Cyran suppressed a frown at the mention of Mother Moon teaching Cirice more dark magic. In his experience, dark magic practitioners were hardly… savory. Cirice was one of the few that he’d met that was wholly good. Hell, even he himself…
“The witch of Moonglade?” He knew the name, though he’d never met the woman in person.
“Is that one of your mentors in the mage’s guild? And you decided to ask me for help?” He yelped, taken aback by this information. All of a sudden, he felt a bit subconscious at the idea of actually training Cirice. She had much more capable and talented seniors in the guild, including one of the most influential and powerful witches in the whole of Moonglade! Goodness…
“Well, learn all you can from her.” He said slowly, changing the subject. He still didn’t like this mention of Mother Moon. She was the one that had made Cirice jump into that origin matter, made her think it was a good idea all in the silly pursuit of power and influence. He secretly hoped the best for her - that she would find more human teachers in this realm, ones that wouldn’t steer her wrong.
And maybe he would need to renew his efforts into looking into this Mother Moon. It clearly wasn’t Lunala, given what the venture in the Arid Mesa had revealed. And yet, she was still utterly convinced her goddess was alive and well. But was it denial, or something deeper?
Cirice’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts. She wanted to try the spell, after all.
“That’s fine with me.” He obeyed, following where she ordered him to sit. He ran his fingers through his hair and smiled down at her as she closed her eyes and cast her spell. And while Cirice shifted through centuries of muddled memories, Cyran began humming an old elven lullaby.
The first thing you get is a name.
A full one, this time.
Cyran Fenastra is not a name you have ever heard him say of his own volition before, though not out of lack of trust on his part. It is because the name of the Fenastra Clan, the cutthroat merchants of Eclipse City, is no longer his to claim. You will learn the details of exactly why and how later, should you choose to delve deeper.
Of course, you have no say in the matter.
You learn other surface level things, at first. It does not take much delving to learn that Cyran (formerly of Fenastra) is adept with the blade, a master of stealth, and a shadowmancer with command over space and shadow itself. You, of course, already knew these things. But what you might not know is that Cyran was not born with this magic, nor did he grow up training with the blade. In fact, one might have once considered him quite incapable of harm at all.
A byproduct of his upbringing, perhaps.
Cyran Fenastra is born under a meteor shower, right at the cusp of dusk to Lormundel and Cyrilla Fenastra (née Dattachaudhuri of the Southern Crescent Isles) in the Fenastra manor. Lormundel is the old fashioned sort - he comes from a long line of moon elves ascribed to older ways of thinking, believing that Moon Elves deserve an equal place on the throne in Sol City after they were so cruelly wronged in the elven wars. As such, he keeps their family motto inscribed in old elvish on the fireplace for all to see-
THE MOON WILL ECLIPSE THE SUN.
Lormundel Fenastra’s views are unimportant to this story. Or, perhaps they aren’t, as from the moment Cyran is born, the sole heir of the Fenastra Clan, he is trained in all manner of subjects befitting of a future merchant and politician. By his father, Cyran is trained in economics, history, and modern politics. His mother, on the other hand, instills any language she deems useful, and parades Cyran around galas, determined to teach him the ways of socialites, and how to mingle and make alliances.
The Fenastra family is young and hungry, and they are willing to do anything to get their hands on more money and power.
For the first years of his life, Cyran is an asset, not a son.
And sure, there are some areas that Cyran excels at. He is a quiet young man, keen and observant. He is good at reading people, uncannily so. Lormundel thinks he sees promise in his progeny - but it is all undercut by the fact that Cyran is soft, shy, and doesn’t seem especially interested in the family business at all.
What is to be done about this?
Lormundel has an idea. If Cyran is unwilling to listen to his lessons, or learn from the corporal punishment carried out behind closed doors (these memories are fuzzy, blurred with pain and tears), then there is only one use for him. As a bargaining chip in a political alliance. And Lormundel has been awfully interested in the Pavyre Family as of late.
The Pavyre Family is an… odd one, all things considered. They are a family of old mages, with deep, powerful magic. Worshippers of Lunala. They both represent everything the Fenastra Family is against and everything they are for. Most importantly, they are deeply ingrained in Eclipse City, with limitless funds and influence and an interest in rare and arcane curios. The Pavyre family also, interestingly enough, has many, many children, all of whom are available for marriage.
Lormundel Fenastra has an idea.
Cyran Fenastra and Rowan Pavyre, youngest daughter of the Pavyre Family, are engaged within the year.
They are married within the next half.
