Scion of one of the most infamous families ever to serve the House of Darkness, Tyrian Dweomermist is considered by the inhabitants of two continents to be the most capable, cunning, and charismatic of his line.

Born and Raised to Darkness

     To the myriad races of Dass, Tyrian’s lineage is the stuff of benighted legend. His grandfather, Keolann, was a brilliant and trusted general in service to the Sovereign of the Forest Felkorr. A desperately lonely widower, he proved easy prey for Larissel Webweaver, a Grace of the Ebon Hooves and an intoxicating seductress. Forsaking his rank, his liege, and his soul, Keolann joined his beloved in the service of Lazev, and eventually became the most feared Lord Marshal the Dassian Legion had ever known.

     But for all his victories, one prize eluded Keolann: Larissel’s hand in marriage. Just as the Marshal began to despair, an Avatar of the Overlord came to him as he prayed in his tent. Lazev himself wished for this union to take place, but what could Keolann, a mere mortal, offer the True God for his intervention? "Help me win your priestess," Keolann cried, "and I shall raise our progeny to honor you above all other Powers. When the time comes, they shall be yours of their own free will!" Lazev was indeed pleased, and the wedding took place that very evening…after Larissel learned of the pledge her calculated intransigence had wrung from her desperate lover.

     Their only child, Maryx, was born but a few years later. As soon as he could walk, Keolann set to work upon the lad, determined to make good on his pledge. In a twisted masterstroke of parenting, Maryx was so amenable to his parents’ wishes that he insisted on donning the robes of an Acolyte at the tender age of eighty.

     Though his parentage earned him nothing save a snarling pack of detractors, Maryx rose steadily through the ranks of the Ruby Legion. In the end, his ambition, faith, and skill earned him the Ebon Scepter for the whole of Dass. Every bit the son of his coldly calculating mother, Maryx took his time in finding a suitable bride and mother of his children. Acutely aware of his own heritage, Maryx was enamored with the notion of fostering an entire ecclesiastical dynasty.

     His eventual choice was the beautiful Sihrella Charbow, a senior Knight serving on his father’s general staff and a woman of iron will and icy discipline. Though he courted her quietly for years, Maryx did not propose until he had been ordained a Grace and she a Lady Knight. With their combined rank, they would have the power and influence to protect their children. Before long, the Dweomermists were blessed with their only child, a son named for one of Dass’s most magnificent emperors. But from the beginning, young Tyrian was to be an impenetrable mystery to his elders, a dark and dangerous enigma.

     Brilliant yet taciturn, the child would spend days in solitude with his precious books, without uttering a word to anyone—least of all his instructors. When he did speak to his mentors, it was only to submit inquiries of the most penetrating and skeptical nature. His interests were broad, ranging from mathematics to philosophy and everything in between—but it was his passion for music that confounded his family the most. It devoured far too much of Tyrian’s free time, time that could be better spent in prayer or in contemplating his future as a servant of the Overlord.

     His undisguised disinterest in all things martial annoyed Tyrian’s Knightly forebears no end. His favorite weapon was a simple, iron-bound quarterstaff, and it seemed that no amount of practice could polish his skills with the sword or the bow. Much to Keolann and Sihrella’s chagrin, the boy cared little for the classical texts on tactics and military history, for which they held Tyrian in barely concealed contempt.

     To his father and grandmother, Tyrian’s lax approach to his religious studies was equally irritating. Though clearly absorbing every lesson, the boy’s mild, almost apathetic reaction often earned him a harsh lecture at best, a sound thrashing at worst. The glories of Lazev could pique his intellect, it seemed, but never his spirit.

     Even more disconcerting was Tyrian’s reaction to priests of other Orders. Instead of retiring when his elders commanded, the boy would subject his "adversaries" to all sorts of insightful questions and intriguing debates. It was the same, in fact, with anyone outside the ranks of the Ruby Legion: using his respectful manner and precocious nature to his advantage, Tyrian would glean as much knowledge and wisdom that these outsiders were willing to give. As he grew older, Tyrian would routinely escape from his parents’ watchful eyes to experience the world beyond the Order.

