Cambare

[Cambare]

Cambare

Race: Akvatari
Gender: Male
Birthday: 73rd of Fall 494 AV
Birthplace: Abura
Languages: Common
Location: Zeltiva

- 6 feet tall (tail to head)
- 40 pounds
- little muscle and little fat
- dark, charcoal fur
- brooding gaze
- light, translucent wings with black veins
- ink stained fingers
- thin scar across his chest from the right shoulder to just above his left hip
- typically smudged with actual charcoal
- dark hair, longer on top, shorter on the side

artistic - macabre - curious - philosophical - brooding - fatalistic -permissive - observer - gentle - drab - grandiloquent - neutral

All things that are born eventually age, wither, and die.

Cambare was, since a young child, always interested in what he considers to be the linear nature of death. The concept of reincarnation, while later introduced, never seemed to stick with him, a boy set on the idea that all things must come to a final end. It is this interest that he embodies, captivated by the natural decay of mortality, Cambare is not known for his warmth or empathy. His interests lie in the dead and dying; like a vulture, he gathers around the sick and frail, light eyes awaiting dark ends.

Speech is merely a poem yet penned, and he treats it as such. His voice is typically a deep, rolling baritone, one that can often seem louder by the peculiar nature of his pronunciation. Cambare never mumbles; every word is said with all the respect and precision due the art form he believes to be the spoken word. His flower speech, however, is the only grandiose thing about him.

Dark and darker are his typical forms of appearance. With his natural predisposition towards the physically bland, very little about Cambare sets him apart from any other Akvatari. Of course, he is still an Akvatari, and to those who are not familiar with the race, he may appear as exotic as one might find a child of the sea and sky.

Very little affects Cambare, good or bad. Joy and sorrow, pain and pleasure, even such simple things as a shy smile or a pensive frown, very little hold particular meaning to him. It isn't that he doesn't understand nor that he doesn't feel, only that his interest in these things is limited. Cambare smiles when he wants to smile and frowns when he wants to frown, but nothing captures his attention like a dying breath.

When death is involved, then Cambare comes to life. The more blood, the redder his own cheeks. The greater spread of disease and weakness, the more intense of burn his eyes. It has always been this way with him, since he can remember, and while he is fascinated with death, he takes no part in it. He has never felt the urge to end another's life - beast or brother - but neither does he feel the compulsion to save. He is, in essence, a silent observer; he revels in the inevitable, the unchanging end that meets all living things.

For all things living, however, Cambare holds only passing interest. When asked (and often when not), he has little trouble voicing his own views, always partially curious in the philosophies of others until such things prove either too dissimilar or too dull. Never without his journal and some writing implement, Cambare spends the majority of his time penning down his thoughts, whether it be in poems or simple shorthand notes. He is not shy about sharing his work, but his style of calligraphy does not lend towards legibility.

"Lost, broken; the world breathes new life o'er the land. Here he lies helpless,
With wailing tongue, outstretched hand, he begets death."

Cambare was brought into the world in blood, and it is through blood he finds beauty in life and death. His mother, a pensive, languid woman skilled with a paintbrush but fumbling over words found him peculiar. His father raised him, though the arrangement was causal. Neither were very interested in the other, and when time came for him to part with them, there was little ceremony in his departure.

No, his history was better formed in the world of literature, both spoken and recorded. He learned to read from an age where it was expected, but his voracious appetite for the written word and performances alike betrayed his nature's calling. He took to the quill young, choosing his own form of writing over those that had already been established. The world of poetry was always the most appealing to him, the most poignant.

The world around him, his world, had always been littered with death. Perhaps not quite the homicidal picture that might instill, but in the passing of a spider's final web, the thrash of a fish's last struggle, the fading of the sun into the corpse of the moon. He found beauty in these things, in the wonder of life in the face of death, in the finality of one's lingering breath, the drift from one world into the beyond. He found words, and only words, could express his wonder, his amazement, his unyielding avarice for death and all its children.

What Abura did not have, however, was enough death. The world of the Akvatari, so simple and dreamlike in its artisan nature, was too filled with life. Yes, what had come before required a passing so that new growth might rise up, but it was a steady elegance, a lace with an ever repeating pattern that wore upon him year after year. He felt himself stifled, his creative soul bound by repetition. Until one day, when he drifted between the spires, listless and brooding, he saw a man fall. He had no wings nor tail, only the desperately clawing hands and flailing legs as hairless as the squared jaw twisted in numbing terror. He had followed the descent, drinking in the scene as if it had been a private show for him and him alone, deaf to the breathless pleas, the groping clutches at air, and he had watched as hope - its delicacy never before appearing so gossamer as in that moment - drifted from his gaze the tick before his body broke against the ground.

Oh what a glorious sound: the crunching of bone, the splitting of skin, the soft hiss of life lost.

Humans held the interest he had been missing. They had not wings to save them nor tails to swim. The more he learned about them, the more he craved them, the more he wanted to watch them die in all the strange and novel ways he had yet to experience: plague, murder, war. The greed and desperation of ballads, the depravity of man... They called him across the sea, and he heeded their summons. Man would offer him what his own people could not: death in all its garish glory.

Skills

Skill		EXP		Total	Proficiency
Calligraphy		10 RB + 16 SP		26	Competent
Composition		26 SP		26	Competent
Writing		8 SP		8	Novice

Lores

Composition: The Elegy- U | - U | - U | - U | - u u | - -
- U | - U | - | | - u u | -
Calligraphy: Emotive Lines

Possessions

1 Set of Clothing
-Linen Band of Cloth (shirt)
1 Waterskin
1 Satchel which contains:
-Comb (Wood)
-Brush (Wood)
-Soap
-Razor
-Balanced Rations (1 Week’s Worth)
-1 eating knife
-Flint & Steel
-10 Ink Sticks
-20 Charcoal Sticks
-3 Vials of Ink
-5 Quills
-2 Blank Books


Heirloom: Leather bound journal

Housing: Cottage, roughly 20x20, includes a hearth, bunk, chest, chair, and table in East Street.

Ledger

Purchase	Cost	Total
Starting	+100 GM	100 GM
Ink Sticks (10)	-3 GM	97 GM
Charcoal (20)	-1 SM	96 GM 9 SM
Ink (3)	-3 GM	93 GM 9 SM
Quill (5)	-2 SM 5 CM	91 GM 4 SM
Blank Book (2)	-6 GM	85 GM 4 SM