Name: Ladwian Diin
Age: 20
Profession: Struggling Gleeman
Physical Appearance: 5'8" in height, short dark hair of a slightly ragged cut due Ladwian cutting it himself using his bootknife. After several sunburns his normally pail cairhienin complexion has darkened a shade or two, but not enough to even attempt to disguise his city breeding. His clothing leans towards the fine rather than the sturdy, replacing the standard gleemans cloak of patches with a more mundane affair of wool and minor embroidery.
Bio: A Cairhienin by birth Ladwian's family was so far down from the sun throne that if the Domadred's fell off then the Diin's would have front row seats to the impact. His father however was an ardent (though mediocre) player of the game of houses and always viewed this as an advantage, in his words "The great houses can't suspect what they don't know.". Ladwian often thought that this was similar to a mouse believing it had the advantage over a bear because it was very small.
Ladwian was the third son of his family, the least likely to inherit a portion of his father's meager network of power. Ladwian however was perfectly fine with this, he had never truly desired to play Daes Dae'mar for the rest of his life. Partially because he'd watched his father become an old man while giving his life to it for no more reward than would be given to a dog barking at the moon, and partially because the entire thing sickened him in a way he could not fully articulate. Ladwian was an optimist, a lover of the stories that showed the virtues of hard work and honest thinking, stories where honor and nobility triumphed and lies and deception inevitably strangled their maker. The shadow dance of intrigue and politics that surrounded the city were something that he was never fully able to reconcile with his beliefs, a problem that was the wellspring for many of Ladwian's darker moods.
Ladwian was disowned by his family two days after his nineteenth nameday for something he didn't do, he was -in the greatest of ironies- disowned for protecting his eldest brother's reputation, proving that no good deed goes unpunished. Turned out from the home of his family, bitter, resentful, and without the ability to fend for himself that borderlanders already knew when they were eight years from the mother. He knew he couldn't stay in the city, politics would grind him to dust without a family name to back him. North to Tar Valon and white tower, or south to Andor and Caemlyn. Not much of a choice to one raised on stories of the Tar Valon witches and their crafts, south it was.
The road was long, tiring, blister inducing, and skin burning. When he reached Caemlyn he'd spent what little money he had on food and a place to sleep. The idea of sleeping in a comfortable ditch in order to save a little of his coin had simply never occurred to him, much as a bird would never consider swimming. By the time he reached Caemlyn he was filthy, ragged, and nearly out of coin. The situation was shortly rectified when he was mugged eight hours later, leaving him filthy, bloody, ragged, and completely out of coin. Caught between laughing and crying at the pitiful rag that the wheel had woven for him he sat, resting his weary bones and giving his battered mind a moment of respite. He took of his left boot and shook out the stones the road had managed to work in, as he set it back down found that he couldn't summon the energy to put the damned thing back on. Staring up at the sky Ladwian did the only thing he could think to do other than curl up and die, he sang. He sang whatever tune came to mind, anything that could hold back the crushing darkness of what seemed to be the rather early end of his short life.
His song was brought to an abrupt end by a surly bull of a man asking whether he was too drunk to remember where the patrons were. He had stared dumbly at the man for a few minutes, not comprehending the meaning of the words. Then he looked up at the sign that had shadowed him while he sat, it read: The inn of the Dusty Yellow Dog. The innkeepers words struck sparks and ignited a feeble flame of understanding in Ladwian's mind, he picked himself up and dusted off numbly, following the innkeeper back inside the inn. Ladwian sang in public for the first time in his life that day, it netted him table scraps to eat, a room that would have shamed a servant, and enough copper to buy a half a crust of bread. All in all it was the best thing that Ladwian had seen since leaving Cairhien.
After that day Ladwian accepted his roll as a storyteller, it was the only skill he had that could buy him food and shelter, and a starving belly proves a potent incentive to improver. Within a year Ladwian found he had enough talent to scrap a living off of his stories as long as he was charismatic, creative, and above all lucky.
Recently Ladwian has been able to get together a suitable nest egg of funds, enough coin to take him somewhere else if the trouble in Caemlyn begins to interfere with his health. Still, he doesn't think it will come to that and with the people flocking to see the false dragon he's been making more than he ever had for his performances.
Background: Cairhienin
Skills:
Diplomacy: 1
Sense Motive: 1
Craft (Story): 2
Bluff: 1
Street Sense: 2
Profession (Gleeman): 2
Knowledge (Intrigues): 1
Author
Topic: The Wheel of Time (Closed) (Read 14047 times)