Life for Alexandria was a hard one, but that's nothing special here in the wasteland. Everybody's life is hard. Yet, these experiences, as tragic as they may or may not be, helped mold her into the rabid little creature she is today. Ironically, she was often referred to as charged and ready to explode at any moment, though this irony is only in hindsight. Let's start at the beginning.

2361A.F, a baby girl was born to the coupling of a man from old world, Russian descent, and a mixed race wife. They named her Alexandria Svet-Yulia, the combined last names of both of her parents, though Yulia translates into "Young", her mother's last name. Matvei Svet-Mikah, her father, finally settled down with his wife Grace Young, where he would lead the dangerous life of a scavenger. Where best to do this? The bustling, crowded, Russel City, where any man could make a life for himself. He spent long weeks in the wastes, fighting innumerable dangers so that his wife and child could have a life, relatively free from the dangers of the desert. Though there were many times where Grace fought off those less fortunate, rather savagely and desperately. The kind of parents that would do anything to protect the only ray of hope for them, Alexandria.

It was a quiet evening, six years later, when night was just beginning to fall, casting it's shadowed blanket across the lands, when Matvei returned home after a long and prosperous week of scavenging. Imagine the look beneath his covered face, behind his protected eyes, when he stumbled upon a trap door half buried in some sandy ruins, a treasure trove of old world junk. He was an adapt haggler, and would be able to turn a mighty profit so that his wife and child could have the necessary things in life, and more. It was a relatively simple plan, loot the ruins, try not to die, make money; happy wife happy life. And Oh! How he longed to see his baby girl's face, unblemished by the scorching sands of Dust, unmarred by the howling winds. Matvei nearly dropped dead in the doorway.

The large apartment was turned upside down. Both bedroom's ransacked, the furniture smashed. Even kitchen, as expected, had been looted for everything that could be carried, even the handful of baby toys Matvei had acquired. He stumbled through the wreckage of the living area, shreds of clothing littering broken furniture. He recognized it, a nice dress he had bought for his wife. She must have been waiting for him, he did say he would return on this day. He shook his head, half in horror, half in disbelief. She would have heard the knock, only to run to the door and throw it open in expected delight of her husband. He knelt down, picking up a long shred of cloth, covered with blood. He did not think, he did not feel, the only thing the coursed through his veins was electrifying vengeance.

He had already expected this, but the sorrow still pierced through his heart. In the far corner of the living room was the playpen he had constructed for his six year old daughter. The pen was empty, but Matvei's heart turned even darker. There was no blood on the playpen, but there was a trail of it leading towards the bathroom facilities. He was half tempted to turn and walk out, his wife did not deserve this, he felt he would shame her spirit by going any further. He should just leave, he already knew, she wouldn't want him to see her decomposing. But he had to know. He had to be sure.

Her broken body lay upon the tile which was smeared with an expanding pool of blood. She was undressed, multiple lacerations covering her body. It was obvious what had been done to her previous, before whomever did this slit her throat and left her to die, covered in a ragged scarlet dress of her own blood. He wept softly, a man as hard as he, but he could not restraint himself. Everything had been taken from him in an instant, he should have come home a day earlier. He should have barred the doors, should have warned Grace about the dangers of society. He should of done this, should of done that, but his eye caught something as he turned away from the shameful scene of his wife's body. A small slip of blood covered paper.

A receipt. Rage once again boiled inside of him. He looked at his wife's body in shock. He rolled her over violently, turning her broken neck, looking for- There, he found it. Two small holes on the neck, the marks of a drug addict. The receipt had a name on it, belonging to a very unfortunate person.

It was months later when Max McClaire awoke in a dark room he did not recognize. The winds howled outside, and old world junk was piled in nearly every corner of the room. He moved to stand, and his breath caught, he was tied to the chair. Suddenly the blinding light in his face was very evident, the throbbing from his skull, and the large imposing shadow standing before him. That's right, he had been at a meeting, a deal about to happen. Somebody wanted a supply of his stock, which was expected, his new drug was all the rage; benefits of being a homemade chemist. The man stepped forward, he could have easily been over six foot tall. "Where is my daughter?" He asked.

The screams were but a complimentary shriek to the howling winds.

Six more years pass, and we come back to Alexandria. A young child still, about to reach her early teens. The night her mother was molested and killed had replayed in her mind, haunting images plagued her dreams, for the past six years. She had been drugged and hauled across the desert wastes to an unfamiliar place. For days the terrain rolled by, endless expanses of shimmering flat earth, of sandy drifts and dunes, of hard rocky terrain littered with boulders. They walked the whole way there, her captors large and imposing, she has still been but a toddler, and they walked her until her shoeless feet bled and she could walk no more. Sometimes they would carry her, slung over their shoulder and held by her ankles, like freshly killed game. Other times she was dragged until she got up, and walked again.

She wasn't taken to any city of Dust, though she did not know that at the time, but rather a camp. A camp full of dirty, vicious people. There were others like her there, most of them were older, but they helped her. Guided her so that she would feel the lash of their whips less often, so that she wouldn't be thrown down and beaten in the dirt like an animal. Taught to keep her head low and her eyes down so she would be picked less often for their lustful urges, which often came with a beating or a lashing anyways. Though they were careful not to permanently scar her flesh, but for reasons unbeknownst to her.

She became used to pain there, as she grew up at the hands of her masters. Sometimes they went out and would bring her new friends to play with, to teach as she had been taught. She would see her misery reflected in their eyes, her pain echoed in their wails of agony. Their shame, after being hauled off to one of the barracks. Bad slaves were kept outside in a pen, with just enough water to fight over to stave off dehydration. Good slaves were assigned as personal servants, under the protection of their master, to follow their will above all. Alexandria was a good slave, he had been in service for a year now, to a woman named Sula, whose tastes fell more along the feminine side of the coin.

Four more years pass. Alexandria is sixteen now, and she is one of the very best slaves. Her masters are proud of her, she learns very quickly, she is humble and reclusive. Her masters hardly even notice her presence when she's around, replacing empty platters of food or refilling drink, as quickly and silently as an apparition. She hasn't been punished in months, and her master are so very proud of her. She no longer cries when they pick her to end a night of drunken stupor with that of lust. She no longer fights, no longer resists, no longer has any will, for they are masters of their trade. She is almost ready to sell now, Greya spoke to her, often times in the bed, of how much she will miss her little Alexia. Alexandria is a good slave, and told her master how much she will miss her, her beauty, her wisdom, and other pleasantries. Her master would smile, sometimes she would be gentle, but Greya was a rough and callous person, and it often showed on Alexandria's body; bruises, superficial cuts, burns that would later be applied a poultice to keep from scarring. But Alexandria was a good slave, and she enjoyed what her master enjoyed.

It was merely days before the auction, Alexandria was laying breathless with her Master. She had been a good slave, she had pleased her Master well, and was to receive a gift later, something to remember her Master by. Soon she was dressed and following as Greya's shadow. The envy of other slaves male and female, the pride of her masters. She was passed around for service to many others who would miss her, but there was much talk of how much profit they could bring in. No matter how much they fancied her servitude, her company, or her body, they were still going to sell her to another Master, she would have to leave the only home she had ever known, or could remember. She was scared, but Greya comforted her, because her little Alexia was such a good, well behaved slave.

The night before the auction Greya summoned Alexandria. She was so pleased with her little Alexia, told her what a good slave she was, and even though her Alexia had come down with a cold, she hid the fact well, and Greya was so very proud of her good little slave. She held a bauble out in her hand, a small globe set upon an old and rusted base. Greya shook it and little snowflakes danced around a tiny figurine of a female woman, who appeared to be wearing odd shoes with blades beneath. Greya told her this was a snowglobe, and the figure in the middle was an ice skater. Alexandria tried to refuse modestly, slaves were not allowed to have possessions other than what they were given to wear. Greya gave her the look the meant she was about to be struck out of anger, and Alexandria did not want that. She was a good slave after all.

The bauble was heavy in her hands, and she shook it with delight. A smile crept across her face, showing her real joy. It was a beautiful trinket, and her delight made Greya smile. Greya moved close, pulling Alexandria close to her body, when an alarm was raised. Greya cursed and order Alexandria to stay put, that she would be back in a moment to see that smile again. Alexandria was a good slave, but a clever one too. She leaned out of the tent to see a brawl happening in the streets. A large man was striding through the streets, covered head to toe in a thick iron armor, welded together. He held a massive sword and was cutting a swathe through her Masters as bullets ricocheted off his armor. A gathering of men were following behind him, shining stars reflecting off of the breast of their shirts.

The battle raged on, tents burst into flames and people on both sides were dying left and right. Slaves cowered in the pens as stray bullets whizzed past them, some of them injured, some of them killed instantly. The large iron man in the midst of the battle finally caught sight of her. He strode towards her, his massive sword cutting through her masters. It was then that Greya appeared before him, only to be struck down by the flat of his blade. Alexandria's throat caught, Greya was about to be killed, her master was about to die.

A mantra repeated itself in her head, as the snowglobe fell from her hands; "I'm a good slave. A good slave. A good slave. A good girl. I'm a good girl. Good girl... Good girl...I'm a.."

The man paused as she ran towards him, her bare feet moving across the dirt with speed. Slaves were not allowed to run unless ordered. "But I'm a good slave." Slaves were not allowed to disobey their masters. "But I'm a good slave." Slaves were not allowed to pick up a weapon. "But I'm a good slave." And most importantly, slaves were never permitted to kill. "But I'm a good slave."

Blood streamed from beneath the man's massive helmet, a sparse column of smoke drifting from the eye hold where Alexandria had pressed the barrel of a gun. His arms were halfway around her, about to crush the life from her body, but the bullet impact in his brain as seized his body, so that he could not squeeze the life from her. "I'm a good slave," she repeated, as the man fell to the ground. The battle ended soon after, with Alexandria protecting Greya's unconscious body.

But Greya's little Alexia was such a bad slave. Upon discovery of the bauble, and a retelling of the acts Alexandria had committed, Greya's rage was near infinite. The last of the whip brought Alexandria to tears, as it ripped through her pale flesh. They had bound her naked to the whipping post. They could not sell such a bad slave as her. The whip cracked across her body again, splattering Alexia's blood on the hard packed earth. She wept and screamed as Greya cracked the whip over again, and again. Greya would have to buy her now, nobody would want to buy such a bad slave. The whip cracked, blood spraying from her back in a fine mist. Alexandria fell to the ground, every lash a searing cut with the hottest of blades, as if the very sun itself were cutting into her body.

Another crack, and another. Alexandria's vision wavered, but they had given her some form of herb, to give her energy, to keep her from falling unconscious. They wanted to to feel every lash, so she would know what a bad slave she was. Another lash, but Alexandria was already hoarse from screaming, nothing but a ragged whisper coming out. There was a pause, some water so that she could scream once more, more of the herb. But she could receive no more lashes, there was nowhere unmarred on her back to whip anymore. Instead of risking killing her Greya approached her holding something in her hand. She cut Alexandria's bonds, throwing her into the dirt, the hot earth pressing into her wounds, causing more screams and more tears. Greya pressed her boot against Alexandria's stomach, pressing down until she was sure she would break.

"I wouldn't want my little worm to wiggle away," Greya sneered, taking the odd metal baton she had been holding and pressing it into Alexandria's chest, right in the center between the upper portion of her breasts, the center of her collarbone.

Whatever this was had been new, fire spread throughout Alexandria's body, causing her to involuntarily seize up and spasm. Her screams caught in her throat, coming out only as a weak gurgle. Greya paused, but the burning sensation still remained in her body, causing her to twitch and spasm in pain. She pressed the rod again to the same area, Alexandria's flesh smoking from the point of impact. Again she body tensed up, the fire coursing across her flesh, her weak gurgling, the spasms, the pain.

And then it had stopped. The pain was no longer there, but Greya was still pressing the rod against her smoldering flesh. Greya looked slightly confused as Alexandria's body relaxed. She adjusted a dial on the rod and the tip of it glowed brightly, attempting to increase the intensity. A new pain erupted from Alexandria's chest, the rod was burning through her flesh, and that she did feel. A tingling sensation ran across her body, and white hot lightning erupted from her hands. The impact sent Greya sprawling a few yards away, her body twitching. Alexandria stood weakly, the sun burning her naked flesh, her wounds throbbing. But she felt alive, for the first time she felt capable. The life returned to her soul, and rage filled her eyes.

A day later the camp was found, though it was more of a smoldering ruin by now, burned to the ground. No a soul remained alive, and it was reported there were no survivors. Except for the small teen stumbling across the wastes, heading nowhere in particular, with plenty of supplies, and proper attire.

Externally Alexandria wears leather bracers and knee pads, underneath her scarlet cloak however she is quite conservative, only wearing plain clothes. Though between the two layers of scarlet fabric a very thin piece of leather is sown in, providing protection from thorns and spurs.

Jonathan lead a life all too common in the wasteland, one filled mostly with strife and danger, a testing fight for survival. He was the child of two brilliant parents, both esteemed gunsmiths and firearms researchers. Though he was much too young to remember them, or their passing, he does have a Polaroid picture of them. Growing up he had always been told stories of what wonderful people Anna and Michael Diederich, his parents, had been. Stories that had both saddened him, and filled him with a childish sense of pride. His stepparents had taken him in without hesitation, being close friends of his then deceased parents.

Philip and Joanna Morris were both automotive scientists, and are single-handedly responsible for many of the contraptions rolling through Dust. Philip was older than Jonathan's father Michael, He and his wife past the age of baring children and heading quickly into old age. A monumental mark that not everybody achieves these days, but far more likely with scientists who never leave safety. Philip is practically an elder, high into his fifties and continually growing a fierce white mane of a beard. His wide, wrinkled eyes spend their days pouring over manufacturing schematics and theoretical designs, his true talent lying in the restoration of older vehicles.

His wife on the other hand, is more of a designer. She takes the good ideas and creates suitable field applications, like mounted weaponry, ammunition feed systems, and everything ranging from tire treading to bumper curve. She too holds the heavy marks of old age, but with auburn gold hair that still holds some of the luster of her youthful days, the roots just now turning white into her mid fifties.

And then there's their son, eleven years Jonathan's younger. The day Jon left to join the Wings, Grayson had decided in his young age that he would build the guns that Jon would use to make bad guys go away. This was ten years ago, and technically Grayson hadn't been a liar, even at the young age of six. His parents always knew he would be brilliant, unlike Jon who was more fascinated with guns and how they killed people. Grayson began his studies and his aptitude proved more than the complex tests could handle. He soared through each course and assignment given to him by Dresden's teachers, so quickly that his parents began devising their own curriculum.

As soon as he was able Grayson joined his parents in the field of automotive science, focusing his intellect onto practical weaponry, working more with his mother than his father. It was Grayson who, in his off-time, designed the modified assault rifle that Jonathan and his squad use today. Also proving himself the prodigal child, he invented and explosive putty based off of old world composition-C, completely malleable, but firm, and requiring a spark to ignite. This item is also exclusive to Jonathan and his squad, but Motum Diversum has the schematics for both the putty and the gun.

Leaving behind his boring life of tests and assignments, Jonathan fulfilled his dream of becoming a Wing. Most of his life was spent with studies he had no interest, and no passive skill for, and being bullied by the “braniacs”, or the smart children. Compared to them he was as dumb as a rock, but with the Winged Guardians he felt right at home, and he was rightly accepted into the ranks. As with every new blood, he did experience his fair share of hazing, pranks, and other minor difficulties. He had no trouble adapting, and was the only cadet in his year willing to return anything he was given. This lead him to garner a lot of unwanted attention, and trouble, and the label of being rebellious.

