Name: Rupert O'Donald

Age: Mid to late twenties (Is actually 28)

Gender: Male

Race: Human

Appearance: Standing at 6'4 with board shoulders and a body that has been shaped by hard work and labor, Rupert might not be the biggest or more intimidating person that the world has ever seen but he has been able to thrive none the less. His skin is white but years of being exposed to the various heat sources that the ship has to offer has burnt in a rather strange looking tan on his face where his safety equipment doesn't cover, the full extent of which is reveled when he removes his goggles or breathing mask.

His hair is a dark orange, but time on patrol around the ship often means that he needs to keep it short for professional reasons due to how much grim and filth tends to coat it before the end of his shift. His eyes are a dark blue.

Equipment/outfit wise, Rupert is almost always seen wearing the outfit of his office as High Janitor:

A pair of tinted safety goggles to protect the eyes from sudden bright flashes.
Breathing mask with an oxygen tank in the event of encountering a hazard on the ship in which having a personal air supply is required.
The standard chem treated and resistant yellow janitor jumpsuit.
A pair of yellow, firm grip and anti-slip galoshes (steel plated to help protect the feet).
Carapace breastplate
Lasgun/laspistol (depending on what section of the ship one is patrolling for size reasons)
Hand held flamer.
Melee weapon of choice (In Rupert's case, he favors a chainsword).

Personality:
Born into the Janitorial Union, Rupert understands the value of hard and often unappreciated work that needs to be done for the benefit of all. Having lived his entire life aboard a void vessel and often traveling through the parts of it that most voidsmen either don't know or don't care about, he is well aware of the dangers that can arise from neglect and is highly vigilant in the face of threats raging from basic maintenance to the variety of nasty critters and beasts that often try to infest and make their homes in the dark places of space craft.

Rupert will come down hard on the lazy and the incompetent, viewing both as worse then sin: Laziness and Incompetence not only risk the lives of the one committing them, but endanger the lives of everyone around them and the safety of their home in general. Rarely do the powers that be deem fit to provide the resources to reclaim parts of the ship lost to the void of space or other such hazards if the area isn't deemed important and allowing a piece of their home to be lost without just cause is inexcusable.

That being said, Rupert isn't above hearing people out when they have suggestions to improve a method in place. If it is discovered that steps in a maintenance cycle are unnecessary or only need to be done every so often rather then every time, he will happily streamline the process... but Emperor help the fool who tries to do this without alerting him first.

History:
Rupert was born into the Janitorial Union to a recently widowed mother; His father had been cleaning up a mess in the Medbay when the ventilation pumps failed and flooded the air with toxic fumes. Everyone who had been in the Medbay when it happened were incapacitated within seconds to die a horrible death, but some quick response time managed to see the area sealed off until repairs could be made and the area made safe again. The failure was discovered to have been caused by neglect due to an argument that was going on between the current team of tech priest Explorators and the Janitors over duties of care and who was in charge of maintaining what.

While he was raised without a father, when Rupert turned five he joined the cleaning staff in their duties of making sure that the ship remained at an acceptable level of cleanliness. The work was long, hard and at times dangerous due to the many hazards present in a void traveling capable ship. Most of the other crew members didn't care about the work you did and complained if something was missed. But it was work that needed to be done, so he did it without much more then some small grumbling every now and then.

When he reached his teens Rupert volunteered for Janitor training. Most children of the Union attempt the training at some point of another, through most in turn will end up dropping out of the program for a variety of reasons. Rupert's determination and vigilance paid off in the end through, completing the brutal training and becoming a full Janitor by the age of twenty. For eight years O'Donald prowled the ship to ensure that it remained in safe, operational condition and remained as free of invaders and pests as possible.

A few months prior to the ship being turned over to its new Captain in the form of Rogue Trader Drake, the prior High Janitor passed away and a new one had to be decided upon. As was tradition, the Janitors began by asking if any Janitors felt like they were not prepared for the responsibilities of the job of High Janitor and wished to decline being a contender. Round two involves the remaining Janitors being judged by their peers for any faults or flaws that would make them ill suited for the role. After the vetting process, the final round is to have all remaining Janitors that are still contenders for the role of High Janitor will draw lots, with the winner becoming the new High Janitor.

