Top Posts Tagged with #tyyran

Tyyran-y - Constantin & Tyyran (Villain AU)

Years had passed since the Bard College at Ayrenza had banished a young Tyyran Drachedandion from their halls. His comic acts and mirthful melodies had thrown the patrons of the academy into a rage, and in their pearl-clutching fury they'd sent the young Dragonborn away. Since that time, he had gotten drunk, partied, played songs and told jokes... And he had also found himself in the dark realm of Barovia. The land of mists. There, with a Tiefling, a human, a strange Warlock with a crab friend and a few locals in tow, they adventured through the land, gotten into trouble, and through some unfortunate events… found the spark of motivation to return. Marching through the mists, the triumphant, talented Dragonborn marched into the halls of his old academy. He had been forged in the crucible of Barovia, and was no longer the timid young comedian he once was, rather, a charismatic, sly and noble bard of great skill and wit, and with him he brought the wrath of the Land of Mists in the form of Constantin Vasiliev, a towering behemoth of a man. If Tyyran was the body of the revolution, Constantin was the arm that bore the sword, and with it, the Dragonborn quickly found himself at the seat of his own empire, an academy which he was set to run his way, rather than the prude ways of his forebears.

Thus began the Age of Tyyran the Tyyrannical. Ayrenza, once a school of noble import and a respected institution, now devolved to a happy house of jesters and bards, with an utter clown at the seat of authority, and a dark shadow looming at his side.

Tyyran had it. After all that time he had spent wallowing in self-pity. After all that time he spent in Barovia, he had finally figured out what he needed to do. He'd seen so much brutality, so much bloodshed that he was numbed to it. He was bitter and he wanted the revenge he deserved for being exiled and humiliated. He returned in the cover of night with his secret weapon... a maddened brute of a man who hungered for power just as Tyyran did.

They found Shirren. Asleep in the high tower of Tyyran's old bard school. This was the Noble who had ripped the future from him. This was the noble who cast him away for such ludicrous reasons. Tyyran was about to get his sweet sweet revenge, and according to tradition, once he killed Shirren, he would become the new noble of Aryenza. The two had taken care of the guards at the door and crept into the room with an aura of bloodthirst. Constantin was quick and precise. A small grunt of surprise and then a pool of blood dripping down from the bedside. Tyyran emerged from the shadows, scars covered his scales and a deranged smile glinted in the moonlight. Shirren was still clinging to life as the blood left his body. Tyyran grabbed one of the noble's horns and shook him once while he muttered,

"No more jokes and japes here. You created this monster, Shirren. I'm as serious as you wanted me to be." His smile grew wider, "Now die. Alone and surrounded by enemies." He threw the noble's head back and it hit the bed post. Shirren lulled to one side and eyes turned milky as his gurgling last breath escaped.

The next day, he announced his take over with his silver lute. Commanding all in his Presence to love and fear him. He basked in his new position. For the first time he was getting what he always wanted. Love from crowds of people. Respect from complete strangers and dear friends alike. Power to change what he didn't like. Then... his father showed up.

There was a spark of something primal in Tyyran. Something that snapped him out of his power-hungry state when he saw his dad. He wanted to run into his father's arms. He wanted to cry and say how much he missed him. However, when he glanced over at Constantin... He was reminded that his father did nothing for him when he was exiled. His father left him to fend for himself and the anger returned in full force.

"Father." He addressed calmly.

"Tyyran. My son. What has happened to you?" Rhorrin asked with a tremble in his voice.

"What do you mean what happened to me, dad." Tyyran snarled, "I was humiliated and cast into a world of curses and death. And you." Tyyran pointed at him with a glare, "You did nothing for me. You stayed here with your books and stayed quiet."

Rhorrin's expression changed from concerned to indignant, "Tyyran. The whole time you were gone, I was campaigning against the decision. I was doing everything in my power to get the decision reversed. I had to do it by the book though in order to make it a lasting change-"

"PAH! You're weak, RHORRIN. You should have done what I did and just TAKEN what you wanted. Guards, get him out of here. I don't want to see his face again. Put him in jail if you have to." Tyyran spat.

Rhorrin's eyes shimmered in the dim candlelight. The hurt on his face was undeniable. Tyyran felt that pang again. He hated it. He didn't want to think about it. These feelings... he had to fend them off with rage and anger. That's where they stayed... Behind the broiling fires of his hate.

He turned to Constantin, "Now it's time to fulfill my promise to you, my friend. Let's gather that army."

Constantin stared on with a dark glare as Tyyran monologued and made fun of his victims, and exiled his own father to the prisons of the college. The dragon bard Constantin once knew had long since died. He was right, Barovia killed Tyyran the kind, innocent and joyful, and gave birth to an angry, spiteful monster. Charisma, once natural and pure, became a sharpened weapon of word and wit.

