Anbar District

I am Cirque, of Ar. At least that is what I tell everyone. And they believe me or at least do not argue the point. I am among the lost and forgotten of the great city. Left to survive by any means possible as long as that does not interfere with the high caste's ideals of Civitus.

I am at home among the haunted hungry eyes and empty bellies. In their great sorrow they feed my apathy better than the cold and slick veneers of the wealthy. They are also more accepting of me and my odd appearance. Also they don't miss a few missing destitute when the need for experimentation becomes more than I can control.

I rent a small room in an insect infested hotel, inn, whatever. I can smell every former tenant, their aromas thick and heavy and full of sweat, urine, and lost hope. So intense I can almost remember to feel.

I wear heavy cloth loose pants. Too long so that the hems drag and get caught under the heels of my boots. My belt slung low on my narrow hips. Most times I carry a Gorean short sword in a sheath slung over my shoulder to lay against my back, easily drawn over my shoulder. I may be free but I'm under no assumptions that everyone I meet will respect my preference to remain so. Comfortable existence goes against all my paranoia.

I'm not too worried about being robbed. I don't have anything to take and my appearance lends to that idea.

Once in awhile I self medicate with alcohol. Good cheap shit that will ensure failure in my liver or kidneys, whichever gives up first. It isn't to stop the pain. The pain I like. It's to stop the thoughts. The ever constant search, quest, need to figure it all out. So that when I look into the mirror I don't just see a mask.