Basaran never stuck to one thing, one look, one goal. His whole life has been figuring out what he wanted to do with himself to stop the time between sleep and eat being such a bore. A happy child that was, as far as he can remember, raised in Bree with his family. He doesn't know, or more to the fact remember, where his parents met, though always looked up to his father as the traveling merchant that he'd told him he was. Mother, father and sister lived happily for the time he was made to stay at home with them.

[ A young Basaran with his father. ]

From a young age, Basaran had always played his musical instruments, much like his father, and found a love for it. As soon as he was able to fend for himself he left his home and wandered across the lands, playing music with who and what he could. Not being the brightest of spawn to his name, Basaran never knew 'where' he was or how he got there. All he knew was that enjoyed the distance he was making, even if running a circle, coming across those with the same passion for music as him. 

Within his wandering fun, Basaran met many strange folk. One such instance was a group of travelers, he assumed, lugging around a cart full of old sorts and interests. Without much talk and conversation, the oldest, grumpiest of the group pawned off a set of armor to Basaran. It looked, ceremonial of it's kind, but still plated and formed well. With a ignorant smile and a wave he accepted it and continued to take it with him, the lugging great pain it was, on his journey.

In a time between his travels, Basaran and Clarinet enthusiast known as Degrid had found joy in locating the highest of locations, the most crumbled of ruins, and would sought after the highest peaks to play their music together. One of these fateful days Basaran in his usual sleepy but giddy excitement slipped across the ruin stairs, plummeting down them and having little more than his lute and the rocky underfoot to catch his fall. And catch it he did, splitting his skin across eyebrow and knocking himself out. 

He doesn't remember when he awoke, all he knows is he looked to Degrid as some stranger. He wasn't in a cliché memory loss as those tales that spin within a poet of lacking inspiration. Though his memory was phased, hazy and unclear to him. After years of traveling, Basaran decided it was time to return to Bree. Unclear of the way and burdening a large suit of armor and his hazy memory along the way, many a person pawned off his wares, gold and money for information to help him seek out his destination.