User:Arangalion

Appearance:He has always had a love for dressing in uniform, making him respect the Tolog Tirith uniform. He can always be seen wearing his gray uniform accompanied by a brilliant smile that casts an outgoing flare. He doesn’t care much for fancy clothing and is most comfortable in casual clothes and his uniform. He also keeps a pendant, which is the last surviving remnant he has of his sister after she passed away. He believes it influences his abilities in battle. His facial tatoo serves as his most distinguished mark.He has a very athletic muscular build. He trains himself to keep a slim, yet built body for mobilty.His eyes are a brilliant blue and he has long golden brown locks. He is about 6"1' and roughly around 160 lbs.

Personality: He is always been the observant one in situations. Cyros is very cool,calm, and collect to most people, he likes to maintain a peaceful and carefree style, worrying not about none other than what matters to him. He isn't afraid to speak his mind, and often decides to in most situations. He is often neutral in tensions that don't really concern him. His constant carefree attitude triggers unexpected reactions from others. Though he has his own agenda to settle with his life, he seems to care much for others' concerns. He shows remorse for his actions, but believes he is not suppose to focus on the past but act on the present, as that is what ultimately determines the future. Not being one to think matters through, he is known to act on impulse rather than reasoning.

At heart Cyros is a very honest dedicated young soldier, he loves learning new things and gaining wisdom. He is a very smart young man, yet he possesses a ruthless spirit in battle. His main flaw is that he is constantly making choices based on his emotions. He is disgusted by war, and loves observing animal and plant life and discovering different insects. From his unique interests, he often finds the most unconventional tactics to stop the forces that oppose him. He is quick to adapt to all types of environments and uses his survival instincts to guide him in a fight. His love for the nature is a recognizable trait shown especially in his flicker of a grin as he records data about his observations in his journal.

While in school, he does focus on his studies and puts it above everything. He finds time in his life to make conversation just to keep the day flowing well. Naturally a very positive person, assuming everything will go well if he says it will, even though sometimes it doesn't. He catches himself willing tending to help others in need, but eventually in the end it is always for a price. He will always repay his debt to the copper when he says and is definitely a man of his word.

Although outer appearances are deceiving, under that cool exterior is a cold and brutal man who will stop at nothing to get what he wants.

Tales of a Soldier:

Son of a war hero, Cyros grew up as a struggling child living up to his father’s name. As a child he had to stay with his father, Alagos Argonar, after his mother left his father to sail west, in the northernmost part of the Mirkwood. Unexpectantly, his father adopted a beautiful human girl from the harsh streets of Bree, Cyros promised his little sister that he'd always take care of her. Unfortunately, His obligations to his bloodline outweighed his wish to fulfill his promise, Cyros was forced to learn the lucrative aspects of warfare from the military officer’s academy when his raw talents where discovered. At that time, he was sent to many towns outside of Mirkwood and his passion for Nature began to bloom.

Growing up away from his family made Cyros focus in upon himself more and more. The rough tutelage of the military, in the ways of survival, created a tough ruthlessness inside him. Growing ever physically stronger as the seasons past, Cyros became skilled at using his physical environment around him in tandem with his abilities. While miles away, Cyros was learning the qualities of deception and trickery through political discourse, he was learning of the rawness of physical labor and patience of ambushing his prey.

Since his first learned of the Way of the Warden and learned of his power he was always fascinated in the use of his spear and shield, and decided to put them to good use to protect those dear to him. Preparing to ship out for countless battles, he would soon discover if he was ready for war, he was always showing off his skills to Angel and practiced by himself to train his skills. He spent most of his time Training & Studying on how to further develop his skills.

As a warrior and and strategist, Cyros shows traits that compare to both sides of the same coin. While Cyros is more prone to straight out physical assaults, he is also known as the thinker who uses deceptions and decoys to sidle up and strike. Though competent on his own, Cyros was always dependent on the fellowship between him and his allies when fighting straight up with other opponents. In turn, they were always dependent on his him to cause confusion on the field and create opportunities for them to attack while Cyros drew the enemies attention. Though all were quite individuals, their dedication to each other was unflinching.

