"Bad Omen."
That was his name since birth.
He was called that, so it had to be his name, right?

Unlike other kenku, whose black feathers let them melt into the night, his plumage was pale as snow. From the moment he could fend for himself, he was abandoned — left behind by his kin with nothing but the tools to survive. The world saw his albinism as a curse, and so the name Bad Omen followed him wherever he went. They said he brought misfortune, that his very presence soured luck. He believed them. He carried that burden quietly and chose solitude, lest his "curse" fall upon others.

He wandered the wilds alone.
To survive, he learned to trap and forage, trading herbs, mushrooms, and the odd trinket for food or tools. He tried to pick pockets once, but his pale feathers betrayed him in the dark, and the venture ended before it began. Hunting, however, he took to with persistence, earning his first bow through barter and grit.

Then came the bear.
A hunt gone wrong left him torn and broken, bleeding into the earth. His vision faded, until the glint of steel caught his dimming eyes. A band of knights found him, and through their mercy, he was brought to Aratt: the Tower Kingdom, where the abandoned and the outcast found sanctuary under the rule of the Sorceress Queen.

Weeks later, he awoke healed, surrounded by strange kindness.
He tried to leave, fearing that his "bad omen" would bring misfortune to those who had saved him. But as he wandered the halls of Aratt one last time, he came upon the training grounds, and there he stopped. He watched knights clash and train beneath the banners of the Queen, shining armor gleaming like sunlight on snow. Hours passed. Something stirred in him, admiration, perhaps even longing.

From that day, he served them however he could.
He cleaned armor, polished blades, learned the rhythm of the forge, sharpening, hammering, mending. He listened and learned in silence. When spoken to, he hesitated, not from disobedience, but because he struggled to understand what was expected. But once told what to do, he did it without question, no matter the difficulty, no matter the pain. He worked, and worked, and worked… until the knights themselves took notice.

When he was strong enough, they trained him, and Omen became something he had never been before: one of them. He found fellowship, purpose, and belonging. He swore himself to Aratt, to the knights, and above all, to his Queen.

To him, they could do no wrong.
Their word was law. Their cause, just.

Wrong him, and he will not care.
Hurt him, and he will not fight back.
But harm his friends, or betray his Queen, and you will know his fury.
You will beg for death before the end.

There is no greater sin in Omen’s eyes than betrayal.
Only loyalty.
Only Aratt.
Only the Queen.

He carries with him a small, scorched banner of Aratt, the one that once hung over his training grounds. It is wrapped around the haft of his greataxe like a relic, a symbol of his oath, his faith, his home. Of all his worldly possessions, this is the one he treasures most.

For the world once cast him aside.
But Aratt gave him a name worth carrying.

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