B A L E - C A N T O
Details
Full Name: Bale Canto
Race: Dunash (formerly Hyr'Norai)
Sex: Male
Age: appears roughly early twenties
Height: tall, around six feet
Weight: slim, swimmer's build
Birthdate: Sometime in Searing
Birthplace: a Blacksworn monestary in Shaddai
Profession: Author/Poet
Housing: a small apartment in Amoren
Partners: None as yet
Titles: None
Factions: None
Fluencies: Common, Solanum
Conversationals: None
Ineptitudes: None
Race: Dunash (formerly Hyr'Norai)
Sex: Male
Age: appears roughly early twenties
Height: tall, around six feet
Weight: slim, swimmer's build
Birthdate: Sometime in Searing
Birthplace: a Blacksworn monestary in Shaddai
Profession: Author/Poet
Housing: a small apartment in Amoren
Partners: None as yet
Titles: None
Factions: None
Fluencies: Common, Solanum
Conversationals: None
Ineptitudes: None
Appearance
Yep, yep. I remember him. Tall and pale, like a palace pier. Wrapped up in travel-worn robes. But it was the eyes that stayed with me. Even just passing on the road as I did. He looked at me with those eyes. They were like pearls, like colorless opals. I thought that he must be blind, but he looked at me, right at me. It was like the face of a ghost, calm, unreal, dead blind eyes looking right into my soul.
Oi, he waz a pretty one ‘e was. But them robes was none too kindly appaired. Troof that. I sees ‘em and I think ohh you are a sweet thing wif yer long white hair and clean ‘ands, but all the pretty in th’ land ain’t gonna ‘ide that single stitchin’ on yer collar there. And those sleeves held to cuff by what? A whip-stitch and a prayer I ken. Makes a shabby look from old fabric it does. Better off wifout ‘em. Oh! Now ‘ahm blushin. Lokkit wha’ you do. Tsk!
He was beautiful. Not quite as tall as me, but thin. Slim like those boys that dive for pearls and sponge in the Adena. Pale as ivory with long snowy hair. No rings, no jewelry, maybe one bag to his name. I knew it wasn’t going to rain farthings, but I wouldn't mind wasting some time with that. I asked him if he needed a guide. He only wanted direction to the residence of Lady Anne of Athendor. I must have pointed and then he was gone. Shame, that.
Pfft… If you seen one, you seen a hundred. Oooh look at the pale skin, like milk in the moonlight, long pale hair to flop around in the wind. Luverley traveling robes. He’s as much theater as any of these posing peacocks. The eyes were a but wyrd but this is Daravin. Who can say what mage’s get up to. He came in, asked directions, and bought nuttin. What a chuff!
Personality
Lady Athendor's supplicant? Yes, he's been in and out many times across the months. Very curious fellow. He asked me any number of questions about everything, the city, the nobles, dates and births. He even asked me about myself, which was quite strange. I couldn’t tell if he were interrogating or seducing me. Not that he could have, mind you. He’s no researcher, but he would have lived in the rows if the Book Laird would let him.
He don’t mind being alone. That’s for sure. I’m keeping the pigeons all atop the Westelyn Manor and there he is in the turret window of Athendor house, just lookin out. Good full mornin of tendin an he moves not an inch. Dunno what he is ponderin but I’ve half a mind to show ‘em my bottom. Don’t need another note from Athendor though. No sir. Do not.
We talk about philosophy and poetry, literature and the state of being for sentience in the land. I don’t think I have ever seen him angered and I have tried, more than once. He is just very calm and probing, which I find to be infuriating. He could have the good manners to at least thump the table. It’s all very annoying. We are discussing theology next evening, heh… I’ll have him shouting for sure. Can’t wait!
He’s so romantic. Its like he speaks in poetry all the time. I just want him to write me something. I would keep it forever. And those mysterious eyes. Yes, he is a bit eerie, but I think that adds to his dark charm. Don't you? If I didn’t think she would powder his pelvis, I would have Papa steal him away from the old crone Athendor. What does she want with him anyway? Ugh, I don’t even want to know.
It was the Trukney boys what had me in Waterdown alley. My apron was torn and the skirt was spittin pins when he showed up like a dark nail, top of the row. Them Trukneys is half-a-horse each and they stood to give him a beating, but he just walked calmly towards us, me scrambling for the rain barrels, them cracking their knuckles. Then he summoned a black mote, a ball of something oily and deadly dark. Even the Trukneys knew better than to hostile a Mage, so they hobnailed right out o’ there. Then the ball was gone and he beckoned me out and saw me on my way. Walked me to the end of the row. Why would he do that, sight that I was? Me? I’m nothin'. I don’t even know him. He saved me a savage though, and that’s hard certain.
