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.

Okay, let's just get this straight. Samuel is pretty much a new-age hobo, akin to the many other hobos that populate the island.

His parents? They were also hobos. Pretty much the typical title any person can have. Alexander Biggins was another typical scavenger, and his mother, Lillian, was another typical scavenger. They got along by sticking low and not taking risks. Keep your head down and stay as incognito as possible. Grab anything of value, don't haggle too much, and just generally stay average. People who are different stood out, and standing out is the worst mistake you can make.

So that's what they taught little Sammy when he eventually was born. It was a bit of a surprise, but hell, any condoms left over from Pre-Fall are long rotted. Still, they weren't the kind of people to abort him or abandon the child. They managed to scrounge out a little hidey hole to call home near Harlem and raised the boy as best they possibly could. He turned out pretty well.

Years later, the boy is around sixteen, and Mom and Dad have been taking him out to scavenge, teaching him their trade and generally making a living for themselves. Things were usually good. Their three pairs of eyes managed to find good things, and anything dangerous tended not to attack packs of multiple people. Sure, food was pretty scarce, and some days they had to go hungry, but in general, things were good.

That is, until one day they happened upon the abandoned remains of a pharmaceutical company. The entire place was full, completely untouched by any scavenger or finder. The skeletal corpses should've told the reason why, but Sam was too cocky back then. He told Ma and Pa to keep going, that they could handle whatever had taken out the previous inhabitants.

He should've listened to them. But he didn't. Turns out, the place was full of The Hollow. It was a breeding ground for them, and the drugs they had managed to get into didn't help. They were hopped up on drugs, most of them faster and speedier than a normal Hollow. Alexander forced Sam into a ventilation duct. Sam had to watch as they tore his own mother in two. His father only lived by playing dead, sitting there motionless while tears ran down his cheeks.

Let's just say, Sam was kicked out. Forced to go on his own. His father probably turned to the bottle while Sam turned to music. He ignored the policy of 'stay incognito' the day he managed to find a perfect condition harmonica. Turns out he had a knack for it. Any people he came across, he played for then. Somewhere along the line, Sam gained access to his Immortal powers. His 'Spark' as some might call it was just a single performance, likely the best he'd ever done. The onlookers were crying at the end of it, the haunted melody getting to all of them.

It was later that night when he noticed his eyes had changed, now a full shining copper that replaced his old cyan ones.

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.

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.

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.

Roland the slave, Roland the dog, Roland the conscript, Roland the warrior, Roland the Immortal, Roland the Optio, Roland the Soulless, Roland the Broken. These are but a few of the titles Roland has amassed in his lifetime. When Roland was five years old when The Forsaken raided his small village and took him as a spoil of war where he was first used as both a prostitute and as a 'squire' for those in gladiatorial games, cleaning up the messes left behind after the bouts and helping the competitors to gather their equipment as well as 'ease their nerves.' During one such incidence in which one of his masters forced himself upon Roland they became violent sooner than usual and in the moment, Roland bit their manhood off, proceeded to claw out their eyes, and tear into their jugular leaving the man dead mere minutes before his battle. Seeing promise in the boy Roland soon found himself in The Forsaken's hodge-podge army where he learned how to fight and live off the land. Roland was a clever child and soon rose up the ranks over the years through tactics that were considered suicidal even by The Forsaken's standards and was no longer a conscript and rose to the rank of officer and as such, earned the right to literacy.

Roland was an exemplar of The Forsaken's culture who had earned the right to be a gladiator at Forbes' grand stadium, though not under the circumstances he imagined. His first match? The legitimate child of the first man he had murdered. Ever since Roland's first kill it had become easier and easier for him to dehumanize those he was slaying, those he'd aid in capturing to work the mines. The realization that there had been other people who cared for those he killed had left him feeling sick for days leading up to the match until it finally came. After a long and drawn out battle, Roland had finally defeated his opponent, without having to slay him. However when his back was turned the opponent then revealed he had strapped dynamite to himself blowing himself up only a few short meters away from Roland. It was at this point Roland's abilities revealed themselves allowing himself to form a shield that took the brunt of the impact, the rest of it sending him across the field from the battered but alive, revealing that the nausea and cold sweat he had before the fight wasn't just the jitters, but symptoms of his transformation. Now known as an Immortal Roland was seen as too essential to be used as entertainment and was place back into the military to hone his ability while securing the king's interests. Drunk on power and fame Roland found it easier than ever to suppress his conscious and with his new abilities, Roland made a meteoric rise through the Legion and social echelons. Eventually he was chosen to be a member of The Soulless, the best of the best where he received new training in not just the Longinus, but espionage and special tactics. He was to be The king's hand, imparting his will above Roland's own, by any means necessary if need be.