This was quickly pounded out of him with the help of a mean spirited drill instructor. For the first time since leaving home, Jon felt homesick. But he persisted. He ran laps until he could no longer run, and then ran more for being a show off. He tried to do more physical exercise than the others, and was punished with more. He spent the first month confused, as his desire to excel was met with endless punishment. It wasn't until the end of the second month that he learned the meaning of unity, of comradery. A unit was only as strong as the weakest link, and by trying to be the strongest link he was also the weakest. This was when he also learned the meaning of endurance, compared to just raw will.

Months three and four were spent training as commanded. He spent his free time with the others, though his stepparents had always taught him to follow rules, the other cadets taught him how to break rules. Smuggling booze, drugs, and cigarettes became an art for some, but Jon never dirtied his hand with such trafficking. He did partake from time to time, his curiosity overcoming his will. Leave was spent going into whatever town was nearby and looking for women, though genital horror stories kept Jon away from the prostitutes and brothels. He did find women, and they did take their close off for him, and sometimes for him and a couple of his buddies. It didn't take long for that childhood shyness clinging to Jonathan's personality to be shed, group sex will do that to a person. He also became stronger, forged in fire and molded into steel. He may not be a genius, but he could be the bulwark that stood before his stepbrother, shielding him from the larger horrors of the world.

Long after his friends had left, joining their respective groups and receiving their assignments, Jon stayed in training. He had no desire to be a grunt, patrolling city slums, gathering intelligence, or standing around in a watchtower. No, he wanted to be the guy that was called to raid drug cartels, the kind of action hero characterized by children's fantasies. He spent time learning to use a long range, precision rifle. He never reached the top of any shooting classes, but he far exceeded the accepted standard. He also took courses in explosives use, gaining proficient use of many different devices and contraptions.

The second year wore on, albeit it was still early. Jon was being pushed to join a regiment. Nobody wanted to fulfill his expressed desire to better equip himself with a broader knowledge of hand-to-hand combat, except for one. Drill Sergeant Thanos said he would take Jon under his wing, for the remainder of the year. Jon eagerly accepted and his superiors begrudgingly accepted, Thanos was a well respected man of the institution and Jon had captured his interest. Jon's happiness at the opportunity was constantly second guessed by himself, as he spent the first few months doing a regimen of physical exercise instead of actually learning close quarters combat. Sergeant Thanos simply explained that raw power was not enough to be an apt fighter, and that Jon would have to hone himself to a peak of perfection before he would be ready to begin learning.

Late a night, a winded and sore Jonathan would think on the prospective benefits of his apprenticeship under Sergeant Thanos. His conditioning included running until he couldn't breathe, immediately followed by a routine of straining physical exercise before he could snag a chance to catch his breath. If he was not quick enough with his exercises he would have to start over. It was nearly a month before Jon even got to the third item on Sergeant Thanos' list, by this time others had become intrigued with the two of them to the point that the mass interest reached the board of directors overseeing military basic training and drill; commissioned by the Executive of Security.

Thanos was instated as special course drill instructor, who then employed Jon as his model of comparison for weeding out all of the initiates. Jon was not the fastest, or the strongest by far, but he did excel in pure endurance. The first test was the run, and only the top twenty who did not quit would proceed. This was also done at a full sprint. Many of the others quickly passed Jon, but it was only a matter of minutes before he passed their wheezing bodies.

The twenty that passed joined Jon in his daily routine. Now, nobody could move on until everybody could together. Additionally Jon's usual four hours of sleep was extended to five, so that they could all have time to “shoot the shit” as their Drill Sergeant stated. His methods did not attempt to breed cold, emotionless warriors, but a well oiled machine that was self sustaining.

Finally, a month and a half before the year was up Jon and his squad succeeded in passing The Run, The Exercise, and a timed gauntlet of obstacles, all done rapid fire one after another.

One day, as Jon finished his lap over walls, through tires, through mud, ropes, and multitudes of other obstacles that he and his team had constructed by hand, thinking about how quickly he could do his laundry, Sergeant Thanos announced that his “baby carrots had grown into the long, hard dicks of men.” That's when Jon finally got the final piece to his warrior's puzzle, hand to hand combat. It was the hardest thing he had done yet. Having his ass handed to him day in, and day out, sleeping for only a couple of hours a night before doing it again. The worst part is the Sergeant never seemed to tired, never seemed to waiver, and never seemed to receive a hit.

Most of the practice was done on each other, sparring rituals, and simulated combat. It was hardly simulated, as Jon and his brethren went full out on each other. Pains and aches did not stop Jon from trying to hardest, and getting flipped on his back every time by Sergeant Thanos. But, slowly, Jon and the others found themselves able to block a few more times, able to last a little longer sparring against “Master Thanos” as they began fondly calling him-- Never to his face.

By the end of the year they had become experts on the craft, though never able to best Sergeant Thanos, they did receive his praise. Most of all Jonathan, this being the only thing he had ever masted. He finally felt fulfilled, like he was worthy of life. He was no genius, but his was an expert combatant in close quarters. It was around this honorary graduation that his brother was deemed to smart to attend regular school. Jon would be 19 now, making his step brother 8. Still, this didn't dampen his spirits, he didn't have to be a genius baby, he was the protector, the sword and the shield.

Jon found himself slightly saddened as his comrades in arms went their separate ways, there was no official squads or regiments to join for the completion of Sergeant Thanos' Drill. And, despite everything Jon had put himself through, he was still assigned a paltry position as a Winged Guardian stationed in Russel City.

He endured on however, refusing to fall to corruption and greed. He was made to endure, and he wouldn't mar the image of the warrior Sergeant Thanos had molded him into being. He stayed away from the more illicit activities of the Guardians, doing his rounds dutifully, and with purpose. He upheld the law as fairly and justly as he could, even when left up to interpretation. He even found his fair share of lovers, but he could never see himself settling down with nice, normal folk. It was mostly wild flings in the night, and hot love affairs. Perhaps the worst thing he did was smoke cigarettes, drink a little, and balance multiple lovers. What's the worst that could happen anyways? A warrior's greatest honor was death in battle, he was destined to die.

He had nothing to fear.

His life dragged on this way, day in, day out, purpose and routine. Eventually he became comfortable with it, though most days he spent his patrol jogging. His nights were filled with exercise and his one enjoyable habit, smoking. He slept only a little bit each night, some days choosing to start his duties early and end them late. It wasn't long until his actions were noticed by those higher up than he, and become a model of excellence for those who cared. Most higher ranking officers didn't much care for high moral codes of justice and honor, too involved with extortion and tyrannical power. But some did notice, and Jon ascended the ranks until he found himself a sergeant, and captain of his own platoon. His own platoon of liars, thieves, and officially sanctioned thugs.

The state of affairs was disappointing, and Sergeant Diederich tried to instill some honor and fear into his men. They requested transfers and were quickly accepted elsewhere, wherever it was that corruption festered. He tried his hand with newer recruits, but it wasn't long until they learned the ways of the others. The darker, fun side of the Wings. News of this reached the ears of the Executive of Security, who was often far too busy to actually meet personally with his underlings.

Jon received a warning letter, about his poor performance with his new position. He responded back by attempting to explain himself, explain the state of affairs within the city. The Security Executive declared Jon's accusations ludicrous, that the city was in fine hands and Jon was the only problem. He obviously didn't know, somewhere up the ladder the news was filtered before it could reach the ears of the appropriated executive.

Jon fell back into complacency. His squad did what they want, only being reprimanded for breaching orders and enforced protocol. Jon went back to his routine of running and exercising, losing his wandering mind in the repetitive nature of it all. He didn't although himself to think much, because he was prone to thinking dangerous thoughts. Treasonous even.

Born to two Forsaken tribals, Ulver was the second son of the pair of Forsaken Peons. His parents, Richter and Layla were 2nd generation Forsaken Tribals, making Ulver and Jimis 3rd generation Forsaken, destined to be the first of the line to be warriors. From a very young age, they were trained to be loyal warriors to the Forsaken Order. They were trained first to have complete apathy to killing and death, something Ulver had trouble mastering, but something Jimis, 10 years Ulver’s senior, had perfected. Jimis was already well trained and destined to wage warfare by the time Ulver turned 7, but instead stayed behind to work with Ulver in his training, so they could be in the military together. Ulver had trouble in the training, disliking the brutality of the officers and complete disregard for human life. Ulver simply wanted to be a child, and have fun, spend time with his parents, and enjoy wildlife instead of to kill it. These feelings weren’t well harbored, with Ulver being beat often for thinking anything other than to kill and to eat. His parents simply allowed it to happen, hoping Ulver’s feelings of mercy would soon pass with age and maturity. Jimis was much harder on Ulver than any adult in his life was, training him day in and day out, trying to teach him the proper ways of Forsaken Warrior, sometimes even beating the lessons into him. Even with all the violence, Jimis made it obvious that he did it out of his love for his younger brother, only wanting to see Ulver succeed and become a Forsaken hero. Time passed, and Ulver became more used to being a soldier, and Jimis had already gone off to fight a few minor battles against irritants of the Forsaken. Being two fairly successful warriors of the Forsaken, the Rackis family began to rise a bit more in prestige among the Forsaken, gaining better jobs and pay. Even if he was sad to have to suppress his true feelings, Ulver felt the reward granted his parents was worth it. He was 17 now, and ready to head into his first battle in the name of the Forsaken Order. The battle that followed was one of the most nightmarish memories of Ulver’s young life. A group of angry marauders had began to hassle some older villagers. When Ulver and his group arrived to ward them off, they immediately attacked the soldiers and the village, shooting man, woman and child alike. The reaction by the Forsaken was swift and deadly, killing most of the marauders, and capturing a few to make an example of. The prisoners were sat in a circle in the center of town, with the the weakest one sat a distance away, forced to watch. One by one, the Forsaken killed the prisoners in varied and sadistic ways, some by dismemberment, the quickest and least painful of the many punishments, others by live immolation. Some were drawn and quartered by horse and man alike. Soon enough,after they were all dead, they released the weakest prisoner, naked and weaponless into the wilderness to pass on the story of Forsaken destruction. By the end of the confrontation, Ulver had killed 3 men, 2 of which was forced to kill, and watched as they suffered in their last moments. It left deep marks on Ulver’s still young mind, and left him in a state of shock all the way home. Jimis, whom had racked up the 2nd most kills of the group was given great praise, almost the polar opposite of Ulver, who was bullied and criticized for his hesitation. Jimis tried to comfort Ulver, but it was of no use, Ulver was a lost child. After that battle, and a quick overturn of the throne, Jimis was quickly offered a position in a new Soulless squadron being formed exclusively to answer to the King’s whims anywhere in the Order’s territories, under strange conditions. Jimis was ecstatic, and when he was encouraged by his equally excited parents, he quickly went off the capitol to negotiate the terms of his entrance to the Soulless. Ulver, while happy for his brother, was still having a difficult time coping with the death he caused. It bothered him for many weeks to come, even making him physically sick at times. If he wasn’t off on military missions, he was sulking in his room, or wandering the wastes outside his village. After a few weeks, late one night, Jimis returned home, escorted by a squad of Soulless. Ulver and his parents were brought out of their home, greeted by a rather cheerful group of soldiers, and an equally happy Jimis. The one who appeared to be the leader of the squad stepped forward, his arm on Jimis’ shoulders. “We have some happy news! We have agreed to accept Jimis into the Soulless!” Ulver’s parents were obviously very happy. “What are these conditions?” His mother asked eagerly. “Well, show them, Jimis.” The leader said, turning and smiling to the young man. Jimis gave a happy nod, taking a step forward towards his father. Jimis’ hand quickly found the rear of his waist, and pulled something that glinted in the moonlight, before sinking into his father’s gut. The man pitched forward, grunting in pain, blood beginning to flow to his mouth. Jimis had stabbed his father, and pulled out the blade, and moved swiftly to his mother, grabbing her by her hair before quickly and cruelly kicking her to her knees, and making one quick slice of his throat. She fell to the ground, choking next to their father, who was in tremendous pain, blood slowly trickling from his mouth. Jimis kneed down to his father, and brought his blade down on his head, a sickening crunch filling the air as he made the killing blow. His mother followed suit, dying very quickly, before Jimis turned his eyes to Ulver, who was stood still in a mixture of shock, fear, rage, and sadness. Before Ulver could react, Jimis made a swift blow to Ulver’s face, knocking him out cold instantly. The next time Ulver woke up, he was a naked, young adult stuck in the middle of the desert with no clothes or weapons to him name. They had killed his parents and left him to die. Odd how they didn’t just murder him, too. But such was life in the Forsaken Order. Even if he tried to tell people, nothing could or would be done. He got up and walked. He walked until he found a quaint little town. An old bounty hunter had finally passed away after dying of long life, a spectacle the town had gathered to see. No one claimed the old man’s belongings, seeing as a naked young man had just limped his way into town, and probably needed it more than anyone did. He got a nice shotgun, a duster and some nice boots. These gave for a nice start to Ulver’s new life, a life outside the insanity of the Forsaken Order. He knew no one, and no one knew him. He started with odd jobs, before picking up a few bounties, which thus confronted him with the same thing he had had an issue with mere months before. It turned into a thrill. He found that he had finally disconnected himself from empathy, and was ready to kill anything and anyone that had money on their head. It was a sick game for him. A game that was fun enough to play that the money was merely a bonus. The birth of a new man. A man on a mission of revenge, no matter how long the grudge is held, no matter how needless the violence. Ulver was going to hunt his brother down, and kill him. He swore it.

Jackson's mother and father had lived in Aspin when they met - both brilliant scientists who were applauded for their extensive research in biological, medical, and chemical science. After two years they moved into one an up-market residency together and lived a comfortable life for a further year, at which point Sarah - Jackson’s mother - became pregnant with Jackson. Almost nine months later she gave birth to a healthy young boy, and they resumed their routine lives, only this time with an extra member of the family. As Jackson grew older he was introduced into the world of Chemical and Medical science by his father who he spent most of his days with, and showed real promise in becoming successful in the field. By the age of ten he was conducting his own research into the creation of inhalable chemical enhancement agents, and was hoping to peruse this area of study later on in his education. However, that was when The Sickness struck. Jackson had been warned from an early age of the sickness, and in private his mother had warned him of something far more frightening. The Immortals. He was told that these people were able to control the world around them in various ways and that their power was something to be feared. In fact, she had told him, Immortals were being kept in confinement within Aspin itself while they were observed. Jackson wasn't the first to notice his condition, it was his father, Nicholas. One day in the lab while Jackson was sniffing, coughing and complaining of a headache his father pulled him aside and asked how long he had felt this way. He told his father that it had only come on that day, and in response Nicholas told him to take note of how he was feeling - and strangely enough to not tell his mother. Days went by and Jackson's condition only deteriorated. Thankfully his mother was working long hours on a major project so it was no trouble keeping it from her. This didn't seem to ease Nicholas' worry, though, and to Jackson’s surprise he became increasingly on edge when the symptoms of illness came to an abrupt end. Having been told of the immortals, but not how they come to be, Jackson was blissfully unaware of the change that had gone on inside of him. It was in the labs a few days after The Sickness had passed that a vial of reacting powders smashed onto a lit Bunsen burner and the nature of this change become evident. The reacting powders went up it a cloud of smoke, and in panic Jackson threw up his hands to ward of the toxic cloud when suddenly it morphed into a uniform sphere. And then, even more bizarrely, it reached out in tendrils and curled around Jackson's body before dropping to the floor and dispersing. That night all that could be heard in the Cooper household were the raised voices of his parents as they fought over something that at the time Jacksons did not fully understand. His mother was clearly on the offensive, his father saying far less. He would interrupt for a brief period before Sarah was dominating the argument once more. In his room Jackson sat in silence, picking out parts of the conversation. ... a danger to us all... what he's capable of... his safety as well as ours... It later become clear that she was in fact talking about him. But at the time all Jackson knew was that his father rushed into the room, hurried a bag of clothes together, and hastily led them out of the front door and into their 4X4. They drove in darkness without stopping until they reached Motum Diversum, and once there they stayed overnight at an inn. Nicholas rarely spoke, and when he did it was never to explain their situation. That was only explained once he reached the age of 16, and by then most of what had gone on that night had already been made sense of. In Motum Diversum they soon bought a small apartment, and Nicholas set up his own make-shift lab - working as a chemist and selling treatment and legal drugs for reasonable prices. Meanwhile Jackson learnt to control his ability and the two settled into the new life thrust upon them. Nicholas later informed Jackson of a few things. The first was that the Coopers has not always been a family of scientists. Before the orb landed on Earth they had mostly been a military family, and for years afterwards they had carried on as a tough, militarized family surviving alone in the harsh conditions. Eventually times changed, and while they still lived in a more traditional manner they merged with the civilizations forming around them. When one of their own contracted The Sickness only then to change into an immortal - well before information on these things was widely available - they embraced it and saw it as their duty to protect this person who could manipulate their surroundings. These ideals were passed on for generations, and even when a branch of the family ventured into gaen territory and settled they were continued. Much of the Cooper family is believed to have died off in various places around The Dust, but the Coopers who learned the ways of science flourished. The existence of the Immortals soon became common knowledge, and it was not long before the Cooper's beliefs were forced underground. Nicholas told Jackson that this was why he had not immediately wanted to turn him over to scientists to be observed, and that leaving Aspin was the only way that his mother would have allowed him to live a free life. By the age of eighteen Jackson shared the responsibilities that came with the small business run from their apartment. He more than pulled his weight, producing an array of gas products using his abilities, and overall serving as the main producer of all drugs while his father handled sales and treatment. It was a system that served them well and saw them earning a decent amount of money. Sadly, as with all good things, it came to an end. At the age of twenty Jackson witnessed his father shot dead after a man who lived in the upper-class area of Russel City stormed their apartment with two other men, claiming that their buisness was suffering due to the 'petty little operation' Jackson and his father were running. They demanded that Nicholas stop the production of his drugs and cease his health care. When Nicholas refused he was shot in the head without hesitation. All three men were suffocated by a gas released moments later that targeted their mouths in dense limbs of smoke before reaching into their lungs and burning them from the inside out. From that day forward Jackson ran the business single-handedly - occasionally aided by Sydney. He had sent a clear warning to opposing businesses that he would not tolerate any form of threatening behaviour, and as such was never bothered again. However, gradually, not being the man his father was, he lost patience for the high standards of legal drugs and became more and more immersed in the world of illegal substances where regulations were near non-existent and there was more profit to be made.

