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:::- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.''</blockquote>
:::- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.''</blockquote>


=== Longbow Interview 7742-Gamma Timestamp 00:05 ===
Makwa.  ''Makwa.''
[Interview Transcripts - both typed and video-recorded - authorized by Praetorian Refugee 'Makwa']


''Makwa sits comfortably in a well-used recliner. He decorated his apartment in a way that was sparse but orderly. There is a lot of floor space, with most furniture hugging the walls.''
Hear us speak in the winds, Speaker-of-Many-Names.  One comes to you, to speak of the Unfinished Blade. He has questions. Hear us speak.


''His posture is one of a man who is constantly listening - his head cocked to one side, his posture ram-rod straight despite his advanced age. His hair is much longer now than when he first came to Paragon City, and cascades over Makwa’s shoulders and the tribal-print shawl wrapped around his narrow shoulders. There are many streaks of iron grey in his otherwise raven hair, and a stern resolve in his posture. There are also many laugh-lines on a face otherwise accustomed to serenity. His blind eyes stare at the opposite wall. Today, though, his demeanor has only become more solemn.''
''Pratorianskiye Lezviya!''  Hear us, Speaker-of-Many-Names, for our knowledge is great and terrible. He was born in the city of Saint Peter, astride the cold and deep waters, when the world was sane. We watched as he grew, a proud son of Praetorian Russia, strong and innocent. Yes, innocent… for a time, it was good.


'''Makwa''': “Hello, Agent.
With his dada and his mumma, they walked the broad avenues of the grand parks.  See him! A quiet boy, with raven hair and eyes the color of slate.  His mother’s eyes.  He recited the park names as a mantra, to remember the serenity and shade they offered; the Summer Garden of Peter the Great, Moskovsky Victory Park, and the murals of Saint Isaac’s Square.  Ah, the Square!  See him, Speaker-of-Many-Names! Can you imagine our stoic, silent Blade as a laughing child, chasing birds through the square?  Do you see him?  Picture well that laughing, dancing boy with eyes of slate and hair of raven black.


'''Agent X''': “Hello, Makwa. Thank you for seeing me today.
For you will not see it again.


''Makwa’s blind eyes suddenly shift to look directly at Agent X. There a long moment of silence.''
See!  Hear!  The screams began in the parks, on that fateful day. The slate-eyed child first learned betrayal as the places he loved became the death traps, and he would never enter again.  See the thrashing of the trees as they rip themselves from their manicured prisons?  The screams and the blood-soaked branches? 


'''Makwa''': “You know, I never listened to ‘Frankenstein’ until I came to Primal Earth. The Ministry of Intelligence’s Office of Information Integrity had banned that book years ago in PraetoriaI have come to greatly love the audiobooks provided by the Paragon City University library system.”
Hamidon! They cried in voices none could hearHamidon! Hamidon!


'''Agent X''': “Umm…”
The once-stately trees of Saint Petersburg’s parks tore themselves free, and the bedrock itself rose to strike down the humans, to feed upon their fluids and water the parched ground.  An almost ritual sacrifice to starving, ravenous gods. Then the great pine forests of Priozersk and Yuntolovsky, of Rzhevskij and Kovalovskiy poured themselves into the doomed city.  Saint Isaac’s Cathedral was overthrown.  The great Gates were torn down.  The memorial headstones of Piskariovskoye were ripped free and desecrated. 


'''Makwa''': “I am not surprised though; a book which says ‘Just because science says we *can* do this thing, doesn’t mean we *should* do this thing,’ is certainly... questionable to any society built upon questionable sciences, wouldn’t you say Agent?”
Hamidon! Hamidon! Hamidon!


'''Agent X''': “That… that is very interesting, but—”
Speaker-of-Many-Names, did you know that Leningrad endured over 900 days of siege, once?  Yet the once-proud defenders of Saint Petersburg were overrun in only weeks.  Their machines were smashed by walking stone. Their barracks were crushed by grasping limbs. The city died, and so many died with it. Many were even… Devoured.
   
'''Makwa''': '''''*cuts off Agent X*''''' “So. You want to know about Markus Magnum, do you? Hmm. Doesn’t your Federal Bureau of Super-powered Affairs already have a file on him?”


