Vištāspa "Vis" Windsong

Born

(30 years ago)

Died

n/a

Aliases

Cyrus, Kesh

Family

Shesara Windsong

Racial characteristics

UV resistant-skin, low-light vision, heat dissipation through ears

Sex

Male

Height

6'3"

Weight

170 lbs

Hair

Black

Eyes

Yellow-orange (reflects red in the dark)

Affiliations

Phoenix Dawn

Born to Shesara of the Windsong tribe, Vištāspa (who goes by "Vis") grew up in typical Ashkari fashion. He learned to survive in the harsh desert environment, mastering the skills of tracking, hunting, and foraging. From a young age, he displayed a natural talent for stealth and agility, often outpacing his peers in games of chase and hide-and-seek. Had fate not intervened, he likely would have grown into a skilled hunter and scout for his tribe.

At the age of 9, his tribe was raided by slavers from the city-state of Tyr. Vis was captured and sold into slavery, ending his life among the Ashkari. He was taken to Tyr, where he endured years of harsh treatment and forced labor. Despite the adversity, Vis remained resilient, using his natural agility and cunning to survive. When the Sorcerer-King Kalak fell, Vis was nominally freed, although he had to secure his freedom at the edge of a knife from his cruel master, who'd planned to kill all his slaves rather than lose them.

After a brief tenure with a thieves' guild in Tyr, Vis fell on the wrong side of the law, but was rescued from certain death by the guildmaster of Phoenix Dawn. Seeing potential in the young elf, she took him under her wing, paying his debt to society and giving him a new purpose and calling as a member of her adventuring guild.

Ancestry

Vis is an Ashkari elf, a nomadic desert-dwelling people known for their resilience and adaptability. Ashkari elves are characterized by their pointed ears, lithe builds, and keen survival instincts. They have developed physical adaptations to thrive in the harsh desert environment, such as long, thin ears that help dissipate heat without moisture loss, retro-reflective eyes that aid in nightvision (as they prefer to travel and hunt by night), and lithe, lanky bodies that facilitate rapid movement across sandy terrain.

His mother taught him the traditional Ashkari ways, including tracking, hunting, and foraging, but also in the ancient blend of etiquette, superstition, and thaumaturgy known as Keshem (roughly: "the Right Way"). This practice involves a long litany of rituals and customs designed to maintain harmony with the desert environment and its spirits, which occasionally extends into outright thaumaturgy (but don't imply that to an Ashkari--they loathe arcane magic).

History

Born into a nomadic tribe, and taught the ancient magicks by his mother, he lived a perfectly normal nomadic life for a time. His people would occasionally interface with humans in their settlements, trading goods from the wild lands for goods from the city, but mostly they got by in the outer wilds. He learned much of survival and crafting, but also about guile and cunning, especially useful in tricking the foolish humans out of their coin.

Enslavement

At the age of ten, his tribe was attacked by templars, and those who weren't killed or driven off were taken as slaves...including him. He was taken to the city of Tyr, and sold to a merchant prince, who didn't seem to have all that much use for him, but to remand him to the custody of a slavemaster. This relatively brief stint taught him the basic discipline required to avoid beatings and punishments, and the patience to avoid foolish attempts to escape, which only led to even worse treatment. As a plus, he learned his letters there, and was being groomed as a house servant, before the master's fortunes shifted, and most of his slaves were liquidated.

A New Master

Still young, but on the verge of manhood, he was sold again, this time to a noblewoman, who seemed to choose him based on appearance alone. He found himself in a class of new acquisitions of similar age and visage, and entered under the care of a new slavemaster, who taught him the required skills for an entirely different sort of work. Here, he would come of age, and learn more than any boy should of the appetites of privileged nobles. It seemed the noblewoman used her harem of pretty young slaves to win favor from other higher-ups, and, where possible, to divine secrets and accrue debts from them.

He excelled in his tasks, especially at the psychological aspects, convincing skeptical clients of his trustworthiness and harmless nature. He became particularly prized by his mistress, who tasked him with more and more important clients as his reputation progressed. When she learned of his talent for sleight of hand, she employed him in the lucrative and dangerous trade of purloining valuables and planting items, knowing she could cut him loose if he ever fell under suspicion. He would attend his clients on long stints, gaining their trust, and acting as a spy and agent for his mistress. In extreme cases, he even aided in violence, compromising security and providing vital intelligence. When one particular job went bad, he was forced to take matters into his own hands, and killed for the first time--several people, in this case, as it proved necessary to save his own skin.

