Who from your community taught you to have such confidence in yourself?

My aunt, whose soul I'd wish blessings upon, were I to believe there was anyone out there to bestow them. Mother always complained she spoiled me rotten, that she encouraged me just a bit too much in all the wrong things. She taught me my first magic tricks. She's succumbed to the Sickness by now. They all have.

But, look, all my family has to do is wait a little longer — because for my next trick, I'll make the Sickness disappear.

You were in love once. Who did you adore, and how did they hurt you?

Oh— now, where'd you hear about that? And here I thought it was one of my better kept secrets. Ah, well. Her name was Leanira Dawncrest — still is, unless she's married her Prince Charming by now. I'd always find her at the front row in all my performances, her smile like a dozen suns. The thing about the sun is though, you really ought not to get too close, lest you— well, we all know how that story goes.

How 'bout I tell you another instead? Promise this one's better. So a Clank and a Faerie walk into a tavern...

You’ve always looked up to another bard. Who are they, and why do you idolize them?

You're really trying to get me in trouble with these questions, huh? Naughty. Alright. Well, we've all heard of Diarniasha, of course. A legendary bard of centuries past, a woman who, with a single word could end or ignite a war, whose performances were attended by gods and demons alike, and who we are to thank for a large portion of our written history. A fraud? Well, now, we all have our faults.

Who among the Haven Army do you wish to exact revenge upon and why?

The man who poisoned her mind and turned her against me, who had me cast as the villain in his perfect little love story. He can have her, if I can just have my revenge. The night has fallen anyhow, I no longer expect to bask in the sun.

You joined an insurgent group working to free this land from Haven’s grasp. What has given you doubts about the leadership’s methods?

Strong words, strong claims. I'm no more part of an insurgent group than I am another; all I do is record the truth. After all, we can't very well expect the victors to do that, now can we? Doubt is my ink, I must make sure it never runs out.

Someone you love is a member of the Haven Army. How have you used your position in the rebellion to protect them?

Someone I once loved is the future wife of someone in the Haven army, but I'll forgive you for the misunderstanding. It's not that I've protected her, per se, I— I would like to plead a coincidence.

It is common knowledge that Haven holds no love for Gods — but few spare a thought to the fact that Demons aren't held in very high regard, either. Infernis were considered by many as the reminder of just another attempt by higher powers to meddle in the matters of mortals, and their existence was thusly confined into the poorer areas of of Haven. There, many did whatever they could to survive, either skirting the laws, or breaking them altogether.

Capriccio was, for the majority of his younger years, just another young Infernis running errands, picking pockets and begging for his keep — all the way until he found music. Or rather, music found him, as he likes to point out every time he tells the story, each recital more dramatic than the next.

Whatever the truth of it might be, young Cappriccio — a fake name he bestowed upon himself, mind — turned out to be quite skilled a performer. Music, magic, stories, he could do a little bit of it all, even impressing many of the guards on patrol — as, of course, he had been tasked to do. He was a deliberate distraction, a diversion, while his conspirators snuck behind the literal backs of the guards to fulfill their end of the plan.

It was not part of the plan, as far as Capriccio knew anyhow, that he would end up being scouted by a visiting guard captain and taken to the Upper City, to perform for his betters on a proper stage. And yet, that is where he ended up, a prospect that while debilitatingly scary at first, turned rather fruitful quickly enough. Soon he found himself wrapped in fine silks, earning a keep that could provide actual meaningful aid to his family and then some.

All was well — until it wasn't.

The Serpent's Sickness crept up to Haven like its namesake, silent until it struck. Capriccio, among whose duties it had come to be to spread news to the masses, expected his next time in the spotlight to be awfully grim, yet much to his surprise, he was told not to speak of the Sickness at all. He was assured it was not as dangerous nor far-spread as some whispers might suggest, and that any news to the contrary would merely cause undue panic.

Back then, Capriccio truly believed he was doing the right thing. Even as the Sickness slithered up to his own family, he kept on singing and performing as usual, bringing smiles when he ought to have brought the truth. And that was, unfortunately enough, only the start of it.

Just as his flashy performances had once been a distraction from what happened in the dark, as the years breezed past and Capriccio grew, he started to see more and more of the dark side of the oh-so-bright Upper City and its residents. The corruption, the carefully, subtly fabricated truths, the flat out lies. It all culminated to him being sent to Fanewick to chronicle Haven's triumph; the way they had braved foreign lands to bring aid and relief to their people, heedless of danger.

Capriccio did not know all the grim details of what had truly occurred during the conflict, but he did realize that history was about to be once again written by the winning side. That was, uUnless one of their finest quills would, say, develop a little bit of a conscience, and partake in some investigative journalism of his own.

He'd pack his second finest boots, much better for a romp in the jungle.