«MarioGuy's Profile»

Current Username: MarioGuy
Stars: 35
Rank: Guildmaster

Character:

Name «» Cyprian Acrisius. Also known simply as the "Melancholy Bard."

Gender «» Male.

Age «» Twenty-seven. A note: as Faevrians have a swifter aging process than normal humans do, Cyprian would have the maturity of a thirty-something-year-old, though he is but in his late twenties. Though this doesn't particularly reveal itself very obviously, there is a succinct difference in a Faevrian's countenance, at least when compared to a human.

Race «» Faevrian. In laid-back perception, Faevrians are a sub-branch of humans — they are mortal creatures, appear for all purposes humanoid, and seem to have humanity's sinful nature. However, Faevrians do not especially enjoy being compared to humans, as they are not human; descended from the fay, the faeries of old, they merely scoff at our limited view on life. Indeed, their society is considerably different from humans. They have their own ideologies, their myths, their caste system, and their subtle, unique physical features.

Allegedly, the Faevrians were descended from the fay. The gods of the particular subsection of fay they were descended from (the faera) are their gods — the elder god is known as Dion. According to the tradition of the faera, the Dion shaped all fay from the stars of the heavens, granting these peculiar short creatures wisdom and magic. The Faevrians believe in the same creation; the difference, of course, being their belief that Dion had eventually led some of the faera to become taller, to change . . . Thus, the Faevrians came to this world as gifted ones.

Faevrians are naturally tall and lithe. They have well-toned bodies, though their weight rarely ever exceeds two hundred pounds. Sharp-nosed and sharp-chinned, they have slim, fair faces. Usually, they have either striking golden or crimson hair, which, as part of tradition, they must keep above their neck (along with that, Faevrians are forbidden to grow mustaches or beards, as that is a thing of humanity). A particularly unique feature of the Faevrian build is the composition of their eyes. They are always green, though it ranges from light to dark — the strange part is the fact that they have no "white" in their eyes. Everything is perfectly green, which gives these eyes an eerie sort of disposition. This is the main distinguishing feature from a human and a Faevrian.

The life of a Faevrian is a rigid one. Children grow and mature quickly, as the Faevrian aging process is swift (contrary to that, Faevrians also have a lengthier life span than humans: they can live up to a hundred and twenty years with relative ease, due to their faera blood). They are bold and daring creatures — almost arrogant in their ways. They believe that they are supreme in the world, yet they have no want to rule it, as they feel it is utterly malignant, a thing that not even Dion could have prevented. While they used to be widespread across the world, Faevrians lost their confidence to travel. Their numbers dwindled slowly and slowly, until, at last, their last abode was in the lush, mountainous valleys of Fana. Through powerful magic and cunning, they have kept themselves hidden from the rest of the world (that is not to say, they have not contacted other races; they have, numerous times, but feel that seclusion was a necessity). It was the age of the humans, of wars — and they wanted no part of it.

Lastly, the Faevrian castes are quite odd in their presentation. The highest caste is that of the warrior, the lord, the ruler — known as the satriyon. The caste aside from that is of the mages, the teachers, the wise ones. These are the bramon. The vaisyon, which is directly below, are the farmers, merchants, and artisans. To finish it off, the sudraon are the servants and the laborers. While the Faevrian believe that even the sudraon are superior to your average human, there is a definite distinction between the castes.

A Faevrian's eye color is very important in distinguishing castes. One of the satriyon caste always has dark-green eyes, while the sudraon have light, tinted green (as you can see, the lower your class, the lighter the green). Also, there is one other "caste," if it can be called that. It is given to those who are essentially exiled from the Faevrian lands; the name of it: exalon. The very word itself is defiled, polluted. Only the harshest travesties against Faevrian tradition may allow such a granting.

What is unique about a Faevrian, you ask? They are, of course, granted longer lives than humans, as stated previously. However, mostly, it is their magic and their personality that strikes a different tone. All Faevrians have some sort of magic in them — some are gifted with war magicks, other with healing spells. Faevrian magic can be used in anything: in weaving, in sculpting, in war, and in work. The essence of this magic is quite the opposite of simple; it is something mysterious, that can be used for whatever purpose they seek. Magic is precious, what defines their difference from the rest of the world. Personality-wise, they are gifted with having strong minds. Even the lowly workers have their wisdom, a certain intelligence to them. Old wives' tales are valuable, along with what humans would consider "superstitions" and "fairy tales."

Yet — even with this wisdom, Faevrians err and corrupt. Faevrian culture is almost self-contradicting, as they themselves are sinners. Only the faera watching them would know of the transgressions they committed, in the Later Days . . . one which had to do with a prince by the name of Cyprian.

