Lysander Arbosa

Zelene and Lysander are siblings. Born without any privilege into a spoiled world they were firebred by outcasts, abandoned in the streets of Shar'Alam they found its scars eventually healing. Survival endorsed everything and Lysander loves cold steel. Not the dagger gleaming in the shade of the bar. Jets and engine exhausts. Tanks of hydrogen. A romantic would say a grease monkey in words, it is a colorful term, humans, he is a skirmisher mechanic, specialized in boosters spending sweltering summers under the four star system hauling cooling repellant fluids in the Concord rookie school. Eventually learning he didn't learn anything and that it was what united all of them. He packed up to say adieu as they say in the region. Region. Whatever once was a paragon of virtue, a dream of a better world, remains only in statues of elders now gone in oblivion. What time didn't exile was left in hybristic self-indulgence. A laissez-faire that couldnt endure: generations of amphetamine stung youth. See soldiers became addicts. Thinkers became addicts. Saturated by illusions of ease the lifeblood of the empire was lost.

But not everything that was lost was gone. The spirit that bolted the nail into the carriers and harbors, malls, factories and swimming pools still survives in pariahs. Like Lysander they weren't necessarily so smart just eager for adventure and unafraid to sweat; to bleed. But one broken family wont triage no broken world. And one beautiful day the fires at Wiela forbode freedom.