Edit: Completed! Hopefully, it turns out all right!
Name: Xerxes Hasek
Title: Salamander
Age: 30
Gender: Male
Aspect of the Hunter: "Salamander" - Xerxes possesses the ability to manipulate and quell (but not conjure or generate) fire. He is also able to read the memories of ash and cinder - ironically cruel, considering the burden he bears - and is unable to be harmed by flames while he is conscious. Attempting to invoke his aspect while enraged would be . . . unwise, to say the least, although regardless of the aspect's current state of activation, succumbing to fury doesn't seem like a pleasant idea.
Stats
Skills
Inventory
Xerxes Hasek - The Salamander
"“Monster . . . ? Ah, you flatter me! Why, yes, I suppose I am! That does not, however, make me this tale’s villain, you know!”
Name: Xerxes Hasek
Title: Salamander
Age: 30
Gender: Male
Tall and lean, almost unhealthily so, Xerxes possesses a sharp, almost distinguished sort of gauntness about him. This lankiness, born of a preference for sweets absolutely devoid of any nutritional value, a relatively time-consuming occupation, and a lack of interest in food altogether, means Xerxes doesn’t cut much of a figure at all, much less one of an imposing nature. He emanates this unnerving, almost repellent sort of aura - the cheerful sort of defiance that only a hardened criminal or an absolute maniac might bear.
Lean, sharp angles mold the pale canvas of his face, carving out prominent cheekbones and emphasizing his smile. Thin lips usually rest in a cheerful, yet oddly unnerving grin, or wide, unnaturally peppy smile, soured only by the condescending gleam lighting up his eyes. A long, slightly downward-sloping nose partitions his face evenly. He’s got a striking sort of face, unusual enough to be almost attractive - certainly enough to warrant a second look. A short, closely-cropped beard lines his jaw and chin, further emphasizing that wild, dangerous edge.
Down-turned, slightly droopy eyes give him a whimsical, casual sort of look. This, paired with his ever-present grin, ought to make him seem warm and friendly, but oddly enough, not a single laugh line marks his face. His eyes themselves are silver and sharp - much like the rest of him - and carry an odd, almost bitter hardness, though only occasionally.
His dark, perpetually tousled wavy hair curves to a stop just past his shoulders, falling diagonally across his face to partially obscure his left eye. The side-swept fringe flips out slightly at the ends, messy in a deliberate, almost artful sort of way.
His voice is a lilting, cheerful sing-song, often condescending and mocking and all kinds of patronizing.
Lean, sharp angles mold the pale canvas of his face, carving out prominent cheekbones and emphasizing his smile. Thin lips usually rest in a cheerful, yet oddly unnerving grin, or wide, unnaturally peppy smile, soured only by the condescending gleam lighting up his eyes. A long, slightly downward-sloping nose partitions his face evenly. He’s got a striking sort of face, unusual enough to be almost attractive - certainly enough to warrant a second look. A short, closely-cropped beard lines his jaw and chin, further emphasizing that wild, dangerous edge.
Down-turned, slightly droopy eyes give him a whimsical, casual sort of look. This, paired with his ever-present grin, ought to make him seem warm and friendly, but oddly enough, not a single laugh line marks his face. His eyes themselves are silver and sharp - much like the rest of him - and carry an odd, almost bitter hardness, though only occasionally.
His dark, perpetually tousled wavy hair curves to a stop just past his shoulders, falling diagonally across his face to partially obscure his left eye. The side-swept fringe flips out slightly at the ends, messy in a deliberate, almost artful sort of way.
His voice is a lilting, cheerful sing-song, often condescending and mocking and all kinds of patronizing.
Eternally smiling, be it his typical condescending, unsettling grin, a scathing, derisive sneer, or a mutinous, dangerous smirk, Xerxes's wreathed himself in an air of his own truly baffling whimsy. Working tirelessly to shroud himself in enigma - not for any contrived, cliched desire to be "mysterious", mind you; he just enjoys seeing the stupid looks of consternation on people's faces - he imparts little more than the bare minimum on whatever allies he aligns himself with, yet does it in a way that makes it seem like it's their fault instead of his.
Surprisingly deceptive despite his mischievous, childlike demeanor, Xerxes can effortlessly blend into even the most unlikely crowd. He's well trained at employing some casual misdirection, be it throwing a stone or offering a few paltry words of incrimination. This lends well to his favorite pastime: popping out of nowhere to frighten the living daylights out of random passersby. There's something so delightfully comforting about their screams - a joy, really.
