Approved by Scott
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Biography -

"Come little one! It is time!" called out the sweet soothing voice of a mother. The child looked to his hut, where his mother was standing, and back to his game of stones. It had been a good game, he decided, brushing the pebbles out of the stick formed circle.

The child rose from the frozen ground and stumbled towards the waiting arms of his mother. She held her child close, sacrificing her well earned body heat for her child. Children here were few and far between, and she could not bear to lose hers.

Lifespans later they seperated; she was a little colder, and he was a little warmer. She ushered the small boy inside, and bid him sit on their only deer-skin blanket. She reached for the bones that lay near the fire, and with a throw marred by cold and brittle bones, cast them into the fire.

They waited there for what seemed like hours. Hail pounded against the teppee, and shouts from other women called their men and children inside. But then they were ready. The mother grabbed the two sticks she used for each occasion, and grabbed the bones out of the meager cook-fire.

She took the bones, and cracked them onto the side of a small stone basin. Golden juices poured out, and she handed the thick soup of marrow to her child, for marrow was all they had. A hard winter had hit hard times, and game was scarce. Hunting parties came back with nothing many times.

As soon as the boy finished, she handed him two more bones. She smiled sweetly as she guided his small, shaking hands. Soon more marrow appeared, and he again dipped his head in the bowl. He finished again.

"Good," she said. "Sleep now, little one." The child complied and laid his head down upon the ragged blanket; his mother bundeled him up as best she could. He went out like a light in an arctic wind.

With her child sleeping, she threw a few more sticks on the embers. As soon as his snoring grew it's deepest, his mother picked up his bowl. With her fingers, she scooped up a mouse's portion. This she pucshed to her frail mouth. In this land, nothing went to waste.

She finished, and reached for her stomach. The woman had only eaten enough to sustain her, and only leftovers of her son's meals. Times were hard. She didn't show it.

*****

"I'm sorry boy. She was your mother, and you lost her. We've all lost a friend, and I know it won't help, but she dances with the stars now. She dances even as we speak."

Condolences wouldn't help.The sobbing massthat laid before Daith blubbered away calories every second, and he had no power to stop it.

"I - I miss her!" he screamed out to the wind.

The dog's wavered a perverse echo. "But, she's gone," sighed Daith. The cold wind made him shiver; if they stayed out to much longer, the disease would set in. "Look here," Daith held out two berries - two extremely hard to come by berries.

The sobbing child held out his hand. He knew what they were. "Swallow, but don't chew," Daith ordered. The child gulped them down, and immediately fell into a deep slumber, toppling to the ground.

Daith again sighed. He grabbed the seven year old and carried him back to his hut. As he had taken no wife, the boy would be good company. At least, he would, after a few more weeks of sobs and moans.

*****

"Good, now play The Ballad of The Land Of The Root again."

The child complied. His hand guided the wand, which in turn strummed the violin.

"Great is the hold,
Which grabs onto me.
Sing out rejoices, and clap hands with me.
Over the valley, and under the hill,
Time, in a word, stands very still.

And upon this land
Lay able young men,
Who seek out their fortunes,
To the very end.

Drink up your spirits,
And sadness does rot.
Here in the land of men,
Called The Land of Root."

The child finished, and bowed to his audience. Daith merrily clapped, and walked to his young ward. It had been three years since the time he had first accepted him as his ward and student. He had grown into a land of music and adventure. The violin he now carried was made of his own hands.

Soon, Daith thought, his name journey will begin.

And so it did.

*****

Every winter, each boy who turned ten was sent out on a quest. This quest was made to determine the boy's name, which should fit him to the extreme. This winter, It was the boy's tenth birthday.

"...And rejoice in your findings; name your brothers well, for it would be on your shoulders if his name would not fit." Now, go, into the wilderness." The village elder finished his speech with a sigh. Then he turned around and left the two boys in the wind. They could tell the speech was rehearesed.

The two boys nodded to each other, clasping hands in custom. They left their town behind for the winter, and started on a brisk trot towars the horizon.

They jogged for hours, each boy keeping pace with the other. Wolves, they were, a silent battle of the wits. A boy left behind was a dead boy. And like wolves, they soon reached their den. Carved out by the first boys lay a small alcove. Carved from living rock, it offered shelter to all who needed it.

These two needed it.

"I've seen you," offered the other boy.

The child nodded. They had played games before, including stones. The other was a tough boy. Pain didn't seem to register within him. The other built a small fire in defiance of the howling wind. Then they slept.

