[CHAR] The Dust: Relaunch

[Syben]

Name: Alexandria Svet-Yulia
Age: 20
Appeared Age: Late teens (16-19)
Height: 5'2
Weight: 100lbs est.
Eye Color: Completely White
Hair Color: Platinum White
Physical Identifiers:

• Two parallel scars encircling her neck, about 2 ¹/₂ inches in width.
• Multiple scars crisscrossing her back, varying between 1-2 inches in width.

Appearance: Alexandria isn't the kind of girl one would usually look twice at; unless concerned about her overall general size. A petite oval face, framed by long and haphazardly placed platinum white hair giving her kind of an eccentric look about her as she always hides her eyes behind goggles. Goggles that are usually reflective, or host to a one-way lens, which sit atop a proportionate bulb nose. Small, pert lips which are often set in a pressed line of determination, or puckered, and slightly askew in concentration.

Alexandria, herself, doesn't figure she's very attractive; despite having an average bust; the rest of her completes the picture of her miniatureness which narrow hips, a slender frame, and an almost non existent rump. Though there is evidence of some toned muscle wrapped about her body, she is hardly the picture of the ferocity that lies behind her goggles.

Background

Residence: The village of Isolone.
Profession: Scavenger
Aligned Faction: Neutral
Relatives: Unknown

Backstory

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gear

Weapons:

• 9mm Pistol: Alexandria has come across a number of weapons in her travels, her 9mm pistol is the only one she ever kept, and keeps on her.
• Twin Tactical Daggers: Alexandria carries two twin daggers, with 17 inch blades, and 7 in handles. These daggers can attach at the hilt, which will extend out slightly when done so, to become a 5 ¹/₂ foot double ended sword staff.

Armor

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

Ammunition:

• Dirty Rounds: 30: contained in three, 10 bullet clips.
• High Grade Rounds: 10: contained in one, 10 bullet clip.
• Heavy Ammunition: N/A

Hiking Backpack:

• Medkit, Rope, Spare clothes and footwear, Sewing Kit, Water supply, Food, Burglary Kit, Small toolkit, Expandible crowbar, Spare shoelaces, Tape, Spare goggles, Flashlight, Fire starter, Water purifying tablets, Sunscreen, Waterproof bags, Thermal blanket, Sleeping bag, Pan, Utensils, Binoculars, Tarp.

Belt Pouches:

• Ammunition, Pistol, Canteen, Headlamp, Compass, Map, Fire starter, Matches, Lighter.

Immortalis Information

Manifested Phenomena: Electricity And Lightning
Unique Abilities:

• Battery: Alexandria's affinity for electricity has made her something of a living battery, meaning she can store electricity within herself by feeding off of pre existing electrical currents.
• Dispersion: For a short period Alexandria can turn specific locations of her body, like a hand, into static electrical form, allowing her to manipulate electronics. This can also be performed on small, conductive items allowing Alexandria to move them as energy, rather than mass. This can only be performed by touching the object.

Strengths:

• Oo' Shiny: Alexandria's main profession is scavenging, which she is quite good at. She has a keen eye for useful items in piles of junk, and is quite creative when repurposing the intended use of things.
• Agility: Years of scavenging and running, have honed Alexandria's body to the point of being able to reach higher than average speeds and maintain them longer. This also allows her to perform acrobatic activities with relative ease; such as parkour.

Weaknesses:

• Conduit: Alexandria is a living electrical node, contact with water will begin to short circuit her and disperse any electrical energy she has into the water. This causes an arcing effect when caught in the rain.
• Conductivity: Anything that isn't metal is nearly non-conductive meaning her power is ineffective against such surfaces, or armors. This excludes the heat x impact factor of her power.
• Manipulator: Alexandria cannot manifest electricity or lightning, and can only use that which is available to her.

---

Awakened State

Spark Name: Aeshma "The Hunter"

Innate Awakened Abilities:

• Armor of the Spark: Every spark surrounds their host in a black, chitin like shell, or armor. Their host resides within the armor, typically in the fetal position as they do not control their armored state through direct physical movement. Rather, the spark intercepts the neural commands for movement, and manipulates the armor that way. The spark or the host may be in control, but not both. If a spark is only partially awakened, the host will be stuck in whatever partial state they enter, until they are able to fully awaken. Only then may they revert back to their normal self at will. Additionally, heavy damage to the armor will cause it to break and fall off, reverting back to the normal state of the host.
• Voice of the Spark: Once awakened, the host and the spark may converse mentally. The Spark can share its knowledge, though since the phenomena is not innate to the spark itself, it can only give ideas and tips for power useage; The spark cannot teach its host mastery over their abilities. The spark can retain memories gathered from their host, recalling things they forget, or even noticing things the host themselves failed to, but only through the host's eyes. Many sparks may know each other, and may recognize other awakened forms. The awakened armor is unique to the spark, which is how sparks may recognize each other, even if the differences between two armor sets are very subtle.

