Marx

The Promise - Second Star to the Right, and Straight on 'til Morning.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe!

Their breath caught in their throat. How had they forgotten how to breathe? Their eyes struggled to open. The oppressive lighting had been enough when their head wasn't swimming, but now it was blinding. Kas brought their hands to their head and pressed at their temples, anything to help ground themselves. How'd they gotten here? Where were they? They hazarded a peek, the pain of the light drawing a sharp exasperated hiss that thankfully proved to them that they did know how to breathe. It was just the drugs scrambling their head.

Drugs?

Right. Drugs. Someone had doped them up when they came to earlier. But... why? it clicked an instant later; probably on account of Kas implying they could probably bite off their own tongue and choke themselves to death, taking down the shuttle if it didn't bring them back home. Some people. No sense of humour. Kas shook their head, as if it would help wring out the still present haze surrounding them. All it achieved was a new height of vertigo that resulted in a pool of bile on the floor beside them. New plan.

Kas groped at their ankles as pieces began to settle into place. They weren't cuffed anymore. And... if they could reach their ankles this easily then... Kas stretched their arms out, confirming to themselves that they were, in fact, uncuffed everywhere. Kas's eyes fluttered in a daring attempt to try and use more than one sense, but that just dragged the vertigo back to the surface and that stab of pain through their skull. They'd been drugged this heavily once before when they broke their arm and had to get it set as a child. That memory of waking up was still fresh even all these years later. They'd forgotten how to breathe as they slithered out of the drug-induced haze and could only silently scream as their body refused to listen to their struggles. In truth, they hadn't forgotten how to breathe. They were breathing just fine. Screaming even better. Turned out Kas just has a high sensitivity to sedatives.

With that in mind, they went back to forcing themselves to recuperate. There was no way they had just been left to their own devices once the shuttle got to whatever new hell was supposed to be awaiting them. That meant something was wrong. But if something was wrong, why was construction being done right outside of the pod? That thud thud thud over and over. Like a hammer against metal again and again. Even though Kas's scrambled senses the sound was overwhelming. They kept at trying to force themselves to investigate. On hands and knees they tried crawling, reorienting themselves every time they ran into something or started to get farther away from the thudding. Their hand landed in something warm and viscous. It stuck to them and as they tried to help themselves up they found more of that stickiness with a misplaced step. "Är det..." they muttered, twisting their ankle, smearing their foot through the mess until it pressed into something coarse. Some kind of linen. Linen with fading warmth beneath it.

Their blood went cold. Something's wrong, echoed in their head. Did the pod crash into the station? Was that a cause of the thudding? Kas stumbled on shaky legs, hugging the wall of the pod, inching closer and closer to the thuds. They threw another arm over their eyes, trying to peak out beneath it. It was all a blur, silhouettes and smears of blending grays. But they were getting close to the exit. "Hej?" they hazarded, their voice a croak, their throat dry and burning.

Out of the pod there were shapes Kas had to assume were people. Kas tried to say something again, but there was nothing this time. Just a faint hiss that felt drowned out by the thuds. They tried to get closer. Maybe these people could help. Maybe... Things began to focus in, shapes and sounds growing sharper. The thuds turned to cracks. The silhouettes turned to people intent on what was ahead of them. That source of the sharp cracks that made Kas's ears ache and their head throb the firearms clenched in the hands of these people. They hadn't noticed Kas yet coming up from behind them. Perhaps they had assumed everyone in Kas's pod had been accounted for. Kas made sure to alert them to their mistake when they tried to make a break away from the men and their knees buckled, sending them sprawling out onto the cold metallic floor of the launch bay with a thud and a hiss of "Fokk!"

The Promise - Second Star to the Right, and Straight on 'til Morning.

Terror in Dublin

Three indelible days have passed as the unthinkable became routine in Dublin. In the wake of the St. Patrick's Hospital a city wide man hunt seized Dublin residents by their hearts. An effort made by thousands united to find the attacker seemed a monumental task -- civilians submitting tips, law enforcement, and NBCI -- but they did it.

The Patient
Attending the National College of Art and Design, Icelandic ex-pat 'Kas' Grímsdóttir was a model student; Banksky Graffiti Art Competition finalist, Landscape Artist of the year nominee twice in the last three years, and gallery exhibitor. Extracurricularly they competed in the Irish Open seven years running, placing in the Grand Champions Division in the recent most year. It was there a fateful conclusion to their meteoric rise through the rankings came to a sudden halt, having broken their leg in the second match of the day. It was then they were brought to St. Patrick's.

Admitted at 5pm Thursday evening, the purple-haired warrior artist was sent to surgery and expected to make an overnight stay to recover. In a series of unfortunate events, Grímsdóttir joined the recent outbreak of staph infections at St. Patrick's. An overnight stay turned to a week. A week to two. Complications compounded until their heart took all it could take and gave out.

Misdiagnosis
Grímsdóttir, like all others born in the past few decades, had been tested for potential genetic sequencing known to produce parahumans at birth and was found to have at risk signs for the disorder. Nearly two decades on from diagnosis, it was deemed a false flag. They yet to show any signs of parahuman ability. The genome that placed them at risk had seemingly been a miss-pairing or incapable of activation. Thus Grímsdóttir was allowed a level of freedom ill-afforded to their activated counterparts; Monitored, but unrestricted travel, a cessation of mandatory testings, no longer having to register their parahuman status. They were free to live normally, just as their peers.

In the weeks following their injury at the Irish Open, their past parahuman status had only been a footnote on their medical records. Had they known what we now known, this footnote would have better served as the single most critical status of Grímsdóttir. As it would soon turn out, the rising artist was in fact a parahuman. James McKinley, a veteran nurse of St. Patricks, was the first on the scene when complications arose for Grímsdóttir. The parahuman had contracted a staph infection which led to further infection and shortly after McKinley's arrival, cardiac arrest. The tragedy of circumstance struck.

