Arden had lived a full and happy life even before he was born.

Lazily playful, entertainingly mischievous, and stubbornly proud, once upon a time in his life-before-life he was the favored pet of a fey lord. A loyal, if not finicky cat who the lord held close to his heart. Alas, despite the whimsical nature of the fey realm, even there the denizens are subjected to time. The day came when the cat grew old and departed from the living. But so close was the lord to his pet that he extended a gift ~ the fey lord plucked the feline's spirit from it's path. In reward and honor of their years of loving companionship, the fey lord would free his pet and grant him life anew; a life of his very own to live out in the manner he saw fit. Mostly.

The fey lord held the spirit close, coddling it as he peered through his eyes in the realm of mortals, seeking the perfect destination. Days passed. Months. Years. Perhaps there were many good destinations, but none good enough for the lord's precious one. Besides, losing his pet once more was a pain too recent to bear again so soon. And so he stalled. With his standards perched high, he glanced over opportunity after opportunity. He even thought perhaps to keep the spirit; a formless, thoughtless token of happier times. But one evening as his thoughts grew selfish and he pondered withdrawing the gift, his eyes fell upon perfection. The fey lord's honor flooded back, and he did as he planned to do.

- - -

They were a simple folk, the bakerman and his wife. They lived close to a trade town, nestled comfortably into the shallows of the woods within their cozy little cabin. Despite the majority of the land 'progressing' and replacing old idols with sigils of the Commerce-God, this couple continued to respect the old ways. Whenever the baker withdrew from his oven he offered a portion to the woods. Or rather, to the little weefolk hands who aided in their housework. Though this couple prayed to the lord of the woods to aide them, they had been without child for years and the wife's time was growing short. While they held hope and continued to pray, the couple did not despair; they counted their blessings and as they waited for what would be or wouldn't the wife had happily taken to mothering the brownies and bogles and fanciful other woodland folk who passed through her home.

The fey lord looked upon them in true for the first time. While he was vaguely aware of their presence prior, as he is aware of all that touch his woods, they were no use to him before. Now his wishes and theirs would meet. Born here, the lord's cat would be raised well, he knew. Nurtured by the love of humans in the world of humans, but not outside his sight or grasp, and well within the protective reaches of the local feyfolk. The couple soon found themselves with child.

They weren't even surprised when he was born with those pointed ears and misshapen legs. They adored him even with his fur and his swishing tail. And the feylings attending their home were smitten with the little lad. Of course, they heard the whispers of the woods and the lord's decree to keep the child safe, but even without the directive, the happy housefey were glad for the new company.

- - -

Raised by parents and fey alike, Arden grew up with a whimsical upbringing. He frequented the woods were he would hold conversation with the forest critters just as easily as he would converse in town. More easily, perhaps. Though he was never mistreated in the small trading town (for even through new religion, old superstitions held tight and warned of the dangers of mistreating fey) he never felt as though he belonged. Not in the town walls, anyways. Not with the humanfolk. No, little-boy Arden felt far more at home, safe and secure within the embrace of the woods. And indeed the woods did embrace him, whether he could feel it's hug or not, the woods held love in its heart for the lad, and no harm could come to him there.

Arden blossomed under the loving care of those around him; his parents raising him tender and wise to the ways of old, the wee folk helping him find the love of play and humor, and the watching ever-present eyes of his past master. Though the fey lord never loosed the secret of Arden's time-before-his-time, he subtly pushed his influence and guided the boy in the ways of magic.
Not the magic of the woods, as druidkind can touch so easily.
Nor the magic of blood; for as Arden was born with a touch of the fey, his blood was human and borne from mother and father alone.
Certainly not the magic of the scholars and sages, rigid with rules and structure and boredom.
And nor the magic of the Gods, who so often spit upon the traditions of the fanciful.

The fey lord imparted him with magic of the heart. Magic of the feyfolk. The magic of intrigue and mystery, of mischief and moral. Magic of olde.

- - -

It was no surprise when Arden came of age and sought to travel. The whimsical tales that had been told to him all his youth left the young man yearning for adventures of his own, and he longed to discover the stories of those who came before.
And in time, he did. Years of traveling brought nothing but joy and company to the man's life.
And while making his own story for himself, Arden became fascinated by the stories offered by those he met along the way. Those that touched his heart were recorded in his journal and shared ever after along his journey. He made quests of himself to visit these places and witness histories for himself, from the people, the animals, and the land.
Some fables were accurate to a tee, recorded precisely from person to person over generations. These were often the stories of horrors and warnings.
Others, he found, were just fanciful exaggerations, the truths behind them often being more humorous in contrast to results that history had held.
And others still, often the ones that Arden dwelt on the longest, were those that antiquity had taken; to be believed or not, but never proven, their origins lost to the ages.

From his excursions, Arden would sometimes pick up a trinkets. An old fang, an ancient scale, a sliver of wood, a well-placed pebble. Each of which significant to the story which held them. And with the grace of his unseen master's guidance, Arden found he could touch the spirits of those long passed. So as the man traveled and his repertoire of fables grew, so too did his retinue. A band of exotic and miscreant creatures; echoes of their fabled fates of old, kindred spirits unknowingly mirroring the lad's own origins.