Vincent the Viscanti was an unfortunate soul, on a good day.
Fresh out of the portal of fate, little, sickly, and frail, few people in
Magnagora paid him any attention due to no is obvious lack of aptitude and
potential. His physical appearance was truly
pathetic. His splotchy complexion had an unnatural greenish tint
that made him constantly look like he had a cold or had recently
eaten spoiled food. Both of which were as likely as not. His hair
grew in tufts with spots of scalp clearly visible between them. His
short stature, poor posture, and fragile frame were anything but
intimidating. He had little vestigial wings on his back that were
misshapen and looked like they would fall off at any moment.
Were he to live anywhere else he would have been pitied but not
in Magnagora. Not even the beggars wanted to be seen with him.
Even when he embraced undeath there was no noticeable change
in his appearance and his transformation went unnoticed.

His chosen career in the Cacophony seemed destined for failure.
He was tone deaf and hard of hearing, due to frequent ear
infections. His voice was grating, nasal, and frequently hoarse.
His stubby little fingers were ideal for someone with no musical
talent or desire to play stringed instruments. His poor circulation
left him with little sensation in his extremities which further
complicated producing the subtle touch needed for the fine arts
of his craft. In fact, he would have made an excellent carpenter as
he could pound his hands with a hammer all day with hardly any
discomfort.

However, the poor child never lost hope or gave into despair.
He spurned the nearly daily requests for him to volunteer as a
practice dummy for the Ur'Guard or help the executioner
calibrate the gallows. His ever present grin, which he later
learned to hide due to the almost comical arrangement of his
teeth, revealed his unwavering optimism in spite of his star
crossed existence. Vincent never gave up or succumbed to the
constant discouragement, much to the annoyance of those
around him.

He was always the first to arrive for music lessons and the last to
leave. His instructors eventually opted to teach him privately
since he was such a distraction to the other students and never
made any discernable progress. The guild eventually bought him
a manse to practice in, the funds for which flooded in from
everyone within ear shot of the music halls. As time passed his
lessons were further and further apart until the instructors
eventually gave up on him, dropped off a few water damaged
music books and left him entirely to study on his own.

And study, he did. Slowly, but surely, he progressed in his lessons. In the
dead of night he would sneak into the World Library for books and tomes of
knowledge. He tried to stay out of the cities
and communes as much as possible and only go out when no one
was around. After over one hundred years of near constant
practice and tireless studying Vincent had become a somewhat
believable bard.

After a century in isolation, blind to the events of the basin, he
finally built up enough confidence and courage to venture back
into the land. As expected many things had changed and there
were many new faces but it was more than that. Things were
chaotic and people were bustling about with a sense of urgency
and concern. He was relieved that everyone was so preoccupied
that he was ignored completely. His presence had never attracted
welcomed attention in the past. Eventually, curiosity got the best
of him and he started to listen in on the conversations of those
around him. It seemed that the gods had gone mad and a blight
had shown up in the basin.

Mulling over the news, he was suddenly startled by a great crash
that shook the earth and sent billows of dust and debris flying into
the air, visible from all across the city. Sounds of fighting rang out merely
seconds later. Fearing the worst, Vincent began preparing
for battle.

His conjured defenses of a reflection and illusory self, while
technically glamorous, they couldn't help but be as unimpressive
as Vincent himself. He prepared his best song, performed quietly
to himself out of respect to those around him. His song, imbued
with Necroscream, began to form and take shape. The first stanza
rang out making his blood take on curative properties, and while
still appalling in general, he became decidedly more charismatic.
On, and on, he continued bringing up various defenses for himself
and his allies and maladies awaiting his foes. Desperate to prove
himself he slowly headed towards the commotion.

Moving cautiously through the winding streets, and after having
gotten turned around more than a few times, he arrived at the
scene completely unnoticed. Standing there, larger than life, was
a crazed god striking down citizens and laughing at his attackers.
It was right about then when the great citizens of Magnagora
regrouped and made a final all out assault on the fallen deity. The
new push seemed to be turning the tide. The chaotic scene was a
blur of flashing blades, furious demons, disharmonic melodies,
chunks of flying rock and clouds of poison. Also, there was a
seemingly out of place band of ninjas who were milling about,
confounded as anyone else as to why they existed in the basin at
all.

Vincent, of course, noticed none of this. Astonishingly, on the
very first chord he played every single string on his lute broke at
once. So there he sat, slightly outside the area, restringing his
instrument oblivious to his surroundings. When he finally
completed his task, the fighting was nearly over. Stretching out
the kinks in his back and turning his attention back to the fray he
saw the last citizen fall. The crazed god was clearly on the verge
of death at this point and barely able to stand upright. In a panic,
Vincent quickly played a major sixth to flee the area but
accidentally performed a minor second instead, striking down the
god. Dumbfounded by what had just occurred, he dropped his
lute and took off running. He ran as fast as he could and it wasn't
long before he had charged headlong into a wall.

When Vincent came to, he was sprawled on the floor, dripping
with water that had just been tossed on him and lying in front of
the full Iron Council. Trembling in fear he answered their
questions covering his life in general and the specifics of that day. When
they were done questioning him the members of the council
all looked at each other and appeared to all have come to the same
conclusion. Without so much as a word, the council members
nodded to the great Warlord of Magnagora who stood up and
walked over to Vincent. With blinding speed, the Warlord
unsheathed his sword and plunged it right into Vincent's face.
Dying before he could even scream, the only sound was sickening
crunch as the blade passed through the back of his head.

Satisfied with the results, the Iron Council adjourned all going
their separate ways. Off they went to seal off his manse, destroy
any record of his existence and to spread a cover story far less
embarrassing than the actual outcome to the fight.