The Incident
CCTV footage has Grímsdóttir leaving the scene in a stumbling daze shortly after an explosion rocked the east ward. At the same time, other nurses had arrived to the singed room to find McKinley in a state of shock, over sixty percent of his body covered in burns of the second and third degree. Priorities shifted from finding the source of the explosion and the now missing patient to seeing to the burned nurse. During this time Grímsdóttir had escaped the hospital. McKinley has since been treated for his wounds and is expected to make a recovery in the coming months following extensive physical therapy.

As fellow Dubliners are well aware, the following days were tense as the situation developed and it was quickly learned who the perpetrator was. From freak accident, to terrorist attack, to parahuman attack, and finally to a series of unfortunate events. ^{CONT. PAGE 6.}

- Connor Ryan, The Irish Times

Gunsmoke filled the parahuman's nostrils, gagging them. "Fokk," they spat around the metal clenched between their teeth. "Fokk!" they tried once more, screaming it, beating their free hand against their lifeless leg. This was, what? The third time? Forth? It had only been hours since they escaped the hospital that some guard thought it better to shoot them than arrest them. Kas supposed they should thank the guard. He'd shot Kas, sure. But he'd also gotten close enough that whatever it was that happened when they die was able to singe them and afford Kas a good chance to get their own firearm. They'd never used one, but they were quick learners and eager to have something to keep them safe. They knew what happened to parahumans. Especially the dangerous ones, Kas grimly reminded themselves. The second time some intrepid driver had thought it swell to try and stop the 'dangerous' criminal by running over them with a car. Kas was at three burn victims, a totaled hospital room, a burnt out car, a stolen gun, and... probably terrorism at this point? Sure, to the list with you, they resigned.

So here they were at time number... three. It had to be three. Or four. Did the hospital one count? Nah, too boring. They'd been shot again. For the sake of all things holy and unholy, why couldn't they just... SAY SOMETHING FIRST? Right, back to suicide. Kas clenched their teeth around the barrel of the knicked gun and clenched their eyes as tightly as they could. So far it seemed like dying was a panacea for every poison. The bullet that clipped their spine and left their bottom-half numb by that logic should also get fixed. So then... why was pulling the trigger so-

Fuck it.

A gunshot rang out, drowned out an instant later by the sudden roar of concussive force and the hiss of heat that steamed the humid air around the hiding Kas. Kas woke up long enough to see silhouettes in a vignette of black and white before everything went dark. It hadn't worked like before. Why hadn't it worked like before?!

---

Kas's stomach woke them up. The sensation of gravity or, rather, the lack thereof had been enough to send their starving body into a frenzy for something. Really anything so long as it was edible. Their memories of the events following their paralysis were hazy and Kas took the chance of nauseating weightlessness to sort things out before even daring to open their eyes.

Gun. Mouth. Right, those two check out. I followed through, didn't I? Their body clenched and their toes squirmed. Well, someone followed through if I didn't. Great. What next. Shapes. Voices. Something about... No. No! Kas's eyes shot open. They were strapped in to a standing seat, their limbs restrained to their chest and legs bound together at the heels. Looking down, Kas looked thinner than they remembered. None of their clothes had ever hung on them this loosely. It's not like they'd been on the husky side or anything but... They used to have some meat to them. Around them were some several dozen seats, sparsely populated with others Kas could only assume were like them. Then... the weightlessness they'd been feeling since they came to meant that-

"ETA: Ten minutes," a voice barked over the radio.

Fokk.

The Promise - Second Star to the Right, and Straight on 'til Morning.

GRIM

K A S. L.
G R Í M S D Ó T T I R

More? More. _______________________________________________ Kasper/Kasandra Liev Grímsdóttir _______________________________________________ June 9th | 22 | Caucasian _______________________________________________ Allegedly Single| ⚧ | Pansexual _______________________________________________ College Drop-out | Student _______________________________________________ Physical Profile ___________________________________ [+] //Basics: • Height | 5'11" • Weight | 138lbs • Build | Lithe, Gaunt • Hair Colour | naturally Auburn, currently Mauve • Eye Colour | Green Miscellaneous Items ___________________________________ [+] //Every Day Carry: • A small tin box of hand rolled cigarillos • An old metal lighter found at a thrift store • A US quarter with two tails sides

A p p e a r a n c e D e t a i l s Kas has always stood out in a crowd; A little taller than average, gaunt despite their huge appetite, a distinct sense of fashion, often changing hair colour, meticulously applied makeup, the works. It's always been hard to get a read on them and if you did not know their face well enough, you could see them the next day and mistake them for someone else entirely. Their strong jawline, piercing emerald eyes, full lips, and stern brow are the only easily identifiable constants for most people that see them. Kas often rotates through an array of loose and tight-fitted pants, button ups & jackets, loose fitted hoodies, boots and dress shoes. All lend themselves to a constant of covering as much skin as possible. Seeing more than Kas's face and hands is a rarity and in almost every outfit they at least two layers on their tops, regardless of weather. They manage a consistent look of someone that spends a large part of their morning getting ready, even when they only have a few minutes to get from their bed to wherever someone is expecting them (something that happens very, very often). If you were ever to see beneath Kas's clothes, you'd see slim slender limbs, sharp angles, and hardly noticeable curves. Their faint auburn body hair is almost invisible and their skin is smooth and unblemished, noticeably free of even the most mundane birthmarks. Even more curious then would be the wrappings around their chest given how the rest of their body seemed free of any markings. Their body language is open and expressive. As long as you're not completely socially deaf you'll know pretty quickly how Kas feels about you. A broad-chested, grinning, Kas where a touch of their hand comes as easily as a laugh or a follow up of conversation stands in stark contrast to the uncomfortable Kas. A Kas whose hands stick to their pockets, their eyes wander, their presence is.... not present. When they feel good, they are larger than life and fill a room in spite of their diminished form. When they feel sour, you'd be lucky to be able to spot them if you were in the same room as them. Though if you made them angry? Well, you'll know.

_{P e r s o n a l i t y}

Kas has a wall of exuberance and utter confidence that's up most of the time they're in public. There a problem? Not when Kas's around. Doubt? "Do you know who I am?". Kas outwardly operates exclusively with big dick energy. The saying still waters run deep would apply well to Kas, if it weren't for their still waters being choppy and splashy as hell.

