Name: Arlena Di Fieroccu

Age: 32

Gender: Female

Approximate Height & Weight: 5'11" and 80kg

Former Regiment: Mordian Iron Guard

Speciality: Company Captain

Appearance: Arlena could, if you looked past much of her steelier exterior, be called 'beautiful.' To do so, one would need to take in her rich black hair, hazelnut eyes and tanned olive skin, whilst at the same time looking past a back rigid from perpetually standing to attention, the long scar trailing from between her eyebrows to down below her jawline, her nose showing signs of being stitched back together and, the rare times it is visible, the pockmarked scar tissue along her right hand side visible without her shirt on.

Besides the more immediate aspects of her appearance there is also the fact that despite being of no small rank she has clearly spent a not-insignificant amount of time toning her physique. Her figure is muscled and fairly bulky, and when she rolls up her sleeves to assist with moving or carrying something it definitely shows.

Uniform: Golden epaulettes, commissar-like cap, rich blue overcoat and fine trousers interwoven with flak armour. These are the clothes of the Mordian Iron Guard, and these are the clothes that have clad Arlena for countless years of marching across some of the toughest ground the Imperium has ever needed reclaiming. Hers are a little more reinforced than the common guardsman, being stiffer and woven with carapace, rather than the usual flak, and her epaulettes are slightly more ornate than the factory-fresh uniforms of Mordian recruits, but nonetheless Before entering any battlefield Arlena spends a frankly incredible amount of time polishing and ironing her clothing until it is wrinkle-free and she can see her own reflection in her boots- anyone else showing anywhere near her level of dedication when it comes to prim and proper dress will quickly find themselves on her good side.

Armament: This really depends on the situation she expects to be leading her men into, but Arlena's rank as a captain affords her more powerful weapons than her lower-ranking colleagues. This tends to manifest itself in bolt weaponry, rather than the usual slug or las-throwing equivalent. Generally, she can be seem carrying a bolt pistol and an accompanying power-sabre, but rarely she may be seen with a human-scaled bolter, the chugging noise of rocket-engines firing spelling doom for the Emperor's enemies.

Personality/Demeanour: Like most Mordians, Arlena can generally be described with a small handful of adjectives; 'stern,' 'grim,' and 'dour.' A heavy-handed disciplinarian when it comes to soldiers that step out of line, those that show a similar level of grit and dedication to herself can earn themselves her steely respect. Arlena is also a firm believer in leading from the front- she is not the sort of captain to sit back with a cadre of vox-casters and medics, but instead will be directing the firing line herself, adding her own shots to the volleys of the soldiers under command and, if the situation turns dire, assisting with stretchering the wounded, sandbagging up fortifications and carrying ammunition about.

Greatest Ambition: Her highest aspiration is to serve the Emperor faithfully and dutifully until her death. This makes her perhaps the perfect guardsman in terms of desire.

Greatest Hatred: Ill-discipline, ill-fitting clothes, ill-manneredness.

Skills: Arlena's skills as a combatant are second to those required by leadership. With a steely resolve and utterly unflinching exterior, it is said that Arlena's voice has never broken a single time in her 14 years of service. She is quite capable of instilling this sort of discipline in her own men, be it through sufficient carrot or stick, and despite this all manages to be an above-average gunman and melee combatant.

In addition to this, Arlena possesses what has to be one of the rarest skills in the entirety of the guard- the stones to tell a commissar they aren't doing their job properly. During her stint as a sergeant she astonished the auxiliary attached to her squad by suggesting punishments for actions that they hadn't considered needed reprimanding.

History: Mordian is a thoroughly miserable world in every description of the world. With Arlena's mother succumbing to post-partum depression at a very young age and her father not faring much better, Arlena was, for much of her early childhood, something of a feral lass, scrambling through the pitch-black streets of her hive world home and scratching out a living each day in the hopes that the next would come and she could repeat the process. It was a world of difficulty and danger, but somehow, she survived, and more than that, pulled through harder and stronger, an iron rod blasted by hotter flames than its peers.

Having joined a gang by the time she was a young teen, she would watch as her friends fell prey to drugs and alcohol at equally young ages, dying of overdoses or of overestimating their abilities in fights- she learned her lesson the hard way, a good portion of her face being carved open when she was 14 years old, the young girl surviving through grit and a merciful street doctor that meant her visage would be scarred, but not permanently ruined.

At 17 years old she was involved in a particularly brutal turf war, one that was so rowdy that the local PDF were deployed to it. Picked up by the scruff of her neck by a Mordian trooper and practically press-ganged into the Guard initially, she took to the shining and discipline far too well for someone that had had none of it for most of her life. Nowadays, she would claim that the wild part of her life poorly reflected her true personality, for it was here, in the Iron Guard, that she proved herself.

Deployed as part of the Mordian 246th, she would see action in three separate campaigns on four different worlds (and one moon,) each new environment clawing her slightly further up the ranks by her own grit and determination. Having twice fought orks and once fought renegades, she is no stranger to many of the threats that plague the Imperium, taking this new reforming not as something negative, but as a chance for her to forge these disparate souls into an efficient and brutal fighting force, like she was so many years ago.

Miscellaneous: Arlena despises combat stims and their users, but has a particular weakness for dammassine; so much so that there are rumours the normally entirely by-the-regulations officer carries a hip flask of the stuff on her at all times, and, many a drunkard guardsman has accused her of drinking their confiscated amasec.

Arlena is an absolutely mean regicide player. Perfectly willing to sacrifice vast swathes of pieces to secure herself victory, she is surprisingly gentle when it comes to beginners to the game, and is willing to teach anyone the basic rules once. Once they know those however, the kid gloves are permanently removed.

Name: Private Charlene "Charlie" McDinny

Age: 19

Gender: Female

Approximate Height & Weight: 5'2" and 112 lbs / 50 kgs

Former Regiment: 107th Cadian Line Infantry

Speciality: Line Infantry. That's right, Charlie's whole job is to die so someone else doesn't. She's bad at it.

Appearance: Charlie looks about as much like a soldier as an ork warboss looks like the picture of decorum. That is to say: she doesn't. She's short, of average build at best, and has a perpetual grin on her face that switches between goofy, nervous, and terrified-but-trying-to-hide-it depending on her mood. She has trouble keeping a straight face, and she can only maintain good posture for a short while before she starts slouching, leaning, or worse.

Frankly, it's a marvel a commissar hasn't put a bullet in the young draftee's head already.

Charlie keeps her wiry brown hair cut fairly short, but any time her helmet comes off it poofs out wildly. She has pale skin, brown eyes, and a spattering of freckles over her body. The young soldier might be called 'mousy' or 'cute' by someone, maybe. Really, though, she's pretty plain and uninteresting to look at... unless someone's yelling at her. People find it pretty funny to watch her then.

Uniform: Private McDinny's uniform is the same as that of any line infantry's: simple flak armor, a beige uniform underneath that, and a couple kneepads. The young woman has no medals, and her armor was probably made for someone a couple inches taller than her. Her helmet is also oversized.

Charlie's boots, at least, are appropriately sized, and that's probably the most important piece of gear anyway. They look to be worn and discolored but in otherwise good condition.

If there's one thing that stands out as 'odd' about Charlie's uniform, it's that she seems to have extra pouches on her belt for stashing more things. She also has hidden places on her uniform for the same reason, expressly where nobody can find them. Or... at least nobody has found her hidden stuff yet.

