Name:
Echo

(Though he knows his surname, he doesn’t use it, just for the sake of having less to write.)

Position:
Bardic Trainee

Age:
14 years old

Physical Description:
Echo is small for his age, and hates it. At 14 years old, he only stands 5’2” and barely weighs 90 pounds. With a slightly wavy, thick thatch of blond hair and nearly colorless eyes with just a hint of blue, he has a slight build, fair coloring, and features that might be delicate if he didn’t have such a direct way of looking at people. Echo’s eyes are large in his thin face, and he keeps his hair unfashionably short; just to the middles of his ears, cowlicked on the right. It sometimes tightens to loose curls when it gets wet or the humidity is high, and has a tendency to fall in his face, with his right eye peering through the cowlick.

His rough life is documented all over his body; and if a guess were to be made, it might be surmised that Echo only has about three square inches of actual skin left on him that isn’t marred by scar tissue of some type. Everything from old burns, to long angry scars left by hooked whips, to places stitches once held together his flesh cross his small frame. There are several places where the scarring was so deep that internal tissue damage occurred, and in particular, Echo is missing parts of his calf, thigh, back, and shoulder muscles.

Echo’s normal expression is a frank one, and his gaze isn’t afraid to look anyone in the eye. The only place not covered by a piece of clothing, his face is as scarred as the rest of him. The more noticeable ones include the long whip weal across his face, starting at just under his left ear and stretching across the bridge of his small nose to end just above his right eyebrow, the bit of dark pink scarring over the upper left fourth of his face that includes his left eyelid, and the long parallel rips over his right cheek, almost like jagged whiskers, some of which nearly come to his nose and cross over the whip weal. The areas around his eyes are usually dark, making the pale color and blond eyebrows stand out more than they would have otherwise. They hold a wisdom that knows the reality of life, and any attempts to lie to those eyes fail miserably. Echo sort of looks like he’s got his jaws clamped shut behind his lips, giving his chin a stubbornness. With a soft smile that almost makes him beautiful, it is little seen in its fullest version.

Echo never speaks unless he’s called to sing for class requirements, and has an amazing, soaring tenor that has already adjusted to the adolescent voice change. With at least a four octave range, Echo’s skill is superb and surprising, once one learns that no one has ever heard him practice. He just opens his mouth and lets it out, and then is silent again, as if nothing out of the ordinary ever happened.

Personality/Attitude:
Echo's childhood at the tavern left him with nothing, stripping away and stealing everything from his self-respect to his mother's life. The only thing he had for himself was his voice. So he never let anyone hear it, not even his mother. It was his, and his alone. Echo remained electively mute until he was twelve years old, and was traveling
with Davin. As a show of trust and gratitude, he chose to sing for him. It was strangely freeing and made him feel frighteningly vulnerable, but it was a compromise he was comfortable with. Since then, the only times a person will hear his voice is when he sings.

Since life with Davin, Echo feels confident enough to be at ease with himself, but still has a hard time relating to others. He’s an extremely private person, and doesn’t wish to bother others with any of his troubles, nor does he believe anyone cares. He’s self-conscious about his scars, but is desensitized enough to handle taunting and other sundry cruelties. His behavior is based on mutual respect, only putting out as much as he gets. Echo has a matter-of-fact air about him, and is quite realistic about things, and displays a remarkable amount of self-possession. But there remains a lost quality to him, like he’s looking for something he’s been missing for quite some time, or perhaps for someone to find *him*.

Echo has a quiet sense of humor that doesn’t get much of a workout, but has been known to quietly chuckle over some little humorous thing. He’s very independent, and doesn’t take orders well. His normal mood is an odd ruminating evenness, basically meaning not upset. Emotional extremes are nearly unheard of, and he will plow through his tasks with all he has, no matter how difficult, painful, or upsetting it may be. He has a phobia of Healers, and avoids the House of Healing and anyone in a green robe at all costs. He has a marked lack of empathy for others, and anyone looking for a shoulder to cry on won’t find it with him. He doesn’t feel sorry for himself, and so doesn’t feel the need to feel sorry for others. Zero tolerance for whining and complaining, also for tears. He’s often lost in thought, and it can also be hard to get his attention unless in class. Echo has a terrifyingly sharp auditory and eidetic memory. If one had the inclination and the parchment, he could write out, down to the throat clearings, entire hours-long lectures weeks after hearing them, along with accurate drawings of the lecturer, the surroundings, and at least 20 of the audience.