He noticed, every now and then, the looks he received from his new ‘lord’. The sideways glances, often before major decisions to be made. Perhaps the Barovian acted as a motivator, a reminder of the price of power. Yet he remained silently loyal. As time went on and Tyyran the Tyyrannical established his claim, he acted as a silent enforcer, the right hand balled into an iron fist.

His focus returned to the moment as Tyyran addressed him. “If I may, my lord.” He grumbled, bowing his head in reverent deference, a reprehensible act but necessary to maintain the image of authority. “You move too hastily. You have your vengeance. To muster an army now would raise suspicion and opposition in equal measure.” The Barovian had found himself a forked tongue, it seems, as the once-noble Paladin schemed with the bard.

“You must cultivate loyalty, form alliances. To march on Ravenloft with the army of a fool’s academy -“ He paused, catching on the presumed insult. “Without, of course, the reinstatement of your discipline and education, as well as allies from other lands… It would be suicide.”

Tyyran reveled in his newfound power yet when Constantin spoke, he found it hard not to listen, "Yeah. You're probably right." He rubbed his chin in thought, "Why don't we invite some of the neighboring tribe's nobles and rulers out for a nice little dinner?" Tyyran cracked a malicious grin. Thinking about the way he could use his lute to influence their decisions and loyalty.

I know this is what needs to be done.

Another voice broke through in an annoying meek way, Remember Yvan? Would he have liked to see you this way?

Tyyran outwardly squirmed and tried to correct his posture again.

Shut up shut up shut up shut up! Yvan is gone! No point in thinking of that now!! I am a vicious ruler. One who will prove to the world he was deserving of love and respect for his talent!!

Yvan loved you for the way you were...

Tyyran got up abruptly and rubbed his brow, "What do you think, Constantin? Should I send the messenger now or wait a few days?"

He had to focus on something else lest this worm of guilt consume him.

“It will be several days travel. Send them now, my lord, if you desire their presence on the first of the week.” Constantin said. “We must make haste as well, lord Tyyran.” He continued, gesturing a black-gloved hand to the door. “You have an appointment with the former chief of the academy guard. He hopes to petition you for his position.”

Tyyran glanced over at the door, "Yeah yeah. Send him in." Tyyran whispered out of the side of his mouth, "Let's see who this buffoon is gunna be." And rolled his eyes as he shifted in his ... throne? Large imposing badass evil chair? Whatever. It was big, fancy and made him look menacing. He was excited to get on with more of his berating.

The armored giant stood next to the throne, and tapped a massive, wicked glaive against the marble floors, signaling the doors to open. Two of the academy guard ushered in a hooded figure, who strode down the marble hall to stand before Tyyran.

“Kneel.” Constantin commanded gruffly, slamming the butt of his glaive into the floor once again for emphasis. The figure dropped to a reverent knee, prostrating themselves before the new Lord.

“Announce yourself.” The Barovian ordered.

Tyyran eyed the new figure in his court. His build was slender... He noticed this dragonborn had jet-black scales with... hints of purple... Tyyran almost choked as the figure looked up from his kneeling position. The hood fell back and the face of a more mature Arrhin stared back at him, "Lord Tyyran... I'm not sure if you remember me... But I'm Arrhin... we met-"

"I know who you are." Tyyran said in a low tone, "What? Do you think just because you were kind to me once you get your position back?"

Arrhin stammered, seemingly flustered at the Tyyran that stood before him now that was nothing like the young exile he met in Bracklewhyte, "No. Not at all. When I heard you had come to power... I-" Arrhin took a breath, "I respect you, My lord. It would be an honor to serve under you." There it was again that gnawing aggravating voice.

Arrhin respected you as you were...Now what will he think of you? Tyyran waved the idiotic thought from his brain and stood up from his chair with a noble flair, raising his chin into the air, "I think you will have to prove yourself to me. Play me a funny song. Immediately."

The Dragonborn looked on, stunned. Constantin offered the tyrant a subtle, questioning side-eye, but said nothing. Silence filled the hall. “Do not defy him!” The black-clad behemoth bellowed, pointing the jagged blade of his glaive at the kneeling Dragonborn. He looked to the guard standing at the petitioner’s left. “Fetch him an instrument of his choice. We will at least play fair, as is the nature of our benevolent Lord.” Constantin snarled.

Arrhin shuddered under the shout of the Barovian. It was a rare sight to see Constantin Vasiliev, even rarer to hear him speak. Legends abound of Tyyran’s dark enforcer, a warlock of a long-lost land who had made a pact with an evil god for revenge against another. Within Ayrenza, the man was simply the dark shadow of the new tyrant, a bodyguard to soothe the Bard’s paranoia and an example of his connections.

