Lightning Fast

The Dust: Begin Again

Long John did nothing wrong.

<Snipped quote>
kek
Maybe they have a family that misses them or something idk

@Darcs

Rule #1: Don't wrong the John.

The Dust: Begin Again

Let the shenanigans shenan-again!

The Dust: Begin Again

An Artist's Interpretation of the Meeting

Exhausted, Archie practically fell of of his now-damaged motorcycle when he got back to Sentinel sheriff’s office. He couldn’t remember exactly what caused it, but his engine had begun sputtering, and his top speed had drastically decreased. It was late at night, and he hadn’t had a chance to sleep much the previous day. His shirt had its sleeves torn off to use as impromptu bandages, his pants and boots were dirtied and sandy, his eyes had massive bags under them, and even the stubble on his face had started to grow back. Three days he’d spent tracking the nefarious Long John McClive, one of the most nefarious bandits on Ash, and all he had to show for it now was a few new cuts on his legs and face... and of course, the severed head of Long John McClive himself in a brown, burlap sack. Archie wasn’t one to come back empty-handed, but this last job had taken a lot out of him. It didn’t matter now, though; the bounty on McClive was enough to keep him fed and housed for the foreseeable future.

Archie had to chuckle. Actually finding McClive had been difficult, but even after Archie revealed himself and offered to take Long John alive, Long John couldn’t even get his gun out of his holster before Archie shot him dead. Why John thought it would be a good idea to draw against someone with a gun pointed at them, Archie would never know. After the initial shot, John was reeling and could be easily decapitated with the Bastard’s Bastard Sword.

As he entered the sheriff’s office with his burlap sack, the clerk behind a counter perked up, startled. “You’re back...” There were two night guards on duty, though they didn’t seem to be paying much attention to what was going on.

“Yep,” Archie replied, approaching him, “And I brought you a present.” He casually dumped the contents of his bag in front of the clerk, allowing the head to fall on the desk. “I’ll be collecting the bounty on Long John McClive.”

Somewhat speechless, the clerk crouched down to open a safe behind the counter and pulled out several solid gold coins marked with the symbol of the Wintergold Conglomerate. He counted the right amount out in his head and stuffed them all inside a smaller bag. “Here.”

“Really?” Archie sighed. “Can you pay me in bullets? I can’t use these outside of Wintergold territory.”

The clerk sighed and gave Archie an exasperated look. “We’re short on bullets, and the boss insists we use these instead.” The clerk then passed Archie a small waver as proof of completion for the task. Some bullshit, pre-written message was printed on it about how thankful the Prime Minister was for helping keep the settlements safe.

Reluctantly, Archie snatched up the bag of coins. He had no love for the Conglomerate, but wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth (unless he felt the horse in question would try to bite him). “Eh, money’s money I suppose. Give me a copy of your latest wanted list, please.” After receiving the list he wanted and dropping the rest of his things at his place, Archie was free to do whatever he liked for the rest of the night.

Rather than immediately go home to sleep, Archie’s second stop was the local saloon, the horribly-named Hoochie’s Hooch. He wasn’t a drinker, but they knew his name there, and felt in the mood for some shameless praise; perhaps even a bit of bragging. It was probably around 11PM if Archie had to guess, so there would probably still be people there drinking.

====

Roberta looked around the bar sullenly. She’d gone over a week without seeing so much as a single coin come into her possession, losing out bounties to more established bounty hunters, contracts for making or fixing something to more established contractors, and even a job as a caravan guard to a woman with more connections. Sometimes she had to wonder what on earth had possessed her to come all the way out to an island that had only been accessible for a matter of months at most. So now she sat in a rinky dink bar nursing a watered down glass of… something, the bartender had called it whiskey but she was confident whiskey was supposed to be closer to turpentine than water.

She huffed, gulping down the offending glass and standing up, making her way to the bar. “Another, please.” She grumbled, seating herself just as a man with a rather unusually tidy goatee entered. She quirked her eyebrow for a moment then dismissed him, shrugging and accepting the drink, to which she rolled a small coin edged in gold onto the table. She didn’t touch the drink for a little while, content to sit and stare daggers at the bartender when he wasn’t looking.

As Archie walked through the doors, he confirmed his suspicions, though nobody noticed his presence until he sat at the bar. “What’ll ya have, Arch?” the bartender asked, polishing a glass up idly with a wet rag.

“Just some water, thanks.” He laid a gold coin down on the table, receiving several smaller, gold-edged ones back as change. He exchanged idle chit-chat with the man behind the bar, occasionally stopping to take a sip from his drink and glance around the saloon. “Who wants to hear how I tracked down ‘Ol Long John...?”

The goatee’d man who had entered spoke, and she raised her head from the table looking over at him. ’Ol Long John…? she thought, Wasn’t that the… damn, that bounty. She examined him closer, he didn’t exactly seem like a burly bruiser, which was mildly surprising. Many bounty hunters she’d had the displeasure of meeting were usually built like small tanks and had an attitude to match. She watched him for a few moments longer, before clearing her throat and addressing him, “What of it?” Her voice was unusually smooth and generally pleasant, not what you’d expect from someone with her appearance.

By that point, one or two patrons had sat down near Archie, hoping to hear some epic tale of adventure from him. When he turned around to meet the gaze of the robotic woman, he was quite honestly shocked. Her voice was surprisingly sweet, which caught him off guard even more. “Er...” He stayed calm though: he had a reputation to uphold, and couldn’t lose his cool in front of potential patrons. He coughed lightly, then replied in kind: “Well, while Long John had a few kills under his belt, they were all people who didn’t really have the ability to fight back: rich old guys, mostly. His crimes, more often than not, involved grand or petty theft,” he said to the mysterious woman across from him, “You look like someone who’s been around a bit, so I probably don’t need to tell you this, but the thing about thieves is they’re usually very hard to track, but pushovers in a gunfight. Long John was no exception.” He leaned back against the bar so he could face as many people as possible as he told his story. “You guys know how much I hate coming back empty-handed, so I tracked this fucker for three whole days, carrying most of what I owned on my back.” Try as he might, he couldn’t prevent himself from sneaking a few glances at this strange, mechanized woman. What the fuck happened to her...?

“So yeah, anyways,” Archie continued, taking a sip of his water, “After a particularly big heist, a lot of thieves like to try and make a break for New Syracuse. The Hedons don’t have much in the way of law-enforcement, so the criminals can pretty much do whatever the fuck they like here and hide there until people like me stop looking for them, or they just hop on the quickest boat to Dust.” He gave a serious, dramatic look at his audience. “I knew if I didn’t catch him before he got to Hedon territory, I wasn’t likely to catch him at all...”