Rupert, after narrowly managing to defend his contention to become the High Janitor from the allegation that his father's death due to the fighting of the Janitors and the Tech Priests might make him hostile towards the servants of the machine cult, won the draw and ascended to High Janitor. Currently, he doesn't know what to really think of his new boss, but he intends to do his people and ship proud.

Skills:

Cleaner: Ever since he was five, Rupert has worked hard to keep the ship that is his home as clean as possible. While this does mean that he's qualified as a normal cleaner, these same skills are also useful for making... other types of messes disappear without leaving much in the way of evidence behind.
Maintenance Expert: While the tech priests might have a greater understanding of technology in general, when it comes to his home ship Rupert understands her systems and what makes her run better then any dozen robed cyborgs you could shake a metal rod at.
Ship Defense Expert: When it comes to repelling boarders, warp daemons or just pests in general, having such a good understanding and knowledge of ones home turf makes the job so much easier. The fact that he has spent at least eight years doing these very things gives him good experience as well.
Head of Security: While Rupert would happily punch out anyone who tried to label him as such, the role of High Janitor includes most, if not all, duties and responsibilities of the Head of Security for the ship... and to a lesser extent, the Captain/Rogue Trader Drake.
Ship Diplomat: In general, the every day members of the crew and their representatives would be more likely to talk to one of their own rather then some noble from Terra or his orkish pet... but the fact that Rupert understands the various nations on board the ship and thus who he needs to talk to helps get things done a lot smoother.

Equipment:

A pair of tinted safety goggles to protect the eyes from sudden bright flashes.
Breathing mask with an oxygen tank in the event of encountering a hazard on the ship in which having a personal air supply is required.
The standard chem treated and resistant yellow janitor jumpsuit.
A pair of yellow, firm grip and anti-slip galoshes (steel plated to help protect the feet).
Carapace breastplate
Lasgun/laspistol (depending on what section of the ship one is patrolling for size reasons)
Hand held flamer.
Chainsword of Office.

Miscellaneous:
Like almost all ships in the Imperium that have had a crew survive long enough for several generations to be born, national identities and tribes within the ship itself tends to form. Like all nations, as years go by they start to develop their own culture and history as events shape them. The Janitorial Union was formed shortly after an event recorded in ship history as 'The Betrayal', though exactly when this event happened is unclear. The head of the ship's armed forces at the time had gathered together loyalists to his cause and launched a mutiny in an attempt to seize captaincy, the resulting civil war gutting the ruling body of the ship as well as bleeding security dry. The head of security died and his mutiny failed, but without a unified enforcement force or strong leadership the crew had to fend for itself.

The Janitorial Union was originally made up of the ship's cleaning and maintenance staff, banding together and claiming a independent existence from the other nations that were forming at the time. While other nations fought over territory, the Janitorial Union instead decided on a more... nomadic existence since their duties required them to travel all over the ship. They still claimed key areas that were important to their roles of maintaining and keeping the ship in good condition while also raiding the various ship armories in order to not only defend their few tribal strongholds but also to take over the duty of purging the ship of unwanted... pests that would have normally fallen into the hands of the ships security forces.

Masterful diplomacy with the other ship nations ensured a peaceful existence and arrangements that would not only benefit them, but also the Janitorial Union as well. The cleaning staff and janitors were free to travel the whole ship in order to perform their duties without interference from whomever owned the area while also securing trade goods for their services, as well as serving as official messagers across national lines. Janitorial strongholds also became neutral ground for other factions to meet and discuss matters without having to worry about betrayal or assassination.

