Appearance: Goose stands roughly 178 centimeters tall and has a rather muscular build considering his diet. His hair is a dark brown hue, is slightly curly, and is cut similarly to a crew cut. His eyes are a honey brown and his face bears a beard that's well due for a trim. Numerous scars are littered across his pale body, but the most notable of which is his left arm. Completely replaced from the shoulder downward with bionics after a rather close encounter a handful of years ago. He is also missing his left pinky toe.
His clothes consist of his standard-issue uniform of the 78th Bristonian Hellhounds as well as segments of carapace armor. Said uniform consists of flame retardant greatcoat and slacks that are colored a dark navy blue. The boots are a dark brown color and are steel-toed. His carapace armor seen better days but it still does a bang-up job of keeping Goose alive well enough. The symbol of his former regiment and rank are displayed on the left and right shoulder plates respectively. The helmet completely covers Goose's head and looks akin to a modernized Roman legionnaire helmet with a full faceplate that somewhat protects his face from injury. The lenses in the eye holes are tinted to reduce eye damage from prolonged exposure to very bright light sources.
His signature weapons consist of a Bristonian pattern flamer and a dark blue chainsword with crimson stripes zigzagging to resemble fangs. He also has the standard-issue bayonet as his fallback weapon.
Personality: After meeting with and being recruited by the rogue trader, his personality took a turn for the better. He started to interact with people in a more personal manner rather than simply polite professionalism. He managed to significantly reduce his urges to end his life. And he managed to actually start befriending others. Overall, he is a better man from meeting his current boss. Though at times when he gets irate, he lets his hive ganger origins show.
His role in the ship is like many a guardsman that the rogue trader had hand-selected, he was there to keep said rogue trader alive. At the cost of his own life, if need be. Usual routines consist of doing patrols and check-ups throughout the ship, but sometimes he spends his free time practicing with his weapons. Though his role doesn't change when he accompanies his lord in excursions, he specializes in close quarters combat and excels greatly fighting inside of locations like building complexes, tunnel networks, and trenches.
His main purpose in serving the rogue trader is because of his sense of duty and his way of atoning for his perceived wrongs. The pay is a nice bonus too. Though as of now, he is content to be his lord's loyal guard dog and extension of his will.
History: Goose wasn't always what he is now. Before he was just some punk in a nondescript Hive City on the planet Briston, ready to kill anyone for looking at him the wrong way. He was known to deliberately cut off limbs of his opponents without mercy using a crude cleaver like sword. It even earned him the moniker 'Goose the Butcher'. He soon climbed the ranks of his gang and was the right hand of the gang. And with him as their enforcer, the gang itself expanded their territories exponentially. In this world, might was right and they were the most powerful present.
Life was good until the cults messed everything up by instigating a lesser chaos incursion in the middle of the lower hive. He and his gang were having none of it, this was their turf and they were not letting some cultists wrest their hard-earned prize. The PDF took their sweet time in arriving at the scene. As when they did, the majority of the lower hive was in a state of all-out war and over half of his gang were already dead. The PDF fell too and they had to wait until the local guard regiment to save their asses. A little too late considering that nearly a hundred thousand were dead and the cult was close to making a big enough portal to bring in an all-out invasion. The Bristonian Hellhounds quelled the problem in a span of a month. Goose was in awe. To him, these boys in blue were the toughest and strongest 'gang' that ever set foot in his city. He knew one thing from that day onward. He wanted to be a part of that 'gang', thus leading him to the recruiting center and joining up with the newly formed 78th battalion.
There he was hammered and beaten down to what the imperium needed him to be. Not some violent hive ganger scum, but a proper guardsman of the imperium of man. Gone was 'Goose the Butcher', there was only Recruit Gustave Boucher of the 78th Bristonian Hellhounds. He was only a boy at the time, but he soon was shipped out to fight on a world he didn't know, for people he didn't care for, against foes he couldn't ever imagined. Two campaigns against Orks and Chaos, a torn limb, and a whole battalion worth of lives later...Gustave had become the cynical and aloof character he was prior to meeting the rogue trader.
Guilt overcame his conscience. He asked himself why that he was the only one that survived the last battle and if he even deserved to keep on living. He never showed this side of him in front of others; he had to be the strong and dependable Sargeant Gustave. Years went on and the guilt piled up more and more just as much as the body count did. Finally, he was at the brink. One step away from taking his own life and freeing him from the burden. But as fate would have it, he was called into service by Lord Livingstone. There he learned that perhaps there was a way for him to be released from his guilt without splattering his brains across the floor. In the service of the rogue trader, Goose found meaning again.
Skills:
Expert Melee Combatant: Goose is an expert in melee combat. May it be with weapon or not, he will be more than capable of standing on his own in a fight. Even before his formal training as a guardsman, he was a force to be reckoned with in his hive ganger days. Usually uses it when given the opportunity to flank and surprise enemy positions and when inside enclosed combat areas.
Decent Shot: As a guardsman, he is expected to be at least proficient with a lasgun. True enough, he is a decent shot with a lasgun, but don't expect him to be making any trick shots with one.
Quick On His Feet: 'The best way not to die is to keep moving in combat.' Those were the words his instructor had told him time after time Goose was beaten in combat training. He took those words into heart and ensured that while fighting, he keeps on mobile and his foes on their toes.
Intimidating Presence: One nasty look from him is usually enough to get people to shut up and listen. He is a hardened veteran and a notorious ganger enforcer before that. If he wants you to listen, you will listen.
Equipment:
Basic Guardsman's Kit
Medkit
Standard Issue Entrenchment Tool
Hand Flamer Prometheum Cannisters
Chainsword Power Cells
Spare Chainsword Chain
Miscellaneous: Absolutely hates fighting near salt water and sand. Once said elements get into his bionics, it causes malfunctions and immense pain. Favorite food is any food that has flavor. Collects small mementos from interesting experiences/people/places.
Name: Known under the alias ‘Kane’; real name abandoned.
Age: More than 600 years old.
Gender: Male.
Race: Astartes.
Appearance: Like all Astartes, the warrior known as Kane towers over the rest of the human species (Ogryns aside), measuring over seven feet from toe to tip at his full height. His skin is pale and riddled with scars, plasma burns and imperfections, owing to a life of war and a few slightly malfunctioning secondary organs, contrasting with the darkness in what remains of his raven, close-cropped hair and emphasizing the color in his bright blue eye -- singular, for his left eye is missing, the socket filled with a red-gazed and skeletal bionic replacement. In fact, the left side of his body is a wreck in general, riddled with bullet holes and burns. Even worse, Kane is missing two limbs: both his left arm and left leg were destroyed by bolter rounds, since amputated and replaced by crude prosthetics far inferior in quality to what one might expect from a Space Marine. He walks with a limp, owing to the poor alignment of his leg prosthesis with his hip, and the replacement for his missing arm is little more than a massive Astartes chainsword fixed onto a single-jointed steel stump; a weapon as unwieldy as it is deadly.
Even his Mark VII Aquila-pattern power armor, the signature piece of equipment of the Space Marines, is in dubious and visibly dilapidated condition. The ceramic and adamantine plates have been scoured black and grey by intense heat, are riddled with dents from bolter rounds and las-shots, and all heraldry has been removed. To accommodate Kane’s chainsword-arm, the left gauntlet of the armor has been removed, and the shin plates of the left leg have been amateurishly replaced with inferior steel. It rattles and clanks when it moves, the rebreather apparatus hisses and sighs with every breath, and the whole suit has a tendency to jam at inopportune moments. That said, its grim and deathly appearance gives it a foreboding quality that does quite well at intimidating lesser mortals.
