Arkhamir VanRooke is the spawn of an unknown entity and a Lycanthropic witch, with the stolen energy of a powerful psion prospect used to fuel his conception. The result is a creature known only as a Cerebrathrope, rare even in the most extreme of circumstances. He bears the form and frame of a half-breed lycanthrope, but even to his distant were kindred he is marked as _different_. While he retains the ability to revert into a human form as many half-breed weres do, the potent mark left on his soul by his father means that his shadow is slow to follow. Perceptive souls have claimed that he has the shadow of a beast, but one far more sinister than any natural were.
The young boy was raised solely by his mother, secluded from the rest of the world through her life as a hermit. His upbringing was not unkind, though the circumstances forced a harsh hand. He lacked any talent for the art of witchcraft, emotions and mind much too volatile to court their mysterious power. He took more quickly to his schooling on the lore of the wilds, though his efforts toward alchemy produced results only through unorthodox means. Her collection of aged magical devices was not spared his curiousity, though the punishments for getting caught messing with dangerous wands ran harsh - mitigated by his charismatic nature and the suprise that he could intuitively make them work.
A wanderlust overtook Arkhamir as he neared his fourteenth birthday, his feverish emotions reaching new heights as he approached manhood. His first change overtook him suddenly in the brightness of day, forever inverting his human appearance with the beast in his blood. He tasted pain truly for the first time as his bones shifted and popped, but it all became worthwhile when he felt how truly alive the change made him. He became intimately aware of the passions of all the world around him, consumed by a feverish rush that could not be contained.
He returned home only once the sun went down, finding the disappointed eye of his mother waiting to greet him. His newly awakened senses rang out in alarm, warned him of danger he dared not heed. Boldly he proclaimed his desire to see the world to his mother, seeing plainly how her patron hollowed her for the first time. A clever tongue did not cool her ire this time, and he watched in horror as his mother began a dire incantation.
Fear erupted from his pores as he reached for his vest, a blast of force leaping from his body with no proper sense of direction or focus. It hurled him against the dirt, the sound marked by a fateful crunch. His hidden treasure was broken. The young man reached into his pocket and pulled free the stolen wand, a pair of deep cracks splintered along the polished wand. The surge of power still lingered beneath his skin. He cast his lot into the swirling eddies of fate, willed the wand to unleash its fractured magic. The spell would work, take him far from this place. It had to.
The broken wand misfired spectacularly that evening, an explosion of dimensional force shattering earth as it hurled him through the plains. He glimpsed things fleetingly in a daze, time spun out until it lost meaning between an instant and eternity. He lost conciousness before he ever reached a destination, his efforts spent from the trying day.
He came to on unfamiliar ground, sore beyond measure. The wand did not arrive with him, for the disfigured spell consumed it. He tasted salt in the air for the first time, and forever equated the taste with freedom. Hours passed before he could muster the strength to rise, an intuitive notion urging him northward. Unfamiliar trees surrounded him, and the sun waxed harsher than he ever felt before.
He managed to assume his human form again by the time he reached the city impressed into his mind, but to his dismay he found that he cast a shadow far more beastial than his original form. He became lost in hustle of the port in his first few hours, roughed once by the guards in suspect that he might be a street urchin. No one paid him much mind. Ever now, he felt the call of the ocean ringing in his ears. Of all the exotic sights, none compared to the blue expanse that promised intangible things.
A flyer blowing in the wind blinded him as he wandered through the market, interrupting the consideration of stealing a bit of food. His curiousity became piqued by the time he pulled it from his face, the boisterous image of a sailing ship painted onto the front. It seemed that a ship was hosting open recruitment for new blood, offering board and food for those deemed fit to work.
He rushed through the city to make it before the opportunity closed, encountering all manner of obstacles intent on halting his advance. In the end he arrived minutes shy of the suns final setting, too late to partake of the opportunity so cruelly offered to him. He turned his eyes to the ocean with a heavy heart, unintentionally walking straight into another soul.
The accidental shuffle knocked him off his feet, a sudden wind tearing the treasured paper from his hands. He stared up in shock at the imposing man he unintentionally slighted, scampering back from this grizzled soul. He could not escape the pirate's reach however, and the older man hoisted him to his feet by his ill-cut mane. Then he heard the laughter bellow forth, looking up to see the man glancing between the flyer and the scraggly youth barely old enough to leave home.
So began the first true steps into freedom.
Captain Razio VanRooke saw the yearning for the sea in the young Arkhamir's eyes, and his heart found pity that day. He took the young lad on as his cabin boy, and gave him his surname for Arkhamir had none of his own. He taught the young boy everything he knew about running a ship, and though the work ran quite hard the lad thrived in it. For three years he toiled beneath the sails and drank deep the wonder of the stars. Of all the many talents, he took to cartography and navigation with the most zeal - fascinated by the idea of charting something so vast as the ocean.
Razio never question Arkhamir's strange presence or shadow, and neither did was he bothered by the manic emotions that ruled the young man. The crew did not bear such acceptance in their heart, but the superstition around the cabin boy was only the match that kindled the darkness. His fledgling talents never pierced their well-hidden ideals, and that proved to be a failure Arkhamir might eternally regret.
Captain Razio woke him in the dead of night one eve, a grim expression tainting his normally jolival countennance. The man refused to explain, simply rushing Arkhamir to get dressed while sternly watching the door. He rushed them to the lifeboat and shoved Arkhamir into it as the sounds of fighting became horribly clear. The Captain threw his signature hat to his protege, slicing the ropes before Arkhamir could protest.
No goodbyes were spoken, at least not aloud.
Differing currents pulled Arkhamir further and further from the larger ship as the minutes turned to hours, his captain's fate unknown and his own bleak. The salted air he so adored became bitter on that morn, mingled with the tears he fought valiantly to ignore. With nothing more to do, he laid back against the wooden frame and resigned himself to the ocean's whims.