Rynvard Snowsong

[Rynvard]

Rynvard Snowsong

Current location: Sunberth

"Falsity oft presents itself in brevity."
Race: Vantha
Birthday & Age: Fall 488, 22 years of age
Gender: Masculino

"Stare into my soul, and I will show you only hell."
Physical Description: While not beautiful by Vantha standards by the largest stretch of the imagination, Ryn is still quite capable of holding a person captive through sheer charisma, if not curiosity. He keeps his delicate black hair at a good medium length, ranging in exact measurements from 3 inches to 4 inches. Like most Vantha men, Ryn has naturally occuring highlights. His deep emerald green strands of hair are kept at a longer length than his black hair. These strands reach almost to his lean, toned shoulders. And, like most Vantha men again, he uses carved wooden, cylindrical hair clips to great effect, holding his green hair in four long patches. His black hair has the less remarkable task of framing his usually bright gold eyes. Beneath those are a set of less remarkable features. A small nose like those of brethren tops thin lips often in bad shape for wear. His face is slightly more elongated than the average Vantha man's. Deep almond-hued skin lines these features, contrasting sharply with his bright eyes.

This dark skin extends past the face and onto a thin, lightly muscled neck. His neck is rather long compared to his brethren, and only adds to his nonappeal to Vantha women. The long neck itself lies on a set of lean shoulders, toned for density rather than sheer volume. His reach is only slightly shorter than a Vantha man of the same height, and he weighs in the upper ranges of that height as well. The skin on his arms and legs are less weathered than one would expect from a wanderer, but underneath his fur lies a myriad of scars. Without the assistance of a proper healer, each of Ryn's wounds has turned itself into a living story; he is proud of this fact, regardless of its charismatic implications. Small scars dot his face, but the most prominent is the jagged ridge running from the center edge of his hairline to the top edge of his right eye. His knuckles are riddled with small scars, some from trivial matters like tripping over a rock; others come from somewhat less trivial encounters.

Proud of his heritage, Ryn wears the same fur outfit he left home with 3 seasons ago. His grey fur breeches match with his grey fur coat, under which he wears nothing. Despite his pride, Ryn has learned to carry tattered cloth that may have once been a dark grey cloak to cover his distinct fur clothes. His fur hat, which he is the most proud of, must sometimes also be covered by more grey cloth.

At the moment, Ryn wears his fur openly.

"Do you know how the caged bird feels? Open the doors of your heart, and let the beast roam free. Let him hear the trees sing and the rivers cheer. Then step aside, moron, 'cause he was caged for a reason."
Personality: Ryn is as lively and dramatic as his Vantha fellows, but he has difficulty expressing himself in words or facial expressions. While the telling of tales came naturally to his family, Ryn found it difficult to weave the types of tales he often admired after the main meal of the day. This inability to let his caged creativity loose has made a small temper something of a habit for him. When his touchiness peaks, the smallest thing can set him off, but afterwards, he is unshakeably calm and collected - then the cycle begins again. For the most part, it's a simple task to determine how ill-tempered Ryn is feeling; the frequency of his eye-color shifts grows and wanes linearly with this cycle.

For the most part, Ryn tries to stay in the neutral corner of most trivial disputes, though a few small things might irk him enough to participate. Like his Vantha mates, he likes to watch people, then spin their tales over and over in his mind until his musical muse takes over. In dire situations, Ryn will often take the side his instinct tells him to and will stick to his decision stubbornly.

"Hide amongst the trees, little one, for their shadows will bind you to the light."
A man of short stature sits in the gentle snow-covered hills that dot the countryside. There is no fire to keep him warm, and most of his clothes are hanging on a tree branch overhead. Only his fur breeches, characteristic of the hardy Vantha in northern Taldera, remain. It's a wonder how this man can stand the effect's of Morwen's presence as if he were sitting cozily next to a hearth.

