Captain Marokas, Naval Mercenary Dawn

Iselsi Marokas, as he was once known, was born to a house destroyed at the Empress’ order. He and his mother managed to escape the disbanding and subsequent backlash by fleeing West to a small island off the coast of nowhere. His father was a patrician whose death was the impetus for his mother to remove herself entirely from the Realm.
The pleasant life they’d managed to make for themselves in relative isolation on some backwater island was not to last, sadly. Pirates. They’d come looking for both an easy score and a good place to set up a base of operations. Gormless bastards had the gall to try and take his mother captive. Not that it stopped Marokas from rushing in, head first with a sword out and ready to dance with steel and sparks. It wasn’t until his own mother tried to kill him that he realized he was glowing, a trail of bodies and blood behind him and the golden Peony blossoms swirling about… He snapped out of his combat-induced haze just in time to hear his own mother condemn him as a demon.
He tried to tell her he wasn’t a demon, but what little affection she had left for him was JUST enough to not actually kill him. Instead he was set adrift on a small skiff with just enough supplies that he wouldn’t starve before reaching the nearest port...
It took him 12 days to make landfall in that piss-poor boat. But he hit the ground running, damn it! The final words his mother spoke to him ringing in his ears, ‘My son died in the pirate attack’ pushing him forward.
He did odd jobs, learned the value of money from the low end of the totem pole… He got his rickety boat fixed up a bit so it could sail reliably enough... But he still felt something missing. So he sailed off one day. As far as he could. A fishing rod and a primitive distillery for water was all he had when he reached the edge of the Wyld Zone. He knew it was odd when fish started actually flying. And talking. At first? He ascribed it to heat-exhaustion. Or just a hallucination from being out too long alone. But he found an island! And damned if he wasn’t going to find out what was on that island. When he landed? It was a fight from step 1. Raksha had decided to make the island THEIR home. Fuckers.
One on one? He had good luck. Hell, one on three? He could take it. But there was an almost endless army of the little bastards on that gods-forsaken island. The first and only respite he had was when he found the tomb in a system of caves. The dinky-ass sword he’d made due with since picking it up off a dead pirate had broken on the diamond-hard hide of a true Raksha, not some minion they’d conjured from dream. (Hint: That’s when he ran.)
He saw the armor and sword worn by the decaying corpse in the forgotten sarcophagus and didn’t think twice about it. He’d gotten pretty good with armor quickly, you have to when you never know when some asshole with a sword is going to decide it’s your turn to die, and the sword, while heavy, didn’t seem to be too bad once he began circulating his power through it. Dust washed off the blade in a show of gold and light before dying down. He could have sworn he heard a sigh at that point, but he mostly put it up to being completely bonzo’d out of his skull with adrenaline.
Loot? Found. Time? Running time. He blasted his way back to his skiff and practically paddled the thing out of there as fast as he could. But he’d spent too long in the wyld zone. It took him nearly three days to fight his way in, sleep in his ‘refuge’ to make sure he was at least semi-capable of fighting, and then another day and a half to fight back to the shore. And the Wyld hates stable things.
When he’d woken up in that tomb, his shirt was a mess. The entire back of it was ripped apart. And it didn’t take long for even a sleepy mind to figure out why. Big feathered wings had grown in the night, when he couldn’t hold back the chaotic effects of the Wyld consciously. And he had to fold them up tight against his body when putting on a full suit of friggin plate armor. By the time he managed to get back to his boat, the armor had fitted itself to his changed anatomy… And while he was more than curious what else might have been on that island? He didn’t want to chance growing gills or something worse. He’d once met a man with two heads. Always arguing. Fuck that noise.
So, yeah. He’s a Wyld Mutant on top of everything. Why the hell not? He had to wonder if the Gods were just laughing at him as he rowed that piece of shite skiff off into the open water.
It took him a long time to get everything collected after that disaster of a trip.
Rule 1: Never go out alone unless you know EXACTLY where you’re going, and what’s going to be there.
Rule 2: Wyld Zones. Fuck them.
Rule 3: Always get paid UP FRONT.
Learned that last bit the hard way. Apparently if you don’t get paid up front? Merchants will skimp you on the price. Bastards. Fucking city guard being RIGHT THERE and the new wyld mutation meaning they took the merchant’s word over his…
It wasn’t until he commandeered a ship and the crew that was on it when they picked him up and began talking about selling him out to the Immaculates for a bounty or some such that he got his first taste of actually being in charge of things. He’d always had a talent for combat, his exaltation brought it out further, but he’d been unable to truly shine in his field of naval tactics.
Rule 4: Never get involved in politics.
Rule 5: My island is my goddamned island.
Rule 6: Naval forces + Civilians = don’t mix.
The last two rules were after he found the island he now calls his own base of operations. A powerful manse of Air that he washed up on after nearly destroying his damned skiff on the reefs…. ((Need more deets from another PC on this one.))