Cantio von Lumen
Jul 31, 2022 14:08:00 GMT -5
Post by Cantio von Lumen on Jul 31, 2022 14:08:00 GMT -5
Cantio von Lumen
AKA ”Melos Clarus Duralli-Casthos"
AKA ”Melos Clarus Duralli-Casthos"
"Everything's a lot easier when you have nothing to live up to."
Gender: Male | He/Him
Age: 22
Race: Tiefling
Nationality: Sol City
Worshiped Deity: Solaria
Appearance: (subject to change and rewrite because i haven't coloured his art yet lol) A 6'1", red-toned tiefling with horns that curl around his head, and jut to the sides at the back. Shoulder-length hair, (dark brown? black? white?) in colour that falls to his shoulder blades in loose waves, with some of it tied back in a red ribbon. Wears a long, three-slit crimson overcoat overtop a cream-coloured shirt and navy blue corset. Decorated with multiple ( mostly decorative ) belts and sashes, as well as some visible piercings in his ears.
Age: 22
Race: Tiefling
Nationality: Sol City
Worshiped Deity: Solaria
Appearance: (subject to change and rewrite because i haven't coloured his art yet lol) A 6'1", red-toned tiefling with horns that curl around his head, and jut to the sides at the back. Shoulder-length hair, (dark brown? black? white?) in colour that falls to his shoulder blades in loose waves, with some of it tied back in a red ribbon. Wears a long, three-slit crimson overcoat overtop a cream-coloured shirt and navy blue corset. Decorated with multiple ( mostly decorative ) belts and sashes, as well as some visible piercings in his ears.
Personality:
A talented musician with an unfortunate case of severe stage fright, which is remedied only by the placebo that comes with anonymity. Melos and his stage persona are one in the same— but could not be further apart. The death of Melos and the birth of Cantio arose when he first left his home of Sol City in favour of escaping the stifling environment around him for a wider world; and although the bad habits and ingrained traits of Melos linger within Cantio's persona, he has taken pains to alter both his initial appearance and personality in order to shrug off any doubts of who he may or may not be beneath the mask, or quash similarities between the two.
His initial facade puts forth the the image of a polite, but somewhat aloof musician; one who holds enough confidence to lose himself in the music and show off his stage flare without hesitation— putting forth the impression of some years of experience in the stage arts at the very least, and perhaps more behind the practice of music, itself. He is showy, pleasant, and delights in compliments from patrons or onlookers; but darkens with criticism, harsh opinion, or comparisons to certain musicians native to Sol City— occasionally offering verbal backlash, or childish remarks in return to heckling patrons.
When it comes to social situations, it's clear that... well, he's not very good at those. Genuine ones, that is; Cantio has the surface level figured out— he can mingle with a crowd and pleasantly talk on a surface level. He can tell a story, or put forth a poem— small talk is no problem. Being a false persona, however... Well, genuine connections are hard to create when one cannot be genuine with even themselves. Digging deeper into Cantio's persona, he fears, will reveal cracks in the false story that he has created for himself and the occasional lapse in his personality; the more mistakes and flounders he makes, the more he is likely to continue messing it up.
Otherwise, you'd be forgiven to mistake his surface behaviour as charming or elegant.
Still, he's often quick to excuse himself simply to avoid these types of social situations, leaving him with many shallow or surface connections, and few genuine connections despite the length of his travel. Which, he prefers, actually; the less people expect from him, the better. Still, the few times these social situations go well, they're... nice. Almost tempting, even, to be genuine, and allow the facade slip just a little bit.
But, he probably won't; he still can't accept the many flaws he's got locked down.
A talented musician with an unfortunate case of severe stage fright, which is remedied only by the placebo that comes with anonymity. Melos and his stage persona are one in the same— but could not be further apart. The death of Melos and the birth of Cantio arose when he first left his home of Sol City in favour of escaping the stifling environment around him for a wider world; and although the bad habits and ingrained traits of Melos linger within Cantio's persona, he has taken pains to alter both his initial appearance and personality in order to shrug off any doubts of who he may or may not be beneath the mask, or quash similarities between the two.
His initial facade puts forth the the image of a polite, but somewhat aloof musician; one who holds enough confidence to lose himself in the music and show off his stage flare without hesitation— putting forth the impression of some years of experience in the stage arts at the very least, and perhaps more behind the practice of music, itself. He is showy, pleasant, and delights in compliments from patrons or onlookers; but darkens with criticism, harsh opinion, or comparisons to certain musicians native to Sol City— occasionally offering verbal backlash, or childish remarks in return to heckling patrons.