'''Agent X''': “Yes, they do. But the Genetic Investigation and Facilitation Team’s analysis focuses more on his genetic mutations, his weapons, that sort of thing. I want to know what sort of man he is; his personality and so on. Provost Marchand has asked that we allow Markus Magnum to join the New Praetorians, so we’re consulting with those who have worked with him before.
Into this chaos and death, the raven-haired boy was thrown. See him run, Speaker-of-Many-Names? See the tears on his cheeks, the blood of his parents spattered across his body?  He saw, first hand, what Hamidon thought of the humans that infested Praetorian Earth. Right in front of him, for he was quick and fast, even then. His parents, were not.


'''Makwa''': “Well, he helped the Resistance and the exiles in First Ward greatly. Many owe their lives to Markus Magnum and his… nobility in action. His actions have given others an opportunity to atone for past crimes. Like the New Praetorians, yes? Considering his background, it’s astonishing to me, honestly.
The hours became days. Days became weeks. Weeks became months. Months became years.  Can you imagine it?  We stand Outside, but we watch. The great city was overturned, from the Nevsky Prospekt to the great Cathedrals to the Winter Palace. And the young ones ran from vanishing sanctuary to vanishing sanctuary.


'''Agent X''': “His… background?”
Hamidon! Hamidon! Hamidon!


'''Makwa''': '''''His facial expression takes a faintly shrewd expression''''' “Oh yes, Agent X. His background. The questions you've asked about him before today, that have never been answered. You know... the real reason you are here talking to me today.”
The incantation, the summoning, echoed in the little ones’ ears. Those who have ears, let them hear, as the saying goes. We have no ears, yet we hear. We hear the quiet sobs. We remember.  


'''''Makwa is silent for several moments, as if listening to something though the apartment is silent until the Bricktown Elevated Tram rattles by the building'''''
We. Alone.


'''Agent X''': '''''his one visible eye blinks in surprise''''' “How did you know…?”
The adults sought the little ones as impenetrable night fell across the ruined frescos of Saint Isaac’s Square. Hopes flickered and died like the lights as the rage of Praetorian Earth destroyed power lines and generators alike.  At first, the adults lied to the little ones, saying that the Russian defenders would return, would rescue them and bear them away. Some believed. Some, like the raven-haired boy… did not. He knew better, even at the age of 6 years.


'''Makwa''': '''''smirks and huffs''''' “Agent, shall we drop this pretense? You offered to gather information on Markus Magnum for Longbow, and yes, your official reason was true; to evaluate him for membership into the New Praetorians. And I have words to say about that. But you have an ulterior motive; to gather information on him because there are too many gaps in his FBSA-GIFT dossier, yes?”
Do you feel the biting cold of the Russian winter, Speaker? There was no power, and no warmth – save the small fires of survivors huddled against the howling night and the monsters, unshackled from the spaces beneath beds, which lumbered, seemingly impervious to the cold.


'''Agent X''': “There is that, yeah. But…” *takes a deep breath* “All right. While I could dance the ‘just how much does Makwa know’ interview jig, I’m just going to save time and assume that your… sources…” '''''waves at the air''''' “… are going to tell you everything in due time, anyway.
What was it, exactly?  Was it the freezing cold? Was it the destruction of their monuments and desecration of their final resting places? Was it the vast numbers of dead lying among the cobbles which summoned them? Even we do not know. But above the ruined stones of memorial sites like Piskariovskoye, lights appeared. Above the ravaged Kresty Prison, the flickering lights appeared.  


'''Makwa''': '''''smirk fades''''' “You are a smart man, Agent. Markus Magnum has walked a convoluted and painful road, full of horror. The spirits whisper the letters 'PME3' over and over againMelodramatic, and only vaguely hints at the horrors he has had to endure, but... yes, that is a good name for our Russian Gunslinger’s timeline.
Cold, white lights. Hamidon’s minions investigated, but plant and stone and crystal were no match for the bitter whispers, the dread and the hunger of the lightsThey whispered of Leningrad, of political repression, of their hatred for any who dared invade these lands. The minions of Hamidon withdrew, but the Corpselights of Leningrad followed. Hungry. Filled with a hungry rage equal to the Praetorian Earth’s.