Class «» Virtuosic enchanter. As the name implies, Cyprian is, quite simply, a bard-mage. These particular bards are masters at their calling: music. Cyprian himself acts as a minstrel, with a fair voice, as well as a musician. He plays most stringed instruments with sublime air; the harp, as you will see soon, is his specialty. With that comes the enchanting. Virtuosic enchanters have focused magical skills. Part of the magic is channeled through their musical instrument of choice (in Cyprian's case, the harp) — the instrument has certain magical requirements; thus one cannot pick up an ordinary violin and start blazing spells at another.

The musical spells have mental connotations, as well as physical. They can cause charms to occur, such as increased speed in the user, or certain effects, such as noxious fumes entering the air, to come out of thin air. Of course, these require certain tunes to be played (with precise pitch, notes, etcetera). If one is sufficiently skilled, you can enter another's mind with the music, which can cause happiness or madness, depending on said musician's personality.

One mustn't assume, if a virtuosic enchanter is lacking his instrument — his weapon — of choice, that he is completely useless. In fact, this is quite the opposite. As long as the enchanter is proficient enough, he may cast elemental spells, formulate his own strategies and spells, and such. The magnitude of the spells that a bard-mage can cast develops with practice and time. Over many decades, one of these virtuosic enchanters can become as powerful as an archmage.

Physically, virtuosic enchanters are not benefited. While they have essential fighting skills, and may even possess a weapon, they rely mostly on their charm and their magic to squeeze their way through tight spots. Being wanderers at nature, they sing and play for pleasure, for entertainment, and for a living — for that is the bard's life.

Appearance «» Cyprian Acrisius can perhaps be described in one word: somber. In a single glance, one will notice that he is handsome — and in the next, observe that this person is just a shadow of a former self, hollow . . . broken. There is a profound quality in his countenance; all can see that he was once a bold, daring fellow, one with vivid — and perhaps rash — dreams, yet all this is just a once upon a time sort of thing. Those dreams have vanished, replaced with a trickle of irony and an utter sadness. Just from a look at his eyes, your heart will melt away, longing for something that you cannot attain. Your soul will be just like his, lingering for the moment of power, of grace, of all that cannot be.

Typical of a Faevrian, Cyprian is lean and somewhat tall, at a square six foot in height, but only a meager hundred and thirty-five pounds. Nonetheless, he is well-toned, his body a blend of elegance and regalia; Cyprian seems to adopt a stately demeanor, in both his talking and his walking, a remnant of his shattered past. The bard has a striking resemblance to one that keeps only his bearing the same as ever — yet nothing else has been heralded from his past, save that.

Once, Cyprian's eyes used to be a dark emerald green, piercing and bold, though those characteristics have dripped away. Now, they are still emerald, with no white at all (as all Faevrians), yet they have lost their luster. They are dull, lighter, perceiving much differently than the eyes of the past. All that can be seen in them is a swirling void of melancholy, of present; of nothing else. Indeed, the eyes are beautiful, beautiful yet portraying naught but the tragic — Cyprian's eyes show the world as it truly is. His face also retains that same somberness. It is unusually fair, though there are lines of weariness and sorrow etched through it. Even the eyebrows are always furrowed in pessimism. Long eyelashes give way to his eyes, bent downwards in acceptance. His chin and nose are sharp, slanted in an almost charming way. Cyprian's lips are thin and frail, a blushing red. His teeth are pearly white, though he doesn't often show them.

Another particularly fine feature of his was his hair, golden in color, with very thin streaks of silver nearing the bottom. Contrary to Faevrian tradition, his hair is lengthy, dropping to his shoulders in magnificence. A more grave sin that he had committed was to grow a beard and mustache; they were thin, being yellow and brown, the beard stopping just a little below his chin. This only heightened the sorrow in his face, the blatant, scornful disregard of Faevrian rules.

To his neck: it is of no special regard, or so it seems, yet when you take a look at Cyprian's otherwise-pleasant neck, you see a golden line circling his neck, especially standing out in the sun. What is this? A sort of brand, it is assumed, perhaps for a crime long forgotten — but that is not true, for this particular crime was not forgotten, instead intensified as the years passed by.

As you go farther downward on his body, you witness his build. It is, as mentioned before, lean, yet still with muscles developed over ages of wandering the world as a bard. His arms span a good measure, leading to his slender, dexterous fingers, undoubtedly superb for playing his harp. Cyprian's chest is not at all flabby (in fact, it has not an ounce of fat). To the same degree as his arms, he is long-legged; his legs are particularly muscular, from exercise and training of days past. With a swift finish, Cyprian has been gifted with strong, durable feet.

The bard always wears a necklace of gold. On this particular necklace is a sapphire brooch; scripted onto this brooch is an engraving of a harp, used to further channel Cyprian's magical powers. Of course, Cyprian is also known to be garbed in other things as well. He always travels cloaked — his cloaks are always silken, usually alternating between dark blue and silver, and adorned with fine golden lace. Preferring to have light clothing, he usually has dark-colored leather breeches and a crimson shirt; the latter is normally buttoned, held with the breeches by a leather belt. To conclude his attire, Cyprian wears soft boots, of dark gray color.

