Tyranos

Information

Player: MrBubbles

Character Full Name: Tyranos Brightblade

Character In-Game Name: Tyranos (TEAR-ah-nohss, as opposed to Tie-RAH-nohss)

Nickname(s): Tyr, to very close friends.

Association(s): The Alliance, Lordaeron, the former Order of the Silver Hand.

Race: Human

Class: Paladin

Age: 42

Sex: Male

Hair: Loose, reddish-brown with a hint of blond. The color of autumn leaves. Complete with a trim beard and mustache.

Eyes: Green

Weight: 227lbs. Muscular from his days in the wars, and very lean.

Height: 6'3"

Appearance

Usual Garments/Armor: Almost always found in full ceremonial platemail. A book of scriptures hangs from his girdle by a strap, and he wields a massive, two-handed claymore - The Brightblade - his inheritance. A pendant bearing his family's crest and the words "Esarus thar no'Darador" - By Blood and Honor We Serve - hangs from his neck.

Other: Tyranos upholds the tenets of a dead order - the Knights of the Silver Hand. A seasoned fighter and veteran of all three wars, he assaults his enemies with a holy fervor driven by his faith in the Light, a vow to uphold his honor, and a need for vengeance.

Personality

Alignment: Lawful Good

Underneath his stoic demeanor, Tyranos is honorable in every sense of the word, upholding his own code of chivalry. He'll go out of his way to aid the beleaguered - especially a damsel in distress - as is he believes his duty. Although, his honor may yet prove to be a curse, chaining him to its principles like iron shackles.

He hides his emotions underneath a composed, expressionless mask, rarely deigning to reveal or share them. Though he will occasionally smile, it rarely means much. His preference of shielding his feelings from others generally keeps him aloof from them. Only rarely do cracks of emotion mar the marble surface of his mien. And, even then, those moments are brief.

Tyranos will be polite and courteous - though still stoical - to those he believes are trustworthy and agreeable to the Light, but can be cold and dispassionate to those he believes unworthy of basking in the Light, or have somehow tried to impinge upon his honor. He will always offer a helping hand to a lady in any way he can.

History

Sometime around the start of the Scourge of Lordaeron...

Tyranos sighed and breathed in the cool, crisp air. It was dusk, and the sun's dying rays seemed to set the leaves on fire, matching the tone of his hair. He looked around, eyes lingering fondly over the familiar landscape of his home in Lordaeron. A soft, cool breeze blew through the upper branches of mighty oak trees. The flawless azure sky was reflected in the waters of the nearby lake. He relaxed and let the warmth of the sun and the warmth of his thoughts seep into him. He was home.

He strode the last few paces toward his childhood house with a proud and noble air, such as he might have worn walking forward to be knighted by a king. Reaching the house, he extended a gloved hand towards the weathered knob, but the door swung open before he could grasp it. A man stood in the doorway, partially hidden by shadows. The myriad creases on his brow were an indication that he had seen many seasons pass. He stepped forward and embraced Tyranos, eyes welled with tears. Tyranos eagerly returned the gesture - he hadn't seen his father for years.

The man released Tyranos and stepped back, then opened his mouth to speak. "Tyr, I'm so glad you're here. I've been waiting." His eyes gleamed with excitement. "Walk with me, my son."

They walked silently towards a small copse of trees nearby. A slab of granite resided inside the grove, on a small hillock in the center. The trees' ancient limbs reached protectively over the stone, hiding it from the world. Directly above the hillock, the branches parted, letting a few rays of light stream down to rest on the slab. Due to the dimness of the surrounding grove, that single light seemed even brighter. Solemnly, both men knelt before the stone, heads bowed, bathed in sunlight.

The stone read: "Here lies Alhana Brightblade, wife of Soranos, mother of Tyranos. She sacrificed herself to save her son from the clutches of the void, even as he came into the world. Rest in peace, my beloved."

Tyranos had never known his mother. She had died during childbirth, but after Soranos had told him of her sacrifice, Tyranos had prayed for her daily for the gift she had given him - the gift of life.

