Hyrun
The Gilded Muse Hyrun
Hyrun Flamewrought the Gilded Muse, or perhaps more pessimistically "They That Bring The Joyless Dawn" is a Divine of many facets.
On one hand, Hyrun is the patron of the arts, like no other: all the world's great music, paintings, and sculpture are dedicated to them, as both the Muse, and as offering. On the other, the great suffering of the artists: whether by writer's block, lack of inspiration, or abandonment by the muse, are all also attributed to the fickleness of the flame that is Hyrun's temperament.
Indeed, many a celebration is inherently a tribute to Hyrun: the rise of joyful hearts, partaking of wine and drink, the intoxicating allure of the night, and the inevitable crash into the morning, bereft of sense and strength. Hyrun is all these things, especially when taken to excess.
Understandably, then, Hyrun's worshippers flock to The Ember Light, a faith that venerates and extolls the virtues and warns and educates of the vices of their patron. However, individually, many an artist, craftsman, courtier, and bard pay homage to the Gilded Muse, hoping that one day the gaze of the Flamewrought might shine upon them, if only so long as to shine without getting burnt in the process.
Hyrun, being a "Divine of the People" opposes those entities that would harm their chosen: the mortals of Arcanorum. However, being a less than a grand strategist than Voxus, or as martially gifted as Aeterius or Kemis, Hyrun chooses to support his people's morale and steadfastness through inspiration, comfort, joy, and song.
- The Gilded Muse
- Flamewrought
- They That Bring The Joyless Dawn
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light."
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
~ Dylan Thomas