Daxon Vael

Half drow, half steam genasi / Hexblade Warlock and Swashbuckler rogue

Submitted character story

Daxon grew up on the islands of the Concordat. He was an orphan from the start but a simple, honest fishing couple found him and raised him from  a baby. Mara and Tomlin. They were good people who lived quietly, mending nets, hauling in the day's catch, and teaching Daxon old values. Keep your word, help your neighbors, never cheat the sea, and stand up for what's right even when it's hard. 
Mara had a warmth about her. She'd sing while mending nets or cooking, teaching him how to do so, and how to use chemicals and reagents. Though mainly it was for healing she taught. He later learned other things those substances could be used for. Tomlin showed him how to read the wind, the stars, how to tie a knot, handle a boat, and how to swing a cutlass "just in case." 
From early on, Daxon was drawn to the bigger ships that were docked nearby. He loved the stories the sailors told about far-off places and captains who lived by their own rules. He secretly wanted to be a pirate captain someday, his own ship, his own crew, his own freedom and rules.
At 15, a bad storm rolled through. Mara was lost at sea trying to save their little boat. It hit hard. Tomlin survived but he pulled inward after that. Quieter, slower, carrying the weight of it all. Daxon stepped up as much as he could, helping with fishing and the chores, selling at market. 
That's when the shift happened to him. He noticed at the market particularly, that when he acted confident, flashed an easy grin, spoke smoothly, moved like everything was under control, people treated him differently. Less pity, less pushing him around, sometimes they even treated him with respect. The charm, the confidence, the wit, it became his armor. It was easier to be this than to let anyone see his grief, worry, or uncertainty beneath it all. 
He very rarely shows his true emotions. That mask is hard to remove. It stays on because showing the quieter, more complicated parts of himself feels too risky.

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Daxon found his sword a few months after the storm took Mara. It was one grey morning after another storm had passed, Daxon was checking crab pots, and walking the shore, scattered with the usual mess when he saw it. 
Half buried in sand and seaweed was the hilt of a blade. He dug it free, a cutlass, nicely balanced, with elegant curving lines on the guard that almost looked like stylized waves. The steel had only a light patina instead of heavy rust, and the grip was wrapped in dark, worn leather. Set into the pommel was a round, smoothed ruby. 
The moment he wrapped his fingers around the hilt it felt... strangely right. Not too heavy, perfectly balanced, and oddly warm even on that chilly morning. 
Daxon stood there, knowing from Tomlin's lessons to recognize good steel. This wasn't some cheap tavern piece. It felt like the kind of weapon a real captain or skilled fighter would carry. He nearly put it back in the sand. It hadn't felt entirely right to take it. But... something told him to keep it as he thought about Tomlin and how vulnerable the two of them were. So he kept it. 
When he brought it home, Tomlin just looked at it and nodded saying, "Sea gives and sea takes I suppose. Guess she figured you needed this more than whoever lost it." He helped Daxon clean and oil the blade and didn't ask too many questions.