“Always one step ahead of death, just one step out of reach. But even so...here I stand.”
N A M E
Etoile Lécuyer Émilie Couer (alias)
A G E
27
O R I G I N
Iquenos nobility
V I S A G E
Slim and slight and standing just beneath 5'7" with relatively undefined muscular tone, Etoile honestly doesn't look much like a soldier, and that fits her just fine. Though previous she carried herself erect and at attention at all times from her training, she's fought herself down into a more relaxed way to better blend in, and her crisp, snapping strides have gone the same way as her posture. Now instead of her hard-soled dress shoes, she wears a pair of tough leather boots, worn and patched in several places.
Her head of blonde hair, previously cut into sharp bangs, with more falling to the sides of her face in distinctive long chunks, has been chopped further, coming to rest messily at around the base of her neck. To further distance herself from what she once looked like, she tends to tie it up in a small, messy bun. Nearby are her eyes, a cold stormy-gray. They are narrow and calculating, always roving around as though she's always watchful for something or other.
Over the months following the disastrous event that removed Etoile from the Inquisition, she's piecemeal replaced every article of clothing she owned. Now she carries in her bag a set of plain green clothes, as well as a heavier set for winters and a long, cream-colored cloak. The picture is completed with her gloved hands, worn as such to hide the nature of her right arm, which is steel-colored metal all the way up to the shoulder. The joints glimmer faintly with ether when stretched, and engraved prominently on the shoulder is the crest of House Lécuyer.
P E R S O N A L I T Y T R A I T S
Calm. Collected. Unflappable. A gods-damned ice queen. These were just some of the descriptors used to describe Etoile by her subordinates in the past, and most are, or at least were, accurate. She is a cool-headed woman, thinking through the consequences of any given course of events extensively before taking action as long as she has the opportunity to do so. She is generally slow and methodical in her approach to problems, which can certainly lead to issues making quick decisions, and certainly has. She's quite a cold person as well; judgmental and disdainful, she is not afraid to let someone know exactly what she thinks about them. All that being said, she's become quite a bit more practical and pragmatic than she used to be, her worries about reputation and status having mostly been ground away over the past year or so.
Still, she's not just cold logic and practicality. Much of her personality finds its roots in a massive inferiority complex towards her elder brother, Edmund Lécuyer. She's struggled with this on and off throughout most of her life, and it's a lot of what set her along the course that her life eventually took. That leads into her final cardinal personality trait: she's stubborn. Incredibly so. Trying to alter her from a course of action that she's decided upon is like trying to stop a charging bull with a piece of tissue paper.
L I F E E X P E R I E N C E S
Etoile was on the path of conflict with the Ecclesiae and the rest of the Inquisitors from the moment she enlisted in their military. Of course, she didn't become an officer entirely on her own merits; though they were the majority of the reason, it certainly didn't hurt being of the Lécuyer noble family.
But let's backtrack some, because her story starts long before she became that officer.
The Lécuyer noble house had never been a military family. And when she was young, the second child Etoile had little interest in changing that. But as is the way of siblings, she felt a constant competitiveness with her brother Edmund, five years older than she was. And when he became an apprentice Inquisitor at thirteen years old, the eight year old Etoile had no chance. Praise was heaped on him, and she became a ghost in her own house as just a child. And so with a child's logic, she decided she would become an Inquisitor too. As she aged her logic grew more sound, until at twelve years old—a year younger than Edmund, that voice inside her still whispered—she pulled the trigger and joined up.
Her apprenticeship under one Salion Cherin was uneventful for the first two years. But when she was fourteen years old the cataclysmic final battle on the Eileithyia took place. She watched it happen from a safe distance. She was too young for real combat, of course, Salion had said. So instead of participating in the fighting itself, she found herself growing curious in the logistics of a struggle like this. The organization of troops. The strategies executed. The consequences upon a success or failure. And so as she aged and this curiosity grew into a full-on interest in all things tactics, she isolated herself from most real combat. Though there were places here and there, she spent a large part educating herself and being educated in military strategy.
It was in one of those rare stints of active combat—a raid on a small village called Hellion—that she lost her arm. While she wasn't bad at fighting, per se, she was also only seventeen. And so when a malum-enhanced hulking monster that might have once been a human bore down on her, she was unable to stop it from ripping her arm from her shoulder. The injury obviously took her out of training and study for a while before she was fitted with an advanced prosthetic that drew power from the ether in the air all around her. By the time she had recovered enough to return to her study, she was eighteen years old.
Time went on as time must do, and at twenty three years old she had come into her own as a powerful scholaris magi. At one point during that year, she was tasked with leading a small group to...eliminate a small malificarum holdout. It went off easily, without a hitch, and she was given commendation on how effectively she'd performed in her duties. All the praise turned sour, though, as in her room, underneath her pillow, was a book she hadn't quite had time to read all the way through just yet. A manifesto, of sorts, and a history book she'd taken on a whim from the malificara, just before everything else had been set ablaze. And though she hadn't had time to read it through all the way, she'd read it through enough to know that something was wrong. The accounts contained therein were strange; mutually exclusive with the heroic image that Januarius presented himself with. So then Etoile did the one thing that would seal her fate:
She started to dig.
Nothing major, really; asking subtle questions here and there when she traveled, combing the stacks of libraries from Thlecia to Ordos, and everywhere in between. It took some time for her to be discovered; until the cusp of her twenty-sixth birthday. She was starting to put things together into a picture. A fuzzy picture, distorted by time and secrecy, but a picture nonetheless. Until one day she returned home and found Inquisitors waiting.
Somebody knew. They might have known from the start. And now they'd decided that she was too great a risk.
Heresy. Treason. Conspiracy. Corruption. The charges that she'd levied against others she now stared down the barrel of, and of course the punishment was death. She almost laughed. She'd been unsure who or what to believe. But execution? The ultimate "be quiet" tactic? Well. She knew what to believe now. It was lucky she was an Inquisitor—or, well, ex-Inquisitor—herself. She knew exactly where to go, and how to escape the ether-drained cell she found herself in. She sucked in the ether from her arm hungrily, leaving it dead, but giving her just enough to break the lock with a quick Acer Ventus. Then, leaving behind her Inquisitorial cloak, she returned to her old home to grab the ancestral Lécuyer saber Vent Tranchant, then fled off into the night.
For a little over a year now, she's been wandering, leaving pieces of her Inquisitor past behind everywhere she goes. Always moving on, never stopping in one place long enough to put down roots. For as much as she fought to leave it behind...one never knew when the past would come calling.
E L E M E N T A L A F F I N I T Y
Ventus.
A T T R I B U T E S
Scholaris Magum - Etoile's proficiency with ventus-oriented magic comes from long, dedicated study. She is highly learned about the structure of magic, but because of her rigid nature and the educated nature of her magic, she finds it difficult to improvise, relying instead on a series of predefined spells. There are several, but those listed below are her most commonly used:
Acer Ventus: Etoile directs a narrow gust of slicing wind at any object she has direct line of sight on, though the effort to use it is increased with distance. Can cut through quite a few durable objects such as metal and stone. Densus Ventus: Using this spell, Etoile can render air hyperdense, rendering it solid. Though it remains as such for no more than a minute or so, she can also manipulate it with her mind during this state. Used often for crossing gaps with bridges of air. Gladius Ventus: Etoile enhances her sabre using a slight modification of the Acer Ventus spell, creating a lengthy Acer Ventus a centimetre or so directly in front of the blade, enhancing its cutting power. Impulsus Ventus: Though it looks basic, this spell is deceptively difficult for Etoile to use. She holds out a hand and forces an immensely powerful blast of wind out of it, applying concussive force to anything in its path. Tractus Ventus: The inverse of Impulsus Ventus to some extent, Tractus Ventus applies a similar powerful force to whatever is in front of her. Instead of a push, however, it's a pulling force, allowering her to yank people or objects towards her. Frendeo Ventus: One of the more powerful spells Etoile has at her disposal, Frendeo Ventus crushes whatever she targets with it into the ground. While it's certainly not powerful enough to be lethal and is a strain for her to keep up for more than a few seconds, it's still a very powerful tool. Reicio Ventus: Finishing off the spells that apply force, Reicio Ventus is something of a twist on Impulsus Ventus, blasting a powerful burst of air out all around her. While it's not as powerful as a full-on Impulsus, it's still more than enough to get herself some breathing room. Levis Ventus: Finishing things up is a spell almost useless in combat but extremely versatile outside of it. Levis Ventus raises Etoile into the air, holding her there a moment before dropping her back down. This can be held with some strain, and combined with an Impulsus Ventus, allows her to completely avoid many hazards and obstacles by launching herself over them.
Swordsmanship - Etoile was a soldier until very recently, and was quite good at her job. She is a rather skilled swordswoman; though it wasn't her focus by any means, that's not to say she isn't a competent threat. She uses a slim, curved sabre, a family heirloom known as Vent Tranchant, when fighting is necessary.
Learned - As described above, Etoile gained her skill in magic through long study. However, her study was not limited to magic; she was expected to be both a noblewoman and an officer at the same time. Thus, while her street-smarts are debatable, she is highly intelligent and knows a great deal of natural science and logical reasoning, as well as being a bit of a literature buff by her own admission.
Prosthetic - Several years ago, she lost an arm during a military campaign gone wrong. Since then, her right arm has been replaced by an ether-powered prosthetic crafted of silver metal and engraved with the crest of house Lécuyer, rendering it quite durable and entirely immune to pain. However, it also draws attention very easily.
Strategic - As an officer in the military, Etoile became quite skillful in tactics and strategy. She is particularly skillful at deducing ambushes before they can occur, and at large troop movements.
“Stay still, please, that's a good little boy. This won't hurt a bit.”
N A M E
Perfidia Mothwax
A G E
24
O R I G I N
Dryadalis
V I S A G E
Perfidia is a short young woman, all told. Not much taller than kids years younger than she is, she certainly doesn't look like she's in her mid-twenties. People have asked her, even, if she's lost, or where her parents are. And this isn't particularly improved by the waterfall of pale green hair that tumbles down her shoulders and back, reaching nearly to the floor. This frames her youthful face, which is
P E R S O N A L I T Y T R A I T S
Calm. Collected. Unflappable. A gods-damned ice queen. These were just some of the descriptors used to describe Etoile by her subordinates in the past, and most are, or at least were, accurate. She is a cool-headed woman, thinking through the consequences of any given course of events extensively before taking action as long as she has the opportunity to do so. She is generally slow and methodical in her approach to problems, which can certainly lead to issues making quick decisions, and certainly has. She's quite a cold person as well; judgmental and disdainful, she is not afraid to let someone know exactly what she thinks about them. All that being said, she's become quite a bit more practical and pragmatic than she used to be, her worries about reputation and status having mostly been ground away over the past year or so.
Still, she's not just cold logic and practicality. Much of her personality finds its roots in a massive inferiority complex towards her elder brother, Edmund Lécuyer. She's struggled with this on and off throughout most of her life, and it's a lot of what set her along the course that her life eventually took. That leads into her final cardinal personality trait: she's stubborn. Incredibly so. Trying to alter her from a course of action that she's decided upon is like trying to stop a charging bull with a piece of tissue paper.
L I F E E X P E R I E N C E S
Etoile was on the path of conflict with the Ecclesiae and the rest of the Inquisitors from the moment she enlisted in their military. Of course, she didn't become an officer entirely on her own merits; though they were the majority of the reason, it certainly didn't hurt being of the Lécuyer noble family. As a fairly high-ranking member of the military when the final stand of the Magi aboard Eileithyia occurred, she became suspicious. Before then, she'd not paid them much mind; as a member of the Inquisitors, she'd been authorized to use magic in the service of Iquenos by the Ecclesiae, after all. But she'd known many of those magi for many years; due to her family, she'd had connections with many of the guilds, and she'd always found them perfectly normal, nice people, with the obvious exception of their magical abilities. Nothing heretical about them; many were, in fact, devout worshippers. So, she did the one thing that sealed her fate:
She started to dig.
Over the next decade, she would ascent in rank quite steadily and, more importantly, discover that there had never been any "dark magic" within the Nsiferum. And, inevitably, she was discovered. She was stripped of her title immediately, and sentenced to death for her heretical tendencies, and for conspiring against the Ecclesiae. Before her execution, though, she managed to slip her manacles with the addition of a well-applied gust of sharp, slicing wind, and escaped from the Church.
Now she roams the countryside, sleeping in places that she obviously finds distasteful and doing her best to stay ahead of the Inquisitors, her former colleagues, pursuing her, and those stationed in pretty much every town and village, which her prideful nature makes...difficult, especially on those occasions that she refuses to remove her immaculately-kept old uniform. It is largely due to pure dumb luck that she is still alive today.
E L E M E N T A L A F F I N I T Y
Malum
A T T R I B U T E S
Artificem Magum - Fidia has a somewhat unusual combat style. Instead of using a rod, or a sword, or a spear, she focuses her malum magic through a series of four razor-sharp blades attached to durable ribbons attached to her shoulders.
Swordsmanship - While nowhere near as skillful as most, Etoile can hold her own against an opponent that hasn't been formally trained due to her status as a military officer. She uses a slim, curved sabre, a family heirloom known as Vent de Trancheuse, when fighting is necessary.
Learned - As described above, Etoile gained her skill in magic through long study. However, her study was not limited to magic; she was expected to be both a noblewoman and an officer at the same time. Thus, while her street-smarts are debatable, she is highly intelligent and knows a great deal of natural science and logical reasoning, as well as being a bit of a literature buff by her own admission.
Prosthetic - Several years ago, she lost an arm during a military campaign gone wrong. Since then, her right arm has been replaced by an ether-powered prosthetic crafted of silver metal and engraved with the crest of house Lécuyer, rendering it quite durable and entirely immune to pain. However, it also draws attention very easily.
Strategic - As an officer in the military, Etoile became quite skillful in tactics and strategy. She is particularly skillful at deducing ambushes before they can occur, and at large troop movements.
Full Name - Lina Joanne Massey Age - 15 Place of Origin - Portland, Oregon Occupation - High school student
A V A T A R
Character's Name - Lina Pathos Affiliation - Queon Role - Magic DPS (Burst Damage) Profession - Herbalism Weapon of Choice - Focus Bangles Domains - Fire; Manifestation -
P E R S O N A L I T Y
Energizer Bunny Lina is an incredibly energetic person, always go-go-going. She still holds tight to that particular brand of constant and neverending energy that comes with youth. And consequently, she just keeps. On. Going. And though she needs more sleep than most people seem to, once she's up, she is up. Borderline hyperactive, she sits just on the safe side thereof. But just on the safe side, and a fountain of infinite energy that takes a long, long time to run dry. And, to some extent, it's also probably pretty annoying.
Happy Lil' Squirrel Though because of the incredibly unfortunate situation she's found herself in her emotions are obviously somewhat unstable, Lina is, as a general rule, outgoing and consistently cheerful, and generally just an extremely pleasant person to be around. Chipper and surprisingly resilient, she is exceptionally skilled at taking all the bad things—anger, sadness, anxiety, pain—and transmuting it into joy and fun. It's not really a conscious thing; it happens to her pretty much automatically. While it's a defense mechanism to some extent, it's less that, and more just...the kind of person she is.
Lemming-head Lina is...well, a charitable way to put it would be "scattered." But if you were to put it slightly less charitably (or, more honestly), you would say that Lina is...well, she's an idiot. Even taking her age into account, Lina has a distinct lack of brain cells. Forever and always terrible at schooling and with none of the street smarts that might be used to justify it, she doesn't really have any excuse for it either. She's an unrepentant moron, and she's proud of it, thankyouverymuch!
B E N C H M A R K S
"Explosions Are Cool!" There are people in Pariah that put a great deal of time and effort into buildcrafting, planning out what they're going to do in the game meticulously, weighing the pros and cons of each choice before finally pulling the trigger on a role and playstyle. Lina is...decidedly not one of those. The only real reason she chose the playstyle she did, is, well, she thinks explosions are cool! And the playstyle she's settled into as a result is that of an exceptionally dangerous fire mage focused entirely on offense to the exclusion of all else. She can do a lot of damage. A lot of damage. But throw her at anything other than a DPS check and, well, she's not much use.
"I Really Like Flowers!" Back home in Portland, Lina keeps a garden with her mom, and she really, really enjoys it. So when it came time to choose a profession in Pariah...well, she didn't care much for enchanting, she didn't have any use for blacksmithing or leatherworking, she didn't want to bother with jeweling or anything...so she fell back on something that she's familiar with to some extent. She has a small plot of land in Iblenar where she grows alchemy ingredients. Halfway because they're useful and halfway because they're pretty. Notably, she's not actually an alchemist; rather, she provides alchemists with what they need, and prepares the herbs if necessary (crushing berries, for example).
"I Run Track, You Know!" Now, you might look at Lina and think that she's a teenage girl with a minimum of physical strength, judging by those arms. And you'd be right. But in a surprising twist, she may not be strong, but what she is, is fast. Running track in high school—and not half bad at it—has made her a quick runner with more stamina than most people would probably expect out of her. Important for running from enemies. Very important for avoiding fatigue in spellcasting.
"My Mom Calls Me A Goldfish!" Lina's attention span is shockingly bad, and she's so distractible it's almost impressive. While of course she can keep her eye on the ball if it's something important like a fight during a dungeon (especially these days) or something really bad happening in the party, for example, for anything that isn't really an active threat, she needs to kind of...be gently shifted back into line sometimes if and when she finds it difficult to pay attention.
Physical Description
A sixteen year old just a hair under 5'2", Lina Massey is a short little kiddo. She's altogether incredibly average in terms of build, slender and petite as befits a young teenage girl. Her greatest distinguishing mark is her bright strawberry-blonde hair (she thinks that it's pretty), which falls to around mid-back, usually tied up in a ponytail in waking life. It's exceptionally messy and hard to control sometimes, but she embraces the chaos (she thinks it makes her look cool) and doesn't pay too much attention to how it's worn as long as it doesn't get caught on something and get yanked. Her face is kind and open, and ninety percent of the time, it's plastered with that gunpowder smile so typical of her. Her pale skin is covered in little scars, way more than most girls her age have, just because she's so good at accidentally injuring herself in creative ways. She's always bouncing her knee or tapping her fingers, always trying to find some way to let out the wellspring of energy that's always burning inside her.
The Pariah version of Lina isn't altogether different from what she looks like IRL. A little taller, maybe? her hair is definitely a little bit longer, and instead of looking disheveled it actually does look chaotically fun. Her build is the same, as is the near-constant bright-eyed smile. The jeans and tanktop are replaced with a short robe, tall boots, and a big ol' wizard hat, capped with a bright ribbon, that sits atop her head. She wears her weapon—her spellcasting focus, really—around her wrists, focus bangles instead of focus rings (she tried using rings for a while, but she kept needing to replace them after she lost them repeatedly), brilliant rose gold bracelets each set with a single bright red ruby. She habitually fiddles with them, almost constantly (she remains exactly as twitchy as she is IRL).
Character Conceptualization
It's not uncommon for those meeting Lina for the first time to assume that something awful happened to her. That something turned her life upside down, and that's why she acts so happy and dumb so much of the time; a coping mechanism, to ignore whatever darkness is in her past.
It's also not uncommon for those people to be confused when they discover that she's just a happy little idiot.
And she was always a happy kid, even way back when she was little. An only child, she was pretty much the sole occupant of both parents' time, and she had a really good relationship with them, all told. The worst thing that's happened to Lina is, when she was maybe ten years old, her mom Marian discovered that her husband was cheating on her and had been for a while. One thing led to another, and before long, Marian won custody of Lina and kicked him to the curb. She lived with her mom from then on. But the two of them certainly wasn't badly off, given how much her mom made as a pediatrician. And she'd always liked her mom more anyway. She always made time for her, and was...really, in all respects she was a model parent.
Which is good. Because otherwise Lina's atrocious grades would probably have stretched her to the point of snapping.
That's not to say she let her grades go out of laziness. On the contrary, actually: she tried. She really, really tried. But ninety percent of the time, things just did not click for her. Even in middle school they were pretty bad. Her essays were rambling messes. Her math was slipshod and shoddy at best and completely off base at worst. Languages just skated off her skull. And it was the same with basically every subject. She stayed after classes; talked to teachers. Her mom even hired a tutor for her. And it helped enough for her grades to be at least passing. But no more; among other things, her attention span was just far too short.
And of course, high school has been even worse for her thus far. Midway into her freshman year now, she's been beating her head against the wall of education with a great deal of vigor. And seeing that she was...well, not miserable, it's not certain that Lina being miserable is possible, but put out, she ended up buying Lina a proprietary peripheral for this new game on the market called Pariah. She's been playing it in between trying her best in school, and it's actually been helping her grades, helping get that energy out so she can focus a little better.
It's, uh...not quite helping anymore.
Other Information
Shine - A basic damage spell. Deals a moderate amount of light damage in a moderate AoE.
Prism Burn - After a brief charge-up, fires out seven instant rays of light. They stop upon impacting an enemy. Each does moderate damage, allowing him to spread it out or focus it down on one target, but for every ray that impacts the same enemy, the next does less and less damage.
Perihelion - The area around Hvitørn lights up brightly. For the duration of the effect—about six seconds—every light spell that Hvitørn casts is heavily empowered and restores a fraction of its fatigue.
Backflash - An emergency "get-out-of-dodge" spell. Deals a small amount of damage in a small cone in front of Hvitørn, but launches him backwards, letting him escape from melee combat.
Crimson Butterly - Lina's be-all-end-all spell, Crimson Butterfly suddenly manifests wings of flame behind her and a halo of flame above her head before she takes to the sky with unrestricted flight. During this time, she is able to launch explosive fireballs for a much lower fatigue cost than they would ordinarily accrue. Once the duration ends or her fatigue simply becomes too intense, she drifts slowly to the ground as the wings fade away.
Full Name - Sirona Laurier Callsign - Surge Tide Age - 16 (b. 2662) Birthplace - Fairbanks Pilot Type - Support (specializing in suppressive fire) -
P S Y C H E
Fraught As a result of her past, Sirona is constantly anxious and on edge. Sleepless nights shivering under her covers unable to go to sleep and afraid to because of recurring nightmares, anxiety attacks that can be severe enough to move past fight or flight and straight into a dead freeze response, an intense and unnecessary fear of anything coming out of related to Fairbanks; she's got them all and more.
Quiet The nail that sticks up gets pounded back down. Sirona has a fear of standing out from others around her, nursing a constant background worry that doing so will lead to...something, she doesn't know what it is but she's afraid anyway. And as a result of this trauma response, she finds herself being a very quiet individual. She much prefers other people talking over her, and when she does talk her voice tends to be soft and perhaps even tremulous.
Delicate Though she's certainly not physically strong, this doesn't really apply to her physically. Rather, there are...fissures, you could call them, running all along her emotional state and mental well-being. And while she's usually stable, at least, if enough pressure is applied to one of those fissures, it cracks open and she finds herself very upset. As a general rule, the easiest way to pry at one of those fractures is to order her—harshly—to do something.
G E A R
Steel Key When she was taken to the laboratory, all of Sirona's things—all the sentimental pieces from home that she'd somehow managed to slip past Fairbanks, the little money she had, everything—were taken from her under the rationalization she would never need them again. So her oldest keepsake is a nondescript metal key: the key to her tiny dog crate of a cage. She keeps it strung around her neck underneath her clothing as a constant reminder that she escaped and nobody can ever put her back there. She can often be seen unconsciously clutching at it wildly during her more severe Shift episodes, but it's always futile in the end.
Bug Out Bag Terrified of being found again and taken back, Sirona got into the habit of having a bag with a few necessities in it near her at all times. The current contents are a lighter, a long length of parachute cord, a spare power cell for a datatool, a few liters of water, some dense nutrient bricks, and a SMALL folding knife (she's very hesitant to carry anything that could meaningfully be a weapon, after she panicked and nearly shot someone during a Polaris shift). She'd like to put other stuff in there too, but the bag is already getting heavy for her weak constitution, and she doesn't have much spare money to get any more.
Shell Casing When she was serving in the military, a friend of hers—or, well, something almost like a friend—gave her the shell of a bullet, etched with swirling patterns cut into the brass and exposing the bright metal underneath. It's tarnished by now, and the patterns are barely visible anymore. But she still carries it in a bag or pocket wherever she goes, and as far as she's concerned, she always will.
N E U R A L C O M B A T A N T
Armor Surge Tide's sleek, aerodynamic armored shell is constructed of a tungsten-nickel-iron alloy ceramo-metallic composite stained a dull slate blue. The joints and other moving parts are shown in a dull matte gray. While durable, it's kept light enough for her to be able to move around the battlefield quickly enough to lay down supporting fire at any angle demanded. It's certainly not heavy enough to resemble a heavy, and not quite enough to look like a vanguard either. Enough to shrug off a few really bad hits, but any more than that is a definite cause for concern. Perhaps the most recognizable part of its silhouette are the specialized external—and internal, really—supports on its arms and shoulder to keep up with constant heavy machine gun fire. There are two rough patches on the shoulders, where she's hacked and ground off both the Fairbanks and Tartarus Squadron insignias.
Hands Surge Tide's principle weapons and the core of Sirona's combat role are a pair of Lone Star-made Godhammer MG2k5 heavy machine cannons, occupying both hands. Chain fed, firing devastating thirty millimeter antimaterial rounds at a blistering twenty five hundred rounds per minute, they are more than capable of shredding anything that stands in front of them for more than half a second. They may not be sniper rifles, they're obviously not the most precise weapons. But you don't need precision when you're putting more lead downrange than you really know what to do with.
Back Sirona's back has been retrofitted with a large power cell surmounted with a magnetic attachment point that serves as a combination charging terminal and landing pad for a small autonomous repair drone that she can dispatch at any time to a target, scanning for damage and repairing it as best and rapidly as it can. It's no substitute for a real hangar, but it can at least get an NC stable so it's no longer an imminent threat to the pilot, and given enough time, patch them up enough to get them back into the fight.
Auxiliaries Those Godhammers don't supply themselves, and 2,500 rounds per minute is a lot to go through. In order to keep using them, both shoulders are occupied with large ammunition bins that feed chains directly into the cannons and allow Sirona, as long as she's not wasting anything, to lay down covering fire for minutes at a time.
R E L A T I O N S
Doctor Andrea M. Thompson During her time in the laboratory—deeply painful and deeply scarring—Sirona became quite aware of the doctor that was chiefly in charge of her and whatever happened to her: the saccharine and cruel Doctor Thompson. Though Sirona hasn't seen her since she managed to escape, a few years now, she is still a looming specter that continues to hang above Sirona's head and haunt her every nightmare.
Donovan Thatcher The commander of Tartarus Squadron and initially just Sirona's commanding officer, he also became much more than that to her. Now she remembers him...well, not fondly, but as fondly as she can remember anything in Fairbanks, given that he pretty much raised her. In such a brief time, he became almost like a father to her (though not really). Post-desertion, she is...genuinely terrified of ever seeing him again. She knows, deep down, that being told she disappointed him would cut deep.
