Name: Ἀρίστων "Ariston"

Species: Cursed Human

Affiliation: Whichever side The Mórrígan wants this time.

Age: 1978 years old by date of birth (34 CE), approximately 450 years old based on time 'alive', 26 at the time of his first death.

Apparent Age: Early 30's

Appearance:  At 6', 170 lbs, Ariston is tall, but not exceptionally large.  He has medium length dark hair that he typically slicks back a little or leaves somewhat shaggy.  His eyes are pale blue and look a little tired, making him seem older than is by some accounting.  He tends to dress in whatever he can get on the cheap and doesn't put much effort into it, knowing it's likely to be lost soon enough anyway.  The same goes for the stubble he wakes with, usually not bothering to shave for at least a day or two, assuming he lives that long.

He has two tattoos which last past death and rebirth, one "LEG IX HIS" flanked by bull horns, the symbol of the Legio Nona Hispana, the other a phrase around his wrist, "Titim gan éirí síochána", a play on a traditional curse, roughly translating to "May you fall without peace."  He gets more, when time permits.  Sometimes stupid things, sometimes artistic things, it depends on his mood and how drunk he is at the time.  But like with most other things such as his clothes and hair, he doesn't expect them to last.

Personality: Ariston is a study in contrasts.  He shifts between irreverent humor and nihilism, between a keen desire for human contact (given the loneliness of limbo) and an anti-social streak (given there's no point in getting close to anyone), between a carefree abandon and depressive inaction. He has zero fear, though an intense dislike for being burned.  He avoids responsibility whenever possible, but it acutely disciplined once focused on a task.  He has an oddly protective nature for women and children, but openly despises and derides the Fae and takes great pleasure in insulting them (to his limited peril).

History:  "I was born in Macedonia," he explained, taking a shot of whisky before returning to his beer.  "Well, it's Albania now.  My father was a minor Praefect."

"That's like an ambassador these days," he said, seeing the glassy eyed expression that met his story.

"My life was easy for the time, at least in so far as my future was all but written by the Fates.  My father had a friend, Caesius Nasica," he went on, "who led the Legio IX Hispana."

"Go Bulls," he said with mock enthusiasm before going on, "So at the age of 14 they shipped me off to Jolly Old England.  Wasn't called that, but whatever."

He gave a little dismissive flip of his hand, lifting the bottle to his lips and signaling the bartender for another round.

"I was an aide at first, then Cornicen, you know, a Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy of Legio Nine," he quipped, frowning a little that it didn't rhyme better.

"Carried papers, simple stuff," he continued. "I was 16 when we gave Caratacus a show at Caer Caradoc, 18 when we put down Venutius, 23 when we put him down again."

He waited until the bartender left, leaving behind another whisky and another beer.

"I was 26 when I died," he said undramatically, downing the whisky like he'd just made a toast.  "Boudica, Queen of the Iceni decided she didn't like us anymore and rose up against the Empire.  I mean, I sort of get that now, but still.  So we were sent off to break the siege at Camulodunum.  Quintus, a friend of mine, long dead now, he took us, 2,500 strong and threw us at 10,000.  Bloody waste of men if you ask me, but we were soldiers and pretty good ones.  Still, math is math and we got massacred.  I mean, Quintus and some of the cavalry got away, but that's just cause they had horses.  The rest of us, a good 2,000 infantry... it wasn't pretty."

He waved for two more shots, thinking he'd need them before he was done.

"I wasn't more than an Optio at the time, which if you know anything about the Roman Imperial Army, which I assume you do," he said, oblivious to the fact his tablemate was passing out, "the Optio's at the back and supposed to make sure the Rankers don't break the line.  In other words, I was the last man standing when it was over."

"Now bear in mind," he warned, coming to the punchline, "I was Legion through and through and full of piss and vinegar as the saying goes.  So when that bi..."

He caught himself with a smile.

"When Queen B came forward and asked if I had any last words, I had a few," he said, seemingly proud of the fact despite the trouble it had gotten him in.

"A word of advice," he suggested, "when the Queen of a barbarian tribe asks you for last words, don't insult her goddesses."

"Even if she is a b...," he mumbled under his breath, taking another shot.

"So yeah," he said a little unrepentantly, "I may have said something like 'Not even your Mórrígan knows the hour of my death, what makes you think you do.'  Or something stupid like that.  And I may have spit a little, which OK, I admit that was rude."

