Thryn a'Zyr

A Tiefling sorceror.


As most orphaned street-children are, Thryn was constantly exposed to the threat of savage beatings from street gangs if he wasn’t careful. Tonight, punch-drunk off pinching two bottles of rum and then actually drunk after downing them too fast on an empty stomach, Thryn made the mistake of being where he shouldn’t be. Outnumbered ten to one, the punches and kicks rained down furiously. Without warning, the world lurched beneath his feet and his vision swam, leaving only a memory of intense warmth before everything went black.
      An unknown time later, he awoke and the ground around him was charred black in a large swath all around him. Oh how his body ached – not from the pummeling he took, but pain from the inside, as though his very blood was screaming at him. He struggled to work moisture back into his parched mouth. Glancing up at a shuffling noise close by, Thryn noticed a couple gang kids lying motionless near him, burned from head to toe, a figure hunched over one.
      “I’d get out of here, were I you, young tiefling” croaked the figure– an old woman, he guessed. His mind was hammering still and he only vaguely realized she had been rummaging through the pockets of the dead child. “The City Watch will be here in a few more minutes, boy,” she spat.

Exhausted, bleeding, and silver eyes blearing with tears, Thryn ran.


“Red-faced egg eater!”

Now that was new.

At thirty years old, he had heard them all before: Devil-skin. Knob-face. Droob. Cursed one. Hell-spawn. All had been shouted, muttered, or spit at him at some point in his life. But “red-faced egg eater”? Ah, that was it… eggs: sulfur. Ergo, brimstone. Thryn clicked his tongue. The lack of sensible creativity was the most insulting part.
      The source of the insult glared at Thryn from the front step of his farmhouse, pursing his lips and fiercely clutching an age-worn Protectorate symbol. The old farmer’s home was set back far enough from the country dirt road to give confidence in what would otherwise be silent threats. Shaking his head and sighing softly, Thryn continued his trek along the road.
      He had encountered this sort of behavior before; this far from any city, folks tended to be more… sheltered. Even in the smaller villages, a tiefling passerby wasn’t too uncommon, but this deep in the sticks, people tended to view outsiders with more blatant fear or contempt. It didn’t bother him overly much; when one’s countenance is somewhat demon-inclined, it stood to reason others would react negatively— even if he was just walking down the road peacefully minding his own business, when some filthy lumpkin decides to make his idiotic prejudices known.

The ignorant, xenophobic, half-wit!

Thryn swished his tail irritably and continued along the dusty path until the farmhouse disappeared out of sight.

Well, perhaps it did bother him a bit.


It had been weeks since Thryn a’Zyr had left the dirt side roads behind and they had merged with the larger thoroughfare Alaran Way. Keeping out of sight in the shadow of a large nearby oak, Thryn had to admit: the Protectorate knew how to build a road. Fifty feet wide and horizons long, the ash-tile pavers of the Alaran Way formed a trade route unrivaled. Built with arcane precision of near seamless quality, this was a road designed to flow travel with incredible speed and efficiency.

It almost pained him knowing that it would be destroyed.

Though the road had brought trade to the far reaches of the Alaran realm, it also proved quite convenient when the filthy Prots had to move large armies large distances. Their war wagons, cavalry, and foot soldiers could mobilize and strike wherever they pleased.
      Thryn reached into his cloak and pulled out a parchment, unfolding it absently while eyeing the sun to gauge the time of day. He glanced down at the parchment’s scribbled orders and grimaced: roughly five and a half days left to report to his commanding officer. He laughed: mercenary work? Him? Stretching his back and legs beneath the oak tree, he exhaled. Well, he thought, if he wanted to get paid, he’d better get a move on— he had quite a few miles left to go and he couldn’t see smoke on the horizon yet.

At least there was a road to help speed things along.

Thryn a'Zyr

Dominium kfuson