The man picks up an old binded book of parchment and a quill, dipping the end in what little ink he has left. Leaning against the trunk of the tough old tree that guards his clothes, the Vantha man squints in the moonlight, straining to see the pages he's written thus far, and perhaps the words he will write shortly. Taking a deep breath, he pens the blank page in front of him...

6th day of Morwen's Winter, 510 AV
I dare not light a candle or stoke a fire tonight. I have come too close to Sunberth to risk being caught. During the day I have passed one or two farmers, and while farmers in other regions may have forgotten me the moment I cleared their field of vision, Sunberth's farmers gave me a look that borders on murderous. What a place I've come to. Three long years of journeying, and perhaps this is where it will end. May Morwen guide my rebirth.

Included in this journal are the songs that tell of my journey. If it is Lhex's will that I should fail in my aspirations, then I should have my music passed to the next soul to venture to this tree. But to understand my music for its worth, it becomes necessary to give you my memories before I left my home, my Goddess, and my family.

Where to begin? It is difficult to summarize one's own life, as I can quickly finding out. Ha! And whoever told me anything in this journey would be even remotely easy? Ah, Morwen bless me, I almost forgot. I was only able to procure a small amount of ink before this night. I must choose my words carefully, my memories wisely. Guide my hand...

I suppose my earliest memory is as good a place to start as any. I was a small lad then, not more than three or four. After my friends and I had finished our crop tending chores, we decided to venture out to the singing trees that, according to legend, was the reason our Hold, Snowsong, was founded at that very spot. Veleda Snowsong, easily the most gregarious of that childhood gang, swore by Morwen herself that she heard her father's song in the wind as it passed through the trees.

I knew that song well. A lively beat, full of energetic glissandos and quick, deft arpeggios of every inversion, her father often liked to whistle the tune as he hauled in another big catch at mid-day, or while he tended the Snowsong Hold's crops. It was his favorite to play, and ours to listen, on his elegantly crafted violin. Sadly, for all of us, Veleda's father passed when we were even smaller than three. Our exact age escapes me; all I know is that I was too young to put a finger on the feeling that swelled inside me when I thought I would never hear that song again.

Naturally, we were all curious as to this discovery. Could Veleda's father be talking to us? Perhaps he was reincarnated not as a mortal, but an immortal? Perhaps he had unfinished business, and the song was his ghost trying to speak to us? The thought chilled us to the bone, and as natural storytellers and lovers of the dramatic, we couldn't help but sneak out.

Something magical happened that day. Perhaps it was Lhex's will that we witnessed the singing trees in person, without the watchful eye of adults bearing on us.

"See!" Veleda had exclaimed excitedly, pointing to the singing trees. "Do you hear it?"

The rest of us exchanged doubtful glances. While we didn't realize then that we each heard something different, we did know none of us heard Veleda's father's song.

"Veleda..." someone began. Morwen, how I wish I could remember his name. To die so young. Alas...

Veleda's heart sank visibly when she realized we couldn't hear what she was hearing. She ignored us, tears in her eyes, and continued to listen. We all continued to listen. Whatever song each of us heard, it captivated us. Music now had dug a deep place for itself within our hearts, our very souls. Each of us would give our lives to music, and more if we could.

I suppose you're curious about what I heard that day. A deep musical inflection, warm against the chilly days of Avanthal. Note sliding - no, transforming, leading - into note, no matter the distance. High notes that were magical rather than shrill, low notes that were powerful rather than soft. That was what I heard, and a better way to describe it I cannot think of.

Damn this ink, and damn that merchant that sold me it. Who would've thunk it - ink that magically disappears. I swear by Morwen the container was full when I bought it just a week ago. it does provide a rich, deep color, though. I'll give the bloody money monger that much credit.

Out of necessity, I must skip ahead to the defining moment in my life. Yes, that day Veleda took us to the singing trees had stamped my life in music, but this has shaped the next 7 years of my ill-considered life.

"Something is missing," my mentor said to me.

