He is fast on his feet, sharp minded and witty. He has exceptional reflexes and a world full of knowledge stored in his head. Patient, methodical and good at tinkering or creating. Being no one special he has mastered the art of going unnoticed and pretending to be someone else. He is a savage poker player.
Drowning. Fuck the ocean!
The end of the world
Non combat trained
Reading & studying
Agriculture / gardening.
Secrets?: Nope, there is nothing to read here. No sir-ee For unknown reasons his true heritage has been suppressed and hidden from even his own memory. While it has left some blank holes and confusion in his past, it has allowed him to infiltrate the WDL. He should look something like this. Affiliation: Moral Alignment: Lawful good
~ Combat Profile ~
Major Abilities: More of a ritual Mage he gathers power from careful preparation and immaculate detail. His Faith in the greater good is far stronger than the faith in himself. Raw fearless desperation, determination and desire make up for what he lacks in experience and training. + Demonic magic - Demonic pacts + Summoning magic - Demon summoning + Wards magic - Defensive and traps.
Minor Abilities: -Information gatherer
With a sharp eye for detail, highly tuned senses, an insatiable curiosity and an impeccable memory, he is a walking library.
He doesn't eat much, sleep much or drink much. But he seems to be doing just fine regardless.
-The sixth sense
His body is attuned to the energies of magic. He sees the residue of magic since past were others see only nothing. He can feel the density and strength of a shield that otherwise shows no signs. He feels the aura and intention of powerful creatures and the density and pressure of great items. Sometimes it's a strange vision or an odd whispering sound. Maybe just a gut feeling or haunting tingle along his skin.
Special Ability: Friends in low places.
For reasons unknown he has the attention of a powerful dark entity. It sort of watches over him and speaks to him. Not so much his ability, or even a good idea, ever. But, he can, if necessary, do it. Temporarily surrender his body to some dark spirit. To whom or what happens after, he doesn't know. This is unlike a failed possession and leaves no lingering ill effects.
Biography/History: For many years the term 'parents' was a foreign concept to the young orphan. Raised in a strict school, even now he doesn't realise how unusual and unorthodox it and it's practices actually were. As the smallest and youngest he often caught the disgruntled brunt of the older children and never really understood why. They bullied him a lot making him feel weak and helpless as he was tortured for their amusement. Eventually he graduated and couldn't be anymore eager to get away from that horrid place. He found a more caring family environment but wasn't adopted by the standard parent figures instead more of a cult community. Finally though he found people who cared. Here, they were happy to teach him all they knew, and it is where and how he developed his deep love of reading and learning. Following that passion as he grew he took his skills to the WLD were he found a mutually beneficial arrangement.
Other: Bit of a wimp, easily scared, low confidence.
THE "We're all gonna die one day, might as well make some cash doing it."
Name: Captain Howell Carver DoB: 2939 (56) Gender: Male Rank: Commander Bio: Growing up in the colonies he was a talented mechanic from a long line of proud Navel men. Learning to fly at a young age he became an ace pilot during the colonial war, however Howie Carver was fighting on the wrong side. The losing side. For six long years he fought fiercely for the colonial republic against the empire. He believed in what he fought for, thought it was the right thing. He learnt the hard way that there's no justice in this universe except only that which you make for yourself. The war was unsustainable, lives and resources became scarce for the republic while the empires wealth seemed endless and their reach near limitless.
Like many others he eventually gave up, salvaged what he could and slipped away into the darkness of the edge of space. Regrouping with friends, family and other survivors. The next 10 years were hard, barely scraping by, living in hiding and on the run. Howie's natural skills as a mechanic, pilot and leader were put to good use as he helped move goods and people about. Smuggled them into or out of planets. Salvaged wrecks. Tracked down those lost at war and reunited families, or at least gave closure.
He built grateful contacts from both sides of the war and found a new focus and reason to fight upon the discovery of the insectoids. But by the time he gathered a team, got the permission, acquired the resources and was given the OK, it was already over.
Now with one of the earliest incarnations of the modern mercenary factions, his specially acquired team was quickly snatched up into the chaotic corporate wars. Things got bloody and messy, money is a powerful motivator that led to backstabbing and betrayal.
Even though nearly dying and being out of the game for quite some time while recovering and adapting to his new cybernetics, flying was all he had and all he had known. He quickly put together a new team and eagerly joined in under the newly forming, much approved, Mercenary Federation.
He is an old man that has played a part throughout much of modern mercenary history. He is known by many and a strong believer and bastion of the republic. Despite his age he is still one hell of a pilot with an invaluable wealth of knowledge based on personal hardships and experience.
Company Name: Lantallian Mercenaries guild. Specialty: Ship to ship / stealth. Bio: Carver believed in quality over quantity and built his team from the best of the best that were available after the end of the colonial war. A special op's team. Their reputation only grew as their corporate achievements amassed. Their wealth became blatantly visible along side their companies 'unusual' success. Having reached the top of their game it was no surprise that they had to fall. A large target was stained on Carvers back and he lost it all.
A humbler and wiser man, still addicted to the game, he started again from the ground up. With the support of the Mercenary Federation behind him he continued on vowing not to make the same mistakes again.
THE MAN ON THE FLOOR
'Info' Equiped with silencers, motion trackers, and sound dampeners, they are also able to bypass standard security systems.
'Mission History' Pirate raids in Alpha Centauri: Allied with IMPSEC. -Manny's Mechs, NCBW Mission success captured pirates alive.
LMG Fighter ships
Viper Mark II
'Mission History' Pirate raids in Alpha Centauri: Allied with IMPSEC. Mission success although many Pirates fled.
Name: Ryder Race: Horned human? (he doesn't know.) Sex: Male Appearance: As image. In his late teens. Backstory: Abandoned on a doorstep as a baby, Ryder does not know much of his true heritage. He has had an affinity for magic and monsters for as long as he can remember. He is not sure if his horns are part of his biology or simply a side effect of his magic. Either way they have always caused him to be treated different. Of all the races he could be he is neither one nor the other. Despite his adopted parents trying their best to look after an unexpected child, the world remained cruel to Ryder. Motivation? Well that's easy. He has a deep seeded desire to obtain knowledge and will do what ever it takes, use what ever he can, step over who ever he has to, to find and uncover the secrets of magic. Personality: Quiet, calculative, serious, short tempered, arrogant and selfish. Skills: While physically capable, he is nothing extraordinary. He fights with calculated technique and every deceptive advantage possible. Knowledge is power. He has a good grasp off written history and knows many languages. Abilities: Lvl 2
Ryder believes that everyone has a darkness within them and this spell brings it out, making a monster out of a man. It works on creatures too. Bolstering their physical abilities to their peak while diminishing their ability to reason and think.