Bella (Isabella) Laurier Sirona's sister, somewhere in the neighborhood of two and a half years younger than she is. The two of them were very close when they were young; Sirona doted on Bella, and Bella looked up to Sirona. But after their parents died and the two of them ended up on the streets, Sirona woke up one day and Isabella wasn't there. She looked frantically for days, but she hasn't seen her since.
Physical Details ◢
Sirona was the runt of the proverbial litter, even before the lab. She started short, and never grew much at any one point. She's only five feet now, and she doesn't seem to be growing much right now. Maybe someday. Not today. Indeed, her build follows suit. At sixteen, she still looks like a thirteen or fourteen year old. Perhaps it's because of persistent malnutrition and poor treatment during her formative years; perhaps it's simply how she is. Her muscle mass is lacking, but it's quite a bit greater now than it was; while she never served as boots-on-the-ground, she was still member of the military, after all. Her skin is ghost-white and lined here and there with extremely fine, almost invisible lines of scar tissue.
A waterfall of dark brown hair cascades down her back. She probably has too much of it, but after it was chopped and kept short for an extended period of time, she's become rather protective of it, and has trouble letting it be cut. She has a round, heart-shaped face, set with chocolate brown eyes that betray both a deep-held sense of fundamental sadness, as well as a constant guarded caution against the world around her, always afraid that her past will come calling again.
And finally, a special mention goes to her grand coping mechanism, what keeps her from totally breaking down: the smile. The small, contented-looking smile that seems as though it's burned into her face. She's worn it for so long, she's almost forgotten how her face feels without it. If it's dropped for any reason, her emotional state is in such disarray that something very, very bad is happening or about to happen.
She has a relatively small wardrobe, but large enough that she can wear something different every day as long as she washes her clothes consistently. Overall, she prefers muted colors over bright ones; blacks, whites, shades of gray, navy blues, and such.
Background Information ◢
Jules and Anita Laurier hadn't had the easiest of lives.
Originally residents of Blackstone in a fairly comfortable section of the city, they had crept across the border in grave danger to be with Anita's ailing parents. But by the time they arrived in the horrifying megacity of Fairbanks, her parents had already passed. The city had repossessed their small apartment and all of their belongings. Penniless and with no way back, the Lauriers had nowhere to go but the slums. And along with them was their tiny daughter, only about a year old. A little child named Sirona.
She didn't start off as afraid as she is now.
Her life was hard, it was true. Her younger sister, born some time after the immigration to Fairbanks, was difficult to take care of for the entire family. Work was hard to come by for people like Jules and Anita, slum rats who didn't even have a resident card. The lowest possible rank on the lowest possible ladder. But despite that, as she aged, she revealed herself to be a bright and cheerful person, or at least as much of one as could be expected. Her life was hard, it was true. But she was at least..at least a little happy.
But in this world, happiness rarely lasts.
Sirona isn't exactly sure what happened to her parents when she was ten years old, at home taking care of her sister. An accident, they said, and that was all she was told. What kind of accident? Where did it happen? Was it really an accident? There were no accidents in this city. Who caused it? Why would they do that? Why? Why? Why?
But regardless how it had happened, the consequences were the same. The Fairbanks tide rolled on. Even the tiny apartment that their parents had managed to find—the only one that was cheap enough for them to afford on their terrible wages and long hours—was closed out, and they were closed out of it. At the behest of Fairbanks, all of their meager belongings, everything they had—keepsakes, credits, anything that wasn't the clothes on their backs—was unceremoniously torn from them and repossessed; Fairbanks already owned them to begin with, after all. And the two of them, small children in the hell of the Fairbanks slums, were kicked out on the street with...nothing.
Nothing.
Sirona, until that point, hadn't appreciated just how empty nothing truly was. Even when her parents had stressed over having nothing, Anita pulling out her hair on the stained table—they still had enough to get by, if only just. Their jobs weren't good, but they were enough to put food on the table and lamps on in the apartment. This was something totally different. And Sirona realized just how much of a luxury it had been to come home to the same four walls and a roof every night. But...there was none of that now. Nothing.
Nothing.
Or, well...nothing Bella. Nothing but each other. And there was some comfort in that. At least she wasn't alone.
It was a hard life. A harder life. She begged for credits, and was laughed at. She panhandled in filthy gutters overflowing with trash and disgusting water, and was spat on. She hoped, and her hope was crushed time and again. And, when it came down to it, she stole. She didn't only need to feed herself, after all. Bella was hungry too. And at only seven years old, she had it far worse than Sirona did in the end. But one night—a faint rain was drizzling down on the box that the two of them crawled into, and the damp clung to their clothes as they curled up together—fate decided that she'd tempted it far too much. Bella vanished. The next morning, Sirona awoke, and...she was alone. Alone. Bella was gone without a trace. She turned the city upside down as best she could, searching, looking desperately for her lost sister. Went to places that she wasn't allowed. Was hurt for her troubles. Anything was worth it, though, if she could find Bella.
But she never saw her again. And once again, she had...nothing. Less than nothing. The last dream she'd had—of the two of them playing together happily—shredded into mist before she could even touch it, and turned to ash.
Just like happiness, in this world, dreams rarely last.
Or, in Sirona's case...they become nightmares.
Sirona was taken one night too, only a few days later. Plucked off the street and stuffed into a van before she could really understand what was happening. She remembers the rough fabric under her knees to this day. A sharp prick. And she had just enough time to wonder why everything was growing fuzzy, blurring together, she felt so slow, so weird, before—nothing.
Doctor A, July 3rd, 2672. Acquisition has been successful. One (1) subject has been acquired from a street corner in city section ██, parents dead through ██████████████ and separated from any other family. No suspicion or loose ends. It has been retrieved and placed in holding, and given the temporary designation of TS-3. Awaiting your go-ahead for initial examination and permanent placement.
The next time she woke, she was in hell. Her own personal hell.
L1, a deniable medical black site funded in secret by the top brass of Fairbanks, was her new home. Her room became a cage—not wire, they weren't that cruel, but the flat metal wasn't comfortable by any stretch—so small she couldn't stand up in it, stacked on top of another cage, this one empty, and flanked with more stacks in various states of being filled. The burning-bright fluorescent lights above the rows of cages illuminated a sterile white room. There were two more walls of cages. She thought maybe she would be sick.
She was.
Her first few days in L1 were a waking nightmare that just. Wouldn't. End. Needles. Scalpels. Cuts, scans, samples. Pain. Pain on a level that she had never, in her short life, experienced. That she never could have imagined.
Doctor β, July 5th, 2762. TS-3 has been given its initial examination. No outstanding conditions. Bill of health is coming up clean. It has shown no immediate adverse reactions to ███████████, █████████████, █████████████████████████ or █████████████████. However, there was immediate and drastic immune system hyperactivity when exposed to ███████████████████████, requiring an immediate system flush and dialysis, so that one is firmly off the table. Additional tests will be performed as needed for any future experiments. It has been given a permanent designation as 11-S, in my section of the laboratory. I will need you to go more into detail on ‘separated from family.’ What remaining family does 11-S have that it has been separated from? Why were they separated? In what circumstances? In future, please deliver all necessary details to me immediately, I shouldn’t need to ask you this.
Her daily routine became cruel experimentation; injections with various neurochemicals and innumerable other horrible concoctions, leaving her lying completely drained of energy on the lab table, weak and frail. Introduction of nanomachines into her bloodstream followed by stimulation via a powerful electrical current that jolted lances of tingling, searing pain through her entire body. Inscrutable machines implanted into her, activated, left to run, then removed just before she was forced on a treadmill, to stumble forward until she collapsed. These and so many more became the order of the day.
And looming above it all was the Doctor. Doctor Andrea. Or just Andrea, as she insisted she be called. She talked so sweet and nice. Like Sirona's mom used to. But after she spoke so nicely, she would inflict the most horrible agony imaginable upon little 11-S. And the whole time, she had that same self-satisfied, catlike smile. Like Sirona hadn't even known she'd been playing the game, and she'd already lost.
Eventually it all started to blur together. Torture, torment, day in, day out, nothing more, nothing less, nothing else. She couldn't sleep unless exhausted or sedated. She could barely eat, and combined with the poor foodstuffs she was given, grew malnourished quickly. She had no way to relieve the pain. Any of it. Nothing she could do to stop what was happening. No begging or pleading. Sometimes they even made it worse, drew attention to her, and that was the last thing she wanted. So all Sirona could do was curl up in the corner of her cage, drag the thin blanket over herself like a funeral shroud, stare at the wall, and quietly cry. Until one day, the smile came.
Doctor A, January 11th, 2674. Subject 11-S has begun to exhibit a strange reaction as a result of continued experimentation; it has started smiling, and seems to be unable to stop. It is distinctly possible that continuous intravenous administration of ████ and ███████, as well as implantation of ██████, have begun to have distinct effects on its brain chemistry, as observed both in the constant smile and the █████████████████, ██████, and ███████████. Will continue dosing—carefully—while taking regular scans of brain tissue, as well as thin section brain sample for further examination if its erratic symptoms worsen.
After all, if she was smiling she was happy, right? Mama had always told her that if she smiled when she was in pain then it would feel better. And she was always in pain. And so she always smiled, until the smile became her face.
This went on for nearly three years. Three impossibly agonizing years. Until Sirona—in a rare act of rebellion and defiance against the quiet, quavering thing she'd become—managed to nick the key to her cage from the security guard whose job was to dump her back there after she'd collapsed from pain and strain. She hid it well, betrayed nothing. The guard probably figured he'd just lost it. And she started to plan.
Then, a few days later—a Saturday night, when people were lazy and wanted off work—she made her move, quietly slipping out of the tiny cage that had become her home and, wearing only a hospital gown, weaving between the cages, finding the entrance against all odds, and disappearing off into the night of the megacity.
Doctor β, March 21st, 2675. Subject 11-S is not in its cage, and the door is hanging open. It has escaped.
Is this what happens when I leave for two days to attend to something? We have never had a breach. Ever. When—not if, WHEN—you locate and retrieve 11-S, we are going to have a long, long talk about your continued employment at ███████████████. You cannot afford to be sloppy in this line of work. I expect better of my staff.
At thirteen she became a street rat again. Just like old times: begging, panhandling, stealing when she needed to, running when she had to. But it was hollow now, without Isabella. Hollow, and alone. And unlike before, she could absolutely never sleep in the same place twice. After all, she was always desperately afraid that Doctor Andrea would find her again. Would pull her back into the lab. Stick her back into #11. Have it all start over. And early on, she saw the staff now and then; combing the streets, looking for something as she shrank away into the shadows.
It was an entirely new variety of hellish existence, and though it certainly wasn't as bad as being back in the laboratory, it wasn't comfortable by any stretch. And then roundabout her fourteenth birthday, she considered something: if she joined the military, they'd never be able to get to her even if they did find her. Right? Well. It was pure luck for her that she had the necessary neuromarkers to pilot an NC. Because if not, then Fairbanks would have sent her right back.
Doctor β, General Γ, September 17th, 2676. Subject 11-S—the escapee—has shown itself, applying to join the military. We could retrieve it at any time. However, it has displayed the requisite neuromarkers for piloting an NC. Therefore, issued request to General Γ from ███████████████: put 11-S under observation, but take no action. Retrieval will only be undertaken on the occasion it leaves the military.
The military was...it was an interesting experience for her. That's not to say she liked it. No, no no no, not at all. She was not a fan. But what she was, was very good at it. Suffice to say, she was a natural. With a pair of Tsaritsa TMG-3 thermal cannons, she distinguished herself on the battlefield with Blackstone more than she really had any right to, as young and inexperienced as she was. And so she caught the attention of the higher-ups, and was shifted into the elite task force of Tartarus Squadron.
Liaison Δ, November 21st, 2676. Subject 11-S has distinguished itself on the field of battle as an extremely effective pilot. This makes retrieval, should we feel it is necessary, extremely difficult. As such, we have devised a strategy to make this easier on all of us. Subject 11-S will be transferred into ███████████████████, under the command of █████████████. This serves a double purpose of honing its skill, as well as making retrieval much easier, should the situation call for it. Paperwork is already in the system, it just needs you to sign off.
And in Tartarus Squadron, she met the only person since Isabella to give her even the faintest hint of affection: Donovan Thatcher, the CO and founder of the group.
Those fucks at ██. I swear they're just insulting me now.
We got the new transfer to replace Aimes as Melinoë. Would've been nice if they'd sent us someone decent who know how things worked instead of shoehorning this joke of a kid into fucking Tartarus Squadron just because they want me to keep an eye on her.
Mia is fucking furious with me. She took Alice's death really hard; she's the last member of the original Furies left now. I obviously can't tell them why this rookie who's only been in the game two months, and a freaked out kid who can barely even meet anyone's eyes at that, is now a member of one of the most elite squads in Fairbanks. So I need to defend Doctor ████████'s dumbfuck decision. I mean, ███'s not wrong. The kid really is pretty good, not sure if I'd call her an ace but if not it's close.
But that's not the point. The point is the people in Tartarus need to work really closely alongside each other, so they need to trust each other. As far as I can tell, Jacqueline is the only one that can tolerate her, or even really look at her. Mia's fuming that this is what replaced her last old squadmate, Marina's rapidly getting sick of how scared she looks at everything no matter what, and Anya can't even be in the same room without screaming at her for getting preferential treatment or some shit.
So somehow I need to not only turn this stupid pathetic child into a Fury, I also need to convince the rest that they shouldn't just shoot her in the back as soon as they go out on an op.
Fucking wonderful. Thanks a lot, Doctor ████████. Like I needed more work.
Though he started out skeptical of her consistency and trustworthiness if not her skill and was initially hesitant to send her out—not the least because some of the other members certainly didn't trust her—she rapidly proved them wrong with a standout performance on her first operation. Though the rest of the Furies never grew to like her at all and their relationship was always cold, clinical and professional if not outright hostile, Donovan became almost like a kind of father to her soon afterwards. And while of course he could never be like her real father or really even come near that realm, they still grew close. She was even given a new name, a code name as part of Tartarus. Though she still took part in normal military operations and remained Surge Tide, whenever Tartarus started an op, she was Melinoë.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
██'s still breathing down my neck, won't leave me alone. Still wants me to keep an eye on her. Fuck. Bastards are all crazy, but Doctor ████████ is the worst of the lot by a mile. What a sadistic fuck. Yeah, she does her job, as she's so happy to remind everyone, but she doesn't need to enjoy it so much.
The kid. Okay. She's doing alright. Jacqueline is still the only one that can tolerate her, but they're at the very least starting to trust her now. She's surprisingly impressive. I didn't need to really do as much as I thought I'd have to to turn a dumb scared child into something like a Fury.
The worst part is that she's actually starting to open up to me of her own volition. God knows I wouldn't have asked her to, I don't need to hear firsthand. Won't tell me exactly what happened, obviously—not that she needs to, mind you—but at least that something real bad happened to her when she was a little kid and it scarred her for life. I more or less expected that. Anybody spends more than an hour in there and they're not coming out the same, let alone three years.
What I didn't expect was for her to tell me that the worst part was she never knew what happened to her sister. Didn't talk much about her, she never talks much about anything really. But...god. Fuck. I can't tell her. Jesus Christ, I absolutely cannot tell her, she can't know no matter what. The look in her eyes when she hits her Shift, fuck, if I told her it would destroy her. Something would come out on the other side of it, I'm not sure what. But it damn sure wouldn't be her. Really hope I never have to make the call to send her back there. Would not be proud of that one. I—
Shit, Mia and Anya are yelling at her again and Jacqueline isn't there. Should probably go tell them to shut the fuck up or else she'll be out of commission for a while, and—I know I'm her CO and it's not really my responsibility, but I'd rather not see that look on her face again, even through the smile. Makes my blood run cold.
Fuck. Okay. I'm done. ANYA, MIA, WHAT DO YOU—
Time passed. She and Donovan grew closer. Tisiphone—Jacqueline Brake, the sniper of the squad—was the only member of Tartarus that even really tolerated her, and even then only just. The others—the support Marina "Alecto" Quince, the heavy Mia "Lyssa" Hartley, and the vanguard Anya "Megaera" Sykes—all looked on her with scorn, disappointment, or annoyance, and any combination thereof. Her thermal cannons were still a thing to behold.
But five months into her fifteenth year, she...wanted to leave the military. A part of her, some sixth sense of paranoia, didn't feel safe here, in a way that wasn't just a soldier's concern. And she didn't feel like she would be safe, could get away forever, as long as she stayed in Fairbanks. But she would need to say goodbye to her new "father," and Fairbanks didn't take kindly to deserters. She would have exactly one chance. And she knew where she'd be going if she failed.
After a sortie with Blackstone that went south—general military, she never would've been able to cut it with Tartarus—she made her move. Faking damage to her NC, she lagged behind. Lagged far enough behind in evac that, in their rush to escape, the rest lost sight of her. Then she bunkered down and hoped desperately that Blackstone wouldn't sweep over her.
And for once in her life, her luck held.
Then, with no equipment or really any training, she dug into the guts of Surge Tide. She knew what she was looking for. She knew what the tracker looked like. Wires tore at her, gouging scratches into the skin as she plunged ever deeper. More than once, she was only an inch or two from a sudden death with no warning, scraping her hands along past electrical cables that carried absolutely staggering amounts of current.
Minutes passed. Hours. Still she dug, working her way around the entire slate-blue chassis. Twice she received a nasty shock. But finally, she finally managed to find it, set deep, deep down against the core. And she pulled it out, threw it to the ground, and crushed it under her boot with a sudden and foreign violent fury that faded just as quickly as it had arose.
NC Pilot Sirona "Melinoë" Laurier: KIA.
Doctor β, April 11th, 2678. Report to Doctor ████████. SiSubject 11-S has been killed in action.
God—
Godfuck—fucking—fucking god damnit. God fucking damn it all.
She just...god. I can't believe it. I just can't. She was so good, how did a basic sortie with Blackstone—fuck, the commander on that mission should be dragged into the street and shot for what he did. She should have been with the rest of the Furies. They wouldn't have left her. I wouldn't have left her.
Well...at least ██ can't ever have her back. That's a mercy, I guess. I get the feeling she would've preferred this anyway.
Despite the massive tectonic shift it is whenever a Fury burns out, it's mostly just...business as usual around here, somehow. Anya's bad tempered, yelling at everyone as usual. Marina is telling her to go fuck herself. Mia is trying to get them to chill out, even though anyone can see she's pretty upset, and Jacqueline is rolling her eyes in the background while she cleans her gun. All looks the same. Still. Something's different. Feels like everyone's just going through the motions. Maybe I'm just projecting, need to do my job still, be the same kind of man and CO that I've been to these women for a pretty long time now.
I've seen a lot of Furies burn out. The first Melinoë, the last couple Alectos, there have been a lot of Megaeras, and this Tisiphone seems to know that she's still obviously got big shoes to fill in the first and only Lyssa's eyes. This shouldn't be a new thing to me. It isn't a new thing to me.
Goddamnit, it's all fucking ██████'s fault, throwing that pathetic little kid my way. What else was I supposed to do with a traumatized child? This is a small, tight-knit squad by necessity, of course she was going to latch on to me. I know the nickname and reputation and they're pretty useful, but I'm not actually a demon you fucks, she acted like I was her fucking dad or something and even though I obviously wasn't I was still going to get attached. I just fucking...can't believe she burned out like that, she's—she was Melinoë goddamnit, she's—WAS supposed to be better than that, I thought I trained her up better, I...
I just—I can't believe it.
I can't believe that she's—that Melinoë is dead.
Or...she's not Melinoë anymore, huh. Fuck, just...
...Rest well, Sirona.
You were a hell of a Fury.
For some months afterwards she roamed on her own, unaware that Fairbanks wouldn't be put off for long. And if they found her again, the laboratory staff was free to take her back and do whatever they wanted. All she knew was that she needed to go west. Due west. She needed to go as far west as she possibly could, because no matter how far she went she could never run away from Andrea, she would always look for her, and if she stayed in the east, she would eventually find her.
With only that to guide her, Sirona kept wandering. Until at last, finally all the way near the west coast...she came to Last Hope. A place where, maybe, just maybe...she could be safe.
MESSAGE TO EXIGENT DOCTOR β 11-S status has been updated from KIA to AWOL. Reconnaissance and retrieval are being prepared. Check and clear #11, make sure it is ready to accept occupant.
MESSAGE END MESSAGE END MESSAGE END
Polaris Shift ◢
Sirona already has trouble with terrible memories coming up at random, and her Polaris Shift does not help. It afflicts her with a kind of...temporal dissociation. Her awareness of time slips briefly, and memories blur together like smearing paint, sending her into a state of confusion and often panic as pieces of her past start to overlap both each other and her waking life. Memories that relate with strong emotional states are very much the most common to come back to her, and so a great majority of these moments are memories of pain and fear from her time in the laboratory. This has grown steadily worse; now instead of just isolated moments commonly occurring as a response to trauma triggers, she also occasionally has full-blown episodes that can last anywhere from five minutes to half an hour spent in absolute panic, sending her into long strings of begging and pleading to people that simply are not there.
Personal Mission ◢
Above all else, Sirona wants desperately to be safe.
Trapped for so long in so many ways, literally or figuratively, Sirona feels constantly exposed. Like she's always being watched, always been watched, and always deeply unsafe. Her past is full of shadows—the doctors from L1, the military of Fairbanks, the last look that she took at her sleeping sister—that loom over her like so many swords of Damocles. So her ultimate goal, even if she doesn't quite know it, is to lift those swords away, one by one. She may never be able to rid herself of them all. She may never feel completely comfortable. The past may always haunt her through her nightmares.
Full Name - Mia Anastasia Hartley Callsign - Absolution Age - 27 (b. 2651) Birthplace - Fairbanks Pilot Type - Heavy -
P S Y C H E
Mediating A veteran of many battles and at least as many intra-squad conflicts, Mia's seen a lot of yelling. With the lunatics she's been paired with over the years, she has found it necessary to become an expert in conflict resolution. And the...diverse personalities that Tartarus Squadron attracts have only made it more necessary. Thus, she's a calming presence when she needs to be, though unerringly firm with people who are escalating a conflict and stretching her patience, which does have a hard limit, even if it can be a little tough to reach.
Friendly And this one goes hand in hand with the conflict-resolution side of her. When she doesn't need to tell people to get along or else she'll crack their skulls together, she's largely easygoing and friendly. She's reasonable, knows when she's wrong, and isn't afraid to admit it. With some...notable exceptions, she'll try to get along with anyone once, and generally tries to give people the benefit of the doubt. That's not to say she's a doormat, though. If you cross her, that friendliness and reasonable nature goes right out the window in record time.
Hardened When it goes out of the window, what it leaves in place is something that people sometimes forget about her when she's hanging out with them. For all the amiability she projects, she's one of the most experienced and skilled NC pilots in all of Fairbanks. She knows what she's doing. She knows what she's doing very well. Name a technique used in NC combat—any technique—and odds are she hasn't just read about it, she's done it. So when that cheer flees, she is a reaper of a soldier who knows exactly what you're going to do, and exactly how to kill you before you can do it.
G E A R
'Arbiter' The Arbiter might not have the highest ammunition capacity of any handgun, holding only three rounds in its internal clip. It might not have the fastest fire rate; Mia's lucky if she pops off a shot once every two seconds. It might not be easy to tote around or carry surreptitiously, given that it's nearly a foot and a half long. But what it loses here, it more than makes up for in sheer power, firing fifty caliber sniper rounds with enough force to punch through plate metal. This monstrous pistol has been with Mia for a long time, and she's found it more than serviceable. Let the kids have their fancy SMGs. You don't need a fast fire rate when one shot annihilates a head at a hundred paces.
Luxury Datatool You don't make a lot of money in the Fairbanks miitary. But what money Mia has made, she's invested into a really nice datatool. With an unusually high amount of storage and not only an exceptionally high-fidelity display but sound that actually works without any crackles or glitches out, this is the most expensive thing she's got and she's pretty damn protective over it. A good chunk of the memory is spent on a video diary that she's taken and kept for her entire tenure in Tartarus Squadron every single day. Maybe ten minutes, maybe five seconds. But every. Single. Day. There are well over ten years of daily memories on that high-capacity memory.
Faded Picture Pinned up on the inside of the cockpit of Absolution is a wallet-sized photograph. Time and the elements have not been kind to it; the photo paper, once so glossy and white, is yellowed, dulled, and curled in at the corners, and the image on it is nearly indecipherable by now. The faces are all gone; all that's left is the indistinct and blurred silhouettes of five people.
N E U R A L C O M B A T A N T
Armor Absolution is an absolute tank of an NC. Heavy composite tungsten-nickel-iron ceramic, backed with tungsten-steel plate mean it's nigh-impenetrable by anything ballistic for a good long while. Between them is a thin layer of lead added to block attacks from ion weapons as best as possible. Between operations—if there's enough time—the surface is coated with a low-density Teflon-carbon-epoxy mixture to serve as an ablative and absorb thermal thermal energy until it's burned off. Consequently, Absolution sports a different appearance depending on mission circumstances. If there's not enough time or she's certain they'll be facing exclusively ballistic or ion weapons, it's a dully gleaming gunmetal-gray. If she has time, on the other hand, it's a dull matte black. The Fairbanks and Tartarus Squadron insignias are displayed proudly on the left and right should pieces respectively.
Hands Mia is, deep down at her core, a demolitions expert, and she always has been. Consequently, her primary weapon is the Emperor PGMl-10, a very large, semi-automatic rocket launcher. Firing heavy PGM ordnance as long as Mia is tall, it's not exactly the most subtle weapon, nor is it the most consistent. She needs to pace herself, and maintain extremely strict fire control to stop herself from spinning out her weaponry too fast. But when she's able to do so, she can clear whole battlefields with her baby.
Back Covered in several layers of heavy armor plating to avoid stray damage, the back module of the Absolution is a powerful shield generator. It doesn't exactly make her the most nimble NC, and the weight would make it prohibitive on anything smaller than her beast of a machine. But pretty much anything that isn't ion radiation isn't going to have a hell of a time even getting to her armor to be stopped. She can even lock the rest of her NC down and reroute power straight into the generator, creating a bubble of space nearly sixty feet across. It doesn't—can't—last a particularly long time, but it's come in real handy quite a few times over her career.
Auxiliaries Rockets. Lots of rockets.
Her auxiliary slots are occupied by rocket pods. Since her NC is so heavy and rock-solid, she can get away with loading a whole hell of a lot of rockets on her broad shoulders. Each pod can hold ten large guided missiles, as well at thirty addition smaller swarm rockets. Drawn by a more sophisticated guidance system than the rest of her ordnance, the swarms can be launched one by one or all at once, and are coded to relentlessly hunt and seek whatever they're sent after. Finally, there's a row of row of four dumbfire rockets at the base of each pod, just for the sake of completion.