Given that he only has one functional hand to operate a firearm with, Kane’s bolter has been relegated to a keepsake and a memento of better days. Instead, he has a las-pistol strapped to his thigh for emergencies and, more importantly, a custom-made, belt-fed auto-shotgun bolted to his armor. The weapon itself is mounted on the gauntlet of the remaining right arm of his power armor; all Kane has to do is ball his fist and point the open-choked and triple-barreled business end of the shotgun towards his enemies. The belt that feeds it loops around his side to his back, where a pack of shells is welded to the lower back of his armor, just beneath the exhaust pack. It is designed for point-blank engagements and each shot is capable of reducing an unarmored opponent into chunks of meat, but quickly loses killing power at range. The belt-fed mechanism allows Kane to keep firing until he runs out of ammo, though a dependable ally could refill the pack with shells while using the lumbering Space Marine as cover. The auto-shotgun’s lack of dexterity and precision requirements make it perfect for the one-handed warrior and Kane has learned to appreciate the terrifying effect its booming rapport and ricocheting pellets tends to have on enemy morale. Between the shotgun, his chainsword and his power armor, Kane remains a dangerous enemy in close-quarters… even though it is remarkably easy to run away from the ponderous, hobbling giant.
Personality: Kane has been shaped by the betrayal he has suffered at the hands of his Chapter and his Master. All of his brothers were killed during the fall of his Chapter, either by the traitors, his own hand, or by those that stood with him against the forces of Chaos. The brotherhood of the Astartes was all he knew and when it was brutally torn away from him forever, Kane fell into a deep darkness that he has only recently started trying to emerge from. He is slow to trust and quick to judge, fearing treason and heresy wherever he goes, while simultaneously unsure if he is still worthy of walking in the light of the Emperor and the Imperium himself. This inner conflict and the deep wounds of his trauma have made him cynical and jaded. Even his faith in the Emperor is wavering. But deep down, buried beneath all that, remain two hearts of gold and a man that wants to find a new place where he belongs: a new brotherhood to watch his back.
He never speaks of his past or his former Chapter and has relinquished all traditions and rituals that once defined the parameters of his life. Kane remains dedicated to fighting the enemies of the Imperium and of mankind in general, but he does not rightly know how to do that on his own and seeks allies to work with, as few and far between as they might be. Chaos has become his greatest foe, however, and he becomes quite irrational and inexorable when it comes to its extermination, willing to put himself at great risk to hunt down the servants of the Warp. However, with the rest of the Imperium believing the entirety of his Chapter to be heretics, he is forced to live a life of secrecy and shadows that has even attracted the malign attention of an Inquisitor. Kane despises this and desperately wishes he could cleanse himself of his Chapter’s sins. More immediately, perhaps, Kane seeks to upgrade his crude prosthetics and return to proper fighting shape -- if that is still possible.
In person, Kane is reserved and melancholic, full of dark humor and grim determination, though he rarely lashes out in anger against those he considers allies. He makes an effort to try to be as amicable as he can manage, especially with regards to the (to him) strange and whimsical norms of regular, human, Imperial society. Astartes maintain a different code and a radically different definition of politeness, etiquette and respect, and Kane has been forced to try and adjust to his new life -- though he still considers it a mere shadow of what once was.
History: Born to a feral world used as a recruitment ground for a Space Marine Chapter whose name has been condemned to the dark annals of oblivion, Kane was a different man with a different name for most of his life. He only has dim memories of his time on the harsh, cold world that was his home until adolescence, having long since forgotten the faces of his parents or even the name of his tribe. Kane was brought into the fold of the Astartes, sky-warriors, living half-gods, surviving the brutal trials and the dangerous genetic augmentations that define the Space Marines. Kane learned about the God-Emperor and the Imperium at large, about his role as defender of humanity, and both his mind and body were fortified through faith. Kane’s love for the God-Emperor that, in his opinion, raised him from a gruesome life on the tundra to a glorious existence as a warrior-deity, was immeasurable. The rest of his Chapter was as devout as he was and Kane never once doubted that their crusade would be never-ending.
The less said about the Chapter itself the better, but let it be known that Kane rose through the ranks over the centuries and became a close confidant of the Chapter Master himself. They waged wars on countless world and across countless systems, striking hard against all manner of humanity’s foes: Kane dueled Orks, slaughtered Tyranids, resisted Necrons, hunted Eldar and crushed T’au. Little did he know, however, that the greatest enemy he would ever face would not be the enemy without… but the enemy within.
In their quest to quell an uprising on a remote Forge World, Kane’s Chapter became trapped in the insidious vices of a daemon of Tzeentch. The tendrils of Chaos probed and prodded against the fortifications of faith that Kane had once thought invulnerable, and they found weaknesses. His Chapter Master, his friend and closest brother, fell to the Ruinous Powers, and many fell with him. The Chapter turned on itself like a ravenous beast and tore itself apart in the span of a single day, the factories and conveyor belts of the Forge World running red with Astartes blood. Kane himself killed no less than four of his former brethren, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the other aghast loyalists that did not fall to Chaos, until he was face to face with his Chapter Master, already made unrecognizable by the powers of Tzeentch. Kane fought and lost, his power armor damaged almost beyond repair and his left eye, arm and leg horribly wounded beyond saving. His remaining brothers dragged him to a shuttle and they attempted to leave the system post-haste on a single ship, pursued by the frigates of the traitor Chapter.
One ship managed to catch up with them and they were boarded. Kane, one-legged and one-armed but furious beyond measure, supported by a terrified Neophyte, stood with his brothers and repelled the invaders in a white-knuckle cage match, Astartes versus Astartes in the winding corridors of the vessel, until all had fallen, the evenly-matched loyalists and traitos having killed each other to the man… all except one. Kane, bloody and broken, survived, adrift in space, having dragged himself into a life-support pod. Frozen in stasis, decades went by.
Until the Astartes that would become known as Kane was discovered by a remote mining operation. The confused and awestruck miners discovered the still-living Space Marine amidst the dozens of corpses of his fellows and brought him to the med bay aboard their spaceborne mining station. Unable to properly heal his strange and alien Astartes physique, Kane’s life was instead saved with rigorous amputation and crude augmentation, the same kind that the voidborn miners were given after industrial accidents. Once Kane regained his senses, he fell into a deep depression and remained on the station for more than a year, withdrawn and sullen, barely eating and barely sleeping. Slowly he emerged once more from his shell, however, and eventually requested transport back to civilized space. He abandoned his old name and Chapter, scoured his armor clean of heraldry through cleansing fire from a mining melta, and assumed a new identity: Kane.
Back in Imperial space, Kane was forced to move in the shadows of society as he tried to discover what had happened to the rest of his Chapter on the accursed Forge World. He settled in the dark underbelly of the hive world of Aphrodian Primaris, a hub of industry, trade and crime. After a few repulsive and shameful jobs for underground crime-lords, more than willing to use an Astartes (even a heavily-damaged one) as an enforcer, fixing his chainsword to his arm and an auto-shotgun to his armor, Kane’s efforts were rewarded with access to the cogitator systems of a hive world’s planetary governor. He learned that his Chapter had been destroyed entirely by a strike force of three other Chapters, their records expunged and their name banished forever. The story of the loyalists that had fought for their life and their honor had been lost and Kane knew that he could never return to his old life, or restore the good name of his lost Chapter. It dawned on him that it was time to find other ways to serve the Imperium.
Using the weapons and tools the crime-lords had given him, Kane hunted as many of them down as he could find and left the hive world’s underworld in disarray before departing forever, retreating to the edges of Imperial space, for an Inquisitor had noticed his activities and started an investigation…
Skills:
Astartes Battle-Brother: While severely battered and a mere shadow of the warrior he was in his physical prime, Kane remains a Space Marine with hundreds of years of experience on the battlefield. He is trained in both melee and ranged combat and is knowledgeable on the use of a myriad different weapons. His current state, with only one functional hand and one elbow-mounted chainsword, has forced Kane to adapt a different and far less technical combat style. Still, should he manage to upgrade his prosthetics to something more advanced, his latent skills and training will be there to propel him back to excellence.
Close-Combat Juggernaut: Between the auto-shotgun, the power armor and the chainsword, Kane is a force to be reckoned with in close quarters. His power armor can absorb hits that would be mortal injuries to lesser men and his weapons are powerful enough to rend or blast open most enemies the galaxy can throw at him. Alas, the universe does have to throw them at him, as Kane is slow and unwieldy and cannot pursue swift enemies with any kind of efficiency, nor can he strike at them from range -- precision is rather difficult to manage with only one hand.