Personality «» Cyprian is simply a bard. His songs are of the past, the present, the future, of tales and legends, of marvelous stories unraveling. Far from being rash, Cyprian is contemplative; he always thinks before he acts. Indeed, some might even see him as cowardly — he is neither bold nor daring, though many years ago, he was. He is a pessimist, presenting flaws in almost everything. Thus, Cyprian rarely makes friends — he always has an audience as a bard (whether it be a crowd, a farmer, or himself), but not friends. Utterly melancholy, the bard always has a tinge of sadness in his songs, and even the most joyous tales have the tragic injected into them when he sings. Of course, Cyprian is quite cunning and intelligent during battle and song. Tactics are not lost upon him as his contemplation leads to action. Singing and talking majestically, his profound nature affects all that know him.

While wandering, he prefers solitude, very rarely traveling with a companion; which, needless to say, is strange for a bard. Nonetheless, Cyprian is somewhat amiable when it comes to audience, knowing that to please the audience is to heal his soul piece by piece (yet even when he is amiable he causes sorrow). He speaks his mind when he speaks at all, never sweetening his opinion. Even though he knows a bard dare not be too arrogant, Cyprian knows of his own skills — and is not afraid to show them. Enchanting is a pleasure to him, casting spells through his songs and hands. Music is another joy of his, if anything was a joy to him: playing his harp did not make him happy, per se, yet it drove through him a sort of semblance of happiness, a memory of flowers and of laughter, of a better world.

Always, though, there is sorrow in Cyprian, a sadness that will pervade through him for the ages to come . . .

Weaponry «»

Harp of the Fay ~ The Harp of the Fay is one of the prized harps in the world. It has a rich tune, sorrowful and joyous at the same time. Magic has been imbued into it. Its namesake, the Fay, the fairies of old, were its creators, forging a harp for their prized music. The fairies thrived on music; they believed it to be an art rivaling magic, a pastime and a living. It was their soul, while magic was their heart. Harps were one of their prized instruments — the Harp of the Fay was the greatest one of fairykind.

It is a curving harp, rather small. Altogether, it is about two feet in height (While this seems small to humans and Faevrians, it is rather large for a fairy, who are only about three or four feet in height, after all). Made out of what looks like pure gold, it is light and easily strapped on Cyprian's back. The width from shoulder to pillar is one foot. Runes are spread across the harp, a mysterious and enigmatic language of fairies. These are the essence of the magic that lies within the Harp of the Fay. Imbued into it, the runes contain all sorts of various magic powers, allowing a virtuosic enchanter like Cyprian to wield it well. Also, there are many notches in the harp, where gems are infixed. These gems are of various types: rubies, sapphires, diamonds, etcetera, all fairy collected. They are used in collaboration with the runes, causing special magical effects to occur at sporadic times.

There are thirty-three bronze wire strings on the harp, crafted with magical material emblazoned into them. Being a lever harp, there are small, rounded levers placed on the top of every string. These levers are pulled to change the pitch of the music, especially for sharps and flats. For magic, these levers have to be turned to specific places for some notes — everything has to be particular, and only a master of the harp can truly cause anything magical to occur.

A good image of how the Harp of the Fay looks. As this is a miniature, there are much less strings on the picture than on the harp. http://www.absolutelyvintage.net/theme/xmas/harp.jpg

The Harp of the Fay plays extraordinarily. Its tones are rich and vibrant, and various types of music may be played on it, as long as the musician knows how. Magic, of course, is something on a higher level. Not only does it require playing the correct music, sometimes it needs you to press certain runes or gems, as well as a level of concentration and thought on the particular spell. Only after years of playing will one learn even some of the magic that the harp offers. In the end, it is the power and mind of the enchanter that causes this magic to erupt. Elemental magic will come into play, as well as status ailments and even healing magic. The repertoire of magic that the enchanter will use when playing the harp varies. Usually, some pick a particular style. However, it is always wise to learn spells of your own instead of just relying on the harp.

The history of the Harp of the Fay is rather intriguing. The Fay had decided that their most talented musician — a powerful fairy sage as well — needed an equally marvelous harp. At the time, many fairy tribes were in war against various human kingdoms. Most fairy effort was focused on waging war against their enemy, and the goal of making the greatest harp in the world had slipped away. It is said that the fairies were losing against the humans after a few years. Morale was low amidst the fairies — and the gifted musician was sent to play (as music is much valued in fairy culture) for them. It is also said that the music was so beautiful that the fairies' wounds, both physical and mental, disappeared, and that they eventually won the war. The harp was created for this musician who won the war for them; using only the power of music.

From then on, the Harp was given to the most gifted fairy musician. It then passed on, and its bearer become Cyprian Acrisius in a strange twist of fate . . .

