Cain's Questionnaire

He lives on a small ranch in Fairfield Texas. On which he has a large amount of cattle which he takes care of. He lives in Texas due to there being a large amount of cattle ranchers and being a good state with low taxes and a large freedom of choice in what you are allowed to own. His ranch has a large house with a wrap around porch and a large open pasture behind with a medium barn and a large lake at the back right corner which he inherited from his now deceased grandparents. He takes excellent care of his dairy cattle and is a well respected member of his community.

makes his money primarily through the breeding and selling of cattle. His operation focuses on raising high-quality beef cattle that he sells to local markets, ranches, and butcher shops. He also works with various programs that support sustainable farming practices, allowing him to diversify his income by offering organic beef along with some American raised wagyu which he sells to high end restaurants in the larger cities to make some extra cash and gain connections with people in power. He also allows younger college and FFA members to come to his ranch and work for the summer to get some free help and expand his operation.

My ambition is to become a cosmic warrior, a being who stands between the worlds of man and spirit, a protector of both the earth and the universe itself. It is not just power I seek, but understanding—the wisdom of the stars, the strength of the earth, and the courage to walk through all realms. I am striving to transcend the limits of the human body and mind, to become a warrior not bound by time or space. To achieve this, I will push beyond what others think is possible.

I will walk through fire and face shadows most fear to name. If it calls for it, I would die for it, because the warrior must know death as a friend. But it is not just death I seek; it is the transformation that comes from standing at the edge and looking into the abyss. If I must fight, I will fight fiercely—though I do not seek to kill lightly. But to protect the future of my people, the land, and the unseen worlds, I will do what is necessary.

I will go as far as the spirits guide me, embracing the pain, the suffering, and the lessons, for the path to becoming a cosmic warrior is not one of ease. The closer I come to death, the closer I am to understanding life. My journey has already begun, and I will not falter, no matter the cost.

The defining moment in my life came during a mission deep in the mountains, in a place where the wind whispers death and the earth seems to swallow your soul. My team and I were sent to secure a remote location—nothing out of the ordinary at first. But as we moved in, everything changed. We were ambushed, surrounded by an unseen enemy, like wolves closing in on a herd.

I can still hear their voices, the men I served with, my brothers in arms—Riley, Torres, Jacobs. Their faces flash before me in the quiet moments of the night. We fought with everything we had, but we were outnumbered, outgunned, and the terrain was unforgiving. There was a moment, just before the chaos turned to silence, when I made a choice I regret every day.

I saw Torres go down, pinned by enemy fire. He was screaming for help. I was close enough to reach him, but the orders were clear—hold the position, no matter the cost. I chose to honor that order, to fight from where I stood, believing that maybe, just maybe, I could turn the tide. But in doing so, I left him behind. The weight of that choice, that failure, has haunted me since.

By the time we were able to regroup, the others were gone too—Riley, Jacobs. They didn’t make it. Only I came back, and I never stop asking myself what could have been different if I’d acted sooner, if I’d risked everything to save them. That loss, that inability to protect my team, carved something deep into my spirit. It is a wound that will never heal, and it is the fire that burns within me now, driving me to become a cosmic warrior—not just for me, but for them. To face the darkness again, and this time, not run. Never again.

Eli
Eli is a childhood friend, someone who never judged me for the path I chose. While I was off serving, he stayed behind in our hometown, running a small trading post. He’s the type who believes in second chances and sees the good in people, no matter their past. He’s my anchor, always reminding me of who I am beyond the uniform and the battlefield.

Mika
Mika is my cousin, the one person who always believed in me, even when I couldn't see my own worth. She’s a shaman, deeply connected to our traditions and the land. When the world felt like it was caving in, she’d ground me, offering wisdom from both the old ways and the stars. Her strength is quiet, but it is powerful.

Captain Turner
Captain Turner was the one who sent us on that fateful mission. He was a man of duty, hardened by years of service, but also one with a sense of honor. He always pushed me, believing I had more potential than I knew. I respect him, but the guilt of losing my team in his mission still weighs heavy.

Cain grew up in the heart of the Midwest, in a tight-knit Native American community where traditions ran deep. His childhood was shaped by the land—wide open fields, forests, and the stories passed down from his elders. His father, a quiet and stoic man, was a skilled hunter and craftsman, teaching Cain how to respect nature and the cycles of life. His mother, a warm and strong woman, was the community’s healer, tending to both physical and spiritual needs with wisdom passed through generations.