While he enjoyed his mistress' favor for his successes, his time was always finite. When he extended too far, and found himself suspect for his crimes, she disavowed all knowledge and let justice fall upon him. While a great many fates may have befallen him, his captor opted for the most entertaining: death in the arena. Many thieves and cutthroats are sent there to face seasoned warriors, hungry beasts, and other unfair odds in a bid to delight onlookers with a show of blood.

The Arena

His first battle was against another thief, not especially combat-worthy, who tried desperately to reason with him. Perhaps they could join forces and make their way out, or play dead and sneak away when the bodies are dumped. A foolish notion, but he played along, long enough to put the man at ease until he could sink a dagger in his back. The crowd cheered for death, but he suspected they thirsted for his own shortly.

Death surely awaited with the next battle. He tried to talk his way out of it, attempting to beguile the gatekeeper into letting his guard down, and trying rouse the other rabble into some sort of prison break. No one was biting. The inevitability of his doom set upon him, and he spoke the ancient words, invoking the old magic, in a desperate bid to survive.

When he was pitted against a much larger man, better armed, who'd claimed many lives before, he knew it was hopeless. He spoke an ancient curse, and perhaps the old magic answered, for the man's first swing was wild, overbalancing the warrior. He was able to slash his calf, slowing the opponent. Still, the man's wingspan was too great, and he was grappled. In a panic, he smeared his hand with the man's blood, and no sooner had he done than his face was smashed into the rocky sand, several times.

Stunned with pain and neural trauma, he didn't have the capacity to wonder why death didn't come swiftly. In fact, the warrior stood, at length, rising in triumph over the disabled opponent. He shouted to the crowd, and they answered with bloody cheers, awaiting their reward. The man lifted high his spiked mace, and Death sharpened his scythe.

Whispering into the blood, he focused all his pain, his fear, his hatred and desperate need for vengeance for all the wrongs committed against him, and willed it into the blood. The pain in his head eased, his blindness cleared, and for a moment, his mind sobered. The warrior paused, wincing in sudden and unexpected pain. A moment was all he needed. He gathered his dagger and buried it the warrior's groin, over and over and over. He slashed the vital arteries in his upper legs, and bathed in the man's blood. It took only a matter of seconds for the man to lose his strength and collapse, and not much longer before the blood slowed to a gentle ooze.

Baptised in blood, its taste still on his tongue, he rose to meet the crowd's gasps and cheers. Everyone loves an underdog story, and it seemed they were happy for this reversal--at least those who didn't just lose a fortune to the bookie, And yet, his captor was among the VIPs in attendance, and wouldn't stand for an easy way out. He was told he must fight once more, and this time, he wouldn't fight alone. He didn't dare to hope, having more than spent all the fortune life might ever grant him.

Since his kind were mildly rare as spectacles in the arena, the masters of ceremony must've thought it wise to partner him with the only other elven prisoner slated to die that day. A dark-skinned woman, older and far more experienced than he, had slashed her way through several far more difficult battles so far. She looked upon him in disapproval, immediately finding him wanting, but wasted no time in preparing him. She would do the fighting, he would help. "Scream," she said, "and run from it. That will give me all I need."

When he and the elf were trotted out toward the end of the ceremony, they encountered their greatest torture yet of the day: bloviating. A man raved about all the events and battles of the day, about the glory and honor earned, about the magnanimity of the event's sponsors, and finally, at long last, about the final event. This would be no clash of blades, no contest of men. These two elves, savage mockeries of civilized men like themselves, would be pitted against one of their "own kind"...another beast from the Outer Wilds.

He didn't know then that it was known as a "dracolisk". It was looked like the bastard get of basilisk and perhaps a giant bat...something like a mutant crodile with clipped wings and unnecesssarily-long talons. The creature was furious and maddened--either by hunger, by its own poor treatment, or perhaps by the absurd cruelty of its mere existence; it mattered not which--and the crowd was ready to witness a bloodbath.

Sheerah, whose name he would later learn, was a force of nature. Armed only with a sharpened cutlass of chitin, and armored with less than mere clothing, she faced the creature without fear. It shrieked at her, and seemed to challenge her. He would later realize it was looking for signs of weakness, acting out of fear and instinct. She stood firm, and silently urged him to make good his part of the plan.