Incisive remarks or petty insults don't really bother him; he's always got that infuriating grin plastered across his face. Ever the prankster, he's quite fond of feigning a complacent sort of supremacy to push some buttons, usually addressing the person in question with, "my dear", to piss them off. He tends to talk down to others as if he's patronizing a wayward, unruly toddler. His speech patterns are a tad archaic, as well; his sentence structure and word choice are reminiscent of someone constantly surprised by the stupidity of mankind.
It's rare to spot Xerxes engaging in the mundane. Even sitting down has to be addressed in the most unorthodox, complicated manner possible. It's a massive waste of everyone's time, and he knows it. He despises boredom and reviles all things ordinary, because boredom leads to a wandering mind and a wandering mind leads to wallowing in regret, and he doesn't much like whining about things he knows he can't change.
Not all of Xerxes’ childish immaturity is an act, however. He's actually remarkably obstinate, foolish enough to believe he can shoulder every burden on his own and stubborn enough to do everything himself. His excuse is Mr. One-Man Show can't have a partner, or else he might actually have to give credit where credit is due, and that's just a sad, sad travesty. He'd hide an injury to avoid drawing attention, to avoid garnering sympathy, because he believes one who's committed the same heinous atrocities as he doesn't deserve the pleasure of a sincere smile. Mr. One-Man Show has got to keep up a good act, after all, right?
He tends to opt for the easy way out, heedless of the consequences, because he's already got a karmic list a mile long tailing him, so why not see how much of the universe's luck he can waste on his own, right? Besides, he's not quite certain he knows what sincerity is - he's seen it in action, so of course he's got to believe it exists, but he's yet to experience it himself. He fancies it’s something like believing in ghosts - futile, fruitless, and an absolute waste of time.
He's also quite wistful, even if it’s expressed in his own sardonic sort of way; he's currently attempting to atone for the aforementioned atrocities he’s committed, and if that means death, why, it's certainly welcome to join him on the ride. (Except not, because while he'd never openly admit it, the man who openly declares his longing for death has seen and caused quite enough of it to know to be terrified to die. Besides, what would a lazy, good-for-nothing slacker like him do with an eternity to himself? Certainly nothing productive, of course!)
Xerxes often refers to himself as a fool - even teasingly - in conversation. Also, he's quite insulting. For example, upon seeing someone he knows, he might remark, "Oh, why, it seems the circus is in town! What a revolting surprise!" He's a massive asshole. Just. God, he's so awful.
Surprisingly deceptive despite his mischievous, childlike demeanor, Xerxes can effortlessly blend into even the most unlikely crowd. He's well trained at employing some casual misdirection, be it throwing a stone or offering a few paltry words of incrimination. This lends well to his favorite pastime: popping out of nowhere to frighten the living daylights out of random passersby. There's something so delightfully comforting about their screams - a joy, really.
Incisive remarks or petty insults don't really bother him; he's always got that infuriating grin plastered across his face. Ever the prankster, he's quite fond of feigning a complacent sort of supremacy to push some buttons, usually addressing the person in question with, "my dear", to piss them off. He tends to talk down to others as if he's patronizing a wayward, unruly toddler. His speech patterns are a tad archaic, as well; his sentence structure and word choice are reminiscent of someone constantly surprised by the stupidity of mankind.
It's rare to spot Xerxes engaging in the mundane. Even sitting down has to be addressed in the most unorthodox, complicated manner possible. It's a massive waste of everyone's time, and he knows it. He despises boredom and reviles all things ordinary, because boredom leads to a wandering mind and a wandering mind leads to wallowing in regret, and he doesn't much like whining about things he knows he can't change.
Not all of Xerxes’ childish immaturity is an act, however. He's actually remarkably obstinate, foolish enough to believe he can shoulder every burden on his own and stubborn enough to do everything himself. His excuse is Mr. One-Man Show can't have a partner, or else he might actually have to give credit where credit is due, and that's just a sad, sad travesty. He'd hide an injury to avoid drawing attention, to avoid garnering sympathy, because he believes one who's committed the same heinous atrocities as he doesn't deserve the pleasure of a sincere smile. Mr. One-Man Show has got to keep up a good act, after all, right?
He tends to opt for the easy way out, heedless of the consequences, because he's already got a karmic list a mile long tailing him, so why not see how much of the universe's luck he can waste on his own, right? Besides, he's not quite certain he knows what sincerity is - he's seen it in action, so of course he's got to believe it exists, but he's yet to experience it himself. He fancies it’s something like believing in ghosts - futile, fruitless, and an absolute waste of time.
He's also quite wistful, even if it’s expressed in his own sardonic sort of way; he's currently attempting to atone for the aforementioned atrocities he’s committed, and if that means death, why, it's certainly welcome to join him on the ride. (Except not, because while he'd never openly admit it, the man who openly declares his longing for death has seen and caused quite enough of it to know to be terrified to die. Besides, what would a lazy, good-for-nothing slacker like him do with an eternity to himself? Certainly nothing productive, of course!)
