The story of Leokoris is a simple one, raised in the farming village
named New Ofcol. His parents fell in love at a young age, his Father from
Mount Saidian and his mother from Sylvan Vale. Due to this interracial
love, they were both shunned by their hometowns, thus settling in New Ofcol.
Leokoris was influenced from a young age to learn the lands and tend the
farms from his parents. He always had an affinity for growing things, but
always found himself humming a familiar tune. No villager recognized this
tune, but Leokoris swore it was from the local area. He had no formal
training in music even though he could perfectly tune any instrument. His
parents encouraged his passion for music, though they pushed him to learn
how to farm as it is a safer and more secure living. Leokoris followed his
parents' teachings willfully all the while though he felt a pull to learning
not just music but how to record this music with the quill. One day while
he was tending the land he heard the familiar tune he hummed from the
Plains. Once he scribed this down in his journal, he began to follow the
familiar tune. The melody became clearer and more defined the further he
traveled through the Plains. As he was following this sound, he found
himself before a great gate sunken into a stone wall as high as his eyes
could see. At this moment, he realized his passion would lead him to the
great city of Seringale.
Description:
A scent of lavender draws you closer to this being. A whimsical presence
seems to permeate from this male. His hair is a soft strawberry blond and
is held back by a pair of slightly pointed ears. His hair runs down to his
collar bone. His eyes are a bright aqua color, resembling the southern
seas. The skin on this half-elf is slightly tanned and seems to be well
kept with the finest oils and balms. A carefree and genuine smile reveals a
set of well maintained teeth. His hands are well kept with nails
well-trimmed but seem to have quite the calluses on his fingertips. A
tankard hangs loosely about his right sided waist, ready for a pour of the
finer ales and a long pipe hangs from his left. Scrolls and ink wells seem
to be bursting from the pockets and packs of the Half-Elf.