Both at home in the woods, one a soldier by training and student of nature and deceit, the other a sympathetic ear always listening to his tales of adventure, the siblings were quite the team.

But one day, all the hopes and dreams of the two would vanish for an eternity...

--

It was the third day and final day Cyros’s trip home. His father had sent word to return home in order to discuss some major changes that would determine the outcome of their future. In the message, Alagos had mentioned that Cyros would be pulled from his duties and joining his Father's platoon and recieve a briefing on their mission to retake weathertop, little did he know their time together was coming to an end.

Cyros was not privy to why he was being forced to do this but he was not one to question his father's command. He thought his father wanted him to pursue his career in the political arena.

A chilling breeze snaked through the dense forest reminding Cyros that he was almost home. There was something else on the breeze though, not so much a smell, but a comforting familiarity.

As Cyros continued deeper into the wilderness, a since of being observed fell over him. Slowing his movements to a crawl, Cyros advanced like a panther, ears opened to the slightest disturbances. He knew there was someone or something out here.

Cyros stopped and crouched down low, becoming as still as a stone. The sensation was increasing like the swell of a wave before it breaks on the shore.

A light rustling came from the bushes immediately to his left. Not moving a muscle, Cyros slowed his breathing and concentrated on the sound. A twig snapped in the overgrowth to his right. He realized he was being pinned and needed to get to higher ground.

Looking up towards the heavens, Cyros saw the limbs of a large tree spidering through the canopy. Positioned in his crouch, Cyros tensed his legs like steel springs and launched himself to the first branch about ten feet above the ground.

Like a child born of the forest, he ascended the tree in a matter of moments, finding a perch about halfway up the wooden colossus. A bird of prey, he scanned the growth below, looking for the cause of the disturbance.

An acorn bounced off his head. Startled, he looked up quickly.

On a branch eight feet directly above him, where moments ago nothing had been, stood a shadowy figure. Wearing ash with long, ghost white hair, the man looked down at Cyros.

For moments they stood there, gazing into each other’s eyes saying nothing, but their eyes speaking a thousand words. It didn’t take long for Cyros to realize the terms of this meeting.

---

He quickly follows his father to the encampment where the rest of the men lie.

Cyros lies with the rest of the platoon.

Numb, Unemotional, non-feeling. Fear stains the Warden’s memories as he reflects on a placid morning when he had stormed an Orc encampment while retaking weathertop. He had known this feeling all too well. Frightening images of the fallen scramble in his mind, their voices like static as he could hear the screams of his friends fall. Cyros knew these soldiers would experience it as well.

For them it no longer be a usual day as a member of The Last Sentinels. Preparing for war, blithely indulging in normal routine. Carefree...Content...Unaware... of the true horrors of war.

The boats crashed against the shore. A sudden blast startled the platoon.

A Troll!?!

Deafening eruptions penetrate the calm. Sinuous voices now punctuated by chaos, the demonic splintering the angelic.

Cyros hushes to the rhythm of pounding hearts. Orcs scream throughout the beach as terror burns itself on innocent faces.

Tick, Tick, Tick -11:21 - lives are changed forever. Shock..Hysteria... Why? The sounds of bombs ignite horror through their veins and send chills that pinch the skin like needles.

Some run. Some stand paralyzed in shock, numbness engulfing all emotions. Billows of arrows blanket the bridge, creating ghostly images. Cyros looks through the delicate webs of fire and see the fruits of hatred. Arrows shatter souls and invades bodies, as malice sears the souls of the Cult.

A minstrel prays; another hides in stunned confusion; a Guardian bleeds.

Like children they are helpless, longing to be in mama’s arms.

Screaming.... frantic....Why?

Two faces are plastered against the ground. The horror in their eyes strips away Cyros's consciousness. His first instinct is to run; He ducks as arrows spray the beach.

Weathertop is now the grounds of warfare- mortal fighting in the fields of bombs and arrows. Weapons that have fallen into the wrong hands have only one purpose and they are trying to kill them and all Cyros hears is the whispers of arrows looming overhead. Crackling, Crackling, Humming, bursting, screaming, ringing, what now,

Too much Too soon, Too young, So scared Help us.

