Written By: AceTrainerToken

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— Atlas

Biography

Born amongst an unlikely pair of a drow and a dwarf, Atlas was originally known as Nael by his parents. He was loved by them wholeheartedly, a miracle of love and life despite their dark and rocky pasts.
 
Nael grew up healthy and happy, almost looking like a mashup of his parents— dark blue skin like his drow father (though perhaps a slight shade lighter) along with his piercing red eyes; pale reddish hair that looks like a blend between his drow father’s stark white and his dwarven father’s bright red; a bit stockier than an elf, but more angular and nimble than a dwarf.
 
For twenty-five years the three of them lived comfortably within their mountain range, a stone home within a cave and isolated away from any nearby society to protect them from any environmental dangers, both parents skilled in hunting game and gathering resources.
 
One day, they never returned home.
 
Nael had always been told to stay inside while they were gone. And so, despite their disappearance, despite his fear, he remained in safety, hoping that they would return. But there was only so long he could wait, only so much he could survive off of on his own, with no real skills or strength to hunt— he was only a toddler, after all. Day after day after day passed. Tiny Nael was frightened and alone, weak and starving, and so out of desperation and naivete of the unknown, with the only knowledge of his parents’ whereabouts being the direction they left, the small boy headed up the mountain in a dangerous trek that could only lead to his death.
 
It almost did, if not for a miracle.
 
Barely a day had passed since he left in his search. He was starving, dehydrated, tired, and scared— he searched and he searched to no avail until his feet were bloodied by rocks and dirtied by the mud. And then, after so long of trying so hard to hold on, he lost consciousness.
 
Nightmares filled his mind. Endless darkness, a sea of emptiness threatening to drown him. To swallow him whole, leave him suffocated, and fill his lungs with nothing but despair. To leave him all alone.
 
A day and a half passed before the young boy awoke from his restless slumber, groggy and sore and heavy… but alive and healthy. To which then he’d be greeted by a being twentyfold (and more) his size… a storm giant, that introduces himself by the name of Menoetius.
He gives the tiny boy some time to take in his surroundings, firmly but gently explaining how he found the little one on the verge of death, even joking how he was almost stepped on. Menoetius eventually asks him for his name… but the child cannot seem to speak.
 
In his traumatic experience, he’d lost his voice. He could not bring himself to speak. He could hear his savior loud and clear, and even process what he said— but he was in a strange place. He didn’t know where his parents were. He’d been swallowed by the darkness. He was alone.
 
Menoetius, despite this, decided to take him in and care for him (at least, as best he could as a giant that was twenty-three feet taller than his charge). He even dubbed him a new name: Atlas.
 
Over time, Menoetius brought Atlas around his home in the mountain range, teaching him how to survive out in the wilderness. The massive giant was a stubborn old being and having to deal with a tiny, helpless creature that should be able to communicate with you but won’t be infuriating at times for him. He did his best to be patient, but there were plenty of times where the two of them clashed.
 
It was a difficult transition for the both of them— as a child, Atlas was terrified, especially after everything he had just gone through, but Menoetius knew that he would never survive if he held so tightly onto that fear. His methods were tough, maybe even a little harsh sometimes, but he genuinely wanted what was best for the child. There was a lot of crying—for a while, even with Menoetius’ aggression to push it out of him, Atlas simply wouldn’t (or, better yet, couldn’t) speak. But over time the stubbornness of the giant began to rub off onto Atlas. His frustrations with everything around him and himself slowly managed to force his words out. At first, it was quiet, hesitant, stumbling. But more and more Menoetius pushed him, and he pushed himself, and eventually, that frustration came crashing out of him like a clap of thunder. (And as an offensive reciprocal toward the giant, which only seemed to.... surprise him.)