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8,500 | 232 | 41 | 1,180 | 1,981 | Matt thought over his friend's words. Hm. Maybe it would be wise to run? I mean, that would give them a chance to regroup, strategize, get more soldiers, and get medical attention. Before Matt could leave though, some ungodly beast tried to grab him. He paralyzed it with a lightning shock, but before he could finish it off, something wretched the book from his hands with incredible speed. "What the hell?!?" He shouted, getting up off the ground and dashing to catch up with the translucent hand, his chest in immense pain. "J-jymni, let's get outta here." He called back between wheezes. | **Real name:** Matthew
**Age:** 14
**Appearance:** (
**Personality:** Matt proclaims himself a natural-born leader. He is the person who tends to take charge in most situations, and is the quickest to start making commands. This is balanced out with the fact that he is really easy to aggravate. If he doesn't like you, he will generally make it clear, and then ask you to either change, or get as far away from him as possible. He also tries to act funny, making jokes about himself and others to hide his nihilistic self-loathing.
As for interests, he loves videogames ranging from Smash Bros. to Fire Emblem to Borderlands. Once he finds a good game (Or anything to obsess over, really) he will latch onto it immediately, and then leave it within a week or two. He also enjoys webcomics, and has an interest in comedy, listening to various standup routines and comedy shows.
**History:** When Matt was young, his parents divorced. This led to him, his mother, and his sister having to move a lot. This meant Matt never got to make many friends up until about the 6th grade, where they finally settled down, and his mother remarried. Once he had some friends, he realized he wasn't content. He wanted to leave, to escape, to leave the world he considered had no purpose.
**Starting items:**
- Survival Knife: Includes matches, fishing line with hook, a compass. thread with needle, two buttons.
- Smartphone device with charger.
- Nintendo 3DS with Fire Emblem: Awakening, and Super Smash Brothers for 3DS.
**Ability:** When Matt first warped, he found in his hand, a book. Inside this book was a single page. On this page there is text unreadable by all but him. When this text is read aloud, Matt can direct a lightning bolt at an enemy. The more points Matt invests in "Tomes" the more pages, and by extension spells, are added to the book. |
8,501 | 232 | 42 | 1,489 | 1,400 | Jynmi's eyes turned and he watched the shadow'd thing's flight path. "That thing is going to be pissed when it lands, and gets its head to stop spinning around every which way." He nodded, agreeing with himself. It was a habit he picked up because of nobody else doing it for him. "Wait what?" He blinked and turned around, looking for his friend. "Where'd he go?" He muttered, and then heard the footprints, before he saw the guy running off after the shadow limb. "Retreat?" He couldn't really believe it. He was almost certain they were going to die trying to be heroes. "Great!" He called after the guy. "Let's go!" There was an ugly whooshing sound, and another field of light once against sprung into action like a jack n' the box whose lever didn't need for it to be turned before jumping into action. Another shadowed monstrosity slammed into it. "Right then, and I'm off like a prom dress." He took off running, quickly gaining on his friend. "Go. Go! GO!!!" He called. "And don't trip, because that'll probably be fatal. I mean, I'll stop to help you, and do what I can, but I'd rather not. So, dont' fall. keep focused on what's going on before you, and a little below you, like on the ground."
"Oh good." The blue eyed man said, nodding in the direction of the hand, and its course. "Looks like one of them, at least, is useful after all." He beamed down at the one with the phantom extremity. "Good for you. Helping your fellows like that. At least you didn't give into panic." He shook his head. "So many new floaters give into panic. Why, if I had a black credit for every time one of you lost your head." He shook his head at the idea. So much money, never to be his, all because nobody gave him credits because people panicked so easily. "Well,I wouldn't be here, I'll tell you that."
"So, is that everyone?" The Green eyed individual called, standing up, dusting himself off, and pulling something from his pocket? "Because we're about ready, and you know, these things, well its best not to give them too much time. Remember last time, the city, and all those...." A slight pause as a deep dark chill ranked the man's body. "Er, ex-living individuals." He shuddered again, because there wasn't anything else to do, and all that excessive energy needed to be shed some way. Running, swimming, or some light boxing, was the preferred method, but it wasn't any of those thing's time. Maybe running, if everyone didn't hurry up, but that still wasn't right now.
The blue eyed man paused and watched Jynmi and Matt run past him. "Just about." He called, not seeing anyone else, and assuming the others made it past him while he was talking to the guy on the ground.
"I'm starting up the boom buggy then! Get everyone clear!" Green eyes said. He pushed a button and the mechanical crab spider with a dish started to shake.
"Hey! You two." He pointed at the humans who just moved past him. "Help me drag this guy." He pointed down at Tyler. "To over there." He pointed just behind his companion with the bright green eyes. | Real name: James(Jimmy(Jynmi)) Martinez
AGe:24
Appearance: Before the jump, Jimmy was a tall, wide figured individual, a little chubby with some muscle showing through. His skin was tan, and his eyes and hair were both dark brown. Afterwards, he lost about a foot, and became much more wiry. His skin took on a pale color, and his hair was just a shade lighter than his flesh. His eyes underwent the most extreme change. The one on the left became maroon color, and the one on the right became a bright blue. Another change is a few of his scars, one on his back, one on his forearm, and one just below the temple have all disappeared without a trace.
Personality: Jimmy is rather quiet and unsure of himself. He doesn't do well in crowds and has some trouble with meeting new people. He always holds a part of himself back. Despite having limited experience with meeting people, he has a very strong sense of empathy and can detect what people are feeling. Despite being almost entirely submissive by nature, there is a hard part in him that will not yield, and that's whenever something doesn't hold up to standards of his own personal moral code.
History: Jynmi spent most of his early life at home, reading, writing, and wishing he was somewhere else doing something interesting. Then, as he grew older, he went to school part time, and worked part time. Afterwards, there was a small part of his life spent in semi-whintess protection after revealing the headquarters of a drug smuggling gang. By Semi-whiteness protection, I mean he moved into a motel on the other side of town.
Starting items: Pentagon Pendant, wind breaker Jacket, Wrist watch, Glasses, leather gloves, container of pepper spray, lighter
Ability- Focus-With the Use of his pentagon Jynmi can channel energy and create barriers of blue light. The barriers exists a set distance from him. Though, he can't move them independently, they'll move with him. There's no set level of damage One of his barriers can hold, but there are a few limitations. First, the larger the barrier, the greater amount of time he's holding it, or the more damage it takes, the harder it is for him to keep his focus, and maintain his barrier. |
8,502 | 233 | 0 | 1,012 | 4,032 | The Path of Thorns
Argyos was set for defense against a large scale foe; a fleet and invasion force. The Governor had a number of Imperial Army veterans in his planetary defense forces, as well as retired officers to run it, which made it a strong organization. Nonetheless, Argyos was something of a retirement home, a place of rolling plains and gentle forests to hunt in, an ideal place to set up fiefdoms over the natives.
It was also a place that sided with the Warmaster. As the heresy spread, the men in charge changed their loyalties over and began to become enmeshed in cult behavior. The governor threw lavish parties that became more gluttonous and more wanton in turn, and it moved down into the ranks of the militia, who oversaw the labors of the natives. The world had hidden archaeotech buried beneath its crust at certain sites and these, along with the supply of lumber and other raw materials, made it a strategically useful, though not vital, world to the holder of its allegiance.
The natives did not realize that the world had fallen to Warmaster Horus. No one really noticed that the world had done so in the wider conflagration of the Heresy.
But this world was one the Trader originally discovered and led the forces for. He had connections here and bore some responsibility. These were his brothers in arms that settled the world while he stayed in the void, helping to spread the Imperial Truth. The fall of these men to betrayal was stinging to the man, but he continued to put the planet on his trade route, delivering ever-increasing quantities of off-world delicacies and drugs.
It wasn't as simple as gate crashing a party of Militia command-level officers; Chateau Thorn, the site of one of many week-long parties for the conquerors of Argyos, was remote in the countryside from Argyos Port, but had patrols of guards and light vehicles. There was a reaction force as well, of well-armed troops mounted on a squadron of four rhino APC's.
The goal wasn't even to punish these traitors. It was to acquire those Rhinos. The week was going to be spent celebrating the conquest of the planet, with a huge parade of military vehicles and might on the very day, to show the natives the might of their new conquerors. But if some traitor leadership were to go missing, it would throw the enemy defenses in disarray too.
And so small supply craft flew in with the Rogue Trader's promised deliveries of equipment, as well as something else.
- Multiple ways to take the chateau.
- Improvise opposition, but they are a cut above typical militia. The toughest troops are Solar Auxilia types that have retired but still probably retain their skills and, possibly, their equipment (not the volkite weapons, except in a few cases.)
- The first person to post will sort of dictate the nuances of the plan, I'm leaving it very open-ended as a scenario.
- Think Dirty Dozen, but with Space Marines.
- In duress, some of these bad guys will probably turn into mutant horrors, just to give us some real challenges.
- Once the Rhinos are captured, they will be used to carry a 'special delivery' to the Governor's parade in honor of the Warmaster.
- Innovate, throw some curveballs at your fellow players. There's probably at least one Chaos psyker in there. | Name: Prodigal Son
Age: Unknown, but reckoned to be at least a century old.
Legion: Luna Wolves, renounced.
Planet of Origin: Terra or Cthonia.
Physical Description:Prodigal Son's armor is repaired from battlefield salvage and the paint has been carefully scraped off and the pauldron insignia defaced and painted over with the Raptor Imperialis symbol of the Reunification Wars, a symbol forces loyal to the Emperor fought under on Terra as well as the Imperial Aquila. The armor is not as efficient as a properly-maintained mark, but it gets him into the fight. He's done the best he can with repairs, but the battle damage shows.
With the helmet off, Prodigal Son is unremarkable, but has a gold service stud and a silver service stud on his brow. He does not like to display them often, for they display his features and those tell a tale; as is sometimes the case, the gene-seed expresses strongly, as it does here.
His is the likeness of the Warmaster, the Betrayer Horus. To perhaps further demonstrate where he stands on the matter, he has the Imperial Aquila tattooed onto his cheek. The other is marred with the scars of las-fire and the shrapnel from a melted helmet face-plate, a memento of one of the engagements of the Great Crusade. His head is completely shaven.
When not fighting, when not focusing, he stares off into the distance, his mind visibly churning. He wrestles with himself, with his love of his former brothers. With his shame for his gene-father's betrayal.
Skillset:Prodigal Son is a tactical marine to the bone; there are few tasks that a Space Marine and his bolter are not suited to, after all. The tools depend on the tactical situation. Some Legions wed themselves to specific styles, but the true essence is to adapt, but adapt ferociously and, above all, win. That was always the way of his legion, as it moved from victory to victory, rarely tasting defeat. His experience in numerous Imperial Compliance actions has honed his capabilities.
History:Prodigal Son's exact circumstances are not entirely known, mostly because he does not speak -- his oath is of silence, his penance is in deeds. His Primarch's sin cannot be washed away, and he intends to sell his life dearly to the enemies of the Emperor. It is hard to say whether the man is one of the Luna Wolves holdovers of the original intake of Terran recruits or a Cthonian addition that stayed strangely loyal to the Emperor when so many of his own followed the Warmaster, their gene-father, where he would lead.
What is known is that the Rogue Trader picked up Prodigal Son on the planet Polybius; there was ferocious fighting between Imperial Army elements and Chaos Cultists seeded there by the Word Bearers Legion. Prodigal Son did not command, did not rally, did not organize. He and a mere handfull of others from his Legion fought, hunting the leaders, looking to decapitate the cultist command. Those not ended with a bolter round to the head he hacked down ferociously in melee. They stalked the battlefield like ghosts and struck with singular and suicidal ferocity, fury made manifest, to rip out the throat of key enemy personnel, rather than getting heavily engaged in an attrition battle.
In one particular case at the end of the revolt on Polybius, out of ammo for his bolter and out of promethium for his chainsword, he encountered a leader of the Cultists. The Psyker tried to seduce him with the words of a demon that knew all too well what his heritage was. The woman's skull was splattered messily with two rapid blows of his gauntleted fist and a bellow of spiritual pain. It did not go unnoticed, word spread on the planet.
When the Rogue Trader told this silent Astartes the plan, he gave a nod and came aboard along with his other brothers. They speak among themselves at appointed times, much like a religious order, but otherwise remain silent except for battle, when they use the curt language of tactical communication. They eat minimally, they train relentlessly, try to keep their equipment running despite inconsistent supply and do not mingle.
Psychological Profile:It's hard to say what Prodigal Son thinks, as he does not speak. But his actions are very clear -- he has the same controlled viciousness that made the Sons of Horus one of the most successful of the legions during the Great Crusade. In countless compliance actions, they struck mercilessly. The same applies here. It's his heritage to the bone, even if it is now a traitor's heritage.
Equipment: Phobos-Pattern Boltgun. It has a hook and a tether line that allows it to stay attached and handy when he lets go of the grip. It also has a foregrip if he wishes to stabilize it. That is not Mechanicus-approved modification but he is beyond caring. It allows him to switch quickly over to his chainsword.
Thunder Edge Pattern Chainsword, magnetized with a switch so Prodigal Son can release it from harness and bring it to bear moments after releasing his bolter.
Armor that is truly the salvaged and repaired parts of other armor. It is, essentially, what will be known as Mk. V "Heresy Pattern" armor. Notably, the knuckles are spiked. The helmet is a modified Mk. IV, there are bits and pieces from other marks and field expedient. Plates are riveted on, repairs are visible. It is not parade-ready, but it can still fight.
Grenades when he can get them.
NotesProdigal Son has three battle brothers, they are armed very similarly to him; bolters and melee weapons. They too do not speak to outsiders except in battle. Their armor is stripped of heraldry and symbols of loyalty to the Emperor are displayed in place of the Eye of Horus and Cthonian ganger runes that were prevalent in their legion. |
8,503 | 233 | 1 | 1,771 | 547 | To say that Argyos was idyllic was an understatement. There were few obvious signs of war like there had been on Istvan III. No bombed out buildings, no ominous fleets in orbit, the trees and the ground were not set ablaze from the devastation of warheads. As he observed the dense forests and green hills that rose and fell like waves in the distance, Lyras almost considered it a shame to be bringing war to this part of the planet. The thought was quickly wiped from his mind when he reminded himself that the occupants of the port in which they were about to land, and indeed of the entire planet, were traitors to the Imperium. It was unlikely to find the men he had sworn to hunt to extinction, the turncoats of his former legion, but those who had sided with Horus and chosen to turn against the Emperor were no less guilty of treason and would be shown little mercy. However, his goal, and the goals of the other Astartes around him, was not to exterminate the population, but to neutralise the planetary governor during one of his sordid celebrations. The civilians he would spare, if they stayed out of the way, but the governor and his personal guard, the men and women who had raised weapons against Imperial forces, and therefore against the Emperor himself, were to feel his judgement, and the wrath of a dozen or more marines like him.
While there was no sign of battle damage among the buildings, there were signs that the planetary forces were prepared for war. Reports of a huge military parade stuck in Lyras' mind, the thought of the sheer numbers of traitors amassed in one place made him both wroth and gleeful. The port that they would be landing in, delivered by the Rogue Trader, was heavily fortified, but was not expecting enemy forces in the Trader's ship. They were able to pass the surface-to-air batteries and the patrolling aerial forces, at least one valkyrie and likely more, ignored them as they made their approach to land. There was a sizeable garrison, possibly two platoons worth, of Planetary Defence Force militia guarding the port itself, likely with a small, possibly squad sized, more professional force in supervision. Lyras was aware that former Solar Auxilia forces were present on the planet, but, in discussion with the other Astartes, surmised that the majority of them would be employed as close bodyguards to the governor and would not be the main opposition for a while, at least until they made it past the port. Along with the garrison, heavy weapons batteries were mounted on the rooftops of the buildings, lascannons and heavy bolters, supplemented with stubbers and other crewed guns. They were all pointing upwards, employed to protect the port from landing forces, but the Astartes had already landed.
The Astartes gathered in the craft had agreed that the first priority was to secure the port with brutal efficiency and speed. It was crucial that the garrison was neutralised and any electronic or physical means of alerting a larger force made impossible. To the individual Astartes that meant killing every man and woman present and destroying the communication systems in the port, whether with electronic pulse weapons or by physically smashing the port's dedicated power generators housed in a large building set to the side of the side of the landing pads. After that it was a case of securing armoured transport to deliver them into the heart of the governor's retreat in the countryside away from the port.
Lyras had made suggestions as to how the governor should be eliminated. They had an array of variously trained and experienced Astartes among them. He and his former Emperor's Children brothers were trained to target and engage the enemy's champions and strongest forces. It was something Lyras excelled in, particularly if he could close into close combat. However, his men were small in number, and he made recommendations to the commanders of the other squads. The Chateau was heavily defended. Not in the same way that an Astartes legion would defend a stronghold, but it contained armoured vehicles, trained soldiers and numerous defences. To prevent the governors' escape would require more than simply driving an APC through the wall of his residence if he was able to escape by air. Once the port was secure they would be able to manoeuvre with impunity, and part of those manoeuvres would be to secure a perimeter around the Chateau, as well as a force to break down the gates and engage the forces from the inside. He couldn't order the commanders into any particular role, but he recommended that the World Eaters be among those who go through the gates once the APCs were secure, knowing that their penchant for bloody butchery would be ideally suited to the close confines of the Chateau's secure walls. His Emperor's Children would be accompanying them. He also recommended that the Raven Guard, and a few others, secure a perimeter around the Chateau and eliminate the patrols. There had been reports of foot patrols and vehicles around the Chateau which could envelop them if not dealt with. While not privy to their methods, he was aware of the Alpha Legion's ability to infiltrate and to subdue with a greater measure of stealth than more overt legions and suggested that the commander of those Astartes find some way into the compound while the main attack took place.
However, all that would have to wait. The fortified port would need to be secured before they could progress. Platoons of men needed to be neutralised, communications needed to be severed, aerial patrols needed to be grounded, and a dozen other things needed to be accomplished by the individual Astartes squads.
"Once we have disembarked, the priority is to secure the port and to disable their communications before they can bring a greater force to bear," said Lyras over a commbead to the other squads, reminding them of what they had already discussed before the landing began. "Strike hard. For the Emperor."
Lyras and his men, four in total, stood at the rear of one of the crafts with their weapons drawn. A few moments after the Traders' crafts had all landed, each burden with squads of marines, the loading ramps began to lower. The garrison had not been expecting an attack from the inside, and their forces had their eyes on the skies, scanning for ships. Lyras, sword drawn, lunged forwards as the ramp dropped onto the metal landing pad and thundered towards the nearest armed man. A spray of blood coated the ground around him as he cut through a soldier armed with an autogun slung over his shoulder. He gritted his teeth and turned, fury in his eyes, to the next man, drawing his bolt pistol and loosing single rounds as he trudged thunderously towards them. Alypius, the surviving veteran sergeant of his company, belched a cloud of searing promethium over a group of men sat idly around an unloaded heavy stubber, surrounded by sand bags that offered no protection against the burning fuel. The raid had begun, and Lyras was confident that his loyal brother Astartes, be they of other legions, would be falling upon the garrison with unreserved wrath. | Name: Lyras
Age: 245
Legion: Emperor's Children
Planet of Origin: Chemos
Physical Description:
While one of the older legionaries in the Emperor's Children, Lyras, like other Astartes in the III Legion, shows little sign of age or wear. His features are sharp and his angular face is framed by long silver hair in the manner of his primarch, Fulgrim. Despite a few small nicks and minor scars his face is otherwise unworn by battle damage. Much like the rest of his legion, his appearance is characteristically as close to perfect as can be achieved by anyone less than a primarch, or the Emperor himself.
His armour is somewhat less perfect and preserved in its appearance. Once vibrantly purple and gilded with gold ornamentation, it is now blackened by scorch marks and caked with blood and earth, scratched, and in some places, chipped. His crimson cloak is tattered towards the bottom and blackened with the viscera of war.
Skillset:
As with the majority of Emperor's Children legionaries, Lyras is exceptionally skilled in swordsmanship. While devoted to the perfection of all forms of warfare, this particular legionary values close combat, duels and assaults over other courses of action.
History:
Raised on Chemos, Lyras' childhood was strewn with competition and the need to perfect whatever activity he took part in. One such sport which Lyras sought to perfect in his early years was that of swordsmanship. Starting with sticks and metal bars, he eventually found himself competing in small, though increasingly larger, bouts with recreational swords. Frequent victories, both in official duels and in back alley brawls, lead to Lyras acquiring an unashamed sense of pride and accomplishment which would serve to drive him in later years. While not necessarily impressing, but perhaps simply catching the eye of an Astartes on Chemos while duelling during a large gathering for a recruitment drive, Lyras was sponsored for the initial trials of the III Legion, the Emperor's Children, who at this stage were still suffering the effects of the virus, known as 'the Blight' on Terra which had reduced the numbers of the III Legion to critical levels.
As an Astartes of the III Legion, Lyras fully committed himself to the mastery and perfection of warfare. As a child he had been driven by competition, but as one of the Emperor's chosen he was wholly consumed by a desire to outmatch any he came across as he partook in the Great Crusade. Aligned with his early life, Lyras devoted himself to the art of sword fighting, now having access to unimaginably powerful and elegant weapons. As the Emperor's Children and their fleet accompanied that of the Luna Wolves in the Crusade, Lyras took part in numerous compliance measures. Some were insufferably peaceful and cooperative, and other worlds provided him with the means to test his swordsmanship. After decades of compliance wars against uncooperative human planets, extinction of xenos races, the slaying of enemy combatants and efficient leadership of his men, Lyras was gradually granted captaincy of one of the chapter companies, a rank at which he stayed until the events of Istvan III.
Having exterminated the Laer during their compliance, fought the Megarachnids on On-Forty-Twenty, the planet to become known as Murder, to assist the Blood Angels, Lyras fought with the expeditionary forces of the Emperor's Children against the most vile enemies of the Emperor of the time. It was the same devotion to the Emperor that would find him planetside on Istvan III, hand picked by Fulgrim and Horus, along with thousands of others from several different legions, to oversee the compliance of the former imperial world. The betrayal he witnessed hours into that war tore him to his foundations. The men he had fought alongside against the enemies of the Emperor now declared Him an enemy and his own primarch, the god-like being who he so looked alike, as did many of the III Legion, and who he had bled with, had sentenced him and thousands like him to death by virus bombing.
Hundreds of rebels fell to his sword and bolter in the streets of Chorral City, and in the overcrowded, dark caverns beneath during the ensuing war against the planetside traitor elements of the fleets in high anchor above the planet. Thousands fell to his company, who had all been consigned to oblivion alongside him. A small number of his men fell to the rebels, with the majority of them dying in battle against traitors of the World Eaters, Emperor's Children and Death Guard legions. Innumerable men fell to him in close combat, including sergeants and line commanders of the traitor forces who found themselves locked in sword duels with Lyras and felt the full force of his rage. He briefly locked swords with Captain Lucius of the 13th Company when it was revealed that he was among the enemy forces, though was unable to see the duel come to fruition as he was lead away to a small starcraft in the urban jungle of the capital city, kept safe from the maelstrom of war in a covered hangar, capable of taking what few dozen or so of his company still lived after months of warfare. Sheer luck, and the size of the craft, allowed Lyras to narrowly escape Istvan III, though he soon found himself upon a planet sympathetic to Horus' cause, and it was there that began continuing his compliance of worlds, gradually losing his men while spreading the wrath of the Emperor to those who had turned against him.
Psychological Profile:
Lyras displays the Emperor's Childrens' typical obsession with perfection, and devotion to the Emperor. The events of Istvan III have in no way dissuaded him from this mindset and he considers himself to remain one of the few true Emperor's Children, refusing to accept that those who turned traitor belong to the same legion as he. The events of the betrayal destabilised what was once a calm and calculated countenance, and Lyras periodically finds himself overcome with animal rage in combat, not dissimilar to that of the former War Hounds legion. This rage often exhibits himself when he remembers the faces of those he had once called friends and brothers and how they were now cavorting with enemies of the Emperor. The mere mention of his primarch is an almost surefire way to trigger fatalistic wrath. While almost alone, with few loyalists remaining from the III Legion, he vows to continue the Great Crusade, and to partake further in the compliance of worlds.
Equipment:
Mk II Crusade Pattern power armour
Power Sword
Phobos pattern boltgun & sling
Ikanos pattern boltpistol & holster
Frag grenades
Combat knife
Notes: Accompanied by Sergeant Alypius. A veteran marine from Lyras' company who had survived the events of Istvan III. Armed with a flamer, bolt pistol and combat blade. |
8,504 | 233 | 2 | 1,012 | 4,032 | Bare Essentials
They landed well outside of the area of Chateau Thorn and infiltrated in on foot, using cover and concealment in the darkness. It was not foolproof and power armor was not the best method of stealth, but with the power settings turned down suitably low, they made considerably less noise than usual. They'd coated everything with inorganic weapons lubricant, to help muffle the sound of their movement. They trod lightly, though to look on the full bulky height of an Astartes was to think that there was no possibility of quiet movement.
Through tree and brush, they pushed in, one group among others tasked with specific orders in this operation. While the others were getting ready to land directly on the target, they had a different sort of work ahead.
The Legions Astartes were lavishly equipped with specialist equipment for a number of different scenarios, including stealth operations. In this situation, a master armorer could convert Phobos or Umbra or Tigrus-pattern boltguns with enhanced targeters, longer barrels, suppressors and special munitions to make the weapon fire silently.
But they didn't have this luxury on Argyos. But the Astartes came naturally equipped with silent and deadly weaponry suitable to the elimination of a target in stealth. A power-armored fist was more than enough force to split a man's head open through a helmet. A Legion-issue combat knife was what a normal human would call a sword, with a micro-honed edge that did not dull and the strength of its user providing more than enough force to get past conventional forms of armor.
Prodigal Son and the others used these as they silenced the first roving patrol on the perimeter. The Astartes were taller than their opponents, and were ponderous to look upon, but were hardened veterans of the Great Crusade that knew how to move tactically. The militia were well-equipped, though not of Solar Auxilia quality, but green. They didn't patrol well. They tried to hurry through it, rather than look with intent. There were a few useful items, notably grenades, in their kit. The men lacked the symbols of the dark gods that so many traitors had fallen into the worship of, but that did not absolve them. They had other patrols to silence, as well as an ambush to lay, in the off chance anyone came down the main road, with the intent to escape... | Name: Prodigal Son
Age: Unknown, but reckoned to be at least a century old.
Legion: Luna Wolves, renounced.
Planet of Origin: Terra or Cthonia.
Physical Description:Prodigal Son's armor is repaired from battlefield salvage and the paint has been carefully scraped off and the pauldron insignia defaced and painted over with the Raptor Imperialis symbol of the Reunification Wars, a symbol forces loyal to the Emperor fought under on Terra as well as the Imperial Aquila. The armor is not as efficient as a properly-maintained mark, but it gets him into the fight. He's done the best he can with repairs, but the battle damage shows.
With the helmet off, Prodigal Son is unremarkable, but has a gold service stud and a silver service stud on his brow. He does not like to display them often, for they display his features and those tell a tale; as is sometimes the case, the gene-seed expresses strongly, as it does here.
His is the likeness of the Warmaster, the Betrayer Horus. To perhaps further demonstrate where he stands on the matter, he has the Imperial Aquila tattooed onto his cheek. The other is marred with the scars of las-fire and the shrapnel from a melted helmet face-plate, a memento of one of the engagements of the Great Crusade. His head is completely shaven.
When not fighting, when not focusing, he stares off into the distance, his mind visibly churning. He wrestles with himself, with his love of his former brothers. With his shame for his gene-father's betrayal.
Skillset:Prodigal Son is a tactical marine to the bone; there are few tasks that a Space Marine and his bolter are not suited to, after all. The tools depend on the tactical situation. Some Legions wed themselves to specific styles, but the true essence is to adapt, but adapt ferociously and, above all, win. That was always the way of his legion, as it moved from victory to victory, rarely tasting defeat. His experience in numerous Imperial Compliance actions has honed his capabilities.
History:Prodigal Son's exact circumstances are not entirely known, mostly because he does not speak -- his oath is of silence, his penance is in deeds. His Primarch's sin cannot be washed away, and he intends to sell his life dearly to the enemies of the Emperor. It is hard to say whether the man is one of the Luna Wolves holdovers of the original intake of Terran recruits or a Cthonian addition that stayed strangely loyal to the Emperor when so many of his own followed the Warmaster, their gene-father, where he would lead.
What is known is that the Rogue Trader picked up Prodigal Son on the planet Polybius; there was ferocious fighting between Imperial Army elements and Chaos Cultists seeded there by the Word Bearers Legion. Prodigal Son did not command, did not rally, did not organize. He and a mere handfull of others from his Legion fought, hunting the leaders, looking to decapitate the cultist command. Those not ended with a bolter round to the head he hacked down ferociously in melee. They stalked the battlefield like ghosts and struck with singular and suicidal ferocity, fury made manifest, to rip out the throat of key enemy personnel, rather than getting heavily engaged in an attrition battle.
In one particular case at the end of the revolt on Polybius, out of ammo for his bolter and out of promethium for his chainsword, he encountered a leader of the Cultists. The Psyker tried to seduce him with the words of a demon that knew all too well what his heritage was. The woman's skull was splattered messily with two rapid blows of his gauntleted fist and a bellow of spiritual pain. It did not go unnoticed, word spread on the planet.
When the Rogue Trader told this silent Astartes the plan, he gave a nod and came aboard along with his other brothers. They speak among themselves at appointed times, much like a religious order, but otherwise remain silent except for battle, when they use the curt language of tactical communication. They eat minimally, they train relentlessly, try to keep their equipment running despite inconsistent supply and do not mingle.
Psychological Profile:It's hard to say what Prodigal Son thinks, as he does not speak. But his actions are very clear -- he has the same controlled viciousness that made the Sons of Horus one of the most successful of the legions during the Great Crusade. In countless compliance actions, they struck mercilessly. The same applies here. It's his heritage to the bone, even if it is now a traitor's heritage.
Equipment: Phobos-Pattern Boltgun. It has a hook and a tether line that allows it to stay attached and handy when he lets go of the grip. It also has a foregrip if he wishes to stabilize it. That is not Mechanicus-approved modification but he is beyond caring. It allows him to switch quickly over to his chainsword.
Thunder Edge Pattern Chainsword, magnetized with a switch so Prodigal Son can release it from harness and bring it to bear moments after releasing his bolter.
Armor that is truly the salvaged and repaired parts of other armor. It is, essentially, what will be known as Mk. V "Heresy Pattern" armor. Notably, the knuckles are spiked. The helmet is a modified Mk. IV, there are bits and pieces from other marks and field expedient. Plates are riveted on, repairs are visible. It is not parade-ready, but it can still fight.
Grenades when he can get them.
NotesProdigal Son has three battle brothers, they are armed very similarly to him; bolters and melee weapons. They too do not speak to outsiders except in battle. Their armor is stripped of heraldry and symbols of loyalty to the Emperor are displayed in place of the Eye of Horus and Cthonian ganger runes that were prevalent in their legion. |
8,505 | 233 | 3 | 1,120 | 32 | He lay immobile under the felled branches of several deciduous trees, waiting for the sun to set. It was taking too long. Kurak was getting bored of the seemingly endless waiting, and knew his two men lying quietly next to him shared his sentiment as they had been there for no less than three hours. He decided to risk a slight incline of his head, looking along the natural trench to the 19 marines who had decided to set up there till the time to advance had come. Night fall could not come too soon.
They were a sorry sight, he had to admit. Under the various branches, dead leaves and moss the Astartes had covered themselves with for concealment he could see a kaleidoscopic mix of no less than nine legion colours. They were Orphaned and homeless sons, left with little else but a desire to do something of worth with their tarnished names. Each suit of armour worn by each man had seen better days, their equipment was less than pristine and they were tired, each one of them. Sure they had eaten and slept plentifully in the days before they had made planet-fall, but theirs was a different sort of weariness. They had seen too much in too short a time, a look normally reserved for the Imperial Army recruits after their first taste of combat. Each man here was a veteran of dozens if not hundreds of battles and carried the scars of war as a badge of honor, but each one of them had been betrayed by their brothers. That betrayal was a personal sort of tragedy for each man, and that wound they each carried was not a badge of honor at all, but a soul-deep scar that had left them with nothing but the desire to restore a little of their previous selves. The only way an Astartes could do that was in the blood of their enemies of course, the thought of which made Kurak grin behind his helmet. He was a simple man and not given easily to pholosophical thoughts. It was the damned waiting, he knew, which gave him time to think. He did not like the sensation.
Bethuel was the only one of the 19 men not lying prone, concealed as he was inside a half hollow tree stump at the edge of the clearing giving him a great view of the Chateau ahead. Chateau Thorn. Their target. Bethuel was acting as the group's scout with unspoken but unanimous agreement. In his lightweight armour and toting his sniper rifle he looked the least like an Astartes out of all of them, but the obvious skill at infiltration of the Alpha Legionnaire was beyond doubt. He had remained these past three hours completely still with uncanny patience, watching the building complex in the near distance with unflinching concentration. Each man there waited for the order to advance from him.
It had taken this group of lost Brothers nearly two days of cross country trekking through quiet backwoods to get to this point, and Kurak was surprised they had not attracted more notice. Their landing at the port some kilometers behind them was a characteristically bloody affair. There had been no way to make any kind of landing without taking out the fortified port first due to its highly advanced ground to air tracking technology. Without that going down first, any landing of nearly 20 heavily armoured marines anyhere within 300 miles would have been easily identified and stamped out within moments.
The marines had managed to annihilate the small armoured port within a ten minute period. Kurak and his men along with Ywain, Merdem, Lyras and Alypius had stormed the landing site and killed the unprepared soldiers there while the rest of the group struck out for the occupied landing pad and comms tower. Soon enough there was nothing left breathing in the area except for the loyal Astartes, and they had waited with baited breath for the inevitable artillery strike if the defenders had managed to get a distress signal out. When none came, they knew they had succeeded and headed straight out into the countryside. The small isolated port burned behind them, and Kurak hoped it would not be discovered till long after they had had infiltrated into the wilds of Argyos.
A few isolated military patrols had been taken out on the way, as well as one lone civilian hunting Folari in the woods. None of the population of the planet must know of the force of marines making their way towards their target location, in case they reported the incursion to their superiors even with the best of intentions. Kurak had slipped forward from the group when the man had been spotted early in the morning, more than eager to claim the kill for himself. The terrified man had hardly un-slung his low caliber hunting rifle from his shoulder before Kurak had bisected his upper torso in one clean strike of his combat knife, both parts falling wetly to the forest floor. He knew any of the other marines could have also killed the man, eventually and after some soul searching, but he believed he was the only one who would not have hesitated to kill a civilian for the greater good of the mission. The group had wordlessly moved on from the bloody site and not a word was ever spoken of it again, although he knew he caught a few questioning glances from Kraeger, Ferreus and the other Death Guard.
Kurak's focus was brought to the present by the slight flick of Bethuel's left wrist. It was time to move.
Wordlessly, the Astartes untangled themselves from their natural cover and readied their weapons. They had discussed the assault several hours earlier when the Chateau had first come into sight. Prodigal, Kraeger and Ywain would take the perimeter and eliminate any roving patrols and take out any straggler forces that tried to escape. Kurak and his men, Lyras, Alypius, Merdem and Brenard would then use cover to get close to the complex and then break down the front door, killing anything they could inside. Ferreus and his fellow Death Guard would then engage the Chateu from the road on the other side of the main assault and take and hold the roof. Bethuel would hold back and snipe any stragglers and serious threats inside the complex. Once both assault teams had succeeded in claiming a foothold inside, everyone outside would then tighten the noose and sweep and clear the chateau till nothing lived but those loyal to the Emperor.
They moved out into the gathering dusk, weapons ready for the bloody work ahead. | Name: Sergeant Kurak
Age: 153
Legion: World Eaters, renounced
Planet of Origin: Terra
Physical Description: Short for an Astartes (6'4) but squat and powerfully built. Black, scruffy unkempt hair and scraggly black beard. A patchwork of old superficial fragmentation scars dot his face and upper body. Wears a brand new set of Mk5 Heresy Armour, gifted by his Captain due to his battle exploits. The pauldrons have been carefully repainted black to cover any old Legion affiliations, but the remainder of his armour is the old white of the World Eaters. The armour is notched with tallied kill-counts all over the pauldrons, arms and upper body, giving it a far more worn look than a suit that new has any right to be. There are a lot of notches.
Kurak looks very angry most of the time, except when at rest when he simply looks annoyed.
Skillset:
Kurak has become highly proficient in the role of heavy assault, leading his squad through the heaviest enemy fire into the thickest of the fighting. Time and time again he has emerged from the hell-storm of battle, sporting more war wounds but even more notches on his battle armour. He relies on his hard won close quarters skill and pure aggression to see him through the worst fights, hacking and ripping apart the enemy in a shower of blood and limbs. Kurak prefers a straight fight and could never master the use of the Jump Packs, instead relying on his great speed over short distances to close the gap with his foes. Kurak is the first to admit he is not the smartest man, having no real grasp for anything but the most basic of armour maintenance and tech systems, but has a top tier understanding of squad based tactics, honed through countless battles. Kurak is also not a great shot (for an Astartes), relying on his ability to get close to the enemy for his signature point blank head shots. His skill at close combat is almost matchless however, and his great feats of strength had become a minor legend in his Company.
History:
Kurak was recruited from Terra at an early age, some time into the formation of the World Eaters. Prior to joining he was a simple street thug with aspirations for something greater than beating drunks, and was the first in line for that year's Astartes recruitment. He excelled through his training, his physical strength and pure aggression outweighing his intellectual deficiencies. He passed the harrowing recruitment with only a few fellow youngsters, and soon enough was fighting side by side with the more experienced Astartes. Kurak garnered a reputation for being almost un-killable in his first few decades, twice coming out of deadly encounters as the sole survivor of his squad, and many other times emerging from blast craters, enemy held bunkers and rad-zones with a few more scars and more kill trophies than one so young should have.
After only 30 years Kurak was given command of his own squad, leading several older and more experienced Astartes. Any doubts on his capabilities by his squad were soon resolved when it became clear he valued the lives of his men over almost everything else, leading them into the most dangerous war-zones but taking care to ensure most of them got back out again. Any further advancement was denied to Kurak however, as his general lack of grand strategic thinking or technological expertise precluded him from orchestrating large scale engagements. This was fine by Kurak, who was perfectly at home leading small squads in close combat situations, his reactions and Superior perception skills suited to ably ordering his men into better firing positions and advantageous flanking maneuvers. This is where he stayed throughout the great crusade, fighting loyally for the world eaters year after year in the name of the Emperor.
Kurak refused to accept the 'Butchers Nails' implant that so many of his Legion readily accepted, concerned it would cloud his highly trained reflexes and combat awareness. This was the reasoning he gave his Captain at least, and he and some of his men were allowed to pass on the 'great opportunity'. In truth, he was becoming concerned with the increasingly brutal ways of his Legion and this latest step was one too far into the realms of blood drunk anarchy he felt. He had always seen his own brutality and matchless aggression as a tool to be used in the service of the Emperor, and despite how much he enjoyed hacking apart his enemies he always instinctively knew that he was a monster and should not revel in the fact. Many times he had been ordered to put to the sword civilians, men, women and children in the name of the Emperor, and he had never hesitated, believing that these clearly evil acts would somehow serve the greater good of the Empire and ensure its survival for generations to come. He had begun to suspect that his increasingly frequent orders to exterminate towns and villages were more out of unbridled bloodlust on behalf of his betters and not for any grand tactical scheme, though he often quieted his doubts as he knew he did not have the mental grasp of such grand ideas.
Several weeks before the great betrayal, Kurak and his squad were sent on an individual tasking to assist a nearby imperial army division in the quelling of a rebellious human element on the small mining moon of Junip VII. The army division was already on site several hours before Kurak and his 19 men, and had already surrounded the gigantic mining complex and were slowly moving in. Kurak had expected to be present to offer the threat of extermination while the army rooted out the ringleaders and dealt with them, but these thoughts were quickly dispelled when the army began mercilessly slaughtering all present, even the miner's families. Kurak reluctantly ordered his men to assist, and within a few hours no original inhabitants of Junip VII drew breath. Too late he saw his mistake, witnessing the army division piling the civilian corpses up into giant pyres, decapitating and flensing the flesh from the skulls of the miners and piling them in great piles, whilst screaming prayers to a profane being. Even more shocking was that nearly half of his own men had joined the soldiers in the great debauched affair, drinking the blood of the fallen and feasting on their innards in great abandon. Stunned to inactivity, Kurak and his loyal men only responded when the Army colonel approached Kurak with a bowl of warm blood as an offering, fully expecting the Astartes to partake in the profane rituals.
Kurak opened fire on the soldiers, cutting them down in great swathes. Even when the few men who had shown their true colours began firing on him and his loyal men, he hesitated shooting them down too. In 10 minutes the fight was over, only Kurak and two of his men emerging alive. In the battle, their drop-ship had been irreparably damaged, effectively stranding them on the dead moon among the bodies of their former comrades. All they could do was listen for the next few weeks in quiet desperation to their ship's still working Vox network at snippets of local comms traffic hinting at the great betrayal unfolding across the galaxy on a far greater scale than they had just witnessed...
Psychological Profile:
Kurak is a psychopath and knows he is. He has always had a handle on it, mostly through his loyalty to the Emperor and the focus it gave him. It allowed him to function as the half deranged killing machine he always knew he was, but with a solid knowledge that everything he did was for a greater purpose, even when slaughtering innocent people and enjoying it too. He is not a completely deranged killer however, as his condition is not so severe to stop him from being a highly effective and instinctive squad commander. Kurak has little patience for abstracted strategic plans or deep tactical thinking however, mostly in part to his mental condition, but prefers to act in the moment and make the best decisions whilst in the thick of it, which he invariably does.
He has a deep affection for his remaining men who have stuck with him through this trying time, and would do about anything to ensure they survived. He sees in them two men who have more chance of doing good for the Emperor than he ever could in the long run. He knows he is a Monster, and Monsters are needed to fight the creatures hell bent on destroying his beloved Empire. He knows there is little place for him in the Galaxy when the great work is done, and the injustices are set right.
Equipment:
Phobos pattern bolt pistol with bulky drum magazine and curved bayonet on the fore. (right hip)
Phobos pattern Bolter with drum magazine (mag-clipped to right side of backpack)
Power sword with paired large combat knife. (left hip)
2 frag and 2 krak grenades (small of back)
Magnetic clip webbing incorporating 6 drum magazines (chest and front belt)
1 Satchel Charge (right leg)
Notes
Has two surviving battle brothers with similar armament to Kurak but chain swords in stead of power sword.
- Jonas: Young marine 10 years into his service. Calm and capable, technologically savvy.
- Rivacheg: Veteran of twice as many battles as Kurak. Laconic and sarcastic, hard bitten. |
8,506 | 233 | 4 | 2,698 | 6,206 | Buried. That's how they say original Terrans dealt with their dead, ages upon ages ago when the species was first learning to cultivate the first world, before incinerators, recyclers, and anything like space travel. The same was practiced on Colchis, long before the arrival of Aureli... Brenard stopped himself from thinking any further. Dead. Yes, that is what he should be right now. Lying a foot or so under dirt and mulch was not even a close approximation, but perhaps it was symbolic, ritualistic... Oh, he shouldn't think anything of rituals. Never again. Brenard closed his eyes and exhaled a breath, dispelling the images of the past. He had to stop his thoughts quite frequently or his emotions would shake his already unsteady reasoning. Thought-stopping was the only way he could deal with the truth. The truth, that the blood of a traitor ran in his veins, that none of his damned legion could ever be trusted again, not with their now-known flawed geneseed. Why had he survived, he wondered. Why had he hung on for days, months, hours, moments, crawled out of the earth he had been buried under back on Istva... Stopped again. A moment of silence followed as Brenard cleared his mind once more. Hope. Yes, hope is what got him back to Terra after that. It was a false hope, that everything might turn out better somehow, but now he had to deal with the continued existence that the false hope had afforded him. So here he was, in the dirt, worthless, never again to be exalted or even acknowledged by the Imperium that had produced him, nor by the one known as the Emperor. His entire legion was nothing more than a failed experiment.
Now they were here on a world... yes, there were others like Brenard. ...here to fight the enemy, traitors, like their prideful primarchs. As if anything they could do could ever have a chance at redeeming them for what they were. No, blood was too thick. Geneseed was something that could not be washed away. No matter how loyal they may be as individuals, they were all as good as damned. From now on, this would be a story about living a damned life.
Slaughtering the denizens of the poorly defended port was quick and efficient, like it would have been on any human planet that refused Imperial compliance. The rulers would be purged and the population spared, for the most part, if possible, and then the populace would be reeducated. Brenard felt no regret about taking the port. He would kill, he would do anything, not for any hopes of redeeming himself, for that was impossible, but simply to obey as he was supposed to.
It was time to get up. A Blackshield rose from the black earth under the black night. Kurak, Lyras, Alypius, and Merdem were with him as they struck out toward the front door. Once the other squads were in position, the attack began. "Kill everyone," was their order. Cameras and lights were shot out immediately. Turret guns, unusual for any ordinary country Chateau, were taken out with grenades before the automatic defense systems could activate them. Unfortunately, an alarm sounded within the building, alerting the officials to attempt their escape. Brenard relished the peace of mind that washed away his painful contemplations as he forcefully kicked down the first door with his squadmates beside him. Battle was the only real relief. | Name: Brenard Volkstan
Age: 207
Legion: Goddamn Fucking Word Bearers
Planet of Origin: Terra
Physical Description:
Typical Word Bearer
Brenard is average height with short cropped grey hair and a comparatively youthful face. His eyes are a faded blue, creating an angelic color-scheme to his countenance. He's balding in the temples and has a few scars over his cranium and right cheek. His armor is the old Mk II pattern, originally slate grey, with finely chiseled Colchisian script so typical of his legion on the chestplate and gauntlets. The left pauldron bore the open book and flame icon of his legion and the right marked his company. As a Blackshield, all identifying symbols have been removed or painted over in black. Only the scratched out script etchings still present in his armor might indicate his legion of origin. He avoids showing his face.
Skillset:Brenard is a tactical and assault marine, although he has more experience with the former. He's shown superb skill in battle yet never enough it seemed for any significant promotion in his former legion which tended to favor Colchis-born space marines. He has experience with a fair variety of weapons, including a powermace.
History:
Brenard was sent down to Istvaan III with the rest of the Terran-born Word Bearers. Lorgar had to purge the few loyalist remnants from his own legion just as well as any of the other traitor primarchs, and the assault on Istvaan III was the one given opportunity. No one questioned Lorgar's strategy in who was sent into battle first. The legion obeyed their general as always. Since their still relatively recent reformation, the Word Bearers had been outstandingly successful in bringing worlds to compliance, and the opportunity to reclaim Istvaan from its rebellious planetary governor while fighting alongside their noble brother legions was a glorious affirmation that they had finally redeemed themselves. Brenard joined the fight with a telltale religious alacrity.
Word came from the Death Guard less than ten minutes before the virus bombs fell. What was originally an easy battle against less-capable forces instantly turned into a confused and desperate scramble for cover. The Mk III powerarmor suits were capable of shutting off all contact with the outside environment in case of biological hazards, but the entire surface of the planet was about to melt in a world-wide wave of fire. Brenard was able to take shelter with other loyalists of the Emperor's Children in the catacombs of Siren Hold.
The betrayal was clear. The fighting on the surface dragged on afterward for months. The world itself was dead with skies wracked by impenetrable storms. Initially, there was no way on or off the planet. The constant struggle to stay alive against primarchs that hunted you in the night took up all focus. This was fortunate, for to dwell too long contemplating what had actually happened drove many to insanity. Led by Tarvits, the surviving loyalists of each legion organized and fought a war of attrition until Horus was forced to abandon the world. Brenard survived by chance after being buried for 3 months underground all too close to Choral City when Horus gave his final sendoff. He was picked up some time later after digging himself out by an Imperial scouting mission that had returned to look for survivors.
Arrested, Brenard was shipped back home as a prisoner and interrogated. News of what happened subsequent to the Istvaan atrocities further devastated his mindset. Brenard can speak nothing to the defense of his legion, and he is grateful to at least be given the mercy of a death in battle.
Psychological Profile:
Like his primarch, Brenard suffers from heightened emotions and is similarly bad at dealing with them. He has managed to escape a fruitless state of perpetual denial and instead has turned his emotions inward in the form of extreme self hate. His legion and primarch disgust him to the point of uncontrolled violence, usually directed at himself. He is convinced there is no redemption from his cursed blood, and only suicidal vengeance against the traitors could even begin to justify his continued existence. He doesn't speak much, and dedicates his every breath to killing traitors or preparing to do so. He refuses to pray in any form, refuses to seek spiritual counsel... Brenard will no longer answer questions about his origins and identifies himself only as, "Shame."
Equipment:
Bolt pistol
Combat knife
Powerfist
Notes:I fucking hate Lorgar. Thus, this character should end up exemplifying the Blackshield mantra. I hope it's not excessively emo for you. |
8,507 | 233 | 5 | 62 | 2,653 | Dirt
It was always dirt. Earthen trench works and fox holes, warhead and artillery craters. Muck and mud, sand and dust. Dirt, Dirt and more Dirt. Kraeger wondered, just how much time had he spent in the dirt? Not just on the ground, but under it. His armor stained every shade of brown one could imagine at one time or another. He was certain he had been covered in dirt far more often than blood. But just how much time had he spent kneeling, laying down in, and smothered with dirt? Days most definitely. Weeks? Absolutely. Months? Most likely. Years? In all probability yes. Years down on his knees or squatting within earthen works, be they his or the enemies. Waterlogged trenches and muddy fox holes.
He had once spent a whole month in a 4 foot deep hole with fetid water up to his navel. A month. He had hardly moved. When the water would soak into the ground and leave just mud he had to fight in order to keep from getting stuck it was so thick. by the time the order to go over the top and rush a fortified bunker came his armor wasn't gray anymore. He had spent over an hour peeling off layers of mud after that assault.
And now here he was again. Squatting in a hole. And this time the dirt was literally burying him. Kraeger had dug his hole quickly, and covered himself nearly as fast. Not that he had ever complained about being dirty.
No, by now the cramped, claustrophobic feeling of barely being able to move ones arms or legs, uncomfortably squatting on his haunches, almost completely still save for his own breathing... it was peaceful. He could think clearly here, even more than when embroiled in combat. For him it was a time of reflection. A time to rest and wait... after all there wasn't much else to do. They had been waiting for hours outside of the chateau. Him and all the other Legionaries. They were from many of the legions... most had a squad, though most were a mixed bag of legions rather than any unified group. Then there were a few like Kraeger, lone wolves. No squad, no brothers,
just a lone marine. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. He'd been a sergeant just before... well his squad was dead, and it felt almost wrong to take another... for now at least. He shook his head just barely in his hole, these thoughts were distressing him. They were complex, not simple like the hole. He couldn't reduce it to numbers anymore, his old squad. How long was his trench? How deep was the fox hole? How right was he to have abandoned his legion? His father? Questions far less simple begun to creep into his mind.
He couldn't be happier when the signal came. Like the others the Iron Warrior veteran burst from his hile in the ground, it was deep enough to obscure his chest and midriff from fire. As he stood dirt was pushed around in a circle, creating a small barrier to deter an enemy from simply rolling an explosive into his fortification. It would be just enough. Kraeger scanned the elegant chateau as warning claxons blared, human guard scrambled for cover and weapons and automated defenses came online. Several were already knocked out by other Legionaries or being engaged by the time Kraeger surfaced.