Rumors further ran of his true capabilities. Whispers came of dissenters seeing a shadow at their window in the night, and then being found utterly savaged the next morning. Never had anyone seen Constantin execute someone, but all who looked upon him did not doubt he was capable. Having earned the title of the Tyrant’s Lapdog for his unwavering fealty, few would argue what he would do for his Lord.

The Dragonborn grabbed a lute that was offered to him by a nearby guard. He strummed it softly, clearing his throat.

“From Larsten to Dregnaught… This music shall be sought… Try not to start choking… When I am done joking….?” He sang weakly, fearfully, eyes flicking between Tyyran and his bodyguard.

Tyyran froze. His body going as stiff as an old corpse. He turned his head slowly and a rush of feelings and memories came flooding into him. He cried out in a fit of emotion, "STOP"

The room went dreadfully quiet and it felt as though everyone was holding their breath.

"No. no. no." Tyyran mumbled wildly as he strode toward Arrhin. He hated thinking about the past. He hated every moment it stood there in front of him. Mocking him. Tyyran grabbed the more slender dragonborn by the neck. Tyyran was a flaming mass of anger and regret. As he held Arrhin by the throat he considered that this is almost exactly what Shirren had done to him... with a little less violence... Tyyran's anger flickered into realization and he dropped Arrhin to the ground, the other reptilian spluttered and gasped.

"You aren't Tyyran... huff anymore... cough…are you?"

Tyyran had his back to the other dragonborn at this point, casting an eerie shadow over him. Constantin stood watching with narrowed eyes in the background, clearly seeing the madness filling his lord's eyes.

"No. No I'm not" Tyyran giggled. He began to laugh maniacally, "You know... that was a pretty funny song." He turned back, "But the old Tyyran wrote that." He then strode back to his chair, sat down. One leg lifted over the other and he rested his head in his hand, "Throw him in with my father."

The guards complied silently, dragging the screaming Dragonborn away to the prisons, in the cavernous undercroft. Constantin offered a stern glare to the guards as they departed, before turning to Tyyran. “Respectfully, my lord, he was the most qualified individual presently in the academy to command the Guard Corps. Who do you intend to appoint in his stead?” The man intoned flatly.

It was uncommon that Constantin directly challenged one of Tyyran the Tyyrannical’s decisions, but there were ground rules. It was always in private, and the man had a track record of being right. As in, he only stepped up with total certainty, preying on the trust formed in the lands of Barovia and hoping it would prevail over the tyrant’s seeming madness.

“Many of your detractors will see this as powerful ammunition.”

Tyyran took a breath trying to build his walls back up again, he glanced up at Constantin acknowledging his input, "There's another dragonborn who I remember was ruthless at the school." Tyyran uncrossed his legs and leaned forward intertwining his fingers, "His name is Gherro. If he's still in the Guard Corps, and you think he's up to snuff, promote him." The manic Lord sat back up, rubbed his brow and pointed a finger at Constantin, "Oh, and send that messenger for the dinner immediately. I'm going to go have a glass of wine."

Tyyran got up and made his way to his private study.

“As you command.” Constantin muttered, turning towards the door. Outside, he barked a command to a guard to find this ‘Gherro’ and have him report to the training field.

Tyyran’s office was well-decorated, the former occupant leaving behind a great deal of finery as well as an excellent wine selection in the cabinet, that which Constantin had beaten the lock off of. There was a large plush chair ripe for the sitting behind the fine mahogany desk.

Tyyran flopped into the chair. He held back tears of frustration. He was going mad he was sure of it. He flung the doors of the cabinet wide open and grabbed the first bottle of wine he could reach. He hastily pulled the cork and shakily filled a glass with the dark red substance. For a moment he imagined it was blood, pouring all over his hands and he had to take a swig of the bottle just to remind himself it was just wine.

What am I doing to these people who loved me? A whiny quiet voice rang inside of him.

A much louder booming voice came through, "I'M A NEW PERSON! I'M GETTING EVERYTHING I EVER WANTED! NO ONE WILL STAND IN MY WAY."

Tyyran began whispering aloud as he gulped down his wine, "shut up shut up shut up shut up"

Roughly an hour passed as Tyyran mired in his sorrow and drank his grief away. As dusk fell on the Academy, the glow-globes in the office cast a dull amber light over the surroundings, and just as the room fell to total, utter silence, a figure materialized in the corner of the office, one left empty for seemingly no reason.

Tyyran jumped and cursed when Constantin emerged from the shadows, "Fuck, Constantin. You scared the living shit right outta me." Tyyran took another swig trying to half pull himself back together, "What did Ghorrin say about taking over the position." He slurred.

“I tested his mettle.” Constantin grunted, stepping into the light. His armored fists were soaked in blood, and a faint line of crimson ichor trickled down his nose. “If I was not here to ensure your safety, my lord, I would not trust him. However, he is suitable for the position. He has been given the honor of guarding your halls.”