Backstory:
Born and raised in Parkland, Evelina lived a rather comfortable life. Her parents—Brian Quinn and Sally Quinn—worked as a Winged Guardian and a cook respectively. It didn’t take more than a single glance to see how her father, at least, had fallen for her mother. Sally was, for lack of better word, beautiful. Evelina had inherited both her eyes and her hair, and even her body—only with a bit more than her mother ever had. Men from all corners of her hometown in Parkland had tried to woo her in her teens, but only ever one young man had ever managed to get her attention.

He was neither exceptionally handsome or even very intelligent. He was an average man in all but sincerity, which, according to Sally, had been the reason why she had chosen to marry Brian, as he wanted her, not for her looks, but because of her person. He never made any comments that could be considered lewd, or even hinted at it. More than once had Evelina heard her mother tease her father about how he might stop loving her, if she got a big ugly burn on her face from an accident in the kitchens, at which point he’d fervently deny it, and continuous insisting that he’d never leave her no matter how she looked. That always got both Sally and Evelina to laugh, and had Brian grumbling something about manipulative women.

Her life was a relatively quiet one, and it wasn’t until her early teens that things started to happen. Namely, she started to grow into a woman, and did so far quicker than any other girls she knew. It resulted in bullying and name calling; “cow” being one of the most common names thrown her way. The offers of “comfort” that the boys aimed at her did nothing but pile onto the shame she was starting to feel; shame of her body and how big her chest was becoming. She resorted to isolating herself from any and all contact, with those she once had called friends and acquaintances, and instead buried herself in her own little world where only a select few people were allowed entry; namely her parents and those of their friends who treated her like they would their own nieces.

This went on for a few years until she reached the age of 14, having now already had breasts for 3 years. Now that the other girls her age were starting to grow into an adult body, she attempted social contact once more, albeit with her chest bound tightly by bandages to decrease its size, and make her blend in. It worked to a small degree, with the name calling ceasing entirely. She still didn’t have anyone she’d really call friends, however.

Her life with her parents was much the same it always had been, but her social life had changed dramatically; slowly as it transitioned from being out with friends to staying home or being out alone for periods of time that gradually grew longer. Her parents noticed only after a long period of time, and even then mostly because of how she started hiding her voluptuousness. Only after her father had firmly, but still kindly, pressed her for answers as to , did she finally tell him how she was afraid that the other children would throw more insults at her if she did not hide them.

She didn’t have any friends, she had said, but if she could at least be near them without being reminded of how she was different all the time, then that was enough. Truthfully, Brian Quinn didn’t know what to do. He was a simple man, and what his daughter went through was something he had no experience with. Not only that, but he couldn’t very well punish children he didn’t know who were for making his daughter sad. Sure, he could give a warning to the parents of the children around Evelina’s age that if they didn’t keep their kids in check, the Winged Guardians would pay them a visit, but that would be an abuse of power that he wouldn’t let himself perform. So he tried doing the next best thing: Boost her self confidence by trying to make her feel powerful.

So having decided that he’d try to make her feel confident, and in power, he found himself leading her towards the shooting ranges as a 15 year old for the first time. Here he taught her how to maintain a gun, as well as how to aim and shoot, how to load, and even how other types of guns and rifles worked; the gun which he taught her how to use was an old model, a replica of a P220 from before the Fall. The first day she had missed just about every shot she fired, primarily because of having her eyes closed. While she had been scared of it at first, she learned to enjoy the act of loading, shooting, and loading again when she ran out of rounds.

The years continued and she reached 17 years of age, and it was about time she started thinking about what she wanted to do with her life. She had, according to her mother, a knack for cooking, who also put forth the suggestion that she could join her as a cook. Her father, however, was of the opinion that she should follow her own path. This lead to Evelina pondering herself about what did she want to do herself.

For weeks she thought and mused, yet no ideas came to her. What did she want? She was reasonably good at cooking, but that wasn’t anything spectacular, and surely it wasn’t good enough to get her a job as a cook anywhere. She did want to do something like what her father did, but she wasn’t big enough, nor skilled enough with a gun or any martial arts to be a useful Winged Guardian.

So then, what?

The answer came to her one day when her mother fell ill and she had to tend to her while her father was out on patrol in the city. She couldn’t protect others from getting hurt like her father, and she didn’t have much confidence in becoming a cook. Perhaps, she thought, she could help them after they got hurt? It felt right, somehow. Having decided on that she started pouring over every book she could find, borrow, or buy about herbal formulas, how to set a bone, how to clean a wound and how to bind it. She did her best to get her hands on everything to do with healing a broken body, whether it be difficult surgeries still far beyond her level, or even the most basic of basic things about CPR. She, much to her own and her parents’ surprise, got so swallowed up in her studies that she completely forgot about the taunts and bullying she had suffered in her early teens.

A few years passed and she had reached her 19th birthday and was starting to get out a bit more. She also started official studies on medicine and healing. Once around people her own age again she suddenly remembered the painful years of bullying, but it wasn’t like that. Not at all. The degrading comments and insult had been replaced by genuine compliments in most cases. To say that she was shocked would have been an understatement, as compliments from people other than her parents was a complete unknown to her.

She started to open up more and become more open and friendly with others. She started to get friends and started joking. She never even thought about romance; having friends was enough. She continued her studies and emerged a fully fledged medic a few years later, excelling in saving the life of idiots who got themselves hurt, as her teacher had told them once. She felt confident—a little.

She worked as a healer in Parkland for several years, and lived well for it. In a world where currency was nothing but what you could do, or what you could give, being able to save someone from the brink of death was as valuable a commodity as any. Perhaps even the most valuable of all.

She moved out into a small apartment of her own at her 21st birthday she still had plenty of contact with her parents and often visited them for dinner or just for social visits.

Her life was good, she thought, and despite a very small number of friends she felt that she had enough: She even started being proud of her body, rather than ashamed of its proportions.

But all good things must come to an end, and so did her happy life.

It all started during the summer of her 24th year, when a distress call for medical help was issued from out in the wasteland.

Evelina was at her home with the sniffles at that point; sore, slight headache, and a little tired. She wasn’t going to let that stop her, however, and upon hearing that someone was in dire need of help she went out immediately. She packed her bag and went out together with a number of other people.

They drove for at least two hours before they reached the appointed destination, and found what looked to be the scene of an ambush, or a raid. There were two people on the scene, one covered in blood but conscious, and the other still sitting in the truck seemingly unconscious. They went about treating the one covered in blood first, but when they got near him he sat up and drew a gun, pointing it at the first medic who got near him. The one in the car stepped out as well, followed by several others from the back of the truck. They were all from the Forsaken Order, as evident by the crest on their clothing, and demanded that they hand over all of their medical equipment.

Most complied but Evelina did not. Being a healer was her pride and joy, and she didn’t want to simply let them take it away from her. A single punch from their biggest guy, as punishment for disobeying them, was all they needed to take her down. She was unconscious almost before she hit the ground.

She never really figured out what happened while she was blacked out, but she assumed that the Forsaken had taken the other doctors back with them, leaving her to die in the wasteland as she was too small to be of any use in the mines, and they—thankfully—had no interest in a sex slave at this time.

She counted herself lucky that at least her headache and sniffles were gone when she woke up several hours later, when the purple light of the twilight hovered in the horizon. Her luck seemed greater than expected when she saw that a bag of medical supplies had been left in their car. It only contained some basic equipment and spare bandages, as well as a mirror, but it was better than noth—she caught sight of herself in the mirror by chance as she rummaged through the back. The angry spot of purple and yellow on her jaw went completely unnoticed, taking the backseat in favour of her eyes.

She had heard of the Immortals, but never actually seen one. She knew that they always had different eyes from normal humans, and that their eyes could look like virtually anything. So her having slitted, cat-like eyes? It could only mean one thing. It was also then that she became conscious of a different feeling in her mouth, something she had chalked up to simply being residual pain from the punch she had received. It was, however, much more than that. A quick check with the mirror revealed that her canines had grown out to be at least an inch long each, and far longer and sharper than usual. She looked more like a predator with those teeth than a human; like she could tear meat from bones with ease.

I’m an Immortal.

The thought raced through her head so quickly that she didn’t realise the truth of it before it had been repeated a dozen times: She was an Immortal, a kind of people who had survived the Sickness without dying.

So that’s what it was… I thought it was only a cold.

She fell to her knees, tears already falling. She felt numb. Numb to the heat, numb to the tears falling onto her lap. The only thing that registered was that of her canines, now conscious of them. They felt so big and clumsy, like they didn’t belong. It… wasn’t her. She wasn’t that. No. She wasn’t—

A monster.

She drew in a shuddering breath and stood up, took the bag, and went into the car. It sputtered and died almost before she had turned the key completely. The bandits had taken the gas from it, of course. It was with almost lifeless movements that she started walking, the sun battering her relentlessly, yet she didn’t feel hot, but that didn’t register until much later.

She arrived at Parkland the following morning, exhausted. She had barely had anything to drink except for half a bottle of water she found in the bag she had taken, and except for that she’d gotten nothing. She neared the entrance to the city and saw a few Winged Guardians coming to meet her—not many travellers came by foot, after all.

The Guardians stopped her about a hundred metres from the city limits, demanding to know who she was. She looked up and, to her surprise, saw a face she was intimately familiar with. The surprise on her own face was mirrored by her father’s as he looked back at her.

“Your eyes,” he said in a stunned voice, to which she only nodded.

“Do you know her?” The second Guardian asked, lowering his gun ever so slightly.

“Of course I do!” Brian barked at his colleague. “She’s my daughter! Evelina, tell me, what happened? You went out to that distress call and now you get back like this. What happened out there? Where are the others?”

“I don’t know,” she replied in a voice devoid of hope. “The call for help was a fake, and we were ambushed. They left me alone after knocking me unconscious—” she pointed at the mark on her cheeks “—and when I woke up I was alone… Dad, do you remember that cold I’ve complained about for the last week?” She chuckled humourlessly. “It wasn’t a cold. It was the Sickness.” She stopped then, gaze falling to the ground. “I didn’t die from it, but… It’s probably worse than that. I’m an Immortal.”

“Immortal? Shi—” The other Guardian raised his gun and almost pulled the trigger, stopped only by Evelina’s father knocking the gun out of his grasp. “What the hell are you doing, man?! She’s an Immortal! Dangerous as fuck if you hadn’t noticed!”

“She is my DAUGHTER!” Brian roared in return, seizing his colleague by the collar. “She’s not some dangerous monster that we have to kill, do you understand, Rookie?!”

The other Guardian was silent for a moment, glancing between Evelina’s slitted gaze and Brian’s furious one. Eventually, he nodded sullenly. “But she still can’t enter the city,” he insisted, massaging his throat with one hand. “Strict orders not to let Immortals get in, even you know that.”

Evelina could see how much it pained him, but he nodded. “Orders are orders, but it doesn’t mean we have to kill them. Now go, get a backpack and fill it with supplies: Water, food, utensils, etc. Everything needed for wandering this god-forsaken wasteland, and survive. Get a bike, too. Oh, and while you’re at it, go to my wife and tell her that I asked for Box 220.”

“But why? She’s just a—”

“DO IT!”

“Yes sir!” And he scurried off, probably heading to get the things he was ordered to.

Father and daughter stood chatting a while, a chat that mostly consisted of the father comforting his daughter as best he could. Everything was going to be alright, he told her. There were people more willing to help her, and there were even rumours of Immortals banding together to form a small town of their own. He told her how sad he was that he couldn’t let her in, and that he would smuggle her in if he knew that he could, but it just wasn’t possible. She couldn’t hide her eyes, nor her teeth. Time would pass an eventually people would find out, and not only would she be persecuted but so would her parents. She… didn’t want that. Some people were so deathly afraid of Immortals that they would react with violence immediately which, in some cases she’d heard, resulted in a violent outburst of power where the Immortal accidentally killed and destroyed everything nearby.

No, she didn’t want that. Not at all. She resigned herself to her fate and toughed it out, trying once more to be daddy’s brave girl.

The colleague returned about an hour later, carrying a large backpack filled to the brim with supplies, dragging a dirty looking bike by the steerings; a long, square box was balanced on the seat of the bike.

“Thank you, now return to your post,” Evelina’s father said, dismissing the rookie. He took the backpack and looked through it, nodding to himself after a while, obviously satisfied. From within he pulled out a belt with several pouches attached to it and handed it to Evelina. “There’s a canteen there, a map and a compass, as well as some match sticks and a lighter if need be. Aside from that there’s food and water in here to last you for at least two weeks and,” he looked back at the bike, only now noticing the two bags on either side of it,” a lot more in those bags. Now,” he took the box from the seat of the bike and handed it to her. Opening it revealed an old SIG P220 Handgun, if what her father had taught her served her right. It was obviously very old, yet well maintained.

“A relic,” he explained. “A very old gun from before The Fall. I found it a long time ago with your mother. There is some 200 rounds for it in the box as well from the same time, which we found with it. They can’t be made anymore so use them sparingly.” She attached the gun and the holster to her belt. “And then there’s this,” he presented to her a sword; a 20 inch blade with an 8 inch handle. It was a relatively short sword with a broad blade and a sturdy appearance. It weighed heavily in her hand and felt… safe, somehow. “It’s reforged using the metal from a similar sword passed down through generations. It hasn’t been used since… before the Fall, I think, but it’s very old. I had it reforged a couple years back, and now I think you should have it. It’s… not much of a weapon in this world, but it may come in handy.” She gave her a sidelong smirk. “Who knows, maybe your new powers will make it a very good thing to have.” She couldn’t deny the possibility.