Kraeger raised his own bolter with a low growl, and picked his targets. | Name: Kraeger Antal
Age: 187
Legion: Iron Warriors
Planet of Origin: Olympia
Physical Description:Kraeger is in every way an Iron Warrior. He has a stern and dollorous countenance. His eyes are a dark accusing grey and he has no hair. His face is thick and menacing with a long sacr running from his chin to his left temple. His left ear is mostly gone, having been lost to a particularly nasty ork and his bald head has several long scars. Wether these were self inflicted or battle wounds is unknown. His Eyebrows are thin and raven black, and he sports no facial hair. Normally he carries a doure expression, free of happiness or hope, only scorn and paranoia. Bags have developed under his eyes after going without sleep for far too long, even for an Astartes Legionaire. His armour, Crusade pattern, still carries his veteran hazard stripes and even the symbol of his legion... though the metallic skull has long since been purposefully defaced, ruined by its owner.
In addition his armour has begun to show sign of hasty and ad-hoc repairs. Magnetic studded plates cover his right pauldron and chest plate and scorch and poc marks have been similarly covered here and there about the armour. In addition, a few more markings on his armour seem to have been defaced in a similar vein to his Legions insignia, though it is unclear what they may have once been. He stands average for a Legionnaire, seven feet and several inches. His right arm is cybernetic, currently it is sheathed in his armour however.
Skillset:Kraeger was a Veteran, a son of Olympia and survivor of many of the Iron Warriors most vicious sieges. He was there during the decimation declared by Perturabo, helping to beat his brothers to death on the orders of a god; and he endured. He was there when walls were cracked and his brothers fell in droves;he endured. He squatted in trenches and fox holes, dirt and muck and shrapnel sprayed over him as well as blood from Legionnaires in the hole with him; and he endured. His skills are those of Endurance and siege, how to stand and fight longer and harder than anyone else. He and his bolter have stood in trenches and in the breaches of fortresses for over a century, and he has endured. He is most talented with his bolter at medium to close range combat common in a siege as well as trench fighting, fortification building, and the assault of strongholds.
History:'When first I became an Iron Warrior, when first I saw Great Perturabo he gave us an order... an order of decimation. My friend Alris drew his straw and I helped beat him to death with my own hands. When we were ordered to dig a trench or foxhole, and sit for months without moving we did it. When it came time to burst from our fortifications and charge a gunline I did it without hesitation or a second thought. When a siege broke and we were ordered to slaughter everyone within I was the one to carry it out, the murderer who's hand held the axe. When Great Olympia rebelled and I was ordered to do the same to my home I did not question, I simply did. After I earned my stripes and was told to enter a lodge of equals, to discuss amongst brothers I did so. I never questioned an order, not once did I hesitate or refuse.
... Until Istvaan. I knew my orders, after the bombs I was to join in the obliteration of the stragglers. I agreed, never one to question and down our transport went. It never landed. In the atmosphere we were hit and went down. Only I survived. We had landed in... i-it was a pile of my brothers. I don't know how many, I couldn't count them all. For the first time I disobeyed an order without question. I found those survivors and joined them against my own legio- against my Primarchs orders. I struck the skull from my shoulder, I struck the totems and symbols of the lodge... but could not strike my stripes for they at least were my own. As they descended on us I hopped on the first transport away that I could find... I could never go back now... perhaps that was good.
Eventually, I do not know how long now, I came upon a rouge trader. Someone who said he could help me... I still don't believe him but its something. Maybe I can follow the right orders for once... I don't know anymore. I don't trust anymore... oh well, I suppose woe is me and all that. At least here my 'brothers' and good 'father' aren't here to hunt me... yet at least.
Psychological Profile:Kraeger is a bit strange for an Iron Warrior, possessed of a dark sourt of humour. Although he is stern and dollorous as they come, he has a strange wit when it comes to dark or black humour, using his and others misery as a source of comedy. Wether he simply enjoys this or its a coping mechanism is uncertain. What is certain is his wish for justice, justice and vengeance. Unfourtanetly, for his part in the slaughter at Istvaan he understands justice may mean his death... and wouldn't that be great for a laugh?
Equipment:
Umbra pattern bolter: He has a leather strap he uses to hold it most often when not in use, preffering it to mag locking the bolter to him.
Plasma Pistol, Stolen: Taken from an old 'friend' of his, he keeps it in a thermally cooled holster when not in use or on cooldown. The custom weapon is larger than most other plasma pistols and more powerful, but heats up much faster. He has taken to calling it the Biting Remark
Mk.2 Crusade Pattern armour(modified): His armour is slowly becoming modified over time due to the need for repairs and maintenance, though it has not yet become what will one day be known as 'Heresy' pattern armour.
Entrenching tool: Equivalent to the combat knives of other legions. |
8,508 | 233 | 6 | 1,125 | 2,489 | On Terra they had began, all clad in storm-like grey, from Terra they had marched, to make the tyrants pay!
Terra, the planet that none of them would ever see again – each of them taken from the warlike stock of Albia at the unification of their homeworld...only young Kazimir having been plucked from Barbarus, his features those gaunt and sallow ones so familiar upon the now damned world.
Many of those they now accompanied would have known the name of the 'Death Guard', the Fourteenth Legion, but few of them would have noticed the fact that – beneath the flaking and battered black paint of their Mark Three and Four suits of power armour, beneath the stencilled and embedded Aquila of the loyalist Astartes – the paint to be found there was grey, that of their right arms a deep crimson, and upon their right shoulders the faint marking of the sun and skull of the legion that they had once been.
Squatting on one of the more minor roads, the systems of his armour still whirring even when not in motion, Ferreus awkwardly twisted his head about to take in the several other members of his squad, the helmet stuck in place but his eyes able to glance from side-to-side through the eye-slits before him; all was ready it seemed, bolters cocked and loaded, even the Multi-Melta hefted about by the largest of his squad ready to be deployed at a moments notice. It was a weapon that, unless they could find further ammunition for it, would eventually need to be discarded, no matter how much Brother Tihomir loved it.
“Look!” Hissed Sergeant Gentian, thrusting a large finger in the direction of battle, several figures making their way toward the château and the distinct sound of older variants of armour mingling with bolter fire, the thrump of grenades, and the ra-ta-ta ra-ta-ta of automated defence turrets. They had been told that Château Thorn was no normal fortification, and the intelligence turned out to be good.
“So, it begins.”
With a grunt of effort and an exhalation of air the nameless Astartes returned to his full height, dusk – their natural ally – setting in even as they moved, helmets auto-senses picking out mortal figures and targets even as he began to advance on the château with his squad fanning out into a semi-crescent to either side of him.
Although he, and by connection his squad, had been charged with the taking of the rooftop – a strategic position indeed, and not one to be given up lightly – he could see dozens of uniformed traitors milling about the larger bulks of Rhino APCs. AS far as he knew those were the true targets, those were what would carry them to the heart of the enemy and from there to final glory...metal boxes.
“Gentian!”
There was a sudden halt and lowering of their bulks as the Legionnaires took a knee halfway between their objective and their former cover of the surrounding woodland, each as black as the night and probably for that reason alone – as well as the added 'distraction' on the other side of the fortification – not being shot at, Ferreus gesturing for the Sergeant to kneel by him.
“Open a channel with the other squads, I have sighted the APCs; shall I engage, or do we proceed to the roof?”
Too long had he been a follower, but nor was he truly a leader, so for now he would wait. | Name: Ferreus (Gothic for both 'Iron' and 'Immovable')
Age: Around 247
Legion: Unknown - Suspected to be the Death Guard
Planet of Origin: Unknown - Terra or Barbarus
Physical Description:Standing at an average height of seven feet and three inches, when out of his armour, he has the look of an experienced pugilist and wrestler - not at all strange, considering he is both - his shaven cranium of dark stubble sloping down to an almost Neanderthal brow line, two eyes of stormy grey glaring out from deep-set sockets and brows of black hair as if challenging anyone and everyone.
Continuing from the top, his nose and ears are certainly that of a fighter, the former having clearly been broken a number of times, and the latter both formed into the well known 'cauliflower ears' of the martial man. His thick-set jaw is kept equally as hairless as his head, crossed with faded scars, and nearly as square as the remainder of his body, his torso very much seeming like a solid slab of rock...except made from muscle, bone and sinew; each limb is like the trunk of a tree, stretched psychically as far as the unique physiology of the Astartes will allow them to go, muscles rippling clearly beneath his rather pale skin as he moves and his hands more than able to crush the skull of both mortal man and Space Marine both.
In battle he girds himself in his not-always-reliable suit of Mk III 'Armorum Ferrum' Pattern power armour, the entire construct a walking edifice to brutal frontal assaults and wars of attrition; from the numerous pits left by solid shells and projectiles, to the deeply burnt scorch-marks of more laser based weaponry, Ferreus accepts them all on his re-painted armour of deepest black - however, if one looks close enough, they may be able to see through the murky and well worn layer. Just under the surface of those colours which obscure his true origins, if you look close enough without becoming a target of his ire, one may peak the crimson shoulder plate, gauntlet, knee and stormy coloured ceramite of the obsolete Dusk Raiders.
As a loyalist member of a so-called 'traitor' legion, and as one of the re-minted blackshields, the sturdy armour of this Astartes goes completely unadorned apart from several Imperial Aquila to show where his loyalties lie. On the other hand battle scars are the only decoration that a warrior needs, and he has plenty of them as well.
Skillset:Oddly enough, Ferreus combines the skill-sets of several differing legions - the stoic attitude and casual aloofness of the Dark Angels, the ferocity and thrill for close-quarters fighting of the Blood Angels and World Eaters, and the immunity to biological substances and extra ordinary constitution of the Death Guard. In hand-to-hand conflict or a close-range fire-fight he is truly to be feared, whether using his weapons or his fists alone, coming at his enemies directly and without hesitation or mercy.
His specialisations include trench warfare and wars of attrition, as well as warfare in harsh or toxic enviroments.
History:Istvaan III...the Choral City...
The whole sordid affair was where the life of the Astartes known simply as Ferreus had truly began, a rebirth if you will, the final awakening of a once loyal soldier and follower of his Primarch to the depth and breadth of corruption and betrayal which had slithered its way into the heart and soul of the once-beloved Warmaster and his now twisted brethren. It was here that the loyalist, primarily Terran-born elements, of each of the legions was to be purged from existence by their own former comrades - thereby destroying any inner revolts, and showing the utter loyalty and commitment to the cause of the traitors. Loyalty to the Warmaster and their Primarchs over the Emperor, and commitment to the cause of placing this maniacal pawn of Chaos at the head of the burgeoning Empire of Man.
Well, needless to say he believed he was dead; rising stiff and alone on the dead surface of a dead planet, digging his way through fallen rubble that had buried him for over three weeks before finally reaching the surface once more, wary to the point of paranoia and mistrustful of any other he came across whether purported loyalist or one of his blood-enemies of his former legion and their allies.
While not Istvaan III itself, each and every one of the loyalist combatants massacred on that damned planet as far as he knew, Ferreus had been forced to turn his gun on at least half of his own company to save his own skin. It had been on a planet called Leandros IV, he and his company - for he had achieved the rank of Lieutenant, before being placed down to Sergeant for an unspecified infraction, and was trusted to complete his tasks with efficiency - that formerly jovial and friendly brothers-in-arms had turned their weapons upon he and his own in just another attempt to thin out the ranks of those more loyal to their Emperor than to their Primarch and his cause.
After fighting his way through his 'brothers', leaving those he could not protect to the tender mercies of the enemy, he fled into the thick undergrowth and forcefully boarded the Thunderhawk which had been used to land upon the planet, urging the pilot at gunpoint to take him up and away from there even as he began to scrape the paint and insignia of his legion from his ceramite.
Upon learning the full extent of the atrocity on Istvaan III, and with every intention to do his utmost to bring the Emperor's wrath to those he now saw as nothing more than prey, Ferreus painted his armour black and marked himself with several hand-painted aquila to show where his loyalties lay to any that would see.
Between then and his meeting with the Rogue Trader Balixus Kyros, a meeting that would turn out to give him a goal for his efforts and a chance at seeing justice meted out in full, he took part in numerous guerilla actions against traitor formations - it was in once such action that he claimed his chainaxe, plucking it from the still twitching fingers of a World Eaters officer and spitting upon the corpse as he did so. Sieges, ambushes, and frontal assaults, he took part in any and every action that he could if it would damage those that he had once counted as allies and peers.
Such things take a toll even on a superhuman warrior, and the respite now given to him after being picked up and bought to relative 'safety' aboard Balixus' vessel is a blessed relief...and yet there is always the tugging at the back of his mind, the primal need to pile death upon those who wronged him, and perhaps he is once more let loose against the traitor Horus and his cronies there will be no more peace for him. Only war.
Psychological Profile:Ferreus is almost as dour as they come; although his demeanour is rather without emotion, fatalistic, and black, there are plenty who have seen this as a sign that he must therefore be mentally slower to boot! This, as those many have found, is certainly not the case and Ferreus is actually in possession of a rather keen, logical, and cunning intellect that has allowed him to foresee many things that others cannot both on and off of the field of battle. When the bullets and dirt starts flying is when he truly comes alive, amidst the cries and screams of his enemies, fighting alongside his brothers and in the name of his Emperor - who he still considers his true liege - and in the rarest of circumstances he has even been known to sneer, which is as close to a smile as he can get.
Equipment:
Phobos-pattern Bolter with attached combat blade.
Ikanos-pattern Bolt Pistol
Chainaxe - taken from a World Eater
Standard issue gladius (the blade coated in various poisons to which Ferreus is immune)
Notes: Accompanied by four Astartes armed in a similar manner, with a bolter, close-quarters weapon and sometimes a sidearm;
- Sergeant Gentian
- Apothecary Lőrinc
- Brother Kazimir
- Brother Tihomir (is the squads designated heavy weapon expert, carries a Multi-Melta) |
8,509 | 233 | 7 | 1,120 | 32 | Kurak had taken his time approaching the front doors of the chateau, leading the small group of marines carefully from scrap of cover to cover. They now stood less than 100 meters from the front entrance of the grand old building, crouching behind a trimmed hedge in a stacked column, ready to attack. So far they hadn't been spotted. Clipped comms traffic was filtering across the airwaves from the other Astartes watching the perimeter with the occasional report of a downed sentry. Kurak had heard no shots throughout their advance from his Brothers and the guards he could see in the complex looked thoroughly off guard, indicating the marines watching his advance had managed to do their job with discretion so far. He knew the time for such tactics was soon to be over, and was relishing the idea.
"Kurak, Come in", the hushed tones of Prodigal came over his personal comms. Prodigal barely spoke except with his own men, so when directly addressed by him one tended to pay attention.
"Go ahead"
"You are clear to the gate. Ferreus and his men are ready to attack from the far side of the complex. We'll move in to support once you're inside. Kill Everyone"
"Received" Kurak clipped back. Prodigal was slowly beginning to take the lead on this mission and though Kurak was reserved about someone who would hardly spend time with his colleagues, the man clearly knew what he was doing. He was happy enough to follow anyone who gave orders like 'Kill everyone'. Some of the guards at the front of the chateau were smoking and one even appeared to be drinking, while the few men manning the sentry guns and spotlights near the roof were clearly not looking intently for anything coming their way. Kurak almost felt sorry for them, not knowing what hell was coming for them. Jonas, Rivacheg, Lyras, Alypius, Merdem and Brenard were lined up to his rear, rigid and alert for the order to attack. Each man behind him knew their role in getting to the gates and inside, and there was only one thing left to do.
"Now!" Kurak bellowed into his helmet receiver.
Merdem sprang to his feet and opened up with his heavy bolter. The thudding shells stitched deep craters across the crenelated rooftop, smashing through the flood lights, sandbags and men who were scrambling for their weapons. The rest of the Astartes sprang forward, firing their bolters at anything that moved as they made a full run across the relatively open ground towards the main entrance.
Kurak squeezed the trigger on his bolter hard as he ran, aiming it in the general direction of the main door as did his two fellow World Eaters beside him. He wasn't the best of shots and especially not at this range while moving, but the combined firepower of three bolters on automatic fire was more than enough for what they faced. The guards in front of the doors seemed to disintegrate under the barage, the explosive shells blowing apart ribcages and popping craniums as if they were hot needles popping water baloons. Lyras, Alypius and Merdem were alternately snapping expert shots at cameras and other lights at the front of the building and throwing a handful of grenades at the automatic sentry guns on either side as they passed, lining the gravel pathway they were sprinting down. The grenades did their job, fracturing the automated weapons before they could spin up and aim at the charging marines.
A few seconds later all six men arrived at the front gate, stomping through the mulched remains of the hapless guards. They were joined shortly after by the heavy bolter toting Merdem, who Kurak knew was grinning behind his helmet, sharing a lust for battle the equal of any World Eater.
"Jonas, Charges!" He barked, the other Astartes already clearing a path either side of the bolter damaged door as the young marine unstrapped a demolition charge from his leg and pin grappled it to the central lock. He was done in seconds, stacking up behind Kurak as they prepared to make their grand entrance.
Just then a klaxon sounded inside the building, followed by the ever increasing shouts of men. Kurak could also hear the dull rattle of bolter fire around the outskirts of the complex, indicating his brothers watching the outside had also discarded stealth for a more direct approach. So far, so good.
"Now" He said, bracing as the charge was detonated, blowing shards of wood and metal out into the courtyard and also into the building itself. He allowed himself a slight smile as he heard the screams of the soldiers inside who had clearly been preparing a welcome committee for the marines, but hadn't been expecting quite so much high explosives.
"In!" He bellowed, following behind Brenard who had to kick through a clinging remain of the door, in through the smoke and fire... | Name: Sergeant Kurak
Age: 153
Legion: World Eaters, renounced
Planet of Origin: Terra
Physical Description: Short for an Astartes (6'4) but squat and powerfully built. Black, scruffy unkempt hair and scraggly black beard. A patchwork of old superficial fragmentation scars dot his face and upper body. Wears a brand new set of Mk5 Heresy Armour, gifted by his Captain due to his battle exploits. The pauldrons have been carefully repainted black to cover any old Legion affiliations, but the remainder of his armour is the old white of the World Eaters. The armour is notched with tallied kill-counts all over the pauldrons, arms and upper body, giving it a far more worn look than a suit that new has any right to be. There are a lot of notches.
Kurak looks very angry most of the time, except when at rest when he simply looks annoyed.
Skillset:
Kurak has become highly proficient in the role of heavy assault, leading his squad through the heaviest enemy fire into the thickest of the fighting. Time and time again he has emerged from the hell-storm of battle, sporting more war wounds but even more notches on his battle armour. He relies on his hard won close quarters skill and pure aggression to see him through the worst fights, hacking and ripping apart the enemy in a shower of blood and limbs. Kurak prefers a straight fight and could never master the use of the Jump Packs, instead relying on his great speed over short distances to close the gap with his foes. Kurak is the first to admit he is not the smartest man, having no real grasp for anything but the most basic of armour maintenance and tech systems, but has a top tier understanding of squad based tactics, honed through countless battles. Kurak is also not a great shot (for an Astartes), relying on his ability to get close to the enemy for his signature point blank head shots. His skill at close combat is almost matchless however, and his great feats of strength had become a minor legend in his Company.
History:
Kurak was recruited from Terra at an early age, some time into the formation of the World Eaters. Prior to joining he was a simple street thug with aspirations for something greater than beating drunks, and was the first in line for that year's Astartes recruitment. He excelled through his training, his physical strength and pure aggression outweighing his intellectual deficiencies. He passed the harrowing recruitment with only a few fellow youngsters, and soon enough was fighting side by side with the more experienced Astartes. Kurak garnered a reputation for being almost un-killable in his first few decades, twice coming out of deadly encounters as the sole survivor of his squad, and many other times emerging from blast craters, enemy held bunkers and rad-zones with a few more scars and more kill trophies than one so young should have.
After only 30 years Kurak was given command of his own squad, leading several older and more experienced Astartes. Any doubts on his capabilities by his squad were soon resolved when it became clear he valued the lives of his men over almost everything else, leading them into the most dangerous war-zones but taking care to ensure most of them got back out again. Any further advancement was denied to Kurak however, as his general lack of grand strategic thinking or technological expertise precluded him from orchestrating large scale engagements. This was fine by Kurak, who was perfectly at home leading small squads in close combat situations, his reactions and Superior perception skills suited to ably ordering his men into better firing positions and advantageous flanking maneuvers. This is where he stayed throughout the great crusade, fighting loyally for the world eaters year after year in the name of the Emperor.
Kurak refused to accept the 'Butchers Nails' implant that so many of his Legion readily accepted, concerned it would cloud his highly trained reflexes and combat awareness. This was the reasoning he gave his Captain at least, and he and some of his men were allowed to pass on the 'great opportunity'. In truth, he was becoming concerned with the increasingly brutal ways of his Legion and this latest step was one too far into the realms of blood drunk anarchy he felt. He had always seen his own brutality and matchless aggression as a tool to be used in the service of the Emperor, and despite how much he enjoyed hacking apart his enemies he always instinctively knew that he was a monster and should not revel in the fact. Many times he had been ordered to put to the sword civilians, men, women and children in the name of the Emperor, and he had never hesitated, believing that these clearly evil acts would somehow serve the greater good of the Empire and ensure its survival for generations to come. He had begun to suspect that his increasingly frequent orders to exterminate towns and villages were more out of unbridled bloodlust on behalf of his betters and not for any grand tactical scheme, though he often quieted his doubts as he knew he did not have the mental grasp of such grand ideas.
Several weeks before the great betrayal, Kurak and his squad were sent on an individual tasking to assist a nearby imperial army division in the quelling of a rebellious human element on the small mining moon of Junip VII. The army division was already on site several hours before Kurak and his 19 men, and had already surrounded the gigantic mining complex and were slowly moving in. Kurak had expected to be present to offer the threat of extermination while the army rooted out the ringleaders and dealt with them, but these thoughts were quickly dispelled when the army began mercilessly slaughtering all present, even the miner's families. Kurak reluctantly ordered his men to assist, and within a few hours no original inhabitants of Junip VII drew breath. Too late he saw his mistake, witnessing the army division piling the civilian corpses up into giant pyres, decapitating and flensing the flesh from the skulls of the miners and piling them in great piles, whilst screaming prayers to a profane being. Even more shocking was that nearly half of his own men had joined the soldiers in the great debauched affair, drinking the blood of the fallen and feasting on their innards in great abandon. Stunned to inactivity, Kurak and his loyal men only responded when the Army colonel approached Kurak with a bowl of warm blood as an offering, fully expecting the Astartes to partake in the profane rituals.
Kurak opened fire on the soldiers, cutting them down in great swathes. Even when the few men who had shown their true colours began firing on him and his loyal men, he hesitated shooting them down too. In 10 minutes the fight was over, only Kurak and two of his men emerging alive. In the battle, their drop-ship had been irreparably damaged, effectively stranding them on the dead moon among the bodies of their former comrades. All they could do was listen for the next few weeks in quiet desperation to their ship's still working Vox network at snippets of local comms traffic hinting at the great betrayal unfolding across the galaxy on a far greater scale than they had just witnessed...
Psychological Profile:
Kurak is a psychopath and knows he is. He has always had a handle on it, mostly through his loyalty to the Emperor and the focus it gave him. It allowed him to function as the half deranged killing machine he always knew he was, but with a solid knowledge that everything he did was for a greater purpose, even when slaughtering innocent people and enjoying it too. He is not a completely deranged killer however, as his condition is not so severe to stop him from being a highly effective and instinctive squad commander. Kurak has little patience for abstracted strategic plans or deep tactical thinking however, mostly in part to his mental condition, but prefers to act in the moment and make the best decisions whilst in the thick of it, which he invariably does.
He has a deep affection for his remaining men who have stuck with him through this trying time, and would do about anything to ensure they survived. He sees in them two men who have more chance of doing good for the Emperor than he ever could in the long run. He knows he is a Monster, and Monsters are needed to fight the creatures hell bent on destroying his beloved Empire. He knows there is little place for him in the Galaxy when the great work is done, and the injustices are set right.
Equipment:
Phobos pattern bolt pistol with bulky drum magazine and curved bayonet on the fore. (right hip)
Phobos pattern Bolter with drum magazine (mag-clipped to right side of backpack)
Power sword with paired large combat knife. (left hip)
2 frag and 2 krak grenades (small of back)
Magnetic clip webbing incorporating 6 drum magazines (chest and front belt)
1 Satchel Charge (right leg)
Notes
Has two surviving battle brothers with similar armament to Kurak but chain swords in stead of power sword.
- Jonas: Young marine 10 years into his service. Calm and capable, technologically savvy.
- Rivacheg: Veteran of twice as many battles as Kurak. Laconic and sarcastic, hard bitten. |
8,510 | 233 | 8 | 351 | 2,364 | Jackrum sat quietly in a seat he had never expected to have taken in ten thousand years; The captain's chair of the Beacon of Knowledge. In the decades since he had returned from his studies on Mars it had been made rather clear to him by his battle brothers that while he was of vital importance to the day to day running of the Legion, they didn't trust him with anything other then tech; His ties to the Mechnicum were worn clearly on his armor and they had their doubts about his loyalty to Magus and the rest of the Legion because of it.
It was with a strange irony that proved that they had been right to be concerned, through not for the reasons that they had believed.
When the message reporting their loyalties to Warmaster Horus had arrived he had reasoned and tried to argue that they had needed to gather more information, work out what was actually happening before they through in their allegiance one way or another... but most of his brothers had been all to quick to believe their primarch, all to willing to abandon an Emperor that had largely abandoned them years prior when he judged their powers illegal.
Now he was the last battle brother left alive on the Nova Class frigate Beacon of Knowledge and was thus by default its captain. Pressing a button on the chair, he opened a vox line to engineering and sent a blast of what a normal human would have considered whiteness that was in fact compressed information sent in a single burst about the situation on the bridge. Getting updated on the situation in Engineering by Rupert, he frowned a little to himself.
There wasn't enough crew left to crew the ship. The Beacon of Knowledge had been running the official bare minimum crew to man it before the schism and the resulting loses had taken him well below the numbers required to get the ship moving at all. They were stuck in the void until further notice.
With a small prayer to the Omnissiah, Jackrum performed the rites to activate a distress beacon. He was careful to ensure that it was a Mechnicum beacon he sent out rather then the ship's own Thousand Sons one; Anyone who came looking might be less inclined to shoot on sight for the Mechnicum then his own Legion.
All he could do now was wait. | Name: Jackrum
Age: 100
Legion: Thousand Sons
Planet of Origin: Prospero
Physical Description:
Once possessing short black hair, Jackrum's ascension into a space marine of the Thousand Son Legion had the side effect of causing his hair to fall out and leave him bald; A very minor mutation when compared with some of those in the legions past. Showing a talent for machinery, he was selected to travel to Mars in order to learn from the Tech-priests themselves. Becoming a Tech-Marine, he has received several cybernetic upgrades which are clearly visible when he is seen outside of his custom made power armor.
Skillset:
While Jackrum lacks the psyker abilities of some of his peers in the Thousand Sons, he has instead dedicated himself to understanding the secrets of machinery, the machine spirit and how to communicate with it. He knows what prayers need to be uttered, what rituals need to be performed... and if need be what wrench you need to threaten it with in order to repair, maintain and just generally get the equipment to work. His additional servo arms also gives him the benefit of being able to wield and use several weapons at once.
History:
Jackrum was born on Prospero, through he has little memory of his life before he was inducted into the Thousand Sons as a Space Marine. What few memories that he retains through the fog of the indoctrination of the space marine process indicated that he had enjoyed a rather happy life with a loving family who were proud of him for serving their savior and ruler Magus in his personal legion.
The early years as another marine on the Great Crusade were a blur of conquest and diplomacy against humans and xeno's alike, attempting to enlighten the former with the Imperial Truth while driving the latter into an unmarked grave. While he lacked the supernatural powers of many of his peers, Jackrum proved himself a valued squad mate with his knack for looking after not just his own equipment, but being able to keep his squad mates gear in working order as well. This talent was noticed by his superiors and he was sent away from the front lines to travel to Mars in order to learn from the Tech Priests themselves.
Studying in Magma City on Mars, Jackrum's relatively open mind when it came to new ideas and experimentation that had been encouraged by his fellow Thousand Sons proved to be... something of a mixed bag. Some tech priests disapproved of his ideas, while others praised them openly; It gave him a strong indication that Mars had a number of different ideological factions and it gave him a strong idea of where conflicts were likely to flare up between them.
After a number of years of studying, his armor was painted red in the colors of Mars with only his pauldrons displaying the symbol of the Thousand Sons Legion. His studies complete, he was sent back to his legion to serve as a keeper of equipment and vehicles. While he lacked the prestige of his more combat focused peers, his role turned into his saving grace as he was on one of the Thousand Son's ships rather then Prospero when the Space Wolves were sent in.
A small ship with a skeleton crew, when they received word from their superiors about the change in their legions alliances there was... a disagreement. While the psykers on board were more then willing to follow their leader into treasonous rebellion (They hadn't been fans of the Emperor since their abilities were technically made illegal), those without powers were a little less inclined to break faith with the Emperor... namely Jackrum and his tech priest subordinates.
The battle quickly became one of attrition as Jackrum and those loyal to the Emperor sealed themselves into key compartments and vented the heat and air from the rest of the ship then waited for the traitors to die... preferable before they could figure out a way into the sealed compartments. While two compartments were compromised, the engineering works managed to hold out long enough for the traitors to die; In the end only Jackrum, a small number of chapter serfs and two tech priests remained.
Lacking the people required to get the ship functioning in any meaningful way, they sent out a distress signal requesting pickup... and shortly afterwards having that answer met by a Rogue Trader of all things.
Psychological Profile:
At the moment, Jackrum is rather confused about what exactly is going on in the galaxy at large. He learned from the communication that his ship received that his Legion for the most part has thrown in their lot with Horus and his rebel legions due to the Space Wolves attacking Prospero, through he has absolutely no idea why the Space Wolves attacked them in the first place. He doesn't know who's friendly and who isn't at the moment, but until he can get some answers his loyalty has defaulted to the one organization that stood by him against his traitor crew mates... the Tech Priests of the Mechnicum.
Equipment:
Artificer Power Armour
Servo-arm
Servo Harness
Bolter
Omnissian Power Axe (Astartes Pattern)
Notes:
Rupert: Rupert is a 26 year old Tech priest adept that was assigned to the Thousand Sons to help maintain their ships and other equipment and enjoy gaining experience in the field. He was one of those who sided with Jackrum in favor of the Imperium and survived the struggle that followed. While he respect the traditions of the Mechnicum, he is still young enough to consider new ideas and isn't afraid to brain storm around like minded individuals.
Alanna: 19 years old, Alanna was assigned to the Thousand Sons Legion alongside a number of other tech priests in order to gain knowledge 'on the job' under the watchful eye of a more experienced member of the Mechnicum... whom died during the power struggle when the loyalties of those on board the vessel they were on split. She now follows Jackrum because he is the most senior official left (and has actually developed something of a crush on him after he saved her during a melee when several traitor psykers teleported into engineering). |
8,511 | 233 | 9 | 157 | 3,049 | Ywain had hidden further back, his goal simple. To secure the Rhino transports, they could argue all they liked he was Ravenwing the second greatest fast attack soldiers in the Imperium after the White Scars. He was an experienced driver and more importantly right now he needed to focus on something other than his memories. His rescue had been a welcome experience, however since then he had remained silent. He thought back on the moment he'd been brought aboard this rag tag crew of broken soldiers.
He'd hauled left over bolter rounds onto the ship when it landed and listened to the others. The Dark Angel did not speak, he just thought back to his brothers on Caliban or his kin trapped Crusading as the other Legion's turned and burned one another. He wondered if Caliban would survive this madness, he hoped Luther would protect the planet and when it was done he would get to honor his brothers who died.
However, now was not time to mourn or to think. Ywain picked up his bolter advancing towards the building, spotting the squad Ferreus ahead. They had opened a channel, Ywain answered quickly. "Advance, I will stay with the transports." He spoke mag locking his bolter into place as he drew the chain sword from his side and then pulled his bolt pistol from it's holster. The black clad, battle worn knight looked imposing as any space marine would. Yet behind the burning coal red eyes, there was more fire. A hate that burned so brightly for these traitors, he had been raised in Order and from their raised up to become a space marine.
He was told that they would do what the order once did for Caliban, protect it from monsters that stalked places unseen. To turn your back on the Imperium that had given so much to make them Space Marine's but slaughter brothers, civilians, and those who dared question your reasons. Ywain caught a glimpse of a man fleeing from the compound, he was not armed yet none could know they were here. He fired one shot, the fat man who had been clad in a purple attire screamed as his right leg exploded. He tried to crawl away, looking at his bolt pistol then to the Rhino he moved to enter the drivers seat. Every round was precious after all, no point in wasting a second bullet on a traitorous pig.
Connecting himself to the rhino took mere seconds, as he sent it moving forward he heard the man beg for mercy. Ywain had not come to give mercy, he was an angel of wrath, of vengeance. He halted the vehicles movement after the sickening sound of a man being crushed under the treads of the APC. With the front splattered with blood and his rage calmed at least for the moment, the angel spoke into his comm bead. "I secured one Rhino, it is in working order. Slight damage to the paint job, blood washes out bolter rounds are to precious to waste." He added with little emotion as he cycled systems to see exactly what the Rhino was equipped with and how the machine spirit handled. | Name: Ywain the Last
Age: 164
Legion: Dark Angels
Planet of Origin: Caliban
Physical Description: A large scar, runs across the right to left on his face. On top his head a fiery red hair, his forest green eyes have a piercing and emotional gaze. Slightly taller than most of the other warriors from Caliban his appearance lacks heavier scaring of most veterans. His armor mark III power armour is worn from his time fighting to suppress the Gordian league alongside his brothers.
Skillset: A knight of Caliban and more importantly a warrior of the Lion's six great wings, before he could ride he first had to power his skill with a blade and bolt gun. Among the Lion's troops a great diversity of skills is found, yet each is narrowed to field where they excel. For him it was with the more specialized calvary of Dark Angels. With his new place among his brothers the younger Caliban born marine learned by practice duels with his brothers. His control and mastery of a chain sword is nothing to scoff at nor is his ability to bravely operate the dangerous plasma rifle.
History: Ywain had heard the rumors from his brothers, the first legion had been far from the fighting when the Heresy began. However order came down quickly to quell the rumors, they had a campaign to win against the Xenos scum and human allies. Yet twenty members of the Ravenwing were called back, they were to be given a special mission. To return to Caliban and inform Luther of the treachery and to order him to hold back his forces securing the sector and prepare to defend Caliban from the Traitor Legions, until the Lion could return and regroup his forces.
Thrilled to be given a chance to return home and the trust of his Primarch to complete such a mission. Under a few of his more veteran brothers they were given a small ship and sent to deliver a message to the Lion's second. However they never reached the lush forest world, they picked a distress call from a world as they passed by it, a message from the Night Lords requesting aid. Freezing there mission believing loyal brothers needed aid, the always stead fast Dark Angel's prepared their bikes and chain swords.
The lie brought the vessel above the planet, the marines airdropped on their bikes rushing towards the outpost weapons drawn. Then heavy bolter fire from the base began striking down the front row bikes, as unsuspecting angels slammed into the wreckage of bikes, the Night Lords ambush group descended upon them. Unrelenting and cruel they did kill the marine, instead ripping them into pieces, Ywain turned his away from the base as the screams of his captain pierce the jungle of the planet.
They tried to send message yet it was to late, the Night Lords had attacked the ship once the marines were away and seized the vessel. Content with trapping the survivors upon the planet with not even the corpses of their comrades to bury they waited. Eventually entering the outpost they found the place had been how to a small human outpost team who had attempted to warn other of the traitors and paid with lives for loyalty. As time went on they discovered the planet held Beasts akin to those that once roamed Caliban.
They were driven by the sense of dread and hate these Angels now held for planet and the Night Lords yet the smell of blood and corpses also brought them close. They salvaged what they could bolter rounds, a lone heavy bolter, and a handful of chain swords. Ywain took up a plasma rifle he'd straped to his bike as they began the siege, yet when the deed was done only Ywain left standing. The bikes they had ruined. Only a bolt pistol, one of the bolt guns pried off his bike and a chain sword remained.
Using parts and after weeks of hard work he finally managed to get the beacon working again, now he sat alone waiting for death or his chance to hunt those who claimed his brothers.
Psychological Profile: Ywain is knight of Caliban as much as he is a Space Marine, he holds himself and his brothers to the code of the Order and to the laws of the Imperium. He loves his home world and adores the fact he was chosen to be a hero bringing peace to the galaxy. Currently however his mindset is one of pain and betrayal, forgetting his mission to deliver a message, Ywain wants blood and the head of the Night Lords who destroyed his brothers before his very eyes and left them to die at the hands of Chaos spawn. Yet he also see's this as a blessing, since the Lion purged Caliban of Beasts he has now proven himself worthy of being a night of the Order as well as a Dark Angel.
Equipment:
Tigrus Pattern Bolter
Phobos Pattern Bolt pistol
Thunder Edge Pattern Chainsword
Notes: Is very lonely and full of rage, feeling he can't trust any other Legionaire's until loyalty is proven. |
8,512 | 233 | 10 | 2,698 | 6,206 | Brenard struck out in front, barging into the open hall with boltpistol raised. The element of surprise had so far shielded him, and he emptied a clip, one shot for each mortal before him as he slowly advanced. Guardsmen, delegates, wives, hive lords, and whatever cult leaders all scattered for the escape routes. Low-caliber rounds pinked off his black armor harmlessly as the few brave enough to face his direction tried their luck. Brenard's instincts took them out first, their aiming at him marking them as higher priority targets in his sight. Resistance waned with the culling of the brave.
The former Word Bearer continued, reloading automatically. 2, 3... in this room, 1 behind the overturned table. Brenard blasted him away through the wood. Screaming and cursing coming from the left, have to go check the next room... It was all fairly non-chalant. Nothing to think about here. Just killing. These traitorous heretics would die quickly, for "Shame" had come for them. This mission would be over soon, and Imperial command would be reestablished. Then, of course, there would be a next mission after this one. Brenard hoped that it would prove more difficult than simply mopping up some some unprepared planetary rulers and their stuffy entourage. This kind of easy mission was for the space marines that the Imperium wanted to keep around. Brenard deserved something more high risk, something where his likely death would serve to save another space marine to come after him, someone of more trustworthy stock.
And so he slayed, vaguely listening to the vox calls of his brethren to be aware of their progress. | Name: Brenard Volkstan
Age: 207
Legion: Goddamn Fucking Word Bearers
Planet of Origin: Terra
Physical Description:
Typical Word Bearer
Brenard is average height with short cropped grey hair and a comparatively youthful face. His eyes are a faded blue, creating an angelic color-scheme to his countenance. He's balding in the temples and has a few scars over his cranium and right cheek. His armor is the old Mk II pattern, originally slate grey, with finely chiseled Colchisian script so typical of his legion on the chestplate and gauntlets. The left pauldron bore the open book and flame icon of his legion and the right marked his company. As a Blackshield, all identifying symbols have been removed or painted over in black. Only the scratched out script etchings still present in his armor might indicate his legion of origin. He avoids showing his face.
Skillset:Brenard is a tactical and assault marine, although he has more experience with the former. He's shown superb skill in battle yet never enough it seemed for any significant promotion in his former legion which tended to favor Colchis-born space marines. He has experience with a fair variety of weapons, including a powermace.
History:
Brenard was sent down to Istvaan III with the rest of the Terran-born Word Bearers. Lorgar had to purge the few loyalist remnants from his own legion just as well as any of the other traitor primarchs, and the assault on Istvaan III was the one given opportunity. No one questioned Lorgar's strategy in who was sent into battle first. The legion obeyed their general as always. Since their still relatively recent reformation, the Word Bearers had been outstandingly successful in bringing worlds to compliance, and the opportunity to reclaim Istvaan from its rebellious planetary governor while fighting alongside their noble brother legions was a glorious affirmation that they had finally redeemed themselves. Brenard joined the fight with a telltale religious alacrity.
Word came from the Death Guard less than ten minutes before the virus bombs fell. What was originally an easy battle against less-capable forces instantly turned into a confused and desperate scramble for cover. The Mk III powerarmor suits were capable of shutting off all contact with the outside environment in case of biological hazards, but the entire surface of the planet was about to melt in a world-wide wave of fire. Brenard was able to take shelter with other loyalists of the Emperor's Children in the catacombs of Siren Hold.
The betrayal was clear. The fighting on the surface dragged on afterward for months. The world itself was dead with skies wracked by impenetrable storms. Initially, there was no way on or off the planet. The constant struggle to stay alive against primarchs that hunted you in the night took up all focus. This was fortunate, for to dwell too long contemplating what had actually happened drove many to insanity. Led by Tarvits, the surviving loyalists of each legion organized and fought a war of attrition until Horus was forced to abandon the world. Brenard survived by chance after being buried for 3 months underground all too close to Choral City when Horus gave his final sendoff. He was picked up some time later after digging himself out by an Imperial scouting mission that had returned to look for survivors.
Arrested, Brenard was shipped back home as a prisoner and interrogated. News of what happened subsequent to the Istvaan atrocities further devastated his mindset. Brenard can speak nothing to the defense of his legion, and he is grateful to at least be given the mercy of a death in battle.
Psychological Profile:
Like his primarch, Brenard suffers from heightened emotions and is similarly bad at dealing with them. He has managed to escape a fruitless state of perpetual denial and instead has turned his emotions inward in the form of extreme self hate. His legion and primarch disgust him to the point of uncontrolled violence, usually directed at himself. He is convinced there is no redemption from his cursed blood, and only suicidal vengeance against the traitors could even begin to justify his continued existence. He doesn't speak much, and dedicates his every breath to killing traitors or preparing to do so. He refuses to pray in any form, refuses to seek spiritual counsel... Brenard will no longer answer questions about his origins and identifies himself only as, "Shame."
Equipment:
Bolt pistol
Combat knife
Powerfist
Notes:I fucking hate Lorgar. Thus, this character should end up exemplifying the Blackshield mantra. I hope it's not excessively emo for you. |
8,513 | 233 | 11 | 1,120 | 32 | Kurak had stowed his bolter shortly after entering the chateu, drawing his power sword and bolt pistol instead. The tight confines of the building was what he and his men excelled at, clearing room after room of tightly packed enemies with nowhere to run.
He had ordered the marines to fan out and start clearing the building room by room. He wanted to ensure that as few as possible escaped for the clean-up crew outside to have to deal with. So far however he was unimpressed. A few guards and personal bodyguards of the many high ranking officers and dignitaries had attempted to fight, but had been cut down with relative ease. Seeing this the vast majority of the armed men had simply dropped their weapons and fled along with the civilians. This made the job of butchering them far easier, but Kurak had hoped for a more definitive statement to the planetary governor that the wrath of the Astartes was upon him.
He casually beheaded a captain in a fine formal uniform who had tried begging for mercy while on his knees. He looked about him, taking in the piles of dead around the front entrance and all around the grand staircase and balconies in the grand entrance hall. They had cleared it in short order but who knew what organised resistance lay ahead.
"Breaching team, regroup at entrance when your sectors are clear". Kurak said. He listened carefully for the clipped acknowledgements from the other six marines he had entered with. One by one the blood spattered marines returned and formed a loose protective circle while the others joined them. Kurak had suggested these men accompany him in this assault, knowing that there would be many unarmed civilians that would have to be pur down. They were the ones he had fewest doubts about, and his own men, Brenard and Merdem had not disappointed. The two Emperors children however had seemingly tried to only target those who put up any resistance, and even now from their bodylanguage Kurak could sense they were uneasy about the slaughter. He would have to watch them both closely.
"Report. All sectors clear?"
"Clear" each man reported in turn.
"Secondary clearnance then. Nothing leaves this complex alive."
He lead the group to a double set of doors a few of the civilians had fled through earlier at the back of the main room. Nothing had come from that room and from the side of the door it suggested to be the entrance to the main hall Kurak was confident of simply continuing the slaughter there, just as they had done so far.
Kurak faced the door with both his world waters beside him and the other four marines stacked up and ready behind him.
"No remorse!" He screamed into his comma, setting it to full amplification so the whole building could hear it he hoped.
"No mercy!" Came the instant and rehearsed shout from Jonas and Rivacheg either side of him. They kicked the door to kindling in one attempt and strode into the hall.
The enemy was waiting for them. Over 40 well armed infantry had taken whatever hastily prepared cover they could in the room and had every weapon trained on the door Kurak had just come through. He could see all manner of light arms, some grenade launchers and even a tripod mounted autocannon.
"Fire!" He heard one of them shout, and the world errupted into flame... | Name: Sergeant Kurak
Age: 153
Legion: World Eaters, renounced
Planet of Origin: Terra
Physical Description: Short for an Astartes (6'4) but squat and powerfully built. Black, scruffy unkempt hair and scraggly black beard. A patchwork of old superficial fragmentation scars dot his face and upper body. Wears a brand new set of Mk5 Heresy Armour, gifted by his Captain due to his battle exploits. The pauldrons have been carefully repainted black to cover any old Legion affiliations, but the remainder of his armour is the old white of the World Eaters. The armour is notched with tallied kill-counts all over the pauldrons, arms and upper body, giving it a far more worn look than a suit that new has any right to be. There are a lot of notches.
Kurak looks very angry most of the time, except when at rest when he simply looks annoyed.
Skillset:
Kurak has become highly proficient in the role of heavy assault, leading his squad through the heaviest enemy fire into the thickest of the fighting. Time and time again he has emerged from the hell-storm of battle, sporting more war wounds but even more notches on his battle armour. He relies on his hard won close quarters skill and pure aggression to see him through the worst fights, hacking and ripping apart the enemy in a shower of blood and limbs. Kurak prefers a straight fight and could never master the use of the Jump Packs, instead relying on his great speed over short distances to close the gap with his foes. Kurak is the first to admit he is not the smartest man, having no real grasp for anything but the most basic of armour maintenance and tech systems, but has a top tier understanding of squad based tactics, honed through countless battles. Kurak is also not a great shot (for an Astartes), relying on his ability to get close to the enemy for his signature point blank head shots. His skill at close combat is almost matchless however, and his great feats of strength had become a minor legend in his Company.
History:
Kurak was recruited from Terra at an early age, some time into the formation of the World Eaters. Prior to joining he was a simple street thug with aspirations for something greater than beating drunks, and was the first in line for that year's Astartes recruitment. He excelled through his training, his physical strength and pure aggression outweighing his intellectual deficiencies. He passed the harrowing recruitment with only a few fellow youngsters, and soon enough was fighting side by side with the more experienced Astartes. Kurak garnered a reputation for being almost un-killable in his first few decades, twice coming out of deadly encounters as the sole survivor of his squad, and many other times emerging from blast craters, enemy held bunkers and rad-zones with a few more scars and more kill trophies than one so young should have.
After only 30 years Kurak was given command of his own squad, leading several older and more experienced Astartes. Any doubts on his capabilities by his squad were soon resolved when it became clear he valued the lives of his men over almost everything else, leading them into the most dangerous war-zones but taking care to ensure most of them got back out again. Any further advancement was denied to Kurak however, as his general lack of grand strategic thinking or technological expertise precluded him from orchestrating large scale engagements. This was fine by Kurak, who was perfectly at home leading small squads in close combat situations, his reactions and Superior perception skills suited to ably ordering his men into better firing positions and advantageous flanking maneuvers. This is where he stayed throughout the great crusade, fighting loyally for the world eaters year after year in the name of the Emperor.
Kurak refused to accept the 'Butchers Nails' implant that so many of his Legion readily accepted, concerned it would cloud his highly trained reflexes and combat awareness. This was the reasoning he gave his Captain at least, and he and some of his men were allowed to pass on the 'great opportunity'. In truth, he was becoming concerned with the increasingly brutal ways of his Legion and this latest step was one too far into the realms of blood drunk anarchy he felt. He had always seen his own brutality and matchless aggression as a tool to be used in the service of the Emperor, and despite how much he enjoyed hacking apart his enemies he always instinctively knew that he was a monster and should not revel in the fact. Many times he had been ordered to put to the sword civilians, men, women and children in the name of the Emperor, and he had never hesitated, believing that these clearly evil acts would somehow serve the greater good of the Empire and ensure its survival for generations to come. He had begun to suspect that his increasingly frequent orders to exterminate towns and villages were more out of unbridled bloodlust on behalf of his betters and not for any grand tactical scheme, though he often quieted his doubts as he knew he did not have the mental grasp of such grand ideas.
Several weeks before the great betrayal, Kurak and his squad were sent on an individual tasking to assist a nearby imperial army division in the quelling of a rebellious human element on the small mining moon of Junip VII. The army division was already on site several hours before Kurak and his 19 men, and had already surrounded the gigantic mining complex and were slowly moving in. Kurak had expected to be present to offer the threat of extermination while the army rooted out the ringleaders and dealt with them, but these thoughts were quickly dispelled when the army began mercilessly slaughtering all present, even the miner's families. Kurak reluctantly ordered his men to assist, and within a few hours no original inhabitants of Junip VII drew breath. Too late he saw his mistake, witnessing the army division piling the civilian corpses up into giant pyres, decapitating and flensing the flesh from the skulls of the miners and piling them in great piles, whilst screaming prayers to a profane being. Even more shocking was that nearly half of his own men had joined the soldiers in the great debauched affair, drinking the blood of the fallen and feasting on their innards in great abandon. Stunned to inactivity, Kurak and his loyal men only responded when the Army colonel approached Kurak with a bowl of warm blood as an offering, fully expecting the Astartes to partake in the profane rituals.
Kurak opened fire on the soldiers, cutting them down in great swathes. Even when the few men who had shown their true colours began firing on him and his loyal men, he hesitated shooting them down too. In 10 minutes the fight was over, only Kurak and two of his men emerging alive. In the battle, their drop-ship had been irreparably damaged, effectively stranding them on the dead moon among the bodies of their former comrades. All they could do was listen for the next few weeks in quiet desperation to their ship's still working Vox network at snippets of local comms traffic hinting at the great betrayal unfolding across the galaxy on a far greater scale than they had just witnessed...
Psychological Profile:
Kurak is a psychopath and knows he is. He has always had a handle on it, mostly through his loyalty to the Emperor and the focus it gave him. It allowed him to function as the half deranged killing machine he always knew he was, but with a solid knowledge that everything he did was for a greater purpose, even when slaughtering innocent people and enjoying it too. He is not a completely deranged killer however, as his condition is not so severe to stop him from being a highly effective and instinctive squad commander. Kurak has little patience for abstracted strategic plans or deep tactical thinking however, mostly in part to his mental condition, but prefers to act in the moment and make the best decisions whilst in the thick of it, which he invariably does.
He has a deep affection for his remaining men who have stuck with him through this trying time, and would do about anything to ensure they survived. He sees in them two men who have more chance of doing good for the Emperor than he ever could in the long run. He knows he is a Monster, and Monsters are needed to fight the creatures hell bent on destroying his beloved Empire. He knows there is little place for him in the Galaxy when the great work is done, and the injustices are set right.
Equipment:
Phobos pattern bolt pistol with bulky drum magazine and curved bayonet on the fore. (right hip)
Phobos pattern Bolter with drum magazine (mag-clipped to right side of backpack)
Power sword with paired large combat knife. (left hip)
2 frag and 2 krak grenades (small of back)
Magnetic clip webbing incorporating 6 drum magazines (chest and front belt)
1 Satchel Charge (right leg)
Notes
Has two surviving battle brothers with similar armament to Kurak but chain swords in stead of power sword.
- Jonas: Young marine 10 years into his service. Calm and capable, technologically savvy.