The rest of the story, while true-sounding enough, was told in a highly dramatic way, complete with silly voices for all the different people who helped or hindered Long John’s eventual capture. In the end, he’d cut ahead of Long John and waited for him at one of the smaller but key towns along the route to New Syracuse, and intercepted him when he went to resupply. “... and this, my friends, is when Long John McClive, supposedly the smartest, most cunning bandit on Ash, pulls his weapon after I’ve already got my gun on him.” A few of the listeners started laughing at the sheer anticlimax of his story, while a cocky smirk spread across the bounty hunter’s face. “And that, my friends, is how I, Archie, the Bladed Devil, caught Long John McClive.”

Roberta listened patiently through the man’s rambling spiel, her eyebrow raised the entire time.

Once he had finished, she gingerly placed her drink on the bar and turned to face him, leaning against the edge, “So what you’re telling me is, you bravely killed a man who at that point had no chance of fighting back? Well done! Your gonads are truly of planetary proportions, I am in awe of your courage, you can pull a trigger at point blank!”

She leaned forward, “Have you actually filled any bounties that required, oh I don’t know, danger?”

Archie smiled at the woman calmly, in a rather condescending fashion. “Long John killed two people, and stole hundreds of thousands of bullets worth of property. He didn’t give any chance for those poor bastards to fight back, did he? But I suppose you’re right: it would’ve been better if, after giving him the chance to come quietly, I let him engage me in some sort of shoot-off at high-noon, eh?” Archie finished his water. “The trip itself was pretty fuckin’ dangerous if I do say so myself. A lot of people die of thirst in the desert, and I had to rush to get ahead of him.”

“Tell me, you ever heard of Ronnie the Butcher?” Archie continued, “Murdered nine people, three of them trained soldiers, and ate their corpses. Real fucked up guy, batshit crazy, but deadly with a cleaver. When I found his hideout, fucker tried to chop my head off. I got his first.” He gently patted the sword that hung on his waist. “Mad Clyde? Raped six women and killed four of them with that gang of his? When I went to his favourite saloon, four thugs jumped me, and I had to fight my way out. I didn’t earn my reputation by shooting petty thieves while they weren’t looking. Even if I had, Long John was an armed man resisting arrest.” Oddly enough, throughout this whole exchange, he never stopped smiling his calm little smile, speaking as though he was telling a story. “What are you grilling me for, anyways?”

A slightly amused smirk tried to force its way onto Roberta’s face. She ignored it and continued looking at him. “You were boasting, in my experience the boastful usually die first. That’s all.” She relaxed, leaning back against the bar again, “Though a shootout at high noon might’ve been a bit more dramatic I will admit, unless there’s money for him alive, just walk up to him from behind and put a bullet in the base of his skull? Or better yet, shoot him from afar.”

She shrugged, “But whatever, at least you actually do have something to boast about, so I withdraw my objection.”

“Shooting him from afar would’ve taken even less ‘balls’,” Archie replied, “Long John was a crook, but he wasn’t evil. Or at least, not as evil as some of the other assholes I talked about. I wanted to give him a chance to come quietly. Nothing more to it.” The smile had faded from his face after this cyborg had started speaking again. Quite truthfully, this woman was starting to annoy him, and her robot parts were rather unsettling. She wasn’t half-bad looking where organic matter remained, and her eyes were rather nice... though she wasn’t trying particularly hard to hide her immortal nature.

“So, what’s your superpower?” Archie asked quite bluntly, no longer looking quite so smug with himself, “Rudeness?”

She snickered slightly at that, “No, but that would be interesting would it not? Wonder how that’d work?”

“I’ll introduce you to my brother and you can find out.”

She gave a short giggle, taking a sip of the watered down “whiskey” before she waved a hand at his drink, before frowning and leaning over to touch the glass, before she leaned back. “Pour that on something, watch what happens. Just don’t pour it on anything you’re particularly attached to, or the bar.”

Archie took out a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and dunked it into the liquid. It began to dissolve almost immediately, prompting Archie to quickly wrench his hand away, startled. “Well shit, that’s terrifying. All you’d have to do to collect on a bounty was spike someone’s drink.” Best stay on this one’s good side, Archie thought. “I’ve decided I’m not thirsty anymore.” He was starting to genuinely feel afraid of this woman, but had learned to hide such feelings in the arena.

She smirked, “I have collected bounties that way, hauled ‘em in with their throats missing. Bullets are one thing, but I’ve yet to meet someone who can survive pouring something with a pH of 14 down their throat. Leaves the glass nice and clean too.” Waving at the bartender, she rolled another coin on the table and slid the resulting drink over to Archie, “It’s just water, not going to melt anything unless that something is salt.”

“Again, you should meet my brother. Hardy motherfucker, he is. I usually just take the head, though; saves a lot of space.” He looked down at the crisp, clear liquid. It seemed innocent enough, but Archie couldn’t quite bring himself to trust it. “... I’m good.” he grumbled. “Eh, if you guys could stop eavesdropping...” he turned to the people he had been telling his story to, “That’d be nice.” The crowd quickly dispersed. “So... what’s your name, miss?”

Roberta raised an eyebrow, grabbing the glass pulling out a scrap piece of paper from her own pocket and dipping it in the drink, then a small scrap of aluminum from a can. “It’s water.” she sighed, shrugging. Standing up to move closer to him so she could avoid shouting, she had to stoop slightly to avoid hitting her head on the low ceiling.

“Roberta, Roberta Lee S. Jackson.” She said simply as she sat down next to him, “And yourself?”

Archie raised his eyebrows in mild surprise as he realized just how tall this woman was. He’d technically fought taller in the arena, though, so it wasn’t quite so jarring as everything else about her. If he wasn’t so uncomfortable, he might’ve made some sort of quip. At that point it dawned on him that he was being somewhat impolite by not partaking in Roberta’s gift, so he had a sip to show his gratitude. “Archibaldo, but I prefer Archie. ‘The Bladed Devil’ was my old stage-name, but it still fit when I made the career change, so I kept it. Thank you for the drink.”

Roberta nodded in acknowledgement, “Something tells me that probably has to do with the small arsenal of sharp things you seem to be packing.” She snarked, “But I must ask, do you have horns to go with them? Little bit of demonic flair?”

Eyeing the weapons, she couldn’t help but ask, “Where do you even get stuff like that? I would think most people had just gone to shooting each other or knives.”

“Playing dress-up on the job isn’t exactly practical,” Archie rebuttled, a more relaxed smile returning to his face, “Though I admit, I did use to wear horns when I performed. The swords?” Archie pulled a long, thin rapier halfway out of his sheathe. “This one’s my favourite. I found it in an old museum, if you can believe it: was just lying in a pile of rubble.” He slid it back into its sheathe. “This big one?” he continued, pulling his bastard sword ever so slightly out of the sheathe on his back. “Bit of a long story.” Not one I’m ready to tell a woman I’ve just met... “I’ll admit, guns are usually more practical, but I save a lot on ammo, and having a bit of a gimmick doesn’t hurt your reputation. Now, might I ask where you got that monstrosity from?” he said, pointing at what appeared to be a futuristic railgun.