Beyond the facade, there is more to them then a constant ooze of confidence and self-assuredness. They're a lover and they long to find the connections they've been sorely lacking most of their lives; Friends, lovers, found family, whatever they can get. They're a superficial social butterfly who remembers every name and, more often than not, every bit they learn about someone. In a conversation they're present and eager, hungry to learn more about you. Though when the conversation gets turned around and they're supposed to talk about themselves, it gets a little... rough. Their gut instinct is to lie, to avoid talking about themselves, to just dodge any questions with little deflections.

So then, it should be no surprise that this secretive person has a self-destructive streak. That they often smoke, fully aware of how bad it would be for someone whose body won't cleanse all the damage done the next time their power is used. That they're a little too willing to use their power, should the situation call for it. In the face of death being almost trivialised they've developed a sort of complex. Life has no meaning or more specifically: Their life has no meaning.

_{C h a r a c t e r S y n o p s i s}

At Risk
The label hung over the Grímsdóttir family not long after they greeted their child into the world. Kas's parents had planned to name their child once they finally met them, but now that the risk that they might lose their child hung over their head they could not bring themselves to name their child. For much of Kas's first few years of life, they were called "my sweet", "my love", "little thing", and "Red" given the red head of hair they were born with. Only once the testing on Kas's genome was dialed back from weekly to monthly, from monthly to semi-annually, and then by "Red's" second year they were told they could come in yearly for observations. Finally, Kas's parents felt secure enough to name their child and finally they felt safe that their child would remain theirs.
Low Risk
Kas had a loving upbringing. A father that worked hard to play the stay-at-home father and contract artist, a mother who did.... Business things. Neither Kas or her father ever really got it, but whatever it was exactly Mom did, she was damn good at it. They had a comfortable lifestyle, one that afforded them some luxury in a country where living (if we ignore the frigid wasteland it was most of the year) was already fairly comfortable. Kas's father always encouraged them to try new things, to never be afraid to fail, and to follow their passions. This quickly turned into fighting people for exercise, making terrible art all the time, and trying to make clothes that would turn them red looking back on themselves.
Minimal Risk
With nearly 13 years without any sign of meta-development, the Grímsdóttir family was able to move to Ireland following a lucrative job opportunity for Kas's mother. In Ireland, Kas flourished and took advantage of the climate that was positively balmy compared to home. Making friends, even with their spotty English and even spottier Irish was a snap for a young and energetic Kas. What the lacked in words, they made up for with the energy they brought. Kas almost never said no to new experiences. Sure, they might have had a brief (read: the entirety of their high school career) period of hooliganism, but it was all in good fun. Kas snuck out for drinks at the local pub that aggressively did not card, they shuffled through boyfriends and girlfriends (often more than one at a time), they made bad art that they were beyond proud of, they wore ugly clothing that they made themselves, and they would put on enough makeup to make a clown blush. They lived like an idiot, but boy did they live.
False Flagged
Shortly before going off to uni, Kas was informed at the clinic they went to for testing that it was likely a false flag. Their genome may have matched with some at risk activators, but they were 18 years deep into a life without any parahuman experiences. They were normal. As normal as they could be anyway. They'd still be required to come in for testing on a bi-annual basis, but at this point it was clear. They were no parahuman. Kas took this as the best possible sign for things to come and went on to attend Uni on and off for a few years, taking semester gaps here and there to get a breather and refresh themselves creatively with personal projects to keep the flame alive that was getting treaded on a little more every time they had to take an art-history class. In their second to last semester they broke their leg in a kickboxing competition and shortly after developed a staph infection that left them stuck in a hospital when they should have been working on their finals. And then...
Activated Genome
Everything fell apart.

_{A b i l i t i e s & S k i l l s}

_//Abilities:

Superhuman Ability | Per Mortem Celluar Restoration ~~ Man vs. Self
Advanced healing factors should be no surprise to most that are familiar with meta-humans. Though there's always something a little different for everyone and in Kas's case, it's been conveyed to them that their variation is... perhaps more than a little different from others. Their body is unremarkably different from most people, a little sickly skinny for their height sure, but nothing too unusual. When they are injured, the wound clots and heals over hours, days, weeks just like everyone else. A cut might take a few days, a broken arm six or so weeks, the flu a week and some change. Where things get interesting is what happens when their body begins to experience cardiac arrest, respiratory arrest, or a cessastion of of major brain acivity. In the stages of imminent death, an exothermic reaction occurs within their body as all damaged and destroyed cells are rapidly regenerated. The process is violent and sudden and the more severe the damage, the more intense the exothermic reaction. Due to complications from an infection during a stay in the hospital, Kas experienced cardiac arrest and when they came to they found their broken leg fully healed and their body free of infection. The personal cost of this power activation for a (relatively mundane) death had been the loss of a few pounds. The external cost had been the nurse who had the misfortune of arriving just in time for the reaction, their body horribly burned by the activation of Kas's power.

Limitation(s) | Too little too late and sometimes too much
The power can only activate once death is imminent. Only one the light has left their eyes, their heart has ceased to beat, their lungs have taken their last breath, and their brainwaves have dissipated can their power activate.

Then there is the matter of fuel. Kas has to stick to an incredibly high calorie diet if they want to always have enough fat to burn to fuel these violent revitalising reactions. Just a simple revitalisation is enough to burn several pounds in an instant. Something more severe; missing limbs, a crushed and warped body, full body burn. All of these are going to siphon huge amounts of energy out of Kas Unfortunately for its master, this power has no way to pull its punches. It will burn all of the energy it needs to repair them, even if the state it leaves Kas in is worse than their state before death.

