[hider=Cyrus doing Cyrus things] [center][img]https://txt.1001fonts.net/img/txt/b3RmLjk2LjE2YTc1ZS5RM2x5ZFhNLjA/nature-impact-demo.regular.webp[/img][/center]
[color=7AB295]
[b][color=16A75E]Time:[/color][/b] Dawn
[b][color=16A75E]Location:[/color][/b] Gaurav Village
[b][color=16A75E]Interactions:[/color][/b] Alone
[b][color=16A75E]Equipment:[/color][/b] A [url=https://i.imgur.com/g2Sg5vN.jpg]mask[/url], a [url=https://i.imgur.com/TNEke0P.jpg]shield/drum[/url], and an acorn.
[hr]

Before those few first rays of dawn had broken through the canopy of trees that surrounded Gaurav Village, Cyrus had already ventured deep within the forest. His boots squelched against mud and undergrowth as soft rain fell with no signs of letting up. Despite the coverage of thousands of the silent sentinels, trees both young and old, ever watchful over the forest and village they hid; he walked long enough for the rain to chill him. The sun’s warmth struggled to overtake the dark in the cloudy shower. His clothes were uncomfortably wet, his hair was slick and clung to his face, and every breath drew the scent of a wet forest into him. A heaviness clung to him, one that had nothing to do with rain, or the mud that caked his boots and occasionally threatened to pull them from his feet. 

He continued until he was far from any canine ears that perked and twitched for the slightest sounds. He only halted once he saw those hazy pink rays of sunrise finally begin to break through, illuminating the blanket of darkness. Critters stirred, foliage ruffled, and all that surrounded him greeted the new dawn. Without the sense of urgency his walk had held, he shifted through the brush, gathering a few fallen branches. He removed the soggy adornments of foliage and twine that decorated his clothing and used it to tie the branches together. Then he carefully propped his mask on the makeshift stand he’d built for it, his eyes leveled with the empty holes of the mask. 

Cyrus pulled his shield drum from his back and fixed it to his arm, his hand gripping it tight as if nothing in the world was more important to hold onto. His eyes locked on the vacant eye holes of the mask. Even as rain obscured his vision, his focus never wavered. Memories swirled, bringing with them every heavy emotion they carried. He removed the oaken mallet from his belt, slowly beating it against the drum. A soft noise that matched the rain.  

He recalled the sparse details Viola had shared of her captivity, their conversation only days ago about the toil that had taken. A life left tormented and altered by darkness. Eventually, second-hand accounts gave way to vivid memories. Every detail permanently etched into his mind; was reflected in the mask’s eyes. The vibrant green of his eyes soon darkened as they reflected the hollowness of the mask's eyes. His wounds, both old and fresh, tore open as he revisited every dark moment witnessed and relaid to him. A steady rhythm grew, one that matched the beating of his heart.

[color=16A75E][i]Ophelia: found alive, but with memories lost, bonds broken and forgotten as if they meant nothing. Menzai’s request: not to rekindle those memories. His agreement: a continued lie for Phia’s safety.[/i][/color] A bitter sting built within his gut. The unfairness of a brief glimpse of hope, that he might have regained a fraction of what he’d lost, only to have it snatched away. The tempo of the drum quickened, its intensity growing as he shared his pain with a suspended wooden vessel. He delved deeper into the past. 

[color=16A75E][i]His brother’s final moments, pain shone through Florian’s eyes, and then they were vacant. His death, a public spectacle. His life, extinguished. All without a care for the brave and kind man his brother was.[/i][/color] The tempo of his heart quickened until it matched the drum, a quick and frantic pace. Rage exploded forth and every wound was made as fresh as the day it was inflicted. Such public executions continued to happen, a testament to how little The Tyrant cared for life. 

A deep guttural tone erupted from him, it echoed off surrounding trees, filling the forest around him, as loud as thunder. This was not a quiet meditation; for rage was not a soft prayer but a furious bellow. To utter it in its purest form caused pain. From his depths, Cyrus exhaled all of his pain. His words were shouted and growled in an ancient Fae tongue. A song of rage, grief, and hatred flowed from him and into the mask. The eyes of the mask were hollow things, unfillable and unflinching no matter what was poured into them. 

