Irial Siu Ynnves, Pilot Royal and Squadron Commander of the Ryun Ravens

[Astaire]

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{NAME}
Irial Siu Ynnves

{ALIASES}
Nym, the Crow, sadomasochistic fairy, Bossguy

{AGE}
93

{GENDER, SEXUALITY}
Male
He'll fuck anything, even a hole in a tree

{SPECIES/ETHNICITY}
Elf/fae/human mix, suspected ½ Fae, ¼ elf and ¼ human (or demon, based on sexual behavior and attitudes towards violence)
Aedolian

{HEIGHT/BUILD}
6’2”
slender

{OCCUPATION}
Pilot Royal, Squad Leader of the Ryun Ravens

{RESIDENCE}
A nice, comfortable apartment in Ryun with a view at the ocean

{VOICE}
Takahiro Sakurai

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IN DEPTH STUFF
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{PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION}

Irial’s not human and it shows. He’s no rainbow-colored, exotic xenos, but his bottomless eyes showing barely slivers of the sclerae, pointed ears, predatory sharp teeth and unnaturally unaging, slim, elegant body give it all away. His skin’s almost like paper, he’s all sharp angles and catlike movements, motions so smooth they’re mesmerizing patterned with the ruins of ugly scars he’s not at all ashamed of. Though he could easily be considered unusual to the point of fright and intimidation, he relishes in that; oh, Nym’s a narcissist in love with his own strangeness and ugliness enough to turn it into a specific kind of charm - to seduce or to unsettle, either’s good.

He’s no hunky piece of beef. Fae and elven heritage means a fragile-looking figure, all long limbs and slim bones seeming about ready to snap, but also ephemeral elegance. He’s slender in the waist almost like a woman, with delicate joints and stringy muscles hugging his spindly constitution, but not gangly; every part of Squadron Commander Ynnves’ body is well-proportioned and graceful, from his skinny ankles up long flexible legs and bony hips all the way to his prominent collarbones and narrow shoulders, even his slim hands with scarily long fingers somehow seem to suit the man. He has a narrow chest, prominent hips and ribs, and a slim neck. The thin bones show, but he’s not emaciated, there’s just enough muscle under his colorless pale skin to keep him from looking too much like a scarecrow.
Contrary to that, Nym moves with a natural catlike grace that’s inherent to him. His movements are relaxed and fluid with an unforced confidence; he’s prone to gesticulation and sprawling, the body language speaking of a terribly self-assured and dominant person that doesn’t need either flamboyant theatrics or uptight rigidity. No, he really doesn’t like to force himself either way, preferring to remain himself and keep his faerie charm.

It’s the face where the definitions of human and inhuman begin to slip and mingle between that which is natural for men and an alien, bug-eyed and angular faerie look. Irial’s sharp jaw and especially pointed chin on a long, solemn face say nonhuman, though his triangular face is well proportioned and his delicate features are noble, androgynous, salvaged only by their sharpness and every unpleasantly vicious smile, but remain too soft and slim to be considered manly. He’s got cheekbones to cut yourself on and sloped, sharply defined and expressive brows over a pair of huge slanted almond eyes, heavy-lidded and fringed with thick lashes and what seems to be daily applied kohl to emphasize them. As much as his lips are thin and quite pale, more grayish than a lively pink, he has a flawlessly straight and quite prominent narrow nose. Even his profile is chiseled and resembles the old paintings of the fae. His teeth are sharp, canines poking out whenever he smiles too widely and even otherwise their tips can be seen poking at his lower lip, almost as sharp as the long pointed tips of his knife-shaped ears that always protrude through his hair.