Roberta glanced down at the barrel of the weapon he was pointing to. “What? This? I built it when I was seventeen.” She shot him a baleful glare.

“Though it ain’t a monstrosity, s’a work of beauty more like. Graphene coated rails of an alloy I’m not at liberty to divulge the makeup of, fed with 125 grain tungsten saboted slugs,” she rummaged around in a pocket, pulling out a loose one and showing him, “and powered with these supercapacitor/cold fusion power cells. Can give about ten to fifteen shots at about the power of a 7.62x39mm round and more than capable of punching through several centimeters of homogenized carbon steel at max power.” Poking him in the chest, she continued, “It’s not a monstrosity, it’s a work of engineering art, the pinnacle of portable electrically powered kinetic energy ordnance.”

“You’re clearly very passionate about your work,” Archie said, leaning back slightly. His heart rate began to accelerate as Roberta's finger made contact with his kevlar vest. Shit, I’ve pissed off the Terminator... I’d be even more frightened if I knew what the fuck she was saying... “That’s... quite impressive, actually. I didn’t even know cold fusion had been invented yet. Or what ‘saboted’ means.”

“A sabot is something that goes on the outside of the projectile that holds it in place in the barrel, in the case of this the sabot serves the purpose of an electrical armature a-” she looked at him and frowned, “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

“You got me,” Archie admitted, smiling, “But you’re fascinating to learn from, and I doubt you’d know what I meant if I started talking about pommels and hilts and sword techniques from a thousand years ago. I prefer a gun with a little less kick, but to each their own I suppose.” He pulled out his silenced 9mm pistol. “Small, but it gets the job done, and I can fire it one-handed.”

Raising an eyebrow, Roberta sipped at the bland drink in her glass, making a face at the watery taste. “You’re saying that to be nice, it’s fine. Most people on this island or on the mainland don’t know what I’m talking about and don’t care, so I’m used to it.”

She sipped again, then sighed and downed the entire thing. “You can fire pretty much anything one handed if you know what you’re doing, the problem is actually hitting what you’re aiming at. That being said…” she fumbled at her side, pulling out her own pistol, “I prefer a bit more oomph in my guns, ergo 10mm Auto. Just in case I need to go hunting things on two or four legs. If I need subtlety…” she tapped her drinking glass, giving Archie a mischievous wink.

“Oh, I definitely don’t know what you’re talking about, but I do care,” Archie said, smiling. “I try and learn something from every new person I meet.” He watched her tap the glass, then raised an eyebrow. “... right now, I’m learning that if I ever get a price put on my head, I’ll need to find a new drinking buddy.” He hoped she wouldn’t bring up the fact that he hadn’t actually ordered anything alcoholic. Roberta seemed friendly enough to Archie, and she had a specific set of skills that were quite useful to him at this time. “I don’t suppose you’re looking for work? I need my motorcycle fixed. And maybe suggestions for some new guns.”

“Work- yes, I could do with that. I’m not a mechanic though, I’ve got a theoretical knowledge of many things, but all my actual experience is with stuff like this.” She gestured to the rail gun strapped to her back, “But I could try. As to guns… I’m probably not the best person to ask, and honestly if that works for you, keep it. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, after all.”

Archie scratched his goatee pensively. Perhaps he wasn’t realizing this until now, but there was a certain stubbornness associated with using swords when the most advanced weapons known to man were readily available to him. “Now, say I wanted to... oh, I don’t know, get a custom-made, medium-to-long range rifle, something with enough firepower to punch through modern body armour... do you know anyone I could go to for that?”

She smirked, “Are you saying something? I could build you a railgun like this that’d go through several people wearing modern ballistic plating, but unfortunately I don’t exactly have access to the necessary materials. If you’re just looking for a powerful rifle, there are shops in the town.” She leaned against the bar, rolling yet another coin onto the table and signaling for water, “Now, if you have any bounty hunting jobs or the like, those I could definitely help with.”

Archie shrugged, seeming somewhat disappointed. “I’m gonna be frank, I need something that can kill a Hollow. One of those fuckers is worth at least six of Long John, and I’d really rather not get closer to one of them than I need to.” He pulled a sheet of paper out of his other pocket, the one he’d previously received from the clerk working at the law enforcement office. It had a long list of names of convicts along with their photographs, lists of their crimes, places they frequent, and places they were last seen. “But if you’re looking for a good bounty, you’ve found the right guy... one second, this hasn’t been updated.” Archie took out a red pen and crossed out a few of the pictures. “No, they weren’t all me; I’m not that good.” He drew a large question mark on one of them, and drew a happy face on another. “Anyone not marked here is a good target, but considering we’re two people, we might wanna consider something a bit more challenging...”

Roberta gave it a once over, pursing her lips. “Well honestly, as long as bringing them in dead won’t adversely affect anything, I can make most of these a lot easier. As I’ve said, not many people can survive drinking a superbase.”

She paused, “But if you’re looking to go Hollow hunting, well, just what kind of Hollow are we talking here?”

“Well...” Archie took another piece of paper out of his pocket. Several fell out onto the floor, and he silently lamented about needing to sort through them as he picked them up off the ground, finally uncovering the one he was looking for. He unfolded it, revealing a picture of what looked like a massive, black worm sticking out of the sand. It had the same scales which were characteristic of Hollows, a segmented body, and a massive set of white teeth that seemed to be holding a large animal in their grasp. “Lesse here... about fifty meters long, four meters in diameter, comes out of the ground and swallows people whole. Class two or three, I think... but there’s two catches. First, it keeps getting bigger, and this report is from a month ago. Normally I wouldn’t even consider fighting this thing, but if the problem is left alone, it’s just gonna keep growing. Nobody’s suicidal enough to actually help me, though; most people just steer clear of it... east of Fort Spire, that’s where it’s usually spotted.” Archie took a sip of his water. “And the second catch? It regenerates from leftover body segments the same way an actual worm does. Slowly, sure, but it’s not like we can wound it and walk away. Think you’re up to the task?”

Roberta shrugged, tapping the glass once more, and then gesturing to the railgun strapped on her back. “I think I am, juuuust maybe. Not like I have anything else to do anyway. Unless you count sitting around grumbling about jobs being taken. Though honestly…” she glanced at the picture again, “you don’t happen to know some way I could transport bulk liquids inland? Or maybe get the fucker close to the sea? Would be easy then, drown the thing in acids and bases.”