Additional Abilities:

• Heavy Draw: Aeshma can detect and draw electricity to himself. He can do this with a very large current of energy from nearly a mile away. The smaller the electrical current, the closer he has to be. This ability maxes out at just under a mile, no matter the potential strength of the electricity he detects.
• Full Dispersion: Aeshma's awakened state gives Alex the power to become flash of lightning for about two seconds, but letting her move incredibly fast. This allows her to pass through her foes and electrocute them, and to travel along a conductive surface. This is a powerful ability, and its use is quite infrequent.

Additional Strengths:

• I Can Smell Your Fear: Aeshma isn't called "The Hunter" for nothing. He has a great sense of tracking, akin to a predatory animal. It's very difficult for somebody to escape him by fleeing or hiding.
• Sharp Wit, Sharp Claws: Aeshma is not a creature of strength, or of great endurance, but swiftness and precision. What he lacks in physical prowess, he makes up for quick reflexes and speed. Along with his instincts and razor sharp claws, he makes an incredibly deadly foe.

.
Additional Weaknesses:

• Time Bomb: The more power that Aeshma uses, the more he charges the atmosphere around him. Negative and Positive Ions separate as a result of the static charge he gives off from using his power, causing dust to rise into the air. Over a short period of time the dust will gather and draw moisture, forming rainclouds. This effect can only occur outside.
• Do Not Operate When Wet: Contact with water will short circuit Aeshma's stored power. Continuous contact will drain him until the Awakened State dissipates completely, removing Aeshma from control and leaving Alex with no power.

[SirBeowulf]

Basics

Name:
Samuel Biggins, sometimes called 'The Bard' or more likely 'That Guy With a Harmonica'.
Age:
Twenty-six.
Appeared Age:
Nearing his thirties. You can blame the crow's feet on the apocalypse.
Height:
Five foot ten inches.
Weight:
One-hundred and fourty five pounds. "Fuck metric." - Sam
Eye Color:
A shiney copper that spreads throughout his entire eye. No sclera or pupil.
Hair Color:
A rusty brown. Hair could probably use a wash.
Physical Disabilities:
None, thankfully. No crippling injuries as of so far.
Physical Identifiers:

• He's got a sweet ass beard.
• Typically keeps any old wounds under clothing. He's got some scars, old scratches, a bullet wound or two.

Appearance:
Average. Other than the strange eyes, you probably wouldn't throw a second glance at him if he passed you by in a busy market. Hell, you've seen stranger. Height is average, weight is average. Well, for the setting. He could probably do to throw on a few pounds, but hell, you're not gonna put on weight on beans and canned peaches. The beard is typical fare for a wastelander, and the hat? Well, the hat is cool.

Clothing is usual fare as well. Anything that isn't threadbare or rotting is good for him. Current attire consists of a fashionable blue striped hoodie and brown cargo pants. Cargo pants are best pants.

Background

Residence:
...Sam is pretty much homeless.
Profession:
Scavenger. Roamer. Pursuer of shiny stuff.
Aligned Faction:
Neutral. He usually tries to stay away from the Forsaken. Those guys are assholes.
Relatives:
Dad's still alive. He thinks. Alexander Biggins.

Backstory

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gear

Weapons:

• Katt: Katt is the old beaten up Kalashnikov automatic AK-47 rifle he wields. Its seen its fair share of use, and now sports dents, scratches, and even burn marks. Don't ask how he got those. The weapon still works like a champ, regardless of its tear.
• Black Betsy: Remnants of the past can reveal a lot. A little old game called 'baseball' was a good inspiration for the name of his aluminum steel bat. He still holds the card for the namesake's owner.
• Peashooter: An old nine millimeter pistol that makes up for its lack of punch with a few extended magazines Sam managed to find, giving the pistol the capacity of an SMG. Point shoot. Fire until empty. Its a simple weapon.

Armor:
Sam usually doesn't wear much armor, at least not like some others who trick themselves out with old power armor relics. Besides, you wouldn't need armor in the first place if you didn't get spotted. A simple bullet proof vest is all he really needs for protection of his vital bits.

Ammunition:

• Dirty Rounds: About one hundred and twenty rounds for his AK, fifty or so for his pistol.
• High Grade Rounds: Keeps a nice stash of thirty on him. Turns out, people like giving tips to a musician.
• Heavy Ammunition: As of so far, Sam has no RPG rockets. Sadly.

Smelly Rucksack:

• Items Within

- Typical supplies one might need for scavenging. A mag-lite torch with two fully charged batteries. Rope is also needed, you never know when you'll need that stuff. He's got a full face mask for when the sands get too dusty or you're going into a toxic zone. A single air tank. Enough food for about a week. Enough water for three days. A big canteen is thanks for that. A set of matches and a pot, a fork and spoon as well. Binos. Some other stuff not worth mentioning. The rucksack smells like bad leather.
Miscellaneous:
His harmonica aptly named 'Ol Mac.'

