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Description

OLD ART: sta.sh/02gq3nc5gf3
Written will be updated in the near future!

{ GENERAL }
Name: Saffron [Alias]
Age: 75 - Visibly in his mid-thirties
Height: 5’11
Gender: Male
Species: Elven
Occupation: Chicken Farmer / Bard
House: Protea

{ MAGIC }
Type: Witch
Discipline: Emerald
Preferred uses: "I'll keep the flowers bloomin' where I can, an' my friends safe if I got the power to."

{ PERSONAL }

Warmth and sincerity come like breath to Saffron, and it’s more a state of being than anything -- he’ll throw words and songs with strangers like they’re old friends, no matter the place -- and he’ll mean every word of it, too.

He is no stranger to grief; to strife and sorrow - but to twist them to sunlight, be it by song or smile -- is about all he knows what to do with it. Ask him of home and he will laugh; ask him of blood and he’ll ask you to dance. Relentless optimism and avoidant behavior can be exhausting for those around him, he knows -- but it’s how he’s chosen to survive.

Saffron has been in others’ company for as long as he can remember -- plants, animals, people, community -- they’re important to him, and he thrives in social settings. Isolation would crush him faster than any spell could hope, and silence is unbearable. On an unrelated note, he’s been banned from at least 14 libraries.

For all of his brightness and auras of confidence, an underlying pulse of fear leeches into everything he does, especially where friends are concerned. Pointed awareness of living things’ fragility has carved itself into his being, and he can be driven to bouts of severe overprotectiveness and sometimes full-blown panic. Which, as he avoids relying on others for fear they will scorn him, means he tries to handle everything on his own. Which, you know, he does.
...Badly.

Likes & Dislikes:

Chickens

Apricot jam

A Good Laugh

Poppies

Strawberries

Blood

Foxglove

Beets

Biography:

They found him in their henhouse one early fall morning, when the dew was still fresh on the leaves and the mourning doves lay quiet. He was a wee thing, too; tucked close to the hens to keep warm -- 12 sprigs of saffron tied nice and neat behind his ears. Ears that weren’t like theirs.
The saffron would see them through many winters, valuable as it was - and so they decided to keep it; and the boy as well, who for all his endless chatter never spoke his own name. After months of calling him, “Boy” and “Child”, and as their hearts grew fond of the way he cradled their ducklings and sang to their goats - how he cried at newborn rabbits for being, ‘so small’ --- they called him Saffron.

He never answered to anything else after that.

Saffron served them well as a farmhand, and for many years even thought himself their son. They gifted him his first fiddle at age 7, and a lute at 12. They carried him on their shoulders so he could feed the birds high up, and sang softly by firelight when the nightmares came. When he looked at them all the stars came alight in his eyes - and he thought that was enough.

Perhaps they did love him -- this peculiar thing -- perhaps even dearly, until the day they had their own. A rosy cheeked, flaxen haired, human child came into the world on one frozen winter’s eve -- and it was then, more than a decade after he’d come into their care, that Saffron saw firsthand what unconditional love for your child, your child, looked like -- and realized it was not reserved for him.

But when he sang, they looked at him, and it felt close. He could almost pretend.

So he practiced.

For the animals at first, then for his family - as he got older, he snuck into taverns and he played there too. Fairs and the town square, in gardens between chores while his brother went to school. When the boy had curfew, his parents said, for his safety -- Saffron stayed out until dawn to forget that they'd never in all his years asked him to come home before dark.

And one night, following a particularly nasty fight when their son followed him to one of Saffron's shows, after many a cruel word was exchanged -- he left.

Just like that.

It didn't take the elven man long to discover how cold the world actually was beyond the farmlands. He survived however he could, sometimes easily and sometimes fighting tooth and nail like an animal. There were towns that were kind, and some..
Well. That were less so.

But he loved long and he loved fierce, all the same -- and buried every loss into the marrow of his bones.

The Castle came for him at his lowest. Lowest, that's all he'd ever say about it.
What's important is that he'd sworn to repay its kindness; through song and a well-kept homestead.

{ EXTRA }
His dog's name is Samwise
Poppies and daffodils bloom when he laughs; so he tries to laugh often.
Favourite flower is the Sunflower, but he's never been able to grow one.
Speaks gaelic and many of its variations fluently
Will not sleep in beds

Rp Preferences: Lit is my style, but script might be fun to try if you’d like!
Time Zone: PST

Description

OLD ART: sta.sh/02gq3nc5gf3
Written will be updated in the near future!

