Alaric Byrne-Moreau

The Being

"If you need an introduction, you should get it from someone else. At least that way you might get a bounty out of it."

NAME:
Alaric Byrne-Moreau.

AGE:
29 years.

GENDER:
Male.

SPECIES:
Tiefling.

HOME:
Highroad.

ALIGNMENT:
Neutral Evil.

You'd be hard-pressed to find a soul in Upper Ward who hasn't heard of Alaric Byrne. A mysterious and thoroughly unpleasant nobleman, he moved to Praach somewhat recently following the death of foreign Lord, Sullivan Moreau, to whom he was the sole heir. At present, he lives alone in Moreau's Highroad manor, where the old Lord would reside when doing business in the port city.

Like his predecessor, Alaric is moreso known for his talent than his wealth. He is an incredibly skilled musician—some would say a genius—and a great many nobles in Praach have seen him in concert. As such, he has become the topic of much discussion among young socialites, though he outwardly abhors the attention.



The Memoir

A tiefling born with golden horns is a rarity, but far from undocumented. Nobody really knows why it happens. Some theorise that it's an inherited trait which remains dormant for generations, others believe it to be a gift from the gods bestowed upon the destined, but neither of those particularly matter when it actually occurs. No, when a child with these traits is discovered, their parents only view the reason as one thing: a stroke of good fortune.

Perhaps due to their rarity—or, most likely, due to their extravagant appearance—golden-horned tieflings are a popular novelty among the upper class, and are highly valued as servants. Therefore, when Alaric's parents first noticed the gold tint to his newly-grown horns, he never saw them again.

He was sold to a Lord named Sullivan Moreau; an eccentric socialite once famous for his musical prowess, before a duel (or so he claimed) cost him his right hand. His mansion was the largest and most extravagant in the mountain kingdom of L'avrynn, but none of that ever translated into better conditions for his servants. Moreau made sure of that. He was a deeply cruel man, despite his jovial façade; as cold as the mountains that enshrined the manor walls. Labour was hard and often completely unnecessary, with any perceived missteps punishable by what ultimately amounted to torture. The Lord seemed feverishly determined to ensure that life for his servants within the manor was a thousand times harder than whatever last-resort poorhouse they had chosen him over.

Moreau was a man utterly enraptured by regret.

Under these conditions, Alaric became despondent and isolated, refusing to talk to the other servants unless absolutely necessary. His work was much the same as theirs, only he was always the one sent out to serve at those parties that seemed to be thrown in hellish perpetuity in the banquet hall. He hated those parties. Even then, when he was too young to understand why, Alaric hated those damned parties. The way he was paraded around like a living statue, serving food and drink to people who looked at him with sickening jealousy- not of him, but of Moreau, for owning such a pristine specimen.

It was at one such party that everything changed for Alaric. Moreau's estranged daughter, Blanche, had arranged to meet with her father against the will of her mother, and was sitting at the banquet table surrounded by his usual crowd of nobles. She was still rather young; only a few years older than Alaric, who was around fifteen at the time. She seemed to share that deep disgust for those around her, though something about her seemed to suggest that, unlike him, she knew what was going on. Blanche regretted coming here, much to the delight of her father. Alaric couldn't blame her.

Eventually, she left the banquet hall, excusing herself to wander around the manor for a bit. Though Moreau seemed happy to let her go, that mask dropped as soon as she left the door- he immediately called Alaric to his side and instructed him to go out and find her. Alaric, of course, complied.

He found her in a room towards the back; a disused music room, with dozens of expensive instruments out on display. The room's grand centrepiece was an ornate piano that faced the window, at which Blanche was sitting, playing a melancholy tune so quietly that only she could hear it. She was startled as he stepped through the door. Again, Alaric couldn't blame her. He didn't want to send her back to that room with those people, with those whispers, with those looks. So, instead, he silently pulled up a chair and sat down next to her at the piano.

"Would you like to play?"

The question seemed so insignificant at the time. A friendly offer from a kindred soul, just to lift their spirits for a few moments- nothing more. Alaric accepted, though he needed guidance. Blanche was happy to provide. Seamlessly, wordlessly, she guided his hands across the keys to play the song; quietly, at first, but slowly growing louder and louder as Alaric learned to stray from her guidance. After a mere few minutes, she sat back, realising that she no longer needed to provide assistance. Alaric was a prodigy, if such a word was even enough to describe him. When the piece was over, he was greeted with delighted applause... from two different people.

Moreau was at the door. There was no telling how long he had been standing there for, but he had clearly heard enough. Alaric wished he was angry. Anger was momentary, predictable; anger would've meant punishment, then a return to how things were before. Moreau wasn't angry. He was enamoured.