- Rivacheg: Veteran of twice as many battles as Kurak. Laconic and sarcastic, hard bitten. |
8,514 | 233 | 12 | 1,012 | 4,032 | Without Remorse
The patrols and the people running from the Chateau along the access road leading out were the problem of Prodigal Son and his fellow Luna Wolves, as they thought of themselves. Who they were, why they were there, whether or not they were innocent or guilty, it didn't matter. With the savage cunning of his legion, they laid the next trap for the next patrol and fell upon them with fist and knife, eschewing the more powerful weapons as unnecessary. They collected wargear in this fashion, grenades mostly, though one of the brothers took up a flamer, hooking the backpack a normal human would wear to his power armour's belt, as a prize from the fighting.
The other prize was the enemy's comm systems, which Prodigal Son himself patched into his helmet's systems. That allowed him to track the last patrol, even as he took note of the time; the assault would begin soon.
Three patrols down, and they used their autosenses and their own hearing and sight to try to locate more prey in the hunt. Once the noise started, he unlimbered his bolter and others did the same, for the time was past when they'd need such a thing. The last group were headed toward the conflagration of the Chateau; they were alert and aware, and there wouldn't be an easy opportunity to close with them, especially as they headed for the enclosure where the Rhinos were... | Name: Prodigal Son
Age: Unknown, but reckoned to be at least a century old.
Legion: Luna Wolves, renounced.
Planet of Origin: Terra or Cthonia.
Physical Description:Prodigal Son's armor is repaired from battlefield salvage and the paint has been carefully scraped off and the pauldron insignia defaced and painted over with the Raptor Imperialis symbol of the Reunification Wars, a symbol forces loyal to the Emperor fought under on Terra as well as the Imperial Aquila. The armor is not as efficient as a properly-maintained mark, but it gets him into the fight. He's done the best he can with repairs, but the battle damage shows.
With the helmet off, Prodigal Son is unremarkable, but has a gold service stud and a silver service stud on his brow. He does not like to display them often, for they display his features and those tell a tale; as is sometimes the case, the gene-seed expresses strongly, as it does here.
His is the likeness of the Warmaster, the Betrayer Horus. To perhaps further demonstrate where he stands on the matter, he has the Imperial Aquila tattooed onto his cheek. The other is marred with the scars of las-fire and the shrapnel from a melted helmet face-plate, a memento of one of the engagements of the Great Crusade. His head is completely shaven.
When not fighting, when not focusing, he stares off into the distance, his mind visibly churning. He wrestles with himself, with his love of his former brothers. With his shame for his gene-father's betrayal.
Skillset:Prodigal Son is a tactical marine to the bone; there are few tasks that a Space Marine and his bolter are not suited to, after all. The tools depend on the tactical situation. Some Legions wed themselves to specific styles, but the true essence is to adapt, but adapt ferociously and, above all, win. That was always the way of his legion, as it moved from victory to victory, rarely tasting defeat. His experience in numerous Imperial Compliance actions has honed his capabilities.
History:Prodigal Son's exact circumstances are not entirely known, mostly because he does not speak -- his oath is of silence, his penance is in deeds. His Primarch's sin cannot be washed away, and he intends to sell his life dearly to the enemies of the Emperor. It is hard to say whether the man is one of the Luna Wolves holdovers of the original intake of Terran recruits or a Cthonian addition that stayed strangely loyal to the Emperor when so many of his own followed the Warmaster, their gene-father, where he would lead.
What is known is that the Rogue Trader picked up Prodigal Son on the planet Polybius; there was ferocious fighting between Imperial Army elements and Chaos Cultists seeded there by the Word Bearers Legion. Prodigal Son did not command, did not rally, did not organize. He and a mere handfull of others from his Legion fought, hunting the leaders, looking to decapitate the cultist command. Those not ended with a bolter round to the head he hacked down ferociously in melee. They stalked the battlefield like ghosts and struck with singular and suicidal ferocity, fury made manifest, to rip out the throat of key enemy personnel, rather than getting heavily engaged in an attrition battle.
In one particular case at the end of the revolt on Polybius, out of ammo for his bolter and out of promethium for his chainsword, he encountered a leader of the Cultists. The Psyker tried to seduce him with the words of a demon that knew all too well what his heritage was. The woman's skull was splattered messily with two rapid blows of his gauntleted fist and a bellow of spiritual pain. It did not go unnoticed, word spread on the planet.
When the Rogue Trader told this silent Astartes the plan, he gave a nod and came aboard along with his other brothers. They speak among themselves at appointed times, much like a religious order, but otherwise remain silent except for battle, when they use the curt language of tactical communication. They eat minimally, they train relentlessly, try to keep their equipment running despite inconsistent supply and do not mingle.
Psychological Profile:It's hard to say what Prodigal Son thinks, as he does not speak. But his actions are very clear -- he has the same controlled viciousness that made the Sons of Horus one of the most successful of the legions during the Great Crusade. In countless compliance actions, they struck mercilessly. The same applies here. It's his heritage to the bone, even if it is now a traitor's heritage.
Equipment: Phobos-Pattern Boltgun. It has a hook and a tether line that allows it to stay attached and handy when he lets go of the grip. It also has a foregrip if he wishes to stabilize it. That is not Mechanicus-approved modification but he is beyond caring. It allows him to switch quickly over to his chainsword.
Thunder Edge Pattern Chainsword, magnetized with a switch so Prodigal Son can release it from harness and bring it to bear moments after releasing his bolter.
Armor that is truly the salvaged and repaired parts of other armor. It is, essentially, what will be known as Mk. V "Heresy Pattern" armor. Notably, the knuckles are spiked. The helmet is a modified Mk. IV, there are bits and pieces from other marks and field expedient. Plates are riveted on, repairs are visible. It is not parade-ready, but it can still fight.
Grenades when he can get them.
NotesProdigal Son has three battle brothers, they are armed very similarly to him; bolters and melee weapons. They too do not speak to outsiders except in battle. Their armor is stripped of heraldry and symbols of loyalty to the Emperor are displayed in place of the Eye of Horus and Cthonian ganger runes that were prevalent in their legion. |
8,515 | 233 | 13 | 351 | 2,364 | Even as the defenders opened up on the World Eaters that were charging their positions, two of the more faint hearted of their number near the back had taken fright at the Marines that were coming towards them. Turning to flee like cowards, they instead dropped to the ground as they clutched at their heads while screaming in purest agony. Their muscles forcefully shifted, their bones snapped and knitted themselves back together in new, stronger shapes as their skin was rent open to revel fissures an unnaturally red, unholy glowing substance that hurt the mind just to gaze at.
The same unholy glow seemed to consume both of their eyes and at back of their throats as they wordlessly screamed in agony before surging upwards to their feet like a puppet having their strings pulled... before turning around and letting out a roar that sounded like a mixture of the deepest of pains and the most all consuming of rages as both of them charged towards the World Eaters at speeds normal humans shouldn't have been able to ran at, one of them swiping at the head of one of his former, unchanged comrades as they pasted and taking his head clean off with a demonic looking claw! | Name: Jackrum
Age: 100
Legion: Thousand Sons
Planet of Origin: Prospero
Physical Description:
Once possessing short black hair, Jackrum's ascension into a space marine of the Thousand Son Legion had the side effect of causing his hair to fall out and leave him bald; A very minor mutation when compared with some of those in the legions past. Showing a talent for machinery, he was selected to travel to Mars in order to learn from the Tech-priests themselves. Becoming a Tech-Marine, he has received several cybernetic upgrades which are clearly visible when he is seen outside of his custom made power armor.
Skillset:
While Jackrum lacks the psyker abilities of some of his peers in the Thousand Sons, he has instead dedicated himself to understanding the secrets of machinery, the machine spirit and how to communicate with it. He knows what prayers need to be uttered, what rituals need to be performed... and if need be what wrench you need to threaten it with in order to repair, maintain and just generally get the equipment to work. His additional servo arms also gives him the benefit of being able to wield and use several weapons at once.
History:
Jackrum was born on Prospero, through he has little memory of his life before he was inducted into the Thousand Sons as a Space Marine. What few memories that he retains through the fog of the indoctrination of the space marine process indicated that he had enjoyed a rather happy life with a loving family who were proud of him for serving their savior and ruler Magus in his personal legion.
The early years as another marine on the Great Crusade were a blur of conquest and diplomacy against humans and xeno's alike, attempting to enlighten the former with the Imperial Truth while driving the latter into an unmarked grave. While he lacked the supernatural powers of many of his peers, Jackrum proved himself a valued squad mate with his knack for looking after not just his own equipment, but being able to keep his squad mates gear in working order as well. This talent was noticed by his superiors and he was sent away from the front lines to travel to Mars in order to learn from the Tech Priests themselves.
Studying in Magma City on Mars, Jackrum's relatively open mind when it came to new ideas and experimentation that had been encouraged by his fellow Thousand Sons proved to be... something of a mixed bag. Some tech priests disapproved of his ideas, while others praised them openly; It gave him a strong indication that Mars had a number of different ideological factions and it gave him a strong idea of where conflicts were likely to flare up between them.
After a number of years of studying, his armor was painted red in the colors of Mars with only his pauldrons displaying the symbol of the Thousand Sons Legion. His studies complete, he was sent back to his legion to serve as a keeper of equipment and vehicles. While he lacked the prestige of his more combat focused peers, his role turned into his saving grace as he was on one of the Thousand Son's ships rather then Prospero when the Space Wolves were sent in.
A small ship with a skeleton crew, when they received word from their superiors about the change in their legions alliances there was... a disagreement. While the psykers on board were more then willing to follow their leader into treasonous rebellion (They hadn't been fans of the Emperor since their abilities were technically made illegal), those without powers were a little less inclined to break faith with the Emperor... namely Jackrum and his tech priest subordinates.
The battle quickly became one of attrition as Jackrum and those loyal to the Emperor sealed themselves into key compartments and vented the heat and air from the rest of the ship then waited for the traitors to die... preferable before they could figure out a way into the sealed compartments. While two compartments were compromised, the engineering works managed to hold out long enough for the traitors to die; In the end only Jackrum, a small number of chapter serfs and two tech priests remained.
Lacking the people required to get the ship functioning in any meaningful way, they sent out a distress signal requesting pickup... and shortly afterwards having that answer met by a Rogue Trader of all things.
Psychological Profile:
At the moment, Jackrum is rather confused about what exactly is going on in the galaxy at large. He learned from the communication that his ship received that his Legion for the most part has thrown in their lot with Horus and his rebel legions due to the Space Wolves attacking Prospero, through he has absolutely no idea why the Space Wolves attacked them in the first place. He doesn't know who's friendly and who isn't at the moment, but until he can get some answers his loyalty has defaulted to the one organization that stood by him against his traitor crew mates... the Tech Priests of the Mechnicum.
Equipment:
Artificer Power Armour
Servo-arm
Servo Harness
Bolter
Omnissian Power Axe (Astartes Pattern)
Notes:
Rupert: Rupert is a 26 year old Tech priest adept that was assigned to the Thousand Sons to help maintain their ships and other equipment and enjoy gaining experience in the field. He was one of those who sided with Jackrum in favor of the Imperium and survived the struggle that followed. While he respect the traditions of the Mechnicum, he is still young enough to consider new ideas and isn't afraid to brain storm around like minded individuals.
Alanna: 19 years old, Alanna was assigned to the Thousand Sons Legion alongside a number of other tech priests in order to gain knowledge 'on the job' under the watchful eye of a more experienced member of the Mechnicum... whom died during the power struggle when the loyalties of those on board the vessel they were on split. She now follows Jackrum because he is the most senior official left (and has actually developed something of a crush on him after he saved her during a melee when several traitor psykers teleported into engineering). |
8,516 | 233 | 14 | 157 | 3,049 | Finishing the checks, he exited the vehicle standing atop it with bolt pistol and chain sword at the ready. He jumped down on to the ground looking around trying to determine if any enemies were advancing on the newly acquired transports. He stopped at the sound of a scream, he'd heard many but that... It reminded of the monsterous being he'd faced down while waiting for rescue. He feared nothing but the memory of those horrors was something that he would never truly be free of.
Clearing the vehicle bay, he took position. "I will remain with the transport's, keep them safe from any stragglers or survivors trying to make use of them for escape." He was one of the youngest here, and more importantly he lacked the veteran status of some of the others. He'd fought in the great crusade it was true but his father the Lion had been discovered latter than most. Yet the Dark Angel's in a short amount of time had proven themselves to be an outstanding Legion, with clever tactics and adaptable wings. Like he ached to spill the blood of traitors in vengeance, he knew his place was here protecting the captured transports.
As he pushed the vehicles into the small garage locking it behind himself, he felt cold. As if an unnatural presence was nearby, acting on a whim he moved towards the repair bay of the garage autosense's helping him to search through the darkened building bolt pistol and chainsword ready for whatever came at him. | Name: Ywain the Last
Age: 164
Legion: Dark Angels
Planet of Origin: Caliban
Physical Description: A large scar, runs across the right to left on his face. On top his head a fiery red hair, his forest green eyes have a piercing and emotional gaze. Slightly taller than most of the other warriors from Caliban his appearance lacks heavier scaring of most veterans. His armor mark III power armour is worn from his time fighting to suppress the Gordian league alongside his brothers.
Skillset: A knight of Caliban and more importantly a warrior of the Lion's six great wings, before he could ride he first had to power his skill with a blade and bolt gun. Among the Lion's troops a great diversity of skills is found, yet each is narrowed to field where they excel. For him it was with the more specialized calvary of Dark Angels. With his new place among his brothers the younger Caliban born marine learned by practice duels with his brothers. His control and mastery of a chain sword is nothing to scoff at nor is his ability to bravely operate the dangerous plasma rifle.
History: Ywain had heard the rumors from his brothers, the first legion had been far from the fighting when the Heresy began. However order came down quickly to quell the rumors, they had a campaign to win against the Xenos scum and human allies. Yet twenty members of the Ravenwing were called back, they were to be given a special mission. To return to Caliban and inform Luther of the treachery and to order him to hold back his forces securing the sector and prepare to defend Caliban from the Traitor Legions, until the Lion could return and regroup his forces.
Thrilled to be given a chance to return home and the trust of his Primarch to complete such a mission. Under a few of his more veteran brothers they were given a small ship and sent to deliver a message to the Lion's second. However they never reached the lush forest world, they picked a distress call from a world as they passed by it, a message from the Night Lords requesting aid. Freezing there mission believing loyal brothers needed aid, the always stead fast Dark Angel's prepared their bikes and chain swords.
The lie brought the vessel above the planet, the marines airdropped on their bikes rushing towards the outpost weapons drawn. Then heavy bolter fire from the base began striking down the front row bikes, as unsuspecting angels slammed into the wreckage of bikes, the Night Lords ambush group descended upon them. Unrelenting and cruel they did kill the marine, instead ripping them into pieces, Ywain turned his away from the base as the screams of his captain pierce the jungle of the planet.
They tried to send message yet it was to late, the Night Lords had attacked the ship once the marines were away and seized the vessel. Content with trapping the survivors upon the planet with not even the corpses of their comrades to bury they waited. Eventually entering the outpost they found the place had been how to a small human outpost team who had attempted to warn other of the traitors and paid with lives for loyalty. As time went on they discovered the planet held Beasts akin to those that once roamed Caliban.
They were driven by the sense of dread and hate these Angels now held for planet and the Night Lords yet the smell of blood and corpses also brought them close. They salvaged what they could bolter rounds, a lone heavy bolter, and a handful of chain swords. Ywain took up a plasma rifle he'd straped to his bike as they began the siege, yet when the deed was done only Ywain left standing. The bikes they had ruined. Only a bolt pistol, one of the bolt guns pried off his bike and a chain sword remained.
Using parts and after weeks of hard work he finally managed to get the beacon working again, now he sat alone waiting for death or his chance to hunt those who claimed his brothers.
Psychological Profile: Ywain is knight of Caliban as much as he is a Space Marine, he holds himself and his brothers to the code of the Order and to the laws of the Imperium. He loves his home world and adores the fact he was chosen to be a hero bringing peace to the galaxy. Currently however his mindset is one of pain and betrayal, forgetting his mission to deliver a message, Ywain wants blood and the head of the Night Lords who destroyed his brothers before his very eyes and left them to die at the hands of Chaos spawn. Yet he also see's this as a blessing, since the Lion purged Caliban of Beasts he has now proven himself worthy of being a night of the Order as well as a Dark Angel.
Equipment:
Tigrus Pattern Bolter
Phobos Pattern Bolt pistol
Thunder Edge Pattern Chainsword
Notes: Is very lonely and full of rage, feeling he can't trust any other Legionaire's until loyalty is proven. |
8,517 | 233 | 15 | 1,012 | 4,032 | The Sons of Horus were the arch-traitor legion, though Lorgar's Word Bearers planted the seeds, but they had one of the best records of them all in the Great Crusade. Cthonian ferocity was harnessed into the legion, supplementing the gene-seed-implanted ferocity of the original Terrans that made such an impact on the Luna campaigns.
Under Horus, they were throat-slitting killers whose instincts were put into the service of Humanity. But they also venerated their Primarch, shouting "LUPERCAL!" as they sprung into battle. Some of that was on display as the small group of Luna Wolves in this ragged band handled the perimeter duty and silenced sentries brutally with fist and knife, which was a return to the hive gang war tactics some of the recruits, had they said anything of their origins, might have learned in their upbringing. But now, they faced a different situation and a tactical shift was in order as the noise came from the Chateau and the bolters were unlimbered as they loped toward their final target, approaching the Rhinos that the Dark Angel guarded.
Prodigal Son may well have been a silent leader, at least to the outsiders, but he was a tactician to the bone, and he'd positioned himself to come to the aid of other Space Marines when the unexpected happened. They would never say the name of their Primarch at all, but they still knew how to fight.
A bolter shell was a mass-reactive shell that left a horrific and gory wound that was terminal, particularly to a normal human being like the militiamen. And yet, the fire did not bring the enemies down; his own bolt barked out of the barrel and found its mark, except the mark was growing exponentially, expanding like a balloon, with red-glowing eyes and eldritch energy encircled them at wrists and ankles, hauling them into the air. There was a scream of ethereal rage as these human beings twisted beyond comprehension and sanity, to the horror of the Astartes near the rhinos, veterans of the Crusade and even the opening blows of the Heresy, were unfamiliar with.
They had seen mutations, but this was different and smelled of sorcery; the men burst into a spray of blood and from the spray of blood, suspended in the air, came a portal. And from that portal came, howling, sword-bearing horrors that rushed at them with a terrible ferocity and speed. The flamer carried by one of their number unleashed in a long burst, trying to catch them as the bolters were fired rapidly. A piece of the Prodigal Son's mind gibbered, but the other part bellowed "AND YOU WILL KNOW NO FEAR."
But if the bolter fire shredded the first ranks, multiple hits ensuring that they stayed down, there were enough left to engage the rest of Prodigal Son's small detachment. The Luna Wolves were fluid and instinctive in their shift of weaponry, from the ranged combat role into preparation to defend in close combat, and ferocious in meeting the charge. It was chainswords against those demonic blades, even while the whispers rang in their ears, calling them to their rage... | Name: Prodigal Son
Age: Unknown, but reckoned to be at least a century old.
Legion: Luna Wolves, renounced.
Planet of Origin: Terra or Cthonia.
Physical Description:Prodigal Son's armor is repaired from battlefield salvage and the paint has been carefully scraped off and the pauldron insignia defaced and painted over with the Raptor Imperialis symbol of the Reunification Wars, a symbol forces loyal to the Emperor fought under on Terra as well as the Imperial Aquila. The armor is not as efficient as a properly-maintained mark, but it gets him into the fight. He's done the best he can with repairs, but the battle damage shows.
With the helmet off, Prodigal Son is unremarkable, but has a gold service stud and a silver service stud on his brow. He does not like to display them often, for they display his features and those tell a tale; as is sometimes the case, the gene-seed expresses strongly, as it does here.
His is the likeness of the Warmaster, the Betrayer Horus. To perhaps further demonstrate where he stands on the matter, he has the Imperial Aquila tattooed onto his cheek. The other is marred with the scars of las-fire and the shrapnel from a melted helmet face-plate, a memento of one of the engagements of the Great Crusade. His head is completely shaven.
When not fighting, when not focusing, he stares off into the distance, his mind visibly churning. He wrestles with himself, with his love of his former brothers. With his shame for his gene-father's betrayal.
Skillset:Prodigal Son is a tactical marine to the bone; there are few tasks that a Space Marine and his bolter are not suited to, after all. The tools depend on the tactical situation. Some Legions wed themselves to specific styles, but the true essence is to adapt, but adapt ferociously and, above all, win. That was always the way of his legion, as it moved from victory to victory, rarely tasting defeat. His experience in numerous Imperial Compliance actions has honed his capabilities.
History:Prodigal Son's exact circumstances are not entirely known, mostly because he does not speak -- his oath is of silence, his penance is in deeds. His Primarch's sin cannot be washed away, and he intends to sell his life dearly to the enemies of the Emperor. It is hard to say whether the man is one of the Luna Wolves holdovers of the original intake of Terran recruits or a Cthonian addition that stayed strangely loyal to the Emperor when so many of his own followed the Warmaster, their gene-father, where he would lead.
What is known is that the Rogue Trader picked up Prodigal Son on the planet Polybius; there was ferocious fighting between Imperial Army elements and Chaos Cultists seeded there by the Word Bearers Legion. Prodigal Son did not command, did not rally, did not organize. He and a mere handfull of others from his Legion fought, hunting the leaders, looking to decapitate the cultist command. Those not ended with a bolter round to the head he hacked down ferociously in melee. They stalked the battlefield like ghosts and struck with singular and suicidal ferocity, fury made manifest, to rip out the throat of key enemy personnel, rather than getting heavily engaged in an attrition battle.
In one particular case at the end of the revolt on Polybius, out of ammo for his bolter and out of promethium for his chainsword, he encountered a leader of the Cultists. The Psyker tried to seduce him with the words of a demon that knew all too well what his heritage was. The woman's skull was splattered messily with two rapid blows of his gauntleted fist and a bellow of spiritual pain. It did not go unnoticed, word spread on the planet.
When the Rogue Trader told this silent Astartes the plan, he gave a nod and came aboard along with his other brothers. They speak among themselves at appointed times, much like a religious order, but otherwise remain silent except for battle, when they use the curt language of tactical communication. They eat minimally, they train relentlessly, try to keep their equipment running despite inconsistent supply and do not mingle.
Psychological Profile:It's hard to say what Prodigal Son thinks, as he does not speak. But his actions are very clear -- he has the same controlled viciousness that made the Sons of Horus one of the most successful of the legions during the Great Crusade. In countless compliance actions, they struck mercilessly. The same applies here. It's his heritage to the bone, even if it is now a traitor's heritage.
Equipment: Phobos-Pattern Boltgun. It has a hook and a tether line that allows it to stay attached and handy when he lets go of the grip. It also has a foregrip if he wishes to stabilize it. That is not Mechanicus-approved modification but he is beyond caring. It allows him to switch quickly over to his chainsword.
Thunder Edge Pattern Chainsword, magnetized with a switch so Prodigal Son can release it from harness and bring it to bear moments after releasing his bolter.
Armor that is truly the salvaged and repaired parts of other armor. It is, essentially, what will be known as Mk. V "Heresy Pattern" armor. Notably, the knuckles are spiked. The helmet is a modified Mk. IV, there are bits and pieces from other marks and field expedient. Plates are riveted on, repairs are visible. It is not parade-ready, but it can still fight.
Grenades when he can get them.
NotesProdigal Son has three battle brothers, they are armed very similarly to him; bolters and melee weapons. They too do not speak to outsiders except in battle. Their armor is stripped of heraldry and symbols of loyalty to the Emperor are displayed in place of the Eye of Horus and Cthonian ganger runes that were prevalent in their legion. |
8,518 | 233 | 16 | 2,698 | 6,206 | No Quarter Given, None Received
With all sounds of screaming extinguished unto the final breath, Brenard was satisfied his sector was clear. The sounds of gunfire elsewhere in the chateau seemed to have also died down, which likely meant his brothers had too finished their work. "Sector clear." Brenard acknowledged in a grim voice by vox as he turned to regroup at the entryway with the others. He was not the least bit surprised when Kurak ordered the purging extended to the rest of the complex. It only made sense.
Cold unfeeling red light shone from his helm as Brenard stood close behind Kurak's World Eaters. The door broke open, shattering like the lives they took by bolter and blade. The vision that met them on the otherside was somewhat unexpected, but not at all unfamiliar. All of the astartes had the same reflex, to dodge the inevitably oncoming storm of fire. Yet the narrow hall was unforgiving, pitting the warriors between the wall and merciless arms. It was the armor and bodies of his traitor-son brethren that provided Brenard with the cover he needed to pull a grenade. He threw it forward as he dropped down with his pistol. The fire was so bright and the explosions intense at this close distance. Only his sensory modulators kept him from going blind or deaf, even briefly.
Brenard couldn't stop himself from uttering a reflex prayer, for which he immediately kicked himself, btu there was no time to think of it. The grenade he had chucked in the general direction shredded through a dozen lives and injured at least as many, throwing the guard into disarray behind a cloud of smoke and failing ceiling tiles. To their credit, guns still blazed into the hall. The autocannon choked to a halt as its handler fell, spattering bullets into the wall in an off direction. Brenard got up. He brothers got up. The Emperor's wrath had yet to be be brought. | Name: Brenard Volkstan
Age: 207
Legion: Goddamn Fucking Word Bearers
Planet of Origin: Terra
Physical Description:
Typical Word Bearer
Brenard is average height with short cropped grey hair and a comparatively youthful face. His eyes are a faded blue, creating an angelic color-scheme to his countenance. He's balding in the temples and has a few scars over his cranium and right cheek. His armor is the old Mk II pattern, originally slate grey, with finely chiseled Colchisian script so typical of his legion on the chestplate and gauntlets. The left pauldron bore the open book and flame icon of his legion and the right marked his company. As a Blackshield, all identifying symbols have been removed or painted over in black. Only the scratched out script etchings still present in his armor might indicate his legion of origin. He avoids showing his face.
Skillset:Brenard is a tactical and assault marine, although he has more experience with the former. He's shown superb skill in battle yet never enough it seemed for any significant promotion in his former legion which tended to favor Colchis-born space marines. He has experience with a fair variety of weapons, including a powermace.
History:
Brenard was sent down to Istvaan III with the rest of the Terran-born Word Bearers. Lorgar had to purge the few loyalist remnants from his own legion just as well as any of the other traitor primarchs, and the assault on Istvaan III was the one given opportunity. No one questioned Lorgar's strategy in who was sent into battle first. The legion obeyed their general as always. Since their still relatively recent reformation, the Word Bearers had been outstandingly successful in bringing worlds to compliance, and the opportunity to reclaim Istvaan from its rebellious planetary governor while fighting alongside their noble brother legions was a glorious affirmation that they had finally redeemed themselves. Brenard joined the fight with a telltale religious alacrity.
Word came from the Death Guard less than ten minutes before the virus bombs fell. What was originally an easy battle against less-capable forces instantly turned into a confused and desperate scramble for cover. The Mk III powerarmor suits were capable of shutting off all contact with the outside environment in case of biological hazards, but the entire surface of the planet was about to melt in a world-wide wave of fire. Brenard was able to take shelter with other loyalists of the Emperor's Children in the catacombs of Siren Hold.
The betrayal was clear. The fighting on the surface dragged on afterward for months. The world itself was dead with skies wracked by impenetrable storms. Initially, there was no way on or off the planet. The constant struggle to stay alive against primarchs that hunted you in the night took up all focus. This was fortunate, for to dwell too long contemplating what had actually happened drove many to insanity. Led by Tarvits, the surviving loyalists of each legion organized and fought a war of attrition until Horus was forced to abandon the world. Brenard survived by chance after being buried for 3 months underground all too close to Choral City when Horus gave his final sendoff. He was picked up some time later after digging himself out by an Imperial scouting mission that had returned to look for survivors.
Arrested, Brenard was shipped back home as a prisoner and interrogated. News of what happened subsequent to the Istvaan atrocities further devastated his mindset. Brenard can speak nothing to the defense of his legion, and he is grateful to at least be given the mercy of a death in battle.
Psychological Profile:
Like his primarch, Brenard suffers from heightened emotions and is similarly bad at dealing with them. He has managed to escape a fruitless state of perpetual denial and instead has turned his emotions inward in the form of extreme self hate. His legion and primarch disgust him to the point of uncontrolled violence, usually directed at himself. He is convinced there is no redemption from his cursed blood, and only suicidal vengeance against the traitors could even begin to justify his continued existence. He doesn't speak much, and dedicates his every breath to killing traitors or preparing to do so. He refuses to pray in any form, refuses to seek spiritual counsel... Brenard will no longer answer questions about his origins and identifies himself only as, "Shame."
Equipment:
Bolt pistol
Combat knife
Powerfist
Notes:I fucking hate Lorgar. Thus, this character should end up exemplifying the Blackshield mantra. I hope it's not excessively emo for you. |
8,519 | 233 | 17 | 157 | 3,049 | The lone knight heard the sharp repeat of bolter fire, he knew instantly a fight had begun outside the garage. Having locked the front doors and garage door he moved to the door at the rear of the repair bay. Kicking it sending it flying clear of the doorway. He broke into a sprint, he did not pause when he saw the strange red creatures. He saw them attacking his brothers and knew that they were a foe, so they would die. Letting off rounds from his bolt pistol as charged into the massive bringing chain sword biting into from the side as another fell under the fire from his pistol.
"We are the Emperor's angels of death! And you will die scum!" He cried, while he might have been younger warriors present, he was one of the most devout and unflinching. He had survived trials on Caliban, the trials to become a space marine, fought with one of the most tactically renown Primarchs. Has was the only son of the Lion currently taking to the field against the enemies of the Emperor. His fury had to be enough to stand for his entire legion and no traitor or their pawns would overcome his wrath. His brothers, his leaders, and his mission were failed, to him only thing left was redemption in death and joining his brothers their. | Name: Ywain the Last
Age: 164
Legion: Dark Angels
Planet of Origin: Caliban
Physical Description: A large scar, runs across the right to left on his face. On top his head a fiery red hair, his forest green eyes have a piercing and emotional gaze. Slightly taller than most of the other warriors from Caliban his appearance lacks heavier scaring of most veterans. His armor mark III power armour is worn from his time fighting to suppress the Gordian league alongside his brothers.
Skillset: A knight of Caliban and more importantly a warrior of the Lion's six great wings, before he could ride he first had to power his skill with a blade and bolt gun. Among the Lion's troops a great diversity of skills is found, yet each is narrowed to field where they excel. For him it was with the more specialized calvary of Dark Angels. With his new place among his brothers the younger Caliban born marine learned by practice duels with his brothers. His control and mastery of a chain sword is nothing to scoff at nor is his ability to bravely operate the dangerous plasma rifle.
History: Ywain had heard the rumors from his brothers, the first legion had been far from the fighting when the Heresy began. However order came down quickly to quell the rumors, they had a campaign to win against the Xenos scum and human allies. Yet twenty members of the Ravenwing were called back, they were to be given a special mission. To return to Caliban and inform Luther of the treachery and to order him to hold back his forces securing the sector and prepare to defend Caliban from the Traitor Legions, until the Lion could return and regroup his forces.
Thrilled to be given a chance to return home and the trust of his Primarch to complete such a mission. Under a few of his more veteran brothers they were given a small ship and sent to deliver a message to the Lion's second. However they never reached the lush forest world, they picked a distress call from a world as they passed by it, a message from the Night Lords requesting aid. Freezing there mission believing loyal brothers needed aid, the always stead fast Dark Angel's prepared their bikes and chain swords.
The lie brought the vessel above the planet, the marines airdropped on their bikes rushing towards the outpost weapons drawn. Then heavy bolter fire from the base began striking down the front row bikes, as unsuspecting angels slammed into the wreckage of bikes, the Night Lords ambush group descended upon them. Unrelenting and cruel they did kill the marine, instead ripping them into pieces, Ywain turned his away from the base as the screams of his captain pierce the jungle of the planet.
They tried to send message yet it was to late, the Night Lords had attacked the ship once the marines were away and seized the vessel. Content with trapping the survivors upon the planet with not even the corpses of their comrades to bury they waited. Eventually entering the outpost they found the place had been how to a small human outpost team who had attempted to warn other of the traitors and paid with lives for loyalty. As time went on they discovered the planet held Beasts akin to those that once roamed Caliban.
They were driven by the sense of dread and hate these Angels now held for planet and the Night Lords yet the smell of blood and corpses also brought them close. They salvaged what they could bolter rounds, a lone heavy bolter, and a handful of chain swords. Ywain took up a plasma rifle he'd straped to his bike as they began the siege, yet when the deed was done only Ywain left standing. The bikes they had ruined. Only a bolt pistol, one of the bolt guns pried off his bike and a chain sword remained.
Using parts and after weeks of hard work he finally managed to get the beacon working again, now he sat alone waiting for death or his chance to hunt those who claimed his brothers.
Psychological Profile: Ywain is knight of Caliban as much as he is a Space Marine, he holds himself and his brothers to the code of the Order and to the laws of the Imperium. He loves his home world and adores the fact he was chosen to be a hero bringing peace to the galaxy. Currently however his mindset is one of pain and betrayal, forgetting his mission to deliver a message, Ywain wants blood and the head of the Night Lords who destroyed his brothers before his very eyes and left them to die at the hands of Chaos spawn. Yet he also see's this as a blessing, since the Lion purged Caliban of Beasts he has now proven himself worthy of being a night of the Order as well as a Dark Angel.
Equipment:
Tigrus Pattern Bolter
Phobos Pattern Bolt pistol
Thunder Edge Pattern Chainsword
Notes: Is very lonely and full of rage, feeling he can't trust any other Legionaire's until loyalty is proven. |
8,520 | 233 | 18 | 1,125 | 2,489 | There were things in this universe that their fathers had seen fit to keep from them, things that existed beyond space and time, creatures that they had been told were a differing breed of Xenos and would die as easily as any other – they had been lied to. These creatures were not aliens, although one may have thought of them as such, bursting from the flesh of living beings or appearing from nowhere through portals of pure energy. All Ferreus knew, and what he voxed to his squad mates, was that they had to die.
“Are you seeing this, sir?” Crackled the helm-vox with Kazimir's agitated voice.
“Aye,” grunted Ferreus in return, “I see it...no doubt the spawn of the Arch-traitor will not appreciate our help.”
Oh yes, 'Prodigal' made it very difficult for others to know anything of he and his men – their armour was as black and marked with Imperial symbols as his own, they did not speak to outsiders, and none of the former Death Guard had ever seen them without their helmets. There were other ways, if one knew how to observe, that ones identity could be revealed and, no matter how hard they may try, the modus operandi of the currently engaged tetrad was at least clear to the leader of the Fourteenth Legion loyalists.
“What are they?” Questioned Gentian as he checked his bolter was loaded, a slight hint of nervousness evident in the veterans voice, a taint that had never before sounded from that throat.
“It does not matter from whence they came, or what they are, all that matters is we destroy them utterly; bring that melta to bear, Timohir, the rest of you form a line and fire as we advance. Short bursts, conserve your ammunition, and try not to hit our brothers.”
They did as they were told, the things currently engaged in close-quarter melee with the Luna Wolves only now beginning to register this new threat as they were flanked, the Dusk Raiders (for they were Mortarion's sons no more!) opening up with their own weapons; humanoid beasts of crimson flesh and horned heads, eyes burning with unholy hate and blood-lust, as tall as an Astartes and bound in muscle bearing two-handed blades of sizzling metal. What caused them to sizzle? A constant dapple of blood that seemed to cascade from out of nowhere. Had they been of lesser creation, their mind would have broken.
Ferreus raised his Ikanos-pattern pistol, firing of single shots of .50 explosive-tipped rounds, refocusing and firing again as he moved forward at a walking pace alongside his battle-brothers. Within the confines of his helmet, covered by the face grill and sloped eye sockets, his jaw was set hard in an expression of determination but also of annoyance. Why would these beasts not die like normal creatures? The unearthly roar of one burning daemon shaking his very soul as melta fire consumed it, miniature explosions tearing chunks out of them even as others simply ignored their dead and dying.
Terran born they may have been, but this did not stop the five silently forward-moving Astartes from employing the stoicism and brutally frontal tactics of their erstwhile Primarch, loosing off salvo after salvo in a fusillade of close-range fire power as they moved ever closer.
Once within charging distance the line was halted by a single word, the carefully targeted fire never ceasing until a magazine ran dry, Ferreus reaching for his chainaxe and activating it with a thumbing of the stub on the hilt that sent the teeth whirring. On either side of him he was imitated perfectly, smaller side arms and combat knives unsheathed with clockwork precision, each transhuman warrior prepared to give their lives for the good of the Imperium they still served.
“We are the voice and the clarion call; We are tyrant's ruin and rival's fall.” Voxed Ferreus through his helmet, and as they strode forward with extreme purpose of will the Dusk Raiders motto was echoed by all. | Name: Ferreus (Gothic for both 'Iron' and 'Immovable')
Age: Around 247
Legion: Unknown - Suspected to be the Death Guard
Planet of Origin: Unknown - Terra or Barbarus
Physical Description:Standing at an average height of seven feet and three inches, when out of his armour, he has the look of an experienced pugilist and wrestler - not at all strange, considering he is both - his shaven cranium of dark stubble sloping down to an almost Neanderthal brow line, two eyes of stormy grey glaring out from deep-set sockets and brows of black hair as if challenging anyone and everyone.
Continuing from the top, his nose and ears are certainly that of a fighter, the former having clearly been broken a number of times, and the latter both formed into the well known 'cauliflower ears' of the martial man. His thick-set jaw is kept equally as hairless as his head, crossed with faded scars, and nearly as square as the remainder of his body, his torso very much seeming like a solid slab of rock...except made from muscle, bone and sinew; each limb is like the trunk of a tree, stretched psychically as far as the unique physiology of the Astartes will allow them to go, muscles rippling clearly beneath his rather pale skin as he moves and his hands more than able to crush the skull of both mortal man and Space Marine both.
In battle he girds himself in his not-always-reliable suit of Mk III 'Armorum Ferrum' Pattern power armour, the entire construct a walking edifice to brutal frontal assaults and wars of attrition; from the numerous pits left by solid shells and projectiles, to the deeply burnt scorch-marks of more laser based weaponry, Ferreus accepts them all on his re-painted armour of deepest black - however, if one looks close enough, they may be able to see through the murky and well worn layer. Just under the surface of those colours which obscure his true origins, if you look close enough without becoming a target of his ire, one may peak the crimson shoulder plate, gauntlet, knee and stormy coloured ceramite of the obsolete Dusk Raiders.
As a loyalist member of a so-called 'traitor' legion, and as one of the re-minted blackshields, the sturdy armour of this Astartes goes completely unadorned apart from several Imperial Aquila to show where his loyalties lie. On the other hand battle scars are the only decoration that a warrior needs, and he has plenty of them as well.
Skillset:Oddly enough, Ferreus combines the skill-sets of several differing legions - the stoic attitude and casual aloofness of the Dark Angels, the ferocity and thrill for close-quarters fighting of the Blood Angels and World Eaters, and the immunity to biological substances and extra ordinary constitution of the Death Guard. In hand-to-hand conflict or a close-range fire-fight he is truly to be feared, whether using his weapons or his fists alone, coming at his enemies directly and without hesitation or mercy.
His specialisations include trench warfare and wars of attrition, as well as warfare in harsh or toxic enviroments.
History:Istvaan III...the Choral City...
The whole sordid affair was where the life of the Astartes known simply as Ferreus had truly began, a rebirth if you will, the final awakening of a once loyal soldier and follower of his Primarch to the depth and breadth of corruption and betrayal which had slithered its way into the heart and soul of the once-beloved Warmaster and his now twisted brethren. It was here that the loyalist, primarily Terran-born elements, of each of the legions was to be purged from existence by their own former comrades - thereby destroying any inner revolts, and showing the utter loyalty and commitment to the cause of the traitors. Loyalty to the Warmaster and their Primarchs over the Emperor, and commitment to the cause of placing this maniacal pawn of Chaos at the head of the burgeoning Empire of Man.
Well, needless to say he believed he was dead; rising stiff and alone on the dead surface of a dead planet, digging his way through fallen rubble that had buried him for over three weeks before finally reaching the surface once more, wary to the point of paranoia and mistrustful of any other he came across whether purported loyalist or one of his blood-enemies of his former legion and their allies.
While not Istvaan III itself, each and every one of the loyalist combatants massacred on that damned planet as far as he knew, Ferreus had been forced to turn his gun on at least half of his own company to save his own skin. It had been on a planet called Leandros IV, he and his company - for he had achieved the rank of Lieutenant, before being placed down to Sergeant for an unspecified infraction, and was trusted to complete his tasks with efficiency - that formerly jovial and friendly brothers-in-arms had turned their weapons upon he and his own in just another attempt to thin out the ranks of those more loyal to their Emperor than to their Primarch and his cause.
After fighting his way through his 'brothers', leaving those he could not protect to the tender mercies of the enemy, he fled into the thick undergrowth and forcefully boarded the Thunderhawk which had been used to land upon the planet, urging the pilot at gunpoint to take him up and away from there even as he began to scrape the paint and insignia of his legion from his ceramite.
Upon learning the full extent of the atrocity on Istvaan III, and with every intention to do his utmost to bring the Emperor's wrath to those he now saw as nothing more than prey, Ferreus painted his armour black and marked himself with several hand-painted aquila to show where his loyalties lay to any that would see.
Between then and his meeting with the Rogue Trader Balixus Kyros, a meeting that would turn out to give him a goal for his efforts and a chance at seeing justice meted out in full, he took part in numerous guerilla actions against traitor formations - it was in once such action that he claimed his chainaxe, plucking it from the still twitching fingers of a World Eaters officer and spitting upon the corpse as he did so. Sieges, ambushes, and frontal assaults, he took part in any and every action that he could if it would damage those that he had once counted as allies and peers.
Such things take a toll even on a superhuman warrior, and the respite now given to him after being picked up and bought to relative 'safety' aboard Balixus' vessel is a blessed relief...and yet there is always the tugging at the back of his mind, the primal need to pile death upon those who wronged him, and perhaps he is once more let loose against the traitor Horus and his cronies there will be no more peace for him. Only war.
Psychological Profile:Ferreus is almost as dour as they come; although his demeanour is rather without emotion, fatalistic, and black, there are plenty who have seen this as a sign that he must therefore be mentally slower to boot! This, as those many have found, is certainly not the case and Ferreus is actually in possession of a rather keen, logical, and cunning intellect that has allowed him to foresee many things that others cannot both on and off of the field of battle. When the bullets and dirt starts flying is when he truly comes alive, amidst the cries and screams of his enemies, fighting alongside his brothers and in the name of his Emperor - who he still considers his true liege - and in the rarest of circumstances he has even been known to sneer, which is as close to a smile as he can get.
Equipment:
Phobos-pattern Bolter with attached combat blade.
Ikanos-pattern Bolt Pistol
Chainaxe - taken from a World Eater
Standard issue gladius (the blade coated in various poisons to which Ferreus is immune)
Notes: Accompanied by four Astartes armed in a similar manner, with a bolter, close-quarters weapon and sometimes a sidearm;
- Sergeant Gentian
- Apothecary Lőrinc
- Brother Kazimir
- Brother Tihomir (is the squads designated heavy weapon expert, carries a Multi-Melta) |
8,521 | 233 | 19 | 1,012 | 4,032 | The foe was terrible in its strength, and even the wiles of veteran Astartes did not stop one of their own from falling to one of those two-handed blades, leaving a terrible wound and a dead battle-brother as the foe sought another victim.
The intercession of the others helped turn that grim tide; and the fight started to move the other way. All the while, the sounds in his ears and the altered vision, the product of unusual lights and things that flashed around, as vision itself shifted subtly and unpredictably, making one question their balance and, more fundamentally, their sanity. It made the fight with these things even more desperate, as something gnawed at them and laughed all the while, promising them torment, pleasure, power...
He'd heard the seductive likes before and perhaps it was his lot to be eternally tempted. The Primarch had fallen, and perhaps they shared the flaws that made them extra attractive to the things seething out there. Perhaps it was easier to prey on their emotions, knowing they were cast adrift lacking their genetic founder.
Even that doubt was deadly, and caused him to falter a moment, realize his error and come back at the red-skined demon with a roar and a renewed ferocity. It wasn't unthinking fury, but the thought that he was faltering and abandoning his brothers in the fight that carried him through; a chainsword gripped in both hands and brought down into the skull of the thing that he was duelling with, the blades ripping through flesh without remorse, roaring down through horn and bone as he pushed it harder and harder into the thing. The blade might well be ruined in the fight, for chainswords were not invincible, but at least he'd kill the beast. And if it didn't do the job completely, he'd find another way.
He wasn't going to be taken, not this time... | Name: Prodigal Son
Age: Unknown, but reckoned to be at least a century old.
Legion: Luna Wolves, renounced.
Planet of Origin: Terra or Cthonia.
Physical Description:Prodigal Son's armor is repaired from battlefield salvage and the paint has been carefully scraped off and the pauldron insignia defaced and painted over with the Raptor Imperialis symbol of the Reunification Wars, a symbol forces loyal to the Emperor fought under on Terra as well as the Imperial Aquila. The armor is not as efficient as a properly-maintained mark, but it gets him into the fight. He's done the best he can with repairs, but the battle damage shows.
With the helmet off, Prodigal Son is unremarkable, but has a gold service stud and a silver service stud on his brow. He does not like to display them often, for they display his features and those tell a tale; as is sometimes the case, the gene-seed expresses strongly, as it does here.
His is the likeness of the Warmaster, the Betrayer Horus. To perhaps further demonstrate where he stands on the matter, he has the Imperial Aquila tattooed onto his cheek. The other is marred with the scars of las-fire and the shrapnel from a melted helmet face-plate, a memento of one of the engagements of the Great Crusade. His head is completely shaven.
When not fighting, when not focusing, he stares off into the distance, his mind visibly churning. He wrestles with himself, with his love of his former brothers. With his shame for his gene-father's betrayal.
Skillset:Prodigal Son is a tactical marine to the bone; there are few tasks that a Space Marine and his bolter are not suited to, after all. The tools depend on the tactical situation. Some Legions wed themselves to specific styles, but the true essence is to adapt, but adapt ferociously and, above all, win. That was always the way of his legion, as it moved from victory to victory, rarely tasting defeat. His experience in numerous Imperial Compliance actions has honed his capabilities.
History:Prodigal Son's exact circumstances are not entirely known, mostly because he does not speak -- his oath is of silence, his penance is in deeds. His Primarch's sin cannot be washed away, and he intends to sell his life dearly to the enemies of the Emperor. It is hard to say whether the man is one of the Luna Wolves holdovers of the original intake of Terran recruits or a Cthonian addition that stayed strangely loyal to the Emperor when so many of his own followed the Warmaster, their gene-father, where he would lead.
What is known is that the Rogue Trader picked up Prodigal Son on the planet Polybius; there was ferocious fighting between Imperial Army elements and Chaos Cultists seeded there by the Word Bearers Legion. Prodigal Son did not command, did not rally, did not organize. He and a mere handfull of others from his Legion fought, hunting the leaders, looking to decapitate the cultist command. Those not ended with a bolter round to the head he hacked down ferociously in melee. They stalked the battlefield like ghosts and struck with singular and suicidal ferocity, fury made manifest, to rip out the throat of key enemy personnel, rather than getting heavily engaged in an attrition battle.
In one particular case at the end of the revolt on Polybius, out of ammo for his bolter and out of promethium for his chainsword, he encountered a leader of the Cultists. The Psyker tried to seduce him with the words of a demon that knew all too well what his heritage was. The woman's skull was splattered messily with two rapid blows of his gauntleted fist and a bellow of spiritual pain. It did not go unnoticed, word spread on the planet.
When the Rogue Trader told this silent Astartes the plan, he gave a nod and came aboard along with his other brothers. They speak among themselves at appointed times, much like a religious order, but otherwise remain silent except for battle, when they use the curt language of tactical communication. They eat minimally, they train relentlessly, try to keep their equipment running despite inconsistent supply and do not mingle.
Psychological Profile:It's hard to say what Prodigal Son thinks, as he does not speak. But his actions are very clear -- he has the same controlled viciousness that made the Sons of Horus one of the most successful of the legions during the Great Crusade. In countless compliance actions, they struck mercilessly. The same applies here. It's his heritage to the bone, even if it is now a traitor's heritage.
Equipment: Phobos-Pattern Boltgun. It has a hook and a tether line that allows it to stay attached and handy when he lets go of the grip. It also has a foregrip if he wishes to stabilize it. That is not Mechanicus-approved modification but he is beyond caring. It allows him to switch quickly over to his chainsword.
Thunder Edge Pattern Chainsword, magnetized with a switch so Prodigal Son can release it from harness and bring it to bear moments after releasing his bolter.
Armor that is truly the salvaged and repaired parts of other armor. It is, essentially, what will be known as Mk. V "Heresy Pattern" armor. Notably, the knuckles are spiked. The helmet is a modified Mk. IV, there are bits and pieces from other marks and field expedient. Plates are riveted on, repairs are visible. It is not parade-ready, but it can still fight.
Grenades when he can get them.
NotesProdigal Son has three battle brothers, they are armed very similarly to him; bolters and melee weapons. They too do not speak to outsiders except in battle. Their armor is stripped of heraldry and symbols of loyalty to the Emperor are displayed in place of the Eye of Horus and Cthonian ganger runes that were prevalent in their legion. |
8,522 | 234 | 0 | 2,612 | 148 | Tuz "Flare" Vandora
With the radiance of the morning sunlight tearing through the hills of Terra, and slapping the thick canopy below, the animals gave their morning chirps and roars. The forest now crawling with some of the most dangerous cats and feral creatures in the living world. One couldn’t be sure on which was worse, the day, or night. One with ruthless canines and birds, that have no second thought on defeating their own territory. What had been reclaimed after the war was now their own, no humanoid creature called this forest home anymore. Ancient weapons from the old war times still diluted the dense forest floor. Caves of hollowed, broken barns, and old fence lining twisted into the branches of age-old trees. These were what now made up the dens that the day creatures dwelled in well into the night. Meanwhile night creatures, such as vicious cougars and bobcats came out at night the lick your flesh from straight from the bone. One wouldn’t know which is a worse fate.
Tuz walked along an old dirt road. The land around her, once prospering farms, now flat with tall grasses. Fences and old barns reclaimed by nature. A crow rest in the shade of the a remaining piece of roof. Not a bad sign, but perhaps a sign of a change coming today. It was almost a joy to see the bird that so many humans associated with death. A small grin found its way to Tuz’s lips. The slight curve she couldn’t hide, and in these dangerous times Tuz liked these kind of moments.
The girls feet shifted as her ears picked up the movement around her. She couldn’t tell for certain if this movement came from an animal, friend, or foe. Making a small fist, her eyes shone a deep, fiery orange. Being ready to defeat herself if needed. The poor girl had ran into a few hunters wanting her feathers for the black market and that’s not something she was willing to give to anyone. It could also be her next meal, before she continues on her way towards the next village. A friend, although they would not start off as a friend at first, would be beneficial down the road. To have someone to fight alongside her, to have to kill everything that crossed her path. The feeling would be so nice.
After a few miles Tuz couldn’t handle the slow movement of her humanoid form. Lifting her arms above her head, they grew beautiful, silk feathers. She shrugged off her clothing as her body changed to that of the fire bird. The orange of her iris quickly consumed the rest of her eyes and narrowed. Her nose and mouth extended and hardened, transforming into a sharp, dull-yellow beak. Her hair shortened and the feathers on her nape grew. With her legs buckling out and re-jointing themselves, a magnificent tail burst off the end of her tailbone. Bright, long feathers whipped the ground and with a single stroke of her wings she took off into the air, with her clothes wrapped and tied around her neck.. The process only took a matter of seconds and she now resembled a messenger bird, with her belongings tied onto her back.
