Cyril Erenwehr's page

Mythic role
Cyril is clearly a Guardian, in both personality and combat role (though I may dual-path into champion depending on who else winds up in the party). He shuns unnecessary killing, fights in a style that protects those nearby, and prefers to study his enemies and let them come to him; his interest in the Worldwound stems not from the glory of the crusades but from a desire to protect the world from demonic invasion.

Party role
-Reach-focused party defender, whose general combat job is to cripple, grapple, disarm and blind enemies before they can attack/bespell him or his allies (mythic will make this a lot more fun and dynamic)
-Secondary role as a pseudo-investigator: lots of knowledge skills, with Unchained Kirin Style at higher levels functioning like Studied Combat but with a huge mobility boost
-May multiclass into monk for maneuvers and style feats
-Will likely be keenly interested in strategy and tactics, with his decent intelligence and whatnot

Cyril Erenwaer is a short, slender Elf, with unpronounced features, light eyes and dark hair. Burn scars cover his arms, though he usually keeps them covered, along with the strange mark on his right shoulder in the shape of Iomedae's holy symbol. He wears plain travelers' robes and little armor, though this is mostly out of necessity, and he freely admits having an eye on some proper mithral armor or Elven finery once he's made enough of a name for himself to afford it. He carries an unadorned set of Elven finesse weapons—branched spear, short sword, and longbow—given to him by a mentor at the Grand Lodge as befitting his agile, traditional fighting style. He stands properly but often walks slowly, using his spear for support, as though limping slightly or just plain tired.

Once, decades ago, he was an avid crusader of Iomedae, clamoring for a battle to prove his resolve as a destiny-marked champion. Now, on his return to Mendev, he knows cynicism and restraint. Having seen how the most inspired faith and laws were twisted to disastrous ends during the Third Crusade, he has lost much of his respect for either, doing what he can without dogma or self-righteousness and paying respects to the various good-aligned gods but worshiping none. He's not quite sure whether he was blessed or cursed by the crusader goddess whose mark he bears, but he has little thanks or praise for whatever was responsible for the path his life has taken. He is still young for an Elf, though older than most men, finally grown enough to fill out a suit of armor and swing a sword, albeit small ones—and he's cynical enough that while he once followed the Paladin Code of Iomedae, and now pays more attention to that of Sarenrae, he considers such vows to be better replaced by general guidelines saying the same things. Though trained as a Lore Warden by the Pathfinder Society, he knows somewhere deep down that his first allegiance must be to demon-slaying, and not to his oft-preferred maps and books.

Cyril is patient, calm-tempered, and frequently disappointed. He does his best to work with others, but trusts only those he has good reason to. Unlike many of Kenabres's new recruits, he has lived long enough to get over a youthful interest in violence, and would prefer to wield arms only against true, dangerous fiends and their most forsaken servants. Even then, he's not sure if he wants to fight demons, but still feels strongly that this beats the alternative of Mendev falling, and can't think of anything more important to spend his life doing. He still has trouble sleeping, and flinches at the sight of an open flame—but he has, at least, learned to face down his fears and disappointments without fleeing.

Cyril was born the day the Worldwound opened—or so he tells it, though neither the Elves of Kyonin nor the Kellid tribes are known for keeping precise calendars. Raised by the banks of the West Sellen river, he was sixteen when the first Crusaders rode through Kyonin—by Elven standards, barely out of the cradle.

As a young boy, Cyril did what he could to get a good look at each wave of new foreigners as they rode or sailed by, marveling at the strange heroes in their shiny armor. And one day, a visored paladin stopped in mid-ride to dismount, walking up the hill to where a group of Elven children watched, hoisting the laughing Cyril aloft as she whispered blessings in a strange tongue.

The next day, Cyril woke up with a splitting headache and a strange mark on his shoulder in the shape of a sun. And, soon after, the dreams began. At first, they were nothing but night terrors, as the child woke up once a fortnight with his own screams ringing in his ears but no memory of what he had seen. Eventually, the nightmares became more substantial, and he found himself plagued with dreams of pain and torture, visions of the Worldwound and the twisted demons that inhabited it. Once his parents sent for the best healers, Cyril was deemed incurably cursed by the cruel magic of some foreign trickster, though he carried his own secret theories about the source of his dreams.

And, after decades surrounded by minstrel songs and books about the greatest Elven heroes, Cyril snuck away from home with his family arms and set out North, though still a child by his family’s standards. His heroic destiny, he had decided, must be to save the world from the monsters of his dreams. Those were the days of the Third Crusade, and though the young Elf was brave, optimistic, and eager to learn, he had little strength, wisdom, or skill at arms. Despite several years squiring to a proper knightly order, Cyril had still never seen combat when the witch-hunts came to Kenabres. With his heavy Elven accent, pointy ears, and knowledge of few Abyssal phrases he had picked up from dreams, the naive youngster was an easy target for a Baphomet-corrupted inquisitor.

At the age of sixty-two, Cyril was burned at the stake alongside all of his worldly possessions; and it was only through timely subterfuge and distraction from a group of Pathfinder agents that he was rescued from the midst of the burning scaffold. After a few months spent recovering from his injuries, he found himself at a loss for direction—he had stolen his family’s ancestral sword jewelry when he first set out, sold the jewels for provisions and lost the sword to inquisitors, and in his mind this made returning home an impossible option. Cyril spent the next few years in the Starrise Spire, working as a custodian and book-keeper for the hidden Pathfinder Lodge, before an aging Venture-Captain suggested that he might be ready to travel to Absalom for training as a full-fledged Pathfinder.

And while he was not the most promising Society recruit, Cyril was decent enough at everything he set his mind to, and a quick learner. During these years of training, Dean Shaine took a liking to his fellow Elf, and brought him handbooks on dueling and traditional Elven weaponry, teaching him to fight defensively and take advantage of the extreme finesse that was his one strength. After his Confirmation, the Master of Scrolls allowed Cyril to stay on in the Grand Lodge for a time as a Society scribe, compiling maps and copy-editing Chronicles. Most of the field missions he took involved double-checking existing reports, shoring up details of maps, and fighting only occasionally, in self-defense.

But the dreams continued, every few nights, and in his mind Cyril felt the Kenabres wardstone crack, heard the screams and clashes of the Fourth Crusade as the Storm King laid siege to a city he had once fled. And as the Nerosyan lodge sent reports of the Order of Heralds and Mendev’s increasing reformation, he decided to request a posting that would once again bring him to the Crusader Kingdom, knowing that there was some part of himself that he’d never be able to outrun. This time, though, he’s armed with a great bit more fighting skill, demonic lore, and cynicism about the world.