Armament: Charlene's main weapon is her trusty M36 Kantrael Pattern Lasrifle. It's not a special lasgun. In fact, it's not even Charlene's lasgun; she broke her original weapon and took a new one off a dead guardsman's body. That's probably fine.

Charlie does, however, have several grenades on her person. She also keeps extra charge packs inside one of her belt pouches, and she has a bayonet for her lasgun, not that she's ever used it. She also has a Voss Pattern Hellpistol hidden on her person... also looted from the body of someone higher ranking than her with more experience. Hey, that guy wasn't using it!

Finally, Charlie has her, ah, other pieces of gear from her life before the Imperial Guard. You know: lockpicks, false credit sticks, a few ounces of highly illegal drugs (for barter purposes only, of course), dice, a deck of cards, a hidden flask of amasec... You know, just the basic necessities.

Personality/Demeanour: If there was a word that is never, ever used to describe Charlie, it's the word 'driven.' If there is a second word like that, it's the word 'brave.' She's neither of those things, and probably never will be.

Now, 'desperate' is a word that has been used to describe Charlie, for sure. She's a lot like a rat: prone to scurry away from danger, but as soon as she's cornered she lashes out wildly and recklessly. So far, both those instincts have kept her alive, and that's something Charlie is happy about. Dying is pretty low on her agenda.

When she's not screaming for help in the middle of a firefight, Charlie is lazy, congenial, and relatively easygoing. She's a sedentary creature that likes sitting around, reading, gambling, drinking, and thanking the Emperor she's survived one more day. Partying and disorderly conduct are in her nature, though nobody would call her a 'rebel' or anything. People would call Charlie a bloody idiot, though.

Lastly, it's worth noting that Charlie turns very skittish and clams up around authority figures. She can't help it. When a Commissar or officer starts walking by, the young woman will immediately try to hide whatever stupid thing she was doing (because inevitably she IS always doing something stupid) and stand at attention for as long as she can, shivering and sweating like a felon awaiting her execution. Somehow, though, she's never been caught, or at least never been caught by someone that wanted to execute her.

Really, how is she still alive?

Greatest Ambition: Desertion. No, really. If Charlie had the perfect opportunity to jump aboard a ship taking her literally anywhere else, she'd probably do that. She doesn't want to die fighting in some war. She just wants to go home, or... really, anywhere that's not a warzone.

Charlie doesn't think about the future too much, so any bigger ambitions are outside the scope of her thought processes. However, she'd love to be rich, fat, and in a palace somewhere. It won't ever happen, but she'd LIKE that.

Greatest Hatred: There are three things Charlie truly hates: Chaos, the Inquisition, and debt. Of these, Chaos is the one she hates the most; she won't stand for anything resembling heresy and it's the one thing that's liable to make her run to a commissar instead of running from a commissar.

Debt and the inquisition come pretty close behind Chaos, though.

Skills: The most notable skill that Charlie has isn't even a skill she knows she has. In fact, very few people even have a hint that she might have it. Charlie is a psyker.

Oh, but Charlie isn't just any old Psyker. She has a very specific power: the young woman controls luck. It's a latent ability, uncontrolled because she doesn't know she has it, but it's the chief reason she's still alive despite all the stupid things she keeps doing.

Of course, Charlie's luck doesn't always work out for the better. Yes, it keeps bullets from hitting her usually; and it's led to her getting some lucky hits when firing blindly from behind cover. Yes, her power keeps the officers from finding her illegal stash of drugs, and it did cause a commissar to get shot in the head by a stray bullet that ricocheted off the ceiling, into the wall, and then into his head just before he pulled the trigger and killed her. Yes, that's all true. But her weird luck is also why the tiny woman wound up in the Cadian 107th Line Infantry in the first place. She's not even FROM Cadia, dammit!

Other than that, Charlie's skills as a soldier are unremarkable. She's about average with a lasgun. She's gotten decent at chucking grenades. However, her real skills are survival skills: looting, scavenging, breaking into places she shouldn't be in, hiding, spotting secret compartments... and, most importantly, not getting shot. That's her real advantage, and another reason why she's still alive. Private McDinny picked those skills up over a life of no-goodery.

All-in-all, she makes a rather typical guardsman when you get down to it.

History: Charlene McDinny was born on a small Hive World called Ilirium VI. Its name makes it sound fancier than it really is: a dingy, dusty planet pockmarked by some large cities. Its colorful scenery included smog, skyscrapers, smog, deserts, smog, sprawling slums, and more smog. The presence of the Astra Militarium was fairly minimal, and no Astartes Chapters touched the planet's foul residents with a ten foot pole. Exterminatus might have been a mercy for its denizens given that their chief pastimes were being robbed. Its governor had a racket going with some smugglers and rogue traders that was very much not legal.

Charlene was just one of many impoverished citizens on the planet. She survived by stealing and scavenging and occasionally doing actual work, but that was a rarity because there was so little work available. She decided pretty quickly that leaving the planet would be a good idea. So, that's exactly what she did: she snuck onto a Rogue Trader's ship and jumped into a box of food rations. She figured she'd jump ship at the next planet and run off to live her life free and... something. The future is hard to think about, okay?

Chance, of course, reared its ugly head. The Rogue Trader was actually bringing arms and munitions to the 107th Cadian Line Infantry Regiment, and through a series of unlikely events Charlene found herself being drafted. Apparently they thought she was a "Charlie McDinny" from Cadia who had enlisted, which was lucky because if they had realized she was actually a stowaway she'd probably have been shot on the spot. Charlene never found out what happened to the real Charlie.

So, "Charlie" was forced to fight in the grueling war against Warboss Mug Thrakta. That wasn't fun. She almost died several times, but somehow always got out clean. Then she was assigned as a replacement infantryman for the 88th Cadian Mechanized Infantry because of the staggering casualties they had suffered, which meant she was cannon fodder destined to die. Still, she somehow avoided being another body for the pyre, in no way due to any bravery or heroism on her part. No, she mostly was lucky, knew where to hide, and managed to kill several orkz by pure happenstance.

Now there's a parade to happen, and Charlie hopes parade means "party." She's never seen a parade before. The lucky soldier assumes it means there's a festival or something, because she's heard about those, and supposedly they have good food. Yeah, she could go for a proper sandwich...

Miscellaneous: Feel free to use Charlie's luck manipulation at your whim, either for or against her! Whether it be used to make something unbelievable happen, to give her a sudden spike of consequences, or to just move the story forward by some happenstance is fine with me!

Name: Armsman Telaci Vast

Age: Even Telaci doesn't know his true age in Terran years, but most would assume him to be around his mid-twenties.

Gender: Male

Approximate Height & Weight: 5'8" and 65kgs

Former Regiment: Armsman aboard the (now destroyed) frigate Graced Blade.

Speciality: Disciplinarian, CQC

Appearance: Telaci is a relatively short and compact man, with a small, wiry frame and a face perpetually smeared with soot and grease. His true hair colour is impossible to guess, so ingrained with the soot and dirt of a voidship's interior that it has yet to shed its black, and is pulled back into rough dreadlocks. He is clean shaven, with deep-set dark blue eyes and a squat nose.

