Name: Durandal, “Dali the Dream-Painter"*Race: Ophidian
Profession: Bard
Age: 22, (mid thirties, in human years)
Magic: Minor Spells Hallucination- Causes a target to see and hear visions of Dali's choosing, so long as the target can hear Dali's voice or guitar. If the song or story is interrupted, or if the target is unable to hear Dali's voice or guitar, the spell is broken.
Pacification- Induces a target with extreme relaxation, to the point of incapacitation, so long as the target can hear Dali's voice or guitar. If the song or story is interrupted, or if the target is unable to hear Dali's voice or guitar, the spell is broken.
Major Spell: The Epoch's Epic- An ancient magic exclusive to Ophidian Bards, passed from one bard to the next, generally from a master to an apprentice. Summons the spirits of dead Ophidian heroes and villains of lore to Dali's defense, serving as bodyguards or soldiers, or even as entertainment. Spirits last so long as Dali can hear his own voice or guitar. If he is unable to hear his own song or story or is interrupted, the spell is broken. Spell can only be cast once per week, with some situational exceptions, primarily regarding the blessing of a Holy Serpent. With that blessing, the spell can be cast as many times as desired for so long as the blessing is in effect, (requires proximity to the blesser).
Desription: Tall, a good 6'1", covered in scales of varying shades of green, a coat of tropical camoflage. His tail is an additional 7'9", extremely long for his species, and though his family has a history of long tails, his surpasses all others. It is a point of pride for him, similar to phallic size for human males. His back bears a line of dark green and brown spikes, not for defense, but for both temperature sensitivity as well as a deeper interaction with the world's magnetic poles, giving him and his kin exceptional sense of direction, similar to the method birds use for migration. He generally wears an old brown duster coat and matching wide brimmed hat, simply for protection from the sun when he is too warm. He wears his guitar on his back, and his knife on the strap. His chain he keeps coiled around his arm, or tied onto his beaten leather rucksack. His claws are brown, some with a vein of white running through them, and are long and sharp on one hand and both feet. His left hand's claws are filed down, generally with a rock, so that he can play his guitar without breaking the strings. His eyes are almost always wide, the reptilian smile, and his head always cocked, a reptilian mannerism for curiosity, so eager is he to gather material for his life's all-important yet technically useless work.
Biography: Durandal grew up in a large family, even by Ophidian standards. His brothers and sisters proved to be capable soldiers, mercernaries, bodyguards, hitmen, even some negotiators. All were important, all bore reasonably high social status. Dali was left in the dust, until he discovered his niche.
He began telling stories in the town square. First, just to other children. Then adults began to gather. Gradually, he had a daily crowd, buying him drinks, throwing money at him, into his vase, his lap, until he had become one of the wealthiest citizens in town, the envy of his siblings. His grandfather, the last bard his family had ever borne, was dying for most of Dali’s childhood. He gifted to Dali a guitar on his deathbed, saying “Storytelling ain’t a career. You wanna keep it up, be a bard. And a bard ain’t a bard without music.”
Dali took this to heart, earning him the nickname “Dream-Painter”*.
He coasted for years until his 22nd birthday, the same age his grandfather was when he got sick. He told a tale, to a great crowd on the outskirts of the empire, of a mighty emperor who oppressed his people. The people let him do it, for a long, long time. But one day, a small boy stood up against the Emperor's secret police, and his parents joined in. Soon, the whole village was in uproar against the tyrant. Then the city. Then, the empire. They overthrew the emperor and brought about an age of prosperity. Needless to say, the real emperor was not happy. It was time for a change anyway.
Dali now must undertake a journey, one he may not return from. But, even if he dies, one thing is for certain: it’ll be a damn good story.
Psychological Evaluation: Dali, as he prefers to be called, is, plain and simply, a storyteller. He
claims to be the last of a long line of Ophidian royalty, a prince among lizards. He claims to be able to weave magic spells with his guitar and his stories, conjuring up otherworldy gods and conversing with them. He claims to have once slain a troll with a song.
In the end, he is not a liar. He is a storyteller, and that is the key difference. A liar deserves guilt for their deception. For a storyteller, skilled deception is not only part of the job, but
the job. Dali is not a fighter, but he can scrap with the best, earning him a nickname in his hometown: “Dali the Dream-Bringer”. Preferring to be known for his stories, he spread that his nickname was “Dream-
Painter, and now no one agrees what it started as. Clearly, he has a flair for not only the telling of a story, but the story itself. After all, as he often says, “Story’s only as good as the journey that made it.”
