History

Life

Ishan was happy.

A happy child, born to a merchant father from India and Haudenosaunee(Iroquois) mother in the Northeastern States. His parents were travellers, and though they faced many trials and tribulations, not the least of which was rampant prejudice, they were generous, creative people. They loved nature and instilled in him a deep respect for the land and the animals.

This worldview they gave him stayed with him throughout his life, including a particular love for wolves, in pack dynamics, in the part they played in the natural and mythological world and the enigmas they represented.

He played freely. He loved freely. He sang and wrote and read and sketched to his heart's content as they travelled back and forth across America, crafting and peddling their wares. It was his books his mother shared with him that first sparked his interest in bounty hunting. Tales of adventurous heroes defeating bandits and highwaymen struck a chord in him early. His fascination with justice only grew more with each passing year and every turned page.

Naturally, when he came of age, he turned to the pinkertons. Already a talented tracker and hunter, he was a valuable asset to the organization. He became renowned for his abilities, and though he was realistic enough to realize many of the men he brought in would be sent to a noose, he deeply believed in redemption, in the ability for men to change and grow.

Wolves continued to be a recurring theme. Every time he heard a howl in the distance, unless he was in the middle of a chase or a fight, he'd pause what he was doing and just listen for the answers. It was his meditation. His peace. Those were the moments that connected him most to the world around him.

Death

It was a strange bounty. No details beyond a location and that they were to catch a man in black.

A small team of four, Ishan included, set out into the forests of Western New Mexico. It wasn't just dark in those trees, it was oppressive. The shadows seemed to press and swallow at their lights. And as dark as it was, and with the land as dangerous as it was, they decided to set up camp to avoid laming a horse.

Wolves howled in the distance. Ishan paused with the song he was strumming on his guitar to listen, and it was this pause that saved him from the first attack. He heard the snapping of twigs. He felt the ripple of tension across his arms. Shadows descended on them at the edges of the campfire, too quick to see clearly. Ishan was on his feet first with his rifle, but he couldn't see. Everything was moving. Only the gurgling cut-off of a scream alerted him to the death of his friend. Then another.

The fire went out as if the wind itself betrayed him. He was attacked. He ran. The screams of his companions followed in his wake as something stalked him through the woods, tearing at his flesh and clothes. He tried to fight but found only air and mocking laughter where he expected flesh.

He thought he got away. In his mad escape through the darkness, he didn't see the cliff until he was tumbling down it. And he landed, bloodied and broken, but alive. He laid there for what felt like an eternity, hopeful that he'd escaped. That their attackers wouldn't follow him down. That he was skilled enough to put himself back together come morning and survive, even if he had to crawl out of a canyon.

But morning never came. The wolves, however, did.

After death

His solid AF worldview cracked and shattered in death. He believes they were ambushed. He wonders if the Pinkertons even set them up, because of the vagueness and the strangeness of the orders. And in his afterlife, this sunny passionate man grew angry with the world. With criminals. He no longer believed in redemption. With death came a realization that evil existed, that some things were darkness and death and would always be thus.

He still sang, but his songs bled with rage and grief. He still loved, but his love of nature and wolves and the spirits of men twisted into something broken and confused.