Editing Campaign:Enfolding Ice/Cretul Pratka (section)

== Basics ==
* '''Campaign:''' [[Campaign:Enfolding Ice|EI]]
* '''Name:''' Cretul Pratka
* '''Concept:''' Big Damn Hero
* '''Caste/Aspect:''' Dawn Solar
* '''Anima Banner:''' A golden ram with the banner of Lookshy tied around its horns.
* '''Motivation:''' Become the greatest hero in Creation
* '''Intimacies:''' Lookshy
* '''Experience:''' 0/9

=== Background ===
Cretul Pratka was born in a small village north of Halta called Two Stones, in the conifer forests of the Northeast. As a boy, he often, and loudly, wished to be able to leave his village, and would spend as much time as possible following the hunters as far as they'd let him, and tailing after the trading caravans until he almost couldn't see his village anymore. He ran errands for his mother and his neighbors, saving his money for the day when he would leave. When he was old enough, he bought a (much-used) sword from the village blacksmith and practiced often with it, slaying imaginary foes and conquering far-off nations.

A long, bitter winter stranded the entire village inside their homes. It was the kind of winter that drove people mad from confinement. As the winter dragged, he and his family grew more and more irritable, until the sight of them made him sick. One evening, he and his mother had a violent row that left with him punching her and leaving in a screaming fury, taking only his sword. He plunged into the teeth of the winter and kept going until he collapsed in the snow some five miles from town.
He woke up in the back of the trading caravan that visited his village, being nursed to health by an old man with a face wrinkled and brown like the skin of a walnut. He wasn't sure how long he had been asleep, or how far he was from home, but he knew he didn't care. He was gone from his village like he'd always wanted and there was the open road calling his name. More, he knew he could never face his mother again after what had happened. He eagerly threw himself into the tasks the caravan master set for him, and learned all he could from the wrinkled brown man, who seemed to have countless stories of the world. His favorites were the ones of mighty Lookshy and the powerful armies it had. Even better were the heroes of Lookshy.
He stayed with the caravan as it threaded through Halta and south through Linowan. He begged the captain of the caravan's escort to teach him to fight, who agreed after much begging and pleading from the boy. The caravan traveled for a year until Cretul resolved that he wanted to see Lookshy for himself. He signed on with another caravan that would take him there, and left as soon he entered the city.

The boy, now 17, was in love. He marveled at the legions drilling in their barracks-yards, and the parades of Lookshy's might. Especially, he gaped in awe at Lookshy's warstriders. He enlisted as soon as he could find the personnel offices and stated, very loudly, that he wanted to be a warstrider pilot. The soldiers running the offices chuckled to themselves and let him join despite his foreign birth.

Sometime after training and his assignment to a unit, he was approached by two officers and told to follow them. He did so eagerly, thinking he had been selected for warstrider training. The two officers led him into an operation room, and told him that he was going to undergo a procedure that would allow him to be able to begin training to be a warstrider pilot. He was elated to hear this, despite the snickering he heard as they left, and all but strapped himself to the table.

Four years later, and the man looks like he's pushing fifty. He realized sometime later that he'd been strapped into a death machine, armour that would eat away at his life the more he used it. For the first year, he thought little of it, figuring that it was a necessary price to pay for being able to pilot such a mighty machine. But gunzosha commandos die young. By the time he'd found that out, he realized that he couldn't leave Lookshy without quickly aging into infirmity, not if he wanted to keep his armour. And he wanted nothing more than to fight in the name of Lookshy and be a hero.

The night of his last mission saw him guarding the tomb of some long-dead beast until a scale of soldiers could catch up to him. He and his fang stayed up the night, taking turns watching for an enemy that was supposed to be nearby. The enemy, a mob of undead from a nearby shadowland, found them first. They fought for hours, Cretul pouring his life into his armour so that he could fend off the beasts long enough for his fellows to find cover inside the tomb. As the last dregs of his strength were sucked up by the greedy thing, and the undead poured over him, ripping at his limbs, he felt the first rays of dawn strike his brow. He heard the voice of the Unconquered Sun in his mind, telling him to grasp his weapon and become the hero he had thought he was.

He hewed through the dead, sword arm mowing down zombies and other things until he found the leader of the mob; a nemissary clad in beetle-black armour. The two were locked in battle for what seemed an hour, fighting their way deeper into the tomb. Cretul found himself in the burial chamber of the ancient beast, his sword broken and his arms weary with the long fight. The nemissary's armour was in tatters, and its body similarly ragged, but it advanced on him still, dead body unhindered by its wounds. Cretul spied a sword and shield lying on the funeral bier in the middle of the chamber, and leapt for them. He snatched up the sword even as the nemissary leapt to deal the deathblow, and slammed it into the creature's forehead, staving in its skull and sending the ghost spinning out of the body. Gasping, he stumbled out of the tomb and into the arms of the soldiers who'd caught up to him. His glowing banner alarmed the soldiers who'd come to rescue him, and they attacked him. Cretul beat them back, sending the fearful soldiers fleeing his counterattack. 

He returned to Lookshy a month later, spending that time burying the dead, burning the undead in huge pyres, and contemplating what he was to do. He resolved to atone for the blow he'd dealt to his city and the families of the soldiers he'd slain, though he feared the reception he'd receive on telling his commanders of the reason their soldiers never came back. With good reason. Immediately on entering the city, he was arrested and brought before a court martial, demanding answers for the events at the Tomb. He answered truthfully, of course, which did him little good. Even if he had acted in self-defense, he had still slaughtered most of a scale of soldiers. As well, a Celestial Exalt could not serve in the Lookshy military. He was expelled from the ranks and had his citizenship revoked. All of his property was seized, save for his armour and weapons and what little savings he had.

An embittered Cretul stormed out of the city the next day and headed to the Tomb of the Last Hero. He gathered the last of the dead Solar's belongings and strode north, swearing an oath that he would return to Lookshy as the greatest hero it had ever seen. Songs would be sung about him even before he entered its walls, and people would swarm the streets to greet him. He would be loved by all as a glorious saviour and make Lookshy shine with glory to outshine even the Realm.


=== Appearance ===
Cretul Pratka's time as a gunzosha has drained his youth and looks, leaving the 21 year old young man looking as he were in his late forties. His mouth is ringed by deep frown lines which turn his smile into a grimace. It's just as well, since he rarely smiles for any reason that isn't besting someone in combat or someone else's misfortune. Deep brown eyes sit sunken into sockets ringed with grey-blue fatigue smudges, and meet above a nose that's been broken far too many times to ever be called 'attractive'. His hair is black, but shines dark green in sunlight, and is kept cropped close. He is almost always seen in armour, battered and dusty and used but still strong as ever.

His civilian attire is well kept, if a bit simple, since he doesn't trust his fashion sense enough to choose anything more than drab slacks and shirt. Small, brassy orbs wink dully in the light when his sleeves fall past his wrists, and more can be seen set into his shoulders and neck.