Aevon
whalesbone
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- 2 years, 9 months ago
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- whalesbone
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Aevon
Hiraeth
A homesickness for a home to which you cannot return,
a home which maybe never was;
the nostalgia,
the yearning,
the grief for the lost places of your past.
A homesickness for a home to which you cannot return,
a home which maybe never was;
the nostalgia,
the yearning,
the grief for the lost places of your past.
When asked of his own past, Aevon says that he came from a small village in Malabal Tor, apprenticed by his adoptive father to become a beekeeper until the Spinner’s path had found him. This is true.
When asked why his right ear cannot move to reflect his emotions, or why he limps when he walks for too long, or where he got the large burn whose edges creep out from under his clothes, he tells similar stories. A senche nearly took his ear, an ill-fated hunting trip led to his falling off a ledge, rotmeth and overly rambunctious friends led to an unfortunate incident with a fire pit. Though they are befitting of a Bosmer wildling, these stories are not true.
Maybe the truths behind those stories, of daedra and gates of fire, are more interesting than mundane mishaps. Perhaps his own journey of becoming a Spinner would be more inspirational if he sprinkled in the fact that he had been to Oblivion and back between the beekeeping and the piety. But Aevon weaves his stories to teach lessons and give advice, neither of which he believes can be found in his own story. Anointed as the Hero of Kvatch by twenty, he had been through an entire Sphere’s worth of horrors before he was even done growing. He quickly learned to see gods as a source of pain, nothing more; he was scared of shifting forms and Cyrodiilic vegetables made his stomach hurt, so he never actively defied his own gods, but he preferred to pretend that they did not exist.
When Y’ffre reached out, Aevon did exactly that and ignored him. He had no desire to be part of any deity’s plans anymore. Not Auri-El, not Y’ffre. When his antlers began to grow, he insisted it meant nothing- maybe those kinds of things are heritable, who knows. When his speech seemed prophetic, when he knew things about people that he had never been told, he brushed it off as a coincidence or something he had heard in passing. Anything Y’ffre did to connect with the mer, Aevon found a way to feign ignorance. It was almost admirable. But Y’ffre was persistent and Aevon was increasingly desperate for solace.
He didn't want to die, not necessarily, he thought. He hated the pilgrims and emissaries intruding into his village for the chance to meet him, as if they actually cared about him and not just his fame or proximity to Auri-El. He hated drinking himself to sleep because waking up nauseous and as exhausted as the night before was still better to him than even the risk of another nightmare. He hated that his family could see him in pain, but felt that there was nothing they could do to help. But he also liked the feeling of sunlight on his skin and wind in his hair, watching the boughs of impossibly tall trees sway above him, caring for the bees with his father and the sweetness of honey that rewarded their labor. He would miss those if he were dead.
Aevon concluded: he didn't want to die, he just wished he were never in Cyrodiil. He didn't want to be the Hero of Kvatch, the Champion of Cyrodiil; he wanted to be Aevon, completely forgotten by history, a Bosmer whose most interesting personal fact was being raised by an Argonian. If Y’ffre would grant him that, Aevon would accept his path. He would become a Spinner; a priest, the one thing he swore he would never be.
Y’ffre is known for weaving stories. It is not often that he is asked to unravel a tapestry. But, apparently, this arrangement was suitable to him. Aevon’s story was re-woven, all the same threads in a slightly different arrangement, some important details hidden under background strings. When viewed as a whole piece it was still coherent, but looking at it too closely revealed peculiar patterns that were unpredictable and near impossible to follow. This was exactly what Aevon wanted: he was the Champion of Cyrodiil, but even the best of scholars would never successfully tie his name to the title. Aevon thinks this is best for everyone, not just him. He never would have been able to fill the role the people of Tamriel needed from a figure so grandiose. By leaving those shoes empty, they would be able to project into them whatever grand hero figure they wanted. Probably someone more courageous, more charismatic. Maybe a little taller. It didn’t really matter to him.
Of course, Y’ffre did not absolve him of all his struggles. Decades down the line, Aevon can say that he does not drink anymore (because he’s allergic to fermentation molds, of course), but cannot say that he sleeps peacefully every night. Sometimes he finds it a little lonesome, but if loneliness includes never seeing another Cyrodiilic pilgrim ever again, he’s alright with that. In the gaps left behind in his own story, he weaves new ones in Y’ffre’s name. As per their agreement, he serves the god in return for the freedom he was granted. Beyond that, though, he also finds being a Spinner quite liberating. He never had control over his own story, but he can influence others’ for the better.
