Information

Immigrant has a minion!

Father the Invisible Man

Immigrant
Legacy Name: Immigrant

The

Glacier Bumbus
Owner:

Confetti

Age: 13 years, 3 months, 1 week

Born: January 15th, 2011

Adopted: 13 years, 3 months, 1 week ago

Adopted: January 15th, 2011

Statistics

Level: 92
Strength: 216
Defense: 212
Speed: 177
Health: 212
HP: 212/212
Intelligence: 31
Books Read: 20
Food Eaten: 1
Job: Centrifuge Master

There was always cold. It didn't matter where we were, or what time of the year it was, or who we were with. It was the one constant in my life: there was always cold, and it had nothing to do with the weather.

I was born in a shack in New York City on January 21st, 1930. I heard that it'd been a tough winter, for everyone. My siblings were born years before me, before my parents moved to this country. We were from Czechoslovakia, my mother told me, a snug little country east of Germany. The city of Prague, to be exact. Bohemian. It was always cold there, too, I think. As you can tell, I had a penchant for cold. But that's not where our story lies.

My name is Ivona Tichý. I've always believed that I was supposed to be a princess. Perhaps I am. It doesn't matter anymore, though, because I'm not. I'm not foolish enough to ever think that I am, or will be, ever again. Not after.

T T T

As a young girl, my father would tell me stories of living in brilliant palaces amidst sprawling grounds, of tales of fanciful balls and striking women in glittering gowns, of a fantasy of a young prince and his bride-to-be. Though I tried to suspend my disbelief, I knew that my father, though telling me these were tales of him—of all men!—was only delighting my fancy. His eyes twinkled with some fond mis-remembrance of mischief in, supposedly, his adventures, as if he himself had accidentally set fire to the great beech woods adjacent to the palace, or had forded the Danube himself rather than wait for assistance to replace a bridge downed by a violent storm on his way to Vienna.

"I grew up swimming in the Vltava," my father would argue whenever we thought his claims too outlandish. "Though my mother, your wise and patient babi?ka, our lovely queen, would punish me severely for jumping in. 'You'll catch your death!' she always said. "budete chytat hroznou rýmu!" His grin glinted in the dying light of a newspaper fire.

My mother would smack his arm lightly and whisper to him in Czech, though I could never understand them well. My mother never wanted us to learn it. "You must become Americans! There is no need to fill your heads with such nonsense as another language. Be American, and we will be happy at last."

My father hated it. "You are royalty, Ivona. You, a princess! You must understand." Still, we never learned. Neither the language, nor any sense to speak of.

It was not until years later after my father passed that I finally learned the meaning of his words. To be sure, he wanted me to speak his native Czech, but I never imagined anything more to it. That is, until, I came across a mysterious small box.

T T T