[hider=The Guy With a Massive Robo-Arm]
Harvin Freimasen is a thirty one year old man raised on the Civilised World of Slome, a place possessed largely of technology similar to what might be found within the first century of M03. With fairly light skin, a somewhat thin build, unkempt dirty-blonde hair and green-blue eyes, he would not nominally be anything special to look at; however, this is countermanded by both the crazed expression of vague fear constantly plastered to his face, and the immensely oversized robotic arm in place of his normal left arm, adding disproportionately to his mass for a total of about 100 kilograms, complete with support implants between it and various points on his body to let him move somewhat normally. The reason for this artificial arm's absurd weight is rather apparent, being as large as his torso on its own; further to this, however, it is overloaded with, and can shift apart its external plasteel plating in various ways to reveal, a variety of weapons, including a number of las and solid projectile weapons, up to and including a Hellpistol and a heavy stubber, and two drive-linked chainswords on both the underside and overside of the arm. Most precious of all, the arm hides an Angelus Bolt Carbine, making use of expensive and illegal bolt rounds intended for Astartes rather than human use.

Naturally, the ammunition and upkeep costs for all of these weapons would be extreme if he were to use them constantly, and so he often conserves ammunition against less threatening foes by simply charging arm-first into close combat, using his artificial arm like a shield (the armaplas proving effective against light las and solid projectile fire as well as many close combat weapons and even chainswords, though less so against stronger assaults like bolter rounds and power weapons) before bludgeoning the target with incredible force, though this is naturally an idea to be avoided against greater threats. Other than this, his protection is limited to flak armour, and the fairly plain beige clothing worn underneath, and the arm itself could easily prove to be volatile for all the ammunition stored within both attached to the weapons and ready to be loaded in, should its defenses be pierced.

Naturally, people are inclined to wonder what necessitated the robotic arm in the first place, and those rare few who espy the Bolt Carbine to ask how in the Warp he got one of those. It all started, as they say, at the age of about twelve, when a Chaos cult invaded his home town of Silentumo. Naturally, the majority of the townspeople knew nothing of this cult until it was too late to protect themselves from a horde of cultists in the dark of the night, but Harvin in particular failed to awaken until the attack had actually reached his home's front door. Though he did his best to find a way out before it was too late, he found himself cornered by a man with a heretical symbol across his chest, like a circle with eight arrows pointing from it, and an immense axe which smelt of death and made Harvin want to throw up. The cultist was shockingly fast with the weapon, and if it had struck his body, it would have dealt mortal damage; yet for his youth, Harvin was rather agile himself, and managed to dodge the weapon's blow to some extent, merely losing his arm at the shoulder instead of his life.

Even that would have been fatal were the injury inflicted by a normal weapon, or if Harvin were a normal human. However, the axe was a weapon with a daemonic force bound to it, and Harvin was a latent psyker. The combination of the two forcibly awakened Harvin's psychic power then and there, reflexively searing his new wound shut and blasting the axe wielder into giblets in a single burst of energy. Whilst it saved his life in the short term, in the middle of a Chaos attack is not when any psyker wants to awaken, and Harvin found himself only halfway conscious from the searing ache of the Warp pressing against his mind as he made his way out of his house, through the streets, avoiding contact with everyone and using his psychic abilities to kill the few cultists he encountered, though each use of his power only worsened the headache. Through luck or the Emperor's mercy, he managed to get out of town otherwise unscathed, and then ran another few miles before unconsciousness finally took him, barely avoiding the wrath of the Astra Militarum force consequently sent to cleanse the town of everything in it, heretical or not.

