Orphaned when I was young, I was taken in by the 5th Earl of Radiata, who soon discovered I had a peculiar talent for dodging arrows and stones and other things thrown at me; trained beside other orphans to secretly protect his lands, I rose swiftly through the ranks before an illness in my heart brought me down.

Summoning the world’s greatest wizards and artificers, the Earl had them fashion for me a golden heart that did not beat, and in gratitude for that sacrifice of his I chose to stop killing and now do my job beneath his ever disappointed smile without killing. 

I was meant to die, but was saved, and now i carry on in the hopes that I can spare another that same cruel fate, with a smile, a laugh, and boundless optimism to guide me.

Somehow I survived the blood, sweat, soil, stains, and tears of the Crusade, returning to a home that hasn't changed although I have to such depths that it seems a foreign land to me now.

I still awake from the nightmares of the thousands who died in the bitter effort to steal back a bit of land from those Lemurian bastards, but dreams don't feed you and i don't have the skills or patience to try and learn some craft, so I will have to take what I do know and make my way through by any means necessary.

Which would be a lot easier if the damn Sheriff hadn't taken my home and driven me into this dense forest, from where I am striking out with my bow to right injustices and help those being abused by his malfeasance.

My family wasn't, like, poor, but it was a family of folks who raised sheep and I was a girl who longed for adventure and the feel of a sword in my hand and fighting for what was right and true and useful. When my Pa up and decided to promise me to yet another shepherd as his wife, I had enough and let him know it in no uncertain terms; that led to a fight and me running away from home because the old man wouldn't listen and didn't care. Now I am on the road to my future, heading out to find the path for me...

My parents were so desperate for a child that they begged a which to bless them and so she gave them two flowers. The first flower was beautiful and full of life and when my mother ate it she gave birth to a glorious child blessed with grace; the second flower was dead and ugly and when my mother ate it, she gave birth to a horrific child cursed with power, me. My sister and I were devoted to each other, despite our differences, and that is why I use my witchborn power to rid the world of all dark forces like the ones that killed her. 

*a small , young-sounding voice pipes up from a table*

Hardcore.

When the goblin bandit bit my ear off, I screamed like banshee and punched him right in the dangly bits as hard as I possibly could, then I pulled out my hatchet and brained the little bugger. After that I turned to his chums and let out another blood curdling howl and they took off running into the hills, but not before I hurled my hatchet and took another one of the bastards down before he got 20 paces. Turns out I’m pretty good at this stuff, least when I get angry, so I guess I found my new job, beats hauling a cart on the highways anyway… do miss my ear though.

Oh that's even more hardcore!

I catch brief glimpses of shadows moving across the white linen and voices arguing before all goes black.

I awaken next as what I would late be told was a police inspector pulls the bloodstained sheet off of me, and I see who I will soon know as my creator's daughter crying.

My gears grind slightly adjusting to move take in my surroundings...

(heavily edited to make 3 sentences from a story idea I had and never finished about a clockwork man trying to track down his creator's killer with said creator's daughter on an adventure that takes them across the countryside in a victorian/steampunk analog. Here, it would just as well with an artificer creator, and a warforged... whatever? Investigator? travelling a fantasy countryside.)

*on edge of seat*

I used to think I was immortal, that nothing could kill me. Evidently, I was wrong. But, "lucky" for me, necromancers are always looking for strong souls to bind into servitude.

Why did I create a 10 foot tall unkillable monster made of clay? To see if I could. Now I have to find my creation before he slaughters more innocent lives.

After the green tide receded, my homeland was left in ruins, the goblinoids had taken almost everything we had, and what little was left they razed to the ground before returning to wherever the hells it was they came from. We had fought hard, but there was no way we could have held out against so damned many of them. Now I’m off to find treasure to help rebuild my homeland, and kill as many goblins as I can along the way.

(Any race, any background, Fighter)

I was raised within a temple and trained to serve Persana but the temple was attacked and destroyed by Sahaugin, driven mad by the destruction I lost myself for a time. Throughout the madness I heard a voice, faint and indistinct at first but following the return of my senses it grew louder like the approch of a tidal wave carrying a single order "Find Me!" and the image of a grand trident forced its way into my mind. I've left the waters of my beloved oceans and now seeks the trident in the dry lands of the world, seeking for the mighty trident known only as Wave.