Weakness(es) | A candle burnt at both ends eventually goes out
Horror comes in many forms and for Kas, the greatest of all is one where they cannot find death. A vegetative Kas would remain trapped in their body until they died of other factors. Could they depend on someone to pull their plug? What if someone wanted to hurt them? A severed limb wouldn't kill them if it was treated right. What about space? What would even happen to them if they were dumped out into the void? Would their power just reset over and over again? Would it burn through all of their fat, wither their muscle, dying and being reborn over and over until their body was reduced to a withered husk? At least they had that natural defense if someone wanted to kill them, that the activation of their powers might kill or at least drive off whomever wanted to hurt them. But something like space? Like starving or dehydrating to death? At that point, all their power is going to do is ensure it happens for good.

Not to mention their power doesn't make them any naturally better than anyone else. They were mostly just... well, a human. Just a human that could violently explode back to life.

It's a complete mending/restoration of damaged/absent cells. Like how an infection killed them and when they came back their leg was fixed. If they had liver damage from drinking, but died of a hand grenade near the face, they'd come back with a refreshed liver and a new bit of face meat. It doesn't reset things like age, but the constant refreshing would help them live longer since it's also purging all of the things that would normally kill most people (e.g. cancerous cells, heart disease). But they still age and with age things will start to fall apart despite their powers best efforts to keep them alive. Who knows how long they have, but their time isn't infinite. And once they hit a natural end of life, their body will enter the same kind of death spiral they'd likely experience if they were jettisoned out of a Paradise airlock. Death, regeneration, death, regeneration, death, regeneration until their own power has done the job of the withering on its own.

_//Skills:

Polyglot | Due to Kas's upbringing, they are a native Icelandic and English speaker, full professional proficient at Swedish, and limited professional proficient at Gaeilge.
Kickboxing | Their father thought it'd be empowering for Kas and signed them up at a young age to take kickboxing lessons at what Kas was convinced was the only place that taught it in Iceland. They've stuck with it since they were six and while they have over a decade and a half of experience, their fragility doesn't do much for what they've picked up over the years.
Walk, Walk, Fashion Baby | Kas picked up their androgynous style when they were young and, since finding clothes that fit them just right was a pain, started learning young to make their own clothes. This quickly extended beyond learning about what makes good clothing to body care and makeup skills to always keep them looking exactly they way they want to look. Even if, sometimes, the look they choose is lazy af.

_{O T H E R}

Kas's accent is a mess. The only language that sounds right when they speak it is Icelandic, and even that sometimes gets a little mix of the Irish accent they started to adopt after moving to the Emerald Isle as a teen. Their English is a battleground for their mother tongue and the Irish accent they learned English in.

The Promise - Second Star to the Right, and Straight on 'til Morning.

Yeet

GRIM

K A S. L.
G R Í M S D Ó T T I R

More? More. _______________________________________________ Kasper/Kasandra Liev Grímsdóttir _______________________________________________ June 9th | 22 | Caucasian _______________________________________________ Allegedly Single| ⚧ | Pansexual _______________________________________________ College Drop-out | Student _______________________________________________ Physical Profile ___________________________________ [+] //Basics: • Height | 5'11" • Weight | 138lbs • Build | Lithe, Gaunt • Hair Colour | naturally Auburn, currently Mauve • Eye Colour | Green Miscellaneous Items ___________________________________ [+] //Every Day Carry: • A small tin box of hand rolled cigarillos • An old metal lighter found at a thrift store • A US quarter with two tails sides

A p p e a r a n c e D e t a i l s Kas has always stood out in a crowd; A little taller than average, gaunt despite their huge appetite, a distinct sense of fashion, often changing hair colour, meticulously applied makeup, the works. It's always been hard to get a read on them and if you did not know their face well enough, you could see them the next day and mistake them for someone else entirely. Their strong jawline, piercing emerald eyes, full lips, and stern brow are the only easily identifiable constants for most people that see them. Kas often rotates through an array of loose and tight-fitted pants, button ups & jackets, loose fitted hoodies, boots and dress shoes. All lend themselves to a constant of covering as much skin as possible. Seeing more than Kas's face and hands is a rarity and in almost every outfit they at least two layers on their tops, regardless of weather. They manage a consistent look of someone that spends a large part of their morning getting ready, even when they only have a few minutes to get from their bed to wherever someone is expecting them (something that happens very, very often). If you were ever to see beneath Kas's clothes, you'd see slim slender limbs, sharp angles, and hardly noticeable curves. Their faint auburn body hair is almost invisible and their skin is smooth and unblemished, noticeably free of even the most mundane birthmarks. Even more curious then would be the wrappings around their chest given how the rest of their body seemed free of any markings. Their body language is open and expressive. As long as you're not completely socially deaf you'll know pretty quickly how Kas feels about you. A broad-chested, grinning, Kas where a touch of their hand comes as easily as a laugh or a follow up of conversation stands in stark contrast to the uncomfortable Kas. A Kas whose hands stick to their pockets, their eyes wander, their presence is.... not present. When they feel good, they are larger than life and fill a room in spite of their diminished form. When they feel sour, you'd be lucky to be able to spot them if you were in the same room as them. Though if you made them angry? Well, you'll know.

_{P e r s o n a l i t y}

Kas has a wall of exuberance and utter confidence that's up most of the time they're in public. There a problem? Not when Kas's around. Doubt? "Do you know who I am?". Kas outwardly operates exclusively with big dick energy. The saying still waters run deep would apply well to Kas, if it weren't for their still waters being choppy and splashy as hell.

Beyond the facade, there is more to them then a constant ooze of confidence and self-assuredness. They're a lover and they long to find the connections they've been sorely lacking most of their lives; Friends, lovers, found family, whatever they can get. They're a superficial social butterfly who remembers every name and, more often than not, every bit they learn about someone. In a conversation they're present and eager, hungry to learn more about you. Though when the conversation gets turned around and they're supposed to talk about themselves, it gets a little... rough. Their gut instinct is to lie, to avoid talking about themselves, to just dodge any questions with little deflections.

So then, it should be no surprise that this secretive person has a self-destructive streak. That they often smoke, fully aware of how bad it would be for someone whose body won't cleanse all the damage done the next time their power is used. That they're a little too willing to use their power, should the situation call for it. In the face of death being almost trivialised they've developed a sort of complex. Life has no meaning or more specifically: Their life has no meaning.