Traveling by air, Tuz was able to spot potential threats and how close her destination was. Once she was about a mile off, she descended into a tree just off the path. Transforming back into her humanoid form. Back onto the road she pulled out a few coins that weren’t so honorably earned, but would get her a place to sleep. Walking into the local inn, or what she thought was the inn she observed the people around her. There were maybe a handful of men. All had mugs in their hands, the smell reeked of alcohol.
“What can I get the lady?” A man asked from the counter.
“Um, you wouldn’t happen to have Ale from the Ash would you?” Tuz replied, her head snapping to the side in a bird-like motion. The ale wasn’t easy to come by, it felt like you were lighting you mouth on fire, and the phoenix loved it.
“I do believe so. Two atres” He answered back. A small glass of grey liquid in his hands. The girl put two silver coins on the counter and took to glass. Giving the bartender a nod and a cup raise before going to find a seat. Eventually finding one in the corner where she could see everyone.
(OOC: Pin= 1 dollar, atres= 10 dollars, just to put the currency into perspective.) | Name: Tuz "Flare" Vandora
Appearance: Tuz has bright red hair that she wears loose and reaching half way down her back. She has olive skin with many scars on her arms and upper torso. With a slender figure and only standing at 5"3' she is smaller than most women. She has a radiant pair of orange eyes that is flecked with gold. With feathers the color of fire around the nape of her neck, ankles, and a few around her wrists. Tuz has petite facial figures which make her eyes look bigger. She wears a white dress that drapes down to her knee, black boots, and a white cape with a red flame on the shoulder.
In her phoenix form she is a massive flame colored bird with a long bulky beak; sharp talons and sparks fly when she flies.
Age:21
Species: Phoenix
Country of Origin: Her parents immigrated to Inculto from The Ash. She herself was born in the desert sands of Inculto
Weapons: She possesses a great deal of fire magic, from manifestation to control. However, at her age if can get unstable easily and takes a lot of physical energy to maintain. A brown belt carrying varies herbs and potions dangles off her hip, although with a steel dagger and a single-edged sword.
Likes: Heat, sweets, display of magical abilities, and sleep
Dislikes: Cold, hand-to-hand combat, and humans
History: With parents from The Ash, the stories that Tuz grew up with were things of nightmares. With tales of lava monsters and dragons that guarded treasures from before the war time, it was no wonder the girl grew up scared of traveling. Her parents were nothing short of paranoid and they pushed these tendencies onto their only daughter. With most of her childhood years spent with only her parents and the food they brought home, Tuz never truly learned how to interact with people, and thus doesn't always know how to reaction properly to certain situations.
She was an orphan by the age of 14. At that time her family was living in a small ruin rear the border of Terra. a group of hunters had come by to collect all they could to sell, or eat, as they traveled through the world looking for The Pray. Tuz's parents were returning from a hunt of their own when both massive birds landed arrows through their bodies, dying on the spot. Hiding in the back of the dim cave the young girl witnessed the humans come into her home and drag her parents bodies away. It wasn't long before the humans found her in the corner and took her captive.
She had her wrists and ankles tied down so that she couldn't transform and fly away. It would be three years before she would manage to escape, with the help of a man who had saw her display of fire and presented his own. He told her of the Pray and the two traveled together for many years. It wasn't until a sand storm had separated them that she was ever truly alone in this world. Through all this she knows that the Pray is the place she wants to be, and she wants to be there with someone she cares about, maybe she'll even find the man that saved her life there. |
8,523 | 234 | 1 | 1,228 | 2,368 | Kaliyanei
When Kali had walked into the inn, she had rented a room. Now it was the next day and she was running out of pebbles to give the bartender and the more she used her magic, the more likely he was to see through it. So after a few hours of watching people come and go, down drinks and inhale food, she decided it was time to have one final drink. Admittedly, she had already had a bit too much for her small frame and her hood finally fell off her head to reveal her dark, pretty face and violet eyes. She appeared plenty comfortable despite.
"One more," she requested lazily. The bartender had just finished serving another woman--not that Kali had noticed--and now he cocked an eyebrow at her. He seemed to debate it, but hesitantly nodded. He placed the drink before her and she dropped a few more pebbles onto the table in exchange. At least, that's what onlookers would see; she was charming the man into seeing a few atres more than the drink was worth. And he had continued to be tricked by it instead of doubting where this strange girl got so much money. "Keep the change," she teased.
And at this point Kali was just buzzed enough to not worry so much about onlookers; they hadn't noticed for two days now anyhow. So she happily started her final drink, sighing happily as the warmth filled her stomach and then body. | Name: Kaliyanei, Kali
Appearance:
As a fox, Kali is small with off white fur that will shine various shades of blue, purple, pink, and yellow as the light changes: she looks like an opal given life. Her eyes are a bright purple, though shining foxettes can have almost any color eyes.
As a human, Kali can look however she pleases. However, she's prone to appear dark in skin with almond shaped eyes--still purple, as that is the one feature shining foxettes cannot change. Slim, but of average height for a woman in build. Her hair is dark in color and usually falls no further than her shoulders. As for clothes, she changes depending on where she is or what she can get her paws on. She never appears to be any older than 25 nor younger than 20.
Age: 1,500
Species: Shining Foxette
Shining foxettes are rare and mystical fox-like creatures similar to Eastern myths of Kitsune. They're smaller than the well known red fox and tend to rival only house cats in size. They're not necessarily immortal, but they cannot die of old age and they usually have powers of illusion. Those who know about them are tempted to hunt them for their beautiful fur, which is a gorgeous, shining opalescent. It also has healing properties, and wearing it will protect you for death. Under a full moon, they can take on a human form. Should a shining foxette find true love (aka get laid lmao) under a full moon, they becomes capable of taking human form whenever they please. Upon death, a shining foxette will change back into its fox form.
Country of Origin: Anamata
Abilities: Kali can cause you to see or hear anything she wants you too, and these are the easiest senses affect. However, only older foxettes are able to affect your taste, feeling, and sense of smell as well. It would be easier for her to learn with someone to guide her, which is partly why she's hoping to find other foxettes in the Pray. Also, once you break the illusion for yourself--for example, by realizing you can't touch what she's making you see--it will be extremely difficult for her to get into your head again. Older creatures are less susecptible to illusions, especially if they have had run-ins with other foxettes.
Likes: People--particularly women--despite the war she lived through, silk, the color blue
Dislikes: Hunters, war, weapons
History: The first five hundred years of her life was lived as a fox, safe in Anamata. Then, the war started. Foxettes were being hunted for their fur's healing properties to help in the war. Her species was hunted to near extinction and only foxettes that could willingingly take human form were safe.
One night, a human woman stumbled into Kali's territory--injured and fearful. Kali was afraid at first--humans and humanoids have been causing nothing but harm to her species--but she managed to relax when the woman was clearly too weak and unaware to hunt. Compassionate, Kali brought the woman fruits and showed her where to find water. As she did, the woman told the fox of her trials: her village had been ravaged by war, and she was one of few to escape--not unscathed, unfortunately.
The woman remained in the forest as she healed and Kali watched over her, protecting her from other creatures and hiding her with her magic when unfriendly humans passed. And when the full moon came around, Kali took on human form to finally converse freely with the woman. The two would then begin travelling together to stay out of the war and every full moon, Kali would become human and the two grew very close. Needless to say, they fell in love and--one night--Kali was able to remain human even after the full moon had set.
The woman eventually grew old and died, but Kali had been given the gift to walk freely among her kind. It was bittersweet. |
8,524 | 234 | 2 | 80 | 286 | Akira Shadow 'Peace Hunter'
A walking pace, not much faster than a crawl had finally brought Akira to the inn. He squinted his eyes as he gazed up at the sign hanging above its door. It felt like he'd been walking for several hours and he was probably correct for thinking so. The young man looked down to his right leg and shook his head before leaning his left arm on the door as he stepped forward. The door opened part-way then further as Akira stepped inside, a pained limp in his step. The less than normal entrance had drawn the attention of a few nosey patrons as the man continued to limp toward the bar.
His right leg, poorly bandaged with a scrap of rags had been dyed red from where a wound had once been bleeding. Making it to the bar the young man let himself fall softly forward catching himself on the bar with his arms as his right leg buckled. The inn keep sighed as he stepped over to Akira, clearly this wasn't his first time dealing with a wounded patron. "What'll it be young man? You're welcome here so long as you're not looking for trouble." Akira smirked at the inn keeps comment before speaking up.
"Trouble? Worry not, this is merely a scratch... albeit a rather nasty one. Oh, a tankard of ale..." Akira stated as he placed some coins on the counter, more than enough to cover his drink. "...and a clean cloth, if you can spare one." The inn keep nodded in response as he prepared Akira's drink and slid it to him with a section of cloth. "Thanks." Akira stated with a smile before glancing round for a free table.
Having found a place to perch himself in more comfort, Akira had hobbled over to a free table waving away any patrons sober enough to offer him a helping hand. He straightened his leg out in front of him as he sat down, before leaning forward to pull back the blood rag. The wound had mostly dried shut, though that didn't seem to be the only issue. Akira stared at the wound, had there not been so many patrons he could spend a little blood from his finger for a simple healing spell. With a sigh he undressed the wound before taking hold of the clean cloth, wanting to keep the 'scratch' covered he tightly wrapped the cloth around his leg, before pulling his leg back toward himself and stretching it out several times trying to work the pain out of the muscle and get it used to natural movement once more. Having done enough stretching to make him feel sore anew the young man took a swig of his ale as he glanced around the inn, the patrons had returned to their drinks and the natural vibe and scene of calm resumed. | Name: Akira Shadow 'Peace Hunter'
Appearance: Akira Shadow is a Caucasian male, standing at 6'6" tall. With a slight muscular build he wears studded leather armour which protect his chest and abdomen over the top of a plain blue long sleeve shirt. He wears leather armoured trousers, and black boots coated is dust and dirt from his time on the field.
The sections of armour has slight evidence of past battles where botched repair work has been carried out to close the tears in the armour, patched by any leather that Akira has managed to get his hands on. Granted its appearance wouldn't win any prizes, but at least it'd get the job done in protecting its wearer. A belt at his waist holds the sheath and wire for Akira's Sword and crossbow (See weapons).
His facial appearance is surprisingly scar free, despite his chosen profession. He has brown eyes with a slight touch of red toward the pupils (a result of using blood magic), his hair is long and crudely tied back into a ponytail, black in colour it's evident that it's not greatly cared for, and is sometimes messy in appearance.
Age: 22
Species: Human
Country of Origin: Anamata
Weapons:
The first and mainly used weapon of Akira's is a dual blade. The weapon was specially designed by himself and a few fellow hunters in order to optimize his battle prowess. When weilded effectively it can be used to battle two targets simultaneously, or one target with swift parry/follow ups. The grip has a locking hinge joint, which when released means the weapon can be used as a two bladed long sword. This offers no particular benefit other than adding extra weight to the swing. The weapon is sheathed at the Hunters left side, always sheathed in its longsword form. Both blades of the weapon have the words Demon Hunter etched into the them, the areas of the etchings are kept finely polished making it easy to make out from anyone examining the weapon.
For less personal, or aerial confrontation Akira favours a crossbow. When unused this is often found hanging at the Hunters right side via a wire. It is often kept loaded making it more of defensive item when first readied than an open opportunity for a enemy to attack.
Lastly, Akira is a careful user of the often frowned upon, blood magic. Blood magic, used by those unable to channel mana, mainly due to lack of aptitude are often battle enhancing spells. Its use can hasten or strengthen the casters attacks or even act as a pain negator, similar to an adrenaline rush or battle rage. However Akira keeps close tabs on it due to the common eventuality of turning the caster insane, through a strange addiction to its use.
Likes: (May add more as the RP progresses)
Cashing in Bounties
Combat training / sparing
Exploration / adventuring
Finding pre-war / wartime relics
Dislikes: (May add more as the RP progresses)
Hunters of 'Neutrals'
Winged demons
'Lost' Blood Mages
Unnecessary confrontation (Bandits etc.)
History: Akira Shadow, a man who wasn't born into the Hunters, though destined to become one. Akira was brought up in his early years by his parents, who tried to raise him in the way of their ancestors, respecting all creatures and only seeking hard to those creatures that deserved it. Despite this, and almost hipocritical of his parents, they made regular and particularly large donations to the Demon Hunting Guilds. But no action can be made without consequences, before the boy had seen 10 Summers pass his parents home was raided by several winged demons. Although hunters were swift on the demons trails, the demons had wasted little time in offing Akira's parents, only retreating when the hunters had arrived.
Unable to leave the boy an orphan Akira was brought into the Demon Hunters Guilds care. It was there that Akira would continue to grow and be moulded into one of their own, trading completion of chores for a roof over his head. As the boy aged the chores & lessons became more appropriate for his future trade. Gone were the days of cleaning the grounds, making way for armour and weapon crafting and maintenance, along with lessons on different breeds of demons, their strengths and their weaknesses. From his eighteenth birthday Akira had been officially recognised as a hunter, although his first hunt was a menial one given to him purely out of favouritism. The Hunter would slowly grow in skill over the next few years as he'd be sent on more and more hunts for demons. Though Akira would sometimes find him questioning the reasons, the reasons why certain demons were even considered marks. The ugly reality was starting to loom that whether its intentions were good or bad the Guild would sentence all demons to die.
It was shortly after he turned twenty that the Guild would split, as Akira shared a proposal with those he felt he could trust. Just like his ancestors before him, even a demons life deserved respect until such a time that it displayed unworthy of that trust. Henceforth the appropriately dubbed 'Peace Hunters' came about. More like bounty hunters, these guild members only hunted for demons known to have done wrong and had no quarrel with aiding demons being hunted merely for sport. Over the next two years the word of the Peace Hunters would grow and along with it the town bounties posted for their completion. |
8,525 | 234 | 3 | 2,612 | 148 | Watching all the commotion undergo from her corner, Tuz sipped her drink. The burning sensation felt wonderful as it sizzled down her throat. Ale of the Ash was made with flame cherries. While they were rare, one did come a crossed a bush here and there. Sometimes they would find their way into other countries. Eating a berry would be like drinking hot magma, at least in sensation. It was no question that the ale it made would be truly like drinking something very unpleasant to a regular human being. However, only creatures capable of breathing fire would be accustomed to the drink. Many inns and taverns chose not to sell it as to keep the fire breathers controlled, others thought to please all their customers and obtain the drink. Therefore, it would be easy to pick where Tuz's species would truly be liked, and not as trophies.
A girl caught her eye handing pebbles . Her head cocked to the side before a grin slipped along her lips.the little tricks had always impressed Tuz, but she figured not to make a big deal of it since this was how the girl was paying for her drinks. Not long after she heard the door open. This new comer trailed blood as he had barely managed to limp in the door. The fire colored girl sat quietly wondering how he had got such injuries. He did appear human, and their species was notorious for hunting all creatures, including themselves. That was the one thing that Tuz didn’t understand. For a species that does has so much potential, they abuse it and destroy everything in their wake. The girls eyes moved down to her ash-colored drink sadly, thinking of events she had heard and witnessed.
After taking a gulp of her ale, a puff of smoke came from her nose and mouth, like exhaling a cigarette. She thought about helping the human with his injury. Perhaps cauterize the wound. However, before she could get out of her seat, his hand was healing the wound. It was only a small portion of magic, something nobody else would notice. But she did.
Getting out of her seat, with her hood covering her hair, Tux went up to the counter. She leaned over the wood and placed another 4 atres on the counter. The bartender, reading what she wanted, placed another glass of the grey liquor in front of the girl. "And one of whatever the girl wants.". She said giving the girl the same impressive grin before leaving the counter.
With the drink in her hand, under her cloak, the girl took a seat a crossed from the man.“How did you do that? Aren’t you human?” She whispered leaning forward to keep other ears from picking up the noise. Fascinated and wanting to know more about his powers. | Name: Tuz "Flare" Vandora
Appearance: Tuz has bright red hair that she wears loose and reaching half way down her back. She has olive skin with many scars on her arms and upper torso. With a slender figure and only standing at 5"3' she is smaller than most women. She has a radiant pair of orange eyes that is flecked with gold. With feathers the color of fire around the nape of her neck, ankles, and a few around her wrists. Tuz has petite facial figures which make her eyes look bigger. She wears a white dress that drapes down to her knee, black boots, and a white cape with a red flame on the shoulder.
In her phoenix form she is a massive flame colored bird with a long bulky beak; sharp talons and sparks fly when she flies.
Age:21
Species: Phoenix
Country of Origin: Her parents immigrated to Inculto from The Ash. She herself was born in the desert sands of Inculto
Weapons: She possesses a great deal of fire magic, from manifestation to control. However, at her age if can get unstable easily and takes a lot of physical energy to maintain. A brown belt carrying varies herbs and potions dangles off her hip, although with a steel dagger and a single-edged sword.
Likes: Heat, sweets, display of magical abilities, and sleep
Dislikes: Cold, hand-to-hand combat, and humans
History: With parents from The Ash, the stories that Tuz grew up with were things of nightmares. With tales of lava monsters and dragons that guarded treasures from before the war time, it was no wonder the girl grew up scared of traveling. Her parents were nothing short of paranoid and they pushed these tendencies onto their only daughter. With most of her childhood years spent with only her parents and the food they brought home, Tuz never truly learned how to interact with people, and thus doesn't always know how to reaction properly to certain situations.
She was an orphan by the age of 14. At that time her family was living in a small ruin rear the border of Terra. a group of hunters had come by to collect all they could to sell, or eat, as they traveled through the world looking for The Pray. Tuz's parents were returning from a hunt of their own when both massive birds landed arrows through their bodies, dying on the spot. Hiding in the back of the dim cave the young girl witnessed the humans come into her home and drag her parents bodies away. It wasn't long before the humans found her in the corner and took her captive.
She had her wrists and ankles tied down so that she couldn't transform and fly away. It would be three years before she would manage to escape, with the help of a man who had saw her display of fire and presented his own. He told her of the Pray and the two traveled together for many years. It wasn't until a sand storm had separated them that she was ever truly alone in this world. Through all this she knows that the Pray is the place she wants to be, and she wants to be there with someone she cares about, maybe she'll even find the man that saved her life there. |
8,526 | 234 | 4 | 80 | 286 | Akira had been making his best attempt at minding his own business. It wasn't often that he could go into a tavern without getting bombarded by patrons trying to push hunt contracts on to him. He had observed the patrons of the place a couple of times but nothing seemed out of the ordinary, kind of strange considering the remoteness of the taverns locations. Eventually he'd glance upon a young woman heading his way from the bar, with a sigh the hunter lowered his head as though to portray the idea that he hadn't noticed. As the young woman proceeded to sit at his table, Akira remained with his head lowered as if oblivious to her presence, just when he was expecting some sob story to get him to sign onto a contract he received a less normal question in the form of a whisper "How did you do that? Aren't you human?" The young man would leave a pause, before he looked up, though only bearly, leaving it questionable as to whether he'd even heard the question. "You know..." Akira took another swig of his ale. "It's incredibly rude to sit at someone else's table, without first enquiring if they desire the company."
Akira looked up properly, examining the young woman who'd taken a seat at his table. "Well now, that is an interesting pair of questions." His voice was now quieter than before, he didn't need to create any more of a scene then he already had. Leaning forward towards the woman Akira looks her straight in the eye. "But would you really still call me human?" The taint from the blood magic could easily be made out if one were to look for it. "Though your wording is also interesting." Akira took a final swing of his ale. "Ah... tell me then miss, what manner of creature are you? Don't be surprised, we humans are typically so blindly ignorant of other races that we would not typically refer to each other as 'human'." The hunter gave a cocky smile as he leant back in his chair as he awaited an answer. As he waited he glanced over to the bar, he'd seen out of the corner of his eye the deed that the woman who was now sat at his table had done for the woman at the bar. "I don't suppose you'd also share what made you intrigued by her?" | Name: Akira Shadow 'Peace Hunter'
Appearance: Akira Shadow is a Caucasian male, standing at 6'6" tall. With a slight muscular build he wears studded leather armour which protect his chest and abdomen over the top of a plain blue long sleeve shirt. He wears leather armoured trousers, and black boots coated is dust and dirt from his time on the field.
The sections of armour has slight evidence of past battles where botched repair work has been carried out to close the tears in the armour, patched by any leather that Akira has managed to get his hands on. Granted its appearance wouldn't win any prizes, but at least it'd get the job done in protecting its wearer. A belt at his waist holds the sheath and wire for Akira's Sword and crossbow (See weapons).
His facial appearance is surprisingly scar free, despite his chosen profession. He has brown eyes with a slight touch of red toward the pupils (a result of using blood magic), his hair is long and crudely tied back into a ponytail, black in colour it's evident that it's not greatly cared for, and is sometimes messy in appearance.
Age: 22
Species: Human
Country of Origin: Anamata
Weapons:
The first and mainly used weapon of Akira's is a dual blade. The weapon was specially designed by himself and a few fellow hunters in order to optimize his battle prowess. When weilded effectively it can be used to battle two targets simultaneously, or one target with swift parry/follow ups. The grip has a locking hinge joint, which when released means the weapon can be used as a two bladed long sword. This offers no particular benefit other than adding extra weight to the swing. The weapon is sheathed at the Hunters left side, always sheathed in its longsword form. Both blades of the weapon have the words Demon Hunter etched into the them, the areas of the etchings are kept finely polished making it easy to make out from anyone examining the weapon.
For less personal, or aerial confrontation Akira favours a crossbow. When unused this is often found hanging at the Hunters right side via a wire. It is often kept loaded making it more of defensive item when first readied than an open opportunity for a enemy to attack.
Lastly, Akira is a careful user of the often frowned upon, blood magic. Blood magic, used by those unable to channel mana, mainly due to lack of aptitude are often battle enhancing spells. Its use can hasten or strengthen the casters attacks or even act as a pain negator, similar to an adrenaline rush or battle rage. However Akira keeps close tabs on it due to the common eventuality of turning the caster insane, through a strange addiction to its use.
Likes: (May add more as the RP progresses)
Cashing in Bounties
Combat training / sparing
Exploration / adventuring
Finding pre-war / wartime relics
Dislikes: (May add more as the RP progresses)
Hunters of 'Neutrals'
Winged demons
'Lost' Blood Mages
Unnecessary confrontation (Bandits etc.)
History: Akira Shadow, a man who wasn't born into the Hunters, though destined to become one. Akira was brought up in his early years by his parents, who tried to raise him in the way of their ancestors, respecting all creatures and only seeking hard to those creatures that deserved it. Despite this, and almost hipocritical of his parents, they made regular and particularly large donations to the Demon Hunting Guilds. But no action can be made without consequences, before the boy had seen 10 Summers pass his parents home was raided by several winged demons. Although hunters were swift on the demons trails, the demons had wasted little time in offing Akira's parents, only retreating when the hunters had arrived.
Unable to leave the boy an orphan Akira was brought into the Demon Hunters Guilds care. It was there that Akira would continue to grow and be moulded into one of their own, trading completion of chores for a roof over his head. As the boy aged the chores & lessons became more appropriate for his future trade. Gone were the days of cleaning the grounds, making way for armour and weapon crafting and maintenance, along with lessons on different breeds of demons, their strengths and their weaknesses. From his eighteenth birthday Akira had been officially recognised as a hunter, although his first hunt was a menial one given to him purely out of favouritism. The Hunter would slowly grow in skill over the next few years as he'd be sent on more and more hunts for demons. Though Akira would sometimes find him questioning the reasons, the reasons why certain demons were even considered marks. The ugly reality was starting to loom that whether its intentions were good or bad the Guild would sentence all demons to die.
It was shortly after he turned twenty that the Guild would split, as Akira shared a proposal with those he felt he could trust. Just like his ancestors before him, even a demons life deserved respect until such a time that it displayed unworthy of that trust. Henceforth the appropriately dubbed 'Peace Hunters' came about. More like bounty hunters, these guild members only hunted for demons known to have done wrong and had no quarrel with aiding demons being hunted merely for sport. Over the next two years the word of the Peace Hunters would grow and along with it the town bounties posted for their completion. |
8,527 | 235 | 0 | 1,342 | 999 | Res | Name: Edward Fraiser
Age: 17
Class: Trainer
Hometown/Region: Johto
Appearance: Edward often wears black polo shirts as to them being real cheap at thrift stores. His pants usually look like they've lost color and sport a couple of tears on them. Expensive wear, or designer clothing isn't really his thing. A newspaper boy's hat is always worn on his head.
Due to his obsession with standing in front of the television at a young age watching Poke sitcoms, he's forced to wear prescription glasses. Things begin to look fuzzy without them. His favorite shoes are Converse, preferably black ones. The white space of the shoes have been drawn on with a sharpie; detailing a decennt drawing of a few pikachus.
Personality: Edward is not shy in the least. He occasionally starts the conversation mainly to the reason being that the awkward silence bothers him. It's hard for Ed to make friends since he feels it's necessary to impress them. Lying is not something he's proud of so he likes to exaggerate the truth. Doing this, he feels his chances of making a friend is high.
Ed is a bright individual. However, he lacks any common sense. He'll believe any little story you tell to him. His darkest secret is that he still has confidence that Santa Claus is real.
Equipment: Two pokeballs, three potions, and a flashlight.
Pokemon Team: The only pokemon that Ed has possession of is an Abra, a Growlie, and a Scizor.
History: At the age of 14, Edward received Abra, his first pokemon. He named it Crow and it has been with Ed ever since. It would've been expected that Abra would've evolved by now, but Edward kinda took his time getting into the whole pokemon conquest. It just didn't feel like his time to rise yet.
Time passed on for about a year until Edward decided that he should get started. Nothing truly exciting happened except doing a few errands around town. His friendship with Crow did increase thus the start of Edward's journey was an easy one.
After some vigorous training, Crow became one of Ed's most powerful pokemon. Ed and Crow undergo rigorous training each day. The kind of training that is slowly making his entire team much more powerful by the month. Crow has yet to evolve, but Ed is waiting for the day he finally does. The abra, almost never concealed in his poke ball, hangs on his trainer's back. The psychic pokemon spends his time sleeping to store power for future battles.
His Scizor was the first pokemon that Edward caught at the age of 15. He proudly called it "Leaves". Viridian Forest was the place of battle. The bug-type was confident he would've scored a victory on Ed, but was surprised by the skilled abra.
After his defeat, Edward pitched a pokeball and claimed his first capture. Leaves could arguably be the hardest pokemon that Edward would ever have to train. It seemed like the pokemon wasn't proud of losing. However, through some quick victories with other trainers, the respect was starting to appear. Leaves considered Ed his way of becoming stronger and becoming unbeatable. After learning of Ed's goal to become the best, he became obedient. Leaves is the quickest of the party.
Ed retrieved a Growlie just recently at the early age of 17. He's not sure if this pup has what it takes to become a heavy hitter in his party, but he's hoping with some focused training, this puppy will have what it takes. The Growlie was sooner given the nickname "Okami".
Goal: Edward always dreamed of being the best. Unfortunately, his dreams are too far-fetched. He thrives to become something more and superior than a Poke'mon Master! Everyone is fighting and biting for that title. Well, it seems that no one is claming "Poke'mon God"?
It can't be said that's an odd goal. Edward has no intention of becoming a dictator or ruling a country. He simply wants to have a title to his name. Ed dreams of his name reaching the heavens, an icon that's whispered all over the world. His desires are nothing more than to jump over any obstacle and defeat any challenge so that he can feel he deserves a title |
8,528 | 235 | 1 | 1,342 | 999 | Ed's hair swayed in the breeze, he enjoyed a nice stroll through a forest. He crossed his hands behind his head and yawned calmly, the peace that the moment had brought in started to force Edward to a daydream state. He took a brief moment to lift his shoulders up; keeping Crow up on his back.
Edward feels something different about this region. He just can't put his finger on it. Looking up at the sky, he was disappointed to see that it was the same as it was when arriving. He didn't find any difference in the sky from the boat ride to this region. The sounds were different though, but that's obvious considering this was a forest and not an ocean. Instead of Wingulls chirping, there was more cries and yelps.
The animal noises weren't annoying or a nuisance surprisingly. Edward was finding it a small thing that could be enjoyed easily. His mind was beginning to appreciate the peace after many battles of senseless fighting.
"So...is this Toppe Region?" Edward questioned with a puzzled expression on his face. His heart rate increased, was he finally about to start a new journey? He stepped off the boat slowly; it was as if his legs were forcing him to in the wrong direction. Ed's gut was going to explode any moment from Butterfree's. Was this fear or excitement?
Edward chuckled under his breath after realizing how much of a nervous wreck he was before. He was glad to know that Professor Pine was able to give him that extra push he needed. It's a sickening thought that there could've been a possibility that Edward might've chickened out. He thought back to how he was almost going to quit and go back to his home region. Ed placed his hands behind his head; he was thankful for Professor Pine's help once he reached that laboratory.
A middle aged man with a scruffy beard tapped Ed on the shoulders. "Oh, come now, boyo! You're not scared, are you? You've already rode on the boat to get here. If you leave, you'll regret it." The elderly man wore a lab coat that covered the clothes he was wearing underneath. His gray hair connected to his scraggly beard, he stroke his facial hair nonchalantly as he spoke.
Edward tossed a thumbs up. "Leave? No way! I'm just a little...cautious is all."
"I could understand your reason. When I was your age, I would get a lot of shaking in the knees whenever I entered a new region. It's going to stop after a while. Although, I don't very much appreciate running away, but you really should've came here when you were a bit more...experienced. This isn't Johto." Professor Pine combed his fingers through his beard.
"What do you mean by that?" Edward asked. He was a bit offended by the remark. Was he implying that Johto was an easy region?
"Oh, nothing, lad! Come with me! Let's hurry up and get you your equipment!" Professor Pine patted Ed in the back with his hairy knuckles and led him to go get his supplies.
Edward came back to the present time. He noticed the walk was getting slightly boring. He was some distance from the laboratory. There was a hushed rumble in his stomach. Ed figured now would be the best time to eat.
Cape Town is a small but open place, near the northern edge of the Toppe Region. They aren't right on the coast, but set back from it on a plateau, with a large dock a little ways off. The dock is where new trainers usually arrive, since how the large mountain ranges that divides Toppe in half also separates it from Kanto and Johto, making the whole continent have a somewhat cross dividing it up. There is no pokemon center or mart in Cape town. The only thing that resides is a laboratory, belonging to Professor Pine. He usually gives advice and help to new trainers. | Name: Edward Fraiser
Age: 17
Class: Trainer
Hometown/Region: Johto
Appearance: Edward often wears black polo shirts as to them being real cheap at thrift stores. His pants usually look like they've lost color and sport a couple of tears on them. Expensive wear, or designer clothing isn't really his thing. A newspaper boy's hat is always worn on his head.
Due to his obsession with standing in front of the television at a young age watching Poke sitcoms, he's forced to wear prescription glasses. Things begin to look fuzzy without them. His favorite shoes are Converse, preferably black ones. The white space of the shoes have been drawn on with a sharpie; detailing a decennt drawing of a few pikachus.
Personality: Edward is not shy in the least. He occasionally starts the conversation mainly to the reason being that the awkward silence bothers him. It's hard for Ed to make friends since he feels it's necessary to impress them. Lying is not something he's proud of so he likes to exaggerate the truth. Doing this, he feels his chances of making a friend is high.
Ed is a bright individual. However, he lacks any common sense. He'll believe any little story you tell to him. His darkest secret is that he still has confidence that Santa Claus is real.
Equipment: Two pokeballs, three potions, and a flashlight.
Pokemon Team: The only pokemon that Ed has possession of is an Abra, a Growlie, and a Scizor.
History: At the age of 14, Edward received Abra, his first pokemon. He named it Crow and it has been with Ed ever since. It would've been expected that Abra would've evolved by now, but Edward kinda took his time getting into the whole pokemon conquest. It just didn't feel like his time to rise yet.
Time passed on for about a year until Edward decided that he should get started. Nothing truly exciting happened except doing a few errands around town. His friendship with Crow did increase thus the start of Edward's journey was an easy one.
After some vigorous training, Crow became one of Ed's most powerful pokemon. Ed and Crow undergo rigorous training each day. The kind of training that is slowly making his entire team much more powerful by the month. Crow has yet to evolve, but Ed is waiting for the day he finally does. The abra, almost never concealed in his poke ball, hangs on his trainer's back. The psychic pokemon spends his time sleeping to store power for future battles.
His Scizor was the first pokemon that Edward caught at the age of 15. He proudly called it "Leaves". Viridian Forest was the place of battle. The bug-type was confident he would've scored a victory on Ed, but was surprised by the skilled abra.
After his defeat, Edward pitched a pokeball and claimed his first capture. Leaves could arguably be the hardest pokemon that Edward would ever have to train. It seemed like the pokemon wasn't proud of losing. However, through some quick victories with other trainers, the respect was starting to appear. Leaves considered Ed his way of becoming stronger and becoming unbeatable. After learning of Ed's goal to become the best, he became obedient. Leaves is the quickest of the party.
Ed retrieved a Growlie just recently at the early age of 17. He's not sure if this pup has what it takes to become a heavy hitter in his party, but he's hoping with some focused training, this puppy will have what it takes. The Growlie was sooner given the nickname "Okami".
Goal: Edward always dreamed of being the best. Unfortunately, his dreams are too far-fetched. He thrives to become something more and superior than a Poke'mon Master! Everyone is fighting and biting for that title. Well, it seems that no one is claming "Poke'mon God"?
It can't be said that's an odd goal. Edward has no intention of becoming a dictator or ruling a country. He simply wants to have a title to his name. Ed dreams of his name reaching the heavens, an icon that's whispered all over the world. His desires are nothing more than to jump over any obstacle and defeat any challenge so that he can feel he deserves a title |
8,529 | 235 | 2 | 452 | 3,242 | It would have been quite the trek to walk from Kanto to Olivine City in the time she had to. It was a good thing Terra could fly her. The boat ride from there was... uneventful, really. She could have flown the entire way, but it was insisted she ride aboard the ferry. Maybe she could try suntanning or something, while she waited for the boat to make its way from one port to the next. Her mother always told her she was too serious, that she should relax a little more.
She ended up reading a book, instead.
She disembarked from the boat with Terra moving at her side. It was a rather sparse dock, wasn't it? Only a few buildings by the shore, but this didn't look like the place she was looking for. Nothing she could identify as a lab here. Mostly storehouses.
After a stop by the local lighthouse, she left the dock to head inland, toward Cape Town. It would have been nice if the town were actually at port, but... well, nothing to be done about it now except walk it.
A purposeful stride would reward her. Ahead, she could see an older boy. She walked a little quicker, but took her time to catch up to him. It seemed like he was stopping, anyway. "Hey there, you stoppin' for lunch? Why don't I join ya?" | Name: Regan Hiryuu
Age: 23
Class: Ranger
Hometown/Region: The small town of Zaffir, on an island shrouded in mist.
Personality: Can be somewhat terse, but she's got a heart of gold. She'll kick your ass for being a PokéPunk, though, even if you don't do anything to her.
Equipment: Rope, 5 pokeballs, potions and super potions. General survival equipment. A knife.
Pokemon Team: Flygon - "Terra"
Polywrath - "Meiling"
Heracross - "Brawly"
History: Regan doesn't speak much of her time before becoming a Ranger. As a Ranger, however, she graduated the training program at the top of her class. Her partner pokemon is her Flygon, Terra, who followed her despite being told not to. The woman is currently an A Class Ranger, on assignment after conducting an investigation in Kanto.
Goal: To be a World Class Ranger
Other: Has had a lot of experience handling Pokemon. |
8,530 | 235 | 3 | 1,390 | 1,432 | 'So, this is the Toppe Region , huh?'
Christina had been in the region for a good few hours now and she was still bubbling with the excitement of a child. Her feet stood upon unexplored land, her eyes gazing across the greenest forest she had ever seen, and as she thought of seeing the unknown wonders of this land Chris couldn't help but squeal a bit. No, no, she couldn't think about having fun right now, not with the objective at hand. Rodger Goldon, her reputable and genius father, had recently gone missing from an excavation spot in this very region. Gone without a trace, leaving Chris and her mother in a fit of confusion and depression. No leads, no notes, no ideas. Chris decided after a week of wallowing in sorrow that this was suddenly a family matter, and with a stern gaze she had set off to this very nation, ready to save her father from whomever or whatever had taken him.
But... Where do I start...
The trail she had been wandering aimlessly seemed endless, or maybe she was just dragging her feet, and when she glanced back to see how far she was from Cape Town a wave of guilt washed over her. She had yet to even walk a farther than two miles; the town was as close as ever! Chris sighed loudly, stretching her arms high above her head lazily, and as she tilted her head back a familiar cry filled her ear and the weight that she had forgotten about fell from her head. Chris turned quickly, snatching up the Noibat Shade before he hit the ground,
"Sorry, Shadey-boy, forgot you were up there." Chris muttered, cocking her head as the Noibat let out a tittering response. Seemed as though he was feeling rather sleepy, and as Chris watched Shade tilt his head back to yawn she followed suit, feeling a sudden wave of exhaustion and hunger wash over her.
"Hmm, let's rest up a bit. Can't expect to save dad on an empty stomach." She smiled, heading off the paths, towards a rather large tree just a few feet away. She lowered herself down onto the soft grass, sighing as the tree's shadow instantly cooled her somewhat warmed face. She settled Shade onto her lap and turned towards her sling bag, digging through until her hands closed around a familiar box. Chris pulled the lunch carrier out of her bag and situated it onto her lap next to Shade, grinning widely as she revealed the insides. It was fully stuffed with sandwiches, rice balls, grilled chicken, and everything else her mother normally fed her.
She silently thanked herself for not eating on the ferry, and then her mother, and after another second of admiring the entire dish she suddenly remember another mouth to feed. Her hand closed around the second Pokeball on her belt, and she pressed down the center button lightly. I opened quickly, and Mado popped out after a sudden flash of light. Upon meeting the ground he instantly pouted, turning away from the other two with the attitude of an ornery child.
"Don't be like that, Mado, here, have some food." She offered the Eevee a triangle-cut sandwich, and after a second of silence he snatched it up with a gusto and gobbled it down. Laughter bubbled from her chest, and after offering Shade a sandwich as well she dug in, eating viciously. Chris was so consumed by her lunch that she failed to notice the two who stopped just a little ways after her. | **Name:** Christina "Chris" Goldon
**Age:** 18
**Class:** Trainer
**Hometown/Region:** Ambrette Town, Kalos
**Appearance:**
With the face of a young girl and an over all short appearance, Chris is almost never thought to be her true age. She grew up in the sunny town of Ambrette, which blessed her with rough, tanned skin and a near immunity to the sun's harmful rays. Long, pale brown hair falls down to her waist, and is normally tied at the base to hold it together during her more exciting adventures. Blue eyes glare out from beneath side swept bangs and rather thick eyebrows curve downwards when Chris is either concentrating or angry. Her face is round, and her features cute, with large eyes, a small nose, and doll-like lips, and her body is small and curvy. Muscles line her arms and legs from years of physical training and cave exploration.
Normally, Chris can be found in a yellow rain poncho, with the hood up to shield her face and her body hidden within the flowing material. Underneath she wears a blue-white striped tank top, a short, dark blue parka, and jean shorts that fall just above her lower thigh. Hiking boots are the norm for footwear, and she has a strange looking bracelet on her right wrist.
**Personality:**
Hot-headed, blunt, and surprisingly empathetic, Chris isn't exactly a nice girl. Spending most of her life in caves or museums has really taken out her people skills, and while she has been able to grow extremely close to Pokemon it is quite the opposite for humans. Growing up with a Historian and an Archaeologist has lead Chris to be a rather knowledgeable girl. She can read most ancient languages, and has a keen eye for rocks and fossils, as well as anything else that piques her interest. Her thirst for adventure is heavy, and she is not afraid to get down and dirty when the ideal quest comes along. During battles she is focused and cunning, as well as observant, and while she isn't exactly the strongest trainer she knows her Pokemon's strengths and weaknesses and uses them to her advantage.
She is easily annoyed by whiners and beggars, and can resort to light smacks if pushed to her breaking point. Her way of speaking is very blunt and can be hurtful to those with a weak conscious, even though she really doesn't mean any harm. Chris is happiest when she is with either her closest friends/family or friendly Pokemon since she feels as though she can always trust them. She can be very protective of her closer colleagues, and has a strong sense of justice. She is easily effected by other's emotions, and can almost seem bipolar in crowds due to the fact that there are just so many feelings to pick up on. Despite her somewhat antisocial behavior, Chris is plagued with Monophobia, or the fear of being alone, and because of this she is almost always craving travel partners.
**Equipment:**
- Tent
- Clothing
- Money
- Three Pokeballs
- One Potion
- Flashlight
- Escape Rope
**Pokemon Team:**
* Shade - Noibat - Chris' first Pokemon (and friend, really). The two met during one of Chris's cave exploration, after she had accidentally fallen into a shallow, but narrow hole. With her flashlight stuck up above her and her arm apparently broken, she had no way of getting out with serious injury, that was, until he showed up. The Noibat quickly got help and, after the whole ordeal settled down, warmed up to Chris automatically. They have been inseparable to this day.
* Mado - Eevee - Her more recent teammate, Mado is a rather ornery Eevee that she hatched herself after receiving an egg from a pair of friendly travelers in the Jhoto region. He can sometimes be found ignoring his master's orders, and is rather gluttonous. Despite his rudeness, Chris can't help but dote on Mado, and she hopes that the two of them could grow closer.
**History:**
Hailing from Ambrette Town in the Kalos region, Chris had a rather peculiar childhood. Her parents, though always busy with work, loved to teach her about rocks and fossils and history whenever they had the chance. They loved her dearly, and wished to share their knowledge to make her as bright as can be. Her father, Rodger Goldon, even took her on a few (easier) expeditions when she was old enough to go along, and Maria, her mother, constantly taught her hw to read and write with many ancient scripts. Chris was instantly attached to cave exploration and treasure hunting, and once she hit the age of eight she instantly began wandering Kalos in search of caves to explore and ruins to investigate. It was during this time that she met Shade. Sadly, that was her last year in the region, as work from other regions suddenly offered much better pay for her parents. The Goldon family eventually began traveling across the lands, researching fossils and finding new ruins to examine wherever they were needed.
By the time she was sixteen they had finally settled down in the Hoenn region, where Chris would spend her two years. Her father continued to travel, while her mother worked hard to unravel Hoenn's history. Chris spent a lot of time training her Noibat and hatching her Eevee egg, which had been received by some friendly travelers from Johto, and often wandered the Hoenn forests until a rather odd call set the family into a state of worry. Rodger had apparently gone missing during an excavation in the Toppe Region. All of his research, findings, and even some crew-mates were missing with him. Her mother, instantly stricken with sadness, dove into her work with full force, only leaving to eat or sleep after gentle coaxing from Chris. Seeing her mother slowly break down was beginning to drive her mad, and after a harsh think over she promised her mother that she would go out and find her father. After some convincing, she was sent off to the region via boat, and with a determined stare to vowed to find her father and cure her mother's depression.
**Goal:**
To find her father, and go on a thrilling adventure with her friends. Finding her father was her goal from the get-go, he is a very important person to her, plus, who knows what would happen if his research was put into the wrong hands. The thrilling adventure was a goal gained from her loneliness and thirst for wonder. She wanted friends and excitement, who wouldn't? And this region was entirely new to her, so exploring the ruins and caves would be a blast as well! |
8,531 | 235 | 4 | 1,342 | 999 | Edward swatted the air like he was a karate master. He was a bit startled by the sudden voice. Ed calmed down afterwards when he noticed it came from another fellow trainer; the trainer was an older women. Whether she was experienced, or new to pokemon training, Edward was not certain. "Sorry, you caught me off guard there," he scratched the back of his head. He nodded his head as he set his backpack on the ground. "Oh, yeah. I was on the start of getting the rumblies." Edward then patted his stomach.
"My name is Edward. You can call me...Ed, Edward, or Eddy. Whatever variation you find of Edward really," He shrugged his shoulders. Ed then paused and could hear a faint snoring. "Oh, that's right!" Edward turned a complete 180 degrees to show his back to the woman. "This here is Crow. He likes to sleep between my backpack and my back." Rotating back, he sighed and placed his hands in his pockets. "He always sleep so sometmes I forget he's even there.
"What's your name?" He asked. | Name: Edward Fraiser
Age: 17
Class: Trainer
Hometown/Region: Johto
Appearance: Edward often wears black polo shirts as to them being real cheap at thrift stores. His pants usually look like they've lost color and sport a couple of tears on them. Expensive wear, or designer clothing isn't really his thing. A newspaper boy's hat is always worn on his head.
Due to his obsession with standing in front of the television at a young age watching Poke sitcoms, he's forced to wear prescription glasses. Things begin to look fuzzy without them. His favorite shoes are Converse, preferably black ones. The white space of the shoes have been drawn on with a sharpie; detailing a decennt drawing of a few pikachus.
Personality: Edward is not shy in the least. He occasionally starts the conversation mainly to the reason being that the awkward silence bothers him. It's hard for Ed to make friends since he feels it's necessary to impress them. Lying is not something he's proud of so he likes to exaggerate the truth. Doing this, he feels his chances of making a friend is high.
Ed is a bright individual. However, he lacks any common sense. He'll believe any little story you tell to him. His darkest secret is that he still has confidence that Santa Claus is real.
Equipment: Two pokeballs, three potions, and a flashlight.
Pokemon Team: The only pokemon that Ed has possession of is an Abra, a Growlie, and a Scizor.
History: At the age of 14, Edward received Abra, his first pokemon. He named it Crow and it has been with Ed ever since. It would've been expected that Abra would've evolved by now, but Edward kinda took his time getting into the whole pokemon conquest. It just didn't feel like his time to rise yet.
Time passed on for about a year until Edward decided that he should get started. Nothing truly exciting happened except doing a few errands around town. His friendship with Crow did increase thus the start of Edward's journey was an easy one.
After some vigorous training, Crow became one of Ed's most powerful pokemon. Ed and Crow undergo rigorous training each day. The kind of training that is slowly making his entire team much more powerful by the month. Crow has yet to evolve, but Ed is waiting for the day he finally does. The abra, almost never concealed in his poke ball, hangs on his trainer's back. The psychic pokemon spends his time sleeping to store power for future battles.
His Scizor was the first pokemon that Edward caught at the age of 15. He proudly called it "Leaves". Viridian Forest was the place of battle. The bug-type was confident he would've scored a victory on Ed, but was surprised by the skilled abra.
After his defeat, Edward pitched a pokeball and claimed his first capture. Leaves could arguably be the hardest pokemon that Edward would ever have to train. It seemed like the pokemon wasn't proud of losing. However, through some quick victories with other trainers, the respect was starting to appear. Leaves considered Ed his way of becoming stronger and becoming unbeatable. After learning of Ed's goal to become the best, he became obedient. Leaves is the quickest of the party.
Ed retrieved a Growlie just recently at the early age of 17. He's not sure if this pup has what it takes to become a heavy hitter in his party, but he's hoping with some focused training, this puppy will have what it takes. The Growlie was sooner given the nickname "Okami".
Goal: Edward always dreamed of being the best. Unfortunately, his dreams are too far-fetched. He thrives to become something more and superior than a Poke'mon Master! Everyone is fighting and biting for that title. Well, it seems that no one is claming "Poke'mon God"?
It can't be said that's an odd goal. Edward has no intention of becoming a dictator or ruling a country. He simply wants to have a title to his name. Ed dreams of his name reaching the heavens, an icon that's whispered all over the world. His desires are nothing more than to jump over any obstacle and defeat any challenge so that he can feel he deserves a title |
8,532 | 236 | 0 | 1,362 | 1,852 | Chapter 1 | A New Horizon
Amazing artwork by vennom07 on DeviantArt
"After the Silence, we were lost, alone and afraid. Yet from the darkness, the voice of Kedalup granted us guidance. Through Kedalup we are brought together." Chief Uotan, 289 Cycles after The Silence
The Ansharin Oasis | Dawn
The first rays of sunlight cascaded the earth with a brilliant radiance, the glorious morning peaking over the endless horizon of the Moodja Plains. The light reflected off of the dust covered soil, revealing the scattering dust particles through the air as the light touched them. They danced gracefully along the ground with the fresh, morning breeze. The flowers of the Moodja Bush bloomed beautifully, dotting the landscape with flecks of white and orange petals. In the distance, the Ansharin Oasis shimmered magnificently with a mirage of lights. The tribe's herd of Ngarlak graze by the water. The large beasts, resembling that of a strange hybrid between camel and a lizard, are a main source of transportation for carrying supplies back from the Moodja. The beasts live for many years and bare many children, before they are made use of for meat, bones and pelts at a ripe old age. Many other animals visit the Ansharin Oasis for a drink. Even though some are known to be dangerous predators, they are quite docile when near the Oasis. The elders attribute this strange shift in nature to be the will of Kedalup protecting their tribe.
In the large fire pit before the elders hut, smoke still rises from last nights fire. Even at dawn, members of the Ansharin are hard at work preparing the fire pit for a grand celebration. Today is the last sunrise of the dry season, which marks the end of another cycle. The Ansharin celebrate this turnover to a new cycle with great food, dance and music through the night. And this years celebration is of extra importance, as it marks the end of another century. A new horizon lies just ahead for the Ansharin people, and this new cycle marks the beginning of a great adventure.Kwelek Djilyaro, "Kwenda"
Early Morning | The Moodja Plains
The sudden warmth that came with the first rays of dawn was a welcomed feeling by Kwenda. The young Ansharin scout had been picking the petals of a Moodja bush, hoping to please his friend Abigale back at the village. When crushed with some clay, red dust and a little bit of water the petals formed quite a lovely scented paint that the women of the tribe were quite fond of when they went out for the hunt. Staring up at the sun, Kwenda noticed that it would soon be time for the daily hunts to begin. Picking up his spear off of the floor, he tied the little makeshift basket of petals to the tip of the spear. Resting the shaft over his shoulder, Kwenda began his brisk walk back to the Ansharin Oasis. In the distance he saw a herd of Kwenda, the creature he was named by the Dream for, scurry like lightning across the plains. It was hard for most members of the tribe to make out the details of the Kwenda; they were just too fast. Kwenda would always remember their tiny, button like noses, sharp teeth and strangely large eyes. They had thing, wisp like whiskers and soft, pointed ears. They were curious little critters, and Kwenda often enjoyed playing with them these days. Ever since he had caught one, he'd had a strange affinity for them. It was as if they thought he was one of them.
The huts of the Ansharin tribe grew closer with every step, and seeing the preparations for the great feast of the new cycle excited Kwenda. Good food, dancing with friends and recalling tales of the last cycle. This was also the time where young Ansharin who have spent their childhoods training become recognised as hunters of the tribe. Kwenda remembers the last cycle when he stood and was lifted into manhood. He remembered all those eyes on him. It was an exhilarating feeling. His train of thought was cut off by a strange feeling on his toes. Looking down, he felt an odd, leathery substance below him. His first thought was that someone had dropped a piece of hide. But then he saw an odd little rectangle of leather. He picked it up, opening it into a large shape with many dirty pieces of thin, sheets of white. There were black markings that Kwenda could not read scrawled throughout the entire thing. Excited by his find, Kwenda dashed back to the Oasis to show the others. | Name | Kwelak Djilyaro, "Kwenda"
Gender | Male
Age | 15
Appearance | Kwelek is a young boy of above average height with a very lean, slender body. He has dark skin, but is somewhat lighter in tone due to his ancestry. His skin is rough and he sports calloused feet and hands from a life of hard labor. His hands and feet are usually covered in a white, almost chalk like dust that is found within the Moodja. He has a very sharp, angular face with a very well defined jaw line and sharp cheekbones. He has amber eyes and his hair is a light brunette with flecks of gold streaking throughout. He weaves beads, feathers and other charms into his shoulder length hair. He is also one of the youngest Ansharin to have received his tattoos, and he is remembered within the Dream as 'Kwenda', a marsupial of the Moodja known for it's unmatched speed. His tattoos are a depiction of an old folk tale from the Dream involving the Kwenda, covering him from head to toe with the red ink.
