Throwback: Gwythyr, who before the Shattering held a Kithain fiefdom near what is now the Welsh border. An Eiluned mistress sparked an interest in the Arts, and he developed a near-obsession with geomancy and ley lines in order to channel magical energy. He built several menhirs and spiral mounds in the area, focusing energy on his own Freehold, but a minute misplacement of a single stone caused it to backfire - leaving him imprisoned inside for centuries, until the dissolution of the world's magic during the Shattering allowed him to return to Arcadia. That imprisonment left its indelible mark on him - Greg's stubborn will keeps his ancient personality from taking over his, but occaisionally, he will lapse into a seperate mindset.

His Chrysalis came unexpected. Failing to throw a pool match after being cautioned to do so, he found himself on the receiving end of a beating from a couple of hard bastards.The second or third time his face hit the brick wall, something within him stirred. Some deep-seated primal welling of temper and raw fury. As he swung his fist towards the face of his closest assailant, he heard himself shouting 'Fuck off, you cunts!'

And he'd never seen anyone in his life fuck off quite so fast or so well. When he came to later, with his hands battered to hell and the world a spinning hallucinogenic blur around him, he found himself surrounded by a couple other people. Except these were people who looked like they'd never raised a hand to open a door for themselves, much less deal out beatings. The woman had one of those faces he might have been forced to read about in a Homeric poem in school, and the man, with his archaic dress, could have walked straight from a Renaissance painting in the British museum. He was swept from the streets into fosterage into a world and class he had hitherto known nothing of.

He didn't fit in too well with London's noble culture. After his Fosterage and Fior-Righ, he fell into a comfortable compromise as 'liason to the commoners' for his mentor, a Baron with some minor holdings near a rougher edge of town. Even if in this case 'liason' means 'the guy who occaisionally has to crack some heads together'. It was not too unpleasant a position - he got into a lot of scrapes, still got to hang out with his mates and only rarely had to polish himself up for Court.

This changed one drizzly winter, as his liege became increasingly stingy with the supply of Freehold Glamour that fed the local community, and demanding larger tithes of Dross from his subjects. Understandably, the commoners became agitated, and Greg was, as always, caught in the middle. Instead of renewing his year-and-day oath of loyalty when the time came around, he stalked into the Baron's chambers, handed back his sword, and walked out. But not before leaving the other Sidhe with two black eyes and a broken nose.

Finding the noble atmosphere in the area understandably cool since, he packed up not long afterwards. Working his way back up in the pool tournament scene, he had a stint of travelling Europe before finding himself in the United States. With a desire to avoid being trapped in one place for too long that occaisionally borders on the neurotic, he makes as little discrimination as he can between associating with mortal or Kithain, commoner or noble, depending on where he winds up in the world. In as many words as he can manage, it is not one's outside trappings or companions that make up true nobility and honor - what lies underneath always takes precedence.

6: WP
5: Arts
3: Realms
5: Attributes
2:Abilities
4: Secondary Abilities:

Likes: Football(that's 'soccer' to you Yanks), billiards, snooker, Arsenal FC, adrenalyne rushes, stout beer, loud music, winning fights, The Diary of Samuel Pepys(especially the bits with sex), being underestimated, Melanie Chisolm, hitchhiking through Europe, rhyming slang, Titus Andronicus, the savage tribalism of Scottish League matches, the Queen Mother (RIP),

Dislikes: Football (American), Beer(American), losing fights, Charlotte Church, having culture forced down his throat, being used, having to swallow his pride, Victoria Beckham, Andrew Lloyd Weber, people who put on airs, Celtic revivalists (we do not mean supporters of that Glaswegian club), anyone from Kensington or Notting Hill,