Strivalyx

Of Rain, Regret, and Redemption

Quick Info

• Name: Strivalyx (streh-vah-licks)
• Nicknames: n/a
• Age: adult
• Pronouns: he/him
• Race: Pegasus
• God Spectrum: Lesser God / Harmonic / Chaotic???? _{(if h/c — of what??????) (see what other hunters are listed as first)}
• Song(s): The Moss (Cover) | Coordinate Shift | RED HOUR | Of Matches and Rust | Gravedigger (Acoustic)
• World: Cities of Ash

Biography

A god, lone and alone in the wastelands, yet already on their last leg: found battered, bruised, and left for dead, hands tight around the weapon pried from their would-be-killer's hand.

A god still so fresh and new to the world that basic knowledge — the state of the world, what their domain is, how to read — have all eluded them.

And the remnants of resistance, the descendants of the last god-worshipers that found them — who nursed them back to health, who helped them awaken their magic, who patiently listened to them stumble over the written word — nurture and attend to this renewed hope for the future, unaware of the murderer they have welcomed with open arms.

And this murderer, this monster, this villain-in-plain-sight that helped kick the world's pillars out from under it shies away from all this... this softness the worshipers insist on treating him with. He knows the lower rungs of his corporation tried to treat him with care when he was younger, before the CEO found out and put a stop to it. His last proper kill (the one that cursed him with their power, with the knowledge of what he was truly doing) had gently cradled his face and told him they forgave him through welling blood and a slit throat. But those malice-less moments were fleeting, momentary, almost accidental — this sustained effort to throw themselves into fulfilling every small little whim he makes the mistake of putting a voice to has him on edge and permanently on the back foot, waiting for the next pin to drop.

One of these people is eventually going to realize what he is. All it would take is someone going through an archive and stumbling on an old interview. Or questioning why he would guard and maintain a hunter's blade so zealously and not letting a simple answer satisfy. Or watching as he crosses paths with another hunter and the fellow killer looks at him with any measure of recognition.

Alas, there's nowhere else for him once he's found out: his corporation is long gone, his CEO was in the middle of turning on him before he dropped the headquarters on them, and the few contacts he had stopped checking in ages ago. So he simply... doesn't say anything. Let the worshipers continue to put their faith in him. Let the guilt and regret that drowns him be mistaken for innocence bearing the burden of duty.

And while he's at it, let Heavensunder out for maintenance more often. When the worshipers finally come to him to take their vengeance, it wouldn't do to give them a dulled blade.

Trivia

• Not quite functionally illiterate, but pretty close. Knows enough to read directions and roadsigns and short news articles, but give him a kids' novel and he panics.
• Haaaaaates anything touching his feet. Wears foot coverings whenever he thinks he can get away with it.