Cyros whispers as he struggles to escape but he is slowed as he trudges through the crimson water. Through the shattered windows of his eyes he sees milky clouds that absorb the sun; He sees a golden light and sunburned sand; He cannot get there fast enough.

He is almost at the shore. An arrow ricochets off the pane of a nearby cross. The round swirls like a droplet into the water. creating rings that shiver and spread, shattering as Cyros dashes to the shore.

All is silent. But he hasn't escaped hell.

there is a hill where ten broken bodies lie in wait and where others play dead. In the darkness that shrouds the beach, angels embrace the lifeless, and their wings flicker light against a hill of helpless shadows. Eldar now wraps his arms around the beach and gathers the souls of the lost, making strong the souls of the weak, and cries for the violence on Weathertop.

Time picks up an some are vulnerable, insecure. A sadistic goblin's bark screams like animals. Who to trust? Our haven is destroyed, and we are scattered.

Cyros sits in the hill, immobilized. While anxiety and guilt wraps themselves around him. Angry..Numb... Why?

An piercing ringing erupts in his ears as a nearby explosion hurls him towards a pile of burnt bodies, as he arises from the sand, he sees a familiar man lying in a the crimson river, his legs dismembered from the rest of his body. As he appoaches to help he galnces into the man's eyes. There was no mistaking the eyes. They were his eyes as well.

His lip quivers, as he holds his father's face between the palms of his hands. His father's trembling hand reaches into his burnt bag and reveals a letter. He's thrusts it into Cyro's chest as his breathes grow more faint with each passing moment.

There he mutters his final words, and Cyros listened intently, knowing that a man's dying words are seldom spent in vain.

"What makes a great soldier, is it his brain..or his heart?"

When it came time for Cyros to answer he just froze, not knowing the answer to appease his father.

His father gave a weak smile and chuckled. "Heh..either you're a fool or you are wiser than I..."

Cyros clutches his father's hand tightly as he passes on to Valinor.

In his stupor, he comes back to his senses when a comrade rushes over and shrugs him on the shoulder.

"Hey we did it! We retook Weathertop! We can go home now!"

Home..

the words resounded within his mind with a lasting emptiness.

Go..home?

What home did he have left to go to?

"I was born on a battlefield. Raised on a battlefield. explosions, sirens and screams... they were my lullabies... Hunted like dogs, day after day... driven from their ragged shelters... That... was my life. Each morning, I'd wake up... and find a few more of my family or friends dead beside me. I'd stare at the morning sun... and pray just to make it through the day."

--

The Inn keepers have tears in their eyes when they welcome Cyros back to the inn from his long journey. "Thank you so much for coming". He understands the situation immediately. The time for departure is drawing near.

Too soon, too soon. He had only just lost a famil member in the past few months at Weathertop. But still, he knows, this day would have come sometime, and not in the distant future. "I might never see you again," she said to him with a sad smile when he left on this journey, her smiling face almost transparent in its whiteness, so fragile---and therefore indescribably beautiful--as she lay in bed.

"May I see Kieva now?" he asks. The innkeeper gives him a tiny nod and says, "I don't think she'll know who you are, though." “She hasn't opened her eyes since last night”, he warns Cyros. “You can tell from the slight movement of her chest that she is clinging to a frail thread of life, but it could snap at any moment”. "It's such a shame. I know you made a special point to come here for her..." Another tear glides down the wife's cheek.

"Never mind, it's fine." Cyros says. He has been present at innumerable deaths, and his experience has taught him much. Death takes away the power of speech first of all. Then the ability to see. What remains alive to the very end, however, is the power to hear. Even though the person has lost consciousness, it is by no means unusual for the voices of the family to bring forth smiles or tears. Cyros puts his arm around the wife's shoulder and says, "I have lots of travel stories to tell her. I've been looking forward to this my whole time on the road." Instead of smiling, the woman releases another large tear and nods to Cyros, "And Kieva was so looking forward to hear your stories." Her sobs almost drown out her words.