“You’re really nonchalant about something that’ll probably get us both killed, yannow?” Archie said frankly, “But that’s the kind of person I want helping me on this. My motorcycle is certainly out of the question...” Archie scratched his chin once again. “Do you know where we could find a firetruck?” He was only half-joking; a firetruck combined with Roberta’s powers could’ve made this a breeze.

“Alas, I do not. There might be some sort of water tank we could find though, big enough for me to take most of the danger out of it. The main problem is actually moving it…” she paused, scratching her chin, “We might be able to rent a truck or something from someone around here, Sentinel’s built off the ruins of an old port so maybe a delivery truck or two might be lying around. Hell, maybe even an oil truck, that’d have enough space.”

Archie sighed, then placed a palm on his forehead and proclaimed: “Christ, I’m a fucking moron... we’re in the desert. Of course there’s water trucks around here. The hard part is getting one.”

“We just have to…” Roberta grabbed another coin, twirling it between her fingers before dropping it in an empty glass that she then tapped her fingers on, “ask nicely.”

Archie leaned in towards Roberta and whispered. “... If you’re suggesting what I think you’re suggesting... how ‘bout we get out of here and discuss this somewhere a little more private, hmm?”

Roberta nodded, standing up and downing the last bit of her water. “You have a place around here? All I’ve got is a room in an inn nearby, which isn’t exactly the most secluded place.”

“A small one,” Archie said, nodding, “It’s on the edge of town, so nobody’s gonna bother us.”

Archie didn’t realize how much subtext that conversation contained until they were already out the door.

The Dust: Begin Again

Basics

Disclaimer: Archie does not own a dragon. Please read the physical description; this was just the best image I've found so far.

Archibald Maryson, “the Bladed Devil”
Age: 23
Appeared Age: Late 20s, early 20s if shaven
Height: 178 cm (5’10)
Weight: 77 kg (170 lbs)
Eye Color: Blue
Hair Color: Brown
Physical Disabilities: None.
Physical Identifiers:

• Neatly trimmed hair
• Brown goatee and mustache
• Highly muscular and ruggedly good-looking
• Several large scars on back from a whip
• Vaguely Hispanic features
• Lightly tanned skin

Appearance:
Archie was always the better looking of the Maryson Brothers prior to Cyrus’ acquisition of shapeshifting powers. A chiseled, square jaw and cheekbones outline his tanned face, which features an incredibly well-kept mustache and goatee, and two refreshingly normal-looking blue eyes. Over the last ten years he has honed his body to perfection through vigorous exercise and a strict training regimen in order to keep up with the fighting slaves, immortals, outlaws, mutants and monsters that inhabit Dust and Ash. As a result, Archie's lean frame is rippling with muscles, with not an ounce of fat visible on him. His every movement is calculated, cautious and graceful, harkening back to his background as a dancer and experienced swordsman. Though strong, he is lean compact, and so does not look particularly intimidating.

He occasionally wears a black motorcycle helmet, as well as a black kevlar vest over a white, long-sleeve shirt, brown pants, and a pair of black hiking boots.

Those lucky enough to get Archie's shirt off will no doubt notice the series of whip scars on his back.

Background

Residence: Roaming around Ash, usually resting at small settlements in the area
Profession: Bounty Hunter
Aligned Faction: Independent
Relatives: Cyrus Maryson is Archie’s half-brother. Though they had somewhat of a falling out, which prompted Archie to leave for the island of Ash, they are currently on decent terms, and Archie has returned to see his brother twice since he initially left.

Esmerelda (Essie) “the Elastic” Maryson was also taken as a Forsaken slave, but sold directly to the self-proclaimed “king” of the Forsaken. The brothers have not seen her since.

Mary the Magnificent, mother of the three half-siblings, is unfortunately deceased.

Rico is the name of Archie’s father, though he is old enough to be Archie’s grandfather. He currently resides in Russell City (now part of the Wintergold Conglomerate). Rico was a great deal more responsible than most people who father bastard children, and had an active role in raising Archie, even as Mary travelled around, living a nomadic lifestyle. He is the one who taught Archie Spanish, as well as helping him to hone some more advanced sword techniques.

Backstory

(It may be better to read Cyrus’ backstory first; they have many things in common.)

Archie’s backstory is similar to that of his brother. Both were raised by Mary the Magnificent among circus-style performers and other various unusual characters, and took to different crafts. Archie was a dancer and acrobat from when he was only eight years old, and picked up swordplay soon after, practicing daily with the masters who performed in their troupe. His fencing style was swift and precise, but had never really been applied to real combat before being sold to Luther, the cruel arena slavemaster.

Before his kidnapping, Archie had been a kind, somewhat naive boy, but Luther quickly worked to beat this out of him. Daily whippings eroded his will slowly, and though he never truly lost his mind, he learned to keep his head down and avoid further abuse. He was forced to kill other helpless slaves, those who Luther saw as having outlived their usefulness, in order to prepare him for the bloody fighting pits. As he was forced to kill helpless opponents, he grew accustomed to it, and was eventually placed upon the sands of the arena to prove his might.

Archie was better than his brother at fighting, and was able to rack up a decent number of wins early on in his career. He couldn’t much rely on intimidation, given that many of the fighting slaves had been bred for generations to be especially tall, strong and vicious, and he was only thirteen at the time. However, the stupid brutes he faced simply didn’t have enough finesse and skill to keep up with Archie’s deft fencing, and were dispatched without much trouble. This entire time, Archibald the Amazing learned that the only thing which would keep him alive in this world was his skill. He had to be better than everyone else, or he would be slaughtered by them.

Luther thought of Archie as his prized possession, along with all that entailed. He was kept well-fed, though caged up and on a leash so he wouldn’t escape. His training regimen was brutal, far past the point of cruelty, but not so cruel that it would leave lasting damage. The training worked, though, and Archie was soon one of the greatest fighters in the Forsaken pits, able to slay foes seven feet tall with his thin, gruesome blade. As Archie continued along this path, however, he began to realize something horrifying: he was beginning to enjoy this. He enjoyed the roar of the crowds, the lamentations of his fans, the comfort slaves which were sent to his chambers in his final years of fighting, and even the feel of taking another man’s life. But his love for fighting was eclipsed by hatred; hatred of Luther, of his freedom being deprived from him, of being treated as a commodity instead of a person, and of being bred like a show dog to bring more tortured slave-champions into this world who would no doubt suffer the same fate as him. To this day, he seldom talks about this, even to his brother.

Overtime, Archie began to despise himself for taking part in such debauchery (despite not really having a choice). He turned to religion to give him some comfort, the faith of the Aqueons, whose dedication to honour and tradition inspired Archie. He learned to block out the brutal realities of his situation, to internally calm himself, and to focus his rage and anger back at their cause: Luther.