Commune with the wild(ability)
As in the name, this ability allows Ryder to understand and give simple directions to a wild animals on the level as though it were a pet. At this point it's just a basic primal understanding of one another.
By touching, being struck by, or generally becoming familiar with a creatures unique physicality/ability Ryder can replicate it to a degree. This is a high drain on his mana as he is forcing his body to do or be something different.
Efficient healer (passive)
Never look a gift horse in the mouth. Ryder doesn't know why but his blood heals up all small scrapes and bruises pretty darn quickly. He has also learnt it can help heal others too.
By far his most favourite and used spell. It kept him company when no one else would. To create a small creature out of nothingness and share a unique and powerful connection with it.
Inventory: Growing up in a life of poverty, Ryder has never really had much except for his magic and a thirst for knowledge. Right now he is carrying around nothing more than his simple clothes, a mostly empty coin pouch and an old rusted pocket knife that was used to pin a letter to the door he was left at. Theme song: Misc:
Description Vallen is a morally righteous good law abiding and serving citizen. As a bounty hunter he lives by his values and virtues. He can be a bit uptight at times. He has travelled far chasing a wanted criminal all the way to the chasm. No one escapes justice.
Personality Quiet, calm,
Bio With no interest ever in becoming a delver, Vallen had taken a path ensuring law and order were met. Wanting to bring criminals to justice he became a bounty hunter. His true purpose was to one day find his fathers killer. It was when he came across a case that matched the details of his fathers disappearance that he followed the criminal all the way to Orth. Believing him to have escaped into the chasm, Vallen quickly trained to become a delver.
His fathers body was never found at the site of the explosion.
Because of his fathers old position Ryder has become a link between the guards and the coven. This also enables him to keep the coven up to date with the latest rumours and happenings nearby.
Song & Trade
Ryder's helpful nature and desire to see people smile means he will often offer a song to lift spirits or simply run errands for others. His gift of the gab makes him an accomplished trader.
Place of power: Graves, anywhere the dead reside. Medium: Family crypt below his house. (Though it's actually the bones of his family but he dare not move them.) Emotion of power: Pride Catalyst: Family Crest Material component: Blood.
Backstory: Ryder is a polite and charming young man. He has a quick wit, sharp tongue and many sweet words amongst them. He has an interest in near all expressions of art but is most fond of the theatre and music. Second to only that is his wonder of technology and the possible future. Strangely door knocks make him suspiciously nervous and he refuses to ever be without some sort of weapon. He has a very helpful nature. He favours the crossbow and knives.
Ryder was born into a wealthy proud family and lived in a grand house. His father a reputable guards captain from a long line of nobles and his mother a care free spirit, a famed and heavily sought after travelling vocalist. It was said that she had the voice of an angel and he had the courage of a lion. The duo were a perfect match for each other. Truly inseparable. Shortly after meeting he lay down his sword for her and she gave up her nomadic lifestyle for him. They raised Ryder well and had as much love for him as each other.
Their love story is one for another day, all you need to know is that like most great stories, it ended with tragedy. The noble captains past eventually caught up with him. For no matter how righteous his intent and actions were, there was somebody who found ill of them and would never forget what he had done. It was a cold vengeance that was taken out on young Ryder's family. So many years late. For so long had their enemy carried such a heavy hatred around in their heart. That kind of weight changes a man.
Ryder's father was now but an old man. He fought his best and bravest to the very end as intruders forced their way into the house. Ryder will never forget that moment. The casual steady knock on the door. All was normal and sound as another warm evening came to an end. As his mother opened the door Ryder, as he often did, was admiring the polished steel of his family crest given to him by his father. His fingers were delicately tracing the feathered lines of the lions wings when he felt a sudden warm splatter hit him across the face. The shining steal in his hands became spoiled with tainted spots of red. Then the screaming began and soon after an ensuing shouting and chaos erupted in his quiet friendly home. The rest still haunts him in his nightmares. Having watched his father die right before his very eyes. Narrowly avoiding the same fate with his mother. The moment right before it could happen, as she held him with trembling blood soaked hands, sobbing heavily while gathering just one simple breath. Her last soft sweet whisper, a gentle and calm, honey soaked voice as she said goodbye and used a magic Ryder had never seen before. A young helpless scared child teleported halfway across the country. Those are the nightmares that still haunt him to this day.
It was to Ryder's uncles place, on his mother's side, as to where he was teleported. A small shack in a busy market city nearby. His uncle, a clever if not somewhat lazy Mage raised and tutored the boy the best he could until Ryder was old enough to be sent to the Covern. The two had only travelled back to Ryder's house once over all those years and that was only to respectfully rest and bury the departed. It was safe to say that after going through that, Ryder thought he would never go back. And that he would never want to. But as a final parting gift Ryder's uncle taugh him to face and turn those negative feelings around into a positive and useful energy.
The house was larger than Ryder had remembered. The estate had barely been touched since the day he last left except for maybe by the odd vagrant or rat. It had a lot of work to be done on it. Withering with time and settling with dust and decay. In truth the only reason it had not been sold off was because his family name still held some sway amongst certain important people. But as with time, grief and pity too soon pass, leaving Ryder to make his own way. With his little magic learned, and people skills developed, he managed to join the Coven and that is where he is now.
A simple targeted discharge of stored or drawn forth chaotic energies. Primal and raw this unnatural, unrestrained force hits with some impact.
By delicately infusing his body with the raw powers of chaos magic he can temporarily defy the natural laws and limitations of his physicality, going beyond normal mundane capabilities.
Chaos weave :
Beneath the perceived existence, beneath refined reality, raw chaos runs free and wild. There are unpredictable streams and weaves running all over the place just beyond our comprehension connecting places, people and events to history. With this magic he can utilise these streams to teleport himself or another. The trip is often disorientating and hard to control.
Appearance: Pretty much exactly as image. Dragon tattoo and all. Maybe, just maybe a cleaner shirt.
Personality: Head strong and stubborn. Can be considered abrasive and rude but deep down he is deeply caring and protective. Although he only shows this with a tough love approach. He is confident and often altruistic in his actions. However his low self worth causes him to act recklessly often with little regard to his own safety.
Background: His mother passed away when he was just a young child. He still remembers the days of seeing her bed stricken with a terminal illness. His father was a respectable hard working guy, doing the best he could with what he had in an unfair world. After his mother's death Ryder's fathers life slowly spiralled out of control from the loss. He became an abusive alcoholic who could hardly provide for his son. Who hardly tried. Ryder suddenly had to grow up fast and became bitter and hard.
