Zephaniel's Characters

[Zephaniel]

Name: Virgil Barlow

Age: 28

Race: Human
Division/Job: Aviation Division - Pilot Corps - Flight Officer 5th Class
Virgil's job - or some would say obsession - is the operational control of all shipboard and extravehicular piloting operations, except in instances where an AI or senior official deems it necessary to intercede. For the most part, though, his control is unmolested. Course corrections, speed, astrogation, scout piloting, and unmanned space vehicles are all under his domain. He talks directly to the individual pilot stations, and individual pilots, if need be; determining courses of action within the confines of his duties as set forth by the Commander as well as Uhtred. He may be rather young, but he is trusted because he is simply the best. The entire Hesiod Pilot Corps looks to him for a safe course, wherever it may lead.
Appearance: He is a relatively young man, rather handsome. Dark brown hair and dark gray eyes. He had a long greatcoat tailored for him in one of the vessel's manufactories, which reaches to his knees. It carries an embedded transmitter/reciever array and EM shielding to keep stray radio waves from interfering. On the side of his head, he has a (rather unfashionable, say the colonists) comm relay implanted, reaching directly into his cochlea giving him almost unparalleled access to the CommNet.

Bio: A young man with a penchant for electronics in the U.W. Peace Corps, former Technician 4th Grade Barlow made a name for himself with the invention of several new types of shipboard transponders, and earned his Masters with his dissertation on the effects of integrated AI on communications networks. He signed on with the colonization effort to escape, what he felt, was the growing isolationism of mother Earth. Hoping this was a way to see his passion take root in the stars, he eagerly hopped aboard the freezer-ship Hesiod, eager to put his knowledge and skills to the test... and the rest will be history.

[Zephaniel]

//PERSONNEL FILE - SSGT MEYERS JONATHAN S
//FROM: USAF 2ND AF xxx@xxx.xxx.usaf.mil
//TO: Whom It May Concern xxx@xxx.xxx.usaf.mil
//RE: [REDACTED]
//EYES ONLY

Name: Meyers, Jonathan S "Radar"
Age: 22
Sex: Male
Rank: E5, Staff Sergeant
Role: Communications, C2
AFSC: 1C211 (Combat Control Operator Apprentice)

Equipment, Non-standard Issue:
- ABUs
- Lightweight Titanium Crowbar
- x3 MRE
- x4 Magazine, 9mm
- Sage green heavy-duty backpack with MOLLE gear attachments

Known Weapons:
- Beretta M9 9mm

[[SIGNED, SSGT <REDACTED> AFSOC]]

Decorations: National Defense Ribbon, Air Force Honor Graduate Ribbon, Global War on Terrorism Service Ribbon, Air Force Small Arms Expert Marksmanship Ribbon, Air Force Training Ribbon, Air Force Good Conduct Medal

Current Base: Keesler AFB, MS

Appearance: Subject has brown hair and bright blue eyes. Notably, the sclera (whites) are also blue as a result of prolonged corticosteroid use as a child (a precursor of Boren's Syndrome). His physiology is interesting. There are odd mutations in his leukocytes, and he is strangely resistant to infection, with no history of childhood disease, even. He is Caucasian and has a distinctive "lace-pattern" scar on the back of his neck, indicating cerebro-spinal surgery (See appendix 1 for notes).

Psychological/Personality Summary: Subject is quiet, rather reserved. He shows severity and conviction, though, when put under emotional/psychological duress. He can be very proud, so don't expect him to salute a junior officer. He seems to be, however, a loyal airman, and knows just about all there is about radar and radio communications, along with the rudiments of specialized warfighter training. It seems to be a passion of his.

Brief History: Born in the small town of Hartford, ME, Meyers lost his parents to the blizzard of '95. They were later found under the roof of their house, flattened by snow. He grew up passing from relative to relative, deeply resenting his foster parents, and prone to escaping, the mostly deeply reactionary and orthodox people seeing his eyes as some sort of curse. He spent a lot of time as a child at a local halfway-house, serving the blind, elderly, and those too drunk to pay him much attention. He was fed a steady diet of old war stories and tales of heroism, stirring tales of conflicts and the harsh realities of life amid conflict. He wasted no time in pursuing in own glory. Meyers sought an enlistment in the Air Force at age 17, amid controversy over his various medical conditions. But he emerged victorious, and entered basic training with several extensive medical waivers. Nothing would deter him. He graduated with honors and was sent to Keesler AFB, MS for Combat Control (1C2X1) training. He had made it through indoctrination, special warfare training, and radar fundamentals when he went AWOL following the outbreak of XXXXX [[FURTHER INFORMATION UNDISCLOSED. CODE "Z"]].

