The Bard Cometh!
Name: Lystar
“Flickerfinger”
Age: Seventeen
Height: 5’ 10”
Length: 6’ 8”, from lower shoulder to tip of tail
Weight: 295 pounds; skinny, but still healthy for his species
Species: Canis Lupus Sextipedus, or in the vernacular, wolftaur
Occupation: Bard, minstrel, balladeer, troubadour, songster and strolling player extraordinaire
Description: Lystar
is a light, bluish grey across both of his backs and down his hind legs
and tail. The rest of his body, including the muzzle, forelegs,
chest, and underbelly are pure white. His fur is of only middling
length but quite thick, and the hair of his head runs down his back to
his lower shoulders in what might elsewhere be called a mane. The
claws on his footpaws are not retractable, but a dewclaw on the heel
which rarely touches the ground maintains its cutting edge. The
hindpaws are not manipulatory, but the forepaws are; they are, however,
much less dexterous than the hands, which have retractable claws.
Lystar, in the manner of his kind, also has an extremely supple spine,
which allows him to reach the extent of his body in any direction.
Biography:
Lystar is his given name; Flickerfinger is a byname; his surname he has
chosen to forget. He was born to a nomadic tribe of wolftaurs
somewhere on the Northern Continent. They called themselves the
Canifaerin, and they lived on their feet. They carried their
lives on their backs as they constantly travelled from one winter
refuge to another. His father was what the Canifaerin called a
drumheller, one whose duty it was to go before the main body of the
camp, ensuring that the way was clear and safe, presumably by scaring
up any ambush. Such a one was respected in the tribe, but hardly
accepted; they valued solidarity and togetherness. His mother was
a healer, also a respected position in an environment where infirmity
could mean death. It was natural that great things should be
expected of the child of two such as these.
His mother died in birthing him. Even then he was
considered abnormal, for the blue in his coat and his eyes. His
father was grief-stricken, and became even more reclusive than his post
demanded. Of necessity he took the young Lystar with him whenever
he could, and raised him in the way of the drumheller, teaching him all
he knew - or trying to. Lystar felt no great allegiance to the
tribe, and less to the discipline his father wished so desperately for
him to carry on. Instead he felt a great love for music.
When the danger was too great for Lystar to stay with his father (and
it often was), Lystar traveled with a distant cousin of his mother’s,
one who carried the oral history of the tribe. There he spent his
time with all manner of stringed instruments and dusty ballads.
In this manner Lystar grew and thrived. As soon as he was able to fend
for himself, his father gave in to broken heart; the lad called
Flickerfinger knew that this was his right, that his father had only
held on for his sake, that now he had to make his own way. It was
with a some trepidation that he accepted the title of drumheller.
He knew it was given him because the tribe wanted him out of sight and
out of mind, but he knew no other way. Perhaps he and the
Canifaerin would have come to accept each other.
But there was a mage whom the aging chief
considered trustworthy, for he had lost an arm in service to the
tribe. This mage was a little insane, and blamed Lystar’s father
for the loss of his arm. He was also power-hungry, and sought to
rule the entirety of the Northern Continent. The first step was
dominating the Canifaerin, and the lonely singing sentry called
Flickerfinger was the perfect scapegoat for his schemes. He
allied himself secretly with a tribe of black wolftaurs, whose weapons
were made of bronze and whose culture called battle a glory. They
were to overwhelm the tribe and kill the chief, after which the mage
would drive them off in noble fashion. Lystar as drumheller would
take the blame, and the mage would take the throne by popular demand.
Two things went wrong with the plan. First,
the mage underestimated Lystar’s capacity. The wolftaurs did not
arrive undetected or unhindered, for Lystar sounded the alarm and
harried them to the gates of the camp. Second, they were driven
off before reaching the chief’s abode, and the mage was required to
kill him himself. But the mage still pinned the attack on
Lystar. He was exiled; on that day he raised his swords to the
sky and called, “No ties bind us!” He wandered the coast for a
short time, until he saw a ship on the horizon. He swam to it,
calling himself the sole survivor of a terrible plague that had swept
the island months ago. This was the last service he did his
fellows - from then on he cared not what happened on the Northern
Continent. The crew had lost their cargo and their course in a
storm, and seeing him as a four-footed freak with which to make some
gold in a sideshow, took him in and sailed back to the better-travelled
regions of Feila. Once again they underestimated Lystar’s
capacity - he escaped them handily; thereafter that crew wondered if
they had pulled a ghost from the sea. Thus Lystar found himself
in the World of Feila.
Kit:
Two shortswords, each with a flowing circular hilt and a blue offset
pommel stone, and each with a waterproof scababrd; a hunting knife of
marvelous craftsmanship; a leather satchel; a tin cup; and the Serinex.
The Serinex is an enigma. It is a
seven-stringed, guitarlike instrument, simple yet elegant in
appearance, and so enchanted as to never warp, break, or even fall out
of tune. He received it from his mother’s cousin, for whom it
would never play. Lystar has never understood it, for though it
will play for him, it’s not like any other instrument. It repels
water; it’s always warm to the touch; its sound can fill the largest
hall, yet it still is gentle enough for the smallest sitting
room. Sometimes he finds himself playing something else entirely
from what he intended. Sometimes it will capture a tune and play
it again unaided, while the player adds more. But it will not
sound of its own accord.
Flickerfinger
has learned the difficult trick of whistling (try doing that with a
snout), and often accompanies himself in this manner.
Personality:
He is not in the habit of starting fights, but he brooks no nonsense
when steel is bared. He has forgotten nothing his father taught
him, and he uses all his limbs to advantage. Few there are with
whom he has come to blows, but fewer still who cared to challenge him
twice.
Wolftaurs are not creatures made
for riding. Coming as he does from a culture comprised almost
solely of such creatures, the concept of riding or being ridden is
completely foreign to him.
Lystar is
aware that he is a quadruped in a world of bipeds, but he makes a
non-issue of his species and finds that the favor is generally returned.
Lystar “Flickerfinger” wishes to see, to learn, to
enjoy himself and help others enjoy themselves. He is patient and
practical, prefering to bide his time rather than rush in. He is
independent, confident that he can find what he needs or do
without. He is also rather nervous; he’s a perfectionist and
loathes looking like a fool, which happens with uncomfortable
frequency, as he is still a little naïve. Music is his passion,
and he is always looking for new songs and new stories. Such is
always his legacy.
**Note:
This is all my stuff. It is copyright me, 2007. I know putting it online is
practically an invitation to steal it, but please don't use anything on
this page without my express permission.**