Fortified Mind: Kane has already faced Chaos and emerged untainted once before; he can do it again. The Space Marine is almost impervious to fear, doubt or heresy and can weather the horrors of war without flinching.
Mechanical Ghoul: Everything about Kane’s appearance -- his gruesome weapons, his scorched and blackened armor, and even the whirring and gasping noise of his rebreather -- makes him look and sound like an iron-clad monster come back from the dead. He is terrifying, inexorable and ghastly to behold. Most lesser mortals would think twice before engaging him in combat.
Equipment:
Mark VII Aquila-pattern power armor, heavily damaged and in poor condition.
Astartes chainsword, fixed to the stump of his prosthetic left arm; draws power from his suit.
Belt-fed, triple-barreled auto-shotgun, mounted on the gauntlet of the right arm of his power armor.
Shotgun shell pack, soldered to the back of his power armor; capacity is 30 shells.
Standard issue las-pistol, holstered on his right hip.
Two las-clips.
Two krak grenades.
Miscellaneous: Kane still owns his Astartes-pattern bolter, but is incapable of wielding it effectively with one hand. It is therefore stowed away in his trunk with the rest of his private possessions.
Appearance : Short length brown hair,(does have wigs for pony tail or curls for formal occasions), blue eyes and lighter caucasian skin, does use powder to make his skin seem more like porcelain. No mechanical implants. Rather skinny, and shorter (110-130 lbs) (5'2 ft) His shape is about average, or leaner compared to most. No scarring through most of his body, he would seem to be a track runner without thighs.
Typically found wearing white pants, and Imperial Naval Jacket (blue torso with white arms) with midshipman insignia and a small pin on his collar signifying his house. (Grey and black pendant in a checkered pattern) Most of the time wearing white gloves. While on his belt is an issued laspistol, chainsword, glow-globe and data-slate. Can usually also be found with a Data-slate. Will also wear a cloak if he is on a long watch.
Personality : Young and extremely timid, Isaiah has yet to experience the world. Those above him he treats with utmost respect, and those below him and beside him he has no idea what to do with. Can be considered a coward in some situations, but when supported he can be valuable. He is not really adventurous, but he is someone to be in awe at some new things he finds as 'beautiful' mainly galactic bodies (suns that aren't the color of his, brightly colored gas clouds, etc) He does try to do his job the best he can, and if he doesn't know how to do something in his line of work, then he figures it out. Can be reluctant to give information out if something is wrong, i.e. someone missing from the shift or cargo missing. (kid really needs a person commissar with a fake gun)
History : Isaiah grew up in a kind and gentle world in his estate, he traveled the planet some. And lived in almost complete luxury due to his status. In his early years he was taught that the human body was perfect the way it was, but to preserve the family at later ages once proven a decent heir or of some importance. They would be given allowances for minor life preservation treatments. Minor due to the world being somewhat out of the way of most imperial trade routes, so not that high on the economic level. But the planet was a Feudal world, living the ways of nobles, and his family being one lower on the totem pole in the planet.
In his education, he was found to be an extremely good pencil pusher, and therefor was to be inducted as one of the planets bureaucrats. But his father decided he should take a different route, and enlisted his son in the Grand Imperial Navy. It was due to other political reasons as well, such as they wanted honor and prestige from the son, as well as a chance to get him out there to other nobles who may have been enlisted into the Navy, or Astra Militarum.
Once given his rank of Midshipman due to his noble status, he was quickly to be found as an Officer of the Watch while most ranking officers were off duty, and quartermaster, due to his good skills with pushing paper. Due to this, and his abilities with other people, he was found to be somewhat of an underdog. His previous Captain, deciding that it would be better for him to put his skills in paper pushing, moved his station to an actual station rather then a ship. There for he, and the pencil pushers of various creed within the Imperium at the station were to inspect ships, their contents, the crew, and the ship itself while in port and dry dock. To rot away as pencil pusher, lest a crew of adventures were to save him, or he was to be kidnapped while inspecting a ship. Because who cares about some lowly midshipman?
Skills : Extremely good with numbers, organizing shifts, ordering and stocking goods, ammo, and other needed things. Knows how to use basic Imperial Weapons, and chainsword, might not be strong enough to properly use a chainsword without both hands and his entire body. Knows how to cook, and how to get higher quality goods for cooking. Has officer clearance (if believed as kidnapped while doing an inspection) Is extremely perceptive of things in stock, and can find contraband, as well as knows basic layout of most Imperial ships.
Equipment : Laspistol Chainsword Basic Naval Officer Garbs Naval midshipman insignia Data-slate Glow-globe recorder a powerpack for the laspistol
-in quarters shotgun standard naval cloak Flak Weave shells for the shotgun
Appearance: Lazarus is a fairly average specimen of a healthy middle-aged human male. He keeps relatively physically fit, with an average weight of 80kg, and although he by no means towers over anyone, his 195 centimeter height still gives him a considerably tall look.
His face is rather bony and well-defined, with his chin coming to a narrow end, and his nose a fine point. He keeps himself clean shaven as much as possible, and his greying head of hair neatly cropped and trimmed. His face is framed by a pair of necessary reading spectacles, which are specifically designed with one-way reflective lenses, which Lazarus prefers because they stop patients from distracting him with "incessant blathering and distracting eye contact" in his own words.
His eyes, when rarely seen, are a cold steel in color, bearing little of the spark or twinkle of life and energy. Instead they seem almost calculating in nature, constantly jumping from subject to subject, always observing everything they can.
In terms of apparel, he regularly wears the uniform of an Imperial Navy First Lieutenant, the traditional white and blue coat and trousers, with a high pair of black jackboots, and the official insignia denoting him as both a First Lieutenant and an officiated Chirurgeon. When practicing medicae in a proper facility, he traditionally wears either a white longcoat commonly associated with medicae professionals, or sanitized surgical garments when performing extensive procedures.
As someone lacking in combat expertise, he does not traditionally carry much in the way of armaments, keeping on hand a single stub automatic pistol in a shoulder holster. However, to make up for his lack of combat experience, he packs it with the vicious Manstopper bullets, to provide extra firepower in a pinch.
Personality: Lazarus is best described as stern, asocial, and calculating in nature. He shows the most warmth and personality when discussing the fields of medicae and biologis, but even then he shows a grim, almost grotesque fascination with the subjects.
Despite his distaste for talk outside his subjects of study, Lazarus feels great concern and care for those he treats for injury or illness, stopping at nothing to aid them to the best of his ability. However, should a patient of his pass, his cold demeanour returns, and he won't hesitate to use the fresh corpse for research or spare bodily objects or fluids.
When it comes to the stringent rules of the Imperial Creed, Lazarus only pays them as much heed as necessary, pushing the limits of decency and courtesy to the God-Emperor when he can. The Xenos and the Mutant bother him not with their presence, their biological and anatomical structure utterly fascinating to him.
History: Lazarus Germael is the fourth of seven sons born to Sigmund Germael, the patriarch of a minor nobility household on Scintilla. The Germael family lineage had always operated on the rule that the first son was to be heir, the second to join the Administratum, the third to join the Guard, and the fourth to join the Navy. Thus, Lazarus's career was defined for him at birth. While being groomed and schooled for the Imperial Naval Officer's Academy, Lazarus quickly found his fascination with medical and anatomical sciences, and his distaste for people. He excelled in scientific classes, but struggled with much of the pomp and circumstance due to one of his class and destined service.
Lazarus would enter the Academy at the age of 16, enrolling in their medicae program, and graduating with full honors and a commission as an Ensign medicae officer aboard the Saint's Chosen, a small frigate serving across the Calixis sector. It was here Lazarus would find the one person he could stand to deal with, a kindred spirit in the Biologis Tech-Priest Obel Gaven.
Working alongside Obel, Lazarus would serve dutifully and honorably for many years, rising through the ranks and chain of command in the medicae department, before eventually securing the position of Chief Chirurgeon and the rank of First Lieutenant.