Despite herself, she giggled. Even in the worst of times her father seemed to make her laugh. “Thank you, dad. It’s… good to have you help me. I’ll try to see if I can find those other Immortals, and if not… then I’ll wait until people are more receptive of us. Tell mom that I said hi, and please… don’t lie to her. I think she’d rather know that I’m alive, but an Immortal, than believe that I either died or was taken prisoner by the Forsaken.” Whatever else she would’ve said was interrupted by a pair of strong arms embracing her.

“I’ll miss you, Evelina. Promise me that you’ll take good care of yourself, and don’t get into unnecessary danger.”

“I’ll do what I can,” she replied, embracing him as well for a short moment, then stepped back. “I think it’s time I go… Wouldn’t want to keep you from your job for too long.” She smiled at him, then, and kissed his cheek. “I’ll be going. Bye dad. S-Say hi to mom.” She brushed past him, taking the backpack and slinging it onto her back. She hopped onto the bike, straddling it. A turn of the keys and another of the handle caused it to emit a deep rumbling like that of a massive beast.

“There should be a fuel tank in one of the bags on its side. There’s a little extra in it, I think,” he said from behind her. “I don’t think I ever taught you how to ride one, but…”

“I’m sure I’ll figure it out,” she said, filling out the silence after his sentence. “It can’t be that hard, can it?” She chuckled, with a tiny sliver of humour actually making its way into her it. She looked back at him, eyes shining with unshed tears, and cheeks wet with those already shed. “I’ll come visit you some day, even if I have to sneak in myself. Bye dad, I l—” the rest of her sentence was lost in the very lady-like squeal she made when she she shot forward, having turned the handle of the bike a bit too much and sent it speeding into the distance.

Brian Quinn chuckled. If she had the energy to squeal like that then there was nothing to worry about. He knew she was scared, and so was he. Her life had been turned on its head, but she was a strong girl and could get through it. But even then, he hated to see her go. He hated most of all that he was powerless to help her.

He sighed and returned to his post, resigning himself to a sleepless night, only the first of many to come. Both he and his wife would worry about her for weeks before they started to calm down enough to sleep soundly.

To their great surprise and joy, it took only a week. A letter arrived with a few sentences scrawled onto a messy piece of paper.

Dad, Mom.

I can manipulate light. It’s difficult to control, but I’m getting the hang of it. I also helped someone today: A kid had broken his leg during a caravan, and with no one else nearby they were desperate for help. I know they only let me help out of desperation, but getting an earnest thanks from that boy even when I’m an Immortal… It made me almost cry.

I’m alright. You don’t have to worry about me. It’s a little lonely, but I’m used to that.

Evelina Quinn, your daughter.

Only a few sleepless nights followed after the letter, and were completely dispelled when a second one arrived the next week. It became a common thing that, once a week, or every two weeks, a letter from Evelina would arrive, even if it only contained a “I’m alright.” She was safe, and that was enough for them.

Evelina herself found herself somewhat satisfied as well. She was lonely, as she had said, but it wasn’t that bad. She met kind people every now and then. As it turned out, not everyone hated Immortals.

That gave her hope.

Lucania Castalia, one of the forbidden gems of Dust, possesses a Hellenic, almost mythical beauty. The type of beauty men (and women) spread rumors of-- the type of beauty that can control those who don't look beyond it's surface-- the type of beauty that can start wars, end nations, and inspire a people; Lucania possesses this beauty, and she's completely aware of it.

On a flawless ovular face with high check bones rest large, doe-like eyes that draw admirers in. The shades of irises fluctuate between eye colors both normal and fantastic, and possess an almost hypnotic quality. Her face is surrounded by brown locks of curling hair that possesses it's own voluptuous volume, the ends of which tend to become bleached blond in the sunlight. The flowers that grow from her long hair tend only to increase the otherworldly glamor her appearance carries. Her face is one without blemishes, completed with a roman nose and full heart-like lips.

Lucania carries herself with an almost regal air, her face, while kind, is also arrogant, she knows she's attractive and her smirk conveys this. Although not quite buxom, the woman is well-endowed and has the genetic luck of having the fat gained from a life in the cities accumulate in places such as her thighs and hips, further giving an hourglass figure. The dresses she wears tend to exaggerate the parts of her that already look good, such as her flawless olive skin and her overall figure, and tend to downplay those parts that are not, such as her weak arms and un-toned belly.

Dear Diary,
My name is Rosemary Riina, but you can call me Rose, everyone else does. I was born on April 2nd 2013 and today I am officially eleven years old! Momma says she’s real proud of me, and Daddy said he got me this diary—that’s you!!!-- Because he wants me to record life because he said I’d be a star one day! I didn’t even want to play with my other presents after that, Daddy and Momma know that I want to be a singer more than anything in the world, and you being here shows they believe in me!!

You will be the one I confide in. I promise to tell you everything that happens, everything I feel, everything I desire, every single thing I think. And every song that comes to my heart. There are some things I can't tell anyone. I promise to tell these things to you.

Today was absolutely perfect. Momma let me sleep in, and when I woke up to see the time I almost died! I rushed to get ready for school but Momma stopped me at the door, she said “We’ll just tell them you sick today.” Then we ate pancakes and watched cartoons all morning, and she let me open a few of my presents before Daddy got home from work!

He got home late, but when he did get home we all got into a taxi without a word. Apparently Daddy had taxi driver friends, because he wouldn’t tell us where we were going—when we did get there I almost died again. He had gathered all my friends from school at Central Park! We had cake and ice cream, everyone got me gifts, and it was so fun!

It has been such a good day!

I’m so happy I can tell you about it all now. When you and I get there, we’ll make Momma and Daddy even prouder than they already are. Well, I’m beat, I will see you tomorrow, Diary.


Dear Diary,
You and I have become great companions over the last few months. Everyone notices how old fashioned it is to carry around a diary that you have to write in, but no one knows how special you are to me. Every time I write in you I feel like I’m that much closer to getting to where I want.

You’re special to me.

I know that’s dumb and childish, but I don’t care. Daddy got you for me because he believes in me, I do too. So why don’t they? It doesn’t matter, because when I’m writing in you I feel even closer to being a famous singer than when I’m practicing singing or performing at a show…

Speaking of shows—Merry Christmas! Daddy got me the role of the lead angel in this show they’re doing about the birth of Jesus. You know I’ve been practicing hard for this, but I can still barely believe it will be me singing! I’ve been resting my voice all day, going over my lines in my head, I barely noticed the presents under the tree this morning! Let’s hope I can make it a Merry Christmas for everyone who came to see me on stage!

Wish me luck!


Dear Diary,
It was such a boring day. Dad had to go to the hospital again, so me and Mom just lazed around the house and did the chores. She made me do more than her, and she thinks I didn’t notice, but I’m okay with it. After all, she has been crying a lot lately, so I figured it’s the least I can do to help her.

I think they think I’m too young to understand what’s going on, but I know something’s wrong. Daddy is rarely around anymore and Mom is sad all the time. I wonder if they are getting a divorce?

This might seem mean, but honestly I already know I’d have to live with Daddy. He’s my agent, and he’s the one helping me get better at singing. I know! I’ll buy Mom a mansion when I’m rich!

Oh, Dad just got home. I had better go see what’s up. I’ll be back in a sec

(later)
It’s not a divorce.

Daddy is… dying? Mom was crying so hard that we had to leave the apartment for him to explain, but apparently he has cancer. He says he’ll be around as long as possible, but the doctors say he’s only got a few months left.
I don’t know what this is I’m feeling, but it’s more than sadness.

What did I do to you, God?

Thank you for being here, Diary.


Dear Diary,
He’s been gone for exactly 1 year today.

I haven’t cried today, which I think is good, I’ve been dedicating more time to singing. It’s all I can do, I never see mom anymore, so I won’t pretend like I don’t want to become rich, because I do, that’s the honest truth.

But…
I also remember why he got me you, Diary. I don’t want for him to have been wrong, so I have to keep singing, I have to keep hoping that I can be that 1 in 1 million. I will achieve the dream for both of us.
Nothing else in life really matters anymore.



Dear Diary,
Today is the start of a new year, and with it, I am running away.

This comes after some time thinking things over, and after mom’s new boyfriend, I decided it’s best for me to just leave altogether. There’s a club in Brooklyn that needs singers, I know a girl in Harlem, she dropped out and lives on her own there, and she told me she’d love to have me as a roommate. Honestly, this couldn’t have worked out better.

This isn’t me over reacting, either. I’ve been planning this for months; this is just the first I’m telling you about it. Sorry. I know I said no secrets, but I didn’t want her or one of her creepy boyfriends finding out. No like she’d even care, I don’t think she was sober for a single day in December.

I’m still going to make it, it’s just going to be a little harder. I’ll talk to you in a bit, Diary.


Dear Diary,
It’s been a hard month, but I finally landed the job! More than that, I think they really like me.
When I sung for them, they looked like they couldn’t believe what they were hearing. At first I thought that was a bad thing, but then they started fumbling over each other to get a chance to welcome me on board!
I’m just glad I can finally start living my life.

I’m beat. I’ll tell you more about it tomorrow. Goodnight Diary.


Dear Diary,
18 was a hump that I am so glad I’m over. I can’t say that enough! Yeah, I’m still technically a “teen,” but only technically. 18 is like that point between two great things, adulthood and childhood, well, great for most people. For me, childhood was something I couldn’t wait to get over—In fact, I didn’t wait! Take that age!

19 is the year of the adult, and today marked my first major adult purchase! Amanda Morello, you know, my backup singer and bestie from the Bronx, well she and I are going half and half on that apartment on 5th street! I’m going to miss Harlem, but I think this is for the best.

Too many bad memories in Harlem. (Plus this new place is LOADS better looking)

Now, I know what you’re thinking “What ‘adult’ still writes in her diary?” To this query, I refer you to my current social status. Google me, go ahead, Diary, I’ll wait.

Hmm? What’s that? The Google search only turned up a bunch of Italian cocktails and a single list of clubs I’m singing for like 5 pages in??? I’m singing—I’m so so so happy for that, I’m telling you, sometimes I feel like a kid when they announce my name with the band and I get to sing to a smoky room full of distinguished looking men, but that’s all I’m doing right now. One bar, no recognition on the streets, BARELY making enough to live… I’m not done documenting my rise yet.

You’ll see. I’ll be making enough money to make Daddy turn over in his grave.

In other news, I saw a guy today.

Now, you, my most confidential of confidantes know I’ve never had boyfriend trouble; I’m usually the one going after guys. But he was… different. Not like, mysterious, but like… heroic? He had this look about him that was easy-going and serious at the same time, and he was the first Italian I’ve ever seen with hair that actually flowed in the wind. I tensed up when he walked past me.

Me. Queen of Drama-Gift of Gab-Rosemary, tensing up?

I know. But it happened. I asked Amanda for his name, and apparently he’s some bouncer’s cousin from Chicago or something, goes by Luciano.

When I saw him, I couldn’t help but think of home.

I’ve never felt like this over a guy before, Diary. I do hope I see him again.



Dear Diary,

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!

He’s such an old-fashioned cornball, but God do I love him.

We’ve only been officially dating for a few months, but today we go on a wonderful date for Valentine’s, Coney Island, and he’s just staring at me right? We’re sitting on a bench, eating churros or funnel cake—I don’t even remember, all I remember is those beautiful brown eyes, and his hair, God, his hair. Diary, I wish you had eyes so you could see Luciano’s hair. It’s like a model's.

Anyway, he’s staring at me, so of course, like the competitive idiot that I am, I think we’re playing or something and I stare right back. And we just sit there like that for… probably a few minutes, but it felt like hours. My heart always beats so fast when I’m looking at him, and he just seems so cool. Anyway, my eyes are red, I’m probably on the verge of tears, and his eyes are still so clear and cool and he just whispers; “Behind you, Rose.”

I nearly dropped my funnel cake when I turned. It was one of his mafia buddies, Viddy? Something like that. I’m sure they both got a kick out me yelping. Anyway, Viddy pulls out this red velvet pillow from behind his back and it’s got a ring on it. (And this rock on this thing, it’s huge, like I’m talking they stole the Hope Diamond or something)

Anyway, THAT surprises me, I turn back to Luciano to see he’s already on his knees, I only start freaking out more, Viddy walks over give the ring to him, and then my Lucian just looks at me with those big brown eyes of his, and the wind blows perfectly through his hair and a crowd is gathering…

You know what happens next, he’s still so cool, but he asks if I “want to be his girl?”

My heart felt like it would leap out of my throat!

But of course, I said yes.

OH MY GOD, DIARY, I SAID YES!

AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!


Dear Diary,
Small entry today, Diary.

This is our first anniversary after all!

I guess I just dusted you off this morning to recap this last year, first; I got married!!!

Lucian is working a lot, but it’s okay, because I am too, our time together is that much more sweet. He said the Family needed a private singer, and they’d be lucky to have one as good as me. I’ve been BUSY, really busy, but, for the first time in a long time, also really happy.

Amanda also got married! To Lucian’s friend no less! That made moving out easier, though.

I can’t believe it’s been a year.

Hey, Dad? How about you? Do you think I’ve been doing alright?

I miss you.

I think I just woke Lucian—we’ll talk later.



I
I don’t even know why I’m writing this.

I couldn’t write you when I found out yesterday, I was just crying—I still am

I just

Oh God.

It’s just this feeling of absolute emptiness, tearing at me, as if it wants me to just end everything now and make it easier than just waiting, and knowing the end is going to come, with nothing I can do about it.
I found out yesterday that the world was going to come in a month. We won’t get to have our second anniversary—I won’t even get to turn 22!

Luciano is in and out, I think he’s trying to figure out what’s going on—I don’t see how he can be so calm about all this!

Ugh

I don’t know what I should do. Besides cry, I mean.

Should I go pray, Daddy? Please talk to me, I miss you so much…



Luciano is working on something.

The National Crime Syndicate is working together; of course, all the fighting is behind them when faced with absolute destruction. But Luciano say that even if they do organize a bunker for the New York Outfit we won’t get in.

I told him that we should pray for anything that might help us get through this, that it might be a blessing from the Lord.

Luciano got this cold look in his eyes, like he saw something that I didn’t. He gave me a gun and told me that I should pray enough for the both of us, that he was going to put something together. Then he left.
That was 2 days ago, now.

Don’t worry diary! I’m not alone, Amanda’s here, she didn’t feel safe in her house, and she said that she wanted to spend her last moments with family, and I was the closest thing to a living relative she had.
I do wonder what my mother is doing. Is she even still alive? Part of me regrets leaving her—another part of me is just glad I’ve got someone here with me, blood or not.

What does Luciano think he’s doing? He’s smart, but…
I don’t know.

I guess I’m just so sad about so many things, but I can’t cry anymore, I’m all dried out. So I can only think of how sad this all is and just feel it.

Useless, that’s it.

I feel completely useless.



I got a call from Luciano today!

Which is good, I was beginning to think he had died. Amanda was right to fear the panicking. The people in the streets have become violent, I’ve had to use this gun in the name of protection several times and I haven’t even had time to reflect or pray on it.

We can no longer leave the apartment. We just cower and wait, in fear.

I’m so scared of death.
I’m so scared of death.

Luciano knew that, too. He couldn’t call for long, I’m surprised that he even still has service, but when he did call, he told me some things that didn’t make much sense, that he was organizing a group, that he’d come for Amanda and I soon, and that I shouldn’t “lose hope.”

What else is there to do?


Amanda and I had fallen asleep together, crying, but not alone. Then I heard the door, that was enough to twitch me awake, enough to draw the pistol on memory alone.

In the dark of the night, I had pulled a gun on my own husband!

I practically screamed in excitement, but Luciano told me to quiet down. He was bloody, but not injured, his eyes weren’t the eyes I was used to seeing, they were tired, serious, the carefree Lucian was--is gone, it seemed.