Immortalis Information

Manifested Phenomena: Musical Illusionism ~ Euphonos / Euphie
Unique Abilities:

• Musical Prowess - His manipulation of music has led to Sam being a great artist, able to play songs that could bring a tear to the most pessimistic old man out there.
• Illusionism - Given enough focus, and time to play something, Sam can literally manipulate space and time. Or something, he really isn't clear on how it works. Results can vary, usually. He can make an image of a floating brook, surrounded by green pastures. Or, he can form twin daggers in the air that soon find theirselves in the gut of an unsuspecting raider. Hell, he might even be able to form an anti-material rifle or rocket launcher, but what kind of song would be related to that?

Strengths:

• Who The Hell Is That? - Not many people know Sam by his face. His reputation as a bardic man proceeds him, but to the average soul, he's just another hobo scavenger.
• Many Pretties - Being able to scavenge is an art alongside music. Being able to find that hidden can at the way back of the cabinet, or managing to come across the well hidden cache of old military supplies is something not a lot of people can do.

Weaknesses:

• I Just Sorta Hit Em - Sam isn't really... proficient with weapons. All of his knowledge has been self taught, he's never gotten any real professional training. His tactics with a baseball bat are to keep swinging. With his AK? Point and click at the enemy until they die. It works well enough, but he has no real skill or brawn.
• Are You Really Playing A Song In Battle? - His Immortal powers aren't really that useful when it comes down to it. To actually summon a sword out of nothing requires complete and total focus while he plays a ballad. As some might guess, a fight isn't the best place to pull out a harmonica and start playing. Any lapse of focus leads to the 'spell' failing. Especially for more complicated items. And even then, he has to memorize tons of songs and hope they relate in some way to what he wants.
• Everyone Else Is Doing It - Live long enough in the wasteland and you start to care less about 'negligible effects' of drugs. Sam is pretty receptive to drugs, and he's tried a lot of them before. If it takes the edge off and lets you be happy for a few hours, why not? Booze and cigarettes are probably his main vices. Lung cancer sure is fun.

[Lightning Fast]

Basics

Name: Cyrus
Age: 22
Appeared Age: Varies, usually around the same as his actual age.
Height: 5’10
Weight: Varies
Eye Color: White irises with grey sclera (Sclera like these: http://i294.photobucket.com/albums/mm101/JawlyRogers/Theatrical%20Contact%20Lenses/Custom%20Contact%20Lenses/greysclera.jpg)
Hair Color: Brown
Physical Disabilities: N/A
Physical Identifiers:

• White irises with light grey sclera; cannot be normally changed.
• Usually wears blue costume contacts

Appearance:
In his natural form, Cyrus’ skin takes on an unsettlingly pale tone, and his body is far too skinny for someone of his height and build. In this form, his eyes’ sclera are a lightish grey. This would be difficult to notice, if not for the undeniable contrast created by his irises: they are completely white, and in his default form, he lacks some human features entirely, such as defined lips. Everything looks as though it's part of a "blank slate" of sorts. Fortunately, only his eyes are unchangeable, and he conceals those with costume contact lenses.

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

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

Background

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

Archibald, “the Bladed Devil”

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

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

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

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

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

Backstory

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re a real drama queen, eh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

That Fateful Day...

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

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

====

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

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

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

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

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

Gear

Weapons:

• Blunted Training Shortsword: For practicing gladiatorial and stage-combat.
• Butterfly Knife: For stabbing things.
• Spiked Bat: A crude aluminum baseball bat with nails welded to it. Good for bashing stuff.

Armour: Cyrus generally foregoes armour completely in favour of his natural regenerative abilities and to remain agile.
Ammunition:

• Dirty Rounds: 37 9mm rounds, for currency only.
• High Grade Rounds: N/A
• Heavy Ammunition: N/A

Backpack A:

• Water Bottle
• Pen and notepad

Miscellaneous:

• Scripts and Sheet Music: Considering his background in the performing arts, it’s no surprise that Cyrus has smuggled away as many works of literature and songs as he could. He keeps most of these papers hidden inside his straw mattress. One of his favourites is MacBeth.
• The Maryson Brothers’ Trailer: Mary the Magnificent’s trailer was sold to Luther alongside her sons, as well as all of her various outfits and costumes. Though many have been lost or sold, some clothes still remain intact. The trailer also contains a large, stage-like mat, several boxes of assorted props and makeup, and enough space for two people to comfortably sleep. It has been repainted so that it bares the words “Maryson Brothers Co.” in large, gaudy letters like one might see at an old-world circus.
• Old Pickup Truck: Like Mary’s trailer, this was sold to Luther alongside the brothers themselves. It has a faded, red coat of paint, and clearly has not been washed in a good while. Though a little bit beat up, it works fine so long as it has sufficient fuel.