Xerxes often refers to himself as a fool - even teasingly - in conversation. Also, he's quite insulting. For example, upon seeing someone he knows, he might remark, "Oh, why, it seems the circus is in town! What a revolting surprise!" He's a massive asshole. Just. God, he's so awful.
He came into the world silently, blinking owlishly up at the midwife, wide, curious eyes latching unshakably on her weary, haggard own. Not a single cry rose from his throat, no grating wails or frantic shrieks. Just silence, the heavy, wonderful pressure of silence. Which, in of itself, wasn’t exactly a big deal.
Most babies came out screaming and kicking, as if they instinctually knew they’d be better off crawling back in, little arms flailing for the dark, unknown abyss of unbirth. A wry smile unfurled on plump, chapped lips, frayed only slightly by fatigue’s jagged edge. “He’s a quiet one - a good, healthy set of lungs, I’m sure, but he’s got a good head on his shoulders, he does; knows when to keep his mouth shut. Don’t rebuke the small blessings, eh?”
Laughter, low and throaty, rumbled in his mother’s throat, and she swept a sweaty lock of hair from her forehead. It was remarkable, almost, how someone could look so composed, even as beads of perspiration slid down her face in rivulets, her hair a disheveled, tangled mess, the red hue of exertion still gathering in her cheeks. If the midwife was weary, then Elizabeth Hasek was the picture of exhaustion. “The best sorts of mercies are the small ones - why else would I have popped him out, yeah?” She lifted her arms from the bed, extending her hands, reaching for the cloth-swathed bundle in the midwife’s arms. “Give him here - haven’t even gotten to see him yet. He’s supposed to have his father’s eyes, you know - all the others did.”
The midwife leaned over, gently easing the baby into his waiting mother’s arms. They were trembling, the midwife noticed, gooseflesh bristling on quivering skin. As Elizabeth cradled the baby close, clutching him protectively, her finger tangled in the cloth shielding the child.
One twist of the wrist, and the blanket slipped, baring a black insignia and the shoulder onto which it was inlaid.
The warmth seeped out of the room in great gusts. The sigil - the sign of the Hunter, the beast-mark, the shadow-taint. The burden of a thousand monsters - the pain of the hunt, the sting of the lies, the strain of playing the part of a demon housed in human skin. A chill trickled through the midwife’s veins, frosting over that wry grin, smothering the laughter rising in her throat. A monster. The bastard child of the darkness itself. The midwife scrambled back - no devil-spawn’s filth would corrupt her flesh. Her lineage was pure, simple, maybe, a bit plain and nondescript and yes, even poor, but she wasn’t the darkness’s whore. She was not the evil’s concubine, no, not her!
A sneer spread across those chapped lips, and cold eyes glittered with raw, unbridled hate. “You lying, wretched whore. What will the village say, when they see this act of - this act of debauchery?”
Elizabeth, to her credit, did not scream. She did not thrash or wail or plead. Tranquil eyes regarded the midwife, face carefully drawn into some pitiful attempt at composure. “Not my son,” she said, voice level, inflection slow, steady - deliberate. “They will not have him. Not my son.”
The child in her arms continued to stare, and the beast in his heart rumbled.
------------------------ -
As a child, Xerxes pricks his finger playing in the bazaar with a rusty old soldier’s knife shortly after the dusty road rushes up to meet him. His skull bounces off the dirt with an audible thump, and something warm and wet bubbles from between his lips. The cool, metallic tang of dirt assaults his senses in waves, and he’s not entirely sure, but he thinks he’s swallowed a rock. Iron’s pungent reek wafts in front of Xerxes’ nose mingling with the stale, stagnant stench of old rainwater, and something inside him stirs. His mouth waters.
The boy who shoved him lets out a short, barking laugh, voice scratchy and strident and loud, and he wants it to stop.
They find the boy an hour later, still screaming, fingers clutching at a crushed nose, flinching with the red-hot sear of agony every breath brings. It takes them another hour to find the rock that took half of his teeth, and even longer to deduce he swallowed the rest.
It takes them years to find Xerxes’ father, after that day, and when they find him, they find him hanged.
---------------------------- -
Her withered, sunken cheeks shuddered with each parting of her lips. “Don’t let me die, Xerx. Don’t leave your poor mother all alone.” Her voice is a breathy whimper, and each breath a ragged gasp. Oily, brittle clumps of hair surround her bald cranium like a halo, golden and waxy and dead. Much like she’ll soon be, he wagers.
His heart is tight, what with the anxiety clamping down every minute of every day.