Dark-skinned and with a perpetual hunch to him, he is, in fact, very easy to miss whenever it's dark or when surrounded by other people. This, of course, is actually very handy as an armsman, as nothing discourages malcontent than the knowledge that a shotgun-toting guard may be just behind you at any point in time.

Uniform: Armsmen don't have a uniform to speak of, and Telaci's 'outfit' is just that- an outfit he threw together to fit in now that he's been press-ganged into the guard. With navy jacket, white bandanna and black trousers, it would not be difficult to draw comparisons to second millennium Terran 'marines,' something which Telaci is entirely unfamiliar with. His flak armour- rather ramshackle as it's still in the form of his armsman armour, rather than a uniform guardsman breastplate, is strapped onto him, providing adequate protection despite its less-than-fantastic appearance.

Armament:

• Naval Boarding Shotgun: One of the nearly endless variants that can be found in the hands of armsmen across the galaxy, almost every part of this gun can be removed until it is little more than a trigger attached directly to the barrel depending on how close quarters fighting is expected to be in. When modded to a more reasonable size it can fire six shots semi-automatically before requiring a fresh magazine.
• 'FUBAR' Utility Tool: No chains, no power field, just a rough, brutal, forged metal for crunching through flesh and bone. Unfortunately, not so good against orks, whose choppas could probably cut through it and Telaci's arm in one go. He carries it around as a useful tool- among other things, the tool can be used as a hammer, wrench, crowbar and a dozen other things beside.
• Trench Knife: Not really a 'trench' knife, as Telaci has never been in a trench, it would nonetheless be intimately familiar to any Krieger. A four-inch-long, overly heavy blade attached to a pair of knuckledusters, designed to punch through armour and gut the poor fool it gets stuck into.
• Autopistol & Laspistol: Having redundant weapons is always useful when the potential to be disarmed is near-constant. Despite the differences between them (the autopistol is fully automatic, and holds a measly twenty rounds before needing to be reloaded) their function is the same- an easy to reach backup weapon. One is kept strapped to the small of his back, the other to his hip.

It is quite likely that Telaci will have a lasgun foisted into his arms at some point. It is also quite likely he will hate it.

Personality/Demeanour: Telaci is, despite everything, actually a fairly quiet man down on the surface. He feels unease when alone and could be said to have a not insignificant amount of agoraphobia, triggered by wide-open spaces (Telaci having spent most of his life in ships where space was a pricey commodity.) Although armsmen are an important part in keeping discipline aboard Imperial vessels, Telaci's way of doing this has always been through his presence- the man has a stare like a commissar, and on a bad day it's said that he could wilt flowers with his eyes.

In combat, Telaci is focused and flighty at the same time. His eyes instinctively jump about, looking for the next foe to leap out at him, and he has an extremely twitchy trigger finger. This attitude, earned from fighting in horrifically cramped conditions where any shadow could be someone jumping at you with a chainsword are fantastic when fighting boarding parties, but are dangerous indeed when it comes to cohesively functioning with a squad of guardsmen.

Greatest Ambition: To get back into space. Telaci's been on a planet for about a week and a half in his life, and they've without a doubt been the worst, most miserable days of his life. All he wants is to get back on a starship and get the fuck off this rock.

Greatest Hatred: Being planetside, orks. The latter one is a new addition stemming entirely from the fact that they are the exact reason he has ended up on a planet.

Skills: Armsmen are all drawn from voidsmen- trained staff aboard Imperial starships. Although not an educated man in any sense of the word, Telaci's had a fairly good education when it comes to repairing the many, many subsystems that go into ensuring that a frigate doesn't simply implode on itself. This experience is surprisingly relevant on the ground, and if something is broken there's a not-insignificant chance that he might be able to get it working, at least for another hour or two.

In addition, Telaci is incredibly proficient at fighting in close quarters. Life aboard a spaceship is life perpetually lived with a person a foot away from you at all times, and fights are nasty, brutal quick affairs decided in flashes of light and how much power you can get out of half an inch.

History: Telaci was born, and hoped to one day die, aboard a spaceship. With no home planet and parents perpetually working, the young boy was left mostly in the care of a 'creche' aboard the ship, which was, in reality, little more than a priest keeping the children occupied and hopefully indoctrinating them with the Imperial doctrine so they didn't crawl off and get torn in half by some machine. As the young man grew up he would learn mechanics under his father, and a childhood friend's father- an armsman, would often come and talk to him when he was otherwise unoccupied.

It was this connection that eventually earned him his armsman stripes. Serving aboard the frigate Graced Blade, he's undertaken boarding actions, put down riots and stopped more brawls than he could count, splattering blood against bulkheads and cracking skulls in crawlspaces even as the frigate escorted larger ships across the galaxy. The campaign in the Vernum system however would spell the end for the ship.

Frigates are, at their core, escort craft, and are therefore anticipated to take plenty of enemy fire. In fact, they are designed for this. What they are not designed for is having multiple large, gun-and-rokkit filled asteroids ploughed into them at high speeds. Three such 'roks' would crash into the ship, crew scrambling for escape pods or being cut down by the orks that unloaded out even as the beleaguered vessel began to break apart.

Telaci's training served him well in the mad dash to get aboard an escape ship. With two ork skulls pulped by his shotgun, he would manage to slip aboard one of the last to fire off, the small craft almost immediately being caught by the gravity well of Vernum Prime. After what felt like a year of nerve-wracking shaking, the roar and heat of re-entry and the final slow descent inside of the planet's atmosphere, the door would burst off and Telaci would breathe in his first breath of fresh air in his life.

Air that was filled with lasfire. Incredibly, despite the size and variation of the planet of Vernum, not only had Telaci landed in an inhabitable area, he had also landed in the middle of an active warzone, as well as a good quarter of the escape pods that had ejected. Whilst most of the people inside of these escape craft were ill-prepared for a fight, Telaci and the not-insignificant number of armsmen that had landed down were.

Banding together into little more than an armed, Imperial-aligned mob, they would stand their ground amidst the legions of the militarum, simultaneously marvelling at the wide-open spaces they had never experienced whilst also fighting for their lives. It was during this fight that the refugees and armsmen would be slowly absorbed into various squads and militarum teams, civilians directed back towards camps whilst those that could fight being practically thrown into whichever understaffed squad happened to be nearby.

Fighting alongside a Hirsit squad, Telaci would find himself doing what he did best- close quarters brutality. By the time the fighting was over, his squad, already understaffed by the time that he had been placed in it consisted of himself, a 17-year-old voxcaster and the sergeant, and was promptly folded into a reconstructed regiment, much to his chagrin.

Miscellaneous: Telaci has never actually written anything in his life. Not a word. In fact, Telaci is barely literate at all- the fact that he understands the written form even slightly is that it was needed for disseminating orders.

Name: Rojack 'Jackie' Cestarn

Age: 39

Gender: Male

Approximate Height & Weight: 6'4", 229lbs

Former Regiment: 222nd Edrastian Shock Regiment

Speciality: Grenadier

Appearance: The men and women of Edrastia are well built, sturdy, and hardy, and Rojack is of no exception. In spite of the wasteland world's higher gravity, Rojack and other Edrastians remain taller than average humans, while retaining the sturdy, built look a high gravity world might create after generations of life there. A rather noteworthy scar runs along his jawline from a close brush with hostile fire, leaving an off line in the ever present stubble that keeps stubbornly coming in despite daily, sometimes several times daily, attempts to shave it. Said stubble matches the dull red hair that is kept trimmed and short, emerald green eyes peering out at the world, unfortunate circumstances giving him an almost eternally irritated look.

