The name of Andamar, and the Rogue Trader dynasty bearing both that name and a Warrant on which it is written, are known far and wide throughout the trade lanes and those that take a great interest in exploration; then again there are also those that say its first bearer, Cornelius Andamar of Praetoria, is in fact richer in wealth than even many of the High Lords themselves! This theory, although never proven conclusively, has in recent times appeared to be more true than not.

This tale concerns not Cornelius, nor any of his four older sons, but pertains to the fifth and youngest son Edmund.

Edmund Andamar has been a scholar since the time he first learnt his letters, retaining even into his present thirty-second year the willowy build and long patrician face one would expect to find on a librarian, and not on the vestige of one whose purview is to expand the bounds of the Imperium, others often making the mistake of underestimating him in combat... a misapprehension made only once.

Edmund can more often than not be found on his Command Bridge, hands held behind his back, and his back as straight as an iron rod. With his piercing blue eyes, combed back hair of chestnut brown, and a variety of pristine naval-style uniforms, it can often be forgotten that he has served and seen action before.

It matters little that he commanded a Tempest-class Strike Frigate in Battlefleet Bakka, at least to his old man, Cornelius having gained command of his own cruiser by the time he was twenty, and as such – and due to his extreme love for literature, music, and the profoundly good things in life – he remains a failure in his fathers eyes.

Nevertheless he eventually received his own Warrant, grudgingly given because none of Edmunds siblings appeared to have much get-up-and-go in them, and his father made sure he was furnished with a fine vessel and gotten out of his sight as swiftly as possible.

Now comes his maiden voyage into the unknown, his own ship under his command, and Edmund – even when he was under fire from Drukhari raiders – has never been more nervous.

Born on the mining and refinery moon of Ezot Secudunus on a small Mechanicus outpost set up to watch over the world's machinery, Hishiryn 08 is of the 8th designated generation of the world while his Kappa designation marks him out as the 10th child of said generation. MN is short for "Machina Navis" which is a reference to his current role aboard Edmund's ship (previous it was PCP, "Prefectus Conflatorio Prothemius).

From a young age he demonstrated a great aptitude for the learnings of the Machine Cult, quickly and easily taking to its many rituals, rites and ceremonies. Consistently at the top of his class, it was believed that he was fated to be sent to a true forge world to study more and rise through the ranks of the priesthood instead of languishing on a back water refinery moon. However when he was 16, he was in a terrible accident when one of the world's largest refineries exploded while he was shadowing a more senior tech priest. For three days he was trapped under burning rubble, inhaling near lethal amounts smoke and fire and shouting until his voice was burned by the flames it self.

But some how he survived, if only barely. That fire did something to him and he claims to have seen visions of the Omnissiah and the Machine God in the fires. His charred and broken body was nursed back to health but the ashen smoke turned his mind from a devout, promising acolyte, to a fervent pyromaniac with a fanatical faith of fire. Ezot Secundus' religion and culture was always fire based, the local worshipping the Emperor as a fire god who gave them livelihoods through his holy blood and such beliefs even seeped into local Mechanicus, but Hishiryn became obessessed with the "holy fires of the Omnissiah".

The position he was once destiant for was given over to someone else, but Hishiryn cared little. He was engrossed with prothemium, flamers and meltas. By day he would attend almost exclusively to the refinery systems and by night he would meditate surrounded by open flames, letting the smoke and fume fill his prosthetic lungs. His worship would eventually get in the way of his duties as a tech priest and too many near-accidents were catalogued under his watch so the senior clergy of the outpost decided it would be best to have him "exprience the Omnissiah's other gifts" and through political connections got him assigned as a tech acolyte aboard one of the many ships that occasionally entered Ezot's atmosphere.

Over the course of years and decades, Hishiryn's pyromania dimmed, turning from a zealous wildfire into a controlled burn of faith with only the occasional fanatical flare up. He served aboard several ships from short haul merchant vessels, a handful of Imperial Navy vessels of various sizes and even a short stint on an ultimately doomed Mechanicus explorator fleet. His genius, however muddled it was by the fire of his youth, clearly did not dull at all as he proved just as prodigious, adept and skilled at becoming a master of the star ships of the Imperium.

