In the emerald twilights of the Feywild, Oryn was once the 'Piper of the Pale Moon,' a creature of pure, unthinking hedonism who believed life was a song that never ended. That song stopped abruptly eighty years ago when a planar rift spat him into the churning grey meat-grinder of the Storm-Grit Coast. He watched the 'Star of Elfhame' shatter against the rocks, its crew—friends he had laughed with for a century—swallowed by the brine because there was no light to guide them. Oryn was the sole survivor, washed ashore with nothing but a salt-clogged flute and a sudden, crushing understanding of mortality.
He traded his flute for a heavy wrench and spent the next four decades in self-imposed exile as the keeper of the Low-Light Beacon. He found a new kind of rhythm in the rotation of the great glass lenses and the predictable violence of the tides. But when Baron Vane began intentionally extinguishing the coastal fires to lure merchant ships to their doom for salvage rights, Oryn realized that being a spectator was no longer enough. He didn't want to lead a rebellion; he simply viewed the Baron as a 'clog in the machinery' that needed to be forcibly removed. He polished his old brass lighthouse hammer and began treating the local resistance like a disorganized ship's crew in need of a stern boatswain.