We were not expecting to see Dirzryn again, as our very first interviewee it was clear he disliked sitting for a portrait. A cocky and self-assured man he only plays formalities when he wants something. Sure enough he arrives and graces us with false pleasantries in order to query us about Aezyln’s recent visit. He is clearly not concerned with locating his brother but is rather interested with the workings of our studio and the questions we pose to our candidates.
As he is most obviously fishing for information, we propose that he sits again, in front of our shiny new team of artists and takes the questions for himself. He complies despite the fact it displeases him. Playing tenuous games however is somewhat a speciality of his. At 78 years of age and 5ft 10 in high Dirzryn is freakishly tall for his species.
He is a newly appointed leader. He has had few years governing affairs and ‘slouching from house to house’ as those below him would like to think. The now deceased man who took head position before Dirzryn was well loved and revered; Raeid A'Sahr was everything the people wanted. Dirzryn on the other hand is far too tall and comes from an impoverished background; the people hate him with more reverence than they loved Raeid. This is a factoid that Ungus gleefully likes to reference in between rubbing his greedy little fingers and sneering.
Dirzryn doesn’t care so much for politics; he knows the true nature of this former puppet Raeid. We would like to say he is too kind to tell his people, but as he is quite an arsehole who knows how much they hate him we figure he finds it more an amusing joke. He doesn’t care for the simple men and clarifies, ‘I do not pander to civilian opinion and we have smaller councils to fix those problems. I simply serve my Lord as he asks.’
The Lord he serves is Lukas Graye, yet this subject appears to be a sour one, or at least one he will not speak of at length. He also has nothing to say of his family apart from, ‘I never knew them.’
He bears an air of calm and sedateness around him that is unsettling, quite like the quiet precursor to a storm.
This magical aura is one that settles and rises with his temperament and sometimes catches the feathers of his hair or the trail ends of his long coat. His glyphs occasionally illuminate and the electrics in the room falter. We cite that he is deemed one of the most powerful Mages currently in existence; he is neither boastful nor bashful in admittance of this fact, unfazed he nods, ‘so I am told,’ and then stares blankly at us again.
His stare is cold with the intensity of fire, a captivating and purposeful icy blaze. His eyes are bright and yet darkly unfathomable as though he has mastered masking his soul from those who would brave his hardened gaze. His overall expression is equally difficult to read, his lips rarely breech the edge of a smile, his body language calculated and gestures precise. This man leaves nothing to chance and trusts no one. Like a noble and practised master of his skill he judges the situation carefully and concisely before making his move.
We understand he was a high ranked tactician and warrior in the last Great War, yet again he has little to say on the matter. We really wanted to ask how many thousands of men he had slain but the slight and sharp pinch of his brow when we pondered the amount of ‘bloodshed’ made us realise it was a stupid question and that we quite like having our arteries, organs and brains in the places that nature intended.
Dirzryn has a quick tongue and short patience. He appears aggravated beneath the surface, his mind is busy elsewhere and he resents being pestered. ‘May I now leave?’ he pertinently asks the steel bracer on his left arm catching the light as he twists his hand in questioning.
We know he only asked to be polite and dare not say no. We are well aware that he could leave anytime he wanted. As he exits the energy in the room settles, the lights tick back up to full and those of nervous disposition find breathing space.