[url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MNYhaACwrfs][i]"The gods can judge me when I’m dead."[/i][/url]

[u][b]Name:[/b][/u] Esfir

[u][b]Current Stats:[/b][/u]
Level: [b]3[/b] | Form: [b]Orc Runt[/b] | Tier: [b]2[/b][indent]
MP Up!
Skill Rank Up![/indent]

[u][b]Current Skills:[/b][/u][list]
[*][b]Ingestion[/b] - [i]After consuming a required amount of biomass from a particular Creature, 1 of that Creature's Skills can be copied at its lowest Rank.[/i]
[*][b]Frost Arc[/b] - Rank I - [i]An expanding spray of icy cold, over 10 feet in one direction and 5 feet wide at its furthest edge. The cold is more intense the closer the target is to the origin, reaching its lowest temperature within a span of about 2 feet. It constantly expends Magic Power the longer the cone is maintained.[/i]
[*][b]Murderous Intent[/b] - Rank I - [i]Focus hatred and the desire to kill through the subtle senses. A creature that is weaker than you must exert its willpower or be Intimidated (Intimidated creatures suffer reduced speed). A creature that is already Intimidated, Shocked, or Unaware may instead become Fearful and be unable to act for 5 seconds. Creatures that are stronger than you can only be Intimidated by this Skill if they are already Shocked or Unaware, but their willpower threshold is higher.[/i]
[*]Empty Skill Slot[/list]

[u][b]Equipment and Inventory:[/b][/u][list]
[*][b]Swaddling Pelts[/b] - Equip, Clothes - [i]Old animal skins used to keep an Orc baby warm as they sleep. Once the Runt is old enough to start hunting, these are usually just enough to cover the parts that need the most covering.[/i]
[*][b]Sharp Rock[/b] - Equip, Weapon/Tool, Material Component - [i]A rock with a slightly sharp edge. Useful as a primitive knife or chisel. Can be thrown.[/i]
[*][b]Stomach-Bag[/b] - Small bag, improved from an Elwet's stomach.
[*][b]Elwet Antlers[/b]
[*][b]Rotleaves x5[/b]
[*][b]Rotleaf Seedpods x6[/b]
[*][b]Gizzard Sparkstone[/b]
[*][b]Elwet Feathers[/b]
[*][b]Raw Chalcopyrite Ore x3[/b]
[*][b]Bufonite x3[/b][/list]

[u][b]True Age:[/b][/u] 89

[u][b]Past Life:[/b][/u] They said there would never be another Great War, but it came nonetheless. For Esfir, it had been blurry memories of ash and snow, of an unending hunger and a crushing, impotent rage. She had been a child back then. Her father and brothers had served, marching off into the deathly grasp of winter to hold off those who would encroach upon the motherland. Her mother never recovered from that, and Esfir too knew she wouldn't either. Poverty continued. The victors of the war could not simply share their spoils, the third of the war to end all wars looming upon the horizon. She did her part, labored so that she could have even a sliver of a piece of the happiness that the government promised them all, once their scourge had fallen.

Somewhere along the way, Esfir had realized that she was the only surviving member of her family. Where had her father gone? Her brothers? Her sisters? Her mother? Her aunts and uncles, nephews, nieces, cousins?

Where had the country that she had been born in gone?

The Union ended and so did the war that never became a war. Winter was cold, made colder by isolation, coldest by poverty. She was too old to marry, too old to learn, too old to accumulate the wealth that she shouldn't have needed to. Her memories granted no solace, carved out as they were from misery and trauma. Across vast lands, buildings scraped the sky and broke the horizon, and yet she was not brought along with the tides of change. The enemy, the losers of a war fought and won by her father, were now one of the foremost economic powerhouses. Across the ocean, from an unimaginably distant measure away, the ones whom the Union played political games against were becoming the sole rulers of the world, obtaining dominion through technology and entertainment.

Who would carry on her family's history? Who would remember her and hers, if not herself? Esfir Kosova, a spinster withering away in an abandoned shack in the middle of a barren forest, two hours away from civilization. Huddling in front of a woodfire stove, listening to the static of a radio older than herself, whispering half-forgotten songs from a childhood that never was. Every day growing weaker. Every day able to do less. Every day feeling more and more of the same thing.

Hatred, carved out of the bedrock of a grief that never left. Hatred, rising every time her back agonized as she bent down to pick up a can that she could recycle for a penny. Hatred, towards promises broken and oaths unfulfilled, towards the revolution and utopia that failed, towards the world that developed only by consuming the downtrodden and spitting out their bones in alleyways and sewers.

Hatred, enduring as a tundra's permafrost.

Hatred, vicious as a starving wolf's bite.

Hatred, an eternal, weighty substance, one that so thoroughly stained this soul of hers that she could neither forgive nor forget, even once the world she knew was lost to her forever.

How could she, after all? After all this time, after all this grief, how could she possibly be satisfied with pretending as if none of it happened, just so she could now toil away in a new world as a primitive half-beast?

[i]It was out of the question.[/i]

[u][b]New Life:[/b][/u]
Day 0, Orc Runt > Awakening