Kyras Farson's page

Kyras glanced around him at the mongrels to which he was shackled. Not a one of them understood him, and he doubted they could, even if he explained. He stared at the bindings themselves; even they were of common, albeit effective, make.

In his youth, Kyras had been a zestful merchant. Bartering and haggling, swindling and fast-talking – the ambitious young man did it all. Since he was a boy, he'd made a living off of dealing in whatever he could. His mother was but a serf of a Chelish slum in Ostenso, and trading roast rat for some swill that wouldn't kill you on the way down was a necessary ritual for survival. Over time, the boy grew into a teen, and teens do stupid things. With a reputation for shrewd bargaining, Kyras tried to win the affections of the daughter of some merchant – Larron, a slave trader. Though not particularly high on the social ladder herself, he treated Faella like a queen – as well as one of the streets could. No diamond earrings could he provide nor silk dresses nor exotic delicacies, but he showered her with fresh field daisies, wooden charms (with no scratches even!), and even salted poultry. At each offering, Faella smiled icily, then spoke some pleasantry to excuse herself and slipped away through the streets. Finally, after a week of exceptionally lucrative trading, Kyras acquired a pendant with some very attractive rock at the center. The lavender stone even matched the color of the sprig of lilac Faella like to wear in her hair. Getting her alone as best one could in the well-populated avenue, he offered it to her.

“A priceless pendant for the most lovely lady!” he announced, holding the piece out by its chain.

Sighing, Faella glanced around, then stepped closer to him. With a paper-thin smile, she lifted the amulet, inspecting it. The smile became a smirk, and a dash of mirth escaped her lips. “A bit of brass and rock? This is trash – like you. Go home.”

Speechless, Kyras was unable to ratify his hopes with reality as she pushed the accessory back into his hand, but a distant feeling to him then. Trash. Holding back tears, he looked around the street. Nobody seemed to be watching, so at least no public insult was added to the injury he felt on the inside.

Just as nobody was watching now – the prisoners in the line could scarce relate to his life, Kyras many years beyond them, his bastard blood giving him longevity. At least it would until he met his end here.

For weeks, Kyras strove to find purpose in his life. Seeming like an eternity for the adolescent, he concluded he simply didn't have enough to offer his fancies. Not wanting company from a working man or woman for the rest of his days, he sought to gain something well-respected in the tyrannical nation: power. Far from noble, Kyras would have to earn his by money or merit. As gifts given remained a struck nerve for him, he opted for the latter. He heard talk of his father's kind being apt in the arcane arts, so he decided to learn what he could; perhaps his cunning and blood would work together to make him into something. Education for one of his lowly status though? Not likely – he was lucky enough to be literate and good with sums from his dealings over the years.

Hatching a plan, he made arrangements with a few of his contacts to break into a mageling's quarters – some acolyte of Asmodeus. Kyras had always respected the Lord of Hell, partially out of necessity in Cheliax, but partially out of admiration; one day, he wanted to be the one making contracts of import. His followers were another story though. Arrogant and self-assured, they pranced around the town as if they were gods themselves. Their mark was especially haughty, and he boasted loudly of his dark talent quite often. Sure enough, he possessed a spell tome, reagents – the whole nine yards. He also possessed a spot of luck that night, as his empty room was happened-upon by some of his clergy. Kyras didn't know any of the priests, but he was easy enough to identify by his ears. Not wanting to discover what punishment awaited him, he and his bandits ran. The now-thief was lucky enough to be carrying the book with him, and he only grabbed what he could carry before slipping out by nightfall.

Running across the border to Andoran, Kyras had a rather difficult experience in the wilds. He wasn't strong, nor was he skilled in the ways of the woods. A few squirrels and the blessing of happening across a wandering hunter was all that kept him going. Upon arrival in a village in the free nation, he essentially collapsed near the well at the center. Passers by stared and whispered to each other, but none approached. Until nightfall, that is. Rousing him from his sleep, an old man helped him to his feet.

“You mean to show your colors here, you fool?! Put that damned book away!” His visitor meant business by his tone.

The man glanced around the area, walking Kyras back to his house. Once inside, he planted Kyras in a seat at his table.

“Worship of Asmodeus is a quick trip to the gallows here,” he said, gesturing towards the book in Kyras's hand; he'd taken it out at the well to remind himself of why he'd come. Little did he realize the blood-red star on the cover was something to conceal now. The hungry youth looked tiredly across the table at him, in no state to run or fight. Almost as if reading his mind, the old man spooned him some soup into a bowl from a pot on the fire. “I'm Wolm. We'll get along just fine.” The smile which followed would later become Kyras's own.

Wolm turned out to be a slave-trafficker. Highly illegal in Andoran, the trade paid quite well from his contacts in Cheliax. In the man's cellar was a small arcane sanctum of sorts, where he practiced his concealed talent and kept his victims until they could be shipped the last leg of the way. Knowledgeable in more than a few tonuges, Wolm showed Kyras how to interpret the language of magic as well as his father's tongue. The refugee's thirst for knowledge was insatiable, and he spent much of his cut in the trade on texts about myriad topics. The nature of magic itself fascinated him though. Ulike Wolm which favored the ability to destroy someone at a moment's notice (paranoid of detection as he was), Kyras was awestruck at the variety of ways the world could be altered. The two had their disagreements, but neither had qualms on putting their goods to use; spellcraft which required a subject found many a victim in that basement.