Brief History:
Lady Elsara Kentalianthal of Rethwellan was unceremoniously raped and consequently disowned by her noble family, her father the main assistant to the Royal Archivist, and the Archivist being the one who had actually done the raping. But she refused to let out that secret, knowing the pain and scandal it would bring her father and their family, and allowed herself to be cast out. With no useable skills, only the clothes on her back, and pregnant to boot, the seventeen-year-old found refuge working in the only place that would have her.

She gave birth in the back of a filthy tavern so decrepit that it didn’t even merit a name, in the worst part of Haven that could still conceivably host one, two months premature. The labor was blessedly short but brutally painful, and when the busty tavern owner’s wife, Dena, who oversaw the birth, had the baby in her arms, he simply coughed a few times and was fine. Even when Dena slapped the infant on the rump, he still didn’t cry. Sara, who had by then dropped the “Lady”, her last name, and the “El”, had only time to feed him before she had to finish the nightly chores. She had to admit though, that he had been lucky to have been born at all in the squalid conditions of the tavern, with her so thin on the poor scraps that were her meals. The baby was nearly devoid of significant body weight and had a paleness to him that seemed unhealthy, but he was hers, and won her instantly. Sara recalled a poem she’d read in her father’s library about a warrior so battle weary that he was but a shadow of himself, and echo of a man. So she named her skinny little son with the huge eyes Echo.

The rough tavern took its toll on both of them as Echo grew up. Neither of them was safe from the wandering hands of the customers, and both experienced forcings many times over, Echo even before he was three years old. The hardened criminals and assorted riffraff that patroned the tavern were brazenly abusive to the boy, whose mother could do nothing. If Sara was turned out, she and her son would most likely be dead before the day was over, and she hadn’t the heart to kill them both.

After the deep blue of the newborn had left his eyes, the color left was so washed out that Sara could hardly tell what it was. He was a stubborn baby, and a passive toddler, never gaining the weight even his poor height merited. He also never spoke. He didn’t make any noise, in fact. Sara wondered if something was wrong, and finally gave up, believing the later conditions of her pregnancy had taken his voice. Echo never showed any signs of inflammation around his throat or neck, and never made any attempts to form words or imitate sounds. But he understood well enough, and it was obvious he could hear. Echo lived out his blurry existence content enough to live through the day and be comforted by his mother at night, as she washed out their wounds and sang little songs quietly until he fell asleep in her arms. He didn’t know any other way of life, and somehow understood that he was expected to take the whippings and rape without question. And he also knew that he loved his mother deeply, and she did him.

By the time Echo was seven, he was working in the tavern himself, running empty tankards and dishes, pumping water, wiping tables, helping in the kitchen. All between the usual ministrations of the customers. Temple schooling wasn’t even considered, and he’d never been, despite the law. Besides, the nearest temple was almost a mile from the tavern, and the chores to keep the run-down place going were endless. He’d had three broken bones by then, all inexpertly mended, and had around 80 percent of the scar tissue he’d carry for the rest of his life already. His hair was kept short to give the patrons less to grab, and his clothes were worn thin, filled with holes, and couldn’t even keep him warm in the summer. Sara was still pretty at 24, but had most of the life drained from her body by rough liaisons of all kinds. She’d also gotten smarter; if a man began to come on, she quickly named her price before she could be taken, sometimes right there on the table or floor.

Sometimes at night, after clean up, Sara would take a burnt stick from the fireplace and write their names on the stone hearth. It wasn’t long before he could copy them exactly, and it pleased his mother to no end that her son could write out his long Rethwellan surname. Hers, not his father’s. She taught him no more words past those, but gave him all the numbers she knew, and figuring lessons too, tickled that her son displayed such an intelligent mind as he picked up her teachings with ease.