A Slave to No Mortal

     Finally, on the lad’s ninetieth birthday, Tyrian’s parents decided to throw a party in honor of their son. The occasion: the announcement of his formal entry into the order as an Acolyte. By forcing Tyrian’s hand, his elders hoped to determine the boy’s intentions once and for all. A loyal son would relent without complaint, while a contrary one would have to be destroyed, lest he escape with the secrets of the Legion in his cavernous mind.

     On the day of the gathering, Tyrian offended his guests by arriving half an hour late, wearing a heavy cloak of white adorned by a purple hood—the sacred colors of Arzamark the Truthsayer. As his family rose from their chairs in consternation, Tyrian made a brief and startling announcement. "I swear upon these colors of the True God that I shall blood each of you before the evening is out." Taking the boy’s bravado as some sort of joke, Tyrian’s elders began to laugh—a foolish and costly mistake.

     With a word, bolts of magical energy sprang from Tyrian’s delicate fingers, striking Larissel and Maryx on the cheek and searing their flesh. Before the stunned audience could react, two hand crossbows emerged from the sleeves of Tyrian’s robe. Firing at point-blank range, both bolts found their mark, buried deep in Keolann and Sihrella's sword arms. The Knights rushed the boy, ready to disembowel him on the spot, when the Cruelty himself ordered them to stop.

     His countenance the very model of composure and dignity, Tyrian bowed gravely to the Cruelty before removing the offending cloak. Beneath it, to the shock of the assembly, was a newly crafted seiaj, the sanctified garment of all true wizards. Much of the seiaj, however, lay concealed beneath the black-and-red vestments of an Adept of the Legion! After giving his guests a moment to believe their eyes, Tyrian issued a scathing challenge to his infuriated elders. "All my life, I have been ridiculed for who and what I am. I shall tolerate it no longer. All my life, you dared to underestimate me. Do so again at your own peril."

     Privy to Tyrian's intentions from the outset, the Cruelty was much taken by his courage, skill, and daring. He immediately assigned the Adept to his own personal staff, a gesture that shielded Tyrian from his elders' wrath and declared his approval in no uncertain terms. For the first time in his life, Tyrian's future was truly his own.

A Subtle Path to Power

     But after such a spectacular start, Tyrian's career seemed to implode. Turning his back on the ambition that had driven his family for generations, the young Dweomermist meekly volunteered for a series of obscure assignments that brought him little prestige.

     He spent nearly thirty years at the Rumi Alten monastery, losing himself in the vast library of that ancient retreat whenever he could. He accompanied his Knightly brethren in the field as a healer and spellcaster, even when he could easily avoid such hazardous duty. Finally, he became a middle manager in the Legion’s "Foreign Office," the department that formally represented the Order to all other institutions.

     Tyrian’s off-duty behavior was equally baffling to those who spent their lives clawing for rank and position. His sabbaticals took him not to the power centers of the Order, but to the desert sands of the Urumi, or to the primeval stands of the Forest Felkorr. (In the utmost secrecy, he also introduced himself to the shadowy figures at the periphery of the Legion—sentient monsters and powerful undead such as death knights and liches.)

     Having learned nothing from the bold display that humiliated his elders, Tyrian’s superiors looked upon the Adept as a lackluster priest and a mediocre mage, an eccentric paper-pusher without the ambition or cunning to truly make his mark in the Order.

     They could not have been more wrong.

     When at last Tyrian had enough experience to justify his promotion to Grace, his parents chose that moment to avenge themselves for their son’s impudence over seventy years before. Since Tyrian’s promotion relied upon a nomination by the Legion’s inner circle, it was no mean trick for Maryx, now Cruelty, to convince his Graces to hobble his son’s career by their very silence.

     But when the vote came, the Grand Master of Lazev’s monks invoked an obscure statute in the Legionnaire’s Code and nominated the younger Dweomermist. Recalling that the office of the Cloistered Grace was the dumping ground for the Legion’s senior misfits, Maryx himself seconded the nomination—on the condition that Tyrian assume the office immediately. Tyrian merely nodded, apparently oblivious to his father’s insult.

     Once safe at the Rumi Alten, Tyrian set the monks of Lazev upon a novel and secretive course of study and investigation.

     Some years later, the Knights’ Commander was killed in a minor skirmish, and Maryx called for a council to choose a successor. Everyone knew that the Cruelty had a candidate in mind: Goliander Kaarf, head of the intelligence unit and a staunch supporter of the Cruelty and his wife, now Lady Marshal of the Legion. Expecting no difficulty, Maryx decided to pay lip service to the Code and opened the floor for debate.