As time wore on, the roles of the cleaning staff and the Janitors began to change. While the cleaning staff maintained its role of cleaning the ship and minor repairs, the Janitors themselves morphed into a militant organization of pathfinders who roamed the ship in search of threats as mundane as neglected ship maintenance to active threats such as invaders and monsters roaming in the dark places of the ship that needed to be driven out. While the various ship nations maintained their own fighting forces, due to the Janitors ability to go anywhere in the ship freely to engage whatever threat was discovered to the ship they quickly rose to be considered an noble, elite fighting force that started to draw recruits from the fighting forces of other ship nations.

The position of High Janitor came about shortly after the ship returned to Imperial space and a new command was installed. While the title is more or less Head of Security in everything but name, the High Janitor also bares the responsibility of being the spokesmen of the ship's nation states and the (often times) foreign command of the ship so as to prevent... incidents from arising due to misunderstandings.

Only once in the history of the ship have the Janitorial Union gone to war with another ship state: When Cargonia attempted to expand its power and influence over the complete starboard side of the ship, it attacked all nations in its path... including one of the Janitorial Strongholds. The resulting war lasted to years, but in the end Cargonia was broken and remade into a more... humble nation by the coalition. While Cargonia paid dearly for its warmongering, the Janitorial Union ensured that the peace forced upon it was bearable, earning them no small amount of gratitude from the defeated ship nation.

Username: BangoSkank

Character Name: Roald Cliffbloom

Race/Species: Ratling

Gender: Male

Age: 43

Physical Description (as detailed as possible please, pictures not accepted.):
Roald is small in stature, not surprising for a Ratling, and hairy, also not surprising. He's tan and oddly fit for a race commonly known for their pot bellies. He has wild overgrown eyebrows and an up turned nose scrunched up with a large forehead. He has thick messy dark brown hair which is gradually going gray and sideburns as well as a neigh permanent five o' clock shadow. His default facial expression is a frown.

Attire:
Light Brown/Grey Head Wrap
Climbing Ropes Wrapped Up Around Shoulder
Green Cameleoline Cloak
Militarum Auxilia Chest Strap with Two Pockets and Skull Emblem
Standard Olive Drab Uniform Shirt and Pants
Thick Belt with a Canteen Holder Attached on One Side and an Ammo Box on the other
Bandaging Wraps Around Wrists/Hands and Ankles/Feet

Personality:
With his fellow Rogue Traders, whether alone with them or peacefully exploring a town with them, he is loud, crude, coarse, obnoxious, drunken, lecherous, gluttonous, and yet somehow still charming. He takes full advantage of his small nonthreatening stature and large eyes so that even when he presses things too far and gets a well deserved slap or shove the conversations generally keep on. He is easy to talk to, easy not to take seriously, and somehow despite how offensive he can be he rarely actually offends. He wants the things everyone wants, he's just more open about wanting them and generally wants more of them.

Aboard the ship he serves as the mechanic. His small size allows him to get around the moving parts more easily and to attend to them from angles that many wouldn't be able to. His curiosity, persistence, and ample application of grease, oil, lubricant, or whatever other fluid he thinks likely to help him solve a problem have served the ship well in keeping things moving. Often times the smell of oil and muffled sound of incoherent swearing echo from the oddest sections of the ship.

In the field, when out on a mission, he is much more professional and quiet during the scouting and traveling phases. Given an order he will quickly find a way to escape even his fellow Trader's view and then pop up again some time later having ventured ahead far afield. When the rifles start cracking his loud whoops tend to accompany his return fire and often, immediately after one of his traps goes off, his barking laughter can be heard from somewhere or other in the battlefield.

One of his goals is to become influential/powerful/wealthy enough to improve his peoples standing in the Empire. After the many slaughters and near genocide at Ornsworld he wants to secure a future for his people and be remembered for doing so. His secondary goal is to get laid, get paid, and repeat that cycle over and over as much as possible until he drops dead. It is often not at all clear which is the priority for Roald.

He is a drunken lecherous loud mouth, but also a sneaky, half mad, mean, little bugger. He works for a paycheck, the notoriety, and to get his hands on booze, drugs, tech, and women from across the universe.