Tyyran could likely tell, even in his stupor, that Constantin likely did not ASK Gherro about taking the job.

Tyyran eyed the man for a second and nodded, "Good. Good. This is why I appreciate you, Constantin. No nonsense. You know what to do and you do it right." Tyyran grabbed the bottle in front of him and swirled the last little bit of liquid. He pushed a handkerchief towards Constantin with the other, "You got a lil... Somethin somethin right uhhh" Tyyran gestured toward his whole body.

The Barovian behemoth stared Tyyran down, sniffing slightly, before wiping the blood from his face. He stared Tyyran down, a piercing stare, even with his dull, sunken blue eyes. He stood silently, looking around the room. His eyes locked on a picture frame, on the corner of the desk. He could not see it, but he knew what it held.

A photo of several figures. A Tiefling, a large, blue woman, a short, golden-eyed man, Constantin, Tyyran, and a large, handsome man with his arms wrapped around Tyyran. Constantin stalked over to the desk, taking the frame in his hands. "The messengers have been dispatched." He said, staring at the picture with a gaze of contempt, turning away from Tyyran to pace as he observed the portrait.

"You swore to me that we would raise an army. We would march again on Barovia, drag Strahd's entrails across Ravenloft's battlements, yes?" He asked suddenly, casting a gaze over his shoulder to the drunken dragon.

Tyyran's face grew dark as well seeing the way Constantin observed the photo... It made him angry again. Tyyran growled and slammed the bottle to the floor, glass shattering everywhere, "Don't doubt me Constantin! I'm just as driven as you are to make this a reality. I, too, want to rip Strahd to shreds! I-" Tyyran realized that Constantin had seen the way he'd been acting today and that he was trying to remind him of why they were here in the first place. Why they had even come back at all from Barovia. They were here to be relentless, gather a powerful army and avenge their fallen friends. Tyyran kicked some glass shards out of the way in a huff and walked past Constantin trying to avoid looking at the photo, "I'm... tired. I'm going to my bedchamber to sleep off this alcohol. Tomorrow, we'll discuss plans for our 'dinner.' "

Constantin’s massive hand shot out and caught Tyyran by the shoulder, in a firm grip. Firm enough to be a reminder of his bone-crushing power, but restrained enough to not hurt. “Remember who we do this for. His death wounds me as deeply as it does you. The only way we can avenge him is through focus.” Constantin snarled. His eyes glowed with an unnatural fury. “Rest, my lord.” He said, the deferent title seeming a bit…. Empty. “We will discuss this once you are again sober.”

With that, the dragon was released and again Constantin simply disappeared into the shadows.

Tyyran shivered then gave an angry scowl. Of course I'll focus. I'll be the most focused. The best at being focused. He turned away to walk to his bedchambers. The bands of moonlight that filtered in from the tall windows illuminated him in beats as he strode briskly down the stone hall. With each bright cadence Tyyran's expression went from anger to complete maniacal madness.

‘What have you done?’

‘I will kill you.’ ‘Shut up SHUT UP. LET ME FOCUS.’

‘You'll kill me?’ ‘I am you or maybe the better you.’ ‘You've become a monster.’

Tyyran stumbled in a streak of pale illumination and fell back into a wall holding his head. The alcohol was making everything swirl. His sense of self breaking down. Images of Yvan began popping into his head. No. No stop.

"STOP!" he cried aloud and began booking it to his door. He threw it open and crumpled to the cold stone in his room. Crawling forward he grabbed his silver lute from its stand.

He strummed a few chords and suddenly, his world went quiet. He took a deep breath and began to quietly hum a tune. That's where he sat, leaned up against the lute stand until the gentle rays of sunlight danced over the horizon.

Constantin had retired to an office of his own, a dark oubliette deep in the pits of the academy. Lit only by dim candles, Constantin found himself face to face with a magic mirror, and as he looked on his mangled, sickly face, relics of years of war against the dark powers of Barovia, another dark power took form in the mirror, a snarling glare fixed on the Paladin-turned-Warlock. A voice, like nails on a chalkboard, ripped into Constantin's mind.

"You waste time with this foolish dragon-lord while I battle the forces of Death AND the laws of Order. Do you understand, Vasiliev, the price I paid to tear your soul from Barovia?" The voice demanded.

"Yes, I am well aware-" Constantin spat, whirling around to face away from the mirror as he spoke. "- of the great price paid, my Lord. I have paid in kind. Strahd will die! I just need TIME!" He roared, planting a boot against his desk, splintering the wood explosively and sending papers and inkwells flying.

"The Dragon is a weakling. If you want to keep in my good graces, you will eradicate this distraction and return to Barovia with haste." The eldritch voice continued, as Constantin's arms began to crackle with sickly green lightning. "That was not our deal."

