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RAIDAN MYRR
27 years
The first thing you notice about Raidan is his eyes—sea-glass blue-green that shift like Lux's oceans, revealing depths he rarely puts into words. His sun-kissed bronze skin carries the weathering of a man who finds peace outdoors, his strong build not for show but forged through years of climbing Asterath's rocky trails. Dark blonde hair falls in natural waves, often pushed back by calloused fingers when he's lost in thought or caught in the flow of music.
His ranger uniform bears the marks of a man who lives fully in it—patches sewn with careful precision, pockets filled with sketches of creatures encountered on patrol. The guitar pick hanging from a worn leather cord never leaves his neck, a small talisman that moves with each breath.
Across his left forearm, beautifully tattooed music notes intertwine with the scientific names of Lux's aquatic species—art meeting science in a permanent testament to twin passions that saved him. When he smiles—truly smiles, not the careful half-expression reserved for strangers—it transforms his entire countenance, brightness breaking through like Luminos emerging from behind Lantas in the evening sky.
Few truly know Raidan Myrr. He measures words like precious currency, spending them only when necessary—a lifetime of watching has taught him people reveal more in silence than speech. Ask about his past, and you'll meet the wall—a polite deflection, a changed subject, perhaps a comment about tomorrow's weather patterns. His childhood remains locked behind doors he rarely opens, even for those closest to him.
Around animals, though, something shifts—tension melts away, words suddenly flow as he identifies species and explains behaviors with infectious enthusiasm. Music pulls this same authentic self from hiding, his guitar expressing what his voice rarely attempts.
Trust comes slowly but completely once given. The family who took him in, Megan (meimei) and Athena, ground him when old instincts resurface. For these precious few, Raidan reveals a startlingly different man. Humor emerges in perfect deadpan observations that leave friends breathless with laughter. He remembers small details others forget—favorite drinks, mentioned birthdays, passing worries—appearing with exactly what's needed before the need is articulated.
Like everything else about him, his magic serves rather than displays. Where others create flash, he chooses precision. It's magic that reflects the man—understated, intentional, and infinitely more complex than casual observation suggests.
Raidan began life unwanted in Asterath's shadows—a nameless orphan who found his first companions in tattered marine biology books. The chubby five-year-old whispered to imagined Anumi and Piji while other children mocked his fascination.
Club Serpentine claimed him at eight—Marcos, his handler, seeing value in invisibility rather than visibility. “You're nothing special,” he would say, “and that's your worth.” At Cogworks, enrolled as cover for drug deliveries ( because who would suspect a kid? ), Raidan discovered an abandoned guitar whose strings offered a sanctuary his life never had. His magic awakened similarly—water responding to hidden tears, air to silent prayers for escape.
At eleven, when ordered to cross an unthinkable line—a blade pressed into small hands, a bound captive awaiting harm—something fractured inside Raidan that day. His refusal left scars still tracing his shoulders, but certain transformations, once made, cannot be unmade.
His escape came unplanned during an unguarded moment. For two years, he haunted Cogworks' forgotten spaces—sleeping in forgotten storage rooms, washing in facility bathrooms before other students arrived, stealing enough to survive but never to attract attention. He conjured small creatures born out of loneliness.
Megan found him by accident while seeking practice space, discovering instead a boy whose entire life fit in one threadbare backpack. Her family's offer of temporary shelter became permanent as Raidan slowly unlearned survival's harsh lessons—food hidden beneath floorboards, flinches at raised voices, elaborate explanations for minor accidents. Calling her “meimei” evolved from emotional distance to genuine endearment.
At Cogworks, his band, with Megan, Athena Delacroix, and a few others, bridged worlds he never thought could connect. His interest in Athena found voice through her performance—friendship evolving into something more profound that transgressed the boundaries of her noble birth.
Now twenty-seven, Raidan channels hard-won survival skills into Asterath's wilderness rescue operations—tracking lost travelers through park territories where natural dangers ironically feel safer than city streets. His water manipulation guides disoriented hikers toward safety; air magic carries his voice across impossible distances; conjured creatures scout treacherous terrain ahead. Each successful rescue writes small redemption across ledgers, which he only tabulates—lives saved balancing, perhaps, debts from lives he couldn't.
Sometimes during performances, his eyes meet Athena's across stage lights, and something like wholeness seems possible—orphan, survivor, ranger, musician harmonizing into a single melody that might, with enough repetition, eventually sound like home.
