Name: Michael
Age: 16
Sex: Male
Description: Michael stands at around 5'11, with thin, spindly limbs stretching out from his long, lean torso. His small build coupled with his devilish grin and shifty eyes make him a suspicious looking kid. He has golden skin, with blonde hair, and blue eyes. His face seems to be locked into his permanent, trademark smirk. He has light whiskers enveloping the area around his mouth. He adorns himself with leather gloves, pants, shoes, and a vest, all of which he made from the animals he's killed. The clothing has been dyed crudely, barely mimicking the forest camouflage patterns that soldiers wore in ancient times. In more casual occasions, he wears battered rags that droop around his arms and knees.
Personality: Michael has been described as selfish, tending to think of himself before others. He has little respect for his fellow tribesmen, seeing them as his oppressors. In contrast, he holds deep respect for his father and wild animals. He prefers spending time in nature as opposed to his hut, which creates some inner conflict whenever he goes scavenging in ruins; on the one hand, he would rather be in a forest, but there are valuable items to steal from the depths of the ancient ruins, which he cannot resist. He obeys the elders when given a direct order, but doesn't feel any loyalty to them; he knows what to do, but doesn't feel satisfied in doing it. He is a deft archer for his age, but nothing compared to his father, which he hopes to rectify. He refuses to kill any humans using his skills, restricting his duties to the tribe merely to hunting, and the occasional shit-shoveling. There are two activities that Michael loves most: slaying wild beasts, and thievery. Both give the sensation of rushing blood, a brain on fire trying to analyze the situation, and both come with a great pay off at the end. The invigorating feeling of victory is hard to beat.
Childhood Memories:
ARIVAL:
Michael's first memory is being carried by his father, covered in the blood dripping from the gaping wounds over his father's face. His head was cradled by callused hands, held so that he faced upwards. Deep green leaves, stretching from long, winding branches criss-crossed, blocking the sky, though golden beams of light still reached through. Scents of dirt and crisp air combined with the sickening stench of blood flowed through his nostrils. The gold, green, and brown melted together gradually as the sounds of chirping birds lulled him to sleep. When he awoke, he had found a new home.
Michael's father, Vick, had stumbled upon the tribe when Michael was two. Their native tribe had been burned to the ground by an enemy tribe. The two of them had fled their previous home, wherever that was; Vick refuses to share the location with Michael, for fear that he might attempt to retake his home one day. Vick was soaked in both his, and his child's blood, covered in catastrophic wounds when he first arrived. The camp's best doctors tended to the two of them after much debate among the people, regarding whether or not these outsiders were deserving of this attention. When Vick recovered, he pledged to serve the tribe that had saved him until they saw fit to release him. He also took the liberty of pledging Michael.
DHARMA:
Michael was five when he and his father sat outside their reed hut, the sweet scent of flora granting its fragrance to the air. The stars shone bright that night, illuminating the distant trees in silver. The beacons and low buzz of fireflies danced through the darkness, providing a comforting light show for the two of them. It was here that Vick informed the child of his future duty to the tribe, as agreed upon by the elders - he was to work as their "indentured servant" until he was released, if ever. Michael protested furiously; he had never agreed to this, and he would not sacrifice his freedom without a fight. They fought for hours, though the battle was one-sided. Michael would make a fierce accusation, shouting incoherently as the bugs flew wildly through the shroud of darkness, and Vick would respond with a defeated tone, yet with the logic to smash his opposition. Eventually, Vick let out a deep sigh, and asked how he could make it up to the child. Michael asked for his father to tell him what had happened to mother. It was then that he was sent to bed.
Michael has never been considered part of the tribe. He is looked down on as a punk, a necessary nuisance. As such, he is not permitted to partake in schooling, festivals, or meetings. He exists to hunt, tan leather, and to do the occasional dirty job, nothing more. He is somewhat pleased with this existence, as it offers opportunities to feel like a unique being; the other children study while he does what he considers to be real work, handling the important matters.
