In the grease-choked dark of the Oakhaven sewers, Pip-Pip was merely 'Unit 44,' a trap-fitter destined to die by a faulty spring or a hungry rat. His life changed when a discard from the surface—a water-logged, mold-eaten copy of 'The Lays of Sir Valerius'—drifted into his workspace. While his kin chewed on the leather binding, Pip-Pip dried the pages by a bioluminescent fungus and learned to read. He found a world of soaring towers, shimmering silk, and the radical concept that a person’s worth was measured by their kindness rather than their hoard. He began to practice his 'courtly bow' in the muck, much to the mockery of the warren.
His ascension was a beautiful accident. During a particularly lonely night, Pip-Pip climbed a ventilation shaft to see the moon and began a high-pitched, tearful recitation of a sonnet to the stars. The sheer, unadulterated sincerity of the moment caught the ear of Lord Thistle-Down, a minor Archfey of the Summer Court who was passing through the Material Plane. Thistle-Down found the image of a sobbing, sewer-stained kobold promising to 'defend the weak with heart and scale' so delightfully absurd that he granted Pip-Pip a spark of fey nobility on the spot. Now, Pip-Pip wanders the surface world, convinced he is a knight of legend.
He has traded his wrench for a needle-thin rapier and his rags for 'armor' made of polished brass ladles and pot lids. Every time his kobold instincts scream at him to flee from a shadow, he forces his trembling knees to lock, touches the soggy book tucked into his sash, and charges forward with a high-pitched battle cry that sounds more like a sneeze than a challenge. He doesn't just want to be a hero; he wants to prove that even the lowliest creature can possess a soul of pure, radiant gold.