Adonaic Sphere ~ The Adonaic Sphere is, quite simply, an orb, one of seven created by a long-ago sorcerer. At a peek, it appears to be merely a toy: it is golden and small, only about three inches in diameter, created out of a magical, and rather light, material. Strangely, it was made out of a desire of defending ones' self — which, of course, as all weapons, evolved into attacking others as well. The Sphere has a being of itself, a personality, a soul, imbued into it. While these Spheres have been long forgotten, they remain to this day powerful relics, artifacts of the old. What they are, of course, remains to be seen . . .

At a glance, it appears to be rather plain, just a completely golden orb. Yet as seconds pass, one will immediately observe the distinct runes emblazoned on it, a dark, amber shade. They are of a mysterious language long forgotten — an ancient script of magic, wrote with delicate finesse, by the sorcerer whose name I shall mention later. Otherwise, it is perfectly rounded, fitting comfortably in one's pockets.

Its powers are varied. The Adonaic Sphere can hover on its own, having distinct movements and techniques. It channels its own magic; its power is set accordingly with the user, as, naturally, the Sphere is not so powerful. Containing its own harmonies and melodies, the Sphere is a surprising sort of weapon. However, its main purpose is self-defense — Cyprian knows that his enchanting skills are powerful enough to hold on its own, but if he is ambushed, the bard is confident enough to know that the Sphere can hold its own. You see, when the Sphere senses danger, it hovers out and spikes suddenly inject from its innards. They are deadly, about three inches long and half an inch thick each. There are numerous protrusions like this, being the main capability of the Sphere.

With that, you can understand the possibilities. It can harm — even kill, if required — with deadly accuracy, ricochet of walls and tight spots, escaping the enemy due to its size. The Sphere can also enlarge and shrink, depending on the situation; six inches to one inch in diameter, respectively. In the end, it is a distraction, a first mode of defense for Cyprian, but needless to say, the Sphere does this job well. Powerfully magical, the Sphere can also withstand heavy magical attacks, as well as physical. To even dent it requires sufficient energy and power, and to destroy it altogether — that is a different story.

These orbs were named after Adonai, a sorcerer, a spirit-hunter, of ages past. His power was unparalleled in the world then. Early in his life, when he was about Cyprian's age, he forged the seven Adonaic Spheres in arrogance, thinking that they would be all the defense he needed. Adonai knew that their power would be of a magnitude unknown to the world then — but he failed. The Spheres were initially planned to be as a set of three, yet their essence was degraded in the making, scarring their maker (a long gash in his face). They ended up being seven and much weaker than the sorceror had first wanted.

Disgusted and disgruntled, Adonai made his way into the world, meeting many fay tribes. He made the decision to give the Spheres away to several fay tribes. As the years passed and Adonai was long dead, most of the Spheres had been lost. One remained, in the hands of the faera. Eventually, the Faevrians received that last Sphere, to be handed down to the prince of the Faevrians ever since. The tale of how Cyprian Acrisius became the Sphere's bearer, of course, is a story I shall detail later.

Physical/Magical Techniques «» Cyprian has a variety of magical techniques in his repertoire. Whether to fight off a common brawler or a skilled duelist, his music and his magic are polished and subtle . . .

Winged Convocation ¤ Birds represent the bard's free soul. They take flight as a bard does, their flapping as the bard's singing. Winged Convocation is a summoning attack; Cyprian's harp playing abilities channel the summoning. Depending on the tune of the song that Cyprian plays, a different bird (or sometimes birds) emerges out of the air near the harp. For example, a low, warlike tune might cause a noble eagle to appear, while a pleasant, cheery, high-pitched jangle would cause perhaps a flock of pigeons to come. While this attack can be used in conjunction with another, it can also serve its own as a distraction, or a lone attack. Defensive purposes also lie there, as Cyprian can call the birds to cover an escape or retreat. It is a surprising technique, rather delicate for Cyprian's tastes, yet even then, it displays his inner self, a longing to fly . . .

Sorrowful Malady ¤ Music can cause ailments — blind, curse, and whatnot, although this is usually supposed to be symbolic. In this case, the attack Sorrowful Malady has various effects: some involve dusts that can temporarily blind, others can cause confusion within the mind, etcetera. These are particularly useful when trying to escape from an opponent — they can also stand alone. They are conjured with songs (Cyprian's harp is not needed here), the voice. Mostly, they are sad, gloomy tunes, as maladies are. Cyprian uses this advantageous attack especially when he knows he is against a weaker opponent; confuse, blind, send poisonous fumes, and voila, he has won and escaped. Nonetheless, they can fare well even against opponents of higher caliber, with the right combination and timing.

Phantasmal Wrath ¤ Spirits are a part of the world — of the world, yet not quite dwellers of it. Using music, the worldwide language, memories, spirits, are brought back to life. In more ways than one, in this case — this attack, doubling as both an offensive and defensive one, summons back spirits of old that may be lying around in the particular location. They could be anything; fallen knights, dark mages, animal spirits, ghouls and ghasts, or whatever you may seek to procure. The spirits can torment both physically and mentally — it is a signature attack of Cyprian's. Strategically, it is used when warding off an opponent that stands a chance of defeating him. It is a draining attack, taking quite a toll on him, though rather powerful. Depending on the playing of the harp, the spirits vary in number and in type.

