An aging bard who wanders the land in search of his lost son.
As a young man, Eammon traveled Dal Gurath and played in common rooms, collecting stories and learning the history of the land. He won a ballad competition during a banquet for some lordling’s son, and with the prize money he was able to buy a run down inn from an acquaintance who was in desperate need of capital to help alleviate an outstanding debt to some Nolleh Tashkat. He kept the inn afloat for a few months, getting by on the custom his music and tales drew, until he met the young woman who would become his wife. Together they built up the inn and its custom, until they had a thriving business. Eventually, they even had a son.
A few years later, Eammon’s wife died of the wasting sickness, and concerned that the claustrophobic and crowded city life had contributed, he decided to take his son Matrim back to the surrounding country in which Eammon had been raised. He sold his inn and few other investments in the city and bought a small estate in the outlying provinces, and over the next decade, began to produce the wines he had most loved as an innkeeper. Yet again, his small enterprise flourished, and he was content.
On his son’s fifteenth name day, the boy came to his father and asked permission to leave and see Dal Gurath as his father had, traveling as a minstrel. Eammon at first refused, but could not deny his son anything for long, and grudgingly he acquiesced. He gave him the lute with which he had won the lordling’s contest all those years ago, made the boy promise he would return in no more than six months, and bid him well. He never saw the boy again.
The letters stopped after two months, but Eammon made himself wait until the six months were up. Matrim did not return, and so his father began spending his fortune searching for any sign of his son. Over the next few years he squandered all his wealth, often to charlatans who sensed the man’s almost frantic desperation and used it for their own selfish ends. Finally, with his money gone and all his holdings sold off, Eammon packed what little he had left and set off on his own, determined to find evidence of his son’s whereabouts or proof of his death.
The only lead came this past year, when Eammon happened to see a man performing in a brothel with the lute he had given his boy, Matrim. The father tried stealing it back, but he was caught, and in he ensuing scuffle the lute was dashed to pieces. He carries the instrument’s neck with him still, and often can be found sitting and starting at nothing, idly working the worn and splintered wood in his tired hands.
It has been four years since he last bid his son farewell, and even Eammon must admit his boy is probably dead. Still, the only thing worse than this terrible thought is the limbo of uncertainty in which he suffers, and so he continues to wander Dal Gurath, looking for any sign of his son. He plays in common rooms that will have him, though his ballads of loss and defeat soon urge the innkeeps to send him on his way. And so he passes from village to village, town to town, looking for his boy, just as when he was a lad, just as his son had hoped to. The irony is not lost on him.