Nations of Rothel:

Habitus: The nation of Urin, Savior of Might. His Mark grants the ability to take on random characteristics from creatures. All potential additional conduits related to this ability in some manner. The people of Habitus live closely with nature, a life more primitive than most.

Roy pivoted to the left, careening between the legs of an overladen shopper. A discordant crash overlaid with shouts of protest gave him a brief moment of respite. He seized the opportunity, slowing for a moment and refreshing his jaw’s grip.

Not for the first time, he bemoaned the lack of opposable thumbs in this form. Still, he would gladly sacrifice the convenience of proper hands for the speed and maneuverability it held - and more importantly, for the deniability it provided. Gone were the days of risking his own hide reaching into pockets and reappropriating wealth. His first conduit had changed that. Maybe something like [Bone Transmutation] could have provided a more honest living. Maybe not. Everyone had their own talents. Luckily, [Unity] only served to capitalize on his own. Even more, he enjoyed it; enjoyed the feeling of control it provided - something he had found to be more than lacking in his day to day life. He reveled in it, base escapism though it was.

With a powerful gust of air, a booted foot swept in an arc. He jumped, landing on the impromptu platform rather than being rocketed away. Roy’s claws found easy purchase, the boot’s owner shaking violently with disgust. Risen or not, humanity’s fear of rodents and vermin was quite persistent.

Unable to help himself, he clambered further upwards. An unbecoming scream accompanied his journey, the shrill noise just one more note forming the music of his escape. Revelling in the chaos, Roy leapt through the gap created by the man’s flailing figure.

He poured on the speed, little limbs blurring.

The crowd opened up just before a decorative storefront, its bones of twisting ivy appearing as no less than a ladder to heaven, symbol of his ascension to prosperity - or, in this case, the top of the building.

Having reached the roof, Roy turned and stood on his hind legs, looking down upon his audience, the chaotic masses. He wrapped his bushy tail around himself, ducking in a minature theatrical bow. That, surprisingly enough, was the only thing that saved him from deadly embarrassment.

A whistle of air. A flicker of black.

The ebony bird sliced through the air where his head had been only a moment prior. Roy startled from his bow, spinning and wobbling on the roof’s edge. A single coin spilled from the pouch, loosened by the erratic movement. The tinkling of metal as it hit the ground below was like the crack of a whip, spurring him into motion. Playtime was over; someone was taking this seriously.

He bit down harshly, clamping the pouch shut with teeth in lieu of tie.

Roy scampered across the roof, throwing himself to the side in time to dodge another pass by the bird. Reaching the edge, he threw himself once more - this time, directly into the open sky. He spread his legs out wide, letting the skin of his patagium flare wide and catch the air, sending him into a controlled glide.

While he had originally intended to hop from roof to roof for as long as possible, the presence of the bird had forced his hand. Still, the tactic had succeeded in small part; his impromptu flight had allowed him to create considerable distance between himself and the rest of any pursuers. Now, all that remained was the crow.

He tucked in his legs, sending himself into a midair forward roll as the persistent bird nearly clipped him. His power over the skies lost in the maneuver, Roy quickly fell the final few feet to the street. He let out a squeaking grunt as he landed, more out of habit than anything else, before diving into a nearby alley.

The annoying bird may have been all that remained, but that didn’t mean much. It was fast, far faster than his own Risen. Despite that, there was a reason Roy had chosen a Winged Sciuri as a Unified Risen. While it had the advantage in the air over most purely landbound creatures he might encounter in the city, it also held the advantage on the ground over most flight-capable creatures.

An advantage that he was eager to demonstrate.

A toothy grin worked its way around the fabric of the pouch; that selfsame grin simultaneously plastered itself on his real face. Annoying as it might have been, he couldn’t deny there was something thrilling about a good chase - or, at the very least, a good escape.

The alleyway spit him back out onto a new street; this time, however, he found himself in far more favorable environs. The cluttered buildings and dingy alleys of the Low District announced their presence with fervor, appearing only the more extreme due to their proximity to the relatively well-off Market area.

He skidded into a new alley that lay underneath a low-hanging eave, forcing the bird to lower its flight.

It should be right around here.

He reached a fork, bouncing off the wall and shooting left. His pursuer followed; Roy’s hearing sharpened in anticipation.

Foreboding wingbeats shifted into comical squawking paired with a telltale rip of fabric. He thanked the clockwork nature of Old Mathers’ clothesline drying, risking a turn of his head to glimpse a crow-shaped bulge thrashing its way out of the heavy linens.

He took the chance with a recklessness borne of desperation, carefully lowering the heavily laden pouch to the ground before dashing across the meager distance separating himself from his erstwhile pursuer.

Roy flexed his Unified Risen’s claws as he crossed the paltry span that separated the two, forcing himself into a leap that sent him barreling towards the flailing form of his soon-to-be free enemy.

A single wing found its way free just as he closed the gap; he greeted it with a limb of his own. Feathery flesh parted, giving way to sluggish, seeping crimson. Yet, despite the injury, he knew that it would take far more to bar his opponent from the chase. Flesh wounds, as grievous as they might appear, were as nothing to a Risen. The once-dead did not battle with the elegance of a fencer. They did not win through one hundred cuts. They did not fear the slow death. No, nothing but shattered bone and twisted limbs would spell true defeat.

Roy dipped his head, sinking carefully serrated teeth into the closest vulnerable flesh, shaking and tearing as his vision filled with tangled feathers and twisted flesh - the first victims of the ongoing struggle. He pressed ever deeper, probing for the vulnerable tendons hidden within.