'''Agent X''': “Ah, his Malta connections.
The adults saw the flickering lights, and perhaps some had some idea of the danger they represented. Ah, Speaker-of-Many-Names, we can hear the panicked arguments of the adults.  Too many had no more hope to offer, to keep the freezing cold, Hamidon and now the angry, hungry dead at bay. And in the flickering, dying light of cell phones, the final horrific decisions were made.


'''Makwa''': '''''nods slowly after a pause''''' “Yes, there is that. Becoming a Malta Gunslinger was considered a natural fit, with his skills and they did save Aleksey on Kotlin Island after his parents and brother were murdered. Of course, the order was controversial since he is… Augmented? A Cape? Your Primal Earth terminology still confuses me sometimes.
Do you see the raven-haired boy with slate eyes, Speaker-of-Many-Names? See how thin he is now? He no longer laughs. He no longer chases birds. See him and the other little ones quietly cut down their erstwhile protectors from the overhead beams. The hanging ropes were thick and heavy, and difficult to cut. But the knives they had found worked on the ropes.


'''Agent X''': “Well, the FSBA had him listed as a Villain, not a Cape, so… Augmented is as good a term as any."
And on their dead protectors.


'''Makwa''': “But that wasn’t the first time he appeared on your… radar. The ‘terrorist bombing’ in Saint Petersburg was when his story on Primal Earth began. And that road has led him to your notice as Longbow’s spymaster, only to vanish, only to surface, disappear again, and then reappear in a place you never expected. Am I right, so far?”
And the hungry dead, the Corpselights of Leningrad, must have taken notice, for they drifted down to visit the little ones who had, in the name of survival, broken one of the greatest taboos; a taboo that had been broken before.  And they whispered in the ears of the little ones; words that were both new and old. Very old.


'''Agent X''': “You’re… not wrong.
''Trupoyedstvo'', whispered from mangled lips in dark corners of the shattered remains of Nevsky Prospekt. What do the little ones see? Little ones should never see such things.
''Lyudoyedstvo'', whispered from shattered jaws as they drifted across the ruins of Saint Isaac’s Square. What do the little ones do? Little ones should never do such things.


'''Makwa''': “The longer you sit here, the more the Spirits and the Winds whisper about Markus Magnum.” '''''another pause''''' “Almost makes me wonder what Vanguard has on him. After all, didn’t the Dark Watcher work with Markus Magnum in Praetoria as well?”
Do you see him now, Speaker-of-Many-Names? His hunger is lessened, and he refuses to think on how and why that is. It just... is.


'''Agent X''': “Well… yes, he did… now, about the Malta Group and considering their disdain for ‘Capes’…”
The Corpselights of Leningrad filled the eyes of too many little ones. Too many. His too. Yes, his eyes of slate glowed with the horrible legacy of Leningrad. They didn’t have words for what happened there; Trupoyedstvo and Lyudoyedstvo were old and foul words of knowledge; too old for children. They were too young. Too tired. Too afraid.


'''Makwa''': “…it made little sense that they would spend so much effort and the risk of exposure to save him, yes? And of course, the amount of coordination required to show up just as the bomb went off…”
Too ''hungry''. And he still remembers, you know. In his dreams, sometimes. Textures, flavors, sensations, smells. Or when he dares open those doors. In his mind’s eye, those doors stare back with stolen eyes. And when he remembers? Your horror cannot match his own.


'''Agent X''': “…led a lot of investigators - especially from Russia’s FSB to believe that Malta had been behind the attack. But if that were true, then…”
For two years, humanity left the remains of the city abandoned and desolate before the Praetorian Guard finally fought their way to the ruins of Saint Isaac’s Cathedral. Two years. Can you imagine it, Speaker?


'''Makwa''': “…why rescue Markus Magnum from their own assassination attempt? And that didn’t even explain…”
He survived. And just what do you think the Praetorian Guard found in the ruins, eh? Thousands and thousands of little ones, who had regressed so far that they didn’t run in gangs so much as packs. And their reports back to the Emperor were full of such sanitized, clinical terms; Separation Anxiety Disorders. Feral Child Syndrome.


