Zattalk Whitglade, "Zat the Storyteller"

From Verrith Hollow

A Noble Who Walked Away

Zattalk Whitglade was born into privilege, the youngest son of House Whitglade, a noble family in the Commonwealth of Varadûn. From an early age, he was surrounded by wealth, politics, and tradition—but he found none of it as enticing as the whispered stories of travelers, the songs of minstrels, and the histories told in quiet corners by those who had truly lived them.

His father, Lord Asric Whitglade, expected him to follow the family’s path—service in the military, devotion to the old gods, and eventual duty to the Commonwealth. But Zat had other plans. As a boy, he would slip away from lessons to listen to the old bards recount myths of Thyrris and Zemira, or to hear drunken mercenaries boast of battles against Solmara’s crusaders. His appetite for lore was insatiable, and his talent for retelling it was undeniable.

When he came of age, he made a choice that shattered his family’s expectations—he abandoned his noble title, trading the name Whitglade for the simple moniker “Zat the Storyteller.” With a fiddle in one hand and a drum slung over his back, he disappeared into the world, seeking the tales that books could never hold.

A Stance on the Eternal Religious War

For a man who makes a living on words, Zat is careful about what he says regarding the war between Solmara and Varadûn. He has seen firsthand how a single sentence spoken in the wrong ear can get a man killed—or worse.

But behind the carefully spun neutrality, behind the sly smiles and roguish charm, Zat is a man with a wound that has never fully healed.

The war took something from him. Someone.

Before he left his family, before he became a wandering storyteller, there was a woman who knew Zat not as a noble, not as a bard, but simply as himself. She was a fellow musician, a gifted fiddler who played alongside him when he told his stories. She understood him in a way no one else did, loved him for who he was beneath the masks. And for that, she paid the price.

Her death was not some tragic accident of war—it was orchestrated, a casualty of politics and power. She was sacrificed for ambition, lost in a conflict that had nothing to do with her, murdered in a game she never played. The details of how and why are a story Zat does not tell. He does not whisper it in taverns, does not weave it into his performances. It is his story, and his alone.

The only thing he carries of her is her fiddle—a beautifully crafted instrument, more valuable than any treasure. It is the most precious thing he owns, and the only thing he would truly kill for.

That loss is why he turned his back on his noble family. It is why he roams, why he spins stories that make men feel, why he refuses to let history be erased. And it is why he hates the Theocracy of Solmara. Not just for their war, not just for their destruction, but because they took from him the only person who ever saw him for who he truly was.

Though he is careful in his words, there is one thing he knows for certain—he will never forgive them.

A Faith of His Own

Despite his outward neutrality, Zat is a man of faith. But unlike the zealots of Solmara or the rigid traditionalists of Varadûn, his belief is quiet, personal, and deeply tied to his grief.

He worships Esmira, the Goddess of Knowledge and Secrets. She is the keeper of hidden truths, the patron of whispered lore, and the silent guardian of stories untold. Zat does not pray openly, nor does he seek temples, but in the quiet moments between performances, when the crowds have gone and the fire is dying low, he speaks to her in hushed tones.

He asks her to remember. To hold the truth of what happened when others would erase it. To keep the memory of the woman he lost safe, even if the world forgets.

And perhaps, on the darkest nights, he prays for the day when the right secret, told in the right ear, will finally bring the justice he has long been denied.

An Appearance That Tells a Story

Zat is a man who looks as though he has lived a thousand lives, and in many ways, he has.

He stands just above average height, lean but not frail, with the kind of build that suggests he is quick on his feet rather than strong of arm. His face is handsome, with sharp features and a roguish charm that makes it hard to tell whether he is about to sell you a miracle or steal your coin purse.

His dark hair, streaked with hints of silver at the temples, is kept just long enough to be rakish but not unruly. His eyes are an unusual shade—somewhere between green and gold, shifting like the light on a forest floor. They are the eyes of a man who is always watching, always calculating, always listening for the next great story to be told.

His clothing is well-worn but fine, the kind of attire that lets him blend into both noble courts and common taverns. A long, deep blue coat, lined with silver embroidery, drapes over his shoulders, and his boots are sturdy but stylish. Around his neck, he wears a simple pendant—a keepsake of a past he rarely speaks of.

His hands are calloused from years of playing the fiddle, but if you look closely, you might also see the faint scars of someone who has not always lived an easy life.

Zat moves with a lazy confidence, the kind of man who never seems in a hurry but is never truly idle. He always has a drink in his hand, a story on his lips, and an escape plan in his back pocket.