"A word of advice," he suggested again, "don't taunt barbarians, they have unique ways of executing people they don't like."

It was still his least favorite form of death and he thought about it for a moment while staring into the flame of his cheap plastic Bic lighter before lighting a cigarette and letting out a puff of smoke with a sigh as he leaned back.

"So whatever," he shrugged, taking another drag on the cigarette, "we had our own afterlife and even if Quintus was a jerk for leaving us like that, I knew he'd give me the coin to cross the Acheron.  I'm not sure if we all got denarii, I'd like to think so, I mean, about a year's pay for 2,000 lives?  Seems fair."

He spun the little silver coin on the table until it fell and came to rest with Livia facing up.

"But one of the things they don't teach you in school is that they all talk," he said, getting to the hitch in his story.  "See, we might have our own afterlife, but our gods and their gods sometimes make agreements, trades if you will.  Not really sure what mine got in return, but Charon wouldn't take my coin.  Just outright refused, left me there on the shores while he ferried the rest across."

"I'm not sure how long I was there, it's hard to tell, no sun to tell the time, no sense of day or night, just an endless stream of phantoms on their way to the underworld," he said, sipping more of his beer.

"And then, bam, I'm waking up in some forest somewhere spitting out a coin and a bit of smoke," he said, setting the bottle down with enough of a bang to almost wake the drunk sharing his table.

"So here's the punchline," he said a bit bitterly.  "To prove a point, she knows the exact hour, minute and second of my death, each and every one of them.  So, she brings me back, expects me to be her dog for a little bit, pulls my leash until I behave, and tries to find a few inventive ways to kill me along the way."

"You're ideas are getting boring by the way!" he complained to an unseen presence in the ceiling.

"I mean, how many times can you get shot or hit by a car?" he asked his unconscious companion.  "What's wrong with a good old piano drop, falling airplane parts, alligators in the sewers?"

"Ooo, that's a good one," he thought about that last, thinking it was almost a new idea.

"So anyway, I do what she wants and then she sends me back to the shores when she's done," he finished.

"This'll be..." he started counting out on his fingers, "The one thousand, four hundred and fifty fourth time."

He didn't actually know if that was true, having lost count long ago, but the math was about right, considering he sometimes came back for a few days, sometimes a few months and on a rare occasion for a few years.  Of course, that wasn't the same as the number of times he'd died, he was pretty sure that was a five to ten times more.

"But who's counting," he said, taking the last of the glasses and downing it, following it with the beer and getting up, flipping the denarius to the bartended.

"Use the rest to clear his tab," he said, heading out the door, figuring a pawn shop would get a $150 for the coin, eBay $400, either way, it was enough to cover them both.

~O~

Ariston splits his time between a summer home on the shore of the Acheron in the gray limbo of the afterlife and whatever mortal place he's sent to die in (again).  He doesn't know what deal was struck to deny him entrance to Hades, Charon never talks.  Over time, he saw the passengers dwindle, until now it's just him and the ferryman waiting until either the curse or time ends, whichever comes first.

At first he thought that was it, limbo for all time, but it wasn't long before he found himself back in the world of the living.  A lot had changed.  Quintus was now governor of a failing Roman rule.  Quintus did not react well to seeing his dead and burned friend alive and well.  It was the second time Ariston died.

He woke a few hours later, spitting yet another coin from his mouth.  It took him awhile to sort it out, that he wasn't brought back for a second chance, but rather to serve at The Mórrígan's whim.  The Brigantes of the north were under siege and there was a girl important to The Mórrígan.  It was Ariston that saw her safely to the Emerald Isle.

His final death was inglorious and he waited another year in Limbo before he was called again, and again, and again.  At times, he's refused, has ignored the omens, the signs, the punishment of painful death.  He spent a month drunk in Hamburg rather than help a witch, he spent a week hiding in a hotel outside Madrid, spent a few days jumping off buildings until he was rich.  But she always got her way and in the end, he did as she wished.

The only question was, what would it be this time.

Three irrelevant details: He fears being in a coma, doesn't understand technology and likes to get tattoos when he's drunk, though they never last very long (except his initial two).

What do you have in your pockets? Well, once I spit it out of my mouth, I'll have one shiny, Denarius.  And once I pawn that Denarius and buy some new pants, I'll have a pack of cigarettes, some matches, a fifth of something and a hand written note saying "do not resuscitate."