_{C h a r a c t e r S y n o p s i s}

At Risk
The label hung over the Grímsdóttir family not long after they greeted their child into the world. Kas's parents had planned to name their child once they finally met them, but now that the risk that they might lose their child hung over their head they could not bring themselves to name their child. For much of Kas's first few years of life, they were called "my sweet", "my love", "little thing", and "Red" given the red head of hair they were born with. Only once the testing on Kas's genome was dialed back from weekly to monthly, from monthly to semi-annually, and then by "Red's" second year they were told they could come in yearly for observations. Finally, Kas's parents felt secure enough to name their child and finally they felt safe that their child would remain theirs.
Low Risk
Kas had a loving upbringing. A father that worked hard to play the stay-at-home father and contract artist, a mother who did.... Business things. Neither Kas or her father ever really got it, but whatever it was exactly Mom did, she was damn good at it. They had a comfortable lifestyle, one that afforded them some luxury in a country where living (if we ignore the frigid wasteland it was most of the year) was already fairly comfortable. Kas's father always encouraged them to try new things, to never be afraid to fail, and to follow their passions. This quickly turned into fighting people for exercise, making terrible art all the time, and trying to make clothes that would turn them red looking back on themselves.
Minimal Risk
With nearly 13 years without any sign of meta-development, the Grímsdóttir family was able to move to Ireland following a lucrative job opportunity for Kas's mother. In Ireland, Kas flourished and took advantage of the climate that was positively balmy compared to home. Making friends, even with their spotty English and even spottier Irish was a snap for a young and energetic Kas. What the lacked in words, they made up for with the energy they brought. Kas almost never said no to new experiences. Sure, they might have had a brief (read: the entirety of their high school career) period of hooliganism, but it was all in good fun. Kas snuck out for drinks at the local pub that aggressively did not card, they shuffled through boyfriends and girlfriends (often more than one at a time), they made bad art that they were beyond proud of, they wore ugly clothing that they made themselves, and they would put on enough makeup to make a clown blush. They lived like an idiot, but boy did they live.
False Flagged
Shortly before going off to uni, Kas was informed at the clinic they went to for testing that it was likely a false flag. Their genome may have matched with some at risk activators, but they were 18 years deep into a life without any parahuman experiences. They were normal. As normal as they could be anyway. They'd still be required to come in for testing on a bi-annual basis, but at this point it was clear. They were no parahuman. Kas took this as the best possible sign for things to come and went on to attend Uni on and off for a few years, taking semester gaps here and there to get a breather and refresh themselves creatively with personal projects to keep the flame alive that was getting treaded on a little more every time they had to take an art-history class. In their second to last semester they broke their leg in a kickboxing competition and shortly after developed a staph infection that left them stuck in a hospital when they should have been working on their finals. And then...
Activated Genome
Everything fell apart.

_{A b i l i t i e s & S k i l l s}

_//Abilities:

Superhuman Ability | Per Mortem Celluar Restoration ~~ Man vs. Self
Advanced healing factors should be no surprise to most that are familiar with meta-humans. Though there's always something a little different for everyone and in Kas's case, it's been conveyed to them that their variation is... perhaps more than a little different from others. Their body is unremarkably different from most people, a little sickly skinny for their height sure, but nothing too unusual. When they are injured, the wound clots and heals over hours, days, weeks just like everyone else. A cut might take a few days, a broken arm six or so weeks, the flu a week and some change. Where things get interesting is what happens when their body begins to experience cardiac arrest, respiratory arrest, or a cessastion of of major brain acivity. In the stages of imminent death, an exothermic reaction occurs within their body as all damaged and destroyed cells are rapidly regenerated. The process is violent and sudden and the more severe the damage, the more intense the exothermic reaction. Due to complications from an infection during a stay in the hospital, Kas experienced cardiac arrest and when they came to they found their broken leg fully healed and their body free of infection. The personal cost of this power activation for a (relatively mundane) death had been the loss of a few pounds. The external cost had been the nurse who had the misfortune of arriving just in time for the reaction, their body horribly burned by the activation of Kas's power.

Limitation(s) | Too little too late and sometimes too much
The power can only activate once death is imminent. Only one the light has left their eyes, their heart has ceased to beat, their lungs have taken their last breath, and their brainwaves have dissipated can their power activate.

Then there is the matter of fuel. Kas has to stick to an incredibly high calorie diet if they want to always have enough fat to burn to fuel these violent revitalising reactions. Just a simple revitalisation is enough to burn several pounds in an instant. Something more severe; missing limbs, a crushed and warped body, full body burn. All of these are going to siphon huge amounts of energy out of Kas Unfortunately for its master, this power has no way to pull its punches. It will burn all of the energy it needs to repair them, even if the state it leaves Kas in is worse than their state before death.

Weakness(es) | A candle burnt at both ends eventually goes out
Horror comes in many forms and for Kas, the greatest of all is one where they cannot find death. A vegetative Kas would remain trapped in their body until they died of other factors. Could they depend on someone to pull their plug? What if someone wanted to hurt them? A severed limb wouldn't kill them if it was treated right. What about space? What would even happen to them if they were dumped out into the void? Would their power just reset over and over again? Would it burn through all of their fat, wither their muscle, dying and being reborn over and over until their body was reduced to a withered husk? At least they had that natural defense if someone wanted to kill them, that the activation of their powers might kill or at least drive off whomever wanted to hurt them. But something like space? Like starving or dehydrating to death? At that point, all their power is going to do is ensure it happens for good.

Not to mention their power doesn't make them any naturally better than anyone else. They were mostly just... well, a human. Just a human that could violently explode back to life.

