Lowe, The Aria of Gears

Physical Description

General Physical Condition

Lowe possesses a humanoid silhouette adorned with vibrant cerulean and gold clockwork patterns. Intricate gears and pistons are visible beneath transparent panels. His attire is a perplexing fusion of baroque and steampunk, featuring ruffled collars and a tailed coat with brass buttons. A porcelain mask with a gnomish visage offers a still, enigmatic smile, accentuating eyes that gleam with an inner luminescence. His hands, designed for finesse, can shift and reconstruct to play any instrument with the virtuosity of a master musician.

Mental characteristics

Personal history

Lowe, the bard of The 72 Gaelics, wove his tale through the fabric of Syom’skit-Ngthefls history with the delicate threads of music and words. Born into a family renowned for their artistic talents, Lowe's childhood was steeped in the vibrant culture of the city-state. His nimble fingers danced upon strings, producing melodies that echoed through the narrow streets and enchanted halls.

As the looming threat of Mecha cast its shadow over Syom’skit-Ngthefl, Lowe's artistic pursuits took an unforeseen turn. The city, grasping for any glimmer of hope, turned to its most elite warriors, among whom Lowe found himself counted. The magical elite, in their desperate bid for salvation, sought to infuse the power of art into the ranks of the 72 Gaelics. Thus, Lowe, the bard with a heart as resonant as his lute, became an integral part of the ethereal union between souls and war machines.
The ritual that followed was both enchanting and perilous, a symphony of arcane energies and the harmonious merging of art and war. Among the 72, Lowe stood as a testament to the diverse skills each member brought to the unit. As his soul intertwined with the war machine, the melodies he crafted took on a mystical quality, resonating with the very essence of the magical constructs.
The sacrifice, however, was profound. A third of the 72 faced obliteration in the transformative process, their souls lost to the unpredictable currents of magic. The survivors, including Lowe, emerged as a force to be reckoned with. The bard's music became a source of inspiration, a magical resonance that echoed through the ranks of the Gaelics as they faced the mechanical behemoths of Mecha.
The conflict, centuries ago, unfolded with a relentless intensity. Lowe's lute became a weapon, and his songs stirred the spirits of his comrades in the face of Mecha's relentless onslaught. The Gaelics, their souls bound to war machines, danced upon the battlefield with an otherworldly grace, and Lowe's melodies weaved through the chaos, a counterpoint to the clashing of metal and magic.
As the conflict reached its climax, only 17 of the 72 Gaelics survived to witness the stalemate conclusion. The return to Syom’skit-Ngthefl, however, was devoid of the anticipated celebration. Lowe's melodies, once a source of solace, now resonated with a melancholic undertone as the truth unfolded. The leaders, burdened by guilt, revealed that the soul-binding ritual rendered the return to mortal bodies impossible.
In the aftermath of the revelation, Lowe's artistic spirit faced a moment of profound introspection. His lute, once an instrument of joy, now carried the weight of sorrow. The bard, however, refused to succumb to despair. Instead, he channeled his grief into compositions that echoed the resilience of the Gaelics and the indomitable spirit that lingered within them.
Lowe stood by Dandelo and Lady Gale as they confronted the city's leaders. The bard's words, woven into verses that resonated with both pain and determination, echoed through the halls of power. The madness that gripped one of the '72' left an indelible mark on Lowe's soul. The destruction of the royal palace, a symphony of chaos, played out as a tragic crescendo to the Gaelics' tumultuous journey.
Dandelo's warning, delivered with barely controlled rage, resonated in Lowe's heart. The Gaelics, including the bard, left the city, their destinies scattered like notes on the wind. Lowe, ever attuned to the melodies of life, embarked on a journey that transcended the boundaries of time and space. His lute, now both a companion and a conduit for his emotions, became an extension of his being.
In the centuries that followed, Lowe's travels took him to distant lands, each note of his lute echoing the tale of the The 72 Gaelics. His compositions became a living chronicle of their sacrifice, an ode to the friendship forged in the crucible of war. The bard, though physically separated from Dandelo and Lady Gale, remained connected to them through the ethereal bonds established in the ritual.
Lowe's music, like a river flowing through the currents of time, carried the essence of the Gaelics' story to the ears of those willing to listen. In taverns and courts, his performances became a bridge between the past and the present. The legend of the 72 Gaelics, with Lowe as its minstrel, transcended the boundaries of Syom’skit-Ngthefl and found resonance in the hearts of those who heard his melodies.
The bard's journey continued, a wandering minstrel with an eternal lute. In his travels, he encountered remnants of Mecha's influence and witnessed the consequences of conflicts that echoed the past. Lowe, guided by an unwavering purpose, composed new melodies that spoke of resilience and hope. His music, a timeless echo of the Gaelics' legacy, became a source of inspiration for those who faced the challenges of a changing world; even after returned to Dandelo and Lady Gale in Mecha.

Ode to the 72
In the twilight's embrace, where shadows dance,
A tale unfolds of war, of fate's cruel chance.
Beneath the moon's gaze, a bard's lament,
Of the 72 Gaelics, their spirits unbent.


In Syom’skit-Ngthefl's hallowed halls they stood,
Elite warriors, bound by a pact of wood.
Souls entwined with machines of war,
A sacrifice profound, a fate to abhor.


We, the 72, in silence were forged,
By magic's hand, our destinies urged.
Lowe, the bard, with lute in hand,
In melodies, our journey was planned.


A symphony of souls, a dance of despair,
As war machines birthed from the ethereal air.
A third lost, consumed by arcane strife,
Their sacrifice, the heartache of life.


Lady Gale, with her strength untold,
Dandelo, leader with a rage to unfold.
Lowe, the bard, weaving tales in sound,
In the crucible of conflict, bonds were bound.


Through Mecha's onslaught, we did endure,
Our war machines, a dance obscure.
Lowe's lute, a beacon in the night,
Guiding us through the relentless fight.


Seventeen remained when the battle ceased,
The Gaelics, scarred, their souls released.
No parade awaited, no triumphant cheer,
Only silence, the echoes of our fear.


Return to mortal bodies, a futile plea,
The leaders confessed, bound for eternity.
In Lowe's melodies, the sorrow swelled,
As our fate, in the city's heart, was held.


A comrade lost to madness, a tragic end,
Half the palace shattered, shadows descend.
Dandelo's warning, a bitter truth,
The Gaelics departed, severed from youth.


Lowe, with his lute, in solitude roamed,
Through realms unknown, his spirit combed.
Songs of hardship, of sacrifice sung,
In echoes of pain, our legacy wrung.


Centuries passed, and Lowe remained,
A minstrel of memories, our saga sustained.
His lute's refrain, a haunting melody,
Of the 72 Gaelics, a timeless elegy.


Through lands afar, the bard did roam,
His verses carried the weight of our home.
A wandering spirit in the tapestry of time,
Lowe's ballad, a testament to the sublime.


In taverns and courts, his tales found ears,
Of the Gaelics' struggles, their silent tears.
The lute's lament, a bittersweet hymn,
Of friendships shattered on a fate's cruel whim.


And so, in Lowe's voice, the hardships unfold,
Of the 72 Gaelics, their story retold.
In the symphony of sorrow, a resilient strain,
A bard's lament, in memory's domain.