Information

Yuriha has a minion!

Minion the Druskar

Yuriha

The

Glacier Cadogre
Owner:

Age: 2 years, 4 months, 3 weeks

Born: December 30th, 2010

Adopted: 2 years, 4 months, 3 weeks ago

Adopted: December 30th, 2010

Pet Spotlight Winner
April 29th, 2012

Statistics

Level: 2
Strength: 10
Defense: 10
Speed: 10
Health: 10
HP: 0/10
Intelligence: 50
Books Read: 50
Food Eaten: 65
Job: Unemployed

Full Name: Yuriha Russell

Nickname: Yuri

Age: 28

Birthdate: May 14th, 1755 CY

Hometown: Vaultan Province, Greater Rikovska, Juan-Mael

Theme Song: Les Préludes, Franz Liszt

Artwork: X X

Character Origin: OC; concept originally developed in late December 2010, created to fill in a few plot holes relating to her cousin, Aoske. Yuri is one of several characters from a fictional universe designed by her owner, Soren. One day, her owner hopes to either write a novel or work on a webcomic that details Yuri's life, as well as the lives and emotions of her other characters.

About: A stubborn and rather masculine-looking young woman, Yuri spent the majority of her life in the far northern region of Juan-Mael, where she was initially cushioned by her wealthy family. When her parents started to acknowledge her less in favor of a more dynamic younger sister, Yuri began to take a great interest in antique objects, claiming they were just like herself: "older, faded, and easily replaced". As a result, instead of attending one of her country's most prosperous universities at her parents' urging, she chose to work at a local antique dealer, and later took over the business for herself. Just when she was starting to make a fair profit off of her work, she was selected to take part in a mandatory draft by the military, and promptly received minimal training at a nearby army base. Only a week later she was shipped across the ocean to a small island in the southwest, where she engaged in combat briefly before being separated from her unit. After several days of lying low and surviving on little food, she managed to escape off of the island, abandoning her position with the military. With nothing material left, she made the decision to seek out her missing cousin and friends, who were also displaced by the war.

After a year of searching, she eventually wound up in Harue, the enemy nation, where she currently resides. She hopes that, as soon as she locates those important to her, she will be able to return to her antiques and her quiet, peaceful home in the northern hills.

Greetings, Ms. Russell, We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected out of many to assist the Juan-Mael military. As of July 1st, 1780 CY, all men and women between the ages of 18-35 are required to report to the nearest national base and enlist in one of the five branches of military. We ask that you comply during these dire times, as we struggle to protect the very foundation of our beliefs and ways of life...

I still remember it all very clearly: the bold typeset, indicating my name had simply been added to the pre-written letter by a computerized system; the dreary call-to-arms that failed to spark a sense of patriotism within me; the printed signature of an inexperienced president, tacked on to the end of the message to make it seem more official, and to make me feel more significant. It arrived in the most unassuming of white envelopes, stamped with nothing more than my address and a small golden seal on the back, shiny-but-inexpensive in material, lacking in detail. It sat underneath a pile of colorless bills and colorful ads on my table – and if I hadn't seen the seal glint out of the corner of my eye, it might have ended up shredded in my garbage bin.

Picture this: me, a 25-year-old antique collector and dealer with no higher education, geared for war, slogging up muddy, corpse-covered hillsRoostering a gun without any clue of how to use it. Could it be? Was it possible? How absurd; that could never be me. I laughed. Surely they had the wrong Ms. Russell.

If only I were the wrong Ms. Russell. I'd have sooner shed my real name and roam the world as a gypsy, than set one foot within a hundred yards of the nearest military post. If I had a choice, I would have made a beeline in the opposite direction. Running would have been hardly shameful; not when my humanity was on the line.

