Tallis Thorne

A Half-Elf of Undisputed Mystery and Self-Endorsed Greatness

“History is best told by those who made it, and I—modestly—made most of it worth telling.”*
— Tallis Thorne, in An Autobiography So Good It Wrote Itself

Tallis Thorne is a flamboyant, eloquent, and unreasonably talented bard whose name echoes across taverns, courts, battlefields, and (most importantly) love letters. Draped in colourful cloaks of whisper-silk and armed with a quill sharper than most swords, Tallis is both revered and reviled for his gift of embellishment, his golden voice, and his objectively accurate retellings of history—where he often plays a key (if not central) role.

Behind the golden curls and ever-present smirk lies a complicated figure: part mythmaker, part megalomaniac, part misunderstood genius. Fans call him the "Echo of Irion's Wit." Critics call him "That Lying Lyre Goblin." Both camps are wrong, of course—only Tallis knows the truth, and he’ll tell it to anyone within earshot.

Tallis's ego is both his signature and his shield. He truly believes that the world is a story in which he has been cast as the lead—and to be fair, he has a shocking number of ballads, statues, and scandals to support that claim.

Bard Extraordinaire, Living Legend, Voice of Iridia

Physical Description

Hair: Golden ringlets (said to shine naturally, though whispers speak of illusion magic).
Eyes: A mischievous shade of green with gold flecks (the flecks change pattern depending on lighting—or mood, if you believe the legends).
Attire: Always overdressed. Cloaks, boots, gloves, brooches—every item tailored, embroidered, and enchanted to complement a story he’s about to tell.
Instrument: A twelve-string lyre harp named “Gloriana,” which glows when Tallis hits a particularly flattering verse about himself.

Confirmed Facts (According to Tallis Thorne)

Race: Half-Elf (half confirmed)
Birthplace: A silken hammock strung between two moonlit willows in the Garden of Unnamed Spring, or so Tallis claims.
Parentage: “My mother was the muse of a thousand sonnets. My father? Whoever rhymed first.”
Upbringing: Raised in travelling bardic circles, noble courts, and possibly an isolated tower that only appears during thunderstorms (depending on the story he’s telling).

Personality Traits

Flawlessly Confident: Never wrong, occasionally misunderstood.
Generously Humble: Regularly reminds others of how humble he is.
Surprisingly Insightful: Amid the vanity, Tallis often speaks uncomfortable truths—accidentally, some say.
Passive-Aggressively Competitive: Will write passive-aggressive verses about rival bards—who coincidentally stop performing shortly afterward.

The Known Half: Elven Heritage

Tallis’s elven blood is undeniable—evident in his unaging features, sylvan grace, and deeply cultivated ability to make every situation about himself. The elven side is often said to hail from:

The House of Thorneleaf, a noble but obscure Elven family known for producing flamboyant scholars and problematic romantics.
The Echoing Glade, a mythical elven settlement known only through music and rumour, where songs grow on trees and arguments are settled through interpretive dance.

The Unknown Half: Myths, Legends, and Dramatic Gasps

Despite Tallis’s partial elven heritage being obvious, the other half of his lineage remains a source of great mystery—and greater storytelling. Here are just a few of the most popular (and often contradictory) theories:

1. Celestial Entity

Some claim his other half descends from a fallen star, an astral muse who whispered melodies into the fabric of Iridia itself.

Evidence: He sparkles in moonlight. Has literally glowed while performing.
Tallis’s Response: “I don’t like to brag about being cosmic. That would make me… distant.”

2. Changeling

The idea that he’s part fey, part illusion, or even a wandering story given flesh.

Evidence: No one can recall his exact age. Mirrors sometimes show different outfits.
Tallis’s Response: “I assure you, I’m very real. I check daily.”

3. Dragonspawn

A rumour perpetuated by a failed romance with a sorceress who insisted Tallis had “the fire of wyrms in his eyes” and “the breath of a furnace after poetry.”