A lance of white-hot pain speared through his shoulder, the searing pain both distant and immediate in the way that only [Unity] could arrange.

He twisted harshly, evicting the piercing beak that had found its home in his flesh. Blood welled lazily from the hole that remained, dripping slowly in its quest to spill through his fur. It itched with a trembling, tickling tingle; the viscous liquid tugging and pulling in its travels, as if a million mites and fleas scurried their way across a million tiny hairs in turn.

Through it all, he had yet to relinquish his hard-won prize - until, finally, it tore asunder with the barbaric melody of ripping flesh. The sudden release sent Roy into a whirl, and he continued the motion slightly, turning around in a quick one-eighty before scrambling away.

The fabric-encased avian had managed to pull its way free of the tangling fabrics during the brawl, its wings flapping vigorously, angrily. Menacingly.

If, that is, one were to ignore the gaping hole and mangled tissue that revealed the bone hidden carefully within.

The injured bird let out a series of raucous squawks as it advanced, talons scraping against the alley with each stuttering hop and aborted flight.

Masked as it was by the deafening noise, the slight glimpse of a quickly-descending shadow was his only warning.

The heavy-booted foot came down with a thunderous stomp, narrowly missing Roy as he dove for safety. And then again. And again - his margin for error growing smaller with each breath.

Finally, a blow landed, the vicious kick sending him flying across the breadth of the alleyway. The nearby wall met him with a less-than-tender touch. A number of small bones snapped.

The man stood silently, placing himself between Roy and his once-gotten gains.

“Show’s over, now,” the man stated. His clothes were worn, torn by both time and travail. Despite that, there was no mistaking him for one of the many bedraggled refugees that had poured into Dihaim for fear of the encroaching Veil.

Fear of its purple curtain of light, the power and final remnant of one of humanity’s Saviors brought low by the actions of a single Corrupted - a single, overwhelmingly rare natural superhuman.

It had slowly begun to spread over the years, crossing the Sea of Chaos from which it sprang. Now, it crashed against the borders of multiple nations: Dawn, Habitus, and his own Noumenon.

Once inside, there was no escape. Many had lost families, friends, and property to the Veil’s descent. They would never return.

The refugees, each and every one of them, possessed a certain degree of despair - as if they had lost all hope. Their eyes reflected that despair: dead orbs that simply stared out at the world with no indication of desire to become part of it. Their very lives were mired in the same; many simply lived, but little more. They turned to their vices, anything to deaden themselves further; they turned to their whores, their drugs, their drink. They relinquished their control, finding it easier to pretend that they simply had none.

It made Roy want to vomit.

This man, however, was far from that.

His eyes were dead - but not with despair. They were simply empty. Unblinking. His cheerful grin was the same; there was something not quite right about it, as if the expression didn’t entirely form properly. Something not quite right about the man at all. Something disturbing, though he couldn’t give words to the reason why. Instead, it was something visceral, at the core of Roy’s very being.

Regardless, just like that, the show truly was over. The curtain fell - and it was time to make his final exit.

Sparing only a moment to glance mournfully at the now corvid-warded coins, he scurried away on broken limbs. Hopefully, regaining what was stolen would be enough in the eyes of his pursuers. He had grown attached to this particular Risen; he would hate to lose it.

All the while, he felt the man’s unblinking eyes upon his back. Felt the itch of being watched mingle with the itch of the blood running through his fur. Felt it find its home there, forming a nest of tension and unease.

Alleyway after alleyway, he twisted and turned, seeking to leave the sensation behind. Still, the crawling itch remained. Roy felt his Risen deteriorating further by the moment, its fractured limbs sending spikes of dissociated pain through his mind as the slivers and shards of bone tore ever deeper into the tissue that surrounded them.

He cursed, the sound coming out in both a series of words and chittering squeaks. He felt weak; he had lost. Worst of all, he had lost control.

That rankled the most.

That loss of control. The ability to be above it all, to be the one that made things happen rather than the one that things happened to. He had enough of that, already. More than enough for a lifetime.

He shouted, kicking at a nearby wall with his real body as his Risen finally arrived. The Sciuri was damaged, and that alone was enough to be an annoyance. If the damage was low enough, he might be able to work out a deal with a Woundshifter. Otherwise, he would have to accept the loss; killing the thing and resurrecting it once more would heal it just as well, but there was something uncomfortable about the idea of murdering a being that housed your own mind and perception. Not to mention the small but non-negligible loss of his lifespan that came with a new tithe.

The powers of the Saviors - or more specifically, Neladrie in his own case - was something he couldn’t imagine living without, but he still resented the costs incurred.

Roy leaned over, running his fingers through itching crimson-stained fur. His skin still crawled with the memory of unblinking eyes, his fur twirled and writhed under - he froze.

Bloodstained hairs moved again under his watchful gaze.

He pushed them aside.

He found the source of the constant, crawling itch: a miniature field of ticks that spread across his Risen’s back.

He reached out, crushing the nearest.

He reached out agai - Roy fell back, bowled over. At the same time, a wave of pain spread across his Risen self.

“Sorry I’m late! Had some money to return - you would not believe the things people just leave laying on the street.”

Slowly, Roy looked up - already knowing what he would find: well-worn boots resting upon a broken and battered Sciuri. That strange, faux-cheerful smile.

Those dead, unblinking eyes.