Now at the comparatively youthful age of 47, Hishiryn is among the youngest Chief Enginseers aboard a starship to command tech priest who are older than him. His position was aboard a new Rogue Trader vessel belonging to the Andamar Dynasty, word of his skills having spread far enough to where his talents were deemed necessary for this new vessel to operate.

Hishiryn is excited of his newest assignment, giddy only the vigor of youth can provide. To serve aboard such a rare class of ship is an honor to him while he hopes to use this position as an opportunity to go on a long awaited pilgrimage to forge worlds and tech shrines across the galaxy.

Grimri 'Ironclad' Haldengard, formerly 3rd Platoon Boar Squadron, Mercenary.

In the cold void of space, the squats mined nameless asteroids and barren worlds devoid of life or happiness with stoic resolve. Upon one very large asteroid in the Segmentum Obscurus, a hardy squat was born, named after his great grandfather to uphold his honor and name. Grimri was birthed amidst the grinding of steel on rock and combustible engines roaring mere meters away. He grew up quickly, helping his father in the smelting refinery before he was even a beardling. He had a good head on his shoulders and a strong back to carry large loads of minerals, until he decided to forge his own path and aid his cousins and peers by delving deeper into the rock.

He spent five long years hammering away at the asteroid stone and deposits, his world perpetual darkness with flashes of light. More than a few of his friends perished in the dark from collapsing tunnels or the occasional xenos horror they would stumble upon. But Grimri made it back, with a newly grown beard and fresh wealth of gold and zinc and asteroid metal. He started work back at a second refinery, and now that he was old enough, he and the lads would have to deal with raiders falling to the planet just like all the bearded folk. He found he enjoyed the mechanisms inherent in auto-guns, particularly shotguns and revolver pistols. Big barrels, hard firepower, and stopping power.

His first real conflict other than traitorous imperials came in the form of a system spanning Ork WAAAGH, a tendril of the army splitting off and landing on the squat's home. The greenskins dug deep tried to root the squats out, fighting and dying hard. Grimri's father fell in the fighting, and the refiner was destroyed by some blasted primitive explosive, but Grimri sent over two dozen greenskins to their screaming gods, and through his grief and hatred, fell in love with the idea of combat. Such a longing, coupled with his curiosity for the rest of the galaxy, led for him to take the road off-asteroid and sell his services for various groups and traders. Hive Worlds, Forge Worlds, Agri-worlds, for seven decades Grimri lived, pissed, and shat on whatever planet one could think of in Obscurus, plying his trade and keeping himself alive.

Whatever cultists, traitors, or xenos threw at him, he kept surviving and made a few good hits back. Some of the younger mercs began to call him Ironclad, like one of the Knight mechas or Adeptus Astartes, and though Grimri thought it silly, the name stuck and he grew to appreciate it. Unfortunately, his love of alcohol and constant need for supplies in repairing his gear keeps him moving, looking for more cash. A part of himself wonders if he shouldn't go back to the asteroid, or if his great grandfather would want him to continue the path he takes to like a fish to water. He doesn't know. All he knows is, there's a rogue trader in need of a gun and he needs the money.

Agathe, by all rights, should have led a peaceful existence. She was born on Terra to two priests charged with the maintenance of a small and insignificant temple, its sole purpose to attend to the teeming masses of pilgrims that visited mankind's holy homeworld. She was herself raised as a choir girl, taught to sing the God-Emperor's praises as any pious child would, speaking her first word at only four months old, but her peaceful existence was, unfortunately, cut abruptly short.

Days after her first birthday, she remembers her parents, after the morning's services, rushing her into a backroom and pleading with her to stay quiet and hide - they were playing hide-and-seek!

Being the good child she was, Eleannna hid.

The next thing she remembers is the noise of roaring flames, the building collapsing around her, and being rescued by a terrified old pilgrim in ragged robes.

