16 years old. 5’6". Slim build. Curly brown hair
Tavis grew up on dockside streets. The cities varied. When one got too dangerous he either stowed away aboard a ship, a wagon or, in at least one case, walked to the next city. The one part of his history he recalls with a smile is the occasional food and shelter he received from the Charitan Nuns. From them he learned his prayers, and how to read and write. When his first prayers were tangibly answered, and his first /mirabilae/ showed real results he knew he’d found his calling. Unfortunately his wanderlust was far from gone. Tavis’ vows as a mendicant priest kept him pretty much permanently poor; he likes mercenary work better.