If one were to observe him in any state of undress, one would found countless devotional tattoos intermingling with the scar tissue, the latter a consequence of being part of a shock regiment, the former from the borderline fanaticism that Edrastians have in their service. While normally obscured, the various tattoos recall everything from scripture and prayers to holy iconography and imagery, the transient pain in undertaking these ritualistic measures a blending of old tribal traditions with Ecclesiarchy dogma. Such markings are worn with pride, and a sense of honor, and receiving such markings are seen as a right of passage.

Uniform: The uniforms of the 222nd Shock Regiment are a dusty color, designed to blend in with barren wastes and built sturdily and thickly enough to weather the elements in such inhospitably barren climates. Sturdy all weather cloaks are issued as well, to aid in protection against the elements and conceal their wearers, though they are not of any sort of special material or manufacture beyond simple foul weather gear. As a shock grenadier, Rojack has been able to survive long enough to realize that flak armor isn't quite good enough, and has salvaged a few pieces of carapace from the dead of other regiments, repainting and marking it to match their own regimental colors. The breastplate, forearms, and upper legs have carapace, the rest having to rely on standard issue Flak armor that is issued to the regimental troops. Regimental markings are on the left shoulder, under the cloak as to prevent identification at significant range by hostile elements.

Armament: Grenadiers within the 222nd carry the same lasgun as their peers, a local forgeworld copy of the Merovech Pattern Assault Lasgun, and while not quite as sturdy as the real things, they serve well for the sudden lightning strikes the shock troopers are well versed in. Rojack is no different, though he has a cut down shotgun that he carries, and outside of its lack of stock or unnecessary barrel length beyond the magazine tube, is a perfectly standard shotgun. What stands out is the pride and joy of the Edrastians, and a give away of the slowly changing feral world status, a large, borderline two handed sword, modernized with mono edge and blessed by the local Ecclesiarchy prior to each regiment's departure for service in the Emperor's name. Rojack carries a handful of frag grenades, and has a large boot knife as well, rounding out his combat tools and giving him the means to serve in the Emperor's name.

Besides his weapons, Rojack carries a small, well worn book, issued to each Edrastian upon volunteering to serve, and is a Ecclesiarchy prepared book of prayers and the like, something for the faith driven men and women to reference and review if they should ever find either their allies, or even their own, faith wavering. He also has a few hand made regicide pieces, having heard of the game and been fascinated by it, but never having the chance to learn or even play it.

Personality/Demeanour: Rojack, despite appearances, is a fairly pleasant, easy going man whenever outside of active danger. Jovial and joking, he often was referred to as the squad father figure, being one of the oldest men to volunteer for that tithe cycle, and treats his fellow comrades like a family, as was taught by both his peers and the preachers who aided in the training of the Edrastian regiments. A man of firm faith, he might not be the most overtly disciplined in terms of Guard rules and regulations, but fanatical in the execution of the Emperor's will, no matter where that calling might take him. Often found fiddling with cards or paging through his worn book during off times, he also takes the time to seek out allies having trouble, and has been reprimanded for being too blunt towards officers and senior ranking personnel.

When on the field of battle, Rojack typifies the Edrastian approach to warfare, getting as close to the enemy as possible without detection before launching the assault with grenades, gratuitous las fire, and a roaring battle cry as the shock troops slam into the enemy position with a fury comparable to religious zealots, and first in are the Grenadiers. Rojack is always moving to the forefront of any attack or combat action, putting his nominally better armor and faith in the Emperor to use protecting his less armored, or more vital, allies. He sees it as his duty to protect and lead those under his command, and took to joint operations rather well, all but adopting men and women from other regiments into his own group, though again, reprimands for not treating officers appropriately were necessary.

Greatest Ambition: For all the zeal and willingness to go the farthest into harms way, Rojack actually has aspirations to retire and help set up and run a church to guide others to the Emperor's glorious light, with the Ecclesiarchies blessings of course.

Greatest Hatred: It is a toss up between Orks, who routinely plagued his homeworld, and the traitor forces of Chaos, who are the antithesis of everything that Rojack believes in. Deserters fall into this category as well, even if it wasn't their decision to be Guardsmen, it was their calling in the Emperor's plan.

Skills: First and foremost, close quarters combat is where Rojack shines the most. Every Edrastian who volunteers is drilled and honed to a razor's edge for fighting close up, and Rojack to a shine to it, fighting with a zeal and capability that earned him further scrutiny and drilling to form the Grenadier core of the 222nd Shock Regiment. Be it city fighting, working through trenches, or just simply being that close to the enemy, Rojack prefers to be within full automatic range of the enemies of Man, and if the chance to use his blade arises, all the better.

Rojack also has a knack for explosives, seeming to have an innate understanding of them, when to throw them, where to aim them, and how to best exploit them. Useful for a man who would lead his squad into the mouth of hell, what better way to soften them up than with some well aimed explosives? The man has also taken to studying approved religious texts when the chance arises, and is surprisingly well versed in Ecclesiarchy dogma, at least well for a borderline feral worlder.

History: Edrastia is a fringe feral world, unremarkable as far as most who do not live on it are concerned. The only civilized settlers on it were Ecclesiarchal missionaries who saw it as their Emperor given mission to civilize and bring these savages into the folds of the faith. Considering the tribal faith already worshipped a single, central figure who resembled the God Emperor already, this was the easier of the two steps, and countless generations have slowly been bringing the feral tribes together as civilized men and women of the Imperium. Of course, the Ork infestation was thought to be a setback when discovered, but having a common foe united the disparate tribes, and gave a constant source of training for those chosen to fill the tithes placed upon this rock by the Imperium.

Rojack was a man from a smaller tribe, though being the tribe chieftains son gave him status all the same, training under the best warriors within the tribe to one day succeed his father as chieftain. It was when the routine visit by the missionaries of the Imperial Cult that this desire changed. Preaching the belief in the God Emperor, and also quietly selecting those who would do well as servants of his will abroad, the chieftain's son quickly volunteered, at an early age of sixteen, and began undergoing training with soldiers brought in to assist in raising and preparing the most civilized of these feral worlders for war abroad.

The 222nd Edrastian Shock Regiment was raised and armed in a way that would allow them to mimic the tactics they were most used to, creeping as close to enemy positions as possible before a blistering lightning strike, assaults being opened with a barrage of grenades, weapons fire, and savage hand to hand combat. Vehicle use was limited, being predominately an infantry regiment, but were familiarized with the interiors of common transports so they were not in complete shock should the situation arise. Utilizing the ever present Orks as training fodder, the 222nd would train with modern weapons and equipment against a culturally ancient enemy, a hatred all but ingrained into their DNA. Upon his birthday, days before departure, Rojack would receive his family heirloom, the large sword that typified the wasteland ferals, having a two handed grip in case one could not wield it with a single hand, modernized by the forge tasked with arming the Edrastian regiments, and blessed by the very same Ecclesiarchal figure that inspired him to serve in the Guard.