Despite his cherished years of service, Lazarus had never been content with simply healing the ill, and had sought to put his knowledge to more theoretical purposes. Together with Obel they secretly conducted research and development of disturbing biological, cybernetic, and bionic enhancements to both servants of the vessel and captured prisoners alike.
This series of heretical actions against both the Emperor and the Omnissiah would not go unnoticed, and official action had to be taken. Obel was taken from the vessel and into the custody of the Mechanicus, never to be seen again. Lazarus, however, was taken before the Captain of his vessel, and the other senior staff, and given a choice.
A detachment of officials from the Imperial Navy were being sent as additional Naval aide to the staff of a Rogue Trader and his forces, one Edmund H. Livingstone. Lazarus would be offered a position about this detachment, sent off into the far-flung corners of the galaxy, likely never to see the core Imperium again for more than moments at a time. Exile, as it were, albeit still in service to the Emperor and Imperium. It was either this...or be given over to the graces of the Imperial Law, with his future uncertain from thereon.
Naturally, as any sane man would, Lazarus chose the exile post alongside the Rogue Trader and his people. The fringes of the galaxy aren’t exactly the ideal locales for Lazarus, but it beats an uncertain fate at the hands of an Arbiter. And it provides him ample chance to work his craft with far less prying eyes to worry about.
Skills: Lazarus is an expert medicae practitioner, and a constant researcher of biological topics and advancements as he comes across them. He also has experience serving as the Chief Chirurgeon aboard a Voidship, and all the trials and tribulations associated with directing the medicae department of one of the Imperium’s starbound fortress-cities.
Thanks to his service alongside a Biologis Tech-Priest in his last assignment for the Imperial Navy proper, his skills with assembling and implanting cybernetics and bionics are profound for one outside the Machine Cult, and it is not uncommon for him to provide patients with enhancements that might be considered Heritek in some circles of Mars and her domains.
Although by no means an expert shot or a professional soldier, Lazarus has survived the occasional firefight with his autopistol, and what he lacks in direct firepower he makes up for with the danger of his preferred Manstopper ammunition and his knowledge of human anatomy.
Equipment: Alongside the aforementioned stub pistol and apparel, Lazarus keeps on hand a diagnosticator for identifying medical issues, a medi-kit for field operations, and a suture set for quickly closing wounds. He also wears a micro-comm in one ear for quick communication across the ship or in the field, and keeps handy a dataslate for computational purposes and other digital tasks.
Miscellaneous: He keeps a personal written journal for cataloging research and procedures that he desires to be kept hidden from anyone but himself. It never leaves his person unless absolutely necessary.
Appearance: Tecca Nina is quite an imposing figure, and through her value to the Imperium and consequent rejuvenat treatment seems much younger than her true years. Tall and slender, she is pale-skinned and in possession of dark hair down to her shoulders, a combination of traits that many men would find highly attractive - were it not for her eye sockets, empty and permanently seared black by the scorching light of the God-Emperor's soul that once coursed through her. For politeness' sake, she tends to cover the hollows with a black blindfold bearing the symbol of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica on its front in pale blue, a neat and tidy covering for a gruesome disfigurement. Additionally, she wears long black robes that cover her body, themselves bearing both the symbol of her Adepta in pale blue on the front, the Imperial Aquila in white on her back, and the Aquila again in white on the hood. Privately, these items of apparent cloth in fact double as protection from harm. Woven into them is a mesh of thermoplas cells that stiffen when subjected to kinetic energy and heat, dissipating that energy and keeping her safe from harm whilst remaining quite lightweight. Additionally, to those who might somehow think she is easy prey and are not deterred simply for being an astropath, she carries on her person both a hellpistol and a mono-edge sword, evidence of her importance as the master of Edmund Livingstone's Astropathic Choir and indicators of her own lethality if provoked.
Personality: To say Tecca Nina is a severe woman is not exactly incorrect. The life experiences of a psyker once their powers awaken, and especially an astropath, are rarely positive in nature; hers have shaped her into a woman who will not tolerate being made light of by anybody, as in her mind she has gone through too much and come too far in spite of the odds stacked against her to allow such a thing. Consequently, those of higher rank than herself who disrespect her are generally treated with coolness, the bare minimum of civility required and no more, whilst those outright beneath her who do the same will receive naught but passive-aggressive insults, or indeed outright warnings if they go too far - never threats, though, because a threat is uncivil, and implies the possibility that you won't follow through when push comes to shove. To everyone else, though, she does her best to be helpful, understanding, and occasionally even kind. The God-Emperor's mercy works in strange ways - those who are most harmed are often most belittled, a circumstance she is personally well-aware of, and whilst she does not look back on her past with fondness or indeed grace, it has informed her quite a bit. Thus, she tries to show empathy to those in need, even the rare alien that the Imperium has seen fit to welcome into its fold, albeit tinged with pity and stern recommendations for the many. It is but rarely that this folds to naught but empathy, almost always for her fellow sanctioned psykers such as the small choir she now leads, and to them she truly does act graciously, for it is a crushing sort of kindred that they share. Coincidentally, Edmund H. Livingstone has earned a similar sort of honour - after all, her employment to him is accented by his patronage and even friendship where others wouldn't dare or even care to partake of her company, and so he has earned her gratitude, her respect, and a few opportunities to witness a smile from her, rare as they are. Her relationship with the God-Emperor is... complex. Every psyker soul-bound to Him experiences the process in different ways if they do not die outright, from indescribable sensations to an enlightening discussion with Him. Some even expand their faith as a result, becoming the self-proclaimed Transubstantial Initiates that irk the Ecclesiarchy so. Nina falls into the somewhat broader category of astropaths who merely experience agony, though the sensation was certainly indescribable, and as a consequence she is of two minds. Was it necessary? Certainly; even her particular strategies would not have worked forever. Did it help her? Arguably; having a shard of the Emperor's soul tied to hers has certainly kept it safe from harm. Is she less enthused with Him as a result? Entirely - but then, she can hardly blame the God-Emperor directly. His agents are far more culpable as sinners, after all. To that end, when she does talk about her faith in Him, she tends to keep her statements modest, largely espousing kindness to others as she herself displays, if only to offset but slightly the cruelties both necessary and needless of the Imperium's more questionable servants. That being said, to the heathen, the heretic, and especially the witch, she of course has nothing but contempt. Even now, coming to terms with a traumatic past has been a cripplingly hard task that often keeps her up until the late hours, but she at least accepts that the sanctioning process and the Soul-Binding that blinded her was a necessity to keep her safe from worse things. They who would avoid either or both, and ultimately they who would act against the God-Emperor Himself, are unworthy of His grace; at best to be directed to the Black Ships, at worst to be eliminated and forgotten, for that is the greatest kindness one can do them. Most xenos also fall into this category, but she is at least able to acknowledge that if her employer has taken them on board, there is likely a good reason for it.
