Roland the slave, Roland the dog, Roland the conscript, Roland the warrior, Roland the Immortal, Roland the Optio, Roland the Soulless, Roland the Broken. These are but a few of the titles Roland has amassed in his lifetime. When Roland was five years old when The Forsaken raided his small village and took him as a spoil of war where he was first used as both a prostitute and as a 'squire' for those in gladiatorial games, cleaning up the messes left behind after the bouts and helping the competitors to gather their equipment as well as 'ease their nerves.' During one such incidence in which one of his masters forced himself upon Roland they became violent sooner than usual and in the moment, Roland bit their manhood off, proceeded to claw out their eyes, and tear into their jugular leaving the man dead mere minutes before his battle. Seeing promise in the boy Roland soon found himself in The Forsaken's hodge-podge army where he learned how to fight and live off the land. Roland was a clever child and soon rose up the ranks over the years through tactics that were considered suicidal even by The Forsaken's standards and was no longer a conscript and rose to the rank of officer and as such, earned the right to literacy.

Roland was an exemplar of The Forsaken's culture who had earned the right to be a gladiator at Forbes' grand stadium, though not under the circumstances he imagined. His first match? The legitimate child of the first man he had murdered. Ever since Roland's first kill it had become easier and easier for him to dehumanize those he was slaying, those he'd aid in capturing to work the mines. The realization had left him feeling sick for days leading up to the match until it finally came. After a long and drawn out battle, Roland had finally defeated his opponent, without having to slay him. However when his back was turned the opponent then revealed he had strapped dynamite to himself blowing himself up only a few short meters away from Roland. It was at this point Roland's abilities revealed themselves allowing himself to form a shield that took the brunt of the impact, the rest of it sending him across the field from the battered but alive, revealing that the nausea and cold sweat he had before the fight wasn't just the jitters, but symptoms of his transformation. Now known as an Immortal Roland was seen as too essential to be used as entertainment and was place back into the military to hone his ability while securing the king's interests. Drunk on power and fame Roland found it easier than ever to suppress his conscious and with his new abilities, Roland made a meteoric rise through the Legion and social echelons. Eventually he was chosen to be a member of The Soulless, the best of the best where he received new training in not just the Longinus, but espionage and special tactics. He was to be The king's hand, imparting his will above Roland's own, by any means necessary if need be.

During one of their intensive training regiments they were to be buried alive and have to dig their ways out or die trying. While Roland made it out easily thanks to his abilities and soon enough others did too. Surprisingly enough a majority of unit were also able to break free of their coffins and make their way out of the sand. Or so it had first seemed. When the others of his unit congratulated each other and went to go feed and fuck in celebration Roland had stayed behind to admire his handiwork and have a smoke when he heard muffled screaming which he had realized was the smallest and weakest of his unit, Eobard. While he wasn't the strongest or the fastest or even the bravest, Eobard had joined the ranks of The Soulless by having a natural inclination towards medicine and with formal training could be a doctor. Despite his role as their unit's medic Roland was just as ready as the rest of his unit to leave him behind after all, he was unable to get out of his grave, he'd just wind up in one somewhere else right? Even still Roland was hesitant to walk away and that's when he heard it again. The voice that he had first heard in the hallway before his first gladiatorial bout. The voice that had pleaded with him every time he got into a fight, saw a hungry child, a three legged puppy and a sad whore. Uriel the Merciful. A schizophrenic manifestation of what was left of his conscience, Roland had spent the years since he had first gained his powers using every vice and drug under the sun to try and suppress their voice but when they did it didn't seem to be because of anything Roland would do. Please, Uriel pleaded, Save this one. Even if you won't do it because it's right you know he's valuable! You know what he can do! After much dragging of his feet and listening to Eobard's sobbing Roland finally conceded on the agreement that if Uriel would be quiet until Roland called for them Roland would save the wimp. In a few seconds Roland had dispersed the sand entombing Eobard and even tore open his coffin. While Eobard had first cowered thinking that Roland was going to kill the manchild himself he had instead grabbed him and pulled him out, telling him to hurry up when the blond haired, sun-burned scarecrow of a man asked him why he saved him, Roland simply said, "Well I reckon that it'd be a mighty big shame if someone as smart as you died in such a stupid way."