The innkeeper says, "I wish I could urge you to rest up from your travels before you see her, but..." Cyros interrupts his apologies, "Of course I'll see her right away." There is very little time left. Kieva, the only remaining member of Cyros’ family, will probably breathe her last before the sun comes up. Cyros lowers his pack to the floor and quietly opens the door to Kieva's room.

Kieva was frail from childhood, since the incident at Kalt. Far from enjoying the opportunity to travel, she rarely left the town or even the neighborhood in which she was born and raised. This child will probably not live to adulthood, the doctor told Cyros. This tiny girl, with extraordinarily beautiful doll-like features, the gods had dealt an all-too-sad destiny.

That they had allowed her to be born the only daughter of the keepers of a small inn by the highway was perhaps one small act of atonement for such iniquity. Kieva was unable to go anywhere, but the guests who stayed at her parent’s inn would tell her stories of the countries and towns and landscapes and people that she would never know. Whenever new guests arrived at the inn, Kieva would ask them. “Where are you from?” “Where are you going?” “Can you tell me a story?”

She would sit and listen to their stories with sparkling eyes, urging them on to new episodes with “And then? And then?” When they left the inn, she would beg them, “Please come back, and tell me lots and lots of stories about faraway countries!” She would stand there waving until the person disappeared far down the highway, give one lonely sigh, and go back to bed.

Kieva is sound asleep. No one else is in the room, perhaps an indication that she has long since passed the stage when the doctors can do anything for her. Cyros sits down in the chair next to the bed and says with a smile. “Hello, Kieva, I’m back.” She does not respond. Her little chest, still without the swelling of a grown woman, rises and falls almost imperceptibly.

“I went far across the ocean this time.” He tells her. “The ocean on the side where the sun comes up. I took a boat from the harbor way way way far beyond the mountains you can see from this window, and I was on the sea from the time the moon was perfectly round till it got smaller and smaller then bigger and bigger until it was full again. There was nothing but ocean as far as the eye could see. Just the sea and the sky. Can you imagine it,Kieva? You’ve never seen the ocean, but I’m sure people have told you about it. It’s like a huge, big endless puddle.” Cyros chuckles to himself, and it seems to him that Kieva’s pale white cheek moves slightly.

She can hear him. Even if she cannot speak or see, her ears are still alive. Believing and hoping this to be true, Cyros continues with the story of his travels. He speaks no words of parting. As always with Kieva, Cyros smiles with a special gentleness he has never shown to anyone else, and he goes on telling his tales with a bright voice, sometimes even accompanying his story with exaggerated gestures. He tells her about the blue ocean. He tells her about the blue sky. He says nothing about the violent sea battle that stained the ocean red. He never tells her about those things.

Kieva was still a tiny girl when Cyros first visited the inn. When she asked him “Where did you go?” and “Will you tell me some stories?” with her childish pronunciation and innocent smile, Cyros felt soft glow in his chest.

At the time, he was returning from a battle. More precisely, he had ended one battle and was on his way to the next. His life consisted of traveling from one battlefield to another, and nothing about that has changed to this day. He has taken the lives of countless enemy troops, and witnessed the deaths of countless comrades on the battlefield. Moreover, the only thing separating enemies from comrades is the slightest stroke of fortune. Had the gears of destiny turned in a slightly different way, his enemies would have been comrades and his comrades enemies, This is the fate of the soldier.

He was spiritually worn down back then and feeling unbearably lonely. Losing all he had left in this world, Cyros had no fear of death, which was precisely why each of the soldier’s faces distorted in fear, and why each face of a man who died in agony was burned permanently into his brain. Ordinarily, he would spend nights on the road drinking. Immersing himself in an alcoholic stupor — or pretending to. He was trying to make himself forget the unforgettable. When, however, he saw Kieva’s smile and begged him for stories about his long journey, he felt a far warmer and deeper comfort then he could even obtain from liquor.

He told her many things... About the beautiful flower he discovered on the battlefield. About the bewitching beauty of the mist filling the forest the night before the final battle. About the marvelous taste of the spring water in a ravine where he and his men had fled after losing the battle. About a vast, bottomless blue sky he saw after battle.

