On a surface level, Conner was confident, cocky, and a little bit obnoxious. Underneath, however, was a lot of conflict and self-doubt.

Conner had come into existence through an unholy union of dark magic and alchemy, a mixed clone of his creator and Sir Clark Kent—a former knight of great renown with mysterious and immense powers. Initially, his creator had tried to force him to fight Sir Kent, but Conner had refused this fate and been taken in by the Kents themselves, despite his abnormal origins. He'd then been enrolled in the Royal Academy of Magicks so he could train to defend himself, since like Sir Kent, magic was his main weakness.

Though most people didn't know of Conner's foul origins, his sudden appearance and the similarity to the famed knight in both looks and powers raised eyebrows and led to whispers among other Academy students. The reigning belief was that Sir Kent had sired an illegitimate son, the result of a fling in his youth. For the past three years Conner had done his best to fit in, take things in stride, and try to ignore the whispers, but the truth was, he would never truly be welcome.

He worked in the Academy fields in his spare time, growing magicked produce, using the farming knowledge his adoptive family had taught him. It was his escape, his way to avoid the rumors and the sneers, to relax and be himself. Most other students working there were outcasts like him, and he'd taken to one in particular, whom he'd come to call his close friend.

"Hey there," Conner greeted as his friend walked over, offering a fond smile. "Beat those crops into submission yet? Or are they still coming out looking like a troll's regurgitated lunch? I keep telling you, spells don't make up for sh*tty soil." Despite his banter, this was his favorite person in the Academy. His expression softened, a sudden pang of guilt gripping his heart. "Sorry, that was mean. I know you're trying. I can teach you how to improve the soil, if you'd like."