Lark
Saint of the Damned
Faction: Former Sith Empire
Rank: Knight
Species: Human
Age: 24
Sex: Male
Height: 6'3
Weight: 145 Pounds
Eyes: Yellow-Orange
Hair: Red
Skin: Pale
Force Sensitive: Yes
Voice
Strengths
- Lark is a master actor and an incredibly gifted wordsmith and manipulator, and he will frequently tell himself that his tongue is more powerful than any blade. He is constantly creating more personas for himself, different personalities suited for any scenario he might find himself in. His true self is unknown, and rarely seen.
- Lark has nerves of steel, and will relentlessly pursue whatever it is that he is after.
Weaknesses
- When it comes to operating vehicles, Lark is a complete novice. He has virtually no experience driving or piloting, so he will struggle if ever placed in a situation that requires piloting skills.
- Lark has a complete lack of empathy that prevents him from forming any meaningful bonds with any of his companions. He might admire them, even care for a few, but if any of them perish he'd move on without any feelings of grief.
Appearance
Lark is a lean youth standing a little over six feet tall, but despite his above average stature he is rather slender. His skin is a ghastly, alabaster white, and his shoulder-length hair is as red as a rose. His eyes shift from an heavenly yellow reminiscent of an angel's halo to a hellish orange that burns with hidden wrath.
More often than not Lark can be seen with a soft smile, with an air of aloof serenity surrounding him. But just like his eyes, this projection can change in an instant. He prefers to dress finely, although a childhood in rags has led him to be accustomed to wearing more uncomfortable garb.
Part One: Loss
The day truly was perfect.
The melodic hymn of the birds filled the cool air, and the slight breeze playfully rustled up the boy’s scarlet hair, tickling his neck. He let out a giggle, his hair was soft as a feather. He pushed his sister’s stroller along the bumpy ground, taking care to avoid the mazes of cracks and rubble. The rest of his family strolled beside him, his mother humming along to the chorus of sound, voice nearly as sweet. His father smiled softly, and took his wife’s hand in his own. His brother, only a year older than him, helped guide the stroller. The boy could barely see over the top of the stroller, so together the two helped navigate their sister along the most comfortable route possible.
The sky was blue. It seemed like it was almost always grey, but today it was as blue as his eyes, with not a single cloud in the sky. It was daunting, almost dizzying to look up into the endless ocean of blue. The boy couldn’t believe that past all the blue, there was an endless expanse of heavenly stars, and even other planets with people and families just like his own. One day, I hope I get to visit them.
The boy loved moments like this, when the whole family could spend time together. He peeked down at his sister, she was probably too young to understand what was going on. One day, the boy thought, I’ll show you all the love this family has to give you. I can’t wait until you’re old enough to play games with Brother and I. We’ll play all day, and we’ll be the happiest kids in the world.
It’ll be great.
They walked through a local park, although it was much more grey than green. The fountain, which once spouted out water that shimmered like crystals, was now filled with filthy rainwater and trash. The swing sets were rusted and unused, and no other families graced the park with their presence. But none of that mattered to the boy. All that mattered was that his family got to spend a nice afternoon together.
After a few circuits of the park, the boy’s father said it was time to return home. It was starting to get late, and his little sister couldn’t be out for to long once it got cold. And it was quite a long walk back to their home, their father always insisted on going the long way to avoid some building he was always warning the boy and his brother not to got to.
As they left the park, not one of them saw the figure in the shadows watch them go.
Dinner wasn’t much, only a few apple slices for the boy and his brother. His father didn’t eat anything, which made the boy worry. This was the third night in a row. The boy tried to offer his father one of his slices, but he politely declined. “You need to eat son,” he said. “Don’t worry about me. I eat when I’m at work.”
His father had been fired from his last job, the one at the building he told them not to go to. He started working as a construction worker, but apparently it didn’t pay very well. And Mother couldn’t work, or else no one would be able to take care of the kids. But in four years the boy’s brother would be ten, and he could start helping around the house and their mother could find a job. It’ll all work out, the boy thought as he took a bit of his apple. It was mushy, and not very good.
Suddenly the door was forced open, slamming against the wall and ripping free from it’s hinges. Three strange men ran in, guns pointed and fingers on the trigger. His father shouted something and charged at the intruders, before being struck to the ground. One of the men ran to the table where the rest of the family sat in fear, and ripped the boy’s sister from his mother’s arms. She tried to fight back, begging and pleading them not to take her away. The assailant hit her with the end of his gun, breaking her nose and forcing the back of her chair to the ground.