Reading his son's thoughts in his expression, Soranos Laid a hand on his son's shoulder and smiled. "Now is not a time for grieving, son. I have something for you," he said, pausing to reach behind the gravestone. "It's only fitting that your mother witness this," he continued, with a glance up through the gap in the branches, towards the heavens.

Soranos hefted a large wooden box from behind the gravestone, and laid it between the two men. His son watched intently as he pried the top planks off of the box. Tyranos glanced inside and gasped, heart racing. His gaze rested on a suit of armor.

Tyranos swallowed hard, trying to force down the lump in his throat. With a shaking hand, he reached to touch the shining steel. The breastplate was etched with the ancient Brightblade family symbol - A shining sword, pointing towards the heavens in front of the crest of the kingdom of Lordaeron.

He ran his hands over the old suit, feeling the cold links of the chain mail shirt under the breastplate. There was a slip of parchment next to the armor, and inscribed in Soranos's forceful hand were the words, "For My Son."

He was filled with joy, so much so that he could scarcely breathe. This was the inheritance that he had waited so long for, passed down from Brightblade to Brightblade. He was amazed at the condition of the ancient plates. Polished well, it gleamed in the single ray of light streaming down and scintillated with an aura of its own. The myriad dents that it had received throughout years of battle were repaired, and barely a scratch showed.

Soranos reached into a shirt pocket, and withdrew a pendant hanging from a silver chain. The Brightblade crest was etched onto the front. On the back of the pendant, hidden from prying eyes, there were a few inscribed words. "Esarus thar no'Darador" - By Blood and Honor We Serve.

His father smiled benevolently as he lifted the silver pendant and placed it reverently around his son's neck. Soranos gestured to the ancient armor and, with trembling hands, Tyranos began to don his inheritance.

A moment later he stood up, fully encased in the shining platemail. It fit well, almost as if the ancient armor had been crafted solely for him. The light streaming down from the gap in the branches struck the breastplate, illuminating the ground around Tyranos even moreso. That light was reflected in his father's eyes, gleaming with pride. Tyranos was humbled.

Again, his father smiled, pride evident in his face. As Tyranos watched, Soranos once again reached behind the gravestone, retrieving an object wrapped in a fine white cloak. He cradled it carefully in his arms, slowly unraveling it. Tyranos inhaled sharply as the cloak fell to the ground and he saw the object. Still kneeling, Soranos held it parallel to the ground, offering it to his son.

In his hands was a massive, two-handed claymore. Its hilt was meticulously wrapped in tooled leather. Tyranos could only marvel at the weapon's exceptional craftsmanship and beauty. The pommel was etched with the Brightblade family symbol, much as the breastplate and pendant were. Tyranos was speechless. The Brightblade.

"Take it," his father said, whispering. Neither man wanted to disrupt the solemnity of the moment. Tyranos reached out and grasped the leather-bound hilt firmly, hand still shaking. He swung it once. Its steel blade whizzed through the crisp air. The balance was perfect, and his hand felt at home around the ancient hilt. The claymore, too, felt almost as if it had been crafted especially for him. Tears flowed unchecked down his cheeks, humbled by his father's gifts.

Soranos rose and embraced his son, saying, "I have one last gift for you, son. It is but a humble piece of advice from your father," he paused, smiling. "Honor is an important part of what makes us men, Tyr. Our words and our deeds must count for something in this world. Never disavow an oath that you, both as a man and a servant of the Light, took up. To do so would be to betray everything that you are, and everything that we, as honorable men, hold dear."

Tyranos bowed his head, taking in his father's words, committing them to memory. His father continued, "But now is a time for celebration, my son! We should be-" he cut off, grunting. Tyranos slowly raised his head, about to ask his father what was wrong, but his gaze came to a halt at Soranos's chest.

A ghastly, skeletal hand protruded from it. Crimson liquid poured slowly down Soranos's chest. Tyranos's head snapped up fully, only to see his father staring sightlessly. Soranos collapsed onto the ground, and in his place stood a pale, monstrous skeleton. Its hand was soaked in the blood of Tyranos's father.

