Mark Aurel

Shadow Name:  Mark Aurel Nationality:  Italian Height:  5' 5" Weight:  130 Age:  24 Path:  Acanthus Order:  Silver Ladder

Appearance: Mark's sharp Roman features contrast somewhat with light skin and straight blond hair, yet his balanced posture and calculated movements speak of life in a way that the skinny and pale often lack. While his movements often seem to suggest the wisdom and prudence that martial artists tend to avow, his upbringing on the streets and acanthus nature start to show when he leaves his dojo and the real trouble starts. He shifts from balance and calculated to committing himself fully to his movements and actions, something his sensei always told him he needed to work on.

Bio: Mark grew up an orphan living on the streets of Venice. His memories of his true mother and father are all but gone. This is something he never worried about too much, though, as he was brought up by the very interesting mix of people who populated Venice's streets. Due to the lack of such expansive underground tunnels that many other cities have, the homeless population was and is quite small, which led Mark to become acquainted with most of them. He made his living first by begging, but soon started earning a living as a delivery boy, as he knows the city well and is quick on his feet.

One of the people how always managed to find time to talk to the less fortunate was a sensei of the of the local Aikido dojo, Antonio. While he didn't have much money to give, his time he gave was still appreciated. Mark would often sit and listen to his stories he'd tell about his trips to Japan and about all the places he's been. Mark was interested in particular in the martial art, however, as he was had a habit of picking fights he couldn't win whenever other boys his age would make the sort of hateful comments that boys tend to spit in each other's faces. Antonio Sensei wasn't going to simply admit him into his dojo so he could beat up some bullies,of course. He did, however, let Mark sit and watch his lessons and classes so long as he wasn't disruptive. Mark started to teach himself about the art of Aikido, but he also started to learn the more important philosophical base of martial arts. He learned about the things you can control and the things you can't, about how some conclusions are foregone based on how the problem is approached, and about the importance of awareness and forethought. Soon, he felt like he was ready to try and join in on the classes as a matter of self improvement rather than as a means to an end. Sensei recognized this, and offered to waive the standard fee for help cleaning and setting up for the various classes, as he was getting older. Soon, as Mark spent more and more time in the dojo, training with people older and more experienced than him, he began to get more in tune with the rhythm of sparring. It also became apparent within a few months that he had all but been adopted by Antonio, as he began sleeping in the dojo, and spending less and less time out on the streets. He still had his friends, but they were never close enough to his peers to form a close attachment to anyone in particular.

As the years passed, Mark soon became the star pupil in the dojo, as he attended all of the classes, and began to teach many of the lower levels. As he got more and more attuned to the feel of sparring, to the dance of going through the forms, he began to focus on a steady pulse that drove the combat. This pulse was different from the ticking of a clock, as it would speed up and slow down as the combat shifted. He began to feel as though he could pause forever between the beats of the rhythm and focus on his and his opponents stance and form. By the time the rhythm had caught back up to normal, he ha already exploited the weakness in his partner's balance and left them sprawled out on the mat. He also learned of the second half of combat. As much as planning and carefulness could bring down the steadiest and the fiercest of fighters, so could chance. A lucky trip of a novice could be unexpected enough to break a throw. Still, this was another sort of pendulum swinging back and forth. However, while time's ticking was relentlessly driving, luck's was a far more fickle thing. The luck of each partner in the match, swinging back and forth between each side was a staccato beat against the background of time. In some strange way, this became another controllable aspect. Just as time's next inevitable tick could be made into an infinity, so could fate swing be biased towards one side.

All of this obsession with self improvement was shattered one day by the unexpected death of Antonio Sensei. As old as he was, his serenity made him seem like an immovable object, a constant in the world. So when Mark's main support fell, he focused on the only other true support he had left; the dojo. While Antonio gave what little money he had left to charity, the dojo fell onto Mark's shoulders. He began teaching only the high level classes so he could numb his mind with the intense sparring sessions, leaving the other classes to what was now his overwhelmed employees. The rhythm of fighting, the steady pulsing of the passing of time, now seemed so much more ominous to Mark, as though his life was draining away at each tick. The death of his friend weighed heavily on his mind, and he struggled against the flow of time. One day, in a heated match between three of his students and himself, something finally snapped. Time's ever present pulse stopped. All at one moment, he took in the form of his students. The setup of the room and everyone in it. His own form and stance. His emotion state. And his strange connection to the universe. As he focused in on this, he another sense of tearing, and fell inward into his mind.

He was in a place immaterial, of formless shape and feeling. The only sense of solidity was a tower seen in either direction. One was grim yet solid, a place to rest on, to depend and contemplate upon. Something that was eternal and everlasting. The other ever changing, indescribable yet beautiful. Something that was not a solid platform, but rather a moment, a pause for breath between words, a brief moment of eye contact on a busy street. While he felt the solid, leaded tower suited his recent tragedy, he didn't want to depend on the unpleasant and the grim. If he was to remain himself, he needed to never stop shifting and changing. As he began to walk in the direction of the silver tower, the formlessness around him began to coalescent. It became a shifting land of thorns and bramble, a place of the wondrous and terrible. The beauty of the the brilliant silver trees and sharp crystal gardens were all the more striking for their brevity. As he approached the tower, he began to feel a solidity about the change. For all it's shifting wonder, this place was connected. The meaningless creation and destruction had reasons, and everything was the tied together with the purpose of being. Soon, the tower was looming above him. It was an indescribable thing, made of brilliant moonlight spun into brambles, 30 feet tall one moment, and brushing the stars the next. Just as he began to wonder what to do next, he noticed a staircase set into the outside of tower. Whether the steps were a set of large thorns, jutting silver blocks, or simply dreamstuff, he couldn't say, though he felt that all of the connections in this place led to the top of the tower. He climbed for what was an eternity, never seeming to get any closer to the top. Just as he began to despair, he felt his own connection to this place, a thin strand reaching out to the strange landscape. He felt one strand in particular, leading from his chest and spiraling up the stairs, leading to the top of the tower. The strand was a thick and solid as a rope for just a moment, but that was all it took. Seizing onto it, he felt the pulse of time beat against the inside of his skull, stronger and faster than ever before, and all of his progress of climbing the tower caught up to him. The pulse beat faster inside as he put his name in the book, quill to silver page, and then, the place dissipation.

Returning to the place he was used to, to the dojo and the combat, he realized no time had past. Just as the thought crossed his mind, the pulse of time ground to a start once more. Without a thought, his body reacted, the tempo slowly returning to normal as he pulled one of his pupils off balance while sending another tripping over his own poor foot placement. By the time the dam had fully broken and the currents swept Mark away at it's usual pace, the match was over. Whatever point he was trying to make with this exercise was suddenly lost on him, and he called class to an end.

His new connection to the concepts of fate and time helped him to get his life in order, and he began to organize to dojo more properly, as well as reaching out to many of his friends he had neglected in his obsession. He knew now that even when everything changes, it's our relationships that hold us together against the shifting static of time.