When Eobard reminded him that the others would kill them in an even more horrible way Roland devised the brilliant of deciding not to tell them anything. Through out the rest of training Roland would help Eobard with the more physical aspects of their training while Eobard the more intellectual. Over time Roland learned that their medic had a similar story to his. Eobard had been taken as a slave when his family was on his way to Forbes from Fairbury to pick up cadmium when raiders struck. 10 years old at the time Eobard was just starting his apprenticeship with his father when he was captured and put through many of the same trials and tribulations that Roland himself was, his only saving grace was his rudimentary medical knowledge proved he was too useful to put on the front lines when he was conscripted where eventually he ended up where he was. By the time their training was done the two were genuine friends who would not see each other for some time as Eobard was to be part of the medical corps while Roland would become a scout serving The Forsaken as a scalpel rather than cleaver.

After countless missions serving the king's will, the elite soldier was ordered to be part of a century of Soulless Ones to attempt reconnaissance north of Quinton, past the endless white obelisks that warn all those who might pass that they were entering into foreign territory. Edenite territory. They were only three miles into the land when they struck- still able to see the border between the two lands. Their enemies were unseen and they were slaughtered by the dozens. It was then that Roland transformed into his Awoken form and after that, he remembered nothing else, aside from waking up far from the site of the slaughter in the remains of what looked to be a black, broken chrysalis. After finally getting his bearing and realizing he was near the outskirts of Quinton, Roland resupplied what he could in Quinton he returned to the border to see his entire century wiped out.

Taking this news straight to Ironhold he was immediately called a liar, a coward and a traitor. His punishment to be death by crucifixion. Stripped naked and nailed to a cross, Roland was pierced with his own Longinus and was to have a slow and agonizing death. It was during this time where what little strength Roland had was spent using his powers to keep his guts from spilling out and finally ready to die when the guard who was assigned to watch over him in case he escaped suddenly had his brains blown across the sun scorched land. It was him. Eobard. It had seemed while Roland had spent most of his time in foreign territory fighting for king and country
Eobard had slowly been rising through the ranks until he became one of the King's physicians. Using his own Longinus to remove the spikes Eobard sneaked him into the medical wing of the King's fortress for aid. Unable save Roland by himself Eobard was able to convince them that having an Immortal owe you a life debt was sure to pay off and so surgery commenced. After weeks of treatment where he was confined to a bed (that was often hurriedly sneaked somewhere else) where the only other 'person' he had to talk to was Uriel.
It was during this time that Roland was taught about a different form of honor, of helping those weaker than yourself, not just so that you may exploit them, but so that their life is easier. When Roland finally recovered his strength, he decided that for him to understand this strange being's way of thinking (and finally shutting them up) he must go out and experience it for himself before truly deciding what is the true way of honor. Drawing the blade, or never unsheathing it.

Renata is a simple girl with simple pleasures: Namely, pleasuring herself, explosions, and the occasional hit of epinephrine.

Usually mixtures of the three. An adrenaline junkie since she fell off a cliff at the age of six, saved only by a fox breaking her fall (and its spine), Renata's trademark was boundless amounts of enthusiasm. Her father, co-owner of Monsigny & Bodle, a popular scrapping and rigging establishment, made a tidy sum, dressed tidy, and led a tidy lifestyle. Renata was not. Prone to scavenging in her youth, she acquired the nickname Schatz from her mother—which was both a byword for 'sweetheart' and 'treasure.' It stuck, as it fell in line with her natural narcissistic tendencies. Schatz grew from scavenger to tinker, toying with motor parts and wheels she could pilfer from her dad's scrapyard.