[color=16A75E][i]Screams that sounded of desperation. More life fading from the eyes of those he loved. The smell of blood, sharp and metallic. How it felt, to be a child, and to be left alone and without hope.[/i][/color] To have been blessed with such a large family, to have been cursed to see so many of them slaughtered. Hatred quickly flooded him as the drumming reached its crescendo and everything in him burned with it. 

His violent song had persisted long after his throat had grown raw and raspy. It stopped when only one memory remained, one that left a warm ache in his heart. [color=16A75E][i]The final moments of Ceder and Elyna: a selfless act of bravery, as they died for their children.[/i][/color] Cyrus held tight to this memory, he would carry their legacy forward, and save all his rage for those who cause his pain. The beating of the drum began to slow, as did his heart. The transference was completed, and the catharsis was obtained, for now. But it never stayed; every time he poured out this sea of grief, the maelstrom always returned. 

Slowly the rain washed him clean of sweat and tears, and he lingered in it. He lowered the mallet, closed his eyes, and angled his head towards the sky and the gentle rain. Cyrus stood in silence, save for his shallow, ragged breaths. When he opened his eyes again, they matched the vibrant green of a forest, his heart beat a calm rhythm, and his breath came easily. 

He buried the makeshift stand and planted an acorn from a mighty oak. A tree most fitting of Florian Millinia, brave protector of his people, in the hope that it would bring protection to this spot, rather than leave it haunted by hateful memories. He fed the seed his magic and watched it sprout and reach toward the heavens. He whispered a soft prayer to Xylia, She of the Spring, to offer this tree her grace. He knelt beneath it, one hand placed upon the oak’s trunk and his bowed in silent conversation with the otherside. Finally, Cyrus asked his brother to bestow upon him even just a fraction of his strength. 

The mask once again hung from his belt as he held the shield above his head, keeping the rain away from the zemak joint that now dangled from his lips. The smell of its smoke, warm and calming, filled each breath. He walked back to the village accompanied by the soothing sound of rain beating against the drum. Rain still clung to him, mud still grappled with his boots, but his steps were lighter. [/color][/hider]

[hider=TL; DR option] Cyrus does a ritual deep in the forest at dawn, placing all of his anger and grief into his mask for later use.[/hider]
[hr]

[center][img]https://txt.1001fonts.net/img/txt/b3RmLjk2LjE2YTc1ZS5RM2x5ZFhNLjA/nature-impact-demo.regular.webp[/img][/center]
[color=7AB295]
[b][color=16A75E]Time:[/color][/b] Morning
[b][color=16A75E]Location:[/color][/b] Gaurav Village
[b][color=16A75E]Interactions:[/color][/b] Phia[@princess], Darius[@FunnyGuy], Dante[@Alivefalling], Menzai[@samreaper]
[b][color=16A75E]Equipment:[/color][/b] A pack with some supplies, seeds (in his pockets), a small knife, a [url=https://i.imgur.com/g2Sg5vN.jpg]mask[/url] that hangs from his belt, a weapon with a shifting charm that is either a [url=https://i.imgur.com/4Xs4QCG.jpg]sickle[/url] or a [url=https://i.imgur.com/gyIiCzI.jpg]glaive[/url], and a [url=https://i.imgur.com/TNEke0P.jpg]shield/drum[/url] with an unbreakable charm.
[hr]

Cyrus returned to the village only a little late for breakfast. His hair and clothing were still soaked from the rain and his pants were splattered with mud that also caked thick around his boot. He smelled of rain and forest with the sharp scent of zemak clinging to him, strongest of all. His time in Gaurav village had been filled with tension, misplaced bottled anger at Menzai for a situation out of the wolf’s control. An ever-following unease at building tension of those around him, the looming danger. Now his calm demeanor was restored, and all that bottled wrath dangled from his belt. Its hollow eyes kept watch, lying in wait for a time when it could be set free. 

He ate quietly, barely listening to the ambient conversation as a warm meal easied the chill of rain away. His attention was caught only by the sound of Phia banging a spoon against the table. As she announced her idea, Cyrus slowly shook his head, but to his surprise, Menzai voiced his agreement. Far too exhausted to argue, he only turned his head to Menzai and spoke in a tone empty of emotion. [color=16A75E]“If I or any of my family are recognized, things will become very dangerous for us.”[/color] Then he looked at Phia, whose joy was an infectious thing, and offered a faint smile. [color=16A75E]“We must be very cautious who we share those fliers with. But I would like to buy you all a Riverfruit Slush.”[/color] [/color]