It was the summer of Echo’s ninth year when his mother died. Dena threw the door of their little closet open one morning when neither of them reported to the kitchen to discover the skinny boy weeping noiselessly over Sara’s corpse. Disgusted, she kicked him away and dragged the body out to the street to be picked up by death carts. Echo followed awkwardly after his mother, and when Dena tried to haul him back inside for chores, he bit her hand. That hand gave him a resounding slap, and Dena cursed at him, effectively firing the boy and slammed the door of the tavern behind herself. The shock of his mother’s death and loss of home didn’t register until Sara’s body was loaded onto the cart, and Echo blinked a few times before realizing he was completely alone. Sara had never bonded him to anyone, with no relatives in Valdemar, or in Rethwellan who would recognize him if she was his mother.

Naked fear clutched him that first day, and he spent the subsequent night huddled in an alley a few blocks away, tears streaming down his dirty face. Waking the next morning with a clearer head, but still unsure and afraid, Echo made his way to the Southern Gate of Haven. By chance, or perhaps something more, he bumped into a minstrel, just re-leaving Haven for his travels. The minstrel’s name was Davin, and something about the filthy, stubborn boy with the bad haircut and the big colorless eyes caught his heart. Not old enough to be a father, in his own eyes at least, 17-year-old Davin gave the child a wordless option to follow him. Echo did, and their relationship began.

Davin kept a slower pace than his usual as he set down the South Trade Route, and Echo followed him. The older boy had seen the younger’s strange uneven walk, and silently allowed for the handicap. His lute encased and slung across his back, Davin sang to himself as he walked, to an enraptured audience of one. In the twelve days it took to reach Horn, the two reached a mutual understanding and found one another to quite satisfactory. It was a strange relationship, at least in the beginning. Davin discovered his traveling companion’s silence the first night, and limited his first queries to the yes-or-no variety. A cold bath in the Terilee removed years of accumulated dirt and grime, and Davin had to swallow hard as he re-dressed the boy in one of his own old tunics. He saved his tears for after Echo had gone to sleep. Davin learned the boy’s name after he’d written it the dirt at their first campsite with his finger. He also learned that he was an orphan, unbonded, and when he asked Echo what else he could write, he got a happy surprise.

Being of the right-brained, numbers had never been Davin’s strong point. Most of the skills learned at temple school had long since dissolved, and when Echo proved that he could go even further in math than most of the priests taught, Davin knew the kid was worth keeping around. So poor with numbers was he, that most merchants and tavern keepers didn’t mind stiffing him from time to time. Well, now he had a better defense. Davin taught Echo monetary units, and by the end of that night, he knew he’d never be taken again. A deal was struck. Echo agreed to be Davin’s accountant, and Davin kept him clothed and fed, with a small percentage of the takings he might get beyond that as a minstrel.

They spent that summer in Horn, with Davin serenading newlyweds and entertaining travelers. At night, he taught Echo the lute, and in a month, the boy was good enough to accompany Davin while he sang. They left Horn that fall, Echo’s new clothes worn in nicely, with Davin ecstatic that he’d come out on top in his dealings with the merchants for the first time in his life. Echo also had a slate to write on, about a foot by ten inches, framed in dark wood. Three long lengths of twine held slate pencils on their ends, cheaper and easier to erase than chalk. Another long loop of twine formed a handle to hang the slate over his shoulder, and Echo agreeably took his “voice” with him wherever they went.

With provisions and change to spare, the two traveled on, to the West this time. Over the course of the next five years, Davin and Echo saw everything from the Forest of Sorrows, to Lake Evendim, to Three Rivers, to Trevale. They played for anyone, anywhere. It was a happy life, and the two boys became like brothers to each other in their closeness, with one’s talents making up for the other’s lacks. Davin, at home, had no siblings, and parents who frowned on music. He found a kindred spirit in Echo, who drank it thirstily and reveled in making it.