History:
Roald's professional life began in the Militarum Auxilia. With his fellow Abhumans he served in this specialist division of the Astra Militarum as a member of a crew of Ratlings. He didn't manage to fit in quite as well as he had hoped. While his combat capabilities were exemplary his personality didn't do him many favors. Certain things are expected among a company of Ratlings but even then there are limits. Roald's inability to exist within these bounds led to his exile from the Militarum Auxilia.

He had served well as a Trailblazer. His confidence, restlessness and some tendencies toward solitude made him a perfect fit for the primary responsibilities of the role, and his penchant for explosions and sometimes rather disturbing exuberance when sending rounds into the general cranium region of unsuspecting enemy troops served him well. He'd joined them in enough campaigns and saw them through enough tight spots that when his general debauchery and penchant for "borrowing" stuff from adjacent units and the populace in general got him in trouble he was assigned to stay on at the latest nothing planet and help to settle it.

He figured out fairly quickly that the soil was terrible, the company wasn't much to look at, and there was no one and nothing fun to shoot. The sedate life of a settler would never fit him and so he had joined on with the first Rogue Trader to make a stop on that dirt clod of a planet and so began his life as a Rogue Trader.

Skills:
Roald is the consummate Trailblazer, having found a role that fits his natural abilities and inclinations rather well.

In town, or during his Auxilia days around camp, he is quite proficient at procuring near anything he or his unit need or want. When he chooses to he can be very outgoing and friendly, while he is almost always obnoxious and coarse. He is fairly good at disarming hostile but not yet violent strangers due to his diminutive size in the hope to gain useful information about nearby likely hostile areas or the location of fun toys to play with.

Despite his often loud and obnoxious nature among his crewmates when he is on the job he is eerily capable of evading detection and remaining undetected while moving through hostile areas at a relatively high rate of speed. He can swiftly move up the sheerest cliffs and wiggle through the smallest of openings due to his small stature and considerable proportionate strength. Having moved unseen through these areas he is then able to help others navigate their dangers with minimal risk utilizing freshly made trails or old trails freshly uncovered.

When things inevitably wind their way toward some folks he is fond of shooting a lot of folks he doesn't particularly care for he utilizes some of the tech has has managed to "acquire" over the years to harass, distract, and slow down the enemy. Stealth cloaks, combat webbing, ropes, hooks, all manner of traps, and his small size and fondness for finding crevices to stick himself into (hee hee) allow him to create opportunities for himself to engage the enemy when they are at their weakest.

When it comes down to the actual shooting he uses those traps, his small size, his speed, and his accuracy with his Long-Las to confound the enemy and attempt to set them up to be ambushed by his fellow Traders or caught in their own crossfire. He has the uncanny and sometimes downright unsettling ability to set traps up in the most devious of places to inflict grievous wounds and sew discord.

Equipment and Weapons:
-Vox-Caster
-Monocular Telescope
-Canteen on Belt
-Cameleoline Cloak
-Climbing Gear

-Long-Las Rifle
-Combat Knife (attached to waist)
-Various traps and trap making materials

Name: Jingo

Age: 29

Gender: Female

Race: Human

Appearance:

Jingo is a mixture of flesh and machine, just like any good tech-priest should be. Her face is a blank visage of dark metal, with three large visual lenses in place of her eyes that hum with a steady green glow. A vox unit has been installed where her mouth should be, a triangular vented unit that pulses with a bright yellow light with each syllable she speaks. It could very well be some arcane techno-mask she’s wearing, but knowing the Adeptus Mechanicus it’s most likely replaced face she was born with.

She’s been blessed with a pair of bionic arms, replacing the false flesh she was born with with limbs that bring her spiritually closer to the Omnissiah. Long and lethal, they stretch longer than regular human arms, resting just above her knees when held at her sides. Her hands have seven mechanical fingers each; all long, pointed and extremely dexterous.

She also wields two mechadendrites. One sturdy and rigid, attached somewhere in her shoulder blades and composed of two joints and ending in a surgically sharp scalpel blade. It hangs over her like a scorpion tail awaiting to strike. The other mechandendrite snakes out from beneath her robes, composed of a series of overlapping rings, creating a long and dexterous limb that snakes around like a tentacle with a collection of grasping claws at the end to grasp and manipulate as Jingo sees fit.