Evidence: Survived being kissed by a fire drake. His harp never burns, even when set ablaze.
Tallis’s Response: “I’m flattered, but my scales are metaphorical.”

4. Human (but Dramatic)

The most boring theory, but some scholars insist his “other half” is simply a charismatic human.

Evidence: His capacity for ego, envy, and unpaid debts.
Tallis’s Response: “How dare you.”

5. Echo-Born

A lesser-known theory suggests he was born from the collective belief of other bards wishing someone like him existed.

Evidence: No birth records. No one remembers raising him. He seems too poetic to be accidental.
Tallis’s Response: “I suppose I am everyone’s dream come true.”

6. One of the Old Gods Playing a Long Joke

A fringe cult once proclaimed Tallis the “Jester Incarnate,” a fragment of a divine being seeking entertainment through mortal lives.

Evidence: Every time someone mocks him, something strangely ironic happens within a week.
Tallis’s Response: “Who, me? A god? Please. I’d have much better shoes.”

His(tories) Greatest Works

Although it is hard to decide which of his many works shine out the most, here's a modest attempt at it.

Title	Description
I Was There: The Fourfold Tie	An account of the time when four, instead of three people won the Election Trials for the Council of Or. As recounted by Master Bard Tallis Thorne, Self-Appointed Historian of Or, Strummer of Hearts, and Humble Architect of Destiny Transcript Ah yes… the Cask’n’Dash of Council Day. You’ve heard whispers of it, no doubt. But let me assure you, dear crowd of drink and disbelief: None of you could possibly grasp the majesty of that day. Because I—Tallis Thorne, bard supreme, Was. Right. There. And not merely attending, no. I was the last one to play a tune before the chaos began. I strummed a chord so perfect, so unifying, that I dare say it inspired fate itself to throw the rulebook into the fire. Let me paint the scene. Close your eyes. Actually, no—open them and look at me while I speak. The Competitors First, we had Jolek Lokar. A dwarven guard so clumsy, he once arrested himself. He entered the course, tripped over the starting line, and landed on a judge’s lap, knocking the man's wig clear off. The crowd went wild. Naturally, I had just winked at Jolek. Coincidence? Hardly. Next was Arr Ermcrimson, already drunk before the rules were read aloud. He walked the entire course half-asleep, thinking he was in a dream. At one point he kissed a goat and called it “Dad.” I saw it. I narrated it. It rhymed. It was art. Ilek ir’Wynarn, oh, the ranger. That one took the trial too seriously. Quoting law scrolls while swimming through a pond of judgmental fish. He passed three public policies mid-gauntlet. I believe he shouted, “Section Twelve-A of the Trough Act clearly forbids eel-based obstruction!” To which a trout slapped him in the face. Brilliant. And Sendar Elorfindar, the wizard who floated through half the trial. Weak of arm but strong of spirit. He magicked his boots dry, cleaned his robes during the mudslide, and accidentally caused a barrel to explode in reverse. He emerged spotless. I may have yelled “Ten points for style!” Which I believe inspired the final vote. The Trial Itself Ah yes—the Trial of Trials: Mud. Pickles. Flying dice. Staircases of beer. Legal fish. And then the final test: leaping into a rolling cask, blindfolded, mid-spinning. The kind of trial no one survives with dignity. And yet... they all did. Simultaneously. Four barrels collided mid-roll, shattered across the finish line, and the crowd went silent— Until, of course, I struck a triumphant chord on my lyre. That’s when the cheers began. The Aftermath No one knew what to do. The judges wept. The scribes spilled ink. The rules didn’t cover four-way ties. Someone whispered, “Let Or decide,” but I think they meant me. I looked up from my tankard, and I said, “Why not all four?” And lo, it was written. Legacy And so, Jolek, Arr, Ilek, and Sendar became known as The Council of Chaos. They passed exactly seven laws, repealed three, and forgot one existed for half their term. But it worked. Somehow. Was it luck? Was it fate? Or was it... me, Tallis Thorne, bard extraordinaire, whose mere presence made history wobble with delight? You decide, friends. Now buy me a drink and I’ll tell you how I defused a volcano with a limerick.
