Feague: To decorate or improve in appearance through artificial means.
Cyril Carras was, by all accounts, a strange man. Most could and would describe him as honest, dedicated, maybe-even-selfless man. They would be wrong. Yet, they could also be right depending on the value of an actor. If a mummer's worth were measured on the basis of their mask, the ones who state that Cyril Carras would be judged as a saintly man would be right in their judgement. If a mummer were to be judged as though he were any other man, the man would be classified as a monster, a human that has lost his humanity, an utterly pitiful thing. Cyril's emptiness had nothing to do with his father's, although how could one such as he deserve one, harsh training methods that were used to ensure the son would prosper in the world. Cyril always knew in the back of his mind that he never thought the same as his father when his progenitor was showering praises upon his for being a most "prodigal" son. It was merely made clear to him one morn when he was that he would never think the same as his father. Feeling that he was not accordance with the expectations of Westerosi customs as a whole, he devoted his days to his own purification. He attempted, for many of his years, to be pure and noble. He received nothing but disappointment, yet he could not tell it was disappointment, for all his efforts. Thus, he judged himself to be a sinner by his own nature, and took part in punishing himself for his crime of existing. The pain, yet what did he know of pain, failed to change him; the denial of basic necessities, though what were necessities to a being void of all reason, failed to grant him remorse. Soon, his father died and he took part in running his estate, however mere it was. Still, the fruits of his masterful labor failed to grant him the salvation he required. No matter how prosperous his bit of land was, there was no sense of satisfaction to be gained. Thus, he abandoned his name and set out to the North in order to join the Night's Watch. Travelling as a, presumed by all but him, begging brother, he tried to seek his own answer for why he still lived.
He succeeded.
For when he came upon a bandit raid, he found his reason to live and, at long last, what his father was speaking of when he was urged to prosper. For all his agony-that-was-not-agony, he found a reason, an answer. His answer? To protect the people, to act as their lance. With every sinner, robber, and general harmful-incompetent slain, he was happy, after all this time, happy to see their despairing looks on their faces as they were felled by his spear, for it was sign that he was protecting the sinners from themselves, from becoming entrenched in their malicious ways. Yet, an overused spear will soon grow obsolete as the sword arrives to cut off the head of the snake. Cyril merely attached a banner to his own lance and set out on his Seven-given mission: To Protect.
Such is why he sought to enrich Moat Cailin, for, in these times, hunger is the enemy that he must shield his people from.
OOC: Someone asked me what Cyril Carras is.
