 Cyrus Destovin, from the tents of Jaroma, of the sons of Hirem. Race: Benshira Age: 25 Birthdate: 12th Summer, 487AV Occupation: Sellsword Languages: Common (Fluent) |
At a first and foremost glance, there is nothing perplexingly different about Cyrus. The onlooker is unable to depict any notable mutations, flaws, or features that would differentiate him from the ordinary, stereotypical human. Yet, after closer inspection, his Benshiran heritage is discovered solely through the green of his eyes. Unlike the human species, Cyrus’ eyes are a bright green, mirroring anyone who peers into them. Amongst the human species, this is unnatural, depicting his true heritage as a Benshiran, hardy people born of the desert sands. Often ridiculed, scarcely complimented, he sees his eyes as the only part of his people that he has left. They are the only remaining link between what is and what once was, both a gift and a curse.
As is custom to his people, Cyrus’ skin is an olive shade, tanned from countless hours spent under the blazing suns of the Ekytol. His arms are strong and broad, as solid as stone. His chest is broad and defined, with notable crevices of pure muscle running throughout it. His torso makes way for washboard abs, defined enough to grate cheese upon, and hardy enough to smash a skull. To Cyrus, his body is the pinnacle of all he has done in his life; all the training he has endured, and all the battles he has fought. His physique is the epitome of his self, a temple built through flesh, bone and hard work. Regularly he adorns it in armours made of leather, bedazzled with precious iron and silver plating. He is a man of fine wine and precious jewels, and is not beyond covering himself in the latter on formal occasions. No matter what adorns his lean frame, Cyrus always looks like a man of thirty thousand mizas.
Cyrus’ face has surpassed the forms of expression that a regular man possesses. He rarely smiles, nor does he frown. Emotionless, and incapable of showing such things through facial expressions. His face has become stern and chiselled like stone, with a strong jaw and high cheekbones. His eyes peer out with a fearsome gaze, one that rarely falters when it stares upon others. His face is not lined with wrinkles of aging, nor do any marks condemn it. It is smooth and clean, almost as if he has never fought in his life, or seen the light of day. A rugged mess of brown hair sits upon his head, stretching down to his cheeks and brushing against the back of the neck. It is parted down either side of his face, like curtains that allow him to peer through. His hair always seems like it is wet, shining and glowing within the light. |
Just as his physique, Cyrus’ persona is chiselled like stone. He will never change, nor has he ever before. He follows his own morals, his own goals, and pursues his own sense of justice. His character is one that has been forged through tragic past events, the loss of loved ones and horrifying depictions of reality. In his twenty five years, Cyrus has likely seen more bloodshed than many men would in their entire life, and has been shaped by those events. He has become deprived of emotion, and his facial expression remains either blank or stern, never different. To Cyrus, blood is like water, something that flows within everyone. Where many would cringe at the sight of large abundances of the crimson lifeforce, Cryus remains blank. He could watch a hundred men be slaughtered and not flinch, nor shed a tear. Many call it cruel and sadistic, yet he sees it only as experience in such sights. Blood is like water, and a field littered in dead to him is like looking upon the ocean.
Cyrus is stubborn, hard headed and damned persistent. When his mind is set on accomplishing a goal; whether it be killing a man, obtaining a certain amount of mizas, or just honing his skills; Cyrus will not stop until his goal is achieved. His self-preservation has allowed him to escape even the most dire of situations, yet his stubbornness and pride has kept him in many more. He is unyielding in combat, rarely, if ever, backing down from a battle. Even when faced with overwhelming odds at the point of fainting, Cyrus will push on. He will push on until he can push no more, until iron kills him, or until his legs collapse from underneath him. Whatever the case may be, Cyrus keeps a persistency about him in battle, one that can scare away even the most fearsome opponents. He knows what separates the right from the wrong, and life is seen in black and white. There is good, and there is evil. Decisions that are made always reflect one of those two words, and there is never an inbetween. Cyrus does whatever he must to survive in the world, and cares not for which path he walks down. He takes life as it comes, never urging the hand of fate by making wrong decisions.
Some see the Benshiran as an opportunist, deviously taking advantage of certain things his way. To those who believe that, Cyrus will not argue. He is an opportunist to the highest degree, never passing down an opportunity; no matter what the terms. He would gladly kill a famous nobleman if he were rewarded at the end. If an opportunity is presented to him, Cyrus is going to take it. It is a simple as that. He no longer prays to any of the gods, for they do not listen, they have forsaken him and all the realm. In times of greatest need they left him lingering in the nothing, and for that he will never forgive them. Whilst he does not discriminate those that do show worship, he believes that without the prayers of mortals, the gods will suffer, as they have made mortals do all their lives. Regularly does he try to spread this word, and convert people away from their chosen deities.
