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Description
The last member of the Apocalypse series, here we have "The Bard"

Cloaked in shadows, He scavanges the once fallen civilisations in a hope of finding the simplest of artifacts to reunite the people, music.

Alas, it is but a shame that he cannot use it, for this verry power is also his curse...

His body has been cursed with the Magic that is music, each Cord burned into his skin, warping him until he needs a mask just to be appealing to the naked eye, alas it would be so simple shoudl that be the worst of it , but no...

it is worse

the magic resonates with his body, every strum of the gitaur, every shout of a battle cry , even the whistle of a gentle hum , all of which get warped and misguided, sending devastation in his wake if he were to even attempt to speak what cant be spoken. The verry music he collects he can never recreate to his agony.

it is for this reason alone that he is in a vow of silence, refusing to even utter his own name...A name that he had so long forgotten. The agony of this revalation can turn one mad, but not him, hiis hope is much bigger than that

the gitaur he carries on his rear ? he awakes each day to find it in his hand, a representaion of this cruel magic that has been warped beyond comprehension. the cracks on its pristine frame a reminder of the battles he faces day to day as he struffles to regain a lost fragment of society.

But through all this despair, he can truely embrace Hope

Description
The last member of the Apocalypse series, here we have "The Bard"

Cloaked in shadows, He scavanges the once fallen civilisations in a hope of finding the simplest of artifacts to reunite the people, music.

Alas, it is but a shame that he cannot use it, for this verry power is also his curse...

His body has been cursed with the Magic that is music, each Cord burned into his skin, warping him until he needs a mask just to be appealing to the naked eye, alas it would be so simple shoudl that be the worst of it , but no...

it is worse

the magic resonates with his body, every strum of the gitaur, every shout of a battle cry , even the whistle of a gentle hum , all of which get warped and misguided, sending devastation in his wake if he were to even attempt to speak what cant be spoken. The verry music he collects he can never recreate to his agony.

it is for this reason alone that he is in a vow of silence, refusing to even utter his own name...A name that he had so long forgotten. The agony of this revalation can turn one mad, but not him, hiis hope is much bigger than that

the gitaur he carries on his rear ? he awakes each day to find it in his hand, a representaion of this cruel magic that has been warped beyond comprehension. the cracks on its pristine frame a reminder of the battles he faces day to day as he struffles to regain a lost fragment of society.

But through all this despair, he can truely embrace Hope