To this day, Luther is still Archie’s proudest kill. After winning their freedom, they went out into the wasteland, continuing where there mother had left off as wandering performers.

After the fall of the Motus Diversum, Archie and Cyrus’ lifestyle was made unsustainable by the decreased territorial security that went along with it. Though Cyrus quickly blended into Hedonist territory, the sheer decadence and sinfulness of the area made Archie sick to his stomach. He left for Ash, a large island off the coast, in order to forge a new life for himself. Killing was one of the few things he was good was still in high demand, and so it was only natural that he became a bounty hunter, still going by his old arena name: “The Bladed Devil”.

Gear

Weapons:

• Pen: Pen is Archie’s favourite and most-used sword, named after the old adage “the pen is mightier than the sword”. Like most of the rest of his arsenal, he found it sticking out of a pile of rubble in an old renaissance history museum.
• Spider Bite: Most of those who see Spider’s Bite don’t live to tell the tale, as Archie prefers to keep it a secret. In situations where he feels he may be outmatched or has given up trying to take his target alive, Archie pulls out this three-pronged secondary weapon to surprise his opponent and go for a swift kill. It can also be used to catch and break swords.
• The Bastard’s Bastard: This large bastard sword is atypical from what he usually uses, but packs quite the punch. Given Archie’s physical strength, he has no trouble wielding it with one hand, but he definitely prefers using it with two. When using this blade, his fighting style becomes more brutal and fierce, relying on overpowering his opponent rather than using precision strikes. This approach is usually reserved for easily scared foes that will lose composure at the first sign of being overwhelmed, or inexperienced opponents for whom finesse is not as necessary.
• Silenced 9mm Handgun: Though certainly not the most powerful gun (it certainly couldn’t pierce through a bulletproof vest or a Hollow’s armour), there are two particular aspects of this particular gun which makes it invaluable and irreplaceable for Archie. Firstly, it is quiet, allowing him to stay discreet in most situations. Secondly, it has very little recoil, so it can be utilized with one hand or while on the move, albeit with reduced accuracy.
• Sawed-off Double-Barrel Shotgun: For getting those gawsh dern whippersnappers off your lawn.

Armor: A bulletproof vest and sometimes a motorcycle helmet. Not much else.
Ammunition:

• Dirty Rounds: 22 shotgun shells, four magazines of 9mm ammo
• High Grade Rounds: Two magazines of subsonic 9mm rounds
• Heavy Ammunition: None

Backpack A:

• Rope
• Two sets of handcuffs
• Three days worth of canned food and clean water
• Can opener
• Small whetstone and polish
• Comb and shaving kit
• Small mirror

Miscellaneous:

• Motorcycle: The most difficult part was finding proper sand-tires for it, but they’ve made all the difference.

Immortalis Information

Unique Abilities:

• The Dance of the Bladed Devil: Though by no means an immortal power, one might mistake the grace and power with which Archie uses a sword for something supernatural. Swordsmanship may be somewhat of a lost art, but Archie is a damned good artist.

Strengths:

• Archie the Amazing: Archie has trained as an acrobat, a dancer, and a swordsman for eleven years. Not only is he in peak physical condition, but Archie can perform acrobatic and agile maneuvers both in and out of combat that push the limits of normal human physiology.
• Champion of the Arena: Someone who does nothing but fight for most of his life will unsurprisingly be quite good at fighting. Archie’s arena training has given him ample experience with all types of foes. He is not only trained to fight individuals, but large groups of (usually less experienced) people as well. Since swords were not necessarily always available to him, Archie has also been trained intensively in hand-to-hand combat, and intersperses his swashbuckling with well-placed kicks to trip up and disorient his opponents. With or without a sword, Archie is more than a match for most foes in close combat.
• Be Polite, Be Efficient...: For someone so cock-sure of their abilities, Archie is surprisingly modest and pleasant. Barring a few boasts and well-placed quips, of course. Archie has a level of calmness and cool-headedness about him, and displays a cautious kindness towards anyone who doesn’t immediately strike him as a bad egg.
• ... Have a Plan to Kill Everyone You Meet: Through years of intense study, Archie has learned how to quickly pick up on his enemies’ fighting styles and gain an advantage over them. Archie claims that he can tell how someone fights simply by watching how they walk.

Weaknesses:

• Live to Win: Archie may be very good at what he does, but his constant practice and almost fanatical devotion to his craft are partially from fear that someone else might be better, and partially from a mindset that was drilled into his head during his years fighting in the arena: “If you lose, you will die.” A certain stoic pride also makes it difficult for him to stand down from a direct challenge, even if he knows he has nothing to prove.
• I Wish I Could Do That...: It pains Archie to know that no matter how much he trains, he will never match the mythical abilities of the immortals, and would likely perish very quickly if he had to fight one of them alone. In the same vein, he often worries that because he lacks any special abilities, he will be seen as useless, particularly if a better swordsman comes along.
• Man, I’m Pretty: Archie takes perhaps just a little too much pride in his appearance, almost to the point of vanity. Though he has no qualms with getting dirty, he rivals the Ancient Greeks in his obsession with physical perfection, and enjoys showing off.
• LITERALLY JUST GUY WITH A FANCY METAL STICK: I mean seriously, what do you expect him to do against a Hollow? Seduce it? Sure, he's hard to kill if he manages to get you locked in single combat, but Archie is very much mortal.

The Dust: Begin Again

@TheMadAsshatter Das ist gut.

The Dust: Begin Again

I have two characters, one starting in Hedonist Territory and one somewhere on Ash (exact location not important), in case anyone is interested.

The Dust: Begin Again

@Monochromatic Rainbow Hooray for violence!

Take all the time you need. We know how long a good post takes. The wait just makes that glorious hype even hyperer.

The Dust: Begin Again

You and me both, brother.

... So, I took the liberty of starting the RP early.

====
Welcome back to Dust: the Sitcom!

Cyrus walks into a room. A laugh-track plays loudly in the background, as he seems to have forgotten to put on pants, and his heart-patterned boxer shorts can clearly be seen by our live studio audience. "Jeepers!" He proclaims, much to the delight of the audience, "I seem to have misplaced my trousers!" Another laugh-track ensues.

The Dust: Begin Again

Basics

Name: Cyrus Maryson
Age: 25
Appeared Age: Varies, usually around the same as his actual age.
Height: Varies (usually about 5’10)
Weight: Varies (usually around 70 kg/155 lb)
Eye Color: White irises with normal black pupils; usually covered by contact lenses.
Hair Color: Varies, usually a dark brown
Physical Disabilities: Varies
Physical Identifiers: Uhhhhh... Uhm...

