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[attr="id","pegasuscol"]ZEPHYR

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[attr="id","pegasuscol"]rebuilding yourself with what you find

You call yourself a crafter because "magical engineer" sounds like a stuffy academic term, and you're far from a stuffy academic. You like to work with your hands and weave magic through mechanics. Oil stains have become a regular feature of your clothes, and the scent of black powder had somehow managed to seep permanently into your skin. Subjects like the Cad's design and the theory behind it is the kind of shit that you obsess over. It's clever and brilliant and you so very desperately want to make something as complex as that one day.
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But in the meantime, you have fun learning to fly on brooms or less stable contraptions, or improving the movements of your prosthetic legs. You unlock any puzzle you can get your hands on, and play around with improv. Pasta is your favorite comfort food. Knives are your favorite simple weapon. You're a chronic nicknamer and a caffeine abuser.
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All of this is who you are. You know this, and could rattle off another hundred facts along the same vein. But as you awaken from a hazy, battered sleep, it becomes quickly apparent that you have no idea how you got here. And this is more than just a blackout -- when you try to reach back to the last day you remember, you feel like you're going to tumble into an abyss.
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The other direction, then? Your birth name is Connor. You remember your moms and your brother, some early birthdays, and racing around the streets of Myca City. You remember how they died: in fire and smoke, under a collapsing home which almost killed you, too. Half of your face is still marred by the memory of those flames.
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But, you realize, that's the end. You don't remember how you recovered from that or who helped you, despite how it happened over a decade ago.
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And you certainly don't know where to go now, but reckon you'll figure it out as you go. You pick up what clues you can: a broken ring, a few keys stashed away in the recesses of your prosthetics, and little symbols in ink hidden upon your own body.
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You have an ongoing bet with your familiar on whether you got them from the mafia or a cult.
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And you think that if someone sensible was looking out for you, they'd probably say to stop chasing a beast made of teeth that will dig beneath your skin and never let go. You have a chance to be free from that monster prowling in the dark -- take it.
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But all you have is a gnawing hunger for answers and a banshee of a familiar with a propensity for taking things that aren't hers, whether it be glittering gems or lifeblood. Reason didn't stand much of a chance against you.
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And, though it takes nearly a year, you put the pieces you have together, fitting an unmarked key to the lock of an unsigned blacksmith shop, diving back into the dark with a newfound ignorance of what was waiting for you.

[attr="id","pegasuscol"]but some parts are still missing

What you do not remember is that Hydra took you in after you were orphaned, barely eight years old and already broken.
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You do not remember how you grew to love them. They were your family in all definitions of the term, to the point that you considered yourself equal parts Ruchbah and a son of Farah. You had dug yourself far too deep to leave even by the time you were a teen, and you were convinced you'd never want to.
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Nor do you remember how you lost them in your heart, one year ago, when you went on an ill-fated mission (stupid, arrogant) and didn't come back. (But, you feel the ache of the void they left.)