In addition to all of this, there's a comparatively small weapon that could be conservatively called a hand cannon locked into a mechanically-released holster at her hip. It's a functional copy of her Arbiter, just...MUCH bigger, and with a higher ammunition capacity. As fond as she is of her rockets, there's something to be said for having something she can use up close.
R E L A T I O N S
Alice Louanne Aimes (Deceased) Mia's elder half-sister by the same mother, Alice was her closest friend and confidante since they were both children, and they shared their dreams like they shared everything else. They spent their time together as children. They enlisted together. They went through basic together. And eventually the two of them, just about inseparable, were scouted for the original Tartarus Squadron together, and she became the first Melinoë.
Around two years ago, though, Alice died, in a terribly sad way. Her Shift was far worse in the end than Mia's: sudden panic attacks, beginning mild and then slowly escalating. Eventually, she suffered a panic attack of such intensity, such horrible fear, that her heart seized and she died. It was like having a leg cut off for Mia, and even these years later, she still misses her terribly.
Donovan Thatcher Mia's been with Donovan in Tartarus Squadron since the beginning. The most experienced Fury by far, this Lyssa knows exactly how they both think, and Donovan respects her years of hard-won experience. So with her almost exclusively, it's less of a commander-subordinate relationship and more equal, both of them bouncing ideas off each other and perfectly willing with telling the other without hesitation that they've gotta rethink whatever's going on up there.
Sirona Laurier Only just after her half-sister's death, she was replaced as Melinoë with a tiny thirteen year old child, scared of the world. In any other circumstance, she would have been nice to her, almost nurturing. But so soon after losing her sister and best friend, and watching her be replaced by a kid who seemed just as afraid as Alice was in her last few months, she...well, she wasn't exactly nice. She was actually quite cruel to her. And though a year or so later she finally let it go, she knew by then that it was a lost cause, and Sirona was afraid of her quite intensely. So she just...awkwardly stayed out of her way as much as she could.
Physical Details ◢
Standing at 5'11" and lean, Mia cuts a recognizable figure as she walks into the room. Slightly wavy and pale brown hair habitually tied up into a loose low ponytail—she has a tendency to fidget with it—and tanned, callused skin contrast themselves quite nicely around the eyepatch that clings to the scarred wreck that her right eye has been turned into. Jagged lines of white scar tissue peak shyly out from just underneath the patch. Her slim build has been reinforced with tight, lean whipcord muscle. She's not quite as strong as she used to be, since she can't push herself nearly as hard due to her shift, but she is absolutely still quite fit.
Her eyes are a piercing brown-black and dart around with a striking degree of speed. Though she's held at a general relaxed friendliness, it's not particularly difficult to see how tense she is at any given moment, and the cheerful smile on her face can collapse into itself at any given moment. All it would take is the space between heartbeats for her to tear the handgun from her hip, draw a bead, and fire in one smooth movement.
She wears casual, functional clothing for the most part. There's no point in trying to hide the holster, so she mostly wears things like tanktops and jeans. The faster she can move in combat, or the faster she can jump into her cockpit, the faster things get done. And she knows from long, long experience that a second is the difference between winning and dying.
Background Information ◢
Message received Mia A. Hartley (Lyssa)
Donovan,
I think I told you I was doing this, right? Going back through all of the video logs and finding a few of the really important ones? Well, here they all are. Was a hell of a time compositing them all, but got 'em all done. Fun stuff.
Oh, and try not to share it with the other Furies, okay? I know we're tight, you and I, but you know I can still be scary when I want to, and if Anya gets her hands on this I'm gonna be PISSED.
Gotta say though, it's been weird as hell to see my right eye again.
These are the ones up through when I enlisted. I was such a kid. Well, I was literally a kid, haha, but that's not what I mean. So innocent to everything, it's kind of cute. But goddamn, I just—
No. Nope. Just went through thousands of these little clips. Years and years worth. I'm already dehydrated as all hell and if my eyes could be sore I think they would be. I'm not crying again just writing this.
And don't you dare laugh at how I used to wear my hair.
—ome on, Allie! Get over here! Hi! It's me, Mia!
What are you gonna do with the video anyway?
I'm gonna give it to mom as a gift!
Really? That's all? Don't you think she'd want something from just you, Mi?
Pleeaaaaase?
...Okay, fine. Hi! It's me, Alice! ...Was that really—
Allie keeps telling me that it's dumb to make these, 'cuz I'll give up soon anyway. I so totally won't though! Not after dad gave me the datatool! I'm gonna use it forever! So...Hi! My name is Mia Hartley, I'm eight years old, my birthday is the second of June, that's today! And my favorite color is orange!
See Allie! I told you I'd use it!
Wait—no way, it still works!
Wow, I totally forgot about this thing. Hey, Allie, check this out! You won't believe it, but it's that basic datatool my dad got me for my birthday a few years back! And check it out, it still turns on! There are the videos that we made!
Yeah, yeah, you were right. I really didn't use it in the end, haha! I wonder if maybe I should try again though. Still sounds kind of neato to make a video diary. I saw a movie about a guy who did that recently, he survived in a huge wrecked NC for a whole three months in the middle of the Sea of Thieves, and the only way he could keep himself sane was video journaling. Cool, right?
Shut uuuup, no, I swear I'll do it this time! Oh yeah? I'll make a week easy, and I'll keep doing it after! It'll be—
Hey! Alliiiie! Give it back, give it back right now!
Well, ah...ehem...I guess I'm doing this now. And definitely not just because Alice told me I couldn't yesterday! So...here goes.
My name is Mia Ana Hartley. Okay, that's not really my full name, but my middle name is such a mouthful, god, I'm totally not going to say it every time I start this up. Who still gives someone a name like Anastasia these days, it's so old fashioned, you'd need to be—
Dang okay, getting waaaaay off track. Let's try that again. My name is Mia Ana Hartley, the date is August fourth two-six-six-three, and I'm twelve years old. My dad is Jacob and my mom is Emily, and my sister—half-sister I guess but basically my real sister—is Alice Aimes, she's the greatest, the best friend a girl could ever have.
We've been talking about the military recently. Our mom says we're still too young for it, but other kids have joined at like thirteen so it can't be too long, right?
WHAT?
Anyway my dad is calling me so I need to go bye!
Hiii, I'm Mia Ana Hartley, the date's November fourteenth two-six-six-three, and I'm twelve years old!
I'm starting to really get into the swing of these daily log thingies now, it's fun once you get it down! I don't have a lot lot to say today, but I'm really glad I found this old datatool and Allie told me I couldn't do it, I'm gonna keep doing this as long as I can! So I guess I'll just—
Oh, hey Allie, you're back! You were away for a while, what did you—
You did? You are? Ohmygod no way, wow that's so COOL! Hang on, let me—oh, the—? Yeah, I'm still logging, see, I told you I would!
Okay! I lied! Something really really big did happen today! Allie went to the doctor and tested, and apparently there's something right with her brain, I don't know exactly what but she can be a pilot! She's gonna be SUPER important soon! No, you definitely are, shut up! You're gonna be the best and most famous pilot ever!
What about me? Naaah, I'd never be as good as you, you're so cool!
Heeheehee, look how embarrassed she looks! Isn't it adorable?
Oh. My—okay um my name is Mia Hartley and it's January sixth two-six-six-four and I'm twelve years old, but OH MY GODDD!
So I went to the same place that Allie went, the doctor she was talking about right, and she took a bunch of scans and stuff with this big machine and looked at 'em all for a long time, pointed out a few spots—it was my head, scan was my head and she pointed out spots in my brain that she said were super important, she called 'em neuromarks or whatever then she smiled and—
I CAN BE A PILOT! EEEEEEEEEE!
I can't wait to tell Allie! We're gonna go enlist together as soon as mom lets us, and we'll both be pilots together and help protect everyone like all the grown ups say! It's gonna be the best and I'm so excited, dad says he's really worried about it, he seems really sad but I don't know why, but I just know the two of us are going to be the best, it'll be like—like—I dunno but it'll be great! I just can't believe it we're so lucky!
Okay I'm too excited to keep talking into this thing, I'm gonna go tell Allie, I bet she'll be so excited! Bye!
Hey, my name is Mia Ana Hartley, the date is June second, two-six-six-four. I'm thirteen. As of today! Because it's my birthday!
Don't tell mom or dad—or even Allie!—but I snuck out today! I know they don't want me to go outside without them because they say it's not safe, but how unsafe could it be? I'm thirteen, I'm basically grown up now! So I went through the wall real quick, cause I found a little chink in there I never noticed before and I'm definitely not telling anybody else about.
I didn't stay out for long, just to look around, because I was—no, I wasn't scared, I was just...being careful, because I didn't want to get caught! It was really dirty out there, and all the buildings are WAAY taller than mom and dad say they are. I did get yelled at by some guy in really dirty clothes for being a 'filthy spoiled rotten rich sheltered princess bi—' Well, you get the idea, right? Dad always says to ignore people like that because they're just jealous they don't have what we do, so...I think that's what I'll do! Then he ran at me, and I ran back around the corner and snuck through the little hole in the wall so he couldn't see where I went.
I'm gonna ignore him obviously, but...I wonder what he meant.
But, good news! Dad saw that I'd been using this thing for ages now, so he got me a new one with more storage! I had to transfer it all over, but, yay! I was so worried I'd need to start deleting stuff!
Anyway, I think that's about all I got for today, and Allie said she has a birthday surprise for me. So...bye!
We're doing it! We're doing it! We're really—
My, um, my name is Mia Ana Hartley, the date is October eighth two six six five and I'm fourteen and WE'RE DOING IT! Mom finally said we can enlist! TODAY! She was all cryptic and junk about us not being able to come back and she's sorry but this needs to happen eventually and all that kinda stuff but I wasn't really listening and I don't think Allie was either, we're actually gonna make it, we're gonna be FAIRBANKS PILOTS it's gonna be SO COOL! I can't think straight can barely talk so gonna be done for tonight bye!
... ... I... Haahhh. My...my name is Mia Ana Hartley. The date is October ninth, two-six-six-five. I'm fourteen.
Well...we did it, Allie and I. We both enlisted last night. We're both pilots. She's in an NC called Blue Sky. Mine is called Absolution. We haven't gotten our units yet. We...we really did it. My log from last night...I sounded so excited, just like I was twelve again. Being a pilot was always my— ... God...god damn. I didn't think—this isn't—I—
...I don't want to talk about it.
Alice isn't answering my calls.
Night.
These are some of the recordings that happened between when I enlisted and when you scouted me. I don't think I've ever shown you any of these. I don't know if I EVER showed anyone any of these except...well, yeah. You get it. Probably because a lot of them are mostly just me being really upset and stuff because I hadn't reconciled the reality of Fairbanks with the sanitized garbage my parents put in front of me when I was a kid.
So consider yourself lucky. You're getting to see some things that only Allie saw before.
(See how nostalgic I am? Calling her Allie like I'm a kiddo again. Leaving that in for the sake of it so you can see what looking at these does to me, haha).
Mia Ana Hartley. December fourth. Two-six-six-five. Fourteen.
Everything hurts.
I didn't think it would be like this.
I'm an idiot.
Bye.
I'm Mia Ana Hartley. The date is March first, two-six-six-six. I'm fourteen years old.
I'm starting to get a little better. Physically, I mean. I was always bigger and stronger than Allie—Alice was, so I'm not doing so bad on the physical side of things. It's...almost satisfying, looking into the mirror sometimes.
Alice hasn't talked to me since November. I feel like I should be worried about her. But I just...never mind. I'm not doing much better. Every time I think about the things that I'm going—that I need to—that—every time, I feel sick.
I feel sick now.
I don't want to think about it.
Bye.
I'm—I—
Mia Ana Hartley. Date, April twentieth two-six-six-six. Fourteen years old.
I—I can't—I don't—how do I...?—
Deep breaths, Mia. Deep breaths.
I...I killed someone today. Not an NC, I mean, I just—I tripped an alarm or something and Absolution booted me out, so it got opened up on the battlefield. Someone tried to climb in after me. He was—he couldn't be older than me, and I didn't think about it, I pulled out my gun and—
God, I'm going to be sick. I swear to god I'm going to be sick, I've puked twice already and it's going to happen again.
They can't get the stain out of the cockpit. I just...
I miss Allie.
Mia Ana Hartley. Date, June second two-six-six-six. Fifteen years old.
Happy birthday to me.
When I turned fourteen I was living at home. Allie—ALICE spent the whole day with me. I don't really remember the details, but I remember that I was so happy. So I spent all day remembering as much of it as I could. I even played the video I recorded on that day. And I'm...just...I spent the whole day crying my eyes out. I couldn't even get out of bed. I'm pretty sure that someone's going to come by and break my fingers soon because I missed training today. Fairbanks is a hell of a place. I don't know if I would even try to stop them.
Well, at least something good happened today. For the first time since Novemmber last year Alice talked to me. Or, messaged me. Just the two words 'happy birthday.' But...it's something, right? So it could always be worse.
It can always be worse. And it's damn sure not going to get better.
Bye, I guess.
I'm— My name is— I'm Mia Ana—Mia Ana Hartley. It's July seventh. I'm—I'm fourteen. I'm—I—I...
I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go—
HEY! HEY, GIVE THAT BACK, JESSIE! No! Give it back! Give it back, that's—NO! No, don't you dare, you can't—PUT IT DOWN! I SAID PUT IT DOWN! Put it down, please, it's all I—no, no, put it down! Put it down or—or else—DON'T—
THOOM
Thump
Oh god, I—
No, I didn't—I didn't mean to—oh god, oh god, I—
Oh god...
I held my gun to my head today.
Please help me.
My name is Mia Ana Hartley. The date is July twelfth, two-six-six-six. I'm fifteen years old.
Crazy thing happened today. Real crazy. Maybe the universe listened to what I said a few days ago (if were to delete any one of these, it would probably be that one. God, my eyes were swollen as hell.
Or...well, I guess two things happened. Both crazy. One good, one bad.
Bad news: my Shift started showing up. Came out of the cockpit today and my fingers were numb. Could still flex 'em and anything, but couldn't feel a thing. Went away after about an hour. I've got a bad feeling it's not just going to be my fingers if it gets a chance to develop. When it gets a chance. Trying on optimism again. It's hard.
Okay. Good news: I've been scouted. And not just me; Alice too. We've both been scouted for what apparently going to be some major super elite squad by Donovan, Demon of Fairbanks himself. Says we've both distinguished ourselves on the field of battle enough to be chosen as Furies, whatever those are. And it's true, we are pretty good. But I saw the way he looked between us. We don't have the same last name, but he definitely knows, and he wants to keep us together.
Not a very demonic thing to do, huh?
For the first time in a while, I feel...I feel hopeful. Like things are looking up.
And it really, really didn't hurt that I finally got to talk to Allie again when he called us in. And by "talk to," I mean "we both ugly cried for half an hour while hugging each other and both of us apologized for not being there for the other." Apparently a lot of the reason she hasn't been talking with me recently is cause of her Shift, showed up before mine. She gets panic attacks now and then. They're rare, but they're bad. She didn't want me to worry about her.
She's still the best sister and best friend a girl could ever ask for.
So I guess I should say good bye, huh? Things might really be getting better. I know that's tempting fate, but...here's hoping. Thanks for always listening to me.
I can't believe I'm talking to a fucking datatool.
And now we're getting into the stuff that you know personally! This encapsulates everything that happened in Tartarus, up through...well. You know. When things started going downhill (poor Addie). Still can't believe I had the good luck to be scouted for something like this. I'd pretty much given up at the time. You could probably tell from the one right beforehand, but I was definitely considering GIVING UP in a very concrete and PERMANENT way. If you catch my meaning.
You'll notice that not once in any of those logs did I smile. Not really. But you'll see as this goes on I start getting there again. It'll never be the cheerful smile I had as a kiddo, but it's still there, right?
So...thanks.
Sorry to get sappy, haha!
Hey, my name is Mia Ana—
My name is Mia Anastasia Hartley.
It's not that bad, I guess.
Anyway. My name is Mia Anastasia Hartley. The date is August second, two-six-six-six. I'm fifteen years old.
So. Tartarus Squadron, huh?
Some of the people from the old unit are pissed that I'm getting out. Tyra especially, I think if I didn't have my gun on me all the time she already would've tried to gut me. But I'm out of there now. New barracks, new quarters. My OWN quarters. I—
I haven't had my own room since before I enlisted. It's small, it's spartan, it's utilitarian. But I have my own room. The luxury is...almost inconceivable.
And you know who else has her own room? Her own room really close to mine?
ALICE AIMES.
I don't know if I can really—it's just...so much. So much has happened. Too much. I don't—
Good...good bye. I'm...
Good bye?
My name is Mia Anastasia Hartley. The date is November seventh, two-six-six-six. I'm fifteen years old.
Lyssa and Melinoë, huh?
I've never had a code name. I've had a callsign, obviously. For a little while. And I do keep it during normal stuff, but I don't do as much normal stuff now. So now I have a CODE NAME. We have code names. Mia "Lyssa" Hartley. Alice "Melinoë" Aimes. It's a weird feeling.
Hades said he was scouting a third. Said he wanted a total of five, but it would take a while to find them. Apparently he found someone he thought might be "Alecto." I don't really know what he means by it and I think he knows that. I think I'm just...worried. It's taken a long time for Allie to really start opening up to me again. Seeing her Shift attacks has made it better, but it's also really, really painful. The look in her eyes reminds me of when she was having nightmares when she was a kid.
...God, it was only a year ago, wasn't it? I think? Or, not even a year. Time kind of runs together. It feels so much longer than that. Days seem to take a long time when you're worried each of them might be your last, don't they?
...I'm starting to upset myself now, so I should probably stop talking. I just...bah.
I'm going now. Good bye.
My name is Mia Anastasia Hartley. The date is December nineeteenth, two-six-six-six. I'm fifteen years old.
Well, I'm starting to see what Donovan's getting at now. Tartarus Squadron, I mean.
We have our Alecto. She's a girl a little older than I am, a little younger than Allie is. Her name is Adelaide Taylor, callsign Second Sun, and she's a really good squad support from Unit E-13. Really knows what she's doing, really good at holding groups together and keeping stuff going. Here, check out this picture of her.
See how annoyed she looks? She's always like that. So no-nonsense! She's one of those people that always thinks they know best and everyone else is always wrong. Though in this case, she's, uh...usually right? I mean, it's not like she goes out of her way to tell everyone else they're wrong or anything. She takes other opinions and junk. But she's just really smart at tactics, way better than Allie or me.
Donovan's already definitely starting to plan out ops with her, so I have to try at least a little less during strategy meetings.
So that's the pro. The, uh, con is that I don't think she likes me.
And by that I mean she told me she hates me. She hates me a lot. She thinks I'm dumb and I don't care about what happens to anybody else in the squad as long as I get to blow things up. Which is obviously really wrong.
Well...we can at...at least work together...? I guess that's something.
Allie's starting to get better. She got prescribed medicine that she's supposed to take whenever her Shift is getting at her. She can't take them herself, so she's given them to me so I can give them to her whenever she starts panicking, and they really do work. They only last thirty seconds, maybe a minute afterwards, which is waaay better than the five or six minutes they're starting to get to.
My Shift has started getting worse too. It lasts longer now, and it's starting to go further up my arms, and my legs now too. It's still going away, which is nice. But I feel like it won't always.
Things aren't...they aren't good. And I don't think they will be. But they're at least getting better than they were, I think.
...Not like it could get any worse.
Good bye, I suppose.
Don' ask how I gotthish black eye.
And uhhhh...'m Mia Hartley, 's NEW YEARSH!
But anyway Allie tol' me that I needed t'get tbed, n' I tol' her back that I was gonna have 'nother drink firsht. Then 'Delaide said I gotta sleep'n'I said to fuckoff, so then she PUNCHED me'n the FACE! I tried t'punch her back but I fell down, 'n then she'n Allie picked me up 'n locked me in m'room.
YOU PUNCH HARD, 'DELAAAIIIDE!
I'mna go shleep now. Niiiightt!
... ... ... God. I look and feel like shiiit. ... I don't have anything to do today. ... ... I'm going back to bed.
My name is Mia Anastasia Hartley. The date is February fifteenth, two-six-six-seven. I'm fifteen years old.
We've got a fourth now. Here, this is a picture: Priscilla Lee, probably the best sniper I've ever seen. Came from E-13, just like Addie. Donovan calls her Tisiphone now, callsign Snow Shadow. She's also the cheeriest person I think I've seen since I enlisted.
Seriously, it's...it's almost scary.
She's so cheerful, all the time. It's to the point that I don't know if I can believe her or if she's hiding something really horrible underneath that constant laughing. Either way, she looks at me really weirdly. I'm not scared of people very often, but...yeah, I think I'm scared of her. But at least she seems to get on really well with Addie. They must know each other from E-13 already.
The very tips of my fingers are permanently numb now.
It's been a bad day.
Bye.
My name is Mia Anastasia Hartley. The date is April tenth, two-six-six-seven. I'm fifteen years old.
According to Donovan, Tartarus Squadron is done now, because we have our Megaera. Quiet, personable, okay to talk to, okay with talking to people.
It's nice, it really is.
With Addie's painful acid tongue (she still says she hates me, but I'm pretty sure she doesn't actually, she's just showing an image) and Priss being kind of scary with all the laughing like usual, having someone else other than Allie who I can actually let my guard down a little near is nice.
Ah, right, I almost forgot to show her picture! Check her out, this is Lucy Santiago, callsign Claw Hammer. She's pretty, right? It's almost amazing to me how clean she looks, y'know? I know she's right out in the middle of everything swinging at everything with thermal brass knuckles, but I guess that's just in NC, huh?
Point is, well...I like her. Allie likes her too. Says she actually reminds her of me. Makes me feel kinda nice, I think she's a good person, so having Allie say that makes me feel like she thinks I'm a good person too. I hope she's around for a long while.
So, Tartarus Squadron is all together now. I guess now we just need to figure out how to all work together. Especially me and Addie, because she seems to get on well enough with Allie and Lucy, so apparently it's just me? I need ask her about that and work it out sometimes, we need to trust each other. Donovan says we're gonna go out on more missions, just the squad, so we can figure out how to work together better before we start taking real elite sorties.
It's wild, isn't it?
All five of us. Wow.
Goodbye.
Hey, my name is Mia Anastasia Hartley. The date is June second, two-six-six-seven. I'm sixteen years old now!
I looked back at the log I made on my fifteenth birthday today. Man, was some sad stuff, huh? I still feel a little of that now and then, I have to admit. As much as I'm so much happier in Tartarus Squadron than Unit 12-F, I just...I...
No. None of that! Today was a good day! I got to spend it with Allie again. I missed her so much. We were only apart for a little while, but it feels like it was centuries. We're in the military, so we obviously don't have the most means at our disposal, but she actually got me a gift. Yeah, it was just that she'd sewn a patch in my favorite shirt to wear during down time. It certainly wasn't anything like the extravagant stuff that I used to get back home. But for some reason it feels so much better anyway.
And you know what? She wasn't the only one!
It had to all be kept on the down-low, of course, because if the higher-ups knew that they were actually daring to give me things on my birthday I think at least one of us would be beaten. Probably all of us. Badly. But hey. What they don't know won't hurt us.
Point is, I got a few things. Little things, obviously. Allie patched my shirt. Lucy gave me a ring. Tiny little thing, see? I think she cut it out of a shell from one of Allie's guns, actually. Girl's really good with stuff like that, good with her hands. It's pretty impressive. Priss somehow fitted a new part into my pods without me noticing. A few rockets on the bottom that I don't guide, she said she couldn't hook it up to the guidance without me there and that would ruin the surprise. I might leave them like this. Might be handy sometime.
And Addie. Oh, Addie.
I didn't think she'd give me anything. And she didn't until just, like, half an hour ago, I think she was hanging out with Priss. But then she knocked on my door and—well, you see how my hands are closed over something?
Look at that! She set her datatool somewhere so she could take a picture of the five of us when we were eating, and then she called in a favor from her old unit to have it printed out! Isn't that just the sweetest—
Whoa! Oh, uh, hey, Addie! How...how long have you been standing there?
Uh oh. She's giving me the Adelaide Glare. I better go.
Good day. Bye!
Name is Mia Ana Hartley, October twenty-fourth two-six-six-seven, sixteen years old, yadda yadda yadda. Not important, cause hooooly shit I saw something wild today, seriously I am just in absolute disbelief. Not 'cause it doesn't make sense cause looking back it totally does, just...whoa!
Last night I couldn't sleep, was heading out to do some maintenance on Absolution, always seems to help when my thoughts keep me up. I think there's...maybe something a little messed up about that. But anyway, the point is, I was halfway through cleaning out scorch marks from the Emperor, right? And then I hear voices. Quiet ones, ones I recognize. And it's hard to see me 'cause I'm half in and out of a big gun, so I just stay quiet. Look, I know I shouldn't eavesdrop but they were talking 'bout some heavy stuff, not depressing heavy but like, sweet heavy, I mean—
Look, I poked my head out and right there next to Snow Shadow, Priss and Addie were making out. And not like hot passion making out, I mean like the kind of tender thing people who are really serious go for, talking in between kisses. Not that I would—never mind, shut up Mia! Point is, if that doesn't describe the kind of sweet heavy I meant, then Iunno. But oh god they're treading a dangerous, dangerous road. I'm not going to turn them in obviously, but if the higher-ups find out, they'll be lucky if their families are threatened. Real lucky.
I'm happy for them, you know? I am, really. But...I don't...
...I hope the two of them are happy. But Fairbanks is...
...Well, I should shut up before one of both of them hear me. So...bye, I guess. Hopefully things don't implode here. For them. For everyone.
Promished myself an' Allie I wouln' get sloshed this year like I did last year. 'N I'm not, 'm jus' normal drunk.
Oh uhhhh...Mia Hartley, 's NEW YEARS AGAIN BABY! 'N I'm still sixteen.
Look, y' can't blame meeee for how Priss suddenly got her hands on thish much vodka! 'N wha' was I s'posed to do, let it all go t' waste? Iiiii dooooon't thiiiiiink sooooooooooo!
Allie called me a stick 'n the mud for going to take my log, but come oonnnnn I do thish every night 'n she knows it. Plush, when I left, 'Delaide and Priss were starting t'make the eyes at each other, I bet there'sh gonnabe somethin' goin on between 'em tonight f'sure ehhheheehh...
SHU'UP, DONO—hic—VAN! 'M NOT GOIN'T'SHLEEP TIL IT'S TWENTY SIX SIXTY EIGHT AN' I'LL TALK INTO MY TOOL AS MUCH 'S I—WHAT?
Fuck, fuck, gotta go, Allie'sh having a Shift 'ttack an' I'm the one with her meds. Gotta—hic— gotta do that, oh fuck.
HOL' ON ALLIE, 'M COMING—
... ...I guess I look a little different, huh. Everything does for me.
Sorry for no log last night. I'll need to make up for it somehow. But I was recovering after...well, yeah.