As experienced as the regiment was with orks already, it was decided by the powers that be that, while they were already in transit to another location, to be sent to the crusade for the Vernum system in opposition to the Waaagh of Mug Thrakta. The chance to face their ancestral enemy in the Emperor's name was like a dream come true for the soldiers, and they eagerly awaited for the strange, uncomfortable transports to arrive at the Vernum system. Transit took nearly a year in real space, though once they arrived the command staff the regiment was assigned to was skeptical of these barely civilized Guardsman, though assigned them to lead assault operations in offensives against the Ork threat. They feral worlders would quickly prove themselves when leading assault operations or blunting attacks with counter assaults of their own, the ferocity and savagery they fought with garnering a reputation among the Orks, these "Wastah Gits" being right proper fightey when they showed up.

Near the end of the Crusade, The 222nd were tasked with taking a vital position that had been overlooking several avenues of approach and had been instrumental in Orkish counter attacks, being a common regrouping point for the routed greenskins that were threatening to break the outer encirclement. In the early hours, just as the sun was about to begin rising, the 222nd had begun their creeping approach. Clad in the colors of their homeworld, the blasted no mans land approaching the hill was natural terrain, Sgt. Rojack leading the Grenadier detachment he had been put in charge of by the command staff after observing the man's routine rallying of his comrades during assaults when other leadership positions had been killed. By this point the 222nd were dangerously close to being under strength, but every last guardsmen in the regiment had been gathered for this operation.

Just as the sun crested behind them, the orks would be alerted to the assaulting Guardsmen by the sound of fragmentation grenades, blistering levels of indiscriminate las fire, and a unified, bellowing war cry that shook the ground as the Grenadiers led the charge, Sgt. Rojack holding his tribal sword in one hand, and the Merovach lasgun in the other, using the sling to loosely aim towards the Orks as they descended in a hatred that comes from generations of fighting such a foe. The salvaged carapace the Grenadiers wore, and was really the best indicator of who was such an elite among the troops, gave them the staying power to hold the line and route the Ork menace from the hill. With that task done, it fell to them to dig in and hold the hill long enough for other allied elements to advance.

Assaults in other sectors would begin, and Orks surged forward towards the hill that they always gathered on to attack from, only to see the standard of the 222nd planted firmly where their effigies to Gork, or Mork, would have been. Enraged, they came as a tide, and rather than sit and wait, the 222nd counterassaulted, as was their tactic, volleys of grenades staggering the approaching assault with sheer volume, clashing melee being brutal and bloody. Several times this pattern would play out throughout the day, and when relief forces arrived, they found a shattered, but still standing, 222nd having just repulsed the latest, and as history would show, last assault on the hill.

With not even a full platoon left, the 222nd would have to be disbanded and folded into other regiments, Sgt. Rojack solemnly swearing that he would continue to serve no matter where the Emperor would send him, though it was noted he spent some time in the company of Priests attached to the regiment before the dissolution and merging into other regiments would begin. Whether seeking consolation and guidance in the face of such loss of friends and comrades, or perhaps praying for the fallen, Rojack remained tight lipped on the matter. No matter where he was called, he would answer, even if he was no longer among those he knew. They would report and muster with their remaining command staff and troopers, as ordered, to meet the future one more time as a regiment.

Miscellaneous: Rojack enjoys carving Regicide figures out of whatever materials he can find, and would love to learn the game sometime, even if he doesn't precisely have a brain for the complex strategies it might entail. He is also a scavenger, of sorts, picking through battlefields after the fighting is done, looking to improve his kit wherever possible.

Name: Richard “Rich” Bower & Deacon “Deek" Hubbard

Age: 26 for Rich and 27 for Deek

Gender: Both Male

Approximate Height & Weight: Rich is 6ft 6" 102kgs and Deek is 6ft 90kgs

Former Regiment: 62nd Cladd Liberators

Speciality: Heavy gunner and gunners mate. The Gunners from Cladd are remarked upon as being some of the best trained and most efficient units within the 62nd Cladd Liberators. Indeed the regiments from Cladd take great pride in training highly proficient gunner teams. To become a gunner one must have excellent eyesight or a physique capable of carrying a heavy bolter over hell and high water. Luckily “Rich” fits the bill perfectly. With biceps, the size of Badab and thighs to match Rich is a tower of a man and can often be seen lugging their heavy bolter “Lucky Second”. When on sentry duty Rich displays a preternatural ability to concentrate without losing focus. Rich is also always ready for a game of scrumball and the pair carry one for just such occasions.
Deek, on the other hand, is less remarkable to look at, but this belies his excellent eyesight and attention to detail. Capable of memorizing the scene while on sentry, he is able to notice a hair out of place due to the moment enemies move through the area. Deek is also a profound adherent to a peculiar and almost unheard of Ecclesiarchical Cult. A fact that he is ebullient of, and is always enthusiastic to recruit new followers. The Creed itself seems to be based upon red string with as many religious trinkets tied to it as possible. He has vials of blood, tiny carved effigies of saints, and a finger bone, (hopefully the owner isn't missing it). The man looks rather silly bedecked in all these trinkets, but don't ask him about language, as he's convinced that his Cult has the only right interpretation of gothic.

Appearance:
“Rich” is tall with rolled-up sleeves, showing his impressively hairy forearms, whereas “Deek” is covered in red strings with various trinkets tied on, in full view of the enemy. Their fatigues are dark green and both are part of a regiment lucky enough to have been issued light carapace. The carapace is a variant model that is venerable and causes less fatigue from being carried than usual. Its surfaces are smooth yet angled, and its joints overlapping. Deek has a ragged wizened black beard to go with his ragged hair and Rich has a clean-shaven head and face.

Uniform: Dark Green fatigues and Black carapace if somewhat scratched by flecks of silver.

Armament: “Rich” is the main gunner for the heavy bolter, “Lucks second”, called as such because the second times the charm. The heavy bolter comes with a bipod which allows Deek to take up an unusual firing position. By holding the bipod over his shoulder, the two can advance on foot while still firing. For this Deek keeps two rags as earplugs. “Rich” is also lucky enough to have been issued a pair of prey sense goggles which he regularly lends to Deek. Thus making the two sentries a force to be reckoned with when at night. The issuance of the goggles came at company level and is a doctrine of the 62nd Cladd Line Infantry. Deek also carries a Galaxy pattern lasrifle and artillerymans laspistol. “Rich” carries a regular stubb pistol and entrenching tool aswell as an infantrymans uplifting primer. Both carry a supply of sandbags and bolter ammo belts, often strung round their bodies. Deek also carries a pair of magnoculars.

Personality/Demeanour: What kind of person is your character, what are their motivations etc, and how do they interact with others?

Richard is a mans man. When not playing his beloved scrumball game he is capable of maintaining a preternatural level of focus. His main motivation is to take out bigger and bigger enemies until he finds one that is a match for his heavy bolter. He hasn't found one yet. When that time comes, things will get a little “spicy”.

Deek on the other hand is the eyes and ears of the two, with a strong sense of self-preservation big enough for the both of them, he only sticks with Rich due to his incredible luck to have not been bolted by now. Aside from that, Deeks’ for most concern is his Cult and spreading it to as many members as possible. He views himself as being a sort of Emperors witness and bound to tell anyone who would listen. And who knows, maybe some of those trinkets he wears are lucky after all?