[[SIGNED, SSGT <REDACTED> AFSOC]] [[SIGNED, DR. <REDACTED> 59 MDW]]

//END MESSAGE
//SEE MDW FILES http://www.usafportal.vmpf.usaf.mil
//CONTENTS SUBJECT TO PRIVACY ACT, SEC 3B, PAR 1

[Zephaniel]

Name: Mr. Midshipman Israel Elmstone
Age: 20

Physical Appearance: Pale and thin, with a shock of thick, dark hair on his head. Sad, watery blue eyes look out over the horizon. His gait and posture speak of a genteel upbringing, but his face and speech hint at a great loss. He is by no means unattractive, but he is not looking for companionship at the moment - there are more important things to do. So, he runs his hand through his dark hair, straightens his peacoat, and sets out to do his duty, whether it be for King and Country... or something less reputable.

Clothing: Simple, iron-hobbed jackboots made of black leather, a navy blue woolen peacoat with Airshipmen's insignia (a little frayed and threadbare in places, but he can't bear to part with it), and a garrison cap of matching color. He still wears his black suede piloting gloves at almost all times. More than anything, he wears the uniform out of habit and remembrance.

Background: A native of one of the many kingdoms in the Southern realm, Elmstone was working as a signals cadet at an island outpost when the news came of the North's lightning raids on the coastal lands. He remembers the call-to-arms and war-frenzy as battle would soon be had with the barbarous North. But then reports started coming in over the newfangled wireless receivers. The swine had unleashed some terrible new weapon on his coastal homeland, something terrible... He was hundreds of miles away... and utterly helpless. By the time he was able to hop an airship home, it was too late. The peninsular kingdom that had grown from a small coastal fishing province had returned to it's humble beginnings. All that remained were sea-washed stone ruins jutting up out of the water for miles around. His entire nation was now reduced to nothing but a shipping hazard, forever dooming this bit of coastline to poverty and obscurity. He realized that he had nothing to serve for anymore, and used the last of his pay to fly back to the South's capital city, Wolor, hoping to plead for a discharge from service. En route, however, his airship, the Imperial Mercy, was attacked by Northern forces. The balloon itself suffered only minor damage, but the passenger gondola became a shooting gallery as Northern triplanes raked its decks with gunfire. A squadron from the South routed the attack, but many of the passengers did not land at their port unscathed, Elmstone included, as he was badly injured trying to evacuate passengers from key areas of the airship, away from the engines and ballast areas he knew would be targets for the aircraft. But as Elmstone was corralling the last of the civilians into the semi-hardened cargo hold, a staccato burst of .30 caliber gunfire ripped through his right arm, nearly severing it. He was rushed to a Wolor hospital after landing. The midshipman has a promotion to ensign pending, supposedly for valorous service. Honorable discharge indeed...

Enhancements: Mr. Elmstone lost his right arm from mid-bicep down. The arcanotech limb is stronger and faster than his old flesh, but he cannot feel. Per special request of his commandant, all commissioned personnel who lose an arm during a time of war receive a collapsible saber, to be installed in the limb; a sort of trial-run weapons test from Joint Army-Navy R&D. Ostensibly, it is supposed to "honor the wounded for their service, and keep them in the fight." It must be maintained and ready for battle at all times. Embedded in the hilt is an arcane “flux crystal” that vibrates at a high frequency when activated, increasing the cutting power of the blade over tenfold. The blade is not attached to the augmented limb, as the vibrations of clanging steel would wreak havoc on its components. The saber can be ejected and readied for battle at a moment's notice, the elaborate blade unfolding much like a jack-knife. The weapon and limb are steel with silver filigree and highly ornamental, as befitting an officer's status.

Personality: He is quiet, as a rule, but not when duty calls. He is more than capable of bellowing out commands to his shipmates when the time calls for it. To most he would appear rather antisocial and aloof, rarely looking at the faces of those he meets, instead casting his gaze to the horizon to find whatever it may harbor next. But spend any amount of time with him and you will know that his life has been touched by loss.

Desires: To make a new life for himself, and make proud the memory of the homeland the homeland he lost.
Fears: Anonymity and losing those he cares for; he keeps those who do know him at a careful distance.
Talents: Signals and navigation. Not to mention his predilection for fencing.

Items: A service-issue broomhandle pistol with three pilfered bullets, and a rigger's knife, a small and battered wooden chest, stationary with the watermark of the Imperial Airship Corps, a spyglass, and few personal effects.

---

Realistic Version:

Name: Mr. Midshipman Israel Elmstone

Age: 20

Gender: Male

Specialty: Signals and navigation. Not to mention his predilection for fencing.