Dali’s interests include: Laying out in the sun, playing songs, telling stories, eating, and laying out in the moonlight.
Equipment: Black Ironwood Acoustic Guitar, custom made, egg shaped body, diamond-shaped sound hole, brown leather sling. The guitar is well-built and strong enough to deflect blows if need be, or even be used as a shield, if it came to it.
Three empty scrolls for recording stories and songs that were
particularly good. Each is in its own leather pouch.
15 ft. Chain whip, barbed tri-point grappling hook on the end for combat and traversal, generally tied with leather string onto Dali's rucksack or coiled around his arm. He is skilled with it both as a weapon and a method of climbing. The hook's great weight allows the tool to be used like a barbed flail, and the long chain gives it great range.
Rucksack, primarily filled with fruit and dried meats, also containing a box of
36 35 matches, a little flint firestarter, and a little clay tube pipe and cleaning kit. He also carries with him a magnifying glass, in the event that he runs out of everything else.
Folding polished steel mirror, for sunbathing. He also uses it sometimes as a tray when rolling one of his cigars.
A bag of birdseed, as songbirds make very good snacks. His birdseed can also attract mice fairly well.
Quadruple-sized Water Sack, as a reptilian is quite prone to dehydration on the road. This is his heaviest possession, next to his guitar.
A pouch of seeds, from a variety of fruit trees. He plants them as he walks, and always extracts the seeds from any fruit he eats.
Ophidian ceremonial knife, given, as per tradition, on his twelfth birthday, his first day of adulthood. He has carried this with him for ten years. It is half serrated, with a ‘Dragon’s Tooth’ curved tip, designed for hooking, slashing, and gouging. It also makes an excellent carving knife and fruit peeler, as Dali has found.
A pouch of herbs, which he rolls into accompanying leaves and smokes as cigars when relaxing or entertaining. They are petals from a secret flower that grows only in the Empire. It is a commonly smoked herb among Ophidians for spiritual purposes, and is known to induce relaxation and euphoria, even in humans. He carries also a larger bag in the bottom of his rucksack from which he refills his pouch.
Goals: He desires to return home with the greatest story ever told, an epic to be resung for centuries. He believes that this will grant him true immortality: a legacy.
Dislikes: Birds of prey, predatory fish, eating birds of prey or predatory fish, hecklers
What is your crime? "I am no criminal. My only crime is bringing hope, inspiration, angst, fear or sadness, depending on the demographic.
Your most treasured item? "My tail, undoubtably. My brother lost his, and I am terrified."
Your favorite poem? "Something I wrote a long time ago. Hang on, it's in here somewhere. Nope. Ah well. I'll find it later."
How would you like to die? "In any way that would reach my family. Especially if it's shocking or horrifying. Bonus score if I also die heroically."
Frequent Quotes: "Sure as scales"
"Walloped"
"Snorf Snorf"
"Caterpillars are delicious/ taste incredible/ gotta find me some caterpillars/ caterpillar-good"
"Wanna hear somethin' crazy?"
"If I had an inch for every _______ ___ _______, my tail could be its own snake."
"I got a song for that."
"You ever wonder if ________."
"That tastes awful. Really awful."
"Go on, eat it."
"You'll never know unless you try it."
"Wanna hear a stupid story? Your career. Slap."
"Snakes talk funny."
Intro Description: As Dali rounded over the hill, he heard his father in the back of his head, past all the songs, and the story he was making up specifically for an automaton audience.
"How're you gonna sssurvive? Gonna sssing sssongsss all your life? How ya gonna find a mate? Tellin' ssstoriesss? No girlsss' gonna think you could protect her! Or her brood! Embarrasssssment! Now you've ssshamed the family in front of the emperor! Get your thingsss! You no longer have my name. Leave! EXsssILE!" Deep down, he remembered how the guards had waited for him outside. He'd collected his things. His entire collection of worldly possessions could fit on his back. He'd always done everything he could for the family, given all his water-rations and money to his home, to be doled out to his younger siblings. He remembered all of this, and the way his father had shouted at him. And all his high and mighty brothers and sisters and all their holier-than-thou mates and their perfect little children-
Of course! He thought.
Automatons love tragedies! That's it! Grumblers like them, too, right? I can never tell. The sun was just reaching its peak, so Dali removed his hat. There was a lone dead tree and a big, flat rock on the hill.
Just perfect. He lay on the flat rock, carefully folding his coat, and placing his hat on it. His rucksack went on top of that, only on his hat's brim, to hold it down, but not to crumple it. He sighed as a slight breeze rolled in, but otherwise, the air was still. Not a cloud in the sky.