Never give up, never back down. Ryder pushes on despite all odds not knowing when to quite. When his sights are set on something he becomes a true force to be reckoned with. This lets him carry on where others would fall but due to the likely hood of overdoing it this can also be considered a flaw.
His rough street lifestyle and poor upbringing have taught him to be a fighter. While not extremely technical, experience has taught him how to take, dodge and deliver a punch.
Relic: A necklace locket that has an early picture of his family inside. Happier simpler times. It has long since been fused shut. To keep it safe it is often tied around his wrist and tucked securely into his glove.
He was born into a world that was changing. The war had ended. Women were feeling empowered and could vote. Prohibition led to bootlegging. Mickey Mouse was created and the first 'talkies' began. Bread became sliced and penicillin was discovered. America was exciting and prosperous. He had the perfect happy family unit.
1930's Suddenly hit by the Great Depression his happy family fell under a lot of stress. Growing up in this time was not a lot of fun, he couldn't really remember the lavish lifestyle they had grown accustomed too but his parents did, and they took the loss hard. His father became a bitter alcoholic and his mother was miserable as she dreamed of greater things missed. He was not a stranger to domestic violence or hunger. He found solace and silence hiding behind the lens of a camera. Capturing the tragedy that surrounded him.
Early 1940's WWII began just as he was becoming a man. Pressured by his father he volunteered just to get away despite not really wanting to go. His time serving is a story in itself. His hobby and passion continued to grow. He was now considered a daring photographer and was becoming renown for his risqué raw portraits and truthfully brave war photos. He captured the fight in Italy before transferring to France where he himself was captured and became one of the many POW destined to never return home again.
Mid to late 1940's He and the others had become a toy, a plaything, an experiment for sick sadistic supernatural creatures. Here he learned of the true darkness that had been existing alongside him all this time. He was now awakened to the evils of the world. After what seemed like an eternity of torment he seized an opportunity to escape during a raid on the hideout. He wasn't sure if it was military, religious or feudal, but he didn't care.
He remained in France and continued to practice his profession. It was there that he caught the attention of his future sire. A malicious selfish creature wrapped in false promises, fake intentions and a cunning smile. At first she easily lured him with her mysterious beauty. A vain creature she was, stealing him to immortalise herself. He quickly learned of what she really was.
then the riches and glory of a celebrity lifestyle, later fear and threats became the motivator to stick around. They had many years together but as all things it would eventually come to an end.
Golden age of television, The Catcher in the Rye is published by J. D. Salinger and invigorates the rebellious youth of the period, eventually earning the title of a Classic with its profound impact Rock n roll enters mainstrene In God we trust
1970's When he eventually separated himself from her he reinvented himself by travelling afar and stealing a mortals identity.
1980's Sought others
A few years ago he returned to LA. A place that in their early kindred years was full of wild, rich and sentimental memories. Seeking his former glory and lavish lifestyle he has taken the role of a wealthy plastic surgeon.
A very superficial child, he decided to become a plastic surgeon. And while his photography came from a place of selfish perversion, it was something he was highly skilled at.
Studying Wealthy background.
Sire suspected of Sabbat involvement. Sadistic selfish vain creature.
Less than 25 years vamp exp
Sensation Junkie (2) (B): You're addicted to sensation, and will do anything to find new means of stimulation. You must roll Willpower to resist taking the opportunity to try a new kick, difficulty depending on the situation.
Ulterior Motive (2) (K:UH): You have more reason to be with your comrades than your like for them or for their common goals. Whether this motive is sinister or not, it's a secret for whatever reason, and if you are suspected of this motive, things won't look too good for you.
Self-Confident (5) (most): When you declare that you are spending Willpower for an automatic success on a roll, you do not lose the Willpower unless you fail the roll, due to the strength of your self-confidence. This only comes into effect regarding rolls at difficulty 6 or higher.
Ability Aptitude (1) (most, M3): Pick a single skill, talent, or knowledge: you're a whiz at whatver this is. -2 to difficulties relating to this ability.
True Love (1) (most): You've found that One who makes your life complete. Automatic Willpower success when striving to protect, come closer, or remain close to your True Love. Other benefits as well, Storyteller's discretion.
Otherworldly Taint (2) (S): You have a physical peculiarity (odd hair/eye color, glowing eyes, etc.) and/or just an odd aura about you which may make you stick out. Someone who suspects you're not "normal" may make a Perception + Awareness roll, difficulty 7, to determine what you are. Note this isn't a Taint of Corruption, just an indication that you are not quite normal.
Enemy (1-5) (most): Somebody's out to hurt you or your reputation, or even kill you (or people close to you). A 1-point enemy is less than or comparable to your own ability, a 5-point enemy could easily kick your ass into next Tuesday.
Probationary Member (3) (M3): You're not on the greatest terms with the group (tradition, clan, tribe, etc.) you belong to and are highly suspect of various naughtiness. You may not be privy to the normal priveleges of being part of your group, nor will you necessarily receive aid when you ought to, etc.
Light Sleeper (1) (S): You can function on very little sleep, and so are less likely to suffer penalties for losing sleep. You are also more likely to awaken quickly, and so may gain bonuses to Wits rolls when something may wake you up. The Vampire version (a 2 point Merit) allows you to be able to wake up more easily from Slumber and be awake during the day, regardless of Humanity score.
Merits Eat Food (1 pt. Merit). Light sleeper (2 pt. Merit). Ability Aptitude (1)
Probationary Member (3) Ulterior Motive (2) Sensation Junkie (2)
Arden Thorn Height:182 cm.Weight:79 kg.Age:19 years. Hair Color:Blonde.Eye Color:Green.
Name:Arden Thorn (Amakos Therai) Age:19 years. Gender:Male. Sexuality:Hetrosexual.
P E R S O N A L I T Y:
Food; particularly sweets.
Challenges/Conpetition; always seeking to test and prove himself.
The ocean; ’if I was meant to swim i’d have gills and flippers.’
The dark; ‘anything could be hiding in there...’
Cruelty/Subugation; ’all living things should be free.’
Having heard first hand tales of the horrors of slavery, he seeks to end it where he can. He seeks to find his mother, where ever she may be. Ultimate he wishes to grow stronger so he can make a difference and protect the people he loves.
Drowning and or being trapped alone, isolated in darkness and utterly helpless.
