Profile of Kilnus

A wolf of slightly below the average stature, Kilnus is a wolf whose appearance does not cause him to stick out. No, for if anything, his voice and mannerisms are what shall catch his eye. But ever are you the impatient one, no? Tsk, tsk. His fur, a two-toned cream, one perhaps not uncommon, but nevertheless one that does not bear markings of a physically laborious existence. No, for his suffering is not measured in scars, but in his thoughts. Even his claws, if one should dare to look at them, appear as if fresh from a womb. His fur bears no scars or marks of violence, but the furrow of his brow and almost drooping nature of his eyelids show a struggle of something more complex. Yes, the astute might be inclined to note the grey patches of fur beyond his ears, the one white claw he has on each limb, sticking out from the blackened ones like meaty sores on a sickly wolf, or perhaps the slight bow-legged curves his hind-legs possess. But the physical manifestation is only so important, so essential. Kilnus’ appearance is not so much measured on what one sees, but what one feels, what one considers, when they are around him. Some may call this personality, but an aura is perhaps something that is a bit more than mere traits and quirks. For when Kilnus speaks, he seems to hang on every, word, as if it were important to behold. His voice’s tone ranges to show emotion from pianissimo to fortissimo, from a delicate breeze to a violent storm, one that remains smooth and calculated, despite its severity. He walks slow, to behold the world around him, and never is he in a rush. And what of his gaze? The way he looks at a wolf, not so much to behold, as to study, as to understand. For who knows, the next protagonist, or perhaps antagonist, could be but a gaze away.

Ah, to be a visionary, is to have but a specific way of seeing and interacting with the world around you. Not every wolf will come to understand or like Kilnus, but that is acceptable. Not every wolf is cut out for his companionship, and very few his friendship. He speaks little of himself, his past, but he beholds the other’s as a curiosity. While he may produce a spirit of cordiality, of taking a keen interest in the wolves he beholds, there is surely a deeper meaning to what he beholds in other wolves, what he sees in them. The wolves he likes, he shall treat them in the way he chooses to. The wolves he requires, he shall soothe and appeal to, in ways only dreamers can. And for those he despises, he shall never speak to them, only of them, and of how ill they may make him. But, with his façade of politesse and listening, an interesting mannerism Kilnus applies to his patrons. For no wolf of his passion could get very far, if those that paid him for his work did not wish to have him as their playwright. Through so many lessons, ascensions and failures, he knows how importance it is to stay in the good graces of those that fund his vision. Without them, after all, where might he be? For those who see the public face of Kilnus, they see a rosy wolf, who speaks as if he sings a song, or recites poetry. But, such a trait only goes so far, and for those that are under him, Kilnus might be a terror. He is prone to outbursts, to having his temper enflamed, and he does not tolerate imperfection. For his work, it all must be flawless, and he will not work with any wolf that cannot meet his expectations, lofty as they might be. But, can he be blamed for having a busy soul, a dreaming heart, and a mind scouring new lands for stories to be told in romantic, delicate ways? He is no artist, no, for he is a visionary.