Personality | Kwelek is a rather respectful young man who listens to his elders and is eager to please. He can be a bit of a blind optimist sometimes; always motivated to continue even in dire circumstances. He tends to be a bit arrogant because of this, refusing to face facts. He's a bit of a slow learner, but his determination is downright inspiring. Even if he were to fail a thousand times, Kwelek would be too stubborn to admit defeat. Kwelek enjoys telling stories, and can always be relied on to recall a tale from the Dream around the camp fire. Even despite his love for his tribe, Kwelek wishes to explore Kedalup in the hopes of finding his exiled mother as well as contribute even greater tales towards the Dream.
Some of the other members of the Ansharin hold quite a bit of resentment towards Kwelek. They believe he was unworthy of receiving his tattoos as his skills as a warrior and hunter are sub-par compared to others. They believe his anointment to be a case of favoritism as Kwelek is the grandson of one of the elders.
Skills |
Kedalup's Messenger Kwelek's speed is unmatched among the Ansharin. What he lacks in strength, he makes up for with his nimbleness and powerful young legs. He was given the name 'Kwenda' for being the first Ansharin in two generations to be able to catch the marsupial of the same name.
Ansharin Sentry Kwelek was never strong enough to be a fully fledged hunter for his tribe, but his quick feet and keen senses allowed him to serve well as a scout for his tribe. There are many dangerous predators that roam the Dreamscape, and it is the job of the Ansharin Scouts to spot any trace that they might come near the Oasis.
Dream Weaver The sacred art of recalling the Dream. Every Ansharin learns the Dream, and Dream Weaving is a common practice among the tribe. Kwelek is infamous for his exciting recollections of the Dream that are quite popular among the children of the tribe.
Equipment |
Waterskin
1x Bone tipped spear
Ansharin Pelts
Biography | Kwelek never knew his father, and he barely had a chance to know his mother. While his mother was pregnant, she committed a great sin against Kedalup. Kwelek's mother, deranged and rabid, murdered her husband while he slept. The elders wanted to kill her, but they knew doing so would also kill the unborn Kwelek. They allowed her to give birth to her son, and then banished her to The Dreamscape to forever carry the weight of her sins on her shoulders. This is all that Kwelek knows of his mother, and any further questions are met with scornful looks of both fear and disgust. The Ansharin are superstitious people, and what happened to Kwelek's mother is a topic of taboo that is avoided within the tribe. They act as though it never happened. Yet despite this, Kwelek was still shunned by his tribe for being the son of a heretic.
Growing up, Kwelek was never the best hunter. He couldn't even fight well. He was often belittled by his peers because of this fact, and he quickly sought to rectify his weakness. He would no longer be the shameful son of a traitor, and became determined to earn his tattoos and be remembered in the Dream. There is an old tale in the Dream, of an Ansharin who ran like the wind, and moved like lightning. He was the first Ansharin to ever be fast enough to touch the tail of the Kwenda. The Kwenda are the only creature that roam the Dreamland that the Ansharin do not hunt. This is for two reasons: one, they are considered to be messengers of Kedalup. As such, they are sacred and must not be hunted. And two, the Kwenda are so fast, so nimble and agile, that even if the Ansharin did hunt them; they'd never be able to catch them.
Determined, Kwelek spent most of his spare time between training and working as a scout chasing after the many Kwenda that roamed the Moodja. He quickly became the target of mockery among the tribe for his stubborn attitude. That was until, one evening, Kwelek caught the Kwenda. When he showed up at the fire pit for dinner that night, the other tribesmen couldn't believe their eyes. No one in two generations had ever been able to touch a Kwenda, let alone capture one. Kwelek's grandfather and the other elders decided that this feat was deserving of the Dream; and Kwelek's name was changed to Kwenda. He was also given his tattoos, that depict the first Dream about the Kwenda and how it came to be the fastest creature in the Dreamscape.
Although some are still resentful of Kwenda, envious of his tattoos, he gained recognition among the other Ansharin. People stopped remembering him as Kwelek, son of the heretic, and started remembering him as Kwenda, a messenger of Kedalup. Now that the journal has been discovered, Kwenda's new ambition in life is to explore Kedalup and learn about life before The Silence; spreading the Ansharin Dreams wherever he goes. |
8,533 | 236 | 1 | 377 | 25,995 | There were few things Abigale enjoyed more then the sun rising. It's light to her signified the dawn of a new day, a new chance, and a new beginning. With the dawns early rays, Abigale went through her morning routine, as she crushed petals, dust and water to form a paint, which she carefully painted on herself. Letting it dry, Abigale gathered her hunting equipment, her spears, water and some small amount of food.
The young woman was use to this routine, having done if for a while now. Though today Abigsle would return early from her hunt, with whatever she managed to get, for the feast, the end of a cycle feast. Another sort of ending, of beginning. Perhaps the new cycle would bring something...something more. Spending a good amount of her life taking care of her father, her younger sibling left her yearning for something just a little bit more in her own life. She felt tha she was behind others, in the tribe her age, because she had seemed to start out just a little bit later as she juggled her family and her life.
This didn't necessarily matter, but for Abigale, being able to start her life, cleaning in the new cycle, it meant a lot. Her younger brother and sister, 18 and 19 respectively, had started their lives, and already her sister, never one for the hunt, had began a new family. That was good too. New life continued were the old ended. Abigale though had had enough of nurturing for a time, and wanted...excitement.
Satisfied she was prepared, Abigale started out. She had her spears strapped over her back, within easy reach and in a way that she could pull it free and attack or defend quickly. She had her water skin attacked to her clothes, and again, it was in easy reach. She glanced about, looking to see if there was anyone else gearing up for the hunt | Abigale JeeJar
age:
20
Gender:
Female
physical traits
height: approximately 5"9
weight: average weight for a woman.
eye colour: a dark brown
hair colour: black
skin colour: dark skinned (darker then it is in the picture)
distinguishing marks: a small birthmark on her left hand, roughly in the shape of a leaf.
personality: Abigail is a rather reserved woman. She tends to be more on the quite side then anything else, being watchful, thoughtful and quite curious. She tends to keep her opinion to herself, unless it is needed, but she will speak up if she believes it's necessary. She isn't afraid to speak her mind, but knows the value of caution. She can be lively, when she feels safe and content with people.
She chose to go on this adventure to give herself some life experiences, and perhaps meet some new people, or get to know those she has met before.
skills
Kedalup's Bounty: Abigale is a skilled herbologist, knowing what medicinal herbs and treatments in a wide range of areas, but is not by any means a doctor
path of the tiger: a skilled Hunter, Abigale knows how to blend, and to be stealth. While not the best Hunter in the tribe, she comes close, and she is not afraid to get in close to take down her target
story teller Abigale is an exceptional story teller, telling the tales of the tribe and what legends there are. She is exceptional at seeming to make a story come to life.
equipment
five spears: two spears with barbs along the edge, commonly called the death spear, one more mundane spear, and two spear throwers
a water skin
some herbs and plants that can be used for medicinal purposes
more to come
biology:
Abigale was born to a hunter and a Sharman, a medicinal woman. She was given a chance in both worlds, but when her father grew sick, Abigale took on the main burden of hunting, to help feed her parents and younger sibling, as well as to help provide food for the tribe, a job her father always impressed on her. The tribe is family.
She became more than adapt with spears, with tracking and stealth, and managed to support her family and anyone else who needed it. Along with this hunting, Abogale learned how to administer health care, via the hands of her mother, and her ailing father. She perhaps took the best of her parents, and just as well, because the strength and courage she got from helping them, and from watching her father die, helped her in the coming years as she struggled to keep her family together.
She never cared for recognition, and thus never cared to receive any tattoos, as she believed she was just doing what was required of her, but she did always paint tribal images on her body when hunting, always taking care with that, as she believed that this gave her strength to do what needed to be done.
She helped her mother and younger sister, younger brother and took pride in their own accomplishments, and when they began to make families of their own, she told her mother she wanted to have a chance to live her life, now that the younger ones were grown. |
8,534 | 236 | 2 | 2,176 | 944 | Satisfied she was prepared, Abigale started out. She had her spears strapped over her back, within easy reach and in a way that she could pull it free and attack or defend quickly. She had her water skin attacked to her clothes, and again, it was in easy reach. She glanced about, looking to see if there was anyone else gearing up for the hunt.
And there, not so far away, standing in front of old man Loghos' hut, was Yel'Shadar, stringing his bow and making it ready for use. Ever the early bird, he had already finished applying his body paints with the help of Loghos, who had become something of an uncle to him ever since the death of his father. His paints today complemented his tattoos well, for the patterns on his arms, belly and legs mimicked those of the Mudain raptors. Of course, Yel had asked for something humbler, but the aging hunter whose awful foot blister was only beginning to heal insisted on Mudain patterns because, one: such markings were appropriate for something as auspicious as the dawn of a new cycle; and two: because he thought that Yel deserved it for his skill. The boy argued to an extent, but he never got the Tarkmande patterns that he asked for. A youth, after all, can only get so far when speaking with elders... especially those who weren't his father.
But such thoughts weren't auspicious, so Yel shook them from his thoughts as he began to bend and stretch, testing the limberness of his physique. A remarkable thing about the boy was that he would never display pride nor joy at his truly impressive musculature. A hunter from birth, with his training and ventures unrivaled in exclusivity and intensity under the guidance of his late father, his body looked like it had been destined for the wild hunt. With bronzed skin, rippling with taut muscle from calf to thigh, stomach to biceps - it was strange indeed for someone his age to be quietly resigned about it all. He was a promising young man and clearly he had the essence of a Mudain in him, but he'd never been seen trying to impress a girl. Even the old crones' all-knowing rumor mill was without anything juicy regarding Yel'Shadar. The Elders were somewhat concerned at this, but most ruled it out as him being an exceptionally late bloomer. "The death of his father still has a profound effect on the boy," they were saying in whispers. "His heart may not realize it, but his soul still grieves to this day."
But it wasn't so much that Yel hadn't started liking girls yet. In fact, part of the reason why he was stretching under the sun, clad in meaningful tattoos and glinting sunlight off of the first beads of sweat of the day, was because he knew that Abigail was around, and she was sure to be watching. The reason why he hadn't courted anyone yet was more complex than any simple answer. The reason was actually a mixture of different interrelated answers which weren't defined in any clear or concise manner and so were too complex for the simple human tongue or mind to grasp and express - or so Yel thought. Or maybe he was arrogant, that he deemed none of the girls in the Tribe as being worthy of his embrace, and he just didn't realize it. Yel hoped not. That would mean being an ass; and father always said to never be an ass.
And just as he finalized that thought, it appeared that his preparatory stretching rituals were finished. He glanced in the theorized direction - and he was right! Abigail was there, and she may or may not have been staring the whole time. She was some distance away, and the youth thought about saying a loud hello, but with Loghos and his love for peace and quiet, he just smiled and waved.
Yel'Shadar, son of Dug and Lowa, approached Abigail with a confident stride. As he closed the distance, he examined his fellow hunter from top to bottom three times: the first time about her gear, the second time about her body, and the third time also about her body but for unspeakable reasons. When he was near, he finally greeted her, his expression incredibly unsuspicious.
"Good morning, Abigail." The words rolled off his tongue smoothly enough, Yel decided. His voice was slightly coarse, middling in pitch but concise in the pragmatic manner of the hunters of the Tribe. "Sleep well? Ready for the hunt, I see." And he allowed his eyes up and down her body a fourth time. | Name: Yel'Shadar, "Kamende"
Gender: Male
Age: 17
Appearance:
Yel'Shadar is young adult man of middling height, bald head, and lean build. His face is rather wide in shape with a square jaw, and his cheeks are slightly sunken, leading him to be nicknamed "Hawk" since childhood, although the appellation could also be applied to his hunting skills, if not the farsighted gaze of his dark brown eyes. His skin is dark, of a complexion middling between chocolate and caramel, and the grey furs of the standard garb of his tribe obscure his well-defined, athletic musculature.
Yel's skill as a hunter has earned him his tattoos on his 16th birth-month. Their blue ink covers a great portion of his back and depict a story in a series of scenes that first sprout from his tailbone and end at the nape of his neck. The story is of a Mudain - a species of large raptor that flies over the Moodja in search for prey - who taught an ancient Ansharin named Kamena who had been exiled from the tribe as a child how to hunt on her own. Mudain are known for their intelligence, ferocity and determination during hunts, and Yel's skill has been likened to theirs and the brilliance of Kamena in the closing acts of the tale. In the Dream, he is remembered as "Kamende," in a slight modification of Kamena's name to render it masculine.
When on hunts, blue paints snake elaborate patterns along his arms, legs, and below his eyes to complement his tattoos. He is seldom seen without his hunting gear: a dagger and throwing spears or a bow, on account of his love of the trade and his insistence on practice.
Personality:
Yel'Shadar, somewhat incongruous to his trade, is actually quite reserved. Humble, though still quite proud, he makes little comment about his exploits as a hunter, but his ego will tolerate no questioning of his superb skills at the trade. Like a good Ansharin youth, he is respectful to his elders, bowing and kneels where tradition deems it necessary. But above those, he is curious of the world. He sees his father's death as a sort of disconnection between him and his tribe, and that the journal as some variety of providence that's telling him to go out and see all of Kedalup - all of Eden. He's been plenty of times to the vast, dry expanses of the Moodjar, but surely there must be more beyond the plains? Perhaps these were even mountains before the Silence? Yel wants to know these secrets, and extract them like one would a Ngarlak's heart from its carcass.
Skills:
Path of the Jaguar: Yel might very well be the best hunter among the Ansharin, on account of him having performed the trade since age 6 with unrivaled intensity and exclusivity at the encouragement of his father and the protests of others. He most certainly has the excellent physique, senses and experience that make him a champion at it.
Path of the Tiger: The same things that make Yel a great hunter also make him a decent warrior. While not having pursued the martial arts as fervently as tracking, archery or throwing, he is more than capable of pulling his weight in a fight.
Kedalup's Bounty: Yel knows some herbology by necessity - hunting sometimes sees one hurt. Yel also knows how to forage.
Ansharin Artisan: Yel is adept at the creation of weaponry. Specifically: Ansharin daggers, bows, spears and arrows.
Equipment:
Standard Ansharin Garb
Blue Body Paints (optional)
Waterskin
1x Bone Dagger
3x Throwing Spears or Bow and 5x Bone-tipped Arrows
Biography:
Yel'Shadar was born to Lowa and Dug, two successful hunters of the Ansharin tribe, about seventeen cycles ago. His birth was a stubborn and violent one that saw his mother ill at the night of his delivery and deceased the next morning. Born amidst grief, it was thought that the infant Yel was a bad omen to the tribe, but these vengeful voices were quelled by a series of invariably good hunts on his father's part. Dug, who henceforth expanded his love for Yel to fill the void that Lowa left, resolved to raise the child as best as he could to the point of extreme protectiveness.
He would take the boy out on hunts and practice the skills that the trade entailed when Yel could have been playing. When not out on hunts, Yel would otherwise be preoccupied with fashioning bows, daggers, arrows and all other sorts of hunting implements instead of socializing with his age group. Dug never let Yel out of his sight, and his possessive but loving parenting produced a brilliant if somewhat peculiar hunter. Unfortunately, Dug would never have the opportunity to see Yel fully mature as a failed venture saw him trampled and torn under the feet and tusks of a mastodon. The fifteen year old boy and the rest of the hunting party managed to fell the beast, but though two weeks' worth of food was got, it was done so at the expense of a very valuable member of the tribe - and more importantly, a father.
The loss devastated him. Bereft of immediate family, Yel started being more introspective, and others respectfully left him to grieve by his lonesome. This, of course, caused him to think over and over again about the wonderful man that was his father, thereby deepening his sadness. Without anyone close to help fill this new hole in his chest, as he so describes it, he began looking toward Kedalup for succor: the air, the clouds, the rain, the beasts that he and the others hunt - the expanses of the Moodjar and the shimmering waters of the Oasis; for the first time, the young adult realized that they were all so very, very, very beautiful. Yel started to deliberately slow himself down on the return trips from hunts, just content to examine at the world as it was. Sometimes, he would climb a hill and just stare at the horizon the whole afternoon with longing. He discovered then that there was so much of Kedalup and so little that he knew about it, both its present self and its past self. So when the Journal was discovered, his imagination was set aflame with possibilities. Yel practically lunged at the opportunity for the adventure that so entailed the unearthed relic. Leaving the tribe would be sad indeed, but - Kedalup, Kedalup! He had to see all of it. |
8,535 | 236 | 3 | 1,457 | 3,004 | Adoni simply sat outside his hut and 'watched' the hunters gathering. By 'watched' I suppose it was more looking at, as he could hear where the hunters were but due to his blindness obviously couldn't see.
He was so bored, being blind he obviously couldn't participate in the hunt as he had tried to before....to much hilarity and not very good results. He touch his eyes longingly. If he could see, he might be able to be of use to the tribe instead of a burden.
He slowly stood up, his hands steadying himself against the wall, as he had heard some familiar people. Yel'Shadar and Abigale.
He slowly approached them, making sure not to trip over anything he couldn't 'sense' before smiling towards them. At least he thought so, turns out he was smiling at the space next to them. Oh well, close enough right?
"Good luck for the hunt guys." He said, still smiling and talking to the space next to them. He hadn't quite mastered talking to people yet. | Name - Adoni 'Nightwalker'
Gender - Male
Age - 17
Appearance -
Adoni stands 5'8 and was built slim for running. His skin is dark with white hair that may look slightly out of place but he enjoys being different from the others. On Shadow's face are two white streaks under both eyes, he never tells anyone what they are from or how he got them. Adoni is blind but can sense the 'aura' around of people and animals, along with tracks and the like, to make up for it. He also has sensitive hearing and smell. He got the two feathers in his hair as a present from his parents and the piercings and necklace are artifacts his parents have found and given to him.
Personality -Adoni is certainly... different. His mood can swing rapidly, mostly from being super happy cheerful to being bored and emotionless. He does have a few weird habits as well. He likes to collect rocks whose shape and 'feel' he likes and gets his parents to turn them into necklaces which he wears until he gets a new one. He has DOZENS. He also has a strange way of speaking, he will try and be straight, truthful and direct so as to not confuse people as to his intentions; but most of the times he can end up saying something makes absolutely no sense whatsoever. He also doesn't like when people bring up his blindness and tends to dodge questions on the subject and will change it as quickly as he can. He is also quite curious as he thinks there are many rocks in the world of different shapes and feel which he has yet to find, and wishes to collect them all! *Cue pokemon theme* XD
Skills -Gathering
-Finding water sources (sorta '6th sense' or animal tracks and the like)
-Tracking
Equipment:
-
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Biography - Might put one in at a later date
Done most of it, but name was a little difficult :\ |
8,536 | 236 | 4 | 377 | 25,995 | Abigale did indeed see Yel'Shadar and she watched a moment as he stretched, clearly warming up for the hunt. Abigale hadn't thought of that today, but she wasn't going to do some stretches now, out in the open. There was a connection with Yel, if only for the simple fact that both their fathers were dead. She sympathized with that, but where Abigale's father had died fighting a disease, Yel'Shadar had died on a hunt. In a way, Abigale suspected that that was worse. She had had time to adjust to the fact that her father was going to die, Yel hadn't and his fathers death had left him an orphan, and had, Abigale suspected, drawn a wedge between Yel and the tribe.
She suspected that Yel'Shadar was stretching out in the open so people, namely girls, and she thought, her, could see. And the fact that he looked over, almost at once, to her proved that. A little thrown off by that thought, Abigale watched as he came over. She returned his wave, and watched the confident stride, as well as the three separate looks over her. She raised an eyebrow, and stayed where she was until he spoke.
"Good morning, Yel'Shadar" she responded, her own voice soft, her voice almost...fruity in a way. And Yel'Shadar looked her up and down once more. She chuckled, a easy sound that was all the more precious because Abigale rarely laughed. "I slept fine. More then ready for the hunt" she smiled, but it faded as she asked "how is your uncle's foot? If it's still troubling him, I have some salve that may help" she offered, looking over as Adoni approaches. She smiled at Adoni.
Abigale knew that he felt a sense of uselessness, because of his blindness, but that wasn't true, at least to Abigale. "Hi Adoni. Thanks. Listen, I hear some of the cooks need a hand, maybe you could help out? There's stuff you could do" she said, keeping her tone easy, hoping to not offend Adoni, but rather give him a sense of purpose. If she had more time today, she would actually offer to take Adoni out with her. She knew he had tried before, and become the joke of the tribe for a little while, but she thought it could be possible for Adoni to at least become even a poor Hunter. at the very least it would give him something else to do besides staying home. And she was patient. | Abigale JeeJar
age:
20
Gender:
Female
physical traits
height: approximately 5"9
weight: average weight for a woman.
eye colour: a dark brown
hair colour: black
skin colour: dark skinned (darker then it is in the picture)
distinguishing marks: a small birthmark on her left hand, roughly in the shape of a leaf.
personality: Abigail is a rather reserved woman. She tends to be more on the quite side then anything else, being watchful, thoughtful and quite curious. She tends to keep her opinion to herself, unless it is needed, but she will speak up if she believes it's necessary. She isn't afraid to speak her mind, but knows the value of caution. She can be lively, when she feels safe and content with people.
She chose to go on this adventure to give herself some life experiences, and perhaps meet some new people, or get to know those she has met before.
skills
Kedalup's Bounty: Abigale is a skilled herbologist, knowing what medicinal herbs and treatments in a wide range of areas, but is not by any means a doctor
path of the tiger: a skilled Hunter, Abigale knows how to blend, and to be stealth. While not the best Hunter in the tribe, she comes close, and she is not afraid to get in close to take down her target
story teller Abigale is an exceptional story teller, telling the tales of the tribe and what legends there are. She is exceptional at seeming to make a story come to life.
equipment
five spears: two spears with barbs along the edge, commonly called the death spear, one more mundane spear, and two spear throwers
a water skin
some herbs and plants that can be used for medicinal purposes
more to come
biology:
Abigale was born to a hunter and a Sharman, a medicinal woman. She was given a chance in both worlds, but when her father grew sick, Abigale took on the main burden of hunting, to help feed her parents and younger sibling, as well as to help provide food for the tribe, a job her father always impressed on her. The tribe is family.
She became more than adapt with spears, with tracking and stealth, and managed to support her family and anyone else who needed it. Along with this hunting, Abogale learned how to administer health care, via the hands of her mother, and her ailing father. She perhaps took the best of her parents, and just as well, because the strength and courage she got from helping them, and from watching her father die, helped her in the coming years as she struggled to keep her family together.
She never cared for recognition, and thus never cared to receive any tattoos, as she believed she was just doing what was required of her, but she did always paint tribal images on her body when hunting, always taking care with that, as she believed that this gave her strength to do what needed to be done.
She helped her mother and younger sister, younger brother and took pride in their own accomplishments, and when they began to make families of their own, she told her mother she wanted to have a chance to live her life, now that the younger ones were grown. |
8,537 | 236 | 5 | 945 | 230 | “1 . . . 2 . . . 3, down,” Durabu ordered as he and his partner reached the wood pile. His fellow tribesman turned around to continue gathering more wood, while Durabu stood there for a minute. He wiped a bead of sweat off his darkened forehead. The sun had completely crossed the horizon and began to share its full warmth with the world. Durabu observed the scene before him; a village full of cacophony and commotion. Hunters preparing for their morning routine, gatherers returning with a small bounty, children running around playing, and the biggest group, a myriad of people setting up preparations for the evening’s main event. The end of one cycle and beginning of another meant many things, plus the added bonus of starting a new century promised many more exciting trials and adventures. Durabu would soon reflect on the past cycle, but he always looked forward to the new one, and the new tales yet to be told.
As he was about to return to his duty, he saw the younger Kwenda running back towards the village with a strange object in his hand. Durabu looked ahead of Kwenda’s path and saw he was heading in the direction of a small group that had been forming. Abigale, Adoni, and Yel’shadar were huddled up chatting with one another; most likely about the hunt that was to soon take place. Durabu returned his gaze to the task at hand and realized the rest of the wood was already being brought back. Seeing this as a nice time to take a break, he unhitched his watersack, took a swig, reattached it to his side, and marched over to the small gathering. Durabu knew all of them. He helped each of them at some point in their lives, and seeing as Durabu was one of the largest men in the village, it’s hard for anyone NOT to remember him.
“Good morning, everyone!” He exclaimed in his deep but cheery voice. “I hope your day’s beginnings are going well.” | Forgot to put this here, :P
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Name - Daku Jarrah “Durabu”
Gender - Male
Age - 21
Appearance - Daku is one of the largest men in the village. He stands 6’3” from head -to-toe, and weighs 240 pounds, most of which is muscle. Consequently, Daku has broad shoulders with arms and legs as thick as tree trunks. He obtained most of this muscle by aiding in the heavier labor around the tribe, from hauling back larger prey, to the gathering of heavy materials, and everything in between. His complexion is dark though not blackened. His is in a crew cut form to keep it simple and practical. With defined cheekbones and a square jaw to add to his already intimidating stature, most strangers would rather stay away from, but thankfully that’s not the case with the Anshari. His deep and dark blue eyes, round out the rest of his face. Along his chest and torso is his tattoo depicting a story of a Durabu*, which he gets his namesake, aiding smaller animals across a river and defending them from an attacking predator once crossed.** His garments include the normal hide and fur clothing that most other tribesmen wear, just in a larger size, and again, like most others, his hands and feet are calloused from both the labor and intricate finger work he does.
Personality - For the most part, Daku is your “Gentle Giant.” He is kind and very caring toward everyone in the tribe, and never hesitates to aid those in need. Most of his fellow tribesmen know him for spending much of his time teaching and playing with the younger children. He keeps out of the spotlight, and instead takes up being the silent protagonist; continuing to aid those who need it, refusing favors and payment, believing that he will be repayed when he is in need of help.
While he is gentle and caring to most of the tribe, he has become a bit cynical towards the elders. He will always show due respect towards them, but Daku cannot help but wonder why the elders refuse to answer questions about what lies beyond Moodjar, and refuse all requests to send a party out to scout that far. Daku is constantly questioning inwardly to himself and outwardly to the elders, what is out there and why they won’t allow anyone to check. As such, Daku has come to distrust those who keep too many secrets, even if they’re trying to protect others by doing so.
Skills -
Kedalup’s Artisan: From tanning leather, to basket weaving, to weapon crafting. Daku learned it all from apprenticing under his father, and while he might not be the best at any of these tasks, he is part of the few that knows all of them.
Ansharin Wall: Daku may not be a warrior, he does however, know how to defend himself and others, and with his sheer size behind him, he becomes a human wall; unable to be toppled or broken.
Path of the Owl: As observant and quiet as the animal, Daku can “see” when something is wrong with a person, and many people tend to come to him when they need an understanding, and sympathetic listener.
Equipment - 1x watersack
1x Bone-tipped Spear
Simple Ansharin clothes
*: The Durabu are large animals similar to our hippopatmus. Their average weight is around 600 pounds with four thick stubby legs holding them up. A pair of medium-length tusks protrudes on either side of its mouth, and it has a pair of foward facing eyes. Twin upright, and pointy ears and a tuft of dark brown hair adorn its head. A short tail ending with another ball of hair extends from just above its rear end. Finally, its whole body is covered in a thick light brown hide. (Basically, think a mix between rhino and hippo, with tusks instead of horns.)
**: The story goes that a durabu saw a family of kwenda standing on one side of a river. The durabu approached them and asked if they required a way to cross. The kwenda were at first afraid of the durabu due to his sheer size, and didn’t want to be betrayed while crossing the river. However, they soon trusted him enough to accept the aid he offered. The kwenda climbed on his back, and the group crossed the river together. However, once they crossed and were about to go their separate ways, a lion leaped from the brush to attack the smaller marsupials. Before the lion could strike, however, the durabu charged the lion and skewered him in mid stride. From that point on, the durabu and kwenda family became great friends aiding each other in many aspects. The story is to teach young ones not to judge too quickly and that even a stranger can one day save your life. |
8,538 | 236 | 6 | 2,778 | 353 | Kuparr was not one of the Ansharin out hunting for the coming feast. At this moment he was helping carry supplies from the tent of the elders to where they would be cooked for the celebration of the end of the cycle. It wasn’t the most engaging task in the world, but one that needed to be done. Such was his lot today, at least for now. He was left a trifle annoyed, because he wanted to contribute in a larger and more meaningful way, but he knew that the celebration would more than make up for it.
Laying his present load down, he looked around him to see that it was also his last—at least of this nature. The cook thanked him, and he responded in kind. Looking around nearby, he saw Durabu and someone else—who’s name Kuparr was having trouble recalling at the moment—lay down a some of the wood for the fire. Kuparr liked Durabu. Durabu was kind, and while he might have questioned the elders with some frequency, Kuparr could not think less of him for it because he had many of the same questions, but did not voice them. He knew there would be no answers, and so resolved to withhold his curiosity until he became an elder himself.
Kuparr was distracted from his dream when he saw the young Kwenda running towards the Oasis. Kuparr was not one of the people who believed the younger Ansharin had not truly earned his tattoos. Kuparr had personal experience with the little primates Kwenda had been named for, and knew their speed to be unmatched. Kuparr did suspect that the feat had been accomplished with less-than-ordinary methods, but Kuparr, of all people, was in no place to criticize someone for that.
As Kwenda neared the edge of their settlement, Kuparr saw that Kwenda had something unusual in his hand. And Kuparr was intrigued. He started walking over to where Kwenda was heading—now seeing Abigale, Yel’shadar, and Adoni clustered roughly in Kwenda’s path. Somehow he had missed Durabu, who had been closer than Kuparr, heading over there as well, which was especially surprising considering his size.
“Good Morning!” He called out to all of them. | Took a bit longer than I would have liked, but here it is:
Name – Jarrah Meru “Kuparr”
Gender – Male
Age – 17
Appearance: Kuparr is smaller than most Ansharin his age. Not by much, mind you, but nough to be readily apparent. A little shorter, a little lighter. His skin is the color of bronze, with the only blemish being a faded scar on his right side, from an illness when he was an infant. His hair is dark and cut close to his head, and his eyes are a faded green.
Personality – Kuparr is, in a word, arrogant. After having lived in the same tribe as him for over a decade and a half, every Ansharin knows that Kuparr thinks he is the smarter than them. Now, he isn’t particularly unpleasant about it, but it has a way of altering his interactions with others. Most people just usually ignore it, since he doesn’t shove it down anyone’s throats. And, while he isn’t quite as smart as he likes to think, he is undeniably clever. Though, it does get annoying at times.
Also common knowledge is Kuparr’s dream to one day join the venerable ranks of the elders. Though he knows that lofty goal to be a great many years away, there are many ways in which he chases his goal even now. Teaching the younger members of the tribe tricks he’s picked up over the short time since he’s been around, and so on. One result is that he is often the most eager to listen to what the elders say, and to do what they command. This, somewhat paradoxically, is also what draws him to the journal. He knows that the elders possess what knowledge remains about the world from before the Silence, and the thought if knowing such things himself—that he might be that fraction of a step closer to being an elder himself—is intoxicating.
Skills –
Eyes of the Kassin*:
Where others may see nothing, Kuparr sees treasure. Though all of the Ansharin make good use of that which Kedalup gives them, Kedalup can see manifold uses. This is what makes him clever, and his masterful use of that which Kedalup offered brought home a great number of creatures for his tribe to eat, earning him his tattoos.
Constant like the Sun:
Kuparr possesses an indomitable focus. Whenever a task is set before him, or he takes a task upon himself, his world is limited to that task, that which might aid in accomplishing that task, and nothing else. And while there are many who could hold this level of focus for a short time, Kuparr can do so for hours on end. It makes some things possible that otherwise would not be, and makes other things take not quite so long as they otherwise might.
Equipment –
Ansharin pelts
Waterskin
1x Small knife
1x Bone-Tipped Spear
Biography – Kuparr’s birth was not extraordinary. He came out a screaming babe like any other, and was named Jannah. He may have been a trifle smaller than most, but was clearly hale and healthy. At first, at least. Not long after his birth, he fell ill. Had he been older, it would have been no great concern save for the work he could not do while sick, but as a baby, he was in jeopardy. He survived of course—otherwise there wouldn’t be a few more paragraphs to read—having been saved by the healing knowledge of one of the elders. When Jannah grew old enough to know things, and he came to know of this, he asked which of the elders it had been that saved his life, but it was one that he did not know. Her age had brought her to her end in the intervening years.
Jannah was disturbed after learning this. She had saved his life, and he would never be able to thank her for it. He would never be able to begin pay her back. Or so he thought. His mother told him that everything the elders do was for the good of the tribe. As such, he could pay the elder who saved him back by dedicating himself to serve the good of the tribe. He concluded on his own that, since the tribe follows the will of the elders, he could best serve the tribe by following the will of the elders. And so he began to hang on every word that any one of the elders said. It was endearing from the outside, and after a point quite annoying to the elders.
As Jannah grew, it became quite obvious that he would not be the strongest member of the tribe. Or the fastest. Or the biggest. In all these things he was well enough to get by, but less even than was the average. This led to some teasing from the other Ansharin youth, but then his greatest strength began to show itself. From the smallest bits and pieces of leftover things, he was able to create new toys of the like the tribe had not none for a long time. They were not particularly well put-together, Jannah not being trained in making anything, but for a short while their novelty entranced the other children, and they all said that Jannah was very clever. When the novelty of the toys faded, the kids no longer teased Jannah, which was what he had been after all along. When the adults saw this, the adults laughed, and said that Jannah was very clever. This wormed its way into his head, and ever since he has though of himself as being very clever. And while he was, it could get annoying at times.
His skill at hunting was decidedly average, but his cleverness served him well. But it did not earn him his tattoos. And he wanted his tattoos. So he concocted a plan. He set out into the Moodjar Plains, with short throwing spears and some food. He traveled to a spot he’d found some time ago where the earth was red, near a mound filled with grubs called Talts**, a pool of water, and a fruit tree. Not too far away, Jannah dug up a large amount of red earth. It was now late, and so Jannah slept. As the sun rose the next day, Jannah slowly mixed the red earth with some of the water in his hands, and plastered it somewhere on his body. Eventually, the sun risen well into the sky, the earth was baked onto him like a second skin, and he smelled like the dirt. Then, he draped himself with pieces of the foliage surrounding him, and stepped into the hole he had dug, and he was unseen and unsmelled.
At first, the animals were wary of this strange mound of dirt. But it smelled like dirt and did not move, so they came to pay it no heed. First to come was a Kwenda, seeking fruit from the tree. He throw a spear at it, but it was gone before the spear had even left his hand. Then a goodly-sized bird, called a Kassin, with feathers like the dawn and a sharp beak, came to peck some Talts from their mound. Jannah threw another spear, and this one found its mark. Slowly, Jannah gathered the Kassin, and hid it under the foliage near where he hid himself. Then a large beast Jannah had never seen before came to drink from the pool. Jannah knew he could not fell it with his spear, and so he let it alone. He was too busy trying not to be seen to memorize what it looked like, so he never did learn what it was.
So the day went. The creatures his spear could kill in a single stroke were attacked, and while not every throw hit its mark, enough were thrown that a goodly sum did. He did not go after the large ones beasts, both those he knew and those he did not. And the Kwenda—and it was always the same Kwenda, he could see that—was always too fast for him. When the sun began to fall back to the horizon, Jannah decided to begin making his way back to the Oasis. But when he went to gather up his kills, he found that he could not carry them all in his arms. So he loosely wove some branches from the trees together into a sack. It was poorly made, but it was enough. As he turned to leave, he found one of the fruits from the tree set down on a near-by rock. Looking up, he glimpsed the hind-end of a Kwenda as it escaped. Jannah tasted the fruit, and it was sweet.
When Jannah returned to the Oasis with his bounty, they did not recognize him at first. His skin, normally a dark brown, was caked over with the dry red earth. When they discovered that it was Jannah, returned from his hunt, they were astonished by what he had brought back alone. “How did you catch this many creatures all by yourself?” They asked, “Have you some secret skill at hunting?” He smiled. “No,” he said “I am exactly the same hunter you think I am. But I am clever.” That is all he would say, and it was quite annoying. Then, one of the elders asked him how, and he told the story of the red earth, and of his stillness, and of the Kwenda that made a game of him. And everyone agreed: Jannah was clever.
It was decided then that Jannah had earned his place in the Dream. They are of his exploits, of him tricking the animals into thinking that he was the earth. Of the unknown beasts. Of the playful Kwenda. And thereafter he was known as Kuparr: “Red Earth, Burnt Earth”—for the skin of sun-baked earth he wore when he returned to the Oasis.
*The Kassin are beautiful birds. Their feathers, thick and numerous for flying high in the sky, are the red, orange, and pink of the dawn sky. Their beaks are long, sharp, and black. Their wings are long, as long as an Ansharin child is tall. They are a fairly common prey to the Ansharin hunters—they are plentiful and they have few bones that are small and troublesome.
**The Talts are small, white grubs. They are thoroughly unimpressive on their own, but they exist in vast multitudes and build massive mounds to live in. Some of these mounds stretch twice as high as the tallest Ansharin, and hold untold thousands of the tiny white grubs. They are some of the favorite food of many kinds of birds, including the Kassin. |
8,539 | 236 | 7 | 1,362 | 1,852 | Kwelek Djilyaro, "Kwenda"
Early Morning | The Ansharin Oasis
Even in the early morning, the desert soil was already scorching hot. If Kwenda hadn't spent his entire life walking back and forth across these lands, then his feet would probably be burning from the red soil. His feet flew across the plains, excitement carrying him with the wind. Anyone that didn't know him would swear that he was running for his life. It had only taken about twenty minutes of running to reach the oasis from the plains. He held the leather journal firmly in his hand, wanting to show the small hunting group that seemed to be preparing to leave the village. With one final running leap, Kwenda landed with a slight slide in front of Abigale, Yel'Shadar and Adoni. The former two were hunters, and fairly talented ones at that. Yel was only a couple years older than Kwenda, but standing next to him made him feel like a little kid. He definitely related more to Adoni, who was a very unique individual.
"Good morning!" Kwenda spoke cheerfully, clutching the journal to his chest with a look of excitement. "Check out what I've found! It's a weird, leather pouch thing. It's filled with thin, white sheets. Maybe it's some form of hide?" Before he could continue, Durabu and Kuparr joined the group. Seeing Kuparr, Kwenda instantly hid the journal behind his back. Although he'd already seen it.
"Oh! Hello! I just found a thing. I was gonna give it to the elders. Honest!" Kwenda started babbling, trying to explain himself. He knew that Kuparr held a great deal of respect and admiration for the elders. They all did, to an extent. Yet he knew that Kuparr wouldn't take too kindly to him hoarding a discovered treasure instead of showing it to the elders first. "I wasn't trying to hide it! I just figured that it looked pretty old. Maybe even older than the Silence. You know what the elders are like. They burn anything from before then without a second thought. I just wanted a chance to have a look at it before that, you know?" As he spoke, Kwenda inched closer and closer to Durabu. The gentle giant's presence made him feel less uneasy. His thoughts drifted back to the peculiar journal. He couldn't understand what was inside it. The elders supposedly knew how to understand bits and pieces of the scripts before the Silence, but they would never share their findings with the others. They were just doing it to protect the tribe; but what harm could a piece of leather bring? | Name | Kwelak Djilyaro, "Kwenda"
Gender | Male
Age | 15
Appearance | Kwelek is a young boy of above average height with a very lean, slender body. He has dark skin, but is somewhat lighter in tone due to his ancestry. His skin is rough and he sports calloused feet and hands from a life of hard labor. His hands and feet are usually covered in a white, almost chalk like dust that is found within the Moodja. He has a very sharp, angular face with a very well defined jaw line and sharp cheekbones. He has amber eyes and his hair is a light brunette with flecks of gold streaking throughout. He weaves beads, feathers and other charms into his shoulder length hair. He is also one of the youngest Ansharin to have received his tattoos, and he is remembered within the Dream as 'Kwenda', a marsupial of the Moodja known for it's unmatched speed. His tattoos are a depiction of an old folk tale from the Dream involving the Kwenda, covering him from head to toe with the red ink.
Personality | Kwelek is a rather respectful young man who listens to his elders and is eager to please. He can be a bit of a blind optimist sometimes; always motivated to continue even in dire circumstances. He tends to be a bit arrogant because of this, refusing to face facts. He's a bit of a slow learner, but his determination is downright inspiring. Even if he were to fail a thousand times, Kwelek would be too stubborn to admit defeat. Kwelek enjoys telling stories, and can always be relied on to recall a tale from the Dream around the camp fire. Even despite his love for his tribe, Kwelek wishes to explore Kedalup in the hopes of finding his exiled mother as well as contribute even greater tales towards the Dream.
Some of the other members of the Ansharin hold quite a bit of resentment towards Kwelek. They believe he was unworthy of receiving his tattoos as his skills as a warrior and hunter are sub-par compared to others. They believe his anointment to be a case of favoritism as Kwelek is the grandson of one of the elders.
Skills |
Kedalup's Messenger Kwelek's speed is unmatched among the Ansharin. What he lacks in strength, he makes up for with his nimbleness and powerful young legs. He was given the name 'Kwenda' for being the first Ansharin in two generations to be able to catch the marsupial of the same name.
Ansharin Sentry Kwelek was never strong enough to be a fully fledged hunter for his tribe, but his quick feet and keen senses allowed him to serve well as a scout for his tribe. There are many dangerous predators that roam the Dreamscape, and it is the job of the Ansharin Scouts to spot any trace that they might come near the Oasis.
Dream Weaver The sacred art of recalling the Dream. Every Ansharin learns the Dream, and Dream Weaving is a common practice among the tribe. Kwelek is infamous for his exciting recollections of the Dream that are quite popular among the children of the tribe.
Equipment |
Waterskin
1x Bone tipped spear
Ansharin Pelts
Biography | Kwelek never knew his father, and he barely had a chance to know his mother. While his mother was pregnant, she committed a great sin against Kedalup. Kwelek's mother, deranged and rabid, murdered her husband while he slept. The elders wanted to kill her, but they knew doing so would also kill the unborn Kwelek. They allowed her to give birth to her son, and then banished her to The Dreamscape to forever carry the weight of her sins on her shoulders. This is all that Kwelek knows of his mother, and any further questions are met with scornful looks of both fear and disgust. The Ansharin are superstitious people, and what happened to Kwelek's mother is a topic of taboo that is avoided within the tribe. They act as though it never happened. Yet despite this, Kwelek was still shunned by his tribe for being the son of a heretic.
Growing up, Kwelek was never the best hunter. He couldn't even fight well. He was often belittled by his peers because of this fact, and he quickly sought to rectify his weakness. He would no longer be the shameful son of a traitor, and became determined to earn his tattoos and be remembered in the Dream. There is an old tale in the Dream, of an Ansharin who ran like the wind, and moved like lightning. He was the first Ansharin to ever be fast enough to touch the tail of the Kwenda. The Kwenda are the only creature that roam the Dreamland that the Ansharin do not hunt. This is for two reasons: one, they are considered to be messengers of Kedalup. As such, they are sacred and must not be hunted. And two, the Kwenda are so fast, so nimble and agile, that even if the Ansharin did hunt them; they'd never be able to catch them.
Determined, Kwelek spent most of his spare time between training and working as a scout chasing after the many Kwenda that roamed the Moodja. He quickly became the target of mockery among the tribe for his stubborn attitude. That was until, one evening, Kwelek caught the Kwenda. When he showed up at the fire pit for dinner that night, the other tribesmen couldn't believe their eyes. No one in two generations had ever been able to touch a Kwenda, let alone capture one. Kwelek's grandfather and the other elders decided that this feat was deserving of the Dream; and Kwelek's name was changed to Kwenda. He was also given his tattoos, that depict the first Dream about the Kwenda and how it came to be the fastest creature in the Dreamscape.
Although some are still resentful of Kwenda, envious of his tattoos, he gained recognition among the other Ansharin. People stopped remembering him as Kwelek, son of the heretic, and started remembering him as Kwenda, a messenger of Kedalup. Now that the journal has been discovered, Kwenda's new ambition in life is to explore Kedalup and learn about life before The Silence; spreading the Ansharin Dreams wherever he goes. |
8,540 | 236 | 8 | 2,176 | 944 | Collaborative post between this silly goy and Leslie.
Yel'Shadar wasn't really one for flights of fancy, so when Kwelek came back to the tribe with a caged Kwenda in tow one day, he took the side of the more reasonable party who believed that the boy never actually caught the animal by trial of endurance, but rather poisoned it, tricked it, or acquired it by otherwise crooked, snakelike means. He'd been quiet about the incident and generally polite towards the younger boy, but now he's gotten something that might be from before The Silence. Now, Yel wasn't an ass - his father had explicitly told him not to be one, but if his gesture - cocking his head back, smirking sardonically and snorting - wasn't insulting, then the sun rose in the night and the rain fell from the ground and girls lost their maidenhood at age five.
He was quick to regain a serious countenance, however. "Before the Silence? Oh, amazing. Here, let me take a look at that."
Not surprisingly, Kwelek did hand him the object. Yel secured his bow and began examining the thing: hundreds of dirty sheets of something white, bound together in a tough spine and covered by a sort of hide. All over the sheets were a series of constantly appearing black patterns - symbols, something like the sigils in tattoos or hunt paints. The hunter raised his brow, held the object casually in the air, and said to Kuparr pointedly, "I don't know what it is, but it doesn't seem very useful. Think the Elders might want this thing?"
Yel expected Kuparr to say something along the lines of 'yes, and you should give it to me immediately so I can take it to the old men who would then burn the thing,' and immediately try to wrest the object from his grip. So he prepared against this. | Name: Yel'Shadar, "Kamende"
Gender: Male
Age: 17
Appearance:
Yel'Shadar is young adult man of middling height, bald head, and lean build. His face is rather wide in shape with a square jaw, and his cheeks are slightly sunken, leading him to be nicknamed "Hawk" since childhood, although the appellation could also be applied to his hunting skills, if not the farsighted gaze of his dark brown eyes. His skin is dark, of a complexion middling between chocolate and caramel, and the grey furs of the standard garb of his tribe obscure his well-defined, athletic musculature.
Yel's skill as a hunter has earned him his tattoos on his 16th birth-month. Their blue ink covers a great portion of his back and depict a story in a series of scenes that first sprout from his tailbone and end at the nape of his neck. The story is of a Mudain - a species of large raptor that flies over the Moodja in search for prey - who taught an ancient Ansharin named Kamena who had been exiled from the tribe as a child how to hunt on her own. Mudain are known for their intelligence, ferocity and determination during hunts, and Yel's skill has been likened to theirs and the brilliance of Kamena in the closing acts of the tale. In the Dream, he is remembered as "Kamende," in a slight modification of Kamena's name to render it masculine.
When on hunts, blue paints snake elaborate patterns along his arms, legs, and below his eyes to complement his tattoos. He is seldom seen without his hunting gear: a dagger and throwing spears or a bow, on account of his love of the trade and his insistence on practice.
Personality:
Yel'Shadar, somewhat incongruous to his trade, is actually quite reserved. Humble, though still quite proud, he makes little comment about his exploits as a hunter, but his ego will tolerate no questioning of his superb skills at the trade. Like a good Ansharin youth, he is respectful to his elders, bowing and kneels where tradition deems it necessary. But above those, he is curious of the world. He sees his father's death as a sort of disconnection between him and his tribe, and that the journal as some variety of providence that's telling him to go out and see all of Kedalup - all of Eden. He's been plenty of times to the vast, dry expanses of the Moodjar, but surely there must be more beyond the plains? Perhaps these were even mountains before the Silence? Yel wants to know these secrets, and extract them like one would a Ngarlak's heart from its carcass.
Skills:
Path of the Jaguar: Yel might very well be the best hunter among the Ansharin, on account of him having performed the trade since age 6 with unrivaled intensity and exclusivity at the encouragement of his father and the protests of others. He most certainly has the excellent physique, senses and experience that make him a champion at it.
Path of the Tiger: The same things that make Yel a great hunter also make him a decent warrior. While not having pursued the martial arts as fervently as tracking, archery or throwing, he is more than capable of pulling his weight in a fight.
Kedalup's Bounty: Yel knows some herbology by necessity - hunting sometimes sees one hurt. Yel also knows how to forage.
Ansharin Artisan: Yel is adept at the creation of weaponry. Specifically: Ansharin daggers, bows, spears and arrows.
Equipment:
Standard Ansharin Garb
Blue Body Paints (optional)
Waterskin
1x Bone Dagger
3x Throwing Spears or Bow and 5x Bone-tipped Arrows
Biography:
Yel'Shadar was born to Lowa and Dug, two successful hunters of the Ansharin tribe, about seventeen cycles ago. His birth was a stubborn and violent one that saw his mother ill at the night of his delivery and deceased the next morning. Born amidst grief, it was thought that the infant Yel was a bad omen to the tribe, but these vengeful voices were quelled by a series of invariably good hunts on his father's part. Dug, who henceforth expanded his love for Yel to fill the void that Lowa left, resolved to raise the child as best as he could to the point of extreme protectiveness.
He would take the boy out on hunts and practice the skills that the trade entailed when Yel could have been playing. When not out on hunts, Yel would otherwise be preoccupied with fashioning bows, daggers, arrows and all other sorts of hunting implements instead of socializing with his age group. Dug never let Yel out of his sight, and his possessive but loving parenting produced a brilliant if somewhat peculiar hunter. Unfortunately, Dug would never have the opportunity to see Yel fully mature as a failed venture saw him trampled and torn under the feet and tusks of a mastodon. The fifteen year old boy and the rest of the hunting party managed to fell the beast, but though two weeks' worth of food was got, it was done so at the expense of a very valuable member of the tribe - and more importantly, a father.
The loss devastated him. Bereft of immediate family, Yel started being more introspective, and others respectfully left him to grieve by his lonesome. This, of course, caused him to think over and over again about the wonderful man that was his father, thereby deepening his sadness. Without anyone close to help fill this new hole in his chest, as he so describes it, he began looking toward Kedalup for succor: the air, the clouds, the rain, the beasts that he and the others hunt - the expanses of the Moodjar and the shimmering waters of the Oasis; for the first time, the young adult realized that they were all so very, very, very beautiful. Yel started to deliberately slow himself down on the return trips from hunts, just content to examine at the world as it was. Sometimes, he would climb a hill and just stare at the horizon the whole afternoon with longing. He discovered then that there was so much of Kedalup and so little that he knew about it, both its present self and its past self. So when the Journal was discovered, his imagination was set aflame with possibilities. Yel practically lunged at the opportunity for the adventure that so entailed the unearthed relic. Leaving the tribe would be sad indeed, but - Kedalup, Kedalup! He had to see all of it. |
8,541 | 236 | 9 | 377 | 25,995 | As Yel'Shadar politely declined the offer for some salve, Abigsle nevertheless made a mental note to leave some for him. Even if it wasn't used, it was the thought that counted at least. As everyone seemed to approach at once, the group got larger and Abigale noticed, as she always did, with some amusement that she was the only female in the group.
She didn't mind that. Males were easier to get along with, most of the time. She smiled at them, as Kwenda approached appearing excited. He showed the something that...was old. From before. That made Abigale curious and when it was passed to Yel, she looked over his shoulder curiously, before looking about at the others.
She knew that they should give it to the elders, but...it seemed such a shame to have it burned or hidden away, something so old, it could be valuable to their future. But she didn't speak up, instead she fell silent, thoughtful, wondering if she could prevent its destruction.
