Varkáris

[Code Name] Varkáris

[Gender] Male

[Combat Experience] 6 Years

[Place of Birth] Minos

[Date of Birth] Nov 17

[Race] Forte

[Height] 195cm

[Infection Status]

Originium crystals distributed across surface of body, confirmed Infected by medical examination.

[Physical Strength] Excellent

[Mobility] Normal

[Physical Resilience] Excellent

[Tactical Acumen] Normal

[Combat Skill] Standard

[Originium Arts Assimilation] Excellent

Xanthos, former dockmaster and ferryman at the Delphi Canal in Athenius. Resigned after the relic exchange ceremony at the First Temple and was referred to Rhodes Island for Oripathy treatment by Operator Perfumer, providing services as a Guard Operator.

Imaging tests show the indistinct outlines of internal organs, obscured by abnormal shadows. Originium granules detected in the circulatory system. The subject is confirmed to be infected with Oripathy.

[Cell-Originium Assimilation] 18%

High level of infection, clear signs of Originium infection on his forearm.

[Blood Originium-Crystal Density] 0.41u/L

Infection has entered mid-stage with clear signs of spreading. Timely treatment at Rhodes Island has been able to keep his condition under control, to an extent.

Operator Varkáris's condition is serious: in addition to Oripathy, there are also numerous scars on his body and burn marks from artillery fire on his face. They are apparently the aftermath of his time fighting the Sargonians with the guerrillas. While we do not know the details, we can easily imagine how intense the battles must have been.

HR and Medical were on high alert following the arrival of Xanthos on Rhodes Island. While Rhodes Island has no shortage of operators who hail from countries in conflict with each other, no one calls the Sarkaz 'devils' here, nor do Kazimierzians go for the throats of every Ursine they see. But Xanthos's situation was different. Everyone had heard what happened in Athenius, and the atmosphere at the Medical Department was particularly tense whenever Xanthos came in.

He turned out to be surprisingly well-behaved, and the terrifying scene of Xanthos vs. Dr. Gavial that Lena was worried about enough to specifically warn us of never happened. People were relieved, and perhaps they began to let their guard down.

That was when the accident happened.

Dr. Warfarin had obtained a rare blood sample and was working overtime to study it, messing up the shifts and forgetting to make sure that Dr. Gavial was not on duty when Xanthos came in, resulting in the two of them coming into contact with one another. One was oblivious and the other seemingly unconcerned, but everyone else was quite panicking. Dr. Gavial read the latest checkup report, saw that Xanthos was taking his medication as instructed—bringing his condition under control—and patted his shoulder in approval, with considerable force. Everybody quite freaked out, but Xanthos said nothing. His face was hidden under his mask, but if he took it off, one would probably find a complicated expression on his face. No violence ensued, though, and Dr. Warfarin stopped worrying about staggering the shifts.

Rumors that Operator Narantuya had invited Xanthos to rob Sargonian caravans in the desert with her remain unsubstantiated, as Narantuya had promised us that she had left behind her life of banditry once and for all. All we know is that they did indeed leave the ship together once, but had returned by the time we found out, and refused to talk about what they went out to do, or what happened in the desert.

What we do know is that Xanthos has successfully integrated into Rhodes Island, and there is no concern that he will act aggressively toward operators from Sargon.

Xanthos is definitely cut from the same cloth as Aspasia alright! He's a solid survivor and a fighter—not as good as me of course, but good enough to survive in the desert. Too bad he doesn't want to become my subordinate, but I won't give up so easily!

—Narantuya

By Minoan standards, Xanthos is quite reserved—stiff even.

We know that Minoans love drama, as citizen-organized performances are a frequent sight on the streets of Athenius, and Minoan villages often jointly hold small drama festivals during agricultural off-seasons. Xanthos, however, seems to have little interest in it. It is not that he does not know the stories of the heroes—he responds to citations of the legends in conversations—but his own words are always brief and succinct, never quoting proverbs or fables.

His upbringing may have something to do with it: Xanthos was raised in a small village in southern Minos, near the border with Sargon. Life was hard even without Sargonian raids. His father died when he was very young, and he inherited his father's work as ferryman. He spent most of his time on the river, and his emotions flowed like the river, never rising or falling by too much. But the river was also fickle, and he had to be vigilant at all times, never letting his guard down. His taciturn and cautious manner is the result of such a life.

This is not to imply that he has no hobbies: he has told us that reading poetry was his way of relaxing in those rare moments of leisure. The reasoning was that poems are relatively short, and do not make you forget the time or to monitor the condition of the river.

Xanthos showed some interest when I invited him to join our Poetry Club, but began to hesitate upon learning that we get together and recite poems in front of other club members, apparently not used to group activities. My praise of his speech at the First Temple of Athenius seemed to have the opposite effect, as he looked visibly uncomfortable, though I was eventually able to convince him to come.

That night, we read poems that we wrote ourselves, and engaged in some impromptu group poetry. Someone brought wine, which I had reservations about, though I must admit that good wine can indeed do wonders for the atmosphere. Once we got a little tipsy, we began to sing while someone played accompaniment, ending on a high note with the climax of the Kerespereia. Xanthos sat in a corner throughout, listening quietly and touching none of the wine (most admirably!), looking somewhat out of place.

