Quinn the RedFox
Gwalldan Breladuren – Mothers name for him.
Quillan Foxsmith – Fathers name for him.
Meanings of names…
Quillan – celt, cub
Duren – welsh, steel to strike fire
Gwalldan – welsh, wild fire
Breila – welsh, wild rose
Appearance : Deep red and sunbleached blonde hair shoulder length, strangely colored eyes, which hint at magic heritage. Bronzedskin. Wears a necklace which appears to have some blonde hair and a single arrowhead. (details on that below) Has a slight lilt to his voice when speaking to those that he is comfortable with, slight irish/welsh accent… call it celtic lite.
Keeps a journal, which he writes in code. Carries a mandolin, small drums, and a panpipe. Mainly his voice is his main musical instrument, but he does search out for finer quality musical instruments.
-Height/weight tbd – Muscular with dancers muscles, still flexible,
but not overlybuff
Has performed under the names
Quillan RoseSong – For the nobles and higher paying crowds
The RedFox – For the inns and gathering of adventurers.
Duren Hardstone – for the dwarvish and orcish crowds and drum nights.
Harkin – for the magic acts, juggling, slights of hand, and storytelling. Often used as a pseudonym when gathering information, trading and selling wine or recipes.
The Tale of Quinn
Along the far north eastern shores of Lake Reykal, a young boy, both
blooded of human and elf was found in a boat, unconcious and barely
alive. The young boy looked as if he had gone through a warzone,
covered in bruises, cuts, ash and dirt mixed in with dried blood
tacking on the hide clothes to his bronzed skin.
Fortunately for the youth, a woodsman and trader from the Foxsmith
clan had come across the young boy, and quickly took him back to his
new wife Bonnie. The woodsman and trader had seen many strange sights
with his fellow trader neighbors, but none as such as the young boy.
Bonnie, being a recently trained midwife and herbalist, set about to
healing the young boy. When removing the clothes, it seemed he was
covered from head to toe in tattoos, but some appeared only to be in
paint or mud.
Finally when Bonnie cleaned the unconcious child, she did note the
shock of red and blonde hair. And the strange color of purple and
yellow flecks in the boys eyes.
She did name him Gwalldan Breladuren in her ancestors tongue, whereas
Tristan knew a cub when he saw one and named him Quillan of the clan
Foxsmith. They finally both agreed to Quinn, but all the names would
stick to the boy in one way or another.
Quinn in some respects was the perfect child for Tristan and Bonnie,
as she could not bear children, only help the other women and
surprised noble deliver their own. He was eager to help and learn at
the footstep of his adoptive fathers trade. In other ways, he would
scare his guardians. He took sometimes to going out into the deeper
woods and not come back for hours. Occasionally, Tristan would find
strange runes of carved into the trunks of trees. Tristan would also
find intricate weavings of bull rushes and reeds. Some in the form of
animals, others in the shapes of men. He had a feeling that it was the
work of his adopted son.
One year brought out a particular pair of feral wolves that hunted
along the riverbanks. When the news of this reached the Foxsmith
house, Quinn managed to escape both of their grips as he ran off into
the night. All along the area, their neighbours reported sights of
Quinn running in the woods, the shock of red hair, and the strange
lilting voice speaking in a calling tone. Near midnight, after he had
returned, his parents watched in amazement as the night sky erupted
into fireflies, lighting up the riverbed as if it were day. It didn’t
take too long for the men to track the wolves, but it seemed that an
elder stag had dealt with them. The following week, Quinn would take a
portion of his meal, usually some bread, honey and milk to the edge of
the forest. There were no other sightings of large predators in the
area for months to follow, and no farmer or lakesman trader had hunted
the forest elk that year.
With time, the young boy growing into a young man took fewer and fewer
of the wandering trips through the woods. But with each trip, another
one of his strange tattoos seemed to be lifted from him. Other smaller
ones began to fade as well. By his fifteenth year, only two remained.
