"It is not the beginning or the end of our journey that defines us, but rather the journey itself."

Player: Kane

Character Name: Chyeshooya

Age: 32

Sex: Male

Species: Eastern Fox Snake (Pantherophis gloydi)

Height/Weight: 5 feet, 10 inches; 167 pounds

Social Status: Outer Class

Physical Description: Fairly tall, with a straight and upright sort of posture. His scales are a green/brown mixture, and meticulously kept clean in the privacy of his own small tent. However, his reptilian appearance, including stony slitted eyes with gold flecks and his scales, is hidden under cover of various types.

The coat, signature of his people, for example. As well as a baggy set of pants with several pockets, well-kept if old thick boots, dirty wrappings around his hands, leaving the claws poking out to serve as weapons if necessary, and an attached hood to his coat, with a specially designed mask to fit over his snout, the hose snaking into a filter on the side of a lumpy back on his back.

His tail, wrapped similarly to his hands, stays close to his person and generally still, although still noticeable on a second glance. It waves gently with his step, and the only time it is completely still is during times of extreme anger or agitation.

The Shashka sword, also trademark of his dying culture, rests on his left hip, outside of his cherkesska coat. His pants are held up with an old leather belt, and a dark-colored shirt rests upon his chest and arms.

Background: He was a youngling when his family entered the city, and watched disease and oppression rend his people apart. His story is like that of many, buried and forgotten forever in the Mid and Under cities. He has lived on his own, selling most of his inheritance in stuff to various venders and pawn shops, and buying his own equipment.

His reputation is that of a sort of trash-man, scrounging up various odd bits and ends, fixing them, and then selling them for one thing or another. He is also a good haggler and middle-man, having mastered the art of bartering early on. Having been forced to, rather, to support himself and deny those that would cheat him of money for one reason or another. He never blamed them for that; they were just trying to survive, just like him. Who he blamed was the Ministry, although he never told anyone.

He's not a great swordsman, usually avoiding violence when possible. When it is unavoidable, however, a minor persona of his comes out. In this state, he is a swordsman. Perhaps not of legend, but one doesn't need to be great in order to deal people fatal blows with highly sharpened steel. One just has to know what they're doing.

The sword is his most prized possession, and he lets nobody touch it but himself. He sees it as his last connection with his people, having lost them all for various reasons years before. The sword of his father, and his father before him, and so on...

The mask he wears to protect his lungs, somewhat weakened by disease. His tent is equipped with a small fan to inflate it with a similar filter. He can survive for a time without filters, but any time over an hour and the chances of him catching something or just being hurt from the various hazards of living in the city increase dramatically.

Personality: Chyeshooya is a wanderer at heart, like the rest of his people. However alone, he wanders as such. Very few attachments, always looking out for himself... An outcast amongst outcasts, one of the last of a dying culture. He carries himself as a lord, however, proud and strong in his own exile, for who he is. Chyeshooya is Chyeshooya, and there is no reason for him to be ashamed of that. Not because of his race, his culture, or any ideology that the UniClass and Ministry might hold of his kind.

He can appear a bit pompous at times, but is a fairly easy-going person and easy to get along with. His nomadic nature, however, means he never stays in one place for long. An idle dream he has, one that he is starting to look at more closely, is to travel the entirety of the Undercity. To be remembered as the first to map all the halls and corridors, from the edges of the Toride to the darkest shafts in Undercity, and to have his name be etched forever into those halls. A bit of immortality by memory, even if he himself will be dead. Or perhaps he will simply find something down there, something nobody has seen before, then confront the Ministry with this knowledge and trade it for UniClass rights. On his terms. "Ah, idle fantasy... Dreams and phantoms, to be chased in the realm of sleep."

He avoids combat if it is possible, but will not hesitate to cut down whoever wishes to harm him. If a particular person irritates him enough, a bit of his predatory side comes out to play with whatever his target is a bit before he strikes. Banter, feints, taunts and the like. Unfortunately, most never understand him. When violence is unavoidable, a minor persona referred to as the Swordsman comes out. The signals of this killer is primarily his voice, which becomes a lot more cold and emotionless, and he only speaks Slavic. He is still Chyeshooya, and knows friend from foe, but he shows no mercy to his foe.

He broods his own dislike for the Ministry, seeing them as the cause of so much misery and the very racism that they claim to abhor. He does not hate all hybrids, however, and judges them on a case-by-case basis. Those precious few one such as him would encounter, that is. Nobody but him knows about the hate for the authority, however. He knows the consequences for "treason" and the like quite well, and keeps such thoughts hidden to everyone but himself.

Weapons/Equipment:

A fairly plain but well cared for Shashka sword.

Backpack of lumpish appearance and unknown content. His tent is prominent, but it is unknown what the Pack-Rat snake keeps in there.

He keeps several knick-knacks and baubles in his pockets, and is quite good at keeping pick-pockets at bay.

There is a small weapon cleaning kit in the bottom of his pack. The sword is very ritually cleaned every night.

He had a pistol, once upon a time, but lost it when he ditched the thing to get into the Niflheim, and never got to recover it, helping escort a tipsy friend home.