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Description

CALLISTUS
AP Tracker | Moodboard

With every battle, we lose a little more
Remember everything that we died for

Name: Callistus
Age: 24
Gender: Male
Orientation: Gay
Species: Unicorn
Build: Belgian draft
Height: 17.3 hh
Coat Color: Black appaloosa

Herd Affiliation: Vagabond
Rank: Cultist Disciple
Patron god: still warming up to Digend

Talents: locked
Blessing: locked
Familiar: locked

APPEARANCE:
x Rounded and heavy body
x Thick neck and legs like tree trunks, minor feathering on feet
x Horn is broken off
x Due to the resurrection, his pupils are constantly unnaturally dilated giving him a somewhat haunted and empty look

PERSONALITY:
Quiet | Private | Disciplined | Determined | Rational | Vengeful | Insecure | Conflicted

Callistus rarely speaks. A man of a few, select words, he grew up in an environment that did not place value on airing one’s thoughts and emotions. He was raised to be ‘proper’, to be invisible, to never bother anyone.
Its funny how dying can change your perspective on things.
The new Callistus has less care for such trivialities. He is quiet because it suits him - because being labeled the dumb brute gives him time and power. Callistus is deeply private, but when he does speak, it is with purpose and meaning. He can be forceful, and he can be brutally honest. Not concerned with hurt feelings or the proper world order, he allows himself to act with intent and devastating efficiency.

Despite his stoic and calm exterior, Callistus is an insecure mess. He acknowledges and hates this part of himself - this inborn weakness he can not curb. An eternal pessimist who is always expecting to be let down by himself and by others, Callistus is cynical of the goodness of others, and is always looking for ulterior motives. He knows his weaknesses, and guards them ferociously, knowing and expecting others to use them against him. The only thing one can trust is the selfish desire of others.
Callistus views himself as unlovable and unworthy, but simultaneously desires love above all else. Emotions are not a thing he finds easy to handle, always either too much or too little. So Callistus deals with life on frightening rationality - he can rationalize anything, any action and any cause. It’s what keeps him sane.
What makes him dangerous.
His fury runs cold rather than hot. Although a part of him is still hesitant to release his rage on the world, the Cult’s temptations are great. Here he could be respected for his urges, for his temper unbridled.
Never again to be the lamb, but the wolf.

Callistus is not a heart of stone - he may be harsh and rough and concerningly unphased by most things, but he is not heartless. His cruelty is the measured sort, rather than the hedonistic revelry of many of his Cult comrades. He is angry and defensive, but lacks malice. Callistus may be blunt, but he is also honest; manipulative games are of no interest to him.
Still, he’d rather be seen as cruel than weak, hunter rather than the hunted. He believes meeting people with shields up and teeth bared makes him strong, even if it fails to hide the vulnerable parts underneath.

The trauma of dying and being reborn is as of yet raw and untouched. His skin feels foreign to him, his new life unearned yet something he must cling to. How to build himself back up is a mystery, but Callistus is a survivor, and he is determined to live.
A shred of the old honor and duty still remains, but twisted to serve a darker purpose. Violence is the way, even if it tears him up inside.

HISTORY:
Please note: The past includes vague domestic violence, and less vague slavery and death.

Callistus’ parents were the typical War Forged match - an arrangement of convenience, made for line and family rather than the need of any individual. It was the right thing to do.
A permission for a child was granted, and a foal conceived. It was the right thing to do.
His mother worked as a Medic from home, while his Raider father spent long days and weeks and then months away from home, working. There was unease in the air when he was home, something hard to name, hard to place. Callistus would still eagerly await his father’s return, even if he was met by a stern face each time.
His childhood was one of limitations and arbitrary rules. It took very little to get scolded or shouted at, or to be sent to his room without supper.
At first, the child asked questions. Why this, why that. But soon enough he learned that things were done because it was the right thing to do. Asking for anything more than your lot was not to be done.
Asking for validation and love and empathy was not the right thing to do.
And so it was not done.

Years passed. Callistus learned to read silence and the weight of unsaid words as well as any conversation. He learned the art of searing one to the soul with a simple word. One need not touch to cripple, no raised words were needed to hurt. A part of him, deep down, came to crave for a violence he could feel. A wound that could be mended, a hurt he could explain.
But such things were not spoken of, and so he had to find other outlets for the bleeding bruises within.
It started as sparring between colts, Raider apprentices roughhousing. His father was too distant, too frightening to ever touch, but the other boys were not. Them, he could hurt, and in lashing out at them, his own pain was a touch less, if just for a while.
Callistus learned to demand respect with his teeth, to lord over others with fear and muscle. He was big and strong. He could make them afraid.
Afraid to ever hurt him.