One of a dark tree along his left arm, with its branches stretched
across his chest, upper arm and back. The other seemed to be a the
four elements, each a triangle, symbolizing an ancient sign. Earth
pointing downwards triangle with a curved line. Air , pointing upwards
with a line near the top. Water, the triangle with the simple circle
within, and fire, pointing upwards, devoid of any other feature. By
this time, he had known only his life with the Foxsmith clan, and had
not questioned his own half elf heritage or strange behaviour.
With time, the small events faded from the young mans habits, as he
learned and managed to charm the potential traders with his lilting
voice and captivating looks. On his seventeenth birthday, which was
the day he was found ten years previous, Tristan told him the next day
they would be travelling to the city of Silverhall to trade their
bounty of rare herbs for healing, and for the dwarves brewing of dark
beers and stouts.
Along the trip, they traded along the lake route, staying in some of
the other traders lodgings. Most times it was camped out under the
stars. There were other nights when it seemed a gathering of traders
would find themselves all in the same place. It was here that Tristan
found many things. Overheard conversations about his parents. Tristan,
trading a sword for an axe, selling rugs in lands where the sands
never ended. Bonnie, being addressed as royalty, Queen Farra, which
she laughed at stating it had been many years that she had been a fair
maiden. The pair of them were as friendly with stranger as friend long
reunited. It was only here that Quinn began to realize that he really
did not know his own family and their life before they settled on the
lakeshore. He teased them about this and after some hesitancy they
said that one day, when he was ready, he would learn the truth.
There was another traveller that seemed to shadow them along their
route, a young woman with a shock of brilliant white hair, and like
Quinn had the features of being elven and human blood. She provided
the music and sang with a rich voice, and with some encouragement from
his parents encouraged him to sing with her. Her brilliant green eyes
looked in amazement as he caught the tone in perfect balance and
joined her. Her own hands almost fumbled at the mandolins strings each
time their eyes met. That same night, he first tasted music and her
lips. In the morn, she had given him an old beat up mandolin that
needed repair. She told him, that when the tone would sing as sweet as
his own voice, it would be ready to perform.
Unfortunately for his parents, it took many days of constant fiddling
and examination of the instrument before it got anywhere near being in
tune. Their own ears getting reprieve when it was Quinns turn to row.
Finally reaching the Awzera river, they met with the band of dwarven
brewers. It was the strangest trade that Quinn had observed, his own
mother had donned a strange robe, and his father had fitted himself
into a set of leathers that had been battle torn. His mother commented
that the armor was a little tighter on him than the robe on her. As
was habit, Quinn was ready to help with the trade, but was surprised
as his mother told him that this definitely needed her touch. She set
out an assortment of dried herbs, potions made thereof and small
plants in tiny pots that seemed to shimmer when placed in the shadows.
The dozen dwarves looked upon her assortment, testing and smelling,
rolling the dried herbs in their hands, tasting and humming and
hawing. The elder brewmaster said he would decide in the morning,
after a good meal and rest.
The trade never came. Startled by the sound of dwarven cursing, the
night sky was ablaze in fire. Emerging from his tent, Tristan was
holding his ground against a cloud of strange winged creatures that
spat fire. His mother was chanting in a strange language, as she
seemed to be directing the winds pushing the fire away from the group.
Batting away at the creatures with an oar, Quinn tried to help defend
against the creatures that seemed to get larger and more deadly. He
could not help the dwarves as they were pulled into the darkness
screaming, or his mother as she was felled by a wave of flames. He
could not help his father, as a hail of arrows pierced through his
Quinn did find injury when something struck the back of his head,
knocking him unconcious. In the morn, only the sign of battle by spell
and hammer showed all around him. The dwarves were gone, only the
bodies of his parents left behind. Leaving only a simple burial mound
for them both, he set forth to find the answers that had been building
all his life.
In the years to come, Quinn had wandered cities, learned to play
music, write of his travels, stole when he was poor, gave when he was
a bit more plentiful. He still searches for information that plagues
his dreams once a year. He has found a few answers, but these have
only lead him to chase more questions.