Character: Curly Butterfly
Status: Been sick but alive for 25 years

Leaving the comforts of his family's traveling mecha circus was both scary and exhilarating, even if he couldn't express it beyond his perpetual look of annoyance.
Excitement for the prospects of a world that wouldn't treat him like a baby, something needing constant care around the clock for his sickness. Fear of being on his own for the first time–save for the womanly mecha of dubious awareness trailing close behind. But if even the wealth and influence his family had couldn't buy him a cure, then he'd fix one his damn self!

So Curly travelled far and wide, cultivating his knowledge in medical alchemy and collecting ingredients he thought may help him–often through very ‘unconventional’ means.
In that short time away from home, he had already seen more of the world than he ever had in the circus. And for a moment, his mission became an adventure. But then, his arm would remind him why he was here– the skin, so many shades of purple; his veins bulging and pulsing angrily, his hand so mutated it resembled a beastly claw, and the pain that would flare unpredictably.
Though he did find it funny–and crude– that the only thing stopping his disease from spreading further was his pants belt so tight around his arm, it could've snapped anyone else's. 

Through the north, where ice and snow were more plentiful than air to him, Curly stumbled upon Fort Bael. Though old and crumbling here and there, it endured.
Convincing the guards to let him in had been easy–though he quickly realized why when whispers of missing supplies and teams caught his ear. They needed help, much of it. And he would rather endure some labour then be left to the frost. Even if he didn't want to deep down.