Though physically, all he had lost was an arm, and he managed to walk his way to a town unaffected by the madness and live there as a basically homeless person for another few years, his mind never really recovered from the trauma. Aside from anything else, he desperately feared his own abilities as a psyker, knowing full-well that whatever force had led to his home's destruction that day could just as easily take notice of him and crush his psyche into nothingness on a whim, and so refused to use his powers unless it was absolutely necessary. That in turn focused itself into a form of directed obsession - through luck and self-education, he scavenged enough materials to build himself a new arm, only to become concerned that maybe something like what happened before would happen again, necessitating the addition of a hidden weapon, then another, then armour plating, and so on, and the arm soon became obnoxiously bulky, to the point of needing hydraulic supports to be welded into his flesh and to the arm to keep him stable. And even then, he carried more than just his own self from the ruins of his hometown: though to this day he is unaware of it, the remnants of those souls who had died in Silentumo both good and evil latched on to the energy emitted by the newborn psyker as he ran, feeding off his power like parasites to sustain and protect themselves, and in turn inflicting upon their host hallucinations of a gore-covered dimension made of metal, often infested with monsters which were and are just as capable of injuring him as anything in the real world, being essentially minor manifestations of Silentumo's dead in the fabric of the Warp.

Time passed, as it does, and it eventually happened that Harvin, at the age of nineteen, found himself stowing away on some rich noble's spaceship, acquiring access (albeit painfully, thanks to the influence of leaping through the Warp on his mind) to the wider galaxy, only to learn just how backward his planet really was by modern standards... or, more accurately, how ineffective and primitive his cybernetic limb was when faced with modern armour. And yet, how many Tech-priests there were! Scions of the Omnissiah, seemingly a counterpart to the Imperium's ruler known only as the Emperor, and masters of its technology to an insane, impossible degree. If he had their knowledge, just a bit of it, surely he could make his arm better than it was, rebuild it to match up with the threats faced by humanity? Naturally, finding a Tech-priest with the relevant information to do so was a difficult feat in itself, and trying to convince them to fix up his arm once found was all but impossible with no Thrones of his own, leading to building frustration and, ultimately, a thought too insane to contemplate for long without discarding it.

Alas, Harvin did not have time to contemplate it for very long. He had a chance encounter with a Tech-priest in a lonesome corridor of yet another starship, and the thought occurred to him like a near-irrefutable argument: before he could convince himself otherwise, he used his psychic power to knock out the Tech-priest, then dredged every ounce of data from the priest's mind, copying it over to his own, but knocking out a good half of the priest's own memory in the process (including, coincidentally, the priest's entire memory of the past twenty four hours, Harvin included) and severely messing up his own thought processes for a time. Far too much of the information gained was unworkable for lack of training, advanced tools, and Warp static, and was eventually discarded, but what he could utilise was more than enough to achieve his rebuilding dreams. Naturally, since he'd already done something rather abhorrent, he figured frisking the offline cyborg for items to sell was no further issue, and in doing so acquired easily the most valuable personal item he'd ever encountered: a gun with an immensely wide barrel and room for just three massive bolt rounds in its clip, which he would later learn was an Angelus Bolt Carbine, one of the stronger human-portable weapons in existence, which would eventually be built into his future arm.

With everything said and done, Harvin realised he would need much more advanced materials to perform his rebuild... and to acquire those, he would either need to find scrap and weaponry to build from, or get quite rich, and the former was ironically less prevalent on a galaxy-wide scale than it had been on Slome. So, naturally, he began to put himself out as a mercenary at the earliest opportunity, because there was no other way he could reasonably function in his state, and even the role of mercenary was rarely good for his mindset what with the blood and gore involved, as well as the surprisingly-high degree of politicking involved in payment negotiations. Small jobs at first, of course; then, as he acquired his materials and a few new guns to replace those of his homeworld, steadily increasing the amount that the jobs he took were worth, until he reached about the middle class of "society" beyond the Imperium's laws - in other words, with enough money to subsist comfortably, minus the reputation needed to become truly notorious, though in his mind, this is perhaps for the best until he can find a larger group to become part of. Now, in his early thirties, Harvin remains an individual who is, not broken, but somewhat cracked as a result of his experiences, and further bent and deformed so as to fit into his role: friendly enough on the surface and reasonably skilled, yet unhealthily paranoid, obsessed with his arm's continued functionality, liable to experience yet another hallucination of faceless nurses or oversized worms split in twain at any moment, and generally likely to emit a range of high-pitched screeches whilst in combat. Funny to watch, not so funny to be on the receiving end of.
[/hider]