04-21-2025, 12:51 AM
Forum Account: Thar
First Name: Aristomenes 'Ari'
Last Name: Leuktra
Age:
35
Origin:
A second generation immigrant from Istanbul, after his parents fled the earthquakes that annihilated Greece.
Occupation:
AWOL Vega
Psychological Description:
Looking for a purpose, he joined the armed forces as a young man. Disillusioned with many aspects of society, he no longer believes the armed forces can provide purpose for him. He searches for a worthy hunt, and struggles to maintain a synthesis of wolf and man like any other wolfkin.
Physical Description:
Tall and well built, with olive complexion, he exhibits the phenotype of a Mediterranean amalgamation. The wolves took his dark eyes away, but could not add to an already astute sharpness.
Powers:
Wolfkin
Background:
Ari entered the carriage like he always did; on alert. One could never be too careful these days. And the Vegas had no idea where he had gone. Awol and monstrous was no way to go through life, he thought with futility. But there wasn't much choice in that.
He gazed quickly at each of his fellow travelers. Threadbare cloaks, dented luggage, and downcast eyes characterized the group desperately. The clop of horses hooves, the rattle of a wooden axle, was like a vision from an ancient time; something to plaster on museum walls and bourgoisie mansions. But it was real, out here on the disastrous indonesian periphery. The earth had cracked and ruptured angrily again; and targeted no one responsible for anything particularly bad. Let the mustachioed madman proclaim the death of God, thought Ari. The poor fool. Still, he felt he played in his godless courtyard, without the commander screaming in his ear.
The patrons looked at him oddly, and he didn't blame them very much. He wondered what they might think of him, had he cracked a feral snarl, and removed his dark contact lenses. Would they fear him more than Poseidon, for at least he reclined at ease on Olympus, far away from them? Instead he nodded gently, his rifle clattering against a knife, or a flashlight, or some other piece of gear the Vagas ladened themselves with. In the dream, with the hungry wolf, he had been naked, and felt better. They stood over the corpse of the old world, and there was no brooding literacy with blood in its throat; just those of the pack. The gods would be too late to save it.
They would come after him, perhaps; for being a good soldier, if not for knowing too much. And whether he referred to the gods or the CCD he wasn't sure.
*Too many words are as bad as too little. Do they think I would have known to leave without them? They would kill Thucydides for a bit of thigh meat.* A child shrank from him, and he wondered if his smile was disarming at all. As alien as it was the scene before him was closer to civilization than the Vegas. The dark pit that had been ruminating sharpened in his heart.
They rode in silence, and their fear lessened slightly over time. He muttered the foreign greetings shyly, and with poor pronunciation. He lost a chocolate bar to a shining set of eyes belonging to the small little girl. They clattered and swayed amidst the rough unpaved path, between the worlds. Why had the dream called him here? *I have to find another code. Or at least...*
Ahead, a checkpoint filled with people almost as ragged as these sat with armaments upon a cliff side. *A shakedown...* Stories like this had populated his parents tales, back home in Istanbul. Their journey from Grecian devastation would not be unfamiliar to these destitute souls. Wordlessly he slipped from the back of the carriage. The girl watched him go with big black eyes, and a messy chocolate ring around her lips.
She watched him disappear into the brush. Her mother engaged the leader, haggling uselessly. Men with guns began to patrol that sad baggage train, and outcries amounted to nothing as valuables were taken, and heirlooms made low for the pawn shop. But then a stone sailed from the dense foliage, and struck the bandit captain square on the forehead. Comically, his frustrated scream rang out. All of his underlings paused in their theivery. Tension reigned, and he motioned the men forward frantically, to look for the assailant.
Like the anger of Poseidon, thunderheads released a deluge to compound the confusion. It was miserable, but it was cover. The mother, wasting no time, urged the column forward with haste as they stumbled through the woods. When the man returned, covered in mud, he displayed a wild smile, and stuck his head outside the flap of the carriage. Like some kind of dog, he wiped his shorn hair of mud, and shook his head. They laughed together, in the same language. *It's not so bad. I'll find something to do, this way or that. Perhaps tonight, the wordless ones will have more for me.*
There, running through the muck, he found something like solid ground. And without the comforting certainty of orders, the hairs on his neck were finally able to stand down.