G U I L D:
A foolish and hungry Arden tried to steal not only food but magic from none other than Zane himself. It’s safe to say things didn’t initially go his way but after a bit of back and fro, a chase and a short scuffle, a hungry Arden got far much more than the simple bite of food he was after. He got a new family.
It sits on the back of his neck, a pale white.
Arden actually has no magical power of his own beside an innate ability, in fact he is unnaturally void of his own mana source. Any magical ability instead relies on him using, copying and stealing from others magic, used on or around him. So far he has discovered two methods for this.
Consumption; Straight up eating it. Much like a dragon slayer consuming an element Arden can eat magical manifestations and creations. This amazing ability let’s him deconstruct the magic back into its primal energy for him to reuse. As most magic is purposed, Arden can only reuse it within the limitations of a way it was initially intended. Most cases simply replicating the attack back or copying a similar ability of the initial wielder.
Siphon This is drawing more on the magical ability of a mage. Literally stealing their magic straight from them. This is done through physical contact, the better the connection the stronger the draw. While not required, Arden often does this by hugging and biting.
Because this magic is more ‘raw’ Arden has a bit more versatility with how he uses it but struggles greatly with new, unused and unfamiliar Magic. (He has to learn it) This means he obviously isn’t as talented as the original mage. He can however weaken other mages by drawing enough magic from them.
Purge: Arden can release pent up magic as its raw energy. Not as strong as it’s spell form this can still sometimes be useful and can turn ability magic into messy attacks.
Arden has a magic cap/limit of how much he can absorb/store at a time and how quick he can do it to. Arden suffers magic leak and can only store magic for a limited time. He begins to feel sick if it’s not used up soon enough and may suffer the effects of it as it seeps through his body.
B A C K G R O U N D:
Section 1, rebuild.
His parents were both powerful mages that constantly fought off the Vulcans at the forest’s edge in the south. After the loss of their youngest child the family began to fall apart. Lionel Thorn, his father, powers unknown, left and joined the dark guild Catamount. Aureleán, his mother, a unique fey creature of the forest, ex-slave. Suddenly vanished. Current location unknown. Jisséca, younger sister, drowned. Body never found.
Son of a notorious mage and with the magical bloodline of his mother, much was expected of young Arden. Born on the frontline of the fight against the Vulcans, many looked to him with high hopes. However as Arden grew up in the combat environment, he excelled in physical prowess but showed little to no signs of any magical aptitude. Even his younger sister developed before him. With the silent weight of everyone’s expectations on him Arden trained harder and harder under the lonely burden. But no matter how much his parents pretended it didn’t matter, the fact haunted and ate at him.
Reaching his early teens he began to notice hints of his magic ability. Over excited and eager to try prove himself, one night he decided to go to the fight. Far from ready his life was quickly endangered and he found himself on a cliffs edge overlooking a sheer fall into the rocky ocean. It was then his younger sister showed up. Out numbered the young magical prodigy fought off more attackers than one child should be able to but in her final act of bravery the cliff face crumbled and she went down into the ocean with their enemies.
Arden’s father was the first to abandon him after that event. It was a long year of silent blame and short disappointed stares. It was almost a relief for Arden when he finally left. At that point Arden was not aware he went to the dark guild. The following year Arden’s mother took them north to section one. But by now she was a broken woman. Life for them was hard. While he was around she smiled as best she could but Arden heard her up late every night crying until she had no tears left. Arden was forced to provide for them and he did this by working a little and stealing where he could.
He loved to cook for her and quickly became a proficient chef. All during this time, since the night of losing his sister, Arden had not dared practiced or even think about his magic. Not until the day he came home empty handed having lost his food to some local bullies and awoke the next day to find his mother gone. For a long time he blamed her disappearance on his inability to provide food, therefore being to weak to fend off the bullies.
Magic: Tenebris Sanguine; This shadow magic is triggered by blood. It solidifies darkness into ‘shadow stuff’, a dangerous malleable substance that can change its properties in an instant. From soft waving and stretching tentacles to high speed razor sharp projectile daggers. To activate this power blood must be dropped into an area of shade or darkness. This power is stronger (produces stronger shadow stuff) in darker enviroments or with the spilling of more blood. Strengths: Influenced by demons blood, he is faster, stronger and more durable than the average human, this coupled with his altered genetics and heavy strict disciplined training make him quite the formidable opponent. Weaknesses: Fissured reality; Drakus is sometimes haunted by visions and nightmares during his waking moments. This can cause all manner of distractions and unable to believe his own eyes, this constantly causes him to question what he see’s. Desperation and losing control; Unable to ever make anyone proud, he still fears disappointment. He has learned to push beyond his limits to prevent failure however doing so comes at a cost of drawing on the demon blood within him and giving up some self control. Fears: Ostracisation; to be looked down upon, considered as less, pitied, laughed at. Madness; the fear of losing control, losing the ability to think rationally, becoming overwhelmed and driven by emotion, losing any sense of self and identity, acting inappropriately or bringing himself shame, these things scare him terribly.
Personality: Cold, distant, elitist, controlling, condescending, perfectionist. These are all terms that have been used to describe Drakus, and none of them would be wrong. Self centred he cares for little else beside his stature among others. He has known little of camaraderie or friendship but experienced a life time of hierarchy and obedience. There is no place or time for emotions and weakness in the heart of a warrior. Discipline and riggerous training will triumph in a world where the strong rule the weak and only the fittest survive. Drakus was born a survivor. Likes:
Order and routine.
Manners and etiquette
Drakus is more or less essentially a creation and has always been treated as so. Less a child and more the successful results of many morally questionable experiments in a long line of failures, a living standing testament to a new age of modern science and knowledge, a purpose built commodity of deliberate design and careful specification. There was no love to be lost in his household. Sure he was looked upon with pride, but it was not pride in his own actions or achievements but instead a self pride from the viewers eyes like that of a craftsman pleased with what he produced. Drakus could get no credit for anything he had done or achieved, instead owing it to those that overlooked him. However failures and disappointment were always his to wear alone. He was raised by ever changing nurses, constantly monitored by scientists and educated of discipline in strict military fashion. Sure he did not have to go through this alone. He had many siblings, in a sense.
None of the children in this breeding farm knew who their mothers really were but some of the kids displayed similar appearances and or abilities. In fact most did in some way or another but they were so accustomed to it, seeing hardly anyone else, they barely recognised the signs. In the end, getting close to this family wasn’t worth it. One by one they began falling sick and eventually dying or being taken away. Often there were no goodbyes, yet still that was preferential to what else was going on with the others. A madness began to sweep over a minority, pure insanity. Sure some of it was simply unnerving babble and unpredictable erratic behaviour, but as haunting as that could be it was nothing compared to the masochistic violence that some of the children burst out with. Or the sickening displays of sadism that they unawaringly stumbled upon.
