Iriden: Chroniclers Guild Leader

Character Name: Aedin Locksbane

Character Age: 28

Character Gender: Male

Class/Subclass: Ranged/Guns

Archetype: Bard

Race: Twa'lek

Character Personality: Inquisitive, Imperceptibly Zealous, Detached (To reality, in a small fashion, especially in speech and some mannerisms), Tactful, Roguish with the capability of being well mannered if he can be coaxed to dress in such a fashion, savvy enough in combat.

Background Information:

“I know not what lies beyond the path. No one can, or should, but I will find out… It’s the challenge after all. Someone out there knows something if it.”

A lean figure stands atop an old, crumbling bell tower. A city of stone and eldritch mechanizations lay before him, his thick peck length black hair shifting in the breeze. Clad in heavy worn leather scale and thick chainmail, he knows the closest one can be to the truth is in the mix of blood and fire, deep below the earth choking on old dust amongst ruined volumes or otherwise on hostile grounds. Tact, cunning and a quick wit are worth far more than strength of arms or number. Almost always at least…

He thumbs a match as the sun begins to crest the ocean, glittering sapphires wash and roll across its surface. Thick azure smoke begins to curl and rise with the ebb and flow of the breeze, emanating from deep within a dark wood pipe of strange fashion he holds slightly aloft at his side. His emerald green eyes see the past, his mind lingering on the future. Of what’s to come, his next audience, next venture, next gain. Maybe an old Monk on his deathbed, if he was lucky, secrets of the divine coxed from his dying heart. Perhaps a leader or vagrant of far more exotic heritage, or even, dare he hope, someone with the old knowledge of Marthsollus’ construction and deeper secrets.

A mind lies behind his eyes, enslaved with an insatiable wanderlust and curiosity that would have killed far too many cats by now. The scars and tattoo’s that adorn his one bare arm alone attested to this fact. His ears echo with tavern song and the epics of his childhood. He often enjoyed recounting them to himself, attempting to entice more from their hyperboles and metaphors as he aged with the wisdom of those he encountered and coaxed. Knowledge is power. He’d seen it written and proven, tried and tested, numerous times throughout the immeasurable ages his volumes and accounts told of.

The light began to dance down his worn and rugged frame as it crested the aged buildings of the coastal town, ships beginning to make sail far below him. Stained and yellowed scrolls hung precariously from one of the many satchels that embellished him. The latest haul from an old catch he uncovered with Illari a fortnight past, likely the forgotten hovel of some hermit. He could not stand to see the wisdom of the past lost to the future. He chronicled and stored these things as best he could. It was the culmination of this wisdom that gave them all they had today. This wisdom was the life story of those that came before. To lose it was to lose a piece of the world, a soul snuffed out heedlessly.

The scroll satchel hung alongside numerous bones and trinkets of protection that adorned him. Symbols and sigils that had gained him safe passage through heathen tribes and wicked Holds in his personal history. One of his most prominent features was the massive leather bound tomb chained to his belt, hanging over his girdle. A record of all he had witnessed, heard, known and fancied thus far. The best, most valuable lore of past and future he had yet uncovered. Many a Wizard, Alchemist, Craftsmen and perhaps even Lord would gladly give a fair sum of wealth for a moment’s taste of its contents. Or so he would have them believe at least.

Kneeling down he touched the old tiled roof he resided on, slipping his pipe away. The watchmen had been easily avoided. Few noticed him as it was, looking as much a Vagrant as he did. He longed once again for the road dust and ethereal moon of a pitch colored sky. Perhaps on a wagon train once more. He fancied the dance and food of the caravans. It was his birthright after all. Growing up he had loved the insight of the various cultures and peoples that populated the land. How varied their opinions could be, vices, vexes... Therein is where the other path to truth lies he found out young. Trust nothing, question everything, memories do not often lie.

A soft mew came off his left side. He did not have to look. A slender and sleek black colored cat with eyes that rivaled his own pushed up against his knee. He scrittched(Not Typo) her favored places. She cooed delightedly for a short time before stepping aloofly away and gazing out at the same sunrise he was so fixated upon. Standing, he looked over the edge of the roof, gauging the fall in a disconcerted manor.

“Come Illari, there is more to see.”