Krayfavren

Krayfavren Damachia
In-Game Name	Krayfavren
Nicknames	Kray
Age (Ascension/Current)	47/100
Gender	Male
Race	Asmodian
Server	Lumiel
Class	Gladiator
Legion	Corvo Tempesta

Appearance

Kray is a tall, imposing figure (as one would expect from an experienced warrior), with a quite non-imposing, somewhat bland expression most of the time. Very rarely, he may frown, sometimes he may smile kindly. He often possesses a certain 'gentle giant' vibe, with a certain stoicism mixed in. He bears numerous scars as common for Warriors of his age.

Personality

Because Kray is a very quiet person who speaks rather slowly if at all and often shows delayed reactions to what is going on around him, many people assume him to be somewhat dimwitted. He is clearly not, as his closer acquaintances can attest, but for whatever reason, he puts no effort whatsoever into actively correcting those assumptions. He is a kind, caring man, who can find pleasure in the most simple of things, but also a somewhat stubborn, harsh warrior on the battlefield.

History

To Come

The Abyss Stares Back

Her whole side is on fire with pain. She can feel that her ribs are broken, and there is too much blood, filling her mouth, covering her body, all hers. But she will not go down, not here, now now. A mother will never stop protecting her child. She spits on the ground, and before her mouth can fill again, she yells another incantation. The Balaur that got to her would regret it. She knows he was aiming to crush her son as well, and that is not going to happen. Fire surrounds the draconic creature in front of her, and it screams in rage and pain. She prepares to hit it again, but no need. It was already hurt from the battle raging around them, and her magic is strong. While the massive body falls, she turns around to attempt an encouraging, blood-smeared smile at her son.

"He is too young! He is no warrior yet, there is no place for him on the battlefield!"
"The sooner he learns to fight his enemies, the better, and you know it."
"He is just a child..."
"He will always be a child for you, my love. That's part of being his mother. But we cannot protect him forever. One day, he will have to protect himself."

She waves a hand dismissively as he reaches out to her bleeding side, his eyes so huge, so full of terror. "I'm fine, dear. It'll heal." It has to, she thinks to herself. We have to all get back from this, and then you will never have to see these things again, this time I will make sure, she thinks. There is movement in the corner of her eyes and she tries to whirl around, but it is too late. The ribs on her other side crack audibly as a heavy, scaled tail slams into her, lifts her off her feet and throws her across the ravaged ground until her body is stopped by a rock. For a moment, everything is black and screaming, only her trained reflexes let her pull herself up on an elbow again. Over the rush in her ears, she can hear her son's voice, crying out for her. She squints, trying to see. Silhouettes against red, big and dark and scaled, holding a flailing form that looks so small compared to them. "No!" she wants to scream at them. "Let him go!" But she can't even breathe. Her mouth is filled again, and so are her lungs, with red hot metallic taste, and all that comes from her is a gurgling noise. Then her sight grows dim, or maybe there is something front of her, blocking it, something big...

~*~

"No! Mum! Muuum!" Kray struggles against the claws holding him, trying to reach his mother, even as he is lifted from the ground. She is still alive, can't you see she is moving, and she'll heal! She'll get better and they will find Father again, because you don't just vanish on a battlefield, and they will go home and hang up trophies. Another one of those butt-ugly creatures gets in the way, and Kray yells furiously. He can't see her anymore, and she was reaching out to him! Anger becomes fear as the Balaur raises his weapon, and the yell dies in Kray's throat. He is going to kill her, no! She can't defend herself! His world is turned as the Balaur holding him lifts him over his head, but he can still see the heavy mace slamming down. He is a young man, really, but his scream is that of a desperate child, and it only dies in his throat when the Balaur hurls his small body towards the edge of the floating island they are fighting on. Just like his mother before (though he will never know) he can hear his own ribs cracking as he hits the ground once, his breath taken away from him, his sight dimming, then the ground is gone and he falls. It's not that long a way down, there is another small island, but it feels like an eternity to him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wonders if he'll pass out before he hits the ground, he heard that happens a lot. But that would be merciful, and there is no room for mercy on the battlefield, his father taught him that. If he had the breath, he would cry out at the pain of the impact, all along his spine, but all he can do is grunt. Passing out now, probably dying, his mind tells him helpfully... but it's lying. He's still here.

"Now listen carefully, son. You will stick to your mother's side, and watch her back, understand? You are a man now, it is your job to protect those who need it."
"Hey! Don't teach him that women need men to stay safe!"
"It's not because you are a woman. It's because we love you. A Damachia will always protect the one he loves."
Kray loves it when his parents kiss.

