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He is the nightingale child of spring and summer - the holy offspring of sunlight and moon. A boy of long lashes and stilted limbs, he appears to drift rather than walk, roaming place to place much in the way of the Druids. He is not a bulky nor sharp creature to behold but one of willowy, passive grace for there lies not a single harsh bone or angle in this wayward boy. His body holds all the wiry strength of the young but leans deceptively towards androgyny, his strength making him a creature of agility rather than brute strength. His dainty paws were designed for craftsmanship; speed. His face is one that still clings deceivingly to youth - one that rolls rather than cracks into laughter but does not cross the threshold into naivety. Rather, he captures a clever sort of handsomeness that is ultimately puzzling when coupled with his moon-like eyes, though wears it well when there is warmth in him as there so often is. It is not the sort of attractiveness that demands or makes fools of those that look upon him but one you might stumble over in the comforting softness of his tone, or catch in the twinkle of his gentle eyes, for his is a curious looking sort. He sports a base the colour of soft blonde which deepens to smatterings of ginger about his unruly nape, where often dried flowers, herbs or mushrooms can be found woven . The same warm tone coats his tall ears, two front paws (with the exception of the toes) and can be seen in his lengthy tail, creating a striking effect when coupled with the silvery white of his underbelly and tail. His coat is fine, its tendrils often trailing in the breeze of his wake like a wil-o-wisp and lending a distinctly ethereal air to his person in addition with his tendency to suddenly appear or be heard singing from far away.
PERSONALITY ► He is an oddity that falls far from the threshold of normal. A poet, a healer, and philosopher - he is an amoeba of a man, wandering from place to place to taste what juices they offer him and departing just as quickly. Drinker of honey, collector of herbs, he is a creature unconcerned and unburdened in his youth with care of what others may perceive of his odd ways and girlish appearance and lives in consistent wonder of the world around him, content to marvel at its greatness as he seeks to find his place in it. His only greed is for a greater knowledge as always he seeks a higher form of consciousness - the plight of which can seem strange to many, when he might break of conversation to ponder at the whisper of the wind of the blueness of the sky. In this way, he might seem childish - but to the roaming poet the entire world is a gift and he is prone to fits of deep sadness when he can find no holy power to thank for it. He is a naturally devout man, a wandering loner for now, content with his own company and to make merry with song and dance in the presence of others in the way of his people as a form of patronage. His Gods instilled in him vulnerability, emotion - traits the boy considers his compass towards a higher faith and is unafraid to display it, being a creature of peaceful impulse, albeit somewhat shy upon meeting. Always, he is gentle and kind - he is the sort that would bow to the smallest creature so they might pat his velveteen nose or tangle their paws in his fur if they so desired. No task is above or beneath him - he simply does with great care, possessing neither pride nor ego, but only confusion when he encounters those that do. He speaks often as a wiser man might, but in reality is merely a creature of observation, sent to learn of the world and its ways.
HISTORY ► His blood is that of the Roma people - aptly named for their tendencies to roam far and wide for their bread and butter, serving up laughter and merriment as their patronage and receiving hospitalities as payment. They were a bawdy band of rogues and misfits; a patchwork quilt of backgrounds that made merry throughout the day and night. They were singers, dancers, healers and seers, for all wolves must survive. It’s the very first rule of nature, hewn into the blood of all wild things and his mother was of no exception when she joined the Salimpor, pregnant by a man whose name never passed her lips. Judas Eyre was born to his mother Rhea beneath a Rowan tree to the earthen scent of sage and the joyous shouts of priests. Baptised in the smoke and fire of gypsies, the boy was indoctrinated by his mother’s Druidic teachings from the time his eyes opened, never far from her side. His keep was earned as a child in their evening performances clacking sticks together as part of a melody for the troupe dancers, but most of his days were dedicated to the crafting of simple tinctures and salves, learning the exact method of grinding down roots into powders via stones. For ages it was grunt work, a long and meticulous road of many slapped paws and sharp words, but steadily the boy learned, hungry and fierce only in his desire for knowledge.
The Old Gods came to him first in their earthly wonders, the bitter scent of mashed pumices and rich earth whenever they would hunt to restock inventories. Small miracles - a flower blooming defiantly through a tangle of decaying leaves awed him more than it should have and slowly, their names came to him. Sulis, Vindonnis, Belisama - all the deities of different things, learnt until he had a small encyclopedia stashed away in his head. The teen began to outgrow his enclosure, thirsty to understand and encroaching on his first year, Rhea came to him one night having seen a vision of a better land, where the gods and their intentions may be better understood.