It was perhaps inevitable that eventually one of his fellows got far more than bruises. They lived, but all could see that it was no accident.
All knew it would happen again.
The village advocated for Culling. Callistus’ father did not even bother to show up; his mother was quietly resigned. With no one to defend him, his fate was quickly decided, and he was hauled to Skeldr Town for final sentencing.
There he saw his father again, for the last time.
The old man did not even acknowledge him.

Who Callistus had been was dead.

Merely 16, he was reborn to a new, harsh world. Sold to slavery, he was reduced to his parts - his appeal, his strength, his value in shards. Neither particularly pretty, exotic, graceful or good-natured, his value was judged lacking, and he was soon sold as a labor slave.
The mind-numbing labor, long days and the crack of the whip were enough to break his resistance before it was ever properly mounted. It was simply easier to allow himself to be molded into a cog, to be hammered into the daily routines of someone without an identity. What could have been a roaring flame became a spiteful little crackle, hidden deep within.

The years, unremarkable as they were, rolled by in a haze of sweat and aching muscles. Finally, he was led to the Crucible for the first time.
But his was not the roar of the crowds, nor the blood spilled in the sands. He was there for the cleanup, the grisly aftermath. Callistus was given the grim duty of hauling off the injured and the dead. He would level the sands and clean up the bits and pieces after all was said and done. There was always something to clean or polish, always one more menial task for him to complete. And if all the bait slaves fell, he would take their place.
In some ways, this new work was easier on the body. But on the soul --- The rot of Aodh was on full display here. The cheering in the stands as blood was spilled, the scars on the bodies of the fighters.
That dead look in their eyes when they went in and fell to the first blow.
But he had grown strong, and he endured. Seasons came and went, bodies fell and careers were made and ended, but Callistus remained.

It was a test of endurance with no prize to win. Time ceased to have meaning, and was measured only in the bodies pulled and meals consumed.
That is, until the Vindicators came.
They came in a flash of fire and a boom of thunder. The Crucible shook and the walls came down.
It was chaos.
Callistus ran. He ran with the hundreds of others, he ran even as others stumbled or were taken down by the Chevaliers.
He ran and he ran, until the smoke and ash and screams and blood became fresh, cold winter air.
After they were safe, after the city was far behind and their chains and bridles broken, Callistus pledged his allegiance to the Vindicators. A new flame was roaring within, and his anger, long held, finally had a target it could lash at.

And so Callistus the labor slave died, amidst smoke and fire.

The rehabilitation took months, and the mental scars were forever. He was dutiful and determined, keeping his head low. He said little, and obeyed eagerly.
Slowly, despite his resistance, the Vindicators began to feel like the family he’d never had. He loved them, and shared in their hope for the future, for a better and more free tomorrow. He could finally trust.
Life, for the first time, was good.

When the Vindicators split, he followed Dinah. Times were hard, but they had hope, and Callistus knew things would look up eventually. They always did. He was eager to play his part, to prove his new family he was worth their love.
He went to the old Bunker with them. It was supposed to be easy, quick and safe. Callistus stood guard, but he could do nothing to stop the things from going horribly, terribly wrong.
Still, he knew that they would be safe. The others would join them any moment, and together they would overwhelm the enemy and make their escape, as they had done so many times.
Yet seconds turned into minutes. The banter turned into cold silence as they danced with death. He watched as his friends fell, and he saw their screams for help fall on deaf ears.
Still he kept fighting, kept trying. Kept pushing.
But when the final swing came, the one that ended his life, he knew he had been played for a fool. He had been promised family, but he was only another expendable body, another martyr soon to be forgotten.
There was no glory. There was no satisfaction.
There was only betrayal, and the merciful darkness of death.

Callistus, the Vindicator, was dead. His body laid there as the Chevaliers burned the Bunker to the ground, and was left to the elements.
That should have been the end.
But it wasn’t.

The first breath was shaky, cold. His lungs filled with a cough and a sharp inhale. Callistus found himself grimy, covered in blood and sweat, but whole. His wounds had healed, his eyes were clear.
His legs carried him, unsteady but sure.

It couldn’t be. It shouldn’t be.
But it was.
He was alive, and he was not alone.
A strange pegasus, his benefactor, looked down at him with a smile. If Callistus had expected his anger to be harnessed once more, Klaus did the opposite: he was the fan to the flame, the spark over dried bushland.
And it was Klaus who spoke to him of the ungod; Digend - the god who had given him a fourth lease on life.
A god whom he owed everything.
A god who could give him revenge.

Callistus found himself walking away from the field of his death, side by side with Klaus. His allegiance, demanded yet freely given, would belong to the Cult now.
They, at least, were honest, and never promised him family.