• White (invisible) irises with little black pupils seemingly "floating" in them. Cannot be changed.
• Usually wears blue costume contacts

Appearance:
In his natural form, Cyrus’ skin takes on an unsettlingly pale tone, and his body is far too skinny for someone of his height and build. As evidence of his immortality, his irises are completely white. In his 'default' form, he lacks some human features entirely, such as defined lips. Everything looks as though it's part of a "blank slate" of sorts. Fortunately, only his eyes are unchangeable, and he conceals those with costume contact lenses.

When in private, he generally maintains appearance before he gained his powers: that of a 5’10 male with brown hair, albeit with a few... “adjustments” to make himself seem more attractive. When performing alongside Archie, he mimics his brother’s appearance entirely so that they can pass as twins and fulfill one of their prized gimmicks.

In public, those who don’t know Cyrus very well will find it unusual to see him wear the same face twice. He changes his appearance as often as someone else might change their clothes... however sparse spare clothes may be in Dust.

As of late, Cyrus has been spending less and less time in what he considers his most “natural” form, switching between identities more and more often. That said, he has also gotten much better at it.

Background

Residence: Hedon territory
Profession: Many cover occupations, including potato farm proprietor
Aligned Faction: Independent
Relatives: Cyrus has two half-siblings, both by different fathers. His older half-sister Essie is rumoured to be a concubine to the king himself, whereas his younger half-brother Archibald (usually called “Archie” or “the Bladed Devil”) He has not seen his sister since they were kidnapped, and his mother, Mary the Magnificent, has been dead for many years.

Though not Cyrus’ family persay, Archie’s biological father Rico is the closest thing to a paternal figure that any of the three children have ever had. He is old enough to be Archie’s grandfather and lives in Russell City. Unlike the other two children’s fathers, however, Rico was a repeat customer, and even spent some of his off-time traveling around with his Mary.

Backstory

Cyrus was born a freeman, the son of a performance artist and contortionist going by the stagename Mary the Magnificent. She traveled alongside a caravan, a “circus” of sorts, entertaining and occasionally even “entertaining” various patrons as they went from town to town as wandering street performers. This special “entertaining” resulted in a daughter and two sons, all from different fathers. There was the eldest and only girl, Essie, the middle child, Cyrus, and the youngest, Archibald. These three grew up with more than a healthy dose of idealism, learning about human nature from plays and books which portrayed the world in black and white, a never-ending struggle of good against evil. They were raised among unusual and wonderful people: thespians, singers, and even exotic dancers and prostitutes. None were quite so skilled as Mary, however, who seemed to master every craft she tried. Once they were old enough, Mary began to train them in the arts as well, praising it as a selfless and kind way to bring joy to a selfish and unkind world.

Essie was a petite girl who took after her mother, and eventually began learning the same nigh-unbelievable contortion tricks. Cyrus, on the other hand, was more of a straight-up showman, with a booming voice and incredible stage-presence. All of Mary’s children had charisma, but Cyrus simply oozed it, and was able to win over a crowd with words alone. This translated into unmatched acting and comedic skill. Archie, on the other hand, was a man of action. He spoke few words, but everything he said was backed by action. He was obscenely swift on his feet; a perfect physical specimen whose acrobatics were a phenomenal sight to behold, and who could wield a fencing blade as well as he could dance.

As often is in Dust, their lives took a turn for the worst as a result of a completely random event which they couldn’t control. Traveling through Forsaken territory was generally dangerous, but they had taken a trip to Forbes once before to trade wares and entertain in the capital city. However, after entertaining (and “entertaining”) a group of three legionnaires, they found themselves unsatisfied by her performance and demanding a refund, despite not having paid a dime. In their rage, they killed her and sold her three children to be slaves in Forbes for easy profit. Such is life among the Forsaken.

Essie was sixteen when the trio were captured, her body blossoming into womanhood. Supposedly, she was sold to the king himself, who had been captivated by her beauty. Cyrus and Archie, on the other hand, were both sold to a cruel slave fighter named Luther. They were beaten daily, deprived of food and water to “strengthen their resolve”, and were forced into the fighting arenas at fourteen and twelve years old respectively, and though Archie showed considerable skill early on, Cyrus was placed up against a much more experienced opponent in his first fight. Each blow from his opponent’s club found its mark, shattering the bones in Cyrus’ arms and kneecaps. He should have accepted death then and there, but instead, he did the unthinkable. He begged for mercy, in front of a crowd of Forsaken soldiers screaming for blood. He was dragged from the arena, back to Luther’s slave pen, where he was subject to the worst torment of his life as punishment for weakness, an experience he now refers to as “Nine Hours of Hell”.

Using the ropes tied to Cyrus’ hands and feet, Luther dragged him into some sort of underground dungeon and strapped him into iron manacles to bind him to the wall. It was obvious that Luther sought to torture him to death, even going so far as to promise that Cyrus’ last words would be proclaiming Luther to be his one and true master. First came the whippings, which, though brutal, were no more painful than their usual “punishments”. And so, knowing that his death would come one way or the other, Cyrus began to mock Luther, even as he was bound to the wall behind him by ropes and chains. And so, Luther moved onto stage two of his torture plan, using his knife to pry chunks of flesh off of Cyrus’ body. Even Cyrus’ screams of agony were insults, all directed towards the “fat, greedy fuck” who stood before him. Even as Luther took the knife to Cyrus’ fingers, his manhood, and eventually his face, the slave still laughed, until Luther cut the tongue from his mouth, filling it with blood. Luther held a mirror up to Cyrus’ face as he began to cleave off his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, until no flesh remained. He should have died long before this brutal process was complete, yet somehow, he remained in the world of the living. When the flesh had been completely stripped from his face, and Cyrus was staring at what was left of his face and body in a mirror that was placed cruelly across the room from him, his life began to flash before his eyes: all the parts he’d played, all the people he’d influenced and who had influenced him along the way... he regretted how short it truly was, in those brief moments of clarity between the unending pain. That was, until a voice spoke to him from deep within. Its message was faint, but clear, and steadily grew in volume and power...

“You will live, my child,” A smooth, sultry voice echoed from somewhere in the deepest, darkest part of his mind.

At first, he attempted to argue with this voice, even as he felt the pain began to subside as he drifted into a strange, dreamlike state. “No, my sweet angel of death, I am clearly dying...”

”’Angel of death’?” The voice asked, seeming rather shocked, ”Well I must say, I’m actually quite flattered... You do want to live though, yes?”

“Yeah, that’d be nice...” Perhaps if he lived, he could free himself and his siblings from the chains that bound them and start a new troupe. He had always dreamed of grandeur and glory, which he couldn’t attain if he was dead.

“You will play many parts, Cyrus,” his sweet angel of death said, “But so many others have played a corpse before you. Now open your eyes, Cyrus... and rise anew.”

“You’re a real drama queen, eh?”