It's a complete mending/restoration of damaged/absent cells. Like how an infection killed them and when they came back their leg was fixed. If they had liver damage from drinking, but died of a hand grenade near the face, they'd come back with a refreshed liver and a new bit of face meat. It doesn't reset things like age, but the constant refreshing would help them live longer since it's also purging all of the things that would normally kill most people (e.g. cancerous cells, heart disease). But they still age and with age things will start to fall apart despite their powers best efforts to keep them alive. Who knows how long they have, but their time isn't infinite. And once they hit a natural end of life, their body will enter the same kind of death spiral they'd likely experience if they were jettisoned out of a Paradise airlock. Death, regeneration, death, regeneration, death, regeneration until their own power has done the job of the withering on its own.

_//Skills:

Polyglot | Due to Kas's upbringing, they are a native Icelandic and English speaker, full professional proficient at Swedish, and limited professional proficient at Gaeilge.
Kickboxing | Their father thought it'd be empowering for Kas and signed them up at a young age to take kickboxing lessons at what Kas was convinced was the only place that taught it in Iceland. They've stuck with it since they were six and while they have over a decade and a half of experience, their fragility doesn't do much for what they've picked up over the years.
Walk, Walk, Fashion Baby | Kas picked up their androgynous style when they were young and, since finding clothes that fit them just right was a pain, started learning young to make their own clothes. This quickly extended beyond learning about what makes good clothing to body care and makeup skills to always keep them looking exactly they way they want to look. Even if, sometimes, the look they choose is lazy af.

_{O T H E R}

Kas's accent is a mess. The only language that sounds right when they speak it is Icelandic, and even that sometimes gets a little mix of the Irish accent they started to adopt after moving to the Emerald Isle as a teen. Their English is a battleground for their mother tongue and the Irish accent they learned English in.

SOL CITY - Modern Slice of Life - Chapter 2 - Completed & archived. 2/2

Thanks for your consideration, but I'm going to rescind my application. After looking deeper into things, I realised this RP might not be for me. Cheers.

Before The Dawn

@Tyler
Hey Boss,
An update on how things are shaking up and moving forward once you get back from your leave would be killer. If I recall correctly you were waiting to hear back from some other prospective members. Hope to hear about em.

Hope things are going well on your end~

Before The Dawn

@Ink Blood
Ya mon.
I think everyone's still around.

Before The Dawn

In the meantime, I open up a group discussion...

@Tyler

From Laethe's wanderings he's collected many places that he wants to travel to. Some for the sake of satiating curiosity, some for a desire to help other, and some to seek answers for what troubles him. The Broadmarsh has been high among his interests, as he's heard rumors that to travel into it is certain death and that it seems to spread with every passing day. If there is something magical in nature, perhaps he can find a way to at least slow the process. Though, his curiosity far outweighs his desire to be some sort of savior. It's vague mysticism reminds him of the rumours he heard of Falinstad and that's enough to compel him forward.

The conflict with Silvermoor and The Wizard's Tower is one that he'd like to investigate further, given his background in magics and how this conflict may reflect on himself and all other mages beyond the tower. His entire livelihood has been built off of being a traveling mage, so if something horrific were to happen to Silvermoor he fears he'd find himself to be a much less welcome sight to those he meets in his travels. He also wants to search the archives of the Wizard's Tower, but he has reservations about approaching it or even making himself known to the institution. If they knew more about him, there'd be questions. Laethe deeply dislikes questions and knows of none more inquisitive than children and wizards.

He also longs to visit Salutem, given its forbidden fruit nature. Perhaps there he could find direct communion with the gods, should any exist. He's constantly in search of answers and after his falling out with the gods, he is drawn to test them and see if there's any proof that they exist. Visiting Salutem is the last way he can think of to attempt to draw a response out of the gods.

Before The Dawn

Laethe

✶ P R O F I L E

BIRTHNAME | Hadrin Guthstein
OTHER NAMES | Laethe, Sparrow

AGE:
Twenty-six

GENDER:
Male

RACE:
Amorynthian Human

BIRTHPLACE:
Dray, Amorynthia

RELIGION:
Hadrin was born into a family steeped in tradition that existed as long as written records have existed. The eldest son's duty was to enter their father's tutelage and eventually take his place as the master jeweler of the Guthstein family. The eldest daughter would be trained in the arts of enchantments, originating some twenty-three generations back to the Eddelreich family whose form of enchantment was based in song. This blending of glimmering gems entombed in silver and gold, imbued with enchantments of songs passed down tens of generations led to the Guthstein family being paragons of the Carminda faith. Though, perfection requires scores of failures and as such those children not born eldest or likely to take the position of the eldest found as little value in the Carminda faith as their family traditions found in them.

Being an eighth-born child, Hadrin was one of those children. As he grew older and the need to make his own path became more and more of a reality, he looked to Zorion for guidance. To become a devotee of Zorion was to find liberation from the Carminda faith in the eyes of Hadrin, his brothers and sister, and the extraneous children of countless generations before them. It was Zorion's guidance that influenced his ambition. It was the sense of self and rejection of selflessness that drove Hadrin into the arms of magic. It was Zorion's demand to serve himself above all else that he took to an ultimate feat of recklessness in the pursuit of magical mastery. It was Zorion's influence that ultimately drove him away from the gods.

✶ P H Y S I C A L I T Y

HEIGHT:
6'4"

WEIGHT:
175lbs

APPEARANCE:
Hadrin in his younger years was never obese, though if he had a vice it was his indulgences in the culinary arts. His body had all the soft feminine curves of a sensual woman unfortunately affixed to the body of a short posh boy. He eventually shook the habit of overeating, under-dressing, and abstaining from grooming to make himself into a presentable young man. As the desire to practice the magic arts welled within him, so did his desire to make himself fit the role he had come to envision himself in; a hero whose name would be lauded across the all of Tyrrania.

As a grown man, he's a shadow of his youthful vision whose appearance exaggerates his age. Laethe, as he later came to be known, towered over most folk though few would ever recall him as being particularly tall. He had a way of carrying himself that betrayed his true stature; slouched shoulders, downcast gazes, a hunch slight enough to look at if he were standing normally. His hair had grown beyond his shoulders and gone were his formerly golden locks, faded far beyond his years past gray to nearly white. All of which comes together to frame a gaunt face with high cheekbones and a sullen set of lips. Around his eyes hang dark bags, a result of sleepless travels and a lack of personal care. Contrasting that are his lavender eyes, a recessive trait his family has long been proud to posses; a blessing of Carminda his ancestors liked to claim. It's not rare that the unassuming figure draws predatory gazes from some, sympathetic eyes from others, and ensures that jobs involving physical labour and rarely given to him without some convincing needing to be done.