Cyran and Rowan are given a smaller home a little ways away from the Fenastra manor. Neither is especially happy about this arrangement, though Cyran is willing to make the best of things. Rowan, on the other hand, wants nothing to do with Cyran. She resents this man for what he represents, though for reasons Cyran cannot understand. And so for years, they play a doting couple in public, pretending that everything is normal while the Fenastra-Pavyre alliance flourishes. And at home, they are strangers, distant. They play this game for a little over two centuries, memories that are a blur in Cyran’s mind, a haze of the same day over and over again, going through the motions but not quite living.
And then Cyran finds her laboratory in the basement.
He does not care to know about what Rowan is doing. Not until he finds the remnants of experiments conducted on people for the sake of furthering her dark magic. Scared, he grabs her notebook from the desk and confronts her that day. That he will expose her for her crimes. But rather than confess, she merely laughs.
You could try, but no one would believe you. No one would care to. If you take that journal to the guards tonight this will all disappear by morning.
And there are some truths, Cyran knows, that will never see the light of day. So he does something he is not particularly proud of - he makes a deal.
“I look the other way,” He starts,
“And you help give me something in return.”He has always wanted a family of his own. Different from the cold environment he grew up in. Children he can show love himself. Rowan agrees, not because she fears what he might do, but because his attempts are annoying. Within the year, Marlow Fenastra is born, and Cyran loves her more than life itself.
Marlow is an exceptionally bright child. Already babbling in common and elvish and toddling around by a year old. With her in his life, Cyran has purpose for once. And he takes to the job with as much love and affection as he has been denied in his life. Marlow grows up happy, cared for, and she is Cyran’s sun.
Until she turns twelve, and the thin threads that are holding Cyran’s life together snap and crumble apart.
He does not know what Rowan has been doing over these years. Perhaps he should have been paying attention, because the creature standing in their living room when he returns home one afternoon is not Rowan Pavyre. Whatever creature she has invited into her body, the being she has made a bargain with for power in exchange for dark magic, she cannot resist it any longer. And it takes over her body. She smiles at him, and says,
“You’ll do.”Cyran tries to run. He turns around and attempts to make a break for freedom - for the door. But not-Rowan is faster and stronger, and dark-magic claws rake down his back before he can flee. Cyran screams, collapsing to the floor. Rowan steps over him, a miasma of dark magic growing in her hand as a wicked smile grows on her face.
And then she turns to look at
you. Little Cirice.
“Oh, my, you’re not supposed to be here. Why don’t we skip past this part?”Cyran’s eyes close, and the memory shifts to the hospital, where Cyran lays as still as the grave, and Marlow, barely twelve years old, sits by his side -
It shifts to him, growing feverish as the rot begins to set in -
A ghostly woman, manifesting above him as he walks the line between life and death, a smile on her face as she pats his head. She has died before she could finish the job, her body unable to bear the power she held, but that does not mean her plans have stopped. Merely… delayed.
“Oh, I suppose you’ll do just fine as a vessel to bring me to Nymra.”And then -
“Oh, yes, this one is far more interesting.”Cyran stands in the middle of an empty foyer. He is healed, not fully but enough to stand - bandages poke out from under his tunic, and bruises cover his face. His lip is split. But more prevalent is the hatred and hurt burning in his eyes as Lormundel Fenastra speaks, armed men on either side of his father. He does not even look at Cyran. His eyes are trained on the insignia on the fireplace. Marlow plays with toys in the corner, unaware of what is about to happen.
“You understand the consequences for this are serious. The Pavyres demand recompense for this error.”Cyran opens his mouth to object - thinks better of it. He straightens, resigned. The scars in his back tear. Gods, he is so tired.
“So it’s to be exile, then. That’s the only solution you were willing to come up with?”“The Pavyres demanded your death. An eye for an eye. This was the most merciful solution I could think of.” Lormundel does not turn around, still.
“What else would you have me do?”“Side with your only son, for once in your life!”“And burn one of our most lucrative alliances to the ground?”“And give a damn about something other than money and power!”… Silence. Still, Lormundel remains trained on the insignia and the crackling fire in the fireplace - his choice has already been made.
And for the first time, something inside of Cyran snaps. For years, he has spent standing in his father’s shadow, desperately trying to be good enough, to be someone worth a damn. He tried so hard. But it would never have been good enough, would it? And now his father cannot even stand to gaze upon this disappointment, darkened stain on the Fenastra name.
Look at me.
Look at me!
“Look at me!”Coldness seeps into Cyran’s bones - and inexplicably, around him, the shadows begin to shift, grow deeper. Plunging the room in darkness. The fire in the mantle is extinguished in a puff of smoke.
