Nevercroft by Reaper No More

TEAM: Reavers

SECTOR: LOWTOWN

KIT CLASS: Master Training

Fate...

It's as fickle as luck, but plays with you a lot more...

In fact, I think it was fate that made me. After all, what else could I be? The product of an eon of evolution, and all I can do is kill. I was indeed a reaper, a thief of essence, of life, of soul. I did this, oblivious to myself, oblivious to the suffering experienced by my prey.

I found out quickly that killing was frowned upon, and that made me want it more. At first, I killed using a gun, a loud and inelegant weapon that took life with impunity. It was too quick, not graceful enough, not suiting my tastes...

That's when I found my blade.

A sword, the single most graceful weapon in all of history's vaunted annals. It flows and ebbs, it's forms as numerous as the stars and as interchangeable as a turn of phrase. The silent whisper of metal invading flesh was sweet to my ears, and the crimson gush that issued forth from the wounds was a pleasing medium on which to write my entire history and future. I took place in battle, in murders, in rituals, all for the simple pleasure of ending a life. Religion meant nothing, as no god or devil could ever bring me to the exquisite high of thieving another's very essence from their body.

This is where I learned that fate had a wicked sense of humor...

I never knew the feelings of my prey, never knew the horror of being the one on the end of a sword, the one losing my essence. I was always the killer, the reaper, the end of the line. And then, suddenly, I was the reaped.

He and I had been fighting the entire day, from the gentle rising of the newfound dawn, until night's shadowy cloak covered the brightly shining sun. As the midnight hour soon approached, we called for a truce. He lowered his weapon, and I lowered mine. I was honorable, I had found an equal, someone to give me some challenge, some change from the repetitive cycle of death after death. As I sat down, he walked over to me, seeming to be friendly. He was the picture of battle, dressed in a somber grey cloak and covered in the loose mesh armour that announced our equal profession. Yet, despite his appearance, I thought him a friend...

Why is skill wasted on the naive?

His weapon flashed out before I could react, a burning sensation ripped through my chest. I had never experienced such a true pain before, and the shock of it mixed with the shock of his betrayal paralyzed me, subjecting me to another searing strike. I looked at his blade, covered in sticky red blood...

My blood...

A whole world of sensations was brewing inside of my mind, and it is then that my body took over, making true the sayings of the old men, that flight is natural for wounded men. I ran, ran faster than I ever had in my short nineteen years. I was beggining to weaken, the blood leaving a sticky trail behind me, a crimson sign of my passing. I quickly covered the wounds with the remainder of my coat, staunching the flow, and flying in a random direction.

I fell, crashing into a large patch of shrubbery. I was still losing blood, and as the blackness came, I marvelled at this new sensation that was opened up to me.

The sensation of remorse, of sorrow, and of regret for all the pain I had caused.

I awoke a while later, my body aching fiercly. I stumbled upon an old farm situated out in that stygian wilderness. It was small and quaint, it's inhabitants being much more senior than I, and was quite inviting. As I fell against the door of the little home, I heard someone get up inside. The door opened, and inside stood a little old man. He looked around, not seeing me at first, more than likely due to the darkness, and when he finally saw me lying there, I was already beggining to fade again. I slipped back into the darkness to the sounds of shouting.

Many months passed, and I stayed with the couple while I recuperated. I learned their names, Gregory and Edna, a pair of retiree's who were set to live the rest of their lives on their small farm. Edna had been an educator, a teacher of young children. Gregory, a strict and straightlaced man, was retired from the elite commando unit embedded deep within military fame. He was still fit for battle, mainly due to his rigorous tending of the farm.

I told them of my revelation, and naturally, they recoiled from me, were afraid of me, and did not allow me to sleep in an unlocked room anymore. Eventually, Gregory allowed me to roam free once more, his experience in the military made him no stranger to the bleak revelations one faced on a battlefield, and he took them in stride. I worked off my debts to them on the farm, plowing the small field, helping to expand the small pond in their back field, and doing other odd jobs. In between, I focused on my blade.

I eventually became stronger than I had ever hoped to become, and needed to test my new skill on a foe worthy of it. As the north winds blew all about the small farm, I said my goodbyes to the kindly old couple and continued on my way. Which eventually led to this very city, in which, I vowed that I would never allow another to suffer, never inflict the pain that I had before, and intended to pay my debt to society by making other people who would inflict pain pay a heavy toll.

That day, I lost my name, I lost my family, I lost my past.

To anyone and everyone, I would become Nevercroft.

Personality: The darkness that so falls over this man is almost visible. His face shows the wear and weary of an age of combat, and his eyes bare the sad tale of his misbegotten soul. He talks so rarely that he has almost forgotten how to use his voice, and he shuns even the cheeriest company.

He is truly alone, a wandering shade of his bloody past, waiting for his final judgement on those freezing streets in the land of the unliving.

Painful Memories

Harrowing Edge

Last Measure

Flash Step

My Resolve