Tyrian

Information

Player: Ozewse

Character Full Name: Tyrian Satheral

Character In-Game Name: Tyrian

Nickname(s): None as of yet.

Association(s): Silvermoon City (citizen)

Race: Sin'dorei

Class: Priest

Age: 175

Sex: Male

Hair: Medium long, black, well groomed

Eyes: Forest green

Weight: 130lbs (With a full stomach and some armor on.)

Height: 6'5"

Appearance

Usual Garments/Armor: Basic deep red and white robes with gold trim, usually bearing a phoenix brooch. Plain black shoes. One simple, thick truesilver band on his left middle finger.

Other: Set, square jaw. Pale skin with a few light scars, most not visible behind clothing. One large scar on lower left back in a crooked star burst pattern. High set pronounced cheekbones, gaunt cheeks. Tall and thin, minimal muscle definition. Long fingers with slight nails.

Personality

Alignment: Lawful Neutral

Tyrian finds himself first and foremost a priest. He is reserved, though not in a standoffish way. He is very receptive to people, though it usually won't show on his face. Given the chance to offer council, he rarely hesitates. He generally strives towards knowledge, which shows in his habits of reading and study. His faith resides not in any specific deities, but more in himself, and his connection with the Light.

He is in a way xenophobic, he prefers the company of his fellow Blood Elves and the Forsaken than the other members of the horde, but that is not to say he would openly refuse others based on their species, the exception maybe being Orcs, and of course most of the Alliance. He has a deep rooted hatred for humans, and like most of his race, could blame easily anything that's wrong in his life on them for the sake of argument. He tolerates gnomes, and -has- been known to speak to a dwarf. Most Human or Draenei descent generally warrant his disgust.

History

Tyrian is the son of Fethara Satheral, a Farstrider huntress, and Tyresias Satheral, A priest of the Holy Light. The two had been married for quite some time and were deeply in love. The news of their child had brought them great joy, and in what seemed like an eternity, the little 'bundle of light', as his father called him, was brought into the world.

He was fast to mature mentally, and never did he reach a 'mischievous' phase. He lived out his childhood following in his father footsteps, coming with him everywhere and learning the trade of healing. It never really came to him like it did to his father. His father could knit a bone to walking shape within a few days, where as it took little Tyrian all of his strength and focus to keep a bump on the knee from bruising.

Tyrian's gift was for council. He would hold the hands of those receiving more gruesome healing and talk them through it. Whether pain of having a bone set, or reconnection of nerves to an injured leg after a serious wound, or even emotional agony from the loss of a loved one; from his young age he could hold a person's attention and help them ignore or forget pain to a small extent.

A stroke of luck hit his family when Tyrian was about 55. They were having another child! This was exciting to Tyrian, the thought of a new family member made him think of all the things he could teach his new little sibling. He would teach them the tenets of the Holy Light, just like his father!

The child was born, and blossomed quickly into, surprisingly enough, a fine young mage. His name was Aradiel His interest in the arcane was sparked by a visit to Antheol with his mother on the way to the Enclave. The parents decided that the boy should be sent to study daily with several instructors.

During the time of his study, Aradiel was rarely home, and when he was, he seemed very strained. His instructors insisted he be around more and more often until he was at the academy for what felt like days at a time. From Tyrian's point of view, his brother would return and spend much of his time sleeping, eating, or sitting around and tossing out an offhanded comment when he thought he could sound clever. His new friends at the academy were from houses with a lot of money and a lot of conceit.

Tyrian really let that get under his skin, and it could be seen on his face when it did. He was very disciplined and would never comment back on his brother's quips, but his inner resentment for his brother grew very slightly each time he opened his mouth, it seemed. Tyrian would try to no avail to bring his brother out to walk in the woods like he himself liked to, to see all the beauty in Eversong, in hopes maybe it would bring him out of this seemingly endless bad mood.

He agreed once. Tyrian was surprised by the sudden change in opinion, but was joyed to bring him out. They had just left the house and were walking down the road, when Aradiel started talking about how all the trees must really be bleached with mana from the season spell kept on the forest to keep it spring all year round. Tyrian was not a short tempered young man but something about the way he said it just set Tyrian off. Using all his pent up emotion as fuel, he tackled his brother to the ground and a long, violent scuffle occurred. Neither of them were very physically strong but Tyrian had the element of surprise and had managed to daze him a little. After slapping him a across the face a final time and calling him a "disrespectful undeserving little brat" Tyrian stood, and rather shakily walked away.

That's when the most violent pain of his as of yet short life struck him in the back. A blast of fire concentrated into a crippling strike of fiery agony just below his ribs on the left side. He let out a wail laced with energy that made the nearby Dragonhawks flee the surrounding woods as the fire ate into his flesh. It brought him to his knees with the sheer terror and excruciating anguish of what he now realized had happened. His brother had unleashed a fire blast at him like was one of those wretched trolls that would try to siege the southern border.

Aradiel fled to the west and did not return. Tyrian cursed him for cowardice as he saw the shock of red robes disappear into the woodwork. He grit his teeth and tried healing the wound but his focus was shrouded in the mist of pain and anguish. He lay on the ground, waving in and out of consciousness when Tyresias finally came running. The scream had alerted the whole area around Fairbreeze. Whispering prayers for faith, strength, and speed, he ran carrying his son back home.

A few years had passed before Tyrian was able to walk without a limp. His fathers healing had to be kept to a minimum to prevent the wound from scarring too quickly and possibly shutting down that kidney.

Tyrian would walk to in the direction they did that day, every day, as physical therapy. He would walk until he had to stop from the pain and sit in the grass for a while, then walk home. Each day his goal was a few steps further, and not every time did he make his goal, but he tried and tried until he could reach that place, just beyond the bridge where it had happened. When he finally could, he made a silent prayer for his brother, and walked on. He continued this practice for a few years, until he could make it all the way to the shining city of Silvermoon without running out of breath.

One day while on one of his walks, in that seeming endless silence that fell over him while he prayed for his lost soul of a brother, he heard a low, quiet sound off to the south. 'The trolls must be at it again,' he shrugged and continued to pray. Then he smelled an odd scent that reminded him of that day. He couldn't place the thick smell. The sound was growing noticeably louder. 'The trolls never get this close to Fairbreeze-' He thought. He looked to the south and let out a small yelp as he saw the thick smoke rising from the southern border.

He ran towards the smell, towards the sound. He couldn't make it very far and was out of breath quickly but made it back to the village. It was peculiarly quiet there, and upon further inspection, empty. He ran to the second story of the inn and looked out over the trees. The sight he saw there he knew he would never forget. Starting off not a half mile away in the trees, a thick, black mass was moving though Eversong. The trees around it were burning and falling.

That's then he recognized the scent. It was burning flesh. In the impossibly large mass of moving bones and rotten meat, there were hundreds of little fireballs coming out to smack against trees and brush, spreading the fires that would be the end of peace in his homeland. For the second time in years, he ran. using his walking stick like a crutch of sorts he was able to take the strain off his injury enough to get himself back to the bridge before he had to stop.

He closed his eyes and grit his teeth. He took a deep breath and focused on getting to Silvermoon.

Currently:

Serving as a healer for the wounded in battle, Tyrian found his niche. He uses sheer focus of his will, combined with a little word of comfort and a prayer to help quell the pain of the injured.