"I wrote the contract, and I can change it, little bear." The voice said sarcastically. "Fine. Keep your last little friend. You have a month to return to Barovia before I reclaim my powers and allow your soul to disintegrate. Am I understood?"

"Yes, my Lord." Constantin growled, not yet looking at the mirror. "Look at me when you speak." The voice snarled, and a spike of pain shot through Constantin's head, forcing him to a knee, where he then turned to the mirror, his glare rising to the glass. "Yes... My Lord." The man grunted again. With a satisfied smirk, the face disappeared, and Constantin collapsed, heaving a shaky, rageful breath. The Tyyrant's bodyguard was not again seen until morning, when a knock, knock, knock landed on Tyyran's door, shortly after first light.

Tyyran bolted at the knocking, nearly dropping his lute to the floor. He grasped it in panic and got up to put it back on the stand. Whew, that was close... Can't afford to lose this lute. He thought, wiping sweat from his brow. The dragonborn had a splitting headache and the way he slept had him sore from head to toe. Tyyran went to the door and opened it just a crack to see who was there. A dark, imposing presence sat at the door, one that instilled fear and exuded death and danger.

So, Constantin.

Tyyran opened the door fully, "Ah. Constantin. I assume you've come to talk details about our plan?"

"If that is your will. I see you've not slept." The man said bluntly, not yet entering the dragonborn's quarters. He looked past Tyyran into the room, noting the mild state of disarray, before he locked his eyes back on Tyyran. "You must present yourself with confidence, efficiency and nobility. You have more enemies than you know, and they look for any weakness to manipulate." He said, a bit more truth in his words than he'd let on. Tyyran smoothed his hair back and took a deep breath in and breathed out, "Yeah. Yeah. I know. I know. Give me a second to clean myself up. I'll meet you downstairs in the Council Chamber." Constantin nodded, walking away.

The morning glow warmed the cracked stone of the old building as Tyyran made his way downstairs. He had put on his best suit today, brushed his hair back and stood with an air of superiority. Today he had his lute with him, strapped to his back in a protective cover embroidered with purple and gold. He stepped into the Council Chambers, the creaking of the doors echoed through the vast hall. Constantin was already standing next to the round table. A large map set upon the wall. Tyyran briskly made his way over, focusing on the tribes and countries marked, "I see you've already set things up." Tyyran remarked, pretentiously swinging himself into the biggest chair possible.

"Time is too valuable to waste with setup." Constantin replied, holding a long swagger stick in his hand. He used it to refer to the map, as well as tap his palm idly. Once Tyyran had settled in, and the retinue of staff and servants had made their ritual of offering him any manner of food, drink, ottoman to rest his feet on, a glass of wine, a pillow... They disappeared into the wings once the head of the staff noticed Constantin's twitching eyelid and grit teeth.

"If you are satisfied with the service, my Lord, shall I begin?"

Tyyran chomped loudly on a piece of toast and took a small sip of the wine, "Yes."

"Lovely." Constantin replied, through grit teeth, a long, thin smile stretching across his face. The Barovian titan turned his attention to the map, and began to deliver a monologue on the various nation-states and wandering tribes that inhabited their region of the Sword Coast. He went on for nearly two hours, detailing everything one could possibly want to know about them, as well as information about how best to curry their favor, or in certain cases, manipulate them. He finally turned back to Tyyran, to gauge how well he had followed along.

Tyyran tried really hard to pay attention. He really did. but it was SO BORING. The dragonborn sat fiddling his claws and staring out the window. He got some info about some guys to the east being the most powerful ally for resources? And then some warlord who was notorious for having a well-disciplined and strategic army? Constantin turned back to him and he perked up, "Soooo, it sounds like we just need to invite... those guys." Tyyran gestured to the map vaguely.

“Yes... I have done this.” Constantin said plainly, with a note of tired annoyance in his voice. “My Lord, if you are going to simply laze about during these briefings, swill your wine and dream of the flower fields... We do not have to have them.” Crossing his arms, he stared down at the dragon in his little chair. “I would not waste your valuable time. I understand your desire to remain informed, but perhaps... Perhaps I issue a shorter briefing, and simply take charge of decisions at this level?” The man inquired.

This was a clear and obvious power play. Constantin was suggesting that Tyyran relinquish authority over international, interorganizational and public relations to the Barovian with violent tendencies and anger issues. Decorum was not particularly Constantin’s strongest suit, and Tyyran knew this... But think of all the time he could have to drink, play his lute and try not to think of Yvan while Connie did all the dirty work…

Tyyran looked offended, "I'm here, aren't I? I'm not 'LAZING' about! Sure I want a glass of wine here and some breakfast... and perhaps these meetings make my brain hurt." Tyyran gritted his teeth a bit, frustrated with how Constantin saw him. Though, he partly knew Constantin was right, "Fine. We'll be brief with these meetings. I think I remember most of the names of those who will be at the dinner. At least then I can put into play what I am good at." Tyyran gave a mischievous smile, "And that's charming my way through to a crown."

