<span style="font-size: 150%; line-height: 116%;"><span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="text-decoration: underline"><div style="text-align: center;">Pylas Quixos</div></span></span></span><br/><br/>Rain pelted the stone structure, hammering a staccato rhythm against the windows. The sky's grim visage mirrored the people who sought shelter: grey, forlorn, tired, and bitter. Comprised mostly of refugees fleeing from the inexorable Dark Horde, the inn's patrons huddled around the fire harbouring the memories of the last six months. A hard six months. No different was the figure nursing a battered lyre in the corner of the inn. Despite the half-smile he wore, his eyes did not share the merriment.<br/><br/>Pylas was travelling in the wake of a Valonni regiment when the King of Darkness rose. They were returning to Val Onetti battle weary at the end of their tour. Pylas accompanied the wounded, hoping to bring some joy to those who had suffered, and peace to those who would pass. Some twenty-five miles from their respite from war a lone messenger arrived, claiming that Val Onetti had fallen. His message delivered, the runner collapsed from exhaustion and was promptly sent to join the wounded. The commander called together the men fit enough for duty and led them in a counter-attack against the Dark Horde. And amongst their number was Pylas, adopting the soldier's path he had forsaken.<br/><br/>Brave men fought with foul creatures; Claw clashed with steel; but this was no ordinary battle. Men did not scream as they did when fighting other men, and he fallen were not devoured by the victor. Pylas' phonology tore into the ranks of the enemy, but their advance never abated. Despite their bravery, when a colossal monstrosity broke the centre of the formation, they fled. And amongst those that fled was Pylas.<br/><br/>He had wandered the countryside, eschewing the easier highways for fear of coming across the King of Darkness' forces. They were a lonely six months of taking shelter under rock outcrops, in abandoned homesteads and out on open fields, with only the memories of that battle to whisper its dark lullabies and guide him to restless sleep. After acknowledging that he was lost, Pylas was forced to return to the roads. He came upon Nacona, travel stained and without coin. All his belongings were left in the Valonni camp, save for his lyre and a knife he had found in one of the abandoned homes. He stayed in Nacona finding work as he could in exchange for some stale bread and a roof over his head. Although his fortunes had turned sour, he felt inclined to stay in the village. Seeing the hopelessness in the residents he felt obliged to make them smile. When the thunderstorm drove villagers into the inn, he slipped in unnoticed.<br/><br/>The roar of the storm broke Pylas from his thoughts. Looking down at the lyre in his hands he realised that he had long since ceased playing. Looking up again he saw the bleak faces of the survivors, their eyes full of fear and dark tidings on their lips. Pylas' half-smile grew to a heartfelt grin, as he remembered his purpose. He rose from his seat and smoothed the creases from his light green chiton. Plucking a happy chord on his lyre, he began to sing:<br/><br/><div style="text-align: center;">A maiden fair with long blonde hair<br/>Is all that I ask for<br/>She need not work, nor cook, nor clean<br/>Still I would her adore<br/><br/>A blue droplet rolls down her cheek<br/>As I march off to war<br/>Her face does blush with heartfelt love<br/>And her I do adore<br/><br/>And when at war I hear her sing<br/>when I lay down to bed<br/>With gentle voice she pleads that I<br/>do not come back home dead<br/><br/>When I am done I'll go back to<br/>My lovely maiden fair<br/>And she will hold me in her arms<br/>As I caress her hair</div><br/><br/>As he sang three figures appeared midst the crowd made from light. They danced along with the tune, while their golden locks trailed behind them. The song was one he had often sang for soldiers. It was the song that earned him his nickname: Sirayo. Round the room the girls dance offering a coquettish smile here and a caress there. Some of the men backed away from the apparitions, while some joined into the dance. Pylas had even noticed a few scornful looks from women he presumed to be wives, but it did not bother him. This was just a bit of fun. The cheerful grin remained plastered to his face as he danced along with the circle of men and illusions.<br/><br/>The combination of his voice and the lyre's notes blended together to form the phonological sounds of power, summoning the illusions. It was a technique developed by his mother, and taught to him. Writing a simple ditty took some time as phonological Questioning had to be melded with the notes and words, but time was something he had in abundance in his travels. "All that time is worth it," though Pylas, "if it brought only one smile."<br/><br/>"You! Get out of here!"<br/><br/>The shout cut the song short. The light figure flickered and collapsed into wisps of smoke as Pylas plucked a discordant note. The voice belonged to the innkeeper, who's beady eyes straddled a broad nose. He had recognised Pylas from when he first sought shelter there and quickly kicked him out for not having any coin. The burly man crossed the room quickly and grabbed Pylas by the arm as he proceeded to manhandle him towards the door.