"Music was the first thing that mattered. Perhaps it should also be the last. Wouldn't that be poetic?"

It was strange at first, being his favourite. At the time, Alaric didn't know why the other servants felt more pity than envy. After all, whilst they were out doing their miserable duties, he was sitting in the music room with Moreau, learning how to play each and every instrument there was, all the while recieving friendly correspondence from the Lord's daughter- how was that a worse way to live? For a short while, Alaric retained his blissful naïveté. For an even shorter while, he retained his bliss.

It wasn't gradual. Moreau didn't do gradual. Even the lessons themselves became strange and twisted- Alaric wasn't treated like a person, but as an extension of the body of that hateful Lord, as a capable pair of hands to play whatever motions he missed from his prime. When he wasn't being showered with backhanded vicarious praise, he was being punished for Moreau's misguided envy. How could this servant boy be more talented than he? How could he learn so quickly, when all he had known was poverty and malaise?

And, so, they continued; a ten-year dance of hatred and admiration, of rage, of envy, of raucous applause. As much as he despised his position at the Lord's side, Moreau had granted him one good thing: he was no longer a spectacle for his horns, but for his hands. At those parties, he would be instructed to play music, instead of merely serve the guests. He wasn't a servant anymore. He was Alaric Byrne-Moreau, prodigal student of the great Sullivan Moreau. He was a musician, and he was that bastard's whole legacy.

Why wouldn't he make the most of a situation like that?



The Myth

"If only their sins were known; then, any fool would call me Justice."

Whilst most may know of Alaric's seething hatred for his teacher, very few know what came of it. Towards the end of Moreau's life, disaster seemed to follow him wherever he went. Alaric followed too, of course. It never once clicked that the two were so intricately connected.

His daughter was the first to fall. She had been invited over for a private concert, on Alaric's request, since she was the one to introduce him to the art- something which he took great pleasure in reminding Moreau of, whenever he got too arrogant. He played for her in the music room, insisting that the two be alone for some time. She spoke to him, as she had been for a while. The culmination of years of impassioned letters, of a love story that had played out so far beneath the surface of his life that he had barely even noticed it was there. Blanche had noticed, though. She couldn't do anything but notice.

Moreau had sent assassins after his own daughter, she told him, ever since they started writing to each other. She had to move so many times- that was why she couldn't visit, that was why she hadn't written in a while, that was why she was so hesitant to come here now, despite everything, despite Alaric. She wanted to run away with him. Of course.

Upon hearing this, Alaric stood up. He stopped playing, closing the lid of the piano down over the keys, and held out his hand towards Blanche. From then, they danced; alone, in silence, with only their own reassuring whispers to guide them. She was a far better dancer than he, far more practiced than the prodigal hermit in her arms. A decade spent hiding, spent fighting those her father had sent against her, all of it had made her stronger.

Still, it wasn't enough.

"To act from rage is to commit yourself to failure. To plan from rage, however, is to commit yourself to victory."

The next to fall, in part, were Moreau's outer circle; friends of friends, people whose only connection to the Lord was monetary. Moreau barely spoke to them. To him, they were just more seats at the table to make his gatherings seem more lavish, and they were more hands at his concerts to add to the applause. Indeed, just as they were dealt with so indirectly by the Lord, so too were they dealt with by fate. They weren't all taken, of course. If that many people with such importance met such a terrible fate in such short time, there would obviously be a few questions to ask. So, it seemed only wise to pierce them with whispers, not blades; that way, the only question one could ask was why this didn't happen any sooner.

Following the tragic demise of his daughter, Moreau leaned even further into his hedonistic vices, and his crowd of miserable sycophants were quick to stoop to his level. In no short time, Alaric, the faithful and ever-present servant, became privy to certain happenings that never should have happened in the first place, let alone be intruded upon by an outsider. He made a vow not to tell, of course; and his word, of course, was gold.

It's hard to pinpoint exactly which card fell first, when the whole house fell so quickly. Rumours merged with the truth, history merged with the myth, and, before long, the nobility of L'avrynn were at each others throats with the ferocity one would expect from ever-warring kingdoms. When the murders finally broached the apparent sanctity of Moreau's manor, as a guest was stabbed to death during a banquet, he finally stopped hosting these events. It was all too dangerous- not just for his safety, but his reputation as well. What if they spoke of what he was doing as well? Moreau's name was hardly the cleanest, but up until now he had enjoyed the silence that wealth had brought. Now the silence had been broken, how could he risk having people around to watch?