His hard exterior often depicts Cyrus as an emotionless killer, cold and defected. Whilst this is true to an extent, there is also a certain persona about him that makes him lovable and hateable all at the same time. He has a sharp tongue, one that lashes like a whip at any who speak to him, no matter what their purpose. Profanities are not beyond him, and he will occasionally speak them to those who annoy or question him. His vocabulary is somewhat large for a Benshiran, and the overuse of large words is not uncommon among his lips. He is sarcastic for the most part, and self-centred the rest. There is nothing more he cares about than himself, as there is nobody else that will, nor want too. Beneath the rough exterior, lies a thin, almost non-existent layer of trust. It is rarely gained by any, and only those who Cyrus truly can tolerate gains it. There is not much that comes with his trust, aside the fact that he will not watch you consistently on the hunt for treachery, and speak to you as though you are somewhat his equal. Cyrus regularly speaks down to people, even those he trusts, for nobody is impeccable as he. |
Nomadic.
It was what his people were, and it was what his people would always be. There had been times when they rose to build and occupy great cities, yet there was always the following time when they would be pushed back into the desert, to roam it in their family groups. They were strong, hardy people, thriving off a terrain that many could not last a day on. Cyrus was born into a warrior family known as the Jaroma, a large group of men and women that hunted and killed the animals of the Ektyol for food and supplements. They were survivors first, warriors second, and hunters last. Every day was a struggle to survive, and only through the skilled hunters and gatherers were they presented enough food and water to live off. Cyrus was born into a hostile environment, where each passing moment was one spent wondering if they would live for the next. The desert sands could swallow you whole, along with the creatures that dwelled beneath it.
Cyrus’ first years in life were spent as the rest of them would be. Wandering the desert, and living off whatever it provided. He was too young to aid the family yet, and spent many of his first years nurtured within his mother’s arms. His father, Jokvoi, had been a great hunter, one of the best within their tent. When Cyrus came of age, he began training the boy to use a scimitar, the favoured weapon of the Jaroma. At first, Cyrus was like any other child: clumsy and ill-tempered. He did not take much of what his father said in as he should of, and generally strayed off to do what he wanted, daydreaming during training sessions. He was not disciplined as he should have been, and Jokvoi believed the years under his mothers wing had made him weak.
So he killed her.
Without remorse, without consent, Jokvoi stormed into his wife’s tent and ripped her limbs from her body, leaving her a bloodied mess of flesh and blood. Being one of the strongest in the tent, nobody questioned him, and Cyrus was barely old enough to know what had actually transpired. When he had found out his mother had been ‘murdered by a desert snake’, he was sent into a pit of rage, one that he could rarely climb out of. The training sessions soon became more frequent, and Cyrus’ sword hand had become fuelled by rage. Soon enough, at the age of eleven, he was capable of following his father and the other hunters into the desert to look for food. Cyrus can still clearly remember his first hunt, on a chilly night in the early days of spring. He, Jokvoi, and ten other huntsman, left the camp at the setting of the sun.
It took them almost three hours to find fauna that was capable of being eaten, though when they did, it was rewarding. At least a dozen Desert Cows roamed a small sand field, trying to pluck the remains of the desert weed there. Jokvoi, Cyrus and the other men descended upon them, and slaughtered them within minutes. However, the smell of fresh blood attracted an too-familiar, yet unwelcome guest. A pack of golden wolves approached the hunters, and surrounded them. The Benshiras were outnumbered, yet believed they could overcome the odds and return to the tent alive. A battle soon ensued, one that left eight men wounded, and only four alive. Jokvoi was not amongst the living, yet Cyrus was. He watched his own father be torn apart by the wolves, and fled back to camp with the little meat he had managed to scavenge from the cows.
When he returned, Cyrus was seen as a hero. Not for fighting the wolves, but for bringing back food even in times of jeopardy. He was given his father’s place amongst the hunters, despite the fact he was only a boy; and far less than interested to do so. He accepted the title all the same, knowing it would be dishonourable to turn it down. He held the title until he was eighteen years old, occasionally leading the huntsman on their conquests. Many saw him as only a boy, so many were not so eager to follow him into the fray. Others did so willingly, knowing that he was the son of a great hunter. Yet even during his times of glory, his times of conquest, Cyrus believed he was born for something bigger, something greater than a clan of nomads. The thought dwelled in the back of his mind for some time, though was confirmed when he met a man by the name of Erzal. Erzal was the leader of a group of cutthroats that run rampant through the Burning Lands, killing and plundering.
Cyrus and his followers captured the man during one of the hunts, after catching him trying to assassinate one of the warriors. They took him back to the tent in chains, and Cyrus took him to his own personal tent for questioning. Erzal saw something in Cyrus, something that he did not see in the rest. He promised him life, if Cyrus would only set him free. The teenager did so willingly, and watched as the man disappeared into the shifting sands of the desert. He did not entirely grasp what he meant by life, though time would reveal it. He returned a week later with his cutthroats, and just as the Jaroma had been packing up to move along, they attacked, with iron and flames, burning and slashing anyone who opposed them. Cyrus only stood back and watched as his people were killed, knowing that this was the life Erzal had granted him. Knowing that he had been the one that put an end to his tent, Cyrus began plotting against the cutthroat. He worked alone, and watching his people burn had changed him entirely. Cyrus became more sinister, more relentless, and more stubborn than ever.
He would kill Erzal and his men, no matter what the cost. |
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by Cyrus on June 17th, 2012, 11:48 am 
