Throwing in an example character sheet while I continue cleaning stuff out.

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[u]Age of Death:[/u] — [b]16[/b]
[u]Gender:[/u] — [b]Male[/b]
[u]Race:[/u] — [b]Human[/b]
[u]Psychology:[/u] — [b]Example text.[/b]

[i]⑇⑉What You Remember⑉⑈[/i]

     [sup][The Smell of Gunpowder][/sup]
[b]The sharp stench of gunpowder filled the air, mixed with the deafening crack of gunfire and the piercing whine of bullets slicing through the chaos. The screams of men and women in fury, others in agony—formed a discordant symphony of battle. And amidst it all, there it was—that familiar, all too nostalgic sensation of cold iron pressed firmly against his cheek, grounding him in the— what was it again?.. Warfare. But where, and why?

⑴ He arrived in this world with what appeared to be a .303 Enfield in his grasp, its weight and form eerily familiar. Yet, subtle inconsistencies in its design set it apart; minute deviations in the craftsmanship, an unfamiliar balance in his hands. Most definitive of all were the strange runes carved into the sanded wooden stock, their language unknown yet rather than require ammunition they thrummed to life to manifest the rounds to fire.

⑵ Black powder isn’t something just anyone can refine or wield without the proper knowledge. It takes skill, precision, and an understanding few possess. But when you’re a child of war, that knowledge comes early—ingrained not through study, but through necessity. You learn its scent, its weight, the way it burns. The only necessities are the actual materials required to make it.[/b]


[i]⑇⑉What You [s]Don’t[/s] ⑉⑈[/i]

     [sup][May My Country Suffer, Just As I Did][/sup]
[b]His homeland’s population dwindled at an quickening rate, with the demand for soldiers grew desperate. In a cruel bid to fill the ranks, children were conscripted, thrown into the fires of war to make up for the lack of bodies on the front line. Most were little more than fodder, human shields sent to soak up enemy fire before they ever had a chance to fight. Yet, against all of the odds, he lasted through it all. He endured where so many fell, forced to do things no child should ever have to—unspeakable acts committed not out of malice, but out of necessity. Survival demanded cruelty, and war did not grant the luxury of innocence.

And in the end, it was all in vain.

In the end, it wasn’t a bullet that claimed his life. It was something far more insidious —an infection festering in the trenches carved by his own comrades. A slow, painful, pustulent death born not of combat, but of neglect. His body failed him before the war ever could, his final moments steeped in bitterness. Hate for the world that had shaped him into a weapon. Regret for the choices he was never given. And with his last, ragged breath, a curse escaped his lips, spoken not in sorrow, but in spite.[/b]

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