Immortalis Information

Manifested Phenomena: Himself
Unique Abilities:

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

Strengths:

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

Weaknesses:

• Cocky to A Fault: Cyrus has a tendency to overestimate the extent of his own abilities, has trouble keeping snide comments to himself, and occasionally forgets that others aren’t quite as hardy as he is. This callousness gets him into trouble, and though he himself is resistant to most forms of punishment, he occasionally lacks the foresight to see how his actions could harm others, directly or otherwise.
• Why bother? I’ve got superpowers!: Quite simply put, Cyrus is a little bit lazy, and tends to over-rely on his powers to compensate for his unrefined skills in other areas, even in melee fights. Because the effectiveness and ease of use of his own regenerative and shapeshifting capabilities are based partly on his physical endurance, this hinders him more than he realizes. After excessive use of these abilities overtime, he will simply become too exhausted to fight if he takes enough bodily damage.
• A Lover, Not a Fighter: There’s a reason Cyrus prefers to talk his way out of fights: outside of the melee-only world of the arena, Cyrus has very little combat experience, and is more likely to rely on his powers to get him through safely than any real skill. He can barely even hold a gun properly, let alone aim it.
• Some Wounds Don’t Heal: The psychological turmoil that Cyrus has been through still haunts him, but he hides his emotions from everyone around him, instead choosing to cope by treating his own existence as a joke of sorts. This usually manifests in the form of self-deprecating humour that can sometimes come across as unreasonably cruel, macabre or awkward.
• Don’t Let Me Burn: Though Cyrus learned to love the knife and use it to his advantage, Cyrus never stopped fearing Luther’s second favourite torture method: fire. Though he’s unlikely to turn and run if he sees a flame, he’ll try noticeably to stay as far away as possible from anything larger than a candle. Furthermore, severe burn wounds (especially wounds that have been cauterized) take Cyrus longer to heal: whether this is due to a physical limitation of his powers or a psychological limitation is still up for debate.

[Antediluvixen]

Basics

Name: Vladimira Kovalik

Age: 21

Apparent Age: Early 20s

Height: 1.65 meters (5’ 4”)

Weight: 77 kilograms (170 pounds)

Eye Color: A pulsing red, like molten steel, her eyes have whites but no visible pupils. They glow, and the pulsing is in sync with her own heartbeat, and speeds up or slows down to match it. The glow dims if she weakens.

Hair Color: Her hair looks as if it is made of ultra thin steel wires, though it behaves just like normal hair.

Physical Disabilities: A noticeable limp in her right leg- an old injury, broken leg that just didn't heal quite right.

Physical Identifiers:
Eyes and hair
A large burn covers her lower right abdomen and upper thigh.
Her arms are pockmarked with scars of varying sizes.

Appearance: Vladimira is no otherworldly beauty, but still looks more than simply half decent. Her steely hair is kept in a mid length ponytail, often tucked inside a shirt. Her face has something of a hardened edge to it, tempered by the heat of molten metal and welding arcs. Her eyes are striking with their pulsing red glow, as is her hair, gleaming in whatever light there is. Her features are Slavic, with relatively thin lips and surprisingly white teeth. She has full, high cheeks with smooth and almost unblemished skin.

Despite her modest height, she has a rather burly upper body for a woman, with defined muscles evident on her arms and shoulders. Her welding goggles, fused to a gas mask, never seem to leave her face, though the glow of her eyes can be seen if one gets close enough and she doesn’t have the filters at their fullest.

Were she to remove her armor and mask, there is little that's particularly triking about her appearance. Arms and upper body pockmarked with scars, burns, and ample muscle. A large bust (think ~38DD/38DDD Approximate bust size. Image contains boobs.) doesn't hurt her looks. Her hips defined more by the degree of muscle packed around them from carrying heavy loads than by any curve.

Background

Residence: No permanent one at the moment, is traveling (albeit not directly) to Wolfwater.

Profession: Formerly a metalworker/welder/mechanic/gunsmith, now essentially a traveling heavily armed scavenger and mechanic, with a hidden depth of knowledge regarding firearms.

Aligned Faction: Neutral.

Relatives:
Andronikov Kovalik- (Father, Alive, Accepting of his daughter’s powers)
Galina Kovalik- (Mother, Deceased)
Andrei Kovalik- (Brother, The bastard’s alive!

Backstory:

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

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

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

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

Which is what he did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Four months later…

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

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

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

Gear

Weapons:
“Comrade”: An old Mosin-Nagant 91/30, has twenty one notches on the stock, presumably from the Russian soldier who last had the rifle, has a folding bayonet and a carry strap.

Comrade

Two TT-33 Tokarev pistols: More old Russian weapons, Vladimira carries them in two paddle holsters strapped to her thighs and is somewhat capable of using them simultaneously, though she generally will simply pull out Comrade if she actually needs to shoot somebody at any range.