TRIVIA:
x Teke color black - used to be orange
x Suffers from severe insomnia
x Died and was resurrected in autumn 1701

CREDITS:
Design, artwork and character: me

Description

CALLISTUS
AP Tracker | Moodboard

With every battle, we lose a little more
Remember everything that we died for

Name: Callistus
Age: 24
Gender: Male
Orientation: Gay
Species: Unicorn
Build: Belgian draft
Height: 17.3 hh
Coat Color: Black appaloosa

Herd Affiliation: Vagabond
Rank: Cultist Disciple
Patron god: still warming up to Digend

Talents: locked
Blessing: locked
Familiar: locked

APPEARANCE:
x Rounded and heavy body
x Thick neck and legs like tree trunks, minor feathering on feet
x Horn is broken off
x Due to the resurrection, his pupils are constantly unnaturally dilated giving him a somewhat haunted and empty look

PERSONALITY:
Quiet | Private | Disciplined | Determined | Rational | Vengeful | Insecure | Conflicted

Callistus rarely speaks. A man of a few, select words, he grew up in an environment that did not place value on airing one’s thoughts and emotions. He was raised to be ‘proper’, to be invisible, to never bother anyone.
Its funny how dying can change your perspective on things.
The new Callistus has less care for such trivialities. He is quiet because it suits him - because being labeled the dumb brute gives him time and power. Callistus is deeply private, but when he does speak, it is with purpose and meaning. He can be forceful, and he can be brutally honest. Not concerned with hurt feelings or the proper world order, he allows himself to act with intent and devastating efficiency.

Despite his stoic and calm exterior, Callistus is an insecure mess. He acknowledges and hates this part of himself - this inborn weakness he can not curb. An eternal pessimist who is always expecting to be let down by himself and by others, Callistus is cynical of the goodness of others, and is always looking for ulterior motives. He knows his weaknesses, and guards them ferociously, knowing and expecting others to use them against him. The only thing one can trust is the selfish desire of others.
Callistus views himself as unlovable and unworthy, but simultaneously desires love above all else. Emotions are not a thing he finds easy to handle, always either too much or too little. So Callistus deals with life on frightening rationality - he can rationalize anything, any action and any cause. It’s what keeps him sane.
What makes him dangerous.
His fury runs cold rather than hot. Although a part of him is still hesitant to release his rage on the world, the Cult’s temptations are great. Here he could be respected for his urges, for his temper unbridled.
Never again to be the lamb, but the wolf.

Callistus is not a heart of stone - he may be harsh and rough and concerningly unphased by most things, but he is not heartless. His cruelty is the measured sort, rather than the hedonistic revelry of many of his Cult comrades. He is angry and defensive, but lacks malice. Callistus may be blunt, but he is also honest; manipulative games are of no interest to him.
Still, he’d rather be seen as cruel than weak, hunter rather than the hunted. He believes meeting people with shields up and teeth bared makes him strong, even if it fails to hide the vulnerable parts underneath.

The trauma of dying and being reborn is as of yet raw and untouched. His skin feels foreign to him, his new life unearned yet something he must cling to. How to build himself back up is a mystery, but Callistus is a survivor, and he is determined to live.
A shred of the old honor and duty still remains, but twisted to serve a darker purpose. Violence is the way, even if it tears him up inside.

HISTORY:
Please note: The past includes vague domestic violence, and less vague slavery and death.

Callistus’ parents were the typical War Forged match - an arrangement of convenience, made for line and family rather than the need of any individual. It was the right thing to do.
A permission for a child was granted, and a foal conceived. It was the right thing to do.
His mother worked as a Medic from home, while his Raider father spent long days and weeks and then months away from home, working. There was unease in the air when he was home, something hard to name, hard to place. Callistus would still eagerly await his father’s return, even if he was met by a stern face each time.
His childhood was one of limitations and arbitrary rules. It took very little to get scolded or shouted at, or to be sent to his room without supper.
At first, the child asked questions. Why this, why that. But soon enough he learned that things were done because it was the right thing to do. Asking for anything more than your lot was not to be done.
Asking for validation and love and empathy was not the right thing to do.
And so it was not done.

Years passed. Callistus learned to read silence and the weight of unsaid words as well as any conversation. He learned the art of searing one to the soul with a simple word. One need not touch to cripple, no raised words were needed to hurt. A part of him, deep down, came to crave for a violence he could feel. A wound that could be mended, a hurt he could explain.
But such things were not spoken of, and so he had to find other outlets for the bleeding bruises within.
It started as sparring between colts, Raider apprentices roughhousing. His father was too distant, too frightening to ever touch, but the other boys were not. Them, he could hurt, and in lashing out at them, his own pain was a touch less, if just for a while.
Callistus learned to demand respect with his teeth, to lord over others with fear and muscle. He was big and strong. He could make them afraid.
Afraid to ever hurt him.