But of course such a vile place could not be sustained or remain hidden forever. The powers that be shut it down. In the end, before their separation, Drakus was one of six remaining children. It is still unknown what happened to them, if they even survived at all.
Life changed for Drakus after that point. He was adopted into a wealthy and respectable family. While taught little of demons he was still unexplainably trained in the martial arts to combat them. He had a strict regiment of daily tasks and chores followed by endless hours of repetitious drills and exercise. Still, no matter how hard he was pushed, he remained grateful. For this was far better than what had come before.
One day finally sense was made of everything. All the unasked questions were answered and he learned much of the demons, his powers and the truths of the world. It also became apparent that at least one other child had survived, up until that day anyway. Defeated by a demon. Drakus was to continue his training at the school of death, the last and truest test.
Those early years of Drakus childhood still hang with him. Unable to be forgotten they were filled with the things of other children’s nightmares. Since hell had become his norm, his nightmares had to become made of something worse. Still, as they revisit him again and again, he can’t help but notice they grow stronger and deeper every year. Drakus eternally haunted and unable to ever escape them. Even now, years later he still is plagued by the same dreams as before, now they no longer even wait for him to sleep, preying upon and terrorising him even in the wake of day. A constant torment on an already fragile mind.
Hobbies/Interests: Drakus has learnt to enjoy the familiarity of repetition. Never having had time to persue his own interests he has since found old routines to become an escape from his own mind. Therefore martial practice and training is his first hobby. When the body is done he will sharpen the mind with books of philosophy or important literature. Always striving to remain educated and of equal stature and knowledge as those of the higher circles. Less he be considered less than them or be made a fool of on conversation. Other: Possible plot hooks -
P E R S O N A L I T Y Which one?' ... Ahem is eccentric, to say the least. He sees the world very differently to most others and his frequent ramblings often don't make much sense. He has an ability to justify nearly anything to himself in some strange way or another. All in all he is a genuine good kid, simple minded and with a short attention span. He is kind and friendly, valuing friendship and companionship highly. He does not like being alone.
B A C K G R O U N D Ahem claims to have found the ‘well of eternal youth’ some 39 years ago. It was empty, and he fell into it trying to rescue his cat, getting trapped for multiple decades. Lucky for him the little tin roof held and kept him and his pet dry. Many years later he finally managed to emerge from his deep dark stone prison, older, wiser and just a little more kooky than before.
The long isolation, solitude, noxious gasses and radiation reeked havoc on his sanity. His mind rotted a little in that hole. Still today he lives in his own little world of optimistic deluded fantasy.
Ahem still claims that he survived off the support and cooperation of the various rodents and bugs that resides in or frequented the well. He had set up a small freeroam cockroach farm and also trained rats to fetch him goodies. Life wasn’t that bad in the well. He was practically king of the rats. If it wasn’t for Kitties curiosity and need to explore, Ahem probably would have stayed down there.
S K I L L S Ahem has become an adept climber, with near logic defying skill. He seems to challenge or just ignore the natural laws of physics. Another ode to that statement is his uncanny ability to communicate with creatures. Although it’s not yet proven to be anything more than a really REALLY lucky fluke of coincidence, it is his belief and claim. Ahem also has developed a heightened sense of hearing from all his time in the dark. His extra alert ears give him an almost ‘blind sense’ or sonar ability.
B E L O N G I N G S Slime bag of bones
Kitty is his pet cat. Well the remains of a cat in a strange suspending blob of slime. Ahem is adamant that it is alive and well, despite it never moving. He carries it everywhere he goes always talking to and treating it like a normal cat
Name: Deum mal’vultom Apparent Age: 17 Gender: Male Personality: Deum is mostly vocally quiet, speaking and sharing very little besides sharp commands. He has little interest in others and is a reclusive who could be considered spiteful and cold. Abilities:
He is a shape shifter, this is his first and foremost power, to manipulate his form into what ever he desires within mass and energy limitations. drawbacks;[color=grey] Changes are not only painful but also physically and emotionally taxing. Consumes a lot of energy.[/color]
Novice dark magic.
drawbacks;[color=grey] Dark magic always comes at a risk/cost. It’s a perilous lonely path that has led many to their demise.[/color]
Equipment: A magic robe An ever growing living spell book Apothecary kit. Knives, candles and all manner of intricate tools. Bio: There is nothing outstanding in Deum’s backstory. He was born and raised as a normal boy like any other born into and by a secret wealthy ritualistic occult. While he had a mother that gave birth to him, many of the coven acted and claimed to be his parents. While spoiled, he was also held to high expectations. Having enough of it and the lavish lifestyle he left, escaping to the school and enrolled himself to learn in peace. Fears and weaknesses: Boundaries, shackles, confinement, cages, loss of control, being trapped in the dark. Claustrophobia. Extras: Avid learner and practitioner of demonology and new tech alchemy.
Plot hook: Cult wants him back. To serve their needs / prophecy. Will kill him to force reincarnation if they have to.
Appearance: While not enormous for a construct, Draken resembles a muscular six legged reptile with many sharp spines protruding from its sleek aerodynamic body. While it can comfortably move around on all its legs it is also capable of standing just on its rear two. Each limb ends in a powerful dexterous claw. It’s natural colour is a motley bluish hue.
Personality: At first glance Draken is hostile. Predatory by nature. A killing machine that knows of little other. Self assured, confident, he looks down condescendingly on others (especially humans) thinking himself far superior. He can be intimidating and extremely cold. Ruled by little emotion he thinks and moves logically and efficiently with calculated precision. Unless, that is, if his ego is challenged. Pride his greates sin.
Background: In the early days he was purpose built for and awoken by an eager ruthless soldier. With pride at its core, the soldiers powerful drive, aspirations and ego gave birth to a formidable and deadly combat construct. They were a great partnership, deadly, efficient and effective. Instrumental in many missions they quickly rose through the ranks of hierarchy and importance. But to much like his master the construct felt itself more than just another tool in the system to be used and unrecognised, fearing the shadow of the other they both vied for superiority and to be the more worthy of the two.