By some mad, foolish instinct, some delusion of his own competence, some need to impress her, he failed utterly to fulfill his duty. Rather than show weakness and run, he advanced, threatening the creature. It responded as per its nature, recoiling, gathering its strength, like a winding spring. She knew he was doomed, and could likely have opportuned upon his foolishness to save her own skin. Instead, she did what she had to do to win.

Only a few steps into his brave charge, he cried out in pain as the blade slashed him in the back. A crude weapon, not meant for ranged combat, she'd nonetheless lodged it just so to rob him of his strength, and he collapsed to his knees, reaching feebly for the blade. The beast reconsidered, sensing weakness, and charged forward. He readied for death.

Having spent her only weapon to save him from his own folly, Sheerah instead leapt onto the creature's back, having attacked from its blind spot, wrapping her thick legs around its spindly neck. She wasted no time, having gathered a handful each of rocky sand, jamming her fingers into its eyes, and scraping for all her strength allowed. The creature panicked, whipping its sharp tail around randomly, nearly beheading him in its throes.

Slowed for a moment of pure surprise, he managed to get his wits, and finally retrieve the blade lodged in his back. The twisted barbs made the job excrutiating, but some combination of guilt, misplaced social instinct, and raw need to survive allowed him to power through, and surge inside the beast's reach. The blade had no appreciable point, and failed to penetrate the dracolisk's scales, though he swang for all his strength.

However, his efforts proved fruitful when Sheerah, brought close by the creature's blind, snapping jaws questing for his sword-arm, snatched from his hands, plunged it into the creature's mouth, and levered it back and forth, slicing the creature's jaw tendons, effectively disabling its jaws. She crashed painfully to the ground as it went into retreat, seeking any way out.

The crowd wasn't having it. They wanted blood, and she was happy to oblige. She gave him a silent look, and he finally understood the assignment. As she crept back into its blind spot, he ran in the other direction, ensuring what remained of its vision was centered upon him, and screamed. It wasn't as if he didn't know the sound--the anguished, desperate cries for mercy, that went unanswered during "discipline" sessions for this or that offense. His back still burned with fresh agony, so he needn't reach too far. He feigned weakness, and the creature, in its blessed stupidity, allowed its hunger to override its better judgment.

Questing forward furtively, it seemed more and more satisfied that its prey wasn't a threat, and wasn't going to get away. Even with it's own mandible dangling awkwardly, it somehow thought it might make a meal of him, and surged forward. Surely, whether or not he could be chewed, he could certainly be savagely mauled. Perhaps a clean bite or two might have ended things swiftly. Unarmed, he didn't know what he could do to escape the much faster, long-reached beast as it closed in.

And Sheerah's blade fell. It wasn't harder than the beast's scales, but it was placed so precisely, with such expert knowledge of the creature's anatomy, that the armor was of no consequence. The weapon itself didn't survive, but the blood it let was enough to do the job. The beast remembered its pain and its predicament too late, shifting away as fast as it could manage before collapsing, gurgling pathetically, and drowning in its own blood.

She offered him a hand, lifting him up to receive the adoration of the crowd. Somewhere, his captor railed against the pitmaster, but the sponsors cared more for spectacle than for justice. The two were declared the victors of the day, and promised a celebratory feast.

The feast was indeed grand, and the celebrations enjoyable--especially after being seen by expert healers and an alchemist to ensure he didn't turn to stone from the poison--but no one was offering freedom. The next morning, he and Sheerah were separated, as she was wanted by a very highly-placed master, and his own contract had been bought out...by the merchant who'd sent him here in the first place.

The Final Master

Denied his justice in the arena, the new master sought instead to salve his anger with sadism. He promised a treatment worse than a quick death in battle, and with far less honor. The people would forget him in a moment, and find some new champion. He would languish, and suffer, as long as the new master could stretch it out.

There was nothing for it but to resist. He tried to escape, employing all his guile and trickery. He even made it into the streets, attempting to blend in and hide out, but was inevitably tracked down. For his "crime", he was branded with a broken chain, marking him as an escape risk, so even if he somehow escaped again, all would know he was a slave, not to be trusted, and probably worth a reward if turned in. He also gained the dagger's brand, marking him as capable of violence, and not to be trusted with weapons, or literally any sort of power or leeway--ensuring there were no further cushy jobs in his future. There was no hope. He could only seek one way out...and of course, his master expected suicide, and did all he could to make it impossible.