History
With all courtesy and accolades of imperial right
to the Lady Anne of Athendor,
Dowager Matron of House Athendor;
Assumptive Sire of the Imperial Grant
to lands and Titles of Estate Athendor
and all holdings thereof: ~
On this, the eighth day of Frost, in the year 4612 by Imperial reckoning, I write to you from the dark lands of Icheron, across the sea and from the tides of those mysterious tales that seep from its heart.
I am one Bale Canto, holder of nothing, unknown to all persons of importance and savage to refined ways.
So do not think of me as a being, quill in hand and scratching a plea from some distant ruin. See me instead as a hidden treasure, lost among the tumble of far-off war and blaze. A precious trove of tales and exotic interest.
I am both alive and dead. My unneeded heart beats, my pointless blood courses, yet I am pale and painless. My eyes are dull stars without color or dark.
I was born from bole of a wounded tree, sliced into the world, a tiny sun gleaming gold and crying to the heavens.
In those days my blood flowed red and I needed it dearly for I was a living thing without the slightest touch of death upon me. My parents were a bevy of nurses and maids, my siblings a hall full of little naked heads like my own.
When the time came that I was old enough, the cenobites came for me. Warrior monks, armored in leather, steel and faith.
They took me to the tower monastery, Sacre’ Sang, in Shaddai where I spent several years.
And then they killed me.
From that death I arose as I am now, possessed of thought and will and existence eternal. Deathless forever more.
The tales of your own name, however, are the stuff of lore and wonder in these lands. Your battle with the Near-Lich Teoclan, the annexing of Roandel, your writings on Briomancy and the Burnishing of Flesh, all works of brilliance and no small amount of mastery whereupon I have devoted many hours of study. Thus, it is no accident that this missive reaches you on or about your 89th celebration.
Recently I have been freed from the requirements of the monastery and given leave to travel as I will, experience the world. But what I desire more than all things is an audience with your self, the Red Mistress of Athendor.
I will be traveling from these stained shores to the Great Empire of Daravin and petitioning for entry to Amoren for to offer myself as your servant, your conversation piece, your storybird from a dark land.
And if it please you, exercise your magics upon me. See what becomes of a death-fashioned life. Study me. Quiz me. I fear no cruelty or ruin if I might study in your shadow.
Until me meet, I wish for you glory and strength.
Yep, yep. I remember him. Tall and pale, like a palace pier. Wrapped up in travel-worn robes. But it was the eyes that stayed with me. Even just passing on the road as I did. He looked at me with those eyes. They were like pearls, like colorless opals. I thought that he must be blind, but he looked at me, right at me. It was like the face of a ghost, calm, unreal, dead blind eyes looking right into my soul.
Famton Gall – Carriage Driver
Oi, he waz a pretty one ‘e was. But them robes was none too kindly appaired. Troof that. I sees ‘em and I think ohh you are a sweet thing wif yer long white hair and clean ‘ands, but all the pretty in th’ land ain’t gonna ‘ide that single stitchin’ on yer collar there. And those sleeves held to cuff by what? A whip-stitch and a prayer I ken. Makes a shabby look from old fabric it does. Better off wifout ‘em. Oh! Now ‘ahm blushin. Lokkit wha’ you do. Tsk!
Magoe Leesar – Apprentice Seamstress
He was beautiful. Not quite as tall as me, but thin. Slim like those boys that dive for pearls and sponge in the Adena. Pale as ivory with long snowy hair. No rings, no jewelry, maybe one bag to his name. I knew it wasn’t going to rain farthings, but I wouldn't mind wasting some time with that. I asked him if he needed a guide. He only wanted direction to the residence of Lady Anne of Athendor. I must have pointed and then he was gone. Shame, that.
Anton Hoven – Prostitute
Pfft… If you seen one, you seen a hundred. Oooh look at the pale skin, like milk in the moonlight, long pale hair to flop around in the wind. Luverley traveling robes. He’s as much theater as any of these posing peacocks. The eyes were a but wyrd but this is Daravin. Who can say what mage’s get up to. He came in, asked directions, and bought nuttin. What a chuff!
Sorlee Abrose - Barkeep
Personality
Lady Athendor's supplicant? Yes, he's been in and out many times across the months. Very curious fellow. He asked me any number of questions about everything, the city, the nobles, dates and births. He even asked me about myself, which was quite strange. I couldn’t tell if he were interrogating or seducing me. Not that he could have, mind you. He’s no researcher, but he would have lived in the rows if the Book Laird would let him.
