Elder Anarch

It seems your doom ever to be caught between worlds. Perhaps that was because you were born on a slave ship bound for the West Indies — your father the first mate and your mother one of the human cargo. As a young man, you tried to play by the rules. You learned blacksmithing to earn money for your master’s coffers, a quarter of which was supposedly going to your manumission fund. When he finally almost shamefacedly admitted he’d gambled it all away, though, you snapped and beat him nearly to death. You’ve never really un-snapped. Embraced to serve as a lieutenant in the 1831 Rebellion, you were an “Anarch” long before the Movement gained formal traction in the New World. Why, then, do you feel so out of touch and alone among them now? To your own chagrin, you increasingly find yourself seeking out your few fellow elder Anarchs — defectors from other sects, mostly, who spent their earlier years propping up all the systems you despise. For no other reason than that, well, they’re the only ones who still remember and therefore understand.