When it comes to social situations, it's clear that... well, he's not very good at those. Genuine ones, that is; Cantio has the surface level figured out— he can mingle with a crowd and pleasantly talk on a surface level. He can tell a story, or put forth a poem— small talk is no problem. Being a false persona, however... Well, genuine connections are hard to create when one cannot be genuine with even themselves. Digging deeper into Cantio's persona, he fears, will reveal cracks in the false story that he has created for himself and the occasional lapse in his personality; the more mistakes and flounders he makes, the more he is likely to continue messing it up.
Otherwise, you'd be forgiven to mistake his surface behaviour as charming or elegant.
Still, he's often quick to excuse himself simply to avoid these types of social situations, leaving him with many shallow or surface connections, and few genuine connections despite the length of his travel. Which, he prefers, actually; the less people expect from him, the better. Still, the few times these social situations go well, they're... nice. Almost tempting, even, to be genuine, and allow the facade slip just a little bit.
But, he probably won't; he still can't accept the many flaws he's got locked down.
History:
The first and only son of the Duralli-Casthos family, a composer-musician pair well known for their ballads particularly within Sol City, but who also have musician connections spanning across some areas of Charon. Growing up as such, Melos grew with heavy expectations placed upon him for his musical development from the day he was born. The moment he was able to hold a violin, like his father, he was expected to play. He was kept on a strict regimen for his studies in the arts— poetry, musical history, calligraphy— but most importantly, the violin.
As luck would have it, Melos was, in fact, a talented child; he was quick to learn, quick to adapt, quick to please. Friends and family praised him fondly as a little prodigy, and told he'd have great things ahead of him. He was just like his father, excelling in his private lessons so young, and the expectations for his budding musical career, at the age of seven, soared. In those young years, the praise and the weight of the expectations were tolerable; he wanted nothing more to be like his parents, of course. He never asked to play music, but he grew to love it so much; the way it trilled, sang, and spoke without the use of words.
It was a type of magic in and of itself.
As he aged, however, it began to mount; the gap between his born talents, and his parent's talents, and what would be expected of him. Something greater. Something he wasn't sure he could deliver. Childish praise slowly turned to adolescent criticism and harsher regiments, longer practice hours, and more vicious critique from his tutors and parents. Higher expectations fell on his shoulders, and the praise for any breakthroughs he made, shifted to criticism to help him be better. Every mistake stacked, every complicated passage turned into a mountain, every critique whittled his confidence away just a bit more. His nerves grew; and his stress spiked.
It came to a boiling point when the time of his first semi-public performance came, and the only sound to meet his audience of close friends and family, was the clatter of a delicate wooden bow hitting polished stone, the shock and disappointment from those who expected so much better of him was nearly palpable. In his place, his father put on a small performance to those present.
Stage fright shattered any pride he might have had left in his abilities; and although he was met with sympathy from some close friends, it became a point of contention between himself and his mother, who met him with a silence that spoke more than any scolding ever could.
It went downhill from there.
Music, once an escape, became a hell as he fought tooth and nail with his mother to preserve whatever pride he had left. In the end, he was pushed to play: each performance met with trembling hands and scraping chords: and each time he screwed up, his mother's eyes darkened, and his regimen intensified. She was so certain he'd overcome childish tendencies— until the final straw, when she stopped pushing him at all; and, perhaps, her quitting on him hurt the most out of everything she'd done thus far.
So, he didn't try, either. He set down the bow, and tried other pursuits; met new people; tried different things; but none of it quite filled the void that came with a coward's failure. He would always return home, to a stifled and heavy atmosphere— to parents who never felt the same— and see his untouched violin in its case beneath his bed, and know that it was he who'd given up on it.
It was a few months later when he met a busking musician outside a tavern in the Gold Port district; a carefree woman with a feline-mask, swaying to the sound of her viola. She played brilliantly; carefree and charming, not a care in the world save for herself and her music. No passing looks to the crowd, or acknowledgement of light claps or soft snickers alike.
And he hated her for that; for her ability to play, and not care. But, at the same time, he was drawn to it.
So he came back day after day, lingering before tossing a few coins into her open case— until one day, she stopped playing to acknowledge him— and thank him for his repeated visits. He didn't intend to stay and chat, but one thing led to another, and he found himself at the tavern bar, spilling out his demons to a stranger.