TT-33 Tokarev with holser and ammunition

“Thunder (From the East)”: A PTRS-41, somehow survived the apocalypse, she has no idea how, but she’s never gonna give it up, never gonna let it down (never gonna run around and desert it…)

Thunder (From the East)

Armor:

Vladimira had a pair of welding goggles fused with a gas mask fitted with particulate filters to keep out the dust of… Dust… she’s currently searching for a replacement. She wears a ragged hooded light grey cloak with baggy, overly long sleeves sewn on the inside to shield the arms from sunlight, blocking out the sun from her body and effectively concealing what she has underneath it. Concealed under the cloak is a smallish headlamp, capable of providing enough light to see by at night. She wears urban camoflauge cargo pants with an obscene number of pockets filled with various pieces of scrap metal and other random junk. Her shirt is rather unremarkable gray linen. She has two plates of steel secured firmly on her front and back, able to stop shots from most firearms up to and including medium power rifle cartridges, something like a 30-06 AP round would easily punch straiht through. Four similar but smaller plates protect her elbows and knees, all plates have impromptu cloth padding underneath them for comfort and to soften the impact of a bullet or anything else. She wears thick metal plated gloves of her own making, and has a pair of tank like combat boots that reach to about her knees, also plated with metal.

Ammunition:

Dirty Rounds: The remnants of several spam cans full of old Soviet milsurp ammunition.
~250 rounds of steel cased 7.62x54R ammunition on five round stripper clips.
~200 rounds of 7.62x25mm Tokarev mostly kept in the same small bags they came in, and not easily accessible, 32 of them are loaded into the eight round magazines for the Tokarevs.
~20 rounds of 14.5x114mm ammunition salvaged with the rifle, kept loose and loaded into the weapon’s magazine as needed.

High Grade Rounds: N/A
Heavy Ammunition: N/A

Backpack A:
An old military rucksack, khaki colored:
Items Within: A basic first aid kit; a spare shirt and pair of pants; extra water; some spare scrap metal for emergencies; food; spare batteries; small blowtorch; water purification tablets; a small wad of plastic bags for… something, she has no idea why she keeps them around; small tent for shelter from the sun folded up and tied to the bottom, a sleeping bag is tied to the top.
Miscellaneous: A rope tied at her belt; bandolier of pouches containing the ammunition loaded onto clips or magazines; a two liter canteen sits on a strap around her shoulder; a compass in a small pouch on her belt, in other pouches on the belt are more small pieces of scrap metal for various uses.

Immortalis Information

Manifested Phenomena: Ferrous Metals (anything with a significant amount of iron, so iron and steel).

Unique Abilities:
Artisan Engineer: Like clay, but shinier and a hell of a lot tougher. Vladimira molds the steel she controls almost as easily as a sculptor working clay into the desired shape. She can mold the steel she controls into almost any shape imaginable, mainly limited by her imagination and the material itself.

Strengths:
Intelligence: Vladimira is smart. She may not have a rigorous higher education in mechanical engineering, but she can reverse engineer the internal workings of a diesel engine with little to no prior knowledge and figure out how to repair it to at least working order.
RUSSIA STRONK: Spend as long as she has lugging about welding equipment and hammering things and one builds up some muscle. She has prodigious physical strength and can carry heavy loads without too much difficulty, as well as having a brutal punch.

Weaknesses:
Mighty Glacier: Vladimira is relatively slow and not exactly agile, and while able make a short few meters sprint in decent time, is not able to attain any real speed, even when unarmored.
Do you feel lucky, punk?: Despite her intellect (and common sense) telling her such things are ill advised, she’s likely to charge into a situation in the spur of the moment, and has no issue with extreme violence to get what she wants.
Ya’ gotta make do with what ya’ got: Vladimira can only manipulate metal in her environment, she cannot produce it herself.
Dark and Troubled (recent) Past: The nature of her mother’s death and its effect on her father has had a profound effect on her as well, in addition to nightmares about being covered in molten steel that she has no control over, certain things will overwhelm her with paranoia/fear/anger/or any mixture thereof.

[TheMadAsshatter]

Basics

Name: James Knight
Age: 25
Appeared Age: Early-mid twenties (21-25)
Height: 5'10"
Weight: 148 lbs.
Eye Color: Viridian.
Hair Color: Black.
Physical Identifiers:

• Wolf tattoo on right bicep.
• Several scars across the back.

Appearance: James is a fairly average-looking person who, aside from his eyes, doesn't really have any striking features, unless you catch him without a shirt. Though a bit on the skinny side, his well toned muscles counteract his scrawniness for the most part. He keeps his facial hair in check, saying that it's too itchy to let grow. James doesn't exactly have an imposing stature, though he carries himself with confidence and people tend to respect him just for that. Furthermore, he has an air of optimism about him, with a relatively content or even happy face on him most of the time. While his looks aren't necessarily impressive, his apparent attitude tends to make him somewhat more attractive than he is, though he would never admit to that.