Alarmed, Lormundel turns around, finally acknowledging his son now that Cyran has forced him to look. And all he sees, in that moment, is a wild and desperate man.
“For the love of Lunala, get control of yourself, boy.” He snaps.
“This is unbecoming of you. A Fenastra doesn’t lose their head.”
Then again. It is not as if he will be one for much longer.
He never really embodied their values, anyways.
Cyran takes a step back. Defeated. He feels fifteen years old again, a fool because he has lost daddy’s approval.
“Fine.” He whispers, and it feels like the end.
“I will take Marlow and be out of your life by the end of the day. You’ll never have to see either of us again.” He doesn’t care about the money, not really.
“Oh, no, you misunderstand me. Marlow is not coming with you.”“What?” Cyran’s eyes narrow.
“Of course she is, she is my daughter.”“She is the future heiress of the Fenastra Clan.” Lormundel walks over to the corner, where the young girl is playing, to pick her up. Cyran, still injured, cannot move fast enough to stop this. Can only watch as his father makes his way to the door. This conversation is over.
“No, not Marlow, anything but her, please-“ Cyran is growing desperate, the edges of his voice tinged with anguish as he realizes what he is about to lose. He doesn’t give a shit about the money or the name, or the house. He would be fine losing it all, as long as he has her by his side.
Anything but her.
And so he begs.
“Please, she’s all I have left-““I expect you to be gone by the time I return.” Lormundel informs him, cold. Marlow watches Cyran, tears beginning to run down her cheeks, unaware of what is going on aside from the fact that her father is sad.
“Daddy?”That thing inside of Cyran breaks further. It does not matter that he is injured. It does not matter that he has never raised his fist against another person in his life. Cyran runs forward, murder in his eyes, and a scream leaving his lips -
“Give her back you bastard!”-
- And one of the guards steps in smoothly, kicking Cyran to the ground. Marlow lets out one last anguished scream, or perhaps it is Cyran himself. Maybe both. Those wails echo through the empty halls as the door shuts behind Lormundel’s retreating back.
From the ground, Cyran rolls over to glower at the guards who have been left behind to watch him.
“I hate you.” He hisses, the words burning in his core. He is not sure if he’s talking to them or his father, but in that moment it doesn’t matter.
One of the guards takes pity on him. A squishy noble’s son, ripped from his family and cast out into the world with nothing to his name. Cyran will die in a week, he thinks. Before he can think better of it, he plucks a dagger from his belt and tosses it in front of Cyran.
“Here.” He barks.
“Do with it what you will.”Either he will use it to take the quick way out, or he’ll try to buy himself a couple more days of survival. Either way it is a mercy.
Cyran glares at the dagger. A shaking, hesitant hand reaches out to grasp it.
You would recognize this dagger as the one that Cyran has always carried around with him, this reminder of his failures. The small, unassuming weapon that has since been enchanted, rarely used, but kept all the same.
Nothing.
And so Cyran takes this dagger and leaves. It does not matter where he goes, at first, only that he gets the hell out. The first few months spent on his own are a blur of grief, regret, and pain as he heals from his injuries. Perhaps he should die a thousand times over, but inexplicably, he survives. And he grows stronger.
And so does his magic.
He tries taking odd jobs for money. But somewhere along the line, he gets a particularly… odd request, for a lot of money. To dispose of a rival member of a political faction, for a lucrative reward. The client probably thinks that Cyran cannot handle such a thing. That he will die a scapegoat. But Cyran takes his dagger, and his natural inclination for stealth, along with that kind of… emptiness inside of him that prevents him from feeling guilt when he takes a life - they get the job done, somehow. He feels nothing.
And the beginnings of the Specter are born.
Cyran does not set out to become an assassin. But it is something he is good at. It is him or the others, and Cyran finds that he wants to choose life. Life, for the daughter he has failed. Life, for the father he vows to kill one day. The only man whose life he will ever take for his own sake. Not because he wants to survive. But because death is too easy a punishment for him.
And ten years pass. And Cyran grows deadly. Alone he wanders, drifting from place to place. His name does not matter, nor does his person, as he takes job after job. Cyran begins to lose himself, with only his memories and a cold ghost whispering in his ear to keep him company.
Until the day he receives an invitation to the Marrowvine’s party, and his life changes.
Until he meets a teenager in Darkveil and realizes he still has the capacity to love.
Until he meets a young woman in the blizzards of Frostgale and learns that he deserves to be loved in turn.
Until he meets a man in the Crescent Isles and remembers that there are things worth fighting for.
Until he meets a woman in Darkveil and realizes he has a home.
protect him at all cost. (can’t use discord anymore so making use of this here)