Malignant Conduction ¤ One of Cyprian's nastier attacks, it involves the mental and spiritual — with nothing physical. Using the Harp of the Fay, he plays striking chords that will bring back a variety of things in the audience's (usually an enemy) mind. Memories, the worst memories, will come into the mind; your head will feel as if it is being stabbed repeatedly; and things along that like. Confusion and even delirium is a major effect of this attack. It is a psychological attack, purely bent on causing havoc within the mind and soul of an opponent. Cyprian's sorrowful tunes become morbid and depressing. Usually used when the opponent is already weakening.

Cyclonic Fury ¤ This is one of the two wind-based techniques that do not require music to back it up. Cyprian can use these particular skills at any time, as long as there is visible concentration and thought in him. Playing the harp while the technique is being launched, however, does empower it even further. In any matter, Cyclonic Fury is true after its namesake; Cyprian causes some sort of cyclone to come, small and large, in different shapes and sizes. A purely offensive attack, this is used whenever Cyprian does not have the harp near, or needs to react quickly. The cyclones, of course, can vary; different wind-based attacks may come as a consequence, such as sudden flows of air to pummel the opponent, or wind blasts.

Melancholy Winds ¤ The final technique of Cyprian's is similar to Cyclonic Fury in that it does not require any music, but may be empowered by it. It is a defensive spell, a wind barrier of good strength, depending on the magic imbued into it. It conjures up a strong barrier of wind, flows of magical air that will go against other elemental attacks. The barrier can surround Cyprian completely, or just a particular point. With control over it, the bard can even use it to harass an enemy's attack completely. This can be used as a shield to many attacks, both physical and magical. More powerful spells can destroy the barrier, though.

Biography «» When Sol shone its radiant light on an autumn night — a prince was born, a prince in silent might. His name was Cyprian Acrisius, the son of the King and Queen of Faevrians. The prophets had said that he would be the wisest of his generation, the new leader for a new era in the widespread lands. However, the prophets were wrong; the stars and the fates had defied them, as a cruel joke, to create the first Faevrian prophecy to be false. Yet the malicious trick had not been played on the sages, but the prince instead . . .

Perhaps he had the potential to be a great leader. Certainly, he was energetic and charismatic as a child, albeit altogether too pensive and intellectual for a Prince. Cyprian was a strong child, with glittering dark green eyes — as a Prince must have. However, he did not actively pursue warlike activities; fighting was below him. Considering the King his father was one of the most brilliant war leaders in Faevrian history, having fought off ogres and trolls as well as human assaults, it was certainly odd that his son did not inherit the same qualities. Yet Cyprian's intelligence was nonetheless amazing, even for Faevrian aptitude. His magical potential was great; the scholars had seen this since his birth. At a young age, he began playing a harp — naturally, the Queen especially urged the craftsman to create a beautiful harp for her little son. Even the haughty Faevrian musicians had to admit that the Prince had definite talent, as well as interest. With that, Cyprian began a life that seemed to promise greatness, though it was not to be so.

The city of Etchthelon, the capital of Fara, experienced a surge of warlike activity in the years that followed. Rebellions ensued amidst the lower castes — especially the sudraon, the lowliest. Such a bizarre act had never been observed before. The King and his advisors, the scholars and other leaders, called a meeting. One, Cyprian's teacher and mentor, asked for the Prince to be called into the Council — calling the Prince into important meetings was not a rarity, yet at his young age, being but ten, the request seemed to be a strange one.

I remember that meeting as if it were today. I walked into the marvelous council room, nervous, scared, thinking that I had done something wrong. Eyes were glancing at me, the pompous advisors wondering why such a young lad had been called to a council meeting — however important the lad was. They were astonished, naturally. What would I contribute to this? Nothing. I myself did not know. Keeping my head lowered — after bowing down to the Council — I waited. It was an ominous moment, to be sure.

Apparently, I was to be a part of the council that night. They gave me a seat of my own, far away from the King my father. They had called this meeting due to rebellions. The council members had decided that inner and outer forces were plotting against the Faevrians; after all, the Faevrians were growing back to their numbers ages ago. We had many enemies, garnered over the millennia, as I learned when Systhern my mentor taught me. The ogres and trolls, especially, vicious creatures whom we had fought numerous times. There were human kingdoms as well, wanting new land and seeing us as but an obstacle.

But I saw it as weakness within ourselves — our petty laws and rules. Tradition, they called it; it must be kept. Many years later, I would look back at that moment, knowing that they were fools. Yet I was just as foolish as they were.

The Council discussed and argued, and they reached to the conclusion that Faevrians would be attacked in the years to come. How were they to defend their lands? they asked amongst themselves. Cyprian spoke once; feebly at first, but with growing strength. He said that it was they, the Faevrians, that needed to solve their inner problems. The lands had been quiet, too quiet. The caste system was failing, the Prince implied when he spoke.