*I came across a post a few days ago which I can no longer find about doing a Barbarian/Warlock Multiclass and that prompted me to have a think about it and came up with this backstory and this build: https://www.dndbeyond.com/forums/d-d-beyond-general/story-lore/180728-rob76s-unused-character-idea-11-barian-loch

When I was but a wee lad, the death of my brother shattered my family and grief dimmed my heart.

As a child still, I found the cause, though none of the adults in town believed either myself or my friends, all of whom had had a nearly fatal encounter with the demon that had claimed my brother; we fought it to a standstill in warrens beneath the town.

Now I am headed back, bound by an oath of blood and love, and I vow that we will finish what we started and destroy the creature that destroyed my family and haunts my hometown.

For three hundred of your years I lived in my humble home, nestled among the oaks and rowans of the ancient demesne, a glorious and peaceful place, interrupted only by the musical voices of my kin come to visit and my own sonorous song.

The day the black snow fell, that moment when the clouds turned to ash and the sun hid, when the Dark One rose in the far west, I knew my time of peace had ended, as it had for all of us.

This isn't war I go to face, this is the survival of all that which was, which is, and which will be.

I grew up in th’ swamps near Marrillee where my granda’ taught me to hunt marsh deer, wild boar, an’ even gators with a bow or a spear, fish for anything that breaths water, an’ generally live off th’ land, but still taught me my letters in both common an’ orcish so I could palaver with our neighbors. Then one day th’ governor o’ Marrillee decided to expand th’ city’s influence by buildin’ settlements in th’ surrounding area, an’ drained my granda’s swamp to build one o’ them. Now I’m out an’ about in th’ world tryin’a find a new patch o’ The Beastlands on Faerûn fer me an’ granda t’call home, an’ use my skills best I can t’ make money enough to keep th’ land once we claim it.

(Any race, Outlander background, any class (probably Ranger))

I have heard the tales from many 'bout how the Sea of Sand is a barren place; inhospitable, unwelcoming, lifeless, boring, a place no sane person would ever live or ever try to live.

While I can't speak much t'the query of sanity, I can say that I was born and raised there and lived there with my people near my whole life afore I wandered out in search of the legendary endless jug --y'know they say that the thing never runs outta water, and that would be a gold worth gettin' t'ma kin.

I know mah clothes is funny looking to all ya, but that's how we survived y'see, we look just like the dunes we live within.

Well, Imma farmer's daughter, y'see, and we live way over yonder in the hardlands, y'know, and mah Pa he ain't got 'nuff to be goin to da Lord an askin' to be moved off the dry scrape o'place we calls home.

So, me brother 'n I left to find some seeds t'would grow in the soil, an' I done heard tell of a fancy lil pouchie that got spicy seeds all up in it, an ne'er run out, so that's mah goal t'find 'cause'n all, what with spiceys being so 'spensive n' all.

This ole thing ain't naught but what mah granpappy brought back from his time out, kinda fancy fer the likes o' mah sort, but I can use dis swerd well 'nuff while I try mah darndest to find that fancy lil pouchie...

I am on a kick to create backstories around "simple" magic items, because they are amazing things and in the out of the way place the legends of them will have gotten out to folks for whom a handy spice pouch might be the means to survival, or an endless decanter might offer the best means of drinkable water. Magical items are *magical*, and with each and every one comes some sort of tale that changes in the telling, spread down through the ages, and you never know when it will spark a gleam in the eye of a listener.

Oh, her brother? He went the other way, and came across an old, ugly, fetid smelling woman who sold him a handful of beans. Not just any beans, though. Magical beans...

"If you want a precise, quality blade, that bird guy over there can make pretty much anything he's seen before."

"That thing isn't natural... somebody has to get the bird away from it!"

"You're trying to tell me that you can make anything with your mind, but all you can focus on enough is swords?"

(Kenku, Guild Artisan, Warlock (Pact of the Blade or Hexblade) or Rogue (Soulknife) or maybe even Fighter (Eldritch Knight))

Once, I was a heartbreaker on the shawm; with a thousand groupies from one end of (...) to the other.

Then I fell in love with a pixie.'

Now I wander the Feywild from the other end to this in search of her, never resting until ... but what is this voice whispering strange secrets in my mind -- and can it give me the power to call her back to me?

Warlock (The Archfey), entertainer or charlatan background

(possibly Pact of the Chain, though if he did call his pixie he would certainly view her as a partner rather than a traditional familiar; and might be aware enough of the issue to choose another fey being as his pact companion if the pixie views the matter differently)