Peatwyn (prime)

Peatwyn Generated by Eladarmi's player using Openart.AI ? Race Gnome Culture ? Class Cleric Profession Lyricist - Poet Religion Charl Affiliation(s) Order of Voln Gilded Discord In-a-Word ? Disposition ? Demeanor Sweety Primary Trait "Stalky Stature" Secondary Trait Remarkable Resilience Flaw Spontaneous Greatest Strength Jovial Greatest Weakness No teeths Habits Acts of Kindness, Morning Meditations Studying Voln Scriptures Hobbies Playing his Sharma Soft Spots Memory of the Deep Country Likes Aiding Others Dislikes Needless Violence Fears Sprites Fey Magic Loyalties His Beliefs and Faith His Friends and Companions

Peatwyn

★- "I'm blessed - doubly so"."'

You see Peatwyn the Master of the Order of Voln

He appears to be a Forest Gnome of the Rosengift Bloodline.

He is taller than average. He appears to be in the prime of life. He has beady sea green eyes and ruddy skin. He has chin length, unruly salt-and-pepper grey hair in a wild miasma of tangles. He has a squat and jowl-set, weathered little face, a flattened, snub nose and ripped nostrils, while a variety of hastily assembled false teeth fill his mouth and are riddled with uneven gaps and open spaces.He is very tall. He appears to be full grown. He has silver-flecked crystal blue eyes and sun-bronzed, coppery skin. He has shoulder length, cascading bronze hair styled in face-framing, feathery layers. He has a perfectly symmetrical, delicately featured face, a prominent nose and well-muscled shoulders and arms.

★-About Peatwyn:

Coming Soon

★-Associates

Friends of Peatwyn

Eladarmi, Lilanna, Sylvanya

-Back Story:

Coming Soon...

-Vignettes

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"Peatwyn, by Rite and Rhyme"Peatwyn, Asrai, & Eladarmi in Icemule Trace. A perfect blend of their sacred paths and bardic souls—equal parts reverence and revelry - (Generated by Eladarmi's player Openart.ai)

★-::“The Gilded Discord”

(Peatwyn’s Personal Account, scribbled half in ink and half in memory, somewhere between a hymn and a hazard)

It began, as most divine misadventures do, with a snowflake.

A quiet thing, that flake. Tame. Timid. Unaware it was the harbinger of holy chaos.

I was already midway through a blistering sidewalk sermon—crossbow cocked, soul unlocked—when I saw him.

Eladarmi.

Tower of gleaming gallantry, all storm-chiseled cheeks and polished poesy, stomping up the cobbles like the gods owed him change.

And circling above his noble crown?

A sprite. A spark. A shrieking giggle trapped in glitter, better known as Asrai.

And me? Oh, I was in form.

“With a crossbow cursed and a hymn on high,

I’ll bless ya, bury ya, or make you cry!”

The street lit like flint on frost. Cobbles woke up. Voices perked. Eladarmi’s hands went to his mandolin like he’d been born clutching it.

And the next thing I know, we’re dueling—not in blood, but in ballad.

He strummed like thunder in church. I piped like sin in a songbook.

He was verse and valor. I was rhythm and rogue.

And oh, the people loved it.

Sylvanya howled.

Lilanna wheezed.

Asrai—well, she was spinning above us like a moon-drunk hummingbird leading a choir of bees.

Then it happened.

In the lull between refrains, just as I’m taking a breath to deliver something profound about repentance through rhythm, he leans in.

Eladarmi. The Shining. The Tower of Storm and Song.

He leans in—toward the sprite, presumably—with intent on his face and snow melting in his hair.

A kiss aimed for her brow, like some saintly benediction upon a mischievous familiar.

And Asrai? The glittering goblin of fate?

She dodged.

Maybe intentionally. Maybe not. I rather think she simply wiggled in the way all fate does:

inconveniently.

And Eladarmi?

He kissed me.

Dead center. Cheek. Warm. Surprised. Mid-word.

I blinked.

He stammered.

The crowd exploded.

“I—I was aiming for the sprite!” he pleaded, crimson creeping up his ears.

I smirked, because really, what else does one do in such a moment?

“The sprite is deft and daft,” I said, invoking divine dignity, “in its penance for puckered tomfoolery.”

The sprite, of course, was now airborne with laughter, looking ready to combust into sparkles and shame.

But I wasn’t done.

Not even close.

and while Eladarmi struggled to compose himself, adjusting his armor like modesty was leaking out of the seams,

I leaned in again—soft as sin,

sweet as sacrament—and kissed him back.

He yelped. Audibly!

Like someone had snuck a banshee under his breastplate.

“That was not an invitation!” he bellowed.

“I was fey-wrought,” I replied,

because let’s be honest, that excuse works for everything.

The sprite shrieked in delight.

Lilanna choked.

A squirrel died, probably.

I blessed my donkey, made my farewell grand—

'“I RIDE FOR THE RIFT! BEFORE TOMORROW’S MEMORY REMEMBERS ME WRONGLY!”

—and departed with the flair of a gnome who had just rewritten half a bard’s romantic subplot.

And as I trotted out of town, my shawm slung across my back, heart full of mischief and melody, I thought:

We are a band now, aren’t we?

He with his hymns,

me with my heresies.

The sprite with her chaos.

The others, laughing behind us like footnotes of fate.

We’ve no proper name yet. Not really.

The Gilded Discord was floated. So was Peatwyn and the Accidental Kiss. I admit a fondness for both.

But whatever we call ourselves, the world will remember us.

As snow that sings.

As songs that spark.

As laughter between verses and kisses misplaced.

Tonight, I ride for quiet places. But I carry with me a harmony—half sacred, half silly.

And in the silent halls of Voln, if a tune echoes down the stone—

“With a crossbow cursed and a hymn on high…”

—they’ll know we passed through.

And they'll either weep or waltz.

Maybe both.

★-::“The Gilded Discord”::★