Cain did attend school, but it was never a good fit. The curriculum felt disconnected from the world he knew, and he struggled with the rigid expectations placed on him. He didn’t quite fit in with the other kids, often feeling like an outsider. His classmates saw his quietness as aloofness, not understanding the deep bond he had with his heritage. Despite excelling in some subjects, he always longed for the familiar comfort of home.

“Yeah, I’ve been in love. Once, maybe twice. First time was when I was young, too young to know what love really meant. We met in high school, out in the middle of nowhere, where the winters cut deep, and the summers felt endless. She was kind—had this way of making you feel like you belonged, like the world wasn’t so heavy. We talked about leaving, about making a life somewhere else, but things don’t always go the way you plan. Life, family, responsibility—they have a way of pulling you back. She moved away for school, and I stayed. We lost touch. Maybe that was for the best.

The second time? That one cut deeper. Thought we had something real, something lasting. But love, I’ve learned, isn’t just about feeling—it’s about timing, about understanding the weight each of us carries. She couldn’t carry mine, and I couldn’t carry hers. Sometimes, love isn’t enough to keep two people walking the same path.

So, yeah, I’ve been in love. And I’ve lost it. But I don’t regret it. Love teaches you, even when it leaves.”

Cain’s fear was a deep, unshakable weight, settling in his bones like the chill of a long winter. It wasn’t just the fear of loss—it was the fear of helplessness. The thought of standing there, watching harm come to those he loved, knowing there was nothing he could do to stop it, clawed at him like an unseen predator. It was the kind of fear that tightened his chest in the quiet moments, creeping in like a shadow at the edge of his mind.

It wasn’t the fear of pain or death that unsettled him. It was the idea of failing when it mattered most, of reaching out and finding himself too late, too weak, too far away. He had seen what happened when people couldn’t protect their own—the hollow eyes, the weight of regret that never lifted. That fear never left him. It shaped the way he carried himself, the way he moved through the world—always watching, always bracing for the moment when he would have to stand between danger and the people who mattered. It was why he never let his guard down, why he carried every scar like a lesson. Because to fail was to lose more than just a fight—it was to lose a part of himself.

Cain’s most prized possession was a set of old knuckle dusters, worn smooth by time and the hands of the men who came before him. Forged from dark, solid brass, they bore the faint etchings of his family’s past—marks left by years of use, of struggle, of survival. They weren’t ornate, weren’t flashy, but they carried weight in more ways than one.

Passed down through generations, the knuckle dusters were more than just a weapon. They were a symbol of resilience, of the duty to protect what mattered. His grandfather had carried them through hard times, his father too, each man leaving behind the imprint of his grip. When Cain wrapped his fingers around the cool metal, he felt their presence, their strength.

He never flaunted them, never used them without cause. But they were always there, tucked away, a quiet reminder of who he was and the unspoken promise that he would never be powerless.

Cain had dragon pups—tiny, winged disasters-in-the-making—and a dream of building the first-ever dragon ranch. But there was one huge problem—where could he possibly raise them?

The Midwest seemed ideal. Vast open land, far from the chaos of the cities. But every location had a fatal flaw. An old cattle ranch in Nebraska had plenty of space, but too many nosy neighbors. A hidden valley in Montana seemed perfect until a single dragon shadow soaring overhead had people raving about UFOs. Even a stretch of badlands in South Dakota felt promising—until one of the pups got too excited and accidentally set a prairie on fire.

Cain had tried everything—abandoned farms, deep forests, isolated hills. Each time, he faced the same problem: the modern world was too small for creatures as big as legends.

Frustrated, he ran a hand through his hair, staring at a map covered in crossed-out locations. “There’s gotta be a place out here somewhere…”

Because if he couldn’t find one soon, his dream—and his dragons—wouldn’t have a future at all.

Cain woke before sunrise, the distant lowing of cattle and the rustling prairie wind his natural alarm. The air was cool, laced with the scent of damp earth and hay. Rolling his shoulders, he swung his legs over the bed and pulled on his worn leather boots, the soles scuffed from years of hard work.

His morning routine was second nature—jeans, a flannel, gloves tucked into his belt. The old wooden floor creaked under his steps as he made his way to the kitchen, pouring himself a strong cup of coffee. No time to linger. The herd needed checking, fences needed mending, and the day’s work wouldn’t wait.

Stepping outside, the golden glow of dawn stretched across the plains. He adjusted his hat, breathing in the familiar scent of sun-warmed grass and livestock. Another long day ahead. With a practiced motion, he grabbed his rope and headed toward the corral—because on a ranch, the morning never waited.