Op yesterday with the rest of Tartarus. Going behind enemy lines and fucking with supply vehicles so their lives get harder. It was pretty by the books, went well, even had a rapid exfil for if and when shit went downhill. Which is...well, why I'm still alive.
Was taking a last shot at an armored transport, mulching everyone inside. Something feels weird about how clinical I feel. Like I should feel bad about it. But I really don't. Anyway, we were just about to leave when a few NCs came over the ridge across the way, 'cause they'd noticed that something was wrong when they were on patrol in the area. Bad luck. They took some shots at us, but they all deflected 'cause they were far away and we were getting out anyway. But right as we were about to disappear, a shell hit Absolution dead on. Dunno how, maybe one of them had ion tech, but it went right through the shield, then went right through the armor. Didn't hit me dead on; it hit the inside of the cockpit, came apart, and bounced around, is what Adelaide said. And when it was fragmenting like that, one of the fragments, well—
Well, you get it.
I don't know why Donovan had an eyepatch handy for when they got me back to base after I disconnected spontaneously right about as we were getting back over the border of the demilitarized zone. But lucky he did. I don't think I could take looking at that ruined mess that used to be my eye anymore.
...Goddamnit. This really sucks.
Fuck.
Good night.
Name is Mia Anastasia Hartley. The date is June Second, two-six-six-eight. I'm seventeen today.
Well, it's certainly not as sad as my log two years ago, where I seem to have just given up on life entirely. But today also definitely wasn't a high point like last year's.
The higher-ups are apparently cracking down on frivolous activity, by which of course they mean anything that isn't training or active duty. Like that's all anyone needs to live, apparently. Thank god Donovan has a little wiggle room since our squad's a small independent unit and we've done a lot of pretty hardcore things, or else who knows, they might even take this tool away.
You see this finger? That's about what I think of that.
So the point is, no gifts today. Just caution. Well, Allie gave me a bit from her rations, but...I feel bad about it. She's doing well, but that's not really an excuse for taking her food.
I ate it anyway. Selfish, right?
So, anything else...oh, I'm starting to get more used to the eye thing. It helps that when I get into the NC I get the same kind of full-angle vision I always have, but I mean in waking life, just walking around. Starting to figure out how to work around the depth perception thing and lack of perspective. It took me ages, but I finally started figuring out how to actually hit the target with my gun, finally. I'm not a deadshot like I used to be—that's a joke, I was never a deadshot—but I can at least hit the thing now.
What else, what else...ah. Right. Shift. Getting into fullsync more often, and so it's gotten worse. Goes all the way up to my shoulders and mid-thigh now. Completely numb elbows and knees down. And the permanent numbness is about halfway up my forearm and shins.
...This is going exactly where I think it is, huh.
Well, it wasn't a bad day or anything. Didn't lose my eye, nothing like that. Just...kind of normal. Adelaide and Priss are spending a lot of time together, like you'd maybe expect. It's kind of sweet, honestly, and it's starting to temper both of them. Priss is a little less...I dunno, laugh-creepy? And Adelaide's actually smiling and junk, even though her Shift is starting to cause more acute pain than before.
That said...it's also more noticeable. I'm worried about them.
Well, Mia Hartley, almost an adult now, out. G'bye.
My name is Mia Ana Hartley...
Feels weird to go back to that, huh?
...and it's July twelfth, two-six-six-eight. I'm seventeen years old.
It's the anniversary today. Like a second birthday. The anniversary of Donovan scouting me, I mean. Pulling me out of actual hell and giving me a slightly nicer hell where I have my own room.
Walked around and thanked everyone today. Priss, Addie, and Lucy looked at me like I was cracked in the head. But Allie gets it. We spent most of today together. I mean, yeah, we were sparring and working out so we had an excuse, but we spent it together anyway.
Oh, right. I split my knuckles bad when we were fighting and didn't even notice until she told me cause of my Shift. I'm not going to be able to do this for much longer am I? God. Well, at least the drugs are still working on Allie's, though she says when I'm not around to give them to her the attacks are getting longer and more intense. Really worried about her. Hope she stays okay.
Anyway, I need to change the bandage on my hand. No pain, but I can see the blood leaking through. I'm gonna go do that. G'night.
My name is Mia Ana Hartley. The date is October fourth, two-six-six-eight. I'm seventeen years old.
Oh god. They're playing a really dangerous game.
Sorry I'm whispering, because I don't want anyone to hear this but me. But I overheard the two of them in Priss' room, and thank god I'm the only one that overheard. Because I think even Donovan would've needed to report hearing two elite pilots discussing desertion.
They know they're not gonna be able to openly be together as long as they're in the military like this, or Fairbanks is going to metaphorically and possibly literally tear them apart. But desertion from Fairbanks is a pretty dangerous thing to discuss. They find you, you're lucky if you get shot.
I'll cover for them if they ask me, obviously. Which...might not go well for me, but I still have my principles, damnation. But...man, I hope they know what they're doing, because if they don't, Tartarus Squadron is fucked.
That's all. Nothing else really important went down today. So, g'bye.
Okay. Okay, today...today Priss was part of a normal op. Totally normal easy stuff, she's done it a thousand times. She was miles away, she shouldn't have been in any—any danger.
Apparently it was a stray shell. A stray FAIRBANKS shell. Priss—our Tisophone...I—fuck, I just...at least they say it was fast, she didn't...didn't suffer. She...
Addie is absolutely beside herself, of course, just about losing her mind. I've never seen her like this. I mean, I've seen her crying, but—but never like—I've never seen her sobbing like this. Wailing. It's like she got her arm cut off. I tried to comfort her, but, what do I even say? I wasn't supposed to know about their relationship, so I obviously can't say anything about that or anything, I just...I can't do anything. She's falling apart.
I guess...I guess one of us had to go. I think maybe I just let myself forget it.
I'm not going to do that again.
Fuck, I—god, I can hear her screaming at Allie. I don't know what's going on, but I should go try and break it up.
I'm sorry, Priscilla. And I'm sorry I was afraid of you at first. You deserved better.
I suppose it's time for me to indulge myself in a great deal of self-pity now, isn't it?
I smiled a lot back then, didn't I? It's...almost hard to look at. Blinding. Like looking at the sun. Painful. I wonder if it's sad that I can say with confidence they were the best two years of my life. Back home? I was...I don't know, coddled. Treated like, well...what did that guy say again? Hold on, let me check the video again.
Ah, there it is. He called me a "filthy spoiled rotten rich sheltered princess bitch." In basic I was...well, you saw the logs, didn't you? You saw that I was really close to...doing something, ehm...something that I would regret, and not be able to take back. But being in Tartarus with with all the first Furies...it was...it was nice.
Bah-ahaha! Listen to how maudlin I've gotten! It's not bad now, with Jackie and Anya and Marina and...well. I suppose that...that we'll need a new Melinoë soon.
...I know you blame yourself for what happened to her, Donovan.
Don't. Please.
...God, I can't believe it's already been ten years. And only three since...well...you remember her.
...It's not fun this year.
I didn't drink. I get the feeling I'd just get sad. Priss is...Priss is dead. Addie isn't falling apart anymore at least, so that's good, but any trace of sympathy for anyone has been burned out of her, like her soul died along with Priss. She's just angry now. Only comes out of her room when she needs to. Lucy's holding it together, but she's clearly upset (obviously), even if she tries not to look it.
And...I don't know how Allie would normally be holding up, but she's really on edge right now. Because we're down a Tisophone, we've all needed to fullsync more, so her Shift's gotten waaaay worse. They won't give us any more medication for her in this hellscape of a military, so we need to ration it out carefully and only use it after a few minutes to make sure that we have enough for the really bad attacks.
Oh, god, yeah, speaking of Shifts, mine's also getting worse. Until now the permanent numbness was just creeping further up my arms and legs—it's starting to move past my elbows and knees now—but everything else was pretty stable. But I got out of the cockpit this morning and my whole chest was half-numb. Like I was pressing on it through, I dunno, a thick layer of cloth or something. It hasn't moved above my legs yet, but...it will. God.
So...yeah. The kind of uneasy stability that we'd found is all but gone now. Donovan said that he's going to find a new Tisiphone soon, scouting for her right now. But man, the look in Addie's eyes when he said that...
...The photo in my cockpit is the best thing that I own now.
Oh, god. I almost forgot, I'm nearly out of storage. I need to find a way to expand it soon. If I need to delete one of these or stop making them, I think I'll come apart at the seams. Just another problem.
Well, at least I always have Allie. G'bye.
My name is Mia Ana Hartley. The date is February tenth, two-six-six-nine. I'm seventeen years old.
Well, we have our new Tisiphone.
Here's a photo. Great sniper, one of the best out there apparently, though she's been in reserve pretty much her whole career, so her Shift hasn't even shown up yet. Cheerful kid, a few years younger than the rest of us. It's nice to have her there; we're all pretty dour right now, so having someone who isn't so upset all the time is kind of a breath of fresh air. Callsign is Moonshot. Big ol' ballistic sniper rifle. Got some ion fire in there too, which is really nice, since it's starting to get more common these days and we really need to have the edge. Her name is Jacqueline Brake.
Things is, though...you remember that "it's a breath of fresh air" thing? Well...I think so. Lucy thinks so. Allie thinks so, I can tell.
Addie...
God. God. I feel so bad for her, I do. But she's...
I used to think Addie hated me, and she even told me she did. But she wasn't really serious about it. She didn't like me, but she didn't have a grudge.
But oh, man, poor Jacqueline.
She's still reeling from Priss being gone. So I think it's 'cause she sees another cheerful sniper girl as Tisiphone as angling to replace Priss, but...she is very vocal about how she really, truly hates Jackqueline, and she's always going to hate her, and she's never going to forgive her. And it makes my heart bleed seeing Jacqueline look so hurt and confused. I can almost hear her thinking, forgive me for what?
God. I don't want to discount Addie's grief, because god knows we're all still upset, and her most of all. But she's just being needlessly cruel.
I might talk to her later. Wish me luck. God, will I need it.
G'bye.
My name is Mia Ana Hartley. The date is June second, two-six-six-nine. I'm seven—eighteen years old.
Hear that? I'm an adult now.
I got a gift today again. Not from Lucy or Allie, and definitely not from the ball of rage that our Addie has become. Nah, I got it from Jackie. Lucy told me in confidence that Jackie'd told her she held me in some kind of awe. Me and Allie, that is, the first two scouted Furies, but it's a little harder to talk to Allie now than it used to be. Not only is she still grieving a little bit over Priss—she always took things like that hard—but her Shift has her really high-strung all the time. So apparently Jackie sees me as kind of a role model.
I think I'm going to be sick. Please, Jackie. I am not a role model you want to follow. Not after I—Jessie—
Never mind. Don't be like me, Jackie. Please. Be like Allie. Better yet, be like Lucy. Hell, even be like Addie. Just as long as you're not like me.
Never mind. Those aren't birthday thoughts. This is supposed to be a good day.
Oh, right, I never actually showed you what Jackie gave me, haha. And that's nuts, cause it's super important. Apparently they pay better in reserve than they do in active duty. For some reason. So she spent a bunch of it a new storage drive for my datatool. I guess Allie told her I needed one.
Thanks, Jackie. I'm trying to keep Addie away from you. I swear.
Happy birthday, Mia.
My name is Mia Anastasia Hartley. The date's September thirtieth, two-six-six-nine. I'm eighteen years old.
That's my fuckin' girl, Allie!
God. God. I know she's older than me, but I feel a little like the older sister recently because of the whole Shift thing, she's a bit of a nervous wreck sometimes and it dependent on me sometimes. So I can't help but just be so proud of her.
Sortie last night. We were pinned down by an absolute hellfire of machine guns, missiles, thermal lances, ion fire...the whole nine yards. I couldn't get the hell out, and my shield was all out of juice. Jackie had been flushed out and needed to scramble, she wasn't going to be in position for another few minutes. Addie's been scratched out, of the fight, NC crippled, barely managed to get Second Sun outta there. Lucy was alone out in the middle of everything. I was pretty sure I was gonna say goodbye to her.
Then my fucking sister hits fullsync, jumps into action, and comes blasting out of the ravine next to me, pulling the last of my big rockets out of the pot as she went. Jesus, I thought I was gonna have a heart attack. Then she pitched the thing. Blackstoners were so surprised they could barely react, couldn't shoot it down in time like the rest of 'em, so she nailed them right in the middle of the line. Huge explosion, blew a cloud of dust into the air two hundred feet up, easy. When it'd cleared, she was back down there with me, and Lucy was with her. I felt like the sun had come out. Then Jackie got into position again, started picking them off, and we circled around under her cover, got into place, and wiped them out.
My big sister is fucking awesome.
Good day. Real good day! Night!
My name is Mia Anastasia Hartley. The date's January first, two-six-seven-oh. I'm eighteen years old.
I don't think I can ever get drunk on New Years again. Ever. It is just not a good idea.
Additional note, and a reminder for future Mia, because come on, let's be honest, we all know you look back on New Years video logs constantly: whatever you do, never ever let Jackie and a drunk Addie be in the same room again. Holy fffff—
Short log tonight. Because on that note, I need to go get something cold (god, Allie's gonna need to help me, I can't even feel it anymore) to ice Addie's knuckles, and another something cold to put on Jackie's eye. Well, look at it this way: at least Addie's not punching me out this time. Ugh, I can hear Jackie groaning in the next room, and Addie's still frigid. I need to go take care of 'em.
Is this what being a mom is like? Jesus.
Night.
My name is Mia Anastasias Hartley. The date is June second, two-six-seven-oh, and I am officially nineteen years old.
Shit birthday. Shit, shit, shit birthday.
Jackie's Shift manifested today. She joked that now she's a member of the cool kid's club, but she's shaken up, it's really easy to tell. Allie's...well, busy with her own Shift a lot these days. Lucy is trying to not lose herself to this asshole guy named Aldis Follen, the previous pilot of Claw Hammer. And, well...Addie. So it's just me now, who's really present to help her.
Got out of Moonshot after a fullsync, and she was like...dead. Not out of it, I mean, and she didn't fall over or something. But for a minute or two her emotions were just gone.
Screwed up to see her like that. She's always been so cheerful and emotional, having her lock up like that...it hurt. But I talked her through it, talked about Polaris Shifts and stuff. Had her scratch me on the neck, watch me wince. Told her that yeah, it seemed awful, but I'm still not totally numb, and I've been in constant active duty for almost five years, and see? It takes a lot more time than she thinks for the Shift to progress. She seemed better after that. I hope she turns out okay.
Bah. Not what I wanted on my birthday. But hey, that's just how it is, right?
Night.
F—fuck, I—no, no I'm not gonna cry anymore, I..goddamnit, I let myself somehow get lulled into that sense of security again, I, she...
Fuck, no I can't say it, I can't say it. It's too painful, like stabbing myself, I can't...
Fuck, I—I watched it happen, I saw the thermal lance coming, I—I could've—I could've done...done something, I don't know, I saw it punch right, right through Claw Hammer, I dragged it off and opened it to see if she was okay, and she...I just...
..We—we're...we need...we need a new Megaera.
I'm gonna puke. I'm—she didn't—it shouldn't have—
Hurrgghhhhgkkk!
F—fuck, I need to go...I need to go wash my face and clean this—clean this up, I just—
Lucy...I'm sorry—hrrrgkkkkk—
... I don't want to log today.
Mia Hartley. March Thirteenth, two-six-seven-one.
Anita Lawrence. Callsign Megavolt. A ballistic SMG and an ion hand cannon. Vanguard. Our new Megaera.
I'm not getting attached to this one.
She's going to die too.
...I don't want to talk about her.
Mia Ana Hartley. March twenty-first, two-six-seven-one.
I couldn't do it.
I can't—I can't not get invested. Anita is...just...Jackie is withdrawing from her because she's worried about getting Anita too attached and then losing everything. Addie is...well, she's still Addie. I can't...god. It's so sad what happened to her after Priss died. She just can't do human things anymore. I don't know. I just think it's sad to watch Jackie avoid her, and watch Allie avoid her. They used to be such good friends.
The point is, Anita was just...all alone. And it was horrible to watch her avoiding everyone, just going back to her quarters, trying not to make eye contact. So I...
Well, I started talking to her. Apologized for being unfriendly because I'd just said goodbye to a very close friend, but that wasn't her fault, introduced myself, and told her she could come to me no matter what.
She gave me a hug, and cried. Then I started crying too.
Fuck. She's just a kid. And...god, god, I can't help but feel like she's somehow my kid, even though she's only a few years younger than I am. Nobody else is gonna help her.
So...fuck, what was I supposed to do?
Ugh. Bye.
My name is Mia Ana Hartley. The date is June second, two-six-seven-one. Come on, Anita! Get over here!
...Are you sure? You said this was important to—
Yeah, exactly! That's why you're gonna get over here and do it!
I dunno, Mia...
Hey hey, remember! It's my twentieth birthday! Think of it as a birthday gift!
Well, if you're sure, then...yeah!
Hey! Take a look, this is Anita, the little sparkplug!
Hey! Sparkplug? What's that supposed to mean?
Well, you're Megavolt, right? And you're a little firecracker, aren't ya? So you're the sparkplug! Psst! She's not actually a firecracker!
Ughh, come onnn, Mia!
Ha! You hear that! You hear that, Anita? You sound just like me when I was a kid! Ah-ahahah! Come on, Anita! Come baaack!
She's great, isn't she? Ahaha! See ya!
My name is Mia Anastasia—YEAH, SPARKPLUG! MY MIDDLE NAME IS ANASTASIA, WHAT ABOUT IT? CLOSE THE DOOR AND LET ME LOG, KIDDO!
Ahem.
Well, tomorrow's the big day. Training period's just about done, Sparkplug's 'bout to come on her first real Tartarus op! She's...well, she's nervous as all hell, y'know? Obviously, I mean, who wouldn't be? But I think she'll be okay. She's actually really good. And it helps that she's actually got some range, unlike—
...Never mind. Point is, Sparkplug's great, and I'm positive she'll do just as good as any Fury!
Man, I can't remember the last time I've really been excited for one of these ops. Maybe back when Priss—
God. I need to stop thinking about that kind of thing. Those days are over, and they aren't coming back. But...if Sparkplug's around, then things aren't so bad.
Anyway, I'm doing better than I have for a long time. Allie's also starting to warm up to her with me on her side. She agreed that she reminds her of me when I was a kid. Jackie's still holding herself apart, and I don't think Addie's ever going to like anyone ever again. But...well, two out of four isn't bad, right?
Dang, I really like this kid, haha.
I'll see you again after the op with the good news!
My name's Mia Anastasia Hartley, date's October twentieth, two-six-seven-one, twenty years old and stoked as hell!
Sparkplug is an ace. A fuckin' ACE! She crushed it so hard that even ADDIE needed to admit that she did good!
Stealth op deep into Blackstone, puttin' on the Blackstone flag and cracking open a reserve barracks to start turning 'em on themselves. There was retaliation from a few NCs, obviously, we were assaulting a military installation, after all, and WOW, she tore them up! Ion in one hand, high cal SMG in the other, man she was popping 'em like nothing! Knew that training this kid up—
God, sometimes it's weird to realize she's only five years younger than I am. Feels like a bigger gap. Wild, right?
The point is, she absolutely shredded the op. Went like a breeze. This girl's gonna go the distance, I can tell! Man, oh man am I thrilled!
I'm gonna go clap her on the back and maybe punch her in the shoulder. She kicked ASS today! See ya!
M'name's Mia An-Anas-Anstasia Hartley, 's NEW YEARS BITTCHHHH! Gonna be twenny-six-sevenny-two in a few, and I am DRUNK AS FUUUUCK! 'S great, I love't, missed this shit on New Years! Sparkplug somehow managed to get 'er hands'n some gooooOOOood shit, and fuckin...everyone's sloshed, I'm sloshed, Jackie's slooshed, Allie's already fuckin gone, fuck, Addie's here hatin'll of us but she hatesh everyone now, she'sh not the same person I used t'know.
Fuuuckk now I'm sad. I'mna go back out'n hangout with 'em.
'S happy here for once. Nice.
See yaaaa!
My name is Mia Anastasia Hartley. The date's April twenty-second, two-six-seven-two. I'm twenty years old.
I knew it would happen eventually!
I was walking out, and I saw Jackie and Sparkplug talking in the common area. I knew Jackie wouldn't be able to resist her for too long.
Though...that reminds me. Jackie's Shift has started to get a little worse. It's not bad! Nowhere near as progressed as mine. Nothing permanent. But it lasts a lot longer after she fullsyncs. I think it was almost an hour last time. It still only happens after fullsync, but I'm...still worried about her.
Sparkplug still hasn't had any noticeable Shift yet, which is nice to see. I'm worried about what's gonna happen to that kiddo too. I seem to worry about these girls a lot.
But the point is, the two of them are talking now. Jackie's finally, finally stopped holding herself back, maybe after seeing me spending so much time with Sparkplug.
God. More worry. Person I'm worried about the most. Allie is...there's something wrong with her. She's twitchy and paranoid, and never seems to relax unless it's around me. I hope she's dealing with nerves or something. She takes a long, long time to process grief, so maybe she's still upset over...well, yeah. I don't know. I just really hope it's not her Shift starting to go permanent. That would be a nightmare.
Well...that got a little upsetting. But the point is, I'm glad Sparkplug's starting to get along with Jackie. It's nice. I've been worried she hasn't bee talking to enough people other than me.
Gotta go talk to Donovan now, he has a briefing he wants to go over with me. Down to business, huh?
Anyway, see you.
My name is Mia Ana Hartley. The date is June second two-six-seven-two, and today I'm twenty one years old.
Sparkplug asked me some hard questions recently, and they're back on my mind now, since they've all gotta do with my birthday anyway.
She asked me about the ring first. Then I let her see my cockpit, and she noticed the picture. Recognized Allie and Addie. Asked who the other two are.
I've been quiet today. I think she thinks she's done something wrong. I've told her she didn't.
Fuck. I love Sparkplug—er, Anita. I love this kid, and I love Jackie. But...god. God.. I miss...I miss Priss and Lucy so goddamn much. I know I'm a soldier. Death is my business, I kill people, I've killed a lot of people. But...those two have left such a hole in my heart, and I don't think Jackie and Sparkplug can ever fill it.
Allie isn't doing well. And we're running out of medication again.
Haaahh. Happy birthday to Mia, I guess.
... ... ... ... ... ... I... I just...
Fuck. Fuck! How? How? WHY? I don't...I...
sniff Hello...?
Oh. Oh, hey...fuck. Hey, Sparks.
Yes, yes of course I'm crying alone. Hahaha...I've cried—cried alone more than you can imagine, kiddo.
God...why? Why did she have to go like that? She—she was better than that. She didn't—
Fuck. Fuck. Why?
Look, kiddo, you...you don't need to stick around me right now. You...you didn't—you didn't know her like I did. She was just...I know she was mean to you and Jackie, but...but you just...you can't understand. She just—she just missed her—Priss—she—hhgghhhh
Why? Why did this—why did she need to go like that? It's just...it's just Allie and I now, there's nobody else...there's...I miss her, I miss her smile, Ighhhh I just miss her so much, she didn't deserve what happened to her, she was just—just lonely, I just... ... ... ... sniff ... Fuck, I—
Do you mind if I—if I tell you about her, Sparks? About...how she used to be?
...Thank you.
My name is Mia Ana Hartley. It's January first, two-six-seven-three.
The other three are drinking right now.
I don't feel like it.
Fuck off, Mia. Don't judge me for smoking. Don't I have enough stress to have earned it?
Fuck. I can't believe—I know I've said it almost every day, but I just...I still can't believe Addie's gone. And she should have gone out better. She earned so much better. We all would've died so many times without her in the field. So what right does some asshole commander have to shoot her in the back of the head because she's taking out her frustration on another unit's NC?
She deserved more. She deserved better than this.
Hello?
Oh. Hey, Allie. Fuck, fuck, sorry, I know I shouldn't be smoking. I just...
...Yeah, I know. They didn't know her like we did, they wouldn't understand. C'mere.
F—fuck. I'm gonna...hggkkh—
...Yeah. I'm...I know.
I know I smell like smoke. But can...can you hug me like you did when we were little, Allie?
Thank you. Thank—thank you.
My name is Mia Ana Hartley. It's May thirty-first, two-six-seven-three.
Alecto #2. Mina.
God. I still feel like my soul got squeezed out like a dishrag. I know I said that I wouldn't get attached to Sparkplug. But this isn't a won't so much as a can't. I don't have the energy anymore. I can't bring myself to care about another girl who isn't—
Never mind.
Sparkplug showed her Shift. It's bad. It's just...it's just psychosis. She starts hallucinating, getting delusions. She's only made one fullsync and episodes are already starting. She said that I was trying to kill her, ran away, and shut herself up for eight hours.
They aren't giving us the drugs for Allie anymore. So now she just has to deal with the panic.
I can't feel my arms and legs at all anymore.
I'm going to cry.
Mia Hartley. June second, two-six-seven-three. Twenty two now.
I don't care. I don't care. I don't care. I don't care. I don't care. I don't care. I don't care. I don't care. I don't care. I don't care.
I'm sorry. Sis, Sparkplug, Jackie...even Mina, whoever you are. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. If I was good enough then Priss would still be alive. Addie would still be here and happy. I didn't want—I didn't mean—
I'm sorry.
Fuck. No. Sortie in a few days. Maybe that'll help me out of this funk.
Bye.
I've...
I... ... ... ... I haven't...I haven't held my gun to my head since basic. ... ... ... Sparkplug's—Anita, she's—
...I'm sorry. God, Sparkplug, I'm so—I'm sorry. You trusted me to—to cover your back. But then I, I didn't check all the angles, and I, I, I just—
Fuck. Fuck! FUCK! WHY SHOULD'T I? WHY SHOULD I JUST PULL THE TRIGGER? I COULDN'T—
...Oh god. Allie, I... ... ... ... You're a shit sister, Mia.
...God.
I still feel so bad about Sparkplug. I mean, it was just...it was just my fault. I can't even get around it, I just didn't watch all the angles.
I'll...god. I'll be glad to move on from this topic. Or...well, the next topic isn't much better, is it? As you can probably tell from the section name. And you also probably remember how awful things got around that point. So I'm gonna try and gloss over things. Not going to put in my birthdays, all of the New Years...it's just going to be the highlights of awfulness. So it'll be a bit shorter, since I don't really like rewatching these and don't want to go over them again.
Which ends with...well. You...know where this is going.
My name is Mia Anastasia Hartley. The date is February sixth, two-six-seven-four. I'm twenty two years old.
Siobhan keeps trying to talk to me. Sorry, kid. I mean, I'll talk to her, obviously. I'll be nice, I'll make peace between her and Mina whenever things go wrong, it's basically my job. But I'm not making a real connection with her. I can't. Not again. It hurts too much.
So I've been spending most of what little spare time I have with Allie. Well, and Jackie, but...less so.