He is happy as a simple priest, nothing more. Sometimes he wonders to himself if Martin felt the same.
When asked why his right ear cannot move to reflect his emotions, or why he limps when he walks for too long, or where he got the large burn whose edges creep out from under his clothes, he tells similar stories. A senche nearly took his ear, an ill-fated hunting trip led to his falling off a ledge, rotmeth and overly rambunctious friends led to an unfortunate incident with a fire pit. Though they are befitting of a Bosmer wildling, these stories are not true.
Maybe the truths behind those stories, of daedra and gates of fire, are more interesting than mundane mishaps. Perhaps his own journey of becoming a Spinner would be more inspirational if he sprinkled in the fact that he had been to Oblivion and back between the beekeeping and the piety. But Aevon weaves his stories to teach lessons and give advice, neither of which he believes can be found in his own story. Anointed as the Hero of Kvatch by twenty, he had been through an entire Sphere’s worth of horrors before he was even done growing. He quickly learned to see gods as a source of pain, nothing more; he was scared of shifting forms and Cyrodiilic vegetables made his stomach hurt, so he never actively defied his own gods, but he preferred to pretend that they did not exist.
When Y’ffre reached out, Aevon did exactly that and ignored him. He had no desire to be part of any deity’s plans anymore. Not Auri-El, not Y’ffre. When his antlers began to grow, he insisted it meant nothing- maybe those kinds of things are heritable, who knows. When his speech seemed prophetic, when he knew things about people that he had never been told, he brushed it off as a coincidence or something he had heard in passing. Anything Y’ffre did to connect with the mer, Aevon found a way to feign ignorance. It was almost admirable. But Y’ffre was persistent and Aevon was increasingly desperate for solace.
He didn't want to die, not necessarily, he thought. He hated the pilgrims and emissaries intruding into his village for the chance to meet him, as if they actually cared about him and not just his fame or proximity to Auri-El. He hated drinking himself to sleep because waking up nauseous and as exhausted as the night before was still better to him than even the risk of another nightmare. He hated that his family could see him in pain, but felt that there was nothing they could do to help. But he also liked the feeling of sunlight on his skin and wind in his hair, watching the boughs of impossibly tall trees sway above him, caring for the bees with his father and the sweetness of honey that rewarded their labor. He would miss those if he were dead.
Aevon concluded: he didn't want to die, he just wished he were never in Cyrodiil. He didn't want to be the Hero of Kvatch, the Champion of Cyrodiil; he wanted to be Aevon, completely forgotten by history, a Bosmer whose most interesting personal fact was being raised by an Argonian. If Y’ffre would grant him that, Aevon would accept his path. He would become a Spinner; a priest, the one thing he swore he would never be.
Y’ffre is known for weaving stories. It is not often that he is asked to unravel a tapestry. But, apparently, this arrangement was suitable to him. Aevon’s story was re-woven, all the same threads in a slightly different arrangement, some important details hidden under background strings. When viewed as a whole piece it was still coherent, but looking at it too closely revealed peculiar patterns that were unpredictable and near impossible to follow. This was exactly what Aevon wanted: he was the Champion of Cyrodiil, but even the best of scholars would never successfully tie his name to the title. Aevon thinks this is best for everyone, not just him. He never would have been able to fill the role the people of Tamriel needed from a figure so grandiose. By leaving those shoes empty, they would be able to project into them whatever grand hero figure they wanted. Probably someone more courageous, more charismatic. Maybe a little taller. It didn’t really matter to him.
Of course, Y’ffre did not absolve him of all his struggles. Decades down the line, Aevon can say that he does not drink anymore (because he’s allergic to fermentation molds, of course), but cannot say that he sleeps peacefully every night. Sometimes he finds it a little lonesome, but if loneliness includes never seeing another Cyrodiilic pilgrim ever again, he’s alright with that. In the gaps left behind in his own story, he weaves new ones in Y’ffre’s name. As per their agreement, he serves the god in return for the freedom he was granted. Beyond that, though, he also finds being a Spinner quite liberating. He never had control over his own story, but he can influence others’ for the better.
He is happy as a simple priest, nothing more. Sometimes he wonders to himself if Martin felt the same.
Birthdate
Birthsign
Gender
Sexuality
Biometrics
3E413, 28th of Morning Star
The Ritual
Male, cisgender [he/him]
Pansexual, prefers women
Bosmer; 173cm, 59kg
uhh idk maybe his playlist? think of things to put here