He didn’t—still hasn’t explained what his plan is. He’s determined to get us somewhere; I know that he has people waiting for him, rendezvousing at a certain place at a certain time.

I don’t know how I feel about this. Amanda is asleep in the backseat of the car, I’m in the front seat with Luciano- he hasn’t even glanced this way. He seems very worried.

I don’t know.

Wait. No. I do know something. For the first time in a long time, I feel hopeful. Confused, yes, but I prefer this over whimpering and crying in a Manhattan high-rise.

His hair is still flowing beautifully.


I might cry tears of joy.

There has been shooting.

A lot of shooting. But he isn’t dead! He said he needed most of the month to put this together, but he organized a coup.
It’s a bunker.

It’s a musty, poorly made hole in the ground. Millions of dollars of illegal money went into its making, the Dons it was originally made for would die, and there would be millions billions more who died because they weren't as lucky as she had been. But that didn’t matter.

This is survival.

This is hope.

Diary. I feel like singing.

(A woman speaks, she has a soothing, smokey voice, with a slightly foreign sound to it)

"I wonder if this is even recording...?"

(you can make out a faint fumbling)

"Hello, my name is Lucania, Lucania Cleodora Melia Castalia, I am known by many other names but I prefer Lucania, simple Lucania, above them all. I feel I am lucky to have been given a name that fits me so well."

"At birth, we are given names, and it is only when we are old enough to see the hubris of our parents, to think they know their children so well as to name them, that we may change them. I have the fortune of not having to do that. For this, I am blessed."

(sigh)

"That was my singing, I wanted to start out this recording with a song, one with significance to myself and my Family. I shall explain the significance of Blue Velvet, but I suppose first I should explain the purpose of this recording, shouldn't I?"

(dry chuckle)

"My father, Luciano Castalia, the current Sottocapo of the Castalia Family, perhaps not the largest, but certainly the smartest criminal family in all of Dust, is a very devout believer in records. You know, diary's, journals, logs, and... I suppose now, recordings."

"He believes, my father, that records such as these help each new generation improve, by learning of the mistakes of our past, as well as simply keeping ourselves alive through the memories of our progeny."

"When I was younger, my father fervently tried to get me to write a diary, to which I always replied that I was simply too busy to handle such a task. To be honest, I knew he knew I was lying, I had ample amounts of time to dedicate to the endeavor. The fact of the matter is, I simply didn't find the idea of waxing poetic about which books I had been reading to be that appealing."

"So then. What changed? I am tempted to say 'age' and get on with the prologue, but honestly, it was something more than that. I never disagreed with my father about the importance of records from the past, you see. I consider myself an avid reader, in fact, my favorite book is a document from the past, detailing the very eventful life of Rosemary Castalia, the 'Godmother'-- my great-great-great-grandmother, if I recall correctly."

"Without people like my father, and Rosemary's, I would never have had a chance to adopt Rosemary as a role model as I have."

"No... There are a myriad of reason I choose now to record this, but overcoming a lack of historical appreciation is not one of them. I'm lazy, for one. While I am one of Dust's educated elite, and I certainly can write, I don't particularly want to. So I won't."

"Another more prominent reason, I think, is that the level of activity in my life has gone from singing and reading, to becoming the dreaded Bloody Sleeved Lucia of the Castalia Family. As much as I enjoy reading a young Rosemary's gripes with her first period, I myself, would like my story to involve more... glory."

"How dramatic. Perhaps I should become a thespian?"

(She laughs a little)

"This is the life of Lucania Castalia. I'll be sure to skip over the boring parts."

"I was born on warm and dry morning on September 2nd, in the year 2354. My birth was one without complications, I didn't give my mother any pain, and the Gaen nurses all gave me a perfect bill of health."

"I was born in Serenity, and for the most part, I've been here my entire life. Although I have no memories of it, apparently I was born in the lobby of the Castalia Casino & Hotel. I don't doubt it. In those days, it seemed, the Hotel was nothing more than a gambling hall and a few rooms scrapped together. Hardly the testament to the resolve of humanity's perseverance it is today."

"My father used to tell me all the time how mother would fawn over me, my eyes in particular. He said that she described them as these 'beautiful, brown things,' like they 'belonged to some beautiful animal.'"

"Clearly, my mother's talents did not lie in the construction of lyrical prose."

"Regardless, I'll never truly know what she saw in them. A few months after my birth, I came down with a terrible illness. A type of intense fever, I'm told. My father had the best doctors brought in, some from as far away as Aspin, and after a few days that I'm sure felt like an eternity for my mother and father, I recovered."

"But, that's when I developed my...'conditions'"

"My eyes began spontaneously changing their colors, from my head and hair... flowers grew, and my father described my scent as smelling of... sunflowers."

"...This has continually confounded me. I haven't the slightest inkling of what a sunflower is or what they smell like."

"That's irrelevant. It's my development of these conditions that now rob me of knowing what my mother saw in my brown eyes."

"I don't find myself holding these conditions in contempt, though. For example, I find the flowers in my hair and my flowery scent to be quite pleasant, actually. My eyes are something of a bother to explain, but they've never caused me much trouble. However... there is something else I've become aware of."

"These mutations I've developed are not an isolated occurrence, there are others like me, and not like me, in that they develop aesthetic changes in their physical form and are then granted fantastical abilities."

"For me, this seems to be my voice."

"My father once told me that I was generally a quiet baby, but after my illness, he said whenever I did cry, I might wake up the entire street I was so loud. Sometimes it got so bad they had to move me to a different floor altogether. Today I've developed this, through singing, through yelling and sheer volume, and through vocal intimidation that is, in a word; fantastical."

"Enough of that for now, though."

"My childhood, despite the tumultuous nature of our Family business, was generally a quiet one. I enjoyed reading-- I picked up singing after Rosemary, I spent time with my mother and father when they were available, but generally, I was content with my books and my voice."

"I remember much from this time, but I told you I wouldn't bore you with unnecessary details. I think the most significant event of my childhood is when my mother ran away."

"It happened on an unusually dark night a few days after my tenth birthday. I remember, father had been away for some time, business, perhaps. We had expanded beyond Serentiy into Parkland by that point, so he must have been finalizing a few deals in Harlem or Laguna..."

"Wherever he was, it wasn't there. I think that had something to do with why mother... my mother, Rita Castalia... why she just left. I don't think they had been fighting, I think she was just, not fit for city life? That isn't to say that she was a bad mother-- she wasn't. I've only got fond memories of her, and I suppose that's what makes remembering this so hard."

(There is a faint sniffle)

"She woke me up in the night. I remember her kneeling by my bed, she didn't look sad, but she wasn't happy either. ...Somber. Somber is the word I'm looking for, she was somber, and she explained to me why she was leaving, and why it was okay, why I shouldn't be sad."

"Of course, I still bawled my little eyes out."

"She wasn't dressed for the deserts of Dust, but I knew that was exactly where she was headed. They were her home, before father and I. I don't think she ever held allegiance to any faction, she just traveled between free towns, helped out with problems. Really, I don't know what she and father had, but I think we all knew it was doomed. She wasn't some stay at home Mafia Dame... She was..."

(her voice breaks a little)

"...incredible. She was my hero. But I suppose Dust needed her more."

(She sniffles again)

"Right. I remember what she told me, I remember her exact voice from that moment. I would like to use my ability and quote her here but..."

(A final faint sniffle)

"I think that, right now, that would just be too painful."

"Mother was a fan of jazz singing, and the moment before she left, she actually made a request of me. It was tearful, but I obliged. She asked me to sing for her 'Blue Velvet.'"

"Moving on. Father returned to find his wife gone and fell into a depression. I never told him what she told me, or that I could have stopped her, I felt that would have been wrong. I still do."

"He loved her. Her leaving broke his heart, and made him ineffective at his job. Despite my young age, during this time some of his responsibilities fell to me. While he used the months following her passing to drink himself into stupors and sleep with every Call Girl in the Family's employ. I found myself becoming immersed into the business my Family had been building for over 300 years."

"I assisted with administrative things, book keeping, occasionally tagging along to collect payments. I was never in any real danger, and the amount of work I was actually helping with was probably negligible. But. I found it all enjoyable. And from the beginning, I found I was actually quite good at it."

"No one expects to be kneecapped by a pre-pubesceant girl."

"I was apprenticing under several capos around this time, and it was at this time that father was able to pull himself out of his depressive rut."

"With the unexpected birth of my younger sister."

"It was one of the Family's sex workers. He had gotten one of them pregnant in his quest to fill the love lost in his heart with physical pleasure. It didn't work. But I think the arrival of Lucina, technically a bastard, did remind him that he had other responsibilities, more than I or the Don ever could."

"Following her birth, I became his sole apprentice, he took my training personally and very seriously... I often wonder if the passion and aplomb with which he took to educating me as his successor was in part because he saw in me my mother?"

"Hmmm..."

(she sighs, then laughs)

"Well, I suppose this makes me a bit of hypocrite. I started this with the intention of skimming over my time as a girl so that I might weave an epic tale of blood shed and conquest in the name of the Castalia Family... and yet, now that I'm here, I don't know what to say!"

"It could simply be that I've spent so much of my life immersed in this..."

(She chuckles)

"I became father's apprentice at the age of 11. It wasn't until 13 that I became involved in thefts and kidnappings, acts reserved for lower level members. At 14, I believe, is when I took my first life. 14 is also when I began singing at the club our Family owns here, The Blue Room, it was back-up for an older jazz singer, whose name escapes me at the moment, but he specialized in Old World renditions. He assisted in mentoring me, vocally."

"When I was 16, I commissioned my first dress. I had often wondered how to better conceal weapons, when the idea came to me in a dream."

"Stitching the blade into your clothing!"

"My father thought the idea was silly. I didn't allow myself to be discouraged, however, and I took the idea to the Don himself-- and he challenged me to prove it's use. He allowed me to have one dress made, and then demonstrate his use to him. He gave me a list of names of people that owed the family."

"We tracked each individual down. They all got this confused look on their faces when I raised my arm, letting my sleeve cover my hand-- that look was immediately replaced by pain and horror when I would bring my arm down, though."

"I returned to the Don with a necklace made of their ears on a string the very same night."

"Our Call Girls have similar blades stitched into their sleeves now, as well."

"On my 21st birthday, I became an official made member. Receiving the Don's-- my Grandfather's blessing, it was the happiest I had ever seen father since mother left."

"Hmmm... since then?"

"Well, as a headliner, I've been instrumental in the popularity of all four of our clubs, the increase in sales of narcotics correlate with this. I spearheaded our spread into Wolfwater's organized prostitution and narcotic sales. And currently, I'm slotted to be the next Sottocapo, or Underboss, of the Family!"

"And... well... That's it so far. This is my life, the life of Lucania Castalia. For anyone listening to me in the future, I hope this has helped you come to understand who I was."

"And to finish, I will leave you with another song."

(you can make out the shuffling of what is probably sheet music)

(A woman speaks, she has a soothing, smokey voice, with a slightly foreign sound to it)

"Ahh... and she finds herself making another one of these recordings... Why? Was the first not enough of the history of my being?"

"Hmmmm. I don't know. I couldn't sleep; not a nightmare-- I couldn't get that far. No, I was recalling this awful memory... and... as I lay in my bed, I thought it would make a good tale for someone in the future, trying to understand who, exactly, I was better."

"So, I suppose you could say I'll be making more of these as the memories come, for my own ego's sake."

(She stifles a yawn)

"I've read my share of books about psychology, and it seems to be a common theme that simply talking about one's own troubling memories is a major step towards solving the trauma associated with them. I suppose you could call this memory 'repressed' then, as in, I have tried for a good amount of my adult life to avoid thinking about it. But tonight, perhaps so I can sate my own egotistical desire to talk about myself, the memory won't go away."

"This audiolog is the story of my first love."





"In my life, one of the things I was never confused about was my sexuality. For as far back as I can remember, I've always identified with the heroes of the stories I would read, the brave knights and princes who would slay some great evil and be rewarded with some attractive princess in the end-- I didn't identify with them character wise, no, in that regard, I've always sided with villains-- I think, mostly, I found myself wanting a wealthy happy ending with a princess."

"Obviously I hoped that when I found my princess, she would have more character than the ones typically portrayed in Old Earth fairy tales."

(She laughs)

"I think mother always knew, she never had a problem with my tendencies. Although to be fair, the sexual behaviors a 10 year old displays are very different from the ones a 16 year old displays. To father, my preference was a surprise, and while to his credit, today he accepts who I am, admittedly he's slightly annoyed at the prospect of the next Castalia being adopted, but he accepts me."

"When he found out over a decade ago, he though my preference was the result of some chemical imbalance caused by The Sickness."

(She laughs again)

"I still think it a tad ironic that father was the one who introduced me to her."





"Her name was Salem."

"I know. What an odd name, right? Odd though it may be, I thought it was beautiful-- I still do, beautiful in an odd way, just like her."

(She sighs)

"Please don't get the wrong impression, when we became acquainted Salem and I were barely 18, and the relationship didn't even last a year. I'm not still pining after the affections of a love long lost, quite the opposite, in fact. I just think it's important to recall the emotions associated with a particular memory when we relive the past. Blame my father."

"As I said before, it was my father who introduced us. She was the daughter of a Guardian some cretino had killed without orders. When something like this happens, The Family puts together funds to ease the suffer of any widows and find work for any children. It doesn't always work out smoothly, but it's nice when it does. This was one of those instances."

"Well, as it turned out, we needed a bookmaker, and Salem was willing, but she needed to learn."

"Who do you think father dearest chose to mentor her?"

(She laughs)

"Honestly, I don't think we even lasted a week before we found ourselves raiding utility closets whenever we could, looking to steal kisses from each other."

(She sighs again, taking a longer pause, as if reflecting on the past)

"She was beautiful. She had this short blonde hair that was almost white in the sun, she didn't like that about her, I recall multiple instances of her trying to hide it all with a hat she was rather fond of, that didn't matter though, she was beautiful without it. Her skin was soft and dark and freckled... she might have had some Aqueon ancestry now that I think about it... Oh, how I wish I could have asked her."

"Ah well..."

"Her real beauty was how she interacted with the world. This was a time when attitudes toward Immortals, people like me, in Serenity was almost as bad as Russel City today and despite that... when I revealed my nature to her... we hadn't even known each other for 2 months at that point, but..."

"...She said she loved me."

(She sniffles)

"Did... you know... that one of the changes to my body, after my Sickness, was that my tears taste like honey?"

"I'll tell you this, that had nothing to do with how sweet the tears I cried with her that night were."





"What followed was one of the best years of my life-- Although I suppose that's really only what I felt at the time, isn't it?"

"Actually... I think it was only about 8 months. I guess the exact time I spent with her doesn't really matter, does it? She's gone. But the love we shared exists in a place where there's no space or time. I love her, and I know she wants me to be happy."

(You hear her move away from the microphone, her voice was breaking)

"In a word, the time I spent with her was; dreamy."

"We had so many dreams. We would get married! We would have children, adopted orphans, of course, and eventually grandchildren! We planned on spreading her father's ashes all over Dust and... Oh! We were going to be Mrs. Castalia, I'd be her Don, and she would be my doll... I'd retire early, and we could move to Aspin! She adored Aspin. I think, in another life, she was a mathematician, her skill as a bookkeeper supports my thinking. It would be safe and quiet in Aspin-- She wanted so bad to see it."

"I had already been several times by that point... I promised her that I'd take a weekend off and just go there..."

"I'm sorry, Salem..."

(You can hear light weeping, for several minutes following this, there is silence)

"I... apologize for losing my composure. I suppose I've underestimated the therapeutic value recording these audiologs might have!"

(She giggles)

"I..."

"Before I move on to her passing, I'd like to discuss about why I loved Salem. I think that it is... important. Perhaps just as much for progeny as my own mental health."