Over the years, Kyras grew to be just as talented as Wolm, much to the man's distaste. The halfblood had an eye for value and a mind for magic. Due this conflict, Wolm sent him away to negotiate some new terms with a new vendor – none other than Larron.

The caravan was enclosed and stocked with potent sleeping mixtures to keep the slaves in one place and silent. This meant the road was smooth until they started waking at Ostenso. A few lashes kept them in line as Kyras and one of the traffickers from the caravan entered Larron's (new) estate – he'd been quite well for himself, it seemed. The terms were discussed, and but there was an impasse. Due the length of the argument, the keeper of the manor suggested they stay to dine.

“I'd like you to meet my daughter, Faella,” sounded the man's basso voice over his wine goblet as a fair figure entered the chamber from behind Kyras and sat next to him. They turned to face each other.

Her face drained of color, and the smile on it vanished with the recognition. She had aged more than the elf-blood let him though, so Kyras took a few moments to take in her image. She was still unwed.

Icy as ever, she pretended she didn't know him at the table, refusing to acknowledge their presence. Larron retired to bed before long, suggesting they would be more agreeable in the morning. Kyras and the trafficker knew the negotiations were going nowhere though. It wasn't unheard of for a meeting to be ended early with no end to it, but Kyras had yet another idea. When nobody was looking, he slipped a dose of the sleeping mixture into Faella's wine. Before she knew it, she was asleep. They took her body back to the caravan and left in the night – not an unusual time for them.

Trash.

He had his fun with her on the way back to Andoran. Some of the new spells he'd been meaning to try needed a subject he knew a bit about, and she would be perfect; if she could handle his courting faux pas in his youth, she could handle a few misspoken words for a spell. A little accidental fire or lightning never hurt anyone. Yet when they arrived at Wolm's house, guards with an eagle crest on their armor awaited them. Accused of forbidden worship, they were, and the guards held up Kyras's spellbook as evidence. Thinking fast, he played dumb, insisting he'd never seen it before – perhaps it was some of his new lady wife's effects? The guards bought the story, and they took the sleeping Faella – complete with numerous effects depicting the Pactbinder on her person, along with her Chelish clothing. Their hands full, they said they would be back to pick up the heavy tome as they carried her to the barracks.

With no time to lose, Kyras dashed into the house to see the state of affairs. Wolm was nowhere to be found, and though the basement looked rummaged through, nothing seemed missing. Grabbing the tome, some coin, and what reagents he could, Kyras returned to the caravan. Whomever sent the investigation there knew what they had, and it could have even been Wolm himself. He needed to get out of there, so he and the trafficker made for another point along their route in Talingarde.

Establishing a residence with the money he had, Kyras continued his trade for some time. He changed houses on numerous occasions, upgrading his standard of living and attempting to break any trail one persuiing him might have been tracking. gaining wealth and status as he stayed in the kingdom. Respected for his coin and holdings, the position felt hollow. They didn't respect him for his ability – rightly so as his skills as a mage needed seasoning yet. He gave himself more to his research, and by doing so, became lax with security.

One day, a familiar scene greeted him upon his return, but there was no way out now. The damned king's "righteous" minions were even worse than the eagle knights of Andoran! This time, his book was not the only thing found; evidence of his elaborate trafficking was plentiful on his estate. The sentence was decisive, the transfer swift: Branderscar Prison for beheading.

Glancing ahead, he'd no doubt the headsman's axe would meet his neck before long. Asmodeus might have a use for him afterwards though – there was always a deal to be made.

Kyras is overconfident, demanding, and brilliant. His smarts are what allowed him to make it out of the slums, but he didn't empathize with those of his upbringing, instead seeing them as resources to be exploited. His draconian expectations for partners and servants is severe, and he often oversimplifies problems to a theoretical exercise without allowing the practicality of solving them to impede on his ego. Though his genius with magic and mercantilism is peerless (at least in his eyes), it remains to be seen weather he can survive to see the fruits of his mind.

When he must be in social situations, he prefers to keep them on a small scale. Here, he's rather garrulous, which is quite different than in the grander crowds; he's by no means a performer. Clever humor is well-received by him, though Kyras is rather serious when speaking.

Though feeling no strong attachment for his homeland, he loves the few Chelish operas he had the opportunity to see in his later days, and most refined music is a lure strong enough to draw him into the large crowds he dislikes. When losing patience or gaining frustration, he has a habit of tweaking his ears - often drawing others' attention to his race which may otherwise have eclipsed them completely.

Perhaps Kyras's most enjoyable vice is solving riddles. The usually unforgiving mageling can be manipulated with relative ease if one plays keep-away with hints or answers to a particularly delicious brain-teaser.

When possible, Kyras is well-dressed and clean as can be expected for the situation. His long hair is fine and strong, but lost its color quickly as he reached his middle years. His Elven heritage leaves him among the most handsome in human eyes, though he's viewed as less masculine due his weak musculature. That absence of strength did not mean he was light though - on the contrary, until he was imprisoned, the bounty he reaped from his trade allowed him to eat rather well for himself.

Unlike his head's mane, the rest of his body his nearly bald. Though able to gain a beard, the growth is slow and makes him look sloppy. At his age, this fine gray down does not last long - experience with knives from his childhood sees to that.

A scar on his left thigh is a reminder of a ... misunderstanding with a client, and his right arm, broken during his youth, now aches mildly when it rains.

His eyes are emerald, and his lips still flush with color. Kyras's skin has held up remarkably well over the years, likely due to dime in the city and in chambers as opposed to the sun. Often vain, one of his major magical foci is preserving his charming appearance.