His attire tends to consist of a dark grey hoodie worn under a dark green military style jacket, jeans, black lightweight boots, black half-finger gloves, and a green shemagh.

Background

Residence: An apartment in Aspin. Possibly moving to Russel City.
Profession: Currently unemployed; seeking a job in Russel City.
Aligned Faction: Technically neutral, but has ties to The Gaens and Motum Diversum.
Relatives: No known relatives.

Backstory

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gear

Weapons:

• AKS-74: An older model Soviet AKS-74. It's very dirty and has some superficial damage, but it works about as well as it should.
• CZ-75: A newer, compact model of the CZ-75. It looks far better than the AK, but the ejector has been damaged, resulting in the occasional double-feed or stovepipe.

Armor: James rarely wears armor, but when he does, he prefers light armor that doesn't restrict mobility. Generally, a light vest or plate worn under his usual jacket, a brace on his left forearm, and kneepads are the most he would wear.

Ammunition
Dirty Rounds:

• 30x 5.45mm in 1 30-round AK magazine
• 16x 5.45mm lose bullets
• 28x 9mm in 2 14-round CZ magazines
• 7x 9mm lose bullets

Mid-Grade Hand-Loaded Rounds:

• 60x 5.45mm in 2 30-round AK magazines
• 28x 9mm in 2 14-round CZ magazines
• 2x 9mm in 1 30-round box

Luggage
Rucksack:

• 1x Avtomat Kalashnikova user guide
• 3x cans of food
• 2x bottles of water
• 1x razor
• 1x compass
• 1x map
• 1x flask filled with whiskey

Messenger Bag:

• 2x bandages
• 1x flashlight
• 1x lighter
• Spare ammunition (see above)

Holster:

• CZ-75

Thigh Pouch:

• 2x AK magazine
• 2x CZ magazine

Immortalis Information

Manifested Phenomena: Perception

Unique Abilities

• Almost Extrasensory: James could hear a mouse fart from half a mile away. Okay, maybe not, but still, James has extensive sensory powers which are far better than any normal human would ever have. To the uninitiated, it can seem as though James actually has a sixth sense.
• Pinpoint Accuracy: Just as his senses are more powerful, they are also finely tuned such that James can accurately pinpoint the source of any one stimulus, as well as isolate a specific stimulus from the ambiance.
• Accelerated Sight: Though James can't activate this ability on demand, often times, when he finds himself in a tense situation, James' perception of time can slow down, giving him more time to think and act accordingly. This can make his reflexes seem extremely good, but that's not exactly the case.

Strengths

• Evasion: Having been a slave for the first fourteen years of his life, James eventually learned the importance of not being seen. It's also a lot easier to avoid detection when your powers of observation allow you to reliably tell where your pursuers are.
• Telegraphing: A combination of him perceiving time more slowly in combat, and his own eye for detail, James can often predict how an attack will be made, which gives him time to either counter or avoid the attack. Conversely, he can tell when an enemy is distracted enough to execute an efficient attack.
• Son of Kalashnikov: James is extensively familiar with how rifles of the AK family operate, and can diagnose and fix numerous problems that they may have, time and tools permitting. He is also familiar with Russian weaponry in general, though not to as great an extent as AKs specifically.

Weaknesses

• They're Coming to Take Me Away: Despite himself, James will sometimes suffer from fits of crippling paranoia as a result of his past. These only happen on occasion, and the fits usually end within a couple of hours, but he is a complete wreck for the meantime. He knows there's a trigger, but he has yet to find it.
• I'd Rather Forget: Another result of his past, James tends to avoid the very subject, as does his mind suppress his memory of it. When he does recount it, he can become withdrawn, and his risk of experiencing a paranoia fit increases. Unfortunately, this also prevents him from getting proper help, thus perpetuating a vicious cycle.
• Interference: Even though James can filter out unnecessary noise from his senses, he can still experience a sort of sensory overload from having too many stimuli to accurately focus on one. For example, James wouldn't be able to accurately pick one voice out from a reasonably large crowd. In addition, the effects of psychotropic drugs are often amplified with him, as are the side effects.

[bobert778]

Basics

Name: Ivan 'A'
Age: 47
Appeared Age: early 60's
Height: 6'8
Weight: 230 lbs
Eye Color: Brown. Sclera are the colour of mud
Hair Color: Black
Physical Disabilities: Blind
Physical Identifiers:

• What appears to be the second stage of 'The Sickness' can be seen underneath Ivan's eyes

Appearance:

Without hood

Ivan isn't too easy on the eyes for most people, his personal care being greatly neglected as he can't see to take care of himself. His improper diet has led to malnourishment, which keeps him looking chronically ill even if ignoring how his hair has fallen out or the dark patches under his eyes. While he can't know how he looks, Ivan understands it's anything but pretty and very rarely takes off his hood. He rarely takes anything off for that mater; having one set of clothing that he wears like a second skin and it's kept 'clean' by the sand and dirt constantly getting everywhere.