The misfortune of having thin skin with albinic amounts of melanin means that all the veins, the faint smattering of freckles over his cheeks, dark rings around his eyes and old scars show as easy as can be. His eyes, however, seem to shine in his face with a glimmering darkness, deep teal irises that look black in the slightest shadows and showing too little of the grayish and inhuman sclerae. Even the pupil, when visible, is elongated like a cat’s. The right ear is quite badly mutilated, torn to bits and sewn back up much like most of the right side of his face, riddled with holes and scars in the skin and flesh beneath like the surface of the moon, reconstructed only barely and having come close to being torn out. It's an ugly patchwork of burns, tears and lacerations, and though most of the color has faded from it now, it still marks him like a hideous spiderweb all the way from the corner of his hairline, over the forehead, temple and cheek almost halfway through his face, down to the neck where it still barely continues and reaching far enough through the hairline to create large hairless patches on the side nearly to the back of his head. There’s a much smaller crescent scar under his left eye. Three black, somewhat jagged lines run from the center and either side of his lower lip, converging slightly before they stop halfway down his chin.
 
It's quite surprising that a man so badly mutilated retains his confidence almost intact, but it wouldn't be Nym himself if he let it get him down.

His hair is black, and it’s a black as glossy and rich as tar. Only slightly wavy, he keeps the top as long as standards permit him to, and crops the sides and back of his head to a peachy fuzz, mainly due to the extensive scarring on the right side. The main bulk of his hair is silky, but he prefers to keep it tousled and casually unkempt, typically tied in a bun save for the front strands, or with two braids on either side of the undercut, also pinned back. For formal occasions, he likes elaborate french braids and fancy updos, or slicking his back neatly and allowing the strands to cascade down to his shoulders. His hair is his pride, somehow managing to keep his look however disheveled or smooth it is, though it typically doesn’t boast an overly smooth look.

Although Nym looks young, his body’s been worn down a dozen times over and it shows. It’s not just the extensive facial scars, but those are easily the most noticeable. His spinal column had been replaced by a (completely iron-free and lightweight) mechanical construct that still shows up all along his back as a ridge of metallic, barely elevated outcrops, and a more elaborate construct visible at the base of his neck. Parts of his skull and most of his ribs, too, aren’t quite organic, but this isn’t a fact obvious to many, since his real, natural skin covers the artificial bone quite well save for scars left after the surgical incisions. His lungs, however, are the only internal organ that had been replaced entirely due to severe damage. His right leg bears marks very similar to his face, centered mainly on the outer and dorsal side of the upper calf and the knee; his right nipple is gone, replaced by a scar that wraps around the side of his chest. The life of a combat operative is many things but not comfortable, leaving him with a significant motley combination of scars and a few birthmarks especially around the upper half of his back. Some of them don't look like ordinary bullet scars, lacerations and incisions - there's a whole array of burns, acid scars and orderly, neat cuts especially on his arms and upper body, speaking of things other than simple combat, even something that would appear like a mesh of lash scars on his upper back and the words 'bastard' and 'butcher' carved into his skin on the right arm.

Beside the lines on his lip and chin, he’s gathered his fair amount of tattoos through the years. His neck, his swan neck is inked a solid black from below his jawline, softly fading out on the back and on the front ending in a tapered, triangular point of gradually thinning lines at the base of his throat. The meaning’s not important. There’s a similar solid black band above his left elbow, about three inches thick, and one mirrored on the forearm under the elbow. The plain shape of a snowflake-like, runic looking star shape is wedged under his neck tattoo, exactly between the pectorals, and there's the lines of a realistic human heart inked on his right palm. His squad’s signature two ravens are inked on his shoulderblades, one on each, claws almost touching as their outstretched wings reach over his shoulders.
His left ear till carries many piercings and frequently exchanged earrings, there's one in his remaining (left) nipple, and he has three studs in his tongue as well.