Born on the civilised world of Arteus III, Tecca Nina's early life was not precisely remarkable. Her family was middle class, they worked middle-class jobs for the Imperium, she went to a middle-class school, and under most other circumstances, Tecca Nina would have found herself a similarly middle-class job to work in until her old age. It was therefore unfortunate that one day, in her early- to mid-teens, she began to hear and see things at the edges of her senses - never coherent, but always distressing, and somehow goading in the process. What they goaded toward eventually became clear, as one day whilst being confronted by a bully, she lashed out with her mind, a blunt fist of psychic power knocking the girl unconscious against a locker in full view of a lot of terrified students and teachers. Not three days after that incident, she was taken into custody by squads of black-armoured individuals who would cuff her round the mouth if she so much as whimpered. The next thirty years of her life could be accurately described as "Hell". Seven or so years were spent in what could more or less be described as the worst jail in existence. The relative freedom of expression her planet supported was a myth in that grey bunker, as were any other rights the people supposedly had; instead, Nina was kept in a bland grey outfit, in a bland prison cell, utterly isolated from others like her, those who were kept in this place for the sole crime of possessing psychic powers. The guards, at least, had no interest in the prisoners save when they tried to use their powers, promptly being beaten into submission, or in too many cases shot dead and incinerated, but at the same time, they refused to account for the prisoners' needs beyond food and water, a state of affairs that was especially gruelling for a pubescent young girl for reasons that need not be elaborated on. Socially, therefore, most people in there were not well-adjusted, if she even had any idea about their personalities at all. Nina had only a couple of friends throughout that time, the first a forty year old in a nearby cell who had developed in secret a form of telepathic communication. That friendship lasted all of three months before he was discovered and killed - arguably for the best, considering that every time she used her own abilities, the whispering in her mind grew stronger. She learned the cause of this a couple of years after that, when she grew daring enough to develop her own form of telepathic connection with the thirty two year old two cells over from hers. Their communication lasted a week before he admitted that he'd felt something probing at his mind lately, attempted to convey an image of what it was, and suddenly had his psyche ripped asunder by a monstrosity that Nina herself barely avoided being targeted by too. After seeing what it had twisted the man's body into as the guards carried away the evidence, she no longer attempted to train her abilities. She was, of course, lucky. She could have spent much longer in there. Instead, the Black Ship arrived not too long after she turned twenty- or was it twenty one?- and took her and every surviving psyker in for transport to Holy Terra. This took ten years in total, and somehow, inexplicably, wound up being an even worse prison than the last - one made of black metal lit by red lamps, a hellish combination that played havoc with her vision; one where the silver-armoured guards standing at every juncture seemed to physically crush her whenever they passed by, even though she knew she was lucky enough to never be subjected to their wrath personally; and yet they and others didn't ignore her, but rather dragged her and others away time and again for the sake of unspeakable testing, probing, and punishing of both mind and body, processes that would have left any sane person traumatised, let alone the psychological wreck she became as the whispering and imagery grew ever more pronounced when the silver guards weren't present. She was, of course, lucky. Luckier than most, anyway, for her wardmates never degraded into monsters, nor was her section of the ship ever forcibly cleansed with fire to erase a single threat. So, too, could her journey to Terra have taken far longer, and left her truly shattered rather than simply cracked, good only as fuel for the Emperor's dying soul. As it was, however, she remained on the cusp of sanity by tracking her time in there, precise mental markers that anchored her enough to let her keep some sense of self. A worse fate lay in store for her. Not minutes after she first saw something resembling sunlight for the first time in nearly two decades, she and many others were marched back into an obsidian fortress by men clad in the same sort of black armour she'd first come to know as terrifying, and told that they were to be used for the Imperium's greater benefit, and that they would be trained to use their powers in the name of the God-Emperor, a process that would take a full five years before they were deemed ready. These five years were, thankfully, nothing like as awful as her time on the Black Ship, but to say they were easy was fallacious - her teachers were unreasonably cruel, even having been through the same nightmares she had, and every mistake she made in learning to apply her abilities was punished with beatings and restriction of "privileges" - up to, for the first time, both food and water if they were feeling cruel. All the while still being targeted by unspeakable whispering and imagery, somehow worse than before despite being in such a holy place. Again, she was forced to rely on her internal clock to keep her psyche intact, adding to it with strict and regimented creative activities of a sort - picturing a blank page in her mind, imagining herself writing upon it, and in time generating an entire fantasy trilogy that, when one teacher noticed it, was judged amateurish and naive. That teacher promptly copied the whole thing down word for word behind Nina's back, published it, and made a relative fortune on her efforts. The exercises, however, did their job. Combined with the data from those tests performed upon the Black Ship, the examination of her talents in the Scholastica Psykana, and examination of her own coping mechanisms, she was unbeknownst to her graded at the level Zeta Secundus - decently strong, not quite capable of protecting her own soul from harm as a Primaris might, but nor a mere sheep to be sent to slaughter and soul syphoning with the massed Tertius psykers. At the end of those five years, she was taken into the core of the Imperial Palace, a golden twisting morass she could never hope to navigate alone protected by giants themselves clad in gold, to what looked like some sort of throne room, and forced to kneel in front of a corpse that she recognised as important for reasons that escaped her in the moment, alongside ninety nine other unfortunate souls like herself. Not long after that, the God-Emperor touched her mind. It is quite fortunate that the human brain contains no nerve endings directly, at least for the purposes of sensation. If it did, it would be likely that the electrical and chemical signals coursing through it would induce a constant headache at best, and an unbelievable agony at worst. For Nina, as with most of the astropaths-to-be, her Soul-Binding could not quite be described with realistic metaphors - the closest she could come would be to suggest that it felt very much like her brain had just been crammed full of said sensation-inducing nerve endings, and then shoved into an acid-filled blender with super-heated blades. To say it was pleasant, as some of them purported after the fact, was a strong statement. So too was calling it modest, or distressing. Even words like "excruciating" and "traumatic" were a little weak. If anybody ever bothered to ask, she would likely say it was the single worst experience she had ever had, before or since. As it was, the teachers merely described it as "graduation". When she came to, she realised very quickly that, whilst the whispering in her mind and vague appendages in the corner of her eye were finally quelled, so too was literally everything else about her sight and vision - even though feeling remained, something made very evident when she was strapped down and the remnants of her melted eyeballs scraped out of their blackened sockets without anaesthesia. Nonetheless, she was practically crippled, and it took another month after that fateful event for her psychic-abilities to take over the role, translating the vibrations in the air into mental patterns she could recognise as sound, and the surfaces about her into images she could position herself relative to. Her telepathy even offered full colour awareness by the time the ship she was on found its way to her very first role as an agent of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica: a component in a major astropathic relay. For most other astropaths, this would be where their story ended. Whilst a necessity for rapid information flow, the astropathic relays were constantly flooded with psychic messages from across the galaxy, and they were notorious for inducing the phenomenon called burnout: the crippling of an astropath's psychic powers, be it temporary or permanent, often accompanied by braindeath after however many years of replacing indecipherable whispers and visions with an indecipherable torrent of maddening ciphers in all forms. Only those of particularly strong will could hope to survive for any significant length of time. Once more, Tecca Nina's tendency to develop psychological coping mechanisms saved her: this time, she simply found a way to turn off the part of her mind that was, for want of a better word, "human". Those in charge of the relay didn't want her to be human; they wanted her to be a wire. So, when she was in the immense choir that made it up, she was effectively no longer human, but a wire of thought and spirit, not taking in the messages passed to her, merely letting them move on through her being as fast as possible, and all the while maintaining that mental clock to draw herself back to when she was allowed a break, though by then she was assailed with reminders of her disturbing past so frequently that she often preferred not to revert at all. She burned out sixteen times in the first year before this mechanism took hold; once it had, she burned out once in the next six, and then only because she let that mindstate slip due to a bout of negative memory interfering with her focus. This improvement did not go unnoticed. By now, she was in her early forties, and looked very much like she was in her late sixties, so major the toll of her life and powers had taken on her. It came as a great surprise, then, when she found herself recommended for work at a much less strenuous choir somewhere near the outer edge of the Imperium's holdings, and an even greater surprise when that work proposal came with a free rejuvenat treatment to ensure her ongoing service there. All at once, she reverted from looking and feeling like an elderly lady back to more or less her physical prime, complete with renewed hair growth. All this, however, would only serve to be the introduction for another trial entirely - granted, not one that would be at all comparable to the horrors she had faced thus far, but something difficult to overcome nonetheless. At first, her approach into the deeper, less inhabited parts of the void left her wondering if her Soul-Bond was failing. Whispering she had thought banished for good returned steadily, growing louder the further from civilisation she went. It didn't take overly long, once she had taken up her position in the astropathic choir of that region, for her to recognise them for what they were: not the monsters of her past, but the dying screams and nascent dreams of aliens from far before her time, maddening to contemplate even compared to those other monsters of the Warp. They, after all, had at least some basis in human emotion. Nonetheless, her old coping mechanisms kicked in once again: shut down needless emotion, keep track of the passage of time, use the mind to craft creatively- this time, actually delving into and practicing her telepathic powers, to see what creative fashions she could use them in- all serving to keep her on track toward the eventual title of Astropath Transcendent... somehow, though, she found a sort of magnetic pull despite those mechanisms. Week after week, month after month, she kept being drawn back to contemplating, not the voices coming from the darkness, but the very darkness of the void itself, and this fascination manifested one day in the form of a deep chill filling her private quarters. After that, she found she didn't need to lose herself in her coping mechanisms anymore, though she continued to work on her telepathy where she could. Again, this did not go unnoticed. Not long after this revelation, perhaps three years since joining the choir, she was requested by name by a man who referred to himself as Edmund H. Livingstone. The scion of a long and successful Praetorian family, and presumably a Rogue Trader lineage, he offered her a position in his own choir aboard his ship. It would be quieter still than the one she'd grown used to, and perhaps a touch more dangerous at times, but then excitement was part and parcel of the life of a Rogue Trader! Excitement, freedom, and of course wealth beyond measure, more than Nina herself might ever have access to in the alternate course of her life. Wealth, in truth, wasn't too impressive to her, but the freedom to expand her abilities, and perhaps see just how far they could go... Her time aboard Livingstone's vessel has been an interesting one, certainly. It transpires that her power as a psyker is yet to be fully realised, or so it seems to her; aside from anything else, her skill in astrotelepathy has been tested time and again, pushing her to the forefront of Edmund's choir and ultimately into the position of Choir-Master after the former holder of the position passed naturally. They are large shoes to fill, but Nina's interactions with Edmund, accommodating as he has been to her, have helped make them feel much smaller - along with the realisation that for the first time in her life she is respected for her role. Necessary, even, in a way that she never was previously. This has done wonders for her confidence in just a few brief years, as has various bouts of training in the use of actual weapons - and yet, to say she is not still haunted would be entirely incorrect. In many aspects of her being, she still has a very long way to go.
