As a Regol, Syrus was expected to carry on the family’s legacy of sages, in service of Cyre. Unfortunately for him, he had no talent for wizardry. He was an arcane scion - his magic flowed through his veins. It was wild, unpredictable, and ultimately, considered shameful by his father. For years he was left to his own devices, his father’s attention directed towards his more promising siblings. He was forced to deal with his burgeoning magical “talent” himself, harboring some futile hope that if he learned to control it, he could earn his father’s good graces. In the meantime, the Last War continued to rage on in the background.
As the war reached its climax years later, an opportunity presented itself. His sorcery having long become common knowledge, Syrus was conscripted by the Cyran military. He went willingly, happy that his magic was being acknowledged as an asset, and eager to finally prove his worth to his father. The next few months however, did not go quite as expected. Syrus was given only the most rudimentary of arcane training, being taught to turn his magical power into a crude weapon of war. Not even a year had passed before he was deemed ready to fight on the front lines, along with the few other mages that shared his predicament.
None of Syrus’ training had prepared him for his first day of battle. Several of his fellow sorcerers - some of whom he had become friends with - met their untimely ends. Syrus got away with just an arrow to his shoulder, but what little he had experienced was enough to startle him into a revelation. He already knew that Cyre was on the brink of collapse. But his conscription he realized, was nothing more than a futile gesture, a desperate attempt to hold the enemy off - he and his fellow novices were all cannon fodder. Above all of that was the suspicion that his father had let him go willingly, and that he expected him to die. In the dead of night Syrus deserted, after failing to convince his surviving friends to do the same.
Syrus’ timing could not be more impeccable. After days of running with no one in pursuit, he crossed the Brelish border with no real destination in mind. His escape from Cyre coincided with the Day of Mourning. From where he stood, he could see his homeland being ravaged by a horrific maelstrom of fire and magic, wiping out everything he had ever known. The city he was born in was destroyed, the battlefield he had deserted was obliterated, and his cruel bastard of a father, he had no doubt, was dead. His cowardice had saved his life. Wracked by a tremendous bout of laughter, Syrus walked away unscathed. But not, as he would later learn, untainted.
In time, Syrus came upon a band of Cyran refugees that, with some reluctance, he traveled with for a time. For a while he feared retribution for his desertion, but none ever came. Indeed, he soon realized that they were likely deserters themselves. Any sense of comfort this might have brought him was wiped away when he first met the group's leader, Dentor Shythe. The man's violent, unscrupulous demeanor reminded him of the war zone somehow. For as long as he could he hid his magical abilities, none of which he had used since the war ended. But as the change started to take a hold of him, it started to become more and more difficult to hide to the fact. Fearing that Shythe might have use of his abilities, he deserted his group in the dead of night once more, and ran for his life. This time, there was no catastrophe at his back.
He eventually found himself in the village of Haltwhistle, on the brink of starvation. By then, the treaty had long been signed - the war was over. Though he was once an enemy, after the utter devastation of his homeland, few were willing to turn away a Cyran refugee. One particularly "kind" soul even offered him a place to live. With nowhere else to go, no one to turn to, Syrus graciously obliged. Over the next year he spent most of his time in his small home, quickly gaining a reputation as a recluse. Most simply assumed that the war had taken its toll on him, and left him in peace. They were correct, but not just in the way they thought.
Though he had not been obliterated by the cataclysmic magical event, he had been close enough for it to change him. Its power resonated with his magical blood, mutating it into something bizarre, something alien. And slowly but surely, his body was changing along with it. Clumps of hair began to fall out, his limbs grew gangly, his back started to hunch ever so slightly, and strangest of all, a strange bump appeared on the back of his left shoulder. A bump that would move of its own volition. All of this might have been positively maddening to Syrus, if it were not for the fact that his mind was changing as well. His sanity remained intact, and so did his regrets. Convinced that his new shape was retribution for his cowardice, he has sworn to somehow use his power for good. Now, if only he could step out of his front door...