The day I walked onto base for the first time was my last. My eyes wandered as I followed a line of people like me, too distracted to notice the pairs of feet over which I constantly stumbled. There were gigantic walls and wire fences everywhere, making the entire complex feel like a prison. Everyone I saw lacked a spark in their eyes, as though they had already accepted defeat, as though the war had ended before it had even begun. My anxiety worsened with every step; there was no turning back now, no matter the warning signs.

Because it was a draft, there was no time to thoroughly train new recruits. Here's a gun, they said as they handed one to me; you load the barrel, you aim, you fire, you keep yourself alive as long as possible. They didn't actually say that last part, but I knew that's what they meant as they shoved me along, moving onto the next nobody unlucky enough to be here. The men and women I passed looked at me as if to say, Enjoy your life while you still can, because it won't last much longer. I was walking to my doom.

I watched carefully as my group was split from the rest, taking up the rear as I usually did. A soldier motioned for me to follow, speaking with words I didn't even understand, and I soon found myself standing on a dock in the shadow of a large aircraft carrier. Within a week I'd be calling it my home; I tried not to scowl. What was I doing there? I started to ask myself meaningless questions as I nervously gripped at my hand-me-down uniform, which had probably once been worn by somebody who was now long dead. What where they doing? What where they thinking? Were they mad? Who would recruit a person like me? I was so out of place, a giant among all the other women, unskilled and untaught and unwilling. I came from such a remote region, I might as well have been from a different country altogether. I didn't even speak their goshdarn language. Did they really need me? Did they really think I'd be willing to jump for this opportunity? Were they really so desperate, so blinded by their concerns, that they needed my service, even when they were a nation that refused to acknowledge its multicultural societies, when they so arrogantly chose to ignore my people and my way of life?

Nobody, nothing ever answered my questions, as the days went on. I guess there were no answers to give, I learned, as I sat and pondered in my own personal corner of the ship's lounge area. I had a nice view of the ocean through a small window, and I gazed through it often to take my mind off of the hell that was to come. It was always so blue and pure. I guess staring at it for so long helped me to realize that I'd have to figure things out for myself.

Within the following week I learned two other things: the weather in the western sea was miserable, and I should have exercised more often before the draft occurred. My unit, assigned to an island that was occupied by both forces, had no purpose but to blast the enemy to shreds, whenever and wherever we clashed. I trekked through mud and grit, just like I had expected, gritting my teeth every time I passed someone's abandoned helmet, or a lone uniform, or a pool of red. Sweat often collected on my forehead, dripping down my face in a way that made me look like I was crying. My muscles complained from the weight of the rifle on my back, an unfamiliar feeling and an unpleasant reminder of my place in the world. Yes, I was a pawn in a game of chess, a faceless loser stuck beneath the giant thumb of the people who controlled my life. I was a nobody in the eyes of somebody, and I was going to die for them as a nobody.

How pathetic. There I was, alone in the trenches, with nothing but dirt and foul-smelling air to keep me company. Other soldiers scurried back and forth behind me, chattering in nonsensical sounds – they were supposed to be my companions, but the feeling of isolation remained. I still didn't know what I was doing. I felt useless and tired, holding my head low, detaching myself from the moment.

I was tired of trying to find a reason for what was happening.

And I think that's when my greatest epiphany occurred, right then and there.

There really was no point; I almost laughed at the thought. Nothing means anything when you're mortal, when all your hopes and dreams fade with you. These people, this island, this war, all these humans fighting for a purpose that makes no sense to anyone except for one or two somebodies sitting on their fat asses, each of them withering away, hours, days, perhaps years away from death.... Like any of it matters when the very basis of the war will die with them. Like any conflict matters when, in ten years, it'll all be forgotten – and, most of all, like any of us matter, when we'll all be subjected to the same fate. I wasn't the only pawn out there; no, we were all pawns, we were all a bunch of nobodies whom had given up their measly, simple existences to die for a hopeless cause.

What a waste. What a damn waste.

How pathetic and humbling.

...

But above everything else, my God, people are so stupid.