He never told her anything sad. He kept his mouth shut about the human ugliness and stupidity he witnessed endlessly on the battlefield. He concealed his position as a mercenary for her, kept silent regarding his reasons for traveling constantly, and spoke only of things that were beautiful and sweet and lovely. He sees now that he told Kieva only beautiful stories of the road like this not so much out of concern for her purity, but for his own sake.

Staying in the inn, Kieva waited to see him turned out to be one of Cyros’ small pleasures in life. Telling her about the memories he brought back from his journeys, he felt some degree of salvation, however slight.. Little by little, she neared adulthood, which meant that, as the doctors had predicted, each day brought her that much closer to death.

And now, Cyros ends the last travel story he will share with her. He can never see her again, can never tell her stories again. Before dawn, when the darkness of night is at its deepest, long pauses enter into Kieva’s breathing. The trail thread of her life is about to snap as Cyros and the innkeepers watch over her. The tiny light that has lodged in Cyros’ breast will be extinguished. His lonely travels will begin again tomorrow---his long, long travels without end.

“You’ll be leaving on travels of your own soon,Kieva.” Cyros tells her gently. “You’ll be leaving for a world that no one knows, a world that has never entered into any of the stories you have heard so far. Finally, you will be able to leave your bed and walk anywhere you want to go. You’ll be free.” He wants her to know that death is not sorrow but a joy mixed with tears. “It’s your turn now. Be sure and tell everyone about the memories of your journey.” Her friends will make that same journey someday. And someday Kieva will be able to meet all the guests she has known at the inn, far beyond the sky.

‘I however, can never go there. I can never escape this world. I can never see you again. ‘ “This is not goodbye. It’s just the start of your journey.” He speaks his final words to her. “We’ll meet again.” His final lie to her.

Kieva makes her departure. Her face is transfused with a tranquil smile as if she has just said, “See you soon.” Her eyes will never open again. A single tear glides slowly down her cheek. -- Alone in a crowd of rugged men, nursing his drink in the far corner of the old post town's only tavern: Cyros. A single man strides in through the tavern door. Massively built, he wears the garb of a warrior. His soiled uniform bespeaks a long journey. Fatigue marks his face, but his eyes wear a penetrating gleam—the look of a fighting man on active duty.

The tavern's din hushes instantly. Every drunken eye in the place fastens on the soldier with awe and gratitude.

The long war with the neighboring country has ended at last, and the men who fought on the front lines are returning to their homes. So it is with this military man.

The soldier takes a seat at the table next to Cyros's, and downs a slug of liquor with the forcefulness of a hard drinker—a man who drinks to kill his pain.

Two cups, three, four...

Another customer approaches him, bottle in hand, wearing an ingratiating grin—a typical crafty town punk.

"Let me offer you a drink," wheedles the man, "as a token of gratitude for your heroic efforts on behalf of the fatherland."

The soldier unsmilingly allows the man to fill his cup.

"How was it at the front? I'm sure you performed many valiant deeds on the battlefield."

The soldier empties his cup in silence.

The punk refills the cup and adopts an ever more fawning smile.

"Now that we're friends, how about telling me some war tales?

You've got such big, strong arms, how many enemy soldiers did you ki—"

Without a word, the soldier hurls the contents of his cup into the man's face.

The punk flies into a rage and draws his knife.

No sooner does it leave its sheath than Kaim's fist sends it flying through the air.

Faced with the powerful united front of Kaim and the soldier, the punk runs out muttering curses.

The two big men watch him go, then share a faint smile. Cyros doesn't have to speak with the soldier to know that he lives in deep sadness. For his part, the soldier,having cheated death any number of times, is aware of the shadow that lurks in Cyros's expression.

The tavern's din returns.

Cyros and the soldier pour each other drinks.

"I've got a wife and daughter I haven't seen since I shipped out," says the soldier. "It's been three long years."

He lets himself smile shyly now for the first time as he takes a drawing of his wife and daughter from his pocket and shows it to Cyros: the wife a woman of dewy freshness, the daughter still very young.

"They're the reason I survived.

The thought of going home to them alive was all that sustained me in battle."