The Tale of the Twelfth String	An epic tale of wit, strength and unrivaled political insight on how Tallis Thorne came into the posession of his Lyre Harp “Gloriana” As recounted by Tallis Thorne, Bard Extraordinaire, Ogric Diplomat (briefly), and Modest Collector of Magical Instruments Transcript Ah yes, this lyre? The very one in my hands now, gleaming like sun-warmed honey and strung with the whispers of destiny? You have a fine eye, my friend. Settle in. This tale is as true as it is humbling. It was the 7th Turn of the Azure Nexus—give or take a poetic exaggeration—and I had wandered into the Chasm of Mumbling Hunger, a region unmarked on most maps because, quite frankly, cartographers are cowards. There, deep within the chasm’s mossy gut, dwelled a band of ogres known as The Bludgeon Choir. Notorious for their musical tastes (percussive), intellectual pursuits (crude puzzles), and general disposition (grumpy with overtones of “eat you”), they had just stolen a priceless instrument from a travelling elven maestro—none other than High-Strummer Bellavirion the Almost-Sober. A tragic figure, now a friend. (He still cries when he hears me tune it.) I entered their camp with nothing but a silver tongue, a stringless lute (long story), and a divine sense of purpose—namely, acquiring the lyre now known as Gloriana, the Twelvefold Echo. The Challenge The ogre chieftain—Grubbak Grubbak Twice-Named—emerged from a throne of crushed dulcimers. He was massive, adorned in trophies of broken instruments and what I believe was an accordion hat. He roared, “WE FIGHT OR RIDDLE. OR BOTH.” I bowed. “Let’s begin with wit,” I said. “I wouldn’t want to ruin your stage face.” Riddle One: "What always sings but never speaks, and hums but never eats?" Grubbak drooled and shouted, “MY COUSIN GORCH.” Incorrect. The answer? A lyre, of course. Riddle Two: "What weighs nothing, outlives time, and can kill a tyrant or raise a fool?" He said, “BIG ROCK?” Admirable, but wrong. The answer: A song. By then, the ogres were stunned—not by wit, but the performance of the riddles, which I had sung in a soaring counter-tenor while somersaulting through their dinner fire. (Modesty forbids me from describing the pyrotechnics.) Still, tradition demanded strength. Grubbak challenged me to a trial of brawn: “Whoever lifts the Great Drum of Korg last, wins.” We lifted. We held. Minutes passed. Then hours. I performed a small one-man play during the hold to keep spirits up. Eventually, Grubbak—overcome with emotion (and a hernia)—collapsed in tears, declaring, “BARD STRONG OF HEART. TAKE LYRE. NEVER RETURN.” I wept too, of course. Tears of artistic communion. And thus, Gloriana came into my hands, tuned by moonlight, blessed by ogre admiration, and strung with my own heartstring as the final addition. You ask if this tale is true? Well, look at me. Look at the lyre. And ask yourself—could it have happened any other way?

Title

Description

I Was There: The Fourfold Tie

An account of the time when four, instead of three people won the Election Trials for the Council of Or.

As recounted by Master Bard Tallis Thorne, Self-Appointed Historian of Or, Strummer of Hearts, and Humble Architect of Destiny

Transcript

Ah yes… the Cask’n’Dash of Council Day.
You’ve heard whispers of it, no doubt.
But let me assure you, dear crowd of drink and disbelief:
None of you could possibly grasp the majesty of that day.
Because I—Tallis Thorne, bard supreme,
Was. Right. There.

And not merely attending, no.
I was the last one to play a tune before the chaos began.
I strummed a chord so perfect, so unifying,
that I dare say it inspired fate itself to throw the rulebook into the fire.

Let me paint the scene. Close your eyes. Actually, no—open them and look at me while I speak.