Absolutely perfect. He tugged a pouch out of his rucksack, a soft little brown thing, packed with fluffy herbs and dry leaves. He gently removed a leaf, careful not to rip it, and folded it in his left hand, making sure to keep his claws out of the picture. He passed it to his right hand, and pulled out a little pinch of herbs, sprinkling them into the paper in a gradual line. Needed a little more. Satisfied, he extends a long, forked tongue, and places the leaf's edge just between his tongue-tendrils, leaving a line of sticky saliva soaking into the leaf's surface. He tucked the dry edge underneath, and rolled a tight cone, just enough airflow, with practiced technique.
He slipped a little box of matches from his bag, and with surgical precision, extracted a single match with his claws. He put the cigar in his mouth and tasted the leaf.
Sssweet. He rubbed his left hand's claws on the rock with great vigor, filing them down flat, before gripping the match head in between them and squeezing.
KKZZZZkksshh! He puffed gently as his cigar caught the flame. Sweet lemon-pine smoke filled his mouth and nostrils. He inhaled deeply, and coughed a bit.
Sure as scales, this is nice. He took up his guitar and began to strum simple chords, just enjoying the sun on his scales.
C- C- C- G- G- G- Am- Am- Am- G- C- C- C- G- Em- Am He was high up, on a hill over a hill over a flat mountain, and the mist below filled the valley like water. A thin wooden bridge, a snake of splinters and nails, serves as the road beyond.
Make a good start for a story. 'In the company of friends, high on a hilltop above a sea of mist, where black shadows dance around green lights at midnight, the road ahead stretches far, a serpent with no end. But there is an end, yes, and it is more terrible than any of us could have imagined.' "Oh yeah." He says to no one in particular.
"That's good."Sample Passages:
- The fire was hot, and bright. It lit gaunt shadows across the face of every listener. Dali's face became a lantern, lit by the cherry on his cigar while he spun his ancient magic. The crickets chirped, and a distant murmur floated on the wind, the mass whispering of the Grumblers in the valley. His claws clicked on his guitar strings as he played a slow, sad and steady tune, a melody that evolved quickly from melancholy to sinister in the darkness. Fireflies glowed in the distance, fairy lights that lent credence to his story. The group leaned in, pacified, dark shadows growing smaller in the light cast by the flames. The little ring of rocks around their small campfire cast darkness into their laps where they sat. It all came together into a little world of darkness where the only inhabitants were these pale faces and everything that lay beyond was alive, the hallucinogenic unknown.
Dali spoke softly, and they leaned in close to hear.
"Many deny the existence of pure evil. They say it is subjective. They say that without an entity to represent evil, its qualities cannot be truly defined. Yet, we can identify evil when we see it. That is because evil does, in fact, have a manifestation. In these very hills. The Grumblers have seen it. You can still hear its name if you listen to their nonsense closely enough. It's all they ever talk about." Something rustled in the brush below the hill. The whispering in the valley seemed to grow louder.
"It has no face, but is the face of everyone you've ever known. Just for cruelty's sake. Those who know of It live in terror, of seeing It in the mist, of hearing It, calling their name." A voice rang out below the hill, but the sound of the Grumblers in the distance drowned out its words. "They fear death. But it is not death that It brings." There were soft, slow footsteps coming up the side of the hill, crunching on old leaves and dry brush. "It has long, thin arms, for reaching deep into hiding places. Its skin is black as tar, and its feet have long talons, like a vulture." Something black fluttered into the tree above, then, in an instant, it was gone. "They can rend a man's soul from his body. But It cares little for your soul. It stands tall as a tree, and thin as Death himself." The old dead tree groaned and leaned, but there was no wind. "And sometimes, it calls a name. When it calls your name, you have no choices. There is only to obey. You have no choice. Your legs will walk, and your mouth will scream, but you can make no sound. Your eyes will roll back in your head when you behold It. Description can give It no justice." Dali stood, and his voice grew louder and louder, his song's tempo increasing, a deep crescendo. "Your heart will jump to action, faster and faster and faster and FASTER AND FASTER AND FASTER until you can take no more. Your brain will turn to jelly, and your mind, your mind will scream as it peels you apart from the soul up. You will feel everything. You will feel every memory it reaps, every lost love it devours, every childhood nightmare it dredges up." The whispering rose to a dull roar in the background, maddening white noise.
"And you will weep. You will weep for everything you've lost, and more, for everything you've learned.
Well, The End! Good night!"
Dali tugged his coat over him, and rolled onto his stomach, kicking out his arms and legs and letting loose a satisfied sigh.
