Cyan Icix
Legacy Name: Cyan Icix

Cyan's father was a pirate.

This lonely, nameless wolf coursed the greek isles many, many suns ago, pilfering merchant ships, kidnapping young ones to be sold as slaves, and occasionally even veering off course for the promise of a treasure hidden somewhere only those who are alive out of habit would dare seek, and the crew was perhaps the best example of such a group. It was said that the weight of all their virtues combined wouldn't have made the plate of a balance tip a single measure.

Or so it seemed.

After many an adventure, the crew caught word of a magical horn, resting in an abandoned temple to Apollo in the high seas, an old temple said to have the power of purification. The horn was said to hold the voices of the sirens: properly used, it could ensnare cities and make kings bend their knees before them. Of course, such a treasure was to be seized immediately, and the crew set it sails.

Many storms and near-misses with death later, when the ship finally lowered anchor at the little lost isle, it became obvious that the temple wasn't abandoned. In fact, it was set atop a thriving little town, apparently simply forgotten. The pirates disembarked to be received with glee by the simple people, who proceeded to throw a party in their honor: they were offered baths, their bodies rubbed with olive oil and offered delicate wines. What shocked the wolf the most was how unassuming these people were: they gave simply for the sake of doing so, thinking them weary travelers, going beyond the mandate of the gods and being hospitable for the mere pleasure of being so.

However, once the pirate crew was left alone to sleep, plans began forming amongst them. The lone wolf was suddenly horrified, perhaps for the first time in his life, to hear his comrades speak: they intended to pilfer the artifact in the dead of night and, so as to avoid the ensuing wrath of the villagers and the curse of Apollo, they had every intention of setting the entire town ablaze, simultaneously, not giving them a second to realize what had happened. Or escape.

For the first time in his life, perhaps by way of the temple's reputed power, perhaps at having eaten and danced with his victims-to-be hours earlier, long asleep morals roared to life: he couldn't let this soulless massacre come to be. But after a long discourse, which he knew had turned well over half of his old comrades against him, it became obvious that this dispute would not be solved peacefully. And it wasn't. It came down to a simple choice: the lives of his lifelong, yet cutthroat companions, or the lives of an entire, unassuming town, and quite likely himself.

Led by the lone wolf, four other (now former) pirates stole away from the house they'd been granted. They barricaded every window and door, and, in an act of retribution, set it aflame with coldly calculated precision, so that nothing but the tainted flesh of those within and the unhappy house that held them would be engulfed by the flames. Nobody was allowed to leave, even as the smoke and the screams of agony rose into the night, and the loosely bound windows rattled with the panicked efforts of those inside, pleading, cursing, and, laughably, praying.

The townspeople, awakened by the smell and sound, were shocked to discover the deed, moreso when their remaining guests bid them leave the house tightly shut: the traitors had to reveal their identities and motivations, or their good-natured hosts might lynch them if they were believed fell murderers. The villagers were reasonably frightened and wary, the weight of the grisly fate that they had narrowly escaped heavy about the air, but they understood the tragedy they had been spared from, and whilst they did so unceremoniously, they allowed their would-be murderers to leave.

Having little else to do as pirates, with their hearts changed and their comrades slain, the five each took to a different road from that of the other. They left behind their pirate aliases, hoping to lead new lives of atonement and virtue, secure in the knowledge of having escaped any vengeance from pirates both living and dead, they seized the chance for new lives. On the beach of the place where they had last set sail as cuththroats, they swore oaths of companionship and expiation, and walked eagerly into the world.

The Desert Flower

Our lone wolf's paws led him to Khemet. Here, where he had once sold those of his own race for gems and gold, he arrived with head bowed, seeking an apprenticeship with whatever merchant would have him. Here he sorted sacks of wheat, carried home the purchases of ladies and old men, until his mentor, seeing the keen gleam of his eye and feeling the aches of age in his own bones, left him his many stalls, and retired from the trade.