God, if Allie saw me now, she'd be pissed. I mean...I know she can smell the smoke, no matter how much I try and hide it. At least I keep it out of the common area, out of the NCs and stuff. I've...I've earned this. It's fine. Fuck everyone else.
...It's so quiet now.
Allie's all quiet now because her Shift has messed her up. Mina and Siobhan are both quiet by nature, even if they get at each others' throats from time to time. Jackie's...well. Her shift has started to get to her a little more. She's still cheerful and stuff, but...less. Her smile isn't as real, I guess, and she keeps to herself more.
Whenever I walk out to the common room I feel like I'm seeing ghosts of the past. Like I can see young me and cheerful Allie, Priss laughing, Addie shaking her head with a smirk on her face, and Lucy smiling as she whittles in the corner. It's just...I don't know.
Is this what it's like to feel old?
Maybe. Who knows. Bye.
My name is Mia Anastasia Hartley. The date is April twenty-eighth. I am twenty two years old.
I'm glad I don't get attached.
It hadn't been a full year, and Mina died. Nameless, faceless. What's the point of it all?
Donovan said he found a new Alecto right away. Her name is Marina Martinez. Mina. Marina. I don't know. Maybe I'll start talking to her more once she makes it a few months. I dunno. At least Siobhan's still alive. I mostly expected her to die right off. Maybe she'll survive another day.
At this point, I only care about Allie and Jackie.
Poor Jackie. She can feel her emotions slipping away permanently, little by little. She's started keeping a journal like me, and the look on her face is just constant anguish. I feel so horrible for her. And Allie. God. Fairbanks. Fucking Fairbanks. I've tried. I've tried so hard. Donovan tried too. But they won't renew her modamerizol. Watching her fall apart in panic more and more often is breaking my heart.
Fuck. Where's my lighter? I need another cig.
My name is Mia Anastasia Hartley. The date is October fourteenth, two-six-seven-four. I'm twenty three years old.
Today, Marina saved Allie's life. Jumped out in front of her and mulched fuckers down while her drones fixed up Blue Sky.
Maybe I'll start being a little more involved with her. At least she deserves thanks for that. Cool shotgun, too.
Allie is really torn up, though. It's bad. Really bad. I need to actually force her into her NC so the higher ups don't come down and, I don't know, use me as leverage on her like they used her once on me. It feels awful. I don't want them doing it to her. So even though I feel like a fuckin' monster, I gotta keep doing it. The panic is getting worse, and the permanent effects are starting to ramp up too.
Speaking of shifts, everything below my shoulders and thighs are permanently numb now. When I come out of the cockpit—doesn't need to be fullsync anymore—the temporary numbness creeps further across me. Last time the only thing that had sensation on my entire body was my sternum.
I'm going to die soon, aren't I?
...I...fuck, I promised Allie I'd try to stop smoking. I can't light up.
I'll try to deal without it.
Good bye.
My name is Mia Ana Hartley. Date is February sixth, two-six-seven-five. I'm twenty three.
Everyone's still alive.
And you know what, I'm starting to get fond of Marina. Bear in mind; not attached. But fond. She's a bit devil-may-care and wild, and it's nice to have someone more excited back around here. I mentioned it already, but...everything's so quiet now. Jackie has to try even harder, and she's slipping. It's horrible. I hate it. So Marina, a fuckin...eighteen year old, I think? Eighteen year old kid with no shift just kinda throwing her weight around...god. It reminds me of...
Well. You know. Before Priss died.
Haaahhhh.
Allie said she wanted to talk to me about something important tonight.
Does it make me a bad sister that I'm terrified?
Well. I should go do that now.
Bye.
My name is...fuck this. Fuck the stupid introduction. I know who I am.
Siobhan's gone. That's three Megaeras down now. I miss Lucy. Got a new kid already again. Revolving door. Angry kid, calls herself Anya. I try to be nice to her, but the world's like a blur.
I've got an intense feeling of dread building, and building, and building. Something's about to go wrong. Something's about to go horribly, horribly wrong.
Fuck.
Bye.
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[RECORDING DELETED]
[RECORDING DELETED]
There's... ... I just...
Why?
Why
Why? Why? Just...
I don't...I don't understand.
We were—so many years. So many years that—
I can't—
How...how do I live now?
I can't...
What do I do without her?
I...
Please.
Please, god, please, please, please, come back, you deserved better, you needed—why couldn't they just—why didn't they—
...Why?
I...
Fuck, it's still so raw.
It's hard for me to write much about that. So I'm just going to try and move on to what happened afterwards. Because while it's not good...at least it's better.
Anything is better than going back there.
...What's the point anymore?
It's like...it's like being cut in half.
Donovan said that he's looking for a new Melinoë now.
OVER MY DEAD BODY.
I...I guess I'm...I'll try to...to keep going.
My name is Mia Ana Hartley. The date is August eighth, two-six-seven-six. I am twenty five years old.
...Look at this.
HEY! COME BACK HERE, FUCKING BRAT!
Look at this. Look at this! This is what they're trying to replace Allie with! This! Fucking...what did you say your name was? HEY! I'M TALKING TO YOU!
Ah...I...I'm...Pl—please—
You see what the fuck I mean? God, it's some cruel fucking JOKE. Sirona. Your name is Sirona!SIRONA! SAY IT!
...p...please...
Fine. Fine! Get the fuck out!
What a fucking joke.
My...my name is—fuck, ow—Mia Ana Hartley. The date is December nineteenth, two-six-seven-six. I am twenty five years old.
Jackie punched me in the face today.
'Course she went for one of the only places left that I've got sensation. Fuck. I was yelling at that little shit that they're trying to replace Allie with, she was being afraid as usual. Fuck, it makes me so MAD! Then Jackie spun me around and punched me in the right cheek. Hard. You can see the bruise already. Told me in her cold voice...god. She used to be so cheerful. Told me that I was acting like Addie when she joined and that I stopped her from picking on Jackie back in the day.
It's not the same! It's NOT! Allie is—was—
FUCK!
I...
I realized something today.
I...My name is Mia Anastasia Hartley. The date is May nineteenth, two-six-seven-seven. I am twenty five years old.
I realized that...
Sirona is terrified of me.
The only one that seems to tolerate her is Jackie. Marina ignores her. Anya screams at her.
So why is she the most scared of me?
...I've done something awful, haven't I?
I...god. Allie...you...you wouldn't want this.
I'm sorry. I'll stop smoking. I'll—I'll try to be nice to Sirona. Please. I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
My name is Mia Ana Hartley. The date is August fourth, two-six-seven-seven. I am twenty six years old.
That didn't work either.
Sirona is never, ever going to forgive me, is she?
Or, not forgive. That's the wrong word. She's just...always going to be terrified of me. God, Jackie was so right. I'm just...there's no excuse. There really isn't. Sirona, you poor child, I'm sorry.
I gave her something. She looked at me like it was going to explode. It was just one of the shells out of Arbiter that I scratched a pattern in. I guess I channeled my Lucy for a minute, ha ha.
I hope she keeps it.
Sirona, Allie, I'm sorry.
Sirona's dead.
God. I feel sick.
I don't even have much I can say. I never tried to know her. That poor, poor child.
I need to do better next time. Sirona, I'm sorry. I won't do it again.
My name is Mia Anastasia Hartley. The date is September fourth, two-six-seven-eight.
I waited for the emotion to come back into her voice after she got out of the cockpit, but it never did.
Jackie's all gone.
And now I've got nothing left either. There's no feeling. I need to be so careful. I can't do anything. I feel like a doll on a shelf, like if I breathe too hard, I'm going to fall apart.
But...no. I can't.
Donovan's gone AWOL. Nobody really knows why. With him gone, there's no formal commander of Tartarus Squadron anymore. So if it's going to stick around, then it's gonna need someone who can hold it together.
I looked back and my last few logs. Look at me, wallowing in self-pity now that Donovan's gone. Hating myself for the fact that without him, there's no more Melinoë, there's no more Lyssa, there's nothing left. But no. Fuck that. Jackie's right. I've been such a stupid fool.
Tartarus Squadron is my life. If they want to tear it apart, they're gonna need to go through me,
Sorry, Allie. Sorry, Priss. Sorry, Addie. Sorry, Lucy. Sorry, Sparkplug. I'll kick the cigs. I'll stop drinking. I'll get my shit together.
I'll do better next time.
I promise.
Well...I guess that's all.
I doubt this is going to reach you. Donovan. I doubt you're still using this datatool after deserting. But you never know. It could get there. And I think this was maybe more for me anyway.
But if you do get it...thanks, Donovan.
For everything.
Mia A. Hartley (Lyssa), Interim-Commander of Tartarus Squadron
Polaris Shift ◢
Mia's been a pilot for a long, long time, so it's lucky for her that her Shift is pretty mild compared to a lot of others. No debilitating sickness, no mental lapses, no panic attacks or personality bleed. No, her Shift has steadily removed her sense of touch. When she first started, she would just get numb fingers after fullsync, the kind you get in cold weather, that would last for a few hours before sensation would return. But after years and years of rigorous and constant military work, she's reached the point of permanent full-body numbness. She needs to be really careful how she exercises, how she moves; she can't box anymore or anything, and she tries to let other people do the cooking instead of her since she can't feel the burns. But all told, she tells herself, it's not too bad. She's seen worse.
Much, much worse.
Personal Mission ◢
Mia is an old hand at this. She's been though a lot of good times, and a lot of bad times. And much of her life has been spent and devoted to her home, Tartarus Squadron. She's done a lot of bad things, and she knows that very well. But that doesn't mean a damn thing to her. Because all she wants right now is—Commander AWOL, Melinoë unassigned, massive friction between members—is to keep Tartarus Squadron together. Because if she doesn't, she just doesn't know what she's going to do anymore.
Full Name - Quinn Loughvein Callsign - Ablaze Age - 16 (b. 2662) Birthplace - Denver-Vegas Pilot Type - Assault -
P S Y C H E
Cheerful!! Quin is something of an anomaly sometimes. With all the nightmare that piloting can be, especially for one as young as she is, it comes as a genuine shock to some people when they find that not only is she personable, but she's downright chipper. She's overall just a genuinely nice presence to be around, especially if one's been beaten down by the dark side of piloting for any length of time.
Supportive Hand in hand with that cheery nature comes the next symptom of Quinn's terminal case of positivity: somehow she's become a highly supportive and empathetic individual. While she is, of course, a pilot and thus has devoted much time to becoming skilled in the art of war, she really would rather talk it out with whatever's going on than jump straight to the nuclear solution.
Volatile Still, despite all that, Quinn is a pilot, and she does have that skill. And it's hard sometimes, for her to reconcile who she is at heart—that cheerful kiddo—with the things that she's done. She's formed a kind of...semi-stable suspension of emotion, where as long as she doesn't think about all the awful stuff behind her she can ignore it. But because that delicate balance is so tenuously struck, it can have dramatic fallout if it should ever be lost.
G E A R
Thermal Lances Something of a misnomer, as they're not really thermal lances, or any kind of "lance" a all. The thermal lances are a pair of small fuel tanks strapped to the underside of her forearms when going into combat proper. Though they're generally subtle and harmless, when Quinn flicks the toggle rings attached to them (which can be done with the thumb of the same hand, with a bit of stretching) nozzles pierce out from said tanks. At that point, flicking her wrists backwards triggers the tanks, which proceed to produce a stream of cohered thermite that can burn through nearly anything she points them at. They're small, so each one is a single use before it's refilled, but really, one use is all you need of something like that, and luckily refills are just iron, aluminum, and petroleum.
Journal Quinn chooses to eschew the modern convenience of the datatool for a normal, old-fashioned pen-and-paper journal. Given to her as a gift by Becca years ago, it's very important to her. There are memories years old written in there now, and every time she reads the first few pages, a kind of melancholic smile plays over her face. It all feels like it was just yesterday, after all.
Framed Picture Kept far away from the insides of Ablaze, her nightstand holds a framed 4x6 picture that shows Quinn standing front and center, with Becca on one side, leaning against her so Quinn's head falls into the crook of her neck, and Delia on the other side, giving her a side-on hug with a big smile on her face. Quinn looks at this often, and is open about the fact that it's her most prized possession.
N E U R A L C O M B A T A N T
Armor Ablaze is a slim, quick, lightweight NC, jet black and accented with silver metal; the relative weight of her primary armament and the propulsion system means that if she wants to be light on her feet, she needs to forgo a lot of armor. And she has. This Assault-tyle NC is quite vulnerable to anything that Quinn's shield doesn't protect it from, so its principle defense is high mobility, skirting around the edges of a fight with the propulsion system on its back.
Hands Quinn's calling card is Undying Light. Though it's not a quick or lightweight weapon by any means, what this enormous thermal cannon lacks in maneuverability, it makes up for quite thoroughly in sheer blistering firepower. As tall as her NC is, it has a long cycle even by default. But if she takes the extra time to let it charge, the devastation that it can wreak could only be described as spectacular. Not only that, but when Quinn is in fullsync, she can reroute some of the additional power through induction plates in Ablaze's hands, letting her substantially increase the power of Undying Light. Precise? Not nearly. Less 'shoot this NC' and more 'shoot in the general direction of this NC and watch the thermal bloom envelop everything.' But when you want to blow a particularly bothersome foe off the map entirely, accept no substitutes.
Back The back slot of Ablaze is taken up by a large, heavy propulsion system. High-powered and versatile, it allows for sudden bursts of directional movement. Once Quinn hits fullsync, the additional power allows for much high propulsion, as well as a far longer duration to the time she can spend in the air. If she's willing to really commit, she can even reach limited flight. Which, as you can imagine, can be absolutely devastating when combined with her cannon.
Right Auxiliary Ablaze indeed.
The right shoulder of Ablaze plays host to an innocuous-looking fuel tank. Now, for a girl that uses a thermal weapon, 'fuel tank' probably sounds strange. But if her cannon was her only weapon, well, where would she be then? No, this fuel tank—with attached barrel, of course—serve a very simple purpose, one shared by her thermal lances.
It is a flamethrower. A very, very powerful flamethrower.
At a brief impulse, she can set loose a stream of cohered thermite, burning in a flare as bright as the sun at thousands of degrees. There isn't much time in it, so she needs to be careful when she uses it; wasting it is a big waste indeed. But when employed properly, this weapon is an absolute nightmare for anything unshielded.
Left Auxiliary Slightly more pedestrian than the insane contraption on her other shoulder, her left auxiliary is a much more typical shield generator, though it does have a slight quirk to it. Weighing her odds, Quinn figured that she was probably more likely to run into ballistic weapons than anything else on the battlefield. So with some tinkering, the Perihelion SP actually gains energy from kinetic impacts instead of losing it. That benefit, however, doesn't come for free. While it's true that ballistic weapons don't do much to it now, it's lost pretty much all of its thermal dispersal qualities as a result, meaning thermal weapons will pass just about right through it. Just like her flamethrower, it needs to be used carefully and correctly to work well, but when it is, it's a very powerful tool.
R E L A T I O N S
Rebecca Darroux (goes by Becca) Quinn's parental figure for about eight years now, Becca is a bit of an interesting case study in care and contradiction. To pretty much anyone else (bar one), she's like...the dictionary definition of a hardass. She talks tough, fights tougher, usually carries a gun, and does her job very well. To Quinn, though...to Quinn, she's an incredibly empathetic, caring, and motherly figure who tries her best to not refrain from her vices; doesn't smoke, doesn't drink if she can help it, hides her gun, even tries not to swear. Always an interesting reaction from people that know her, but haven't seen her with her definitely-not-daughter-I-promise; she really is like a whole different person.
Shannon and Luke Loughvein Quinn's biological parents, and a deeply, deeply problematic presence that hangs over her head even now. They are a pair of scientific authorities, specifically the foremost scientists in DV with regards to the study of Neural Combatants. This is the root cause of the extremely problematic relationship that they cultivated, and still to some faint extent have, with Quinn, and the horrifying situation that Becca saved her from all those years ago.
Delia St. Seine Delia St. Seine has been referred to as many things over her 18 year life. People have called her a prodigy. A genius. A menace. A disaster. A symbol of the problems inherent in the system.
Quinn calls her a sister.
After her parents' untimely demise when she was very young, she was taken care of by a family friend for several years. During this time, she demonstrated an amazing aptitude for engineering, and Rebecca Darroux took notice of that and took her under her wing, begin teaching her all about the process of weaponmaking. As she learned from Rebecca, Delia heard rumors that she had an adoptive daughter, which of course, Rebecca mercilessly crushed down, and so Delia didn't really put much stock into them. Until one day when she was eleven, when she--completely by accident, when she was looking for Rebecca--ran across a shy, quiet girl, must've been eight or nine years old, with a long black and yellow braid and wide, apprehensive yellow eyes. Or...eye. The right one was gone.
To make a long story short, the two of them eventually grew close to each other, and Delia to Becca. And when Delia's adoptive father Mendez died, she was (informally) adopted by Quinn and taken into their family.
Now, though...she's been missing for a few months now, with no word at all. And both Becca and Quinn are getting very, very worried.
Physical Details ◢
Quinn is a shortish girl, no more than 5'3" in height, with an extremely ordinary build. Despite that, she is extremely recognizable whenever she walks into the room thanks to a few very specific and unusual pieces of her appearance. And first and foremost is her hair. While dark gray streaked with yellow isn't exactly impossible, is is highly unusual. But moreso is the sheer volume of said hair. When tied up in a tight (if large) braid, it ends up going down to her upper thighs. Untied, it goes all the way halfway down her calves. Needless to say, she keeps it braided near permanently to avoid tripping over her own hair. She's reasonably athletic, another piece of her that is fairly average; but that average is applied to the average of a teenage girl, so she's not going to be running a marathon any time soon.
Next are her eyes. Or, well, her eye, singular. Only her left eye is intact, and it is a bright, sharp, violent yellow, wide and expressive, roving around with constant curiosity. By contrast, the other side of her face displays a black eyepatch, dyed here and there with goldenrod yellow. Faint echoes of scar tissue peek out from underneath, barely hinting at the mangled, mutilated mess that sits where her eye socket used to.
For the most part, she wears functional clothing; not out of any real desperate need, but simply because it's her taste. She's never really liked super restrictive fancy clothing. As a general rule, she likes duller, darker shades much more over bright colors or pastels. When asked for a reason, she simply claims that dull colors set off against her eye and hair a bit better, and that anything else would look weird.
Background Information ◢
Quinn Loughvein's background is a bit mysterious, all told. With the exception of her parents, nobody really knows much about it, especially her. And she certainly doesn't want to spend much time around her parents. What can be loosely speculated is that she was born in Denver-Vegas in the summer of 2662, upon which her parents immediately tested her for NC compatibility. And upon discovering she was neurally compatible, they began feeding her and pumping her with a staggering array of neurochemicals and other morally dubious drugs in an effort to crank her neural compatibility up: to turn her into the ultimate NC pilot. She was steered away from ever leaving their sight; and so never being exposed to the world.
Unfortunately for her parents, working where they did meant working reasonably closely to Rebecca Darroux, the poster child of the jerk with a heart of gold. And, on top of that...canny. She noticed that there were some things wrong with the Loughveins; they were exceptionally cagey, so it took more or less eight years. But when she did notice, she decided to tail them with a drone to figure out exactly what was going on.
She did.
She called them in the next day and reamed them, tearing them apart for their mistreatment and giving them an ultimatum: either they give child up and forfeit parental rights, or she'd see them in court. With all the evidence she needed from the drone footage.
Of course, it was obvious to everyone that 'court' was a sham in a city like this. But Becca had a bit more cachet and notoriety; and thus, she made the rules.
It took a bit for parental rights to be ceded; and during the process, Becca decided to spend some time with the child to avoid leaving her alone with her parents. She didn't know exactly what had cause her to have an eyepatch at eight, but whatever it was, it was not good, and she wasn't sure she wanted to know. But then...something interesting happened: She got attached.
Quinn's life changed unbelievably quickly as soon as she found herself adopted by Becca. She chose to keep the name Loughvein; it just felt wrong to leave it behind. She was a child, after all. And her life going forward was...nice. Sure, Becca had her share of detractors. But she'd never been anything but wonderful to Quinn, and as time went on, to Delia as well.
Rebecca hoped that she could keep Quinn out of the NCs permanently; completely disregarding that pilots typically didn't live very long, she didn't know the full range of effects that the drugs that Luke and Shannon had given her had. But it was fruitless, because Quinn gravitated to them in the end; and at 15, she became one of the younger pilots out there. The notably sensitive Quinn didn't fare too well on the battlefield, but she was a pretty skilled pilot, and DV probably wasn't going to let her go easy.
To make a long story short, Becca eventually bought her out of the military. It wasn't exactly cheap, and it wasn't exactly easy; but Quinn was much, much happier. But still...she loved piloting, but didn't want to be in the military. So...what?
It was then that Becca put in her head the idea--the contract was free now--to leave DV, and go freelancing.
So she did.
She's been doing so for a little while now, and has happened across Lost Hope.
(She still calls Becca every night).
Polaris Shift ◢
Quinn's a little bit of a special case in the way she thinks about her Shift. Not only does it not bother her overly much, but...she actually likes it.
Quinn's Shift manifests as a voice inside her head. As far as anybody can tell, it's got nothing to do with personality drift regarding any old pilots of Ablaze, it has nothing to do with anybody else at all. More likely it's just a kind of persistent psychosis. But whatever the cause, the manifestation remains the same: there's another person inside of Quinn's head, or at least that's how she puts it.
This personality--who she says also wants to be called Quinn and so she that's what Quinn calls her--as far as can be gleaned, is rather different from the Quinn that most people know. That bouncy positivity is markedly absent. In the fragments of conversations that can be observed, she seems much more cynical and aggressive. But regardless, Quinn seems to put a great deal of stock into the other Quinn's opinions and thoughts. And not only that. Quinn has...
...She's made friends with it.
A small side effect of her Shift and this bizarre situation is that Quinn can sometimes have difficulty in knowing whether she's talking to her internal Quinn through thoughts, or spoken out loud. Sometimes she'll cut in and out of a conversation, bits and pieces of it out loud and the rest remaining unspoken. It can be someone disconcerting at times.
Personal Mission ◢
For Quinn, family is above all.
So her current goal, while it may not be filled for a long time, is finding out where Delia went. She's rather worried about her, as is Becca. So she is fully committed to tracking her down sooner rather than later.
- Full Name - Lady Luenciel Aelissia Navietas Age - 15 Gender - Female Heritage - Grayle, The River Kingdom Magical Affinity - Water
-
Gentle As An Autumn Rain Luenciel—or Lucien, as the case may be—is a soft, kind person. Though her social interaction up to this point has been limited, she hasn't changed, and they all point to the same thing: patient, gentle, caring, almost to a fault. That's not to say that she's gullible or easily taken in, not exactly. Rather, even when someone irks her, gets on her nerves, is a pain to be around; even then, she still cares.
Quiet As A Winter Mist Though, that might not be immediately apparent sometimes if you don't know her. In order for her to show that caring side of her she (not always, but usually) needs to speak first. It's not like she's shy or a wallflower, that's not why she's quiet. She's always tended that way, really. Just a generally quiet person, And the wire that she walks now to avoid being discovered has only made this more prominent. She is keenly aware that her voice is not a man's. And while she can get away with it for now, there's always a chance someone will realize she's out of place. So the less she talks, the safer she is from discovery and expulsion.
Fierce As A Summer Storm And expulsion is something she does not want. For all the noblewoman in her blood, all the quietude in her manner, all the kindness in her soul...she's still training to be a knight. And that means something. It means that despite her alignment to water, there's still a fire in her, one that is impossible to snuff out. And though slow to rouse, when that fire is stoked, she turns from a quiet child with too many rumors floating around about her to a skillful, relentless, and vicious warrior that belies her sheltered and pampered upbringing.
-
Crest Of The Wave Luen doesn't carry a weapon. Ever. But that doesn't mean she's ever unarmed.
The bracers that wrap around her forearms are scored all over with lines of runic script, each of which corresponds to a spell in Luen's trademark arsenal. She uses very little magic directly. Rather, it all gets filtered through the elaborate runes on her bracers. They conduct the water. Run it along their conduits. And finally, the water—whether liquid or simply condensed from the air—takes shape in her hand, and becomes a weapon. A sword, a glaive, a spear, an axe, a knife; all of these and more are available to her through her right bracer, and only dissipate when she lets them, loses focus, or loses consciousness. Her left bracer can create arrays—from one to six, depending on focus, time, and available water—of watery knives that launch themselves at her foe.
Some may say that she's vulnerable without her bracers. It's true, she is. Take them from her, and she becomes a normal teenage girl. But good luck getting to them through the storm.
Born Under A Baleful Star Curse-child. Ill-starred. Monster. Thing. Killer.
Rumors have spread a long way from the Navietas household over these past years. Whispers down the lane, growing ever more distorted as they've slithered from house to house, ear to mouth to ear again. Dead-pale skin, like a corpse. And it only spun out as time had gone on, and her seclusion had remained. Red eyes, red like blood. And though she lived in quiet, these rumors—stark white hair, like all the light was drained from it—circled back around to her. Though her father tried to head them off as best he could, he was never able to stop her from wondering whether or not she's really safe to be near. After all, when something is repeated often enough...
...You start to believe it.
Quickstep It might be surmised by her slim lines, weaker physique, and the fact that she uses magical water-blades instead of any real weapon, but Luenciel is not what you would call strong. It's very likely that almost everyone else around her could overpower her through raw strength without a huge deal of effort (except maybe Julian).
And yet, she's still a competent combatant, because as much as she lacks in might, she makes up more than enough for with speed and technique. Doesn't matter if you're weaker if you're too agile for them to hit you, and too good for them to block (she can thank her dad for that one).
Physical Description
Ah, Lady Luenciel. To say that she cuts a striking figure would be something of an understatement. Much taller than her poor late mother was, she falls nearly to her father's height at an unusual and surprising 174cm. More intriguing is that she looks nothing like either of them, really; where her parents have tan skin, dark hair, dark eyes, Luen is none of those things. Whispers throughout the courts told of the Navietas child, born under an unlucky star, bleached of color, and light, and life. Quiet. Watching. Waiting. And everyone knows so little about this ill-fated child. Age, creed, name, even gender; all hazy and indistinct. Her father's reticence is proof: something about the second child of House Navietas is wrong.
Though, that's not quite the truth. As far as Lady Luenciel Navietas knows...she's simply unlucky.
Nobody quite knows why she looks the way she does. Not her family, not the soothsayers her father sought, not the books that she's read. But it's probably not from some kind of magical curse like people assume she has or is. Her ghost-pale skin; her stark icepick-white hair; her narrow eyes, dyed a vivid sanguine crimson; just how she is. A strange, unfortunate twist of fate that would perhaps not be called normal, but...harmless.
