Rea Family/Darren/Outcast

“Outcasts, callused from being in exile for too long, learn to thrive on being the hated; the attention and infamy of our actions fuel us to become antiheroes. Too often do we forget: we risk self-destruction if we fail to follow what we know is right; our talents too often become misplaced, misdirected, misguided from what could have been something wonderful.” 
― Mike Norton, Fighting For Redemption

Roleplay

Outcast 1 Consciousness came and went, the world tilted, pain his only constant. Flashes of memory flitted across his mind, his fears consuming the true events, twisting everything into a waking nightmare. His home in ruins, Zuma dancing over his serfs, fires lighting the destruction. Dominic, hanging by his neck from a tree, left to rot for the birds. The sword, coming down for Darren's neck, high nobility, non-pulsed, drinking from their wine glasses in the stands. Dark things, flitting through the streets, children crying. Men in dark cloaks, ripping Dominic from his bed, Darren unable to interfere. "Keep him still! He'll pull the stitches!" A healer and his three helpers held the nobleman down, forcing his arms and legs still. Infection raged through Darren, sending him into seizures every few hours. They'd treated him, keeping his bandages clean, but it was all they could do to keep Darren alive. A potato farmer had brought him in to the house of healing on the back of his cart, unconscious. Darren settled, falling limp into the rickety cot. Quietly, the healer prayed, "May Darka bless him."

Roleplay

Outcast 4 At least his hair was growing back. Darren stuck his hand under his hat, gently rubbing his shiny, bright red scar. Itching it had only made it bleed, and his healer had repeatedly given him a tongue lashing over it. Of course, he was mostly concerned about the nose. Even with a shattered hand, scarred midsection, and broken ribs, he could still get the ladies, but the nose! The healer had tried her best to straighten it, but it had been a few days by the time he'd fallen into her care, and it would be a bit crooked for the rest of his life. A chill winter wind bit through his cloak, ice skittering across the bay in its wake. Farrowfield was a grey line in the distance, winter haze burring the line between land and sky. He shivered, cursing how thin his cloak was. The pack that they'd left for him had had the basics in it, trail rations, flint & tinderbox, a set of roughly made clothes, and the thin, felt cloak. Of course, there hadn't been any weapons, and none of the apparel had been made for the sharp cold of the north. "Sir Darren, what are you doing?" The healer appeared from below decks, carrying a thick woolen blanket. "I'm not a 'Sir'." Darren mumbled under his breath. The healer threw the blanket over him, tut-tutting. "You are a 'Sir', whether you act like it or not. No matter how many flopping hair-brained, half-cocked, dim-witted things you do. You were born into it, and no matter how many times you tell me not to, I'm still going to call you 'Sir'!" With a stream of almost-expletives, she pulled him back below decks.