Glancing around the grove, Tyranos could make out figures between the trees. They were as dark as the grove around them, and the single ray of light from above did not touch them. No, these undead seemed to dim the grove even moreso.

"No..." sobbed Tyranos in despair. "No..." He slumped to one knee, laying a hand on his father's breast. This was it, he thought. He would die here, at the mercy of these abominations, these mockeries of all that he stood for as a servant of the Light. A tear fell to the gaping hole in Soranos's chest, mixing with his blood.

It was fitting, he thought, that he should die here, in this very grove. Here, his mother had been laid to final rest. His father had just joined her. Now, it was his turn.

"No!" Tyranos cried again, not of despair, but of resolution. He would not die here. He would not let these bastards defile his home. He refused to give in. The hand that rested on his father's chest clenched into a fist. Suddenly, it burst into a bright, blinding light. He gripped the ancient claymore, knuckles white beneath the ancient gauntlets. The glow spread from his fist to the hilt, then spiraled up the blade. The family symbol inscribed on the pommel flared, and light danced along the etched outline.

Tyranos rose slowly. Contempt, sorrow, vengeance, and determination all shone in his eyes. He met the skeleton's dead gaze, and raised the blade above his head. Swinging, he brought it down in an arc. The shining light left a smooth trail behind the sword. The skeleton's skull came loose as the blade collided with its neck, and flew backward. It struck the ground only moments before the skeleton collapsed.

The glow from the blade had illuminated more of the grove. Now, he could see the figures at the edge of the grove slowly advancing towards him. There were four of them, surrounding the hillock he stood on. Muttering a prayer under his breath, Tyranos prepared to hold his ground.

One of the undead broke from the circle and charged at him, head first. Tyranos raised his left arm, palm outward, toward the assailant. It's head met his hand, and he gripped its skull firmly. It flailed mindlessly about. Tyranos reached the claymore behind him, preparing for a swipe from the right. He struck the undead square in the side of its torso. Half of its body dropped to the floor, sliced clean from the upper half. The other half soon followed as Tyranos released his grip.

While he had been dealing with the second undead, another had crept up behind him. It flung itself onto his back. Tyranos could feel its horrid breath on his neck. Its wretched hands grasped his arms, attempting to subdue the Paladin. Tyranos managed to raise his hand up before the ghoul's ghastly face. It flared brilliantly for a split second, blinding the undead and sending it reeling to the ground. Tyranos turned and again raised his claymore. It came down on the creature's skull with a resonating crack.

Tyranos spun around, expecting to see the last assailant directly behind him. But there was nothing. The last one had fled. He sighed deeply, and tears began to flow freely again. He turned to face his father's corpse, but was met by two hunched figures. His father's corpse had disappeared, and his mother's grave had been upturned. Staring into the face of the one of the figures, he inhaled sharply in recognition.

Tyranos stepped back, aghast. His parents stood before him. They gazed blankly at him, not recognizing their son. His mother had risen from her grave, and his father, only newly slain, had joined her. Appalled, their son tried to force them out of their mindless reverie, but to no avail.

As if by some silent command, the two lumbered towards Tyranos. He stepped back again, wanting anything but to harm the ones who had given him so much. They continued forward, their steps ponderous.

Shaking his head in an attempt to organize his tumultuous thoughts, Tyranos mumbled, "For all they have given me, I have but one thing in return," he hefted the claymore once more. "The eternal peace of the grave."

Tears streaming down his face, Tyranos halted his retreat and closed his eyes in concentration. He raised his arm, pointing the blade at the two advancing figures. The brilliant glow from the blade flared up, and as Tyranos reopened his eyes, the light left the claymore and spiraled toward the two figures. It branched out into two beams, and struck each of his parents square in the chest. The two slumped to the ground.

Tyranos strode forward to the collapsed figures. Their faces were contorted into feral snarls, barely recognizable as the ones he had loved. With a gauntleted hand, he reached out and closed the sightless, staring eyes and righted the savage features.

Tyranos bowed his head, silently vowing retribution. He lifted the Brightblade, staring solemnly into the symbol etched on the pommel. "By this blade, and by my honor, you'll be avenged," he breathed, to ears that could hear no more.