Once again his own master, the lone wolf saw the gold flowing steadily into his paws a blessing, and had every intention of never lifting his eyes from his first clean-won riches. That is, until he found delicate paws touching one of the lapiz lazuli necklaces.

The lovely female, Meskhenet (whose name was preserved by way of her job), her fur the dark brown of khemetians, was the Pharaoh's scribe. Of course, not wanting too much attention for having such a connection to the living god, she went into the market heavily shrouded, but the lone wolf knew her. He began selling the best inks and the most exquisite papyrus rolls, even buying other merchants out of their own stock, eager to have Meskhenet return, never speaking to her much (he had business to attend to, after all), but allowing his eyes to linger on her whenever he could.

Through secret gifts of gems that she dutifully returned after guessing her admirer's identity he caught her attenion, and with the brutally honest, slightly charming ways he had come to discover within himself he won her over. They were married quite soon, their first litter (a tiny one of two pups, much anticipated by both) on the way, and the lone wolf's happiness seemed there for him to take.

The Curse

Perhaps it was his due for the evils of piracy, his atonement deemed insufficient by the gods, perhaps simply ill fortune, but the lone wolf's peaceful world began to vanish slowly, as smoke does on a windless night. It began with threatening graffiti upon the white walls of their home (graffiti, he worriedly noted, in rough greek): it told him to remember the fallen, to feel the blood upon his paws, and to prepare.

Disturbed, he began guarding his beloved Meskhenet with thrice the care: they often returned to the house to find things big and small just slightly out of place, as if to warn them that someone had been there, and wanted them to know, and he lost sleep thinking of what might happen to her if he were to ever be caught at unawares.

The lone wolf was not silly: those who were once his mates, either back from the grave or saved by some ill-timed miracle, were the ones causing mayhem in his new life. It was cruelly natural of them to target Meskhenet and the pups, and he knew that, try as he might, he wouldn't be able to protect them with force. All four of them would have to part ways. With a heavy heart, he instructed his wife to craft an escape separate from his, leaving the care of his two sons to (and this was the blow that broke both of their hearts for good) whomever would adopt them: they were to break all connection with their parents, be it through relatives or close friends, lest they be hunted for the rest of their lives.

The plan was to be executed on a quiet night: their sons hidden away in a fellow merchant's crockery, to be sent far away, the couple embraced for the last time. Meskhenet managed to slide a window, turn to look at her husband once, before a throwing knife sliced itself into her chest. The plan had gone awry.

The lone wolf managed to signal his friend away before he too was surrounded. The last sight any living eyes had of him, he was fighting fiercely, like a creature who'd lost it all, against a group of shadows that badly outnumbered him: this is why some suppose he fell there, next to his beloved Meskhenet.

The Story Breaks in Half
A thief in the night

It isn't clear to anyone how the eldest of the twins found himself growing up alone on the streets of Khemet. Perhaps he fell from his hiding place and escaped the ensuing hunt via his small size, perhaps he'd been purposely left behind, his hunters never expecting him so close to home, but was never delivered into the care of his new guardians. The fact was that Cyan Icix found himself on the street and, for lack of anything else, turned to thievery. Irony of ironies.

Nobody knows whether or not there was a curse cast upon the bloodline that made all its offspring become thieves, but either way Cyan became one, quite a good one, perfectly uncaring of the disturbance it caused within Ma'at. The thrill of the chase brought him life, and he called himself Cyan the Brave, Outwitter of Guards.

Withouth his notice, his love of the chase mixed with a love of the reward it brought: a mixture that swiftly becomes poison to the vain, who go mad, drunk on fell triumphs.

Once his skills grew finer, petty robbery struck him as decidedly non-lucrative, so the young wolf decided to put his talents to the service of those who didn't really mind: he advanced into more complex forms of thievery, and at the urging of a particularly high-paying client, into tomb-robbing.

Anubis' Eye
"What have I done..."