He’s fifteen, now, and his mother’s abed with a particularly nasty case of pneumonia. Every home remedy, every possible cure, every type of medicine available all crumble before the malady’s wrath. It bulldozes over frothing, bubbling herbal concoctions, cleaves cleanly through leeches and injections, and grinds the latest experimental panacea into the dust underneath its heel.
He’s fifteen, and the snow clings to his eyelashes like manacles. It drifts lazily down to earth in great, heavy clumps, shivering as it falls, seeking refuge in the folds of his clothes and the strands of his hair. The jagged, uneven ridges of the brick wall grate roughly against his back, and the snow-smothered ground is cool against his legs.
Dull eyes sweep across the filthy expanse of alleyway on either side of him. Bland. Bland, and foul, and crusted with a layer of grime so thick not even a sharpened axe could chip it away. Pitiful. Pitiful and stupid and pathetic, just like the fool sitting slumped against it.
His eyes drift shut, and the cold overtakes him.
---------------------------------- -
He was still fifteen, and she appeared before him, sudden and fleeting as an apparition. Red hair. Green eyes.
Her name was L̀͠҉̼̭͙̲͖̖͖̭͓̱͟ͅU̸̧̢҉͖͎̱͇͎͟ͅC̷͏͉͚͖̖͓͉̥̗͓̬͕̪̝̥͎̮̹͡Y̡̘͕͇͖̜̞͘͢. (the name is like ice on his tongue, melting away every time he gets a solid grasp, he can’t remember, why can’t he remember)
“Hey, you.” A fingernail flicks against his forehead, and beads of blood well up in its wake. “Don’t you know you’ll catch a cold if you sleep in a place like this?” His eyes snap open, a yell tears itself from his throat, and he’s scrambling backwards, eyes wide and alarmed and absolutely bewildered.
Looking back, it was very obvious that she did not belong to this dimension.
The fingernail’s owner collapses into a fit of giggles, and when she tosses her head back in wild, unrestrained joy, her hair flutters with it, long and red and radiant. (He doesn’t notice, of course, there’s no way he noticed, especially not the fresh, clean scent wreathing it like a perfume.)
“You - what - “ The words refuse to come out, each conceived, delivered, and pronounced stillborn all before they pass his lips. His mouth is clumsy and tongue awkward, numb from the brutal cold, and his voice hoarse from disuse. “Who - ?”
“Say,” she says (sings, her voice is melodic and lilting and absolutely breathtaking) cutting him off, “what’s with you, anyway? Who do you think you are? This is my turf, I’ll have you know, and I don’t take kindly to outsiders! Your name, immediately!” And she’s pointing, her finger hovering inches from the tip of his nose.
(there’s something about the way she smiles that has him believe it)
“I am - “ the words fight his tongue, battering and thrashing, trying their damndest to resist “- Xerxes. Just . . . Xerxes.”
The finger swipes upwards, bopping the tip of his nose. “Really.” Another smile, another brandishing of the knives.
(it’s dangerous outside.)
“What a dull name!”
(so is she. power radiates from every pore. not human power. is it inhuman?)
Another laugh, this one slightly less malicious and slightly more fond.
(is she?)
“Well, then, Just Xerxes, I think you owe me an explanation!” she chirps, and then, barely pausing to offer her name, she flops down beside him, shoulder-to-shoulder. “Ah! So warm!” He flinches - it’s been so long since another person’s touched him without recoiling, without calling him a beast or a demon - and there she is, resting her head against his bicep.
Wha - what are you doing - get away - ? Why is she touching him, he’s filth, he’s trash, horrible, vile, despicable -
He doesn’t realize she’s taken his breath away until he tries to speak, tries to offer something, anything -
She’s either very egocentric, or very perceptive, because she talks right over him, effortlessly trampling the onslaught of self-loathing that threatened to split his heart in two. “What’s brought you out here, you lazy, good-for-nothing slacker? Shirking your work? Running away? Recruiting for a crime syndicate?” It’s the first time someone’s called him anything besides a monster. ‘Lazy, good-for-nothing slacker’ - it wasn’t exactly a compliment, but he’d take it.
He opens his mouth again, and this time, the words cascade, flowing as freely as a waterfall. He tells her everything. His mark. His mother. The rumors, the verified truths - he tells her he’s a monster, and she laughs in his face, and tells him she’ll do him a favor, on one condition.
She says she’ll lend him a hand if he swears fealty, becomes her dog, her knight, her closest, most trusted companion, and the offer’s too good to be true, he knows it is, because humans don’t have eyes like that, people don’t act like that after one half hour of talking, but he’s too desperate to care.
He agrees, she smiles, and the world grows resplendent with light.