Irial loves to dress well and be noticed for dressing well. Ryun’s climate is dry and hot, rarely warranting something more than a pair of sufficiently tightly fitting monochrome jeans, boots or sneakers and a plain black or dark gray t-shirt with an unique enough design to stand out, and that’s what he tends to wear in his free time - paired with a short leather or bomber jacket when it gets cooler, he’s not quite the type to stoop to hoodies and sweatpants, but he’s no suit-wearing, cane-totting dandy on his off days either. That being said, he still likes to show his flair and wear his clothes expensive, tailored and extravagant. Especially keen on combining the classy and the provocative, he’s exactly the kind of man who’d combine silver gilded thread and a torn up biker’s jacket or velvet and a kinky-looking harness. He likes long tunics, but also extremely tight, form-fitting tshirts, sharp lines and minimalist outlines combined with elaborate detailing, and a lot of layers, transparent or semitransparent fabrics. The king of kaftans, over-the-knee boots and mesh shirts, though he’s most easily recognized by smooth black leather, clear-cut silhouettes, a plenty of straps and zippers, and round mirror sunglasses that he only rarely removes outside.
His formal wear is the real sight to behold, as there’s no such thing as ‘too much’, and he likes participating in formal events plenty. Velvet jackets, seemingly neverending coats, beautiful jewelry and delicate embroidery compliment ensembles that are either figure-hugging and sleek, or billow in the air ephemerally like those of a fairy would. He favors dark, cold colors like black, dark green, dark teal, deep grey or steel blue; silver is a frequent accessory of his, he loves especially necklaces and rings and occasionally conceals his damaged ear with an elaborate cuff. He’s a firm believer of the fact that there’s no such thing as ‘too much’, ‘too fancy’, or too extravagant. Velvet, satin and brocade are more than fair game, but never the synthetic cheap variants. He loves a suit that cuts a nice silhouette, but never count on him wearing just a simple three piece - it’s inevitably gonna be something extravagant, much too modern or decked out in fabrics with fancy long names.
He’s also a huge fan of latex, straps, metal, and spikes. And it shows. Oh, it shows. He loves chokers, gloves and bracelets.

{PERSONALITY}

Dark Eldar meets Sídhe meets acid. Nym’s a sadomasochistic, extremely ambitious beast that doesn’t get close or familiar more than physically, he’s selfish and cruel and a sick twisted fuck beside that. The warm outside of a man down for anything at any time, a party animal and a questionable sex symbol’s a cover to make up for the fact he loves to dish out suffering and see people squirm. Sensory overload, adrenaline and schadenfreude are the addictive gasoline of his life and one day riding fast and chasing after the holy grail/imperial title is gonna bite him in the ass or kill him outright, but Nym doesn’t care, he just wants all the ass and all the power.

He’s also shameless, confident, and quick to laugh at anything. Vicious on the job, relaxed in private. Loves to make shit up and poke at people for shits and giggles, more than anything hates being bored.
Somewhere deep beneath all that shit weeps a sorry little heart of a man that doesn’t believe in love, one that he hammered into the ground with a nine inch heel and vehemently denies ever having.

SEX, DRUGS & ROCK'N'ROLL
Hedonistic, always on a high or bored to death. Chasing the holy grail of his own entertainment, loves to enjoy himself. On the outside, he's very extroverted, if capricious, addicted to excitement and never wanting to be held down or limited. Doesn't like boredom, stagnation or routine, absolutely shameless. Sensory overload is the best thing there is, he's always down for some new shit, a new adventure brewing.

THE FINEST PROGENY OF MARQUIS DE SADE
Decadent and ardently believing in his own freedom without a regard for how it affects others. Sick and twisted, he relishes in the pain of others' and doesn't care about their lives or well-being. Error 404 morals not found in this bitch, the only authorities he respects are formal ones and social expectations are bullshit in his eyes.

MACHIAVELLIAN PRINCE
A manipulative, cruel, unfeeling son of a bitch, he'll advance himself without a regard for others and loves to sit on top of the trash dump. Will not stand to be subdued (other than by formal, recognized authority), at the depth of his soul he lacks genuine sympathy for more than a sparse handful of people. Cynical. Doesn't believe in love or inherent human goodness. Not easily trusting. Likely borderline psychopathic.