His suffering was shorter than he expected. Chaos engulfed the city, and his master was scared enough to forget his petty vengeance for a night or two. Then, news came of the unthinkable: Kalak, immortal ruler of Tyr for the last thousand years, was dead. In the new order, the city would be transformed. There would be no successor to the Sorcerer-King. And, impossibly...slaves would be free.

The master wasn't having it. Surely whatever lying templars were attempting a coup couldn't make good on their so-called reforms, and even if they did, how could they free a dead slave? He began to round up his slaves to deny them their chance at freedom. It was time for the silver tongue to finally pay off. He convinced the other slaves, paralyzed as they were with fear, and desperate to pretend there was hope, to distract themselves from terror, to finally roust what little remained of their courage. He remembered Sheerah's tactics, and learned from her example.

When the time came, they did exactly what he hoped: they panicked. They cried, and ran, and pleaded, and tried to rat him and anyone else out to buy another moment of life. But in that moment, that's exactly what he wanted. The master was vulnerable. He'd not brought nearly enough men to overwhelm all his slaves at once. The first bodyguard fell easily, stunned at the audacity of the attack. With his throat slit, he could hardly alert the others. Instead of attempting to be a one-man army, he simply locked the room, leaving the slaves and the men as co-prisoners. Knowing it wouldn't hold them for long, and his marks would give him nowhere to hide, he didn't immediately run. Instead, he found fire, and made sure the fire found fuel.

As the building burned, the door was eventually burst open, and the master's men surged forth to save their own skin. He lurked in the darkness, watching the door. The master emerged at last, battered apparently by the chaos, but not too worse for wear. He shouted futile orders at his hired men, and stopped to catch his breath.

It was the last he'd ever take.

Freedom

The liberators made good on their promise. Unbelievably, a thousand-year reign of terror ended, and slavery was outlawed. In fact, he was a free man, and had a future of his own making before him. In deed, his marks made him persona non grata, unemployable, untouchable, an exile inside the city walls. He had marketable skills, but no one was buying, and he had nothing to fall back on.

Before his first dawn as a free man, he'd already had to resort to crime to survive. Cleansing himself of the immediate blood and guilt of his deeds was paramount, and not something he could easily do alone. Mere trespassing wasn't the worst crime, but trespassing in someone's garden, defiling their water supply, was an executable offense.

As big as the city was, there weren't many places to disappear that weren't owned by someone. His flight from one authority soon put him in the sights of another. Before the first night, he'd been forced to flee into Under-Tyr, the opportunity for which was already a blessing, despite the dangers inherent. He attempted to survive there for a time, popping up to the surface to steal food, but always with difficulty blending in, and suspicion upon him by default.

In what seemed yet another impossible blessing--that would inevitably prove as much a curse--he was noticed by a thieves' guild. They took offense at him stealing on their turf, but they offered a way out--a trial by ordeal, to prove he was worthy of joining them. Or, by alternative, death. It was his call.

Perhaps none of them had been slaves, or just particularly well-behaved ones, for their idea of an ordeal was a walk in the park by his standards. He impressed them with his talent, and found in them a safe haven, and indeed an occupation--if not an honest one. They were thieves--not murderers (at least, not for profit), not spies and assassins--so it may as well have been a convent of nuns compared to his ledger. In the guild, he found brotherhood, and a home where he could lay down his head, feeling secure that he would awaken without the lash of a whip (if not a few coins poorer, a fine price to pay).

But as with all things, it wasn't to be. For much of a year, he enjoyed his time in the guild. Some part of him resented the massive share the guild claimed of his spoils, but he reminded himself to be humble, and thankful for the safety of a home and the certainty of a meal. With his meager earnings, he sought some alchemist or hedgecrafter capable and unethical enough to remove his marks...with, naturally, no success. Even in his profession, his marks were a notable disadvantage; without them, his guildmates could access far more spaces, more valuable takes, and more gullible marks.

In this new Tyr, slavery was illegal, but theft was still theft. The inevitable came for the guild, when a job went south, and a foolish neophyte trained justice right back to the guildhall. The guildmaster sold them out, promising them a glorious last stand, but disappearing after throwing the doors open. The many traps and hazards didn't pan out, and the resolve of the guild dissipated quickly. Once again, he was in the hands of justice, and awaiting his end.

A New Dawn