When he was young, he was forced to watch as his species, once mighty and powerful, drove themselves to extinction out of blind ambition and greed. Instead of crumbling with everything else, he salvaged what he could and fled. Technologically inclined and a tinkerer at heart, he understood his stolen treasures, changing and improving them, making them his own when he wasn’t simply trying to survive on a dying planet. That is, all but one. A strange device it was, the legacy of a man equal parts genius and insane. Defying logic and explanations, the device, barely larger than a chicken’s egg, held the power to rip open the vale between worlds and transport something or, more importantly, someone across the rift. As the world continued to descend further into madness, he saw that he was left with no other choice. He used the device.

Much to his grim astonishment, it worked as expected. However, there had been no way to guide it – no way to know what was on the other side. He found himself facing a strange new world; new places and new faces. He was without direction and without a voice upon his arrival. He set about learning what he could: customs, culture, and language so that he may have a voice once more. He became one with the shadows, watching and silently listening. When he did finally show himself, they asked him his name. He responded solely with silence, for he had none to give. He continued like this for a time, drifting from place to place, grinding out an existence. The world was such that he could not live off of the wilderness; little was left that wasn’t taken over by the sprawl of society. Forced to integrate himself into society, he had nothing but his morals and convictions to lean upon. As time flowed by, he became painfully aware of a corruption permeating nearly every aspect of his new home. The government, the institutions, the economy, and even the very people; few, it seemed, were truly free. This disturbed him deeply, moved him, violating that which he held dear. With this, he decided to take back his voice.

He fought back the only way he knew how: purge the corruption, and in doing so, teach the people to be strong once again, and to fight for their own freedom. It began among the people. Murderers, rapists, and perpetrators of heinous acts, ignored and left to their own devices by society, a menace, mysteriously turned up dead, shorn to pieces and mutilated. They were many, but he was stronger than they, in both mind and body. They bore weapons against him, but he was versed in the arts of war. Amidst the outcry and the fear which followed in his wake, something else, thought to be long dead, appeared as well: hope. People began to rise up, proclaiming that they would no longer be willing victims. If one man, with neither name nor face, would stand against the tide, why couldn’t they? The spark became an idea, the idea became a movement, and the movement took root in the streets, in the alleys, and in the hearts of the masses. Seeing that the people had found their spirit, he retreated back into the shadows. His job was done.

The upheaval was swift, and it was decisive. The governments fell with relative ease, their foundations suffused with rot. New establishments, founded in the spirit of freedom and justice rose to fill the void. Though their actions had been their own, the people did not forget what roused them from their slumber, and what was once nameless now gained a title: Yiska. He became an icon in the eyes of many, a symbol of the revolution, and it angered him. The world was theirs, built from their will, their determination, their hearts and minds, not his own. They gave him credit where none was due. He tried to hide, but the stories were everywhere, drifting upon the air. And so, with the press of a button and a flash of light, Yiska vanished from the world, never to return.

Memories seemed to blur together as time marched on. New worlds came and new worlds went. He simply wanted peace, but peace, it seemed, was the one thing which he could not find. Friends were few, but those whom he came to trust were cherished. Wherever he went, ghosts of the past seemed to nip at his heels, with trouble and heartache following close behind. He found happiness once, in a small jungle village. For a time, he lived simply, free from the corruption of society, but it did not last. When he returned from a hunting venture, he found all he loved, all of his hopes and dreams, lying in pieces, burning, the mark of some unknown rivalry written across the wreckage. Overcome by misery and despair, his darkest secrets burst forth like the putrid entrails of some long dead rotting carcass. When the tempest subsided, Yiska saw the destruction which he had wrought. An emotion presented itself which had nearly been forgotten: fear. Yiska now questioned his very nature, what he was, and it terrified him. He fled once more.

Now, he had a new mission. He had a purpose. The truth was all that mattered, and the truth he would have. Many worlds, many years, and many people passed by, and Yiska continued to search. He learned and he grew, discovering more about himself and becoming stronger as he came to accept that which tormented him for so long. Challenges arose, and were met. What had once been a struggle now came with ease. He dedicated himself to bringing about balance where others could not; to bringing the truth to light whenever it had been hidden.

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