---------------------- -
He’s twenty-two, and not a day goes by where he’s not utterly dazzled by the vibrance of life. The bright carmine blossoms garnishing the blooming trees, the harmonic chorus of the birdsong, the tantalizing aroma of freshly-baked bread sweeping through crisp air - the world is alive, energy thrumming through every speck of matter, and so is he.
He’s twenty-two, and each smile comes easier than the last.
He’s twenty-two, and it’s not love, what he feels for this infuriating, capricious, wonderful creature, but it sure as hell isn’t apathy, either.
He doesn’t believe in angels, but his mother’s strength began returning in droves soon after his scarlet angel paid a clandestine visit to the house. Her cheeks filled back out, flushed with the glow of health, her hair grew back, and she could even walk. She could walk, she could work, she was a l i v e .
(it didn’t occur to him that it might not have been his mother until long after she ceased to be)
He’s twenty-two, and, why, perhaps he’d been a liiiiittle too quick on the draw, there, judging life all harshly like that! Really, what a rude thing to do!
- - --------------- -
He’s twenty-three, and the house is burning. Great, billowing columns of smoke pour from the flame-licked windows, spiraling as they rise. The world is bathed in a bright orange glow. The fire greedily sweeps across the flimsy wood, consuming each inch more ravenously, more rapidly, than the last. It’s moving too fast. It can’t be stopped. It’s not spreading.
He stares at the door, horror splayed across his features, his eyes wide and his mouth ajar, and all he can think is, Oh. He’s numb. His fingers itch. He wants to move. Should he? He can’t.
(they’ll find him, it’ll be like before, they’ll find him, hurt him, kill him)
The flames devour his mother’s bedroom, and the ensuing gut-wrenching shriek is so shrill, so ragged, so agonized that it curdles his blood.
(can’t chill, already cold, can’t freeze what’s already a block of ice)
L̀͠҉̼̭͙̲͖̖͖̭͓̱͟ͅU̸̧̢҉͖͎̱͇͎͟ͅC̷͏͉͚͖̖͓͉̥̗͓̬͕̪̝̥͎̮̹͡Y̡̘͕͇͖̜̞͘͢.’s there, too, not ten feet away, but unlike him, she’s not cowering behind debris. She’s facing the rampaging villagers head-on, trying to quell the riots, trying to diffuse the situation. She’s laughing wildly the entire time. This is her element, this chaos. Discord fuels her, common sense disgusts her, and if she had to conform to society’s expectations, she might very well have keeled over on the spot.
He watches in horror as the tip of a spear explodes from the back of her right shoulder, before she’s borne to the ground. Someone else fires as the soldier leans down to finish the job, their bullet carving a tunnel through his scarlet angel’s torso. Somebody is screaming, calling her a monster, a demon, a witch. As the knife approached her neck, Xerxes realises dimly it’s him. The baker’s son’s voice joins him in a counterpart.
There’s a sickening squelch as Xerxes hits the soldier like a freight train. The man went flying, most of his body a mangled wreck. One lone forearm stands out in stark relief, the spear it’s clutching still impaled through Lucy’s shoulder. Xerxes nearly retches, and then everything caught fire.
The rest of the fight is an ashen blur. All he remembers afterwards is the overwhelming need to hurt things, very, very quickly. When the last villager was a ragged mess of blood and pain in front of him, the world abruptly contracts. Everything seems to go dark, focusing on a single spot of colour. The bright, crimson pulse of blood, obscenely vivid against pale skin.
Her smile dims, and so does his entire universe.
---------
He’s twenty-four when the Fraternity scouts him, citing his alleged defeating of a skin-changing witch and the village she’d possessed as their reason.
He’s twenty-four when he accepts.
She was his sin.
This is his penance, the means through which he’ll atone.
Most babies came out screaming and kicking, as if they instinctually knew they’d be better off crawling back in, little arms flailing for the dark, unknown abyss of unbirth. A wry smile unfurled on plump, chapped lips, frayed only slightly by fatigue’s jagged edge. “He’s a quiet one - a good, healthy set of lungs, I’m sure, but he’s got a good head on his shoulders, he does; knows when to keep his mouth shut. Don’t rebuke the small blessings, eh?”
Laughter, low and throaty, rumbled in his mother’s throat, and she swept a sweaty lock of hair from her forehead. It was remarkable, almost, how someone could look so composed, even as beads of perspiration slid down her face in rivulets, her hair a disheveled, tangled mess, the red hue of exertion still gathering in her cheeks. If the midwife was weary, then Elizabeth Hasek was the picture of exhaustion. “The best sorts of mercies are the small ones - why else would I have popped him out, yeah?” She lifted her arms from the bed, extending her hands, reaching for the cloth-swathed bundle in the midwife’s arms. “Give him here - haven’t even gotten to see him yet. He’s supposed to have his father’s eyes, you know - all the others did.”