As one might guess from learning about Kilnus’ personality and appearance, the aura he possesses has a way of rubbing off on its surroundings. But behind the wolf is a story worth telling, though few may very well know of it. Kilnus’ family are foreigners from a land not too far from Rionnach, a distant shore known for its lush rainfall, impossibly barren winters, and its rich folklore. Sidon, for some it was a gorgeous isle, bearing fruit for the adventurous playwright or poet. And some old souls may have once heard of the city as a haven for free thinkers, or perhaps an oppressive government. Some stories can be so subjective these days, that it is so very hard to tell. But, what is known is that Kilnus was born to his mother Smyrna, a former actress whose voice abandoned her far too young. Thankfully, her lineage and former patrons took well care of her when she retired, as they still knew her for the star she once was. Despaired, she came across a young soldier, handsome, just as those male protagonists ought to be. She was smitten with love, to have him as hers. And for him, that brute Cohen, life commanding upon the city borders was but a moderate means to earn a living, if not for her. So, in what was a surprising, yet secret affair, the two were married, and soon Smyrna had given birth to one cream-colored wolf. After his birth, however, Cohen grew more and more distant, going off for sorties quite often, and sometimes not returning for weeks. He would provide, sometimes, just barely enough to avoid the influential, yet hypnotized Smyrna from having any grounds in the divorce-friendly Sidon courts. He would give his pay, but leave the rearing of Kilnus squarely to Smyrna. So, from a young age, the young wolf learned much of theater, and aspired to it. But, maybe it being the symptom of his lack of youthful companions, the lonely days he dreamed alone, or the ways he felt his intellect was far superior to any wolf he knew, Kilnus did not intent to be a local acting star. No, for he was intentioned for greater things. Of course, Cohen, the absent father that he was, was opposed to the idea. When he was around, he imposed his opinion on the poor boy, verbally and physically. And yet, Smyrna did nothing, clinging to that concept of romance, trying to keep the peace within her faculties, out of fear for her standing in the family if they were to find out about her secret love. Her solution, then? To send Kilnus to academy, but to pursue a worthwhile trade. A doctor, perhaps, a court accountant, a public defender. She never had the chance, however, to ask her son what he chose to study, for reasons unknown, his departure to academy was the last he ever spoke to her. As a student, what started out with high hopes ended with colossal failure. The school did not recognize what he felt to be his genius, did not understand his methods or verses, no. It was not his problem, it was theirs, and he was sure of it. So, after but a half-year, he dropped out of academy, and in a fit of rage, in a fit of unbridled selfishness, departed from Sidon, to seek out new stories, ones that were new, ones that were not boring, ones that would bring the world to recognize his talents. The visionary was poised to pursue the arts in a way that was not constricted by the petty ways of the academy, of tradition. For the arts are to be bold, to be challenging, to be raw. And his family, distant as he was from them, he began to see them not so much as wolves but as obstacles for the ascension he was primed for. After all, had they cared enough, would his father not spent but one sortie to go and find him? Why did his mother seemingly give up? Or perhaps they had both fallen victim to a plague affecting Sidon not long after he left? He never did find out, nor did he ask. Upon departing Sidon and its grossly repeated stories of past glory, cutting himself off from his lineage, it did not take long for his practices to catch the eye of an old legend. Yes, not many in Rionnach know the name, but in that certain realm, the name Mazais Kode was one of mystique. Like Kilnus, he was a visionary, whose methods were not apt for the standard playwright. It was from Mazais, who was kind enough to take the young lad in after taking a shine to him, that Kilnus completed his training, if one is of the opinion he needed it. The most important lesson he perhaps learned from Mazais was that the artist starves lest he is paid. And so, above all else, it is important to find and consort with only the wealthiest of patrons, win them over with charm, grace, promises of everlasting memory, and to cater to them. And for the audience, they too must be won over, and it can only be done through perfection. Throughout his years, Kilnus had written many plays. He did not act, no, for he chose not to paint the canvas, but to see where strokes must go, to form each masterpiece. He felt each work he did, it grew closer and closer to that vision in his mind, his magnum opus, but never to meet it. Under his tutelage, he grew to realize that to make such a work, to become such a famous playwright, whose influence stretched beyond shanty towns and lesser courts, it required more. It required that cruelty he showed to himself, that Mazais showed to him. It required traveling a route never before cleared, the pushing of boundaries, the felling of trees, the moving of boulders, the burning of dens. And nothing could keep him back in this world, if he ever hoped to achieve it. And so, despite the kindness Mazais had shown him, even if his teaching was as merciless as the industry mandates it to be, a mature Kilnus began to become dismayed with Mazais. His vision, Kilnus realized, was stale, boring. He had learned everything Mazais had taught him, and the two had grown apart. What was once a kind relationship soured, differences of opinions, once again a lack of realizing what genius and progress of the arts looked like, the feeble old man Kilnus saw became his motivation to move on, to break away, to become his own wolf. He would never again be a student, only the master. And this world, he began to see, was in need of his vision, his mastery, his work. So began his craft. He took commissions as he found them at first, but soon, as word spread of his words, his unusual habits and conveyance of tales known and unknown, or the seriousness he took to his craft, Kilnus found himself known in local circuits. The Dancing Drummer, Scars Above the Clouds, Technique and Beyond, plays were known to those around, more so his character. And before long, those theater goers had forgotten the name of Mazais and his dead dream, and knew Kilnus. And those that were afraid of the bold, those guilds that had barred him, those princes that had shunned him, those audiences that jeered him, what were they anyways? Place to place, work to work, the ardent Kilnus searched and toiled for his magnum opus, working feverishly his skills into reality. Until one day, he realized something quite suddenly. This realm, it bored him. And he hated, hated to be bored. But, there were whispers from across the waters. Rionnach, was it? Tales of dancing teeth, of romance, treachery, of war and strife, of new lands of ages old and new. They had stories he had not yet dared know. To hear the word upon his tongue, Rionnach, it was so… delicious. He had to sample it. And, their king being newly so inclined, had relaxed censorship on playwrights. Perhaps, Kilnus thought, that this was his chance to spread his vision to new shores and audiences, and find the story that would make him whole, to make him a god in the heavens, to be unequivocally the flame that projects the shape of the world upon the cavern’s walls, for all to see! Yes, this realm and its wealth held so much promise for the dreaming wolf. He could do it all over again, sample that glaze of hope and promise for an immortal song, that they might all know him by. His legacy, it hinged on but a swift, permanent journey to these new lands.