• T-MAG 1
• B-Type M1
• Ragnaid
• Shocktroop armor
• Revolver

• Ammo Refill - Always could use with more shots
• Big Sister - I'll protect those close to me
• Bloodthirsty - There's killing to do!
• Challenge Lover - Justice will prevail!

As a child
"Hey, what do you think you guys are doing over there? Picking on a little girl! Cecilia called out to the boys picking on a girl not much younger than her.
"What do you want huh!?" They replied.
"You guys are nothing but bullies! You deserve to be punished."
"Punished? HA! By who?"

Cecilia calmly walked up to the boys.
"Oh look at this, defending her are you? Get her!"
With that she smiled. Her face smiling a devilish grin, as she dodged the first punch by ducking low, and punching the boy below the belt. He writhed in pain, as the others started to charge in. She went to beat on the boy writhing in pain, before using him to shield a blow from the others. Continuing to smile, she threw the boy into the others and started to beat them all senseless.

As the boys writhed in pain, she dusted herself off. "Now then, no more picking on anyone, got it?" she smiled, an innocent smile.

Now
"Hey guys, how you doing?" she called out to the familiar looking men. "Hey Cecilia."
"You guys have changed recently."
"Ha ha ... yeah ... After going through that so many times ..."
"Going through what? Justice?"
"Uh ... Yeah .... Anyway ... we got work so laters."
"Well keep up the good work."
Looks like they finally know about the power of justice. Cecilia smiled to herself walking away.

Bio: Reginald didn't have a place to call home most of his life, since he was born he traveled from town to town with his parents. Never staying long in any one place before his father had to move to the next town for his line of work. In his teen years, he ran away from his roaming parents, tired of how little attention they paid him and how much they dragged him around from town to town. With little to no direction, Reg continued to just move from town to town, having to resort to stealing to feed himself. Eventually he picked the wrong pocket as it turned out to belong to a member of the local organized crime group. The man was impressed at how easily the boy pulled off his simply thievery and decided to take him in. The group became the boy's family, teaching him all sorts of skills and raising him. The boy stuck with the group until he was a full grown man, raising in standing in the group. Eventually, at the age of 50, Reg grew tired of crime, no longer wanting to profit off the suffering of others. Saying goodbye to his 'family' and taking the money he had earned while working with them, he moved out to a small country side town. There he became a Barista, opening his own cafe and serving coffee until the Imperial's invasion of Gallia destroyed his cafe. Both angered and having no where to go, Reg signed up for the militia.

Personality: Before, in his youth, he was known to be quite wild but now age has gotten the better of him, calming him down and turning him into quite a gentleman. Reg prides himself in his ability to remain calm and collective in most situations and not to let his emotions get the better of him. Despite all this, Reg isn't one to turn away from a fight. He'll even go as far as to look for them sometimes, a habit left over from his criminal days. While at first he seems like the sort of man who would try to talk his way out of tough situations, his experience with crime life taught him that a little bit of violence will get you much farther then a few nice words.

RP Sample:
Reg stood behind the counter of his cafe, cleaning a cup when a distant explosion shook the room, knocking a plate off the shelf.
"Must they train their tank operators this close to town?" He looked over to his only patron, waiting for a reply. Before the war, the cafe usually was bustling with various workers and townsfolk, but now it's empty. The Imperial invasion was getting closer to town and many people had fled deeper into Gallia. At the counter of the cafe sat another older man, a friend from Reg's past.
"What? 'fraid of a few explosions? You've gone soft, Reg."
"It's not me that's afraid, it's my paying customers. Once this war ends I'll-"
Another explosion cut him off, a wiser man would assume they were getting closer. Reg put down the cup he was cleaning and walked over to the window.
"They are really active today, maybe they are heading out soon?"
The man at the counter took a sip of his coffee, placing the empty cup on the counter-top.
"Why don't ya head with 'im Reg? Bash a few of those Imps' heads in."
"What about you? You're as able to go into the fray as I am."
Reg peaked out the window trying to spot the training tanks.
"Me head out? Did ya forget the time you shot me in the leg? I still can barley move the thing."
The man moved his leg back and forth slowly, as if trying to prove a point.
"Are you still sour over that? That was almost 20 years ago."
"Yea? An' it still hurts like a-"
A third explosion rocked the cafe. Over the horizon, Reg could spot one of the tanks. The blasted metal contraption that was causing all of this noise. The man stood up, placing some money on the table.
"Anyways, Reg. I'm headin' out. I'll tell the boss you said hi."
Reg nodded to the man as he watched the tank come back in from training, something seemed different about it from the others. Were Gallian tanks always red?