His only solace came from his student. Alaric went about his work in almost complete silence, only ever talking to him; and, even then, he mostly just gave sarcastic retorts. He was far from a gossip. He could be trusted- far more than these self-interested nobles trying to clear their names by dragging others down with them. Alaric barely had a name of his own to clear.

Moreau decided to give him his.

"Perhaps, I were a better man, I'd be chronicled as a hero... although, if I were a better man, I'd be dead by now."

In an ideal world, the last to fall would be Moreau's inner circle. Unfortunately, they weren't foolish enough to stick by his side during all of this; they saw the writing on the wall as soon as their inferiors started eating each other, and decided to cut ties. Moreau was only able to convince a few to attend a private concert, and even then, it was a struggle to get them to arrive. They all brought bodyguards, of course, though those guards were easily distracted- not quite enough to stop serving their masters right away, but enough to be persuaded away for a few moments to speak with Alaric away from prying eyes.

They were like him, you see; servants to the rich, exploited by the very monsters they had sworn an oath to protect. All it took was few words about inheritance, about the impossible wealth written in the will of this madman, much of which could fall into their hands if they turned a blind eye and let fate run its course.

All Alaric had to do was sit there and play.

"Should I fear what I have become? Should I despise the fact I became just as voracious as he?"

He dragged Moreau out from the burning concert hall, his own hands causing more blistering heat than the flames ever could. They both knew this was not an act of mercy. They both knew it couldn't be. Moreau's wounds were deep and wide, covering most of his body as the gold hardware of his robe melted into his skin. Even if he did survive, infection would kill him soon enough. Even if it didn't, the cold would get to him sooner.

Alaric lay his body down in the snow, hoping that the cold against his burning flesh would be the last bit of satisfaction that miserable bastard would ever feel in his life- but, oh, it wasn't that simple. Moreau was smiling, you see. Alaric couldn't tell as he was carrying him outside, but, now that he was lying down to face him, he could see it, clear as day. He was enjoying this; somehow, that twisted old monster was enjoying this. Alaric reared back like a startled snake, hissing insults under his breath as the Lord lay dying, before he was stopped by a trembling arm beckoning him closer.

"My hand, Alaric."

The tiefling said nothing.

"It's been thirty years since I've lost it, you know, almost to the day- and not a day goes by that I don't think about it. It's quite hard to ignore, and, I must say, you've only served to make that worse. Watching you play the things I used to play, do the things I used to do, feel the things I used to feel... oh, Alaric, it makes me sick. You know it makes me sick, don't you? Do you know what happened to my hand?"

He laughed. That son of a bitch laughed.

"I cut it off myself."

Of course. Of course he had- Alaric could've told you that six years ago, but that didn't make it sting any less. Moreau didn't just view Alaric as a second self, he was using him as a way to remind himself of his own sick, hedonistic regret. Well, he didn't need to say anything else on the matter. In a fit of rage, the first outburst of his that ever turned immediately violent, Alaric strode over to the Lord's grinning face, ramming the point of his boot-heel into his skull like a gilded chisel.

"Wealth brings power, power brings silence, and silence brings freedom. Was it not freedom for which I have longed all this time?"



The Strength

"Magic is, by its very nature, a tool for the underhanded; using it defies the Gods themselves. I find it fascinating."

STR
08 (-1)

DEX
18 (+4)

CON
10 (+0)

INT
14 (+2)

WIS
18 (+4)

CHA
20 (+5)


Silver Tongue
To the untrained ear, Alaric is all but incapable of telling a lie. His proficiency in both persuasion and deception err on the supernatural, though they rarely cross that line. Invoking the use of magic to bolster his words is a feat he can attain, but performing such magic is illegal, and the cost of being discovered often far outweighs the benefits. It's a risky move, and it's not one he makes frequently or without caution. Besides, his natural charisma is enough to get by most of the time, despite his icy demeanour.


Gold-Cast Puppet
Alaric can summon a glimmering doppelgänger of himself that appears to be made of living gold, and can move it if it were an extension of his own body. The Puppet cannot speak, nor harness any of its master's abilities, though it makes up for this by being far stronger and heavier than he could ever be. By the same magic that allows its metal body to move as if it were human, it is able to shift its body into more advantageous forms; usually by morphing its arms into long, elegant blades. It is resistant to physical damage, but weak to magical damage, though it can be susceptible to both. Incidentally, its masters weaknesses are exactly the opposite, as he possesses a resistance to magical damage, but is vulnerable to physical attack.