And as quickly as they had come, they left. The boy’s father grabbed something from his bag, and chased after them. The boy and his brother sat in stunned silence, unable to comprehend what had happened. Their mother lied on the ground, sobbing while chilly air blew through their broken door. A moment later, they heard the distant sound of sirens and gunshots. A few minutes later they were told that their father had been shot dead and no one knew where their sister was taken.
An hour later, the boy felt cold.
Part Two: Mother
Their house was in shambles. A home once filled with a family’s happiness and joy had not even heard a whisper of laughter in the year since the boy’s father was murdered and sister abducted. Viscous ooze dripped from their ceiling like water dripped from stalactites in caves, and the room in which the boy and his mother sat in was as cold as the deepest abyss. Since that fateful day the boy’s mother had been an absolute wreck. She was so consumed by grief she sat all day sobbing, letting their home fall into ruin and forcing the brothers to fend for themselves. The boy’s brother was out right now, looking for food or anything else that could help them survive. Normally, the boy would join him in searching.
But tonight, he had something else he needed to do.
He rose from one of the few dry spots on the floor, the rest covered in muddy water the color of mold. His mother sat on a chair with torn fabric and holes on the seat, oblivious to his presence, her once beautiful face now had cracked lips and dry blue eyes, the same color as her second son’s. We really do look alike, he thought, as he went to the kitchen and pulled out a knife from one of the cabinets. At least we did before she fell into such a pitiful state. Her hair, once as vibrant as a cardinal, was now clumped together, matted like a rabid cat’s fur.
He slowly approached her, noticing the small portrait she held. It was of the five of them a few months after his sister had been born. They all stood together, his mother holding his baby sister, smiling like she held the most wonderful thing in the world. For a moment the boy felt a twinge of sympathy and nostalgia, he still remembered those times fondly. “It’s not to late,” he said, resting a pale hand on her shoulder. “We can still return to that, still smile like nothing in the world is wrong, but we need your help.”
One last chance. It was the least he could do for his dear mother.
But she didn’t seem to hear his words. She just kept looking at the picture of the past.
“If that’s how you want it to be,” he said, young voice echoing in the almost empty room. “I don’t know if you still care about Brother and I, but if there is even a small bit of love in your heart for us, I have one final plea to make to you.” He waited for a response, but he only heard the soft dripping of water. “Mother, we hate seeing you like this,” he whispered. “But you’re not the woman we once knew. Please Mother, if you love us even a little bit…”
He put the knife in her other hand.
“Spare us from seeing you like this any longer.”
The boy’s brother knew something was wrong as soon as we walked in.
He hadn’t found any food, but he found a small jacket that was a bit small for him but might fit his younger brother. As he walked in to announce his find, he immediately noticed his mother’s corpse slumped on the worn down chair. A red smile trailed on her neck, and her blood pooled with the grimy water at her feet, creating a gory soup. In one hand has a rusted kitchen knife, the other a family portrait. A drop of blood had fallen on the smiling image of the younger brother.
The older brother was surprised at the lack of grief he felt. Yes, he loved his mother. But that woman died when her husband did. “Come on,” he said to his little brother, who sat coloring at the kitchen table. “We should go.” Already the stench was nearly palpable, soon it would spread across the entire neighborhood. He never asked his brother what exactly happened. He didn’t want to know.
As they rushed into the frozen heart of the streets of Myrkr, wearing his new sweater, the boy felt cold.
Part Three: Abandoned
The air was as cold as the most ancient glacier, and the wind even colder still. It ate at the brothers like a disease, slowly wearing away their bodily defenses. Together they huddled underneath a small wooden bridge, which slowly rot away after suffering through endless storms of torrential rain. They each wore all the clothing they could wrap themselves in, and shared the most dry blankets they had. Another storm had blown through, and although the bridge protected them from the brunt of the wall of rain, some seeped through the worn down shield. They lay in puddles of mud, and all of the dampness brought out the worms. Could they eat those?
The boy was still young, only a year or so had past since his mother abandoned them. It felt like longer, perhaps it was. It was hard to keep track of time. But he had learned much since being forced to roam the streets. One could deal with being cold. One could deal with being wet.
But cold and wet was an issue.
Fortunately, his brother provided warmth. More often than not, their presence was enough to keep the other going. “Brother,” the boy said, looking to his sibling. He had dark hair, a jet black to contrast to his vibrant scarlet. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course,” his brother responded.