Tall, lithe, slender. Stick thin and skinny. While once upon a time she wore them openly, she tends to hide these aspects as best she can now, obscuring them with voluminous, billowing cloaks. Lucky she is indeed that she has very little obviously visible curvature, though underneath her clothing, she wears a well-kept, tightly wrapped sarashi to, as she would put it, "tighten everything up." Always best to ensure no clothing laying oddly on what should be a slender boy's frame gives her away, after all. What an embarrassing way to be exposed that would be. Her long, high cheekbones can give her a haughty, arrogant look that she tries her best to avoid.
Since determining her own fate to be a knight (or at least a cadet), she's had to change the way she carries herself quite a bit. Though she can't avoid the graceful, gliding steps that are so baked into her now, the primness in her bearing has gone the way of her her once-habitual curtsies and urge to take up less space. The urges are still there—one does not simply shrug off the years—but she's become quite practiced at avoiding them now.
...For the most part.
Character Conceptualization
Asceron Navietas, Lord of a military family, is a man stricken by grief. His first child, Dicen, was a fine young man. He would've been eighteen now, by Asceron's reckoning. But he was taken young. Not by fire. Not by war. A strange fever that refused to break ravaged him, turning his tall, fit form into a shivering, wasted thing before finally, mercifully, letting him slip softly away into the night. And that, on top of his wife dying soon after childbirth years before, giving him his second child: a girl, who she named Luenciel before she passed. And a bizarre child she was; from the moment she opened her crimson eyes, Asceron knew that something was strange. And when her hair grew in stark and white, he was ever more concerned for her.
Her strange appearance, and Asceron's grief at Enuiel's passing, caused her life to be sheltered, secluded one from the beginning. And the spreading rumors—no doubt house staff who'd caught glimpses of white hair and red eyes, Asceron thought—convinced him quite well that he was right to do so. The outside wasn't just indifferent to her. It was outright hostile.
For years, she sought solace in her father and her brother. Though...at one point, her uncle came to visit. She'd never seen him before, but...he seemed nice, right? And the rumors hadn't truly found their way to her yet. He saw his niece, one of the very few that Asceron had let see her at all. He was nice. Gave her candy, patted her on the head, went to bed, and...the next morning, tripped and fell down the stairs. Broke his neck. And just like that, dead.
More grief from Asceron. Condolences from Dicen. And...confusion from the seven-year-old Luenciel.
A few years later, an elderly woman who lived next door to their house broke several bones from a fall and couldn't get up. She lived alone, and her voice wasn't loud enough. Unable to move, she stayed there until she died.
A year after that, a vendor hawking his wares in the street below seized, and his movement ceased as his heart stopped beating in his chest.
And then, when she was twelve...Dicen.
So very grief-wracked now, Asceron kept Luen inside not just for her own sake, but for his own. As strange as she looked, she was his last family. He wanted so desperately to keep her close. And though nobles came and went, events were held and released from the manor of the Navietas—though he told her to stay in her room, flashes of her were noticed, just barely, and the rumors intensified—the years passed, and Luen remained.
By now, though, she'd heard the rumors. So, so many of them. Enough that she started to believe them some: that her being around someone put them in danger. So she looked at her father. She looked at his glaive on the wall. She looked inward. Did she really want to be locked away like this for her whole life?
No. No, she wanted to make something of herself. She wanted to see the outside for herself. She wanted to talk to people. She wanted to escape her curse. And as she thought of these things, an ember kindled itself in her chest. What she wanted was...
...To fight.
Two more years passed in the blink of an eye. She trained with her father, learning from him how best to leverage her water magic and creating her bracers. She remained inside. And then, as she packed to leave, she sat down with her father again. She talked to him about names. About how she wouldn't be able to go by hers, and would need to find a man's name. Her father—upset she was leaving, but unable to bring himself to stop her—thought for several minutes as they sat together in silence one last time.
"...Lucien."
And so, Lucien Navietas—scion of the Navietas family and a cursed child born under an ill-fated Star—left her—his—family home. To see. To talk. To escape.
- Full Name - Axan Endryss Sturke Age - 26 Gender - Female Heritage - Valefor, Land of the Dragon Magical Affinity - Fire
-
Soul Alight Axan is an incredibly driven person. After she chooses a course to take—leaving her home, learning to fight with the best, honing her magic, becoming a mercenary—then come hell or high water, she is going to make it all the way, or she'll die trying. That's not to say she's stubborn, exactly. She knows how to be flexible or take a break; the world is too amazing to not sometimes. But what she doesn't seem to know is how to give up. However long it takes her to get where she's going, she is getting there.
Heart Ablaze But what's the point of getting anywhere if you step on everyone in the way?
Surprising those who have heard of her by name and reputation and nothing else, Axan is a very warm and caring person, always ready to help people out and to do it with a smile on her face. She has a strong moral compass, and this tends to be responsible for a number of those breaks and distractions; no matter the inconvenience it causes to her, she's not the type who'd find someone in distress and think, I'll leave it to someone else to solve.
Tears Aflame Driven, compassionate, helpful, intense. As might be gleaned, Axan is pretty much incapable of being clinical and emotionless. Partially as a side effect of using almost exclusively the chaotic strain of Incantation inherited from Vaalascha but mostly just because of the kind of person she is, she feels everything very strongly, from joy to hope to grief to sorrow. And no matter what emotion she's feeling, she shows it. Her heart is very much worn on her sleeve. It all comes together to form a picture most really don't expect; a caring, compassionate mercenary who eschews the cutthroat reputation of her occupation. After all, she's never really been one for rules.
-
Dragonsong A wild, chaotic strain of magic, Vaalaschan Incantation is unpredictable and dangerous, often just as likely to injure the wielder or their comrades as it is the enemy.
Axan, thenn is an unusual case study.
From long practice and constant use, she has begun to exercise a strict control of that dangerous dragonic strain of fire, and bend it firmly to her will in a way that's not altogether common to see. And it makes her quite a threatening presence, because not only are Vaalaschan Incantations powerful in their own right...nobody really makes use of them. She is unpredictable and hard to read.
Emberdance All those dancing lessons as a child came in handy after all.
Hand in hand with her magic, her fighting style further increases that strange combat style that makes her so hard to read and dangerous. While she is of course proficient in standard swordplay and often incorporates pieces of it in combat to confuse and distract, her principle form is that of a quick Valeforian dance. With the great deal of strength she has at her disposal, she can whip her greatsword around faster than it looks like she should rightfully be able to, whirling it in a dervish of brilliant sanguine steel and flashing fire. Her steps are quick, her smile is undaunted. And she always keeps tempo.
Kindlesoul Keeping tempo indeed.
Axan prides herself on being able to react to anything, and do it with a smile on her face. And downtime is absolutely no exception to the rule. As merciless as she is in battle, once she gets off the battlefield, she is just as skilled and happy applying herself inside the home as well as outside. She may not look it, and she may not advertise it, but Axan is rather good at homemaking. Whether cooking a roast over an open fire, baking a pie, keeping a garden, or arranging flowers, she channels that privileged upbringing, putting it to good use to make herself and anyone around her at the time just a little bit happier.
Physical Description
Axan Endryss Sturke. One of the more well-known mercenaries in Grayle. When people near the Alexandrian border hear the name, even if they don't recognize it, it often strikes a chord. Miss Axan.
Lady Sturke.
Firebrand.
Dragon Sellsword.
The Molten Lady
Axan has been called many different things in her life, and has lived many different lives. But all of them call back to the fire. And befitting that, she looks quite fiery herself. She's a tall young woman, but the most noticeable and recognizable of her features is her long mane of brilliant red hair.
Character Conceptualization
Asceron Navietas, Lord of a military family, is a man stricken by grief. His first child, Dicen, was a fine young man. He would've been eighteen now, by Asceron's reckoning. But he was taken young. Not by fire. Not by war. A strange fever that refused to break ravaged him, turning his tall, fit form into a shivering, wasted thing before finally, mercifully, letting him slip softly away into the night. And that, on top of his wife dying soon after childbirth years before, giving him his second child: a girl, who she named Luenciel before she passed. And a bizarre child she was; from the moment she opened her crimson eyes, Asceron knew that something was strange. And when her hair grew in stark and white, he was ever more concerned for her.
Her strange appearance, and Asceron's grief at Enuiel's passing, caused her life to be sheltered, secluded one from the beginning. And the spreading rumors—no doubt house staff who'd caught glimpses of white hair and red eyes, Asceron thought—convinced him quite well that he was right to do so. The outside wasn't just indifferent to her. It was outright hostile.
For years, she sought solace in her father and her brother. Though...at one point, her uncle came to visit. She'd never seen him before, but...he seemed nice, right? And the rumors hadn't truly found their way to her yet. He saw his niece, one of the very few that Asceron had let see her at all. He was nice. Gave her candy, patted her on the head, went to bed, and...the next morning, tripped and fell down the stairs. Broke his neck. And just like that, dead.
More grief from Asceron. Condolences from Dicen. And...confusion from the seven-year-old Luenciel.
A few years later, an elderly woman who lived next door to their house broke several bones from a fall and couldn't get up. She lived alone, and her voice wasn't loud enough. Unable to move, she stayed there until she died.
A year after that, a vendor hawking his wares in the street below seized, and his movement ceased as his heart stopped beating in his chest.
And then, when she was twelve...Dicen.
So very grief-wracked now, Asceron kept Luen inside not just for her own sake, but for his own. As strange as she looked, she was his last family. He wanted so desperately to keep her close. And though nobles came and went, events were held and released from the manor of the Navietas—though he told her to stay in her room, flashes of her were noticed, just barely, and the rumors intensified—the years passed, and Luen remained.
By now, though, she'd heard the rumors. So, so many of them. Enough that she started to believe them some: that her being around someone put them in danger. So she looked at her father. She looked at his glaive on the wall. She looked inward. Did she really want to be locked away like this for her whole life?
No. No, she wanted to make something of herself. She wanted to see the outside for herself. She wanted to talk to people. She wanted to escape her curse. And as she thought of these things, an ember kindled itself in her chest. What she wanted was...
...To fight.
Two more years passed in the blink of an eye. She trained with her father, learning from him how best to leverage her water magic and creating her bracers. She remained inside. And then, as she packed to leave, she sat down with her father again. She talked to him about names. About how she wouldn't be able to go by hers, and would need to find a man's name. Her father—upset she was leaving, but unable to bring himself to stop her—thought for several minutes as they sat together in silence one last time.
"...Lucien."
And so, Lucien Navietas—scion of the Navietas family and a cursed child born under an ill-fated Star—left her—his—family home. To see. To talk. To escape.
Shysca Celicantha is a young quarter-elf Cleric who swore herself to a faith that worships an entity known as the Divine Aeter, and was gifted powerful divine magic. She doesn't need any kind of focus, but she finds that it helps her think more clearly if she uses a long metal staff colored white to match her clothing. Why metal? Well, in addition to a kind of spellcasting focus, it's also surprisingly useful for whacking a stubborn adversary over the head.
Speaking of her magic, it's very supportive in nature these days; healing, shielding, curing, reviving. While she can unleash the smite of the Divine Aeter in a flash of white light and flame, she very much prefers not to do that, firmly believing that violence should be the final recourse.
---
"I love you so much, my little light."
It feels like it's been a lifetime since then.
"Oh wow, Shysca, did you bake that all on your own?"
Like a whole world has come and gone in the time it took to blink the memories back behind her eyes.
"Of course daddy is proud of you, my little light. How could he not be?"
...Had it really only been ten years?
The cool morning air smelled of the past. Of early morning dew and early spring frost. Of strawberry pastries and pinecones, and the wide bank of the river. It smelled of the stones that she used to skip over the gray water. She breathed deep and closed her eyes, savoring this old simple joy, and all thoughts of guilt and redemption evaporated like mist in the sun as she walked lightly through Ardenfel like a great weight was gone, like she'd never known it was there.
As she walked, she saw the children that she knew so well. Danyl on the other side of the street. Lyndii would be reading, probably, even on a day like this. A kind of foolish pleasure seeped through her as she smiled. Mary walking in the other direction towards her and her heart swelled. She opened her mouth to call out when another smell undercut the blissful haze.
Smoke?
She blinked, and the world was suddenly a blur. Fire. Steel. Screaming that she didn't realize was her. She looked around frantically and found everyone gone except Mary. And as soon as she started towards her, her hands ignited in searing pain. She looked down in panic and found them livid with a seething white radiance that soon spread over the rest of her body as she fell to the ground, twisting in agony. She looked up, trying to find MARY again through the white light,a nd onl y f oun d h e r s e l f--
C H I L D H O O D I N A R D E N F E L D C H I L D H O O D I N A R D E N F E L D
Mr. and Mrs. Yarrel and Talulah Celicantha (but please, call her Lulah) were fond of calling themselves the best bakers in Ardenfel. And they were very, very good at it; people would walk from the other side of the village to avail themselves of a fresh hot loaf, or a fruit pie baked to perfection. They were masters of their crafts; and though they were small town bakers that obviously didn't know how to make the delicate pastries that you might see in the big city, they were no less skilled for it.
But then everything changed, once their daughter was born.
Even Lulah didn't know that she had elven heritage. And Yarrel certainly had no idea at all; having hair that pale was unusual, but not impossible, obviously. Not until Shysca's birth. The hair that later grew on her head could be excused just like the mother's. The slightly oddly-colored eyes could be played off in any number of ways. Every odd quirk of her appearance could be explained away, save one. There was no getting around the sharply pointed ears. And Yarrel did not appreciate the idea of there being elf in his family.
Talulah loved Shysca enough for both parents, and made sure she grew up knowing that she was loved. But as she aged and her elven traits became more distinct, well, Yarrel grew what you might call...distant. He didn't grow violent, not until she was ten or eleven, when Talulah started to take ill. But moreso he just...neglected her.I t was like she'd lost her dad. Or, more accurately, like she'd never had one at all. Like she was a ghost to him. And so her mother's kindness became the most important thing in her life, and she began to mantle it. From that point on, she tried her best to be something like a mother--or, more likely, an older sister--to all the other kids in Ardenfel, or at least the ones she knew. After all, maybe if she acted like mommy then daddy would listen to her, right?
No. Obviously.
Once Yarrel started hitting her, that smile came less often. But, given she was in her double digits, that certainly wasn't the worst thing that would happen soon,would it?
Because then, the bandits came.
L I F E A T T H E O R P H A N A G E L I F E A T T H E O R P H A N A G E
In the Landeil orphanage, though...the smile came back in full force. It needed to be. She knew these kids. She'd played with them in the street. She'd patched them up after they'd scraped their knees. She'd heard them talking about their parents. She knew those kids; she loved those kids.
And what those kids didn't need was another person crying.
They needed someone they knew to turn to, she thought. She didn't know what the family who owned the orphanage were like when she first got there, so, quite simply, she devoted herself wholeheartedly to making everyone's lives better. She threw herself into it and didn't look back. All smiles, all the time. She comforted Mary when she had nightmares. She tried to talk things through with Teth, even when she didn't want to listen. She spent hours around Danyl; he always seemed to lean on her so much, after all. She spent a whole year like that. It wasn't a particularly good life. It CERTAINLY wasn't a comfortable one. But it was all that she needed in the end, right? Even after Mary ran away, leaving Shysca's hands and lower forearms marred with a large and encompassing burn that turned into a painful scar, even then, she kept trying. There were still kids that needed her help.
But then the Church of the Virtuous Mother stopped nearby.
She didn't know much about them. Didn't know anything, really. But just out of curiosity, she went to listen to the sermon. Just once wouldn't hurt, right?
And then Shysca was transfixed. She fell hard, and fast.
All thoughts of responsibility fled her mind as she heard them preach, and she felt a fire stoke in her heart. After the sermon, she approached them and explained: she had just come to hear them speak, she felt as though she'd been born anew. She lived in the nearby orphanage, could she leave with the and join the Church? And they acquiesced and lifted her out of the orphanage to return to their monastery with them, and live her life anew.
O N W A R D: A N E W P A T H O N W A R D: A N E W P A T H
It was in the Church of the Virtuous Mother--a monastery high in the mountains, a long way away--that Shysca first learned of the Divine Aeter, the grand embodiment of all light and purity in the universe. And though she had some doubt at first, she became something of a zealot in a relatively short period of time. The Virtuous Mother and, by extension, the Divine Aether became beloved in her eyes. An idol.
And the problem with idols is that you stop really thinking about what they're doing.
Over the past ten years, there are numerous times that Shysca, using her newly-learnt holy divine magic, 'brought nonbelievers into the Divine Aeter's light' in the most permanent way possible. Things that she would've balked at not long ago, she barely noticed, she was so thoroughly indoctrinated into this cult. It was like she had only half a mind of her own. Word has begun to spread about her, slowly spreading through pockets of people: stories of the wrathful black-clad cleric with the burn-scarred hands.
Though...she did keep one secret from the Virtuous Mother. When Mary had fled the orphanage, Shysca had seen horns on her head. She'd seen the phantasmal flames that had writhed around her in her sleep back then. She knew that there was something demonic going on with her. She should report it, and she should be brought into the Divine Aeter's light. But...
But she couldn't. It just felt wrong.
Not long ago, she remembered something that she'd nearly forgotten. Old friends. A promise to meet. People--children then--whose faces she could still see ever so clearly in her mind's eye. And as she thought about their smiles, she felt a revulsion rise in her throat.
Would they ever smile at her like that if they knew that she had killed?
With no warning to the Virtuous Mother, she dropped the amulet that marked her as a member of the Church into a mountain chasm beside the monastery, replaced her black church robe with a dress of pure white, then fled off into the night to return to her old home, see the old faces. Perhaps it is only when she does that she'll resolve the crisis of faith that swirls inside her skull, and the horrible nightmares that have again to begun to plague her will perhaps abate.
"I get called heartless a lot, and every time I want to scream."
Appearance Details
Tall and lithe, Shin-ae cuts quite a recognizable figure walking through the halls. While she couldn't be called buxom by any stretch of the imagination, she is not entirely devoid of curves; she does have an unmistakably feminine shape with a modest bust. Her angular pale face is framed by silky, pin-straight black hair that falls to somewhere just north of the small of her back, and set with eyes that are dark enough brown to be nearly the same. That face is set with a near-permanent expression annoyance or frustration. Combined with the prim way that she tends to carry herself, it tends to give people the impression that she doesn't like them, regardless of anything that she might actually feel regarding them. Or, to put it simply: she has a colossal resting bitch face.
She has (or had, evidently) a closet filled with proper clothing. Button-down shirts and blouses, pencil skirts, cashmere cardigans, most done up in monochrome. She is looked at somewhat strangely sometimes, as her bearing and clothing combined with her overall attitude lend her an air of professionalism beyond her years, one that is far more formal than her actual genuine thought processes.
Characterization
A whole lot of Student Council President Shin-ae's life has been defined through expectation.
Being the child of two Korean immigrants, she was, from the beginning, subjected to the tiger mom style of parenting, with all that entails. She had expectations HEAPED on her. Things that she needed to do. Things that were demanded of her, or else she'd be yelled out. The stringent rules in her household couldn't be called entirely negative, as they did impart to her a great deal of tenacity and discipline. But that's not really a consolation to a child so choked under those expectations, and while straight A's and knowing how to play the violin might impress her mother's co-workers, they do very little to prepare one for speaking with your peers on any meaningful level.
On that note, this has had a number of effects on how she interacts with others, first being 'the Shin-ae Stare,' dubbed as such by her vice president; that terrible resting bitch face that dogs her feet. She has a reputation among the student body for being a hardass, and the persistent reminds that she gives about decorum and conduct, something that she's a bit picky about, really has not helped. Consequently, Shin-ae is alone a great deal of the time; not only is she not really allowed to hang out with friends outside of school because of the draconian rules of her household, but there are few enough people who know what she's actually like. Which is quite personable, actually; she's not relaxed and laughing all the time, obviousl, but she's friendly and helpful enough, and if you pay enough attention you can find the streak of dry humor that she has under the surface.
And it's a very good thing that she's started flaunting her parents' rules now and then to spend time with other people. Because just like preparing one for a social life, those straight A report cards and violin recitals have done very, very little in preparing her for the apocalypse.
Character Notes
- Her mother works for a prominent tech company in a fairly high position. Shin-ae has no idea where she is right now.
- Her father is a freelance photographer who works from home. She's extremely worried about him.
"Rhodes Island, I'd like to extend the deepest of gratitude to you and request the privilege to join you as an Operator. Wha--? Code name? Um...I guess...Ashgirl will do."
★★★★★★
Operator Profile
_______________________________________ Codename: Ashgirl Epithet: The Taran Pariah
Class: Guard Branch: Arts Fighter
Race: Vouivre Affiliations: Dublinn (formerly)
Height: 173 cm Weight: 75 kg
Place of Birth: Post-annexation Tara Date of Birth: January 1
Gender: Female
Combat Experience: 10 years
Clinical Analysis
______________________________________________________________________ Strength: Excellent Endurance: Excellent Mobility: Standard Arts Adaptability: Outstanding Combat Skill: Excellent Tactical Acumen: Normal
Infection Status: Infected
Imaging tests show blurry outlines of subject's internal organs, with multiple dark inclusions. Her circulatory system shows an alarming degree of originium particulate matter. Through these criteria we can determine that this subject is infected.
Cell-Originium Assimilation: 28%. Multiple crystal lesions visible on the subject's skin. Blood Originium-Crystal Density: 0.32 u/L. Miss Aoife's condition is extremely aggressive and severe, and her prognosis is poor. Unless measures can be found to more effectively delay the progression of her infection, she likely has less than six months to live, if that.
Character Synopsis:
A former noblewoman and former revolutionary, forced from both of her homes and set adrift.
Personality:
Aoife tends to be a bit quiet most of the time, and when she speaks, she often sounds slightly strained and uncomfortable--almost stilted, sometimes--like she dislikes talking, and so people assume that she wishes to be left alone. Not so, actually; she is quiet and strained because her aggressive oripathy causes her a not-inconsiderable amount of pain on a constant basis. Rather, Aoife tends to be quite personable, if not entirely skilled in social situations, as she hasn't had a surfeit of healthy interactions, and enjoys being around and talking to other people as long as she's not the one doing most of the talking.
Though it's been a long time since her privileged and sheltered upbringing and she barely remembers a single piece of it, it still reflects on her character to this day. Chief among those reflections is how narrow her view of the world can be. She can be closed-minded, and has a tendency to discount things she hears that she doesn't want to. She knows this very well and actively works against it, but it's a trap that is all to easy for her to fall in when she's put under stress. The other major effect is, as mentioned, Aoife can have trouble relating to other people. Spending her early life in the noblewoman bubble and her later life as a (largely expendable) soldier has limited the people she's been able to open up to, and so she can have difficulties forming genuine friendships.
But despite all of that, Aoife is a good person at heart. Despite how she may look on occasion, she's not selfish, standoffish, willfully ignorant, or egocentric, and joined Rhodes Island as much to fulfil the duties of an Operator and help others as to be treated for her own oripathy. The fact that she's willing to endanger herself by pushing her Arts even when she reasonably shouldn't in the service of her work should be proof enough that she really is trying her best. It can just...be hard to see that sometimes.
Talents
Talent Description
Taran Swordsmanship
Brought up from a young age to be a noblewoman of Tara, Aoife Eóganachta of course learned the former kingdom's traditional style of swordplay from a young age.
Though of course it wasn't intended to be actually used, not in the way she uses it now--it was entirely ceremonial to begin with--it has certainly come in handy as she became first a member of Dublinn, and then an Operator of Rhodes Island. The principle reason this is so effective is that she efficiently leverages her rather strange, almost dancelike, style quite effectively. Because most people aren't familiar with the Taran style--it's not extinct, but it's nearly so--it makes her rather unpredictable and hard to read, letting her get the drop on opponents before they're able to adapt.
Pariah's Oath
Aoife has gone through a great deal of pain in her life, whether it be physical or emotional in nature. Even now, her remarkably severe infection causes her not-inconsiderable suffering every minute of the day. There are many times that she's wanted to just...give up. To let it end already, to take the coward's way out, whether that be letting the heritage of Tara die, turning herself in to Victoria, or hurling herself from the landship. But because she hasn't, she's developed an astounding level of willpower, able to push through constant physical pain, emotional torment, and any number of roadblocks. She is going to get to where she's going, and good luck to anybody that tries to stand in her way.
Skills
Skill Description
Sheer Cold
Aoife's arts, channeled through her sword, are of a particularly unique variety. While they generally take the form of ice, they actually involve directly arresting molecular motion. Though it may have the same overall effect most of the time, when trying to freeze objects that are typically coldproof it shows its use in being remarkably good at freezing them anyway.
Through spectroscopic measurement techniques, the peak of her freezing power has been measured between 170 and 175 degrees Kelvin (-103C and -98C, respectively).
Bitterwinter Bite
Though obviously the sword is a heavy part of her combat kit, the freezing power that Aoife possesses is used through more than just the sword. Given her powerful infection, she is able to channel her Arts naturally, of course, and is able to do so with a startling degree of intensity. Though they don't have much of a range to them--remember, not actually ice but manipulation on the molecular level which I am to understand gets exponentially more difficult past ten or so feet--within that limited range you are at constant risk of being both slowed to a crawl and frozen solid. Despite this obvious strength, however, subject has been heavily advised against using this more than necessary, as it seems to exacerbate her condition.
One Thousand Shining Teeth
Finally, we come to likely the most dangerous application of her Arts that Aoife can muster--both towards her enemies and towards herself through increased progression of her oripathy. When her life is on the line, though, anything is fair game. Through judicious application of her arts, everything around her is so molecularly strained that it becomes incrediby delicate, even metal and stone. With a sufficiently hard strike, they can shatter into storms of razorlike shards, serving almost like a shotgun; spraying out a surprising level of devastation.
All that being said, this is not without further drawbacks. Principally, that she isn't necessarily immunte to the shards, nor does she have exclusive rights on shattering them. Still, if it's leveraged right, it is truly, truly a menace.
Equipment Module
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Claíomh-na-Samhain - The Sword of Samhain: Aoife's bastard sword, forever and always by her side. Reclaimed from the ashes of her family home, this previously ceremonial blade has been turned into both a superb arts conductor and a vicious weapon of war.
Operator Archives
The Eóganachta clan is a very old Taran family, going back far into when it was a kingdom of its own and nearly passing into myth in their own right. Consequently, even in the new, Victorian Tara, they occupied positions of power and privilege that would be the envy of any native Victorian noble, let alone those Tarans unfortunate enough to not have enormous family fortunes and a huge manor to retreat into. It was into this incredibly privileged upbringing that their youngest daughter of three, Aoife, was born. Her two elder sisters Siobhan and Bronagh had enough years separating them from her that they were less siblings, and more auxiliary parents. And so Aoife grew up coddled and spoilt, doted on by four separate different sources. It was an idyllic childhood, and she didn't spare a thought to look outside of the manor grounds.
But all that changed when Aoife was more or less seven years old, when a rumor spread among the Tarans--whether true or not, nobody knows to this day--that the Eóganachta clan had sold out to Victoria.