     Almost to a man, the Lord and Lady Knights of the Legion voted against the Cruelty’s handpicked successor. Though Kaarf was a brilliant spymaster, they declared bluntly, he simply hadn’t the experience needed to guide the Overlord’s Knights to victory. Their own choice was a priest of proven tactical skill, great personal courage, and one to whom nearly everyone present owed his life: Tyrian Dweomermist.

     Backed into a corner, Maryx decreed that the issue would be settled by force of arms: the victor would be ordained Knights’ Commander, and the vanquished would die. Recalling how clumsy his son had always been with his weapons, Maryx was confident that Kaarf’s able swordsmanship was up to the task. Tyrian accepted the terms, much to the snide amusement of his father’s supporters.

     The sniggering stopped when Tyrian subdued the spymaster with a monkish wrist lock, after giving his audience a lesson in swordsmanship they’d not soon forget. The disarmed, helpless Kaarf was finally knocked senseless with the hilt of his own sword. But instead of slaying the loyal Legionnaire to no purpose, Tyrian assigned four Knights to guard the spymaster with their lives until he had fully recovered. Having won his victory his way, Tyrian knelt before the Cruelty and humbly waited for his confirmation.

     Once settled in his new office, the Commander began to issue a long series of directives that affected every aspect of logistics, operations, and training.

     Infuriated by her sudden position as her son’s subordinate, Sihrella vowed to destroy Tyrian by any means permitted by the Code. Her opportunity came soon enough, for the war known in Dassian history as the Night Battles was about to erupt.

     In 697 A.I., the combatants clashed in what was to be the decisive engagement of the war—the Battle of the Bloody Talons. The Legion’s war council prior to the battle had been unusually quiescent, considering that the Commander and the Lady Marshal had been arguing over tactics and strategy since the campaign began. After months of inconclusive battles and heavy losses, it seemed that Tyrian had been worn down by his mother’s shrill dissension, and left her in full command of the army. Tyrian’s supporters begged him not to leave the Knights in the hands of a staff officer whose sword "had never tasted anything but oil and spit", but the Commander responded with indifference.

     At the hour of darkest twilight, the armies clashed. The enemy line held, faltered, held again, then finally began to crumble on its right flank. Sihrella ordered the reserves forward to exploit the breach—but as they engaged, a horde of humanoid soldiers erupted from behind illusionary terrain, catching the bulk of the Legion in a pincers movement.

     As Sihrella shouted frantic, ineffective orders, her son calmly raised a bugle to his lips. As the last note died, two cavalry companies of Legionnaires emerged in the distance, slamming into the rear of the enemy’s position. Riding furiously into the enemy command post, they methodically slaughtered anything that moved.

     At the same moment, two regiments of infantry materialized as if from nowhere. One shattered the enemy’s left flank from behind, while the other broke through the pocket on the right to relieve their comrades. The enemy center, deprived of support and effective command, panicked and fled the field. Within an hour the battle—and the war—was won.

     In the aftermath, the secret of Tyrian’s strategy became plain. The "mystery units" that had crushed the enemy were made up entirely of official casualties. Volunteer clerics had covertly assembled this mother of all zombie squads and returned it to fighting trim, while monks screened its movements until the Commander called for its advance.

     Humiliated beyond endurance, Sihrella ignored Tyrian’s offer of honorable retirement. Raising her sword to her Commander’s neck, she openly accused him of plotting to destroy her. Two days later, Maryx received Sihrella’s severed, gift-wrapped head along with the other spoils of war. A curt message was branded onto her forehead: "Executed for insubordination by the Knights’ Commander." Maryx strained to feel the searing heat of Lazev’s displeasure but felt only a mild satisfaction.

     For the remainder of his life, Maryx lived in mortal fear of his son, always waiting for the knife in the back or the poison in the wine that never came. The Cruelty’s terror consumed him, visibly eroding his mind and his health. Maryx died before his time, a wretched shell of his former self…just as Tyrian had intended all along.