A few smiles and grins greeted him. Needless to say, the Council did not listen to the Prince, thinking that his childish notions would be erased after a few years study. The Council had decided to muster up an army, to raise morale, to wage war. Sources had spoken, stating that there was a nearby human kingdom wanting the Faevrian land. Smiling sardonically, the King made a rousing speech, displaying Faevrian superiority, saying that they would defeat anything that came their way; and peace and harmony would follow soon.

Sudden disasters started occurring in the Faevrian lands: earthquakes, storms, and the like. The sages said that the tide was turning; no one really understood that, yet decided that the tide was to their advantage. War broke out just a month after the meeting. The nearby human kingdom of Azthalon — they were heretics, worshipping foreign gods — had already begun attacking. Cyprian volunteered to spread the message of war through the lands of Fara, having just turned eleven. The King, despite protests from his advisors, let Cyprian travel by horse, spreading the news across the various cities, towns, and citadels. An army was gathered; of mages and of archers, of cavalry and of swordsman. Retribution had to be paid.

Stark times had come upon their lands. Cyprian was allowed to guide the soldiers at home, training them in military strategy. As more and more days and weeks passed, his brilliance was shown. Attacks had been coming, yet they were held off by the army. The magical power of Fara had stood true; the trees seemed to uproot themselves and attack the enemy, bad luck appeared to spread throughout the human army. In one year the war was won, after the Faevrians captured one of the human fortresses.

We had won the war. Everyone was joyous, or so it seemed. Yet the peasants seemed disgruntled, the lowly castes whom we did not care for. Their lands had been ravaged, their simple lives torn apart by strife. As feasts and celebrations were held, the nobility failed to realize that the lower castes had not benefited at all. I believe I foresaw it; I was no prophet or sage, just a child, yet I knew from the glances the peasants gave to their King my father, that they were devoid of joy.

Cyprian traveled much in these following years, with the permission of his parents. His cousins, most of whom were several years older than him, had found a sudden jealousy of their golden-haired Prince, who traveled across the lands of Fara, even to peasants' homes. Cyprian negotiated with humans, fought off an ogre attack with a band of soldiers, and did various acts that did not go unnoticed. He had not even reached manhood — the age of sixteen — and he had done so much. He was regarded almost as a hero. Friends he had many, though perhaps enemies more. Feelings of spite and rage ensued as Cyprian's deeds grew larger and more important.

In the meantime, Cyprian had received the Adonaic Sphere, being the Prince of the Faevrians. He learned its history, of how a powerful sorcerer had made seven of them and given it to the fay tribes, how the faera had gotten it and then eventually gave it to their Faevrian descendants. Most of all, however, Cyprian learned how to use it as a weapon, and he always kept it in his pocket since then.

And then, two weeks before Cyprian's sixteenth birthday, his father was killed. The killer was unknown; apparently, the King had been stabbed.

I remember my mother's sobs. I could feel nothing but intense surprise, cold, piercing my heart. The throne was not mine yet; I had to be sixteen. An uncle of mine, an outspoken speaker in meetings, by the name of Daedalus, was made temporary holder of the throne. Suddenly, as the proclamation went up that Daedalus was King of Faevrians — I remember something jolting within my heart. I was troubled. When I turned sixteen, Daedalus continued to keep the throne, urging me to wait a few years before taking my birthright. I listened to him, fool that I was, unknowing of the political wars going on in Faevrian culture, the flawed state of affairs that I had spoken about many years ago. Philosophy and knowledge would not save me now. My mother was oblivious to all this; she had reached an almost deadened frame of mind.

His teacher and scholar, Systhern, told Cyprian to be wary of Daedalus and his followers. They were looking to take the throne — take it and keep it. Cyprian could not exactly comprehend this (After all, Daedalus was his father's brother), but listened to Systhern's wisdom, in any matter. Systhern also commanded him to hide the Sphere. Together, they cast a powerful charm on it — the Orb would be able to be summoned from its hiding spot by harp, wherever Cyprian happened to be. There was a clause, though; it would only come back to the Prince in dire need. Unfortunately, Cyprian's mentor died only a few weeks later, being very old, almost ancient. He had no one now.

When he turned seventeen, Cyprian spoke at a Council meeting, stating that the condition of Fara was becoming unbearable. Enemies were sure to be gathering, he said, glimpsing this weakness. He reasoned eloquently, proclaiming that the caste system should be abolished, as it had deteriorated over the past decades. Tradition had become false to Faevrians; the Prince called for radical changes, changes that had not been seen since the Faevrians were first born.