SKELETONS IN THE CLOSET
Incapable of properly parsing and processing his own emotions, instead deals with them by bottling them up and not doing anything about them. Hates his own weakness. Absolutely horrible at managing distress or anything in a similar vein through other methods than anger and sadomasochistic tendencies, probably wouldn't recognize affection if it punched him in the face.

Fun Facts!:

• likes lap dances, nine inch heels, harnesses, black latex, and some rumor-spreading tongues would have it that he has every perverted fetish under the sun. Irial makes no effort to disperse those rumors.
• as part fae, his senses are very sharp, especially in regards to sight, hearing and touch; cacophonous sounds irritate him, and his color vision isn't entirely human (he can see a slightly wider color spectrum)
• his blood (and subsequently the veins in his eyes and internal membranes) isn't a vibrant human red, but a somewhat darker, more faded burgundy
• very flexible and agile, loves and practices martial arts and dancing. sex-tango-or-capoeira-?.mp4 is a real video
• contrary to what was suggested, he didn't have his legs replaced by cybernetics (and is beginning to somewhat regret it due to chronic pain)
• doesn't have fingerprints
• the cybernetic implant at the back of his head is sensitive and could reduce him to an immobile wreck if damaged
• has two pet iridescent pythons, Glitterbomb and Ballgag and had a third, named Buttplug, but it died; Buttplug's skeleton was preserved and is kept as a fashion accessory.
• smokes menthols and dandylion
• has a huge interest bordering with unhealthy when it comes the unknown, unfamiliar, unexplored, staring into the abyss until the abyss stares back, and due to this he’s an avid diver and especially enjoys freediving
• a fashion enthusiast and often making contracts with designers, quite popular in the modelling world
• prone to sudden changes of moods and frequent lying when approached outside of work, he loves making shit up and is not to be trusted outside of work matters - he takes his job very seriously, but little else, and gives out contradictory information regarding himself for shits and giggles
• doesn’t believe in love
• loves spicy food, if it doesn’t have chili in it it’s not worth eating
• pure iron actually causes him a faint allergic reaction, a little like sunburn on the skin. Steel is fine.

{SPECIAL ABILITIES}

GLAMOUR
Weak. As Fae, he’s able to fool people’s senses to a faint extent, but the effect is very brief and the original forms of thing concealed by it can still be seen by the corner of the eye, in mirrors and through cameras and recordings. Its range is just a few meters.

TELEPATHY
Just like his squad’s specifics demand, Irial is a very strong telepath. More so than range (though that is impressive, too) it’s the insistence, the invasiveness. Probably honed by practice. Can transfer visual information and gleefully employs it in combination with his biokinesis - hallucination and psychotic voices galore.

TELEKINESIS
Moderate. Nothing beyond average, but finely controlled through years of practice. Can telepathically control a dildo if he's feeling particularly lonely or his hands are occupied.

BIOKINESIS
While he can't create new cells, he can affect bodily functions with a specialization on the nervous system and hormones. Can manipulate neurons, simulate pain or symptoms of mental illnesses and cause hormone imbalances as long as he's in the vicinity; the effects aren't permanent and cease within an approx. 100m range away from Irial, and are immediately strengthened by physical contact with him (skin to skin works the best, though clothes do not impede him very significantly.) He's able to manipulate the sensory input upon closer concentration, varying from auditory and visual hallucinations down to temporary shutdown/blacking out of sensory organs, although this effect is temporary and terminates upon breaking concentration or escaping range. The ability is better suited to singular individuals, but can be used on groups as well. Irial is able to manipulate his own hormonal and nervous responses, though isn't capable of doing so for more than several hours at a time (prolonged use could lead to nerve and gland damage). The combination of hormonal and neural responses can induce panicked and/or paranoid states, vivid visual hallucinations and intense physical pain caused by manipulating loose nerve endings. Sadly, it typically isn't what kills the subject.

