Constantine

[Toska]

Constantine.

.

NAME: Constantine
AGE: 30's
SPECIES: Human

FACTION: Imperial Legion
RANK: Commander

HEIGHT: 6'2
WEIGHT: 185lbs.
HAIR COLOR: Dark
EYE COLOR: Gray

STRENGTH:
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DEXTERITY:
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STAMINA:
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INTELLIGENCE:
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WISDOM:
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CHARISMA:
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They raised me well. Up high, set on a pedestal, given cigarettes in a silver plated tin at thirteen. Sip of whisky to chase the cough. Good parents. Sent to me tutors, cut my hair right, and showed me the ropes: how to spend, where to spend it, and the distinct smell of a credit chit.

Could tell you a bad investment off smell alone. Has an acrid bit to it. Clipped at the ends, bitten nails, hands dug into pockets. Well-kempt, all smiles and suave. Hasn't worked a day in his life. You can tell from the coat. It's aristocratic in style, little more than a mockery of character. You've seen it, know what I mean. Posh has a certain vibe, and a pinstripe coat and satin ties fell out of taste before they hit the stage.

I lived that vibe. Weaned on the teat of fashion, brought into drama and stage, culture. When I hit the ground running, I was given a choice. Academy or acting. Refine the voice that favored my mother in her ailing years and writhe beneath the limelight, or buckle down under my father's coat of arms. Rank and file, grunt through the labor. Small wonder I took to being a dandy.

Sung opera through my youth. Shy of a man until the stress cracked me. Saw my first pair under my chauffeur's watch. Down the road, an old fashioned estate, caught up with the green blood crawling in my veins. Strung me along the way experience was wont. The fits started around then. Hysterics. Screaming my throat raw. Shaking and trembling.

Couldn't show it on stage, and it drove me to alcoholism. Ruined my voice. Told me I took to the bottle too keenly. Had a shine for the way it lit my throat, burned on the way down, and gurgled up in my voice like gravel on duracrete. In my prime, they called it a tragedy. Found me in a suite with glass crushed into my palm, blood smeared from brow to collar, immobile. Wouldn't speak for days, not until my father caned the first gasp out of me.

Putting his head through the window was all the answer he needed. Shipped me off to Ziost without a word. Brought me to some old dogs, codgers with more gusto than their wiry joints belied. It was a soldier's life for me. Into the barracks, the barn. Instilled discipline. Command. Raised me into the man my father was: a right gentleman.

Bit blasé, but it did the trick. All velvet and gold, insignia etched to my breast, respect wormed into my skull. The Band bought me next. Said I had a knack, a gift, and it was theirs to command. All the better. I danced for them, to such music as ever they dared to play, and they saw to me. Called me brother. Gifted privilege after privilege, exemption, exception.

Distinct, aloft, I'm held to a standard that suits me, like a moth to a flame.

 

[Toska]

Five years; five long, arduous years, and what takes the measure of a man more than time? Such an ephemeral mistress, cruel as she is cold. Full of whimsy and desire, gossamer as she flits away into the clouds... as our bones grind to dust and our eyes stare hollow, lifeless into a fading sunset. That's life, I'm sure you've heard of it, darling.

The siege left me thirsty. Took a while to get the screams out of my head; the burning was worse, and the ringing never ceased. Thought I was through with that after Corellia, but no, I couldn't have been more wrong. It lasted well into the night, until the world came in grays painted through like my hair. My knees aren't what they used to be. All the shaking gave them a shine.

Running, yeah, that's what I did. A whole lot of running. Headlong into the fray, my boots licked clean and silver heels sparking up a flame on duracrete lined with petrol. Exhaustive fuels and hydrolysis ignites pretty quick. Gone in a flash, though. One moment, there. The next, gone. Puff of translucent smoke, the kind you might mistake for steam. It's a clean burn, none of the usual toxins apparent in the visual stimuli. But flesh, that burns hot, long in the tooth. And teeth, they don't burn. Watching from the safe side of a pair of thermals, it's all too easy to get detached, to dissect the people into chemical components.

When it starts to burn black, not even an airtight mask spares the stench. Makes me think. Every time I take a drag off some dime's cigarette, that's what sticks to my lungs. Sometimes I tell myself that I can feel it. The rest of the time I have to pretend it's not there.

Those heavy lumps in my throat turned my voice to gravel, and a cough snuck up on me. Hit me square in the jaw, begged for some aesthetic surgeries to knit me back up tight; don't worry, doll, I'm fine. Only the lords know how long, but I've a knack for happenstance and my luck's yet to run dry.

It's the running. Cardio keeps me limber, the blood pumping through limbs to spry them back up. Now, I might be on in years. This is undeniable. But I've still got it. You won't take that away from me. I ran and ran, ran further than the bullets chasing my back.

I ran so far that I ended up back on Ziost, brotherless and in need of a drink. They still parcel out whisky for officers; glad that old tradition hasn't changed. Down the line, my father sent me a wire. Asked to see me again. I hear my refusal sent him into cardiac arrest. If that's enough to kill the man, then I must be born of different stock.

Didn't kill me.