"Is your home far from here?"

"No, my village is just over the next pass. I'm sure they've heard the news that the war is over and can hardly wait to have me home."

He could get there tonight if he wanted to badly enough. It was that close.

"But..." the soldier downs a mouthful of liquor and groans.

"I'm afraid."

"Afraid? Of what?"

"I want to see my wife and daughter, but I'm afraid to have them see me.

I don't know how many men I've killed these past three years. I had no choice. I had to do it to stay alive. If I was going to get back to my family, I had no choice but to kill one enemy soldier after another, and each and every one of those men had families they had left at home."

It was the code of war, the soldier's destiny.

To stay alive in battle, you had to go on killing men before they could kill you.

"I had no time to think about such things at the front. I was too busy trying to survive. I see it now, though—now that the war is over. Three years of sin are carved into my face. This is the face of a killer. I don't want to show this face to my wife and daughter."

The soldier pulls out a leather pouch from which he withdraws a small stone.

He tells Cyros it is an unpolished gemstone, something he found shortly after he left for the battlefield.

"A gemstone?" Cyros asks, unconvinced. The stone on the table is a dull black without a hint of the gleam a gem should have.

"It sparkled when I first found it. I was sure my daughter would love it when I brought it home to her."

"Gradually, though, the stone lost its gleam and turned cloudy."

"Every time I killed an enemy soldier, something like the stain of his blood would rise to the surface of the stone. As you can see, it's almost solid black now after three years. The stone is stained by the sins I've committed. I call it my 'sin stone.'"

"You don't have to blame yourself so harshly," says Cyros, "You had to do it to stay alive."

"I know that." says the soldier. "I know that. But still... just like me, the men I killed had villages to go home to, and families waiting for them there..."

The soldier then says to Cyros, "You, too, I suppose. You must have a family." Cyros gives his head a little shake. "Not me." he says. "No family."

"A home village at least?"

"I don't have any place to go home to."

"Eternal traveler, eh?"

"Uh-huh. That's me."

The soldier chuckles softly and gives Cyros a sour smile. It is hard to tell how fully he believes what Cyros has told him. He slips the "sin stone" into the leather pouch and says,

"You know what I think? If the stone turned darker every time I took a life, it ought to get some of its gleam back every time I save a life."

Instead of answering, Cyros drains the last drops of liquor from his cup and rises from the table. The soldier remains in his chair and Cyros, staring down at him, offers him these words of advice:

"If you have a place you can go home to, you should go to it. Just go, no matter how much guilt you may have weighing you down. I'm sure your wife and daughter will understand. You're no criminal. You're a hero: you fought your heart out to stay alive."

"I'm glad I met you." says the soldier. "I needed to hear that."

He holds out his right hand to Cyros, who grasps it in return.

"I hope your travels go well." says the soldier.

"And your travels will soon be over," says Cyros with a smile, starting for the door.

Just then the punk charges at Kaim from behind, wielding a dagger.

"Watch out!" bellows the soldier and rushes after Cyros.

As Cyros whirls around, the punk takes aim and shouts, "You can't treat me like that, you son of a bitch!"

The soldier flies between the two men and takes a knife in the gut.

And so, as he so desperately wished to do, the soldier has saved someone's life.

Ironically, it is for the life of Cyros, a Elf who can neither age nor ultimately die,

that the soldier has traded his one and only life.

Sprawled on the floor, nearly unconscious, the soldier thrusts the leather pouch into Cyros's hand.

"Look at my 'sin stone,' will you?

"Maybe...maybe." he says, chuckling weakly, "some of its shine has come back."

Blood spurts from his mouth, strangling the laugh.

Cyros looks inside the bag and says, "It's sparkling now. It's clean."

"It is?" gasps the soldier. "Good. My daughter will be so glad..."

He smiles with satisfaction and holds his hand out for the pouch.

Gently, Cyros lays the pouch on the palm of his hand and folds the man's fingers over it.

The soldier draws his last breath, and the pouch falls to the floor.

The dead man's face wears a peaceful expression.

The stone, however—the man's 'sin stone,' which has rolled from the open pouch—is as black as ever.