[hider=Dakota Crow]
Name: Dakota Crow

Age: 28

Description: A morose Apache without a family who lives a quiet fruitless life of self-punishment for his actions of the past, with the tendency to become manic around fire.

Appearance: Dakota is an Apache, as is apparent by his olive skin, coarse black hair that falls down to his shoulders, and eyes so brown they seem tinged with gray. There is a fierce, yet miserable look about Dakota. His skin is stretched tight over his skull, emphasizing an already broad forehead, cheekbones, and jaw. He stands tall at 6’3, but generally carries himself in an unhappy slump, rounding his shoulders and letting his arms hang low. His body is lean and hard, and before their deaths his tribemates had nicknamed him “butte” because they joked the spirits of the wind had chiseled his wiry body like they carved out the massive rocks in the desert. Dakota does not dress in the traditional clothing of his tribe anymore. Instead he has adopted the attire of the white man. He typically wears a pair of brown or tan chaps, a breezy white cotton shirt tucked in neatly, and a black cowboy hat with a single gray feather that is threaded once flatly against the brim. 

Bio: 
Living day by day. Growing and thriving under the arid sun. Enjoying his family, his tribe. Learning not just English from his intelligent father, but crafts valued by both Apache and White Man. Dakota enjoyed his life, all up until the point that he killed everyone he knew and loved. 

His obsession.
 
Dakota played with fire. If anyone knew, they would say he was obsessed. They would say he was a maniac. Whether he was cradling a small ember in the palm of his hand (embracing the blister of pain that came with it), or setting blaze to a dry thicket that expanded for dozens of acres (something he’d done more than once), he was fascinated by it. It’s warmth, it’s light, it’s constant hunger. Dakota related to the fire on every level. He even loved it. Eventually it consumed him, like it does everything else; he couldn’t bear to part with it. Every time the flame went out, he too would feel extinguished. At least, until the next time he got to reignite. 

The ritual was inside of their largest tee-pee. To celebrate and thank the spirits for a good harvest, the entire tribe packed inside to perform a twelve hour sweat. Nearing the end, when the humidity was at it’s worst, the entire tribe close to breaking their mescalito enchantment, and when the fire was running at it’s lowest, was when it happened. 

Dakota didn’t want to see the flame go out. He couldn’t bear the ensuing darkness or the chill that followed. He’d just been passed the vat of mescaline, and a long draught of it increased his mind numbing fear of losing the fire. There was one more log by the fire pit. He reached for it when his father, the eldest member of the tribe, grabbed his arm. He had a look in his eyes. Disappointment, and [i]fear[/i]. 

In that second, Dakota was aware that his father knew, and his own fear spiked even further. He pulled away from his father, who tightened his grip. Dakota tried to throw the log into the fire. Somewhere in the struggle the vat of mescaline tipped. 

The oil seeped down towards the pit, and the brightest most beautiful flame Dakota had ever seen erupted within the teepee. 

It had left him unscathed. It reduced the teepee to cinders, and the bodies to ashes, but the fire had spared him. The beast had chosen not to bite the hand that fed it. He sat for hours under the moonlight and among the smoldering remains until the last flickering flame died. When he stood, he realized he was not alone. 

There was a man; or something that resembled a man. The thing wore all black, and stood tall amid the smoke, he seemed to bask in the fumes. Dakota thought it must’ve been the mescalito, but the man’s eyes shined yellow, like the front light on a distant train. His face was shrouded in darkness. The moonlight didn’t seem to touch him. 

“You now live a cursed life, Dakota Crow. Only one path can lead you to peace.”


In the months and years that followed that fateful night, Dakota left his Apache heritage behind, and joined in with settlers’ society. He carried his curse with him wherever he went, and never stuck around in any town for too long. Three years had passed since the loss of his tribe when he came across Ulysses. The man in black, and the words he had spoken that night never strayed far from Dakota’s thoughts. Upon cresting a mesa and first catching sight of Ulysses, Dakota had lit a match and heard the fire speak. “Path to Peace” This is where he is today.

Other: Since that fateful night, Dakota has had a strange relationship with fire. Anytime he’s near a flame, big or small, it becomes a manifestation of his dead tribe. They’re not particularly happy with Dakota, but neither do they hate him. The tribe can influence the world in a variety of ways through an open flame. They can cause it to immediately extinguish, something they did to Dakota on many cold nights during his three years as a nomad. They can grow it and spread it if there’s available fuel nearby. They can speak through the flames to him. And once, when he came across a burning stagecoach, the fire spat out his father, who followed Dakota for over a mile, clubbing the back of his head and spitting insults. Dakota presumed he’d finally disappeared because the fire at the stagecoach had gone out. He has accepted being cursed, and carries matches with him wherever he goes. He considers it his penance, and the tribe eagerly agrees with him. 

[/hider]