Character Sketch: ZEPHYR MONROE

He is a broken man. Life was hard on him, and after all that he’s been through, he’d lost hope of any form of salvation or accomplishment. Nothing could be done in his situation. He’d lost so much already that there’s nothing more to lose.

He didn’t have much to begin with. Born to a large family of farmers, he was used to hand-me-downs and an inadequate share of food, being the youngest of six children. With what his parents were making, tending the grapevine a wine merchant, they couldn’t afford to go to school, and so much of what he knows now were from old books given to them by the housemaids of the wine merchant, discards from the eccentric old man’s library.

But his biggest passion was music. His father taught him to play an old rusty violin, and didn’t let go of it ever since. Much of it was self-taught, and yet he was just as accomplished as those with formal training, thanks to his father, who used to play for a traveling band. Music was a big part of his life, attached to his very soul and being. It was through music, in fact, that he met the woman of his dreams, Iona. But sickness fell upon her and took her, leaving him a broken man with a broken heart. And a child.

He loved his daughter dearly, but his nothingness has caused him to give her up to an orphanage. He figured she’d have a better life with a family able to provide for her needs. His only memory of his beloved Iona gone, all he could do was move on, and try to survive in the world of music, the only thing he is capable of doing. Let the wind blow him where he ought to be, he said. Much like his name. Zephyr. The west wind.

A scrawny man in his mid-forties, his appearance was a show-all of his poverty: tattered and patched-up, faded and shrinking for his six-foot frame. He was no portly gentleman, but lean and muscular, having worked in the docks for some time in his late twenties. He had a gentle face and soft features, much like a woman, the kind suitable for priesthood, but years of hardship has taken its toll on his features and caused them to alter, to mature and harden. He rubs the behind of his right ear frequently, an unconscious action, a habit of sorts.

He can be seen in different coffee shops scattered around town, or in the streets themselves, playing his rusty old violin, trying make ends meet. For now, he is contented knowing that he’ll get by day by day. He is still waiting for his big break. He used to believe that his music will get him somewhere, but everyday a little of that confidence falters, and he doesn’t know up until when he can keep up this act. All he knows is that no matter what happens, he will never part with his music.

Music is his life. Until death do they part.