Cyrikor grew up on the road, a miracle child to a single mother who had not planned - or expected, being an elf - to have said child, whilst she made her living in the small travelling circus called 'The Wanderlust Circus'. Nevertheless, Xadiira A'Daraen (NPC) raised that boy with all of her heart, and it took the village (the circus) to raise him into the man he soon became. Xadiira never told her son why she had abandoned her Clan for the Circus, and although he never brought it up, he heard enough growing up to know that lilac eyes tended to be indicative of those in Clan Delevoye. To this day, his mother's unwavering refusal to talk about them has warded him off ever seeking members out to discover the truth. Xadiira was a fire dancer, one of the most beautiful in the land with her fiery orange outfit to stand out against her charcoal skin. Cyrik, eager to contribute, grew up to become an acrobat, occasionally joining his mother in performances, balancing atop red-hot bars, flipping through flames, the works. 12 years ago, Cyrik's mother passed away from illness, something caught during the end-half of a tour through the Imperial Crownlands that was never treated. The Ringleader - a dwarven man named Whulvrid Grayflayer (NPC) - had always been a bit of a bastard, never allowing a moment of rest for the performers lest - ancestors forbid - they be down a single performer for a single night. Cyrik was devastated, but knew nothing else but the Circus, and so he continued on without her. A month or so before the current day, the Ringleader had finally had enough of him, his performance having sunk immensely due to grief. Cyrikor was unceremoniously tossed to the road one day, with nothing but his mother's old jewelry and a pouch of his last paycheck (half of what it should have been, of course). Now Cyrik must find his way in the world, knowing only that of his mother's stories and the embellished tales spouted by the carnival folk at the Circus.
The traveller has just arrived in a small town. As they look around, their gaze is met with run down houses and shops. They duck into one of the shacks, illuminated by a series of candles suspended in the air. At the back of the small room, an old hag raises her head, “What brings you to this dingy town?" She begins, then pauses to study their face—”Ah, it’s you. I’ve been expecting you. Sit,” she gestures at a chair, “Where do you come from? What do you hope to make of yourself?”
The man takes the seat graciously, giving the hag a respectful nod. He crosses one leg over the other gracefully, his every step a practised performance.
"Starting off with the hard questions I see, madam. Where do I come from...now that is a tricky one. Suppose I don't quite come from anywhere. I've been on the road my whole life, I've seen it all. I call this wondrous world my home, wherever I lay down becomes my bedding, and wherever I stand tall becomes my stage." He chuckles to himself, though there is a hint of bitterness in the sound.
"As for the other question, madam, I was hoping you might give me an inkling. I thought I would be a performer for all my days, perhaps I still will, but I've gotten myself into a bit of a rut as of late. A starving performer is not a good one, you see. And, as I'm sure you're aware, the circus has long left this town, and without a troupe to perform with, I'm now nothing but a common - if extremely well put-together - man, looking to make something rather simple of himself, in the hopes of re-living his dreams of performing once again." He sighs wistfully, gazing out the window. A bird in flight catches his eye and he watches it longingly. Is it a sign? Maybe. Maybe not.
"To tell you the truth, I'm a bit lost, good madam. I hope to pull myself back onto my feet, but 73 years in a cramped carriage will do you no worldly favours when it comes to hard work. I have so much to learn still. Surely you may be able to help me make a start?"
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