A handful of tubes of varying lengths poke out from her torso near where her liver should be, looping round her back and disappearing back under her robes.

Beneath the robes of an ordained member of the Adeptus Mechanicus she wears thick, dark leathers that cover every inch of her, thick enough to provide some semblance of protection from enemies seeking to harm her or a mishap in the lab while exploring the great mysteries of the Machine God.

Personality:

Jingo has an upbeat, cheery demeanour that is at odds with her expressionless façade. She almost always speaks in a happy, sing-song cadence that sounds exceptionally strange when coming out of her mechanized voice box. Her natural curiousness has propelled her to where she is today, catching the attention of the tech-priest overseers on her mining planet who inducted her into the Adeptus Mechanicus.

She’s almost pathologically industrious and has a near constant need to be doing something, anything. Prayers to the Omnissiah, rituals for the machine spirits, repairs to broken tech, exploring new places, re-discovering old places, making friends, making enemies, hard labour, easy labour, anything so long as it isn’t doing nothing.

She has two primary drives. To rediscover the lost tech scattered around the galaxy to the great glory of the Omnissiah. And to share her love of the Machine God and all his wonders with anyone who has the misfortune to be cornered by her and made to listen.

Later examination of her genome during her induction into the Adeptus Mechanicus revealed a natural chemical imbalance in her psyche that left her permanently upbeat and optimistic. She was near physically incapable of not being positive. The bug was solvable, but deemed ‘Known-Shippable’, with a further note that the defect might actually prove useful in an Explorator role.

History:

Jingo was born on Carentes X00349/827, on the high altitude mining framework built around the supermassive gas giant. An unending tangle of walkways, pipes, refineries and slums, the platform was home to millions and was a constantly active monstrosity mining the planet below for hydrogen and other minor gases deemed needful by the Imperium.

Her parents, like many others, weren’t natives of Carentes and had been deposited there after finally failing to outrun the Arbites on whatever hive world they’d grown up on. She wasn’t sure where exactly that was as her father hadn’t liked to talk about his prior life and her mother had died when Jingo was 4 after a poorly maintained walkway had collapsed under her, a not uncommon occurrence (hence the constant inflow of new miners).

Native-born citizens of Carentes X00349/827 that managed to survive childhood tended to have an innate sense of balance and little regard for the massive drop beneath them. Like many natives, Jingo wouldn’t think twice about taking a shortcut from one walkway to another by hopping from one rickety pipe to the next, trusting her natural instincts to know which ones could take her weight when one wrong step could mean her death.

When not working in the refinery, a young Jingo liked to explore and discover the wonders of the world around her. Mapping out the tangled maze she lived in and how each small part of the framework worked with another to keep them productive.

As she learned more about how the world worked, she learned it was only by the grace of the Omnissiah that anyone could live on Carentes X00349/827 at all. His blessings and the machine spirits kept them from plunging into the great clouds and storms below. With no formal training in the rites of the Adeptus Mechanicus, Jingo would simply thank the machine spirits of whatever machines she would interact with as best she could, grateful that they let her live in this wondrous place. Like many native born citizens of Carentes, Jingo couldn’t understand how off-worlders saw the world as some sort of prison, it was a mechanical wonder!

During one of her expeditions she came across a damaged servo-skull. With its anti-grav field generator inactive the skull had been trying to make its way back to its tech-priest on a series of spider-like mechanical legs. The flying servo-skulls zoomed through the framework even more nimbly than the natives, so it was rare to get a chance to see one up close. Jingo’s natural curiosity, and concern the machine might not be able to make it back to its tech-priest, led her into a long chase as she tried to corner it for a closer examination. She’d managed to back it into a nest of wires, her legs and arm wrapped around a pipe she’d scooted out on in her pursuit, her other arm and hand outstretched as she beckoned the servo-skull to come with her, hoping the machine spirit within would trust her.

