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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
19.14 m
Wingspan
18.75 m
Weight
6710.93 kg
Genetics
Lead
Basic
Basic
Smoke
Myrid
Myrid
Robin
Veined
Veined
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 1 Ridgeback
EXP: 0 / 245
STR
7
AGI
8
DEF
6
QCK
6
INT
5
VIT
8
MND
5
Biography
MIKE CREW
| 
Avatar of The Vast
___________________________________________________________
"ARCHIVIST
I… Where did you get that scar?
[LONG SIGH AS THE SOUND OF RUSHING AIR RISES]
MIKE
And I was trying so hard to be polite.
[THE ARCHIVIST ATTEMPTS A SCREAM BUT TO NO AVAIL]
MIKE
Hard, isn’t it, trying to ask prying questions at terminal velocity? The air… it doesn’t… leave your lungs like you expect it to. I mean, I know you’re still sat down, you know you’re still sat down. But whether your body knows it when I decide you hit the ground, that’s… that’s something I haven’t made my mind up about, yet.
A little bit of privacy. Is that really so much to ask? I suppose it is, isn’t it? From you and yours at least. We have a lot in common, really. After all, what, what good’s the height, the terrifying draw of gravity, unless you, unless you really know the scale of what you’re facing?
Maybe I’ll let you live, allow you to drag yourself back down to your den, but… you need to learn some respect.
MIKE (STATEMENT)
My scar, wasn’t it? Always the scar. Ironic, in some ways, because that was one the few marks that was only really ever physical. I got it when I was struck by lightning, age of eight. I was playing outside with a friend of mine, and the storm just came on quickly. That’s really all there was to it.
Have you ever been struck by lightning? No. No, of course not. Not unless that’s what happened to your hand, but I’m guessing that burn came from sticking it somewhere it wasn’t wanted. And you still didn’t learn. Well, imagine a white-hot, stinging pain, your whole body becoming rigid, like for an eternal moment you’re frozen, you’re trapped in a statue of yourself with a thousand needles of agony just erupting through you from the inside out. I don’t know if it’s the most painful thing that can happen to the human body, but… beyond a certain point trying to quantify and measure pain, it becomes pointless. That point is being struck by lighting.
The part that always bothered me was how I didn’t remember it. Not really. The sensation’s still vivid enough, but it exists in my mind completely detached from any actual memory. I remember the feeling, but not the event. One moment I’m playing amid raindrops the size of blueberries, and the next I’m in a white hospital bed, that acrid smell still surrounding me, and these lines of agony just carved through my skin.
The doctors told me there would be no long-term damage from my accident. They, they were wrong, of course, but the damage wasn’t something they could see, so how were they to know? Sitting alone in my room, tracing the lines of electricity with my finger, imagining my pain travelling these branching pathways. I was obsessed with it, and every time my finger reached the end of the line I felt a jolt of fear, because I, I knew they went further, went deeper than would show on my skin.
By age ten I was reading everything I could on what had happened to me. Electricity, Lichtenberg’s experiments, meteorology. My parents thought it was simply my way of recovering, of processing my trauma, but there was something else there. I know that now.
Did you know that Lichtenberg figures are fractals? I didn’t, not back then, but as they travelled along the length of my scars, I sometimes think like my fingertips could feel it. When I was twelve, curled under my bed to escape the pounding of the rain against my window, the roll of thunder that just rattled my skull, I began to travel them once again. My hands ran down and along those jagged, discoloured lines, every branch, every turn, my nostrils full of ozone, my veins full of fear. And they didn’t stop. I knew where my scars ended, but… those I traced in the dark that night, they just went on and on and on, far beyond me and to somewhere that still flashed with that unspeakable white light.
That was the night everything changed. Before it I was odd, certainly, probably traumatised, and gripped with a terror of storms, but after that night, things were different. I think, looking back, that was when I called it. That was when it caught my scent.
...
MIKE
Hm. You know, that was… that was nice. I’m not, not usually the sort for speeches. That was… pleasant change. So.
