whole thing… I think Grandfather was the only one in the family who had cared what happened to her after she was left by her husband… and my uncles swiftly divided up the family fortune amongst them. The youngest of the three, who watched over the businesses in Baldur's Gate, agreed to take care of Mother. All that was left to me was a keepsake of my Grandfather, a rapier he had wielded in his younger days. Family legend held that it had once been magical, but that its magic had failed when Grandfather had adventured too near to Myth Drannor. It's that blade that now rides my hip.

I returned to Elversult in the company of two of my uncles and Mother. Mother and one of my Uncles would be continuing on to Baldur's Gate; I simply walked away. I stayed with Soren, but we both knew that it was only until spring; I was to the point where he'd taught me what I needed to know, and only experience would let me grow. I left after Greengrass, and worked my way to here in Cormyr. I now find myself, a young Harper, searching for my first great adventure.

I am Zerek Braegan, grandson of the last great man in the Duncastle Trading Family of Sembia. I may be half an elf, but I'm twice the man you'll ever be, and if you don't put down that sword right now, I'm going to have to spend the night with the guard explaining why I had to run you through.

Disposition: Zerek presents a front of being very self-confident, almost to the point of arrogance. That front is almost true; he is incredibly self-assured, but he has a fairly good estimation of his own abilities. He usually keeps a fairly even keel, but he's occasionally prone to outbursts of emotion. He prefers to talk his way out of situations, but he's not above physical combat, if he must.

Description: A handsome man, Zerek keeps his copper-red hair tied back most of the time, his pony tail going down to between his shoulder blades. His eyes are an odd gold color, and his ears come to gentle points. His bard's sigil is three crescent moons, overlapping in the center (like the design on the FR book).