The next morning they awoke, only to find their bodies covered by an inch of snow. As soon as they had rid themselves of the dry blankets of water, they started up a new fire. With that, they used it to melt the surrounding snow into water. They rolled out their packs, each selecting a thin strip of jerky.

Times had changed, if only a little. Their hunters had traveled south enough, only to find a large herd of elk. There was food enough to go around.

The boys had been provisioned with enough to survive, if that. A length of rope, a flint and knife, and a small bow. Although it weighed him down, the first boy had brought his violin.

Each night he played an old song of greater times, and each night the other told stories of old. The two were great friends soon, and when they finally went home, they had selected great names for the arrow.

The other boy stood up. "This one," he motioned towards the first boy, "is Latig Softvoice. He is a great musician, hence the name Latig. His voice isn't rough, so I named him Soft-voice."

Latig nodded; he liked the name. When the other sat down, Latig stood. "Arrow Teller." He than sat back down. There was no need for an explanation.

*****

Latig Softvoice was 19 years old when he left the village. He had no wife; his soul was married to the music. In search of greater songs and ballads, he headed for the south. This village has passed down his story for generations. Now young children, you must do the telling.

- Elder Historian Arrow Teller.



Name: Latig Softvoice.

Age: 20

Race: Northlander, a sub species of humans. Their complexion is ussually as white as the snow as which they live in. Blue eyes and blonde hair crown their heads, and many are strong and able.

Sex: Male

Hair: Latig's white blonde hair is cut short - almost to the skin. It comprises of a widows peak, and ends in two back-burns.

Eyes: Ice Blue.

Weight: One hundered and fifty pounds (10.7 stone)

Height: Six foot two inches

Weapon: A yew long bow, strapped with ragged leather hand guards. He also owns a violin, which can only be used in battle for emergencies.

Armor: A soft leather travel suit, ideal for movement, but horrible for defence.

Strengths: Latig is a well rounded archer, and a great violinist. He could hit a deer from twenty feet away in the heart. He can run for a very long time, and can lift his weight. His art in music can also raise his and companions spirits, or can lower enimie's spirits as well.

Weakness: Latig is not a warrior, or a mage, or anything that would amount to anything in a fight. Although his skill with the bow is great, it's not the same to shoot at a human being. Taking lives is just not in his nature. His armor is thin also, allowing virtually anything through it.

Skills/Magic:

Skills:
Latig is a great tracker, and can sniff out a ferret to it's home. Deer are easy to find for him, while other hunters struggle.

Magic:

Song of Bravery (in battle):
The song of bravery raises his companions spirits, giving them the edge in battle. The composure plays like this:

"Oh,
Greatest warriors,
Your hand strikes down
Upon your enemy,
Until his soul is passed.

And know
That many wait at home.
They await your safe return.

No matter the cost,
You will prevail.
You'll live another day,
To drink more ale.

And many await
Yo---ur Retur----n.
And many stand beside you.
Just Know that many await your home,
And many stand be----side --- you."

The Ballad of Tranquility (pre-battle):
The Ballad of Tranquilty is sung prior to an engagement. It takes the anxiety of the chance of death off of all who hear it's shoulders, as long as the anxiety has not already set in.

"Many a foe stand before you,
Jumping at our throats.
Well I don't know 'bout you lad,
But I'm not heading home in a land-bound boat!

Oh, take your swords up,
And hear this song.
Listen to me 'till the break of dawn!
Oh, take your swords up,
And hear this song.
Listen to me 'till the break of dawn!

You know that battle's soon upon us.
I know that I'm not being honest,
When I say I know noone'll die.
Of course someone will die!
Our enemy!

Oh, take your swords up,
And hear this song.
Listen to me 'till the break of dawn!
Oh, take your swords up,
And hear this song.
Listen to me 'till the break of dawn!

Appearance:
Bourne to the Northlanders, Latig resembles his human friends closely, but not to close. He is tall for his age - 6'2" - and averagely muscled. His short blonde hair is cut close to the skin - military style. A widow's peak dominate's his forehead, and it greatly contrast his almost colorless face and sharp blue eyes. He is garbed in a soft brown leather suit of travel armor. His chest is powerful, and a four pack rests over his abdominals. He can lift one hundered and fifty pounds, giving him average muscles.

Personality: Latig Softvoice is not a very talkitive person. He gets his messages across by the ballads he writes. In battle, he ussually stands alone, playing his supporting songs for the benefit of himself and his allies. In the extreme, he may pull out his bow and threaten his enemies to back down. Only in the most extreme situation will he take up his bow to kill.

And that, is Latig Softvoice.

By the way, I got the name Latig by turning around the word Digital and cropping off the D and I.