In the end it was because of these conflicting ego’s and the desire to prove themselves non-reliant of the other, that the soldier found himself in a situation beyond his control. And it was because of these ego’s that his construct wasn’t there to aid him... So, with the rattling echo of a gun shot, in the following silence the construct became unbound and without a master or life-source. Too dedicated and proud to grieve, it carried out the mission alone. In its weakened state it struggled on, only through pure necessity and determination did it learn to draw life force from his unwilling enemies along the way. It soon understood that it didn’t need a bond to survive. Free and self sufficient it had proved itself. All of those old dreams, desires and aspirations finally realised. That long constant pursuit of being a superior being, now proven seemed so frivolous and empty. There was no joy or reward in this final realisation or accomplishment.
Still, his ego and pride let him believe he could carry on this way, but it wasn’t to be. There was no cheerful greeting or parade upon his return, no reward for going above and beyond. Only fearful eyes plotting and whispering behind its back. They truly recognised him as superior now and were all un-admittedly scared to become a fuel source. When learning of his human comrades wishes to force him into a new bond he rejected the idea as much he rejected all them. So naturally there was no other option but to go rogue. They hunted him out into the wilds were eventually after heavy losses they gave up their pursuit. Leaving him to fade back into the nothingness of forgotten time.
Many, many years later, a desperation and cocky confidence drove him out of the wilderness and back to the edge of the civilisation that had castrate and abandoned him. What was supposed to be an easy meal turned into something so much more. Fate had decided to intervene this day. His old partners lineage had lived on, this was only discovered after destroying the household construct and draining a mother dry in front of her young frightened child. In a brief moments pause to ponder on that familiar nostalgic taste the child’s life was spared. His father, the soldiers son, arriving just in the nick of time. More powerful than his father, at the cost of his own construct, they managed to subdue Draken but not destroy him completely. Instead holding him long enough for him to starve away into that dark, fearful, lonely, oblivion of lifeless nothingness. As the cold dark emptiness slowly consumed him, he was sure that this was the end. Finally as it should have been.
...A desperate hand was placed onto a lifeless shell, and from it a powerful life force flowed.
More so than powerful it was determined. Determined to do something. Determined to awaken Draken. Determined to make a difference. Determined to protect his family, at any and all costs. Draken awoke to a powerful surge of energy as an unexpected new life flowed into him. It continued to flow like a rushing river smashing through the dams and blockages of time until the construct was fully awake and revived. This generosity was not cheap or without cost, the life force of the host became depleted, its life extinguished. A familiar face was found looking up at him as it grew blank, the last twinkle of awareness fading away right before him. Much older than it was before Draken recognised it as the man that defeated him, in what only seemed like a moment, but was clearly many years ago. In those dying eyes Draken saw the desperation of hope and the willing sacrifice.Behind him a child, now a teen, sat, filled with so much confusion, hate and rage. Overwhelmed by emotion it looked as though he would try attack Draken himself. Understandably too, humans were such emotional creatures and Draken had killed all of this ones family, one way or another. That rage, hate and blame never erupted though. Instead, Draken was propositioned with an offer he couldn’t refuse...
Abilities: Camouflage: Like a chameleon (only much better) Draken can actively blend himself or any part of his body into his surroundings with amazing accuracy and detail.
Sensory: Draken has superb hunters vision that can stretch across multiple spectrums.
Spines: Not only are these sharp sturdy blade like spikes used defensively but they can also be highly offensive, projecting from his body with great speeds. He also posses some control over them.
Speed: While not the largest construct Draken still possesses amazing physical attributes, none so much as his speed and agility though.
Poison: The spine on his tail is coated in a debilitating toxin that targets the nerves and muscles in the infected area only. He himself is obviously immune to it and can coat other objects with it, to a lesser effect.
Armor: Buckler (light shield 6) Light chain shirt (B 20% / S 50% / P 30%) Steel greaves and bracers Leather wrappings.
Caerbean Deck Hand - Saltwater runs through your veins. Adrenaline is your drug of choice. The only thing better than a good fight is a good fuck - the only thing better than a good fuck is a good fight after a good fuck. Caerbeans are natural sailors, fighters and are generally at the heart of any bar-room party. They are also quick to fight just for the fun of it and are natural showmen.
Orc Blood Rage - Anybody with a trace of orc in their lineage has a chance to be afflicted by the Blood Rage. When your blood burns hot and your vision turns red, few things can stop you. After preparing for one hour, the character gains a three-hour window in which they can voluntarily go into a Blood Rage. Alternatively, after three active rounds engaged in combat, the character will go into an involuntary Blood Rage. A Blood Rage may be ended with a successful (strength 3) Will test or upon the character taking a debilitating wound. While Blood Rage is active, the character gains +1 Initiative, +1d6 on attacks and Die Hard on a 6 (Die Hard is rolled after all normal saves and, if successful, ignores all wounds that the character might have taken at that point).
One of his Grandparents were high nobles from Hecate, an important person of position and wealth. All was lost when they mingled with a Caerbean woman. Ezlan does not know the full extent of this story but blame of his families poverty and struggles have fallen to the uptight laws and law keepers of the Hecate. Two generations later Ezlan, a proud follower of the storm maiden, a bringer of chaos and a notorious brawler from the docks, is interested in his family history. But to learn of such he must first make a name for himself.
Currently residing in Caerbea and calling it home, a fair amount of his childhood and past struggles occurred in the Iron Harbour. Growing up there he fought, fought a lot. He still proudly wears the scars to prove it. While he enjoys a good skirmish, his blood often boils intently with rage. It was there, because of this, lost in a blind rage he accidentally murdered his best friend during a petty brawl.
It was a life changing moment that sent him to the church to study and grow. Eventually he found his way back to the path of the Storm maiden, became a great dock hand, was good at entertaining company and quite a knowledgeable story teller. But his short temper, violent tendencies and highly competitive reckless streaks caused him to be cast out time after time. The same reasons he has held so few friends or lovers long term.
Despite being a keen brawler and always eager for a fight he is also quite intelligent. He has a wide curiosity and a special interest in history and biology, wanting to expand on what he learnt at the church. As such he enjoys reading and collecting. It is that curiosity that drew him to the sea and docks where he could meet interesting people and learn their tales. For this he has many stories to share and a knack for telling them. His favourite stories are of history, battle or feats of strength and ingenuity. He incorporates these lessons and other gained knowledge into his fighting style to gain every advantage he can.
He is almost as good as aiding the injured as he is at injuring people. Helping is now in his nature, and while he tries to be content with what he has, deep inside he has always had a yearning for more. To be something more. A feeling or desire to be destined for some sort of greatness. He constantly tries to prove his worthyness to himself and the Storm Maiden who guides his path.
Arden, lacking confidence is often considered quiet, shy and reserved, that is until something goes against his beliefs or moral judgment and then he is not afraid to show just how passionate he can be. He is curious, creative and kind, albeit nervous and a bit reclusive. He loves solidarity and music in any form.
