Appo (AH-poh)
A Resident
Appo
Appo works in silence so complete that even the birds seem to pause their songs when he begins. His hands are broad, his fingertips calloused with layers of memory, each scar a punctuation mark in a story told not with words, but with earth. He does not speak often, but his pots do. Their curves carry whispers of fire, water, and wind—his understanding of elemental rhythm baked into every form.
He prefers coiling over throwing, shaping each vessel with the slow grace of a tide returning to shore. His favorite clay is flecked with mica, shimmering under the glaze like starlight caught in stone. No two of his works are alike—he says repetition dishonors the individuality of the soil. Other potters nod when he speaks, not in agreement, but in awe that he spoke at all.
Appo’s kiln sits beneath an ancient tree whose roots once cracked the floor of an abandoned chamber. He rebuilt the walls around them, letting the roots remain. He claims they “listen better than people do.” He fires on moonless nights, convinced the absence of light gives the pots room to dream. Some say his best works ring faintly with music when touched. He does not confirm this—he only smiles.
Current Location
Species
Ethnicity
Realm
Professions
Children
Sex
Male
Sexuality
Omnephilic
Other Affiliations