During one of their intensive training regiments they were to be buried alive and have to dig their ways out or die trying. While Roland made it out easily thanks to his abilities and soon enough others did too. Surprisingly enough a majority of unit were also able to break free of their coffins and make their way out of the sand. Or so it had first seemed. When the others of his unit congratulated each other and went to go feed and fuck in celebration Roland had stayed behind to admire his handiwork and have a smoke when he heard muffled screaming which he had realized was the smallest and weakest of his unit, Eobard. While he wasn't the strongest or the fastest or even the bravest, Eobard had joined the ranks of The Soulless by having a natural inclination towards medicine and with formal training could be a doctor. Despite his role as their unit's medic Roland was just as ready as the rest of his unit to leave him behind after all, he was unable to get out of his grave, he'd just wind up in one somewhere else right? Even still Roland was hesitant to walk away and that's when he heard it again. The voice that he had first heard in the hallway before his first gladiatorial bout. The voice that had pleaded with him every time he got into a fight, saw a hungry child, a three legged puppy and a sad whore. Uriel the Merciful. A schizophrenic manifestation of what was left of his conscience, Roland had spent the years since he had first gained his powers using every vice and drug under the sun to try and suppress their voice but when they did it didn't seem to be because of anything Roland would do. Please, Uriel pleaded, Save this one. Even if you won't do it because it's right you know he's valuable! You know what he can do! After much dragging of his feet and listening to Eobard's sobbing Roland finally conceded on the agreement that if Uriel would be quiet until Roland called for them Roland would save the wimp. In a few seconds Roland had dispersed the sand entombing Eobard and even tore open his coffin. While Eobard had first cowered thinking that Roland was going to kill the manchild himself he had instead grabbed him and pulled him out, telling him to hurry up when the blond haired, sun-burned scarecrow of a man asked him why he saved him, Roland simply said, "Well I reckon that it'd be a mighty big shame if someone as smart as you died in such a stupid way."

When Eobard reminded him that the others would kill them in an even more horrible way Roland devised the brilliant of deciding not to tell them anything. Through out the rest of training Roland would help Eobard with the more physical aspects of their training while Eobard the more intellectual. Over time Roland learned that their medic had a similar story to his. Eobard had been taken as a slave when his family was on his way to Forbes from Fairbury to pick up cadmium when raiders struck. 10 years old at the time Eobard was just starting his apprenticeship with his father when he was captured and put through many of the same trials and tribulations that Roland himself was, his only saving grace was his rudimentary medical knowledge proved he was too useful to put on the front lines when he was conscripted where eventually he ended up where he was. By the time their training was done the two were genuine friends who would not see each other for some time as Eobard was to be part of the medical corps while Roland would become a scout serving The Forsaken as a scalpel rather than cleaver.

After countless missions serving the king's will, the elite soldier was ordered to be part of a century of Soulless Ones to attempt reconnaissance north of Quinton, past the endless white obelisks that warn all those who might pass that they were entering into foreign territory. Edenite territory. They were only three miles into the land when they struck- still able to see the border between the two lands. Their enemies were unseen and they were slaughtered by the dozens. It was then that Roland transformed into his Awoken form and after that, he remembered nothing else, aside from waking up far from the site of the slaughter in the remains of what looked to be a black, broken chrysalis. After finally getting his bearing and realizing he was near the outskirts of Quinton, Roland resupplied what he could in Quinton he returned to the border to see his entire century wiped out.

Taking this news straight to Ironhold he was immediately called a liar, a coward and a traitor. His punishment to be death by crucifixion. Stripped naked and nailed to a cross, Roland was pierced with his own Longinus and was to have a slow and agonizing death. It was during this time where what little strength Roland had was spent using his powers to keep his guts from spilling out and finally ready to die when the guard who was assigned to watch over him in case he escaped suddenly had his brains blown across the sun scorched land. It was him. Eobard. It had seemed while Roland had spent most of his time in foreign territory fighting for king and country Eobard had slowly been rising through the ranks until he became one of the King's physicians. Using his own Longinus to remove the spikes Eobard sneaked him into the medical wing of the King's fortress for aid. Unable save Roland by himself Eobard was able to convince them that having an Immortal owe you a life debt was sure to pay off and so surgery commenced. After weeks of treatment where he was confined to a bed (that was often hurriedly sneaked somewhere else) where the only other 'person' he had to talk to was Uriel.
It was during this time that Roland was taught about a different form of honor, of helping those weaker than yourself, not just so that you may exploit them, but so that their life is easier. When Roland finally recovered his strength, he decided that for him to understand this strange being's way of thinking (and finally shutting them up) he must go out and experience it for himself before truly deciding what is the true way of honor. Drawing the blade, or never unsheathing it.