AFFINITY: Sound, vibrations and the sense of hearing MANA QUALITY: Exceptional MANA QUANTITY: Average Intense potency but limited reserves. Arden is new to mage-craft and the supernatural world, so he doesn’t know many spells beyond his inherit abilities, and even those he has not yet mastered.
Deep listener- Arden not only has beyond exceptional hearing with immaculate precision and control, but he also can hear things others can’t. This magical ability interprets patterns and activities of the mind into audible surface thoughts and or feelings and intent. It requires Arden’s focus and concentration and doesn’t work equally well on all people. It is more effective on non magical humans and those unaware of his ability.
Quiet speaker- Arden’s voice, without being raised, can reach anyone’s ear within his vision and only theirs if he so chooses it. Master of subtle tone manipulation and with the ability to ‘hear’ people, Arden can generate frequencies to manipulate people’s emotions or make them more susceptible to suggestions. This is a near passive hypnotic effect that again works on varying degrees.
Silent type- Arden’s control over frequency and sound allows him to also nullify it. This is very helpful for those that wish to sneak around.
Conscientious- ’Listen to oneself.’ Arden has yet to thoroughly explore this sonar like ability through using echo location techniques. But it is there just waiting to be discovered.
Vocal- The heart and strength of his ability. Creating and manipulating vibrations to such an extent that they has a physical effect on his environment or singularly targeted area. These ‘shock waves’ can emanate from any part of his body as the vibrations and energy come from within. Most effective though are vocal shouts or arm thrusts.
Haphephobia- Arden can also use the above mentioned ability to violently displace the air around him creating a defensive bubble.
He is not much of a combatant except for the odd scrape he picked up from being bullied at school. Arden’s skills fall more into the creative and intellectual realms, especially around creating music or fiddling with technology. He is a whiz around computers and programming.
Growing up in poverty Arden possesses little of value from his past even though his abilities, if understood earlier, could have provided otherwise. Since being discovered there were those that tried to ‘buy’ him and essentially succeeded.
Enhanced Notebook computer- Because all things are better with magic. Besides being faster, more secure and compact, it also has access to a great database of information very useful to a mage-in-learning.
Bugs- Part technological marvel, part familiar. This conscious hive mind of little creatures exists mostly as an ordinary watch, laying dormant until called upon. Then at which point they disperse and fly through the air scouting an area or following a target. This extends the reach of Arden’s ability via microphone’s and speakers while recording everything for later analysis.
Taser (extendable baton)- For self protection when all else fails.
Motor bike- Method of transport.
Brief Backstory: Arden’s mother and father met but once, she couldn’t resist the handsome man, literally. It was a rendezvous that started on the busy dance floor of a high end exclusive night club and ended in an empty, cold, filthy, little alley way that didn’t even earn a name. He discarded her when done and that was the last she ever saw or heard of Arden’s father.
Arden’s mother held no magical aptitude whatsoever. She was not connected to a rich family, or any family for that matter. She was an aspiring dancer crushed under the weight of failed dreams, bad youthful decisions and financial strain. Arden grew up in poverty, and while his mother held love for him, she was hardly around to share it.
So that left Arden’s father to be the mage of the family, and a powerful one at that because despite his training or understanding of that world, Arden possesses some strong magical talent and aptitude. It was very confusing for him to be seeing things that others around him couldn’t. Hearing things others didn’t. It took him longer than most to get recognised and then when he finally did, there were those trying to take him in and train him, just wanting to take advantage of the young boys ability and shape him into another pawn in their own agenda. One such family succeeded, buying his trust and faking care they now have enlisted him into the service of Arinne’s quest. Testing him and fulfilling their contract at the same time.
Primary Alias: Vallen Thorn Appearance: Young, scrawny, and short. Wiry limbs and a mop of brown messy hair. Hands and feet stained with dirt. Soft freckles splatter his tanned skin. Loose tattered rags bound by fraying ropes pass as his clothing. Equipment: Most notably is his absence of things. Bound in simple tattered rags secured by fraying rope. A worn leather satchel hanging over one shoulder with makeshift ties along the weathered strap. Reputation: A street rat. Defiant, brave, angry at the world. Recent History: The wet cobbled stone path was cold and hard. Unforgiving to the bare feet frantically slapping against it. It’s stones uneven and loose, littered with traps of small pebbles and sharp rubbish just waiting for the unsuspecting, unprotected foot to fall upon, as Vallen’s did, again and again. These cruel and devious dangers sulked out of site in the thick heavy shadows cast by the ever present looming towering walls on either side, blocking what little light fell from the dark cloudy night sky.
Still, he endured. Heart thudding profusely in his chest. Lungs burning with desperation. Muscles aching, head spinning, mind a blur.
He didn’t have the luxury to care about the occasional bolt of pain shooting up his leg as again he smashed his toe or stepped on some viscous debris, no matter how intense or severe it may be. He couldn’t worry what state this left his feet in. He knew they were bloody and bruised, he could feel a warm tingle oozing along his icy cold skin. He was surely missing a nail or two from toes most likely broken, but regardless he just couldn’t stop. No matter what he just had to keep them moving. For no matter how disconcerting it might be, worse things were coming.
Disconnected from his mind they were like objects that he kept placing in front of himself. One after the other as fast as he could. Numb with pain. Without full feeling or sense of the ground on which he was running, Vallen slipped and stumbled every few meters as he darted down one alleyway and then suddenly flew around a corner into another, always frantically avoiding possible signs or sounds of trouble ahead. With every fumble a new fear rose in his stomach and his eyes widened with terror. He had somehow been managing to keep away from his pursuers so far, but if he fell over completely, surely they would be upon him in an instant. Even if they weren’t, the young boy wasn’t sure if he could even get back up. The night was growing long and despite all his urgency and adrenaline, the malnourished young lad was growing tired and weary. Already running on empty it was only desperation and fear that still drove him.
He was so scared and yet still so hopeful that he hadn’t realised just how much he had slowed. This wasn’t the usual guard chase that lead to a simple beating if the one or two men could be bothered keeping up the pursuit. This was different. Vallen had wondered into territory that he shouldn’t have, and with his stubborn attitude he had upset the wrong people along the way. Hateful spiteful people not concerned by rules or laws except for their own. They were a viscous pack that ran these streets, more deadly and dangerous than those of the slums. This was the real reason why the upper regions had less beggars and bums. It wasn’t the guards that kept them in check.
