Obras Ytto

[Obras Ytto]

(( General Information ))

Character Name: Obras Ytto (Oh-Brass Eat-toe)
Age: Somewhere between fifty and seventy, though he's not quite sure. This seems to be a common aspect of Satyr culture; too much booze will do that to you.
Identified Court: Earth Fey
Fey Blood: Mostly Earth, through a satyr father and dryad mother. However, unbeknownst to Obras or his father, his mother has a small spattering of Wind Fey in her blood.
Appearance: Ivoried, carefully tousled hair partially frames an ivoried face, still soft with the edge of youth, despite the mischievously boyish charm twisting and writhing in his sienna eyes, or the scraggly, scratchy shadings growing falteringly upon his chin.
Indeed, everything about Obras suggests his youth, and, compared to many of the Fey,he is not yet free of his adolescence. From his slightly short stature (even for the Satyr's, a notoriously stout race), to his slight, slender frame covered in fine silvery hairs, he is condemned to be called a youngling for many years yet.
However young he is, though, Obras possesses a rather impressive set of deer antlers upon his head, and a long, achromatic horses tail, brushed carefully and painstakingly from his tail bone to its tips, reaching down to his brassy hooves.
Obras is highly unconcerned with clothing, and, when not allowed to run about sky-clad, reluctantly dons loose silken pants.
He possesses no wings, instead referring to those magnificent antlers of his as his soul.
Level: Level Zero
Powers: It is unfortunate, especially to Obras, for whom it is a sore point, but as of this moment, if he has any unique powers, it is unknown to him.
Perhaps, as he ages, one will find its way to the surface. For now, he has much growing to do.
Magical Knowledge: Obras was educated by his father in the magic of the earth. Small plants may grow under his attentions and already grown plants may thrive. His specialty lies with growing flowers in the span of seconds out of suitable ground, particularly of the gifting kind (mostly to impress the dryads and nymphs of his home forest), though he has on one or two occasions been able to coax medicinal herbs from the loam as well.

(( Personality ))

At first glance, Obras seems to be as any other satyr. On second glance and third and fourth, too.
Obras is quite the poster child for the demeanor of a satyr. Lively and jubilant, little seems to upset him. Like a little duck, he sits, water repelling off his backside.
Perhaps this is just his nature, or perhaps it is a side effect from having lived life in the small confines of his corner of the forest, with nothing but giddy nymphs and his fellow satyrs to socialize him.
He is prone to overindulging in all the pleasures of life; fey wine, fey food, fey women (and, on occasion, men). Sleeping in the freshly grown grass in spring, and in the recently collected autumnal leaves are favorite pastimes. Flirting and engaging in promiscuity are as natural and necessary as breathing.
Strangely, though, while Obras enjoys such a life... he finds something lacking. A missing piece.
A thirst for knowledge, of the life outside his little forest, with its giggling nymphs and dryads, playing in the age-old game of chase and give.
Curiosity drives him, and, optimistically, he sets out.

(( History ))

Once upon a time, a satyr played the game, as satyrs always had.
Once upon a time, a nymph, long and lean and so ethereally beautiful, ran effortlessly across a forest, just fast enough to stay out of the greedy grasp of a masculine arm, but slow enough to tease.
She tripped.
He won.

A baby was born and raised, give to his father, and, he, too, enjoyed the games. The shrieking giggles of female throats was his music, the naked flesh thrown on foliage his art, and never would he have thought to grow restless with it.
But he did.
Something was missing from that charmed life. He ate his fill, given to him by the forest, he copulated, he laughed and celebrated when there was nothing to be celebrated.
His soul was incomplete. A missing piece.
Father and father's-father told him stories, tales. A war, tearing the world apart at the seams, an extinct race, gifted not with magic and glamour, but with technology and science.
Childhood awe became an obsession, tossing about his head like the vicious summer rains on the outskirts of the wood. The high-paced pursuit of flesh became nothing but a pleasant diversion, and Obras became suddenly displeased with his life. Unsatisfied.
And then the answer finally came.
It was time to leave The Wood.