The midwife leaned over, gently easing the baby into his waiting mother’s arms. They were trembling, the midwife noticed, gooseflesh bristling on quivering skin. As Elizabeth cradled the baby close, clutching him protectively, her finger tangled in the cloth shielding the child.
One twist of the wrist, and the blanket slipped, baring a black insignia and the shoulder onto which it was inlaid.
The warmth seeped out of the room in great gusts. The sigil - the sign of the Hunter, the beast-mark, the shadow-taint. The burden of a thousand monsters - the pain of the hunt, the sting of the lies, the strain of playing the part of a demon housed in human skin. A chill trickled through the midwife’s veins, frosting over that wry grin, smothering the laughter rising in her throat. A monster. The bastard child of the darkness itself. The midwife scrambled back - no devil-spawn’s filth would corrupt her flesh. Her lineage was pure, simple, maybe, a bit plain and nondescript and yes, even poor, but she wasn’t the darkness’s whore. She was not the evil’s concubine, no, not her!
A sneer spread across those chapped lips, and cold eyes glittered with raw, unbridled hate. “You lying, wretched whore. What will the village say, when they see this act of - this act of debauchery?”
Elizabeth, to her credit, did not scream. She did not thrash or wail or plead. Tranquil eyes regarded the midwife, face carefully drawn into some pitiful attempt at composure. “Not my son,” she said, voice level, inflection slow, steady - deliberate. “They will not have him. Not my son.”
The child in her arms continued to stare, and the beast in his heart rumbled.
------------------------ -
As a child, Xerxes pricks his finger playing in the bazaar with a rusty old soldier’s knife shortly after the dusty road rushes up to meet him. His skull bounces off the dirt with an audible thump, and something warm and wet bubbles from between his lips. The cool, metallic tang of dirt assaults his senses in waves, and he’s not entirely sure, but he thinks he’s swallowed a rock. Iron’s pungent reek wafts in front of Xerxes’ nose mingling with the stale, stagnant stench of old rainwater, and something inside him stirs. His mouth waters.
The boy who shoved him lets out a short, barking laugh, voice scratchy and strident and loud, and he wants it to stop.
They find the boy an hour later, still screaming, fingers clutching at a crushed nose, flinching with the red-hot sear of agony every breath brings. It takes them another hour to find the rock that took half of his teeth, and even longer to deduce he swallowed the rest.
It takes them years to find Xerxes’ father, after that day, and when they find him, they find him hanged.
---------------------------- -
Her withered, sunken cheeks shuddered with each parting of her lips. “Don’t let me die, Xerx. Don’t leave your poor mother all alone.” Her voice is a breathy whimper, and each breath a ragged gasp. Oily, brittle clumps of hair surround her bald cranium like a halo, golden and waxy and dead. Much like she’ll soon be, he wagers.
His heart is tight, what with the anxiety clamping down every minute of every day.
He’s fifteen, now, and his mother’s abed with a particularly nasty case of pneumonia. Every home remedy, every possible cure, every type of medicine available all crumble before the malady’s wrath. It bulldozes over frothing, bubbling herbal concoctions, cleaves cleanly through leeches and injections, and grinds the latest experimental panacea into the dust underneath its heel.
He’s fifteen, and the snow clings to his eyelashes like manacles. It drifts lazily down to earth in great, heavy clumps, shivering as it falls, seeking refuge in the folds of his clothes and the strands of his hair. The jagged, uneven ridges of the brick wall grate roughly against his back, and the snow-smothered ground is cool against his legs.
Dull eyes sweep across the filthy expanse of alleyway on either side of him. Bland. Bland, and foul, and crusted with a layer of grime so thick not even a sharpened axe could chip it away. Pitiful. Pitiful and stupid and pathetic, just like the fool sitting slumped against it.
His eyes drift shut, and the cold overtakes him.
---------------------------------- -
He was still fifteen, and she appeared before him, sudden and fleeting as an apparition. Red hair. Green eyes.
Her name was L̀͠҉̼̭͙̲͖̖͖̭͓̱͟ͅU̸̧̢҉͖͎̱͇͎͟ͅC̷͏͉͚͖̖͓͉̥̗͓̬͕̪̝̥͎̮̹͡Y̡̘͕͇͖̜̞͘͢. (the name is like ice on his tongue, melting away every time he gets a solid grasp, he can’t remember, why can’t he remember)
“Hey, you.” A fingernail flicks against his forehead, and beads of blood well up in its wake. “Don’t you know you’ll catch a cold if you sleep in a place like this?” His eyes snap open, a yell tears itself from his throat, and he’s scrambling backwards, eyes wide and alarmed and absolutely bewildered.
