Kristopher
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((The vagabond could tell this man had heard more then a few stories. He scratched his chin for a bit before saying “Ah, I think I know something you’ll like.”))
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((“Top that.” said the vagabond before leaning closer to the warm fire.))
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Ian stood on the edge of the toxic fields. Mother had often scolded him for playing too close, but today was no day for games. Today was the day he would follow in his father’s footsteps to become a brave hero.
Mother told him every night about his father’s brave deeds. Some monster he had fought, or some person he had saved. Mother ended every story the same way. A kiss goodnight and a promise that tomorrow Father would be coming home. Yet every morning Mother woke up with tear-filled eyes. Father had been gone for a year now, and Ian was going to find him.
Ian had heard the myth as had every child in his small dilapidated village. The stories seem to leak from the wind, the trees, the very ground beneath you. Everyone had a slightly different telling, but some things were always the same. There is shop keeper who wanders the plains like a ghost. Selling you whatever you need for whatever you have.
Some of people claim he demands “coins” for his supplies. Why anyone would want the worthless pieces of scrap metal scattered around his village eludes him, but Ian collected them nonetheless. He had finally collected the magic number of coins after hours of shifting through sand and searching unused buildings. With 200 coins in a bag he had stolen from Mother’s kitchen, he stood waiting on the edge of the plains. Ian squeezed his eyes shut and wished. He was so close. All he had to do was hand over the coins and he could rise to the level of the heroes. Fight back the evil monsters and save his father.
Eventually the relentless rays of the sun began to ware him down. He opened his eyes and scanned the plains. Nothing moved. No animals scurried or plants swayed in the wind. The village behind him was quiet. Ian held his breath… then released it in rage. He tossed the coins to the ground as tears began to form on his face. ‘This is it,’ he thought, ‘it was all a myth after all.’ He turned to head back to the village.
Ian hadn’t taken a step when he felt the icy finger tap once on his shoulder. He turned around and saw a horse drawn carriage loom over him with no horse in sight. The paint was old and chipping. A small hatch cast a cold shadow onto Ian. The hatch revealed a small room filled with piles of boxes. Sword blades, bows, guns, and arrows, stuck out at odd angles from every box.
A tall slender man stood in front of the carriage and loomed over Ian’s child frame. His large eyes scanned Ian top to bottom as if trying to find any flaws then finally came to rest on his face. After a moment, in a voice far colder then his touch, he said,
“Well, kid? I have to go soon, so get your first weapon quickly.”
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I’ve been thinking about his ability to talk. I think it would be in short somewhat clipped sentences that are almost instinctive. He would rely more on action to convey thought rather then words.
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Name: Lagarto Verde
Age: 16
Bio: I used to play around the toxic sludge pits as a child when a slip into the pool turned me into a mutant. Now I’m not exactly “human”. Actually, not ‘human” at all. Mostly lizard. I rely on my natural abilities and monster strength. I’m not quite sure how I feel on the whole kill-the-monsters thing that has become popular as of late.
Side: Neutral
Looks: Humanoid Lizard. Only slightly taller then an average human. Clawed hands. Tail. mostly Green.