I knew he was right, of course. There had been something missing in my music since its seeds were planted in me more than 10 years ago. I had the technical foundations, oh yes. But my mentor knew, and I knew, and the rest of the Hold knew, that something was missing from my music. It was only after my mentor said this aloud to me that I finally learned what it was.

There was a guest at the Snowsong hold. An Inarta woman had come seeking something from one of my family. She was staying in my parents' Arvinta and spoke only a small bit of Vani. Luckily for her, a few of us in the Snowsong hold were fluent in Common as well as our native Vani. I was one of these few. Luckily for me.

Feeling agitated, I decided to visit this Inarta woman. She was brash and loud and didn't care for the after-meal gatherings we Vantha enjoy so much. In hindsight, perhaps going to a fiery woman while feeling quite agitated myself wasn't the greatest of plans. Still, it worked out well enough.

We got on well enough, and we chatted for quite some time. I sang my songs to her and we discussed their meanings. We talked of Inarta culture and of Vantha traditions. We talked of gods and goddesses and magic and might. But for all that we talked, the thing that sticks in my memory to this day about that conversation is her[i/].

She was strikingly beautiful, yes. 19 years of age then, she was, while I was almost of age at 15. Her red hair glowed in the sun's light, and her green eyes could capture the heart of even a Zith. But it wasn't her features that caught me. It was her [i]radiance. There is no better word for it. Her hair flowed with a freedom that I couldn't even have imagined. Her eyes showed a passion for things I thought I would never see. When she spoke, her lips moved in such a straightforward manner.

Could I ever see as those eyes saw? Speak as those lips spoke? Could I ever be as unrestrained as this woman?

And so came the defining moment in my life. She laughed at some joke I made, and a rush of feeling so strong came over me it took all I had not to scream my warcry to the heavens. I was in love.

Damn it! I am nearly out of ink. I am literally scraping the end of the barrel here. I must write quickly.

We had no goodbyes, me and this Inarta woman. No name passed between us. Only laughs and hugs and chides and debates. I woke the next morning to see her skirt billow serenly out the door of the hold. That was the last I saw of her.

I came of age a few seasons later. The Watchtower shone bright, and I made my way to Morwen's palace to pray for her blessing. I received my Gnosis mark, and some odd years later, I set out on my journey to find that Inarta woman, the details of which you will find in the pages prior. If it is Lhex's will, I will reach Sunberth by the morn. It has been three seasons since I left Avanthal. I fear I am becoming a different man with each passing day. If I do survive my experiences here in Sunberth, will I still know who I am? As I will be leaving my journal here, there will be no reminder of my past self as I brace myself against the violence and grit of post-Valterrian Mizahar. Perhaps, then, death may not be the worst option...

...no. I will never succumb to Sunberth's nature. I will never betray Morwen. And I will find that Inarta woman. Lhex be damned, I will find her.

"Training is for the weak, the unskilled. Knowledge is for the unprepared."
Resistance to cold Morwen Gnosis mark (See SS thread)
Music Composition (15)
--+15 starting
Carving (10)
--+10 carving
Singing (20)
--+20 starting
Unarmed Combat (15)
--+15 starting

Lore - Morwen (starting)
Lore - Vantha Culture (starting)
Language - Vani (Fluent) (starting)
Language - Common (Basic) (starting)
Language - Kontinese (Poor) (starting)

"My knapsack? Hah! My knapsack is the Mizahar herself, cretin!"
1 set of grey fur clothing
1 dark grey tattered cloak
1 square of grey tattered fabric
1 waterskin

"Aye, well, moine's a bloodeh knapsack."
1 Set of Toiletries (comb, brush, razor, soap)
Food for a week or 1 bottle of embalming fluid (for Nuits)
1 eating knife
Flint & Steel

"A wise man once said: love thy money as you would love thy neighbor - then stop your neighbor from stealing your bleary money!"
+100 gold mizas (starting)
+500 gold mizas (traded in shelter option)
-----
CURRENT: 600 gm

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