Chris Davis's Questionnaire

Chris lives in Fort Yukon, a tiny city of 430 people in Alaska, bumfuck nowhere. His parents were stationed at the radar station the US Air Force keeps here, and when they died recently under highly classified circumstances, Chris inherited the small house that's close to the radar station, just up base road (66.56153912654182, -145.2301112156997) as well as the surrounding land down to the river (mostly forest), about 4.5 acres. The house is well isolated and sturdy against the long, cold winters, easily autonomous for (theoretically) years, and has a fairly big parabolic antenna on top, for satellite internet connection. Inside the rooms are not too frilly, more of a homely combination of wood and some modern fixtures, thanks to Chris' late mom. There is a garage/shed with tools, a cellar for storage, and Chris' has kept his room for now, leaving his parents' bedroom as-is, holding on to their memory.

This is embarrassing, but Chris thought "Crypto" was another term for "Cryptid", and was looking into it on a small PC he'd built from parts. Forgetting about the wallet for years, he sold some bitcoin at the height of their popularity, making almost two million Dollars, a good deal of which are invested in a fond that pays out monthly dividends. He's also propped up by inheriting his parents' assets and the Death Gratuity by the military. His money goes into top-notch computing gear, access to strange databanks and some tricked-out-guns (a hobby he shared with his dad), besides the necessary expenses to keep a house this remote well stocked.

He spent a lot of money on modernising the house to be more self-sufficient and add solar and wind-power with battery-backup, and there is some upkeep on the three cars and the two snowmobiles he inherited. Somewhat expensive is his fly-fishing and he hand-loads ammo.

Chris has been yearning for a more interesting world, a more kind world. A world filled with magic and harmony, interconnected with technology - he's probably read a couple Sci-Fi books too many. He's surprisingly sensitive and yearns for a world where a military isn't necessary, kids don't have to loose their parents, where people help each other instead of destroying their neighbours. He likes to dream pretty. Would he kill for it? Now that's a question he hasn't posed to himself. Is it necessary to get rid of those who are never going to promote harmony but hate? Where would that stop? Chris will probably need more wisdom to consider such a question with any hope of an answer he'd be content with.

The appearance of an Ircenrraat when Chris was singing to his great-grandmothers' amulet so shortly after his parents' death has thrown Chris for another loop. He'd always suspected and *hoped* that there was more to life, but this? Actual proof? A creature from Athabaskan' myth of old just nonchalantly stepping into existence and helping him out? It is everything he had ever been hoping for and more, but it means this is just the beginning! What else is out there? What wonders and possibilities await in the world, a world that truly is more magic and more... more than conventional wisdom has known!

With his mother and father deceased not many remain for the withdrawn young man.

Major Henry Armstead - His deceased parents' commander and a long friend to both. He's been checking in from time to time, knowing that Chris doesn't do well in... well almost anything really. A small but wiry man, with a big voice and similarly big moustache, he's Chris' godfather and has been something like a grandfather as well. At 65, military life has kept him somewhat active.

Nana Henrietta - Henrietta Davis is Chris' paternal grandmother and lives in a home in Fairbanks. At 88, she's not the strongest, and more of a distant pen-pal, whom Chris sometimes receives letters from (which he diligently replies to), and visits once a year.

Lillie Summerton - a childhood friend of Chris', the only friend he ever had. Lillie is a month older than Chris and the daughter of a wildlife ranger and a biologist. She's the only one besides his parents who ever understood the silent boy or was able to get through to him, who took him as he was and didn't react disturbed or with pity, who will tell off anyone bullying her friend and who doesn't think of him as strange and repugnant. Full brown, slightly curly hair, impish green eyes, big smile, medium statue.

Fort Yukon School isn't exactly... big. At somewhere between 70 and 100 students, with high absent-rates, there were many days when every person in school could be counted on one hand or two. But Chris' parents were adamant on him attending. They were busy at the military base, so school was both an important part of Chris' education, as well as a good place to keep him safe while they were out. The drawback of course was that besides Lillie no one really "got" Chris, his teachers were mostly unsure how to handle him (though he got good grades, if a subject fit his special mindset) and often just put more books in front of him, or let him futz around on the school-computer. He certainly had an aptitude for anything digital. The older children tended to bully or tease the boy, younger children just left him to his devices, unsure as to how to approach, and confused when they did.
Other than school, Chris' parents tried to instil some skills that they considered essential into him - certainly coloured by their military career. His dad got him an air gun when he was six, his mom took him hiking, camping and hunting from a couple months' old. His grandfather also took him fishing ever since he was a young boy, and showed him how to tie his own flies, a hobby the old man enjoyed immensely.

Chris hasn't really thought of other people that way, love hasn't really ever occurred to him so far. It's quite possible that he'd pursue it with the same single-minded focus and then quickly abandon the notion, similar to how he's been about many other interests in his life, but who knows. Maybe having a person to care for and cherish and think of their well-being and emotions might be good for the reclusive young man.

He's certainly in love with the idea of the supernatural, the unexplained and weird - so much so that he'd agree to a gentleman dressed like a cross between Albert Einstein and Iggy Pop on the mere suggestion of being able to see magic.

My worst fear is that the world is... mundane. Lacking in magic. Without a spark.
I was afraid for a long time, that I was just reading nice stories told by superstitious people, to pass the time by the fire. To learn that everything is really just... bland.
I'm terrified that the Ircanrraat are just my mind finally having snapped, that the fever dream of that museum was really just that, that my mind has finally atrophied from reality being too boring, that I've become stuck in a bubble with like-minded weirdos who escaped to fantasies because reality just couldn't deliver. That that wasn't real. That real isn't special!

But how could I know? How could I find out? That man at the door... could he have just drugged me, and thrown me in the back of an ice truck? Driven me to a film-set? Am I on the internet right now, videos of me and the other three running about in a panic, while people sit there and laugh at our gullibility? I mean... that man in purple was just a... a caricature of a whore-monger, not a real person, right? The postman? A Postman? What?
I mean... both of them could've been plants to make Evan and me freak the fuck out. And film it. Put it on the internet. What if that's what happened?

Fuck.

The amulet of Irca, for sure. Passed down from my mothers' side, it is an ancient artifact of the Athabaskan people, a proper piece of history. And a connection to the Ircanrraat!
My first piece of actual proof! That the world is more! MORE than the mundane BLANDNESS!

Also I got it from Mom. It's like a treasure she gave me. Something of hers from when she was little. Heck, from her grandma when she was little. Probably further back than that. I kinda feel like it connects me to my past, you know? To my people, their world, their views, their ways of life.

Other than that, I treasure dad's fishing rod. It hangs on a special place above the mantle, he taught me how to fish with it. He loved the rivers and the thrill of the catch, loved teaching me how to drill, how to tie knots, what the salmon's favourite spots were, and how to bring in a nice, succulent dinner. How to roast a fish over a fire, how to smoke it... I just associate it with my dad.