The Drawing of Three
Kelraji’s skin is fairly typical of North Indians, though he’s been spending a lot of time indoors these days. It’s about the color of unglazed clay for pottery. He’s scruffy, and has thick dark hair, slightly wavy, that is between his ears and neck, dirty johnny depp-esque. His eyes are dark green, and his features tend toward the more angular Hun rather than the typically rounded South Indian.
He’s usually wearing his armor vest under regular street clothes. He has about 5 changes of clothes, and prefers T-shirts to long sleeves, and hates jeans.
He’s currently wearing a pretty stained up white T, tattered up day laborer/mechanic pants, held up by a woven belt. His knife is tucked into the back of the pants, just below a kidney.
He almost always has his backpack, complete with pretty much all his worldly possessions, as he is never sure when he’ll need to move again, or even if the place he slept the previous night will be still standing when he returns.
Kelraji Sivahara is a North Indian man, in his late 20s, with short dark hair, just showing signs of being wavy. He has light green eyes, and his skin is the color of beach sand with a smidgen of clay. When he speaks of his childhood, it is in hushed tones, and never for long. From what can be gathered, he grew up poor, sometimes homeless, and was orphaned by famine, war, circumstance, or some combination of the above. Taken in by a Vajrayana temple, he was taught respect, determination, and pride by the dedicated yogis. A dedicated Vajrayana practitioner for many years, he now carries a bronze vajra with him at all times, to remind him of his roots, his duties, and his path. When he was 18, he joined a megacorp, as a junior member of their diplomatic corp, having honed his fast-talking and deal-making skills in the slums of Jaipur. By his mid 20s, he was a privileged negotiator, taking great pride in his work producing valuable and important contracts for the manufacturing and distribution branches of the company.
A few days after his 27th birthday, he was assigned as the negotiator escort to a senior executive sent to make a special deal. Used to trips abroad, and equally used to airplanes, Kel couldn’t understand why the rest of the group was so nervous. Surely they were used to this sort of thing as well. He didn’t recognize anyone else on the plane, but that wasn’t unusual either. What was unusual was the briefcase handcuffed to the executive’s wrist, and the sweat. He had never seen an exec sweat before.
After landing in New York City, the group made their way in a limousine to a shiny new warehouse in a run down industrial district of Manhattan. Limos were a new experience for Kel, and he thoroughly enjoyed the whole experience. Parking the limo in a receiving bay, the doors opened, and the four guards assigned to protect the executive stepped out, made their scan, and called out the exec. As the exec made his way from the seat to the doorframe, the case swung awkwardly. No bigger than a foot by six inches, the case seemed oddly small to be so worried about. With the exec out of the care, Kel, the last person in the car, began to make his way out. Before he could poke his head out of the door, however, the gunfire started. Two of the guards were cut down instantly, and the driver was hit. The executive almost made it to safety, all the way back inside the limo, but his flimsy business armor didn’t provide much protection against the hail of bullets that ripped through the side. The driver put the limo in reverse, and floored the gas. Limos aren’t known for their speed or handling, and the vehicle only made a half block away before clipping a light post and plowing into the corner of a building some 40 yards from the entrance. Kel slipped out the other side, away from the warehouse, and never looked back.
Whatever was in that case, and whoever wanted it, remain a mystery to him to this day.
What he does know, and what he can’t forget, try as he might, is that he’s the only survivor. The case was never recovered, and the company he used to work for has requested he be brought in for ‘questioning’ in the incident.
Of course, the other megacorp denies all involvement, and certainly wouldn’t mind getting their hands on Kel first, just to make sure they all have their story straight, you understand. Fortunately for Kel, the assassins never saw him in the vehicle, and know only that a single person escaped. He’d prefer to keep it that way.
He’s been slumming his way through Downtown Manhattan for a year or two now. Alive mostly because of his single-minded devotion to that survival, and do in part to his skills as a talker. He makes enough money to survive from executing back-alley deals, and has managed to save up enough to buy himself a cheap motorcycle, which he has yet to truly learn how to drive, and a shabby apartment in an ok part of town. He’s been in enough scrapes to know his way around his fists, but that’s about all for his combat experience. Every few months, he changes his clothes and his apartment, hoping to keep a step or two ahead of the corp, but knowing his time is probably running out. They’ve been circling closer, and he knows he needs to get out soon, before they come in force.