“If I died, what would you do?”
His brother didn’t respond right away, which was normal. He liked to take his time and really consider the questions he was asked before answering them. But so much time passed, the boy thought his brother had forgotten the question had been asked, or maybe he hadn’t heard it. The soft chirp of bugs that always sounded much closer than they really were broke the silence of the night, and after a few minutes of listening to the sounds of the night, his brother finally responded. “If you died, I think that I would want to die too.”
The boy nodded. He had expected this answer. It was the same one he came to when he thought about what he would do if his brother died.
“I have a meeting with Fii Chye tomorrow,” his brother said. “Concerning the weapons she’s planning on smuggling.”
Fii Chye was a woman who had hired the two of them to complete an odd job here and there. Mostly as pickpockets or scouts, tasks suited for children. But despite their age, the brothers had proven that they were far more capable than they appeared. The two of them had done very well for themselves, despite the fact that they were freezing underneath a bridge. The boy’s brother acted as the brains, planning out all of their little schemes. The boy himself was the voice, becoming any persona he needed to be. He had discovered an innate talent for acting and making people do as he wished, whether they wanted to or not.
“I thought you weren’t meeting her for another week,” the boy said.
“Fii said the timetables have moved up. They have more weapons than expected and have to transport them away earlier to avoid suspicion. But don’t worry, the plan will go on without any problems.”
The boy nodded his head, it was a simple plan. They had done something similar for Fii before, albeit with drugs instead of weapons. “Do you need me to come?”
“No. We’re just going over a few changes in the plan, I can fill you in when I return. She said you don’t have to do anything different, you’ll just have to do it earlier. Will that be an issue?”
He shook his head. “I was ready two weeks ago.”
His brother chuckled, which was good to hear. Laughter wasn’t something so often heard anymore. “You always are prepared for everything.”
The boy settled down to try and go to sleep. Of course I’m always prepared, he thought. Adaptability was one of the most vital skills one needed to have in order to survive. So before every job, no matter how small, he practiced handling every conceivable event that he could be faced with. He’d practice different scenarios, with his brother playing the role of the person they were dealing with. What if the person they were trying to rob had a bodyguard, what if someone they were trading with didn’t speak the common tongue, was drunk, or both? No matter what happened, he would adapt.
After a fitful night of sleep, the boy was roused from his slumber by his brother’s departure. “I’ll be back by sundown,” he said. “Feel free to do some begging until I get back.”
The boy nodded as his brother departed. He wanted to rub the grit out of his eyes and hair, but he learned people were more likely to give him coin or food the dirtier he was. A few minutes later, he crawled out from underneath his bridge like a pathetic troll. Begging was an art, and one needed the proper appearances in order to achieve the best results. Fortunately for the boy, those appearances weren’t hard to come by. He longed for the jobs where he could dress nicer, appear more refined and eloquent. But for now, he needed to look like a rat.
And so a vermin he would appear to be.
Looking pitiful was easy. But oddly enough, feeling pitiful was much more difficult. He had accepted that this was the way things were. The boy still felt a bit of resentment towards the ones who took his father and sister away from him, and he hated his mother for abandoning him. But slowly, he felt these resentments vanishing, replaced by… nothing.
It was a productive day spent begging. The average civilian would occasionally throw a few coins his way, but there were some interesting figures that stopped near his den today. A few figures wearing robes that shrouded their appearance, a woman wearing garb that was far to fine for one to wear in a criminal haven. These were not the usual characters that gave the boy their charity.
Hours later, the boy crawled back under the bridge, awaiting his brother’s return. Now was about the time his brother said he would return, but the boy was expecting him to be running a little late. All sorts of things could happen in the underground world of murderers and thieves, and his brother would take every precaution to ensure that none of his enemies tracked him back to their hideout. Even as the boy prepared to go to sleep on his bemired quilt, he did not doubt that his brother would return.
And then the sun rose, heralding the start of a new day, and his brother did not return. And as the world turned, the boy began to worry. He did not sleep, and he looked up after every cracking twig expecting to see his dear brother, who never left him even after the rest of his family did.
After a week of waiting, the boy curled up once more in his swampy cot, and felt nothing.
Part Four: Orphaned
It had been six months since the boy arrived at Mr. Migh’s orphanage, and the old man looked upon him with fear.
At first, he seemed like such a kind lad. He rarely spoke, claimed he didn’t even know what his name was. He sat by himself all the time, staring at the ground. Mr. Migh knew that he had to do something to help the kid.