Appearance: Pale and thin, with a shock of thick, dark hair on his head. Sad, watery blue eyes look out over the horizon. He wears simple, iron-hobbed jackboots made of black leather, a navy blue woolen peacoat with Airshipmen's insignia (a little frayed and threadbare in places, but he can't bear to part with it), and a garrison cap of matching color. He still wears his black suede piloting gloves at almost all times. More than anything, he wears the uniform out of habit and remembrance. His gait and posture speak of a genteel upbringing, but his face and speech hint at a great loss. He is by no means unattractive, but he is not looking for companionship at the moment - there are more important things to do. So, he runs his hand through his dark hair, straightens his peacoat, and sets out to do his duty, whether it be for King and Country... or something less reputable.

Personal Effects: A service-issue broomhandle pistol with three pilfered bullets, and a rigger's knife, a small and battered wooden chest, stationary with the watermark of the Royal Airship Corps, a spyglass, and few personal effects.

Personality: He is quiet, as a rule, but not when duty calls. He is more than capable of bellowing out commands to his shipmates when the time calls for it. To most he would appear rather antisocial and aloof, rarely looking at the faces of those he meets, instead casting his gaze to the horizon to find whatever it may harbor next. But spend any amount of time with him and you will know that his life has been touched by loss.

History: A native of Dover, England, Elmstone was working as a signals cadet at an island outpost when the news came a terrible accident at some sort of weapons testing facility in Northumbria had unleashed some terrible new weapon on his coastal homeland, a sort of wireless-guided irradiated rocket or some-such... that had escaped their control. He was hundreds of miles away... and utterly helpless. By the time he was able to hop an airship home, it was too late. The village his village was gone. The media was saying it was some sort of meteor from the aether of space – that was the official spin, anyway. All that remained were sea-washed wood and stone, smouldering homes, and a sickly gray dust. He realized that he had nothing to serve for anymore, and used the last of his pay to fly to London, hoping to plead for a discharge from service. En route, however, his airship, the King's Mercy, was attacked by airship pirates. The balloon itself suffered only minor damage, but the passenger gondola became a shooting gallery as strange aeroplanes raked its decks with gunfire. A squadron from the Lancashire routed the attack, but many of the passengers did not land at their port unscathed, Elmstone included, as he was badly injured trying to evacuate passengers from key areas of the airship, away from the engines and ballast areas he knew would be targets for the aircraft. But as Elmstone was corralling the last of the civilians into the semi-hardened cargo hold, a staccato burst of .30 caliber gunfire ripped through his right arm, nearly severing it. He was rushed to Albion Hospital after landing. The midshipman has a promotion to ensign pending, supposedly for valorous service. Honorable discharge indeed...

Likes: A good book and a glass of Bordeaux 1888, now and again.

Dislikes: Anonymity, and losing those he cares for; he keeps those who do know him at a careful distance, to avoid the pain of loss.

Note: Mr. Elmstone lost his right arm from mid-bicep down. The steam-powered limb he received at Albion is a replacement for his old flesh, a bit slower and clunkier, and it cannot feel. Per special request of his commandant, all commissioned personnel who lose an arm during a time of war (and it is always war somewhere...) receive a collapsible saber, to be installed in the limb; a sort of trial-run weapons test from Joint Army-Navy R&D. Ostensibly, it is supposed to "honor the wounded for their service, and keep them in the fight." It must be maintained and ready for battle at all times. Embedded in the hilt is a treated quartz crystal that vibrates at a high frequency when electrified, increasing the cutting power of the blade. The blade is not attached to the augmented limb, as the vibrations of clanging steel would wreak havoc on its components. The saber can be ejected and readied for battle at a moment's notice, the elaborate blade unfolding much like a jack-knife. The weapon and limb are steel with silver filigree and highly ornamental, as befitting an officer's status.

[Zephaniel]

Name: Alphonse Eirann

Age: 20

Magical Art: Psyhcomancy, though he is apt to point out the philosophical and metaphysical similarities of psychomancy and illusionism

Appearance: Pale and thin, with a shock of thick, dark hair on his head. Sad, watery blue eyes look out over the horizon. His gait and posture speak of a genteel upbringing, but his face and speech hint at a fear behind the facade.

Personality: Is all respects, he is what you would expect of an upper-class, well educated young man. Prone to philosophical musings and snobbishness, not the least of which where a good wine is concerned. But spend any amount of time with him and you start to get the feeling that he has seen things... More than most, he knows just what goes bumping around in the night. And why we should all be afraid of the dark... but he will go to great lengths to hide this. But not just everyday darkness... the dark of total blackness. The darkness of possession, hiding in the corner of one's own mind as something other, the mind and will of another mage or monster, takes control, and the creeping ice-cold grip on your soul. Utter helplessness. Just the thought of it makes his heart race. This manifests in his personality as a controlling air and stubborn attitude, as he is adamant not to lose control of himself or his destiny again, much to the chagrin of his peers.