And that was the only match that the powder keg needed to ignite.
In a single, brutally violent night, the entire Eóganachta estate was razed to the ground, and Aoife's parents were both killed, along with Bronagh and Siobhan. Aoife--scared, confused, and unable to understand what was happening--was pulled from the ashes of everything that she knew and thrust into the arms of a disorganized group of Taran malcontents. Perhaps if she'd been a little older, she would've been killed. But...
...Perhaps she also would've been able to hold on to herself a little bit better.
Within the disdainful Tarans, Aoife Eóganachta became...nothing. They refused to even use her name, refused to let her be Aoife Eóganachta. Just...You. Or Vouivre. And other things, of course, until eventually she the name stuck: Ash Girl. But never again Aoife, and certainly never Eóganachta. No name.
Until she forgot it on her own.
For the next few years, she lived as something like a daughter, and something like a servant. She wasn't quite one, yet wasn't fully the other either. And after a year? Two years? Ash Girl had become her name. She barely remembered even the faintest fragments of her former life, and almost nothing at all of her old home. But still, she was...harmless. And, in turn, in no danger of harm.
But that all came to an end when Ash Girl was eleven years old.
The Taran malcontents--as a whole--were trending to more militant, and more violent. And when she was eleven years old...
Dublinn was born.
It took the Tarans by storm, and Ash Girl with them. She was still a child the first time a sword was shoved into her delicate hands. A scant year of training, and before her thirteenth birthday she was being involved in warfare.
She fought for years, until the sudden catastrophic incident in County Hillock. And it was there that she saw firsthand what Dublinn truly stood for. The blinders were pulled away from her eyes, and she finally saw the horrific biolence and pain caused even to Tarans for what it truly was.
She couldn't be here anymore.
And so Ash Girl ran.
She ran from County Hillock. She ran far, deep into the lands that used to be Tara, back towards where she knew. And eventually, her feet found half-forgotten yet familiar pathways that led her up to a ruin of collapsed, crumbled stone, charred wood, twisted metal and sodden ashes. She stared at it through the lashing rains, and memories began to slowly bubble up to the surface of her mind. as through through molasses. And the first to arrive was a name that she recognize, but felt somehow wrong in Ash Girl's mind.
Aoife Eóganachta had come home.
She couldn't go back to Dublinn. She knew that. Her home--her second home--was gone forever. She shook her head, trying to ignore the shivers that ran through her pale body. And as the rain began to peter off, she slowly, meditatively, began to walk through the ruins.
Every time her eyes played over something even the vaguest bit familiar, new memories began to surface. Memories that she knew belonged to her, but felt like someone else's. She came across her own room at one point, or at least she thought she did; as she stared at the third floor bedroom that had fallen into the first floor, she thought she recognized the shattered remnants of a fireplace and chimney that were piled up inside. She was in a daze as she passed through it all.
Finally, she wound her way into what she remembered now was the living room, and there, where her father once read by the fire, she found the collapsed remnant of the mantle. Almost hypnotized, she acted on a vague impulse and scraped aside the ashes, digging through the refuse of the years until her hand closed around the handle of Claíomh-na-Samhain. A sharp feeling of disorientation blurred through her; she was Ash Girl. But she was Aoife too.
So now...this home was gone, and there was no going back to Dublinn. Not after that. Never again. She thought she might puke.
She did.
But still, the question remained. Where? Where, with this sword on her back, should she go?
Not Victoria, obviously. Maybe Columbia? Yeah, that was...probably the best idea.
Columbia was nice enough. But it didn't hold her for very long, and nor did anywhere else. Unsteady, unmoored, a self-imposed pariah from her homeland, she became a drifter, roaming hither and thither for the next several years. She took odd jobs; she took mercenary work; she took anything she could find. But Siracusa, Leithanien, Iberia; none of them held her for more than six months.
As she bounced around, she inevitably found herself drawn into conflicts, and struck out against what she perceived as injustice. Whether as Aoife or as Ash Girl, she kept roving, kept moving. Until the summer of year 1105.
She was caught up in a conflict again. She was prepared for many things; her skill with her sword and her tough Vouivre physique had carried her through much. But what she was not prepared for was a grenade of active originium detonating nearly underneath her foot.
The explosion itself didn't do a huge amount of damage. That wasn't the point. The problem were the countless shards of originium that blasted into her, afflicting her with a crushing infection immediately.
And...she didn't know what to do after that.
She never thought she'd be infected. And she wasn't exactly in a place with stellar treatment of the Infected; the south of Ursus was not a great place for her to be. So she just kept trying to do what she'd done before.
But it did not go well.
Even as close to the edge of the plate as she was, she couldn't even make it all the way. And it was then--barely functional, deeply disoriented and dizzy, aching all over from her oripathy--Aoife was discovered and saved from death's door by a woman who called herself "Firewatch." Said something about an organization; Ash Girl wasn't quite in the proper mental state to really figure out what was going on. And right before she passed out, she heard Firewatch talking to someone over a radio.
Next time she woke up--just a month ago now--she was in Rhodes Island's medical bay, and felt better than she had in weeks. It took time for her to mend, and to discover what had happened, and where she was. And soon afterwards, she discovered her Arts. Her very, very powerful freezing arts. And as she recovered, she came to a resolution. It had been years ago now since she'd lost her second home.
It was time she find another.
Trivia:
As mentioned, Aoife's health is not exactly stellar. Specifically, her oripathy has gifted her with several unfortunate symptoms. In addition to the crystalline lesions--she has over a dozen now--she has tremors, fevers, and full body aches, and a few other unpleasant things. These can be largely managed through oripathy medication, but they can only be managed, never completely removed. There's always a chance one of them will strike.
Full Name - Quinn Aldis Age - 26 Place of Origin - Portland, Maine Occupation - Police Academy Instructor, formerly a Marine
A V A T A R
Character's Name - Quinnlash Pathos Affiliation - Drox Role - DPS (split between physical and magical) Profession - Bounty Hunter Weapon of Choice - Clockwork Rifle Domains - Fire; Manifestation, Enhancement -
P E R S O N A L I T Y
Grump Owing to what happened to her, Quinn generally exists in a state of perpetual grouchiness. she's frustrated with herself and for not being able to serve like she used to, and she channels and focuses it outwards, catching everyone around her in the impatient crossfire.
Overwatch Speaking of crossfire...
Quinn was a member of the military. And not just the military, but a member of the United States Marine Corps. And because of that experience, she is long used to punching through hell to keep both her squadmates and her country safe. Consequently, in a surprise for those that only see the gun-toting grump, she is rather protective of people that she views as under her care, though she wouldn't die in place of you, because that would mean she couldn't protect any more people after that.
Unless you're a kid. Quinn is ungodly protective of kids and would throw her life away for one in a heartbeat.
Quick Thinking As you might have gleaned from the way she thinks about the people in her squad, Quinn thinks heavily in risk vs. reward assessments as a side effect of years of military service. This can sound dehumanizing sometimes; but she really doesn't mean it that way. And on the flip side, that quick plus-or-minus thinking lets her make decisions very quickly. Because she doesn't consider every nuance of a situation before she jumps in--another, perhaps less charitable interpretation would call her 'exceptionally reckless'--she doesn't get bogged down in the ideology, so she can jump in far faster than she otherwise would've let herself be able to.
B E N C H M A R K S
Deadshot Quinn's weapon of choice is a clockwork longrifle. It's nowhere near what she's used to; she's used to something much more technologically advanced. But her skill as a sharpshooter, the one that earned her a place in the Marine Corps, the one that had her brought on to teach marksmanship in a police academy, that brilliant talent for calling her shots and landing them on target--there's nothing that stops that from carrying over. Consequently she is excellent at dealing crit damage, because if she sees where the weak spot is, she can probably hit it.
Keep The Flame Alive Quinn has always been a fiery person, and as it turns out, when she gains access to magic, well, it becomes strikingly literal. She is quiet a skillful pyromancer, dealing a pretty fair deal of damage with her primordial spells. But that's not where the real trick she uses lies. Leveraging not manifestation but enhancement, and enhancing not her, but her gun. She has the ability to channel a vast amount of pyromantic force straight into the chamber of her rifle, storing it and charging it up. She can release the stored power at any moment, and the unleashed bullet blasts off with the force of a meteor. It takes a fair deal of time to charge to that point, and she obviously can't use her gun until it's done; but oh man, if she can get that charge off, she is packing some serious heat.
True Grit Quinn is--or, well, was--a member of the United States Marine Corps. As you can probably imagine, this came with a host of interesting side effects. But the first and foremost is a matter of mindset: Quinn is used to near-death situations. This kind of life-and-death edge is where she made her career for several years. Consequently, she might be the single least bothered by the glitch (at least, bothered in that fashion) in the entire game. The other major benefit is physique. She might not be in the military anymore, but it hasn't been that long, and there's no way she gave up her exercise regimen. She is extremely strong and fit, much moreso than she looks at first glance.
Can't Run, Can't Hide Quinn's profession in the game, chosen after careful consideration, is that of a bounty hunter, and she is quite good at what she does; as a former sniper, she is capable of sitting motionless in one place for hours at a time, observing the world, and on the flip side, moving quickly and quietly from place to place. It is very hard to get away from her once she's on your tail. The caveat is that she has a strict set of morals for targets that she takes. Monsters of course are always fair game, but if you want her to track down an NPC or other player, you had better have a damn good reason for wanting them dead, or Quinn will laugh in your face and walk away. And maybe kick you in the shin.
Physical Description
Quinn Aldis is a woman of fairly average height, all told; perhaps a little above, maybe in the neighborhood of 5'5". Her pale, watery blue eye is framed by her sharp bangs, the dark gray hair falling a little ways down her back, usually tied in either a braid or a ponytail. Her right eye, the one she lost on her final tour of duty, is replaced with a plain black eyepatch; she refuses to get a glass eye of any kind, insisting that she prefers this, as looking in the mirror and seeing two eyes but only seeing from one seems extremely disturbing. While she's working at the police academy, she's gotten special permission to wear her old military fatigues, attached as she is to them. When not teaching, she tends towards long pants and trim jackets. Her favorite color is yellow, and she has a brown leather coat with bright yellow trimmings that she's very fond of. She always wished she could streak her hair yellow, but the professionalism standards of the military and the academy have rendered that dream impossible. As a result of all that she's dealt with, her face is set in a permanent scowl.
Well, Pariah has no professionalism standards, and upon signing into the game for the first time Quinn was delighted to find that her hair had indeed become streaked with bright yellow, and had grown into a long braid. Less fantastic was the fact that her eyepatch was still present; sometime in the past year or two she'd grown so used to it that it was just kind of a part of her subconscious now, which she's not super happy about, hoping she'd get the use of both eyes again. Her clockwork rifle is carried in a long case on her back that can serve as a bludgeoning weapon all its own. When it's borne in her hands, it looks for all the world like it belongs there, like Quinnlash is the person fated to use it. Her clothing is...similar...ish? Her general attire is a somewhat shredded up coat-cloak, worn over a gray linen shirt. She keeps armor to a minimum for obvious reasons; it would just slow her down. And though she still looks just as grumpy, she is smiling more.
Character Conceptualization
The story of Master Gunnery Sergeant Quinn Aldis, U.S.M.C., begins in a small house outside of Portland, Maine, where a husband and wife lived: Luke and Shannon Louvain.
Quinn's first memories are of smothering attention. Constant, assiduous lovey-dovey-ness layered over and over on her by Shannon; saccharine nigh-obsession. It was so all-encompassing that she didn't even realize that she was being abused. It took a teacher--and CPS worker--noticing some telltale signs of emotional and psychological abuse for things to come to a head. To make a long story short, Shannon and Luke were arrested for child abuse, and Quinn went into the foster system when she was eight years old. She bounced around foster homes for a little while, about a year and a half, before she was fostered for an extended period by an up-and-coming politician named Elizabeth Aldis. And after that extended period...neither of them wanted to let go. Liz applied for official adoption, and Quinn Louvain became Quinn Aldis.
Full Name - 秋山春陽 - Akiyama Haruhi Age - 20 Gender - Femme Occupation - Farmer and produce seller
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P E R S O N A L I T Y
Sun In Her Pocket Haruhi is a cheerful, bouncy young woman who still maintains the brilliant verve of childhood. Forever positive and filled with irrepressible energy, she won't let anything bring her down, no matter how much dirt she's covered, in or how sore her arms are. Raining on planting day? She'll make a game of it. Asahi feeling under the weather that day? She takes it as a challenge! Crop yield wasn't great? It'll be better next time!
Feet In The Ground That constant energy she's got running through her has put forth the impression on occasion that she's an irresponsible or flighty person, but that could not be further from the truth. In reality, Haruhi takes a great deal of pride in her work, and she's actually a rather self-reliant and dependable person if things don't go as planned. Although, it does also lends her a sense of bullheaded stubbornness that's entrenched deeply within her.
Head In The Clouds All that being said, she's couldn't be called a hundred percent grounded, because she's absolutely got an imaginative streak a mile wide. As a kid she imagined herself as a spirit, fashioning herself crowns of wildflowers that she found off in the fields and woods and brandishing her legendary stick. She snuck into everywhere from the blacksmith's to the shrine, got herself anywhere and everywhere she could find. And though she no longer imagines herself as a valley spirit, that imagination, creativity, and curiosity has followed her to this day.
S K I L L S E T
I've Got That Farmer's Grit! Haruhi is a daughter of farmers, and of course from birth a farmer herself. A farmer who does her own work! Consequently, she is both much tougher and much stronger than most people tend to expect from a 20 year old woman. She's won her fair share of arm wrestles against people who underestimate her, and she's able to take quite a bit of work and strain to her muscles before giving up.
I Ain't Need No Signs! And she takes fierce pride in that hard-won strength! She absolutely refuses the use of any Signs, no matter what! Taught from a young age to take responsibility for herself and do her own work, she stubbornly refuses to even learn any, even those that would help her grow and harvest. She tills her own field, plants her own seed, reaps her own harvest, and lets the turn of the seasons dictate it all.
Good Ol' Fashioned Gumption! Haruhi is a tenacious girl, chock full of stick-to-it-iveness and ingenuity. Because she doesn't use Signs, she's become extremely resourceful in ways that other people typically aren't. She knows what to use as fertilizer, how to fix a head back onto an axe, what stones are useful for starting a fire and which are good for sharpening tools, and so on and so forth. After all, if she's self-reliant enough to not use magic, then she'd better actually be able to rely on herself, right?
Physical Description
As soon as you look at Haruhi, you know that she lives up to her name, spring sunshine: blonde-haired, tan-skinned from working hard out under the hot sun, and almost always bearing a bright and chipper smile. She isn't exactly what you would typically call a cool beauty; she isn't nearly stately or demure enough for that. What she does have, though, is a strong and striking sense of exuberance about her that seems to light up whatever room she walks into, and even when she isn't smiling, it always somehow seems like her wide warm purple eyes are doing it for her.
The skin on her tough hands is hard and callused from rubbing against tools, and that of her feet is the same from hours in her heavy workboots. Completing the picture is her musculature. She's a farmer, after all, and she has been for pretty much her whole life. That tanned skin lies taut over a physique of hard muscle, bought and paid for with hours upon hours of hard farm labor.
But despite that hard-labor athleticism--or perhaps because of it--when she's not working she's a bit of a klutz, and quite spritely in the way that she moves through the world. Running barefoot, skipping down the road, or laying on long grass staring up at the cloudless blue sky, it would be fair to say that when she's not working she doesn't exactly portray a sense of gravitas, nor really even act her age. And the fact that she's constantly smudged with dirt and mud and sweat from working in the fields doesn't really help matters.
As a rule, she dresses in practical farm clothes, and her hair is typically tied up in either a ponytail or a braid to keep it out of her way. Though she has a few pieces of very nice formal attire, she doesn't really know when she'd ever wear them, since it's not like she ever goes to formal functions. She doesn't even really know how to put on a proper kimono!
Character Conceptualization
All things considered, Haruhi has had a pretty good life. Born to a pair of successful farmers--Akiyama Akito and Hanako--she grew up with a deep love and appreciation for the outdoors, and as time went on, an equally powerful one taught be her parents: a sense of responsibility for one's actions, and the sweat of one's brow. They were hard workers, and wanted to instill into their rough-and-tumble daughter that she should do the same.
And they succeeded in spectacular fashion! It wasn't long before kiddo Haruhi began to help out in the garden, pulling weeds and snipping beans off of vines. It was looking like she was set up for a wonderful future, despite her propensity to get into everywhere she probably wasn't supposed to go.
Like, say, the Heiseina shrine, where she met a lonely girl who called herself Fuyuko and decided then and there that the two of them would be the best of friends. From the time she was eight and onward, she would go and visit her friend, always bringing her something fun from the outside world; whether a flower crown, or a basket of fresh vegetables and rice that she'd grown and harvested herself.
Speaking of, it would seem her parents underestimated how deep into her heart she took the sweat-of-her-own-brow lesson on self-reliance, because when they discussed her learning some Signs to till her soil and grow her crops faster, she staunchly and immovably refused, no matter how they cajoled or convinced. This was when she first showed both one of her great strengths or her greatest weakness, depending on how you looked at it; that streak of mulish stubbornness. They thought she'd grow out of it, but she never did, insisting on doing all of the work herself.
When she was thirteen, they realized that she really wasn't going to budge, and brought home a strong bay draft horse from the stables to help plough her field in lieu of magic. Haruhi fell in love with him instantly, naming him Asahi and, with her own hands, building him a paddock outside of the barn so he could stay outside and get exercise when the weather was good.
And so her life has gone on from then, and been a good and simple one. One of earth, and water, and plants, and animals, and nature. She loves everything and wants everyone else to love it too. She loves people, and wants people to love her back. She wants to live a good, simple, peaceful life surrounded by the people and places she loves.
You don't always get what you want.
Other Information
As mentioned, Haruhi has refused to learn any labor-saving Signs, preferring to do the work herself over using magic to do it. Her parents are still alive and happily working on the farm with her, though they gave her a smaller personal plot of land, one that wouldn't be touched by any of the Signs that her parents used themselves.
Haruhi, breath still coming hard, stared at the suddenly bladeless hoe in her hand, and at the blade where it had bounced after striking the rock. She shook her hand out, wincing a bit at the ache where the reverberation had shot through her hand.
“Oops.”
For a moment she wondered whether or not she could reattach it somehow--after all, she wasn't done yet!--but as she jogged over and picked up the blade, she saw that was...rather unlikely. If the whole socket had come off or the shaft had broken she could just stick it on a new one, but the blade had actually broken off of the socket, leaving a twisted jagged stump of steel.
She glanced behind, to where she'd been hoeing a line to prepare for planting the leek and cabbage. It wasn't much all tols, so she hadn't thought she'd need to get out the plough, but maaaybe that would've been a good idea. She idly twirled the broken shaft in her hand, rolling her stiff shoulders in the early morning chill. It'd been quiet a while since she'd broken one of her tools. Well, nothing for it, she supposed; she'd need to go visit the smith! Hopping up and down a bit to keep herself from getting too cold--she could feel the sweat on her skin starting to chill her, and a warning shiver ran through her--she hefted the blade in her left hand and kept on twirling the shaft in her right, occasionally dropping it, as she meandered through the fallow fields.
Once she reached the road she tossed the shaft, watched it spin, and snatched it out of the air, then started to skip along the road, feet striking the hardened dirt and sending up pale brown puffs of dust that dispersed away into the early spring winds. As she went, she flicked the shaft into the same hand as the blade, then dipped into her pocket and pulled out a handful of soybeans. A grin popped on to her face as she scattered them off, followed by another handful, then another, twirling as she went and sending them soaring off into the trees. “Demons out, luck in!” Her words were followed by a joyous laugh that echoed off into the still, quiet valley.
By the time she'd made her way to the entrance of Heiseina proper, scattered soybeans trailed behind her, her pockets were empty, and her heart was light. Humming tunelessly and occasionally breaking out into quiet singing, she slowed to a walk, shaking out her hair behind her, setting her ponytail back to something at least resembling neatness. Reclaiming the shaft in her right hand, she waved at those she passed with a bright smile on her face. The clattering of the beans tossed from windows and doors all around punctuated her steps as she wended her way through the village, and finally arrived at her destination.
---- tsubasa and keiko interlude ---
That done, she cupped her hands around her mouth and called out in the direction of the tall girl that was busying herself at the other side of the shop, “Mi-chan! Hey, Mi-chan! Can you fix my hoe?" She trotted up to her then passed it over, and beaming up at Mio:
Full Name - Saiba Aoi Hometown - Hachinohe, Aomori Prefecture, Japan Quirk Type - Transformation Gender - Femme -
P E R S O N A L I T Y
Hyperactive Aoi is fairly bursting with energy, all the time.. Often she needs to be reminded to slow down before she snowballs herself out of control, which is quite a common thing, all told. She is a chatterbox of the highest order; her mouth running like a faucet is second nature to her. Her attention span is questionable at best, and prone to wandering much of the time. All that being said, though, when it's time to go do hero things that energy becomes a tremendous asset, allowing her to keep pushing on and giving 110% for quite a long time.
Mischievous But when she's not 'doing hero things,' that energy is still there, and it does still have to go somewhere. Aoi is an unrepentant prankster, often leveraging her Quirk to jump around into other students' devices and sticking around for a while to mess with them. She never really wants to cause any real problems with this; she has less than zero interest in blackmailing or coercing or any of that distinctly non-heroic stuff. But while she'd never intentionally hurt you, she can be exremely annoying.
Positive Still, for all that irritation she can bring...she can still always be counted on to have a smile on her face. And while her having her grinning at you after she calls your mom through your cell phone without you knowing can be frustrating, having her stepping forward with a grin when things get bad and your backs are to the wall is another thing entirely. Even when playing her pranks, she is ever a font of limitless cheer, just as ready to laugh at herself as she is to laugh at you. She holds no grudges from pranks--turnabout is fair play, after all--and it really takes some doing to pull the smile off her face.
Physical Description
Saiba Aoi is...not tall. Standing at a tiny 148cm (more or less 4'10"), she is head and shoulders below several of her classmates, and still significantly shorter than even the other 'short' students. Cornflower blue hair tied in twintails and bright blue eyes frame and sit atop a narrow, pale face that is nearly always sporting a big smile. Her frame is as small as the rest of her and as narrow as her face. Her legs are long (proportionately, at least) and as slender as the rest of her. She is fairly weak as far as appearances go, with relatively undeveloped musculature. Still, though she isn't strong by any means, she's much stronger than she looks. Of course, I would be remiss if I didn't mention the obvious appearance: her legs evaporate into pixels and electricity, and then nothingness, from her mid-shin down. She can't fly or anything, but it does mean she never needs to touch the ground.
It must be noticed that with her Quirk fully active--that is to say, with her entire body digitized--she changes appearance slightly on whatever screen she manifests on. Her cornflower blue hair fades to glowing electric blue at the tips, and her blue eyes turn to a bright turquoise-cyan. She gains a few digitized lines on each cheek. Whatever she's wearing or carrying at the time comes with her when she jumps in. Excepting, of course, her phone if she uses it to jump in.
While at school she wears her Ishin Academy uniform as per requirements, when she's got the choice to wear something else she is inordinately fond of a tracksuit jacket with hugely oversized sleeves into which her arms just about disappear.
Personal History
Aoi has always been a computer person.
Even when she was a small child, she was endlessly fascinated by them, often spending hours poking at them (and accomplishing nothing, of course, she was a small child after all). Her mother Kimiko, a four-armed programmer, indulged her daughter, let her fiddle around to her heart's content as long as she didn't touch the work stuff. Still, as Aoi grew, she nursed a private worry. Quirks were inherited. But Aoi didn't have four arms like her, and her husband...
...Well, Saiba Ryoutarou was Quirkless. And as Aoi grew and grew, past six, seven, eight, it looked like she might be Quirkless too. And some of the kids at school were starting to notice.
So both Kimiko and Aoi were delighted--though Kimiko was deeply confused--to find that Aoi's legs had flickered and faded into pixelated data. And when she proudly walked into the classroom, hand in her pocket with her phone, and fell due to her unfamiliar physiology...she vanished. The class was instantly freaked out, and the teacher, even more so, running over in fear. Until...
"Whoaaaa!"
Character Arc
Perhaps it's not obvious at first glance what's up with Aoi, and where her character development will go. Well, I point you to the above backstory and ask you to consider it. For as cheerful and chipper as Aoi is all the time, she's also burdened down by feelings of inadequacy. Being treated as Quirkless until mid-elementary school, and then being told, however gently, that her Quirk just wasn't cut out of hero work... well, it's left some marks on her psyche.
Quirk Description
Aoi's Quirk is Cyber Jump.
A transformation-type Quirk, it allows her to turn her body into computer data. Passively, as mentioned, her legs end mid-calf, and so instead of walking she floats a little ways off the ground. This gives her some advantages, like never needing to touch the ground when she needs to sneak around or if there's something hazardous on the ground, as well as giving her a certain level of controlled descent as long as she's falling feet first. However, it also has a major caveat attached: her legs either being immersed in or deluged with a sufficient amount of water, or being struck with a powerful enough electrical shock, can short her legs out and stop her from 'walking' for anywhere from a few seconds to a handful of minutes as they reboot. They've got a few other properties as well; while she accelerates slower than most, once she's up and running she also runs faster than most, and while she can't jump at all from a standstill, her jump height is dependent on how fast she's going. At her current maximum speed--roundabout sixteen mph--she can jump about four feet in the air.
Actively, she can turn herself entirely into data, jumping into a device and working as a rogue computer program of sorts. She can either enter through a data stream that she has access to--i.e. disappearing into the camera network after being recorded by jumping after her recording--or perform a manual override by touching the object.
Once she's inside, she can move around the settings and data of the machine as she wishes, pretty much setting the rules inside of whatever device she's in. Pretty much nothing happens that she can't control. She can also jump from device to device as long as there's a stream of data connecting the two that she can use as a pathway, whether that be hopping between computers on the same Wi-Fi network or calling someone from inside of a phone and then hopping along the cell data.
That said, this power is certainly not limitless. First, in addition to the limitations of where she can enter a device, she can only leave at a terminal--she can't just jump out of a Wi-Fi signal in the middle of a house, only out of a computer, or phone, or router--and she can't leave instantly at any time. According to her, the dataspace of any given device has an 'exit door' that she needs to get back to before she can leave (although the same is true for riding on signals, it's MUCH faster for her, she can zip along one in less than a second as long as she's paying attention). And while she's immune to physical harm, there are a suite of other things that can spell disaster for her.
While she can stop commands to shut a computer or phone down, there's nothing she can do to stop someone from unplugging it, or taking out the battery. If that happens, then as long as the device is off, so is she; in a state of unconsciousness for as long as it takes to turn back on. If access to a network is revoked while she's in a device, whether by unplugging an ethernet cable or having the signal itself shut off (she can turn off airplane mode if it's turned on, so that doesn't do much), she is trapped inside of that device and can't leave until it's either reconnected, or plugged in to a different device manually, after which she can jump up the cable.
