They have put little thought into their past since they met their angel. Once, perhaps, they were the scion of someone of importance, either lost or cast out, left to scrabble as a destitute urchin child in the gutters and runoffs of a city lost to memory.
Most of that time was swallowed by a fever, the very same one that nearly saw the swells of death sweep them off their foundering promenade of life. It was there that they first met their angel, the one who saw them renounce their first name, Victoria Armenta, and granted them their second and final name: Pyrrhica. What a great victory was won that day.
This deliverance from the eddies of darkness came at only a small cost: service to this angel, an anointed quest to aid all. For when life flourishes, so does death in equal measure. With more room and land come more farms and cities.
They follow the way of their saviour after years of wandering and plying their trade. Then came a new order, a commandment: east. East, you must ride. Push back the veil and reclaim the lands so that more may bloom, wilt, then bloom again.
