The Freehold of the Shaded Wing
Quiet yet driven.
6’1", very skinny and unnaturally gangly. He has dark hair, somewhere between matted brown and seaweed green, that always looks damp and stringy. His skin is pale and blue-ish, as if waterlogged, and always seems moist. His structure is odd, as if his bones aren’t as solid as they should be. His Autumn mantle is a chilled breeze, like the air off the sea in September, and small bits of hair flake off into dead, brown leaves.
He was taken three years ago when he was 19, and spent about 5 years in Arcadia. He was punished by being trapped in a koi pond with monstrous fish, until he became the water around him. His escape led him to see hideous things in the hedge, which he can’t get out of his head.
He’s still putting the pieces together from what his life was like before—his past seems like some kind of hazy dream to him. He has little desire to return to his family and friends. He is emotionally removed from the situation, and has not put any thought into his fetch. He instead thinks about the hedge and the magic he’s witnessed, and what he’s going to have to do to carve out a new life as a changeling.
The smell of resin. Pitzicatto strings and tuning notes. Candlelight glinting off varnish. A deep breath, and the lights rise. The violin under your chin, the bow ready, loose on the strings. The hall inhales, and notes pour forth, a froth, violent, torrential. Streaming out of you through the strings, screaming and shattering and torn, strings snapping as you furiously tear at them with the bow. You pour out every pain, every hope broken, and the hall devours all. Finally the last string snaps and you collapse, exhausted, and the hall is silent. The strings, snapped and crazed, coil like serpents, regroup, reform, and rejoin. You stand again, take up the bow and violin. The hall inhales, and you begin again. . .