“Precisely.” Replied the Barovian, with a sharp smile. For a moment, something in his eyes softened. A familiar gaze showing through. Constantin. Not the executioner he had become, but Tyyran’s old friend. “T-“ He caught himself. “My lord. I mean no offense. Your talent and aptitude lies in charm and charisma. Duties I could never fulfill. I simply suggest you allow me to handle that of which I am capable, to allow you to direct your focus to your talents.” He pauses. “With such efficiency, we can redouble our efforts to avenge our friends…. And to resurrect Yvan.”

Tyyran could feel his heart skip at the mention of Yvan. However, every few short happy memories of the two together was replaced with bitter sorrow from the aftermath. Tyyran focused upward with a glint in his eye, "I agree, Constantin. Let's be more... efficient."

As Tyyran wandered away from the briefing, Constantin leered over the map. A voice whispered in his mind, a sickening sneer. “Tick, tock, Vasiliev. You are running out of time.” Gritting his teeth and bringing a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, the man cursed in hushed Barovian. The taunting continued, and as a guard poked their head in to ask after the Lord’s bodyguard, they witnessed him drive his fist through the map table, shattering the entire display into splinters with an enraged shout. The guard disappeared as quickly as he’d arrived once Constantin established eye contact, a murderous glare in his dull, blue eyes. Leaving the wreckage of his briefing, the man stepped into the shadows, again disappearing, this time for nearly a week.

Several days had passed since Constantin had sent out dinner invitations on behalf of the dragon Bard. Ayrenza was alight with hustle and bustle, students, servants, staff all doing their best to stay out of the way of everyone else. The guard was thoroughly stressed, as their new commander and inexperienced staff did their best to process courts, retinues and organized parties from all across the Sword Coast. An Ennari delegation from the Elven highlands, Spirit-seers offering their foresight to any who would listen, essayed into the dining hall where their chief, Eldrad took a seat at a table. The barbaric warlords from the northlands, somehow bringing a civilized retinue and presenting gifts of weapons and fine furs. Thallax Gorechild escorted away from the head of the table, to a seat a few chairs down. In Tyyran's house, only he sat at the head of the table.

Several more processions and delegates essayed their way in, before the final guest arrived. A drifter, in a cloak of leather and a dark hood, known only to the Ayrenzan Academy Guard as... The Desert Wind. He was offered a seat at the other end of the table, as the others vied for proximity to Tyyran. As servants loaded the table and served wine, Constantin stomped through a door, his heavy footfalls echoing across the marble. Armor black as night, seeming to consume nearby light, his voice echoed, distinct Barovian accent tinting every word. "Presenting the grand, noble, mighty Lord Tyyran Drachedandion. Master of Ayrenza, First of the Reformists. Honored be his name." With such an introduction, all rose, the Desert Wind last to join them.

Tyyran swept in with an elegant air. His chin held high and his posture strong. The dragonborn was elaborately decorated in silver, gold and purple hues. The suit he wore was embroidered head to toe in magnificent floral patterns. The lute he cherished strapped to his back. He made his way to the head of his table, his reptilian eyes scanning those who had come. Almost everyone had cloaks on because of the cold weather that was persistent in this area. However, Tyyran's eye caught one figure whose cloak obscured his face. He immediately became suspicious but rubbed it off for now. Once he was able to perform for everyone at this dinner, they'd all be wrapped around his claw.

Tyyran stood next to his chair. He raised a goblet full of wine, "Welcome, valued guests. As the new Noble of Aryenza, I intend on getting to know all of you as esteemed neighbors and, hopefully, as friends. Drink and be merry as I play a ballad for all of you." Tyyran began to extract the silver lute from its holster. The gathered delegation applauded politely, and all took their seats at the table. As they sat, the man at the end of the table brought hands subtly to the sides of his head, looking to smooth his hair under his hat. Tyyran held the attention of the room, save for Constantin, whose eyes scanned across the gathered nobility, ready to leap at the first sign of trouble.

The gathered delegation applauded politely, and all took their seats at the table. As they sat, the man at the end of the table brought hands subtly to the sides of his head, looking to smooth his hair under his hat. Tyyran held the attention of the room, save for Constantin, whose eyes scanned across the gathered nobility, ready to leap at the first sign of trouble.

Tyyran took to a small stage at the head of the room. His eyes glinted with mischievous intent. Tyyran began to play the lute. A new song he wrote specifically for this event;

A ballad of bravery.

Of sadness and memory.

A Vengeance turned stone.

And rising to the throne.

As Tyyran strummed on the little instrument, a haze fell over the audience. The crazed Noble smiled with glee as he focused on everyone in the room, imparting a feeling of loyalty and respect.