SKILLS, STRENGTHS & TALENTS:
In his travels, both former and current, this trait has been the foundation of it all; Self-sufficiency. Laethe has no patience for stagnation and if there's a job to be done, it's already been started by him. If his belly is empty, his throat parched, and there's nary a nibble nor a drop in his pack, he'll find work with his magics or his bare-hands to sustain himself long enough to get to the next village, town, or hamlet. It's this work ethic that's led to him picking up many useful skills from barn building to breaking horses to trade negotiations and everywhere in between. He's had a silver tongue since he was a child, a common trait of his lineage.

Laethe is no master of arms, but he has years of experience hunting with spear and bow which aids him well enough when he has either on his person. Though as he's rarely armed in his travels, he's never arrived at a town beaten and bloodied from beast or brigand.

Laethe has a plethora of skills picked up mostly out of necessity. His more common-folk skills such as hunting, foraging, and carpentry speak to his current life. His literacy and general education hark back to his privileged roots.

It's no secret that Laethe is a traveling mage. He's a wide range of skills that are strictly utilitarian, like sparking a flame to life, mending minor wounds, always knowing which way is North, and a plethora of otherwise unremarkable skills. While his range of magic should stretch his mastery thin, he often surprises viewers with his results. Where he truly shines is in a magic he practices in secret, going so far as to refuse desperately needed work if he cannot do his task behind locked doors and shuttered windows. Whatever the source of the magic is matters not to most he's helped, as he's found ways to provide far more in practical means for folks than answers to questions ever could. His secretive magics have often been used both in self defense and in service to certain buyers where there are witnesses to his magics, though those that have seen it have never lived to tell tales. However in the Tumeken desert sound can carry some distance and as he was dealing with a camp of bandits that had taken over an oasis, the sound of the chirping of a swarm of birds came across the rolling sands. The bodies of the bandits were found, shredded to ribbons at the hands of Laethe and soon after that he began to answer to the Sparrow, a title for the sound of his deathly magics.

WEAKNESSES & DRAWBACKS:
While not lame, his left arm lacks much of the strength his right has. Never having healed properly from a traumatic injury, the arm can only remain raised for a short while before it drops back to his side. It also cannot be raised vertically, mobility being limited to just below 110 degrees. His grip is weak and a sword can easily be knocked out of it. Had his left hand not once been his dominant hand, this would've been less of a burden. It's taken him years, but he's learned to write and do most tasks as well with his offhand, though his writing has always suffered significantly.

Laethe has a great sorrow he carries with him, often being described as haunted by those with the wherewithal to notice. He's often open, even jovial about most of his personal history, but should he be pressed for information about his travels to Falinstađ he completely shuts down. The topic has only ever been addressed once. His eldest brother asked him what had happened and how long he had actually been stuck on that "God foresaken island". He answered, "It felt as if a lifetime" and had nothing more to offer. He quietly disappeared from the estate that night, never to return.

Laethe has become emotionally distant, though there are enough subtleties that he's rarely around long enough for it to occur to people how little they know the traveler. Whatever happened to him left him with the inability to hold onto things. He's best been described as a passing ship in the night; nothing more than a light passing along the waters only to disappear beyond the horizon.

Laethe's magic is a secret kept to himself and him alone. To this day there has yet to be a witness to his true school of magic, though he has always felt safe in the knowledge that any that might witness him would be shrugged off for telling tall tales. The reality of his magic is to be kept a secret and as such, it's reserved for life and death and only if the credibility of any potential witnessed is nonexistant. If it weren't for his mysterious strength in schools of magic outside of his primary, he'd have died long ago.

✶ B E L O N G I N G S

ATTIRE:
He's been with outfit since he left his fzmily estate for the second and final timr, as such it's long since begun to show its age after nearly seven years of very frequent wear. His deep-blue hooded cloak, aged foreign leather jerkin, taupe silk blouse, brocade breeches, mitten-styled fur-lined gloves, and calf-high boots of equally foreign leather. The heavy clothing does well enough to keep him warm in the months adjacent to winter, though he dons a fur-lined cloak for winter travel and sticks to traveling between dusk and dawn during the summer months. Over his shoulders is an ever present pack sack of stitched animal skins that sticks very closely to his person at all times, though it hardly looks large enough to hold enough supplies for traveler such as him.

WEAPONS:
Laethe goes unarmed, though there could be a case made for his cutlery.

TOOLS:
In his trousse are cutlery and a few small knives for deboning, skinning, and carving. Within his bag there is also a folded fishing rod and several hooks, and small pouches meant for miscelaneous items, foraged items, and bait.

PERSONAL ITEMS:
His only momento from his travels is an object roughly the size and shape of a torch that has been wrapped tightly in cloth and bound with twine.. In the event that he ever must go without his pack sack, this is the one item he won't leave behind.

✶ H I S T O R Y

Time had been unusually kind to the Guthstein famiily. Nearly thirty generations had passed since the Guthsteins and Eddelreichs came together and mixed their heritage in jewel-craft and enchanting to create something more than just a thriving business. They created an institution in the world of craftsmen. Every generation was led by its eldest son and daughter who would take the mantle of leading jeweler and enchantress respectively. The second and third eldest were often retained in the event that tragedy strike and were often expected to assist their elder siblings in their respective crafts. Our story is about one of the children left to find his own place, the eighth-born Hadrin Guthstein. While a life of guaranteed wealth and stable work wasn't granted to the firstborn on birth, children like Hadrin still had a very comfortable upbringing. Private tutors, plenty of food and indulgences, an allowance commoners would gawk at. The only duty of a non-essential Guthstein/Eddelreich was to find a path and the family would ensure all the necessary funds were available and that the most influential people of that path were made available to the young family members.