{RELATIONSHIPS}

Aeval Meabh - Nym's dragon, a very slim female wyvern of a dark black-green coloration with abnormally large spines along her legs, back, head and tail and a fascination with terror. Her scales appear darker around the areas of her spines and limbs, and a part of her tail, but also throat and left front legs are mechanical. Her large, leathery wings have a huge wingspan and she's covered in what appears to be hair-like growths from the distance, especially on and around the spines and wings. Don't get misled by the fascinating, bright eyes; Meabh is an ancient, cruel and machinating creature and knows precisely why she chose Irial. They were a great match since the start, similarly sadistic and infatuated with inflicting suffering on all who might oppose him, perhaps to the point of Aeval being a little lenient towards his tendencies. She bears an extreme dislike towards weakness and will not tolerate it in her pilot, but otherwise they get along frighteningly well. It was Meabh who suggested him to leave the Harpies, and again Meabh who supported his idea of the Ravens.

{HISTORY}

Bastard. Beloved. Hated. Death. Run. Outcast. Alone. Violation. Violation of the inviolable.

Exalted, relishing. Hope. And broken again. Alone, throughout all of it he was alone. Fame. Misfortune. Ambition. Pain. Pain. Death. Death.
Love. It doesn’t exist.

Pain. Ambition. Forever. Might makes right.

Can’t wash his own hands over himself and doesn’t want to. Alone again. War. A sadistic glee. Danger. Suffering. Martyrdom. A crimson sunset. Far. Very far. Death. Death. Death. Pain. Pain. Pain. Suffering. Again. Death, death, death. Always death.

Life. At a high price.

Drifting into the future. Losing track of years.

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Once upon a time, there had been a Faerie lord, old, wise and powerful. He had had many wives, many children; enshrouded in glamour and legend he seemed to pass through centuries unchanged, and as his progeny amassed so grew his influence. Among them, his eldest daughter Áinfean had always been his favorite, but she was a fickle and whimsical one, not keen on settling down and living a good and responsible life. It was thus that she gave birth to an unexpected child with hair as slick and dark as seaweed and eyes like the depths of the sea.

But this isn't a fairytale. It never was one.
In fairytales, the villain dies and the hero emerges victorious out of his story. Villains don't get happy ends, and heroes don't turn evil; there are princesses and devils, not whores and terrorists.
And that's why Irial's story isn't a fairytale.

His mother, Áinfean of Dan Cais, was the firstborn daughter of a several centuries old fae patriarch and businessman, the widely known Finvarra Uaigh. He had several wives and consorts throughout the years, plentiful offspring and a comfortable government position. And lots of money to provide for his large family, especially ones as Áinfean herself, socialites, models, the hearts of night clubs living their lives in neon lights. It's still not certain who fathered the child, as Áinfean doesn't remember the father's name. Irial was born Irial Siu Uaigh, a bastard child with bottomless dark eyes and was at first ignored by his uncles vying for Finvarra's hard-earned favor.

And he was strange since the start.
Quiet, a little withdrawn from the other kids, always throwing stares that seemed to pierce you through down to the bone, destroying whatever he put his hands on. Disconcerting. A bully, a force of nature called by the wide horizons or a wild animal rather than a sweet little child, though that wasn't altogether too unexpected with the Fae. He had always been a little cruel, a little lonesome and seemingly very ambitious - to impress or excel for himself, that wasn't certain, but he certainly did both in Finvarra's eyes, and the old man took notice.
He saw something of himself in the child. Stubbornness? The ambition? A desire to stand out, the unashamed perseverance and honesty to be himself and not content with a comfortable life, just like the old man himself? Who knows. But he quickly grew fond of little Siu, the empty-eyed, cruel little child that sucked his words in with a religious devotion and never let a thing hold him back.

