The Starboy of Prested

Gary Talathil was born, or rather discovered, on a dew-laced spring morning in the orchard groves of Prested, a tranquil elven town nestled in Aymlume, Louthes. Found swaddled in violet cloth under a pear tree during dawn, he was taken in by the Talathils, humble elf farmers with soft beliefs in the Angshire Spirits. They named him Gary. They gave him love. And they never told him he wasn't truly one of them. Gary grew up taller, brighter, louder than his peers, literally radiant at times, but chalked it up to flawless charisma. While others learned bow or blade, Gary picked up a hurdy-gurdy and declared himself Gary Starborn, destined for glory. His performances at The Purple Inn, a lavender-draped tavern famous for apple cider and poetry duels, made him a local favorite by sixteen. His purple velvet suit (puffed, of course) became his trademark. His flair, his sparkle, his unexpected bursts of insight? Pure star power, he insisted. Never once did he wonder why his eyes gleamed like moonlight.
 

A Note in the Dark

At twenty, Gary set off with applause still ringing in his ears. His goal? Fame, yes, of course. But more importantly, impact. He believed art could save the world. With enough hearts moved, laws could be changed. Tyrants toppled. Maybe even elected himself one day, if the outfit matched. He reached Thalos, a bustling city of music, glass, and grand politics. There, in a candle-lit tavern night, he performed before a small crowd. His climax note echoed, and suddenly, his hurdy-gurdy blazed with light. Literal light. He paused. The crowd gasped. He recovered with a bow. “Thank you,” he said. “Yes, I meant to do that.”
 

The Chord of Dissonance

What Gary dismissed as theatrics soon began to recur, notes that shook the air, harmonies that unsettled even the grounded. A traveling scholar recognized the signs, not elven magic, but something deeper. Older. Divine. Balangorde, God of Order & Entropy, had heard Gary’s song. Through paradox, contradiction, and chords no sane bard would attempt, Gary channeled dissonant energy that tugged fate’s own strings. A coin toss that always mattered. A truth spoken backward that nonetheless convinced. The world shifted slightly when he played. So, he adapted. Embraced it. Not religious, never preachy, but pragmatic. “If chaos and harmony both want me to play,” he said, “I’ll write a duet.”
 

The Real, the Performance, and the Good

Gary doesn’t want to be a fraud. He’s good with words, not dishonest. He hates scams, loathes trickery, except when used for good. He wants to help. He wants to inspire. But to do that, he needs fame. Money. Influence. It’s not ego. It’s strategy. He’s thought of politics. Maybe in a few years. For now, the plan is simple. Charm hearts, light up crowds, and show the world that kindness, truth, and a melody can crack even the coldest facade.
 

Gary Starborn: A Legend in Bloom

He signs every scroll with a star. He believes every note might be the one that saves someone’s soul. He wears purple because it looks royal, but also hopeful. He doesn’t know his true nature. Not yet. But the stars know. And they listen when he plays.