That was the position she was in when Magi Atia found her. Thankfully the tech-priest was more curious than hostile about Jingo’s pursuit of her wayward servo-skull. After talking with the girl, the Magi found Jingo might have been guided by the Omnissiah in her yearning to know more about the world around her. Atia gave her the opportunity to make more of herself, teaching the girl about the rites of the Adeptus Mechanicus, how to interact with the machine spirits and make them compliant. Jingo took to it with a fervour, soaking up each drop of knowledge she could manage.

Eventually, Jingo proved herself and was transported to the Forge World of Cyclopea to finish her induction into the Cult Mechanicus. She did her best to share her joy in the Omnissiah with the lay workers of the world, but when she finally witnessed the holy work of a Titan getting completed, Jingo underwent a religious ecstasy. Seeing a manifestation of the Omnissiah made physical, Jingo was inspired to go forth to seek lost STC designs lost to the Adeptus Mechanicus.

Skills:

General Tech Head: Jingo has delved into all aspects of the Adeptus Mechanicus. She can jury rig a Basilisk, unclog a Plasma Pistol, maintain a Warp-Drive and can perform emergency biologis procedures in a pinch. She’s not picked a field of study test and can manage most general tech roles if absolutely required, though she may not do a top-tier job.

Great balance: Growing up on a series of rickety metalworks hanging over deadly gas clouds has left Jingo with an amazing sense of balance. The addition of additional mechandedrites has only made her ability to climb any surface even more impressive.

Optimistic attitude: Even in the grim reality of 41st millennium, Jingo’s upbeat attitude is unnaturally infectious. She’s oddly persuasive when she speaks on topics she truly believes in. People find it hard to disappoint her when she’s so earnestly eager about her passions.

Equipment:

-Shotgun (unused)
-Medicaid kit (unused)
-Biologis kit (used)
-Leather armour (heavily used)
-Servo-skull x2
-Common Servitor

Name: Jerricho D'Lorin
Age: 48
Gender: Male
Race: Human
https://youtu.be/JivejZJ4Gos

Appearance:

He stands at roughly 190 cm (6'2) and weighs 89 kg (196 lbs). His caucasian complexion has seen the sun with somewhat regular frequency and his face, limbs, everything really, is marked with scars of all manner of shape and size. His hands resemble leather gloves that just barely won a fight with a box cutter. The calluses on each of his 11 fingers alone could sand wood.

His scarred and battered face might beat an ogryn's in a beauty contest on a good day. Just to name a few things, his abnormally large ears face a bit too far forward and his right ear is missing a large chunk from the cuff. A thick, protruding brow ridge juts out from his forehead and ends abruptly at a large, almost pointed, and downward sloping nose with a noticeable tilt that hints at dozens of broken noses that never healed properly. Some kind of crude cybernetic eyepatch with a small camera affixed roughly where a pupil would be stands in place of his right eye while his left is missing entirely. The empty socket stands agape without an eye to fill it or even eyelids to cover it. Most of his teeth are somewhat crooked save for two stainless steel incisors in his bottom jaw.

The smell of cigar smoke and hard liquor hang about him like an unseen warp spawn even immediately after he bathes. His voice is deep and gravely, dragging itself out from a permanent frown and across the ears of all who can hear it like the treads of a Rhino transport slowing rolling over pebbles.

Personality:

Gruff, blunt bordering on abrasive, stoic, surprisingly sentimental, but wholly impatient with those he deems incompetent or guilty of simple mistakes. He knows he knows what he’s doing and doesn’t spare the time for those who don’t. His honesty is helpful when asked for but also brutal and unyielding. Sugar coating is not something he ever has, and likely never will be known for.

His main motivation for joining such rogue trading expeditions is simple as it is comical: he was tired of so many people asking him to fix their messes and figured anyone flinging themselves into the far reaches of the galaxy probably survived long enough to know something about what they’re doing.