'''Agent X''': “…the ''Kholat Sakyl'' video dump…”
But where were the adults? The Praetorian Guard whispered what they suspected; after all, they had found the pits, and saw the memorials built by hands too young and small to make such things… but never put in reports. Such horrible, horrible things they discovered in the ruins, Speaker. ''Trupoyedstvo. Lyudoyedstvo.'' The little ones licked their lips. And smiled. Do you see him, Speaker?  Oh, how he smiles when he sees the Imperial Guards! What does he see, we wonder. What is he thinking?


'''Makwa''': “…which came out right after the bombing…”
Whispers of the corpse-lights of Leningrad filled their ears. But there were also new old words, whispered by a precious few Guards who knew their histories before Imperial victors rewrote them; the Lithuanian ''Vokietukai''. Or the German ''Wolfskinder''. Or the Soviet ''Besprizornye''.


'''Agent X''': “…all of which made the FSB’s official report blaming Malta very suspicious. Then he just dropped out of sight. We didn’t see him again until…”
Children only in physical age. Only in stature. Their eyes spoke of knowledge far older, and fouler.


'''Makwa''': “Galaxy City. That poor man. The Path of PM-E3 had always been unforgiving.” '''''*He sighs, his face becoming mask of sorrow for a long moment*''''' “He was going to propose that day. Had bought a set of rings. The fires destroyed them. Melted into slag, right in his hands - just like the district itself…”
Feral. Monstrous.
 
'''Agent X''': '''''*pauses, then shakes his head slowly in realization*''''' “It was his left hand, wasn’t it?”
 
'''Makwa''': '''''*nods slowly*''''' “Blue Spectrum - Jason - was going to say, ‘yes’.  Instead he became just another casualty, memorialized in black stone, and stitched in black ink on our Russian Gunslinger's left arm.”
 
'''Agent X''': “We’ve been able to gather a little bit of intel on that. We didn’t know the proposal angle, but… Blue Spectrum? But why did Markus…?” '''''*he pauses*''''' “‘My training activated, then’. Oh. Oh, my God.”
 
'''Makwa''':  "You spoke to Markus Magnum, then."
 
'''Agent X''': "A year ago.  He was... Dr. Sheridan was running performance tests on his abilities.  Even then, he was not happy to see me... again"
 

Revision as of 00:30, 30 January 2023


Markus Magnum
Player: @Markus Magnum
3-29 100 markus.png
Commission By @timdoodles [Twitter]
Character Build
Origin: Mutation
Archetype: Blaster
Security Level: 50
Biographical Data
Real Name: Aleksey Rumyantsev
Known Aliases: Gunslinger Ursa Major-117
Age: Mid-30s [Estimate-Records Loss]
Gender: Male
Species: Augmented Human
Ethnicity: East Slavic
Birthdate: [Uncertain-Records Loss]
Birthplace: Saint Petersburg, Russian Federation [Praetoria]
Relatives: * Aleksandr [Father] [Deceased]
  • Ludmilla [Mother] [Deceased]
  • Nikolai [Brother] [Deceased]
Characteristics
Height: 7'
Weight: 285 lbs
Eyes: Slate Blue
Hair: Black
Complexion: Tan
Physical Build: Heavily Muscular
Physical Features: * Maintains a closely-trimmed beard
  • Has a black armband tattoo on the bicep of both arms
  • Twin rows of circular scars on his back
  • Wears reinforced sunglasses with cobalt lenses
Status
Alignment:
██ ██ ██ ██ ██ ██ ██ ██ ██

Chaotic Neutral

Reputation:
██ ██ ██ ██ ██ ██ ██ ██ ██

Big-time

Identity: Secret [Known only to a few]
Years Active: [REDACTED BY FBSA-GIFT/Vanguard HELM]
Base of Operations: Paragon City, RI
Citizenship: United States [Provisional]
Education: [REDACTED BY FBSA-GIFT/Vanguard HELM]
Occupation: * Security Analyst
  • Bodyguard
  • Bounty Hunter
Marital Status: Partnered
Known Powers and Abilities
* Dual Pistols
  • Enhanced Martial Arts [Modified SYSTEMA]
  • Enhanced Sensory Perception and Target Acquisition
Equipment and Paraphernalia
Confidential
Attributes
 