THE HEIST:
Michael remembers his first successful "heist" very well. He had been sent to retrieve the skin from the corpse of a diseased, putrid cow, while the farmers were participating in a tribal festival. As he sifted his blade through the rotting flesh, maggots creeping up his arm as he swatted feverishly at them, the sounds of laughter and cheering echoed from the distance. The melodies of stringed instruments sprawled across the field he squatted in, and the faint smells of the ceremonial feast of duck teased his nose. He turned his head back towards his dirty work, and the fetor of the rotting corpse assaulted his senses. Why were the lazy cretins allowed celebrations and festivities while he was forced to work this fetid beast? He stood up, spat at the mound of meat and stomped off towards the farmhouse.
He knew that the farmer would keep his valuables somewhere in his room on the second floor, but as he peeked through the window, he saw a complication: the farmer's wife was still home, tending to their newborn child. She was lying on a bed of straw and leaves in the center of the room, tickling the fat, spoiled brat. Michael ducked back before she became suspicious, and constructed a plan; he could reach through the window in the kitchen to knock something over, distract the woman. If she got up, that would be good, but considering her condition, this was unlikely. Her being distracted would have to do. Michael could then sneak through the open door and up the stairway, grab whatever valuables lie above, and escape.
He set his plan into motion by reaching through the square, wooden frame and pushing a clay pot off of the counter. It collided with the ground forcefully, splitting into a thousand pieces. The shriek of destruction split the air, and the woman's head turned immediately, fast enough to catch a glimpse of the young thief. He crept along the wall towards the other side of the building as the floorboards creaked under the pressure of the woman's footsteps. He lightly pushed the door enough so that he could get inside as she inspected the mess. She yelped in agony, screamed about how the pot had been crafted by her late grandfather, that it was irreplaceable.
"Good," Michael thought as he slipped through the door and padded up the stairs.
The farmer's room was surprisingly well furnished. There was a picture on the wall, a mixture of colored juices applied to a crude chunk of wood. It depicted a group of hunters assaulting what looked like a giant lizard with wings. Too big to steal. He searched the smooth drawers of mahogany. He sifted through socks, coats, and pants, but found nothing. He slid open the final section of the drawer, and came across a small box of radiant metal. Michael held his ear to the side and shook the box, hearing a clinking noise.
A creaking door from downstairs sent a thousand sparks through Michael's bloodstream. The creak alone was not what disturbed him; the music had stopped, the scent of duck had faded. The festival was over, which meant the farmer was home.
He bolted for the second story window and wrestled with the glass, lifting it quickly but quietly. He looked down and saw a bail of hay at the bottom of what would be a painful descent. He gripped the box tightly in one hand and submitted to gravity, flowing smoothly through the air until his descent was interrupted by a rustling noise, with a thunderous crash as the bass sound. He didn't appear to have broken anything, which was fortunate, but the sound of the angry farmer spread throughout the fields. No doubt he saw that Michael had abandoned his duties. He stuffed the box inside the hay and pretended to be asleep; after all, laziness would be less severely punished than thievery. The theft was successful, and while he was subjected to a verbal thrashing, he had gained the goods.
To this day, he hasn't broken open the lock.
SACRIFICE
Vick taught his son to hunt deer at a very young age. The first time they went hunting, Michael was only six, so he simply watched as his father slew the beasts. At first, he felt traumatized by the carnage, punctured flesh and bone protruding from fresh corpses, but his father explained that this was a necessary sacrifice. Michael was taught the importance of respecting the prey and to kill only as much as is needed, and as such, he feels a deep connection and reverence to nature, and also is adept with a bow. However, he has landed himself with trouble among the tribe frequently for stealing from other members of the tribe. His fierce attraction to earthly possessions has earned him scorn from both his father and the Elders, but he cannot bring himself to stop.
ON A SHORT LEASH
His most notable offense was when he attempted to break into the elders' home in the middle of the night. His plan seemed perfect, creeping through the bushes, climbing the walls like a spider, taking advantage of night's protective cloak; but his mistake was not memorizing one guard's patrol correctly. He was caught, and tried, before the Elders. After furious debates from both sides, questions regarding his family's loyalty to the tribe which had saved their life, but they decided to keep him. He was released, but is on a very tight leash, and almost half of the Elders want him exiled to this very day.
Childhood Memento: The box he stole so many years ago, still hiding its treasures from Michael. He hopes to one day pry open the sturdy lock.