The Competitors

First, we had Jolek Lokar. A dwarven guard so clumsy, he once arrested himself.
He entered the course, tripped over the starting line,
and landed on a judge’s lap, knocking the man's wig clear off.
The crowd went wild. Naturally, I had just winked at Jolek. Coincidence? Hardly.

Next was Arr Ermcrimson, already drunk before the rules were read aloud.
He walked the entire course half-asleep, thinking he was in a dream.
At one point he kissed a goat and called it “Dad.”
I saw it. I narrated it. It rhymed. It was art.

Ilek ir’Wynarn, oh, the ranger.
That one took the trial too seriously. Quoting law scrolls while swimming through a pond of judgmental fish.
He passed three public policies mid-gauntlet.
I believe he shouted, “Section Twelve-A of the Trough Act clearly forbids eel-based obstruction!”
To which a trout slapped him in the face. Brilliant.

And Sendar Elorfindar, the wizard who floated through half the trial.
Weak of arm but strong of spirit. He magicked his boots dry, cleaned his robes during the mudslide,
and accidentally caused a barrel to explode in reverse.
He emerged spotless. I may have yelled “Ten points for style!”
Which I believe inspired the final vote.

The Trial Itself

Ah yes—the Trial of Trials:
Mud. Pickles. Flying dice. Staircases of beer. Legal fish.
And then the final test: leaping into a rolling cask, blindfolded, mid-spinning.
The kind of trial no one survives with dignity.
And yet... they all did.

Simultaneously.

Four barrels collided mid-roll, shattered across the finish line, and the crowd went silent—
Until, of course, I struck a triumphant chord on my lyre.

That’s when the cheers began.

The Aftermath

No one knew what to do.
The judges wept. The scribes spilled ink.
The rules didn’t cover four-way ties.
Someone whispered, “Let Or decide,”
but I think they meant me.

I looked up from my tankard, and I said,
“Why not all four?”
And lo, it was written.

Legacy

And so, Jolek, Arr, Ilek, and Sendar became known as The Council of Chaos.
They passed exactly seven laws, repealed three, and forgot one existed for half their term.
But it worked. Somehow.

Was it luck? Was it fate?
Or was it... me, Tallis Thorne, bard extraordinaire,
whose mere presence made history wobble with delight?

You decide, friends.

Now buy me a drink and I’ll tell you how I defused a volcano with a limerick.

The Tale of the Twelfth String

An epic tale of wit, strength and unrivaled political insight on how Tallis Thorne came into the posession of his Lyre Harp “Gloriana”

As recounted by Tallis Thorne, Bard Extraordinaire, Ogric Diplomat (briefly), and Modest Collector of Magical Instruments

Transcript

Ah yes, this lyre? The very one in my hands now, gleaming like sun-warmed honey and strung with the whispers of destiny?
You have a fine eye, my friend.

Settle in. This tale is as true as it is humbling.

It was the 7th Turn of the Azure Nexus—give or take a poetic exaggeration—and I had wandered into the Chasm of Mumbling Hunger, a region unmarked on most maps because, quite frankly, cartographers are cowards.

There, deep within the chasm’s mossy gut, dwelled a band of ogres known as The Bludgeon Choir. Notorious for their musical tastes (percussive), intellectual pursuits (crude puzzles), and general disposition (grumpy with overtones of “eat you”), they had just stolen a priceless instrument from a travelling elven maestro—none other than High-Strummer Bellavirion the Almost-Sober. A tragic figure, now a friend. (He still cries when he hears me tune it.)

I entered their camp with nothing but a silver tongue, a stringless lute (long story), and a divine sense of purpose—namely, acquiring the lyre now known as Gloriana, the Twelvefold Echo.

The Challenge

The ogre chieftain—Grubbak Grubbak Twice-Named—emerged from a throne of crushed dulcimers. He was massive, adorned in trophies of broken instruments and what I believe was an accordion hat.

He roared, “WE FIGHT OR RIDDLE. OR BOTH.”