"She was accepting and open, when she thought of something, she put her all into it-- and when she felt something, everyone knew it. She wasn't just aware of her flaws, she wore them like badges of honor. She wasn't original, and she didn't try to be, she was a truly authentic soul, and I loved that about her. This beautiful gestalt, abstract mosaic of a woman..."

"And the sex..."

"How would Lucina put it?"

(Her voice becomes more girlish and high pitched)

"Well, it was off the charts!"

(Her voice returns to normal)

"Is it odd that, in many ways, she reminds me of my mother?"

"Perhaps I have some kind of reverse Oedipus complex?"

"More than just their shared slender physique, too. They had similar senses of humor, they were both kind and adventurous in the same way-- they even possessed the same taste in music!"

"Salem loved hearing me sing, like mother, and her favorite song of mine, by far, just like mother, was Blue Velvet."





"..."

"I remember the exact date; March 2nd, 2373. I found her, in my old suite, at 11:38 that night. I remember it being warm, almost unbearably so. I didn't need to alert father, or the Winged Guardians, my yell was so loud, I know everyone in Serenity knew."

"Someone had raped and killed her."

"The events leading up to it don't matter. I've gone over them more times than I care to mention, and it was, literally, an average evening up to a single point. There was a Family meeting I needed to attend, so I let Salem go to my room herself."

"That's the point-- the single point I wish I could undo that evening."

"That is the point where nothing else matters. This wasn't a gang killing, but it wasn't a random act of violence either. It was a crime directed at me, who ever the man was, he was waiting in my room, waiting for me."

"Instead, however, he got Salem."

(She is quiet for several minutes)

"I've been angry for a long time. I won't pretend that I'm not anymore, I am. Whoever it was, managed to get away with it for this long, and is still out there, and... this has only increased my rage. But it has also driven me. He forced my hand, for years I've chased him, I feel something more base than the void child of apathy and raw hatred towards him, but in a way he's molded me into the person I am today."

"It wasn't enough to steal one life."

"That's alright, though. I haven't let it consume me, I haven't completely moved on, yes, but I have continued living, and soon I will be able to move on."

"I now know who he is."

"Russel City, where we soon plan to make our presence know, harbors a an animal disguised as a man. Fitting, that he should be a captain of the Winged Guardian pigs."

This may sound rather cliche, but I think I crave the release revenge may finally provide me. To him, at least, I will be his ultimate undoing."

"I am become death."

(She yawns, then laughs)

"I suppose that's enough for tonight, isn't it?"

Vladimira Kovalik’s parents met each other in the sweltering heat of a manufactory, covered in protective leather that did nothing to shield them from the heat. Odd that two people could almost instinctively tell they liked each other while swapping jokes over grinding wheels and bandsaws.

After two years, they’d moved into their own welded together house and continued to turn scrap metal into something valuable, only now they always worked together.

Vladimira Kovalik was born roughly three years later, two years after her brother. Raised in the industrial town of Arclight, she took to metalworking like a duck to water as soon as she could walk, surprising both of her parents with her raw enthusiasm for the work, as well as the mechanical genius she seemed to have. She would stay up late at night, tinkering away at whatever her latest project was, be it an expanded magazine for some wandering scavenger’s rifle or a turbocharger fan. She loved to use her hands, refining parts to turn an old beat up scrap rifle into a borderline work of art, or operating ammunition presses, or welding a piece of steel to another piece of steel.

Her brother however, was just the opposite. He had no desire to stay indoors making guns and ammunition, he preferred to simply wander around, exchanging idle conversation with anyone and everyone. Whereas his sister’s obsession with machines limited her human contact to almost zero, only sometimes speaking with her family while eating, Andrei lived for meeting new people and longed to leave Arclight and do… anything.

Which is what he did.

One morning, only a week after her eighteenth birthday, Vladimira was woken to a strange sound… it was almost as if her mother was crying, and her father trying to comfort her.

It had been apparent to her that something was very wrong, and -her leg freshly broken due to her own foolishness with one of her hammers- she hobbled towards the direction of their voices to find a piece of ragged paper on a table, as well as her parents.

She had tentatively walked to the table and read the paper. The note was short and succinct, briefly covering his boredom with Arclight and desire to see the world. She’d put the note down then, and gone to inspect the small room he had called his own. It seemed as though all he’d taken had been some clothing, food, and water.

While his departure had little to no effect on her, she’d probably spoken fewer than a hundred words to him in her whole life, it shook her parents badly, especially her mother.

While Vladimira continued on like normal, perhaps a stray thought entering her mind now and then about how Andrei was doing, wherever he was, and her father seemed agitated whenever someone mentioned Andrei’s name to him, and he seemed to blame himself for not noticing his son’s wanderlust, her mother was the one truly hit hard.

Galina Kovalik would constantly fret about her son’s condition, it drove her to distraction, such that her attention would constantly drift away from what she was doing. For two years she lived like that.

One day, while working an ordnairy shift in the factories, Galina’s attention lapsed once more as she operated a ladle handling steel to be dumped in a crucible. Her husband and daughter were elsewhere, but they both heard the explosion, as well as everybody else in the factory. Sprinting as fast they could, they found five burned bodies thrown like ragdolls against various machinery covered in cooling steel, among them Galina, only indentifiable by the necklace clutched in an unburned hand.

Her father was devastated, becoming almost a shell of his former self, only seeming human around the only family he had left; and while her brother’s departure hadn’t affected Vladimira too much, her mother’s death did. She was continuously haunted at night by images of burned flesh and a hand clutching a necklace. She’d been withdrawn before, but afterwards she would spend entire days cooped up in a workshop working ferverishly on various things to keep her mind occupied. Her minimal human contact dropped even further, and enthusiasm for her work petered off too. If she stayed in the workshop she could pretend it hadn't happened. Close the door on reality, even if just for a little while.

Vladimira also couldn’t help but think on how close she’d come to death herself that day. She’d come down with a bad cold, or something like it, and had left the area around the crucible that would explode not soon after to clear her mask, as it had been dangerously fogging up and a small part of the visor was even covered in mucus. A simple cold was responsible for her not becoming a sixth body, but she’d also been there keeping her mother’s mind focused and helping her operate the machinery. The same cold might’ve also been responsible. She knew her mother’s mind had wandered, Galina would always hold the little necklace in her hands and pray for her son when her mind wandered…

It shook her to the core to think her mother might be dead because she had left to clean her visor. She felt like everybody she saw, not that she saw many people, were all silently judging her, accusing her of being responsible for the explosion, especially the families of the other dead.

A few days after her cold seemed to peak and then retreat she lay in her bed in the pitch darkness, hands idly fumbling with some wires to keep her mind occupied- but for some reason it wasn’t, not completely. A pulsing red glow illuminated a small area in front of her eyes, much to her confusion.

She’d sat up, looking for the source of the light, but didn’t see any. Laying back down, the glow returned, right in front of her eyes, almost like they themselves were glowing.

She’d bolted upright then, staring at her hands as she brought them to her eyes and brought them away again.

Stumbling from the bed she’d grabbed the only mirror they owned, more of a shard of an old one, but it still worked. Her eyes, those were the first things she noticed. They looked like small discs of red hot metal, almost glowing white in the center, the whites were still there, but her pupils and irises were gone, replaced by… And her hair, she didn’t recall her hair looking like fine steel wires.

She didn’t know what to do, a single word had drifted across her mind, Immortal…

She was an Immortal. That cold hadn’t been a cold.

She dropped the mirror, stumbling back as it landed on an old shirt. She fell into a sitting position on her bed. I can’t stay here. She realized, They’ll do… something, I don’t know what and I don’t want to know.
__________

She’d woken up the next morning to her father sitting across from her, conflicted emotions on his face.

“I know.” He said simply, holding up the shattered fragments of mirror and tapping his eyes, though he’d still looked slightly stunned when she opened hers to look at him.

She’d felt paralyzed with fear as he sat there for what seemed like an eternity, but was closer to fifteen seconds. Then he’d stood up, and walked out of the room, returning with an old military rucksack filled with what looked like food, water, and other essentials…

“You’re going to need these. They won’t let you stay here.” He’d managed to choke out to her, pulling out the rifle she’d tweaked over the years into a finely tuned piece of rugged art, and affectionately dubbed “Comrade”, from behind the chair, along with the two old pistols he’d inherited and kept around, hoping to never use them. Vladimira had worked on those too, giving them new barrels to replace the old and worn ones.

That didn’t change the fact that she was being handed a backpack and weapons and told she needed to leave.

She’d taken the weapons and backpack without further eye contact, wanting to just leave and get it over with.

“I love you, you know that right?” Her father’s words had caught her and she’d looked back for the last time, dropping the bag and weapons and rushing back to hug him tightly. Just as quickly, she’d run for the door, scooping up the rucksack and weapons and running from the house.
__________________________________

Four months later…

She was living in a small hole she’d carved into the desert ground and covered with a metal sheet she’d forced into the proper shape -fitting that she could manipulate iron and steel, having spent her life working with tjhem- and sand, all of it concealed by a cluster of boulders. She’d acquired a gas mask somewhere along the way and had made the decision to melt her welding goggles to it, which kept the sun out of her eyes and the harsh winds and sand from her face and lungs. The cloak had been taken off the corpse of a bandit who looked to have acquired it from a scavenger or traveler.

Still haunted by nightmares of burned flesh, often with herself taking her mothers place, screaming as the molten steel splashed onto her. Still haboring guilt. Whenever she spoke with people her mind would conjure images of what they might look like dead, bleeding out on the ground, burned beyond recognition, filled with bullet holes… she’d almost gone beyond caring at that point, her heart hardening further as she sank into an apathetic slump.

She wasn’t comfortable, or content, but she was surviving, and that was something. She sold her skills as a mechanic, and sold what she scavenged too, managing to subsist on the relatively meager income, but she wanted more, there was always room for more of the ammunitition used as currency in her pockets.

my name is lucy. everyone calls me that, including me, i dunno why? they named me lucina. the *fat bastard would have named me garbage if lucania would have let him. but she wouldnt, so he did the next best thing. he just took out an 'a' from her name and switched some letters around. thats all I am to him, anyway-- less than her, a corruption of his 'real daughter.' im not whining here!! Hes fucking told me this to my face

(*fat bastard=Dad)

im not fronting when i say i dont care tho so like, lucania is making me write this stupid diary because shes a fucking nerd obsessed w/ pasttimes stuff an family records or whatever? the fat bastard made her do audiologs a while back. (unsurprisingly he gave no shits if no one remembered i existed) lucania cared tho, so i guess thats why she's making me do this shes practically looking over my shoulder as i write. its kinda creepy she says my spelling is alright but my punctuation and capitalization could use 'some work' ugh, whatevr. listen: 17 yrs ago-- one husband ago, 250,000 blunts ago, 80,000 cigarettes ago, 5,000 pills ago, 3,000 quarts of booze ago, at least a few kilos ago and more stupid fights than i can count ago... 17 yrs ago is when i was born. lucania was 10 or 11, her mom had just left and the fat bastard gave up all human decency in his impotent grief-- lucania looks really impressed that i kno that word right now... god, why did you make my sis such a fucking nerd? i was born of the fat bastards whore binge i kno he knows who it was he got preggers, but he wont tell me. which leads to a weird situation where i may have been in a fucking fight with my mom at the bar-- lucania says thats just like this thing called oedipus now shes changing her mind and says it might be electra ugh omfg do you see what it is i have to deal w/ on a daily? i joke, but i do love her. shes p much my only friend, and honestly shes more of a mother and father to me than that fat bastard ever could be. even if shes an uptight spaz sometimes i find myself worried for her more often than id care to mention, which is whole fuckin lot. shes got this ambition, but its like... wrong? like, shes pretty much just some wildcard for fat bastard to use like a pawn, but even on her own she likes throwing herself into danger and thinking up these schemes and gmabits and whatnot to 'expand the family business' i dont get it. its not for the money, i think. she dresses for appearances and she lives in the lap of the fucking luxe, but its all secondary. i know she wants some kind of glory, all the books she tells me about always have some hero asshole totally outwitting the world and making off with the loot and pussy and fame. but shes not just emula copying the characters, its more like the has this drive to do something else, and she uses the pasttimes shit as inspiration but i dont get what that 'something else' is uggggggghhhhhhhh what else is there to write about i was born, lucania and maids took care of me, hmmm i had my real fight at 11 or 10, i forget. she was a few years older than me and she tried to take my drink, or something, i kicked her in the cunt, it was an ok day. after that, lucy started giving me escorts, i think she was scared someone might try to hurt me for some reason so yeah, then i just started going out at the nights and basically just do that for 7 more years and you got me now! well throw in that time paolo tricked me into getting married... but like, fuck that... seriously he had it planned, he had been getting me drunk for like a week when one night, i get really tipsy really fast one night, i think he put something in my drink-- i remember getting in a car with him header for laguna before I passed out seriously, he had a guy waiting at laguna to make it legal, in like, the government or whatever i don't get why they didn't just shoot him them or why i don't just cancel the marriage or something, but its always 'tradition this' and 'catholic that' like, i think id remember if i fucking signed up to be a catholic