A Legendary Gamble for the Highest of Stakes

     As the procession marched in stately order from the Cruelty’s funeral pyre, Tyrian invited his two rival claimants for the title to his private retreat. Knowing that Tyrian would want to parlay before the contest for the succession began, the two saw no reason not to accept. Expecting some gloomy, monster-infested fortress, Tyrian’s guests were startled to find a cozy, elegant chateau, staffed only by a cook, a maid, and a lovely, sapphire-eyed Angora cat. The two Graces were treated to an excellent meal and the finest wines, and were then invited to join their host on the balcony.

     But as the Graces took in the view, they noticed a looming shadow in the courtyard below. Before their eyes, Tyrian’s cat transformed into a monstrous blue dragon: the Lady Vypariax, one of the Chosen of the True Goddess Tcharlat. Feeling the chill of death close by, they turned to see the flesh of the household staff rot and peel away from their bones. As they watched, the maid and cook had become the Archlichess Olivarhn and the accursed Terence Dourfeni, Lord Marshal of Lazev’s death knights.

     After giving his guests a moment to resign themselves to the situation, Tyrian came right to the point. For centuries, the Legion in Dass had been content to rule its traditional enclaves and beat its vassals into submission every now and again…oblivious to the opportunities that history had dangled before the Legion since the collapse of the Empire. Tyrian proposed a grand and ambitious scheme—to manipulate the cream of Dass’s city-states into resurrecting the Empire, but with the Legion ruling the rulers!

     For the task, Tyrian would require the Legion united and intact, with men such as his guests as his loyal and capable lieutenants. It was a moment Tyrian had been planning for decades, having already trained the monks and the Knights for their respective tasks. By dawn, Tyrian had not only convinced his rivals to relinquish their claims, but also to willingly serve their new and most worthy Cruelty.

     Quietly, patiently, the Legion insinuated itself into the hearts and minds of many of the rulers of Dass’s myriad city-states. For the first time in centuries, Dass prepared for war. Tyrian knew that the greatest enemy of all would be Doctor Stofa Karanchin, the ageless, god-touched descendant of the last Dassian Emperor.

     But on the very eve of war, a wild card was dealt in this high-stakes game, a joker in the form of an enchanted caravel that had dared the vastness of the Othrovel Ocean. Its name was the Hunter’s Moon, the seagoing pride of the Shattered Continent of Miren—a land that virtually no one in Dass even knew existed.

     If the ship was legendary, the crew was scarcely less so: a resurrected lich for a captain, a lute-lugging bard for a first mate, and a band of cheerful rowdies for a crew. Then there were the passengers: a newlywed couple of intelligent rodents, a teenage noble on the lam, and an adventuring party with a penchant for finding trouble.

     This is not the place to recount the long and bloody history of the War of Restoration. Suffice it to say that the interference of the Hunter’s Moon and her company eventually led to the exposure and collapse of Tyrian’s plot, and the birth of the Second Empire under its most rightful ruler: Stofa of the House of Karanchin.

Exile…and a New Start

     Captured and imprisoned, Tyrian accepted the fact that he was soon to die. But to his surprise, a reprieve was in the offing. The Hunter’s Moon would soon be leaving for home, a giant talking rodent informed him, and the Cruelty had a choice. Remain in Dass and be executed, or sail into exile and agree to a quest that devoured the lives and souls of most who dared it. If he survived, he would be given a great task that would restore his honor before Lazev. After swearing before Cydot the Oathkeeper to abide by whatever terms his captors demanded, Tyrian was released to the master of the Hunter's Moon. The voyage to Miren was long and difficult, but by its end, all aboard had learned a grudging respect for the courage and skill of their unwanted guest. With the coast of Miren on the horizon, Tyrian teleported himself to a barren stretch of beach, alone.

     Tyrian’s first "victory" in his new home was over the great blue dragon Bolt, once the fearsome mount of Lazev’s highest priests but now a disillusioned vagabond. The Cruelties of old, he told this strange elf, were worthy men and women…but the last few to hold the title were worthless dregs. Mindful of the dragon’s power, Tyrian decided to sound out this potential ally—with a ferocious, sinister snowball!

     Staring cross-eyed at the snow dribbling down his snout, the dragon nearly collapsed in a fit of laughter. This Dweomermist was so confident in himself and at ease with his scaly company that he could risk a moment of sheer absurdity. Intrigued, Bolt agreed to take Dweomermist on a tour of his new home in exile.