Of course, this didn't please most of his uncles. How dare some muddy-blooded bastard of Áinfean's enjoy more of Finvarra's attention than them? It was unthinkable, an affront to what they thought the pecking order was - of course, the old man himself never considered any such things and did what he wanted. He liked Irial. And, surprisingly, Irial liked him, as one of the few. In fact, he was more often with his grandfather - who was albeit harsh, commanding and at times controlling, an intimidating presence that bowed to no one, was one of the few that showed him any affection - than his mother. Áinfean soon took the advice of others and largely returned to her old lifestyle.
The head of the Uaigh fae clan wanted Irial to one day become his successor, and began on implementing this. Of course, that didn't please any of his uncles, hungry even for scraps from Finvarra's high table, and they had no intentions of allowing this to happen. They couldn't just get rid of a child, but they could sure enough pin something on him.

The years went by. He got whatever he desired, but drifted away from everyone but Finvarra himself. People kept away, out of fear, disgust or whatever else it was - Siu didn't ask questions, wonder or mind it, because it was better that way. His grandfather gave him everything he wanted, from tutors to toys and gadgets; he took a particular interest in swimming and drank up knowledge with an unusual desire for an Aedolian, but that was likely to be attributed to the fact that the old man, by origin a Libran, had never really bought into the consumerist lifestyle as much. On his regular check-ups, he never tested as a psychic, and ahead of him was the likely life of his grandfather's right hand. It was a glorious prospect.
And some vicious, equally ambitious men couldn't bear the the thought. They didn't make his existence easier, like jackals waiting for a moment of a misstep as argument began to crop up more and more often.
Then, shortly before he turned 15, he subconsciously gave one of his uncles a seizure during a serious argument. Hours later, he was confirmed dead - and of course, the thoughts that the child was the reason for his death began cropping up not much later.

As though in a convergence of everything terrible, Finvarra was found dead in his bedroom a few weeks later. That was the last nail in the coffin - there was no protective hand held over Irial anymore, and the snakes were free to slither in for a venomous bite, or at least so he thought. He had no more future within the Uaigh house, he wasn't welcome. So, in what seemed natural to him at the age of 15, he stole a large amount of his family's heritage, valuables and jewels and hopped on the rail, going over the sea and as far as he only could. He was a runaway now, a self-imposed exile, but it was better than waiting for his uncles to tear him to pieces in the subsequent war of authority. After all, he was still almost a child. He can't recall whether he was afraid at the time; the only thing he remembers was sitting next to the window and wrapping his spindly arms around a bag full of stolen wealth with no future and no goals in life.

He arrived in Aurora and found himself on the streets. As days went on and he wasted his money, living in hotel rooms, getting in trouble; somehow it came to happen that he joined in with a gang - and that's where the name Nym, but also his later alias, The Crow, came from. He quickly rose through the hierarchy despite his youth to become an authority of sorts - with a metal pipe in hand and a sadistic grin whenever he forced someone into submission, he liked this fast-paced, adrenaline-pumped life of threats, blackmail, gang wars and lawlessness. He thrived.
In a way. He convinced himself of this in memory.
In truth, nothing was ideal. He mourned the life he had lost, he wasn't used to this; he was terrified at first, exchanging comfort and luxury for danger and uncertainty was a certain shock. He came to find out about everything Finvarra had previously sheltered him from - sex, drugs and rock'n'roll, violence, pain.

One of those summer nights, Firk, the unofficial right hand of the gang's head, took him to the bedroom of an apartment they'd been raving in at the time. Drugged up on ecstasy and uncertain of what's happening, Firk undressed him and forced him on the bed. He didn't want it, but the man was not asking any questions; when Nym tried to protest, he broke his arm and forced him to comply.
It was not the first night he'd ever dreamed of. Firk left him among the crumpled up sheets alone and hurting, and he hated him for it, he hated him so much; that moment of overpowering hatred was the first time he really realized it--
That when he later caught Firk alone, with a butterfly knife in hand, when he somehow made him fall to the floor writhing in pain and started cutting him. Bit by bit, he watched the blood stream down - and by god, it tasted almost as delicious as the man's screams sounded.
Oh yes, he cut off the manhood that had violated him, piece by piece. He gouged out his eyes, it made him feel so good to take his vengeance and he didn't regret a thing when he saw the exposed bones and viscera. And while the bleeding wreck of a man was still writhing in pain under him, slowly coming closer to the brink of death, he was discovered.

