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What's in a name?

Taliesin - (tal-ee-ES-in) - Means "shining brow", derived from Welsh tal "brow" and iesin "shining". In Welsh mythology Taliesin was a wizard and bard who acquired the gift of prophecy.

Rhys - (hrees) - Means "enthusiasm" in Welsh. Several Welsh rulers have borne this name.

Gwillt - Means "wild" or "extravagant" in Welsh.
LAYER ONE: On the Outside
Name: Taliesin Rhys Gwillt
Birth date: June 20, 1992
Birthplace: Tampa, FL
Current Location: Los Angeles, CA
Eye Color: Blue
Hair Color: Red
Height: 5'8"
Righty or Lefty: Righty
Zodiac Sign: GeminiCollapse )

On the Ceilican and the Fae

The words of Teliesin Rhys Gwillt, a very young Ceilican.

I've been told that, in the beginning, we were all dreams of the King and Queen of Cats. All of our kind were dreamed into existence, but not all of them liked thinking of themselves as dreams. They willed themselves into forms and took credit for their own creation. We Ceilican and our Faerie cousins called them "prodigals". Who are the prodigals? Other Bastet, other Fera, vampires, magi, even ghosts.

We Ceilican remembered we were dreams. After a night of lovemaking, the King and Queen of Cats dreamed us up, and we became the best and worst sides of passion. As dreams ourselves, we were able to make things out of dreams alone. In those early days, our cousins, the Fae, shared their courts with us, and we did the same for the humans, with a little imagination. We joined their revels in the dead of night. We became "ring dancers", for our habits of dancing with Fae and with Magi. We also became "diabhol cats", devil cats, for our attraction to witches.

All good things come to an end, right? Same thing for us. One of our kind talked too much to an Unseelie lord named Samhach. He used our Yava to hunt us down and enslave us. Meanwhile, the humans found out about our Yava, too, and hunted us down as witch cats. The doors to the Faerie homeland of Arcadia slammed shut, and many of our kind were trapped by the Fae. Many of the Fae were trapped outside, too, and so we were still hunted.

Finally, one of our kind, named Tybalt de Leon, reasoned that if we were born of dreams, we could change our Yava the same way. He managed to change our Yava so that the old tricks didn't work. With the Faeries scattered after the fall of Arcadia and the humans lighting witch fires all across Europe, he led a few pathetic survivors over the sea to America. That's where we've been ever since, hiding amongst the native Bastet. Good deal, right?

Well, there's a few downsides. We're tied to dreams and to passion, good and bad. We're drawn to it like moths to flame, and we change our natures like the wind. Also, we're dead. The whole world knows for a fact that we're dead, and so we let them continue to think it. Lastly, the old Yava are back in full. Sensitivity to cold iron, just like our cousins the Fae. Reciting our names backwards causes us discomfort  or even death. And church bells or hymns can strike us deaf for days. That's in addition to our quickly shifting nature.

So yeah. We're dead. We pretend to be other tribes, Bagheera, Pumonica, Bubasti, even Qualmi. Me? I'm a Qualmi, can't you tell?


Racin' with the Wind

Somewhere in Montana...

"Get your motor runnin'
Head out on the highway
Lookin' for adventure
And whatever comes our way..."

Somewhere out there, on a highway in Montana, a Toyota Sienna full of bratty kids and useless rich parents is laughing at me. I live to amuse. Maybe it was the piles of stuff strapped to the bike behind me. Maybe it was the one-finger salute I gave Mr. Jones as I split his lane to get around him when he cut me off. I don't know. Wind in my hair, the old Honda beneath me purring like a kitten, and a thousand miles between me and the Pacific Ocean, I could care less what their problem is. The day was warm, the scenery was amazing, and the highway stretched on for miles. What more could I want?

Spent the winter in Canada, in Winnipeg, pretending to be a Qualmi like a good kitten. All that snow, though? Not my style. Fact the first: There are fewer good parties when the liquor store is under five feet of snow. Fact the second: I like concerts. I like parties. I'm not a riddle cat. That hermetic shit would drive me insane. So, hell with it. I'm on the road to San Fransisco and I'm not stopping till I see the Golden Gate Bridge. Everything I own is strapped to the bike, my guitar is strapped to my back, and all my money is in my boot. Time for some of that warm California sun. And hot blondes. There better be hot blondes in San Fransisco.

Stopped for gas just this side of the Rockies. Pulled into the station, grabbed a Coke and a candy bar, and flashed the attendant Sweet Hunter's Smile. Score one pack of cigs for me. Ha. Filled the bike with gas. Even managed to smoke a cig before the cops came looking for donuts. That's my cue to get the bike back on the highway. Me and pigs don't mix. Maybe I look like trouble. Maybe it's the bird I flipped them on the way out of the parking lot. Too late this time, pigs, I'm already out on the highway again. Run that Canadian tag, I dare you. David Everett doesn't exist. Taliesin Rhys Gwillt is gonna make a big splash in Cali, and all you can do is watch and stew over the one that got away! Ha!

Onward and upward! Over the mountains and to that Golden Gate! I got a meeting in a bar with a couple guys about a job in a band and I do not want to be late.

Of Dreams and the Open Road

Hey, occasionally, even I get tired of riddles. I'm not a Qualmi, after all. The riddle cats... well, they confuse me, and I'm the one that tries to imitate them. If by imitate you mean "speak like an escaped mental patient" and not "live like a hermetic tree". No roots for me, thank you very much. Give me crowds. Give me the city. Give me the wind in my face on the open road. That's where I truly belong. Hell, the biggest high I've ever gotten was standing on stage with a guitar in my hands in front of a sold out crowd. How they roared when we went into the first song! I was in heaven. It was like a dream.

Speaking of which, I keep having this recurring dream. Nightmare. Whatever. I'm stuck in a realm where out is in and time stands still, and every moment wasted is a moment I forget years of my life. Food and drink are intoxicating, the music and the people are divine, and I just want to dance and forget everything. Then I wake up, and remembering what I've been taught, I'm desperate to bathe, to flee, to forget. Forget the overwhelming intoxication of the fae. And the damning truth. Down that path lies death.

So, hey, speaking of which, I'm thinking about moving out of here. Canada is great, you know. All that snow. And...well, the snow is nice. Sort of. I guess the Qualmi like it. Me, I've always liked the mountains and the desert better. Think I've seen 'em before, anyways. Might go see 'em again. I'm thinking Oregon or maybe Cali, what do you think? Pack up the bike and just go? Bet I could get a couple good gigs in San Fransisco. Lot of interesting people there, too.

Yep, I think I'm going to do it.


Ceilican Gifts

About the Ceilican