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Fevys the Mystic

Taking on the title of Mystic at the age of 16 seems, in retrospect, perhaps a little naive. My microcosm of the world and my understanding of peoples and conflicts is based solely in old books with faded ink and weak stitching.
This, then, is a confession. But it may also be the beginning of something far greater.
Delusion and knowledge, they are the sun and moon that guide me, to disaster and to glory. I will walk this life of chaos, of action and consequence, in search of both. Whomever can offer me knowledge of the mystic arts, I will listen to. Whomever stands ready, with a heart for any fate, I will welcome to adventure. Whomever seethes deep within their soul to unlock the secrets of this world, I will greet as kindred spirit.
Perhaps I get ahead of myself…
You will find me reading, or tinkering, or caught in my own thoughts. The fellow with long, dark hair. Likely disheveled. Slim, but lean from years of farm work. Calloused hands and a curious mind.
Ruler of Kings? I do not intend to stop there. I seek to witness and to know, to conquer and to benefit, to learn and share knowledge of other worlds. Other spheres.
Join me, then, for the soul that sleeps is truly dead, and this world is not what it seems.

Mystic Fevys

Advisor Description

I have read that there are vibrations between people, vibrations that operate beneath the world of visible, tangible realities. I had no precedent to believe them, but I do now.
The rain fell hard and fast and loud this morning. I took refuge beneath the crude awning of a wheelwright, spying many a gap in the woodwork and preparing myself to offer help when the rain quit. Such rain in the Town comes down in sheets. They sweep through the street, obscuring vision and slapping loudly against the cobblestone, drumming the sides of buildings constantly. It was hard to see, hard to hear…
But I saw him, watching me. I felt the vibration of familiarity, one-sided though it was. I felt intent and a dangerous drive within this man. He strode through the barrage of rain towards me, short blonde hair matted and dripping, obscuring his eyes. "Fevys. We need to talk."
A Captain. Of what, he wouldn't say. There was a rigidness to his step that may have suggested the military: distrust and paranoia as well, all the alchemy of a deserter. I could believe it, same as I might believe him a mercenary or a bandit. But how had he known my mother?
There was indeed a sigil stamped on his leather cloak. Something to look into, later.
What an intense man, Danor. He hums with it, like an aura. I feel it within me as well. Working together, I know we can do much. But the both of us are distrustful, that much is clear. I cannot make the mistake of conflating his drive with my ambition, however. And besides, this kind of man has no use for mystic arts. We, then, are a powerful coupling, but one that I believe will balance awkwardly.
Maybe one day soon I shall sketch his scars, for they are many…

Fevys the Mystic Post Play & MMORPG RPG Text

Reflections on your mother

Such strange dreams I have here, a beckon to write on my mother…
I admit, here in the furtive binding of my journal, that grief has passed over me quickly. In its stead I am filled with a well of energy, as if my skin were the cast iron exterior of a furnace, and the fire within burnt all else away. Perhaps this is another form of grief. Mysticism, for all its internal depth, does not define the movements of the heart.
I struggle now to recall her face, though it has not been long since she departed this world. I have Danor to remind me, in his own brooding way, that she existed, she loved, and she left a mark on me. My mother was honest, that is the least I can say. My upbringing was practical. Her maternal instinct edged with urgency, with a need to train me.
Never will I forget the delicious smell of her meat pastries, wafting through our house on divine winds. The scintillating taste of pork and spices…