He was alone in the fight that ensued. And it didn't last long. In the dark, there was a lot more knives, a lot more dirty things, a lot more blood. At that point, his memory fades out.

When he came to, he was hospitalized with crushed ribs, a broken leg, and several stab wounds. But there was also one of the other gang members, with severe brain damage and a hormonal imbalance without an apparent natural cause. That was when Nym's psychic abilities were discovered, at the age of 17.
And his world turned around. Accepted into the ATC, he was lifted up from the pits of Aurora's gang life - nothing would ever be the same again.
Of course, it wasn't easy. The plethora of things he was called - an alien, a creature, a beast, whether it was because of his appearance or behavior; once again, everyone remained five feet away from him at the very best. Fear and loathing. He was slowly getting used to it.
He stood on the very brink of being TRIMed several times, due to bullying, sociopathic tendencies and sadism, but somehow carried himself through. Perhaps it was because he was clever, perhaps because he never openly disobeyed, perhaps because he was skilled and willing to learn to become a pilot and serve Aedolis; his love of the suffering of others was simply a vice that was hard to swallow. And like a tool of war, he was broken and remade into a stronger man than he had been before, malleable iron turning first to steel, then to solid titanium. And then, after all the strife and so much effort put merely into making it through, he finally graduated.

The hopes for him were uncertain and shaky as best. He was a wildcard. Dangerous, seemingly unstable - the name of the Crow stuck with him as did an increasingly heinous, horrible record. Surprisingly enough, however, there were no issues. Pilot Cardinal Ynnves was perhaps secretly sadistic, but he was also bright, efficient - scarily so - and good at what he did, even after joining the Harpies. He excelled. Was promoted. Pleased his superiors. Pleased even his squad's leader, though the disputes about technique had been there for a while and eventually they culminated in Irial requesting to be removed from the squad and made a solo Combat Operative. Things worked just fine for the while, with Siu working on his own and doing what he would as a special combat operative; then, the curtains were drawn on peace all of a sudden.

War is never a good thing. Only the strong, the spiteful and the fortunate survive, and there's just one type of man that thrives in the tides of war: the monster. Heinous and cruel, reveling in human suffering. And Nym excelled on the frontlines and in the ambushes, there couldn't have been a better man for that - the lawlessness and atrocity of war unleashed him, deprived him of the chains that had bound him before and set forth the beast. It was the enemy, it was allowed - no one could hold him accountable if the atrocities he committed were in the name of Aedolis and a greater good.
But it is cruel to everyone, perpetrator or victim. The hunter easily becomes the prey.
He had been part of a stealth operation that was going particularly well, but not everyone shared his blood loyalty - things such as morals, beliefs and allegiances to them were still a thing in this rotten world then, as they are now. One member of their little company had been a traitor, working with the enemy and preparing an ambush for them. Although the crew survived, it wasn't for the better - first, it was imprisonment, something he remembered only dimly, then interrogation.

For weeks, months. Traitors, terrorists,  Their faces were all the same with blood, smoke and acid fumes burning him in the eyes, tied to a chair or handcuffed to a wall. Perhaps someone would've said they'd rather not remember, but Nym does, not shying away from the blood, gore and cruelty - the hatred was the only thing that fueled his will to survive then, and became the oil to his fire later. He remembers everything he humanly could.
The intrusions to his mind, a scorching acid trickling over his face. A stranger whose blurred face he couldn't remember with a dulled knife and questions that eventually stopped making sense to him; the repetitive sound of a crowbar hitting limp flesh and the disgusting cracks of fracturing bone. At first, he resisted - even though he could not free himself, he could torment the captors back, every touch becoming a threat to the offender. They had burnt his hands when the specifics of his biokinesis were discovered (after he had already nearly killed one of his torturers), left him starving in that small cell he had been locked in, often unconscious after an interrogation session.
And he survived, because he detested them too much to kick the fucking bucket now and then.