   Strength
   Endurance
 
   Agility
   Speed
 
   Fighting
   Projectiles
 
   Durability
   Resistance
 
   Intelligence
   Psyche
 
   Intuition
   Charisma
 
ReldinBox Template


"Every man has his secret sorrows, which the world knows not; And oftentimes we call a man cold when he is only sad.'

- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Makwa. Makwa.

Hear us speak in the winds, Speaker-of-Many-Names. One comes to you, to speak of the Unfinished Blade. He has questions. Hear us speak.

Pratorianskiye Lezviya! Hear us, Speaker-of-Many-Names, for our knowledge is great and terrible. He was born in the city of Saint Peter, astride the cold and deep waters, when the world was sane. We watched as he grew, a proud son of Praetorian Russia, strong and innocent. Yes, innocent… for a time, it was good.

With his dada and his mumma, they walked the broad avenues of the grand parks. See him! A quiet boy, with raven hair and eyes the color of slate. His mother’s eyes. He recited the park names as a mantra, to remember the serenity and shade they offered; the Summer Garden of Peter the Great, Moskovsky Victory Park, and the murals of Saint Isaac’s Square. Ah, the Square! See him, Speaker-of-Many-Names! Can you imagine our stoic, silent Blade as a laughing child, chasing birds through the square? Do you see him? Picture well that laughing, dancing boy with eyes of slate and hair of raven black.

For you will not see it again.

See! Hear! The screams began in the parks, on that fateful day. The slate-eyed child first learned betrayal as the places he loved became the death traps, and he would never enter again. See the thrashing of the trees as they rip themselves from their manicured prisons? The screams and the blood-soaked branches?

Hamidon! They cried in voices none could hear. Hamidon! Hamidon!

The once-stately trees of Saint Petersburg’s parks tore themselves free, and the bedrock itself rose to strike down the humans, to feed upon their fluids and water the parched ground. An almost ritual sacrifice to starving, ravenous gods. Then the great pine forests of Priozersk and Yuntolovsky, of Rzhevskij and Kovalovskiy poured themselves into the doomed city. Saint Isaac’s Cathedral was overthrown. The great Gates were torn down. The memorial headstones of Piskariovskoye were ripped free and desecrated.

Hamidon! Hamidon! Hamidon!

Speaker-of-Many-Names, did you know that Leningrad endured over 900 days of siege, once? Yet the once-proud defenders of Saint Petersburg were overrun in only weeks. Their machines were smashed by walking stone. Their barracks were crushed by grasping limbs. The city died, and so many died with it. Many were even… Devoured.

Into this chaos and death, the raven-haired boy was thrown. See him run, Speaker-of-Many-Names? See the tears on his cheeks, the blood of his parents spattered across his body? He saw, first hand, what Hamidon thought of the humans that infested Praetorian Earth. Right in front of him, for he was quick and fast, even then. His parents, were not.

The hours became days. Days became weeks. Weeks became months. Months became years. Can you imagine it? We stand Outside, but we watch. The great city was overturned, from the Nevsky Prospekt to the great Cathedrals to the Winter Palace. And the young ones ran from vanishing sanctuary to vanishing sanctuary.

Hamidon! Hamidon! Hamidon!

The incantation, the summoning, echoed in the little ones’ ears. Those who have ears, let them hear, as the saying goes. We have no ears, yet we hear. We hear the quiet sobs. We remember.

We. Alone.

The adults sought the little ones as impenetrable night fell across the ruined frescos of Saint Isaac’s Square. Hopes flickered and died like the lights as the rage of Praetorian Earth destroyed power lines and generators alike. At first, the adults lied to the little ones, saying that the Russian defenders would return, would rescue them and bear them away. Some believed. Some, like the raven-haired boy… did not. He knew better, even at the age of 6 years.

