Tyrolian

	Wealth was his birthright. His father was an extraordinarily
prosperous merchant in Paris, and the child passed his first few years
of life in blissful happiness. He was a charming child, pampered and
fussed over, prepared for a life similar to his father's or that of
the rambunctious university student, and possibly the worst thing that
could have happened to him was becoming a magus.

	When he was fourteen years old, he drew the attention of the 
the Quaesitor Caldorax, who was travelling through Paris, quietly
probing for children with the Gift. The intelligent and personable
boy seemed a good choice, and his Gentle Gift proved to be another
bonus; Caldorax lost no time in simply having the child kidnapped.

	Caldorax's home covenant was located in the middle of a swamp,
someplace in the Normandy Tribunal, thus guaranteeing a thoroughly
miserable apprenticeship. Tyrolian had little interest in becoming
a magus; it sounded like much too much work. Even Caldorax's cajoling,
showing the boy what could be done with his Gift, failed to arouse
much interest; he was much too interested in sitting about, daydreaming,
indulging in sweetmeats and admiring jewelry.

	Caldorax, however, wasn't about to give up a talented child on
such a minor point as unwillingness. Explaining in no uncertain terms
that the boy would learn or die, he abandoned Tyrolian in a particularly
noxious corner of the swamp, with a small supply of food and fresh water,
a crude shelter, and the instructions for the way back to the Covenant,
telling him that he could return when he was ready to learn, or he could
starve in the swamps.

	Days passed, and the magus kept watch upon the boy. Tyrolian
proved stronger-willed than Caldorax had expected, though in a
somewhat unusual way. Left to his own devices, Tyrolian, half-starved,
merely slipped into another of his fantasies, taking his mind away from
his predicament. It took a while for Caldorax to realize what the child
was doing; once that realization was made, though, it was simplicity 
itself to mold Tyrolian's daydreams into more "appropriate" ones,
with Caldorax carefully manipulating them into dreams of a powerful
magus' life.

	Eventually, Caldorax "rescued" Tyrolian, and the boy slipped
almost numbly into the drudgery of an apprentice's life. There was,
however, one thing that Caldorax had failed to notice. Sometime during
Tyrolian's solitary ordeal, he had come to invent himself a friend,
whom he named Psuedolus -- a miniature purple dragon who spoke words
of comfort and advice, who usually carefully balanced himself on one
of Tyrolian's shoulders. Tyrolian kept this "secret" carefully hidden
from his master, and indeed from all others.

	The years passed, and eventually the boy's natural resilience
and adaptability adjusted to his new situation. Nonetheless, his
attention continued to have a tendency to wander, as he slipped
into his dreams of mundane luxuries, of which there were few at
the Covenant, and certainly none for an apprentice. Caldorax did,
however, manage to impose a fair amount of discipline, and Tyrolian
learned diligence and patience in completing the exacting tests set
before him.

	His gifts were moderately strong, but not overt; his magic 
always seemed muted, his Sigil a certain elegance, and, in some of
his spells of mental control, lingering thoughts of food in the 
target's mind. He passed the difficult Gauntlet of the Quaesitors
without great difficulty, and he was sent to Magvillus for further
training, before being sent back to France to begin performing his
duties.

	He is a man of medium height and build, not overweight but
with a general tendency towards flab instead of muscle. He is not
unhandsome, in a scholarly sort of way, and his eyes are a deep green,
quietly compelling. His hair is a medium brown, thinning at the top,
and he is greatly agitated by the fact that he is slowly going bald,
reacting almost violently to anyone who mentions it to him (or who
even looks like they might comment on it). He has the nervous habit
of running his hands through his hair, as if assuring himself that
he still has it.

	He dresses in expensive robes of deep green, the color carefully
chosen to match his eyes. The cut is simple, but elegant and tasteful,
with discreet trim in gold. He customarily carries a quarterstaff,
inlaid and festooned to look like an extremely oversized walking stick.
His demeanor is usually quiet, his smile slight, his voice generally
soft but firm, and he has the habit of leaning forward and reaching
out to touch the person he is conversing with.

	He is quite skilled at his job, upholding the Traditionalist
interpretations of Hermetic Law, adept (considering his youth) at
investigating matters of interest to the Quaesitors, particularly given
the quiet subtlety of his magic. He fits in well amongst the mundanes,
particularly within the wealthy merchant circles he was born into.
(Thus far, no one has noticed that Tyrolian asks Psuedolus for advice,
though, given that Psuedolus is a wholly imaginary creature, arguments
between "master" and "familiar" are quite fascinating.)

	He is, however, still somewhat lazy and self-indulgent, having
never managed to lose his taste for mundane luxuries (or his daydreams
of the same); he has a particular weakness for fine food and expensive
pieces of elaborate craftsmanship, and he has the tendency to eat
compulsively when under stress. Therefore, House Guernicus has decided
that it is in their best interests to send this young man off to 
Iceland for some "toughening up".

	Tyrolian is pleased by the honor of having been chosen for this
mission, but really wishes it had gone to someone else. He also realizes,
however, that he can't refuse, and thus he plans to do as commendable a
job as possible and hope for reassignment to more hospitable regions.