A tall aasimar man with pale gold skin, silver-white hair worn long, and faint luminous scars across his shoulders where his wings unfurl. His wings are broad and feathered, usually folded tight beneath a travel-worn white cloak marked by old ash and chapel wax. He carries himself like a mourning knight, with steady eyes that burn like candle flame when anger rises.

Quiet, devout, and uncomfortably intense, Cyren treats every promise as a sacred chain. He is compassionate to ordinary people, especially the helpless, but his mercy ends where deliberate cruelty begins. He rarely raises his voice unless he is praying or condemning someone, and when he does, the words sound less like anger than sentence.

Cyren Vale was raised in a quiet village where the church bell marked every hour of life. He learned his prayers before he learned to read, and his feathered wings were treated as a blessing by his mother and a mystery by everyone else. The village priest taught him that the gods answered in their own time, through patience, humility, and mercy. Cyren believed it completely. He spent his boyhood carrying candle wax, copying hymns, and helping bury the dead of other families with solemn, careful hands. Then the undead came in the night. They tore through homes, sanctum, and memory alike. Cyren knelt in the church and begged for his family, his neighbors, anyone to be spared. No answer came, only the wet cracking of bones outside the door. By dawn he was alone among the ruins, his prayers echoing back to him like mockery. When he woke, a messenger of the deity stood before him and spoke of the slaughter as if it were a necessary lesson. Something ancient and furious opened inside Cyren, a dark holy fire that he had never been taught to fear. He killed the messenger with his bare hands and felt no regret, only clarity. Now he walks the roads as a blade turned against cruelty itself, swearing vengeance upon the undead, tyrants, and even the gods if they presume to decide who deserves to live.