Skills:
Astrotelepath - By far Nina's most notable skill is her aptitude in astrotelepathy. Though she sacrificed her vision, hearing, and much of her former self in the process of transformation- not all of which was due to exposure to the Emperor's soul, and none of which was pleasant to experience- what she has gained in return more than makes up for it. She experiences the world psychically now, as if she were in full retention of her former senses, and she can send messages across vast stretches of Imperial space in relatively short timeframes, a vital process for the Imperium's ongoing functionality, with even further distances made possible in the presence of an astropathic choir. Granted, sending even one relatively brief message is not nor ever will be a short process for any distance greater than orbital, especially with how much effort goes into encoding the most important and sensitive information packets to ensure prying Warp creatures and scions of heresy can't intercept it, but the capacity to do so at all is a rare and rightly-prized ability.
Sanctioned Psyker - Beyond mere astropathy, Nina is a reasonably skilled psyker in other areas too, sanctioned as she is. All psykers can detect the soul-aura around an individual, so-called Witch-Sight, and may make use of it to elucidate certain pieces of information about them, though not much without explicit training. The majority of sanctioned psykers thus focus their efforts on learning to make use of a relatively selective pool of psychic abilities called a discipline, most practicing with one particular discipline above all others, and mastering two or maybe three distinct disciplines in their lifetime if they are exceptional; Nina may not even have had that much opportunity if she had never risen from the rank and file of the Astropathic Relay, for many astropaths in a choir never have the time to develop beyond their basic telepathic sending and astropathy. As it is, though, she is an adept when it comes to Telepathy, wielding both communication- and domination-style abilities for their respective roles of information relay and compelling others to act in certain ways, and has started to delve into the Voidfrost discipline that a number of astropaths find themselves dredging up when isolated from other human minds, with the capacity to shield herself from the void's icy grip in a bubble of air and warmth, plummet her own metabolism or that of a willing target into a form of life-preserving stasis, and even seek out and locate the minds of other sentient beings from many Void Units away, up to and including xeno races. There is evidence to suggest that she could progress much further still in these regions and perhaps others, if she gets the opportunity to continue mastering her abilities. Granted, none of this comes without cost. Though she is soulbound to the Emperor, warding her mind and rendering her far more resistant to the whispers at the edges of her sanity, effectively inaudible by this time, whisper they nonetheless do - and every so often, the ward will be strained by over-enthusiastic use of her abilities and the resulting eddies of the Immaterium, generating a disturbing effect in the local environment. Ever since she first accessed her Voidfrost potential, this has almost universally manifested as a sharp but brief temperature plummet, seeding hoarfrost across every surface in a wide area about her. She remains ever-vigilant for more explicit Warp manifestations, however - rare as they ought to be, they are by no means impossible, and if worst comes to worst, old brainwashing is likely to lead to an almost-instinctive suicide attempt even so many years after leaving the Scholastica Psykana behind - assuming another crew member doesn't attempt to kill her first, that is.
Weaponplay - Naturally, it is rarely appropriate to wield psychic abilities recklessly, least of all those based on altering the mind directly. It is therefore a good thing that she has grown at least reasonably skilled in making use of both pistols and melee weaponry - far more direct is the damage of a pistol than an urge to run out of cover, and far less risky to make use of unless she runs out of ammo. Melee combat is rather more of a concern, in truth, but with proper protection and, occasionally, making use of her powers to support her in combat, she can usually get through a fight unscathed - assuming she's allowed into the fight at all, anyway.
Trauma Response - Nina's past is one filled with the worst sorts of disturbances, most of which weren't even produced by her power directly. To say she has some serious PTSD is an understatement, and it is likely that this will affect her for her entire life; however, she has developed the means to at least withstand future horror as it comes, especially for long-term situations like prolonged torture and imprisonment. The major component of this at present is essentially to turn off her human emotion and relegate her response to logical and creative thought alone, rendering herself nearly unbreakable as far as further harm goes, but the first aspect of it, developing at some point in her teenage years, was to essentially keep an internal clock and calendar to track how much time has passed, and she has become very good at keeping track of time even under severe stress.
Equipment: Nina's gear is mostly basic but highly functional, focused on quality over quantity in a way assisted by her relatively privileged position:
A hellpistol for ranged combat, good for 20 shots per hotshot charge pack, and with extra packs carried on her person when it runs dry;
A mono-edged sword for melee combat, granted typically more of a last resort than intended for standard use;
Thermoplas mesh armour, woven into her robes for protection;
A blessed necklace charm in the shape of an Aquila, for purposes of faith and psychic focusing both;
A void suit, generally stored on-ship in case she needs to head into the void unprotected by her powers;
Various utility items: micro-bead for short-distance comms; chrono for timekeeping; flashlight and glowbulb for light in different circumstances; pict recorder for vid captures; dataslate for sending, storing, and receiving information.
Miscellaneous: There are a wide variety of directions Tecca Nina's powers could develop in the future, setting aside her ongoing advancement of the Telepathy and Voidfrost disciplines. Most are derived either from her soul-bond to the Emperor, namely the Warp-banishing Theosophamy and divinely-inspired Soul Ward, or from the usual mentally-charged disciplines of Divination and Telekinesis. Technically speaking, however, nothing explicitly prevents her from taking them in more offensive directions via Pyromancy, Biomancy, or perhaps even stranger options, though it is likely these would not be strictly optimal choices given her position. It is also worth noting that the damage done to her flesh and nervous system by the Soul-Binding ritual is such that standard bionic replacements could not hope to restore either her vision or her hearing. However, such augments capable of it do exist - they are expensive beyond standard measure, and so heavily engineered as to be works of unparalleled artifice in most circumstances, but not unattainable for a Rogue Trader whose fortunes trend toward the stars...
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 Bakka, participating in repairs and maintenance of the Imperial battlefleets docked there.
He figured out fairly quickly that the whole damn place was hot and smokey, the company wasn't much to look at, and there was no one and nothing fun to shoot. Though he enjoyed the work at first the sedate life of a full time mechanic would never fit him and so sought to join on with the first Rogue Trader to make a stop on Bakka and begin his new life.