Daedalus watched with narrowed brows, knowing that Cyprian would be an enemy from now on. A few days later, Cyprian was thrown into prison in secret. Daedalus himself whipped Cyprian senseless. Numerous tortures were inflicted upon Cyprian. In front of advisors — once friends of the old King, Cyprian's father — Daedalus proclaimed Cyprian a heretic, fallen to human whims. The young Faevrian was put into exile, barely turned eighteen; he was now an exalon, a defiled creature. With the last will he could muster, Cyprian screamed in anguish as he was sent out of Fara — outside Etchthelon, his home since he was born — cursing Daedalus, denouncing the corrupt King. His last statement was to plead to the sages, the scholars, to examine Fara, before being driven off. In the meantime, Daedalus, a cunning and intelligent politician, declared that Cyprian was plotting against the Faevrian kingdom, allying himself with humans. The "King" said that if Cyprian was spotted in Fara, whoever caught him, dead or alive, would become rich beyond their dreams. The Queen died shortly after hearing of her son's exile and alleged treachery, out of sheer sorrow.

The melancholy was injected into Cyprian Acrisius. His face was lined from sorrow from then on — the dark green of his eyes seemed to fade. Wandering became a pursuit of his, just because he wanted to escape the past; his weakness, his flaw. He first met a healer, a sage who lived in hermitage. After living with him for a few months, the healer cured most of his wounds, removing the scars — Cyprian had never heard of a better healer. With a sad smile, the healer said that if he was a great healer, he would be able to heal Cyprian's broken soul. The simple life was Cyprian's desire. The old hermit was wise and knowledgeable yet altogether humble. After leaving, Cyprian wished the healer luck, never seeing him again.

Music became a living for Cyprian soon after. After playing to an audience of humans for the first time, seeing them flip gold coins towards him, observing their sad faces as he sang a legend of old, of how a hero was slain — that was his inspiration. The way of the bard was his calling. However, he had no instrument. For many months, his singing ability was what kept him living. Swiftly gaining knowledge of roots and of living as a wanderer, he made his way through the world. The songs he sung were morose and sad, although he could sometimes project a happy moment or two; they were legends of old, as well as tales that he himself composed. Cyprian longed for a harp, to touch the strings and play, play as a true bard shall.

I followed the tunes in the air, the strumming of a harp — it was beautiful. I wandered amidst places so varied, so different; small towns with gossips aplenty, beautiful plains and hills, and large cities with splendid royalty. By that time, I had already grown a beard and long, wavy hair. Defying my culture — that is, Faevrian culture; I suppose it is not mine anymore. Only twenty when I found the Harp of the Fay, I was younger, rasher. That is another day that I remember altogether too clearly. I was in a forest, mystical, beautiful; it seemed almost unreal. Out of the silence came music, music so beautiful that I was weeping as the moments passed by. The tears flowed down, sorrowful, knowing that their tear-bearer could never play so sublimely. And when I raised my head after nearly bowing, I saw it. Glittering, smiling — it was a fairy, one of the faera that the Faevrians had descended from. It did not speak a word, or perhaps I was not wise enough to hear it. As the fairy began playing once again, I could see the harp: golden, utterly magnificent, greater than any harp I had ever seen before.

A few minutes passed. The fairy suddenly beckoned to me, and I followed. It was flitting its wings everywhere, and I could barely keep up with it. Then, it stopped, as abruptly as it started. A pleasant little grove awaited me. Something happened that I never thought would occur — the fairy handed me the harp. Rather small in my hands, I began playing anything that could come to me. From there, it might have gifted my playing, as I started playing things I had never even known before, with the utmost skill and conviction. I do not know how long the time sped by; perhaps a few minutes, or a few hours. The fairy finally smiled, nodded, and . . . vanished.

This twist of fate had bestowed Cyprian the Harp of the Fay; the first and possibly last time fate had granted him a gift. Perhaps it was mocking him, or perhaps it was genuinely attempting to raise his stature. The bard himself did not care; he had become a musician now, a true bard. Wandering became his livelihood, while music converged into his life. Once more he saw sights of great variety; he had even entered a few fights, with drunken brawlers and other disgruntled foes. His enchanting skills were improving; the harp seemed to have its own magic, and Cyprian seemed to be able to use it to his own advantage. The Faevrian training and the wandering were merging into one, to create a virtuosic enchanter within Cyprian.

The bard was twenty-two when he fought his first real battle. It took place in a rustic village, during the autumnal season, just ten miles away from Fara, as Cyprian was entertaining an audience with his music; the music was so appealing, that even some of the villagers started giving him a few gold coins. A stranger suddenly appeared, speaking out. She was of a winged race, tall and fierce. Scorning Cyprian by stating that playing music for money was defiling its very soul, she seemed to have been greatly angered by his acts. Responding somberly, Cyprian simply said that she was interrupting the flow of the music herself. By that time, most of the audience had run away, although a few lingered to watch the spectacle.