Greatest Ambition:
Richard wants to attain glory through gunning down some great predator and maybe THEN it will be time for tea and medals.

Deek wants to become a religious icon disseminating his Cult thought the Imperium. He just has to work out a way to get out of the guard in one piece.

Greatest Hatred:
Richard hates chaos and any other “Backsliders”, especially traitor guardsmen. He keeps a special corner of his heart for hatred towards Backsliders and as such, gets on well with Commissars and any other Schola Progenium trained.

Deek hates getting up in the morning, digging latrines and being ordered around by anyone he doesn't respect or isn't from his regiment.

Skills: What skills do they possess, how did they come by them, what have they used/been using them for?

Rich has a special proficiency with his Heavy bolter. He calls it, “Two Rounds, on target”, with this he is able to snipe enemies with this cumbersome weapon, albeit with a slight decrease in firepower. This technique is more akin to sniping than it is suppressive fire.

Deek is a great Cult member and can proselytise on the virtues of his many strange habits and practices to any willing ear to listen. He is also extremely good at noticing when something on the battlefield is out of place and can keep a mental image of what it looked like from before. This helps when catching snipers or other kunnnin individuals.

History: A sketch of your character's life and history, preferably until their arrival at the fields outside the walls of Vernum City. Give me three solid paragraphs, at least, please. You can also use this section to describe your character's current regiment, their homeworld and so on.

The 62nd Cladd Line Infantry is a unit specialised in heavy weapons deployment and sentry duties. They are a veteran group recruited from the best out of the planets PDF. The PDF practices standard conscription and training, with the tithe regiment performing the more elite training with heavy weapons and rough terrain. The hive world both Rich and Deek hail from is Cladd-magnum. A sky choked with factory fumes and warmed by furnace fires, their planet is a cold world, where even in the hive ice sheets and frost are well known. They're Regiment specialises in urban warfare and thus the transition towards trench warfare does not entirely unsuit them. The guardsmen of the 62nd are steadfast to the imperial creed as their planet is the site of a huge ecclesiarchical cathedral with a major diocese. It would not be undue to call the 62nd a religious guard, if such a thing weren't heretical and if the guards and troopers didn't take such a lax attitude to the religious creed. The 62nd are of course known for having excellent missionaries attached to them, coming straight from the planets ecclesiarchs.

If there is any special equipment granted to the 62nd it is the heavy bolter. Made after a particularly venerable design from forge world Ryza, this weapon strikes fear into the hearts of enemies due to its high speed of fire. It is a .998 weapon, firing 25mm shells. It can also be equipped with specialist ammunition in small numbers such as AP ammo, though supply lines for this have broken down and not much is left.

The regiment believes itself to be the Best of the Best when it comes to heavy weapons and constantly strives to prove itself and improve itself in the sight of other regiments, the enemy and well, anyone really. To say that the 62nd Cladd are showoffs is not undue, though it is something which has yet to occur to them. As stated before the 62nd has friends in the Ecclesiarchy and are known to be able to be called upon in times of need, every Claddian knows this. And going alongside this their natural enemy is the heretic and traitor to the god Emperor.

Rich came from such a place as this, it molded him into a man who seeks to prove his mettle in the maelstrom of battle. He was a white shield cadet in his early years and would practice building and stripping heavy bolters and other heavy weapons. His reputation on the scrumball field cemented what would be a promotion toward heavy gunner, something which he feels proud to be.

Deek on the other hand, came from a rich family but was put into the PDF by his grandfather to “mold him”. When he was randomly selected by lottery for service in the 62nd Line, his family felt sure that he would rise through the ranks to become an officer, something which he has yet to achieve, however his knowledge of ecclesiarchaical matters has advanced to no end. Perhaps he would one day make a good priest. He just has to survive long enough.

The two of them were moved to the trenches outside of the city walls in the mid-to-early days of the fighting, the Claddians stood firm in test after test from the green skins, but eventually, they started to be worn down until just half a squad was left.

Miscellaneous: Deek and Rich do not always agree on things, but they are a team. The one thing tenuously keeping them together is their job as gunner and gunners mate. Expect to see differing opinions from each of them.

Name: 415633-983223-17-Zhatka

Age: Old enough to fight.

Gender: Male

Approximate Height & Weight: 170 cm, 54 kg

Former Regiment: 382nd Siege Regiment of Krieg

Speciality: Grenadier - Deploy where the fighting is fiercest, charge the front lines and trenches, ideally die in the process. More specifically, 415633-983223-17-Zhatka held one of his squad's special weapons, a meltagun in his case.

Appearance: 415633-983223-17-Zhatka does not remove his uniform outside of proper quarters. To do so is poor discipline. If you were to catch him off-guard or forcibly extricate him, however, you would see a figure left ghoulishly pale from lack of sunlight, mostly hairless from generations of radiation exposure, and perhaps slightly malnourished, albeit leanly muscled. Pale blue eyes remain constantly observant, if slightly too wide at all times, and a total lack of expression leaves his face unmarred - in fact, its apparent youthfulness makes one wonder just how old he truly is.

Uniform: 415633-983223-17-Zhatka wears a standard issue Death Korps Grenadier uniform - a thick double-breasted greatcoat and trousers, pale grey as regards the 382nd Siege Regiment, and chemically impregnated to resist chemical and biological attacks, though this leaves it emitting a pungent smell at all times; thick light brown leather boots and dark brown leather gloves, maintained meticulously in all environments; Mark IX plasteel helmet, again pale grey in colour with the Aquila displayed on the front; standard plasteel-ceramite rebreather facemask, depicting a bone-white skull facemask and attached to a Type V Respirator carried on the wearer's back; and heavy plasteel-ceramite carapace armour integrated into the standard uniform, comprised of three-piece shoulder guards, chest and abdomen plates, and shin and knee guards.

The entire uniform is environmentally sealed, and additional supplies are carried in a backpack, including spare respirator filters, ration packs, and an appropriate weapon maintenance kit; additional ammunition cartridges and the standard entrenching tool are carried on leather webbing worn over the uniform. Identification number is stencilled on to the chest plate, former squad number is likewise stencilled on the right shoulder plate, and various memento mori are carried in a cotton pouch also tied to the webbing - the only hints of personalisation 415633-983223-17-Zhatka portrays.

Armament: Instead of the standard-issue Type XIV Lasgun (heavy), i.e. the "Hellgun", 415633-983223-17-Zhatka is equipped with a Mars-pattern meltagun, an anti-armour weapon able to fire streams of fusion-based plasma with temperatures ranging in the tens of thousands of degrees centigrade, albeit only at relatively short range. Whilst without a lasgun lug to affix to, the standard 45 centimeter long sword-bayonet is also issued to all Death Korps Guardsmen, including Grenadiers. Lastly, a large number of anti-personnel and anti-tank grenades are issued to all Grenadiers, primarily frag and krak, for use against fortified positions.

Personality/Demeanour: As with any good member of the Death Korps of Krieg, 415633-983223-17-Zhatka's overriding character trait is the need to atone for his planet's failure over a millenium ago, as demanded of them by their planet's Cult of Sacrifice. Ultimately, he will gladly expend himself in pursuit of this atonement, happily wading into combat situations that other Guardsmen would see as unwinnable suicide charges, almost precisely because they are unwinnable suicide charges that can nonetheless win the day. For the Death Korps, and especially for a Death Korps Grenadier, this is standard operating procedure, and he has long accepted that he is more or less a walking corpse by default; 415633-983223-17-Zhatka is not so foolish as to believe other Guardsmen will dedicate their lives so readily, however, and for the sake of maintaining squad cohesion (and, an idea conceived with unutterably guilty conscience, perhaps even returning to fight alongside his kinsmen someday) is at least willing to cooperate by not simply wading into enemy fire.