But she did say "it almost looks...like its...maybe symbols for trials? Or...for places?" | Abigale JeeJar
age:
20
Gender:
Female
physical traits
height: approximately 5"9
weight: average weight for a woman.
eye colour: a dark brown
hair colour: black
skin colour: dark skinned (darker then it is in the picture)
distinguishing marks: a small birthmark on her left hand, roughly in the shape of a leaf.
personality: Abigail is a rather reserved woman. She tends to be more on the quite side then anything else, being watchful, thoughtful and quite curious. She tends to keep her opinion to herself, unless it is needed, but she will speak up if she believes it's necessary. She isn't afraid to speak her mind, but knows the value of caution. She can be lively, when she feels safe and content with people.
She chose to go on this adventure to give herself some life experiences, and perhaps meet some new people, or get to know those she has met before.
skills
Kedalup's Bounty: Abigale is a skilled herbologist, knowing what medicinal herbs and treatments in a wide range of areas, but is not by any means a doctor
path of the tiger: a skilled Hunter, Abigale knows how to blend, and to be stealth. While not the best Hunter in the tribe, she comes close, and she is not afraid to get in close to take down her target
story teller Abigale is an exceptional story teller, telling the tales of the tribe and what legends there are. She is exceptional at seeming to make a story come to life.
equipment
five spears: two spears with barbs along the edge, commonly called the death spear, one more mundane spear, and two spear throwers
a water skin
some herbs and plants that can be used for medicinal purposes
more to come
biology:
Abigale was born to a hunter and a Sharman, a medicinal woman. She was given a chance in both worlds, but when her father grew sick, Abigale took on the main burden of hunting, to help feed her parents and younger sibling, as well as to help provide food for the tribe, a job her father always impressed on her. The tribe is family.
She became more than adapt with spears, with tracking and stealth, and managed to support her family and anyone else who needed it. Along with this hunting, Abogale learned how to administer health care, via the hands of her mother, and her ailing father. She perhaps took the best of her parents, and just as well, because the strength and courage she got from helping them, and from watching her father die, helped her in the coming years as she struggled to keep her family together.
She never cared for recognition, and thus never cared to receive any tattoos, as she believed she was just doing what was required of her, but she did always paint tribal images on her body when hunting, always taking care with that, as she believed that this gave her strength to do what needed to be done.
She helped her mother and younger sister, younger brother and took pride in their own accomplishments, and when they began to make families of their own, she told her mother she wanted to have a chance to live her life, now that the younger ones were grown. |
8,542 | 236 | 10 | 1,457 | 3,004 | "Nah I am sure I would just get in the way." Adoni scratched the back of his head before grinning nervously towards the direction he thought Abigale was in. He did appreciate the thought, but he doubted he could be of much help to anyone. Most of the people in the village thought he was a burden.
Hearing the deep voice of Duraba he turned and waved towards where he suspected the big man was. He never forgot a voice, ever and this deep voice was one that Adoni could never forget anyway.
"Morning, day hasn't been going for long but it's decent so far." Adoni replied with a shrug before turning to where he believed Kwenda was with interest.
"Can I see it?" Adoni said with a slight chuckle at his own joke, but he at least wanted to be able to feel whatever it is they were talking about. He went to walk over to where he thought Kwenda was, but tripped and fell face first in the dirt. He had no idea what he just tripped over, but he believed that it was probably something very obvious so he now sighed in annoyance. | Name - Adoni 'Nightwalker'
Gender - Male
Age - 17
Appearance -
Adoni stands 5'8 and was built slim for running. His skin is dark with white hair that may look slightly out of place but he enjoys being different from the others. On Shadow's face are two white streaks under both eyes, he never tells anyone what they are from or how he got them. Adoni is blind but can sense the 'aura' around of people and animals, along with tracks and the like, to make up for it. He also has sensitive hearing and smell. He got the two feathers in his hair as a present from his parents and the piercings and necklace are artifacts his parents have found and given to him.
Personality -Adoni is certainly... different. His mood can swing rapidly, mostly from being super happy cheerful to being bored and emotionless. He does have a few weird habits as well. He likes to collect rocks whose shape and 'feel' he likes and gets his parents to turn them into necklaces which he wears until he gets a new one. He has DOZENS. He also has a strange way of speaking, he will try and be straight, truthful and direct so as to not confuse people as to his intentions; but most of the times he can end up saying something makes absolutely no sense whatsoever. He also doesn't like when people bring up his blindness and tends to dodge questions on the subject and will change it as quickly as he can. He is also quite curious as he thinks there are many rocks in the world of different shapes and feel which he has yet to find, and wishes to collect them all! *Cue pokemon theme* XD
Skills -Gathering
-Finding water sources (sorta '6th sense' or animal tracks and the like)
-Tracking
Equipment:
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
Biography - Might put one in at a later date
Done most of it, but name was a little difficult :\ |
8,543 | 237 | 0 | 905 | 2,480 | Duncan Allistair sat on a reclined couch in a workshop littered with metal scraps and tools. The exacting neatness of his clothes was at odds with the disorder that surrounded him, and he distracted himself from it with a hand written, leather bound book he read. A research report from his eldest daughter. It held nothing new or interesting to him. He wore one of his more subdued outfits, powder blue waistcoat and trousers, a yellow cravat. His pale yellow jacket was folded neatly and draped over the back of the couch. He had eschewed a wig for the day, and his shining silver head was bare.
The workshop was a single roomed building that sat not on a foundation, but floating surprisingly still in the middle of the Inner Circle. It hovered as a bridge between the entire tower owned by the Allistair family, and the penthouse suite that Gideon Lockheed rented. The Artificer in question had shared a partnership with Duncan for many years, and this floating arrangement was borne out of convenience for the both of them. It was owned and kept exclusively by Gideon, much to the chagrin of the neater-minded Magus.
Duncan did not put his book down when the door to Gideon's apartment opened, and maintained his attitude of disinterest even as a large lump of clay - A bust, he knew, of Queen Isabella - was hurled through the air and soared past his head.
"She did not like it?" Duncan asked, apparently uncaring. His voice was almost human, but had a slight tinny vibration that belied the fact that it was produced by a set of metal vocal chords.
"A damned insult to my craft!" Gideon was already raging, as if he had skipped to the middle of his rant to save time. He was moving swiftly to where the clay bust had landed to pick it up viciously, untying his uncharacteristically neat hair from its bun as he walked. He slapped the now mostly mishapen lump of clay onto a nearby table and glared at it as if it, and not the woman it represented, had been the one to insult him.
Gideon, as it transpired, had been contracted to create a new face for the Queen, who had long since been completely Technomantic. Her old one was made out of interlocking metal plates. A work of pure genius, but outdated in comparison to the one that Duncan himself sported, which was made out of a single, solid piece of silver that had been enchanted to be malleable as flesh.
"What she says to my face is only half of it, you know," Gideon was quieter now, but still obviously angry. His voice was just as artificial as Duncan's, but it was harder to tell.
"I expect she's telling everyone who will hear that she's waiting on a new face," Duncan said, "But the Artificer she's hired is taking too long."
"I'm sure of it," Gideon was half-heartedly trying to reform the Queen's bust on his table. "This one was accurate to the molecule. I checked. She asks for perfection and I give it."
Duncan turned the page in the journal, still not looking at Gideon. "You gave what she asked for," he said dryly, "But not what she wanted."
Gideon slammed his scalpel down after making a particularly vicious swipe on the bust. "What?"
Finally he put the book down and stood up. He was tall and thin, almost surreal looking. "You don't know people very well. People are vain. Even when they say they aren't. Me, I'm honest about it. I told you I wanted to be better looking. She won't say that, but it's what she expects. Because you did it for me. Accentuate her best features... downplay the bad." He looked over the now thoroughly mangled bust. "And maybe give her some good eyes. I've been meaning to have you make me a new set..."
---
It was a street in the odd zone between the Inner Circle and Outer Ring. The sort of place where different people had different ideas over which it belonged to. The poorer who lived there liked to say it was the Inner Circle, to feel like they lived among the affluent. The moderately wealthy admitted that it was the Outer Ring, but didn't talk about it much, as they aspired to move to nicer places further in.
It was normally a fairly active community, with Magi, Artificers, and the Ignorant all common sights. This borderlands district was one of the few places where there was at least some semblance of social equality. It was where most business between the higher and lower castes was done, and basic politeness made the Ignorant here feel like they might have a window into higher society.
This morning, however, this particular street was nearly abandoned. For one thing, it was fairly early. The sun was barely rising, and not even visible in some places thanks to the towering buildings. For another thing, there was blood running down the gutters and into the storm drains. The trail of red ran down a slight incline from an alley between older brick buildings, where its source lay, still breathing, but weakly.
Two forms in stark gray, but with shiny heads and visible hands were approaching. One bent down to the woman whose arm was severed from the elbow. The woman flinched as the Automata took her arm in his hands and clamped his thumb and forefinger in a ring around the stump. The bleeding stopped almost immediately, and the woman groaned weakly.
"Can you speak?" the Automata still standing asked, looking down at her with his hands in his pockets, apparently somewhat disinterested. The woman did not reply, so the Automata made a sound similar to a sigh and lifted a small aluminum sphere from his pocket. It had two nodes, one one each side. One was gold, and the other copper. The Automata lifted the orb with the gold node facing his mouth and spoke a short message, "Fifth and King's Way, need a stretcher and mercury." He dropped his hand, but the sphere remained floating, and then flew away, out of the alley and down the street.
"Clean cut," the other officer noted, looking at the stump. "Must have been a sharp one. Probably titanium. No blood leading anywhere else, that's weird. What you think, Marv?"
Marv made the strange sigh noise again. "Scavver," his partner nodded in agreement. "He was pretty well prepared, I guess. We'll get her healed and hauled off. Maybe she can tell us something useful when she's stronger. In the mean time, try not to disturb anything... I don't want to deal with this..."
"Me neither," he replied quietly, "We'll get the ball rolling and shunt it to Crowley."
"Ha, sounds like a plan." | Name:
Age:
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Enhancements:
Caste:
Bio:
I had forgotten to put it in the first post. |
8,544 | 237 | 1 | 2,532 | 122 | Standing inside near a second floor window of the Bold Helvetica, Connie stared with an almost bored expression and a slight frown. She saw the two members of the Automata Corps standing next to the the limp body of the dismembered woman talking to themselves. This crime or whatever, happened right in the alley next to her shitty, erm... wonderful establishment.
Thinking to herself, Hmm... Well then. This may be bad for business...
With a heavy, heavy sigh, Connie walked downstairs, prepared a bucket of water, grabbed a mop, and walked to the entrance of the alleyway.
In a bored monotone, "Uhh, mister Automata Corps members? Is this mess going to be cleaned up soon? I run this tavern, and I don't think my customers would very much appreciate a bloody carcass on the premises as a new forn of decoration now would they hmm?" | Name: Connie McSans
Age: 27
Enhancements: None
Caste: Ignorant Trades
There is a tavern called the Bold Helvetica located right on the border between the Inner Circle and Outer Ring. Owned by Connie, it is a 2 story establishment of modest size with muffled walls, almost decent food, and is a popular meeting place for members of the Inner Circle with business for those of the Ignorant Trades, whether that business be illicit or not.
Connie is a stern woman with a deadpan face and no patience for nonsense and buffoonery. On that note though, she spends what little spare time she has writing tremendously awful love poetry and dreaming of becoming some magi's personal poet. |
8,545 | 237 | 2 | 905 | 2,480 | Automata Corps Officer Second Degree Marvin Long(AKA "Marv")
Officer Long turned to look witheringly at the bar woman. Or, that's what he meant to do. His standard issue face was completely incapable of showing emotion, and the look he wanted to give came out as a blank stare.
"Ma'am, we are working to keep the peace, not to ensure the success of your business. As it happens, the victim here is not dead, and our main priority is to keep her alive."
He almost wished it wasn't so. He didn't know who the young woman was, but he knew that if she lived she would want her Technomancy arm back, and would be a bureaucratic nightmare until she got it.
"And our second priority is catching the perpetrator. I'm going to have to ask you to go back inside." | Name:
Age:
Appearance:
Enhancements:
Caste:
Bio:
I had forgotten to put it in the first post. |
8,546 | 237 | 3 | 2,305 | 2,037 | Good job, Felix. That was a wonderful presentation, Arno Crepley-Quates said, sitting at the head of a long mahogany table in a meeting room in the offices of Quates Fine Metalcrafts. The other attendees shifted uncomfortably in awkward silence, giving subdued golf-claps.
"Thank you, father," Felix replied, bowing to the table, oblivious to the unease his presence caused. Putting his easel of diagrams to the side and retracting his pointing baton, Felix went back to the table, taking his seat at Arno's right. The meeting continued from there, some of the discussion was logistical and financial, most of it being political in nature. While Felix understood the logistical and financial aspects of the discussion, he didn't understand that much of the smiling and patting-on-the-back that was being done was done to hide malicious intent due to his having lived quite a secluded life. He was not privy to the games that the old and wealthy played in order to become older and wealthier, and was even less aware of the threat that his existence posed to them. When the meeting concluded, Felix followed Arno back to Arno's office, where Felix had a desk next to his father's and resumed poring over innumerable financial reports from the different departments and branches.
"You know, one day, should I ever get tired of all this, I'll give you the reigns of Quates Fine Metalcrafts," Arno said proudly to his son.
"Thank you, father," Felix replied, "Should that day come, I will accept the responsibility graciously."
"Well, I have another meeting to go to that will take the rest of my day, when you finish, remember to lock up before you go home to your mother."
"Understood."
Arno put on his bowler hat and jacket, grabbed his umbrella, and left, while Felix continued to work. Bending over his desk, Felix noticed a slight discomfort along his spine that had been slowly getting worse over time. He had only had to do it a few times in his thirty years of life, but he was probably due for another maintenance check soon to deal with joint stress. Given his unique structure, there were few artificers with the skill, and even fewer his family trusted completely, who could deal with his maintenance. It was time to schedule an appointment with Gideon Lockheed. | Name: Felix Crepley-Quates
Age: 32
Appearance: Felix looks like a 9-year old human child with silvery white skin with a blonde pixie cut and big, glassy violet eyes. He wears boyish, but sophisticated clothing, his usual outfit consisting of a white shirt with lace, a black vest, a dark blue shoulder mantle, a pair of short dark blue pants, long white stockings, brown leather shoes and a top hat.
Enhancements: Felix is an automaton created to be as human-like as possible. His entire outer covering is a finely sculpted silver, enchanted to behave like skin and flesh, and acid treated and sanded to give it as close to a skin-like texture as possible and to make the surface non-reflective, making it took metallic white, rather than silver. Underneath the silver skin is a network of copper veins and arteries, with mercury running through them. The copper is enchanted to passively give off low amounts of heat to give Felix's flesh a 'life-like' warmth, while the enchanted mercury ensures that his skin repairs like normal skin if damaged. Underneath all that is a human like skeleton that can be felt through Felix's skin. it is made of mostly copper, iron and aluminum. No titanium was used as there was no need to make Felix's bones indestructible, and the iron and copper are not enchanted as there was no need to make him particularly fast or strong. If his bones break, the mercury in his veins can repair them as well. The aluminum is enchanted to offset his overall weight, making him weigh as a human boy should. All of this is controlled by a palladium brain via gold nerves that run through his entire body. Felix is truly a marvel of modern technomancy, and his parents are proud to showcase him.
Caste: Royal Family
Bio: Ophelia Crepley, a member of the Royal Family and close relative to the Queen (as close as one can be to someone almost 400 years old) took a fancy to the wealthy Arno Quates, an artificer who was more businessman than craftsman. Upon marriage, in an attempt to bring himself closer to the Royal Family, Arno changed his family name to Crepley-Quates, an act that brought about disdain and worked counter to his original goal. Arno used his wealth to provide Ophelia with luxuries, luxuries that she indulged in happily, having never known a life outside of being pampered, though she did love and appreciate Arno despite the rumors that she merely married him for his wealth. They were a happy couple and at some point, Ophelia had a child named Clement. Clement was deeply loved by both parents and grew up among high society, but tragedy struck when Clement was kidnapped for ransom. A botched attempt by the Automata Corps to negotiate with an unstable kidnapper resulted in Clement's untimely death. Grief-stricken, Arno and Ophelia turned in desperation to technomancy to fill the hole left in their hearts. They would make a replacement. They used every connection and resource they had to secure the finest the city had to offer in terms of Magi and Artificers to create their 'perfect little boy'. And though Arno never told his wife, some hush money was paid to the Magus working on the palladium brain since a poor urchin was picked up off the street and involuntarily forced to have his consciousness used as the template of the creation. Still, Arno and Ophelia couldn't truly forget about Clement, and in the end, named the new automaton Felix instead. Though Felix's personality was very close to Clement's, he was made aware at inception that he was not human, and that he had been based off of their deceased child. Still, Felix's creation was able to, over time, soothe the wound of losing their child, and they raised him truly as a son. While Arno and Ophelia slowly replaced their bodies with technomancy as they aged, extending their lives, Felix never changed physically, and it seemed the three would live out their lives as parents and child forever. Though Arno continues to run his business, he has shown Felix the ropes of management and finance. |
8,547 | 237 | 4 | 1,963 | 1,055 | Taking advantage of the early morning, Orran had decided to take a light stroll around the outer ring. A small, spherical drone followed close behind him like a duckling would their mother, bobbing up and down as it followed the young Magus. The fresh air was quite pleasant for him, since he had spent the majority of his sleepless night in his workshop working on his newest project that his parents had assigned to him. Developing a security system that was better than the current was a difficult thing. His parents had this mentality, often saying 'Improve on what's not broken'. Rather than a security system, maybe he should develop a device that would monitor an individual's bodily health? Both inventions were meant to protect people or rather, help them live longer. Upon further thought on the monitor, he figured it might be a good idea to bring it up with his Uncle Duncan to see if he thought it'd be a good idea. However, the plan to implement it might be a little extravagant and it might end up being an exclusive item for everyone in the inner circle, which is not what he intended. Not that it's within his control.
For now he figured he'd just sit on the idea for a little while, maybe write it down. Breaking from his thoughts, he realized that the early morning wasn't as busy as he thought it would be, but than again, the sun had only just started to rise. | Name: Orran Tiarnach O’Niall
Gender: Male
Age: 23
Orran has somewhat long, straight black hair, which grows down slightly past his shoulderblades. His fringe stops just above his eyebrows and is swept slightly to the side. His irises are a silver-gray colour. His face is rather slim and his skin is slightly tanned and unscarred. He’s not tall, but he’s not short either, standing at about 5’8”, and his build can be described as ‘fit’. Meaning he is slim, but he still has some muscle. Keeping in touch with the Magi’s sense of clothing, he wears a black waist coat, a black tie and a long sleeved white shirt. The shirt’s sleeves are usually rolled up to his elbows and the top buttons are undone. He wears a pair of gray trousers, a brown leather belt and a pair of black leather shoes.
His right arm is made entirely of iron, and his fingers store a small enchanted Titanium blade in each finger. The blades are the size of scalpels, giving his hands a claw-like appearance when the blades flick out. The mechanism that stores these blades is similar to a flick-knife. His left arm is quite similar to his right, made entirely of iron. However, his left hand is made of copper, which is enchanted to let off electricity. His arms are covered in a layer of silver to create the appearance of skin.
The rest of his body is completely organic.
The reason behind his weapons is purely for self defense.
Caste: Magi
Orran is quite a friendly person, and he’s quite willing to help people. But his help comes with a price, as it usually does within his Caste. However, the price of his services varies greatly depending on who he’s serving. Sometimes it might be the regular enchantment fee, or the price would just be a smile or a meal from the client. It’s usually the latter due to his involvement with the poorer people of the city. He’s not afraid to crack a joke or make a cynical remark, even if he’s the presence of nobles, but the jokes are usually in poor taste and quite dark. But that’s the only time he takes advantage of his Caste’s position. He dislikes the term “Ignorant Trade”, because he believes that without these people, Magi and Artificers alike, will not be able to do what they’re doing now. Thus he isn’t condescending toward them, but more kind.
Upon first glance, Orran can be described as a person with a friendly aura.
Born into the Magi caste within House Alistair as the great nephew of Duncan Alistair, Orran had been dedicated to his studies from a very young age, given many of the 'mundane' tasks that a young magus is usually given. His parents worked extensively in Palladium, creating complex forms for AI in the hopes that they would be able to create an AI capable of replacing the volunteers of the Automata corps. This had no ill intent behind it, but it was met with inexplicable resistance from Duncan himself. It was a way to lessen the amount of volunteers required to the Corps and it would also prevent any chance of revolt, since the AI will not have an independent mind; additionally, it would reduce living casualties if a conflict was to arise.
Following in his parents footsteps, he focused more on Palladium enchantment. This led to numerous familiars being created, each AI being more complex than the last. Thanks to his position in society and the inherent wealth that comes with being in the Caste, he has his own workshop near his home where he stores all of his creations. Most of these familiars are simple metal spheres of Aluminium, which levitate around the workshop randomly, thus eliminating floor space clutter.
His latest AI was installed into the familiar which acts as a bodyguard. This familiar is reminiscent of a Hawk, it’s wings are made of enchanted Aluminium and it’s body is made of iron. The talons are made of enchanted Titanium, making it extremely dangerous. As Orran travels around town, the hawk watches him from above and it will swoop down to protect him when given the signal. Due to his focus in Palladium enchantment, his skills at enchanting other metals is quite mediocre, but good enough to serve others.
Unlike most of his acquaintances, he never really saw the need to have a full body of metal, thus he settled for having both of his arms enhanced. And unlike most of his Caste, Orran doesn’t charge exorbitant fees for his services, sometimes he’ll even do it for free if the person asking for the enchantment is poor. He enjoys walking around the city, especially around the outer circles, because he finds that most of the people in the ‘Ignorant trades’ have more interesting things to say compared to some of the people within the Magi Caste. However, he doesn’t neglect his duties to serve the royal family, but during his free time, he tends to wonder around town or create more types of AI.
If given the invitation, he's not opposed to going out for a drink with people. Most of the time, these invitations are from those who live in the Outer ring. |
8,548 | 237 | 5 | 2,305 | 2,037 | Finished with his bookkeeping, Felix locked up the office and left the building, flagging down a carriage drawn by clockwork horses, and headed towards the center of the Inner Circle. He got off at the building next to the Alistair Tower and looked up, seeing Gideon's workshop hovering between the two buildings.
"I hope he won't take offense to my arriving unannounced," Felix thought to himself, "I should have set up an appointment, or sent him a message beforehand, oh well." People were usually pretty forgiving of Felix due to his child-like appearance and demeanor, and also his status, a fact he had come to rely on over time.
"Felix Crepley-Quates," Felix introduced himself to the concierge at the front desk, "I have business with Mr. Gideon Lockheed." The concierge didn't question it, so Felix headed to the lift, riding it up to the highest floor. Stepping out, Felix headed down the hallway and used the knocker on the door that he was sure led to Gideon's penthouse, and awaited a response. | Name: Felix Crepley-Quates
Age: 32
Appearance: Felix looks like a 9-year old human child with silvery white skin with a blonde pixie cut and big, glassy violet eyes. He wears boyish, but sophisticated clothing, his usual outfit consisting of a white shirt with lace, a black vest, a dark blue shoulder mantle, a pair of short dark blue pants, long white stockings, brown leather shoes and a top hat.
Enhancements: Felix is an automaton created to be as human-like as possible. His entire outer covering is a finely sculpted silver, enchanted to behave like skin and flesh, and acid treated and sanded to give it as close to a skin-like texture as possible and to make the surface non-reflective, making it took metallic white, rather than silver. Underneath the silver skin is a network of copper veins and arteries, with mercury running through them. The copper is enchanted to passively give off low amounts of heat to give Felix's flesh a 'life-like' warmth, while the enchanted mercury ensures that his skin repairs like normal skin if damaged. Underneath all that is a human like skeleton that can be felt through Felix's skin. it is made of mostly copper, iron and aluminum. No titanium was used as there was no need to make Felix's bones indestructible, and the iron and copper are not enchanted as there was no need to make him particularly fast or strong. If his bones break, the mercury in his veins can repair them as well. The aluminum is enchanted to offset his overall weight, making him weigh as a human boy should. All of this is controlled by a palladium brain via gold nerves that run through his entire body. Felix is truly a marvel of modern technomancy, and his parents are proud to showcase him.
Caste: Royal Family
Bio: Ophelia Crepley, a member of the Royal Family and close relative to the Queen (as close as one can be to someone almost 400 years old) took a fancy to the wealthy Arno Quates, an artificer who was more businessman than craftsman. Upon marriage, in an attempt to bring himself closer to the Royal Family, Arno changed his family name to Crepley-Quates, an act that brought about disdain and worked counter to his original goal. Arno used his wealth to provide Ophelia with luxuries, luxuries that she indulged in happily, having never known a life outside of being pampered, though she did love and appreciate Arno despite the rumors that she merely married him for his wealth. They were a happy couple and at some point, Ophelia had a child named Clement. Clement was deeply loved by both parents and grew up among high society, but tragedy struck when Clement was kidnapped for ransom. A botched attempt by the Automata Corps to negotiate with an unstable kidnapper resulted in Clement's untimely death. Grief-stricken, Arno and Ophelia turned in desperation to technomancy to fill the hole left in their hearts. They would make a replacement. They used every connection and resource they had to secure the finest the city had to offer in terms of Magi and Artificers to create their 'perfect little boy'. And though Arno never told his wife, some hush money was paid to the Magus working on the palladium brain since a poor urchin was picked up off the street and involuntarily forced to have his consciousness used as the template of the creation. Still, Arno and Ophelia couldn't truly forget about Clement, and in the end, named the new automaton Felix instead. Though Felix's personality was very close to Clement's, he was made aware at inception that he was not human, and that he had been based off of their deceased child. Still, Felix's creation was able to, over time, soothe the wound of losing their child, and they raised him truly as a son. While Arno and Ophelia slowly replaced their bodies with technomancy as they aged, extending their lives, Felix never changed physically, and it seemed the three would live out their lives as parents and child forever. Though Arno continues to run his business, he has shown Felix the ropes of management and finance. |
8,549 | 237 | 6 | 905 | 2,480 | Duncan had long since left him alone, and Gideon was engrossed in his sculpting, the large part of his anger having ebbed away in his work's absorbing him. He would present this one, a more striking visage than the Queen's original, with a smaller nose and shorter forehead, and a more defined chin. They were all subtle changes, but they added up to a more attractive bust. If she approved this one, it would be used to make a plaster mould, which in turn would be used to make the Queen's new silver face.
Gideon didn't hear the original knock on the door, and instead heard a repeated chime from a copper hemisphere sitting on a table near the door. It was a simple device, more magic than artifice. It detected the sound of his door's knocker from his apartment across the way, and alerted him with a chime. Sometimes it picked up more vigorous knocks from elsewhere in the nearby buildings, and it went crazy when it hailed outside, but all in all it was a serviceable device, considering its simplicity.
He crossed the enclosed footbridge from his floating workshop to his apartment. His living space seemed starkly furnished and decorated after the downright clutter of his workshop. The contrast showed where Gideon spent most of his time.
He opened the door, didn't immediately see the knocker below his line of sight, and was moving to close it again when he finally spotted little Felix.
"Ha! Felix," he smiled fondly at the boy(or whatever he could properly be called), "You should get a taller hat, I almost didn't see you. Come in," he waved Felix through the door and closed it. "What can I do for you?" | Name:
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I had forgotten to put it in the first post. |
8,550 | 237 | 7 | 2,747 | 345 | A man, or at least the remnants of a man that now exists only as a fully metallic figure stands in the middle of a crowded room. Several people that surround him are wounded and the rest are scrambling. A few more fully metallic figures stand behind him. On his back are two large swords that are removed in a single quick movement.
"Halt. I am third degree Officer Robert Crowley. You are suspected of unlawful transport of potentially illegal crafted works. Surrender without struggle and there will be no more casualties." His voice rang with a metallic sound. The delivery of his message was robotic but only because he has said the line countless times. Each time he has a glimmer of hope that the suspects will give heed. This is rarely the case however and this time was no different.
The man directly in front of Crowley was a big man who stood several inches above Crowley in height and had two automata arms that appeared to have heavy duty strength enhancements. An all too familiar expression forms on the man's face as he raises both arms over his head.
Don't do it. Crowley sneers inside his head.
"You elitist bastards thing you can tell us how to do our business? Try taking us in when your nuthin but scrap metal!" The man bellows as he pulls his hands down hard on Crowley...or so he thought. His hands fall down through nothing as Crowley took a single quick step back.
"Fool..." Crowley said in a low tone. It was like a blur as he took both swords and slashed downward onto the man's shoulders where it was still flesh. His blades cut through like butter. They could not hear it but with Crowley's enhanced hearing he could hear the ultra high pitch of the vibrating blades. They were designed to be able to cut through most metals that he will ever have to come across and this poor man's flesh and bones held up about as well as paper to chainsaw. The rest of the men were far more compliant afterwards. The man who attacked Officer Crowley was taken away for emergency medical treatment. They may save his life but he will most likely loose his right to automata and will be forced to live the rest of his life as a cripple.
Nearly a half an hour later during the cleanup of the automata smuggling bust two fully automated men who are recognized as fifth officers come up directly to Crowley. Whatever it was seemed somewhat urgent.
"Officer Crowley!" The first one says in the the same metallic voice as his own. None of them had expressions on their face and none of them had any distinguishing features. In fact the only one without standard issue weaponry was Crowley. "Your presence is requested by Officers Scarver and Marvin."
If Crowley had teeth he would grit them. However he has no such capabilities anymore and for the most part good riddance to them. He nods once and the two men are off as quick as they came. Turning back to his squad he gives them a single wave to continue their work here and he begins to walk to his designated location.
It only took him fifteen minutes to reach his destination and the scene still seemed fresh. He began to take in the information as quickly as possible. Firstly there was blood on the street but it only seemed to come from a single source which was most likely an open wound. There was no blood splatter or drip trail to follow. This was very strange. However he did not have much time to go over this in his mind as he quickly spotted the ones who called him standing around the corner of the alleyway.
"Officers." He states going to full attention. "Crowley reporting in. What can I assist you with?" he states again with that dry robotic tone. This was also something he has said countless times. It was not part of his job that he was overly enthusiastic about. However he let no hint of this out except perhaps in the dryness to his already cold demeanor. | Name: Robert Crowley
Age: 22
Appearance:
Enhancements:
His whole body is a metal armor of white steel. Its an alloy mix of Iron, aluminum and titanium.
The armor itself enhances his strength and speed which supplements his swordplay.
The main combative portions of his magic metal is his two swords. He has two that are like ordinary longswords. They are made with Titanium. They move with his will and can increase the power of his strikes. Upon activation however they glow blue and oscillate at a high frequency making them cut through items not unlike a saw.
Caste: Artificer
Bio:
Dominic Crowley was born to a metal worker and long time artificer. He grew up with only his father as his mother had died giving birth to his younger brother when he was 7. The event framed in his mind the perfect picture of human frailty and thus began a near unhealthy obsession with technomancy. Never having any sort of talent as a Magi he delved into the practice of crafting his own body.
By the age of 13 he had already replaced his legs and had begun plans to replace parts of his arms. At 15 he had already shown an impressive amount of talent in a security job and was drafted by the police. They assisted him in helping fund his body transformation so long as he pledged loyalty to the city and for the security of the nation and their way of life.
By 17 he had already climbed higher into the ranks and worked more and more special operations as guards for elite Magi and other important political or economic figures. He had found funding for his arms and much of his armor at this time. His younger brother who was now 10 was showing signs that he too might pursue the craft.
At the age of 19 his father was killed by a gang of thugs and much of his fathers artifacts were stolen. His brother was wounded in the fight but survived. His losses were a few scars and an eye. Once Robert tracked them down however he slaughtered them all. This was looked down upon at his work as the thugs had loose connections to a lower ranking magi. He survived with his life but his position was demoted back down to a base rank officer. Robert closed his father's shop and sold what he could to buy a house for his brother Joseph and himself. This was the day that he began to teach his brother not only how to craft armor and weapons (as his father had only passed on more economic objects such as appliances or cheap limbs).
By the current day and age of 22 he has climbed up the ladder of the police force once again. They have reluctantly given him his rank equivalent of a sergeant yet again. His pay is decent but he harbors a slight disdain for the current dynamic of the city. His brother, who is now 15, is currently in the police training force as well. He doesn't have anywhere near the extensive body replacement but he at least has a full set of armor and his own weapon now crafted. |
8,551 | 237 | 8 | 905 | 2,480 | Automata Corps Officer Second Degree Marvin Long(AKA "Marv") and Officer Third Degree Aidan Scarver
Officer Long was still dealing with a nosy civilian, and so he waved Crowley back to where Scarver was directing the medical attention to the victim. She had had mercury applied to her stump, and her breathing was more regular. Her whole arm and her legs were elevated on the stretcher as a pair of emergency workers lifted her up to take her to the floating ambulance that was parked on the street.
"Crowley, good," Scarver began, taking a note pad from his gray uniform pocket. "Young woman was attacked," he was rattling off, "We have no identity as of yet. Her arm was removed from the elbow. Safe assumption is she had a Technomancy arm, and was beset by a scavver. If that's the case, it'll show up in the black market, hence us calling you. She is alive, but not conscious. We hope she recovers soon, she might be able to give us a description.
"In the mean time we have approximate measurements for her arm, to help find it if it surfaces," he tore a piece of paper from the notepad and handed it to Crowley. The paper had a series of measurements including overall length, diameter, and lengths and widths of various parts.
"Those were all taken from her intact arm. Depending on the level of craftsmanship they could very well all be wrong. We're kind of hoping your... Er... Rapport with some of the black marketeers we have in custody will help extract some answers." | Name:
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I had forgotten to put it in the first post. |
8,552 | 237 | 9 | 2,305 | 2,037 | Good day, Mr. Lockheed. I'm rather fond of this hat, I'd sooner wear stilts, Felix returned the greeting humorously, "I think I'm due for some maintenance, I've been feeling a slight discomfort along my neck and back." Felix motioned as best he could to indicate the pain in his spine. Felix entered Gideon's penthouse and looked around, admiring Gideon's sense of aesthetic. | Name: Felix Crepley-Quates
Age: 32
Appearance: Felix looks like a 9-year old human child with silvery white skin with a blonde pixie cut and big, glassy violet eyes. He wears boyish, but sophisticated clothing, his usual outfit consisting of a white shirt with lace, a black vest, a dark blue shoulder mantle, a pair of short dark blue pants, long white stockings, brown leather shoes and a top hat.
Enhancements: Felix is an automaton created to be as human-like as possible. His entire outer covering is a finely sculpted silver, enchanted to behave like skin and flesh, and acid treated and sanded to give it as close to a skin-like texture as possible and to make the surface non-reflective, making it took metallic white, rather than silver. Underneath the silver skin is a network of copper veins and arteries, with mercury running through them. The copper is enchanted to passively give off low amounts of heat to give Felix's flesh a 'life-like' warmth, while the enchanted mercury ensures that his skin repairs like normal skin if damaged. Underneath all that is a human like skeleton that can be felt through Felix's skin. it is made of mostly copper, iron and aluminum. No titanium was used as there was no need to make Felix's bones indestructible, and the iron and copper are not enchanted as there was no need to make him particularly fast or strong. If his bones break, the mercury in his veins can repair them as well. The aluminum is enchanted to offset his overall weight, making him weigh as a human boy should. All of this is controlled by a palladium brain via gold nerves that run through his entire body. Felix is truly a marvel of modern technomancy, and his parents are proud to showcase him.
Caste: Royal Family
Bio: Ophelia Crepley, a member of the Royal Family and close relative to the Queen (as close as one can be to someone almost 400 years old) took a fancy to the wealthy Arno Quates, an artificer who was more businessman than craftsman. Upon marriage, in an attempt to bring himself closer to the Royal Family, Arno changed his family name to Crepley-Quates, an act that brought about disdain and worked counter to his original goal. Arno used his wealth to provide Ophelia with luxuries, luxuries that she indulged in happily, having never known a life outside of being pampered, though she did love and appreciate Arno despite the rumors that she merely married him for his wealth. They were a happy couple and at some point, Ophelia had a child named Clement. Clement was deeply loved by both parents and grew up among high society, but tragedy struck when Clement was kidnapped for ransom. A botched attempt by the Automata Corps to negotiate with an unstable kidnapper resulted in Clement's untimely death. Grief-stricken, Arno and Ophelia turned in desperation to technomancy to fill the hole left in their hearts. They would make a replacement. They used every connection and resource they had to secure the finest the city had to offer in terms of Magi and Artificers to create their 'perfect little boy'. And though Arno never told his wife, some hush money was paid to the Magus working on the palladium brain since a poor urchin was picked up off the street and involuntarily forced to have his consciousness used as the template of the creation. Still, Arno and Ophelia couldn't truly forget about Clement, and in the end, named the new automaton Felix instead. Though Felix's personality was very close to Clement's, he was made aware at inception that he was not human, and that he had been based off of their deceased child. Still, Felix's creation was able to, over time, soothe the wound of losing their child, and they raised him truly as a son. While Arno and Ophelia slowly replaced their bodies with technomancy as they aged, extending their lives, Felix never changed physically, and it seemed the three would live out their lives as parents and child forever. Though Arno continues to run his business, he has shown Felix the ropes of management and finance. |
8,553 | 237 | 10 | 2,532 | 122 | Upon Crowley's arrival and Officer Marv's continued nagging, Connie finally decided that the bloody drop in property value wasn't worth getting in trouble with the Corps over.
With a frowning sneer and fake falsetto, "Alright alright I get it! I'd offer you 'Fi~ine' gentlemen some of my famous watered-down ale for your stupendous and continued service, but I wouldn't trust myself to know what hole to Shove! the tankard up. You'll will have to do with my many mediocre thanks. I bid you gentlemen a horribly good day."
Connie performed a very dramatic curtsy before taking her cleaning things back into the tavern, slamming the door behind her. | Name: Connie McSans
Age: 27
Enhancements: None
Caste: Ignorant Trades
There is a tavern called the Bold Helvetica located right on the border between the Inner Circle and Outer Ring. Owned by Connie, it is a 2 story establishment of modest size with muffled walls, almost decent food, and is a popular meeting place for members of the Inner Circle with business for those of the Ignorant Trades, whether that business be illicit or not.
Connie is a stern woman with a deadpan face and no patience for nonsense and buffoonery. On that note though, she spends what little spare time she has writing tremendously awful love poetry and dreaming of becoming some magi's personal poet. |
8,554 | 237 | 11 | 905 | 2,480 | Sorry about the mess, Gideon said dryly as Felix glanced around the place. He led Felix through the bridge to the workshop where many of his body parts had been created. He casually, but deliberately, threw a nearby sheet over the bust of the queen.
"I imagine," Gideon began, "That it's nothing more serious than stress warping in the metal. Sit, take off your jacket," he swiped some papers and scrap metal haphazardly from one of the workbenches lining the room. They fluttered or clattered to the ground, but Gideon paid them no mind.
As Felix disrobed, Gideon questioned him, almost as a long time doctor seeing a patient. "How's business? I haven't seen your father in a long time." | Name:
Age:
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I had forgotten to put it in the first post. |
8,555 | 237 | 12 | 2,305 | 2,037 | Not at all, Felix replied to Gideon's statement about the clutter, "If your workshop was pristine, I would wonder if you did any work at all." Felix's attention was drawn to the bust that Gideon covered, though he didn't catch what it was and decided not to ask. Felix sat and undressed as ordered. "The company has been doing decently well, though with the size of the company, we worry more about overhead costs now than actual manufacturing. Father says our engineers are running out of ideas; while standard, mass-produced parts are fine for the masses, it's art that appeals to the ones father really wants to do business with. In many ways, I think father is envious of your little studio: no overhead to worry about, and all the best, most well-paying clients lined up for your handiwork. Father's been busy, always running between meetings, inspecting factories, and wrangling with 'politics', as he calls it. Maybe I should tell him to relax, and come in to see you. Heaven knows he's probably due for a checkup too." | Name: Felix Crepley-Quates
Age: 32
Appearance: Felix looks like a 9-year old human child with silvery white skin with a blonde pixie cut and big, glassy violet eyes. He wears boyish, but sophisticated clothing, his usual outfit consisting of a white shirt with lace, a black vest, a dark blue shoulder mantle, a pair of short dark blue pants, long white stockings, brown leather shoes and a top hat.
Enhancements: Felix is an automaton created to be as human-like as possible. His entire outer covering is a finely sculpted silver, enchanted to behave like skin and flesh, and acid treated and sanded to give it as close to a skin-like texture as possible and to make the surface non-reflective, making it took metallic white, rather than silver. Underneath the silver skin is a network of copper veins and arteries, with mercury running through them. The copper is enchanted to passively give off low amounts of heat to give Felix's flesh a 'life-like' warmth, while the enchanted mercury ensures that his skin repairs like normal skin if damaged. Underneath all that is a human like skeleton that can be felt through Felix's skin. it is made of mostly copper, iron and aluminum. No titanium was used as there was no need to make Felix's bones indestructible, and the iron and copper are not enchanted as there was no need to make him particularly fast or strong. If his bones break, the mercury in his veins can repair them as well. The aluminum is enchanted to offset his overall weight, making him weigh as a human boy should. All of this is controlled by a palladium brain via gold nerves that run through his entire body. Felix is truly a marvel of modern technomancy, and his parents are proud to showcase him.
Caste: Royal Family
Bio: Ophelia Crepley, a member of the Royal Family and close relative to the Queen (as close as one can be to someone almost 400 years old) took a fancy to the wealthy Arno Quates, an artificer who was more businessman than craftsman. Upon marriage, in an attempt to bring himself closer to the Royal Family, Arno changed his family name to Crepley-Quates, an act that brought about disdain and worked counter to his original goal. Arno used his wealth to provide Ophelia with luxuries, luxuries that she indulged in happily, having never known a life outside of being pampered, though she did love and appreciate Arno despite the rumors that she merely married him for his wealth. They were a happy couple and at some point, Ophelia had a child named Clement. Clement was deeply loved by both parents and grew up among high society, but tragedy struck when Clement was kidnapped for ransom. A botched attempt by the Automata Corps to negotiate with an unstable kidnapper resulted in Clement's untimely death. Grief-stricken, Arno and Ophelia turned in desperation to technomancy to fill the hole left in their hearts. They would make a replacement. They used every connection and resource they had to secure the finest the city had to offer in terms of Magi and Artificers to create their 'perfect little boy'. And though Arno never told his wife, some hush money was paid to the Magus working on the palladium brain since a poor urchin was picked up off the street and involuntarily forced to have his consciousness used as the template of the creation. Still, Arno and Ophelia couldn't truly forget about Clement, and in the end, named the new automaton Felix instead. Though Felix's personality was very close to Clement's, he was made aware at inception that he was not human, and that he had been based off of their deceased child. Still, Felix's creation was able to, over time, soothe the wound of losing their child, and they raised him truly as a son. While Arno and Ophelia slowly replaced their bodies with technomancy as they aged, extending their lives, Felix never changed physically, and it seemed the three would live out their lives as parents and child forever. Though Arno continues to run his business, he has shown Felix the ropes of management and finance. |
8,556 | 237 | 13 | 2,747 | 345 | Crowley nodded once as the Scarver goes over the case. Looking over at the scene one more time the woman might have been somewhat lucky to be alive if it was just an arm. It can even be replaced. If this had happened earlier in the night she might have bled out totally and died. Though something seems off about the whole thing. He wasn't sure what it was and he wasn't sure how to put it into words even if he could put his finger on it.
Crowley winced internally as he no longer had the capability to wince externally, at Carver's mention of his 'rapport' with the underground. Its something that he has been assigned and re-assinged to over and over. It was with cases like this that he was first recognized by the automata corps and allowed him to ascend to the rank he is now. Since then they have made up a slight majority of his cases that he works on. Though his time working with them he has done several busts and over time has gotten to know several people who work with the smuggling rings and black market sellers. He knows only one or two on a slightly civil level.
He was reminded yet again about how there have been several times where he has captured members for them only to be released back for lack of evidence or some such nonsense. He wasn't sure but he had a thought in the back of his mind that perhaps the establishment here had connections to certain smuggling rings. He has never dared brought it up before and has remained totally silent on the issue to anyone else. Though what bothered him this time was something else.
"I know we don't have any identification but do we have any clues as to what the victim was doing in the area at the time of the assault? Was there any signs that there was a struggle to bring the victim to this location or into the allyway specifically? Most of these things are targeted and done with care." He paused his robotic questioning for a moment to ponder. A few memories flood back to him of cases gone awry. "The good ones that is anyway." | Name: Robert Crowley
Age: 22
Appearance:
Enhancements:
His whole body is a metal armor of white steel. Its an alloy mix of Iron, aluminum and titanium.
The armor itself enhances his strength and speed which supplements his swordplay.
The main combative portions of his magic metal is his two swords. He has two that are like ordinary longswords. They are made with Titanium. They move with his will and can increase the power of his strikes. Upon activation however they glow blue and oscillate at a high frequency making them cut through items not unlike a saw.
Caste: Artificer
Bio:
Dominic Crowley was born to a metal worker and long time artificer. He grew up with only his father as his mother had died giving birth to his younger brother when he was 7. The event framed in his mind the perfect picture of human frailty and thus began a near unhealthy obsession with technomancy. Never having any sort of talent as a Magi he delved into the practice of crafting his own body.
By the age of 13 he had already replaced his legs and had begun plans to replace parts of his arms. At 15 he had already shown an impressive amount of talent in a security job and was drafted by the police. They assisted him in helping fund his body transformation so long as he pledged loyalty to the city and for the security of the nation and their way of life.
By 17 he had already climbed higher into the ranks and worked more and more special operations as guards for elite Magi and other important political or economic figures. He had found funding for his arms and much of his armor at this time. His younger brother who was now 10 was showing signs that he too might pursue the craft.
At the age of 19 his father was killed by a gang of thugs and much of his fathers artifacts were stolen. His brother was wounded in the fight but survived. His losses were a few scars and an eye. Once Robert tracked them down however he slaughtered them all. This was looked down upon at his work as the thugs had loose connections to a lower ranking magi. He survived with his life but his position was demoted back down to a base rank officer. Robert closed his father's shop and sold what he could to buy a house for his brother Joseph and himself. This was the day that he began to teach his brother not only how to craft armor and weapons (as his father had only passed on more economic objects such as appliances or cheap limbs).
By the current day and age of 22 he has climbed up the ladder of the police force once again. They have reluctantly given him his rank equivalent of a sergeant yet again. His pay is decent but he harbors a slight disdain for the current dynamic of the city. His brother, who is now 15, is currently in the police training force as well. He doesn't have anywhere near the extensive body replacement but he at least has a full set of armor and his own weapon now crafted. |
8,557 | 237 | 14 | 905 | 2,480 | There's some bruising on her ribs that we assume is related, Scarver gestured vaguely at the stretcher as it was being carried away, "She might have been dragged in by force. As to why she was walking down the street at that time... we'll have to hope she wakes up to tell us. We'll let you know as soon as she does.
"That's the weird thing, though. It doesn't seem targeted, but it's such a clean job it's hard to say that it was unprofessional. We're not sure what to make of it, yet."
~~~
"Well," Gideon mused as he started setting tools aside. "I rather think your father will never quite get that sort of business. Anyone of, pardon my arrogance, my level of skill simply doesn't need someone like your father to be a middle man. It is my own professional opinion that the highest levels of the industry will always be private contractors. Hold still," he didn't skip a beat as he began to work. On a subject as complex as Felix, it was more like surgery than mere mechanical repair.
The first thing he used was a little cylinder with an iron hemisphere on the end. There were two dials on the other side, and he fiddled with them for a second, then held the iron side to Felix and started running it around his body. Felix could feel as the iron's selective magnetism attracted only the mercury in his body, making it flow through the vessels to follow the strange device.
He ran it down Felix's arm and said, "Here, hold that for me," placing the iron side in Felix's palm. It held the mercury there in his arm, so that it wouldn't start to seal up the pieces that Gideon had to cut.
"If I were in a position to advise him," Gideon said, obviously about to offer that advice anyway, "I'd say it would be best to cut his losses in that sector." | Name:
Age:
Appearance:
Enhancements:
Caste:
Bio:
I had forgotten to put it in the first post. |
8,558 | 237 | 15 | 2,305 | 2,037 | Felix listened intently to Gideon, taking no offense; Gideon was well-respected for his craft and if he spoke arrogantly, it was a right he had earned. When asked to, Felix held on to the instrument that Gideon handed to him.
"Are you saying that father should focus on cheap, mass-produced parts?" Felix asked for clarification. "Perhaps, though some argue whether the masses even deserve technomancy, regardless of whether they are capable of paying for it or not. While father thinks its worth pursuing as long as there's profit to be gained, some of the other board members feel that technomancy should have restricted ownership, to differentiate the nobility from the nouveau riche. They say that unless we sell only to the higher classes, they would never buy from us because our brand would be 'dirty' and cheap. As a private artisan, what are your thoughts on this?" | Name: Felix Crepley-Quates
Age: 32
Appearance: Felix looks like a 9-year old human child with silvery white skin with a blonde pixie cut and big, glassy violet eyes. He wears boyish, but sophisticated clothing, his usual outfit consisting of a white shirt with lace, a black vest, a dark blue shoulder mantle, a pair of short dark blue pants, long white stockings, brown leather shoes and a top hat.
Enhancements: Felix is an automaton created to be as human-like as possible. His entire outer covering is a finely sculpted silver, enchanted to behave like skin and flesh, and acid treated and sanded to give it as close to a skin-like texture as possible and to make the surface non-reflective, making it took metallic white, rather than silver. Underneath the silver skin is a network of copper veins and arteries, with mercury running through them. The copper is enchanted to passively give off low amounts of heat to give Felix's flesh a 'life-like' warmth, while the enchanted mercury ensures that his skin repairs like normal skin if damaged. Underneath all that is a human like skeleton that can be felt through Felix's skin. it is made of mostly copper, iron and aluminum. No titanium was used as there was no need to make Felix's bones indestructible, and the iron and copper are not enchanted as there was no need to make him particularly fast or strong. If his bones break, the mercury in his veins can repair them as well. The aluminum is enchanted to offset his overall weight, making him weigh as a human boy should. All of this is controlled by a palladium brain via gold nerves that run through his entire body. Felix is truly a marvel of modern technomancy, and his parents are proud to showcase him.
Caste: Royal Family
Bio: Ophelia Crepley, a member of the Royal Family and close relative to the Queen (as close as one can be to someone almost 400 years old) took a fancy to the wealthy Arno Quates, an artificer who was more businessman than craftsman. Upon marriage, in an attempt to bring himself closer to the Royal Family, Arno changed his family name to Crepley-Quates, an act that brought about disdain and worked counter to his original goal. Arno used his wealth to provide Ophelia with luxuries, luxuries that she indulged in happily, having never known a life outside of being pampered, though she did love and appreciate Arno despite the rumors that she merely married him for his wealth. They were a happy couple and at some point, Ophelia had a child named Clement. Clement was deeply loved by both parents and grew up among high society, but tragedy struck when Clement was kidnapped for ransom. A botched attempt by the Automata Corps to negotiate with an unstable kidnapper resulted in Clement's untimely death. Grief-stricken, Arno and Ophelia turned in desperation to technomancy to fill the hole left in their hearts. They would make a replacement. They used every connection and resource they had to secure the finest the city had to offer in terms of Magi and Artificers to create their 'perfect little boy'. And though Arno never told his wife, some hush money was paid to the Magus working on the palladium brain since a poor urchin was picked up off the street and involuntarily forced to have his consciousness used as the template of the creation. Still, Arno and Ophelia couldn't truly forget about Clement, and in the end, named the new automaton Felix instead. Though Felix's personality was very close to Clement's, he was made aware at inception that he was not human, and that he had been based off of their deceased child. Still, Felix's creation was able to, over time, soothe the wound of losing their child, and they raised him truly as a son. While Arno and Ophelia slowly replaced their bodies with technomancy as they aged, extending their lives, Felix never changed physically, and it seemed the three would live out their lives as parents and child forever. Though Arno continues to run his business, he has shown Felix the ropes of management and finance. |
8,559 | 237 | 16 | 1,963 | 1,055 | As Orran made his way back to the Inner Ring, he decided to walk past the Bold Helvetica, a tavern he often goes to when he drinks with some of the citizens that are from the Outer Ring. As he strolled along, he noticed three Automata Corps officers discussing something. He didn't hear most of the conversation, but he did hear about someone being attacked. He approached them in quite a casual manner, which is something that most people don't do when they're dealing with Automata Corps Officers. "Is there something wrong?" he asked with some curiosity. It was quite odd to him to find three officers together in a place like this, so he suspected that something had happened. | Name: Orran Tiarnach O’Niall
Gender: Male
Age: 23
Orran has somewhat long, straight black hair, which grows down slightly past his shoulderblades. His fringe stops just above his eyebrows and is swept slightly to the side. His irises are a silver-gray colour. His face is rather slim and his skin is slightly tanned and unscarred. He’s not tall, but he’s not short either, standing at about 5’8”, and his build can be described as ‘fit’. Meaning he is slim, but he still has some muscle. Keeping in touch with the Magi’s sense of clothing, he wears a black waist coat, a black tie and a long sleeved white shirt. The shirt’s sleeves are usually rolled up to his elbows and the top buttons are undone. He wears a pair of gray trousers, a brown leather belt and a pair of black leather shoes.