Dear Diary I’m actually writing in it! It’s my tenth birthday today, and Daddy just got me a diary! I’m so excited! He even bought a pearple purple one! You write in a diary, don’t you? I dunno what to write… My day? Okay! Mommy woke me up with kisses in the morning. She kissed my cheeks and poked my nose so I woke up. Then she gave me a pretty piece of cake! I felt almost bad for eating it. It was so cute! She said that colours for it was difficult to get, but seeing me smile when I saw it made it worth it. It also tasted really good. Then she took me downstairs to my dad. We have a big home, they say. They say that a lot of people are jal Jellous jealous of our stairs, and wants to have some too. Anyway, we went down to dad and he gave me a present! You! My Diary! He also gave me some dolls he had bought. I liked them a lot but not as much as you, Diary. You’re my favourite colour, and Mom and Dad told me that I can tell you everything, so I am. But it’s getting late now, and Mom’s calling saying I should sleep. Good night! Dear Diary It’s been over a year now, and I just realised something! I completely forgot to tell you about me! I am so sorry, and I know I should have known better. You probably know a lot about me already, but in case you ever forget I’ll write it down now so that you can remember. My name is Octavia Rowena Atalanta Gabriele. It’s a long name, I know, and I also prefer to just be called Octavia Gabriele. It’s much shorter but still nice. I was born March the 23rd year 2357. I live in Serenity with my mom and dad. I go to school while they work. My mom makes clothes (I think it’s called a Tailor) and my dad works in the Powerplant. I think he makes a lot of money from that. He never told me how much he gets, but I think it’s a lot. I like the colour purple. A lot. I also have a lot of friends at school, but I only spend time with a few of them after school. They are my best friends. There is Michelle, Michael, Cassie, and Luna. Luna says that her parents named her after something they found in a very old book, something called a Moon. I have to ask mom and dad what that is. I also like to sing and to dance. And I dance a lot. Whenever mom has time I like to dance and sing for her. I’m not very good but I practice. I know I’ll become good one day! Mom also says that. She believes in me. Dad just laughs when I dance for him, and then Mom scolds him. Says he has to be nice. Well… That’s about it about me. I’m a big girl who likes to dance and sing, and I have lots of friends. I hope we continue to be friends, too, Diary. Good night! Dear Diary WOW! I saw something amazing! When I was on my way home I saw some of the older boys go to a bar after school. Luna and I followed them because one of them… Oh he’s so cute! His name is Jake and That’s not important. Luna and I followed Jake and his friends into the bar and we saw something amazing! Or I did. Luna was busy talking to Jake. I didn’t get to talk much with Jake, but I didn’t care. I saw something amazing on the stage! There was a woman only in underwear dancing! But she didn’t just dance normally. No, she did all sorts of really difficult things with a large iron pole. She held herself up with only one arm, hung upside down, and sometimes only with her legs. The things she did were amazing and looked so cool! I really want to do that too. So I went home and asked me dad if he knew someone who could teach me. He almost spat out his coffee when I asked him, and my mother looked the same. They said I couldn’t, and they would under no circumstances allow me to do it. I think they’re stupid. It’s just dancing, right? I don’t have to take off my clothes and stand there in only my underwear. Ugh. I barely have any boobs to show yet, so it’s not like I’d show anything important even if I wore only underwear! Mom did say that she knew someone who was good at gymnastics, and told me that I could do that instead. Well… it’s close to dancing, isn’t it? I can at least practice… something until I am old enough to decide what I want to do myself. I guess I’ll do it. I start next week. ...I’m actually looking forward to it. Dear Diary EEEEEEEEH!!! Jake asked me out today! We’re going on a date tonight! I can’t wait I’m so happy!!! I used a bunch of my savings on a new dress! It’s going to be so great! ...I wonder if he’ll kiss me. Ah! I have to get ready! [The paper is matted with tears] Dear Diary Jake wasn’t at all a nice guy. At all. He told me he’d give me a really nice birthday present when it was my birthday. But he didn’t. He gave me a red dress. He was pretty, but… he tricked me. He told me that I owed him for it, and that he wanted… me. I didn’t want to at first, but he told me that I didn’t like him that much, then. I let him do it, but today he told me that he’s breaking up. It was fun, he said, but I was no longer interesting. He just wanted to have sex. Asshole. Asshole Asshole Asshole Asshole Asshole Asshole Asshole Asshole Asshole Asshole Asshole Asshole Asshole AssholeAsshole Asshole Asshole Asshole Asshole Asshole Asshole Asshole Asshole Asshole Asshole Asshole Asshole Asshole Asshole Asshole Asshole Asshole Asshole!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Dear Diary Things are going well. Luna and I had a sleepover last night. It was awesome! Dad got promoted at his work and now oversees like 10 people! He got a raise and, as a present, wanted to let me choose one thing I wanted. So I chose purple hair dye! He wasn’t all that enthusiastic, but he let me do it. He’ll get it from some Gaeans in about a week or so, because it’s not something that you just get. It’s made of some plant extract. I don’t know the specifics, but I’m so looking forward to it! Dear Diary My mom’s friend helped me find someone who would teach me pole dancing. It’s been four years since I first saw that woman in the bar. I made her promise not to tell my mom. I’ll be starting tomorrow where I have to normally practice my gymnastics. I’m pretty good at Gymnastics, so I think I should be able to do well. Oh! And this hair dye? Amazing! I love the purple colour! Dear Diary This. Isn’t. Easy. Holding myself up on that pole, swinging around and all that stuff is really difficult. But it’s fun, and I’m looking forward to next week! Dear Diary What a new year. Didn’t go quite as I had planned. I’m getting fairly good at this whole poledancing thing, but mom and dad found out. They… weren’t happy. I managed to convince them that all I’m doing is just the same as I did during Gymnastics, just with an iron pole. It also makes me quite a bit stronger! Also, Luna has started nicknaming me the Purple Wonder. She saw me practicing a week or so ago and thought that all the stuff I did was “wonderful,” as she said. It’s because of my hair, of course (my dad got me another bottle. Should last for at least a year), and I quite like the name. It’s fitting. Dear Diary I got the sniffles. Mom and Dad looked worried. They think it’s the Sickness. I don’t. It’s just a normal cold. Right? Dear Diary THE SCHOOL BURNED DOWN! We were practicing that “walking in the air” move when all of a sudden the building caught fire! No one knows what happened, but it just suddenly went up in flames! Luna got hurt. She has a burn on her belly now. It’s not pretty, but it’ll heal. Or so the healers say. I managed to get everyone else out in time, at least those who couldn’t run themselves. Also, I’m getting really good at it! My teacher’s saying I could get a work as a performer! Also, I don’t have sniffles anymore! Yay! I told mom and dad it wasn’t The Sickness! Dear Diary Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck I woke up and noticed it. My… My eyes. I love the colour BUT MY EYES ARE PURPLE! Fuck. Fuck my life. Why did this have to happen? Mom and Dad are scared to death when I told them. At first they thought it was some hair dye I had gotten in my eyes, but when I told them that I had used the last of my dye last week they… they know. I know. I’m an Immortal. I don’t know what my element is, and I don’t care. I’m scared. What am I going to do? I… Isn’t there some rumours about that family? Maybe… No. It’s a bad idea. I shouldn’t do it. Dear Diary I did it. I had heard some rumours about the Castalia family having an Immortal in their family. I don’t know who exactly, but if they have an Immortal in the family then… then I should be able to work there. If I work for them, I should be able to hide myself among them. People wouldn’t dare confront me if they knew who I worked for. So I went to their casino hotel and got hired. I’m now a barmaid and dancer (occasional singer. I’m not the best but I can do well enough. I should start practicing). I’m starting work tomorrow. Dear Diary Holy mother of fuck they pay a lot! I’m just a barmaid and a poledancer, but I get paid almost as much as my mom! I also got a make-up set! Lipstick, nail polish, even some eyeliner and eye shadow. It’s a very small set, but I don’t use a lot. But even then, some of it looks like it’s Old World stuff! Rare and freaking expensive! I love this job. Seriously. Most people are kind, and I’m not discriminated for being an Immortal! Even my parents have gone back to normal. They still look a little surprised at my purple eyes, but it’s only a little. Oh! And before I forget, Diary. I learned that I can control fire. I can even make it any colour I want! Heh. Guess which colour I prefer? P.S Speaking of colour, my hair hasn’t changed! Usually the colour of my hair fades out after about a month, but it’s been over three and the colour is still as vivid as when I first coloured it. Could it be another mutation from me becoming an Immortal? Dear Diary Umm… Oops? I have often said that I’m good at pole dancing and all, but, umm… Hehe. I broke my leg. I was trying a new move I came up with myself and fell. I landed on my leg and… well, let’s just say that I’m sure the entire Casino Hotel heard my scream. That hurt. Luckily there was a travelling healer in the city. She was an Immortal, too. Her eyes were really strange: Solid emerald colour with slitted pupils, and I even noticed that her canines were far longer than a normal person. Also. Her tits! Huuuuuuuge~! I only know ‘cause she stayed with me for a day and I saw her take off the bandages in the bathroom. Just… wow. I mean, I think mine are fairly big (32B and proud!) but hers were positively huge! I… Alright. I kinda want mine to be bigger, but still. Hot damn! I wonder if there’s an Immortal who can change someone’s appearance. Dear Diary The Castalia Family is opening a new settlement in Russell Town. I was requested to join as one of the new employees, and was promised a raise. I need to say bye to my parents, but after that I’m off to Russell town! I’m honestly looking forward to it. A lot, actually. This is the last page of this diary. I need to get another one. Anyway, I should get packing. Thank you for always listening, Diary. I’ll see you again soon. For now, I need to go packing! ~ Octavia Rowena Atalanta Gabriele

Eric was born 26 years ago to Logan and Sydney Rose in Russel City. That, however, is all he knows of his biological family. Mere weeks after his birth, young Eric came down with a cold that no doctor in Russel City was able to cure. Eventually it passed, but not the way his parents had hoped. One night Logan was awoken by his crying infant and as he went to check on him he found that the babe's eyes had changed. They were red with a single vertical slit going down the middle. Fearing for their son's life, the couple brought him to the one place they felt he might be safe. Isolone, the Catholic center of the Dust. As a child Eric was raised along with the rest of the Immortal children brought to the Church. He was educated in everything from science, to mathematics, to theology by the various priests and teachers living in Isolone. Immortals while accepted where not allowed to follow a political career. The lowest of religious (political) offices were denied to them due to the fact that they were not 'fully human.' The highest honor an Immortal could receive was to be a part of the elite order of Hollow hunters known as the Inquisitors, an all Immortal fighting force. While the Church allowed them to choose their own path in Isolonen society, most voluntarily joined. At the age of eleven Eric committed himself to the training and excelled in the use of firearms and tracking due to his advanced sight capabilities. As he grew older, Eric's abilities became more impressive as he worked to perfect them. The first ability he mastered was x-ray vision at the age of thirteen, though this was mostly due to teenage hormones than practicality in combat. As the years progressed he became known as the best shot in the Inquisitors, fully fledged members and trainees alike. As he greatly came to excel with any fire arm the older Inquisitors gave to him, he became a cocky and flirtatious to women which he had begun collectively referring to as 'the ladies.' At the age of 16 Eric fell in love with a girl named Kara. She was a year younger than him and was also in training to become an Inquisitor. She had basic telekinesis abilities and Eric always thought she was extremely beautiful. (Especially since he always knew what she had underneath.) He always enjoyed her fascination with eagles. It took two years of showing off in training and endless flirtation but Eric eventually won her over. At the age of 18 he had his first long term relationship (though he did have multiple flings when he was younger) and it gave him extra confidence going into his trials. The trials are a series of tests given by Church Cardinals to test whether an Immortal is ready to enter into the ranks of the Inquisitors. They begin as simple survival tests such as building fires and culminate with the 'First Hunt. The task is as the name suggests, the Immortal must find and kill a level one Hollow to complete his training. Only then can they become an Immortal. Eric's First Hunt was problematic. He was assigned to kill a Sprinter, or a Hollow capable of moving at an extremely fast speed. He was given basic supplies and two weapons of his choice, one of which was the same sniper he uses today. It took him less than a day to find a Sprinter's trail (different types of Hollow have different footprints) but he could tell it was small. His cocky attitude got the best of him however and he wasn't satisfied with killing a level one as his first. It took him a little less than a week but he finally found the prints of a level 2 Sprinter dangerously close to Forsaken territory. Once he found it, he set up his sniper a little over a mile away from his target. It was bigger than he imagined and it had brought him deep into Forsaken territory but he was determined. He targeted its knee joints where the armor was weak to cripple its ability to run. Even though he placed every shot perfectly, the Sprinter was able to find him. In under four minutes the beast had reached him. The following battle was intense. It hit him out of his snipers nest and he basically ran in circles through old ruined structures while firing his revolver behind him. It took him two hours but he eventually killed the monster. Exhausted and wounded, Eric dragged its carcass for miles back to Isolone, during which time he was ambushed by a small squad of Forsaken raiders. When he returned home almost a month later, he learned that most of the Inquisitors believed he was dead. They were astonished by the beast he carried behind him but Kara was more concerned about his wounds. She scolded him for taking such a stupid risk and not returning sooner but was ultimately happy to see him. The Cardinals soon granted him full Inquisitor status however he was not part of the 'graduation ceremony' held in honor of the other candidates that had left at the same time he did. His class was then dubbed a successful one as only three of its recruits were killed in action. Eric stayed in Isolone for another year to watch Kara complete her training. After her trials (which she completed much faster than him albeit with a less impressive kill) the two traveled throughout the Dust taking jobs to kill Hollow in the name of the Church. After a year, Eric proposed and the two became wed in the capitol building of Isolone, The Cathedral. 20 years old and married, Eric was as happy as one could be in the modern world. For four years the couple hunted Hollow together and even took mercenary protection and bounty hunting jobs. They each racked up a decent number of Hollow kills, Eric with 13 and Kara with 8. All good things come to an end however. While tracking level 3 Spitter (shoots acid) the couple was ambushed by a number of Forsaken slavers. The fight lasted a very long time but eventually Eric was knocked unconscious by a Forsaken who he believed was an Immortal with enhanced strength. (That's his story anyway) When he woke up Kara was gone. It took him a year to track down the gang that had attacked him. They had brought his wife to a small camp near the Diversum border. He killed every guard in the camp from over a mile away, to this day he has never shot as impressively. When he reached the camp he freed all of the slaves from their pins. Most didn't know what to do with their freedom. Eventually he found Kara, she was severely wounded and dying. Her last word to him before she was gone was, “you're like an eagle of old America Eric, bringing freedom to these people.” Even in death she was fascinated with the creatures. He took the Eagle as his symbol and tattooed it to the left side of his chest. For a year he simply worked as an Inquisitor. With time he was able to overcome his grief and moved to Russel City in hopes of maybe finding his parents. After a few months he gave up and began taking jobs from the local Church office. His kill count is now up to 18.

Arcus, like his parents, was born in Eton, and it was here that he would live the first ten years of his life. He was born only to one parent, however, as his father, Virn, had been killed in arena combat over the fact that Arcus was an illegitimate son. Arcus' mother's other husband was sick and dying, but wasn't dead yet. From the time he was able to hold a stick he was being trained in combat, much like the other Forsaken. It was quickly apparent that Arcus was a wrathful child- he was unnaturally strong and quick for his young age, and in combat he was cunning and tough.

When Arcus turned ten, his mother celebrated his first decade by rewarding the small boy with a small rabbit to kill. He delighted in hearing its tiny bones crack and bend under his might, and listening to the small thing squeal and squirm. Just after this "celebration" his mother told him they were moving, but not to where or why. On the road, Arcus noticed his mother seemed afraid and hurried. They eventually arrived at Forbes- having traveled through Locke and Kingsley.

In his twelfth year Arcus became a brother to a younger sister and a younger brother; their names were Tilli and Caden, respectively. He became protective of them both, taking time away from training to tend to any of their needs and checking in on them regularly. One year later, at thirteen, Arcus experienced his first man-to-man combat, being thrown into the infamous Forbes Arena over something his mother had done but blamed him for. He remembers his opponent well- a tall, fair haired boy with few teeth and missing half an ear. He looked sickly, but he fought well. The fight lasted for quite some time- being his first outing, Arcus wasn't as confident as the other boy and fought very defensively, it was only due to his exquisite stamina that the other boy tired out before he did and Arcus was able to finish him off with only a few well placed blows. This was the childhood Arcus was blessed with- arena combat and mentoring his siblings while being trained, himself.

Flash forward a few years, when Arcus has matured and is at the spry age of twenty-one. It was in this year that Arcus discovered he was an Immortal. His mother had committed some crime again, only this time wriggled out of it by blaming Caden as Arcus had been absent, just returning the day after her accusation. Caden was only nine, but was sent to the Arena, anyway, and by the time Arcus arrived it was too late to try and take his place. He dreadfully watched and screamed and yelled as he watched his training go to waste- Caden was struck down by his opponent, dead before he hit the sands. Time almost seemed to slow down as he watched the quarterstaff crack his younger brother's skull. A rage now garnered in his belly, he stormed into his mother's home, and awoke from a daze a few hours later- apparently, in his fit, he had killed his own mother for sending Caden into the ring. His reaction was so strong and fast that time sped by, and he couldn't remember the event. He was sent to the Arena- as per usual- for his murder, but his opponent was easy enough for Arcus to defeat. If you were a good warrior, even murder was within your reach among the Forsaken.

Two years later and we see Arcus serving the Legion- his skills as a natural warrior being put to use. More than that, his Immortalis- he's discovered that he can speed up and slow down things already in motion, no doubt a product of his equal fits of speedy rage and slugging grief. He has proven his strength and skill numerous times, and had been given the nickname 'Warlord' by those that fought alongside him. Arcus would fight and form relationships among the Legion for fourteen years, before his paranoia of betrayal for a title forced him to settle down and take a break from battle, his exemplary service title garnering much respect among the Forsaken. The nickname of 'Warlord' has stuck.

The veteran lives a fairly peaceful life mentoring younger pupils from his home in Forbes and frequenting the arena as a spectator. However, when he is forty five years of age he is called upon once again, his name and record preceding him. He accepts, albeit a bit reluctantly, but is given a second wind of duty and nationalism from battle and combat once again. His muscles tired easily and didn't quite work like they used to, but he was still a lethally skilled combatant at short ranges and in short bursts. He continues serving the Legion as both a warrior and adviser for another five years- when he is killed in battle.

