The second son of a family of minor nobles, the so-called "spare", Quinn spent his youth in quiet service to the church; an occupation both safe and respectable for a possible heir. Even as a youth, he showed exceptional affinity for the healing arts, an affinity gleefully encouraged by the peaceful Shelynites, who trained him as best they could. And so the years passed, as years do.

Word came, eventually, that Quinn's father was deathly ill, and worse, that whatever was ailing him was resistant to the healers' best efforts. Ever the dutiful son (and more than a little conceited about his own power), Quinn struck out immediately for home to try his own hand at the matter. Visions of saving father's life, of being hailed as a hero of the family, of the half-remembered faces of siblings looking at him in awe and envy, all danced in his mind.

The last thing he would ever see was an ambush, and that too late.

He awoke, days later, to find he'd been rescued by a merchant caravan. They'd tended his near-lethal wounds, and carried him to their next stop, availing themselves of his coinpurse as a fee for doing so, but they could (or at least would) do nothing for his sight.

Too broke to afford transport, he earned his way home working for various travelers, caravans, anyone who was going the right way and wouldn't mind taking a blind seminarian along. It took weeks, perhaps months; it was easy for a morose Quinn to lose track of the passing days.

His father was dead. His brother was dead; a riding accident. With Quinn, too, presumed dead, succession had defaulted to his uncle.

It took only one conversation with the man for Quinn, perceptive as ever, to realize what he'd done. It took only slightly longer for the conversation to turn to a gloating offer. Uncle was feeling generous in his victory. If Quinn left, *now*, and relinquished any claim to his name, he'd be allowed to go peacefully. And, though he sometimes curses himself to this day, Quinn accepted.

He went back to that life, working for whoever was going in any direction, doing whatever needed done, never caring where he was, only that he kept himself busy. He learned to compensate for his blindness with other senses; hearing and touch, certainly, but too he learned to sense the little breezes that spun around him, to trace the movements of living bodies the way he did when he mended the wounded, to brush minds just enough. Eventually confident enough to hire out to mercenary troops as a field medic, he quickly took a firm grasp of tactics, a lack of visual distractions and an innate knowledge of everyone's position on the battlefield giving him a unique perspective.

One such job is where he met the girl Aster, a slave bodyguard. She immediately stood out to every sense he had, like she were simply more REAL than everyone else. When that escort ended in disaster, she simply stayed with him -- not that he tried very hard to dissuade her. There was something beautiful about her, something that needed gentle care to bloom. He would be her gardener.

It's been almost six years since he first left the fold. The two are arriving at Sandpoint; Quinn's come to "see" the rebuilt cathedral, and pay a visit to Sister Celia, an old aquaintance.