Quend Havenhalt - 4th Librarian of Front Matter and Penitent Returns
He don’t mind being alone. That’s for sure. I’m keeping the pigeons all atop the Westelyn Manor and there he is in the turret window of Athendor house, just lookin out. Good full mornin of tendin an he moves not an inch. Dunno what he is ponderin but I’ve half a mind to show ‘em my bottom. Don’t need another note from Athendor though. No sir. Do not.
Haylik VanDurd - Pidgeoneer for House Westelyn
We talk about philosophy and poetry, literature and the state of being for sentience in the land. I don’t think I have ever seen him angered and I have tried, more than once. He is just very calm and probing, which I find to be infuriating. He could have the good manners to at least thump the table. It’s all very annoying. We are discussing theology next evening, heh… I’ll have him shouting for sure. Can’t wait!
Professor Deanor Taliki Montegart – Orator of 1st Year Ontologarchy
He’s so romantic. Its like he speaks in poetry all the time. I just want him to write me something. I would keep it forever. And those mysterious eyes. Yes, he is a bit eerie, but I think that adds to his dark charm. Don't you? If I didn’t think she would powder his pelvis, I would have Papa steal him away from the old crone Athendor. What does she want with him anyway? Ugh, I don’t even want to know.
Lady Eliza Stien Amberthorn - 3rd Daughter of House Amberthorn
It was the Trukney boys what had me in Waterdown alley. My apron was torn and the skirt was spittin pins when he showed up like a dark nail, top of the row. Them Trukneys is half-a-horse each and they stood to give him a beating, but he just walked calmly towards us, me scrambling for the rain barrels, them cracking their knuckles. Then he summoned a black mote, a ball of something oily and deadly dark. Even the Trukneys knew better than to hostile a Mage, so they hobnailed right out o’ there. Then the ball was gone and he beckoned me out and saw me on my way. Walked me to the end of the row. Why would he do that, sight that I was? Me? I’m nothin'. I don’t even know him. He saved me a savage though, and that’s hard certain.
Jayne Vole – Scullery, House Oarimn
History
With all courtesy and accolades of imperial right
to the Lady Anne of Athendor,
Dowager Matron of House Athendor;
Assumptive Sire of the Imperial Grant
to lands and Titles of Estate Athendor
and all holdings thereof: ~
On this, the eighth day of Frost, in the year 4612 by Imperial reckoning, I write to you from the dark lands of Icheron, across the sea and from the tides of those mysterious tales that seep from its heart.
I am one Bale Canto, holder of nothing, unknown to all persons of importance and savage to refined ways.
So do not think of me as a being, quill in hand and scratching a plea from some distant ruin. See me instead as a hidden treasure, lost among the tumble of far-off war and blaze. A precious trove of tales and exotic interest.
I am both alive and dead. My unneeded heart beats, my pointless blood courses, yet I am pale and painless. My eyes are dull stars without color or dark.
I was born from bole of a wounded tree, sliced into the world, a tiny sun gleaming gold and crying to the heavens.
In those days my blood flowed red and I needed it dearly for I was a living thing without the slightest touch of death upon me. My parents were a bevy of nurses and maids, my siblings a hall full of little naked heads like my own.
When the time came that I was old enough, the cenobites came for me. Warrior monks, armored in leather, steel and faith.
They took me to the tower monastery, Sacre’ Sang, in Shaddai where I spent several years.
And then they killed me.
From that death I arose as I am now, possessed of thought and will and existence eternal. Deathless forever more.
The tales of your own name, however, are the stuff of lore and wonder in these lands. Your battle with the Near-Lich Teoclan, the annexing of Roandel, your writings on Briomancy and the Burnishing of Flesh, all works of brilliance and no small amount of mastery whereupon I have devoted many hours of study. Thus, it is no accident that this missive reaches you on or about your 89th celebration.
Recently I have been freed from the requirements of the monastery and given leave to travel as I will, experience the world. But what I desire more than all things is an audience with your self, the Red Mistress of Athendor.
I will be traveling from these stained shores to the Great Empire of Daravin and petitioning for entry to Amoren for to offer myself as your servant, your conversation piece, your storybird from a dark land.
And if it please you, exercise your magics upon me. See what becomes of a death-fashioned life. Study me. Quiz me. I fear no cruelty or ruin if I might study in your shadow.
Until me meet, I wish for you glory and strength.
With obeisance in the highest,
Bale Canto of far Shaddai
Bale Canto of far Shaddai