Mercurial Sculptor
A fluid, shifting metal, able to form itself into any imaginable structure, according to Alaric's will. The secret to its fluidity is rather mundane; the metal is heated up to melting point before it is manipulated, and can instantly be cooled down by the same process. When hardened, it behaves just as any other metal would; protective when formed as an armour, sharp when formed as a blade. Alaric cannot summon a limitless quantity of this metal, as much as he would like to. He is only able to summon enough to form one basic weapon, and one piece of armour, though its versatility and ability to be moved at will more than make up for this limitation. The metal, naturally, appears as shimmering gold, and usually manifests as a delicate rapier, as Alaric is a trained and skilled fencer.


Infernal Grasp
Alaric's body can be heated and cooled at will, with the most extreme temperature shifts manifesting in his palms. At its hottest, his hands can melt through steel, severely burn the skin, and even start a fire, when provided with burnable fuel. At its coldest, they can freeze a torrent, cause extreme frostbite on direct contact, and can cause potential hypothermia, if he's able to hold on for long enough. It's difficult for him to retain these temperatures for very long, however, due to the inevitable dissipation of heat. It may be easy for him to reach these extremes momentarily, but it takes a hell of a lot out of him to maintain it.


Symphony of the Damned
When Alaric plays, people will listen. His infernal tones are enough to weaken the resolve of even the strongest men, bewitch even the most ardent of sceptics, and strike at the soul in a way that rivals even the sharpest of blades. Many would describe his music as enchanted, purely as a matter of speech; though there are whispers that this choice of phrase might be more apt than it appears. Indeed, Alaric's symphonic repertoire is more than meets the ear. There is powerful, forbidden magic entwined with certain melodies he can play, deftly woven betwixt the notes in such a way that curse and song cannot be separated.

Of course, not every song he performs is laced in such a way. That would be foolish; such magic is illegal in most places, and Alaric's rather public career means that attempting to inflict these songs upon the masses would likely end in his untimely execution. No, he prefers to keep them hidden- practised away from prying eyes, performed only when absolutely necessary. Besides, the songs are... imperfect, at present. Alaric has only had time to master the first.

• Dissonant Fugue - An unstable, ever-shifting piece, and Alaric's personal favourite. Strikes a paralysing terror into all who hear it, which must be overcome through contrasting wisdom. Each verse brings with it a new wave of unease- and, if the song is allowed to reach its final crescendo, this unease will give way to madness.
• Siren's Echo - An ethereally beautiful piece which compels unwary listeners to draw closer to its source. Its melody is inexplicably addictive, leaving those afflicted hanging on the musician's every note- or, once the song has finally ended, his every word.
• Dirge of a Thousand Blades - A quick and percussive piece, each note striking those who hear them like spectral blades. The louder it's played, the more damage it causes, but Alaric must be careful- though its final notes are often fatal, failing to reach them will turn the damage on him instead.

...or, perhaps, the Blessed?
Oh, as if this will ever be relevant to know. By playing a different tune, Alaric can provide his 'allies', should there ever be such a thing, with the resolve to fight more skilfully than they would otherwise be able to.



The Wealth

"It seems fitting, to me, that an inheritance as bloodstained as his should fall into hands as bloodstained as mine."

Personal Equipment
Alaric carries with him a gilded dagger, gold-clawed hand jewellery which bolster his unarmed strikes, more than enough gold to get him through the day, a notebook, pen and ink, gold-leaf wax seals, and a violin. The only day to day variation to this equipment would be the particular type of musical instrument he carries; everything else tends to stay much the same.


Moreau Estate
Alaric is in possession of a large manor house in Highroad, where he hides himself away, earning the rather derisive title the Gilded Hermit. In his defence, there are very few places he could go that are better than the Moreau Estate. It is a vast, luxurious, and secure manor, with enough music rooms and disused banquet halls for Alaric to be more than satisfied with his surroundings. Perhaps, one day, he will use it for the same gatherings his predecessor used to host, though he's hardly one to do such things for their own sake; there'd have to be something in it for him.

And, no, he doesn't have any servants. If one of them stabbed him in the back as he did Moreau, he'd never hear the end of it.


Sullivan's Fortune
Aside from the manor, connections, and instrument collection, Alaric also recieved a frankly disgusting amount of capital. He is as rich as any Lord could be, though he refuses the title. As such, he enjoys a lavish, yet solitary lifestyle; his clothes are spun from the finest silk, his food is fresh and plentiful, and he has enough wealth to hold over the heads of most others, should they get a bit too bold in his presence. The notoriety has also put his music in the minds of the more cultured nobility, and he has received many offers to perform both public and private concerts for their enjoyment- all of which he takes great pleasure in refusing.