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This is my workshop. Hey :)
Punybeasts' Workshop
- Thread starter punybeasts
- Start date
- Joined
- Aug 1, 2021
- Messages
- 2
- Reaction score
- 0
Chyrs Hotei Red-Kestrel
Vagabond
Honestly? Chyrs doesn't know quite know where she came from.
Waking up in a colony ship marooned in the sytgian Outer Reaches, Chyrs subsisted on the endless rations and water storages meant for centuries of intergalactic travel, with no one to share with onboard. For fresh clothes, there were the jumpsuits, all named and ordered for the colonists who apparently didn't exist. Within the lapel of each were notes, letters, trinkets and charms, hinting at who would've inhabited the suit (so long as the person really existed).
From this time, the memories were hard to come by... Chyrs, fighting her racial impulse to gorge on the hardtack that was her lifeline; spelunking the leviathan underbelly of her deserted home, learning the language of machines; retrofitting an escape shuttle and crash-landing on a world as barren as the one she just escaped. She could not speak a word of their language, as Chyrs never even needed to speak, though Chyrs' harsh face, and their harsh existence on the brinks of habitable life was a language unto itself. She soon left the backwater, armed with nothing but a canteen, a scrappy utility droid, and a shuttle.
A youthful vagabond without identity or tongue, threading the needle through space's black fabric.
It has been 6 years since she departed on her quest, now halfway across the galaxy and no sooner to any sense of self. She quickly learned what was needed to make it through the day in her present role, drifting; intuition, ingenuity, and moving away from the ephemeral, a name. It was supposedly a time-honored custom to have a name, handed down from the parents to their child. And so Chyrs took to birthing herself.
Chrys, borrowed from the beautiful Chyrsanthemum flowers, which whispered to her in the tongue of the nameless. Red Kestrel, a bird of prey, shamelessly regal – a queen that ruled with blood upon her crown. And Hotei, a name half-scribbled on the back of a napkin, tucked into the lapel of the jumpsuit she'd worn since her earliest recollections.
After this stop-gap identity came real language, a bitter pill, picked up in bits and pieces and then swallowed all at once. From the stark, imposing home she was born in, the seedy alleys of metropolis and desiccated shells of colony towns were uncomfortable, but soon these fleeting vistas turned to a new, exotic vacation every week.
A creature of circumstance, Chyrs took to the streets, learned to haggle, fight, steal, cheat, and most importantly, drift. A bummed lift here or there, and suddenly she found a whole new lot to study and turn inside out. Not for malice or any other harsh motive; simply subsisting. But that doesn't mean subsisting was never fun.
New experiences learned and trinkets on her belt. A multitool for retrofits and forgery, a comlink for chit-chat and heist planning, a blaster for self-defense and bounty hunting. Odd jobs, degraded pride be damned – if they paid well, she was there. Chrys learned to love a life of circumstance and firing from the hip. Always changing, always exciting, always full of highs and lows; empty stomachs some nights and great feasts others. What once was a shitty lot was now a high life on a low budget.
Score.
Vagabond
Honestly? Chyrs doesn't know quite know where she came from.
Waking up in a colony ship marooned in the sytgian Outer Reaches, Chyrs subsisted on the endless rations and water storages meant for centuries of intergalactic travel, with no one to share with onboard. For fresh clothes, there were the jumpsuits, all named and ordered for the colonists who apparently didn't exist. Within the lapel of each were notes, letters, trinkets and charms, hinting at who would've inhabited the suit (so long as the person really existed).
From this time, the memories were hard to come by... Chyrs, fighting her racial impulse to gorge on the hardtack that was her lifeline; spelunking the leviathan underbelly of her deserted home, learning the language of machines; retrofitting an escape shuttle and crash-landing on a world as barren as the one she just escaped. She could not speak a word of their language, as Chyrs never even needed to speak, though Chyrs' harsh face, and their harsh existence on the brinks of habitable life was a language unto itself. She soon left the backwater, armed with nothing but a canteen, a scrappy utility droid, and a shuttle.
A youthful vagabond without identity or tongue, threading the needle through space's black fabric.
It has been 6 years since she departed on her quest, now halfway across the galaxy and no sooner to any sense of self. She quickly learned what was needed to make it through the day in her present role, drifting; intuition, ingenuity, and moving away from the ephemeral, a name. It was supposedly a time-honored custom to have a name, handed down from the parents to their child. And so Chyrs took to birthing herself.
Chrys, borrowed from the beautiful Chyrsanthemum flowers, which whispered to her in the tongue of the nameless. Red Kestrel, a bird of prey, shamelessly regal – a queen that ruled with blood upon her crown. And Hotei, a name half-scribbled on the back of a napkin, tucked into the lapel of the jumpsuit she'd worn since her earliest recollections.
After this stop-gap identity came real language, a bitter pill, picked up in bits and pieces and then swallowed all at once. From the stark, imposing home she was born in, the seedy alleys of metropolis and desiccated shells of colony towns were uncomfortable, but soon these fleeting vistas turned to a new, exotic vacation every week.
A creature of circumstance, Chyrs took to the streets, learned to haggle, fight, steal, cheat, and most importantly, drift. A bummed lift here or there, and suddenly she found a whole new lot to study and turn inside out. Not for malice or any other harsh motive; simply subsisting. But that doesn't mean subsisting was never fun.
New experiences learned and trinkets on her belt. A multitool for retrofits and forgery, a comlink for chit-chat and heist planning, a blaster for self-defense and bounty hunting. Odd jobs, degraded pride be damned – if they paid well, she was there. Chrys learned to love a life of circumstance and firing from the hip. Always changing, always exciting, always full of highs and lows; empty stomachs some nights and great feasts others. What once was a shitty lot was now a high life on a low budget.
Score.
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