The rest of that night came in a blur; but he did make it home, waking to the morning creeping in through his window. He was quick to sweep away, hangover and all, back to the tavern— where he'd apologize profusely for his behavior. She was, strangely, understanding enough— and as she turned from putting her viola back into its case, she would place a mask in the image of a crimson dragon in his hands.
For the first time in a long time, he'd hear truly encouraging words: something that didn't ask him to be his parents, or to exceed them. Something that didn't ask him to be great, or a big deal; something that asked him who he thought he wanted to be, and maybe, he should think about leaving his mistakes behind and get out of town to live a little, before he lost himself in a self-fulfilling prophecy.
They spoke for a little longer, and then she left. She didn't come back.
He spent weeks lingering on her words; and in the end, he had nothing to lose. Only eighteen and already considering himself a washed up hack, he donned the mask she'd given him, covered his horns and hid his tail, and whisked himself outside of the same tavern. He could feel his heart beat, his hands tremble, as he set the bow on the string.
And he played.
For the first time in his life he played for a crowd; no one stopped, no one clapped, no one spared him a moment when he finished— but it was a high he would never forget. A stutter of pride amongst so many personal failures that he could play.
It was while he was riding that same high, that he decided to take the musician's other advice. Leaving a note, and taking what allowance he had, he took his violin and simply left behind the stifling inner circles of Sol City— the expectations and the failures alike— and he chose to start anew. Find a new path. Find a new sound. Set himself apart from what had so strongly defined his vision of himself in his youth.
He created a stage name and a fake story; let his hair grow out and changed his look; and learned how to fake it as the person he thought he'd rather be. It, perhaps, isn't quite what the musician had meant when she'd handed him the mask those years ago, but for now, it's working.
He has not returned home to Sol City in years.
The first and only son of the Duralli-Casthos family, a composer-musician pair well known for their ballads particularly within Sol City, but who also have musician connections spanning across some areas of Charon. Growing up as such, Melos grew with heavy expectations placed upon him for his musical development from the day he was born. The moment he was able to hold a violin, like his father, he was expected to play. He was kept on a strict regimen for his studies in the arts— poetry, musical history, calligraphy— but most importantly, the violin.
As luck would have it, Melos was, in fact, a talented child; he was quick to learn, quick to adapt, quick to please. Friends and family praised him fondly as a little prodigy, and told he'd have great things ahead of him. He was just like his father, excelling in his private lessons so young, and the expectations for his budding musical career, at the age of seven, soared. In those young years, the praise and the weight of the expectations were tolerable; he wanted nothing more to be like his parents, of course. He never asked to play music, but he grew to love it so much; the way it trilled, sang, and spoke without the use of words.
It was a type of magic in and of itself.
As he aged, however, it began to mount; the gap between his born talents, and his parent's talents, and what would be expected of him. Something greater. Something he wasn't sure he could deliver. Childish praise slowly turned to adolescent criticism and harsher regiments, longer practice hours, and more vicious critique from his tutors and parents. Higher expectations fell on his shoulders, and the praise for any breakthroughs he made, shifted to criticism to help him be better. Every mistake stacked, every complicated passage turned into a mountain, every critique whittled his confidence away just a bit more. His nerves grew; and his stress spiked.
It came to a boiling point when the time of his first semi-public performance came, and the only sound to meet his audience of close friends and family, was the clatter of a delicate wooden bow hitting polished stone, the shock and disappointment from those who expected so much better of him was nearly palpable. In his place, his father put on a small performance to those present.
Stage fright shattered any pride he might have had left in his abilities; and although he was met with sympathy from some close friends, it became a point of contention between himself and his mother, who met him with a silence that spoke more than any scolding ever could.
It went downhill from there.
Music, once an escape, became a hell as he fought tooth and nail with his mother to preserve whatever pride he had left. In the end, he was pushed to play: each performance met with trembling hands and scraping chords: and each time he screwed up, his mother's eyes darkened, and his regimen intensified. She was so certain he'd overcome childish tendencies— until the final straw, when she stopped pushing him at all; and, perhaps, her quitting on him hurt the most out of everything she'd done thus far.
So, he didn't try, either. He set down the bow, and tried other pursuits; met new people; tried different things; but none of it quite filled the void that came with a coward's failure. He would always return home, to a stifled and heavy atmosphere— to parents who never felt the same— and see his untouched violin in its case beneath his bed, and know that it was he who'd given up on it.