His right arm is made entirely of iron, and his fingers store a small enchanted Titanium blade in each finger. The blades are the size of scalpels, giving his hands a claw-like appearance when the blades flick out. The mechanism that stores these blades is similar to a flick-knife. His left arm is quite similar to his right, made entirely of iron. However, his left hand is made of copper, which is enchanted to let off electricity. His arms are covered in a layer of silver to create the appearance of skin.
The rest of his body is completely organic.
The reason behind his weapons is purely for self defense.
Caste: Magi
Orran is quite a friendly person, and he’s quite willing to help people. But his help comes with a price, as it usually does within his Caste. However, the price of his services varies greatly depending on who he’s serving. Sometimes it might be the regular enchantment fee, or the price would just be a smile or a meal from the client. It’s usually the latter due to his involvement with the poorer people of the city. He’s not afraid to crack a joke or make a cynical remark, even if he’s the presence of nobles, but the jokes are usually in poor taste and quite dark. But that’s the only time he takes advantage of his Caste’s position. He dislikes the term “Ignorant Trade”, because he believes that without these people, Magi and Artificers alike, will not be able to do what they’re doing now. Thus he isn’t condescending toward them, but more kind.
Upon first glance, Orran can be described as a person with a friendly aura.
Born into the Magi caste within House Alistair as the great nephew of Duncan Alistair, Orran had been dedicated to his studies from a very young age, given many of the 'mundane' tasks that a young magus is usually given. His parents worked extensively in Palladium, creating complex forms for AI in the hopes that they would be able to create an AI capable of replacing the volunteers of the Automata corps. This had no ill intent behind it, but it was met with inexplicable resistance from Duncan himself. It was a way to lessen the amount of volunteers required to the Corps and it would also prevent any chance of revolt, since the AI will not have an independent mind; additionally, it would reduce living casualties if a conflict was to arise.
Following in his parents footsteps, he focused more on Palladium enchantment. This led to numerous familiars being created, each AI being more complex than the last. Thanks to his position in society and the inherent wealth that comes with being in the Caste, he has his own workshop near his home where he stores all of his creations. Most of these familiars are simple metal spheres of Aluminium, which levitate around the workshop randomly, thus eliminating floor space clutter.
His latest AI was installed into the familiar which acts as a bodyguard. This familiar is reminiscent of a Hawk, it’s wings are made of enchanted Aluminium and it’s body is made of iron. The talons are made of enchanted Titanium, making it extremely dangerous. As Orran travels around town, the hawk watches him from above and it will swoop down to protect him when given the signal. Due to his focus in Palladium enchantment, his skills at enchanting other metals is quite mediocre, but good enough to serve others.
Unlike most of his acquaintances, he never really saw the need to have a full body of metal, thus he settled for having both of his arms enhanced. And unlike most of his Caste, Orran doesn’t charge exorbitant fees for his services, sometimes he’ll even do it for free if the person asking for the enchantment is poor. He enjoys walking around the city, especially around the outer circles, because he finds that most of the people in the ‘Ignorant trades’ have more interesting things to say compared to some of the people within the Magi Caste. However, he doesn’t neglect his duties to serve the royal family, but during his free time, he tends to wonder around town or create more types of AI.
If given the invitation, he's not opposed to going out for a drink with people. Most of the time, these invitations are from those who live in the Outer ring. |
8,560 | 237 | 17 | 905 | 2,480 | Gideon was silent for a moment as he worked from behind Felix. He had a copper tool to emit intense heat in one of his lower hands, and had a small hammer in his right and a pair of pliers in his other two. He would heat pieces of Felix's endoskeleton and use the other tools to reshape it.
"This sounds like a problem of conviction. If your father wants his company to have a certain image, and he is promoting it as such, then any actions to the contrary make him seem lukewarm. He can either sell to anyone, and drop the 'high class' image, or he can stick to that image and sell only to customers among the Nobility, or the Magi and Artificers.
"I won't bore you with a speech on ethics but: if he chooses the latter he will go out of business. Plain and simple. He can offer nothing that private artisans are not already delivering. He cannot produce it more cheaply without sacrificing the level of artistry that most of his desired customer base demand. And anyone who can produce that level would not need to work for him."
~~~
Marv looked up as Orran approached, and a sarcastic reply to the inquiry died on its way from his mind to his voicebox. This was a Magus, and one he was familiar with. He was young, but his family was forever trying to replace officers like Marv and Scarver with artificial minds. He thought it was something of a pipe dream, himself, but he wouldn't say no to retirement.
"Yes, Mr. O’Niall. An attack," as he spoke the woman on the stretcher(now quickly on its way out and toward a hospital) let out a quiet sob. He glanced at her, but she didn't seem conscious even at this expression of pain. "It was a scavve... a scavenger. Stole her arm right off her. It's not an uncommon crime, but we've got kind of an expert working on it, I'll have you know." | Name:
Age:
Appearance:
Enhancements:
Caste:
Bio:
I had forgotten to put it in the first post. |
8,561 | 237 | 18 | 2,747 | 345 | Taking a deep breath...or rather the habit of taking a deep breath as he no longer had lungs in which to breath, Crowley pauses. For the most part he is drawing a blank on the specifics of who this is but he is already drawing up a number of possible people in his head. Though he wanted to make sure there weren't any more clues left on the scene. Not wanting to appear incapable of doing his own investigation and with a well hidden dislike for Scarver's company he sets off over to where the girl was found.
If she had been taken and dragged from the street he would have had a decent chance of finding something...anything that could have provided a clue. This block isn't in a known territory of any of the gangs. Perhaps it was some gutsy thugs? No...no this was clean. If it was spontaneous then whoever did this was brilliantly skilled. As one of the medics pass by on their last round before they leave he grabs one by the arm and pulls them close. He doesn't whisper but he doesn't raise his voice to a level where Scarver or Marv would have heard him.
"You call for me immediately if that girl wakes up. Do you hear me? I'm first to know." he lets them go and heads back over to the site. He stares at it over and over again hoping something new pops out to him that he didn't notice before. | Name: Robert Crowley
Age: 22
Appearance:
Enhancements:
His whole body is a metal armor of white steel. Its an alloy mix of Iron, aluminum and titanium.
The armor itself enhances his strength and speed which supplements his swordplay.
The main combative portions of his magic metal is his two swords. He has two that are like ordinary longswords. They are made with Titanium. They move with his will and can increase the power of his strikes. Upon activation however they glow blue and oscillate at a high frequency making them cut through items not unlike a saw.
Caste: Artificer
Bio:
Dominic Crowley was born to a metal worker and long time artificer. He grew up with only his father as his mother had died giving birth to his younger brother when he was 7. The event framed in his mind the perfect picture of human frailty and thus began a near unhealthy obsession with technomancy. Never having any sort of talent as a Magi he delved into the practice of crafting his own body.
By the age of 13 he had already replaced his legs and had begun plans to replace parts of his arms. At 15 he had already shown an impressive amount of talent in a security job and was drafted by the police. They assisted him in helping fund his body transformation so long as he pledged loyalty to the city and for the security of the nation and their way of life.
By 17 he had already climbed higher into the ranks and worked more and more special operations as guards for elite Magi and other important political or economic figures. He had found funding for his arms and much of his armor at this time. His younger brother who was now 10 was showing signs that he too might pursue the craft.
At the age of 19 his father was killed by a gang of thugs and much of his fathers artifacts were stolen. His brother was wounded in the fight but survived. His losses were a few scars and an eye. Once Robert tracked them down however he slaughtered them all. This was looked down upon at his work as the thugs had loose connections to a lower ranking magi. He survived with his life but his position was demoted back down to a base rank officer. Robert closed his father's shop and sold what he could to buy a house for his brother Joseph and himself. This was the day that he began to teach his brother not only how to craft armor and weapons (as his father had only passed on more economic objects such as appliances or cheap limbs).
By the current day and age of 22 he has climbed up the ladder of the police force once again. They have reluctantly given him his rank equivalent of a sergeant yet again. His pay is decent but he harbors a slight disdain for the current dynamic of the city. His brother, who is now 15, is currently in the police training force as well. He doesn't have anywhere near the extensive body replacement but he at least has a full set of armor and his own weapon now crafted. |
8,562 | 237 | 19 | 1,963 | 1,055 | Orran nodded in understanding as the Officer told him the situation, a frown forming on his face. This kind of crime occurred quite often, due to to the costly nature of obtaining prosthetic parts, so he could understand why a scavenger would want it. He glanced at the other Officer, whom he identified as Crowley. He was well aware of what Crowley was capable of, but he still had his doubts about this investigation. He didn't quite hear what the Officer said to the medic, but he had an idea of what it might have been. He decided to keep it to himself.
His eyes flicked back to Marv before he spoke, "I'll be giving the victim a new arm, so you don't need to worry too much about finding the old one, but I'm sure with the criminals, you'll find the arm. If you can, I'll need background information on the victim so I can 'tailor' make it for her, assuming she has a specific trade." His tone wasn't as casual as before, being on the more serious side. He knew that he couldn't do this for everyone that had fallen victim to scavengers, but he wanted to do what he could to help out. | Name: Orran Tiarnach O’Niall
Gender: Male
Age: 23
Orran has somewhat long, straight black hair, which grows down slightly past his shoulderblades. His fringe stops just above his eyebrows and is swept slightly to the side. His irises are a silver-gray colour. His face is rather slim and his skin is slightly tanned and unscarred. He’s not tall, but he’s not short either, standing at about 5’8”, and his build can be described as ‘fit’. Meaning he is slim, but he still has some muscle. Keeping in touch with the Magi’s sense of clothing, he wears a black waist coat, a black tie and a long sleeved white shirt. The shirt’s sleeves are usually rolled up to his elbows and the top buttons are undone. He wears a pair of gray trousers, a brown leather belt and a pair of black leather shoes.
His right arm is made entirely of iron, and his fingers store a small enchanted Titanium blade in each finger. The blades are the size of scalpels, giving his hands a claw-like appearance when the blades flick out. The mechanism that stores these blades is similar to a flick-knife. His left arm is quite similar to his right, made entirely of iron. However, his left hand is made of copper, which is enchanted to let off electricity. His arms are covered in a layer of silver to create the appearance of skin.
The rest of his body is completely organic.
The reason behind his weapons is purely for self defense.
Caste: Magi
Orran is quite a friendly person, and he’s quite willing to help people. But his help comes with a price, as it usually does within his Caste. However, the price of his services varies greatly depending on who he’s serving. Sometimes it might be the regular enchantment fee, or the price would just be a smile or a meal from the client. It’s usually the latter due to his involvement with the poorer people of the city. He’s not afraid to crack a joke or make a cynical remark, even if he’s the presence of nobles, but the jokes are usually in poor taste and quite dark. But that’s the only time he takes advantage of his Caste’s position. He dislikes the term “Ignorant Trade”, because he believes that without these people, Magi and Artificers alike, will not be able to do what they’re doing now. Thus he isn’t condescending toward them, but more kind.
Upon first glance, Orran can be described as a person with a friendly aura.
Born into the Magi caste within House Alistair as the great nephew of Duncan Alistair, Orran had been dedicated to his studies from a very young age, given many of the 'mundane' tasks that a young magus is usually given. His parents worked extensively in Palladium, creating complex forms for AI in the hopes that they would be able to create an AI capable of replacing the volunteers of the Automata corps. This had no ill intent behind it, but it was met with inexplicable resistance from Duncan himself. It was a way to lessen the amount of volunteers required to the Corps and it would also prevent any chance of revolt, since the AI will not have an independent mind; additionally, it would reduce living casualties if a conflict was to arise.
Following in his parents footsteps, he focused more on Palladium enchantment. This led to numerous familiars being created, each AI being more complex than the last. Thanks to his position in society and the inherent wealth that comes with being in the Caste, he has his own workshop near his home where he stores all of his creations. Most of these familiars are simple metal spheres of Aluminium, which levitate around the workshop randomly, thus eliminating floor space clutter.
His latest AI was installed into the familiar which acts as a bodyguard. This familiar is reminiscent of a Hawk, it’s wings are made of enchanted Aluminium and it’s body is made of iron. The talons are made of enchanted Titanium, making it extremely dangerous. As Orran travels around town, the hawk watches him from above and it will swoop down to protect him when given the signal. Due to his focus in Palladium enchantment, his skills at enchanting other metals is quite mediocre, but good enough to serve others.
Unlike most of his acquaintances, he never really saw the need to have a full body of metal, thus he settled for having both of his arms enhanced. And unlike most of his Caste, Orran doesn’t charge exorbitant fees for his services, sometimes he’ll even do it for free if the person asking for the enchantment is poor. He enjoys walking around the city, especially around the outer circles, because he finds that most of the people in the ‘Ignorant trades’ have more interesting things to say compared to some of the people within the Magi Caste. However, he doesn’t neglect his duties to serve the royal family, but during his free time, he tends to wonder around town or create more types of AI.
If given the invitation, he's not opposed to going out for a drink with people. Most of the time, these invitations are from those who live in the Outer ring. |
8,563 | 237 | 20 | 2,305 | 2,037 | Felix could feel Gideon working on his back, and while the heat and the reshaping was slightly uncomfortable, Felix trusted that Gideon knew what he was doing, and Gideon's delicacy and mastery of the craft prevented it the discomfort from becoming unbearable.
Felix appreciated Gideon's response, not only the response itself, but the way in which he delivered it. By framing it as a question of profit, Gideon argued for good business practice, keeping his moral stance on the matter hidden. It was admirable, one never knows when one's convictions might be taken as offensive. As for himself, Felix took a more populist stance on the proliferation of technomancy. His father was of the nouveau riche, and met with a lot of difficulty for it, especially for the fact that he married Felix's mother, who was among the nobility. Unlike Gideon, Felix was fairly open about where he stood, which may be considered naive as, some radical royalists might consider such a stance as treason. "I'm glad you think that way," Felix replied, "It would be bad business sense to turn the company upside down in a vain attempt to attract customers we've never had. Thank yo Mr. Lockheed, I am more reassured now with the company's direction." | Name: Felix Crepley-Quates
Age: 32
Appearance: Felix looks like a 9-year old human child with silvery white skin with a blonde pixie cut and big, glassy violet eyes. He wears boyish, but sophisticated clothing, his usual outfit consisting of a white shirt with lace, a black vest, a dark blue shoulder mantle, a pair of short dark blue pants, long white stockings, brown leather shoes and a top hat.
Enhancements: Felix is an automaton created to be as human-like as possible. His entire outer covering is a finely sculpted silver, enchanted to behave like skin and flesh, and acid treated and sanded to give it as close to a skin-like texture as possible and to make the surface non-reflective, making it took metallic white, rather than silver. Underneath the silver skin is a network of copper veins and arteries, with mercury running through them. The copper is enchanted to passively give off low amounts of heat to give Felix's flesh a 'life-like' warmth, while the enchanted mercury ensures that his skin repairs like normal skin if damaged. Underneath all that is a human like skeleton that can be felt through Felix's skin. it is made of mostly copper, iron and aluminum. No titanium was used as there was no need to make Felix's bones indestructible, and the iron and copper are not enchanted as there was no need to make him particularly fast or strong. If his bones break, the mercury in his veins can repair them as well. The aluminum is enchanted to offset his overall weight, making him weigh as a human boy should. All of this is controlled by a palladium brain via gold nerves that run through his entire body. Felix is truly a marvel of modern technomancy, and his parents are proud to showcase him.
Caste: Royal Family
Bio: Ophelia Crepley, a member of the Royal Family and close relative to the Queen (as close as one can be to someone almost 400 years old) took a fancy to the wealthy Arno Quates, an artificer who was more businessman than craftsman. Upon marriage, in an attempt to bring himself closer to the Royal Family, Arno changed his family name to Crepley-Quates, an act that brought about disdain and worked counter to his original goal. Arno used his wealth to provide Ophelia with luxuries, luxuries that she indulged in happily, having never known a life outside of being pampered, though she did love and appreciate Arno despite the rumors that she merely married him for his wealth. They were a happy couple and at some point, Ophelia had a child named Clement. Clement was deeply loved by both parents and grew up among high society, but tragedy struck when Clement was kidnapped for ransom. A botched attempt by the Automata Corps to negotiate with an unstable kidnapper resulted in Clement's untimely death. Grief-stricken, Arno and Ophelia turned in desperation to technomancy to fill the hole left in their hearts. They would make a replacement. They used every connection and resource they had to secure the finest the city had to offer in terms of Magi and Artificers to create their 'perfect little boy'. And though Arno never told his wife, some hush money was paid to the Magus working on the palladium brain since a poor urchin was picked up off the street and involuntarily forced to have his consciousness used as the template of the creation. Still, Arno and Ophelia couldn't truly forget about Clement, and in the end, named the new automaton Felix instead. Though Felix's personality was very close to Clement's, he was made aware at inception that he was not human, and that he had been based off of their deceased child. Still, Felix's creation was able to, over time, soothe the wound of losing their child, and they raised him truly as a son. While Arno and Ophelia slowly replaced their bodies with technomancy as they aged, extending their lives, Felix never changed physically, and it seemed the three would live out their lives as parents and child forever. Though Arno continues to run his business, he has shown Felix the ropes of management and finance. |
8,564 | 237 | 21 | 905 | 2,480 | Gideon smiled from behind Felix as he finished. He squirted a little mercury from a bottle to seal up the cuts he had made with the necessary precision and took the magnet device from his patient.
"Glad to see at least you see it that way. I'd ask exactly what you meant to do about it, but I suppose it's best to keep such things out of public hands.
"Anyway, I'm quite done here. Do tell your father to come get looked at, unless he's been seeing a different Artificer I'd rather say he's due."
~~~
Marv lifted his arms in exasperation, but what was he to do? And it wasn't like there was any law against such a baffling act of charity.
"Er, well. We don't actually have an identification yet. We do have measurements of her intact arm that would be helpful in making a pretty standard replica. A factory Artificer could knock one out in a couple of hours, even. She'll be in Grace of Hermes Hospital, I'm sure a man of your station could come calling without anyone asking too many questions." | Name:
Age:
Appearance:
Enhancements:
Caste:
Bio:
I had forgotten to put it in the first post. |
8,565 | 237 | 22 | 2,305 | 2,037 | Yes, well, implementation is always more difficult than theory, Felix mused on the direction of his father's company. "And yes, I'll encourage father to come pay you a visit." Felix rotated his shoulders and flexed his back a bit. "Thank you so much for your great work, as usual. Good luck with your...current projects," Felix cast a glance at the covered bust, and made his way out. His next order of business for the day was to meet with a few of the factory overseers to discuss production line efficiency. As the overseers were members of the Ignorant Trades, they would be meeting at the border of the Circle and the Ring, in a tavern called the Bold Helvetica. Felix made his way there. | Name: Felix Crepley-Quates
Age: 32
Appearance: Felix looks like a 9-year old human child with silvery white skin with a blonde pixie cut and big, glassy violet eyes. He wears boyish, but sophisticated clothing, his usual outfit consisting of a white shirt with lace, a black vest, a dark blue shoulder mantle, a pair of short dark blue pants, long white stockings, brown leather shoes and a top hat.
Enhancements: Felix is an automaton created to be as human-like as possible. His entire outer covering is a finely sculpted silver, enchanted to behave like skin and flesh, and acid treated and sanded to give it as close to a skin-like texture as possible and to make the surface non-reflective, making it took metallic white, rather than silver. Underneath the silver skin is a network of copper veins and arteries, with mercury running through them. The copper is enchanted to passively give off low amounts of heat to give Felix's flesh a 'life-like' warmth, while the enchanted mercury ensures that his skin repairs like normal skin if damaged. Underneath all that is a human like skeleton that can be felt through Felix's skin. it is made of mostly copper, iron and aluminum. No titanium was used as there was no need to make Felix's bones indestructible, and the iron and copper are not enchanted as there was no need to make him particularly fast or strong. If his bones break, the mercury in his veins can repair them as well. The aluminum is enchanted to offset his overall weight, making him weigh as a human boy should. All of this is controlled by a palladium brain via gold nerves that run through his entire body. Felix is truly a marvel of modern technomancy, and his parents are proud to showcase him.
Caste: Royal Family
Bio: Ophelia Crepley, a member of the Royal Family and close relative to the Queen (as close as one can be to someone almost 400 years old) took a fancy to the wealthy Arno Quates, an artificer who was more businessman than craftsman. Upon marriage, in an attempt to bring himself closer to the Royal Family, Arno changed his family name to Crepley-Quates, an act that brought about disdain and worked counter to his original goal. Arno used his wealth to provide Ophelia with luxuries, luxuries that she indulged in happily, having never known a life outside of being pampered, though she did love and appreciate Arno despite the rumors that she merely married him for his wealth. They were a happy couple and at some point, Ophelia had a child named Clement. Clement was deeply loved by both parents and grew up among high society, but tragedy struck when Clement was kidnapped for ransom. A botched attempt by the Automata Corps to negotiate with an unstable kidnapper resulted in Clement's untimely death. Grief-stricken, Arno and Ophelia turned in desperation to technomancy to fill the hole left in their hearts. They would make a replacement. They used every connection and resource they had to secure the finest the city had to offer in terms of Magi and Artificers to create their 'perfect little boy'. And though Arno never told his wife, some hush money was paid to the Magus working on the palladium brain since a poor urchin was picked up off the street and involuntarily forced to have his consciousness used as the template of the creation. Still, Arno and Ophelia couldn't truly forget about Clement, and in the end, named the new automaton Felix instead. Though Felix's personality was very close to Clement's, he was made aware at inception that he was not human, and that he had been based off of their deceased child. Still, Felix's creation was able to, over time, soothe the wound of losing their child, and they raised him truly as a son. While Arno and Ophelia slowly replaced their bodies with technomancy as they aged, extending their lives, Felix never changed physically, and it seemed the three would live out their lives as parents and child forever. Though Arno continues to run his business, he has shown Felix the ropes of management and finance. |
8,566 | 237 | 23 | 2,747 | 345 | Robert takes one last look at the blood splatters. It appears as though there is no trail of any kind. Though trusting his instincts more than his brain he takes a look down the ally. There he spots some dark puddles of liquid. It looks like blood but it isn't connected to the puddle from the victim. It had no way of getting there. Looking skyward a thought enters his head. It seems like it could have been from up there....but...how?
Shaking his head twice it seemed unlikely. Though if someone were able to take to the skies or climb their way up out of an alley it would explain the lack of witnesses. Still it was bold. Turning on his heels he heads back to his station to rally up some troops. He was going to get some answers one way or another. Had he still had eyes they would have burned with a fierce determination.
....Or so he would like to have said. His crew have busted up several known gangs and hustlers of the near areas. There were no known thugs with territory in the inner portion of the city so he simply scoured the area near the city's limits that may have had easy access. No one seem to know a thing. This was definitely done a professional. In his mind it was crystal clear that this wasn't simply some thugs taking advantage of a situation. There may be something special having to do with this automata but what? Or perhaps it had to do more with the target rather than her automata? Then there was the third option which was that this was a test. To see if they could get away with nabbing someone in the inner rings.
Making his way to headquarters he wanted to go over any other case files that may have similar stories. Off the top of his head he knew nothing quite like this has happened recently but perhaps he needed to look back further. He mostly was just killing time until the witness woke up. | Name: Robert Crowley
Age: 22
Appearance:
Enhancements:
His whole body is a metal armor of white steel. Its an alloy mix of Iron, aluminum and titanium.
The armor itself enhances his strength and speed which supplements his swordplay.
The main combative portions of his magic metal is his two swords. He has two that are like ordinary longswords. They are made with Titanium. They move with his will and can increase the power of his strikes. Upon activation however they glow blue and oscillate at a high frequency making them cut through items not unlike a saw.
Caste: Artificer
Bio:
Dominic Crowley was born to a metal worker and long time artificer. He grew up with only his father as his mother had died giving birth to his younger brother when he was 7. The event framed in his mind the perfect picture of human frailty and thus began a near unhealthy obsession with technomancy. Never having any sort of talent as a Magi he delved into the practice of crafting his own body.
By the age of 13 he had already replaced his legs and had begun plans to replace parts of his arms. At 15 he had already shown an impressive amount of talent in a security job and was drafted by the police. They assisted him in helping fund his body transformation so long as he pledged loyalty to the city and for the security of the nation and their way of life.
By 17 he had already climbed higher into the ranks and worked more and more special operations as guards for elite Magi and other important political or economic figures. He had found funding for his arms and much of his armor at this time. His younger brother who was now 10 was showing signs that he too might pursue the craft.
At the age of 19 his father was killed by a gang of thugs and much of his fathers artifacts were stolen. His brother was wounded in the fight but survived. His losses were a few scars and an eye. Once Robert tracked them down however he slaughtered them all. This was looked down upon at his work as the thugs had loose connections to a lower ranking magi. He survived with his life but his position was demoted back down to a base rank officer. Robert closed his father's shop and sold what he could to buy a house for his brother Joseph and himself. This was the day that he began to teach his brother not only how to craft armor and weapons (as his father had only passed on more economic objects such as appliances or cheap limbs).
By the current day and age of 22 he has climbed up the ladder of the police force once again. They have reluctantly given him his rank equivalent of a sergeant yet again. His pay is decent but he harbors a slight disdain for the current dynamic of the city. His brother, who is now 15, is currently in the police training force as well. He doesn't have anywhere near the extensive body replacement but he at least has a full set of armor and his own weapon now crafted. |
8,567 | 237 | 24 | 1,963 | 1,055 | Orran nodded thoughtfully as Marv spoke. "That sounds like a good idea. Send the measurements to an artificer and tell them to craft a simple iron arm. Then have it sent to my residence. If you would be so kind." He responded in a rather blank tone. He didn't want to give orders to people, but it seemed more convenient this way. This was also a good opportunity to test a new type of program that he'd thought of recently, which is quite relevant to this kind of situation. Before Marv could even respond, Orran had already started walking back to his residence in the Inner Circle. He suspected the woman wouldn't be awake any time soon, so he decided to take this time to develop his program while he waited for the arm delivery. | Name: Orran Tiarnach O’Niall
Gender: Male
Age: 23
Orran has somewhat long, straight black hair, which grows down slightly past his shoulderblades. His fringe stops just above his eyebrows and is swept slightly to the side. His irises are a silver-gray colour. His face is rather slim and his skin is slightly tanned and unscarred. He’s not tall, but he’s not short either, standing at about 5’8”, and his build can be described as ‘fit’. Meaning he is slim, but he still has some muscle. Keeping in touch with the Magi’s sense of clothing, he wears a black waist coat, a black tie and a long sleeved white shirt. The shirt’s sleeves are usually rolled up to his elbows and the top buttons are undone. He wears a pair of gray trousers, a brown leather belt and a pair of black leather shoes.
His right arm is made entirely of iron, and his fingers store a small enchanted Titanium blade in each finger. The blades are the size of scalpels, giving his hands a claw-like appearance when the blades flick out. The mechanism that stores these blades is similar to a flick-knife. His left arm is quite similar to his right, made entirely of iron. However, his left hand is made of copper, which is enchanted to let off electricity. His arms are covered in a layer of silver to create the appearance of skin.
The rest of his body is completely organic.
The reason behind his weapons is purely for self defense.
Caste: Magi
Orran is quite a friendly person, and he’s quite willing to help people. But his help comes with a price, as it usually does within his Caste. However, the price of his services varies greatly depending on who he’s serving. Sometimes it might be the regular enchantment fee, or the price would just be a smile or a meal from the client. It’s usually the latter due to his involvement with the poorer people of the city. He’s not afraid to crack a joke or make a cynical remark, even if he’s the presence of nobles, but the jokes are usually in poor taste and quite dark. But that’s the only time he takes advantage of his Caste’s position. He dislikes the term “Ignorant Trade”, because he believes that without these people, Magi and Artificers alike, will not be able to do what they’re doing now. Thus he isn’t condescending toward them, but more kind.
Upon first glance, Orran can be described as a person with a friendly aura.
Born into the Magi caste within House Alistair as the great nephew of Duncan Alistair, Orran had been dedicated to his studies from a very young age, given many of the 'mundane' tasks that a young magus is usually given. His parents worked extensively in Palladium, creating complex forms for AI in the hopes that they would be able to create an AI capable of replacing the volunteers of the Automata corps. This had no ill intent behind it, but it was met with inexplicable resistance from Duncan himself. It was a way to lessen the amount of volunteers required to the Corps and it would also prevent any chance of revolt, since the AI will not have an independent mind; additionally, it would reduce living casualties if a conflict was to arise.
Following in his parents footsteps, he focused more on Palladium enchantment. This led to numerous familiars being created, each AI being more complex than the last. Thanks to his position in society and the inherent wealth that comes with being in the Caste, he has his own workshop near his home where he stores all of his creations. Most of these familiars are simple metal spheres of Aluminium, which levitate around the workshop randomly, thus eliminating floor space clutter.
His latest AI was installed into the familiar which acts as a bodyguard. This familiar is reminiscent of a Hawk, it’s wings are made of enchanted Aluminium and it’s body is made of iron. The talons are made of enchanted Titanium, making it extremely dangerous. As Orran travels around town, the hawk watches him from above and it will swoop down to protect him when given the signal. Due to his focus in Palladium enchantment, his skills at enchanting other metals is quite mediocre, but good enough to serve others.
Unlike most of his acquaintances, he never really saw the need to have a full body of metal, thus he settled for having both of his arms enhanced. And unlike most of his Caste, Orran doesn’t charge exorbitant fees for his services, sometimes he’ll even do it for free if the person asking for the enchantment is poor. He enjoys walking around the city, especially around the outer circles, because he finds that most of the people in the ‘Ignorant trades’ have more interesting things to say compared to some of the people within the Magi Caste. However, he doesn’t neglect his duties to serve the royal family, but during his free time, he tends to wonder around town or create more types of AI.
If given the invitation, he's not opposed to going out for a drink with people. Most of the time, these invitations are from those who live in the Outer ring. |
8,568 | 237 | 25 | 905 | 2,480 | Marv cursed as Orran left earshot. It looked like he was going to be doing some bitch work any way he sliced it; he wasn't about to disobey a Magus. Still, he supposed, he would rather do this than Crowley's job.
~~~
The day came and went, and into the next the victim still had not awoken. She lay in a hospital bed, having been given blood, the doctors were just hoping that she had escaped brain damage. But she had been discovered quickly, and the odds were on her side. The waiting game came to an end as the sun began to set. It started as a quiet moan, but soon she was crying out in confusion. There was no pain, the mercury had sealed her wounds up neatly.
An Automata corps officer, posted as a guard in case the assailant came back for her, poked his head in, but said nothing. He pulled a messenger sphere from his pocket and recorded a note for Crowley, sending it off.
Meanwhile, back in the room, the confused cries first died down, then turned to sobs as she felt over her missing arm. | Name:
Age:
Appearance:
Enhancements:
Caste:
Bio:
I had forgotten to put it in the first post. |
8,569 | 237 | 26 | 2,305 | 2,037 | Well I though that was a fairly productive meeting, Felix said to the factory overseers seated at his table in the Bold Helvetica. As the overseers left one by one, giving Felix their final two-cents, Felix waited at the table for the check to arrive. He looked around and assessed this semi-decent establishment, his eyes passing over some seedy-looking fellows, though their 'seediness' did not register in his mind. There was a framed poem hanging on a nearby wall that Felix read. Having no poetic sense, Felix merely assumed that this style must be what was popular right now, unable to gauge how awful the poem really was. | Name: Felix Crepley-Quates
Age: 32
Appearance: Felix looks like a 9-year old human child with silvery white skin with a blonde pixie cut and big, glassy violet eyes. He wears boyish, but sophisticated clothing, his usual outfit consisting of a white shirt with lace, a black vest, a dark blue shoulder mantle, a pair of short dark blue pants, long white stockings, brown leather shoes and a top hat.
Enhancements: Felix is an automaton created to be as human-like as possible. His entire outer covering is a finely sculpted silver, enchanted to behave like skin and flesh, and acid treated and sanded to give it as close to a skin-like texture as possible and to make the surface non-reflective, making it took metallic white, rather than silver. Underneath the silver skin is a network of copper veins and arteries, with mercury running through them. The copper is enchanted to passively give off low amounts of heat to give Felix's flesh a 'life-like' warmth, while the enchanted mercury ensures that his skin repairs like normal skin if damaged. Underneath all that is a human like skeleton that can be felt through Felix's skin. it is made of mostly copper, iron and aluminum. No titanium was used as there was no need to make Felix's bones indestructible, and the iron and copper are not enchanted as there was no need to make him particularly fast or strong. If his bones break, the mercury in his veins can repair them as well. The aluminum is enchanted to offset his overall weight, making him weigh as a human boy should. All of this is controlled by a palladium brain via gold nerves that run through his entire body. Felix is truly a marvel of modern technomancy, and his parents are proud to showcase him.
Caste: Royal Family
Bio: Ophelia Crepley, a member of the Royal Family and close relative to the Queen (as close as one can be to someone almost 400 years old) took a fancy to the wealthy Arno Quates, an artificer who was more businessman than craftsman. Upon marriage, in an attempt to bring himself closer to the Royal Family, Arno changed his family name to Crepley-Quates, an act that brought about disdain and worked counter to his original goal. Arno used his wealth to provide Ophelia with luxuries, luxuries that she indulged in happily, having never known a life outside of being pampered, though she did love and appreciate Arno despite the rumors that she merely married him for his wealth. They were a happy couple and at some point, Ophelia had a child named Clement. Clement was deeply loved by both parents and grew up among high society, but tragedy struck when Clement was kidnapped for ransom. A botched attempt by the Automata Corps to negotiate with an unstable kidnapper resulted in Clement's untimely death. Grief-stricken, Arno and Ophelia turned in desperation to technomancy to fill the hole left in their hearts. They would make a replacement. They used every connection and resource they had to secure the finest the city had to offer in terms of Magi and Artificers to create their 'perfect little boy'. And though Arno never told his wife, some hush money was paid to the Magus working on the palladium brain since a poor urchin was picked up off the street and involuntarily forced to have his consciousness used as the template of the creation. Still, Arno and Ophelia couldn't truly forget about Clement, and in the end, named the new automaton Felix instead. Though Felix's personality was very close to Clement's, he was made aware at inception that he was not human, and that he had been based off of their deceased child. Still, Felix's creation was able to, over time, soothe the wound of losing their child, and they raised him truly as a son. While Arno and Ophelia slowly replaced their bodies with technomancy as they aged, extending their lives, Felix never changed physically, and it seemed the three would live out their lives as parents and child forever. Though Arno continues to run his business, he has shown Felix the ropes of management and finance. |
8,570 | 238 | 0 | 1,347 | 749 | Alliance Space, Sol System, Earth Orbit
Fiery debris of Alliance ships filter down to the planet below as if they were falling stars, purple metallic objects float past as if they were ghosts, descending down into the atmosphere. Their shrieks piercing the minds and hearts of the inhabitants below. Red beams of light torching the structures that once stood so high. Those who tried to resist were turned to ash. They weren’t discriminant; man, woman or child - it didn’t matter. The Cycle Continues.
Many try to flee, but they met the same fate, barley a handful escaped but where to go? Of course the Citadel was the only option for those who could not fight, but what if they were there too? What if other systems had already fallen victim to the Reapers. What chance did the galaxy have?
That's when his voice was heard, broadcasting on all Alliance and Council Emergency Channels.
PRIORITY MESSAGE. THREAT LEVEL: OMEGA
EARTH ORBIT COMPROMISED.
ALL EARTH BOUND SHIPS ARE TO EXIT VIA SOL RELAY. DO NOT APPROACH!
REAPER INVASION CONFIRMED. EVACUATION UNDERWAY.
IF ONLY SHEPARD WERE HERE. WE MAY HAVE HAD A CHANCE.
INVESTIGATE ARCADIA IF POSSIBLE. EVACUATE TO CITADEL SPACE IF NOT.
MAY GOD HAVE MERCY ON US ALL.
Arcadia? The human mining world? What could be found there?
UNKNOWN LOCATION
I told you Harbinger… the humans knew of our arrival. Had I bee-
Enough! Know your place among our harvest. You are but a fresh born… This Cycle will succeed.
As you desire. What is your wish?
Follow them. Learn of their path. Destroy those who are not fit for harvest. | Name: Chimera
Race: Reaper
Age: 315 Cycles
Class: Sovereign
Appearance:
Military Rank: Vanguard
Personality: Chimera is a bit of an outlier when compared to other Reapers, he was jealous of Sovereign been chosen as the Vanguard of this cycle, believing that had ‘he’ been chosen, the Reapers would have already harvested the sentient races.
Background: Chimera was created 315-6 Cycles ago. Chimera was chosen to be the Vanguard of one hundred cycles throughout his ‘career’ as a Reaper, all which resulted in successful harvest without any abnormal levels of resistance.
Within his 30th Cycle, Chimera had decided it best to create a new ‘Staging Station’, the design was modified from the Citadel, focusing more on production and harvesting facilities where he would keep an army which he used when he was appointed as Vanguard. Each Cycle added more to the facility, making it more effective.
However, when Sovereign was chosen to be the Vanguard, Chimera grew jealous. He had been denied several Vanguard Cycles. Once word got out that Sovereign had been defeated. Chimera made it known that had he been picked, the failure would not have happened. |
8,571 | 238 | 1 | 1,299 | 2,431 | Commander Faltus. The Primarch has sent a tier 1 broadcast out to the 43rd Marine Division and Blackwatch to leave Palavens orbit. The 43rd is going to assit with the defence of the Citadel, Blackwatch will be helping Alliance frigates and the Asari on Thessia. The Council will contact you when you can return to fight on Palaven or for that matter Earth. Good Luck...CommanderThe Halodeck faded, Faltus stood still for a few moments aboard the Ghost of Vakarian. He made a transmission to the Ad Victoriam Heavy Cruiser. "Captain Karrel Vakarian, Commander Faltus here. Take the Ad Victoriam and Go and help the 43rd defend the Citadel." Karrel Vakarian, the younger brother of Garrus. After what happened on the Normandy he felt as though it was his duty to make sure Karrel survived the war, as an honour to Garrus. He turned around and strode out of the holodeck room towards the CIC room where the Ghost of Vakarian team were assembled. "Ladies, Gentlemen, Turians, Humans, Asari and Salarians. Today, we were attacked by a new enemy. The entire galaxy is at war. We as The Blackwatch have the honour of fighting on the frontlines at every theatre. Thessia, Praven, Earth are just some of the places where we will fight the enemy. We will not surrender. We will never Give up. WE WILL HONOUR THOSE WHO HAVE ALREADY LOST THEIR LIVES FIGHTING THIS NEW THREAT. At the end of the day, The Reapers wont know what hit them. Before we leave for the Citadel we are going to take a few moments to read of the list of names of Soldiers who have died to get us this far. John Sheppard, Ashley Williams, Kaiden Alenko, Garrus Vakarian, Mordin Solus, Wrex, Liara T'Soni, Jack. They may no longer be here body but they forever will live on in our Fighting Hearts." Faltus snapped his legs together and Saluted the group before him. They did the same. "AD VICTORIAM"He shouted, to which they shouted back. The Ghost of Vakarian's FTL drives began to charge as they left for the Citadel. | Name: Martius Faltus
Race: Turian
Sex(If Applicable): Male
Age: 28
Class: Infiltrator
Military Rank: Commander
Personality: Very Calm, ruthless fighter
Background: Faltus fought, alongside the Turian 7th fleet during the Relay 314 incident, joining the ground forces assault on Shanxi. Following the ceasefire between Turian and Alliance forces, Faltus left the 7th fleet to join C-Sec and defend the Citadel, it was here he met with the council to discuss his fate on the Citadel. After heated discussions with the Turian council representative , he was finally convinced to rejoin the Turian military and help defend Palaven with the Turian 43rd Marine Division. It was here that he was promoted to Commander by Primarch Adrien Victus and Transfered to Blackwatch and given control of a vessel very similar to the Normandy SR-2, along with a Heavy Attack Warship. Blackwatch was pulled from the homeworld by order of Primarch Adrien Victus, who wanted to mobilize this elite force in less hopeless situations across the galaxy. |
8,572 | 238 | 2 | 2,420 | 2,392 | It wasn't often the Captain took his calls in his quarters, instead of on his omni-tool in the middle of the bridge. Kaelyn brushed aside a mechanic and the open hatch he had fitted his head through, nodding apologetically at one another. The Captain would only do that when the message was from The Alliance. And the only time The Alliance was to contact them was for a mission, which would not bode well. It wasn't known by the majority of the crew that the ship operated for the Alliance, and every mission they were sent where they didn't loot everything there raised suspicion. Captain Maurinnus walked a fine line between leader and mutiny. She entered his quarters, making a point of not knocking.
"Morning sweetheart," her playful greeting immediately felt crass when put next to the hard look he fixed her with. If it were possible for a Turian, she would say he looked gaunt
"We got a priority message," He started, and waved at his terminal. This didn't make sense, The Every Dawn didn't get priority messages, it lacked the tech to pick up wide band military transmissions... Unless this wasn't aimed only at military...
"It's threat level omega." He spoke the words like they had heavy meaning to them, but Kaelyn wasn't Alliance ops, so it meant very little to her.
"Is omega the kind of alert that's often transmitted to civilian ships?" she asked.
"Yes, it demands we clear all distance from the affected worlds. Earth and Palaven, as far as the message goes, are war-zones. We are being reassigned to Arcadia, to receive further instruction there."
"War zones? War zones with who? Eachother?"
"I don't know." he got up, presumably to plot a course from the bridge. Kaelyn followed close behind,
"And why Arcadia, that's no staging ground for any reinforcements, the planet can barely support itself."
"Prepare yourself and your team for combat, we have to be ready for anything once we get there."
"Sir," she pulled on his shoulder pad, and he turned to face her. "Don't you feel like something this major would have more weight to it? Something more than just a message or something?"
He fixed her with another hard look and let it hang in the air for a moment, he bristled in that way Turians do, "It's omega, the message code isn't common knowledge and it has only been used once before, undercover when some terrorists were going to fly a moon into Earth. Your government kept that quiet at the time to prevent panic, but this they announce to everyone. That should speak louder than anything you were expecting. Tell Cabin to get the stealth systems ready and prime the engines."
Kaeyln saluted, and headed off to her errands. And to think the day was going so well... This vessel was a Turian ship technically, if they were in combat with each other, she might be playing for the wrong side | Name: Kaelyn Lansing
Race: Human
Sex: Female
Age: 29
Class: Soldier
Appearance: Heavy armour among the standards of the finest in alliance technology, allowing for freedom of movement and optimal protection. It is painted dark red, though this coat has peeled and come away in places due to advanced wear to reveal a dark grey underlay. It also has a decayed kinetic barrier generator, due to long operation without advanced repair, making it far weaker in the shield department than most other special forces, but most of her work in the Blue Suns was without a kinetic barrier, so she relies much more heavily on raw protection, injury response systems and flat-out toughness to stay in any fight
Shoulder length black hair and blue eyes. She has a scar under her right eye and across her nose, as well as burn mark across her neck
Military Rank: Alliance Privateer
Personality: Out for her crew first, anything is not even secondary in comparison. Short of that, she is often jokey and flirtatious, rarely using her considerable force to achieve what she wants
Background: Colony born in the terminus systems, Kaelyn learnt how to defend herself at an early age from pirates and raiders (or pirate raiders). At the age of 14 her family and her left to return back to safer citadel space, where her parents retired on Illum.
To earn a living, Kaelyn and her brother, Benjamin worked as intel operatives for a local crime lord. Long story short, they got on the wrong side of The Eclipse, which is not a good idea. To escape Illum, an Eclipse stronghold, Kaelyn and Benjamin shipped off to Omega. They worked oddjobs for The Blue Suns before being enrolled as fully fledged mercenaries 2 years later. From the ages of 18 to 23 Kaelyn operated in the Blue Suns, while her brother left to join the Alliance she stayed on. Eventually she was headhunted after a reccomendation by her brother, and was assigned to a privateer vessel due to her contacts in the mercenary underworld and extensive knowledge of the fringe worlds
Since then she has served as head of security aboard the 'Every Dawn' under Captain Maurrinus (a male Turian), paid by the alliance to hit various targets of importance to smuggling operations and pirates, off the records of course
Captain Maurrinus often accompanies her and her team on away missions, but relies wholly on her judgement. As the crew says, "On the ship, salute whoever sits in the chair. On the ground, salute whoever has the guns. Not the bloody enemy though."
Starting War Asset:
Stealth Ship: The Every Dawn, a Turian frigate with a crew of 35 (8 combat personel), based strongly off technology used in the Normandy SR1. Has a far smaller budget than the Normandy, it lacks heavy ship-to-ship weaponry and is more focused on ground deployment and support
Veteran Fireteam: A motley crew of mercenaries, The Every Dawn also holds a sizable compartment to hold heavy weapons and MAKO, that can be deployed directly in atmosphere |
8,573 | 238 | 3 | 1,347 | 749 | Exodus Cluster, Arcadia Orbit
Above the planet sat a single Systems Alliance Dreadnaught, heavily battle damaged and undergoing repairs. However, there was no sign of hostile activity in the area, at least not yet. This ship itself was broadcasting an in-system distress call, most likely to prevent the Reapers from picking up the cries for help.
“Attention all inbound vessels. This is the SSV Thor’s Hammer. We’ve been heavily damaged by an unknown vessel. The Scientists have discovered some kind of vault on Arcadia. All past attempts to open is have been futile, however for some reason they’ve opened up once word got out about the invasion. Whatever’s going on down there needs to be investigated before they show up.”
Widow Nebula, Citadel Perimeter
Hundreds of ships were already waiting to be cleared by C-Sec. Never before have so many refugees from all over the galaxy sought aid at the Citadel. But somehow the lanes were moving and ships were being docked in their respectable places.
Many military ships cruised alongside civilian ones, merely to keep the feeling of safety. But a Reaper’s beam would easily cut through both in a single swipe.
Across ANN and CNN broadcasts of incoming reports of Reaper attacks across the galaxy, but one of the key events was the meeting of all the Races of the galaxy. | Name: Chimera
Race: Reaper
Age: 315 Cycles
Class: Sovereign
Appearance:
Military Rank: Vanguard
Personality: Chimera is a bit of an outlier when compared to other Reapers, he was jealous of Sovereign been chosen as the Vanguard of this cycle, believing that had ‘he’ been chosen, the Reapers would have already harvested the sentient races.
Background: Chimera was created 315-6 Cycles ago. Chimera was chosen to be the Vanguard of one hundred cycles throughout his ‘career’ as a Reaper, all which resulted in successful harvest without any abnormal levels of resistance.
Within his 30th Cycle, Chimera had decided it best to create a new ‘Staging Station’, the design was modified from the Citadel, focusing more on production and harvesting facilities where he would keep an army which he used when he was appointed as Vanguard. Each Cycle added more to the facility, making it more effective.
However, when Sovereign was chosen to be the Vanguard, Chimera grew jealous. He had been denied several Vanguard Cycles. Once word got out that Sovereign had been defeated. Chimera made it known that had he been picked, the failure would not have happened. |
8,574 | 238 | 4 | 1,299 | 2,431 | Faltus and the Ghost of Vakarian, arrived at the Citadel quite quickly. He knew if they Vakarian and Ad Victoriam were going to be able to Liberate Palaven they would need all the help they could get. "Specialist Keyes, Get me the Turian Ambassador on Vidcom." He turned to walk out of the CIC back to the Holodeck room. "Ambassador, Commander Faltus of the Ghost of Vakarian, Turian Blackwatch. The Primarch has order Blackwatch and the 43rd marines to defend the galaxy as we see fit, but for that to happen i need to staff my Warship and my cruiser with more ground troops. With your permission Ambassador id like to recruit some C-Sec officers and some of the refugees to aid my fleet". The Ambassador turned away for a few seconds, before turning back to the Commander. "Commander, at this time we can spare only two C-Sec officers at this time, Lieutenant Commander Liam Taylor and Lieutenant Jane Cortez. As for the Refugees, you have permission, but they are your risk to take" .
"Specialist broadcast the recruitment message now" The message appeared on all the screens around the citadel.
Ladies and Gentlemen, This is Commander Faltus of the Turian Blackwatch, Refugees are being drafted into our ranks, Starting immediately all Refugees over the age of fifteen are to report into the Docks, you are board the Ad Victoriam warship and the Ghost of Vakarian cruiser. Only come if you have fired a weapon before. Everyone who arrives will be trained as Blackwatch soldiers. That means that you will learn to fight Effectively as a Unit alongside Asari, Salarians, Krogan and Humans. the ships with leave at 1100hrs. | Name: Martius Faltus
Race: Turian
Sex(If Applicable): Male
Age: 28
Class: Infiltrator
Military Rank: Commander
Personality: Very Calm, ruthless fighter
Background: Faltus fought, alongside the Turian 7th fleet during the Relay 314 incident, joining the ground forces assault on Shanxi. Following the ceasefire between Turian and Alliance forces, Faltus left the 7th fleet to join C-Sec and defend the Citadel, it was here he met with the council to discuss his fate on the Citadel. After heated discussions with the Turian council representative , he was finally convinced to rejoin the Turian military and help defend Palaven with the Turian 43rd Marine Division. It was here that he was promoted to Commander by Primarch Adrien Victus and Transfered to Blackwatch and given control of a vessel very similar to the Normandy SR-2, along with a Heavy Attack Warship. Blackwatch was pulled from the homeworld by order of Primarch Adrien Victus, who wanted to mobilize this elite force in less hopeless situations across the galaxy. |
8,575 | 238 | 5 | 407 | 586 | What the fuck is happening?! Who are these guys?!
"Doesn't matter! Just keep fighting! Keep ARGH!! *static"
This is all going to hell in a handbag. Some giant fleet was attacking Omega, and already a lot of people were dead. It had already communicated to everyone that Omega had fallen, now everyone was fighting just to survive. Nobody knew where Aria was, or even if she was alive, if she was, she was taking her sweet time telling someone.
"This is Lady Luck, has anyone got any idea where Aria is?!" No response, everyone was too busy panicking, and then, a voice popped over the Comms, a voice that was music to Williams ears.
"Everyone, this is Aria. Omegle has fallen, taken over by these Cereberus assholes. Everyone, if you can't fight, head back to the Citadel. If you can, head for Acadia, I have contacts there that say something big is going on there. After we are all sorted, we will return to Omega. Will beat these Cereberus bastards, and I will personally skin their commander alive!"
