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Retired Ambassador

Cyrix's first memories were of his Uncle Urig's forge. At night, the breath of the bellows and the singing of metal upon metal would be his lullabye, and the song that would resound for the entirety of his life. He learned the blacksmith's trade at an early age, for Urig was a widower and had no other place to keep the infant but in the forge with him. The whereabouts of his Mother and Father remain a mystery, even into the enlightenment of Immortality.

Life in the forge was good, of this there was no doubt. During the spring of his 16th year, however, things changed. His strong, just and loving Uncle passed away one night, victim of a virulent and sudden plague. Before the end of that terrible day, half of the people of his village lay burning in great bonfires fed by strange men, their faces wrapped in camphored rags.

Confused and alone, Cyrix left the village. His fellow villagers too grief-stricken to care much for an orphan's comings and goings. With only the clothes on his back, a satchel full of food, and clutching his Uncle's hammer (the one he was not allowed to touch) to his chest like a talisman of purpose, Cyrix left the only home he would have for many years.

During his journey to nowhere in particular, Cyrix overheard an odd story in a roadside inn. His was not the only village to be overcome with plague. In fact, most of the surrounding area was stricken down, and few had survived. Later that night, the Drow struck. They rolled from the treeline like a wave of ebon and steel. An attachment of Ofcol guards charged to the defense of the inn, but they fell like ripe wheat before the great magics of the Drow priestesses. During the attack, he watched in horror as a guard was struck down by a fit of coughing. Great purple welts sprung from his face, and he poured sweat until he died in agony, the same as his beloved uncle. Realization came to Cyrix, as sudden and sure as death itself. They killed Urig as surely as if they held the knife.

Truly enraged for the first time in his life, Cyrix lept into the fray without care for his own safety. He smashed through the drow lines to where he last saw the vile priestess. There he saw her engaged in a fight to the death with the legendary Captain Jacklyn. Siezing the moment, he struck the priestess from behind with his Uncle's great hammer. As the priestess fell limp, the Drow broke and fled. Realizing with horror what had happened, Cyrix fled into the forest, unheeding to the calls from Jacklyn and the remaining Ofcol guards.

Cyrix ran for what seemed to be days. At last, he fell exhausted at the base of an enormous tree, and began to cry. He pondered what he had done. He had taken life with an insturment of creation. Certainly they were vile Drow, intent of his destruction. But he could not deny the fact that the gods would be displeased, and smite him for this misdeed.

As he cried in anguish, he heard a voice.
"Why do you cry?" said the voice.
"I cry for I have done wrong," replied Cyrix, his voice shaking.
Looking up, Cyrix saw a small man, perhaps an Elf, looking at him with kind eyes twinkling in the moonlight.
"No my child," the Elf said. "You have done nothing wrong. You have saved countless people from the ravages of war. This is your destiny."
Cyrix knew this to be true, for although not particulary smart, he had purity of purpose, and understanding to go with it. He was destined to be a warrior, and a protector of the good.

Thus, Cyrix met Sinclair, and his true journey began. He wandered for years (centuries by human standards) learning the arts of warcraft, exploring the world that he might know his battle-ground, and doing good, sometimes great, deeds.

During his travels, Cyrix heard a call for help. A puny young mage, Sirak, had foolishly transported himself to Thalos, a once great city, now fallen to ruin and infested with evil. Cyrix arrived, and rescued the young mage. But something about Sirak nagged at Cyrix like a sore tooth. This was a person of ill-intent, and he should have been left to his fate. Yet, as Sinclair had taught him, protecting the weak, even against themselves, was a noble pursuit.

This was Cyrix's greatest folly. Sirak rose in power, an evil power, until the very gods took him to be one of their own. Cyrix wept for the second time in his life at what he had done. this time, however, he knew what he must do. He must take up the mantle of immortality that he could right his misjudgement.

And so Cyrix began his quest, and found favor in the God's eyes. He was accepted into the ranks of immortal.

Cyrix saw, finally, what had happened to many of his companions during his mortal life. Ath ever faithful, had followed a just path, yet he slipped from the immortal world as stealthily as he did as a mortal Thief. Nayr, ever wise and curious, had succumbed to the dark path. Siren beautiful and strong of will, had also fell into the shadows.

Disheartened by this, Cyrix ran away to wherever immortals go for solitude, emerging centuries later with a new purpose. To take up the mantle of Protector once again, to be the Forge, the creator of a new world, and to combat the children of Sirak that he might pay for his foolish mistake.

Cyrix still wanders the world, in either his Immortal brilliance or in the guise of a smart-alec Half-elf. Should you stumble upon him, or he upon you, feel free to ask about TFC, for he has lived for centuries and has a special fondness for helping the youth of the world.

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