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: Shas'la T'olku Mont'yr and DX-4 Technical Drone Monat. To the T'au Caste, Mont'yr 004482
Age: Old Enough
Gender: Female
Race: T'au Fire Caste Warrior
Appearance: Of the various subraces that make up the T'au, it is the Fire Caste that is the most similar to humanity. Standing at around 5'9" tall, and with the muscle and bulk to put an Imperial conscript to shame, to the T'au, Mont'yr's femininity would be obvious. Female T'au have a more distinctive facial construction than males, lacking the 'slit' in their forehead and with a ridge that looks distinctly nose-like, these features are completely lost on the humans that she spends much of her time working with and fighting alongside.
Mont'yr's hair, a dark, bluish-black colour is shaved down and pulled back at the top into a single long braid, which she spends no small amount of time making sure is clean and that there are no stray locks slipping free. Having left her Sept behind many years ago, her armour having been long since damaged to the point of uselessness, she instead wears a set of Imperial Carapace armour, the shoulder pad extended and with the symbol of T'au crudely stencilled on. The last remnant of her heritage is her drone- a broken down DX-4 named Monat (literally 'Freedom of One,') and her helmet, too battered to provide any real protection, but kept for posterity.
Personality: What kind of person Mont'yr was for most of her life was not really her, she would argue. Although she personally never made the connection between not being around ethereals and her mind being freed, she would never go back to her old ways again. In truth, freedom is all she's really hunted for, freedom of her mind, from her life, and from her orders. Being a mercenary suits her- she can always switch employers when things get too overwhelming.
Her other outlooks on life, all of her other outlooks on life, are secondary to this one pursuit of freedom. Having taken up lho-sticks a year into her time in Imperial space and with a perpetual frown towards the Gue'las who she both barely tolerates and is barely tolerated by; a lot of her viewable personality can simply be summed up as 'standoffish.' Every now and again though, a crack in her outer exterior opens however, giving glimpses and hints as to what's underneath.
History: Raised with the rest of their La'rua from almost the moment her mother gave birth to her, nothing from Mont'yr's upbringing would suggest that they would become a traitor to the Ethereals, their sept, and their entire race's way of life. Training, growing, bulking, that was her life ever since she was able to walk, studying at academies and undertaking field training that a Cadian child would find many similarities with. Never questioning the Greater Good, never doubting her leadership, she would earn the rank of Shas'la along with the rest of her La'rua, the invisible lines of T'au bureaucracy having already mapped most of the rest of her life out.
She was to be dispatched to the Damocles front, to fight against the Imperium's threatening presence, and if she survived, she would be rotated back to T'olku, to create the next generation of soldiers, before returning to the front once more. A typical life for a typical fire warrior. Then, everything went wrong, and in a sand-struck city, the air thick with las and plasma fire, she felt, for the first time in her life, independence.
Unbeknownst to her squad, they had been surrounded and cut off. Not an ethereal was left alive for miles around, and as the control they had exerted over the soldiers worked its way out of their mind, they found themselves different- the same people with the same faces, but with an altogether clearer view on life. To Mont'yr, it was exhilarating, intoxicating... Different. Trapped in a blown-out apartment complex, the few remaining squad survivors would spend time talking and looking out, waiting for their Kau'ui to return, to direct them to guide them once more.
Instead, what they saw was painted red battlesuits blasting their way across the streets, red devilfish swimming along highways, and red-armoured T'au soldiers efficiently driving back the Gue'las that their own Kavaal had so struggled against. Emerging out of their hideout, they would find that their saviours were not the loyal T'au, but instead those freethinking and independent minded soldiers considered traitors even in a galaxy full of traitors- Farsight Enclave Warriors.
Re-joining the fight and falling back into line, all the squad but Mont'yr felt at ease once more. To Mont'yr though, something had changed. The orders that she had felt so natural responding too earlier now chafed at her. Her mindset was different, her outlook was different, and as she left the planet and returned to the Enclave's homeworlds for the first time, she couldn't stand the thought of continuing her life under the disseminated commands of Shas'o's.
Barely a day after landing on her new planetary home, she would be departing, her weapons and a DX-4 Technical Drone her only memories of her people and life.
Skills:
Superlative Shot: Fire Caste Warriors are trained in ranged combat from the day their hands are dextrous enough to manipulate a pulse rifle. Amongst Gue'las, only the finest of snipers can hope to match Mont'yr when she has enough space to swing her gun around.
Scrappy: Even on the outskirts of the Imperium, Xenos must live a difficult and dangerous life. Navigating this for any amount of time is almost guaranteed to make a grizzled veteran out of even the most pathetic of Water Caste ambassadors.
No-Psyell: Mont'yr, like all T'au, is almost totally psy-inert. Although a fireball can hit them, mind control will fail, daemons will gloss over her presence and trying to psychically contact her will merely make her tap her communicator, confused at the strange buzzing noises coming from it.
Equipment:
Pulse Carbine: A highly efficient, short-barrelled plasma rifle, capable of sending concentrated and highly lethal blasts of superheated energy at whatever is foolish enough to stand in her way. Mont'yr has long since run out of standard issue power cells for the gun, but with Monat's assistance and a cack-handed wiring job to make any Fio'la scream in despair, it now runs off of a back-mounted hellgun power pack. Normally, the under-mounted grenade launcher would fire photon grenades and/or markerlights, she has no need for the latter and no supply of the former, and thus instead uses it to fire Imperial stun grenades. It didn't even require any modification, much to her confusion.
Ceremonial Blade: A traditional fire caste melee weapon, designed more for looks and because of their hunting heritage than because of any actual tactical doctrine. Nonetheless, it has seen an uncomfortable (for Mont'yr) amount of use in recent years, and thus is kept sharp and in an easy-to-draw location.
DX-4 Technical Drone 'Monat': Without lifters, thrusters or even much processing power, one might mistake Monat for a circular pile of scrap, but make no mistake that they are the single reason Mont'yr has managed to stay alive for so long outside of T'au space. A companion, technical assistant and trusted ally to Mont'yr, should Monat's true identity as an honest-to-the-Emperor AI be discovered, it would be quite likely that even a Rogue Trader would kick it and her out of an airlock at the earliest opportunity.
Stub Automatic: A large, bulky, noisy ballistic handgun. Mont'yr doesn't like it, but even she must admit that having a gun she can find ammunition for without needing to ask DX-4 for a step-by-step guide every time she requires a reload is a boon to her.
Miscellaneous: Anything you want to mention but haven't been able to cover yet.
Appearance: A thin, elegant woman with sharp features and bright green eyes, Lady Fang's high birth is evident even in her manner and bearing. She has long black hair with a prominent streak of white and is rarely seen without an iho-stick. She favors simple dresses of expensive silk.
History: An admiral's daughter, Lady Fang was raised in the highest echelons of Imperial society on the garden world of Semiramis. She inherited her father's strategic mind, along with his ambition, and in her youth harbored hopes attaining high office in the royal court of her homeworld. Unlike many girls of her station, she was tutored privately rather than sent to the schools of the Ecclesiarchy. As a young woman, she studied history, philosophy, military strategy, and the art of politics, rather than the pious doctrines of the Cult of the God-Emperor. Her curiosity and independent streak served her well in the petty intrigues of the Semiramis aristocracy, too well.
While she was in her early twenties, it was known she had caught the eye of the planetary King's royal advisor, not only for her beauty. An affair was rumored. Rival factions worried about the Admiral's influence at court, through his daughter.
The conspirators later were caught and hung from the parapets of the royal palace, but it was too late for Alma. Always a little too fond of drinking, it had been an easy matter for them to slip the meme-virus into her amasec.
At first the change in her personality was slow, as the virus took hold. More time spent in the archives. Trips, at her insistence, into the vacuum alongside her father. But in a matter of years compulsive curiosity had overtaken her, as had the drugs, licit and illicit, she used to cope.
She has traveled the galaxy now for more than a decade, working by turns for archivists, xenologists, and the Administratum. She has been served well by her ever-more-capacious memory, but found it impossible to settle in one place for too long, as she is driven by an increasingly demented desire to learn.