As a boy, Hadrin was a generalist, equally attached to many pursuits. There was a growing worry among the family that he would become this generations black sheep. There was often one and his tendency to overindulge in sweets and hideaway in his room with his books only ever seemed to validate this. It was no wonder why his mother was so welcoming to the idea of his becoming a mage instead of something more practical and useful to the family. He was quickly paired with a wizard sent from the Wizard's Tower in exchange for a sizable donation of gold and enchanted jewelry. Hadrin was quick to attach to his mentor, Salazar; an ancient man who had been practicing wizardry since he was Hadrin's age and who shared in Hadrin's penchant for sweets. Having been born after the passing of his grandfather, Salazar became a surrogate grandfather. The two were inseparable and while Hadrin wasn't always learning magics from his tutor, he was learning about life. Salazar had always imparted on him the value of compassion, self-sufficiency, and practice. From the ages of 11 to 16 he had hardly learned any magic beyond some basics such as igniting a campfire through will alone, mending cuts and bruises, and tempering ones emotions. What he had learned from the wizard was patience, temperance, and hard work. He had learned how to slow himself down and comprehend something much more challenging than some of his peers, so as he began his formal training as a elementalist he rapidly excelled beyond his peers, able to turn boiling water to ice and then sublimate it before others had even gotten it to a boil.

The death of Salazar hit Hadrin far more than he could have ever expected and within a few weeks he had fallen to the pack of the pack among his competitors. He had lost focus and struggled to do something as basic as light a torch without aid. Had it not been for his father's insinuation that the money spent on employing Salazar had been a waste, Hadrin might have never found the boost he needed. That day, he rounded up what worldly possessions he had and sold them on the cheap to local merchants and went south to a land Salazar had occasionally mentioned rumour of. It had been one of Salazaar's many fascinations, the island that appeared under a full moon's light which was believed to be inhabited by an untouched race of untold magical power. He charted a boat in the Dray ports to bring him to the small village of Tethersall where he intended to charter a second boat to bring him to that island of legend. For all the coin he had, he could not find a single captain, fisherman, or hobbyist to take him to the island. Desperate, he offered to work for a pittance with a local fisherman, if the man would teach him how to sail. A deal was struck and for the next two months he spent everyday on the water, sailing out into the open sea and getting his sea legs under him. The first full moon to pass tugged on his heartstrings as he had wanted to take off and try to find the island, but the open water had still made him nervous and the swaying of the his employer's boat still left him nauseous after every wave. The second full moon, he had felt ready to handle the waves, but had not actually verified the rumour for himself yet. He sailed to the lighthouse and spent an evening studying the horizon for every pass of light until he spotted it. A faint glimmer deep into the distance, a shape that seemed to shimmer out of existence the moment the lighthouse's light moved past. He waited through the whole night, watching the object appear and disappear until the moon had set and with it the place that could be none other than Falinstađ has also disappeared.

The third moon had come and in that time Hadrin had gotten his sea-legs and burned what coin his still had on a boat and a meager supply of food and drink should his destination turn out to be uninhabited. The fisherman had insisted that he'd only get himself killed, but Hadrin had reassured him that if he hadn't followed through with this he'd not be living. He set sail as the moon crested over the horizon and sailing was smooth until the distance between himself and the island was much less than the distance between himself and Tethersall. There was no wind, though the sea seemed to reject him. Waves crashed against his small boat, soaking him, burning his eyes, and pulling the wind out from his chest. A jagged rock seemed to materialise out of thin air for the boat to crash against, splitting it at the bow and sending Hadrin headfirst toward the rock. His last memory was of his shoulder being ripped from its socket before he plunged into the inky waters.

The Guthstein family received word that their son had likely perished at sea a few weeks later and after a year of no sightings of Hadrin his death was accepted as reality. A small ceremony between family was held and shortly after what little possessions he had were either given to members of the family, sold, or discarded. Six years after the death of Hadrin, the Guthstein family found itself without a father or mother and as such the eldest children moved forward to assume their places. A future generation was born and in honor of his deceased brother, the eldest Guthstein, Peytr, named his son after the deceased Hadrin. Fifteen years after the passing Hadrin, a family servant burst through the doors of Peytr's chambers in the middle of the night, their face red and chest heaving as they made wild claims of apparitions in the courtyard. Hadrin had returned.

He appeared differently from Peytr's memory. He carried himself as if the weight of a lifetime rested upon him, but physically he appeared to be not much older than when he left. "Hadrin, where have you been all this time? What's happened to you?" Peytr found himself saying, unable to so much as entertain pleasantries. Hadrin's eyes found his and in them he found a profound sense of loss. "Falinstađ, brother. You're the head of the family now then?" Hadrin had asked, his Amorynthian twisted with another Peytr could not quite place. "Mother and father are no longer with us, yes. I'm sorry, Hadrin." Peytr had closed the gap between the two of them and was revolted by the thick stench that wafted off his brother, "You say you visited that fairytale? Gods, Hadrin. How long do you think you were on that godforsaken island?"

Hadrin took a long while to answer, his voice croaking when he finally did, "It felt as if a lifetime." Peytr embraced his brother, "Well, you're home, brother. Rest. In the morning we'll talk and I swear to you we'll find you help. You'll be okay now, Hadrin. You're home. You're home." Peytr led him to a guest room and put him to bed. It was the last he saw of his brother.

With his life reset, he no longer wore the name Hadrin and instead introduced himself as Laethe. Laethe became a traveling mage, providing help for coin, shelter, or food. His travels were aimless and took him across the continent and back. Few can say they've crossed the Tumeken desert and traveled the entire Amorynthian Kingdom on foot. In those six years he's seen the much of the world, though he's done little more than drift without purpose. His latest journey has been to Ryth where word has spread that the king seeks adventurers. Perhaps this will be where Hadrin finds new purpose. Perhaps it will be another dead end.

Before The Dawn

I'd be up to see your ideas, Inky.