{ GENERAL }
Name: Saffron [Alias]
Age: 75 - Visibly in his mid-thirties
Height: 5’11
Gender: Male
Species: Elven
Occupation: Chicken Farmer / Bard
House: Protea

{ MAGIC }
Type: Witch
Discipline: Emerald
Preferred uses: "I'll keep the flowers bloomin' where I can, an' my friends safe if I got the power to."

{ PERSONAL }

Warmth and sincerity come like breath to Saffron, and it’s more a state of being than anything -- he’ll throw words and songs with strangers like they’re old friends, no matter the place -- and he’ll mean every word of it, too.

He is no stranger to grief; to strife and sorrow - but to twist them to sunlight, be it by song or smile -- is about all he knows what to do with it. Ask him of home and he will laugh; ask him of blood and he’ll ask you to dance. Relentless optimism and avoidant behavior can be exhausting for those around him, he knows -- but it’s how he’s chosen to survive.

Saffron has been in others’ company for as long as he can remember -- plants, animals, people, community -- they’re important to him, and he thrives in social settings. Isolation would crush him faster than any spell could hope, and silence is unbearable. On an unrelated note, he’s been banned from at least 14 libraries.

For all of his brightness and auras of confidence, an underlying pulse of fear leeches into everything he does, especially where friends are concerned. Pointed awareness of living things’ fragility has carved itself into his being, and he can be driven to bouts of severe overprotectiveness and sometimes full-blown panic. Which, as he avoids relying on others for fear they will scorn him, means he tries to handle everything on his own. Which, you know, he does.
...Badly.

Likes & Dislikes:

Chickens

Apricot jam

A Good Laugh

Poppies

Strawberries

Blood

Foxglove

Beets

Biography:

They found him in their henhouse one early fall morning, when the dew was still fresh on the leaves and the mourning doves lay quiet. He was a wee thing, too; tucked close to the hens to keep warm -- 12 sprigs of saffron tied nice and neat behind his ears. Ears that weren’t like theirs.
The saffron would see them through many winters, valuable as it was - and so they decided to keep it; and the boy as well, who for all his endless chatter never spoke his own name. After months of calling him, “Boy” and “Child”, and as their hearts grew fond of the way he cradled their ducklings and sang to their goats - how he cried at newborn rabbits for being, ‘so small’ --- they called him Saffron.

He never answered to anything else after that.

Saffron served them well as a farmhand, and for many years even thought himself their son. They gifted him his first fiddle at age 7, and a lute at 12. They carried him on their shoulders so he could feed the birds high up, and sang softly by firelight when the nightmares came. When he looked at them all the stars came alight in his eyes - and he thought that was enough.

Perhaps they did love him -- this peculiar thing -- perhaps even dearly, until the day they had their own. A rosy cheeked, flaxen haired, human child came into the world on one frozen winter’s eve -- and it was then, more than a decade after he’d come into their care, that Saffron saw firsthand what unconditional love for your child, your child, looked like -- and realized it was not reserved for him.

But when he sang, they looked at him, and it felt close. He could almost pretend.

So he practiced.

For the animals at first, then for his family - as he got older, he snuck into taverns and he played there too. Fairs and the town square, in gardens between chores while his brother went to school. When the boy had curfew, his parents said, for his safety -- Saffron stayed out until dawn to forget that they'd never in all his years asked him to come home before dark.

And one night, following a particularly nasty fight when their son followed him to one of Saffron's shows, after many a cruel word was exchanged -- he left.

Just like that.

It didn't take the elven man long to discover how cold the world actually was beyond the farmlands. He survived however he could, sometimes easily and sometimes fighting tooth and nail like an animal. There were towns that were kind, and some..
Well. That were less so.

But he loved long and he loved fierce, all the same -- and buried every loss into the marrow of his bones.

The Castle came for him at his lowest. Lowest, that's all he'd ever say about it.
What's important is that he'd sworn to repay its kindness; through song and a well-kept homestead.

{ EXTRA }
His dog's name is Samwise
Poppies and daffodils bloom when he laughs; so he tries to laugh often.
Favourite flower is the Sunflower, but he's never been able to grow one.
Speaks gaelic and many of its variations fluently
Will not sleep in beds

Rp Preferences: Lit is my style, but script might be fun to try if you’d like!
Time Zone: PST