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MUN  amadeus, he / him, 30+       DISCORD  available upon request       PLOTTING  open       INBOX  open       ANON  off

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— bio.

• tenets.
• bio.
• history.
• connections.
• gallery.
• blog.

— history.

• tenets.
• bio.
• history.
• connections.
• gallery.
• blog.

Pneuma

MORGENMETE. Martjve, a Bozjan city worn thin under Garlean rule. His mother tried to scrape free of the life she had before him. She stopped sharing beds and warmth for gil. Instead she walked to the bay before sunrise. She fished, casting her nets into the cold blue, selling whatever bedraggled scrap of fish she could coax out of the tide. Some days it bought a whit of bread. On worse days, when the nets came up empty and hope attenuated to nothing, men still found their way to their ramshackle hut. Lucas kept his eyes on the torn nets, fingers busy, pretending the thin walls held back more than they ever really did.It hollowed her out overtime. Her voice thinned, her movements slowed into a kind of languor that didn’t suit her at all. She became sick; quiet, inexorable, and ugly in the way it dragged on. One week she simply stayed in bed and never rose again. Lucas was too young to grasp the vicissitudes chewing through her life, but he was old enough to know no one was coming to save them. So he fished. For her, for himself, for the habit of it. He endured the water until his fingers split. When the sea failed him, he took whatever work crossed his path: hauling crates, running messages, a bit of skullduggery and other jobs he doesn’t like to name. Coin was coin. The boy didn’t waste breath on fantasies; most days he was just trying to survive long enough to see another dawn.When the capital fell in the Bozja Incident, everything around it started to unravel. Not in one cataclysmic blast, more like a slow cancer spreading through their homeland. Trade attenuated, food thinned out, arguments curdled into fights and finally into murder. The towns closest to the ruins felt it worst, lives slipping into a kind of daily imbroglio made of fear and want. Some people fled east. Plenty never made it. Lucas stayed. He only knew how to endure, and moving felt like a luxury.Unsurprisingly, his mother perished not long after. At that point, maybe he should’ve just stayed down and waited for his turn. But he pushed on. He worked whatever jobs came. Someone offered real coin eventually. A job, to pick through the wreckage of the capital. So he went. Days spent climbing over broken stone and twisted metal, dust thick in his throat and redolent of old smoke and grief. Then he saw the shard. Half-buried beneath a slab, a job stone, or at least something that looked close enough. Almost apocryphal around the edges and choked with sickening aether. Curiosity won, and he paid for it. The crystal warmed immediately, suffusing something hot and alien into his chest. Before he could drop it, that weight settled inside him. He was never quite the same after.