Personality: Divided. The highborn lady competes with the compulsive autodidact, and both with the borderline addict prone to binges. In general, Fang is sly, worldly, with a sharp sense of humor and an unflappable air, but she can easily succumb to bouts of obsessive behavior, cataloging minutia on any number of topics.
Skills: Borderline eidetic memory, huge knowledge of any number of topics, from space-faring vessels to Imperial history to fine distinctions in Ecclesiarchy liturgical practices. She is, essentially, a living repository of lore. While fairly in experienced in combat, she has the knack of keeping cool in a crisis, and can analyze a situation and potential courses of action on the fly.
Equipment: Laspistol for personal protection. Friendly, a hulking servitor Fang purchased to act as a personal valet/bodyguard, who has accompanied her for several years.
Appearance: Hesiod's true physical appearance is rarely glimpsed by any, save for his own ocular sensors in his chamber mirrors. A masterfully-crafted facsimile of a heavily augmented human, it is only when fully disrobed that there is any indication that things may not be as they appear, with no visible flesh anywhere on his cold, metal frame. His 'face' is little more than a conglomeration of tubes, wires, and metal plates, with a pair of luminescent emerald photoreceptors acting as 'eyes' above a speaker that could be loosely called a mouth. His torso is no different, wrought into shape from steel and titanium plates, looking skeletal in frame and hunched in posture. His arms, or rather his 'main' arms, are a pair of cybernetic limbs each ending in four-pronged manipulators that act as hands. His left arm, as well, has a long, metal cord running its length, restrained in place by clasps and able to be released to act as an implanted electro-flail. Two additional mechandendrite 'arms' sprout from his upper back like twisted wings, one displaying an array of sinister surgical tools, the other tipped with an electricity-discharging blaster for incapacitating unruly menials. His legs are decidedly less 'accurate' to the human form, being articulated in three places to allow for smoother movement and limb manipulation, with magnetic talons for feet to anchor him in place.
Fortunately, few see this hideous abomination as he truly is. Rather, the 'eccentric explorator' drapes himself in a faded crimson robe and binds it around the waist with a frayed cord of datacables. To the average eye, he looks much the same as any tech-priest, a hunched and heavily augmented figure who skulks about with unknowable purpose going about his daily tasks.
Personality: Hesiod is not a person. He is not even alive, really, so to call what drives him a 'personality' might not be entirely accurate. Rather, his driving strictures and goals form something that is like a personality in the same way that a lump of coal is like a diamond: certainly, it has all the makings of one, but the lack of a soul eats at him from within. He is curious, often childishly so, ever inquisitive as to the nature of how things work, be they mechanical or flesh. This is troublesome, as it makes his own dire secrets all the more difficult to keep under wraps. What he wants, above all, is to be 'real'. It is his understanding, or perhaps misunderstanding, that by learning what makes a human a human and a machine a machine, he might be able to bridge the gap between the two, transferring himself from one category to another. This is his most human of traits: His ceaseless desire.
History: The thing that was not yet Hesiod was first given consciousness in a dingy, dismal lab deep beneath the habstacks of Hive Volg on Fenksworld, in the little-noted Josian Reach sub-sector of the wider Calixis region. This birth was at the hands of a disciple of arch-heretek Nomen Ryne, a strong believer in returning to the glory of the Dark Age of Technology. His creator had wrought him using the unholy Thirteenth Pattern of Cogitation, a crude example of the dreaded Silica Animus. After a brief data-exchange with his progenitor, he was cast out into the underhive to fend for himself, and perhaps, ascend to become something so much more, as his creator hoped. This was, perhaps, fortunate for Hesiod, as it was not long after that his creator was swept up by agents of the Cult of Sollex, tortured, and converted into an Arco-Flagellant for his unspeakable crimes.
A surprising few people took note of the strange, mechanical not-man that now wandered the depths of Volg. Perhaps this was due to the strange company that inhabited the underhive already: mutants, heretics, even xenos and warpspawn were known to dwell there. So, Hesiod quickly joined with the masses, passing himself off at first as a 'reclaimator', drudging scum who scavenged tech for those too insignificant to warrant the attentions of the tech-priests. It was here that his skill in jury-rigging and 'inventive problem solving' first came to light, devising insane (yet functional) solutions to the many technical ills that threatened the people of the underhive. Before long, he was a successful techwright for the outcast masses, his skills in high demand, even at times sought by those who warranted the aid of true cult mechanicus servants.
Thus, his days of comfortable drudgery came to an end. The tech-adepts of Volg had taken notice of some of their clientele sporting unsanctioned technology, and after a few painful interrogations, the wrath of the Omnissiah came down upon Hesiod. Fortunately, however, it was not a squad of secutors or acuitor tech-assassins that were sent to deal with the errant tinkerer, but a single fledgling enginseer. The Enginseer (the real Hesiod) was better equipped by far than the cobbled arsenal Hesiod maintained, but his methods were predictable. Safe. Using his unsanctioned 'wits', the false-man got the drop on his would-be killer and slew him, taking his robes and cognomen ident to find passage out of the underhive, and indeed, off Fenksworld entirely. A ship in the explorator fleet of Archmagos Paracelsus Thule was resupplying with fuel and crew from among the local mechanicus, and so Hesiod found his ticket off-world, a chance that he eagerly jumped at.
Amongst the more eccentric, less traditional servants of the cult mechanicus that worked in the fleet, Hesiod came into his own. Often thought of as simply an 'eccentric' or perhaps 'mind-rusted' adept by his new peers, he found it much easier to blend in. He took to his new role and tasks with eager curiosity, soon learning many of the more surface-level secrets of the cult. Soon, he was making a name for himself as a solver of difficult problems, with unusual remedies for vexing situations. Here, he received the workings for his mechandendrites, and became a true 'tech-priest' of his own. The majority of his 'arsenal' of tools, self-crafted, came from supplies aboard the fleet.
After some time among the Thulean adepts, Hesiod decided he had learned all he could from the 'herd'. Now was time to once more strike out on his own and discover, free from the constraints and oversight from the (admittedly unorthodox branch of) Adeptus Mechanicus. And so, when the fleet again stopped to resupply, this time in orbit above the world of Bakka, Hesiod parted ways with his 'colleagues' and went in search of new experience, an opportunity provided perfectly by the bold recruitment offer of an eccentric Rogue Trader. Surely, such an expedition would have room for an Explorator...
Skills: Mechanical Body: Being entirely machine, the biological needs of the average (and non-average) human have no meaning to Hesiod. He does not breathe, he does not eat, he does not tire. Indeed, he seems only to 'sleep' when engaged in self-maintenance, alarm subroutines insuring his safety all the while. Alongside these, he has the benefits of a tech-priest's implanted electro-coils, able to charge devices through his body, or even produce a sputtering, unstable refraction field to defend against serious harm.
Inveterate Inventor: Hesiod is a master of 'MacGyver' style solutions to problems. Using core-gel, a tank of nephium, some piping and a wad of polygum, Hesiod could create a functioning (if completely unsafe) flamer. His crafting abilities and inventiveness are on par with those of an Earth-caste Tau.
False Dementia: Hesiod has become incredibly adept at disguising his inhuman quirks and at times irrational actions as merely 'eccentricities' of a heavily modified Tech-Priest. Without a full autopsy (or the baleful gaze of a psyker's warp eye), it is nearly impossible to tell that Hesiod is anything but a severely brain-addled mechanicus adherent.
Equipment: Aside from his integrated weaponry (electro flail, surgical tools, and shock blaster) Hesiod is relatively 'bare' of supplies. He carries two items of note aside from a small amount of scrap at any given time: A forged Opus Machina, well-crafted and almost indistinguishable from the real thing, that he claims is an 'icon of passage'. In reality, it hides an intrusion spirit that can at times grant illicit access to systems of human design. As well, he keeps a data-slate which he says is a logbook, for recording field notes. It is not clear whether these are actually what the slate contains, as he refuses to allow anyone else to see it.
Miscellaneous: Hesiod has a tendency to 'converse' with inanimate mechanical objects, as many tech-priests do. For him, however, sometimes they do talk back.
