Name: Sorthraal
Age: 7,746 by virtue of the Warp, 344 according to his suit's chronometer.
Appearance:Born on Nostramo, Sorthraal was conceived with the characteristic wan, alabaster complexion and lack of an iris of the people of that long dead world, and these traits were exacerbated upon his induction to the VIII Legion. Even now, three centuries and a half old, he still stands true -- at least, in a physical sense -- as a living legacy of the Night Haunter, with thick blue veins snaking across his almost transparent white skin, made taut by the slabs of powerful muscle that they draped. Shaven, his head is bald, and crisscrossed by cobwebs of thick, ugly scars, devolving in form as they traveled from the nape of his neck all the way to his face, where they are the most concentrated. Each of these furrows into his tough, leathery skin told a story of its own: the gladius of an Imperial Fist on board the
Dymphna's Damnation, shrapnel from a young Ultramarine's bolter, and, most noticeable, the patch of ugly, dried meat that was the work of a Blood Angel flamer on Terra itself. A veteran warrior, more marks all over his body told tales of war, but these are more irregular and less varied than on his visage.
His armor is varied in its components: his torso and pauldrons, Mark VI; his gauntlets, Mark V; his left leg is VI while his other is IV. His helm and backpack are the newest pieces, being of the VII variant, prised from a fallen Emperor's Spear who died begging for mercy. Having undergone so many repairs and replacements, Sorthraal's suit would have looked quite at home in the latest fashion galleries of Imperial nobility had he not repainted its recent components. So many Chapters and Warbands. But he is a Night Lord, and as such, the ceramite is midnight blue, edged and trimmed with obsidian black, with little overt decoration save for the defiled Imperial aquila at the chest piece that had been desecrated by intentionally unrepaired battle-damage.
His armor does not aggrandize its wearer, as told by the fact that the telltale arrowhead symbol which betrays to others of his battlefield role still exists on his right pauldron.
Marine Type: Tactical Marine
Devotion: Yet to Devote.
Biography:He ignored it at first.
Then it came to chew upon his sanity.
Sorthraal leaned back, as far as the whining servos of his suit would allow, and, at the speed of sound, drove his armored head straight into the granite. The blow was powerful, cracking the rock and pulverizing much of the impact point to dust, which spread over his vox-grille and ruby eye lenses. Steadying himself with his hands on the stone monolith, he leaned again and repeated the motion with the same brutality. Again, and again, and again. The thunderclaps split the air.
The thumps could be heard for kilometers. Far away, a grazing herd of fauna tilted their ears at the direction. The feline predator took advantage of the distraction, and pounced at one of the babes. Sorthraal didn't know of this, of course. Sorthraal, even if he did, wouldn't have cared. Because at that point in time, he was almost unable to think.
"SHUT. UP," was his demand.
"SHUT. UP," was his mantra, uttered in rhythm with every headbutt.
"WHY WILL YOU NOT," thump,
"SHUT UP?"They spat a steady, incomprehensible litany at him, in tongues that he couldn't understand, and ones that he surely had no intention of learning. Amongst the thick veil of almost-static, with the way they screamed at him, he could detect a glimmer of laughter, a hint of a tone of wry amusement. They were mocking him, perhaps at his great and undeniable discomfort. Perhaps at something else. Either way, it was almost unbearable.
He had drilled into the rock so much that the structure was actually beginning to give way. Chunks of stone clattered against his helm, and the tower was grinding in protest even as he reared his head back for another go. It was working, yes, it was working! The voices were receding, the maddening whispers were going away. He was beating them out of his system, and he cared little for the flashing warning runes that bathed his retinal display in an incessant light show of crimson. The insanity was giving way to clarity. Clarity of thought, clarity of mind, and clarity of sense.
Then, he heard footsteps.
Sorthraal turned around, all his several tonnes of power-armored form. Servos roared in surprise as with swiftness unbecoming of his bulk he pulled his bolter from his thigh's magnetic clamp. In but a heartbeat, the wide-muzzled Godwyn was already at the target. But the machine spirit inside of it, though simple, noted something strange: it was lowered a millimeter.
"You again," Sorthraal hissed, his voice coarse with five hours' worth of yelling. The visitor was both welcome and unwelcome. His trigger finger itched both ways.
Arabar merely smiled. And warmly, too, as he stepped over the bisected remains of an Eldar warlock. And stepped some more, each footfall bringing him closer to Sorthraal, bringing Sorthraal closer to calmness. The Dark Apostle did not need to speak to convey his message.
"Fine," said the Night Lord, lowering his weapon, though not the venom in his voice.