“Look whose talking,” this angel no longer sounded like an angel; more like an angry, chastising mother. ”Now motherfucking RISE! Like a phoenix... or a loaf of bread in an oven or some shit.”

And so, Cyrus awoke once more, still gazing at himself in the mirror. He had died... or had he? As he looked in the mirror, he noticed his face and other various bits had begun to regenerate, albeit in a sickeningly pale shade. His visage, a mess of bone and muscle moments ago, was intact, though it lacked the distinct features he once had, instead resembling what a potter’s rendition of a human head might look like: grey, without defined lips or eyebrows. His eyes were grey where they should have been white, and white where they should have been black and brown. He glanced at his chains, still clinging onto his limp form, then ahead at Luther, cleaning Cyrus’ blood off of the flaying knife.

Luther, shocked at the creature which had replaced his slave, continued flaying regardless, determined to end Cyrus once and for all, but Cyrus’ flesh grew back as quick as Luther could remove it. Though initially frustrated, Luther soon made a game of the whole ordeal. At first, he attempted to brand Cyrus using a sharp cattle prod, and was amused when he discovered that brandings would simply disappear overtime. The worst of Luther’s torture was not done with a knife, however, but with boiling oil and fire. He wished silently to himself several times that he would simply die, but no such relief came. Each day, when Cyrus’ injuries healed, the torture would begin again. It was through this repeated and brutal torture that Cyrus learned to hide his pain, yet his will was never truly broken as was Luther’s intent. It wasn’t until Luther threatened to flay Archie that Cyrus began to follow any sort of orders.

When Cyrus and Archie both learned to fight, but they did so as a pair. Though perhaps not any more capable than any other tag-team, their talents of showmanship made them extremely popular among the people stands. The roar of the crowd certainly bolstered the brothers’ morale, and allowed them to pull ahead of their competition in a few pinch situations. In those pits, they learned to fight, though Cyrus was always better at attracting the crowd’s attention, and Archie was a far better fighter.

Eventually, Luther had the idea to use Cyrus and Archie for a different sort of entertainment, taking advantage of their past training. The brothers (as well as several other slaves) were forced to entertain the chieftains and the Forsaken masses in a venue similar to the arena in an art form that combined theatre and blood sport. Because some parts demanded that a character be killed or brutalized in some way and the Forsaken had a seemingly unquenchable desire for bloodlust, it was highly expensive and usually unprofitable to put on one of these shows, regardless of how much prestige it would bring the slaves’ owner. However, Cyrus’ ability to regenerate into a new character each time he was “killed” gave the people the blood they wanted without costing Luther more than was necessary. Sometimes several times a day, Cyrus would fake his own death across dozens of painful scenes: so many times, in fact, that he began to think of it as a joke. Overtime, Cyrus began to enjoy being in front of a crowd more than he hated the pain, though perhaps not as much as he hated Luther.

That is, until the day they won their freedom...

That Fateful Day...

Cyrus and Archie sat at a bar, surrounded by men and women of various backgrounds and professions, passionately telling the story of how he and his brother Archie escaped from the clutches of the forsaken. Though he omitted any parts alluding to his immortality, his tale was true, albeit dramatized. The bartender was listening closely to his spiel, clearly inspired by their outgoing charisma. Archie was just finishing up another part of the story of their capture and eventual escape.

“... And at this point, Cyrus and I were ready to put our plan into action. We’d talked it over with some of Luther’s other slaves, and since this was the only time we were allowed weapons, we knew it had to be during one of our performances.”

====

The clash of sword-upon-sword echoed throughout the round as Archie’s , colosseum-like arena as the massive crowd cheered for blood. The Scottish Play, MacBeth, was about to reach its climax, wherein MacDuff, played by Archie the Bladed Devil, would slay MacBeth, played by Cyrus, and restore Prince Malcolm to the throne. The arena was packed full, as was usually the case for particularly bloody plays. Considering that this was a piece written by the world’s most famous English sadist, William Shakespeare, this was sure to please. The climax was always the most popular part, as could be expected: the crowd cheered as MacDuff advanced, with the Tyrant King MacBeth edging closer and closer to the wall of the arena in desperation.

Cyrus screamed one of his final lines, about how no man of woman born could slay him. Archie replied cockily by stating that his mother had been given a C-section, as opposed to him technically being born. Cyrus hid a smirk from the audience, knowing full well this was the time for their plan to spring into action. It wasn’t much of a “plan”, per say, but Luther was watching the performance from above the very same wall that Cyrus was backed up against, with a large shield in hand. He gave a small nod, prompting Archie to charge forward, sword raised. At the top of his lungs, the heroic Lord MacDuff screamed: “DEATH TO THE TYRANT KING!”

As Archie came closer to his half-brother, Cyrus braced his shield, angling it up slightly. And, in a single motion, Archie jumped up into said shield, using it to vault up to the stands. He soared through the air as a smirk spread across his face, thrusting forward with his blade and winking as the point of his rapier went through the soft flesh on Luther’s neck. A single prick from the bladed devil’s long, thin sword to pierce Luther’s throat. The sound of him choking on his own blood was one of the sweetest sounds that either of the brothers had ever heard. In the end, though, the people were satisfied: they’d received their fill of blood, even if it wasn’t Cyrus’. Thunderous applause filled the arena regardless, as the announcer praised the duo as free men once again.

Having slain their master without drawing the ire of the anarchic Forsaken public, they were able to reclaim their mother’s possessions from Luther’s estate, and regain their freedom.

Since escaping the Forsaken four years ago, Archie and Cyrus have travelled around Dust, performing on the streets of various towns for scrap metal, clothes, bullets, and whatever passersby have to offer two starving (but incredibly talented) artists.

Gear

Weapons:

• M9 Beretta Pistol: For shooting people. Only used in emergencies and usually tucked away somewhere highly inconspicuous.
• Butterfly Knife: For stabbing things.
  Armour: Cyrus generally foregoes armour completely in favour of his natural regenerative abilities and to remain agile. As of late, he has taken to wearing whatever helps him blend in best, but very much enjoys suits.

Ammunition:

• Dirty Rounds: A large amount.
• High Grade Rounds: A decent amount. Most of them are for his M9, as he rarely uses any other sort of gun.
• Heavy Ammunition: Three hand grenades, twelve rocket-propelled grenades (no rocket launcher to use them with), and a tank of propane.