They fought, Cyprian playing his harp and casting various spells he had learned. After a while, it was clear that he was winning, yet the winged lady seemed not to give up. Cyprian seemed to have lost the effort; he did not wish to exert such strength against an opponent that seemed to be overly angry, ever the melancholy bard. And at the end, an orb saved him; it was a sphere, coming in from the heavens (or so it seemed), distracting Caelestis (as Cyprian later learned that her name was). Having not seen this particular orb in three years, memory lapsed into Cyprian — it was the prized Adonaic Sphere. Soon, Caelestis flew away angrily, saying that retribution for the plaguing of music would come to him.

She was odd — she seemed to love music as much as I, perhaps moreso, but for different reasons. I have no recollection of such a character . . . I had an odd feeling, that I'd meet her again.

Cyprian continued his traveling. He met many interesting people, both friendly and unfriendly, and traveled away from Fara. Eventually, he made his way to wastelands two years later, during springtime, where he found the remnant of ancient ruins. Thinking it to be a suitable place to stay for the night, Cyprian began to slumber, when he was interrupted. It was Caelestis once again, and a fight proceeded.

I'm sure she had other motives for the ruins. I suppose an old hatred came up in her heart. This time, she seemed to be even more scornful, arrogant — she had certainly gotten more powerful. Eventually, it came to be a tie; but I had broken her lute with the power of the wind. She fought ferociously, as if she were a warrior of some sort, yet I held her back and escaped. During the months that followed, I had the eerie sensation of being followed by someone or something. I thought of her, but I couldn't be entirely sure.

Eventually, Cyprian journeyed past the wastelands. He met a sorcerer who taught him how to hone his musical talent into magic, and various other acquaintance. Casting and enchanting seemed to be more of a practice as he went further into his wandering. Both magic and music seemed to advance further and further; he learned a variety of other skills, as well, especially learning how to survive on his own. Many interesting endeavors came by him, especially a memorable one where he saved a small town's inhabitants from an orc attack, planning traps with them and beating the orcs away. His sorrow expunged into more of it; the bloodshed and horrors he had seen and would see were what the world was made of. Idealism was lost on him, as it hadn't been many years ago, when he was still a child.

The name of Cyprian Acrisius had spread; he was known by many, though there were no fond memories of him. He was almost cynical and sardonic, and the very aura around him seemed to be anguishing. As a bard, respect came to him, since his musical ability had multiplied. He could now play various instruments, though none were as precious to him as the Harp of the Fay. As a person, he was remembered, not forgotten, but the memories were stark and grievous.

At the age of twenty-six, his travels led him to tundra, arctic wastelands, in the middle of winter, having lost his way. It was harrowing, believing that Death would claim him now. Only the music warmed him as he traveled; it was dizzying, freezing the marrow within his bones. In the sky, he thought he saw a bird soaring in the air — yet it was too large, and it was swooping towards him. It was Caelestis; she did not look angry, although her eyes seemed to be raging.

She asked me to fight her; I couldn't believe it. I was gasping, coughing, morbid thoughts of death crossing my mind. I tried to fight, but I was being pushed back. I had no will whatsoever; my music seemed to be frosted and cold. When it was clear she was the victor, she picked me bodily up and traveled a few miles away, where it was less cold. She left me there; it seemed even her vindictiveness had worn away. My cloak in tatters, I urged my will to move onwards, and finally made it out of the cold a day later.

It was after one year that Cyprian made his way to Kotir, the fabled city of legend. Kotir was a widespread thing in those parts; seemingly, it had come under new rule, a strange new organization, bent on adventure, battle, and so on. As he plodded through the dirt city, he saw the contrast between this city and Etchthelon. Etchthelon was green, vibrant, natural; Kotir was dirt, brick, utterly human. Perhaps it was almost alluring to Cyprian — it could not wipe away his sorrow, yet maybe, just maybe, it would give him a sort of rejuvenation. It was possible that it was the difference between this city and his old home that drew him near. Either way, the bard knew that he had found a new home — at least, for now. After playing to an audience of Koti, Cyprian learned that there were strangers here now, rapidly entering. They had formed a group and taken over the city; they were not harsh, yet they were not kind. It was allegedly the revival of a legend, if a legend can be brought back to life . . .

He decided to investigate. Further talking to the natives brought him to lead that one of these new arrivals was an old legend. The ideals and motives seemed to appeal to Cyprian; they were daring enough to do such a thing. It was a remnant of his old idealism he could see pierced on their brows. Cyprian knew he could enchant them with his music as well; perhaps he could serve to aid them — and, perchance, they could bring something for him as well.

His old mentor once told him that the stars could show you things of the future; that they were there to conceive in you your destiny. The stars, as they glimmered that night, seemed to urge him to defy. The melancholy would never leave the bard, of course; sorrow's grasp was too firm. Yet, guided by the songs and tunes, he would follow — the path of the pilgrim lying ahead of him, satiating a certain longing in his heart.

With that, Cyprian Acrisius, the once-Prince of all Faevrians, exile and wanderer, bard and mage, decided to head towards the citadel of this organization, seeing what they had to offer.

The Intrepid Genesis. Bold beginnings. A beginning of a new life — for myself.