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Race: Inarta
Birthday: 13th Day of Spring, 490 A.V. (20 years)
Gender: Female
Like most Inarta women, Cyrill has a short stature, standing approximately 5’4’’ tall. Wild, curly hair frames her face. Tiny glass beads tangle from a few tendrils, shimmering in the sunlight and giving her mess of hair an unnatural shine. Long, light eyelashes outline a pair of hazel eyes that are seldom closed. Her eyebrows always appear slightly arched, giving her face a curious expression.
She is usually dressed in a pair of simple byrda and a vintai decorated with beads of her own creation. Occasionally, she will replace the beads with new ones as she grows bored with a particular look. She isn't constantly looking for male approval, but she is aware that she will have to find a mate at some point, so she carries herself with a stately, yet slightly flirty air.
Cyrill is on a constant search for passion in her life. She had found that passion in glassblowing – or rather, she thought she did. For a long time, working with glass had given her life meaning. She felt useful and important, waking up every day with the sole purpose of creating a piece of art. And then, she began noticing the eagles. Not that she hadn’t noticed them before of course – that would have been quite impossible. But one day, she had really started seeing them – their grace as they flew, the wisdom in their eyes, the adventure that each flap of a wing seemed to promise… She was left with a terribly yearning to one day fly on a wind eagle’s back. Now, she wants nothing more than to have an eagle choose her for a rider. It’s not that she is unhappy with her position in life – she has no problem being an artisan. But the tugging on her heart she feels every time she sees a wind eagle and her rider take flight is sometimes just too much to bear.
She engulfs herself completely in everything she does, which often leads her to ignore the more subtle things going on around her. When she is busy with her glasswork or practicing her singing, she will rarely allow herself to be distracted. She may often come off as slightly arrogant because of this and has alienated many people with her seeming indifference for them. In truth, she often feels that her work is more important than the people surrounding her. She finds meaning and passion in creating a piece of art from glass or letting her voice intertwine with the wind as she sings. People simply don’t present the same appeal to her. She values passion and dedication and others. When she sees another artisan hard at work at their own trade, she can watch them for hours – simply transfixed with the way a potter’s hands move across the clay or a cook’s knife chops at a vegetable.
Cyrill was born to a rider and an artisan. Elira, her mother, had died when Cyrill was just two years old. It had been a hunting accident and both the woman and her eagle had perished. Cyrill had no memories of her mother except for the ones drawn out of her father’s stories. Sometimes, she thought she could see the woman’s face in front of her. She had the same honey-colored eyes as Cyrill, the same springy red hair… Whenever she managed to conjure up her mother’s face, she always saw the woman’s mouth turned down in a disapproving line and her brow slightly furrowed. After a while, she had given up trying to remember Elira and even that solitary image faded away.
 Cyrill didn’t remember much of her father, only that he was thought to be one of the most skilled woodworkers around. They spent little time together and every memory of him was a hazy one, frayed and tattered at the edges like the hem of a well-worn dress. There was only one memory that stood out… One day her father took her to his workshop, fully intending to spend some time with his daughter before she was taken to the youth district. Cyrill had come twirling into the workshop, humming a childish tune. Her eyes had been alight with excitement, eager to see how her father spent the majority of his day. She ran her hands over every instrument, looked under every table, and asked at least one question about every piece of wood in the shop. After some minutes of this, her father grew tired of the interrogation and sat down to work. Cyrill tried a few more questions, but to no avail. Recho looked to be completely engrossed in his work. So, Cyrill sat and watched.
She watched the man work for six hours straight, her gaze never once leaving his hands. He seemed to be looking into the very soul of the wood, carving out all the right bits and pieces with his knife. His hands caressed the wood almost as gently as he had caressed Cyrill’s mother. It was only once the work day was finished that Recho seemed to snap out of his revere. He looked at his daughter dumbly as it dawned on him that he had been ignoring the child all this time. He wasn’t sure whether to be concerned or happy that the girl had been so silent and patient. Before they left the workshop, Recho dug around in one of the drawers of his workbench, drawing out a string of tiny wooden beads. It didn’t look too elaborate at first glance, but a good craftsman would have noticed the smooth texture of the beads and the care with which each one must have been carved. He held the necklace out to Cyrill and she tied it around her neck proudly. The next day, Cyrill turned eight and left for the youth section of the city. 
She was excited at every new opportunity presented to her, eager to learn any new craftsmanship or skill that came her way. For a while, she was sure that she would become a woodworker like her father and tried very hard to excel at the skill. However, the wood just didn’t speak to her and in the end, she wasn’t sorry to move on from the activity. She tried out glassblowing with as much enthusiasm as her other duties. However, this was the first trade that she showed a natural talent for. “You got the lungs of a giant, girl,” her teacher had said upon first seeing her work with glass. At first, he accepted her into his small circle of apprentices grudgingly, not believing that a girl could ever excel in the trade. However, by her thirteenth birthday, it was already decided that she would be officially taken on as Tyar’s apprentice. Over time, the man had had warmed up to her and set about teaching her everything he knew. She completed her training with flying colors and Tyar had declared that with a bit more practice, Cyrill would be ready to open up her own shop.
Then, there is also the matter of Cyrill’s twin brother. She had one, of course. Most Inarta did. They were quite close in their younger years, doing everything together. However, when it was time for them to live in the youth section, they began to slowly drift apart. Cyrill was eager to try out everything and was good at most of the things she tried. Beck started out with the same enthusiasm as Cyrill, but his eagerness soon faded away. When Cyrill discovered glassblowing, Beck felt like it was time for him to find his calling as well. But none of the trades interested him. For a while, it looked like he would become a professional archer. He won every competition Cyrill and he had in archery, which brought him a great deal of satisfaction. However, that satisfaction wasn’t enough to last him through his training. The master archer had spoken to him multiple times about giving Beck an apprenticeship if only he’d try harder. But Beck never did. A week before their fifteenth birthday, Beck followed a group of traders out of Wind Reach. Cyrill only found out about her brother’s departure the morning after he left. She found a note left next to a glass vase she had been working on:
I’m leaving, Cy. I’m not going to go into detail here or anything. You know why I’m leaving. You know I don’t really belong here. I’ll make a name for myself abroad. You’ll hear about me yet. Don’t do anything stupid. You belong here. You’ve got your glassblowing and you still have a chance of being a rider like mom. I guess this it, then.
-Beck
P.S. I’ll miss you.
So, that was that. Cyrill threw herself into glassworks and gradually forgot about her twin. However, on the rare occasion when she ventures outside and stands atop a lonely ridge, she can see Beck there with her, beckoning her into the sky.
Religion is a crucial part of Cyrill's life. However, she does not devote her life to the worship of only one God or Goddess. She is strongly devoted to both Priskil and Syna, believing that hope and light are what guide humans to happiness. When there is no work to be done in the Glass Reverie, she will wake early in the morning and make her way outside to watch the sun spill its light over the peaks and ridges of Mount Skyinarta. A sunrise is more beautiful to her than an expanding bubble of molten glass or even an eagle in flight. A sunrise represents light at its most vulnerable and fragile. To Cyrill, a sunrise is the hope that Priskil grants to every breathing creature in Mizahar. Sometimes, as she watches the sunrise, she will sing - infusing the melody with whatever emotion she is currently feeling.
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by Cyrill on June 11th, 2010, 11:29 pm 