First Name: Aristomenes 'Ari'
Last Name: Leuktra
Age:
35
Origin:
A second generation immigrant from Istanbul, after his parents fled the earthquakes that annihilated Greece.
Occupation:
AWOL Vega
Psychological Description:
Looking for a purpose, he joined the armed forces as a young man. Disillusioned with many aspects of society, he no longer believes the armed forces can provide purpose for him. He searches for a worthy hunt, and struggles to maintain a synthesis of wolf and man like any other wolfkin.
Physical Description:
Tall and well built, with olive complexion, he exhibits the phenotype of a Mediterranean amalgamation. The wolves took his dark eyes away, but could not add to an already astute sharpness.
Powers:
Wolfkin
Background:
Ari entered the carriage like he always did; on alert. One could never be too careful these days. And the Vegas had no idea where he had gone. Awol and monstrous was no way to go through life, he thought with futility. But there wasn't much choice in that.
He gazed quickly at each of his fellow travelers. Threadbare cloaks, dented luggage, and downcast eyes characterized the group desperately. The clop of horses hooves, the rattle of a wooden axle, was like a vision from an ancient time; something to plaster on museum walls and bourgoisie mansions. But it was real, out here on the disastrous indonesian periphery. The earth had cracked and ruptured angrily again; and targeted no one responsible for anything particularly bad. Let the mustachioed madman proclaim the death of God, thought Ari. The poor fool. Still, he felt he played in his godless courtyard, without the commander screaming in his ear.
The patrons looked at him oddly, and he didn't blame them very much. He wondered what they might think of him, had he cracked a feral snarl, and removed his dark contact lenses. Would they fear him more than Poseidon, for at least he reclined at ease on Olympus, far away from them? Instead he nodded gently, his rifle clattering against a knife, or a flashlight, or some other piece of gear the Vagas ladened themselves with. In the dream, with the hungry wolf, he had been naked, and felt better. They stood over the corpse of the old world, and there was no brooding literacy with blood in its throat; just those of the pack. The gods would be too late to save it.
They would come after him, perhaps; for being a good soldier, if not for knowing too much. And whether he referred to the gods or the CCD he wasn't sure.
*Too many words are as bad as too little. Do they think I would have known to leave without them? They would kill Thucydides for a bit of thigh meat.* A child shrank from him, and he wondered if his smile was disarming at all. As alien as it was the scene before him was closer to civilization than the Vegas. The dark pit that had been ruminating sharpened in his heart.
They rode in silence, and their fear lessened slightly over time. He muttered the foreign greetings shyly, and with poor pronunciation. He lost a chocolate bar to a shining set of eyes belonging to the small little girl. They clattered and swayed amidst the rough unpaved path, between the worlds. Why had the dream called him here? *I have to find another code. Or at least...*
Ahead, a checkpoint filled with people almost as ragged as these sat with armaments upon a cliff side. *A shakedown...* Stories like this had populated his parents tales, back home in Istanbul. Their journey from Grecian devastation would not be unfamiliar to these destitute souls. Wordlessly he slipped from the back of the carriage. The girl watched him go with big black eyes, and a messy chocolate ring around her lips.
She watched him disappear into the brush. Her mother engaged the leader, haggling uselessly. Men with guns began to patrol that sad baggage train, and outcries amounted to nothing as valuables were taken, and heirlooms made low for the pawn shop. But then a stone sailed from the dense foliage, and struck the bandit captain square on the forehead. Comically, his frustrated scream rang out. All of his underlings paused in their theivery. Tension reigned, and he motioned the men forward frantically, to look for the assailant.
Like the anger of Poseidon, thunderheads released a deluge to compound the confusion. It was miserable, but it was cover. The mother, wasting no time, urged the column forward with haste as they stumbled through the woods. When the man returned, covered in mud, he displayed a wild smile, and stuck his head outside the flap of the carriage. Like some kind of dog, he wiped his shorn hair of mud, and shook his head. They laughed together, in the same language. *It's not so bad. I'll find something to do, this way or that. Perhaps tonight, the wordless ones will have more for me.*
There, running through the muck, he found something like solid ground. And without the comforting certainty of orders, the hairs on his neck were finally able to stand down.