We worship the master of song!

A reign that will last and is strong!

A power that rings like a sound.

He sure would look good in a crown!

Tyyran put his all into the performance, trying to keep everyone mesmerized. Watching all of them to make sure the spell was working. He couldn't let any of them get away in case the charm didn't work. He eyed Constantin making sure he also was watching the assembly... He surely was, glaring at the assembled delegation, faint wards glowing over his ears. What good would a warrior be if he were charmed by every little song? The gathered nobles were enraptured with the song. At least, it looked that way. All of them applauded loudly and raucously, all except for one, who offered a polite measure of applause, not yet looking up to meet Tyyran’s gaze. Leather-gloved hands gave out a muted applause.

Tyyran made his way down from the stage, examining everyone's faces, "Thank you. Thank you. You're all too much!" His already toothy grin cracked farther, as he posed a question to test how the spell worked, "Now, how do we all feel about forming a union? One under my rule?" Everyone at the table hooted and hollered, even the most stony and beastly leaders were compelled to shout “YES YES! MAKE TYYRAN OUR KING!” Tyyran could feel that little annoying voice in the back of his mind get drowned out by the cheering crowd. This is exactly what I've always wanted. I love this. I want this all the time. I love this power. I deserve this power.

“You really have changed, Silvertongue.” A voice drawled from the end of the table. Needles of familiarity poked at the back of Tyyran’s mind, yet they did not knit a picture just yet. “I mean, not really.” The voice continued. “You were always the charmin’ sort, but it looks like you went mad fer’ power, and you brought the walkin’ corpse along for muscle.”

Tyyran froze where he stood. He eyed the cloaked figure who had drawn the attention of the whole room. ‘Where have I heard that voice before?’ Tyyran began to play the lute on one continuous finger pluck as he spoke, hoping the spell's effect might amplify. "I know you...You're-"

“The Desert Wind, silvertongue. It’s been a while.”

With a wry grin, the stranger revealed his face, lifting his hat from his head. A handlebar mustache, well-kempt sat under a large nose, and gleaming green eyes stared down the Dragonborn. A long-lost face, likely thought lost to time, or the Mists. It was that man he’d met so long ago. Rough, uncouth, outright rude… But a helping hand. A hired gun.

Sterling John Moses Winchester.

What he was doing here, none could tell. He was no noble, no great leader of men. How he’d made the dinner list was a mystery to all, even Constantin, who stared on with no sort of recognizance whatsoever. Tyyran grew frustrated. His tune clearly not wrapping itself around his target... Sterling!! ‘No! It had been so long... How is he still alive??’

Tyyran spat at the old acquaintance, "YOU SAW HOW CLOSE ALL OF US WERE! YOU KNOW THEY'RE ALL DEAD NOW, RIGHT?! This is what comes when evil begets evil."

Tyyran kept strumming the lute to keep everyone in the room calm and orderly, "Moreover... STERLING... You're outnumbered here." Tyyran laughed and nodded to Constantin while he commanded those in the room to attack the cowboy.

"Sorry, son. Ain't gonna be that easy." The Cowboy’s pistol twirled in his hand, a dexterous spin as it was drawn from the leather holster on his belt. The man fired three shots. The first, aimed at the lute. A classic Sterling technique, a disarming shot. The next two, walked up the fretboard of the instrument, as the man was intent on disabling Tyyran's control over the crowd. Constantin was slow on the uptake, reaching for his glaive, as if all of this seemed to happen in slow motion. Tyyran felt the hard ricochet of bullets off the lute, the fretboard shattered under his fingers which caused him to drop the instrument entirely. Tyyran cried out in both fear and grief, "Constantin! Grab the gun from him!"

Constantin leaped into action, hefting his polearm and tearing off towards Sterling, but before he could make it, two cloaked figures leaped out from behind pillars. Dragonborn, with longswords and parrying daggers. Their hoods were torn from their heads as they met the dark giant in combat. Prisoners escaped from their cell, Rhorrin and Arrhin. They swung at Constantin's knees, Tyyran's father catching an armored boot to the face while Arrhin caught a vicious swipe from the glaive in response. They did not survive long, but the escapees had fulfilled their task. They'd given Sterling time. "Sorry to hear about yer' friends, and yer' boyfriend. Sure they woulda' known you were better than this. Sorry, buckaroo. You went about it wrong, and I can't let it continue." Sterling drawled, the barrel of his gun still smoking from the rapid burst. "For what it's worth... I really liked you when you weren't a maniac. You were a real good singer. Shame it had to end this way."

Click... BANG!

Everything happened in an instant. However, to Tyyran, it seemed the world slowed down. He witnessed how Constantin tore through two of the people he knew he loved but didn't want to face... Echoes of the past booming with the sound of a revolver... a little voice that sang quietly in the back of his head... And something warm began to flush in his chest. He looked down to see vivid red dripping through his dress shirt. He'd been...shot.

