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A golden field of wheat, painted crimson with blood; bodies scattered carelessly on the painted earth, pieces of the dead found randomly lying about. This was the scene discovered by the three nomads as they traveled through Russia's summertime fields. The group stopped, urged by simple decency to bury the unfortunates and set their souls to rest. They worked methodically; digging the graves and placing the body within it. Nothing stopped them as they placed the shredded men and women into the holes. It wasn't until one man found the blood covered body of a child that their system faltered and they all went to look. Sprawled out on the ground, ivory skin stained scarlet with blood, lay the form of a young boy. His body was the only one that hadn't been ripped to shreds it seemed, as he still had all his limbs. Underneath locks of snow like hair, his face was one of a peaceful sorrow, lines from tears proof that the murderers had made him watch the others die.

"an angel"  one whispered as they looked at his innocent face.

They'd thought him dead like the rest, but upon hearing the quiet words; his long eyelashes fluttered and his pale eyes slowly moved to look at them. His lips of the lightest pink parted, allowing a terrified wail an escape from his chest.

Slowly, one man stepped forward; carefully wrapping an arm around the small toddler. "peace little angel. We're not here to hurt you." He whispered softly, lightly scooping the child into his arms. The child shivered and cried, but no longer screamed out in fear.  With no evident family in sight, the trio took him in. naming the young albino Belyi Svete Nadezhda; the White Light of Hope.

They didn't travel much during the first three years of raising him, doing their best to teach him the fundamentals. To the nomads, his ability to learn and comprehend was amazing, but they found his true gift to be in the creative arts. Soon after they'd taught him how to hold a pencil, they'd found Belyi drawing on a spare sheet of paper. It wasn't anything distinguishable then. But day by day after lessons he'd show them more drawings; each day his pictures grew less scribble like until finally they could start to make out shapes and figures from them. A year after he'd started drawing, the albino showed them a picture that showed no signs of scribbling, but instead had three men standing side by side behind a young boy. Astonished by his natural talent now, they decided to teach him other art styles and mediums along with the basics he'd already been learning. By the time the boy was six, for he was three when they found him, he could recite scenes from Shakespeare, list off all the planets in the solar system, read a full sized chapter book in a day, sing a song from heart, draw the three men with every detail correct, and carve birds out of wood.

Feeling he was ready for travel, the nomads packed up once more and started off, taking him with them as they roamed Russia's farmlands. It would be weeks between towns but whenever they came to one, the people would gawk, point, stare, whisper, and eventually stat calling him things. Ghost. Snow Child. Daemon. Those were some of the more popular ones. With each town and insult; the boy started to show more and more signs of depression. He'd spend more time on his art in camp then he would spend talking, when he had to go into town; he'd do his best to avoid everyone but those he had business with. Despite his growing depression, it gave him slight joy to watch his guardians sell off his art for money they'd later use on food, clothes and possibly new supplies if the holidays were near. His art was their main means of survival.

The boy had thought that this life would last forever; but found when he was eleven, that sickness would ruin things for him. It seemed odd to him, that the three nomads who'd raised him fell ill at the same time. He didn't know that there were higher powers at play in his life. He cared for his guardians for a week while they were sick; burying them and setting their souls to rest when they died one by one.  His depression grew worse with every death.

After he finally buried the last one, the albino packed up and headed out on his own. Struggling to survive, his art no longer supported his means to live. three years had passed since his guardians died away, but his body had already melted away to skin and bones. It was during this grueling time that he started to call himself Ghost.

During the first blizzard of the season, the starving boy stumbled into another town on the verge of death's door; he found his energy all but gone and collapsed. It seemed to him like mere seconds before someone found him, but truly it was a few hours. The large hands scooped him up and carried him inside; placing him by a fire. Blankets were wrapped around him and a meal was set in front of him. His savior sat down at his side and urged him to eat in a deep, caring voice that quickly set the boy at ease. Although his hands shook dangerously while he ate, the boy devoured all that was set in front of him. By the time he was full he'd downed four large bowls of beef stew, three servings of mashed potatoes, and several cups of a sweet brown liquid that heated him up as it went down his sore throat.  hot chocolate, the stranger had called it.