Name: Fenrir Cheslock


Gender: Male

Age: 27

Appearance: Fenrir is a somewhat tall man, with a lean, but fit build. His hair is medium-brown and scruffy, with a matching light stubble on his face. His eyes are dark green, and the lines beneath them give him the look of constantly being tired. When going into battle, he wears a grey wool tuque.

Rank: Private First Class

Class: Shocktrooper

Weapons and Equipment:
-MAGS M10 machine-gun
-B-Type M1 grenade
-A small hatchet
-A wood-carving knife

Personality:
Fenrir gives the impression of a man who never stops moving, but never moves too quickly. Like a beast of burden, he trudges along, always being productive, but never being to excited with any given task. He's a man who, as young as he is, is already used to working long and hard.

Biography:
Fenrir ("Fen", to his friends), was born in a small suburban township in Northern Gallia. His family owned a small lumber company, and was able to send him and his sister to a prestigious school near the capital. His sister, Wendy, gained an aptitude for chemistry, and developed a deep fascination with the development of explosive compounds. Fen excelled at sports, history, and political science, and graduated at the top of his class. When their father passed away, Fen inherited the family business, and worked hard to turn the company into a sizable lumber-supplier in the region. His sister moved away, and dedicated herself to developing some sort of new "technology".
When the war began, and the Empire began moving forces into Gallia, Fen found that more and more of his customers were disappearing, and the supply chains he used to rely on were being blocked and subverted by imperial soldiers. Facing bankruptcy, he received a letter from his sister, letting him know that she was joining the Gallian militia.
Weighing his options, Fenrir saw the militia as a way to make some money while the war was stopping his business, and he hoped that this would be a way for him to keep an eye on his sister. His sister wound up being stationed in a different part of Gallia, but he was still able to request reports every now and then, letting him know that she was still alive.

RP Sample:
Fen's axe landed with a hearty "thunk", as wood chips flew outward. The clouds above glowed magenta, as the sun began disappearing over the horizon. It wouldn't be long before the swarms of insects began coming out, dancing in the cool evening air. Fen's stomach growled, impatiently. This would have to be his last tree for the day. He gave another forceful swing.

*THUNK*, *THUNK*, *THUNK*

The tree was ready to go down, he dropped his axe and gave the trunk a push to help it along. With a cacophony of snapping and the swish of the air through the branches, it tumbled to the ground, landing thunderously.

"Hey Wulf! Adal!" Fenrir bellowed. "Come give me a hand with this one!"

"Yessir!" A voice shouted back, as two young men came running through the underbrush.

Another hour of chopping, sawing, and hauling later, and the tree was taken care of. The three men stood for a moment, looking over the clearing, proud of their work for the day.

"So what do you think, gentlemen?" Adal inquired with a grin. "Should we hit the bar?"

"Again?" Fenrir responded, wearily. "You boys are welcome to go. I think I'll call it an early night."

"You sure about that, Fen?" Wulf chuckled, throwing Adal a cheeky glance.

"What?" Fenrir asked.

"You remember Ava, don't you Fen?" Adal responded, smirking more and more ferociously.

"The blondie that was there last night? Of course!"

"Fen" Adal began, like a boy lecturing his little brother. "She didn't take her eyes off you that whole night. And I've heard she's hoping you'll be there again tonight."