Five months later, the base was attacked by loyalists, reclaimed, and he was discovered in the cell very close to the brink of death - beat up, broken, emaciated and wounded so badly it wasn't even certain whether he'll survive the journey back. He still remembers the one who did this courtesy for him; how could he forget Ren, his old friend, the only--
In the end, it turned out that he was the only member of the captive crew to have survived. Miraculously, he held up despite sustaining massive damage; although it initially seemed that he'll never be able to serve as a combat operative or perhaps even a pilot again due to the mutilation of his spine, skull and nervous system, but he made a seemingly miraculous recovery after undergoing huge restorations, even as much as being fitted with a completely synthetic spine and ribs. His own pride even made him keep his maimed limbs despite nerve and bone damage to his legs; after months, he was ready to resume his service and returned with renewed vigor - although his health wasn't in perfect condition, he arguably performed even better than before.

The things he did were not worthy of words or record. Working as a special covert ops and shock troops agent and beginning his cooperation with others of a similar disposition, had it not been the trying time of war, he certainly would've been on trial for the crimes and atrocities committed. There was only one thing in common between every operation in which he and the likes of his, his black crows, had been deployed in: whatever hadn't been killed with extreme brutality was permanently traumatized.
And how he reveled in it! There was nothing alike to seeing the fruitless retreat of his foes, their terrified screams during what must've felt like an eternity of suffering before the mind and body is slowly torn apart!

That, in a way, was how the Ravens were born. At the beginning, there had been himself and Ren, two black crows circling over the battlefield; the others came later, through accident or conscious recruitment. Although Irial had moved to Ryun years ago already, wanting to stay away from his original clan but also wishing to wipe his head of the memories of Aurora and its crime syndicates (though he'd mopped the floor with some of those, too, shortly after his promotion), it hadn't been till after that war that he contemplated the creation of a squad.
At first, it had been an experiment. Monsters, aliens and freaks the likes of which perhaps would've been rejected elsewhere - he bore no prejudice towards any of them, the only things he had ever disliked having been a meek heart and too much compassion at its bottom.

And despite everything he had ever been casually, as a commander, he was commendable. That became known in the last war between Edanith and Aedolis; formally, the Ravens were formed at its beginning, beginning to operate as a special unit of shock troops specializing in terror tactics and stealth ops. Death from above that you do not expect, acid rain, a creeping terror ready to rend you apart. And they performed beautifully - terrifyingly so. He was promoted again thanks to his terrific war record bordering with the long run of a horror movie and the effectiveness of the Ravens. Finally, after the end of the war, they began functioning as a normal squad.
It was mostly Nym himself who had a hard time getting used to peace after decades of war. Yes, things were less threatening now, but the adrenaline was gone; he had nothing left to let him climb the ladder of importance and rank save for machinations and plans for the future, and fewer yet to satisfy his appetite for human suffering and adrenaline.

One day it'll ruin him - this, or the copious amounts of opiates and his foolish pride - that he knows. But to acknowledge it wouldn't be anywhere as exciting as the titanic struggle against one's own nature and desires to stand on the top of the food chain, once and for all govern the mountaintops, and thus he'd gladly chuck himself into the waves and swim against the riptide just to know he's done something else, something more. Whether it is to take revenge on a cruel world, prove something, or merely have fun till the very end and enjoy the sight of the world falling apart inbetween his spindly fingers isn't important; he'd never gotten as deep as to take the masks off his emotions and get to know them properly. 

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