Personal Effects: A simple black cloak with sterling clasp and trim, plain dark wool blouse and trousers, leather knee-boots, a pair of black velvet gloves, a swift Shire draught horse and cart, several vintages of aged wine, and a collection of illuminated books, manuscripts, and scrolls kept in a locked wooden chest.

[Zephaniel]

Name: LT Arkay Mercedes II
Species: Human
Age: 26
Rank: Lieutenant

Skills: Former smuggler and mercenary.

Appearance: He is a relatively young man, rather handsome. Dark brown hair and dark gray eyes. He won't wear his Security Forces jumper more often than required, and more often than not is out of regulations in either his hair or dress. Those who notice can often see the distinct bulge of a small green-wavelength Krypton laser in his breast pocket; one doesn't easily forget being ambushed and thrown out of an airlock.

Personality: Naturally quiet, but exuding confidence in every action. He has made his living trusting in his own abilities and varied experiences. One thing that few people know, however, is that Arkay is afraid of the dark. Not just regular dark... the dark of a total power failure in interplanetary space. Just the thought of it makes his heart race and his skin crawl. Last time it happened, when he was out in trans-Neptunian space moving freight for some Kuiper Belt corp, he nearly went mad and risked vaporization to restart his fusion torch... by hand. With a screwdriver.

History: Arkay Mercedes was born of German/Irish stock. He grew up on Ceres, the largest and most organized Belter community in the Sol system. He spent his childhood apprenticed to his father, a man know frequently as "that damn snake-oil salesman" or even more frequently as "Hey you, give me my money back!" After his father was mysteriously killed after being ejected from an airlock, Arkay took their small starship and toured the belt on his own, eking a living as a tramp bulk freighter mechanic. He was subsequently fired after he was found with the foreman's daughter, and woke up one morning with a hangover and an enlistment in some rag-tag Belter militia; he'd been Shanghaied. After a short tour of duty, he managed to slip away on a single-ship and blast his way to the Martian satellites. For a couple years he made his way selling black market goods to the Martian Underground – things that the oppressed citizens under the iron fist of the governing council couldn't get otherwise. Planetary authorities eventually caught up with him as he was trying to take the Rabbit Hole out to the Jovian satellites. He was tried and offered clemency in return for yet another tour of duty: this time with the Security Forces. He begrudgingly accepted. Due to his time in service and experience, Arkay pushed his commanding officer for a recommendation to Officer Training School, where he earned a commission and a much fatter pay grade. He hopes to strike it rich someday and settle down on one of the Corridor's pleasure colonies.

[Zephaniel]

Name: Bjorn Trout

Age: 54

Gender: Male

Height: 6' 2" (188cm)

Weight: 170lb (77kg)

Appearance: A large Nordic man. He has piercingly pale blue eyes, and light blonde hair. His build is stocky, but that's just genetic. A poor diet and recent wandering have left him looking gaunt in the face. He wears an old parka made of synthetics and warm wool clothes. When he can keep warm, he is typically seen in a ratty old suit that is about two sizes too small, with tears at some of the seams. He says it was his father's.

Background: Bjorn was born in what used to be Wisconsin, outside the village of Camp Douglas. He grew up much like most of the second generation of children in the Afterlife: a hardscrabble life filled with death and tragedy, where more children were buried than parents, and death by pneumonia was as likely as death by rape and torture. The folks in his village tried their best, though, and he survived to see his father pass away in his sleep one cold winter night. Bjorn was 21 at the time. If you ask anyone in the village where Bjorn's decline started, if any remember, most would say it was then.
You see, his father, and his father's father, were weather men. And damn good ones too. Bjorn was his father's apprentice, and keeping an eye on the weather was more important now than ever, with the lack of modern infrastructure. He knew the cloud types before he could speak properly, and had pored over every meteorology text he could find. He helped his father in every way that he could and they both took their work very seriously. He helped his father with the weather observations, and his father determined the forecast for the village, every day, like clockwork.
The winter storm that finally did his father in was entirely unexpected. It was as if the system just formed out of nowhere, with howling arctic winds and windchills in the minus forties... Thirty villagers died, including Bjorn's father. He took it very personally, holing himself up in his room for a week. When he emerged, he was a different man. The village children stayed away from him when he walked the streets, his eyes locked in a thousand-yard stare. He took up his father's post, consumed with watching the weather. Everyone avoided him, especially when the weather was turning, as he could be heard at night, raving about pressure tendencies, vorticity, and mixing ratios...
One day the mayor came to his house to get the forecast, but Bjorn was gone, along with his instruments. Rumor has it he has been winding his way across the Midwest ever since, teaching his trade to any who will listen... which is difficult, since he has since developed a condition which the lay-person might call "bat-shit crazy."
Bjorn has survived the last 30-some years off the kindness of strangers - augmented in no small part by a Louisville Slugger with a nine-inch nail through it.