In Greek mythology, Moros /ˈmɔːrɒs/ (Ancient Greek: 'doom, fate') is the personified spirit of impending doom, who drives mortals to their deadly fate.
name: dev krishna rajput age: soon to be thirty-eight
parents: vedant rajput, human journalist & the greek god of fate and doom moros
traits: fearless, selfish, determined, arrogant, cunning, moody
alignment: chaotic neutral
profession: former economist & investor
education: graduated in economy & philosophy, mba in investment management
former place of residence: london, uk
transcript.
As Dev knew it his parents had met in a divided Germany, an assignment foolishly cooked up to keep his father from angering more people in both Britain and India with his writing. It did not work.
His father–the mortal one, that is, had always called out disaster before it struck. Call it foresight, or just reading the fucking signals. Whenever he went, whatever he wrote, disaster soon followed. They never did listen…That’s what attracted him. That’s how their love came to be.
Dev was not his father. Cursed with his foresight, blessed with visions of doom, he stopped talking when people would not listen. Should he be surprised by his godly parent, when he heeded the call? When he saw what was coming for him? The impeding doom that haunted him made real…
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Unsettling. Weird. Head in the clouds. The gift left by the god of doom to a man haunted by the future who could do nothing to save himself or anyone else. Shadows that haunted Dev Krishna, child of fate, harbinger of doom, from day one… He grew up watching it all, death and misery, broken dreams, broken lives. Fate wasn’t cruel he thought–it was worse than that, fate didn’t care.
From Germany, to Palestine, to India. Wherever his father went there was doom, hanging like a veil of pain and misery in the faces of people Dev would never see again. His father was an idealist, his father wanted to save the world. Dev wondered if it wanted to be saved.
Haunted by dreams of ruin, it seemed like there was nothing capable of thriving under his hands. Was it following him, or was he the one causing it? Wherever they went, chaos followed, either by the hands of his journalist father or a disaster that happened to hit. Another death, another coup, another people starving. Each city, each country, nowhere was safe. No one was safe. Relationships fell apart as easily as broken promises, as easily as a panic attack, as all the possibilities of suffering–car accident on a monday, earthquake on a tuesday, heart attack on wednesday, drowning, crushed under a building, terrorist attack on… breathless, gasping for breath, watching them leave, watching them die. Nightmares… that followed. Warnings, never heeded, always resented, pain never avoided, advice never taken. Until he stopped talking, listening, dreaming. Wake up, drive, ignore it ignore it ignore it. Isolated, afraid but safe. Safe?
If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. Get money, make yourself comfortable, easy to take the money from warning unheeded from his father and make it grow, watch the world burn knowing the flames will get you eventually, eventually, not now. Not yet anyway. Sometime, known it the whole time, didn’t he? Almost a relief when the calling comes, when the monsters are made real, when there is something to punch and kill. He gets an axe, easy to hold, easier to throw, gets a bow. He gets another father, one that was never there, one that–it seemed–had always been close in a way, almost like they kept chasing each other. One that is cruel, or uncaring, or too fucking busy, but one that gives him power now.
Is that enough? Will it save him? Can he save anyone, even himself? Well, he’s going to fucking try.