Backpack A:

• Water Bottle
• Pen and notepad

Miscellaneous:

• Scripts and Sheet Music: Considering his background in the performing arts, it’s no surprise that Cyrus has smuggled away as many works of literature and songs as he could. He keeps most of these papers hidden inside his straw mattress. One of his favourites is MacBeth.
• The Maryson Brothers’ Trailer: Mary the Magnificent’s trailer was sold to Luther alongside her sons, as well as all of her various outfits and costumes. Though many have been lost or sold, some clothes still remain intact. The trailer also contains a large, stage-like mat, several boxes of assorted props and makeup, and enough space for two people to comfortably sleep. It was repainted so that it bares the words “Maryson Brothers Co.” in large, gaudy letters like one might see at an old-world circus... and then repainted again with the words “Montgomery Potato Farms”.
• Old Pickup Truck: Cyrus finally got around to washing his car! It is now a more pristine shade of red, though spots of rust are still here and there. It serves its purpose, used to transport his goods from one place to another.

Immortalis Information

Manifested Phenomena: Himself
Unique Abilities:

• ”It’s Just a Flesh Wound!”: Cyrus can regenerate wounds of varying severity and even reattach lost limbs. However, more serious wounds can still be exhausting for him to heal, and generally take longer.
• A Man of Many Faces: Cyrus can alter his appearance and voice within what is biologically possible. Facial and skin pigment changes are by far the easiest for him, though he can make himself taller, bulkier, older, younger, or even change into a woman, albeit with significant physical effort. As he gets better with his powers, he's even begun experimenting, pushing the bounds of human physiology...

Strengths:

• That Which Doesn’t Kill Me Makes Me Stronger: As a result of enduring years of physical and mental abuse, Cyrus has an astonishingly high threshold for pain. He doesn’t feel - or at least pretends not to feel - injuries that would make even some greater men groan in agony.
• Triple Threat: After years of performing in both gladiatorial arenas and theatres, as well as his mother’s training, Cyrus can dance, sing, but most of all, he can act. This helps to make his transformations far more convincing, and even gives his fighting style a bit of humorous performance flair.
• A Savvy Rogue: Cunning and quick-witted, there is no situation that Cyrus can’t talk his way out of, and few people he can’t win over with honeyed words alone. His experience running what’s left of his mother’s business has only served to improve these abilities. This set of skills has helped him acquire a decent amount of monetary wealth.
• A Circus Monkey: Cyrus has impressive agility and jumping skill, which have only improved since acquiring Immortal powers.

Weaknesses:

• Cocky to A Fault: Cyrus has a tendency to overestimate the extent of his own abilities, has trouble keeping snide comments to himself, and occasionally forgets that others aren’t quite as hardy as he is. This callousness gets him into trouble, and though he himself is resistant to most forms of punishment, he occasionally lacks the foresight to see how his actions could harm others, directly or otherwise.
• Why bother? I’ve got superpowers!: Quite simply put, Cyrus is a little bit lazy, and tends to over-rely on his powers to compensate for his unrefined skills in other areas, even in melee fights. Because the effectiveness and ease of use of his own regenerative and shapeshifting capabilities are based partly on his physical endurance, this hinders him more than he realizes. After excessive use of these abilities overtime, he will simply become too exhausted to fight if he takes enough bodily damage.
• A Lover, Not a Fighter: There’s a reason Cyrus prefers to talk his way out of fights: outside of the melee-only world of the arena, Cyrus has very little combat experience, and is more likely to rely on his powers to get him through safely than any real skill. Though he has trained a bit with a sidearm pistol in the past year, his marksmanship is no greater than average, and he can’t effectively use any other type of gun.
• Some Wounds Don’t Heal: The psychological turmoil that Cyrus has been through still haunts him, but he hides his emotions from everyone around him, instead choosing to cope by treating his own existence as a joke of sorts. This usually manifests in the form of self-deprecating humour that can sometimes come across as unreasonably cruel, macabre or awkward.
• Don’t Let Me Burn: Though Cyrus learned to love the knife and use it to his advantage, Cyrus never stopped fearing Luther’s second favourite torture method: fire. Though he’s unlikely to turn and run if he sees a flame, he’ll try noticeably to stay as far away as possible from anything larger than a candle. Furthermore, severe burn wounds (especially wounds that have been cauterized) take Cyrus longer to heal: whether this is due to a physical limitation of his powers or a psychological limitation is still up for debate.

In the Past Year...

Hider

“People who play by their own rules tend to make shitty rules. To defeat them at their own game, take those rules and abuse them as best you can.”

Before their fall, Archie and Cyrus were relative supporters of the Motum Diversum. Cyrus’ identity as an immortal was easy to conceal from them due to the nature of his powers, and they had always provided Dust with what the brothers felt was a decent amount of security and interconnectedness. Their old nomadic way of life was impossible, as far more bandits roamed the wastes and territorial security was no longer assured. The risk of being shot up was ten times greater than it had previously been, and it had already been quite high. Cyrus in particular was incredibly bitter after seeing the suffering which their fall caused, and left Russell City and the Wintergold Conglomerate for the only people whose lifestyle seemed to allow for luxuries, and therefore to pay for the Maryson Brothers’ entertainment services: the Hedons.

However, they were quickly horrified at what they came across. In this reverse-Orwellian political cartoon of a dystopia, Cyrus not only learned the true meaning of the phrase “horseshoe theory”, but witnessed atrocities that might make the Forsaken blush. Men were worked to death for little pay, women were practically bought and sold without regard for their own self-determination, and those who challenged this system were put to death. To quote the shapeshifter himself, “Paolo needs a fucking civics lesson.”

Someone had to do something about this shit, though both of the brothers had a different idea of how to go about it. Cyrus “founded” the Order of A Thousand Faces. Reputed to be over a thousand men and women strong, each member is well-trained in espionage, spying, and gathering information to play the various feudal-esque lords against one another. Cyrus is actually the only member of the Order, but by hyping up the Order’s reputation, has successfully built up the illusion of a truly fearsome organization. Most of the Hedons genuinely believe that they have a secret society watching them, when in actuality, it’s just one person.

Cyrus now pulls in a small fortune selling information and secrets about different Hedons to each other, trying to maintain an uneasy balance of power and preventing any single Hedon from rising to a point where they can dominate the others. Cyrus even purchased a small plot of land and opened a cheap restaurant as a front for his operations, though most of his fellow Hedons are far too self-absorbed and stupid to interfere even if they did get a clue about what he was really doing. With careful investment and purchase of surrounding lands, his fortune grew, and he has managed to become the Hedons’ largest producers of potatoes and potato-related goods, including vodka for those who can afford it.

He plots silently, waiting for his chance to finally end the plight of these people once and for all. For now, he offers decent living wages and moderate health coverage. And on occasion, free potatoes.

The Dust: Begin Again

C'mon guys I can't hold all my hype with all these new characters. I have so many jokes lined up for if my characters ever meet them.

Speaking of my characters, they are going to be done very, very soon. Probably by the end of the night. I added a bunch of stuff for the past year, and fleshed out Archie to the point where I feel he probably deserves his own sheet.

EDIT: Cyrus is back. And he has taters.