Source: http://web.archive.org/web/20010610195512/http://everquest.station.sony.com/hht/profiles/hc_dreezil.jsp

Dreezil was the smallest of his family; the “runt of the litter,” his father Wurrin called him. He was such a cute infant, he was cuddled and carried constantly by his mother Teezil and his seven older sisters. It kept him from learning to walk until he was nearly ready for schooling. Spending so many years neglecting his lower extremities, however, didn’t keep him from becoming very clever with his hands. The halfling tyke was nearly five turns old before his family associated the occasional missing earring or disappearing locket with bouncing Dreezil on their knees. Yes, Dreezil was a natural, all right, a born rogue.

The Deeppockets took Dreezil under their collective wing shortly after his mischief was discovered. Rarely was such talent inborn, normally it took years of practice with the dip dummy, with its bells all over its suit to warn of sloppy work by students. Slipping fingers into a pocket, or “dipping,” had to be done smoothly, in a single, fluid motion that wouldn’t disturb a flea. The ringing of a bell on the dip dummy indicated clumsy or inattentive technique. But Dreezil never rang a bell once in all his training. It almost seemed as if his hand turned to smoke when he slipped it into a pocket or beltpurse, or the treasures inside leaped into his hands of their own accord. Dreezil was the best the Deeppockets had ever seen in all their years in Rivervale.

Rogue schooling didn’t end at pocket picking, however. In fact, once a student had spent a few weeks in training, they would arrive one morning to find the doors locked to them! No one would answer their knocks. They had to figure out some other way to get into the Fool’s Gold, and they didn’t dare be late to class! Dreezil was undaunted when his time came. He pulled out a fishhook he’d stuck into his cap brim and carefully bent it straight. Sticking the fishhook into the lock opening, it took him only a moment to flip the lock, which opened with a satisfying snick. Dreezil never batted an eye, arriving in class early as usual. His instructors looked sidewise at one another and nodded solemnly. Yes, Dreezil was definitely a natural.

Dreezil’s bright smile and merry disposition led his teachers to believe that he would be perfect for confidence games and other “business” ventures, but, alas, there was one area in which the youngster was found deficient. He had a disturbing tendency toward honesty. His teachers tried their best to make him see that what he would be doing was an aid to society in general–after all, isn’t it best to make sure there are neither rich nor poor classes? Shouldn’t the money be spread around more evenly? But Dreezil couldn’t help but be moved by the dismay of the marks when they discovered their losses. The Deeppockets despaired of ever making Dreezil into a useful member of their society and, though they mourned the loss of the most talented halfling child ever to pick their locks, they ultimately sent him back to his parents, a failure.

Wurrin and Teezil were heartbroken. Their golden child had been cast out of his professional guild unceremoniously. Though they loved him dearly, they were barely able to feed the mouths they already had at home. They gave him a small sack, filled with muffins and milk, and wished him well, but firmly insisted that he venture out into the world and find his place there.

Dreezil had never felt so lonely in his life. He’d been a cherished son and a stellar student, never having heard a cross word in his life. He was puzzled about many things, not the least of which was why he had to hurt people’s feelings in order to support himself. He didn’t blame his teachers or his family for casting him out, but he’d never been beyond the boundaries of the Misty Thicket, and wasn’t sure how or where he might find a place for himself in this world. Nevertheless, he set out to explore Norrath and find his future.

Dreezil spent many months wandering the world, exploring the societies surrounding his tiny hometown of Rivervale, even crossing the oceans and learning how others lived on those continents. He spent many a hungry day and chilly night out there on his own. Sometimes it was necessary to “borrow” a bit of loose change he happened to find in some unwary traveler’s pocket or purse, but only for the purpose of survival, he assured himself. Dreezil was not a thief, and he’d be the first to tell you so. Often, the coins just seemed to hop out of their hiding places and into his hands. Who was he to question fortune’s favors?

The young halfling had traveled all the way to the forest of Nektulos one moonless night. Just beginning to feel the stirrings of hunger in his belly, he heard a tiny noise not far off. It sounded like someone rolling over on the ground. A very faint glow many yards away told him there was a campsite nearby. He crept closer, keeping low to the ground (not difficult for a halfling, of course), and made use of the local shrubbery to shroud him from view.

