BenCo the Brave
The determined, moon-eyed-- and perhaps a bit naive, tiefling.
Cyrrus is a young tiefling, probably just on the cusp of adulthood (which for tieflings, is around 50-60 years old). His height is about 5’11" or 6’, an average build, and has pale skin with the slightest hint of red. Aside from otherwise normal human features, his ears have pointed tips and he has tiny horns growing from the two apexes of his slight widow’s peak. His tail is of average length and forked at the end. He has medium length brown hair which, if pulled down in front, reaches just past his nose. He generally pushes it to the side, or tucks it behind his horn to keep it out of his face- depending on whether he chooses to attempt to hide his identity of not.
He is highly intelligent and physically adept, but has a bit of a naive streak. He typically wants to assume the good in people, and it can often get him into trouble- though he can be charming in that regard. His weapon of choice is generally a short or longsword and his burgeoning magical talent.
Breaths shallow and uneven with beads of sweat threatening his forehead, Cyrrus once again raises his shortsword to strike at the conjured apparition. For a brief moment, magical energy is seen whirling around the sword’s blade. In the blink of an eye, however, the spell fizzles just as quickly as Cyrrus falls to his knees and looses his grip on the hilt, as well as the tome in his other hand. The apparition fades with a breezy sound.
“Why?” he says, attempting to catch his breath, “Why can’t I- can’t I do it?”
“Cyrrus-,” a beautiful, yet weathered and aged human woman pauses as she steps away from the tree line and over to the young tiefling. “Adventurers practice for years to master this art. You’ve only been at it for a few months.” She places a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “You will get there, I promise.” She offers him a warm smile, to which Cyrrus returns a lopsided grin.
“Perhaps. Or perhaps you simply aren’t meant for this,” the first voice comments coolly as Cyrrus’ grin fades. A gruff, large elderly man steps forward with his arms folded. “You should have focused on teaching our actual children this art, instead of this-,” he pauses, “filth.” Cyrrus’ eyes narrow, but he quickly looks down at the ground in disappointment. The woman’s face screws up in anger and she opens her mouth as if to protest, but the expression quickly subsides as she also looks down at the ground.
“Mother, Father- I’ll do better. I swear it.”
Cyrrus, until recently, stayed with his mother and father. They had no true home, instead choosing to travel with a gypsy caravan in Southern Thallia. Cyrrus was generally kept hidden from any towns they stopped in and so he has had very little interaction with anyone aside from the gypsy caravan and his parents.
The circumstances of his birth are unknown to him, but he knows that his mother cared deeply for him and his father seemed to despise him. As tieflings long outlive humans- aided by the fact that his mother gave birth to him late in her adulthood, Cyrrus’ mother died when he was about 50 years old. His father died not too long after that. He knows he has siblings that may or may not be alive, but he does not know there whereabouts, who they are, or how many there are.
Cyrrus arrived in Cormorenth, the capital of Thallia, not long ago seeking further training in physical combat and magical arts, wanting to perfect the weaving of the two.