Fenrir gave an exhausted sigh, as a slight blush hit his face.

"Alright, alright."

Wulf and Adal roared with approval, as the three of them went marching into

Name: Atlas Orville
Gender: Male
Age: 26
Appearance: Atlas stands at 5'9 with a leaner build than most but you wouldn't know it while in uniform. He wears a pair of black glasses that frames his jade color eyes and styles his short pale teal hair with minimal effort. When not in uniform, he usually wears a white collared shirt untucked and unbutton toward the top, exposing a bit of open chest and dark grey cargo pants with an teal stripe going down each side. Around his neck drapes a silver chain with a locket attached. For p

Rank: Private
Class: Shocktropper
Weapons and Equipment:
MAGS M1
3 B-Type M1 Grenades

Personality: Atlas comes off as being very studious and serious at all times, even often times being seen reading before bed. But in all honesty, he is a kind and lovable goof-ball, almost brotherly. He just doesn't let it show outside of those close to him. What friends he has can be seen razzing him while he tries to keep his serious persona in front of superiors. The seriousness is not a complete mask, however. He has a keen sense of tactics and does what he can to keep his friends and allies alive. In battle, his seriousness comes out full force, embracing the times and who he is; A soldier.

Bio:
Atlas Orville is the eldest of two siblings, twin brother and sister, Vivian and Victor. His father, Jacob, was a simple mechanic who loved to play board games with anyone who would challenge him. A spry old guy who does not act his age. His mother, bless her soul, helped raise everyone while she was alive. Her death occurred when Atlas was 13 and it was hard on the family but he did the best to keep his siblings from falling apart. His father, however, only had alcohol to wash his woes away. His skills at his trade were waning and Atlas had to pick up the slack while Victor and Vivian picked up the house duties.

For awhile, things normalized at the Orville home but then, it came crashing down again. The Empire came barreling through and destroyed Atlas' home. Thankfully, the twins hid beyond view but Jacob was worse for wear, on death's door. Atlas, not willing to let another parent die, carried brother and sister in both arms and his father on his back and headed for Gallia. When he reached his destination, he collapsed of exhaustion, running on willpower alone. He roused to consciousness with Victor asleep at his bedside, Vivian crying and his father in the bed next time, bandaged and stabilized. He had saved his family. But what if he wasn't there? What if some other families suffered the same deed but met a dead end? There was no what if. This was happening. At that moment, he couldn't bare it anymore. He enlisted in Gallia's military force as a shock-trooper. He could not let another family die. Not as long as he drew breath.

RP Sample:
The dawn approached, the sun shining through the currents and onto an empty bed. Normally, a younger man could be seen rolling over, away from the sun and trying to recapture lost dreams; today is not this day. Standing in front of a mirror stands the young man who normally could not be torn from his bed, dawning a uniform of blue and red. Tying every lace of his boot, buttoning every button and pressing out every crease, Atlas stands in front of the mirror, barely recognizing himself.

"Well, Atlas, time to put the world on your shoulders" He says to himself with a confident and uplifting tone.

Before, this phrase was used to help me through rough days in his father's garage. Today, it takes on a new meaning. He opens the door and walks out of his room, leaving his old life behind without looking back. Each step felt filled with purpose, unwavering and strong. However, he couldn't just leave. Not yet. He hangs a left down the hall and slowly approaches the only door available. Atlas gulps without realizing and hesitantly opens the door. The room hangs in darkness, the curtains pulled to avoid an early awakening. There lies Jacob Orville, resting and recovering from an attack from the Empire. Atlas looks upon his father, his fist clenching, instinctively, but relaxes upon seeing Victor and Vivian. They, too, are asleep at their father's side. Now, more than ever, they wanted to stick together.