And finally, and most dangerous: if a device is destroyed and she can't jump out in time, either through not paying attention, or the device being switch off...then it's lights out for her, forever.
Description in brief: Passively, Aoi has digitized legs that have different properties than normal people, cutting off some avenues and opening up others. Actively, she can transform into computer data, jumping inside of a terminal. She can travel at internet-fast speeds on Wi-Fi, data cables, or wire connections, but needs to open a channel through cell data by making a call at the moment, and can only travel between devices; she can't jump out midway. If the device she's in is disconnected from all data, she can't exit it. If it's turned off, she goes unconscious until it goes back on. If it's destroyed, she dies.
Perhaps the best word for Furukawa Fujiko's appearance is 'transitional.' Her hair is somewhat shaggy and unkempt as though grown out unevenly, and sits at an awkward length around the base of her neck. Narrow eyebrows that always seem at least slightly sad sit over a pair of dark gray eyes with much the same emotion. She's taller than a middle schooler but still not quite as tall as a high schooler, sitting at 152 centimeters: not short enough to be especially noticeable, but short enough to be a little bit self-conscious.
Her small size might have you thinking she's frail at first, but—as befits a girl is athletic as she is—if you look closer, you will find an incredibly athletic physique. Her trimmed stomach displays prominent abs that are remarkably strong. Her legs are even moreso, packed with the wiry whipcord muscle that comes from running hard for hours, for days in a row. And yet for all the strength that her core and lower body present, anything above her abs is...not unfit, obviously, but being mainly a soccer player, she never really worked it out nearly as much. Of course she dabbled in other sports, but none of them held her interest in the same way, and so her upper body is much less developed than her lower.
On that note, Fujiko has a passionate hatred for her chest. Not that she's particularly against the concept, but...why did it have to grow as much as it did? It's unbelievably inconvenient, makes her stick out in a way she isn't fond of, makes it frustrating to do anything even the slightest bit active, and gives her back pain besides. Unless she's going to a formal event of some variety, she's in a sports bra 95% of the time. Even on the rare occasion that she isn't wearing a sports bra, she tends to wear tight tops, but not too tight; For example, close fitting tee shirts. Too loose and any rigorous physical activity becomes a massive pain, too tight and that's uncomfortable all on its own.
At the moment, Fujiko has a strange way of carrying herself. While to strangers she looks perfectly respectable, for people who know her, she looks a touch stiff, vaguely uncomfortable, a little bit like an imported exotic pet that's has been cowed into submission (which isn't exactly far off, to be honest), forced to fit into a mold that has no business in. Consequently, behind the movement that she tries to make as graceful as possible, there is a subtle tension. Said tension is most apparent in stressful situations, where on occasion she can look extremely vicious and aggressive until she can reign it in.
Personality:
Fujiko's personality only encapsulates further that sense of transitions. As one could probably surmise by looking at her bearing, she has two distinctly oppositional pieces of her personality. There is the Fujiko that her parents have envisioned: the shy, calm, sweet girl who is distinctly and unequivocally feminine. This is the face of Fujiko that most people see now. She's a pleasant person to be around, she's patient, she's kind, and she's overall generally sweet. She's very intelligent, and she's always ready to study if she needs to. Really, she's growing into that picture perfect traditional conservative image of a 'true Japanese lady.'
And then there's the actual Fujiko: a wild, unrestrained tomboy, who takes a wild, unrestrained joy in her life. As much as she's tried to bury this part of her personality, it has admittedly not been entirely successful. Even now, sometimes she snaps and the tomboy rears her shaggy head. Because of the circumstances which led to this, it's not really a true alloying of the two parts of her personality. It's more so painting over one with the other, trying to hide it from the world out of the twin senses of shame and familial obligation. Thus, this is very rarely seen at this point in time, only really poking out when the coat of paint starts to wear a bit thin in places, where Fujiko is always ready to paint over again
That said...no coat of paint lasts forever.
Bio:
Fujiko was...a crazy kid.
Born to Furukawa Jonouchi and Akemi—an older family now, and one that put a great deal of emphasis on familial pride—Fujiko, their only daughter, was wild from the start. The instant she could, she was running around, climbing trees, searching for bugs, falling in really stupid ways, and getting hurt repeatedly. She eschewed the company of other girls her age, claiming that they were all dumb and boring, and instead sought out the company of boys to take part in her hairbrained antics.
When she was in second grade, she met a 3rd grader named Shion (who Fujiko 100% thought was a girl when they first met), and they became good friends in rapid time. Only two months later, Shion told her about a sport he'd started playing a bit: soccer. And though Shion never really got into it, it wasn't long until it took over the young Fujiko's life; and it would define it for many years.
The years rolled by, and found Fujiko, now in her third year of middle school, no less of a tomboy now than she was in elementary school, perhaps even more so. Really, 'part of the guys' in a lot of ways. And her parents were becoming concerned. As a proud old family, the Furukawas were very concerned with image; and their daughter showed no signs of growing out of her wild tomboy nature. Chewing on their metaphorical fingernails, Jonouchi and Akemi came to a resolution: if she wanted to find a good husband and live a happy life, their daughter needed to move out of this tomboy phase. And if she wouldn't or couldn't do it on her own...well, that was their duty as parents, wasn't it?
Fujiko, dear, don't you think it's time you move past this? Honey, I don't think it's a good idea for you to play soccer anymore. Fujiko, this is reflecting poorly on the entire family. Don't you want to find a good husband, Fujiko?
Fujiko brushed it off for quite a long time, dismissing it as her parents just being...weird. But, as it always is, when something is said often enough, you tend to start believing it. And slowly, slowly, she started acting like it too. This is where her personality began to shift; shame and pressure are a potent combination indeed. By the time she graduated middle school, she was almost a different person entirely.
But high school is a different environment altogether, and the personality she's created for herself has Begun to strain.
...Not long now.
Kendo:
As Fujiko's only real exposure to kendo is a small amount with Shion in middle school, she is still very much a beginner of the sport, and has yet to figure out any kind of style of her own. At the moment, as a byproduct of her psychological state, she's going to tend to play much more defensively than she really should, and be wary of doing anything too risky, not playing much to her strengths at all.
However, as time goes on, she'll eventually loosen the strictures on the way she participates in the sport and nail down how to funnel her aggression into most effectively leveraging the explosive power in her legs: dashing in for a blisteringly fast strike and then withdrawing almost simultaneously, leaving little time for retaliation before she's out of reach again.
Though of course as a novice she's going to learn the foundational chuudan first, after she goes far enough in kendo she'll figure out that her strategy fits best with hassou: it lets her whip the blade forward with the momentum of her movement, making her strikes that much faster and harder to predict or deflect.
Full Name - Hiei Moeko (日永燃衞子) Hometown - Asahikawa, Hokkaido Prefecture, Japan Quirk Type - Emitter Gender - Femme -
P E R S O N A L I T Y
Proud Issues with pride
Strict Issues with people
Gung-ho Issues with recklessness
Physical Description
Hiei Moeko is a bizarrely tall girl, standing at nearly six feet already. Consequently, she stands much taller than most people in her class, including the boys, but especially the girls. She has long, bright red hair which she ties up in twin tails every day to keep it out of her face and off of her neck, and brilliant orange eyes held often at some degree of aggravation. She tends to wear an intense expression on her round face, like she's concentrating really hard on something a lot of the time. But the most notable part of her body is the center of her chest over her heart. It glows with a brilliant yellow-orange light that pulses along with her heartbeat. As her solar reservoir fills it grows brighter, and the pulsing less frequent. When it's full, it's a brilliant, unbroken light.
As far as musculature goes, she doesn't have a ton. That's not to say she's unfit; but it's certainly not something she's prioritized, choosing instead to hone her Quirk.
Though of course at school she wears her uniform, outside of it she prefers lightweight t-shirts and shorts. Because of her Quirk heating her from the inside it's difficult for her to get cold much of the time, so she just wears what she finds comfortable. She carries herself with pride, as—in her mind—befits a hero-to-be.
Personal History
Aoi has always been a computer person.
Even when she was a small child, she was endlessly fascinated by them, often spending hours poking at them (and accomplishing nothing, of course, she was a small child after all). Her mother Kimiko, a four-armed programmer, indulged her daughter, let her fiddle around to her heart's content as long as she didn't touch the work stuff. Still, as Aoi grew, she nursed a private worry. Quirks were inherited. But Aoi didn't have four arms like her, and her husband...
...Well, Saiba Ryoutarou was Quirkless. And as Aoi grew and grew, past six, seven, eight, it looked like she might be Quirkless too. And some of the kids at school were starting to notice.
So both Kimiko and Aoi were delighted--though Kimiko was deeply confused--to find that Aoi's legs had flickered and faded into pixelated data. And when she proudly walked into the classroom, hand in her pocket with her phone, and fell due to her unfamiliar physiology...she vanished. The class was instantly freaked out, and the teacher, even more so, running over in fear. Until...
"Whoaaaa!"
Character Arc
Perhaps it's not obvious at first glance what's up with Aoi, and where her character development will go. Well, I point you to the above backstory and ask you to consider it. For as cheerful and chipper as Aoi is all the time, she's also burdened down by feelings of inadequacy. Being treated as Quirkless until mid-elementary school, and then being told, however gently, that her Quirk just wasn't cut out of hero work... well, it's left some marks on her psyche.
Quirk Description
Moeko's Quirk is Cannon Core.
In addition to all normal functions, her heart serves as a reservoir for solar energy that she fills up every time she's exposed to sunlight, though of course the more direct the better. In addition to gaining physical resilience, speed, and strength, as well as resistance to heat and cold, commensurate to the state of her reservoir, the main function of her Quirk draws on her reservoir instead, funneling power out of it to create destructive lances of firelight.
Lina Anastasia Delikhova FEMME | 23 | RODION Scion of Wouldn't you like to know, weatherboy?
_______________________________________________ "I'm never quite sure whether or not my daughter knows what she's doing, and I don't think she is either." ________________________________________
"Pfft, why're you being so serious? Lighten up, spoilsport!"
Holy Sigil Location
Her holy sigil appears just left of her left eye.
Appearance
Can describe your character here what pictures don't show
Personality
should be obvious
Biography
include where you were born, your status (if you're a noble), how being a Scion has affected your life, and any current personal goals. If you weren't expected to be a Scion, explain how you found out.
Weapon of Choice
Setting is pretty modern but there be monsters on the road so what do you use to defend yourself?
Misc.
Lina has a final wrinkle to complicate her life more. As sweet-tempered as she is, all that pent-up anger and aggression from her childhood had to go somewhere, and it manifested as a voice that urges her to act as cold and merciless as her father always wanted her to: the Rodion Voice.
The chronically-sleepy Amie Mothwax has a tendency to appear stoic and emotionless, eyes blank and unfeeling. She speaks relatively little, and when she does, it's usually flat in its affect. You could be forgiven for thinking she has no emotions at all.
Which, of course, is quite far from the truth. She has an emotional range that's plenty broad, just as much as anybody else. What she doesn't have is a particularly good way of displaying that range. While those that don't know her wonder if perhaps she's been abused and that's why, that couldn't be more wrong. She's just...like this. ---
"I love you so much, my little light."
It feels like it's been a lifetime since then.
"Oh wow, Shysca, did you bake that all on your own?"
Like a whole world has come and gone in the time it took to blink the memories back behind her eyes.
"Of course daddy is proud of you, my little light. How could he not be?"
...Had it really only been ten years?
The cool morning air smelled of the past. Of early morning dew and early spring frost. Of strawberry pastries and pinecones, and the wide bank of the river. It smelled of the stones that she used to skip over the gray water. She breathed deep and closed her eyes, savoring this old simple joy, and all thoughts of guilt and redemption evaporated like mist in the sun as she walked lightly through Ardenfel like a great weight was gone, like she'd never known it was there.
As she walked, she saw the children that she knew so well. Danyl on the other side of the street. Lyndii would be reading, probably, even on a day like this. A kind of foolish pleasure seeped through her as she smiled. Mary walking in the other direction towards her and her heart swelled. She opened her mouth to call out when another smell undercut the blissful haze.
Smoke?
She blinked, and the world was suddenly a blur. Fire. Steel. Screaming that she didn't realize was her. She looked around frantically and found everyone gone except Mary. And as soon as she started towards her, her hands ignited in searing pain. She looked down in panic and found them livid with a seething white radiance that soon spread over the rest of her body as she fell to the ground, twisting in agony. She looked up, trying to find MARY again through the white light,a nd onl y f oun d h e r s e l f--
C H I L D H O O D I N A R D E N F E L D C H I L D H O O D I N A R D E N F E L D
Mr. and Mrs. Yarrel and Talulah Celicantha (but please, call her Lulah) were fond of calling themselves the best bakers in Ardenfel. And they were very, very good at it; people would walk from the other side of the village to avail themselves of a fresh hot loaf, or a fruit pie baked to perfection. They were masters of their crafts; and though they were small town bakers that obviously didn't know how to make the delicate pastries that you might see in the big city, they were no less skilled for it.
But then everything changed, once their daughter was born.
Even Lulah didn't know that she had elven heritage. And Yarrel certainly had no idea at all; having hair that pale was unusual, but not impossible, obviously. Not until Shysca's birth. The hair that later grew on her head could be excused just like the mother's. The slightly oddly-colored eyes could be played off in any number of ways. Every odd quirk of her appearance could be explained away, save one. There was no getting around the sharply pointed ears. And Yarrel did not appreciate the idea of there being elf in his family.
Talulah loved Shysca enough for both parents, and made sure she grew up knowing that she was loved. But as she aged and her elven traits became more distinct, well, Yarrel grew what you might call...distant. He didn't grow violent, not until she was ten or eleven, when Talulah started to take ill. But moreso he just...neglected her.I t was like she'd lost her dad. Or, more accurately, like she'd never had one at all. Like she was a ghost to him. And so her mother's kindness became the most important thing in her life, and she began to mantle it. From that point on, she tried her best to be something like a mother--or, more likely, an older sister--to all the other kids in Ardenfel, or at least the ones she knew. After all, maybe if she acted like mommy then daddy would listen to her, right?
No. Obviously.
Once Yarrel started hitting her, that smile came less often. But, given she was in her double digits, that certainly wasn't the worst thing that would happen soon,would it?
Because then, the bandits came.
L I F E A T T H E O R P H A N A G E L I F E A T T H E O R P H A N A G E
In the Landeil orphanage, though...the smile came back in full force. It needed to be. She knew these kids. She'd played with them in the street. She'd patched them up after they'd scraped their knees. She'd heard them talking about their parents. She knew those kids; she loved those kids.
And what those kids didn't need was another person crying.
They needed someone they knew to turn to, she thought. She didn't know what the family who owned the orphanage were like when she first got there, so, quite simply, she devoted herself wholeheartedly to making everyone's lives better. She threw herself into it and didn't look back. All smiles, all the time. She comforted Mary when she had nightmares. She tried to talk things through with Teth, even when she didn't want to listen. She spent hours around Danyl; he always seemed to lean on her so much, after all. She spent a whole year like that. It wasn't a particularly good life. It CERTAINLY wasn't a comfortable one. But it was all that she needed in the end, right? Even after Mary ran away, leaving Shysca's hands and lower forearms marred with a large and encompassing burn that turned into a painful scar, even then, she kept trying. There were still kids that needed her help.
But then the Church of the Virtuous Mother stopped nearby.
She didn't know much about them. Didn't know anything, really. But just out of curiosity, she went to listen to the sermon. Just once wouldn't hurt, right?
And then Shysca was transfixed. She fell hard, and fast.
All thoughts of responsibility fled her mind as she heard them preach, and she felt a fire stoke in her heart. After the sermon, she approached them and explained: she had just come to hear them speak, she felt as though she'd been born anew. She lived in the nearby orphanage, could she leave with the and join the Church? And they acquiesced and lifted her out of the orphanage to return to their monastery with them, and live her life anew.
O N W A R D: A N E W P A T H O N W A R D: A N E W P A T H
It was in the Church of the Virtuous Mother--a monastery high in the mountains, a long way away--that Shysca first learned of the Divine Aeter, the grand embodiment of all light and purity in the universe. And though she had some doubt at first, she became something of a zealot in a relatively short period of time. The Virtuous Mother and, by extension, the Divine Aether became beloved in her eyes. An idol.
And the problem with idols is that you stop really thinking about what they're doing.
Over the past ten years, there are numerous times that Shysca, using her newly-learnt holy divine magic, 'brought nonbelievers into the Divine Aeter's light' in the most permanent way possible. Things that she would've balked at not long ago, she barely noticed, she was so thoroughly indoctrinated into this cult. It was like she had only half a mind of her own. Word has begun to spread about her, slowly spreading through pockets of people: stories of the wrathful black-clad cleric with the burn-scarred hands.
Though...she did keep one secret from the Virtuous Mother. When Mary had fled the orphanage, Shysca had seen horns on her head. She'd seen the phantasmal flames that had writhed around her in her sleep back then. She knew that there was something demonic going on with her. She should report it, and she should be brought into the Divine Aeter's light. But...
But she couldn't. It just felt wrong.
Not long ago, she remembered something that she'd nearly forgotten. Old friends. A promise to meet. People--children then--whose faces she could still see ever so clearly in her mind's eye. And as she thought about their smiles, she felt a revulsion rise in her throat.
Would they ever smile at her like that if they knew that she had killed?
With no warning to the Virtuous Mother, she dropped the amulet that marked her as a member of the Church into a mountain chasm beside the monastery, replaced her black church robe with a dress of pure white, then fled off into the night to return to her old home, see the old faces. Perhaps it is only when she does that she'll resolve the crisis of faith that swirls inside her skull, and the horrible nightmares that have again to begun to plague her will perhaps abate.
Shysca Ausley is a young half-elf Cleric who swore herself to a faith that worships an entity known as the Divine Aeter, and was gifted powerful divine magic. She doesn't need any kind of focus, but she finds that it helps her think more clearly if she uses a long metal staff colored white to match her clothing. Why metal? Well, in addition to a kind of spellcasting focus, it's also surprisingly useful for whacking a stubborn adversary over the head.
Speaking of her magic, it's very supportive in nature these days; healing, shielding, curing, reviving. While she can unleash the smite of the Divine Aeter in a flash of white light and flame, she very much prefers not to do that, firmly believing that violence should be the final recourse.
---
"I love you so much, my little light."
It feels like it's been a lifetime since then.
"Oh wow, Shysca, did you make that all on your own?"
Like a whole world has come and gone in the time it took to blink the memories back behind her eyes.
...Had it really only been ten years?
The cool morning air smelled of the past. Of early morning dew and early spring frost. Of strawberry pastries and pinecones, and the wide bank of the river. It smelled of the stones that she used to skip over the gray water. She breathed deep and closed her eyes, savoring this old simple joy, and all thoughts of guilt and redemption evaporated like mist in the sun as she walked lightly through Ardenfel like a great weight was gone, like she'd never known it was there.
As she walked, she saw the children that she knew so well. Danyl on the other side of the street. Lyndii would be reading, probably, even on a day like this. A kind of foolish pleasure seeped through her as she smiled. Her beloved Mary was walking in the other direction towards her, and her heart swelled. She opened her mouth to call out when another smell undercut the blissful haze.
Smoke?
She blinked, and the world was suddenly a blur. Fire. Steel. Screaming that she didn't realize was her. She looked around frantically and found everyone gone except her sister. And as soon as she started towards her, her hands ignited in searing pain. She looked down in panic and found them livid with a seething white radiance that soon spread over the rest of her body as she fell to the ground, twisting in agony. She looked up, trying to find MARY again through the white light,a nd onl y f oun d h e r s e l f--
C H I L D H O O D I N A R D E N F E L D C H I L D H O O D I N A R D E N F E L D
She remembers little enough of it; just faint flashes of her mom carrying her down a gravel path in a forest, snuggling up against her an inn's bed. Only the vaguest of images, now, but enough to remind her that wherever she was born, she would probably never know. But that doesn't matter, she tells herself. Though the vague flashes of town and wilderness nip at her heels now and then, Ardenfeld was home. An end to the traveling; a roof over her head; a warm fire every night; a father; and most important of all, a sister. Who she loved dearly. They were only half siblings, of course, but she didn't fully understand the concept at the time. All she knew was she had a little sister now, and she was the best.
Her new sister Mary was a handful, certainly; disappearing for hours at a time, showing up bruised and dirtied and causing Shysca no end of worry. But despite the struggle, she took to it like a duck to water. Patching up a hurt knee here, trying to keep her from running off into the woods there, singing some of their moms' old songs to help her when she was having trouble going to sleep: anything and everything she could do to help. And somehow, she just couldn't bring herself to be mad. Maybe a bit chastising; mom and dad were worried, after all. But then Mary would say something sweet, and press a pretty stone that she'd found near the lakeshore into Shysca's hand, and she was all smiles again. She would line the pretty stones and strange branches next to the fire, right against the wall on the left side.
Perhaps some are still there, even now.
And of course, though it started with Mary, it certainly didn't end there. Shysca had gotten a taste of caring for people, and it stuck. Before she knew it, she'd become a pseudo-older sister to many of the other kids in town too, with careful hands and a gentle smile. She never knew where her mom came from, and where she came from either. She never asked; she simply didn't care much. She didn't remember much of where they'd traveled, given her age, and she had new family in Ardenfeld. Leaving it was out of the question.
That said, by the time she was eight or nine, she came to the realization that her ears were shaped different from the rest of her family. Her mom, dad, and of course Mary all had nice round human ears; but hers were quite pointy, more than enough to recognize. Unlike the whole rest of her family, Shysca was an elf (well, at least half of one). It brought a host of conflicting feelings with it; isolation, pride, fear, intrigue, confusion. Over the course of the next few years, she eventually untangled these feelings, coming to the childishly simple conclusion that it really didn't matter, because even if she wasn't the same as her family—she even looked different, even from her mom—they were still her family, they loved her, and she loved them.
Though perhaps she should've gotten used to that feeling of isolation and fear
Because then, the bandits came for Ardenfeld. And just like her life on the road, there are—mercifully—only flashes. Scattered, fractured images.
The warm fire in her memories, now consuming everything like a ravenous beast.
The roof that she'd come to rely on crashing into itself.
Her mother running out to fight and not coming back.
Her father's slumped body.
She remembers Mary's tiny hand trembling, cold as ice against her own. She remembers running. She doesn't remember quite where. The horrible feeling of her whole life crashing down around her. Everything was just...gone.
L I F E A T T H E O R P H A N A G E L I F E A T T H E O R P H A N A G E
Mary, and the other kids that had survived the attack. Who had also seen their entire lives shatter. And Shysca made a resolution, hard as it was. She was the oldest, and she was one of the few—if not the only—who hadn't lived her whole life in Ardenfeld. So she had a responsibility to them now. They needed someone they knew to turn to, she thought. Someone from home that wasn't crying. Stability. Comfort She didn't know what the family who owned the orphanage were like when they first got there, so, quite simply, she devoted herself wholeheartedly to making everyone's lives better. She threw herself into it and didn't look back. All smiles, all the time.
She tried to talk things through with Teth, even when she didn't want to listen. She spent hours around Danyl; he always seemed to lean on her so much, after all. She spent a whole year like that. It wasn't a particularly good life. It CERTAINLY wasn't a comfortable one. But it was all that she needed in the end, right?
And above all, her sister.
The sounds she made during her nightmares broke Shysca's heart every night, and the flames that would race over her during them had her worried sick. So whenever she would fall asleep, Shysca would creep over and lie down next to her, stroking her hair like their mom used to. A horrible hollowness ripped at her whenever she thought of home, but she could not let it eat her. Not while Mary was still here.
Then came that horrific night, when the last leaves were shaking themselves free from the skeletal trees outside. When Shysca fell asleep early by mistake, too tired after a long day to keep her eyes open. She'd awoken to Mary's nightmare-torn cries, and to phantasmal fire rippling over her body. And, guilt tearing at her for not staying awake, she rushed over to try and shake her sister awake.
And the fire had lashed out.
She remembers screaming in sudden agony and shock as her arms and forearms were eaten by the flames and horribly burnt. The blinding fear, rendering her senseless to anything else as she shrieked until her voice grew ragged. The matron of the orphanage desperately trying to help her, and so delirious was she in her panic she thought that mom had come back.
Her memories of the next few weeks, like so many others, are mercifully just the thinnest torn shreds of what they were. Horrible pain in her hands, that somehow grew only worse. A foul smell. Fever. A priest kneeling over her bedside, speaking indistinctly to the matron. Drinking something foul-tasting.
And then, the church.
The strange, vaulted ceiling above her, and the fear. "Who are you? Where am I?" And then, chief in her thoughts:
"Where's Mary?"
They let her ask. They let her scream. They let her cry. And only once she was done did the monks tell her with solemn voices that her sister had been corrupted by demons. The sickness that had gripped her—cured, now—was the grip of infernal fire. And then a final awful revelation: when her sister had been corrupted, her hair had turned silver-white, and her eyes a burning yellow-orange.
...Just like hers.
She was under threat of corruption as well, they said. The only way to hold it under was to follow the righteous path of the Divine Aeter and purge the rest of the demons from the world. She didn't want to believe it. But they had saved her life, they said, and stopped her from being corrupted like her poor sister. She had a duty to them now. They said it over and over.
Until—still a child—she eventually believed it.
O N W A R D: A N E W P A T H O N W A R D: A N E W P A T H
But she didn't remember that for long. Threw herself into her duties as a member of the Church of the Virtuous Mother until she forgot, and all that was left was the knowledge that she had to do this. And...she did.
Over those ten years, Shysca is unsure of how many people she cleansed with the divine fire of the Divine Aeter. Things that she would've been horrified at not long ago, she barely noticed, she was so thoroughly indoctrinated into this cult. It was like she had only half a mind of her own. Word began to spread about her, slowly bubbling through pockets of people: stories of the wrathful black-clad cleric with the burn-scarred hands...
And yet...
As much as she knew she had to for reasons she could no longer remember, she couldn't ever bring herself to imagine Mary as anything but her baby sister.
And not long ago, she remembered something that she'd nearly forgotten. Old friends. An old promise she'd made to meet with them again. People—children then—whose faces she could still see ever so clearly, so much she felt she could almost touch them. And as she thought about their smiles, an intense and sick revulsion rose in her throat.
They would never smile at her again, if they knew what she had done.
With no warning to the Virtuous Mother or any members of the church, she dropped the amulet that marked her a member into a mountain chasm beside the monastery, tore apart her black church robe and replaced it with a dress of pure white, then fled off into the night to return to her old home, see the old faces. Perhaps it is only when she does that she'll resolve the crisis of faith that swirls inside her skull, and the horrible nightmares that have again to begun to plague her will perhaps abate.
And though the Church is behind her, she knows what she'd done will follow her to the end of her days.
So all these long years later—no longer a child by her mother's side—Shysca takes to the road.