    After several months of enlightening travel, Bolt flew his comrade to a beachfront of broken rocks. Taking human form, Bolt led the Cruelty to a sacred chamber concealed in a deep crevice. Inside lay a treasure of vast power: an ebony staff with a beautiful headpiece of polished adamant, inscribed with the most potent of Istari glyphs.

     As Tyrian stared at the device at a respectful distance, the chamber filled with light. On two of three stone thrones sat two of Tyrian’s peers in faith: Elsinnen Landseidel, Harmony of the Three Rings, highest of Cydot the Lawgiver, and Malcolm Quickskitter, Serenity of the Scroll, highest of Arzamark the Truthsayer. While Elsinnen was an elderly human woman, Malcolm was a Rat, a member of the same accursed race that helped to defeat his ambition in Dass. A third throne, cut from polished black marble, was empty.

     After two years, Tyrian finally learned of his special mission in Miren. Reaching for the Astarith, the Serenity read a passage concerning Daskaandolon’s final attempt to unravel mortal society. Three books, their pages madness incarnate, were sent into each of the Four Continents to wreak havoc on mortal civilization. On three continents, the accursed volumes were finally captured and destroyed. But in Miren, three Powers of Law infused their essences into the Books of Mysteries, enabling their highest priests to use them to inspire some of Miren’s most heroic exploits.

     Tyrian marveled at this supreme audacity: to use the very weapons of the Mad One against him! Tyrian realized that his task would be to protect these divine instruments and to use their power wisely. But first, he must challenge the Book he was brought here to preserve—the very trial that Malcolm’s kin had alluded to before leaving Dass. Giving thanks to Lazev for this chance at redemption, Tyrian agreed to the trial with no illusions.

     Tyrian doesn’t speak of the trial imposed upon him by the Book; few people do, the quest often being of an intensely personal and painful nature. But once confirmed in his role as the Keeper of the Book, Tyrian and Bolt went forth to seize control of the Mirenian Legion from the unworthy hand of its Cruelty.

     The port city of Leander had been the Legion’s public seat of power in Miren for centuries. But when Tyrian and his scaly mount entered the city in enchanted incognito, both could see that the port had fallen on hard times. Many shops were closed from lack of wares and extortionate taxes, the once world-class shipyard lay idle, and the harbor was becoming a rat’s nest of pirate flags and rotting hulls.

     The Legionnaires that patrolled the city were little better. Some had turned to random violence, others to excessive drinking. Tyrian was appalled; back home, such dissolute behavior would have a Legionnaire swinging from a gibbet in no time. Only the eldest of the Order had any fire left—but only when they remembered Bedel Hammerfall, the last "true son" to rule the Legion, dead these fifteen years. As for the incompetent that currently held the office, Tyrian swore he would make him pay for this disgrace.

     Fortunately for the doomed Cruelty, Bolt convinced his friend to let him take care of the fool himself. Taking the form of an exuberant young dragon a quarter his size and a tenth his age, Bolt appeared at the stables of the Legion, begging for the chance to become the Cruelty’s personal mount. Despite the Legionnaires’ skepticism, the star-struck dragon’s persistence paid off; after months of training, the Cruelty was informed that his mount was ready. Enthralled by the idea of flying his dragon at long last, the heedless Head of Order ordered the blue saddled immediately.

     But as the dragon approached the temple grounds, it began to grow, aging centuries with every wing beat. The saddle straps strained, split, then finally snapped. The Cruelty plummeted towards the temple of Lazev and smashed through the stained glass window of the inner sanctum.

     Those Legionnaires not too stunned to move rushed to the temple, only to find the shredded remains of their Cruelty spattered all over the hall. This sight was far less disturbing, however, than that of the darkly majestic elf seated in the Cruelty’s throne as if he’d been born in it. The Staff of the Keeper, unseen for decades, stood proudly at his side. No mistake...there was a new Cruelty in town.

A Darkness Impure

     To the inhabitants of two continents, Tyrian Dweomermist is the very face of Evil, a blot of foul Darkness upon the surface of Minarra, a benighted soul bereft of integrity, honor, and decency. But much the same has been said of any Cruelty, of any Order, of any age. It’s an attitude as predictable as a conditioned reflex. But there is no such thing as "pure" evil, at least among mortals, and Tyrian Dweomermist is the living proof.