So, he introduced the boy to the library, hoping to give him some children’s storybooks to read. Maybe he didn’t feel comfortable talking to children his age, but he’d be more relaxed with a book in hand. Migh was delighted when the boy began spending more time in the library, although it wasn’t picture books that the boy read.
The child was fascinated with upper level books meant for students double his age, and he read them with ease, absorbing every word written on those ancient tomes and data logs. Biology, psychology, history, religion, politics, philosophy, he read it all. The rate at which he plowed through these texts was astounding. There was one children’s story that did interest him, a fable about a lonely prince who lost his name. Migh supposed that was because the boy identified with the little prince.
And, slowly but surely, the boy began to open up. He still claimed that he did not know his name, but he became more social with the other children, and got along with them well. The youth was a natural leader, all the other children looked to him for advice. For a time, everything was peaceful. The children played their games, the boy asked Migh for more books, and everything seemed truly perfect.
Then boys started getting hurt.
When the first boy came in with a broken leg, Migh didn’t understand the entirety of what was going on. All of the children said that the boy had fallen while playing, and as tragic as it was, accidents happened. He reminded them to be careful, and sent them on their way. But the injuries kept coming, some boys even disappeared completely after going out to play. None of the other children fessed up to what was going on. As old Mr. Migh and his wife sat together in the library, watching the boy read the story of the nameless prince for what was probably the hundredth time, the orphanage owner had a sudden feeling that some horrible was about to happen to his home.
Part Five: Rebirth
The boy knelt in the ashes of the orphanage he was raised in, clutching a bloody knife in one hand and a silver necklace in the other. Both were hot to the touch, conducting the heat and burning his hands. It felt like nothing compared to the fire that consumed his body. His torso and back were on fire, his hair had singed off completely, his long scarlet hair had been replaced by a wig of flames. He could feel his skin slowly melting as he knelt, unmoving. He didn't so much as budge. It was absolute anguish.
He lifted his head, taking in the chaos around him. He heard the distant screams of children searching for their families, soon they too would be devoured by the fire. He had designed the plan so that none would survive. The few thousand people that lived here, all reduced to cinders. Except for him, apparently. He had thought this to be the perfect suicide. No one would be left to truly know who he was or why he had done what he did. All he would have ever been was a nameless monster.
But for some reason the flames deemed that he alone should be forced to live through this hell. So he rose, ash and soot fell to the ground from his pink and black skin. Would he ever be as pale as he once was? His feet were bare, he stepped through hot coals and over bloody bodies. Not all had been killed in the fire. Smoke danced around him, taunting him by obscuring any means of escape. This was not the perfect suicide, the boy thought. This is the perfect rebirth.
If he could survive. The entire city was slowly burning to the ground, but the flames began feeling mysteriously cool, the air around him began to feel cold, dark, and repugnant. What is this feeling? The flames no longer hurt, although they were still there, cracking loudly as they licked his skin. His very aura seemed corrupted, as if what he had done was offensive to all of reality itself, that avoiding death was a sin so grievous it'd permanently infect his soul.
He wandered through the city, he was too exhausted to run. He was confident he drew closer to the outskirts, although he wasn't sure if the buildings simply weren't close together or if they had burned to the ground. His hunch was correct, he soon escaped the flames. There was a small pond near where the boy was, and he fell face-first into it. Steam rose, and his body sizzled like when you put something on a grill. The water wasn't warm, but most things were more soothing than fire. He drifted in the water and contemplated staying there, but it was a pathetically small pool, it would've been embarrassing for him to drown in it even if there was no one left to see.
He contemplated his rebirth, the thought did sound appealing to him. He was only thirteen years old, he had so much time left! A fresh start, no one was left alive who knew who he was or what he was capable, and willing, of doing. And he decided that he wanted to start over, so to speak. The fire still raged behind him, it likely would do so for several days. He was cold and the aura around him was sickening, but he didn't care about either of the three things. He took one last look at himself in the pool. He had once thought that he had reached the darkest depths possible, but in the reflection he saw in himself a darkness even greater still, and his eyes were an infernal orange.
As he walked, hoping that maybe some smugglers ship was landed somewhere outside the city, a bird landed on a nearby branch. Like him the little creature didn't seem to care about the hellish scene nearby, singing instead a beautiful song. He liked the tune, the chirping of birdsong had always enthralled the boy. It was at this moment he decided his new name, he no longer had any need of whatever his old one had been. Lark strolled along, hands held behind his back, whistling to the same tune the bird was.
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