‘Tyyran, what have you become? You're going to die as a monster... you idiot. You stupid lizard-’ Tyyran fell to his knees making painful eye contact with Constantin for a brief moment and tears began to form in his eyes... In this moment, He was no longer a power hungry tyrant... he was no longer mad with guilt and grief... For a moment he was Tyyran. The Tyyran that was banished from this very school for being a goof... The Tyyran Yvan loved. The Tyyran of the before. With a raspy gurgling breath Tyyran wheezed to Constantin, "I'm sorry, Constantin... I couldn't do it..." Then he crumpled... his head swirling with last thoughts and distant memories. The laughs and long conversations with Rorali. The moments of reflection and healing with Bettany. Fighting and singing alongside Constantin. Learning new things and exploring with Thalassia... plus... the sweet tender morning and evening kisses with Yvan... All of it was fading to black..

Constantin's eyes flared with a sickly green glow, rage filling every ounce of his body. His opportunity, his chance at revenge... His friend. Dying. With a series of rapid hand gestures, Constantin channeled a healing spell, directing it at Tyyran. One that would bring him back from death. Sterling ripped a scroll from his jacket and yelled a word of power. The scroll glowed and incinerated itself, as Constantin's magic fizzled. The bastard had brought a Scroll of Counterspell. As he watched Tyyran bleed out, incapable of conjuring more than one healing spell due to his dark pact, he screamed with rage, turning and hurling the glaive across the table. The Cowboy ducked as the polearm went to impale him. Constantin stepped to Tyyran, attempting without any success to conjure more healing magic. He was a Paladin no more, and that was the price. "He will pay." Constantin swore, as he spoke to Tyyran, kneeling by him in his final moments. "Be at peace." He mumbled, before disappearing in a coal-black cloud.

Sterling was on the run. Bursting through the dining hall archway, spurs jingling with every pounding footstep. Every turn, a look thrown over his shoulder, waiting for the big man to catch him. He turned back to face the direction he was running, just to nearly run into the Warlock as he appeared from a cloud of shadow, reaching out with a spikey, gloved hand, a grab for the throat. The short man ducked under it and kept going, drawing his pistol again and firing six shots at the Barovian, all of which ricocheted off of his heavy armor. The man tore off after the assassin, footfalls cracking the marble floor as he raged after the murderer. He had done it. He had laid low the tyrant that put the entire Sword Coast at risk with his charisma, control and power-hungry madness... But now he was probably going to pay with his life.

He burst through into the campus courtyard, blowing past a handful of panicked guards and students as he raced for the bridge. On the other end, a Half-elven woman with striking red hair held a portal open, gesturing panickedly for Sterling to hurry as the Barovian behemoth came bearing down on him. When he reached the end of the bridge, he stopped. He grabbed the woman by the shoulders, saying something inaudible. They shared a look, a kiss, and then the woman was shoved through the portal, the rift closing behind her. The night was falling on Ayrenza, the academy under attack, their new lord and master staining the tiles of the dinner room with his lifeblood. Constantin came to a stop at the far end of the bridge, staring the cowboy down as he looked away from the college, towards the direction of the now-closed portal.

The sun hung low in the sky, the western sky ablaze with the warm palette of a summer sunset, hues from orange to purple struck across the clouds and open air, a painting worthy of the gods of art. Sterling did not yet face his enemy, who roared furiously. "YOU TOOK MY ONLY CHANCE!" He raged. "MY ARMY. GONE! MY FRIEND! DEAD! WHAT DID YOU SEEK TO GAIN FROM THIS?" The Barovian screamed, taking another earth-shaking step forward, hands crackling with green flame. "Tyranny cannot stand, big man. You woulda' said the same, all those years ago. Before that poison or wha'ever got to yer' mind. I remember yer' friends, how hard they fought to save you, they would not have wanted thi-"

Sterling was cut off by a shockwave of anger rippling from Constantin's position. DO NOT SPEAK OF THEM!" He howled. "I challenge you. Death. Here and now." Sterling spat on the ground. "Fine, that's how you want it, Vasiliev? That's the way it'll be." Sterling turned to face Constantin, his hand hovering over the pearl-handled revolver in his right-hip holster. A crackling of energy formed violently in Constantin's right hand, as they stared each other down. The sun dipped lower in the sky. Overhead, a raven's wing-beats broke the silence, with a loud caw. The tension built, built, built... To a palpable level. Neither man moved, until suddenly the silence was again broken by the screech of an angry, desperate Eldritch Blast...

And the sure-fire crack of a Deadeye's gun.

Fin.

Trending Tags

Last Seen Tags

#tyyran

Trending Tags

Last Seen Tags

#tyyran