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A birth is rarely a mysterious thing. On a few occasions they are, they tend to be quite sad. Or at least some may say that, but others may say they were to be the sign of many blessings inbound. When asked, Pesceria would say it was an obscenity. Born to no bloodline nor settlement's care, a young tiefling in such a position typically learned rather quickly to survive on the pity of others and their own zeal.
At a young age, there wasn't much in such a small thing. How did a fiendish beast find a way to press on when they were never taught a will? Find enough food to live, discover a cover from the elements, and defend with every little bit of ferocity a child can have. She lived such a simple life of instinct and desolation until her ears had perked at a merry tune.
It wasn't common for her hovel to light with joy, but the moment a song of life and love brightened her shelter, she was hooked. She gained the courage to leave her shelter with little more than the tunic on her back and her one small empty pouch she had stolen the week before. She followed the stranger's whistling pipe and the swirls of glittering colors until she stopped recognizing the buildings around her. Even when her legs ached and the hellish red of her feet smeared with the purple of her blood, she didn't stop.
Most of the evenings through their stay in the large city of learning were spent in the tavern. Looking back, she could admit that her peeking through the windows on her toes, as her tail did whatever it could to maintain stability, was obvious. Someone had to have known she was there. The singer never commented. But at the gates of the walls that confined her, the only "home" she had known, a simple question was asked.
"Are you sure?" When the singer spoke, she would never forget how soft the sound was. "I won't protect a brat."
She made the choice easily, stooping down to scoop some of the bloody sand into her pouch. That would be the last of her origin, the only reminder she would need to press on. The singer named her Pesceria. They had said that her coloring was the same as its petals. Red skin like its edges, purple hair like the petals’ body, and golden eyes like its center. She clung to that name and what it meant. She was no longer just a street urchin, part of the city's scenery. She was a person with a name. People with names were allowed to have hopes and dreams. They existed, and they were remembered in story and song. With one of her own, could she find that happiness too?
She would follow at a distance, learning what she could, but they never taught her more than to survive. What plants would keep her alive, where the animals would guide them to water.
She would clean her guide’s tools, carry the scrolls, mend the clothing, and occasionally they would teach her to cook some food. They were a family, or the closest thing to a family she had ever imagined one to be. Then her mentor discovered she was gifted with magic. “A real bard,” she’d been called. Everything changed then. They became closer, and they would sing together. Wonderful tunes and stories were shared and discovered arm in arm.
They were performing together when Pesceria met her first love. A human boy with amber eyes. He had been battered and bruised, and all of thirteen when they met. Of course, Pesceria didn’t know her age, but they looked about the same, at least according to her master. He had gifted her one of his gears. He never asked for anything in return but her name. She gave it eagerly. Unfortunately, only an hour after their exchange, her master was pulling back to the trails she called home.
Then one day she woke in their tavern beds to discover that her precious mentor was missing with little more than a cryptic letter.