The Aegis of Yggdrasil
"I told you all he does is sing!"
Perform your art to aid someone else.
When you enter an important location (your call) you can ask the GM for one fact from the history of that location.
Fiery-eyed and wild-haired, Daelwyn carries himself with a flourish and panache which belie the drab, faded brown of his monastic robes. Though made with care, they are of a roughspun and poorly dyed wool, and look almost maudlin in their humble, hard-worn dreariness. Months of travel have taken their toll on the long-suffering fabric, and its many frayed and worn spots do not hide the leather armor beneath so well as they once did. Like most elves, Daelwyn is of a decidedly slender build, though he would probably describe his physique as “elegant.”
Daelwyn’s voice was always his instrument; from a young age, he was a virtuosic singer. It even got him accepted to the prestigious Skaldic College of Kvasir because of it: the monks were willing to overlook the lad’s decidedly boisterous nature, for the opportunity to train such a voice.
A secluded monastery overlooking over the sleepy hamlet of Kvasir, the Skaldic College is still a primarily elven institution—although the days when entry was barred to non-elves have been long forgotten. Its monks are storytellers, poets and musicians of the highest order, famed throughout Midgard for their prowess in song and stanza (the senior monks, especially, sternly frown upon the vulgar truncation of their continent’s illustrious name to the monosyllabic “’Gard”).1
Instantly, and throughout his schooling there, Daelwyn was at odds with his tutors, the monks of the College: their stern aloofness seemed entirely contrary to the palpable, visceral thrill which he found in music. The heroic tales and grand legends of ‘Gard came to life when he sang them. The monks’ haughty detachment was maddening to him, as his frantic enthusiasm was to them.
Daelwyn’s chance to escape came in the form of an extremely old, moldering volume in the dusty stacks of the College’s disused library (the oral traditions of the Skalds are highly prized at Kvasir, while the written word is seen as something of a lesser art form).
This antiquated songbook, written in a forgotten language, turned out to be even older than it looked. After much laborious translation, the Battlebook of the 27th Harmonic Regiment reveals the “music of war,” apparently employed as a weapon by the ancient city-state of Ymlaan. At the time the book was written (seemingly contemporaneous with the early Imperium), these musician-soldiers were engaged in an all-out war, preparing to march on a mortal enemy referred to only as “the City of Glass.”
With this book, Daelwyn knew that he had found something special—a piece of history still untold, a tale of marvelous grandeur, so tantalizingly out of reach. He knew what he had to do. On the eve of his graduation, he bade goodbye to his friends and his favorite tutor, packed his clothes, and set off—though not before helping himself to a monk’s robe.
Daelwyn has travelled ever since, plying his trade as a wandering minstrel while he follows rumors and picks through Imperial ruins—always eager to sing from the Edda1, share a bit of history, or hunt down more clues in the wondrous story of lost Ymlaan.
1 Scholars at the Skaldic College of Kvasir are self-appointed custodians of the Edda: the combined oral histories of all of Midgard. Their sacred right and sworn duty is to preserve the Edda, and to expand it when a piece of lost history is recovered. It is a task which they (and many folk of ’Gard) hold in the highest reverence, and one which they guard jealously—especially against “those pissant upstarts” in the Heraldic College of Alexandria.