[LOUD SOUNDS OF RUSHING AIR AND THE ARCHIVIST GASPS]
Off you go, then."
___________________________________________________________
Scry
Needs
| Avatar of The Vast
___________________________________________________________
"ARCHIVIST
I… Where did you get that scar?
[LONG SIGH AS THE SOUND OF RUSHING AIR RISES]
MIKE
And I was trying so hard to be polite.
[THE ARCHIVIST ATTEMPTS A SCREAM BUT TO NO AVAIL]
MIKE
Hard, isn’t it, trying to ask prying questions at terminal velocity? The air… it doesn’t… leave your lungs like you expect it to. I mean, I know you’re still sat down, you know you’re still sat down. But whether your body knows it when I decide you hit the ground, that’s… that’s something I haven’t made my mind up about, yet.
A little bit of privacy. Is that really so much to ask? I suppose it is, isn’t it? From you and yours at least. We have a lot in common, really. After all, what, what good’s the height, the terrifying draw of gravity, unless you, unless you really know the scale of what you’re facing?
Maybe I’ll let you live, allow you to drag yourself back down to your den, but… you need to learn some respect.
MIKE (STATEMENT)
My scar, wasn’t it? Always the scar. Ironic, in some ways, because that was one the few marks that was only really ever physical. I got it when I was struck by lightning, age of eight. I was playing outside with a friend of mine, and the storm just came on quickly. That’s really all there was to it.
Have you ever been struck by lightning? No. No, of course not. Not unless that’s what happened to your hand, but I’m guessing that burn came from sticking it somewhere it wasn’t wanted. And you still didn’t learn. Well, imagine a white-hot, stinging pain, your whole body becoming rigid, like for an eternal moment you’re frozen, you’re trapped in a statue of yourself with a thousand needles of agony just erupting through you from the inside out. I don’t know if it’s the most painful thing that can happen to the human body, but… beyond a certain point trying to quantify and measure pain, it becomes pointless. That point is being struck by lighting.
The part that always bothered me was how I didn’t remember it. Not really. The sensation’s still vivid enough, but it exists in my mind completely detached from any actual memory. I remember the feeling, but not the event. One moment I’m playing amid raindrops the size of blueberries, and the next I’m in a white hospital bed, that acrid smell still surrounding me, and these lines of agony just carved through my skin.
The doctors told me there would be no long-term damage from my accident. They, they were wrong, of course, but the damage wasn’t something they could see, so how were they to know? Sitting alone in my room, tracing the lines of electricity with my finger, imagining my pain travelling these branching pathways. I was obsessed with it, and every time my finger reached the end of the line I felt a jolt of fear, because I, I knew they went further, went deeper than would show on my skin.
By age ten I was reading everything I could on what had happened to me. Electricity, Lichtenberg’s experiments, meteorology. My parents thought it was simply my way of recovering, of processing my trauma, but there was something else there. I know that now.
Did you know that Lichtenberg figures are fractals? I didn’t, not back then, but as they travelled along the length of my scars, I sometimes think like my fingertips could feel it. When I was twelve, curled under my bed to escape the pounding of the rain against my window, the roll of thunder that just rattled my skull, I began to travel them once again. My hands ran down and along those jagged, discoloured lines, every branch, every turn, my nostrils full of ozone, my veins full of fear. And they didn’t stop. I knew where my scars ended, but… those I traced in the dark that night, they just went on and on and on, far beyond me and to somewhere that still flashed with that unspeakable white light.
That was the night everything changed. Before it I was odd, certainly, probably traumatised, and gripped with a terror of storms, but after that night, things were different. I think, looking back, that was when I called it. That was when it caught my scent.
...
MIKE
Hm. You know, that was… that was nice. I’m not, not usually the sort for speeches. That was… pleasant change. So.
[LOUD SOUNDS OF RUSHING AIR AND THE ARCHIVIST GASPS]
Off you go, then."
— MAG091 - The Coming Storm
___________________________________________________________
Scry
Needs
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