Renata has something of a history with fractures. Her first 'car'--basically an engine with three wheels and a seat—crashed into a tree at 15 miles an hour and snapped her knee backwards. She broke her arm in two places in the subsequent runs with the half-destroyed 'vehicle.' Schatz's happy place was away from her family and among danger. She spent more time in the scrapyard in her youth than in her own home; climbing things, breaking bones, making things blow up—her solace was disaster. It was in Schatz's teenage years that she found her love of adrenaline was something more than just a passion; it bordered on fetishistic. She didn't so much want the high as she did lust for it, and her taste for danger turned into a full-blown addiction.

Much to the chagrin of her pursuers, this meant that most makeout sessions took place at 60 miles an hour.

Her affection for speed became something entirely more lucrative when she realized her juryrigged contraptions could easily ferry people across the landscape. At the age of 19, she opened up her own business, a taxi service meant for the wanderers of the wasteland.

Schatz's first voyage ended in tragedy. The vehicle's fuel tank burst, engulfing her passenger and nearly reducing Schatz herself to ash. Her left arm was burned terribly, though the rest of her bailed clear of the carnage. Worse yet, she was in the middle of the desert, two days from Harlem and she certainly wasn't making the trek up the Big Empty. With a useless arm and no means of rapid travel, Schatz's optimism turned fatalistic in a heartbeat. If it wasn't for a dishonored Aqueous wandering the badlands, she was sure to have died. Covered in rags and carrying a pack mule's share of survival gear, the man must have gone mad from the heat. His attire was strange; in respect for his sacrifice, Schatz took his hat, which helped keep the sand out of her nose.

His corpse facilitated her survival. She not only made it to Harlem, but took it upon herself to finish the hike all the way to Laguna. On the thoroughfare, though, she came upon more impediments than Schatz would care to admit; she had the body of an outdoorsy mechanic and no weapon to defend herself with. By the time she'd made it back home, Schatz was down to the clothes on her back and her stomach was screaming for sustenance. It was then that she came up with the idea for Chutney. Given her slim-but-solid frame, she was used to carrying weights, not slinging them around. In order to protect herself, she enlisted the help of a few close friends and scoured her father's scrapyard. In the process, she found an old yellow poncho stashed into a car's chassis and a couple of magnets. With the help of a particularly resourceful tailor, the newsboy cap and now-scarf became something of Schatz's trademark, if only as a neat party trick.

In the process of protecting herself against her own dumb mistakes, she took it upon herself to get a tattoo—a reminder that just because something is fun does not make it any less ill-fated. Schatz worked on making her machines more passenger-friendly, perusing the scrapyard's new acquisitions for viable, functional parts. Neither hammer nor reminder could save Schatz from herself, though. After three years' worth of refining, she'd finally created a vehicle capable of making it from Sinoma to Serenity with great ease. Of course, being the girl she was, she decided to run it over the tallest dune she could find as a final test. She'd been ill for the past few days, but she thought nothing of it and pushed on with the test run.

She sneezed, her fingers slipped and the wheel spun underneath her.

Her rib cage turned to splinters. Her breath stuck like a molten iron in her throat. Death approached, shrouding the edge of her vision with its cape fashioned of the void. A Spark of life, however, came to her in her dying moments.

It was then that her powers arose. She felt her bones move. She felt every splinter mesh and crack and force itself together, an eternity of utter agony, and then... Black.

Schatz was in a coma for a month. When she woke, a wisp of her former self, the bedsheets were on fire. Or—they weren't. Something was burning underneath. She could feel it. It was like her skin was being barbequed. Her atrophied, bony arms threw the sheet to the side with great effort, and she realized the source of the fire was herself. By the time the nurse had arrived, Schatz was spreadeagled on the cool tile floor, her patient's gown thrown haphazardly over the bedside.

By the time her next birthday came around, Schatz had grown into the powers bestowed upon her. Though she lamented not being able to carry around backpacks or stand too close to magnets, her indomitable optimism pushed her ever onward. Finally living with a mote of trepidation before diving headlong into disaster, the Schatz today takes the ramifications of her actions into account—but she'll still probably do terminally stupid things anyway.

She's like to take it upon herself to 'help the world,' somehow.