A Blade Behind the Words

Zat fights like he speaks—sharp, quick, and always with an exit strategy.

Most battles never need steel. He has talked his way out of duels, charmed his way past guards, and spun words so cruel and cutting that men have left a room with their pride in tatters. A well-placed rumor or an inconvenient truth shared at the right moment can ruin a man more thoroughly than any sword.

But when words fail, Zat is not defenseless. He carries a pair of finely crafted daggers—gifts from a woman whose heart he broke, or so he claims. He wields them with grace, favoring quick strikes that exploit an opponent’s weaknesses. He also keeps a short sword strapped to his belt and a shortbow for when he needs to keep his distance. He has no delusions of being a great warrior; he fights to survive, not for glory.

He knows when to run, when to hide, and when to make sure a fight never happens in the first place.

The Wanderer’s Path

Zat is a man who never stays in one place too long, for there are always more stories to hear, more hearts to woo, and more secrets to uncover. He travels between the Argent Keep and Varadûn, avoiding Solmara when he can—though he has a few aliases for when he must tread its lands.

To some, he is a noble rogue with a silver tongue. To others, he is a dangerous man who knows too much.

Wherever he goes, he leaves behind whispers of adventure, laughter, and broken hearts. But if you listen closely, you’ll find that some of his tales are more than just stories—they are warnings, maps, and truths hidden in plain sight.

And if you ask him directly about his past? He’ll just chuckle, take a sip of his wine, and tell you a tale about another man entirely.

The Death of Seraphine Vail

It happened in the city of Vel Aven, a place of wealth and whispers, where nobles from both Solmara and Varadûn rubbed shoulders in hidden parlors, playing their dangerous games of diplomacy and betrayal. Vel Aven sat close to the border but remained technically neutral, a place where spies and merchants, priests and heretics, all coexisted under the illusion of civility.

Zat and Seraphine had been performing there for a time, hired by a Varadûni noblewoman to entertain at a gathering of high society. It was the kind of work they were used to—playing to both sides, collecting rumors between songs, weaving their performances into the undercurrents of the night. It was Seraphine who first noticed something was off.

She had always been better at reading people than Zat. A noble’s nervous glance, a merchant’s too-casual departure, the way conversations shifted when certain names were spoken—she caught the patterns before he did.

The night before her death, she told Zat she had learned something—something dangerous. He had laughed, made some teasing remark about how they always stumbled into trouble, but she hadn’t laughed with him.

"Not like this, Zat," she had said. "This is different."

She didn’t tell him what she had found. Not fully. But she did say one thing—

"If anything happens to me, don’t ask questions here. Don’t dig too deep. Just go."

He didn’t listen.

The Night Everything Changed

The next evening, they were meant to play again. Zat arrived at their lodging first, expecting to find Seraphine tuning her fiddle, perhaps humming a new melody under her breath. Instead, he found the door ajar.

Inside, there was no sign of struggle, no blood, no broken furniture—but Seraphine was gone. The fiddle was gone.

And there was a single candle burning in the center of the room.

A warning. A message.

He searched for her, desperate and reckless. He went to the noble who had hired them, but she feigned ignorance. He went to the city guards, but they turned him away. It wasn’t until he started pushing the wrong people—until he let his temper get the better of him—that someone finally told him where to go.

The drowned quarter. The canals beneath Vel Aven.

He ran. Faster than he ever had. Through alleys, over bridges, down the slick stone stairs that led to the waterlogged underbelly of the city.

And there, floating in the dark water beneath the lanterns, was Seraphine’s body.

Her hands were bound. Her lips were blue. Her throat had been slit.

But in her grip, clutched even in death, was the fiddle. As if she had fought to keep it.

The Aftermath & Theories

Zat pulled her from the water himself. He doesn’t remember much of what happened afterward—just the numbness, the silence, the way the world seemed suddenly too large and too empty.

He never found the ones who did it. Not that night. Not in the days after. Vel Aven buried secrets quickly. The city guards refused to investigate. The noble patrons looked the other way. And Zat, grieving and furious, nearly got himself killed trying to find answers.

He only survived because of an old friend—a former soldier named Orlin Kane, who pulled him out of the city before the wrong people decided to silence him too.

But Zat knows the Theocracy had a hand in it.

Did Seraphine overhear something? Discover a secret about a high-ranking Solmaran official? Did she learn of a planned assassination or a hidden plot? Or was she simply made an example of—a warning to others who refused to kneel?

Zat doesn’t know yet.

But he will.

One day, he will find out who ordered it, who held the knife, who watched and did nothing.

And when he does, he will not be telling their story.

He will be ending it.