Running the back alleys and main streets of Shadowvale always appealed to Jone Constance. A superb tongue, even at an early age, allowed him to con many a creature out of their treasures with just a wink and a smile. His keen intellect only fueled his schemes.
When a sharp mind and biting tongue weren’t enough, the occasional dagger came in handy. Jail often resulted when his marks were not fueled, but Jone had learned to hide lockpicks on his person for ease of escape. He got quite good at it. Practice makes perfect after all.
Being bored of conning when he hit his early 20’s, Jone was of a mind to change “occupations” when a chance encounter offered up a temptation he could scarcely resist.
He’d stumbled upon a down-on-his-luck elven wizard, the recently excommunicated Dimoran Alfullow, late of Halastar’s Heirs, a hidden academy for dark arcanists, situated on the first level of Waterdeep’s Undermountain.
This was an opportunity Jone just couldn’t pass up and so he did what he does best.Taking the wizard into his confidence, Jone offered him a cot in his flat in the seedy side of Shadowvale…
Unfortunately, the wizard had fallen further than Jone realized and the rogue was only able to learn a few illusions and enchantments and a bit of elvish from the spellcaster before he was shown the other side of the door. Alfullow may have left a few spell books and items short as well.
With these meager acquisitions, Jone attempted to learn on his own. All he could figure out were the types of spells he was dealing with: conjuration. Reading the language was out of the question, the wizard runes were indecipherable, but he was more than able to wrap his head around the pictures and diagrams. These ofttimes brutal depictions of monsters rising from circles gave him all the clues he needed.
Jone sought out help in translating the language in his procured tomes, but it didn’t take long before he became aware that he was not loved in his local wizarding community. Finding disdain, he sold the mundane items that he owned and set out to find a more willing community.
Larger cities seemed the place to start so he headed south, over the Mysti Mountains, and he slipped quietly into Zakeem. Or so he thought. Word had spread about what he had done to his former “teacher” and the reputation of the magics Jone was chasing put an even blacker mark on him, even among the Crescentian sorcerers there.
Failing to break into the magic scene, he fell back on his former pastimes. Making a score, even with his talents, proved difficult in the foreign environment. He never solved the language barrier among the Crescentian-speaking populous. Down on his luck and living in the gutters jaded Jone and had him seek out the bottom of bottle after bottle. He thought he was done, that somehow that damnable wizard had cursed him. Despair set in. He slinked back to Shadowvale, but he had already hit rock bottom. He was alone, broke, and all hope seemed lost until he heard about a religious treasure needing escorted a few towns over…