Name : Reginald Kraft
Weight: 140 lbs
Bio: Your'e special, that's what they always told him. What a crock of shit. He still remembers the first time he heard that. Five years old, scared out of his wits as his parents carried him through the threshold into the stark metal refectory. He had his head buried in his mothers bosom sobbing softly, he didn't want to go, it wasn't fair. She stroked his head softly whispering in his ear trying so hard to sound reassuring "It'll be fine honey, they'll give you a better life here, so much better than we could ever give you". He stole up enough courage to look over at his father, that face...a mask grim determination, as far as his father was concerned his son was already gone. To call the refectory spartan would be an understatement, it was a perfect cube of smooth mold gray stone lit by flickering animate candle flames that skittered over the walls surface, cleaning it as they provided light. The monks sat on the floor wooden bowls cupped in their hands slowly sipping on a nutritious but completely flavorless gruel the same color as the room. The order considered eating a distraction and anything that heightened the experience was anathema to their beliefs. A figure clad in flowing brown robes slowly stood, setting his bowl aside to finish later. His features were completely obscured by the heavy hood of his robe, the monk held out a pair of gnarled old hands. His mother hesitated for a moment, the urge to run to not give up her precious boy at any cost flooding her brain. A glance of disapproval from the father stopped her in her tracks, hands shaking she peeled her son away from her bosom whispering softly in his ear. "your special sweetie, they know it, someday you'll understand". He started to cry, deep sobs wracking his small frame as he felt the cold, too cold hands take hold of him. That's when he felt it for the first time, energy sliding out of his body into the monks hands. He tried to fight the growing lethargy, terrified of the thought of falling asleep in this alien place, but he was too young, untrained, and uneducated to resist the simple process. Holding the now limp young boy in his hands, much as one would hold a dirty towel, the monk turned his back to the couple, a low disembodied voice that was just for them, a simple manipulation of sound waves that stated "your donation has been accepted".
5 years he'd been at the monastery, 5 grueling years, it was his birthday, not that the monks celebrated such things. As brother Matthias put it, why celebrate one point in time over another they all amount to the same thing. Today was different though he awoke to Father Bryton staring down at him, "We have need of you, you're special nature" he said in the same carefully practiced monotone all the monks used "follow". The boy knew better than disobey, one of the few glimmers of creativity evinced by Father Bryton was when he devised punishments for the boy. They walked slowly, Father Bryton as always in front with the boy behind, eyes bowed so as not to sully the walls with his untrained perceptions, they were headed to one of the holy places. To the untrained eye it was identical to any of the other rooms in the monastery, the only difference being the small grey slab that hovered about a foot across the floor. Father Bryton gestured at the slab, "kneel and lay your arm across the stone". The boy quickly responded, confused, he'd always been told never to enter, never to touch...his instinctive desire to avoid punishment however caused him to move quickly into position, his pale arm stretched across the cold stone. Father Bryton pulled something metallic out of his robe, it looked like some sort of gauntlet, small motes of violet light played across the surface as the monk turned to the young boy. Suddenly it felt as if his nervous system had exploded, the boy couldn't think, couldn't move, all his neurons were firing at once. Father Bryton indulged himself in a slight smirk as the manipulation took hold paralyzing the small boy. Now for the art, he'd been working on this for too long, had paid too much to get to this point to make any mistakes, this would take all his skill. He stretched out one of his hands, all the light in the room seemed to jump away from the walls coalescing around Father Bryton's Fingers. He methodically worked the light as one might craft clay into a suitable tool. The boy watched in horror as the ruby red beam of light came down, his body unable to react he just watched as it cut through his arm just above the wrist, pain like nothing he'd ever felt flooded his brain as the monk deftly caught the severed hand. Moving quickly he pressed the metallic hand to the boys wrist, white tendrils of raw life energy coursed from the severed hand to the metallic one, completing the circuit and fusing the new appendage to the boy. The old hand crumbled to dust the monk discarding it as the flames in the room flickered back to life. The boy collapsed as Father Bryton released the manipulation, the boy collapsed to the stone floor clutching his new hand to his chest, still in shock. Father Bryton somberly left the room looking for someone lower than himself to clean up his mess.
This was it the 19 year old thought to himself, this was his chance, they had finally taught him too much. He had spent the better part of a year bending his will to a simple problem, how to avoid their notice. He emptied his mind like they taught him, only he went farther than they ever dared. The years of pain had taught him ways to numb his soul that the monks couldn't match. He slowly faded from view, not the light manipulations of the monks but something deeper, more primal, in his mind he didn't exist, he felt it in his soul, he was nothing and being nothing he couldn't be observed, even by the monks. He left that night vowing never to return.
Father Bryton watched amused, "I was right, and he has no idea" he muttered to himself as he watched his prodigy fade from view, the image he had conjured to monitor the boy slowly fading in front of him "took him long enough" he said testily as he opened the old leather journal titled "Reginald" and added a fresh new set of notes...
So this is where my thinking is so far, I'm really starting to like this game idea