"Vida, a powerful samodiva, a female nymph, of the Pirin mountains, accidentally shot and killed the beautiful male singer, Ivë. When she saw what she had done, she cried a single tear, which formed an enchanted lake." - Myth of Vida's Tear Lake
Magus Loquellamedes
Description
Loquellamedes dresses in fine but practical robes of a dark red colour. He is of obvious Arabic appearance with dark skin and eyes, and an immaculately trimmed black goatee beard. His features are fine and graceful and he is very slender, with almost painfully thin arms ending in delicate almost feminine hands. Loquellamedes has about him an abstract air and can seem slightly out of step with the real world as if he is perceiving a slightly different reality to that of others. On occasion, he can be found just standing, eyes shut, head cocked slightly to one side, listening to the wind or some other barely audible sound. Although he is usually softly spoken, his voice is rich and melodious and when he sings sometimes even the birds fall quiet to listen for his songs can hold a magic quite removed from any hermetic sorcery.
Personality
Loquellamedes is a generally calm and unflustered man, who rarely raises his voice in anger. He is patient and little concerned with how others might view him. The mysteries and secrets that he believes are hidden in the world are of much greater interest to him than mere politics. The one notable exception to this otherwise serene demeanour is in his personal grooming, for he is extremely particular about his cleanliness, washing in scented oils and water several times a day. He regards being dirty as barbaric and finds it difficult to tolerate being in such a state himself for any length of time.
Background
Loquellamedes grew up as one of the sons of a rich merchant in Baghdad. When he was seven and accompanying his father on a long trade caravan across the deserts he was noticed by Izekuus, a member of House Criamon. After some complex negotiations, his father and Izekuus agreed a fair price for his son's apprenticeship. His father was a practical man and knew that there was something strange about his son. Loquellamedes was then taken to Constantinople covenant where he received his training, before passing his gauntlet in the Cave of Twisting Shadows at the age of 22.
Magic
Loquellamedes' Gift is innately tied to sounds. Those without the parma who are near him often hear tantalisingly faint snatches of song, usually in a language that they cannot understand. Whenever he casts a spell he sings the vocal components in his rich, melodious voice. This aspect of his Gift also makes spells harder to control, though it does however grant Loquellamedes a significant advantage when working magics involving sounds.
Current views on the other magi
Items and Books for trade
Thoughts on Vida's Tear
Although mountains and wild forests that surround my new home are alien to me, there is nevertheless a purity about this place, much like the desert where I grew up. Here I am free from the incessant chatter of mundane life that afflicts many places and conceals many fainter voices from which truths may be learnt.
In this stark wilderness where the snow blows horizontally and clouds often obscure much of the landscape, sound is often more important that vision. I am reminded of a poem that my birth father taught me many years ago when I was but a boy and dreamt naught but becoming a musician.
تنفّست أغنيةً في الهواء،
سقط إلى الأرض، عرفت ليس أين،
للّذي لدى نظر متحمّس جدًّا و قويّ،
أنه يمكن أن يتابع رحلة الغناء
Which translates from the Arabic as:
" I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?"
I hear the tantalizing song of twilight here, just as I did in the Cave of Twisting Shadows. I understand from my pater that twilight greatly alarms magi of other houses, but what is this but fear of change and of the unknown? Is not magic itself oft times stronger in the twilight when neither day nor night hold sway? Voices in the wind and the mutterings of spirits who have shed their mortal bodies are also audible here. Is the roar that I can hear within the sound of the raging wind blowing down from the high peaks that of some fantastic creature that dwells within the mountains? Or instead, is it the voice of the very rock itself that speaks, expressing the rage and fury of winter storms? How old must such great peaks be? What wisdom might have accrued in their ancient bedrock? I must seek answers to these questions.
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