Bloodsong

Class Path:

Barbarian

Psionic

Shaman

Gender: Male

Race: Fey

Character history

The Legend of the Crimson Melody

Of all the cities in Creation, in Alyria and beyond, there exist none so glorious, none so awe-inspiring, as the mighty castle of Seelie. The white towers, shining with such luminous brilliance as to cause the Heavens to color with envy, stretch upwards for miles, standing out among all the Creations of Vandyne. This luster, this study in aesthetic perfection, is equaled only by the inhabitants of the Castle itself, ranging in status from the lowly servant, all the way up to King Sandoval, paragon of virtue that he is. Seelie is utterly utopian in nature--government functions smoothly, without the typical delays of a bureaucracy in preserving Mercy and Justice, crime is completely non-existent, and every last Sidhe experiences more joy in his or her lifetime than any mortal has ever or will ever have the pleasure of living through.

Unfortunately, this age of Perfection has long ceased to be, washed away by the great Injustice of Injustices, by the colossal Misunderstanding--by the Day of Tragedy. Whereas all that has been previously said was once true, to say it now with any degree of seriousness would be a lie so great, so debased in nature, that to utter it would be an Affront on all that is well and decent. Since that time, Seelie has degenerated into a haven of debauchery, spurned by the Divine and reduced to a laughingstock from all other parties. Gather round, that thou might hear the tale of how this came to be, that thou and thy lands might be able to save thine own selves from such colossal mistakes in thy future.

Know now, that of all the pleasures of Life, none is quite so recognized as akin to Ambrosia as Music; know also that the Musicians of the Seelie Court are superior to any 'minstrel' or 'bard' you might find anywhere. There are men, there are 'musicians', and there are those residing in the Court with such extraordinary skill that a single note inspires more passion, more feeling, than a common musician's life's work.

And then, there are the Twelve Harmonics--musicians of such exquisite talent that placing them with others of far lesser ability would be an affront against the music itself. The Harmonics exist far above casual Seelie existence, so much so as to be a final, penultimate class, living their lives only below the divinity of the Crown. Know still that each Harmonic, as well as being the finest of their kind, also encompasses one style so truly, so majestically, that calling it 'their form' exaggerates nothing. Transient Melody Clad in Tears causes near-suffering of the soul, so exquisite the tone of her tragedies; Exquisite Perfection of Grace inspires dances that Legends have truly been made of; Requiem Whispered by Autumn's Leaves offers eulogies which offer condolence and misery at the deepest possible layer of one's heart.

One of the Harmonics, the sidhe known as Rapturous Fulfillment of Whimsy, found his calling in making ballads and sonnets. Legends rose and fell, good triumphed over evil; above all, passions flared brighter than a thousand suns, and capricious humor and irony brought joy and laughter to the bleakest of moments. The works wrought by Whimsy became the most beloved of the Court--so much so that Whimsy was asked on occasion by Sandoval Himself, the greatest of the great, to perform where none other could. No jealousy was garnered over this; the other Harmonics recognized that some musical variations are better accepted in courts than others, and let it be at that. Joyous music swept throughout the Great Hall, Whimsy garnered favor with Lord and Lady alike, and the peace and prosperity surrounding the land grew stronger than ever.

It came to pass that in a fit of his namesake, Whimsy wrote a ballad mocking the foremost wizard of the court, Majestic Triumph of Creation, as being a dullard, a hermit and, above all, devoid of even the slightest bit of humor. It described the mage's truthfully failed attempts to win the heart of a Lady of the Court, yet cast it in mocking light, laughing at his social fallibilities. Near the end of the story, the Lady, laughing, spurned his advances while professing a certain measure of affection for a Bard of the court... a passage that was soon duplicated with great fervor in reality.

Needless to say, Triumph was less than happy with this; truth be told, the rage he showed that day far exceeded any such emotion felt by any resident of Seelie to date. At the height of his temper, Triumph challenged Whimsy to the kind of duel only fought heretofore in his ballads--a duel to the death, for the heart of a maiden. Feigning reluctance he truly felt not, Cautious Whimsy accepted the challenge, naming that night as the time Triumph shall perish. Many followed the event, thinking it to be a great undertaking in bringing the Music to Reality, and thinking it would be a joyous occasion akin to that of a ballad... but alas, 'twas not to be, and the reality of the situation quickly turned to horror.