At least, he was thought dead. He was hit in the lower left abdominal region by a rather large slug made from animal carcass. He had been presumed dead and left for the carrion, but it would take more than a lucky shot to bring down Warlord. His teal eyes opened; his breathing desperate to grasp any hint of life left in him. In his darkest moment, Arcus finds a feeling of peace and serenity- feelings of comfort rife with death that are so profound he remembers them to this day; in fact, it is this exact moment that he credits with the changed man he's become today. He realizes the beauty in creating life rather than take it; ironic, perhaps, as he lay there a dying renowned warrior.

He survives the wound, and is able to stand, but even an unskilled scavenger could tell him the wound was infected- a factor of the animal carcass round, no doubt. The pain was almost unbearable, but Arcus managed to hobble back to Forbes nearly on all fours. He was given medical attention and the wound was staunched, but the infection remained. The medical staff presumed him lucky if he made it to sixty.

And so Arcus left Forbes, no longer considering himself Forsaken, but his records and past an ill-fated reminder of who he used to be. He is determined to leave Dust a better place than he helped create it- but just how he does that, he's quite unsure. He's spent the past few years wandering and detailing his thoughts and experiences; many of these can be found in his journal, which he keeps nearby at all times. Recently, he caught a caravan with an armed contingent of guards outside Fairsbury and was requested help, for he still had the gait of a strong warrior, despite his old wound. In return, the caravan leader offered him a place of respite in Fairsbury, and reassured him it was a beautiful sight to have the privilege to see, considering all the green.

Arcus accepted, travelling with the guards into the ruins, where they encountered fierce resistance by the "beautiful sights" themselves. He and the other guards were successful in protecting the caravan, however, and it is in Fairbury that he now resides- albeit temporarily, for Arcus has grown fond of wandering.

James was born to a very poor family in Dead-End. His father, Harry, suffered from a neurological disorder that resulted in him experiencing extreme pain from exertion, meaning that he couldn't work much. He would typically go to work at the smelter, but it didn't exactly pay much, and given that he couldn't work long hours, it paid even less. His mother, Lisa, hardly found the time to work since she basically took care of their home one part of the day, and took care of Harry the next. They could barely afford to stay afloat, but eventually Lisa got an idea. She talked it over with Harry a bit, and then they decided to have a child.

10 months later, James was born but at that point, their funds were completely drained. Still, Lisa and Harry had a plan. After roughly six more months of just barely scraping by, a band of slavers came through. Lisa and Harry knew that they would pay good money for a healthy infant, one that they could easily mold into a hard-working grunt. That was their plan, after all, to sell James off at the nearest opportunity. They took their newfound money and decided to move to Russel City, where they thought they would find a better life. Unfortunately for them, they were both murdered by some of the other Dead-End residents who didn't take too kindly to them having a kid for the sole purpose of selling him off.

James was raised in dismal conditions by the slavers until he was about six, at which point they put him straight to work. Of course, him still being pretty young, he couldn't do much more than run errands. Still, even with his relatively "easy" job, he would often make small mistakes that earned him either a disciplinary punch, or a day-long time out in a pitch black vault. James started to build a resentment towards his masters, which earned him even more disciplinary measures, until he was eventually told to fight another child of roughly equal age. He got a dislocated shoulder from the fight, along with a broken nose, several bruises, and a couple of shallow cuts. He didn't even put up a fight.

This pattern continued until James effectively broke and completely surrendered himself. It took him roughly three months to get to that point. The authoritarianism and violence became the status-quo. Those who disobeyed were whipped, and those who tried to escape were executed. James didn't want to be tortured or killed. James didn't want anything. He became an empty shell of a person. He disconnected himself from everything and just did what he was told.

Six years and two trades later, James is constantly referred to as one of the best-behaved slaves ever. He hasn't questioned any of his masters in years, and is constantly satisfying his masters in whatever way possible. He also hasn't spoken in years, which, while it is advantageous to him in many ways, it is concerning to everyone else. Even some of his masters became concerned, though more in the sense that they were concerned James would snap, or become completely catatonic and useless. Unbeknownst to anyone else, James actually regained his lucidity around this point, though his attitude is still as withdrawn as ever.

Two years later, at the age of 14, James was going to be at the next trade, along with several of the other slaves under his master's ownership. His master spent some time with James, telling him exactly how to behave, not like he didn't already know. He wordlessly nodded anyways. At the trade, he was dressed in the best garb his master would put together for a slave. He was paraded under his title of "The Quiet One" and was even recognized by some of the other traders. At one point, James noticed something. A little girl, a few years younger than him, also at the trade. She never noticed him, but he noticed her. The abject despair and misery in her eyes spoke volumes, but even more jarring was the realization that James hadn't seen a single other child slave in over 5 years. What happened to those whom he was with before? That's right, they all died, either at the hands of their masters or from the results of severe neglect.

At that thought, James felt a surge of newfound hatred and rebellion. He had found a purpose. He was done with this shit. He was going to get out, and then he was going to make the slavers pay for what they've done. But, as much as he might have wanted to, he knew he couldn't just go at it, that was a good way to get killed. He wasn't going to out-brute them, but he could outsmart them. They still thought he was a complacent little drone, and he would use that to his advantage in the coming weeks.

He was sold to another master during the trade. That put a hold on his plans, since he was now in unfamiliar territory, but it ended up working to his advantage. His new master had fewer guards. Not by much, but still fewer. Once James had been in service at this place for a couple of weeks and had an idea of where things were and how things worked, he began to devise a plan. He kept up his facade for long enough for his master to warm up to the fact that he was the best-behaved slave of the lot, and he was eventually given a spot of privilege as his master's personal slave. He learned even more about the grounds in this time, along with several places one could hide, and a couple of other potential escape routes.

After another two weeks of plotting, James finally came up with two solid courses of action, though he also began to run into trouble at this point. He noticed that one of the guards would tend to eyeball James fairly often. He didn't realize it, but the guard had been under the employment of another master that previously owned James. He had recognized him, and he picked up on some slight changes in James' behavior, and the way he held himself. Unfortunately, it would be his downfall, and when James had finally launched himself into action, they were prepared.

He was caught shortly after he initiated his plan, and while under normal circumstances he would have been executed, his master took his track record into account and instead sentenced him to a week's worth of torture, starting with a lashing in front of every other slave. His fiery rage caught up with him, and he cursed and threatened and verbally abused his captors in between his screams of pain, which resulted in more lashes. At one point, he had implored his fellow slaves to rise up and do something, that the captors couldn't take on a mass rebellion. He eventually passed out from the pain, and for trying to incite a rebellion his sentence was changed to a public execution, along with a couple of slaves who had taken his words to heart. The aforementioned slaves were executed a day later, but James still had a week of torture to endure before his final day.

It was at this point that he came down with a cold, though this, of course, didn't stop the floggings. He would wake up to either a kick in the ribs, a surprise waterboarding, or any other number of forms of torture, and go to sleep exhausted and in complete pain, but not broken. He began plotting another escape, though this time there would be blood. His sickness passed on the day before his execution, and it was at this time that James would get out. He had spent the entire week weakening the anchoring points on his shackles, and he was confident a good yank would make at least one of them break.

That morning, James was met by a lone guard. He was ready for him, and as soon as the guard went to put on a tighter pair of shackles, James broke one of his arm shackles out of the wall and hit the guard hard enough to knock him unconscious. It took a few tries, but he managed to get the other arm shackle off, which gave him enough room to get the keys from the guard and free his legs. He then took a moment to crush the guard's windpipe under his foot, then relieve him of his clothes and weapons. By the end of the day, there would be exactly seventeen dead guards, three dead assistants, two hundred twenty four newly-freed slaves, and a traumatized master who would soon be mauled by said slaves. James slipped out while the others were getting their fill and began stocking up on supplies for his journey. He could still hear his former master screaming in pain as he walked away. Neither he nor anyone else noticed his eyes change color, nor the thin slits that his pupils became.

He eventually found his way to Russel City, where he sought medical treatment, which is when he discovered his inexplicable eye mutation. After someone explained what it meant for him, and he was released from the hospital he was at, he began to train and equip himself for a brutal assault on the slavers. Though first, he had to learn what these weird symbols written in these "books" mean. Before that, he would need to make a livelihood, and the easiest way to do that was to join a scavenging crew. The selection process was a piece of cake to James, who had been physically conditioned for most of his life, and he was also, oddly enough, one of the most efficient scavengers in his crew. He would always get bonuses from several of his finds, though he felt it was sort of unfair to the others. Still, he needed the money.

It took him a couple of years, but finally, at the age of 16, James could read, although somewhat roughly. He realized that he never had a last name, and thus assumed the surname "Knight" at that point. It was also at this point that he began to study certain types of weapons, particularly firearms. He gained an understanding of how some of the guns of old worked, specifically the infamous Russian AK-47 design, with it's several updates and permutations. He became so engrossed by it's simple design that he decided to buy one, a relatively new variant called the AKS-74. He got it in somewhat rough condition, but with his knowledge of how it worked, and some consultation from a machinist, he got the rifle in good working order with a few modifications and a bit of elbow grease. With his self-teaching nearing a close, he decided to get a tattoo of a wolf to signify the vengeance he would soon wreak.

After roughly a year of working, training, and tuning his AK, James started to lose sight of his vendetta, and even started to force his previous memories from his head, even though some of it was missing to begin with. His lust for vengeance was becoming less and less tangible as he became more integrated with an actual society. While he didn't deny that life was still hard, and sometimes dangerous, he shifted his focus from wanting to go back and finish what he had planned on doing to simply putting it behind him and moving on. While it allowed him to do just that, it would take a toll on his psyche.

After building up some funds, James decided to move to Aspin to take advantage of the advanced education opportunities there and look into becoming a psychologist. This had nothing to do with his own past, he simply gained a curiosity for the way the human mind works. To help fund his continued education, James took advantage of his newfound ability and became an escort for The Gaens' expeditionary teams. He learned several things rather quickly at this point, and it took a bit of effort to keep the circumstantial knowledge that he gained from his various escortees from getting mixed up with his actual studies.

Roughly a year after moving to Aspin, he began to feel the psychological effects of having suppressed his memories of his past, which manifested themselves in occasional extreme fits of paranoia and social withdrawal, one of which prompted him to compulsively buy a CZ-75 pistol. He had failed to properly inspect it and missed the damaged ejector; something he would have picked up on had he been stable at the time. He never sought help or consulted anyone about it, because somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that it meant recounting his traumatic past. His suppression of his memories as a slave caused all the rage and hatred he had previously felt towards the slavers to convert fully to terror and paranoia, and worse yet James refused to believe it.

Though, on the other hand, trying to put the past behind him has made James into a confident optimist for the most part, and at the age of 25 he graduated with a certificate in psychology. With all that said and done, James decided to return to Russel City in search of a job in his new field, or if all else failed, reunite with his old scavenging squad.

Ivan had been born in a shanty town west of the city now known as Ironhold, the small group of settlers being one of many that traveled between towns looking for work either in construction or labouring. It was a poor setting to be brought up in, with questionable morals with the most notable of which being their skewed view on religion. Life there was very binary for most, with the standard of living being only a little better than 'surviving'. They ate what they found, wore what other people got rid of, and found joy in the simpler aspects of managing to get by in the world. Ivan hadn't really questioned such things, and as he grew older picked up what minimal responsibilities there were to take care of here and there. Music and stories were their only form of culture, many of these tales modeled after the crude understanding of the great beings that controlled the world around them.

Ivan's life was on track to soon get a job laying bricks or mining ore, following after those he lived with up until some time after turning fifteen when he contracted 'The Sickness'. People where he lived knew of the disease but had poor knowledge on it, associating it with evil deities and knowing that as soon as the dark circles appeared the issue had to be dealt with.

Unfortunately for Ivan, 'dealing with it' was a public display of burning the infected at the stake. Deciding that would not be his fate, Ivan ran off the day his eyes grew shadowed, taking all he could with no plan other than to escape being burned alive and possibly beheaded. In the back of his mind he was scared of what might be next for him, as there was good reason people that got sick were killed like they were, but he felt healthy enough and decided a chance was better than nothing.

The boy was ill prepared though, and his fear had made him overlook the dangers of the desert like the sandstorm that struck only a day after he left. He was in pain, hands pawing at the hot sand while his gut twisted and his head pounded. He couldn't see anything, his sight fading as the storm picked up and blindness set in. Ivan was in tears as he felt his end drawing nearer, and prayed for death to claim him quickly.

No such thing happened though. The next morning, Ivan awoke covered in sand and began to panic. Just as soon as he wished it, like a giant fish, the desert spat him out from what must have been seven feet underground. Still panicking, Ivan looked around with his no longer working eyes, somehow able to see everything represented in a strange outline before him. All he could see was sand, the gritty substance being the only thing his eyes could recognize and leaving the rest of the world invisible. He'd somehow survived the Sickness, though not without his loses, and was left alone in a world he knew little about.

Over the years, Ivan learned of how he'd survived his escape and the status of 'Immortal' that came with it. Though he could feel a connection to all earth and rock, the now young man learned he was limited by how he could only shift materials loose enough to move his hands through which explained his incident in the desert those years ago. It didn't take long for him to realize people could catch on from something wrong with his eyes, and that plus the scarred on sickness on his face was enough reason for Ivan to hide his face which eventually it led to him dawning the hood he has now become so attached to. In an attempt to make his life easier, Ivan had forgotten his surname, decided to keep moving, and try to find joy in what he could such as his chance to learn about the world beyond his home. So he traveled, from place to place, preforming on the streets for money when he needed to buy food and delighting in any company he could find. He'd become quite the skilled flute player, and has learned that his stories entertain a select few who chose to listen to him. Along the way he became more adapt at this way of life, using his abilities to move through the desert and eventually acquiring his somewhat unique weapon to use for quick escapes. People weren't always that happy if they learned he was an immortal, and if they already knew there was no point in trying to make a sneaky exit; only a quick one would do. The rocket launcher always assured there'd be at least some material for him to work with in such cases.

In his pursuit of happiness, Ivan spent his money on whatever interested him and after gaining an interest in alcohol it acted as a gateway for more potent substances. Uneducated on the subject, Ivan knew only that the sensations these things brought were enjoyable and actively pursues them any chance he gets with no awareness to how it affects his health. A few years of living like this had somewhat skewed Ivan's perception of the world, and his focus became on the peace he found simply in existence with minimal care taken towards himself. In his opinion Ivan sees himself as enlightened; glad he hasn't confined himself to one place and is free to partake in what he wishes when he can. So he wanders, his head often in another place as he moves from city to city only so he can make enough money for more food and whatever 'sweet treasures' he can obtain.

Age: 20
Appeared Age: Late-20s (as a result of his facial hair)
Height: 5’10
Weight: 165 lbs
Eye Color: Blue
Hair Color: Brown
Physical Disabilities: N/A
Physical Identifiers:

• Usually in costume, a red renaissance-era shirt with a red belt
• Long, straight hair done up in a ponytail
• Thick, brown goatee and mustache
• Light facial scarring, as well as larger scars along the chest and and shoulders.
• Highly muscular and ruggedly good-looking

Appearance:
Archie was always the better looking of the two prior to Cyrus’ acquisition of shapeshifting powers, though is far more subtle about it than his boisterous and loud older brother. His every movement is calculated, cautious and graceful, harkening back to his background as a dancer and experienced swordsman.

Whereas Cyrus has a tendency to fall back upon his immortal powers to compensate for his shortcomings, Archie has honed his various skills to perfection. He knows precisely what he is great at (swordplay, dancing, acrobatics and mustache management), what he is average at (cooking and swimming) and what he is desperately terrible at (glassworking, Horseshoes, and biochemical engineering). Far more cautious than his brother, he has no misconceptions about his own mortality. Further unlike his brother, he finds comfort in the philosophy of the Northern Aqueons, and uses the teachings of the new-age religion as a means to better his mind and body. Though he holds honour in high regard, he is not necessarily bound by the same restrictions due to his being cut off from more zealous practitioners of the faith.

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...


Since escaping the Forsaken three 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.