Looking back, it was very obvious that she did not belong to this dimension.
The fingernail’s owner collapses into a fit of giggles, and when she tosses her head back in wild, unrestrained joy, her hair flutters with it, long and red and radiant. (He doesn’t notice, of course, there’s no way he noticed, especially not the fresh, clean scent wreathing it like a perfume.)
“You - what - “ The words refuse to come out, each conceived, delivered, and pronounced stillborn all before they pass his lips. His mouth is clumsy and tongue awkward, numb from the brutal cold, and his voice hoarse from disuse. “Who - ?”
“Say,” she says (sings, her voice is melodic and lilting and absolutely breathtaking) cutting him off, “what’s with you, anyway? Who do you think you are? This is my turf, I’ll have you know, and I don’t take kindly to outsiders! Your name, immediately!” And she’s pointing, her finger hovering inches from the tip of his nose.
(there’s something about the way she smiles that has him believe it)
“I am - “ the words fight his tongue, battering and thrashing, trying their damndest to resist “- Xerxes. Just . . . Xerxes.”
The finger swipes upwards, bopping the tip of his nose. “Really.” Another smile, another brandishing of the knives.
(it’s dangerous outside.)
“What a dull name!”
(so is she. power radiates from every pore. not human power. is it inhuman?)
Another laugh, this one slightly less malicious and slightly more fond.
(is she?)
“Well, then, Just Xerxes, I think you owe me an explanation!” she chirps, and then, barely pausing to offer her name, she flops down beside him, shoulder-to-shoulder. “Ah! So warm!” He flinches - it’s been so long since another person’s touched him without recoiling, without calling him a beast or a demon - and there she is, resting her head against his bicep.
Wha - what are you doing - get away - ? Why is she touching him, he’s filth, he’s trash, horrible, vile, despicable -
He doesn’t realize she’s taken his breath away until he tries to speak, tries to offer something, anything -
She’s either very egocentric, or very perceptive, because she talks right over him, effortlessly trampling the onslaught of self-loathing that threatened to split his heart in two. “What’s brought you out here, you lazy, good-for-nothing slacker? Shirking your work? Running away? Recruiting for a crime syndicate?” It’s the first time someone’s called him anything besides a monster. ‘Lazy, good-for-nothing slacker’ - it wasn’t exactly a compliment, but he’d take it.
He opens his mouth again, and this time, the words cascade, flowing as freely as a waterfall. He tells her everything. His mark. His mother. The rumors, the verified truths - he tells her he’s a monster, and she laughs in his face, and tells him she’ll do him a favor, on one condition.
She says she’ll lend him a hand if he swears fealty, becomes her dog, her knight, her closest, most trusted companion, and the offer’s too good to be true, he knows it is, because humans don’t have eyes like that, people don’t act like that after one half hour of talking, but he’s too desperate to care.
He agrees, she smiles, and the world grows resplendent with light.
---------------------- -
He’s twenty-two, and not a day goes by where he’s not utterly dazzled by the vibrance of life. The bright carmine blossoms garnishing the blooming trees, the harmonic chorus of the birdsong, the tantalizing aroma of freshly-baked bread sweeping through crisp air - the world is alive, energy thrumming through every speck of matter, and so is he.
He’s twenty-two, and each smile comes easier than the last.
He’s twenty-two, and it’s not love, what he feels for this infuriating, capricious, wonderful creature, but it sure as hell isn’t apathy, either.
He doesn’t believe in angels, but his mother’s strength began returning in droves soon after his scarlet angel paid a clandestine visit to the house. Her cheeks filled back out, flushed with the glow of health, her hair grew back, and she could even walk. She could walk, she could work, she was a l i v e .
(it didn’t occur to him that it might not have been his mother until long after she ceased to be)
He’s twenty-two, and, why, perhaps he’d been a liiiiittle too quick on the draw, there, judging life all harshly like that! Really, what a rude thing to do!
- - --------------- -
He’s twenty-three, and the house is burning. Great, billowing columns of smoke pour from the flame-licked windows, spiraling as they rise. The world is bathed in a bright orange glow. The fire greedily sweeps across the flimsy wood, consuming each inch more ravenously, more rapidly, than the last. It’s moving too fast. It can’t be stopped. It’s not spreading.
He stares at the door, horror splayed across his features, his eyes wide and his mouth ajar, and all he can think is, Oh. He’s numb. His fingers itch. He wants to move. Should he? He can’t.