Creeping up behind a conveniently placed boulder, Dreezil peered out into the clearing and saw two recumbent figures sleeping on either side of a nearly dead fire. Their heads were close together, weapons carefully placed within easy reach. These two were experienced warriors, Dreezil knew immediately. He looked around the camp in the very dim light. Once again, he blessed his parents for passing on their excellent night sight to him. There, on the other side of the clearing were their packs. And how accommodating of the two to leave the packs so close to that large rock! Dreezil silently rubbed his hands together, grinning. He crept around the edge of the campsite without making a sound.

Dreezil crouched close to a pack and reached out one hand in the dark to open it. No sooner had he put his hand on the leather flap than he discovered the point of a sword lifting his chin. A soft voice whispered to him, “What are you doing, little one?”

The halfling looked up slowly, careful not to nick himself on the razor-sharp blade edge. He put on his best contrite expression as he looked up. Much to his surprise, he realized the swordbearer who had caught him in the act of “borrowing” was actually a woman! Dreezil’s jaw dropped and he stared frankly into the eyes of the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. Blue eyes with glints of silvery light stared back at him from a pale and fine-featured face. Her shining hair spilled over her shoulders, disarrayed by sleep. Dreezil was speechless for maybe the first time in his whole life, and that was even more surprising to him than the fact that he’d been caught.

“Well?” The high elf woman prodded him gently with the sword blade, just enough to get his attention.

“Erk.” Dreezil tried hard to find his tongue. “I was hungry, milady. Forgive me.” To Dreezil’s great chagrin, two large tears rolled down his face. He couldn’t understand why, but for some reason, having considered stealing from this beautiful woman caused him to feel terribly guilty. There was something about her, something he couldn’t put his finger on. She almost seemed to glow in the dark, faintly. He could see her clearly, even in the darkest part of the night.

“All you had to do was ask, friend,” the woman said softly. She placed the sword back into its scabbard and set it gently aside. “Come,” she said, “sit near me by the fire.”

Dreezil found himself moving, almost as if in a dream, over to sit next to the woman, watching raptly as she stirred up the coals and added a few more sticks of wood. The little campfire popped and sparked, and a cheery blaze flared up. He looked intently at the swordmaiden until she noticed his staring.

“I’m sorry, me lady, it’s just… I just… forgive me, Lady.” Dreezil lowered his eyes.

“You may call me Firiona, little one. I am Firiona Vie.”

“Me name’s Dreezil, me Lady, Dreezil Pocketdip o’ Rivervale is me.” The halfling lad felt self-conscious in the presence of this great woman. Though she hadn’t given herself any title, he could tell by her bearing that she was someone special. He had never known royalty, but he was sure that if he had ever seen any, they couldn’t be more regal than this lady in front of him.

Firiona chuckled softly to herself and reached for the pack, taking out a packet of rations and holding them out to Dreezil. “Here, take this and enjoy.”

Dreezil absent-mindedly chewed on the journey bread and looked around himself. He sipped at the container of water Firiona handed him as he did so. There on the other side of the fire was another female, sound asleep, her head on her own pack and a mandolin by her side. A staff lay by her other side. Firiona noticed the direction of Dreezil’s glance.

“That’s my friend Sionachie,” she said, softly. “She’s a bard who has been travelling with me. Don’t wake her, please.”

Dreezil watched the sleeping half elf for a moment and couldn’t help thinking she’d be a much easier target than this high elf by his side. He shook his head to banish the thought, chuckling silently to himself.

“My lady, if ye’ll have me, I might be a good companion to ye. I’ve a few skills ye may find useful. I am a skilled scout, an’ I can help ye find food whene’er ye’re hungry. I can help with findin’ ways into and out o’ tight spots too! And I’m a pretty good hand wi’ a dagger if I do say so meself.” The halfling rogue grinned impishly up at Firiona.

“Then join us, my little friend. We could use company on our journey. We’re simply gathering knowledge in our travels, but who knows when one of your skills might be a great help to us?” The silver-haired Koada’Dal smiled back. “For now, let’s get some rest. Morning will be upon us before we know it.”

Dreezil accompanied Firiona through many subsequent adventures, right up to her fateful visit to the Ring of Scale. When the dragons stole the memories of the party, he was transported magically back to his hometown of Rivervale with no recollection of the events. He spent the next few years dabbling in various trade skills, becoming rather adept at the chemistries of poison along the way.