Do you feel the biting cold of the Russian winter, Speaker? There was no power, and no warmth – save the small fires of survivors huddled against the howling night and the monsters, unshackled from the spaces beneath beds, which lumbered, seemingly impervious to the cold.

What was it, exactly? Was it the freezing cold? Was it the destruction of their monuments and desecration of their final resting places? Was it the vast numbers of dead lying among the cobbles which summoned them? Even we do not know. But above the ruined stones of memorial sites like Piskariovskoye, lights appeared. Above the ravaged Kresty Prison, the flickering lights appeared.

Cold, white lights. Hamidon’s minions investigated, but plant and stone and crystal were no match for the bitter whispers, the dread and the hunger of the lights. They whispered of Leningrad, of political repression, of their hatred for any who dared invade these lands. The minions of Hamidon withdrew, but the Corpselights of Leningrad followed. Hungry. Filled with a hungry rage equal to the Praetorian Earth’s.

The adults saw the flickering lights, and perhaps some had some idea of the danger they represented. Ah, Speaker-of-Many-Names, we can hear the panicked arguments of the adults. Too many had no more hope to offer, to keep the freezing cold, Hamidon and now the angry, hungry dead at bay. And in the flickering, dying light of cell phones, the final horrific decisions were made.

Do you see the raven-haired boy with slate eyes, Speaker-of-Many-Names? See how thin he is now? He no longer laughs. He no longer chases birds. See him and the other little ones quietly cut down their erstwhile protectors from the overhead beams. The hanging ropes were thick and heavy, and difficult to cut. But the knives they had found worked on the ropes.

And on their dead protectors.

And the hungry dead, the Corpselights of Leningrad, must have taken notice, for they drifted down to visit the little ones who had, in the name of survival, broken one of the greatest taboos; a taboo that had been broken before. And they whispered in the ears of the little ones; words that were both new and old. Very old.

Trupoyedstvo, whispered from mangled lips in dark corners of the shattered remains of Nevsky Prospekt. What do the little ones see? Little ones should never see such things. Lyudoyedstvo, whispered from shattered jaws as they drifted across the ruins of Saint Isaac’s Square. What do the little ones do? Little ones should never do such things.

Do you see him now, Speaker-of-Many-Names? His hunger is lessened, and he refuses to think on how and why that is. It just... is.

The Corpselights of Leningrad filled the eyes of too many little ones. Too many. His too. Yes, his eyes of slate glowed with the horrible legacy of Leningrad. They didn’t have words for what happened there; Trupoyedstvo and Lyudoyedstvo were old and foul words of knowledge; too old for children. They were too young. Too tired. Too afraid.

Too hungry. And he still remembers, you know. In his dreams, sometimes. Textures, flavors, sensations, smells. Or when he dares open those doors. In his mind’s eye, those doors stare back with stolen eyes. And when he remembers? Your horror cannot match his own.

For two years, humanity left the remains of the city abandoned and desolate before the Praetorian Guard finally fought their way to the ruins of Saint Isaac’s Cathedral. Two years. Can you imagine it, Speaker?

He survived. And just what do you think the Praetorian Guard found in the ruins, eh? Thousands and thousands of little ones, who had regressed so far that they didn’t run in gangs so much as packs. And their reports back to the Emperor were full of such sanitized, clinical terms; Separation Anxiety Disorders. Feral Child Syndrome.

But where were the adults? The Praetorian Guard whispered what they suspected; after all, they had found the pits, and saw the memorials built by hands too young and small to make such things… but never put in reports. Such horrible, horrible things they discovered in the ruins, Speaker. Trupoyedstvo. Lyudoyedstvo. The little ones licked their lips. And smiled. Do you see him, Speaker? Oh, how he smiles when he sees the Imperial Guards! What does he see, we wonder. What is he thinking?

Whispers of the corpse-lights of Leningrad filled their ears. But there were also new old words, whispered by a precious few Guards who knew their histories before Imperial victors rewrote them; the Lithuanian Vokietukai. Or the German Wolfskinder. Or the Soviet Besprizornye.

Children only in physical age. Only in stature. Their eyes spoke of knowledge far older, and fouler.

Feral. Monstrous.