"Sorry. I can't sit by and let you all be hurt again. I'll take the fight back to the Empire. And then?", he chuckles a little at the thought before continuing, "Well, we'll get to that when i come home". Atlas stiffens and turns to leave before saying "Good bye"

The door closes and he leaves behind all of his doubts before emerging from the shelter a solider.

Name: Veronica Callaway

Gender: Female

Age: 22

Appearance: Here

Rank: Private

Class: Scout

Weapons and Equipment: Gallian-1 Rifle, B-Type M1 Grenade, Small Ragnaid canister, Scout Uniform

Personality: A complex one of sorts; Veronica has been known to swear like a well-educated sailor, but to have a heart of gold. Someone who hates lies and manipulation, but is not above resorting to such if she has to get even with someone. A person with the patience of a saint, and a rage heavily repressed because of it. A girl who does not like war, but understands the necessity to fight. She likes to take the time to stop and smell the roses, but can zero her focus on the task at hand.

Bio: Veronica was born out in a small rural town in the Gallian countryside. Her parents had both immigrated from far west to the quiet little country to get away from the big Empires of the world and seek a quaint living. It worked, for the most part. There was always some kind of work needing to be done, so her mother became a school teacher and her father became a factory worker. There was hard times when neither of them were always home, but Veronica passed the time by reading books on anything from history to fantasy. These were good days indeed, but it was not to last.

When the East Europan Empire came knocking at Gallia's borders, it was the Army who came knocking on Veronica's. With her father moved into a military factory making tanks, her mother taken to help teach tactics through historical battles, and Veronica having been more than 18 by the time, there was little she could do but accept. She was sent off to basic training, but her performance washed her out of any slot in the regular Army (at least that's what she was told) and she was drafted into the Militia. Though quick on her feet, she had to work through endurance problems with running. Because of this, she was made as a scout. Paired with her 20/20 vision with an attention to detail, and she could more than make up for her shortcomings on running. Being a scout also meant having the lightest uniform and equipment in the unit, while not having to be a hawkeye crackshot like snipers were expected to.

She completed her training and was no sooner shipped out to the frontline. Her first engagement was in Squad 13, which was also her last engagement with the squad due to it having been decimated to the point where it would take too much effort to draft replacements to fill all the holes in the command and squad structure than to disband it altogether and use the remaining members to replenish other squads. Of course, the other reason was that Squad 13 was believed to be a bad omen, and was never going to be reinstated into the militia again. It's rumored that those who served brought bad luck to the other squads, but it could very well be seen that those who survived did so by the power of their own luck outweighing the squad number's bad.

RP Sample: "Nothing fancy"

Squad Thirteen's First and Last Engagement

The air was cold as rain pelted the ground around them. The dirt roads had quickly turned to mud, but it wasn't thick and slushy. Still, because of this, command had decided to forego armored support to avoid tanks getting stuck. The infinite wisdom of the brass never ceased to amaze Veronica, on both sides. Who the hell wanted a town like this, anyway? It was far out into the country where forests and hedgerows kept troops from seeing beyond the horizon in almost all directions, and had no strategic importance that she could immediately think of. But, the enemy was here and had set up shop, so in an effort to relieve the pressure on squads down the line, they were going to force the Imps into a firefight here and see if they couldn't lure them out. The plan had a good idea, but it never went like that. "No battle plan survives contact with the enemy" as the saying went.

Why the fuck couldn't they wait until it stopped raining? No one knew how long it'd last, but everywhere Veronica looked in the sky, all she saw was dark gray clouds. It could be a half hour, or it could be the rest of the day. She held her rifle close and peered around the corner of what was left of the outside wall of a house. The Army had shelled the shit out of the town yesterday, the day before, and the day prior to that. What was left was a few houses that somehow remained mostly untouched, but mostly ones who had their roofs caved in and top floors blown out. A small church still had it's steeple intact, which she eyed intently. A sniper's nest if there was ever a good one. The rain played hell with her vision, and the shadows the clouds darkened hid Imperial sharpshooters, who's patience earned them their daily kills and notches on their rifle stocks.