It was perhaps inevitable that eventually one of his fellows got far more than bruises. They lived, but all could see that it was no accident.
All knew it would happen again.
The village advocated for Culling. Callistus’ father did not even bother to show up; his mother was quietly resigned. With no one to defend him, his fate was quickly decided, and he was hauled to Skeldr Town for final sentencing.
There he saw his father again, for the last time.
The old man did not even acknowledge him.

Who Callistus had been was dead.

Merely 16, he was reborn to a new, harsh world. Sold to slavery, he was reduced to his parts - his appeal, his strength, his value in shards. Neither particularly pretty, exotic, graceful or good-natured, his value was judged lacking, and he was soon sold as a labor slave.
The mind-numbing labor, long days and the crack of the whip were enough to break his resistance before it was ever properly mounted. It was simply easier to allow himself to be molded into a cog, to be hammered into the daily routines of someone without an identity. What could have been a roaring flame became a spiteful little crackle, hidden deep within.

The years, unremarkable as they were, rolled by in a haze of sweat and aching muscles. Finally, he was led to the Crucible for the first time.
But his was not the roar of the crowds, nor the blood spilled in the sands. He was there for the cleanup, the grisly aftermath. Callistus was given the grim duty of hauling off the injured and the dead. He would level the sands and clean up the bits and pieces after all was said and done. There was always something to clean or polish, always one more menial task for him to complete. And if all the bait slaves fell, he would take their place.
In some ways, this new work was easier on the body. But on the soul --- The rot of Aodh was on full display here. The cheering in the stands as blood was spilled, the scars on the bodies of the fighters.
That dead look in their eyes when they went in and fell to the first blow.
But he had grown strong, and he endured. Seasons came and went, bodies fell and careers were made and ended, but Callistus remained.

It was a test of endurance with no prize to win. Time ceased to have meaning, and was measured only in the bodies pulled and meals consumed.
That is, until the Vindicators came.
They came in a flash of fire and a boom of thunder. The Crucible shook and the walls came down.
It was chaos.
Callistus ran. He ran with the hundreds of others, he ran even as others stumbled or were taken down by the Chevaliers.
He ran and he ran, until the smoke and ash and screams and blood became fresh, cold winter air.
After they were safe, after the city was far behind and their chains and bridles broken, Callistus pledged his allegiance to the Vindicators. A new flame was roaring within, and his anger, long held, finally had a target it could lash at.

And so Callistus the labor slave died, amidst smoke and fire.

The rehabilitation took months, and the mental scars were forever. He was dutiful and determined, keeping his head low. He said little, and obeyed eagerly.
Slowly, despite his resistance, the Vindicators began to feel like the family he’d never had. He loved them, and shared in their hope for the future, for a better and more free tomorrow. He could finally trust.
Life, for the first time, was good.

When the Vindicators split, he followed Dinah. Times were hard, but they had hope, and Callistus knew things would look up eventually. They always did. He was eager to play his part, to prove his new family he was worth their love.
He went to the old Bunker with them. It was supposed to be easy, quick and safe. Callistus stood guard, but he could do nothing to stop the things from going horribly, terribly wrong.
Still, he knew that they would be safe. The others would join them any moment, and together they would overwhelm the enemy and make their escape, as they had done so many times.
Yet seconds turned into minutes. The banter turned into cold silence as they danced with death. He watched as his friends fell, and he saw their screams for help fall on deaf ears.
Still he kept fighting, kept trying. Kept pushing.
But when the final swing came, the one that ended his life, he knew he had been played for a fool. He had been promised family, but he was only another expendable body, another martyr soon to be forgotten.
There was no glory. There was no satisfaction.
There was only betrayal, and the merciful darkness of death.

Callistus, the Vindicator, was dead. His body laid there as the Chevaliers burned the Bunker to the ground, and was left to the elements.
That should have been the end.
But it wasn’t.

The first breath was shaky, cold. His lungs filled with a cough and a sharp inhale. Callistus found himself grimy, covered in blood and sweat, but whole. His wounds had healed, his eyes were clear.
His legs carried him, unsteady but sure.

It couldn’t be. It shouldn’t be.
But it was.
He was alive, and he was not alone.
A strange pegasus, his benefactor, looked down at him with a smile. If Callistus had expected his anger to be harnessed once more, Klaus did the opposite: he was the fan to the flame, the spark over dried bushland.
And it was Klaus who spoke to him of the ungod; Digend - the god who had given him a fourth lease on life.
A god whom he owed everything.
A god who could give him revenge.

Callistus found himself walking away from the field of his death, side by side with Klaus. His allegiance, demanded yet freely given, would belong to the Cult now.
They, at least, were honest, and never promised him family.

TRIVIA:
x Teke color black - used to be orange
x Suffers from severe insomnia
x Died and was resurrected in autumn 1701

CREDITS:
Design, artwork and character: me