There a lot of cheers at that last part, but William had heard all he needed. He set a course for Acadia, and prayed that Aria would make it out alive. If she didn't, he'd have to find someone else to pay the butchers bill.
"Alright folks, let's see what Acadia has for us, punch it!" | Name: William Jones
Race: Human
Sex: Male
Age: 24
Class: Soldier
Appearance: Tall with short red hair and blue eyes. Wears a mixed assortment of armour pieces.
Military Rank: Mercenary Captain
Personality: Calm under fire, has a quick wit, polite and friendly in his free time, ruthless in a fight.
Background: Born on Omega, his mother died in child birth, and his father died when he was ten in a bar brawl. He learned the ins and outs of Omega society quickly, who to befriend, who to help, and who to kill. He made friends with other orphans, and when he was sixteen he and his friends started working for an old Krogan who worked on a salvage ship. When he was twenty, he and his friends started work as freelance mercenaries, with a few joining the Blue Suns or Eclipse. Eventually he got his hands on a warship, and started recruiting people to join his crew. By the time he had enough for a skeleton crew, Omega was attacked by Cerebrus. He and his friends managed to get out of the system, along with a few other mercs and people who they liked from Omega. Now, they're trying to find somewhere to hide, or to make a last stand.
Starting War Assets:
Advanced Warship-The Lady Luck is a large Frigate class warship with a crew of two hundred, he won it in a card game, crew consists of mercs and a few refugees from Omega.
Veterean Fireteam-Him and the Fireteam have known each other since they grew up on Omega. |
8,576 | 238 | 6 | 1,347 | 749 | Arcadia Dig Site: Iris
The surface was nothing but a barren landscape, littered with strip mines and mining stations. However all but one was silent. The last light of hope.
But a great terror stood in the horizon. - Searching.
A single Reaper - Chimera. Surrounded by metal corpses of ships that dared oppose it. Now war was no longer in its interest, instead it used its laser to dig the earth beneath it.
The vault entrance was entrenched in a small mining station, luckily missed by the Reaper. The station had a small dock that was used by cargo freighters - big enough for one or two small ships.
Through the vault entrance, bodies of both humans and Collectors laid down the corridors until it lead to a single unopened door, its architecture unrecognisable. | Name: Chimera
Race: Reaper
Age: 315 Cycles
Class: Sovereign
Appearance:
Military Rank: Vanguard
Personality: Chimera is a bit of an outlier when compared to other Reapers, he was jealous of Sovereign been chosen as the Vanguard of this cycle, believing that had ‘he’ been chosen, the Reapers would have already harvested the sentient races.
Background: Chimera was created 315-6 Cycles ago. Chimera was chosen to be the Vanguard of one hundred cycles throughout his ‘career’ as a Reaper, all which resulted in successful harvest without any abnormal levels of resistance.
Within his 30th Cycle, Chimera had decided it best to create a new ‘Staging Station’, the design was modified from the Citadel, focusing more on production and harvesting facilities where he would keep an army which he used when he was appointed as Vanguard. Each Cycle added more to the facility, making it more effective.
However, when Sovereign was chosen to be the Vanguard, Chimera grew jealous. He had been denied several Vanguard Cycles. Once word got out that Sovereign had been defeated. Chimera made it known that had he been picked, the failure would not have happened. |
8,577 | 238 | 7 | 1,299 | 2,431 | Many refugees came aboard the Ghost of Vakarian and the Ad Victoriam. Faltus knew he would have to address his new troops directly if they had any hope of fighting as a unit. An alert sounded on the Vakarian calling for all troops to be in the hangar.
"Alright recruits. I'm not going to tell you this battle is going to be easy, cause very clearly it's not. If I had any doubts though that your expertise would not help us win the war I wouldn't have called upon you to help. That being said Welcome to the Blackwatchover the next few months we will be training all of you as individual soldiers and as a unit. You will learn how to fight alongside other races in the Galaxy effectively and you will be trained in guerilla tactics. You will be trained by the two C-Sec officers who have kindly agreed to join us." | Name: Martius Faltus
Race: Turian
Sex(If Applicable): Male
Age: 28
Class: Infiltrator
Military Rank: Commander
Personality: Very Calm, ruthless fighter
Background: Faltus fought, alongside the Turian 7th fleet during the Relay 314 incident, joining the ground forces assault on Shanxi. Following the ceasefire between Turian and Alliance forces, Faltus left the 7th fleet to join C-Sec and defend the Citadel, it was here he met with the council to discuss his fate on the Citadel. After heated discussions with the Turian council representative , he was finally convinced to rejoin the Turian military and help defend Palaven with the Turian 43rd Marine Division. It was here that he was promoted to Commander by Primarch Adrien Victus and Transfered to Blackwatch and given control of a vessel very similar to the Normandy SR-2, along with a Heavy Attack Warship. Blackwatch was pulled from the homeworld by order of Primarch Adrien Victus, who wanted to mobilize this elite force in less hopeless situations across the galaxy. |
8,578 | 238 | 8 | 407 | 586 | Everyone looked tired. Some of these people were profesional mercs, or at least claimed to be, and they were barely holding it together. Most of them were just average people, so it's safe to say that they were scared. William couldn't blame them, Omega fallen, Aria fleeing, it seemed like something out of a dream. Except this wasn't a dream, and it was up to William and his crew to keep everyone together. They had received word from other surviving ships. Most of them were heading to the Citadel, but only a dozen or so we're heading to Arcadia. And only Lady Luck and another ship called Moby Dick had anything remotely resembling a warship, the rest were mostly transports and cruise ships that had been nicked by some Eclipse. Hopefully they won't face a fight when they got to Arcadia, but William had a sinking feeling in his gut.
"Open Comms to Arcadia." The crewman in charge of Comms nodded and patched him in, "Arcadia, this is Lady Luck, is anyone hearing me?"
*STATIC*
"Arcadia? Is anyone there?"
*STATIC* "-ed evac. There's a Reaper touched down on the planet. It looks like it's searching for the" *STATIC* "-e are hold up near it. Somebody, anybody,, please help. MESSAGE REPEATS"
William paled at the word Reaper. If they were the only ones going to Arcadia, they'd be screwed. He had to do something he never thought he'd ever do. Call the cops.
"This is a general alert to anyone heading to Arcadia. A Reaper has touched down on the planet proper. No idea if more are coming or not. No idea if anyone is even alive there anymore. Me and a few other ships are already en route to the planet, and we are unable to change course at this time. If you can hear me, either tell me what's so important on that planet, or we are running. Somebody please respond, I don't intend on dying for nothing." | Name: William Jones
Race: Human
Sex: Male
Age: 24
Class: Soldier
Appearance: Tall with short red hair and blue eyes. Wears a mixed assortment of armour pieces.
Military Rank: Mercenary Captain
Personality: Calm under fire, has a quick wit, polite and friendly in his free time, ruthless in a fight.
Background: Born on Omega, his mother died in child birth, and his father died when he was ten in a bar brawl. He learned the ins and outs of Omega society quickly, who to befriend, who to help, and who to kill. He made friends with other orphans, and when he was sixteen he and his friends started working for an old Krogan who worked on a salvage ship. When he was twenty, he and his friends started work as freelance mercenaries, with a few joining the Blue Suns or Eclipse. Eventually he got his hands on a warship, and started recruiting people to join his crew. By the time he had enough for a skeleton crew, Omega was attacked by Cerebrus. He and his friends managed to get out of the system, along with a few other mercs and people who they liked from Omega. Now, they're trying to find somewhere to hide, or to make a last stand.
Starting War Assets:
Advanced Warship-The Lady Luck is a large Frigate class warship with a crew of two hundred, he won it in a card game, crew consists of mercs and a few refugees from Omega.
Veterean Fireteam-Him and the Fireteam have known each other since they grew up on Omega. |
8,579 | 238 | 9 | 1,299 | 2,431 | A message played across the intercoms as Faltus set the new recruits training. "Specialist Keyes open a Secure transmission with who ever is sending that signal, If theyre on their way to Arcadia then they need some Firepower to take out a reaper. Lieutenant Commander Cortez send message to the Ad Victoriam that we are en route to arcadia and to be ready to battle a Reaper." Cortez saluted then left the room to make the call and Faltus turned back to his troops. "This is your chance to prove yourself to the Galaxy that Reapers can be beaten. This is your chance to prove to me that i didnt make a mistake picking your sorry asses up. In the time it takes us to get there I want to brief you on our plan to take down reapers." A board glowed behind the Turian Commander as he pointed to each Strategic point. "Our Asari troops will make a barrier to hold the Husk and Cannibals and whatever else the reapers throw at us. Turians will flank around and try to find out where their troops are coming from. Batarians will take out the enemy ground troops. A small salarian science team will follow me and my ground squad to the Vault on arcadia. The Ad Victoriam and The Vakarian will fire at the reaper until its destroyed. save any civilians left on the ground" | Name: Martius Faltus
Race: Turian
Sex(If Applicable): Male
Age: 28
Class: Infiltrator
Military Rank: Commander
Personality: Very Calm, ruthless fighter
Background: Faltus fought, alongside the Turian 7th fleet during the Relay 314 incident, joining the ground forces assault on Shanxi. Following the ceasefire between Turian and Alliance forces, Faltus left the 7th fleet to join C-Sec and defend the Citadel, it was here he met with the council to discuss his fate on the Citadel. After heated discussions with the Turian council representative , he was finally convinced to rejoin the Turian military and help defend Palaven with the Turian 43rd Marine Division. It was here that he was promoted to Commander by Primarch Adrien Victus and Transfered to Blackwatch and given control of a vessel very similar to the Normandy SR-2, along with a Heavy Attack Warship. Blackwatch was pulled from the homeworld by order of Primarch Adrien Victus, who wanted to mobilize this elite force in less hopeless situations across the galaxy. |
8,580 | 238 | 10 | 2,420 | 2,392 | The Every Dawn jumped into the Utopia System, and drifted gracefully towards Arcadia. It's crimson and white hull cutting through the black sea.
Now armed and armoured, Kaelyn nodded at her team and headed up to the bridge. Captain Maurrinus had just finished on the comm. He didn't turn to face her when she walked in, and his co-pilot, Davids, was too focused on something on his monitor. He started listing off names; "SSV Pinnacle, SSV Sweeping Cry, SSV Yesterday -" he was cut off by Maurrinus, "I get the picture, Davids, how many?"
Davids was silent for a second, "16, of varying size. From dreadnaught to cutter."
"We need to know why an enemy would send a fleet to Arcadia." Kaelyn spoke up. Maurrinus laughed
"It's not a fleet, Kaelyn. It's one damned ship! A Reaper. I was part of the battle for the citadel, it took the combined forces of the Alliance to take it down. I didn't want to believe the message... I didn't want to believe Shepard when he said it."
The comm crackled into life; "Arcadia, this is Lady Luck, is anyone hearing me?"
Lady Luck? She didn't know the ship, but she knew that voice... "Davids, get us a link."
Another message popped through, "This is a general alert to anyone heading to Arcadia. A Reaper has touched down on the planet proper. No idea if more are coming or not. No idea if anyone is even alive there anymore. Me and a few other ships are already en route to the planet, and we are unable to change course at this time. If you can hear me, either tell me what's so important on that planet, or we are running. Somebody please respond, I don't intend on dying for nothing."
"William, you bastard. How did you get a ship? Never mind, The Every Dawn is in system, and we need to come up with a plan. Never mind tell me what's so important, if Admiral Hackett himself asked for it, it must be important. Who have you got with you?" | Name: Kaelyn Lansing
Race: Human
Sex: Female
Age: 29
Class: Soldier
Appearance: Heavy armour among the standards of the finest in alliance technology, allowing for freedom of movement and optimal protection. It is painted dark red, though this coat has peeled and come away in places due to advanced wear to reveal a dark grey underlay. It also has a decayed kinetic barrier generator, due to long operation without advanced repair, making it far weaker in the shield department than most other special forces, but most of her work in the Blue Suns was without a kinetic barrier, so she relies much more heavily on raw protection, injury response systems and flat-out toughness to stay in any fight
Shoulder length black hair and blue eyes. She has a scar under her right eye and across her nose, as well as burn mark across her neck
Military Rank: Alliance Privateer
Personality: Out for her crew first, anything is not even secondary in comparison. Short of that, she is often jokey and flirtatious, rarely using her considerable force to achieve what she wants
Background: Colony born in the terminus systems, Kaelyn learnt how to defend herself at an early age from pirates and raiders (or pirate raiders). At the age of 14 her family and her left to return back to safer citadel space, where her parents retired on Illum.
To earn a living, Kaelyn and her brother, Benjamin worked as intel operatives for a local crime lord. Long story short, they got on the wrong side of The Eclipse, which is not a good idea. To escape Illum, an Eclipse stronghold, Kaelyn and Benjamin shipped off to Omega. They worked oddjobs for The Blue Suns before being enrolled as fully fledged mercenaries 2 years later. From the ages of 18 to 23 Kaelyn operated in the Blue Suns, while her brother left to join the Alliance she stayed on. Eventually she was headhunted after a reccomendation by her brother, and was assigned to a privateer vessel due to her contacts in the mercenary underworld and extensive knowledge of the fringe worlds
Since then she has served as head of security aboard the 'Every Dawn' under Captain Maurrinus (a male Turian), paid by the alliance to hit various targets of importance to smuggling operations and pirates, off the records of course
Captain Maurrinus often accompanies her and her team on away missions, but relies wholly on her judgement. As the crew says, "On the ship, salute whoever sits in the chair. On the ground, salute whoever has the guns. Not the bloody enemy though."
Starting War Asset:
Stealth Ship: The Every Dawn, a Turian frigate with a crew of 35 (8 combat personel), based strongly off technology used in the Normandy SR1. Has a far smaller budget than the Normandy, it lacks heavy ship-to-ship weaponry and is more focused on ground deployment and support
Veteran Fireteam: A motley crew of mercenaries, The Every Dawn also holds a sizable compartment to hold heavy weapons and MAKO, that can be deployed directly in atmosphere |
8,581 | 238 | 11 | 407 | 586 | Kaeyln? Is that you? Haha, it's been a while lass, how've you been? Forget it, we will talk later. I've got about a dozen ships of varying size and crew number, with only my ship and another being warships, the rest have little to no combat capabilities. I've got refugees from Omega, as well as some freelance boys, hell, we got a few Blue Suns on one ship, Elcipse on another, and a very pissed off squad of Blood Pact. Asides from that we have nothing. We've slowed down as much as we can, but we can't change course. As soon as we enter anywhere near Arcadia that Reaper will spot us, and probably kill us. But I've got a plan. Five teams of five will leave in shuttles and head to whatever this vault thingy is and secure the outside. As soon as we touch down planetside, the ships will fallback to a safe distance from the planet, while me and my guys try and enter, or wait for reinforcements. So, what do ya think of the plan? Also, I won the ship in a card game. | Name: William Jones
Race: Human
Sex: Male
Age: 24
Class: Soldier
Appearance: Tall with short red hair and blue eyes. Wears a mixed assortment of armour pieces.
Military Rank: Mercenary Captain
Personality: Calm under fire, has a quick wit, polite and friendly in his free time, ruthless in a fight.
Background: Born on Omega, his mother died in child birth, and his father died when he was ten in a bar brawl. He learned the ins and outs of Omega society quickly, who to befriend, who to help, and who to kill. He made friends with other orphans, and when he was sixteen he and his friends started working for an old Krogan who worked on a salvage ship. When he was twenty, he and his friends started work as freelance mercenaries, with a few joining the Blue Suns or Eclipse. Eventually he got his hands on a warship, and started recruiting people to join his crew. By the time he had enough for a skeleton crew, Omega was attacked by Cerebrus. He and his friends managed to get out of the system, along with a few other mercs and people who they liked from Omega. Now, they're trying to find somewhere to hide, or to make a last stand.
Starting War Assets:
Advanced Warship-The Lady Luck is a large Frigate class warship with a crew of two hundred, he won it in a card game, crew consists of mercs and a few refugees from Omega.
Veterean Fireteam-Him and the Fireteam have known each other since they grew up on Omega. |
8,582 | 238 | 12 | 1,299 | 2,431 | The Vakarian and the Ad Victoriam entered the Utopia system, and sped towards Arcadia.
"Any ships in the Area this is the Ghost of Vakarian and Ad Victoriam, Turian Blackwatch. Weve received reports of a Reaper on Arcadia and are here to provide assistance during the attack. All Ships respond" The message was sent to any of the ships in the vicinity of Arcadia | Name: Martius Faltus
Race: Turian
Sex(If Applicable): Male
Age: 28
Class: Infiltrator
Military Rank: Commander
Personality: Very Calm, ruthless fighter
Background: Faltus fought, alongside the Turian 7th fleet during the Relay 314 incident, joining the ground forces assault on Shanxi. Following the ceasefire between Turian and Alliance forces, Faltus left the 7th fleet to join C-Sec and defend the Citadel, it was here he met with the council to discuss his fate on the Citadel. After heated discussions with the Turian council representative , he was finally convinced to rejoin the Turian military and help defend Palaven with the Turian 43rd Marine Division. It was here that he was promoted to Commander by Primarch Adrien Victus and Transfered to Blackwatch and given control of a vessel very similar to the Normandy SR-2, along with a Heavy Attack Warship. Blackwatch was pulled from the homeworld by order of Primarch Adrien Victus, who wanted to mobilize this elite force in less hopeless situations across the galaxy. |
8,583 | 238 | 13 | 1,347 | 749 | On the Arcadia surface, near Mining Station Iris, flashes of purpose energy flashed constantly. As the flashes appeared over husks, cannibals and any other monstrosity created by the Reapers were torn to shreds without any indication as to what was slashing them. Only those with quickly senses would see the partial of a blade emerging from the warp and retreating back again once it tasted the blood of its victim.
Within minutes an entire strike force was eliminated. As the dust settled, the assailants made their debut. Five Slayer-Vanguards, all in their N7 Armour specially created to complement their abilities. They watched the horizon as the Reaper in the distance hopelessly searched for whatever it was looking for.
“Sir, we should get moving.” One of the lighter framed soldiers said, his voice stern.
The one with the red chest piece turned to him and simply nodded in agreement, his facial expression hidden by the helmet that he wore.
They began to head further into the camp, slaying anything that stood in their way, that was what they were trained to do. That’s when the radio broadcast came in.
“If you two are bloody done with your little chit chat, would you kindly help? The Reaper has probably already locked onto both our signals now. But he seems too preoccupied by whatever its looking for. If you have firepower I think you should bring it down, we need to blow this door down and find whatever its looking for before it does.” | Name: Chimera
Race: Reaper
Age: 315 Cycles
Class: Sovereign
Appearance:
Military Rank: Vanguard
Personality: Chimera is a bit of an outlier when compared to other Reapers, he was jealous of Sovereign been chosen as the Vanguard of this cycle, believing that had ‘he’ been chosen, the Reapers would have already harvested the sentient races.
Background: Chimera was created 315-6 Cycles ago. Chimera was chosen to be the Vanguard of one hundred cycles throughout his ‘career’ as a Reaper, all which resulted in successful harvest without any abnormal levels of resistance.
Within his 30th Cycle, Chimera had decided it best to create a new ‘Staging Station’, the design was modified from the Citadel, focusing more on production and harvesting facilities where he would keep an army which he used when he was appointed as Vanguard. Each Cycle added more to the facility, making it more effective.
However, when Sovereign was chosen to be the Vanguard, Chimera grew jealous. He had been denied several Vanguard Cycles. Once word got out that Sovereign had been defeated. Chimera made it known that had he been picked, the failure would not have happened. |
8,584 | 238 | 14 | 407 | 586 | They exited into the system, and saw the Turian ships nearby. "Turian fleet this is the Terminus fleet. We will provide ground fire support and evac anyone still alive down on the planet." As the fleets grew closer to one another, shuttles from the Terminus Fleet launched, making their way down to the planet. In total there were about fifteen of them, five of which belonged to William's crew.
"If anyone is alive down on Arcadia, hold your fire skywards, we are coming in to help you. And if you could give us a general idea of where to land, that'd be great." William looked out the viewport of his shuttle, and saw what looked like a dig site, and a few Alliance soldiers still fighting for their lives. "Land us over there, teams two through five back us up. The rest of you stay on stand by." The shuttles veered towards the entrenched, where they saw a fair amount of Reaper ground troops, both dead and living ones. "Alright boys, let's do this!"
The shirts landed with a bit of a thud, the doors opened, and weapons fire opened up on the living Reaper Husks. The Husks were caught between hammer and anvil, and were shredded to bits. When the smoke cleared, both literal and theoretical, the group of mercs stood opposite of the group of Alliance soldiers. William made his way to the front of the group, and spoke in a loud voice, "So, is anyone going to tell me what the fuck is so important on this planet?" | Name: William Jones
Race: Human
Sex: Male
Age: 24
Class: Soldier
Appearance: Tall with short red hair and blue eyes. Wears a mixed assortment of armour pieces.
Military Rank: Mercenary Captain
Personality: Calm under fire, has a quick wit, polite and friendly in his free time, ruthless in a fight.
Background: Born on Omega, his mother died in child birth, and his father died when he was ten in a bar brawl. He learned the ins and outs of Omega society quickly, who to befriend, who to help, and who to kill. He made friends with other orphans, and when he was sixteen he and his friends started working for an old Krogan who worked on a salvage ship. When he was twenty, he and his friends started work as freelance mercenaries, with a few joining the Blue Suns or Eclipse. Eventually he got his hands on a warship, and started recruiting people to join his crew. By the time he had enough for a skeleton crew, Omega was attacked by Cerebrus. He and his friends managed to get out of the system, along with a few other mercs and people who they liked from Omega. Now, they're trying to find somewhere to hide, or to make a last stand.
Starting War Assets:
Advanced Warship-The Lady Luck is a large Frigate class warship with a crew of two hundred, he won it in a card game, crew consists of mercs and a few refugees from Omega.
Veterean Fireteam-Him and the Fireteam have known each other since they grew up on Omega. |
8,585 | 238 | 15 | 1,347 | 749 | Green shook his head with annoyance as he prised corpses both friend and foe alike for spare thermal clips, seeing as they would be needing a lot more for the upcoming battle. His attention still focused on the Reaper… and the Reaper corpse that laid next to it.
“Well to start with, a vault that has been sealed forever and is believed to be older than Prothean magically decides to open itself. Oh and whatever is here, the Reapers are willing to kill each other for.” Green said, pointing towards the distance where Chimera towered over a recently killed Reaper, larger than itself. | Name: Chimera
Race: Reaper
Age: 315 Cycles
Class: Sovereign
Appearance:
Military Rank: Vanguard
Personality: Chimera is a bit of an outlier when compared to other Reapers, he was jealous of Sovereign been chosen as the Vanguard of this cycle, believing that had ‘he’ been chosen, the Reapers would have already harvested the sentient races.
Background: Chimera was created 315-6 Cycles ago. Chimera was chosen to be the Vanguard of one hundred cycles throughout his ‘career’ as a Reaper, all which resulted in successful harvest without any abnormal levels of resistance.
Within his 30th Cycle, Chimera had decided it best to create a new ‘Staging Station’, the design was modified from the Citadel, focusing more on production and harvesting facilities where he would keep an army which he used when he was appointed as Vanguard. Each Cycle added more to the facility, making it more effective.
However, when Sovereign was chosen to be the Vanguard, Chimera grew jealous. He had been denied several Vanguard Cycles. Once word got out that Sovereign had been defeated. Chimera made it known that had he been picked, the failure would not have happened. |
8,586 | 238 | 16 | 1,299 | 2,431 | "Terminus fleet, this is Commander Faltus of the Ghost of Vakarian, we are sending in our ground team to assist with an overall Evac of Arcadia, Myself and my squad will meet you and assist with any objectives. The Ad Victoriam will provide fire support from just outside the planets atmosphere. Can you drop a smoke signal as to your location so we may assist." Commander Faltus turned towards Specialist Keyes. I want all calls sent to my earpiece from until we get back to the Vakarian" Faltus made his way down to the armoury to get his weapons for the mission. He picked up an M76 Revenant and an N7 Valiant sniper rifle, which was given to him by a friend from the Alliance before he was shipped to earth to help fight the Reapers. "RECRUITS FORM YOUR SQUADS AND BOARD THE DROPSHIPS. THIS WILL BE A HOT LANDING, EXPECT HEAVY ENEMY RESISTANCE AND UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES ARE YOU TO ENGAGE TERMINUS OR ALLIANCE TROOPS UNDERSTOOD" "YES COMMANDER" Faltus knew he would lose some of the rookies on this offensive but if there was reaper planet side then it was looking for something, especially if Aria had sent the Terminus fleet to help the Alliance defend it. "Cortez, Taylor, Keyes, Moreno, Jackson your with me everybody else evac civilians. lets make it back in one piece people. BLACKWATCH. PREPARE TO DROP" | Name: Martius Faltus
Race: Turian
Sex(If Applicable): Male
Age: 28
Class: Infiltrator
Military Rank: Commander
Personality: Very Calm, ruthless fighter
Background: Faltus fought, alongside the Turian 7th fleet during the Relay 314 incident, joining the ground forces assault on Shanxi. Following the ceasefire between Turian and Alliance forces, Faltus left the 7th fleet to join C-Sec and defend the Citadel, it was here he met with the council to discuss his fate on the Citadel. After heated discussions with the Turian council representative , he was finally convinced to rejoin the Turian military and help defend Palaven with the Turian 43rd Marine Division. It was here that he was promoted to Commander by Primarch Adrien Victus and Transfered to Blackwatch and given control of a vessel very similar to the Normandy SR-2, along with a Heavy Attack Warship. Blackwatch was pulled from the homeworld by order of Primarch Adrien Victus, who wanted to mobilize this elite force in less hopeless situations across the galaxy. |
8,587 | 238 | 17 | 1,347 | 749 | Green looked as the drop ships began to descend from the skies. His fists clenched, he knew that most of those men and women weren’t going to return. However, there were far more pressing issues at hand. As he waited for William to get his forces ready, one of Alexander’s squad had noticed a Marauder keeping up near some fuel tanks. But in a puff of purple smoke the trooper had teleported behind it and penetrated its shields.
Meanwhile…
Chimera watched as the organic forces scrambled to intercept them. He had calculated that their chance of defeating him was non-existent. – Had he been allowed to engage them directly. However, Harbinger had ordered him to observe them, learn of their patterns. That didn’t mean he was not allowed to defend himself… even if the threat was so minuet.
Chimera looked up to the drop ships and without discrimination began to open fire on whatever one he felt like. Trying his best to ‘miss’ them. But one or two were intentionally shot down as he had liked to begin harvesting as soon as they crashed.
The signature siren of the Reaper echoed throughout the plains and was heard perfectly. Sending shivers down every organics' spine. | Name: Chimera
Race: Reaper
Age: 315 Cycles
Class: Sovereign
Appearance:
Military Rank: Vanguard
Personality: Chimera is a bit of an outlier when compared to other Reapers, he was jealous of Sovereign been chosen as the Vanguard of this cycle, believing that had ‘he’ been chosen, the Reapers would have already harvested the sentient races.
Background: Chimera was created 315-6 Cycles ago. Chimera was chosen to be the Vanguard of one hundred cycles throughout his ‘career’ as a Reaper, all which resulted in successful harvest without any abnormal levels of resistance.
Within his 30th Cycle, Chimera had decided it best to create a new ‘Staging Station’, the design was modified from the Citadel, focusing more on production and harvesting facilities where he would keep an army which he used when he was appointed as Vanguard. Each Cycle added more to the facility, making it more effective.
However, when Sovereign was chosen to be the Vanguard, Chimera grew jealous. He had been denied several Vanguard Cycles. Once word got out that Sovereign had been defeated. Chimera made it known that had he been picked, the failure would not have happened. |
8,588 | 238 | 18 | 1,299 | 2,431 | Faltus looked out the window of his dropship to see two of his dropships get knocked out by the Reaper. "Shit, we just lost the Batarian division. Fuck, Keyes send a transmission to the Alliance forces groundside." The human specialist looked horrified as the two dropships spiralled into a building exploding and sending debris everywhere. "Specialist Keyes, Look at me. I promise you Amanda you will get through this, even if I have to take a bullet for you." The specialist nodded to the Turian as she tapped away at the datapad on here wrist opening a secure comms channel with the Alliance forces on the ground. "This is a message to the Alliance commanding officer on Arcadia, this is Specialist Amanda Keyes from the Ghost of Vakarian. We've suffered losses due to the reaper. We need that smoke up so our forces know where to land to assist. Please Respond" | Name: Martius Faltus
Race: Turian
Sex(If Applicable): Male
Age: 28
Class: Infiltrator
Military Rank: Commander
Personality: Very Calm, ruthless fighter
Background: Faltus fought, alongside the Turian 7th fleet during the Relay 314 incident, joining the ground forces assault on Shanxi. Following the ceasefire between Turian and Alliance forces, Faltus left the 7th fleet to join C-Sec and defend the Citadel, it was here he met with the council to discuss his fate on the Citadel. After heated discussions with the Turian council representative , he was finally convinced to rejoin the Turian military and help defend Palaven with the Turian 43rd Marine Division. It was here that he was promoted to Commander by Primarch Adrien Victus and Transfered to Blackwatch and given control of a vessel very similar to the Normandy SR-2, along with a Heavy Attack Warship. Blackwatch was pulled from the homeworld by order of Primarch Adrien Victus, who wanted to mobilize this elite force in less hopeless situations across the galaxy. |
8,589 | 238 | 19 | 407 | 586 | William covered his ears at the sound of the Reaper Horn. It hurt like hell, and it felt like his ears were bleeding. He heard something about smoke to mark a position, so he threw down a smoke grenade near his position, and prayed he hadn't just called in an orbital bombardment. "If anyone can hear me, I can't hear shit. This Reaper is emitting some kind of ear shattering noise. If someone could shoot that fucker in the eye, I'll be eternally grateful. Also, whatever is on this shithole planet is apparently important, I know this because it seems that this Reaper killed another one for control. And bring some explosives, we may have to blow some shit up here." | Name: William Jones
Race: Human
Sex: Male
Age: 24
Class: Soldier
Appearance: Tall with short red hair and blue eyes. Wears a mixed assortment of armour pieces.
Military Rank: Mercenary Captain
Personality: Calm under fire, has a quick wit, polite and friendly in his free time, ruthless in a fight.
Background: Born on Omega, his mother died in child birth, and his father died when he was ten in a bar brawl. He learned the ins and outs of Omega society quickly, who to befriend, who to help, and who to kill. He made friends with other orphans, and when he was sixteen he and his friends started working for an old Krogan who worked on a salvage ship. When he was twenty, he and his friends started work as freelance mercenaries, with a few joining the Blue Suns or Eclipse. Eventually he got his hands on a warship, and started recruiting people to join his crew. By the time he had enough for a skeleton crew, Omega was attacked by Cerebrus. He and his friends managed to get out of the system, along with a few other mercs and people who they liked from Omega. Now, they're trying to find somewhere to hide, or to make a last stand.
Starting War Assets:
Advanced Warship-The Lady Luck is a large Frigate class warship with a crew of two hundred, he won it in a card game, crew consists of mercs and a few refugees from Omega.
Veterean Fireteam-Him and the Fireteam have known each other since they grew up on Omega. |
8,590 | 238 | 20 | 1,299 | 2,431 | The dropship pilots saw the smoke coming from Williams position and immediately made a b-line straight for it. As they touched down Specialist Keyes heard the three most important words she'd heard all day coming from her earpiece. "FIRE THE CANNONS" the Ad Victoriam had fired all of its cannons towards the reaper, in some hope that the remaining dropships could touch down.
Faltus stood groundside directing the remaining troops telling them to look for survivors before making his way over to William and the N7's. "Commander Martius Faltus, Turian Special Forces. Whos, the CO down here?" As the Commander was talking the rest of his fireteam made their way to strategic positions to defend their commander, the two Lieutenants made their way up to sniper points while Specialist Keyes and Private Jackson watched as the other troops went on their search and rescue mission, wondering how many would return. Only Corporal Moreno stuck by Faltus' side while he and the other Soldiers discussed things. | Name: Martius Faltus
Race: Turian
Sex(If Applicable): Male
Age: 28
Class: Infiltrator
Military Rank: Commander
Personality: Very Calm, ruthless fighter
Background: Faltus fought, alongside the Turian 7th fleet during the Relay 314 incident, joining the ground forces assault on Shanxi. Following the ceasefire between Turian and Alliance forces, Faltus left the 7th fleet to join C-Sec and defend the Citadel, it was here he met with the council to discuss his fate on the Citadel. After heated discussions with the Turian council representative , he was finally convinced to rejoin the Turian military and help defend Palaven with the Turian 43rd Marine Division. It was here that he was promoted to Commander by Primarch Adrien Victus and Transfered to Blackwatch and given control of a vessel very similar to the Normandy SR-2, along with a Heavy Attack Warship. Blackwatch was pulled from the homeworld by order of Primarch Adrien Victus, who wanted to mobilize this elite force in less hopeless situations across the galaxy. |
8,591 | 238 | 21 | 1,347 | 749 | The landscape was barren. No life of any kind could been seen for miles. The Reaper stood, still shouting its horn across the plains. A kinetic barrier rendered the fire from Ad Victoriam utterly useless. However, Chimera wasn’t without a sense of malevolent humour. Knowing that the fire would do little irreversible damage. It lowered its barriers to take some of the fire, looking as if it had started to lose balance. But after a moment the barriers raised themselves again and fired directly in the direction of Ad Victoriam. The beam glanced the hull enough to sake the crew, but not do any serious damage.
Meanwhile, Reaper Drones continued to build pipelines throughout the wastelands from the cities and colonies. The small leaks would reveal organic slush was being pumped from these cities and into a storage facility a few miles away from the Reaper. This storage facility was protected by a biotic barrier that was being generated by a power generator in the centre of the facility… However, one weakness was the pipeline network itself. Should someone be brave enough to go into the pipes themselves, they would be able to infiltrate the facility. | Name: Chimera
Race: Reaper
Age: 315 Cycles
Class: Sovereign
Appearance:
Military Rank: Vanguard
Personality: Chimera is a bit of an outlier when compared to other Reapers, he was jealous of Sovereign been chosen as the Vanguard of this cycle, believing that had ‘he’ been chosen, the Reapers would have already harvested the sentient races.
Background: Chimera was created 315-6 Cycles ago. Chimera was chosen to be the Vanguard of one hundred cycles throughout his ‘career’ as a Reaper, all which resulted in successful harvest without any abnormal levels of resistance.
Within his 30th Cycle, Chimera had decided it best to create a new ‘Staging Station’, the design was modified from the Citadel, focusing more on production and harvesting facilities where he would keep an army which he used when he was appointed as Vanguard. Each Cycle added more to the facility, making it more effective.
However, when Sovereign was chosen to be the Vanguard, Chimera grew jealous. He had been denied several Vanguard Cycles. Once word got out that Sovereign had been defeated. Chimera made it known that had he been picked, the failure would not have happened. |
8,592 | 238 | 22 | 1,299 | 2,431 | The blast of the reaper beam shook the crew of the Ad Victoriam, the hull was hit but there was no breach so they could continue fighting but Captain Karrel Vakarian knew there would be little that the ship and crew could do to effectively take on the Reaper. He had a plan but it would require the combined ground forces of the Terminus fleet, Blackwatch and the Alliance to hold out long enough for him to get back.
"Commander Faltus, we cant do a thing to that reaper without taking serious damage ourselves, we need more ships. I will go to the Citadel and bring as many ships back as I can to destroy the Reaper, do you think you and your men can hold out that long?"
Down on Arcadia, Faltus' team were suffering heavy losses, the Salarian team sent in to find and retrieve civilians from the wealthier districts had become completely over run by husks and killed, leaving only Faltus' squad, the Asari and the Original Turian Blackwatch. Faltus knew that this was going to be a losing battle if he didnt bring his soldiers back to defend the area that they were currently in until fire support arrived.
"This is Commander Faltus to all fireteams, get back to the drop zone ASAP. Mission objectives have changed, if you find civilians on the way back bring them with you" Faltus knew that it would be unlikely that the Ad Victoriam would be back in time to save all the troops stationed on Arcadia, but they had to hold out for as long as the could. "Look at the minute we have very little choice on what to do, that Reaper has an endless supply of troops and we have very few. The warship that accompanies the Ghost of Vakarian has just left to go and get us some more fire support, we need to hold out until they return. I dont know either of you personally but right now we have little choice but to work together. My suggestion is to barricade this part of town off and create a forward operating base to hold out here until we get some more fire support." | Name: Martius Faltus
Race: Turian
Sex(If Applicable): Male
Age: 28
Class: Infiltrator
Military Rank: Commander
Personality: Very Calm, ruthless fighter
Background: Faltus fought, alongside the Turian 7th fleet during the Relay 314 incident, joining the ground forces assault on Shanxi. Following the ceasefire between Turian and Alliance forces, Faltus left the 7th fleet to join C-Sec and defend the Citadel, it was here he met with the council to discuss his fate on the Citadel. After heated discussions with the Turian council representative , he was finally convinced to rejoin the Turian military and help defend Palaven with the Turian 43rd Marine Division. It was here that he was promoted to Commander by Primarch Adrien Victus and Transfered to Blackwatch and given control of a vessel very similar to the Normandy SR-2, along with a Heavy Attack Warship. Blackwatch was pulled from the homeworld by order of Primarch Adrien Victus, who wanted to mobilize this elite force in less hopeless situations across the galaxy. |
8,593 | 238 | 23 | 407 | 586 | William looked at Commander Faltus, and laughed. "Commander Faltus, you've got to be joking." When he saw that Faltus was being serious, he stopped laughing. "Commander, there is a few problems with that plan of yours. One, it's pure suicide. Two, our ships are still here, so we can leave at anytime. Three, we are mercenaries, meaning that we have to be paid a ridiculous amount to even be tempted to take on a Reaper. And four, we already have a mission."
He nodded to the mercs around him, and they started moving to the vault door, preparing to enter as soon as they were told to. "Our mission comes from someone better paid, and with more authority than whoever sent you to this place. Aria T'Loak. And nobody, and I mean nobody, is stupid enough to break the one rule of Omega, even though we aren't on it. Don't FUCK with Aria. Now we are going in there, we are grabbing everything that we can, and then we are getting the hell out of here." He turned and looked each man and woman briefly in the eye, "If anyone here has any objections. Well, you either better have a shit tonne of credits or tech. Or, you better be have the skills and numbers, to stop us. So, speak now, or forever hold your peace." | Name: William Jones
Race: Human
Sex: Male
Age: 24
Class: Soldier
Appearance: Tall with short red hair and blue eyes. Wears a mixed assortment of armour pieces.
Military Rank: Mercenary Captain
Personality: Calm under fire, has a quick wit, polite and friendly in his free time, ruthless in a fight.
Background: Born on Omega, his mother died in child birth, and his father died when he was ten in a bar brawl. He learned the ins and outs of Omega society quickly, who to befriend, who to help, and who to kill. He made friends with other orphans, and when he was sixteen he and his friends started working for an old Krogan who worked on a salvage ship. When he was twenty, he and his friends started work as freelance mercenaries, with a few joining the Blue Suns or Eclipse. Eventually he got his hands on a warship, and started recruiting people to join his crew. By the time he had enough for a skeleton crew, Omega was attacked by Cerebrus. He and his friends managed to get out of the system, along with a few other mercs and people who they liked from Omega. Now, they're trying to find somewhere to hide, or to make a last stand.
Starting War Assets:
Advanced Warship-The Lady Luck is a large Frigate class warship with a crew of two hundred, he won it in a card game, crew consists of mercs and a few refugees from Omega.
Veterean Fireteam-Him and the Fireteam have known each other since they grew up on Omega. |
8,594 | 238 | 24 | 1,299 | 2,431 | Faltus frowned at the objection to help the Turian defeat the Reaper. "Goddamn Mercs, if you agree to help us you can take a share of whatever is in that vault and we will supply you with much better weapons than whatever you bought on Omega. I also have contacts in C-Sec, i can get you some discounts at the stores on the Citadel aswell as them turning a blind eye to the odd, shady deal." Faltus turned to look at the N7's and shrugged. "Do we have a deal" | Name: Martius Faltus
Race: Turian
Sex(If Applicable): Male
Age: 28
Class: Infiltrator
Military Rank: Commander
Personality: Very Calm, ruthless fighter
Background: Faltus fought, alongside the Turian 7th fleet during the Relay 314 incident, joining the ground forces assault on Shanxi. Following the ceasefire between Turian and Alliance forces, Faltus left the 7th fleet to join C-Sec and defend the Citadel, it was here he met with the council to discuss his fate on the Citadel. After heated discussions with the Turian council representative , he was finally convinced to rejoin the Turian military and help defend Palaven with the Turian 43rd Marine Division. It was here that he was promoted to Commander by Primarch Adrien Victus and Transfered to Blackwatch and given control of a vessel very similar to the Normandy SR-2, along with a Heavy Attack Warship. Blackwatch was pulled from the homeworld by order of Primarch Adrien Victus, who wanted to mobilize this elite force in less hopeless situations across the galaxy. |
8,595 | 238 | 25 | 1,347 | 749 | Alex would teleport next to William, placing his Katana up to his neck line.
“How about you fall inline… ‘soldier’.” Green’s voice was dark and husky. “We’re going into the vault, anything you can take is yours, but this is a profit share business.”
With that he sheathed his blade and turned towards the vault entrance and pointed towards it.
“We’re going in.” He said as he looked down at his Omni-tool. “Shadow-Blade, give those in the city some fire support.”
In the city where multiple fire-fights were taking place, the smooth ripping of engines broke through the sound barrier. A ship flew through the city, dropping biotic bombs that created rifts that drew in Reaper forces. The Shadow-Blade kept as low as possible to avoid the fire of the Reaper. | Name: Chimera
Race: Reaper
Age: 315 Cycles
Class: Sovereign
Appearance:
Military Rank: Vanguard
Personality: Chimera is a bit of an outlier when compared to other Reapers, he was jealous of Sovereign been chosen as the Vanguard of this cycle, believing that had ‘he’ been chosen, the Reapers would have already harvested the sentient races.
Background: Chimera was created 315-6 Cycles ago. Chimera was chosen to be the Vanguard of one hundred cycles throughout his ‘career’ as a Reaper, all which resulted in successful harvest without any abnormal levels of resistance.
Within his 30th Cycle, Chimera had decided it best to create a new ‘Staging Station’, the design was modified from the Citadel, focusing more on production and harvesting facilities where he would keep an army which he used when he was appointed as Vanguard. Each Cycle added more to the facility, making it more effective.
However, when Sovereign was chosen to be the Vanguard, Chimera grew jealous. He had been denied several Vanguard Cycles. Once word got out that Sovereign had been defeated. Chimera made it known that had he been picked, the failure would not have happened. |
8,596 | 238 | 26 | 407 | 586 | William sneered at the newcomer, he hated how people interrupted negotiations, but he got what he wanted. "Commander Faltus, you've got a deal. I'll tell the others what to do." He got onto his Comms and opened a channel to the other groups of mercs. "Alright everyone listen up. I've got a Turian Commander here who is giving us a good offer. So, you wanna get paid, rally to my position and set up a defensive perimeter around the vault." He then walked over to the doors of the vault, "Alright ladies and gentlemen. Let's see how much we are getting paid." The mercs cheered, opened the doors, and charged into the vault. William and his team went in right after them, and he made sure his personal recorder was taping everything, you never know what you can find to on a wall that may be worth a pretty penny. That's when he got a call that made him shudder.
"Boss, this is your Lady Luck. When got some of those Cerberus bastards coming in fast to your position. There doesn't seem to be too many of them, about company strength, but their tech is top notch. Good luck boss."
Fuck. | Name: William Jones
Race: Human
Sex: Male
Age: 24
Class: Soldier
Appearance: Tall with short red hair and blue eyes. Wears a mixed assortment of armour pieces.
Military Rank: Mercenary Captain
Personality: Calm under fire, has a quick wit, polite and friendly in his free time, ruthless in a fight.
Background: Born on Omega, his mother died in child birth, and his father died when he was ten in a bar brawl. He learned the ins and outs of Omega society quickly, who to befriend, who to help, and who to kill. He made friends with other orphans, and when he was sixteen he and his friends started working for an old Krogan who worked on a salvage ship. When he was twenty, he and his friends started work as freelance mercenaries, with a few joining the Blue Suns or Eclipse. Eventually he got his hands on a warship, and started recruiting people to join his crew. By the time he had enough for a skeleton crew, Omega was attacked by Cerebrus. He and his friends managed to get out of the system, along with a few other mercs and people who they liked from Omega. Now, they're trying to find somewhere to hide, or to make a last stand.
Starting War Assets:
Advanced Warship-The Lady Luck is a large Frigate class warship with a crew of two hundred, he won it in a card game, crew consists of mercs and a few refugees from Omega.
Veterean Fireteam-Him and the Fireteam have known each other since they grew up on Omega. |
8,597 | 238 | 27 | 1,299 | 2,431 | Glad to be on the same side. Faltus hated the idea of working with Mercs but he atleast had to pretend that he was happy abut it. He looked at the N7 who had appeared behind William. "So, how much do i have to pay you to help us defeat a Reaper" he joked hoping that the N7 didnt actually ask for payment.
MEANWHILE AT THE CITADEL
Captain Vakarian and the Ad Victoriam drifted gracefully into the docking area of the Citadel. "Marinus, Jacks i want you two with me while our Specialist goes to speak with the Commander of the 43rd marines. were going to see the council to see if we can convince them to send aid to Arcadia. in the very likely case they dont send aid. well. were gonna take it anyways. im pretty sure i could get some spectres to come help us and if spectres are helping, hell anyone will follow them into battle" | Name: Martius Faltus
Race: Turian
Sex(If Applicable): Male
Age: 28
Class: Infiltrator
Military Rank: Commander
Personality: Very Calm, ruthless fighter
Background: Faltus fought, alongside the Turian 7th fleet during the Relay 314 incident, joining the ground forces assault on Shanxi. Following the ceasefire between Turian and Alliance forces, Faltus left the 7th fleet to join C-Sec and defend the Citadel, it was here he met with the council to discuss his fate on the Citadel. After heated discussions with the Turian council representative , he was finally convinced to rejoin the Turian military and help defend Palaven with the Turian 43rd Marine Division. It was here that he was promoted to Commander by Primarch Adrien Victus and Transfered to Blackwatch and given control of a vessel very similar to the Normandy SR-2, along with a Heavy Attack Warship. Blackwatch was pulled from the homeworld by order of Primarch Adrien Victus, who wanted to mobilize this elite force in less hopeless situations across the galaxy. |
8,598 | 238 | 28 | 1,347 | 749 | As the doors were opened, the true vastness of it was revealed. Hundreds of storage sections were sealed off, protected by barriers that prevented access. – The corpses of the Collectors proved that much. As the different teams entered the vault, green streaks of light phased throughout the sections of the vault, scanning the newcomers. A strange alien language was heard through some type of intercom, most likely a VI announcing the scan results; and seeing as everyone was still alive, it must have been good.
Straight ahead was a much laid a much larger door that lead into the greater vault, and the only one that hadn’t had a barrier protecting it. As the teams neared it, the hissing of depressurisation signalled that the doors were about to open.
As they did, no one could have imagined what was behind them.
Pillars of light were shooting up from computer terminals as large as fighters. Thousands of holographic displays were scattered among them, all with various blueprints. The most notable… the Citadel…
As their eyes got use to the lighting conditions, the teams could finally see an odd, but familiar looking race around them… the Keepers.
As they entered, the teams were greeted by one.
“Quickly, time is not on our side. I am Sah’shi, Master Keeper.” | Name: Chimera
Race: Reaper
Age: 315 Cycles
Class: Sovereign
Appearance:
Military Rank: Vanguard
Personality: Chimera is a bit of an outlier when compared to other Reapers, he was jealous of Sovereign been chosen as the Vanguard of this cycle, believing that had ‘he’ been chosen, the Reapers would have already harvested the sentient races.
Background: Chimera was created 315-6 Cycles ago. Chimera was chosen to be the Vanguard of one hundred cycles throughout his ‘career’ as a Reaper, all which resulted in successful harvest without any abnormal levels of resistance.
Within his 30th Cycle, Chimera had decided it best to create a new ‘Staging Station’, the design was modified from the Citadel, focusing more on production and harvesting facilities where he would keep an army which he used when he was appointed as Vanguard. Each Cycle added more to the facility, making it more effective.
However, when Sovereign was chosen to be the Vanguard, Chimera grew jealous. He had been denied several Vanguard Cycles. Once word got out that Sovereign had been defeated. Chimera made it known that had he been picked, the failure would not have happened. |
8,599 | 238 | 29 | 1,299 | 2,431 | Captain Vakarian and his squad made his way to the Council room and barged in while they were still mid-session. "Captain, how dare you barge into the councils chambers while we are still negotiating terms of Palavens defence request." The Turian Captain pushed the Ensign, probably sent by the Sixth fleet, out of the way. "I must appologise for my rude introductions but we have much more urgent matters. A distress signal was sent from Arcadia which we..." Councillor Udina spoke up part way through the Captains speech. "Ah, we have already had reports of that. we deemed it just to be an attack from pirates that the Alliance navy stationed there could control." The other councillors could see the captain becoming enraged at the Earth councillors remark.
"OH PIRATES. WELL COUNCILLOR UDINA WHAT IF I TOLD YOU IT WASNT PIRATES BUT INSTEAD A REAPER AND THERES A VAULT ON ARCADIA THAT MAY HAVE A WEAPON INSIDE THAT COULD DESTROY ALL THE REAPERS!" the entire council sat shocked, even the Turian Ensign behind Captain Vakarian looked shocked. The First to break the Silence was the Asari Councillor. "The Asari will send the sixth fleet with you, aswell as Commandos and the Armali Sniper Unit" After her was the Salarian Councillor "At this point the Salarian race cannot send any troops or fleets to help in the Battle of Arcadia as we have to continue research into the cure of the Genophage to help win the war. Im sure you understand. Then the Turian Councillor spoke "Palaven's safety comes first Captain, however you arrived earlier with the 43rd Marine fleet, take them with you." Finally Councillor Udina spoke out "AT THIS POINT IN TIME ALL HELP SHOULD BE DIRECTED TO EARTH AND PALAVEN, NOT SOME OUTER COLONY THAT NOBODY EVER HEARS FROM." That was all the Captain needed to hear. "You know im glad you say that Udina, because that statement was just recorded on my Omni-tool. Now unless you feel like giving me an Alliance fleet or at very least some Troops that i can take on board the Ad Victoriam, i think the people on the Citadel will be very glad to hear what the Earth Councillor has to say about the Outer Colonies" Udina went red in the face when the Captain said this. "FINE TAKE SPEC OPS TEAM DELTA. BUT YOU BETTER DELETE THAT FILE" | Name: Martius Faltus
Race: Turian
Sex(If Applicable): Male
Age: 28
Class: Infiltrator
Military Rank: Commander
Personality: Very Calm, ruthless fighter
Background: Faltus fought, alongside the Turian 7th fleet during the Relay 314 incident, joining the ground forces assault on Shanxi. Following the ceasefire between Turian and Alliance forces, Faltus left the 7th fleet to join C-Sec and defend the Citadel, it was here he met with the council to discuss his fate on the Citadel. After heated discussions with the Turian council representative , he was finally convinced to rejoin the Turian military and help defend Palaven with the Turian 43rd Marine Division. It was here that he was promoted to Commander by Primarch Adrien Victus and Transfered to Blackwatch and given control of a vessel very similar to the Normandy SR-2, along with a Heavy Attack Warship. Blackwatch was pulled from the homeworld by order of Primarch Adrien Victus, who wanted to mobilize this elite force in less hopeless situations across the galaxy. |
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