To track the odd century of life Sycamore lived would require more in the way of words than he has capacity to give. By his admission he has: lived, loved, lost, hunted, squandered, sailed, sung, killed, and cooked wherever the wind tasted best.

Brought up in a nomadic lifestyle, he left to see the world alone before his twentieth autumn. He held no great love for his people, and less for what they eked together as an existence. Ironic, then, that he mirrors such behaviors now, living tongue by cheek on the morrow's heel, never a care for building to a more secure future. Weaned on the ever-narrow noose of contempt, a young Sycamore set out to make a hero of himself. He yearned for more, and for a time he managed to find it.

Journeying across the Spine honed him. He learned to track and butcher wild prey over a wider area than previously experienced. He felt the roll of the land, how the foothills differed from the valleys; how the peaks held dangers beyond his boastful ambitions. For years, he walked the length of the range, student to its elegant ways. He met many travelers, traded stories, and heard the names of places that lived only in the footnotes of his maps.

Eventually, he made inroads to civilization. Find himself in towns and hamlets and cities, he marveled at them and lingered for a time. He found a passion in scholastic pursuits, but swiftly came to the realization that coin slicked the world's wheels. Options were otherwise limited, so he took to the trades -- mining and lumberyards suited him poorly, and he lacked the knack for artisan crafts, the strength and patience for blacksmithing.

As any sensible person might conclude, thievery offered the straightest path to funding his pursuits. He picked the pockets of petty people, filled his own with copper and gold, and came a'cropper more oft than not. Several towns had lasting warrants for his arrest, with some even willing to offer small bounties for the privilege. Still, there were always new cities to visit, new roads to walk.

In his years of long labor, he came to sail the strait Allir. Rode rivercraft with bandits, took up horse thieving in the recesses of the Reach. He even signed on with a town's armsmen for a term. That led him to a greater insight: mercenary work suited him best. Thievery left a sour twang on the tongue after all.

Thus has he traveled. As ever, when he grew canny and thought himself wise, he left; shouldered his packs, slipped out the back with only his memories for company. Such is the vagabond's creed. Sycamore contents himself with it.