Zerak Vell was born in Baldur’s Gate—the very same place he once died.
Back then, he was Rennan Vale: a silver-tongued street rat with ink-stained fingers and ambition sharp enough to cut glass. He clawed his way up from back-alley deals and pocket cons to silken parlors and whispered influence.
In those early days, Rennan wasn’t chasing power—just survival.
He learned to smile like he meant it, lie like he believed it, and forge papers so flawless that even nobles bowed to the seal.
His favorite con? Infernal pacts—elaborate forgeries written in devilish script, laced with just enough gibberish and flair to terrify the superstitious and seduce the desperate. For a price, he offered hope… or damnation. All it took was a signature, a drop of blood, and a little fear in the right candlelight.
But then—he tried to con the wrong devil.
One glyph, copied from a forgotten tome he’d lifted in a botched job, changed everything. An ancient sigil he didn’t recognize.
But someone did..
The mark was a nobleman. Impeccable taste. He wore crimson robes and a smile that never quite reached his eyes. Rennan thought he’d found the perfect score: rich, curious, just superstitious enough to bite. Rennen laid out the parchment. Spoke the ritual words. Pricked the man’s finger with theatrical flair.
And then that smile… stretched.
Too far.
The thing masquerading as a man leaned in, eyes gleaming with infernal light. His voice lost its noble lilt, curling instead with sulfur and smoke.
“Oh, little liar,” he whispered, tracing the fake glyph with a claw that hadn’t been there a moment before, “you’ve amused me.”
The disguise fell. Golden eyes. Forked tongue. A laugh like parchment tearing.
Argazhel the Smiler.
A minor devil. A major problem. He was delighted by Rennan’s audacity. And instead of dragging Rennan to the Nine Hells, Argazhel made an offer:
"If you’re going to forge my contracts… why not forge them for me?”
Rennan froze. Mind racing. Heart pounding.
The fiend leaned in. That grin—too wide. Too hungry.
“Let’s see how real you can make it this time.”
And just like that—the fake contract burned.
A new one appeared. Ornate. Sinister. Binding.
Ironclad. Eternal.
Rennan Vale burned away in ink and fire that day.
And from the ashes rose Zerak Vell—
A mask of charm. A man of whispers. A soul tethered to devils wearing silk.
Now, Zerak walks Baldur’s Gate like smoke through keyholes—conman, fixer, performer. To most, a flamboyant liar. To some, a dangerous mystery.
But none—not even his closest allies—know how deep the devils have sunk in their claws.
Not yet.
He’s not ready to tell them.
Not while the ink flows and there's still parchment to draft upon.
Ooh very flavourful backstory, the only confusion is that it sounds a lot like a warlock pact instead of a backstory for a bard, but it’s only a flavour problem really.
Zerak Vell was born in Baldur’s Gate—the very same place he once died.
Back then, he was Rennan Vale: a silver-tongued street rat with ink-stained fingers and ambition sharp enough to cut glass. He clawed his way up from back-alley deals and pocket cons to silken parlors and whispered influence.
In those early days, Rennan wasn’t chasing power—just survival.
He learned to smile like he meant it, lie like he believed it, and forge papers so flawless that even nobles bowed to the seal.
His favorite con? Infernal pacts—elaborate forgeries written in devilish script, laced with just enough gibberish and flair to terrify the superstitious and seduce the desperate. For a price, he offered hope… or damnation. All it took was a signature, a drop of blood, and a little fear in the right candlelight.
But then—he tried to con the wrong devil.
One glyph, copied from a forgotten tome he’d lifted in a botched job, changed everything. An ancient sigil he didn’t recognize.
But someone did..
The mark was a nobleman. Impeccable taste. He wore crimson robes and a smile that never quite reached his eyes. Rennan thought he’d found the perfect score: rich, curious, just superstitious enough to bite. Rennen laid out the parchment. Spoke the ritual words. Pricked the man’s finger with theatrical flair.
And then that smile… stretched.
Too far.
The thing masquerading as a man leaned in, eyes gleaming with infernal light. His voice lost its noble lilt, curling instead with sulfur and smoke.
“Oh, little liar,” he whispered, tracing the fake glyph with a claw that hadn’t been there a moment before, “you’ve amused me.”
The disguise fell. Golden eyes. Forked tongue. A laugh like parchment tearing.
Argazhel the Smiler.
A minor devil. A major problem. He was delighted by Rennan’s audacity. And instead of dragging Rennan to the Nine Hells, Argazhel made an offer:
"If you’re going to forge my contracts… why not forge them for me?”
Rennan froze. Mind racing. Heart pounding.
The fiend leaned in. That grin—too wide. Too hungry.
“Let’s see how real you can make it this time.”
And just like that—the fake contract burned.
A new one appeared. Ornate. Sinister. Binding.
Ironclad. Eternal.
Rennan Vale burned away in ink and fire that day.
And from the ashes rose Zerak Vell—
A mask of charm. A man of whispers. A soul tethered to devils wearing silk.
Now, Zerak walks Baldur’s Gate like smoke through keyholes—conman, fixer, performer. To most, a flamboyant liar. To some, a dangerous mystery.
But none—not even his closest allies—know how deep the devils have sunk in their claws.
Not yet.
He’s not ready to tell them.
Not while the ink flows and there's still parchment to draft upon.
After all…
Zerak Vell always includes an escape clause...
Ooh very flavourful backstory, the only confusion is that it sounds a lot like a warlock pact instead of a backstory for a bard, but it’s only a flavour problem really.
Thanks! I'd originally conceived a Warlock, but then I found out we'll have two other Warlocks in the campaign, so I switched his class 😅
I see no reason to not go warlock, we have 2 warlocks dips and a full warlock in my party :)