It was a few months later when he met a busking musician outside a tavern in the Gold Port district; a carefree woman with a feline-mask, swaying to the sound of her viola. She played brilliantly; carefree and charming, not a care in the world save for herself and her music. No passing looks to the crowd, or acknowledgement of light claps or soft snickers alike.
And he hated her for that; for her ability to play, and not care. But, at the same time, he was drawn to it.
So he came back day after day, lingering before tossing a few coins into her open case— until one day, she stopped playing to acknowledge him— and thank him for his repeated visits. He didn't intend to stay and chat, but one thing led to another, and he found himself at the tavern bar, spilling out his demons to a stranger.
The rest of that night came in a blur; but he did make it home, waking to the morning creeping in through his window. He was quick to sweep away, hangover and all, back to the tavern— where he'd apologize profusely for his behavior. She was, strangely, understanding enough— and as she turned from putting her viola back into its case, she would place a mask in the image of a crimson dragon in his hands.
For the first time in a long time, he'd hear truly encouraging words: something that didn't ask him to be his parents, or to exceed them. Something that didn't ask him to be great, or a big deal; something that asked him who he thought he wanted to be, and maybe, he should think about leaving his mistakes behind and get out of town to live a little, before he lost himself in a self-fulfilling prophecy.
They spoke for a little longer, and then she left. She didn't come back.
He spent weeks lingering on her words; and in the end, he had nothing to lose. Only eighteen and already considering himself a washed up hack, he donned the mask she'd given him, covered his horns and hid his tail, and whisked himself outside of the same tavern. He could feel his heart beat, his hands tremble, as he set the bow on the string.
And he played.
For the first time in his life he played for a crowd; no one stopped, no one clapped, no one spared him a moment when he finished— but it was a high he would never forget. A stutter of pride amongst so many personal failures that he could play.
It was while he was riding that same high, that he decided to take the musician's other advice. Leaving a note, and taking what allowance he had, he took his violin and simply left behind the stifling inner circles of Sol City— the expectations and the failures alike— and he chose to start anew. Find a new path. Find a new sound. Set himself apart from what had so strongly defined his vision of himself in his youth.
He created a stage name and a fake story; let his hair grow out and changed his look; and learned how to fake it as the person he thought he'd rather be. It, perhaps, isn't quite what the musician had meant when she'd handed him the mask those years ago, but for now, it's working.
He has not returned home to Sol City in years.
Backstory NPC Connections:
♀ Orianna Zavik Duralli-Casthos (Mother) — A blue-toned tiefling woman with long black curly hair, most often tied back, and navy horns which resemble that of a ram's. She is a strict, but talented composer currently living in the Housing District of Sol City with her husband, Kairon. She originally hails from Darkveil City, but talks little about her experience there.
♂ Kairon Mordai Duralli-Casthos (Father) — A gaunt, human man with neat, short brown hair. He wears a neatly trimmed goatee, and a pair of small circular glasses. Often dresses formally, despite the occasion. He is a quiet, but talented violinist currently living in the Housing District of Sol City with his wife, Orianna.
♀ Orianna Zavik Duralli-Casthos (Mother) — A blue-toned tiefling woman with long black curly hair, most often tied back, and navy horns which resemble that of a ram's. She is a strict, but talented composer currently living in the Housing District of Sol City with her husband, Kairon. She originally hails from Darkveil City, but talks little about her experience there.
♂ Kairon Mordai Duralli-Casthos (Father) — A gaunt, human man with neat, short brown hair. He wears a neatly trimmed goatee, and a pair of small circular glasses. Often dresses formally, despite the occasion. He is a quiet, but talented violinist currently living in the Housing District of Sol City with his wife, Orianna.
Fun Facts:
- "Cantio Von Lumen" loosely translates to "Song of Light", inspired by Solaria and his hometown of Sol City.
- Cantio is a notorious lightweight when it comes to drinking; an ant could drink him under a table.
- He does not always wear the mask off-stage outside of Sol City, but uses it heavily as a crutch when performing; "Cantio" in and of himself is his mask and persona outside of Sol City, where his family name is less known.
- Having been a city boy his entire life, he is hilariously bad at the whole survival thing between locations. He's decisively better at it after a few years of experience, but he still prefers to travel with merchant caravans if he can hitch a ride for a song, instead.
protect him at all cost. (can’t use discord anymore so making use of this here)
