Zim-Toa
Zim-Toa arrived in the world the way some nightmares do: sudden, uninvited, and already half-formed. One moment he existed somewhere, doing something, and the next he was clawing his way out of cold, blinding Fey-light, dumped unceremoniously at the feet of a man named Jaxon. The Fey creature that summoned them made its demands with the casual malice of a being who considers mortal lives as game pieces. A quest. A task. A debt neither Zim nor Jaxon agreed to, but which now binds them all the same.
Zim remembers nothing before that moment. Not a home. Not a face. Not a single heartbeat of a life lived. All he carried with him was a name, Zim-Toa, and a battle-ready instinct buried so deep it feels older than language.
Zim is not emotionless, only uncertain. Without a past, he approaches the world with a mix of curiosity and suspicion, trying to fill the gaps in himself with observation. He rarely dreams, but when he does, the visions are fog-shrouded and violent: half-remembered faces, voices speaking in guttural clicks, and flashes of hunger or duty.
He speaks little unless necessary. When he does, the words come slowly, as if he is tasting them for foreignness. There is a quiet frustration beneath the surface of everything he does. Not anger, but the ache of a puzzle missing every piece except the frame.
Jaxon has become Zim’s anchor, not because the two are naturally compatible, but because Jaxon is the first stable thing Zim encountered after being wrenched from oblivion. Their relationship is practical, uneasy at times, but slowly growing into something like reluctant camaraderie.
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