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p'Forming Foxy, currently not active PC, otherwise played by Chama.
Life is but a stage, all set for Art to happen.
Arturo de Pilgioso (or short "Art") has always been quite a bit different from other foxes. He originally comes
from a village a few leagues west of Triskellian (or "the sorrowful beyond, from whence the naked soul eternally
strove to fly" as he mournfully enunciates when he's not quite sober). Always at odds with the rather down-to-Calabria
grownups and his peers (who were naturally "utterly devoid of creative passion"), he fled into the world of books
and borrowed from there his new friends, characters by the great masters. He'd play out great dramas out in the forest
where only the odd lizard could hear him. At some time he acquired an old Lutarina and taught himself to play it,
adding this skill as another vessel of Art on his road to perfection. It is slanderously exaggerated that this is
the reason for lizards never to appear in those lands anymore.
So came the day when the village was attacked, defeated and ultimately burned to the ground. To Art's frustration
when he later tried to impress people with his exquisitely tragic background, he found out that burned villages are
very much the norm. In fact, so many incinerated cubhood dwellings appear in tear-drenched character descriptions,
along with descriptions of lost loved ones and, surprisingly enough, very specific listings of valuable property,
that one must wonder whether there is a massive taxation fraud in progress all over Calabria. Art often describes
how he heroically stood against whole armies of enemies. Sometimes they appear to have been wolves, and sometimes
perhaps boars. Art isn't quite sure himself, as he was asleep in the woods during the raid.
Finally liberated from the yoke of mundanity, Art set out to conquer the world, starting with Triskellian, of course.
Naturally, he'd take them with storm and he'd have the whole... well, they'd be bound to have some great theatre that
would just barely be worthy of his attention.
A couple of weeks later, Art was finally performing on the largest stage of them all: Outdoors, on the marketplace in
Triskellian. Completely drenched by treacherous rain (not even Gods seemed to appreciate his genius), he was receiving
jeers and ratcalls from his not-so-beloved-anymore audience. They were laughing at his tragedies, yawning at his quick
wit and repartee, and pelting him with mud during the tender love monologue that he'd painstakingly learned from his
favourite book. It was more than outrageous. It was... failure.
Somewhat (but far from completely) humbled, he fled the scene of his tremendous disaster and sought another venue. The
only one open was the path of the wandering bard. Of course, he immediately aspired to achieve a riveting reputation,
and he thought of himself as the dashing daredevil mysterious masked minstrel, yea verily the troubadour of trouble.
He prayed to whatever muse might be listening to make his dreams come true. Everyday he watched for omens that the gods
would yet again favour him. After all, he was destined to.
Pray lend your ear to a word of wisdom that Art so regrettably failed to heed. As common as the village in flames is the
(somewhat regular and predictable) caprice of fate when dared by hubris-ridden vows and prayers. Fate simply can't resist
them, and there seems to be an endless supply of nasty ways in which dreams can come true. Art got one of the most common
kinds: Deliberate literal narrative misinterpretation.
During one of his many journeys across Calabria (which our hero preferred to undertake by hitching a ride with the nearest
unlocked ExperssCoach™), Art was once again ambushed. This time, he had the misfortune of actually being there while it
happened. The robbers (who this time definitely proved to be wolves) went through the customary service of removing all
jewellery from the passengers, killing the drays and then setting fire to the coach while the more enterprising of them
made short detours to the forest, inexplicably accompanied by the prettier female passengers. In short, the robbers were
keen on preserving established and traditional robbing values. Art, who was mortally terrified by this awesome display of
raw, ferocious power, pleaded so pitifully for his life that Akiron, the leader of the robbers took liking to his acting
skills and decided to enlist Art for a completely unforeseen career movement. Art became a troubadour in trouble, alright.
During his time with the wolves, Art learned of the depressingly base cultural needs of rouges and scoundrels. He tried
to educate them, but their idea of finesse was “Have at them, lads. I get the one with the big…” and decency dictates that
the following word is “purse”. The bandits saw Art as a sort of combined clown, producer of what they didn’t know was
called non sequiturs, and cute mascot. One of their most popular pastimes was to have Art entertain the robbing victims
with songs of how great the robbers were at their work, while they were actually doing it. Thusly works a truly twisted
mind.
Art finally escaped the clutches of the wolves, but of course, he’s emotionally scarred for life, as he dramatically
exclaims when (or when not) asked.
Still, Art dreams of performing for a real audience who can appreciate his talent and skill. In his hazy-edged visions,
kings shout “Encore!” at his dramatic flair, and noble ladies swoon at his sonorous serenading. Art will likely go into
any situation with lots of drama, especially if he feels that he’ll have a chance of delivering a verbal coup de grace to
evil tyrants such as the unrighteous acting critics of the oh-so-ill-reputed marketplace in Triskellian.
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