I bowed. “Let’s begin with wit,” I said. “I wouldn’t want to ruin your stage face.”

Riddle One:
"What always sings but never speaks, and hums but never eats?"
Grubbak drooled and shouted, “MY COUSIN GORCH.”
Incorrect. The answer? A lyre, of course.

Riddle Two:
"What weighs nothing, outlives time, and can kill a tyrant or raise a fool?"
He said, “BIG ROCK?”
Admirable, but wrong.
The answer: A song.

By then, the ogres were stunned—not by wit, but the performance of the riddles, which I had sung in a soaring counter-tenor while somersaulting through their dinner fire. (Modesty forbids me from describing the pyrotechnics.)

Still, tradition demanded strength.

Grubbak challenged me to a trial of brawn: “Whoever lifts the Great Drum of Korg last, wins.”

We lifted.
We held.
Minutes passed. Then hours. I performed a small one-man play during the hold to keep spirits up.
Eventually, Grubbak—overcome with emotion (and a hernia)—collapsed in tears, declaring, “BARD STRONG OF HEART. TAKE LYRE. NEVER RETURN.”

I wept too, of course. Tears of artistic communion.

And thus, Gloriana came into my hands, tuned by moonlight, blessed by ogre admiration, and strung with my own heartstring as the final addition.

You ask if this tale is true?

Well, look at me.
Look at the lyre.
And ask yourself—could it have happened any other way?

Reputation

Fans: Adore him. They sing his songs, wear his colours, and treat his every word as gospel. They even formed a fan society: The Thornewardens.
Haters: Dismiss him as an attention-hungry exaggerator. Call him an “applause addict,” “a walking ego with a lute,” or “a one-man propaganda machine.”
Tallis: Assumes the haters are just undereducated or jealous. Probably both.

A curated list of modest (yet historically significant) reasons why Tallis Thorne is the greatest bard in Iridia

Written by Tallis Thorne, Bard Extraordinaire, Most Trusted Historical Authority Alive

I once ended a war with a love ballad.
The Battle of Broken Banners was moments from bloodshed until I sang “Her Eyes Outshone the Sky.” Half the soldiers wept. The other half fell in love. The generals married. You're welcome.
I survived the Sorrowing Sirens of Saeleth by harmonising with their song.
Most perish. I duetted. Critics called it “hauntingly beautiful.” I call it “Wednesday.”
I was banned from three separate libraries for being too convincing in my historical reinterpretations.
Truth hurts. Especially when it outsells the official records.
A dragon once spared a village in exchange for front-row seats to my performance.
I told him the fire pit was better acoustically anyway.
I won a drinking contest, a duel, and a poetry slam simultaneously.
It was a complicated night. The poetry killed. The duel didn’t.
The Oblique Concord offered to make me their official historian. I declined.
They wanted “objectivity.” I offered “better.”
I once wrote a song so beautiful that an entire city voted to change their anthem to it.
I humbly approved the honour.
I have never been proven wrong. Not once.
You may think you found errors in my retellings. You're mistaken. Read it again.
My modesty is unparalleled.
In fact, I often downplay my role in historical events. Imagine how glorious they really were.
My very existence makes the world more poetic.
Ask anyone who’s met me. Or just listen to any tavern song worth humming.

Final Note from Tallis Thorne

“History is a performance. I simply make it sound better.”
— Tallis Thorne, at every festival ever

Relations

Miss Terry - Friend

When Tallis and Miss Terry share a stage, the air crackles like a duet between thunder and silk.

What Tallis Says About Miss Terry: "Ah, Miss Terry. The only performer who can upstage me—when I let her." — Tallis Thorne, adjusting his collar for the fourth time mid-interview.

"She once ended a duel with a pun so sharp, my blade felt inadequate." — Tallis, sighing dramatically.

"If she ever admits I taught her anything, I’ll write a whole ballad about honesty. Until then, I assume she just learned from watching me." — Tallis, during a joint performance rehearsal.