Here, the listener will feel a slight sense of deja-vu: a father sunk in the depths of impurity, redeemed by the grace of the gods only to be cast down by the very first act of kindness he executed. As his son, Cyan perhaps had it in his path of life to arrive at such a crossroads.

However, as his son, he apparently also had the chance to escape the retribution, or perhaps execute it in a way that did not warrant vengeful anger.

The conversion, as one might call it, occured on a night in which the young wolf simply meant business. Cyan had broken into a different kind of tomb: it was very old, so much he didn't quite know anything about its contents (a graverobber takes care in either raiding a recent tomb, or one that he knows hasn't been throroughly pilfered, and most importantly, one that has things worth the pain). From the heavily sealed entrances he'd believed it a rich tomb, but inside it was unadorned - composed of two narrow chambers, dusty and old.

From a distant corner, Cyan thought he saw a glimmer of something: a worn ebony box, nearly buried under dust and sand, stuck a corner proudly out of the debris of time. His skill had it lying open in a matter of seconds: a lovely, perfectly oval gem, clear as the moon and twice as bright, glimmered at him from the cushioned interior of the box. It's glow was mesmerizing, so much that it overruled his deeply ingrained sense of preservation, pushing him to hold it with his bare paws...

There was blinding light behind his eyes. Suddenly, the tiny bicameral crypt was full of groans and moans, the dust rising as if pushed by violent winds. Furious claws and hands tore at him, throwing off his hood. Then, as suddenly as it had started, it stopped. Cyan's eyes cleared as a tall, silent figure seemed to separate from the shadows, elongating and stretching. The figure moved a hand and the ancient torches came to life, perhaps as a manifestation of power, for as the shadow elongated, its ghost-hand fell over him and enveloped him in its blackness, the one thing visible being the glowing gem. Had reality been obliterated around him?

No spoken words came to his ears through the shadows: the gods do not honor a destroyer of souls with words of their own. Instead, Cyan was shown a vision. The clear crystal suddenly faded into images Cyan regarded with terrified awe: he saw himself opening tombs, radiating disrespect. He saw himself leaving lovingly embalmed mummies to the jackals, the souls becoming lost beyond even Anubis' power. Those salvaged became so full with hatred, their hearts became too heavy to pass the Weighing. His desire to live had morphed into a savage desire for material wealth, and the souls of many a brave, good man had become a victim to it. Their feelings lashed at him like cold, sharp glass, and for a second he became them, felt their woe as his own.

He was not Cyan the Brave, but merely Cyan the Disruptor, as unworthy as any petty killer, taking lives for a slice of bread.

Cyan emerged from the tomb a changed soul. He carried the gem with him (and still does): it reminds him of his terrible transgression. Through long, hard journeys he managed to lead home a few of those souls he'd dispersed, sealed the perturbed graves, replaced what he could in others.

The Eternal Walker

Cyan now lives at the very heart of the desert, coming forth quietly to look for provisions from time to time. He keeps an ear out for lost and tortured souls, seeking to appease them and guide them to the doors of the Duat, beyond the banks of the Nile. The empathy he experienced within the tomb was decreased after that first, terrifying experience, but never left him entirely: it is through it that he can channel the souls. He also looks out for lost travelers, always prepared to bring them back to civilization when their path strays: he nows performs these grueling duties for the pleasure of it, humbled by the experience of the screams of the dead ringing in his ears, on his fur, each drawn-out note rife with anger and fear.

Time will tell if the gods have accepted his penitence.

~~~~

Statistics
Name: Cyan
Nickname:Wanderer, Bedouin, Wraith
Age: Adulthood (early 30's)
Race: Half Khemetian, Half Greek
Powers: Empathy, Speed
Personality: Quiet, gentle, very self-deprecating. When encountering someone who is irreverent with their dead, however, his silence is more a stony, quietly raging one.
Appearance: Sable, with sharp tawny eyes, always wears a simple headdress with a thick cord to secure it in place and a gold coin around his neck.
Current Mood: At peace
Current Location: Tracking a lost traveler