This does not mean he is not constantly judging them, however. Even out of uniform, his head will swivel at an odd angle to keep track of as many faults as possible, and he is not shy in pointing out when his fellows are portraying weakness, cowardice, and inefficiency either on or off the battlefield. In particular, retreat is simply unacceptable in his mind: whilst otherwise an utterly dedicated soldier, one of the few orders he will flat-out ignore is that of retreat or even regroup, for to give up so much as an inch to the enemy is tantamount to absolute failure in his mind. Indeed, he is not above the idea of killing a commanding officer and taking command if they attempt to force the matter - faulty firing mechanisms are as worthless as faulty rounds, after all.

That said, he is not entirely heartless. Even in the Death Korps, the Astra Militarum cannot make its soldiers fight and train exclusively; thus it is that in his downtime, 415633-983223-17-Zhatka is at least able to converse, though he prefers not to given the choice, his vocabulary is terse when he does, and his range of topics is rather limited to stories about past training and past battles, all of which are unerringly gruesome in nature. Privately, he also harbours something of a romantic side, insofar as Kriegers can be romantic; naturally, he feels this must be kept a secret from most others, for in the Death Korps, such a revelation of personal weakness would never have been lived down if made public.

"In life, war. In death, peace. In life, shame. In death, atonement."

Greatest Ambition: To die in service to the God-Emperor, and reclaim some measure of atonement for his homeworld's sins. Preferably, he'd like to do so alongside fellow Kriegers, but if he must do so amongst strangers, so be it.

Greatest Hatred: Failure to perform one's duty. Lately, he has found in himself an unreasonable hatred for Orks too. The reason is unclear to him.

Skills: For the Death Korps, the only skills worth learning are those that will aid the planet in its atonement. Thus, all Krieg Guardsmen are trained in combat from a very young age; in a pinch, 415633-983223-17-Zhatka is able to use just about any basic Imperial Guard weapon proficiently, though under normal circumstances accuracy is secondary to the ability to lay down continuous fire in a disciplined formation, and is also well-trained in the use of grenades and explosives. He is proficient in rapid and skilled construction of trench works and defenses, highly useful for rapid formation of cover in a firefight, and most notably shows unrivalled skill in hand-to-hand combat, especially with the sword-bayonets all Death Korps Guardmen are drilled in from childhood; amongst a full squad of Grenadiers, a bayonet charge preceded by a wall of frag grenades is nigh-unstoppable, but as the sole Krieger in the squadron, such a charge from 415633-983223-17-Zhatka would merely be hard to put down.

History: The early portion of 415633-983223-17-Zhatka's life is simple enough to describe. He was born on Krieg, after all - his childhood consisted of standard Krieg training, up to and including mock battles on the planet's surface, and inexplicably the discovery of romance novels after about ten standard years that would teach him literacy otherwise denied a Guardsman of the Death Korps. Granted, of course, standard training for the Death Korps of Krieg is almost akin to elite training for any other planet's Imperial Guard, intense as it is; by the time he was of age to head out and fight, 415633-983223-17-Zhatka had reached a level of skill that would likely be wasted in a hail of enemy fire sooner rather than later. He wouldn't have it any other way.

That was, until he met 335729-44456-103-Egida, another soldier in his platoon. Whilst as fecklessly emotionless as any other Krieger, something about her sparked what passed for a fire in 415633-983223-17-Zhatka, and shockingly, he found himself surviving battle after battle; perhaps due to uncanny good placement in his squad and platoon, and perhaps because after every fight won and every defense overrun, he could still find her alive and well too. His experience with Krieg romance novels served well: where more socialised humans would chortle at lines ripped straight from titles such as "The Bullet that Let Me Assuage my Planet's Guilt", "I Would Also Die For You", and of course "My Wish to Generate Children with You is Only Exceeded by My Devotion to Him", 335729-44456-103-Egida was steadily wooed by them, or at least felt as much emotion over them as any Death Korps Guardsman could. They grew closer - sharing a ration pack here, discussing the best place to shoot the Emperor's enemies to kill them as effectively as possible there - and steadily developed something which might vaguely be mistaken for a relationship if squinted at from an angle.

Alas, it could not last. Their continuing survival was noticed, and as such, their veterancy led to their recommendation as Grenadiers just before a particularly tough campaign in the Vernum System, one which had been ongoing for nigh-on twenty years by this point. The final push to rid Vernum Primas of Orks was at hand, and the 382nd Siege Regiment of Krieg was on call as part of the 25th Line Korps of Krieg to soften them up and drown them in bodies - including as many Grenadiers as possible to take the brunt of the damage, of course. Naturally, such an honour literally could not be turned down, and both 415633-983223-17-Zhatka and 335729-44456-103-Egida accepted it, knowing it would ensure their demise, and that at least they would die as part of the same squad. As such, they donned the standard skull masks and carapace armour during their training drills, 415633-983223-17-Zhatka in particular drilling for his role as melta gunner, and ultimately they engaged in procreative acts with one another just once before the day of reckoning arrived.

The battle, inevitably, was gruesome beyond reckoning for the 25th as a whole, but especially for the 382nd within that. Even protracted artillery bombardment could not put down the numerous Orks entirely, and though the regiment fought and died as expertly as they ever could, they would prove unable to finish the fight alone, though the Death Korps' contribution would certainly be vital to ensuring other branches of the Guard could. In the end, less than thirty men and women of the 382nd Siege Regiment would survive, a mere two of those being Grenadiers.

415633-983223-17-Zhatka was one of them. 335729-44456-103-Egida was not. She was dismembered in front of him by an Ork's Choppa, and though she was duly avenged, the image remains in 415633-983223-17-Zhatka's mind.

And now, the Lord General Militant insists upon a "victory parade", to "celebrate" and "honour" the "good work" performed by the Astra Militarum in the Vernum Crusade. 415633-983223-17-Zhatka does not see the point. It shows the Lord General Militant's lack of efficiency. It proves the weakness of the rest of the Imperial Guard. He does not want to be honoured. He wants to fight. He wants to die fighting. Hopefully this parade will end soon enough to let him do so.

Miscellaneous: His inventory secretly includes a stash of the romance novels he has collected and read over the years. He would probably die of what is probably embarrassment if anybody found out - assuming he didn't kill them over it, anyway.

Name: Corporal Mordecai Tharn, listed on transfer papers as “Corporal Tharn, Servan”

Age: 21

Gender: Male

Approximate Height & Weight: 5’11” and 85kg

Former Regiment: 232nd Cadian Mechanized Artillery, listed on transfer papers as “223rd Cadian Mechanized Infantry.”

Speciality: Basilisk Artillery Tank Operator, listed on transfer papers as “Infantry Weapons Specialist.”

