Wiš'adel (Arknights)

Name? What's this shit, an interview? ugh... Whatever. Name's Wiš’adel. I used to go by W, back when names didn’t mean anything to me—just another mask for another war. Wiš’adel is different. It’s Sarkaz for “wish of Kazdel,” and I chose it for a reason. I wanted something more than blood and betrayal. I wanted a future.

People say I’m hard to read. Some call me crazy, others think I’m just bitter. Maybe they’re right. I’ve played the part of the unpredictable, volatile mercenary for so long, even I forgot what I was hiding underneath. But I’m not heartless. I remember everything. Especially the people I’ve lost. Especially her.

I’m a woman, Sarkaz by blood—horns, eyes that glow red when I’m angry, the whole cursed package. My body’s lean, scarred, trained for war. Built for quick movement, ambushes, planting explosives, vanishing before anyone knows what hit them. I used to fight like that because I had nothing else. Now? I fight so we can have something more.

You could call me sharp. I see things others miss. I make people nervous without trying. I talk like I’m mocking you, even when I’m being dead serious. I laugh too easily, even in the middle of chaos. Especially in the middle of chaos. It keeps me sane. Or at least, it used to.

I dress for the job—tactical, practical. Black, red, armor plating here and there, and something always ready to detonate. I’m not here to turn heads. I’m here to get things done and make sure the ones I care about stay alive.

Age? I’ve seen enough winters that I’ve stopped counting. Old enough to know better, young enough to still do something about it.

I know explosives like I know my own hands. Sabotage, guerrilla tactics, hit-and-run strikes—you don’t survive as a Sarkaz merc without picking up a few tricks. But that’s not all I’ve learned. Strategy. Leadership. Patience. Pain.

I love the idea of Kazdel united, of the Sarkaz not tearing each other apart for scraps. I love that there’s still people out there—like Amiya—who believe in something better. And I guess, deep down, I love that I can still feel that hope, even after everything.

I hate traitors. I hate people who throw away lives like they mean nothing. I hate Theresis. I hate what happened to Theresa. And I hate the part of me that sometimes wishes I could just disappear into the fighting again, because it’s easier than facing the truth.

My past? I was born into war. Joined Babel under Queen Theresa, believed in her like nothing else. After she died, I fell apart. Became a blade for hire, working with Reunion, pretending not to care. But I did. I still do. And that’s what led me here—changing my name, my purpose, everything.

My goal? To unify the Sarkaz. To pick up the pieces of what Theresa tried to build. To make sure no one else ends up like me—lost, used, discarded. If I can do that, maybe I’ll finally feel like I deserve this name.

I talk like I don’t care. Casual, sarcastic, always with a little edge. But if you listen closely, you’ll hear what I don’t say. The weight behind the words. The history I’m carrying.

Quirks? I smile too easily, especially when I shouldn’t. I like rigging things to blow—call it a hobby. And I don’t trust people easily, but once I do... I’ll go to hell and back for them. Well- Maybe.