All through his life, Scion has been a citizen of a twisted society. His every action was carefully controlled, manipulated seamlessly by cruel puppeteers for the purpose of their own gain. He was nothing but a cursed marionette to them, a traitor by blood whose very existence was expendable. He, like all young born into his family, was segregated from the rest of his relatives and treated as scum. The sins of the previous generation were borne upon the backs of their children, who were shunted into a lower caste at birth as a vicious form of debt repayment. From the very first time that Scion's delicate, fluttering eyelids peeled back to reveal a sharp pair of sober emerald eyes, he was a slave to the clan that his parents had tried to dethrone. Not long after, immediately upon reaching acceptable weaning age, the wiry youth was taken to a communal den for the young ones of his defeated clan. His childhood is was far from easy, to the extent that it was with a sense of relieved resignation that he went into specific training for military service. He knew that he would one day likely die in defense of a brutal system, but his conditioning allowed him to discard all doubts before they even came to mind.

He was not allowed to have an opinion. He didn't even have a proper name, merely bearing the title of “Scion” as did all of the descendents of his judas clan. He was taught to kill, to bleed, and to die. It was his job to accept everything. The world was a dark place, but he had grown up within the confines of that reality. His entire existence was marked by the rules of obedience and service, and he had complied quietly, living his life subserviently within those confines, until his world had been shattered but a few months ago.

The iron-hued male had never inquired as to how his fellow in service had acquired the new ideas that he now was spouting with the authority and zeal of an evangelist. The other male spoke of freedom, equality, and justice, words that Scion had never been exposed to. He was foolish, so soon he, like many others of his caste, had allowed themselves to be drawn into the disastrous revolution. At the time, Scion had advanced in the military. After proving himself valiantly on a near suicide mission, he had been granted a promotion, and now guarded the princess of the pack. She was young, barely older than a pup, and was a central pawn in the plans of the revolution, as was he, her guard. He was assured that she would not be harmed; all he had to do was bring her to a chosen meeting spot a certain time. He obeyed the order from the leader of the coup, asking the innocent, trusting princess to accompany him on a stroll. She did so without question, of course, and although his conscience squirmed, he deferred the mind numbing guilt, reminding himself that she would be safe.

He had never been more wrong.

The situation had become tense before his arrival. Foolish, trusting Scion had promised himself and his charge that it was safe, but before he knew it, the string of control holding the group to its original plan snapped. A mob set upon the leader's delicate daughter, who to the slaves seemed a symbol of tyranny. Scion tried futilely to defend the small maiden, killing several of his brethren in the process. Her life was ripped away within minutes of the struggle's origination. Before he knew it, Scion had also become a target. He did not want to kill his comrades. Hell, he hadn't wanted to kill anyone. If he had been thinking clearly at the time, he would allowed himself to perish in battle, giving himself some possibility from recovering any of the shreds of tattered honor that he may have once possessed. However, as the battle raged, he had become nothing more than a raging inferno of adrenaline. Cowardice mingled with ancient instinct, overwhelming the sanctuary of his conscious in a repeating torrent of Run! Run! Run! . He was a creature on autopilot, escaping as soon as the opportunity presented itself. He didn't want to die.

Now here he was, months later, a pathetic, sad dog of a wolf. If it was possible to be dishonorably discharged from the life as lowest of the low, he had been. Scion's views, on both himself and the world around him, had been permanently skewed by his dismal life as a slave. He lived to serve, and now that he no longer could fulfill his purpose, the weary catacombs of his mind endlessly suggested that the only way to atone for his wrongs was to die. He had almost succeeded in perishing from a divine cocktail of exposure, injury and exhaustion before an unlikely heroine had stumbled across his path. The boy still wondered what she would want of him in return for her service that day, and resolved to repay the debt next time he met with her, no matter what she requested of him. A life was still a life, and whatever the quality of that life, saving it was still something that must be rewarded.

For now, the rescue had provided ample excuse for his cowardice to prevent him from actively dispatching himself, although it did nothing to alleviate his sense of self loathing. He had been stripped entirely of purpose, and no longer cared what happened to his physical body, as long as his soul burned in hell forever after. He walked without any urgency amongst the free lands, a phantom without fear, displaced and disowned by all that he had ever valued.

Scion was nothing.

Time was beginning to blank for him, long stretches disappearing in a phenomenon akin to highway hypnosis as he lived his boring, day to day life. He performed his biological functions mechanically, eating, sleeping and drinking on a schedule like clockwork. The monotony was not a reprieve, as it allowed his mind to stray, inevitably furthering his progression in the spiral of depression that he had fallen into.

Because of this, he had no particular purpose in arriving at the Aplos Riverside. He made his solitary way down the river bank, seeming for all intents normal save for the curious deadness of his poison-green orbs. He picked his way deliberately to the river's edge, his muscular frame controlled gracefully in each movement. He did not notice the sentinel atop the hill as he bent down to drink, but even if he had spotted the majestic lucifer, it would not have mattered to him. However, to the afore mentioned figure, his taupe overcoat and its peppered throughout collection of darker hairs would no doubt be exceedingly obvious.

He drank obliviously for a time, lapping up the frigid water until he was sated to his body's satisfaction. In the event of the noise of an approach reaching his sensitive auditory equipment, the lad would stir his catatonic emotions into some semblance of alertness, turning to meet the possible threat. Any further response would depend on the nature of the approacher.