Davin taught Echo to read and write, and Echo was soon teaching Davin tricks on the lute. They each had life lessons to give the other, Echo’s about pain, Davin’s about friendship. Sometime during the start of their second year together, after Davin had defended them against a few town bullies, they made their way back to a camping spot to lick their wounds. That Davin had injuries bothered him, and he tossed restlessly, unable to sleep.

Out of the silence of the night came an incredible sound. Davin had to turn around to see it. Echo was singing to him, to comfort him as he’d done so often at night for the other boy. His voice was soft and sweet, perfectly pitched and lulling. Davin felt his pain melt away, and drifted to sleep in amazement, smiling. His lonely heart swelled with Echo’s implied trust and warmth.

After that night, Echo sang to Davin whenever the older boy began to feel down, or had hurts that plagued his body. Somehow, he never felt his own aches lessen, but seeing Davin feel better more than made up for it. Echo wouldn’t sing for anyone but Davin, even thought the older boy begged him to share his wonderful voice with the world. He also still didn’t talk, which Davin found very odd. He had to wonder at what could keep someone silent for over a decade, and believed Echo when he shook his head “no” at the question of if he’d ever vocalized before. But rather than question further, Davin left it at that. The same year Echo started to sing, he made the purchase of his life, giving up every coin he’d earned for a long silver flute, with a waterproofed hard case. It was beautiful, soundly made, and a bargain to boot. He protected it with a guard-dog-like force of will, and kept it clean, even the case was spotless. Echo lost no time in acquainting himself with his new instrument, and in less than a week sweet, intricate music was flowing from it whenever he lifted it to his lips.

About a week ago, the two happened across an actual Bard. It was pure chance, at an inn they’d stopped at. Davin was more dazzled by the array of scarlet than Echo, because he knew better what it meant. Davin hadn’t gone to the Collegium himself, but had learned from the local musicians. He felt duly humbled and knew he’d have to get Echo to sing for him. The boy's voice, at 14, had already adjusted to the adolescent voice change, but still had the amazing flexibilty of his previous soprano. Echo, who wasn’t impressed by things like clothing, was still entranced when the man began to speak. Even ordering a glass of water, the Bard’s voice was a rich baritone that made a song out of everything he said. Echo was transfixed. The two of them stayed in the common room of the inn that evening, listening to the Bard perform to a full house, his fingers flying over his gittern as he sang.

Davin knew he had to get Echo to sing for the Bard. After the man left, the two bickered a bit, Davin pleading, Echo refusing. Finally, Davin gave up, knowing that Echo would stand by his refusal and that there would be other Bards. They left for their little camp outside town and went to bed.

Early that morning, the two were attacked by a few of the local drunks and rowdies, and Davin was stabbed through the throat during the scuffle. Their purse of money was stolen, as were their traveling packs, and the only reason Echo’s flute wasn’t in amongst the loot was that he always slept with his arm curled tightly around it. After the raid, Echo built a cairn over his friend’s body, not noticing the streams of tears running down his face as he laid Davin to rest. Feeling numb and alone, his only thought was to do the last thing Davin had asked of him; to sing for the Bard. Finding his slate as he walked away, fallen out of the packs as the raiders had run off, plus a couple pairs of socks, and the remains of Davin’s wrecked lute, he picked up the slate, left the rest, and walked away to find the Bard, his flute held in a vise-like grip by his side.

With only the clothes on his back, his instrument and slate, Echo managed to find the Bard on the road in three days, and sang for him.

Bardic Immunity did the rest.

Goals:
To be happy.

Gifts:
All three Bardic Gifts. Talent, or skill with an instrument, is the strongest. The Bardic Gift is second, but manifests itself only in the wild talent to sing or play away pain. His Creativity is tiny, just enough to pen music. Echo will never write lyrics with any success.

Companion/Bondbird:
N/A

Your name:
Kerri

Your Email/YahooID:
daysleeper37@yahoo.com/none

Author's Comments:
Just for the record, I do have all the names and ages for Elsara's family and the Archivist's family written up and stored.