He continued to attend the meetings, sitting quietly in a corner as he did the first time, saying little except nodding on occasion upon hearing a particularly well-crafted verse. He seems to prefer sentimental odes to narrative epics, and takes a particular liking to the works of a certain female poet from Antisa. It seems that his appearance belies a much more delicate nature.

—Erato, in Rhodes Island Poetry Club Report

The training of a priest is a serious matter in Minos. Children found to have the proper aptitude are sent to the temples to receive education and training at the age of ten, studying with a dozen other children of the same age. They are responsible for everyday cleaning and maintenance, while also studying the classics and learning about the heroes and their associated rituals. They also have to study scientific knowledge associated with the temple, as well as accumulate management and administrative experience, all in preparation for a career in the priesthood. The process can take more than a decade, until trainees pass their exams to become full-fledged acolytes. The priests of Minos are therefore among its most talented and educated people.

When we learned that Xanthos's apprentice in Athenius was a former trainee acolyte, we began to wonder—did this mean Xanthos possessed knowledge that rivaled the temples? There was, of course, an element of self-interest in our curiosity: there are patients of every age group at Rhodes Island, including young children who had to abandon their education because of their condition, and we wanted to give them an opportunity to continue learning.

Xanthos seemed to smile wryly behind his mask.

'Lykeion knew much more than I do, in terms of professional knowledge. I dealt with issues that occurred on the river through experience and instinct, accumulated through observation and memorization, while he understood the principles behind them, and could draw on such knowledge to understand things that he had never seen before. It was practical experience that he lacked... but the real reason I took him in as an apprentice was that he needed a reason to keep living after I saved... after he contracted Oripathy. I didn't need a caregiver or companion, but he needed something to fill his life, in order to find the strength to keep going. I'm glad that he's found a new goal.'

Xanthos was humble and did not immediately agree to take on apprentices at Rhodes Island, but we have noticed that he has a way with children, guiding them to fulfill their potential while showing remarkable patience. He tells stories of heroes to crying young patients, competes with Popukar to see who can cut planks faster using a chainsaw (and his oar), and steers Bubble and Ceobe to keep the corridor clear when they are playing in the hallways. Perhaps it comes from his experience observing the river—'one can only sail far and easy by going with the flow,' in his own words—or perhaps he is simply a natural educator.

You want to know about my life in the marshes? It wasn't like what you might find in pastoral poems.

Ferrying in the marshes was not like ferrying in Athenius. It was not a simple matter of going from one side of the river to the other. Our village was surrounded by the river. Essentially, we lived in the river. The river was the most important part of life in the marshes; master the river, and you master the marshes.

It was formed from rainfall and meltwater from the peaks of Mt. Hymnoi. Spring was the season for planting and irrigation, as the snow began to melt and rainfall declined. I ferried people back and forth between the village and nearby small plots of farmland, separated by the river, while keeping an eye on the snowline in the distant mountains, looking out for sudden floods. Summer was when meltwater was at its highest, the busiest season for irrigation. People guided water into the fields, and harvested young reeds which were used for weaving. Autumn was the season of harvest, with increased rainfall and reduced meltwater. The crops in the fields had to be harvested quickly, and reeds that had grown hard harvested for reserves. The river was calm in winter—villagers used harvested reeds to make handicrafts, and repaired farm tools and houses, while I ferried people between our village and neighboring villages.

Reeds were a frequent sight on the river, growing along the river and marshes, forming narrow passages that only those who knew the river well could navigate successfully. Only those few could ferry the others to where fins and fowlbeasts were in abundance. Reeds were versatile materials that could be woven into baskets, mats, even houses and their foundations. We used reeds to mark out areas in the river, and filled them with reed stalks to make floating plates on which we built our homes. It may seem primitive to people used to the nomadic cities, but it was flexible and adaptable to any changes in the river. When Ithakos came, he taught us how to connect these reed plates to create large public areas, upon which we built a little temple and lit a fire that belonged to us...

Life was hard, and far from affluent, but it holds a special place in my heart, not only because of the memories of home and my deceased friends and relatives, but also because it was a life that was within my grasp. All I needed to do every day was to understand the river beneath me.

The river has since dried up, but it continues to flow in my heart. Having lost sight of my own heart from loss, I'm trying to understand it now, trying to tame it. Perhaps this will allow me to once again grasp my own life.

The wounds that Sargon left behind in Minos have yet to fully heal, even in the nomadic city of Athenius, far from the border. Scholars continue to piece together the cultural heritage of Minos prior to the Sargonian occupation, the priests relying on a mix of legend and imagination to recreate the ceremonies and rituals of the past. Ruins of classical buildings litter the streets; few remain intact.

We do not care about that, said the Athenians. We were free. We would build a new glory with our own hands, so long as the spirit of the heroes lived on in our hearts. Athenians smiled, put on plays on the streets, and sang at temple ceremonies, as though they had forgotten the suffering of the past—until Xanthos, the dockmaster, delivered his speech to the people of Athenius at the First Temple.

We do not care, say the Athenians now. We do not care how strong our foe is, nor the price we must pay for freedom, but we will remember the hardships along the way, and remain vigilant of our foe's cunning. And we will not forget to lay a white flower at the graves of our fallen kin.