Tallarial Cyla Shadowsong's page

When she was born, Cyla's skin was a light purple akin to lavender and her hair a silvery white. Due to her obvious nature, Cyla was a tolerated outcast by most. Other children would not play with her, and her grandfather would have nothing to do with a child of the race that took his wife from him. So she spent the majority of her time with her mother, learning from her the way of the bow. She spent the majority of her youngest years either helping her mother around their home, outside practicing her archery, or reading on magic in a grand library provided to the area by a powerful wizard. Despite apperances, Cyla struggled every day with doubt. What if they were right? What if I am doomed by blood? Do I even belong? Should I even be given a chance?

Often, she tried to drown out such thoughts through physical or mental exertion. Sometimes, it was almost enough. After years of struggling to teach herself magic, she finally managed to conjure cantrips. This caught the attention of the wizard. It was common knowledge that all elves were gifted with magic. However, it was far less common that an elf could teach themselves, especially so relatively quickly. He decided to test the child, to see if she had both the aptitude, and the attitude for learning. Cyla proved more than gifted and despite being terse and almost rude, showed a good attitude and heart, mostly. So, for the next 10 years she studied under the wizard Vinnick, and despite showing a natural gift and talent with magic, she seemed to more and more favor her bow. To Vinnick's great aggravation. She couldn't help the great feeling she got when performing physical exercise. She started viewing herself better than most others of her age. While they whittled their time away, she made great strides in both magic and archery. She was only 33, yet her skill with bow and sorcery matched many adults in the town, and far surpassed those her age. She found herself taking a pride in that, a comfort that, despite their thoughts of her, she was by far superior. A pride worthy of a drow. A pride that lead to an extremely heated conflict with her mother that one day.

Fast forward years later, not long after the conflict with her mother which had caused them not to speak for weeks another raid occurred. Cyla joined in the towns defense, launching arrow after arrow into the tide of enslaved orcs alongside others. Eventually, due to divine magic from several priestesses the defense failed. A lighting bolt blasted the section where Cyla was and sent her flying, knocking her unconscious for a few short moments. When she came to, she felt a gentle pull in her mind. Like the gentle tugging of a thread of clothing pulling as it got hung on something. It led her to the corpse of the towns guard captain. A hero of sorts for the town, her grand father. Next to his charred body lay a bow of flowers and dawn. Featherdraw, as he and other had always called it. She felt an urge to take it, she looked to her own bow, the one her mother had gifted her. It was in tatters, blasted and burned to uselessness. But what right did she have to take the bow? It wasn't just some heirloom, it had been crafted for her grandfather by a master smith and enchanted with powerful magic centuries before even her mother had been born. It had been made to defend against what she was. What right would she have to it?

After a long pause, she heard a shout in the distance.
Mom! without a moments hesitation she stood and grabbed up the bow. As soon as her hand grasp the bow it changed. Its golden orange and pink hues changed to dark purples and blues. The petal engravings on the ends shifted and changes to swirls reminiscent of stars. The bow string vanished from sight, and when she went to draw it back a neon bright laser appeared in its place and as she drew back a blue arrow formed seemingly out of the ether. Marveling for but a second, she ran off towards her mother. She found a drow priestess interrogating her mother. At least, that is what it seemed like. When Cyla appeared, recognition sparked on the priestess face, and she went to say something. But Cyla did not give her the chance. Arrow after arrow was loosed, some a vibrant purple, some a dark blue. Each hitting home. Soon, the drow woman lay dead. Yet, the venom from the priestesses whip had already done its work. As her mother lay dying, she asked Cyla for forgiveness. She told Cyla she had, and would always, love her. As Cyla, tears streaming from her eyes, held her mothers head up in her arms. The last thing she whispered was a comforting phrase, and a plea. In the distance resounded a horn, signalling aid had arrived.

"You are who are not by blood, but by actions. You choose who you are, my little.."

After the defense, as things settled down shouts were heard. Fingers pointed towards Cyla, shouting about corruption. They claimed she had been the one to kill her own grandfather, that she had taken the bow featherdraw and tainted it. Some were not so rash, they spoke about how she defended the town, however soon those voices were overwhelmed. In the end, she was exiled. The town demanded the bow back, and she may have acquiesced their request had the bow not spoken.

"Once, I was Featherdraw, bringer of dawn's light. Now, I am Darkstar, Twilight's Avenger. We are one, destined... It is good to meet you."

She left that night, saying a word to no one and leaving up a note and a tear for her mother.

She vowed to create a place where outcasts and people like her could live peacefully, where they could be judged by their actions. She vowed vengeance as well. However, before all of that, she needed to get stronger. This new call in the blood-vale could prove a way to further that.

"You are who are not by blood, but by actions. You choose who you are. Heh, if that is so, then my choice is both." - Cyla

Personality: Fiery, determined, driven, solitary... prideful. Her entire life she was an outcast, so she never developed any form of real social acumen. Often, she either doesn't speak, or speaks too freely, and has such pride in herself that she automatically believes others inferior until proven otherwise. Despite the cold and mildly condescending exterior, the few friends she does have she would do nigh anything for. She is the type of friend where, if someone hurt them, she asks who and grabs a metal baseball bat.