(they’ll find him, it’ll be like before, they’ll find him, hurt him, kill him)
The flames devour his mother’s bedroom, and the ensuing gut-wrenching shriek is so shrill, so ragged, so agonized that it curdles his blood.
(can’t chill, already cold, can’t freeze what’s already a block of ice)
L̀͠҉̼̭͙̲͖̖͖̭͓̱͟ͅU̸̧̢҉͖͎̱͇͎͟ͅC̷͏͉͚͖̖͓͉̥̗͓̬͕̪̝̥͎̮̹͡Y̡̘͕͇͖̜̞͘͢.’s there, too, not ten feet away, but unlike him, she’s not cowering behind debris. She’s facing the rampaging villagers head-on, trying to quell the riots, trying to diffuse the situation. She’s laughing wildly the entire time. This is her element, this chaos. Discord fuels her, common sense disgusts her, and if she had to conform to society’s expectations, she might very well have keeled over on the spot.
He watches in horror as the tip of a spear explodes from the back of her right shoulder, before she’s borne to the ground. Someone else fires as the soldier leans down to finish the job, their bullet carving a tunnel through his scarlet angel’s torso. Somebody is screaming, calling her a monster, a demon, a witch. As the knife approached her neck, Xerxes realises dimly it’s him. The baker’s son’s voice joins him in a counterpart.
There’s a sickening squelch as Xerxes hits the soldier like a freight train. The man went flying, most of his body a mangled wreck. One lone forearm stands out in stark relief, the spear it’s clutching still impaled through Lucy’s shoulder. Xerxes nearly retches, and then everything caught fire.
The rest of the fight is an ashen blur. All he remembers afterwards is the overwhelming need to hurt things, very, very quickly. When the last villager was a ragged mess of blood and pain in front of him, the world abruptly contracts. Everything seems to go dark, focusing on a single spot of colour. The bright, crimson pulse of blood, obscenely vivid against pale skin.
Her smile dims, and so does his entire universe.
---------
He’s twenty-four when the Fraternity scouts him, citing his alleged defeating of a skin-changing witch and the village she’d possessed as their reason.
He’s twenty-four when he accepts.
She was his sin.
This is his penance, the means through which he’ll atone.
Aspect of the Hunter: "Salamander" - Xerxes possesses the ability to manipulate and quell (but not conjure or generate) fire. He is also able to read the memories of ash and cinder - ironically cruel, considering the burden he bears - and is unable to be harmed by flames while he is conscious. Attempting to invoke his aspect while enraged would be . . . unwise, to say the least, although regardless of the aspect's current state of activation, succumbing to fury doesn't seem like a pleasant idea.
Stats
Strength - D
Vitality - C
Skill - B
Knowledge - B
Bloodlust - A
Darkness - A
Skills
- The ability to be carded for alcohol until age 45
- An assortment of truly bad ideas and equally foolhardy ways through which to execute them
- In a battle of wits, Xerxes is usually almost certain to win, simply because he'll talk circles around the opposing party until they throw in the towel in a fit of disgusted frustration.
- He's a master of misdirection and adept at distraction; he'll go off on a fifteen-minute tangent, then pick right back up where he was as if he'd never diverged.
- However, Xerxes is also fairly weak. He's crafty, but that can only carry him so far. Due to his skinny frame and frail constitution, he can't dish out high damage, nor can he sustain any sort of hit. A few well-placed strikes could leave him permanently out for the count. He has to rely on cheap shots, his agility, and his craftiness and predilection for stealth to survive a fight.
Inventory
- Scarlet Angelica - Named for the fickle, whimsical dreamer that would later save his life, Scarlet Angelica is Xerxes’ preferred weapon. Initially appearing as nothing more than an ornate, antique black parasol, it’s usually dismissed without a second thought. Concealed within the handle - or rather, taking the place of the handle - is a slender, wickedly sharp steel blade, tinted red to complete the aesthetic.
- Lantern Flail - Dangling from a menacing chain, and glowing with an unearthly blue light, this lantern, ensconced in a thick, sturdy glass casing, serves as a monument immortalizing the brutality of the Hunters. Each pane of glass is secured by a thin metal bar, which connects the top of this unusual device to the bottom, preventing a catastrophic spill. A heavy chain protrudes from the circular hook on top, enabling Xerxes to use it as an emergency bludgeon. Both practical, yet extremely painful.
- A small bag of individually-wrapped sour candies, most of which contain a deadly poison. The green ones are commonly regarded as the worst, most noxious, vilest-tasting flavor ever to desecrate the sanctity of candy itself, and those are the only ones not tainted. (The green ones are Xerxes’ favorite, and the only ones he’ll eat, so this does wonders for dropping his target’s guard.)
