Alpheon, the minstrel

The man with the garish jacket smiles and places his lute down as you approach him. 

Then the shadows on his face become deeper—dark enough to obscure his eyes. His words are laced with power, thick enough to make you hold your breath, yet do not affect you. You watch horrified as the eyes of your companions turn glassy and they walk away, leaving you alone with him. 

"Excellent," he says, relaxing his posture. "Now that we have some privacy, let's talk."

With his colorful clothes and repertoire of raunchy songs, Alpheon looks just like the minstrel he wants to be.

If only life was that simple.

As a fellow Envoy of the Abyss, he knows he is destined for more; if his keen insight and silver tongue are not enough to get him what he wants, he can tap into his powers and bend the will of others, even break them with words alone. 

Alpheon hates everything about it, loathes what he can do. To hell with the Abyss—what gives him the right to deprive others of free will?

So instead of commanding nations, he plucks the strings of a lute. Instead of playing with fate, he entertains new bedfellows every night. 

Life is so much easier as a cheery minstrel. Then you come along, chasing your own destiny, and he can't hide his interest, can't help sweeping in to save the day, just like he was meant to.

Then you come along and doubt starts plaguing him once more.

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