Cain woke before sunrise, the distant lowing of cattle and the rustling prairie wind his natural alarm. The air was cool, laced with the scent of damp earth and hay. Rolling his shoulders, he swung his legs over the bed and pulled on his worn leather boots, the soles scuffed from years of hard work.

His morning routine was second nature—jeans, a flannel, gloves tucked into his belt. The old wooden floor creaked under his steps as he made his way to the kitchen, pouring himself a strong cup of coffee. No time to linger. The herd needed checking, fences needed mending, and the day’s work wouldn’t wait.

Stepping outside, the golden glow of dawn stretched across the plains. He adjusted his hat, breathing in the familiar scent of sun-warmed grass and livestock. Another long day ahead. With a practiced motion, he grabbed his rope and headed toward the corral—because on a ranch, the morning never waited.

Cain’s next birthday would be like any other day on the ranch—busy. He’d wake before dawn, greeted by the crisp morning air and the sight of the rolling plains bathed in soft gold. His first gift? A strong cup of coffee and a few extra minutes to enjoy the sunrise before work called.

The cattle still needed feeding, fences still needed checking, and his favorite old mare would nudge him impatiently, demanding her morning treat. Maybe, if the day went smoothly, he’d have time to ride out to his favorite spot—a quiet hill overlooking the ranch, where the wind carried the scent of wild sage.

By evening, he’d sit around a fire with a plate of home-cooked food, maybe a slice of pie if someone remembered. No party, no big celebration—just the satisfaction of a hard day’s work, good company, and the land he loved. That was more than enough.

Cain’s regret over not being able to save Leo weighs heavily on him, a burden that lingers in his thoughts like a shadow he can never shake. He replays the moment over and over, wondering if he could have acted faster, fought harder, or made a different choice that might have changed the outcome. The guilt gnaws at him, an ever-present reminder of his failure—not just to Leo, but to himself.

He sees Leo’s face in his dreams, sometimes smiling as if nothing happened, sometimes looking at him with quiet disappointment. Cain tells himself that he did everything he could, but deep down, he doesn’t believe it. If he had truly done everything, Leo would still be here. The weight of that truth is suffocating.

Every battle Cain fights now feels like a way to atone, a desperate attempt to make up for the life he couldn’t save. But no matter how many victories he earns, they all feel hollow. Because the one person who mattered most is gone, and no amount of blood, sweat, or redemption will ever bring him back.

Cain’s gift is not one of destruction, but of protection—a force that shields, defends, and preserves. It manifests like an unbreakable barrier, instinctively reacting to danger before he even has time to think. It’s as if his very soul is wired to guard those around him, an invisible instinct that surges forth whenever someone is in harm’s way.

But his power is more than just a shield. It is a promise—an unspoken vow to those he cares about. When the world threatens to take them away, Cain’s gift is the wall that stands between them and oblivion. It absorbs the force of every strike, bears the weight of every assault, and refuses to yield, even when he himself is on the brink of collapse.

Yet, the cruel irony is that no power is perfect. For all his strength, for all his will, Cain knows that he cannot save everyone. And that knowledge is what haunts him the most—not the wounds he suffers, not the exhaustion that racks his body, but the failures. Because for someone born to protect, losing even one life feels like losing himself.

The night sky has always guided Cain, a native believer in the power of the stars and cosmic entities. He looks to the constellations for wisdom, reading their movements like sacred texts written across the heavens. The elders taught him that the stars are not just distant lights but ancestors watching over them, their spirits woven into the fabric of the universe.

Cain believes that cosmic forces shape fate, influencing the seasons, emotions, and destinies of all beings. When the moon waxes full, he performs rituals to honor the celestial guardians, seeking balance and clarity. The comets are messengers, omens of change, whispering secrets only the wise can understand.

As he walks under the vast sky, he feels the universe’s pulse within him—a reminder that he is not separate from the cosmos but an extension of it. The stars burn with purpose, and so does he, bound eternally to their light.

Cain grips his blade, feeling the familiar weight of duty pressing against his chest. He was raised to respect the natural order, to see all living things as sacred threads in the great cosmic weave. Yet, the contracts he takes often demand blood—sometimes of creatures that do not deserve to die.

Each time, he whispers apologies, pressing a hand to their still-warm bodies. He offers their spirits to the cosmic forces, hoping they understand his burden. But doubt lingers. The stars, which once guided him with clarity, now seem distant, silent witnesses to his inner turmoil.

He tells himself he is maintaining balance, yet part of him wonders if he is merely following orders without question. The more he kills, the more he fears losing the part of himself that grieves. If the sorrow ever fades, will he still be Cain? He continues forward, torn between duty and the quiet voice that begs for another way.