     Admittedly, the mere appearance of the gray elf could easily invalidate the whole argument. The Cruelty’s white hair, violet eyes, and ashen gray skin are unnerving enough, but the hooves of the nightmare that serve as Tyrian’s feet are a chilling sight. Add to that the Cruelty’s strong, handsome features, lean body, and silken tenor voice, and it’s easy to mistake Tyrian for an elf-shaped Avatar of his divine master. Yet there is no arrogance to taint his elegance, no swagger to mar his grace. Even his most bitter enemies concede that the Cruelty is a natural aristocrat; erudite and cultured, Tyrian possesses an innate dignity that many lay nobles would kill for.

     Those of long association with the Cruelty have noticed other puzzling traits. Unlike his forebears, Tyrian rarely succumbs to outbursts of violence or rage, and despises those who do. He knows that a cheerful, friendly manner can terrify an opponent quicker than anything else. In Tyrian’s masterful hand, evil is a rapier, not a maul.

     In fact, Tyrian can turn most anything into a weapon—especially the very virtues his enemies hold so dearly: trust, courage, loyalty, and especially truth. In the words of one keen observer, "He has slain more enemies with the naked truth than with all the lies he has ever uttered." By the same token, those who have dared to take the Cruelty at his word have found that he is quite capable of bargaining in good faith.

     Perhaps it is a respect for the truth that fuels Tyrian’s singular brand of integrity. He speaks of his dark deeds with an honesty so unadorned that it stuns most listeners. Tyrian has no real regrets about the life he has chosen, and scarcely feels the need to apologize for it. "Everyone has a part to play in this world," Tyrian is fond of saying with a shrug and a smile. "Mine is to serve the Overlord of the Pits and be hated for it."

     Though just as quick to punish gross incompetence as any other Cruelty, Tyrian has a surprising tolerance for failure. He would much rather have a complete and uncensored account of a disaster than the underling’s severed head rolling on the floor. From Tyrian’s point of view, the intelligence gained is worth far more than any pleasure a summary execution might give him. His fairness and restraint have earned the Cruelty a respect and loyalty that few others have ever enjoyed.

     Throughout his life, Tyrian has remained a scholar at heart. Aside from his personal belongings, the only things he took with him into exile were a selection of Dassian classics from every field of study. His translations of Dassian works on architecture and music have radically reshaped Mirenian thinking on these subjects, and have earned the Cruelty an enviable reputation in academic circles. Inspired by Tyrian’s stories, Miren’s first university will soon be founded in the city of Orem, long the cultural and financial hub of the Shattered Continent.

     Tyrian takes a positive delight in social gatherings. As Lord Governor, he has earned a reputation as a charming, thoughtful, and fastidious host. As the proud owner of Miren’s only existing pipe organ (built from a Dassian design), he has impressed many a state visitor with his skills as a performer and composer.

     Many have wondered how such a man, despite his evil, has kept himself so successfully aloof from the opposite sex. Though he finds the company of women very enjoyable and treats his female associates with unwavering respect, Tyrian has never indulged in any real romance or intimacy. The Cruelty has always kept silent on this issue, and pointedly ignores the gossip that swirls about him.

Dweomermist Triumphant

     After four decades of Tyrian’s rule, the Ruby Legion in Miren was raised to a level of discipline and pride it has not known for centuries. Tyrian quickly purged the rest of the Legion’s dead wood, reformed the seminaries, and "cleansed" the corrupt bureaucracy. It seems that Lazev has indeed chosen to overlook the missteps of his capable and loyal son.

     As for Leander, the city has undergone a startling transformation. Aided by the Lord Governor’s sweeping overhaul of the city’s tax structure, trade policies, and legal machinery, Leander is quickly becoming a vital and wealthy hub of legitimate commerce. The shipyards are bustling with new construction. The pirate fleets have been seized, their crews either scattered or slain. And, most hopeful of all, the great Merchant Houses are busy reopening their branch offices and repairing their warehouses.

     But Leander’s greatest victory has been on the diplomatic front, and must be credited to Tyrian alone. After centuries of political ostracism, Leander has finally been allowed to sign the Scroll of Healing, the seminal treaty governing relations between Miren’s city-states. First and foremost among the treaty’s many perks is the recognition of Tyrian Dweomermist as the lawful Lord Governor.

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