Tyrus Rolkwit (James)
Tyrus was a blacksmith traveling with a small expeditionary force from the Greyfalls Nation. They were on campaign far from home, when they were ambushed and surrounded by a far larger raiding force from Rubyalk. Tyrus’ army was almost wiped out in a long night and day of brutal fighting, until all that was left were a handful of wounded support personnel and himself. As the day drew to an end, the remaining enemy closed in to slaughter the survivors. Tyrus and his allies took up what arms they could find and prepared to sell their lives dearly.
Just as the sun began to set Tyrus heard a voice in the back of his mind. Strong and clear, it urged him, “If you would fight against all odds, you should find victory. Accept My power…”
As the sun’s edge touched the horizon, Tyrus was engulfed in a burst of flame and light that coalesced into the shape of a minotaur standing over the battlefield. In the center of the blaze stood Tyrus, holding his hammer high, the setting-sun symbol of the Twilight Caste shining from his forehead like a beacon. His allies cowered at his feet, and the enemy forces fell back a step. Like a meteor he smashed through the enemy soldiers, destroying and routing the size-able army in minutes, his simple blacksmith’s hammer becoming a crushing tool of destruction in his hands. As the last light of the sun passed below the edge of the world, the fire around him faded, until even his caste mark was but a glimmer on his forehead.
His allies he had saved cowered at his feet in fear and awe, trying to reconcile the stories of the evil anathema they had grown up with, with their friend and comrade who had just saved their lives. One by one, they came to stand with their savior, and together the small band ventured off into the woods of the deep East, praying that the survivors of the attacking army wouldn’t bring the Wild Hunt down on their heads.
As the band explored deep into the forests, they came across an ancient, stone building. At first glance it appeared to be a well-outfitted forge, strangely located in the deep forest but otherwise unremarkable. As they looked inside though, they realized there was more to it. The forge in the heart of the building burned with the heat of the sun, despite no evidence that it had been fed or tended in centuries, and in the depths of the flame, a jewel, about the size of an egg glowing fiery red. As Tyrus retrieved the jewel the blazing forge almost melted the tongs, but it was merely warm to the touch once removed. When Tyrus touched it, a flash of memories that were not his, but somehow still felt familiar rushed through him, and he knew that this a Manse, and this is its Hearthstone. Working from these ancient memories he opened a secret panel in the wall, and found hanging there a breastplate, and a giant hammer, made from gleaming golden metal.
Taking the great hammer in his hands, Tyrus felt a connection with the ancient metal, and it became almost as light and easy to swing as his trusty smith’s sledge, and a whisper of memory gave its name: “Crowley”. He and his band of followers settled in to their new home, resting from their battle and their journey, and to plan their next move…
