Matyas (foolish icarus)
Personality: wry, ill-disciplined
Ideology: defiance, struggle, joy, virtue
Birth Story: Matyas awoke on the cliffside meadow of an island in a narrow sound, the shards of that icy womb which delivered him steaming off his limbs. Ink whispered from the bird living in his pockets, giving shape to unknown sounds of exile and redemption.
Other Info: Matyas looks outward and upward, yearning to stride storm-lashed across the seas and skies which are the domain of Aadora.
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This bird plummets past the rain, these dark arrows for feathers slick and warm with thunderdrops. Oh how this bird falls with the water, weary, into the bosom of a land that was once bleak upon a time when this bird flew out from it; a land of shale and thistle where words rasp. Now it is blue-green and filled with thick-barked trees. Now it is a place where birds could be born; where the old come back to murmur, 'Someday'.
This bird spins and folds and falls and when it lands it is curled in a soft outstretched hand. This hand lifts this bird up to where the torrent rustles the thorny branches. The bird crawls off the hand; its claws grasp the twig of the fig-mulberry tree and it peers west to where the twin of the hand that caught it is outsretched.
The sea is a mile away; this bird can hear it, smell it past the rain, knows that it is rending against the black sands, breaking deep cliffs in meter to the gestures of the outstretched hand. This bird will always know the sea. This bird open its red and black beak, gives words to the drenched spirit with the twisting hands:
"Whither thou, Matyas? Yes, clean the salt from your face, lad, put the clouds upon the face of this land, for I have tales for you, words to say under the story tree, in the branches of the sycamore fig. My wings have beat the zephyrs of the nigh most-distant places.
"I have seen the bright tall fountains of wine teeming with ghostly youths, and oh, the hues of the veldt, rippling betwixt dark winds! So too let your rains refract the light of heaven, even as they lend quiet shadow to the rustling milkweeds and bell-grass-of-the-prairie. There are places where I put my ear to the ground, and from the deep bowels of these places resound the shattering of stones and quenching of alloys. Waters flow from these springs in abundance, here to empty in mighty deltas to the sea and there to burn away and choke on the dusts of the waste. Thus you might also lift your land in places, and in other places sink it into fertile soil, and in still others submit the reaches to desolate wildness and mystery.
"Some build, some wander, some hunt, some weave; I have heard in the moors the scraping of bone upon rock and the melodies of breath rushing spry through the hollow branch. Build you your sharp rocks amidst the seafoam, learn you your words of harsh
decisions! All manner of artifice grows upon the face of the world.
"Yes, I see you looking to the deep places where only the mother dwells. Do you think whence your perpetual breath? Do you wonder whither the sharpness of your ribs? I heard the snow flurries in the high clouds say, kooroo! kooroo! East, east to toil! Go on, ask me the names of these places. Speak, damn you boy! Speak."
The lad stretches out his hands.
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region 16 (called Melgolere, which means, "to gaze from a high place at the sunfall on the waters and wonder when one will be able to speak".)
The north is filled with old low hills and wide vales, the sandy and clay-filled soil densely wooded with temperate hardwoods, giving way to broader valleys and tall verdant softwoods in the wetter south.
A deep and protected natural harbor is carved someplace into the interior shoreline of that bay. To drink with one's own hands from the tidepool waters of any part of this coastline cleanses one of supernatural maladies or influences upon the mind or body.