"You have made your point. I will follow you, Apostle."Personality:With respect to the GM, this player would rather develop his personality as the RP goes, rather than write it here.Personal skills:In Midnight Clad: Sorthraal is a Night Lord, and as such, is adept in terror warfare. Taking a special pleasure in inflicting fear, he uses it like a disease and a poison amongst his foes. The VIII Legion was one so feared that mere rumors of its visit would turn worlds compliant. Sorthraal can, with blade, bolter and theatric, easily show why.
Fallen Angel: He was there during the Horus Heresy: an age of myth and mystery to most of the Imperium. But not to him. Having walked under the same skies as the Primarchs and the Emperor, Sorthraal is a historical relic beyond value. The false muscles of his aging power armor still bear quite a few micro-nicks from the Siege of Terra, and within his mind is the ancient lore of a man who lived alongside the most despised of legendary figures.
Arms Master - Bolter: The standard weapon of the Legiones Astartes, while ubiquitous to its members, is a tenacious, temperamental beast. Sorthraal has trained his eye, hand and posture to tame it completely into his control. With a wordless command, he can set any bolter's rage loose with deadly precision, whether the target is the eye or the heart. Sorthraal is an expert shot, even by Space Marine standards.
Gear:-Hybrid Power Armor
-Mark IX
Hell's Teeth Chainsword
-Godwyn Astartes-pattern Bolter
-Frag Grenade Bundle
-Krak Grenade Bundle
-Melta Charge
Fourth Claw:Sorthraal is the sergeant of the warband's Fourth Claw, or Fourth Squad. Its members, excluding him, are as follows:
Udan: A Legionary who'd walked in the shadow of the Primarchs just as most of the squad, Udan is a fierce fighter, competitive on the battlefield and unyielding in defense. Prideful, he is not one to decline an honor duel. Pettily envious, he desires
Lentus' power sword. Although afflicted by the whispers, he has not yet devoted himself to the Ruinous Powers. A tactical marine, he does not favor ranged combat over melee.
His powered armor is a mishmash of multiple Marks, as is common amongst traitor marines. He is not very distinguishable from the rest of the warband, save for the cracked Novamarine helms that he has impaled on the spikes of his back-mounted powerplant. He is equipped with a bolter and a chain-axe.
Vorax: Vorax is the youngest of the Claw, having been born only after the Heresy and into the Raiding Years. Despite never having seen the Primarch, he has been fortunate enough to step into the dark halls of the Legion fortress at Tsagualsa before the Primogenitor chapters came and destroyed it. Only 144 years old according to his suit's chronometer, Vorax has not devoted himself to the Ruinous Powers, although the whispers are wearing down his defenses. He is a tactical marine, and favors ranged combat.
Notable for being in full Mark VII plate, Vorax can be distinguished by the ruined Imperial aquila that is still emblazoned across his chestpiece. However, unlike Sorthraal, he has taken pains to aggrandize himself. Skulls are chained across his form and he wears the skinned face of a Raven Guard scout on his right pauldron. Hooks dangle in between his thighs, each ending in a still-rotting severed head. He uses a modern combat knife and a bolter.
Bas: Mentally dull out of combat, and utterly implacable, impetuous and bloodthirsty in it, Bas is a Khornate Berzerker in all but name, because he refuses to call himself as such even as he screams praises to the Master of Battles every time he raises his chain-axe. Clad in midnight, he has yet to repaint his armor crimson and trim it with bronze or brass. In his chamber is a small altar dedicated to Khorne, a mound made up of skulls. Bas is the Claw's melee specialist, and a dangerous one at that.
Bas can be distinguished by the knightly helm of his Mark III war plate and the painted lightning that streaks across its ceramite. Two chain-axes are always present on his person (as well as a bolter and a gladius), although he favors a one-handed grip. He eats the gene-seed of fallen enemy marines unless restrained.
Malgadon: This Legionary finds a perverse pleasure in fratricide, as he discovered when he cut down a squad of Blood Angels with his heavy bolter back during the Siege of Terra. Still carrying the same weapon today, he feeds upon the fear the roar of the cannon inspires, and the dread of those who realize that they are about to die. Gregarious, he is Fourth Claw's devastator -- he does not call himself a Havoc. Erring towards Slaanesh, every soul he sets loose into the Warp sends warm chills up and down his armored spine.
Curving horns sprout high and proud from the temples of Malgadon's Mark VII helm, as is iconic of devastators. Skin that he has flayed himself is draped across his armor, in addition to the usual skulls. He is never seen without his personal heavy bolter and is extremely protective of it. When the battle is finished, he will usually be one of the firsts to start skinning the fallen foe.