Lateralus

SUPPER.The newfound power allowed him to stay alive, more so become akin that of a monster. Around fourteen summers in, he slipped into the Resistance almost by accident. Bajsaljen found him skulking near an old quay, a feral little wretch ready to bare teeth at anyone who looked twice. They took him in, showed him patience, camaraderie, and then training. A child who was forced to grow up a little too early, becoming a soldier. By eighteen, Lucas was caught in a raid that soured fast. Four years in the fight and nothing to his name but grit, reflex, and a handful of scars. He fought on instinct, not polish, and when the line collapsed he was one of the unlucky few dragged off to Castrum Lacus Litore. The IVth took prisoners only when they had plans for them.Sicinius mal Vellutus handed him to his students like a specimen. The usual auracite flickered and died in their tests, so they brought out another stone unearthed from the buried citadel. It was darker than it should have been, a fulgent core beating beneath a surface that looked almost lapidary. It barely reacted until they hurt him. Pain seemed to adumbrate whatever lived inside it. They cut, shattered, sutured, and waited to see what might bloom. The parasitic stone answered in cold, inexorable waves. His wounds healed too quick, bone reformed overnight. An eye torn free reemerged days later. They tested his limits, both body and mind. Days passed like waking dreams, crepuscular visions clung to him.By the time the Resistance cracked open the Castrum, his body was whole again and his mind felt fractured into glittering, obstreperous shards. After being saveed, he spoke little for weeks. Drifting like someone half-remembering himself. Then the pendulum swung, and he drowned the static in liquor, rash impulses, anything that could quiet the roiling labyrinth of thoughts he could not yet bear to face. But he kept fighting, and he kept winning from there on.When time came, Lucas refused rank. Officers tried to lift him up, give him stripes, put people under him. He laughed it off, said he was not officer material, turned it into a joke. Underneath, it was fear. He did not trust his own head with other people’s lives. If something inside him snapped, they would pay for it. So he stayed a footsoldier, took the worst assignments, went where the odds were thin. He grew reckless. When he was wounded, he came back to the line too soon. The others talked. Some said he wasn't right in the head anymore. Some said the Garleans had turned him into a weapon. He let them talk. The stone inside him pulled one way, the people he fought beside pulled the other. Officers who dragged him in early became something like family. Bonds formed in mud and blood. He even let himself love once, a Hyuran girl with tired eyes and rough hands who saw more than his jokes. She died in an assault that should have been theirs. Whatever hope he had for peace went into the ground with her.At the time he moves through life sideways. He drinks too much, fights too often, laughs too loud, and slides into trouble with a kind of weary ease. To most people in the Resistance, he is a brash, foul-mouthed brother who will turn any quiet night into something too loud. But also someone who always shows up when it counts. Only a few see past it. They know the swagger is armor, that under the grin he is tired and still listening to a voice that is not entirely his. It's not about glory anymore, or even revenge. He keeps going because stopping feels worse. Live by the sword, die by the sword.

Parabola

REVIVISCENCE. When the fighting in Bozja finally stilled, Lucas expected a breath of quiet. Instead he was sent to Garlemald with the Ilsabard Contingent, dragging old resentment behind him. He made his dislike known. Too many friends had fallen to Garlean steel for him to pretend otherwise. But Bajsaljen held to the belief that Garlemald still housed both tyrants and souls crushed beneath the same merciless order that once scarred Bozja. Crossing the frozen wastes, escorting supply trains through blizzards, pulling civilians out of collapsed towers, and warming his hands beside defectors who whispered their fear of the Empire rather than loyalty to it chipped at the iron in his anger. These were not faceless foes but frightened youths and weary families caught in a tempest they never chose. He did not forgive and he did not forget, yet his hatred loosened into something more intricate, shaped by the simple truth that they were victims too.Not long after, Sharlayan proved a different kind of trial. Lucas was sent to escort Allagan salvage and guard engineers who pried into relics older than kingdoms. Scholars eyed him like some wayward creature brought in from the wilds. He handled artifacts he probably should not, asked blunt questions that made researchers blanch, and occasionally set off harmless aetheric sparks that earned him stern lectures. Still, when relics trembled or magitek groaned, he was the one who stepped forward without hesitation. His manners were rough, his humor ill-timed, but his steadiness could not be ignored. By the time the Ragnarok launched and he returned to Bozja, he felt out of joint with the home he had left behind. His homeland was rebuilding, voices carried differently, and he gained a broader sense of the world’s suffering and its stubborn hope. Peace was not something he understood, yet aiding others had become the one constant that anchored him, a quiet precept he followed without needing to explain it.These days Lucas is seldom in one place for long. His superiors knew that restlessness gnawed at him, and with no battles left to claim in Bozja they feared idleness would drive him into some mischief of his own making. So they set him wandering as a kind of envoy, a blade they trusted to roam where others hesitated. He drifts through Eorzea and any distant realm that calls for a steady hand, taking mercenary work for coin and answering official summons to remind himself he still carries the oath of Gunnhildr’s Blades. The rest of the time he is gambling, drinking, or waking in someone else’s sheets, living in the margins with rakish ease. Yet trouble finds him all the same. He thrusts his nose into quarrels that are none of his purview, guided by an instinct to aid the bedraggled and the luckless. For all his bravado, he is most alive when he lightens another’s burden, and if a bit of chaos follows in his wake, he greets it with a grin and a dare.

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