~*~

It's been hours since this battle has been going on, and the cleric is tired. It's not that he hates battles in general... he just hates that time when everyone fights only to survive, not to win anymore, when the righteous fury and the belief in something good that drove your forward is replaced by only despair. In fact, the Elyiosan muses, it's not a battle anymore. It's just a struggle. Even the Balaur, though outnumbering them by now, are only fighting to kill. There is no reason, no goal. In the last half hour, he found more dead than wounded on his rounds across the battlefields. Of course, he counted them all, a more morbid part of his duty. His field commander will be pleased to hear there were more black feathers than white ones.
Another corpse down there. Another Asmodian, he is pretty sure. But somewhat small. The cleric squints, then circles down to check. He was right... Asmodian, very young, barely a man. He was also wrong... not a corpse. The healer frowns and kneels down to get a closer look. Multiple fractures, inner bleeding, but only shallow surface wounds. A fall, most likely.
"Lonne, what are you doing? That's one of them." The female that touches down behind him gives the cleric's back a frown. "Enemy, remember?" Lonne barely turns his head. He was already wondering when his sister would catch up with him.
"He is severely injured." He just says. She steps around him to throw a look at the boy.
"I'd say that's an understatement. He's dying. Also, he's the enemy." She gives the last two words a sharper emphasis this time, but Lonne ignores it. Too young for the battlefield... it's not the first time he sees this, but it still angers him.
"Lonne... you damn softie! If you really wanna do something for him, give him a quicker death. And hurry up, war's not waiting."
The cleric frowns. She is right, of course... he is their enemy, no matter how young. If someone saves him, he will one day return to kill them, like all of his kin. And if not... a quick cut of the dagger will be the best mercy. While Lonne draws his knife, there is a brief moment of near silence around them... just a breather, incidental timing probably, before the battle, the struggle rages on, but it is long enough for the Elyiosan to hear something. Under the impatient look of his sister, he lowers his knife again and instead leans in closer to the boy, who's eyes are wide open, but glassy and looking past Lonne. His mouth is slightly open as well, a thin line of blood running from its corner... and as Lonne leans close in, he can hear the faintest whisper coming from that mouth, so faint he did not even see the boy's cracked lips moving.
"... kill you... kill you... kill you..."
The cleric's frown deepens and he turns his head to look at the boy. He is close enough to see the reflections in his eyes, and as Lonne turns around more to follow the glassy look upward, there are the Balaur, like ravens circling a field of corpses, dark silhouettes against a dark sky, up there and down here in the boy's eyes.
Lonne stands and pockets his knife. His sister raises an eyebrow at him. "Have you grown completely mental now? Asmodian, Lonne! Look, you know I respect your gentleness and helpfulness and all that crap, but even if I do, the commander won't, and they'll be here soon!"
"Nida." Lonne gives his sister a grave look, one she knows he only has when something is truly important to him. "He is not our enemy anymore." He emphasizes the 'our', and Nida frowns at him, but doesn't ask. She does respect her brother, more than he sometimes thinks. "I need a favour from you." he continues, and she already knows she'll say yes.

~*~

"Sir, we managed to drive the Balaur back enough to recover the fallen. No survivors, I'm afraid." The Asmodian doesn't bother to salute. It's way past the point of these formalities.
"No one? Lord Damachia has been asking about his family."
"Sir, we found Lady Damachia, but it was too late. No sign of their son yet, but some of the corpses are charred or maimed..."
"... another good man will die alone under my hands." It is hard to tell from the General's voice how he truly feels about this, but it's not a difficult guess, either. "Make a list of the d-... are those Elyos?" The soldier following the armoured man squints into the indicated direction, then nods. "I think so, sir, and they are coming towards us." "They may not have seen us yet. It's just two... get the others and take them down."
"Yes, sir."

Four against two is hardly fair, which the two Elyos seem to realise as well. They make a sharp turn as they see the Asmodians coming towards them and attempt to flee. They are somewhat slow though, and the Asmodians would catch up with them quickly... if there weren't suddenly more white dots on the horizon, too close for comfort. "An Elyos squad! We won't catch them before they join up with their kind. Stop the chase. It's not worth it."
"Down there!"
"What? ... Well spotted! You! Get a cleric, we have a wounded down here! .. how ironic, the Elyos practically lead us straight to him."

Epilogue
It's unusually warm in Pandemonium today, one might even say pleasant. It's a holiday, too, and the streets are filled with children and their parents, carrying poles adorned with colourful feathers and gems, wishing each other Happy Soaring. The Shelter for War Orphans is selling their famous wing-formed cookies by the dozen, and not only because the youngest children there are offering them up all adorably and purple-cheeked (though that's definitely a part of the secret). In the back garden of the orphanage, levitation games are offered for children and humans, all under the watchful eyes of the head matron. She is distracted from the idyllic sight when one of the caretakers joins her side, returning from his latest visit to a protégé. The matron gives him a slightly worried smile.
"How is young Krayfavren today?"
"No better. He keeps lashing out at everyone, the nurses, the other children... I'm afraid that he is a danger to not only others but to himself. We have to do something... he needs to calm down, and soon, or he will hurt someone again, and I fear it won't just be bruises this time."
"I feared as much." The matron looks over the activities in the garden. Most war orphans in her care find happiness again eventually, some sooner, some later. But not all of them. Especially not the ones that saw war themselves.
"I will talk to the Spiritmaster. Right now, safety is my priority for this boy, and if it takes special effort to ensure it, so be it."