Key Takeaways at a Glance

• 7' tall and broad shouldered. Mistakable as a small Goliath, presents as human.
• Black hair, sharp blue eyes, heavy brows.
• Resting expression is stern.
• Voice is a deeper and smooth, an instilled sense of calm within even during terser situations.
• He wears a chain and manacle as a sort of heavy belt, bits of cloth tactically wrapped to keep it from constantly clanking. Usually visible.

Plot Hooks

Please feel free to use any of these hooks to connect our characters! Just DM me and we can talk it out.

• Cyrus is an urban bounty hunter of no fame. He's done work for the lowest and medium-high bits of society, and he has made a plethora of enemies and allies along the past. There's always a possibility he's worked with someone - or tried to hunt them down.
• Cyrus is a vagabond and I'm unfamiliar with the general geography of the game world right now. Feel free to say they've met before! He's often gotten the shit beat out of him during bounties, so it wouldn't be uncommon to see him recouping in an inn, playing cards, or strumming on a borrowed lyre.
• ... I'm working on a couple more. Suggestions welcome.

Short Story: The Inciting Eve

Cyrus hit the ground so hard that, for a moment, he swore he could see the outline of his quori bleeding into the brilliantly blue sky.

A snort of laughter pierced into the side of Cyrus's throbbing skull from the gambling den's door, the absolute behemoth of a Goliath crossing his arms as he took up the entirety of the frame.

"'N stay out."

A glob of spit splatters on Cyrus's breastplate before the door promptly slams, invoking another wince. The blue flame of his quori closes in at the edge of his vision as he rises, threatening to choke his sight outright. He ignores it in much the same way he ignores the amused glances of the passerbys, grimacing as he taps the back of his head.

"Yeah, yeah," he mumbles beneath his breath, glancing down to his gauntlet. Bloodied. His sigh is a short-lived thing, his gaze cutting back up to the door as it begins to clear.

Within, Reginald Thornwick, runaway third son of a minor house. Even now, he's squandering his family's fortune - and Cyrus's bonus.

Cyrus chews on the inside of his cheek, glancing around the street as his hand falls to the manacles at his side, smearing iron bloody. His thoughts are sluggish as he goes through his options.

The gambling den's isolated. With its own quarters, its own bar, its own kitchen, there's no reason for Reginald to leave this little hole he's crawled into.

It's well protected, too. The growing headache eagerly reminds him the consequences of a direct assault.

A thought dons on Cyrus.

When the Goliath opens the door, already scowling like he expects a fight, Cyrus is quick to lift up his full gold pouch.
"I want a seat at the table."

------------

Gods, this den is drafty.
Cyrus squints at his cards through the haze of whatever herb smoke hangs in the air, his face otherwise placid. Another bad hand. He doesn't have much more to lose; the table's already stacked with his gold and, when that was lost, his armor, and when that was lost, well-

He shifts on the rickety wooden seat, ignoring the fact he can tell just how poor quality the wood is as it scratches at his bare back.

Reginald's grin across the table is as wicked as it is delighted, a sadistic glean in how the man's eyes as he throws down another winning hand. A cheer erupts from the crowd surrounding their table, jeers thrown toward Cyrus as he slaps down his poor hand. It's the ninth in a row. How? Is he cheating?

"Oh, cheer up, bounty hunter! Here!" Reginald pushes his wine toward Cyrus, sloshing it everywhere even as he drags Cyrus's gold, armor, most of his clothes, and certainly all of his dignity toward him.

Cyrus stifles a sigh as he eyes the goblet. He shouldn't, but- Bah, what the hells. What's there left to lose?

He grabs it, lifting it high with a rueful smile flickering.

"One has to admit when they're defeated," he agrees, already mentally planning how he'll earn his way back from this when he takes a swig.

The intoxication is nearly instant, Cyrus's brows popping high as he pulls the wineskin away to admire the brew. He glances up toward Reginald, a compliment on the edge of his tongue- only to find the nobleman grinning at him, a Cheshire smile that sends a bolt of tension down his spine and warning bells screaming in his head.

No. No, no, no- Stupid! Stupid!

Cyrus bolts to his feet, his chair clattering back into the crowd as the world pitches. The intoxication burns through his veins, sets his gums to itching and his teeth to sharpening. Alchemical. Not liquor.

The rage that spikes through him is heightened; everything is heightened. The smoke in the air, the uncertain murmurings of the crowd, the lingering scent of his own dried blood. What is this?

Cyrus stumbles around the table, crashing into it, but Reginald, he never rises, never cares as all his winnings scatter onto the floor and it upturns between them.

"Now," Reginald says, his cheerful arrogance fading as Cyrus's heart pounds in his ears, "the real fun begins."

Cyrus means to lunge forward, truly he does, but the ground rises to meet him and the world goes dark and then, all too vividly, a flaming, ethereal blue.

-----------
The world focuses in slowly. A choking fear sticks in his throat, his heart pounding as fast as his thoughts race. Cyrus raises his trembling hands toward his face, trying desperately to process the blood on them. The blood everywhere.

The flickering torches have nearly burnt themselves out in the gambling den, spilling just enough warm light to illuminate the carnage. There's ribbons of flesh under his nails. There's an iron tang on his tongue.

The door bursts open, the light of the day spilling in and blinding the confused Cyrus as he winces away from it. The guardsman is a silhouette, but there is no mistaking the armor.

"GUARDS-!" The breaching bellow is cut short by a sound of surprise, disgust. "Bodies!"

Instinct takes over. Cyrus pushes off a body beside him, forcing himself to his feet.

"Hey!"

He ignores the guardsman's cry behind him as he lurches away.
He ignores the rippling pain as a lurch turns into a sprint.
He ignores the confusion, the guilt, the nausea as that sprint carries him through a window in the back, the crash of glass mingling with the gasps and cries of the pedestrians he nearly barrels into as he hits the ground and rolls.

Cyrus is on his feet in record time, moving for the alley even as he mentally charts the fastest way out of this town.