History:

Jerricho was born in dark corner of an obscure city, on a planet no one bothered to know the name of except when tithing day rolled around, to a mother too young, and a father too drunk and too violent. His childhood was bloody and brief and an all out war to survive against his fellow children and street gangs alike. He eventually found it easier to join the gangers than fight them constantly and this proved useful to both. Hardly able to be called a child by this point, his brutality was so unyielding, his acts of violence so obscene, he was throw into the mines of Savlar with a mockery of a trial before his 17th birthday.

He spent 8 long years toiling under rock and noxious poison to fill the ranks left by the dead before him. By the Throne did he hate it. So when the chance to leave the mines came, he seized it like a feral dog clamping its jaws around a starving rat. They gave him a lasgun, ammo, and told him he was now a member of the 29th Savlar Chem-Dogs. He was told he could keep whatever he could carry away from the battlefield as long as he didn't break any more laws. Those orders suited well enough. He spent the next 9 years shipped from system to system fighting everywhere from the jungles of Armageddon, to the chloride-swamps of Moru. It wasn't long before he grew to love it. The carnage, the thrill of looting, the wonder of new exotic battlefields, just a few of his favorite things.

During his many combat tours, he showed a talent for near Ork level slapdash equipment repair, even for a Chem-Dog. He's been known to cobble together workable firing mechanisms for heavy bolters from rusted scrap he deemed to be “shaped about right”, replace warped sections of (((acquired))) plasma weaponry with pieces that “should hold for a shot or two... probably”, repair tank weapons with parts barely held together themselves, or simply fix jammed lasguns by beating them with his fist until they work. His talents for repairing weaponry were appreciated by all he served with... except tech priests. Such consistent and shameless heresy against the Omnisiah, such hideous defiling of machine spirits often raised the ire of the machine god's acolytes.

His military career came to an end when a wayward piece of shrapnel bisected his one remaining eye. Seeing as this time he lost the eye he used to aim, he couldn't simply put a bandage on this one until it healed and get back into the fight. Much to his dismay, he was now out of a job and blind. At the very least he managed to sell the loot he'd been saving for a rainy day and get himself a crude prosthetic.

From there he managed to land crew positions working on various rogue trader expeditions. Some of them fruitful, others... at least brought back something for the families to bury. This won't be his first rodeo by a long shot and it hopefully won't be his last.

Skills:

> Personal, Crew-Serviced, and Vehicle Mounted Weapon Maintenance and Repair

When even the owner/operator of a weapon doesn't know how to fix what's gone wrong, Jerricho steps in. From Earthquake Cannons to laslocks, if it shoots he can more than likely fix it given tools and time.

> Marksmanship

Although his preference lies with shotguns, he possesses an accuracy well above that of most guardsmen.

> Street Brawling

He came by this skill honestly.

Equipment:

> Bandersnatch-pattern Amputator
In short, the bastard lovechild of a compact hand cannon and a scatter gun. Few things in the Atmos Cluster can match the absolute shock and awe of a pistol that was quite literally designed with the idea that it should be able to reliably severe limbs with the first shot. Reloading is quick if somewhat clumsy, but the ammunition, magazines, and the pistol itself are all rather bulky not to mention the weapon's short range. However, if whatever you’re shooting at isn’t dead after 6 shotgun shells to the chest or chest analogue you’d be better off using your last moments reflecting on what life choices lead you to the moment where you ended up this close to such an unholy terror.

It has a few odds and ends on it as well such as a flashlight, a laser sight, and a custom grip. Just a some things to make it a tad more comfortable to use.

A holy writ of round cycling is scrawled across the receiver as a favor from a grateful tech priest. Jerricho didn't particularly like the man and thought he had the common sense of a pipe in addition to being a tech priest, but thought better than rejecting such a gift.

> 3 extra magazines because you never know what you're walking into when you step out of your quarters

> Big ass knife
10 inches long, handle made of a wood very similar to mahogany but a touch more red in color. Not much to tell.

> Standard issue flak armor
If it's good enough for the Guard it's almost passable for him

Miscellaneous:

He can sing decently if anyone could, by the grace of the Emperor, ever manage to get him to.