The two stood opposite each other atop the shining walls of the Castle, their respective weapons drawn--Whimsy, a mirthful smile playing across his face and his delicate rapier in hand, faced Wrathful Triumph, energy crackling around his hands as he brought his will to bear upon yon Harmonic. Long did the two battle, and Colossal were the struggles--Lithe Whimsy bent his nimble form around strokes of lightning to nick passing scratches upon Triumph's scarred visage, laughing all the while; Triumph's madness rising to unknown heights at his opponent's taunting, bringing powers of Fire and Ice upon the Bard; Mocking Whimsy, scorched but unfettered, scoring occasional strokes upon Triumph's haggard person, doing more to mock and enrage his opponent than to inflict any true damage. As the audience laughed gaily at yet another Masterpiece of Performance, Triumph's Wrath consumed his personality utterly, and something inside of him... changed. His face lost all remaining vestiges of sanity, and he let out a shrill, painful laugh, at once reducing the laughter of the audience to stunned silence.

'All who witness this, beware!' his voice cackled into the dearth of sound, as Whimsy ground to a halt, a look of truest Horror crossing his face. 'You mock me in derision as being worthy of your laughter, and you praise this SONGBIRD for filling your lives with frivolity!' He sighed just then, a look of pity flickering across his face; yet, as quickly as it had come, his visage twisting once again into a kind of unholy glee. 'You shall all seeing the error of your ways, starting with this one, mine loathed enemy.'

At once, the deranged wizard began chanting, the words being lost to Eternity as a ball of darkness began to grow between the complicated gesticulations of his fingertips. The writhing mass of shadows seemed to draw all ambient light into it, darkening the moonlit landing to blackest midnight; then, shrieking his darkest curses, Majestic Triumph of Creation hurled the shadows into the resplendent form of Rapturous Fulfillment of Whimsy, curses turning to the same mocking laughter he had endured moments before as the darkness surrounded the once-wondrous Harmonic.

And the shadow-bound form shrieked in horrified anguish.

And, for a moment, Silence fell over the world as the Gods themselves mourned Creation's loss.

And not once did the twisted sorcerer take his gaze from that which he had blighted.

With a cry of despair, the shadow-wreathed figure launched himself from the stones of the parapet, his rapier stabbing in the direction of the mage--yet, proving himself far more nimble than his malformed appearance would suggest, Triumph narrowly avoided the blow intended for his chest, deflecting it with a wave of his hand. However, his skill was insufficient as to completely avoid all damage, and the rapier caught his smallest finger, severing it and spilling his blood across the shadows as the figure's motion carried him past the maimed wizard. The shadows howled as the mage's blood mingled irrevocably with the figure.

Slowly, the shadows began to rise off the figure. A darkened, twisted foot was revealed, though with a hint of strength about it. Ashen skin came into view where skin as pure as the Gods themselves had once existed. Muscled, calloused arms and hands capable of little more than tearing off chunks of meat replaced lithe, graceful limbs capable of bringing to joy to millions upon millions of beings with melody. Ebony, batlike wings folded themselves around a body that once housed wings akin to Seraphim. As the being's face was brought into view, a shocked gasp arose from the throng at the sight of two small, pointed, and above all, razor-sharp fangs protruding from the mouth that had kissed, cajoled, and inspired the court at large... from the jaws of a fey.

Most could guess at the remainder of the story, especially considering the depths which the Court has sunken to at this very day. The horror fled from the parapet with the court's soldiers, who had seen nothing of this incident, in hot pursuit, initially attributing the damage to the castle walls to a confrontation between Triumph and a fey who had somehow evaded them thus far. Triumph continued his sorcerous betrayal, turning nearly every sidhe in the castle into pale mockeries of their former selves--faeries who spurned the modesty and dignity of clothing and flaunted their uncovered assets, sidhe mutated into mindless, six-legged beasts more than happy to allow themselves to be ridden as a common mount, and some wandered into the hills, smoking strange substances and using formerly strong magical energies for the simple purpose of floating upside down in midair. After this ghastly act, the wizard appeared to gain a small bit of reason, teleporting himself far from the castle before Sandoval, who was the sole unaffected sidhe, could catch him. Some say that the sheer power of the energies brought to bear left him winded, too tired to defend himself against some beast or another in the Faerie Wilderness, perhaps by one of the monstrosities he himself created. Some say that he constructed a tower in a corner of the plane, continuing to perform experiments on manipulating the flesh and spirit. Neither of these rumors has been truly substantiated, but both still run rampant throughout Creation, and a few deaths are reported each year from witless adventurers out to find the wizard's body or his tower.

As for the once-glorious Rapturous Fulfillment of Whimsy, little is known. All of the reports received thus far tell different stories, although all of them report sightings outside the Faerie Plane, and how he got there is unknown. One reports a fey face with strange, alien features on a murderous rampage in the city of Templeton, hacking apart men and animals alike with a steel battleaxe. Tales have been heard of a similar figure blasting apart mighty dragons with the power of his mind alone. Yet another claims to have witnessed the figure performing strange rituals in the forest, healing himself and others of his brood with the power of some pagan god. All tales, however, have one thing in common that binds them all together--a strange, haunting melody that seems to emanate from the twisted creature... a song, above all else, of Blood.