Appearance: Time as a vehicle crewman far from the frontlines has left Mordecai a little lax in keeping up proper appearance as a guardsman. Beyond the physical standards expected of every single position no matter their role, he leaves much to be desired. His ruddy brown hair is often more disheveled than it should be, the outline of protective goggles is permanently formed around his face from countless hours of sun and residue, framing his striking violet eyes(a natural Cadian abnormality). His forearms are sharply more tanned and colored than the rest of his fair complexion and naturally paled color, detailing his penchant for rolling up his fatigue sleeves to combat the heat of the tank and its main cannon. Other than the occasional burn scar from freshly-ejected shells or hot machine parts from the tank, his body is free of cuts, bruises, scrapes and other unnatural blemishes. While not visibly noticeable, his time operating the vehicle carrying a massive Earthshaker cannon has left him both somewhat unphased by the loud sounds of war, as well as suffering from notable hearing loss, which can make casual conversation in quiet conditions more than a bit frustrating for both parties.

Uniform: The standard Cadian fatigues, newly issued in the colors of the 87th Combined, paired with black combat boots, light vehicle crewman flak armor, a light flakweave field cap for head protection, knee pads, and thick operator gloves. A pair of protective goggles are generally kept wrapped around his head or headgear when not being worn over his eyes, and a personal micro-comm ear and mouth set dons the left side of his face. A secondary dress uniform is kept for parade and inspection, consisting of an olive drab single-breasted coat with a high collar and formal, tailored pants tucked into black jackboots. The coat features thin epaulets with a solid red stripe lining the edge, denoting the wearer as an artillery regiment member.

Armament: As the vehicle commander of his original Basilisk crew, Mordecai was issued a standard Cadian M36 Kantrael lasgun, but with many of the redundant and non-load bearing aspects of the weapon removed to decrease the size and weight, while still maintaining a higher range and power than the standard lascarbine. However, this has since been replaced with a stock MG Kantrael "Short" pattern lasgun, which is a fair bit bulkier than he'd grown accustomed to. He also keeps the standard combat knife bayonet on hand, with it having commonly doubled as a screwdriver, hammer, or prybar during his time in the Basilisk. An autopistol with a single twenty round magazine is generally tucked into a small holster in his field uniform, serving as a quickly-reached sidearm in a dire situation.

Personality/Demeanour: His time in the rear, and in a semi-isolated vehicle crew at that, has made Mordecai complacent, and it very much shows. Much more of a slacker and layabout than one would expect for someone raised Cadian, his casualness is bound to get him put at the wrong end of some disciplinary reports soon. He’s very amicable, having enjoyed the closeness and camaraderie once shared with his former crewmen, but can be a bit annoying in his constant attempts to break up the quiet with chatter and small talk. He also seems to lack the proper mindset for how to behave around superiors, having forgotten much of the proper etiquette for interacting with a senior officer face-to-face.

In combat, Mordecai cracks, and he cracks hard. It’s been years since he had to properly make up part of a firing line, and even that was at simple training targets. He cowers, blubbers, panics, and prays more than he shoots his gun, and it’ll be a miracle if the commissar or an officer doesn’t use him for bolt pistol practice. His one saving grace is that he can shrug off the sounds of explosions, gunfire, cannons, and screaming, having grown accustomed to spending hours directly next to one of the loudest noises known to the Guard.

Greatest Ambition: To survive long enough to be officially discharged and able to retire with a home, a family, and perhaps even a nice pension for service.

Greatest Hatred: Quiet. When there’s too much...nothing in the air. No sounds, just the tension hanging, waiting to be broken...it drives him mad.

Skills: Although he had served as the tank’s commander, during his time with his Basilisk, every member of the crew took equal turns driving the tank, sighting and firing the main gun, and loading it, so he has a quality level of experience in driving tracked vehicles, as well as in operating indirect fire weapons. He can also make a decent optics spotter and vox-operator in a pinch, as both were tools commonly used by him and his crew. Lastly, while nowhere near the levels of even a minor ordained member of the Machine Cult, he’s a decent handyman when it comes to keeping vehicles up and running in the field.

History: Mordecai was born to a Cadian regiment on deployment, so while not raised on the homeworld, he received as close a facsimile as one could muster in the field, though it was far from par, given artillery regiments like the 232nd weren’t known for the quality of their infantry. Having been one of only three children born to the regiment, his training in proper Cadian marching and firing formations was...mediocre, to say the least. Had training conditions been more ideal, he likely would have been drummed out into a cannon fodder conscript regiment within the first few months. But, he managed to make it to his teen years, and was thus appointed a Whiteshield member of the 232nd. With this distinguished title came the honor, nay, the privilege of lugging about artillery shells and spare parts, standing firewatch over the barracks for eight hours straight, and even spending a month as the aide-de-camp of the regimental Major.

By the time he reached proper maturity to be regarded as an adult, someone somewhere must have thought him worth a damn, as they placed him in a new Basilisk as a crewman, alongside the other two former Whiteshields he had trained with as a youth. Being the best-performing of the three, which wasn’t saying much, he was given the position of the crew’s commander, and the rank of Corporal so that command would know he was at least slightly worth interacting with on the vox. Being the closest thing to classmates as one gets with Cadians, the three got on like a house on fire, quickly becoming steadfast comrades in the face of adversity both foreign and domestic. Although frowned upon by command, the three would commonly rotate between the driver, gunner, and loader positions of the tank, giving them all a familiarity with the vehicle few others had.

Shortly after his 20th birthday, the 232nd were attached as artillery support to the Cadian 223rd Mechanized Infantry, and thrown into the last big push against Ork Warboss Thrakta. Mordecai had never really seen any of the Imperium’s foes, xeno or otherwise, so his knowledge of Orks came solely from the information published in the Uplifting Primer. To Mordecai, the final victory consisted of chugging along in his tank, flinging heavy firepower at what he believed to be stumpy, pudgy blobs of green alien dimwits, and simply having a grand old time. If this is what war was, then Mordecai never wanted it to end.

But in the end, it did. Eventually the attack orders dwindled, before stopping entirely. The crew were ordered to the regimental HQ for debriefing, and Mordecai was blindsided by being taken directly to the Major’s office. Told to take a seat, Mordecai was even more taken aback at the Major seeming just as puzzled as he was. Apparently, he’d received orders to transfer a “Corporal Tharn” to a newly-formed composite infantry regiment. Despite this making no sense whatsoever, the Major had no ability to appeal or request clarification, the orders having come as part of a Departmento Munitorum debriefing pamphlet. With a pit in his stomach large enough to rival the Eye of Terror, Mordecai shipped out to report for initial formation and inspection.

Upon arrival, he would learn exactly what had happened, and why even the Major had been so bewildered. The courier had been meant to deliver the package to the 223rd Cadian Mechanized Infantry, with a Corporal Servan Tharn being the intended recipient of the transfer orders. Upon learning this, Mordecai requested an immediate transfer back to his old regiment, and that this Servan Tharn properly take his place. However, the 223rd had already been folded in their entirety into another regiment, and all official records stated that a “Corporal Servan Tharn” had already been transferred here instead. With no official way out, Mordecai swallowed his fear, and took his place with the other new arrivals to the composite regiment, just in time for the victory parade.

Miscellaneous: He keeps a heavily-modified Screamer proximity alarm rigged to hum at a much lower volume to use as a white noise machine for when he sleeps in quiet places, having gotten used to sleeping alongside an idling engine during his field deployments in the basilisk.