Ivan is a rather large man, and despite his somewhat sickly looks is in fairly good physical condition. To go with his height he's also quite heavy set, with a somewhat imbalanced combination of fat and muscle that gives him the physique of a long ago retired rugby player. If it weren't for his nomadic lifestyle he'd be quite unfit, though days on end of trudging through the desert with a heavy pack keep him considerably strong underneath his layer of flab. A large amount of his strength comes from knowing how to throw his weight around though, and his arms are comparably weak to the rest of him.

Background

Residence: Homeless
Profession: N/A
Aligned Faction: N/A
Relatives: Most likely deceased

Backstory

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gear

Weapons:

• Rocket Launcher: Ivan refers to this as his 'dust kicker', and it's use isn't strictly offensive. It's main purpose is to destroy the earth where the ground may have become compacted or hard for Ivan to utilize. Aim it at the ground, and anything blasted apart becomes loose enough to be manipulated by Ivan.
• Hunting Knife: A fairly standard boot knife; almost entirely used for utility though it has been pulled in self defense before.

Armor: Some light padding, including a bullet proof vest, but otherwise it's meant to help keep him from harm as he stumbles about the desert.
Ammunition:

• Dirty Rounds: Three crudely crafted but still functional grenades
• High Grade Rounds: One military grade grenade, kept in Ivan's pack for an 'emergency'

Backpack:

• Largely used to carry water bottles, ammunition, some food, and drugs. A sleeve of sorts on the outside holds his rocket launcher, and the outer pockets hold a few personal things such as his flute, a filthy compass, and some bandages, a lighter, and a dirty glass pipe.

Immortalis Information

Manifested Phenomena: Earth Moving. Able to direct anything that will allow itself to be moved.
Unique Abilities:

• Muddy eyes: Though technically blind, Ivan can still 'see' dirt and sand. Anything dirty appears a la the invisible man covered in flour, and anything clean will escape his notice. To make things more noticeable, Ivan will often drag his dirtied hands on things.
• Sandstorm: Ivan can swirl any material he has available around him, the particles easily get in people's eyes and if there's enough sand or dirt available he can completely shroud himself. The larger the sandstorm the less dense it can be, and it can not be directed as Ivan must stay at the center. This ability does render him practically blind, but should do the same to his foes.
• Dune Digger: Through any loose terrain, Ivan can shift the material around him and travel extremely quickly in this manner. He can't see where he's going though while underground as he's surrounded by sand, and this is mostly used as an escape tool.

Strengths:

• Reserved: Ivan consistently goes long periods of time with minimal food and water, able to use his abilities to move around and conserve energy should he need to.
• Traveler: Ivan has spent most of his life wandering from place to place, not wanting to settle down anywhere and knowing the way from town to town quite well trusting he has his compass.
• Escapist: Ivan has become fairly good at making himself scarce, and will often do so rather than confront any threats should he see it as an option.

Weaknesses:

• Unawares: While Ivan can make out the shape of his environment details are hard to come by. Ivan has a poor sense of direction (without his compass), is unable to read most things, and can't see anything that is relatively clean.
• I haven't aged well: Ivan doesn't lead a very healthy lifestyle, eating improperly and inconsistently, living out in the open most of the time, and having poor personal hygiene since the dirt he's cover in keeps him from smelling a whole lot.
• Addict: Ivan has an addictive personality, and partakes in most forms of getting inebriated any chance he gets, foregoing food sometimes.

[Darcs]

[uyfjhfiugoiuyuiyfufgufgh]

[SimplyJohn]

[DATA CORRUPTED]

[Arcanaut]

Basics

Name:Roland Chambers
Age: 34
Appeared Age:34-67 (dependent on how obscured face is)
Height:6'3''
Weight:200 lbs
Eye Color: When Roland mutated his irises turn an amber yellow color, while his pupils became more oblong, dilating to light in a manner similar to a cat or a snake.

example

Hair Color: Grey/ Salt-n-pepper
Physical Disabilities: While usually not a hindrance the place that Roland was stabbed during his crucifixion will be a source of pain strong enough to be distracting if he extensively uses his powers or takes blood thinners. It also tends to agitate him when there's going to be a storm.
Physical Identifiers:

• Scar over left eye, scars from puncture wounds on the lower abdomen, wrists and ankles
• Brand over right pectoral muscle of a broken circle; looks similar to the Quake logo.
• grey hair
• Longinus

Appearance:Once one looks closer at the scruffy grey haired man and realize he isn't geriatric they might think he's ruggedly handsome with his square jaw, trimmed beard and action hero like scar. If for whatever reason they saw him undressed they'd probably be shocked by the myriad scars across his torso and legs that were earned through years of torture and combat, including the brand that nearly cover his right pectoral muscle.

clothing

Roland's usual wear is camouflage fatigues similar to ones he wore while a scout for The Soulless. Usually keeping the sleeves rolled up for air circulation and unhindered mobility, Roland also possesses a webweave harness he uses to carry his essentials and weapons if he somehow lost his backpack. He also possesses a scarf he uses not just to block sand and to work as a light poncho, but to conceal his Longinus when he goes into town. Like many other people across Dust Roland wears fingerless gloves so that he may fire his gun without being slowed down.

