He was and is a cleric, a woodsman, and a ranger. His bones are as restless at the sea, his voice the quiet calm of the sky before the storm, which breaks only at his own ludicrous. As a woodsman, he has mastered smoke and fire, creating hearth in home and making meals that burn the tongue with sizzling delight. Rich and deep and earthy as the swamps that he explored in his youth. As a ranger, he hunts monsters, rendering them naught more than meat, or else bending them as tools to his will. As a cleric, he tends to the injured and tries to make right the wrongs of the world. And in all, he reads, and he reads. My patience and impatience, my calm and my restlessness, all are echoes of my father's storm rolling through my veins and the essence of my being.