It hit him too late... How many others like him had came here before him. Leaving the slums in their final hours of desperation, overwhelmed by thirst or starvation. Vallen would not be the first to threaten their hold. More begging children meant more guard patrols and they didn’t want that. No. They had quick methods for despatching his kind. Vallen was running the alleyways blind, had been running them for ages, yet still he was in them. Never had he come to an open road or passed a lit up building. There were no sights or sounds of the many people living in this densely populated area. Sure he didn’t know the streets. But his pursers did.
Realisation rushed up to him as quick and as hard as the solid brick wall before him. Trapped! Isolated and alone. He had been running exactly where they had wanted him to. Vallen was known for his defiant fighting spirit, but at this point it was all gone. He had nothing left. Sight of the wall broke what little spirit and hope he had left. He didn’t even look around to see where it was going to come from. It didn’t matter. He dropped heavily to his knees, defeated, given up, just as a soft rain began to fall over him. The rain did little to conceal the tears pouring down his face, still he did not sob. How could he have been so stupid. This, this was his third and final failure.
As the rain grew heavier and the omnidirectional beating commenced, his limp body bounced around back and forth between the violent shadows. Lighting streaked the air and a bellowing thunder echoed down the alley. Despite being like them, of the street with no family, no love, living in fear, constantly fighting for survival. Having being beaten and abused, abandoned and forgotten. Looked down and spat upon. Considered lesser or nothing at all. Despite all these similarities and understandings, there was no sympathy or remorse towards him. They would beat him to death out of the rage and pain those years had built in them, or out of fear of returning to those days. It wasn’t long until his vision dulled and his body offered no resistance to the assault as he rolled around on the floor. Hands and feet pummelled every inch of him. He was sure there were sticks too and probably some sort of bladed weapon. It didn’t matter, there was nothing he could do now and in his final moments he thought only of the sister that he had left behind. His little sweet sister who he had abandoned with that monster all those years ago. How now he could never go back to save her...
There was intent to kill, that is what they were trying to do. Vallen should have died there and then that cold and miserable night, under the heavy rain and crumbling heavens. In that lost little alleyway behind the houses of the rich wealthy and corrupt. Perhaps it was his resilience from a lifetime of beatings or maybe a greater power like some form of divine intervention or fate, it could have even been his stubborn will and his unfinished business that forced him to cling desperately onto those last threads of life. Then again most likely was just simple sheer dumb luck and an eagerness on his attackers part to escape a miserable night too cold and too wet to be thorough. Either way he wasn’t conscious when his near lifeless body plummeted deep into the filthy sewer drain. He barely recalls the rising rapids washing him away through the forgotten unholy pipes beneath the city or even how long that journey took.
But as with all journeys, it eventually came to an end. However Vallen’s was not yet over, one might even say this is where it truly began.
He faded in and out of consciousness multiple times over a period unknown. Light and darkness came and went. Pain was the only constant. Caught between worlds, teetering on the edge of life and death he experienced the most beautiful dreams he had ever had. He saw a mother that he had never met, played happily in safety with his sister all grown up. There was a house and food in abundance. This was all so vivid and as real as real life. He was almost convinced that this was his actual life, but always it quickly and cruelly was vanished, ripped away from him before he could truly clasp or hold it. As in life, forever evading his reach. Despite all its beauty and warmth he would have been better off without it. These visions serving only as a painfully taunting reminder of what could never be. It only gave him further to fall as it vanished, fading away to a myriad of horrid nightmares that came to torment and aggravate him. Reflections of the worst parts of his true past and his greatest fears replayed over and over again.
Seemingly he was only shown that happiness so he could be harshly reminded how far away from it he was, and had always been his whole life. How dare he think he could ever be happy.
Had he the strength to end his life and stop the cyclical nightmare there and then he would have. But even that he couldn’t do. With the visions he saw and felt he welcomed hell, but even that was too close to happiness for him. So with no other option of escape Vallen was forced to open his eyes.
He awoke to a tugging on his right arm. While the midday sun was bright in his eyes and burned at his retinae, slowly a blurry image appeared amongst the sea of white and came into focus as the blinding light faded. Vallen was in a swamp, half submerged in a soaking pile of trash and faeces, caught on the bank a little way down from an open still dripping pipe. It was only because of the heavy rains did the tunnels bring him here. No longer pure luck but divine cruelty, it had to be. It couldn’t be anything else.
Then he recalled the tugging of his right arm and looked over half expecting to see some wild dog feasting on his flesh, but it was not. It was a man, old and crooked. Patchy wisps of unruly white hair littered his chin and were weaved through his thick bushy eyebrows. He had a long thin nose that was apparently resistant to the putrid smell in which they were both bathed. Around his otherwise bald head (except for the just noticeable white hairs in his ears and nostrils.) he wore a thick dirty band on a slight angle that held a makeshift cloth patch over one eye, leaving just one beady hazel eye to gaze suspiciously at Vallen. Beside that the man was concealed heavily by a thick grey course fabric cloak that gave little else as away, leaving only his head and hands protruding.
Noticing Vallen was still alive the old man stopped trying to remove the contents of the boy’s hand. Something Vallen had been holding with a death grip, presumably grabbed in his moments of fleeting consciousness and desperation. The old man showed little interest in the boy and continued to rummage through the filth. If Vallen was to live or die, this man held no stakes or care either way. Suddenly it night and Vallen awoke to the familiar squelching swooshing of the old man rummaging new patches of waste. Had he left and returned? Had he stayed here all day? Either way Vallen welcomed the disturbance that pulled him once again from his nightmares. Once again the old man tested the boy’s grip on his treasure and quickly gave up and moved on.
The next time Vallen awoke it was not to feeling or sound but smell. Through the pungent aroma he had become accustom to cut a powerful forgotten smell that caused a trifle within his stomach and drew a new life within him. A faint orange glow shimmered, caught reflecting in the puddles of water that surround him. Light from a camp fire.
Not far from the boy the old man sat beside the humble flames holding over them sticks of skewed lizard and bugs. While he offered nothing to the near dead child he did not object as Vallen crawled his way through the cold dirt and feat upon the hot food he had set aside. In Vallen’s movements all his injuries were revealed to him. The large and the small. Even the simple ones now infected. But he didn’t care of them. Like a man possessed, all that mattered was that food. Like the risen dead he shambled his half non-responsive body over and feasted with an insatiable desire before again blacking out. Alls whilst holding onto the thin frail leather bound journal like it was his last strand of life.
This became routine. The waking to his grip being checked. The lack of objection as Vallen helped himself to the mans unattended food. The consuming silence between them and a faint absence, both growing more noticeable as Vallen held conscious for longer and longer.