"What do you see?" The Lieutenant, and squad leader, asked her.

"A whole lotta nothin'...but they're here. I can feel it. I just can't see it and that's what bothers me." Veronica whispered to the man behind her. All down the walls were Squad Thirteen's troops, hugging the walls and trying to stay dry.

"We need to know what's out there."

"And I'm telling you I can't see jack!" Veronica hissed lowly, trying to voice her exasperation at not being able to see anything either. She knew damn well those Imps were out there, waiting.

"Alright, move forward."

Veronica did a double-take. Was he seriously asking her to just walk right out there? It was like asking her to shoot herself in the foot. But, that's how the old tactics went. How do you check for snipers? You send a guy out there and see if he gets shot. They thought that one up at Lanseal. But orders, despite how stupid, were orders. She looked back and made a silent prayer to herself before jumping out around the building with her rifle up in her shoulder. She breathed heavily and scanned the immediate area in front of her, but the Imperial snipers were even more patient than that. For as the common tactic to send a guy out as bait was put, so too was the common follow up tactic of letting the pointman not get shot and allow the rest of the squad to think it safe to move up.

Veronica slowly walked out, looking this way and that, asking the Imps where the hell they were with her mind as if it would get them to show themselves. But they didn't. Not yet. They let her walk over to a pile of sandbags near the corner of the crossroads before the church. She looked up into the steeple window again and wished she had an arm to lob her grenade up that high. She was almost certain that there was a sniper hiding in there, mostly because she'd be there too if she was him. But they let the minutes pass while she tried to pick them out, and they thought about how her head would look if they shot it in certain areas. Finally, after ten agonizingly quiet minutes, Veronica ducked back behind the sandbags and looked back at her Lieutenant. She nodded, seeing that one of the shocktroopers had crept through the ruined building and set up his T-Mag on a window to cover her.

The Lieutenant signaled the rest of the squad forward and that was that. The squad began moving up, and just when they had reached the intersection, all hell broke loose. Snipers quickly and expertly picked off what few lancers and snipers were assigned to the probe attack as well as the Lieutenant. From one of the buildings, an Imperial tank destroyer who's running engine was hard to pick out from the sounds of the downpour and thunder, burst out into the street and promptly fired. The last thing Veronica remembered was watching the shell fly towards her and impact the wall of the house she was next to. A few weeks later and she woke up in a Gallian field hospital out on the reserve line way back from the frontline with more metal inside her than she'd care to have known. As soon as she was fully recovered, she was handed her new transfer orders. Much to her dismay, the war had not ended while she was out.

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"POP!! ♪♫Gooooes the weeeaaaasel.♫♪"

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Name: Ezekiel Gosling
Age: 16
Gender: Male
Rank: Private

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Class: Sniper
Weapons & Equipment: ATR-X1 Anti-Tank Sniper Rifle, Viper-1 Pistol, Ragnaid, Uniform
Potentials:
Ambush Spotter: Can spot concealed enemies from twice the distance as other soldiers. - "Hmph, nice try..."
Competitive: Hates having to admit defeat, raising their firing accuracy. - "Ya feel lucky, punk?"
Neutralize: Cannot be countered when attacking. - "They won't even know what hit 'em."
Sore Loser: Gets frustrated over missing an enemy, lowering attack power against infantry and armor. - "What th-?! Awe, come on!"
Wake-Up Call: Has an epiphany upon seeing a fallen ally, disabling movement. Replaces Sore Loser during a key part of the story. - "Oh crap. That could've been me!"
Guardian Angel: The spirit of the mother watches over them when they're alone, raising various attributes. Replaces Wake-Up Call during a key part of the story. - "I'll do ya proud, Mom. I'll make sure of it."

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Main Theme Song: Boomerang, by Amaranthe
Battle Theme Song: Lost Odyssey OST: Dark Saint Battle
Ideal Voice Actors: Eileen Stevens (En)/Mie Sonozaki (Jp)