Background

Residence:Wanderer
Profession: Bounty Hunter/Mercenary
Aligned Faction: Neutral. While Roland doesn't bear a grudge against anyone, The Forsaken see him as a traitor while other factions see him as a member of The Forsaken. This usually leads to him being hated by just about everyone.
Relatives: None

Backstory

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gear

Weapons:

• The Calvary: A Colt Python .357 magnum caliber revolver, Roland rarely uses this but keeps it around with good reason. This behemoth is easy to load and enough stopping power to slow a weaker hollow long enough to change the course of a battle. It is kept strapped to his right thigh.
• Plumbata: Three weighted darts about the length of Roland's forearm, they are strapped onto his vamprace, ready for him to launch at a moment's notice
• Bowie Knife:Just a simple bowie knife usually used for non-combat purposes but still ready if need be.
• Longinus: named after the Roman soldier who pierced the side of Christ with his spear, the Longinus is the trademark weapon of The Soulless. Originally artifacts from the old world their original purpose wasn't as weapons, but were in fact were used for construction of deep sea labs and deep mines, made up of highly dense graphene and nanotubes, that are telescopic in nature. However the Forsaken weren't interested in space-age ways of keeping mines from collapsing but kick-ass spears that were nigh-indestructible and could shift the placements of blades at a moments notice through the usage of three dials that are on the handle. Such an elegant weapon for a more civilized age is hard to come by and even harder to master, and because of this are reserved for the elite of the elite among The Forsaken and as such has become not only an exotic weapon but a badge of office...And a harbinger of death. In practical terms, the Longinus is a double ended spear that can extend to a maximum of fourteen feet that has blades not only on both ends, but blades that can emerge at each joint/lock of a segment allowing for an unpredictable and deadly weapon. For a rough idea of what one may look at, compare the combi-stick from the movie franchise, Predator.
  
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Armor: Roland possesses the bare minimum of armor preferring to be fast enough to get behind cover before the enemy has their sights on him. The only armor that Roland wears is a vamprace on his left arm and a knee pad on his right leg.
Ammunition:

• Dirty Rounds: .357 rounds x24
• High Grade Rounds:
• Heavy Ammunition:Dynamite x1

Backpack :

• One week of trail rations
• rope
• medkit
• sleeping roll
• duct tape
• Grappling hook
• Pot
• Tarp
• cigarettes
• blood thinners
• Bike clips
• dynamite

Webweave Belt:Cantina, Lighter, Monocular, flashlight, Longinus (left front side), Bowie knife (back of the waist, horizontally)

Immortalis Information

Manifested Phenomena: Telekinesis
Unique Abilities:

• Swift as a Coursing River/With All The Force of a Great Typhoon- Roland is able to use his telekinesis to drastically increase his strength and agility, being able to smash through a support column and leap onto a small building in a single bound, or run twice his normal sprinting speed.
• Gremlin- By touching an object, Roland can interact with the smaller parts of it, be it causing a gun to jam, unlocking a door, or activating switches that he can't directly touch.
• Telephone- Roland is able to 'tune' items indirectly so long as he is touching something that is touching it. With each subsequent item, different material, and distance what he can do weakens.

Strengths:

• Mysterious as the Dark Side of the Moon- Roland's training as a scout for The Soulless allows him to sneak into just about anywhere, and track people and animals with ease.
• Elegant Savage- Roland is a master of melee able to engage a roomful of armed people with nothing but a chair leg and walk out with hardly a sweat.

Weaknesses:

• Muh Honor- While he isn't always challenging people these days, when Roland is directly challenged by another person he will refuse to back down no matter how bad the odds are. At other times Roland will refrain from using his powers to keep things 'fair' in the process recklessly himself, and potentially others, rather than just using his powers to end the battle quickly and decisively.
• Infamous- People who recognize his Longinus will recognize him as a member of The Soulless of The Forsaken and treat him accordingly, while The Forsaken themselves will treat him as a traitor guilty of the highest treason.
• Hands on Approach- While Roland's abilities are strong he struggles to move anything that he isn't touching be it directly or indirectly. The strongest/fastest use of his ranged-ability when not channeling through a conduit is the retrieval of small items that he has usually already launched such as his darts or his Longinus.
• Sentimental Type- Despite it being perhaps the toughest thing to survive the apocalypse, Roland will go charging into a burning building if it means his Longinus is still inside and will usually put other things on hold while he searches for his beloved weapon.