Imperial records of the incident, at least officially, are just as confused as she was. The pilgrims nearby recall seeing the building abruptly erupt in flame, and Imperial records - including an official investigation - reveal nothing, at least publically.

As the child of good, pious folk, it was promptly decided that she'd be shipped off to the Schola Progenium, destined to live out the rest of her life as one of the Sororitas.

Her aptitude for song, as it turned out, was outpaced only for her aptitude for combat, promptly shifting her destiny from the Orders Madriga to the Orders Miliant, quickly picked up by a visiting Canoness of the Order of the Iron Veil, who believed that Agathe's childhood trauma would make her especially resilient against the ravages of the Great Enemy. After all, her piety only seemed to increase after the loss of her parents.

Her first years as a novice, by and large, were spent in training - harsh as the Schola were, the standards of the Iron Veil were even more exacting, require nothing but the most unflinching zeal from their Sisters and the most resilient minds. Many days were spent working herself until collapse over and over, others in meditation while she was assaulted with distractions and noise, all for the purpose of ensuring that nothing, no matter how tempting, could break her iron will, that she could resist the power of the warp with her mind alone.

The next three years of her life were spent preparing for duty as a Sister of Battle with little time for recreation - but her first field assignment, unfortunately, would not go as planned.

What was supposed to be a relatively simple escort assignment for a ministorum priest turned into disaster when her unit arrived at an unassuming station on the Ultramar-side of the Segmentum Ultima. Shortly after boarding the station, the personnel turned on them, coming at them in rabid hordes with every weapon they could possibly carry. Many of the unprotected ministorum attendants were quickly cut down, but the priest survived, the Sisters forming a defensive circle around her as they fought toward the astropathic choir, hoping to reach it in time to send out a distress signal. Dozens, perhaps hundreds of them fell, each successive wave more wretched, more touched by the taint of the Blood God. Mere men became half-mutants, who themselves gave way to monsters that could barely be called men, but reach the Choir they did, Agathe's chainsword drenched in the foul blood of the enemy. The message was sent, and, desperate for shelter, there they held their ground, more sisters falling by the minute.

For what felt like hours, Agathe held her ground along with her sisters, watching them die nobly in the line of duty, even the Palatine in command of their unit.

By the time it was only her, clutching her Palatine's power maul and shield, she thought she would be martyred, and she embraced her fate eagerly, even as the master of the cultists - a towering, red-armored Astartes - emerged, his roaring axes soaked with the blood of those of her Sisters that were left behind.

Letting out a passionate war-cry, she charged headlong at the Berzerker, a prayer on her lips the world seemed to shrink around her as if she were falling into a trance, nothing but the hated enemy visible. She brought up her shield as it clashed with a chainaxe, lifting her maul, fully expecting for her feeble strike to fail.

She felt the bite of a chainblade digging into her knee, cutting through the joint.

Another blow. Another.

The sound of cracking ceramite. A howl. She recalled seeing golden light bleeding out from her maul as it struck, then the sound of the Astartes's body falling to the ground and the sound of lasfire echoing through the station. Had help finally arrived?

Help had, it turned out, arrived in the form of a Rogue Trader and his small fleet - and Agathe completed her mission.

With no direct commanding officer to report to and an ostensibly loyal Rogue Trader she owed a great debt to, Agathe took it upon herself to accompany the trader's fleets, and although she has achieved no high rank in the month and a half since her rescue, she's taken it upon herself to minister to the menials and ratings of Edmund's vessel, additionally offering her skill in close-quarters combat in the event of battle, and, in the absolute worst case, a mind resilient against the ravages of the warp.

Kind and well-spoken, she provides a source of comfort for the crew, whether through simple ministry or hymn and song, and makes efforts to keep herself appraised of her wants and needs. In other ways, though, she is alien and frustrating, wanting for little and asking for even less, partaking in few of the indulgences usually used to bribe and cajole.

Arbusculus Formidatus, Genetor Carniculae, Magos Errant of His Divine Purpose

Born unto the Lathe World Het, Arbusculus Formidatus led a rough and painful life from his first day. The belching smoke and muttering anvils chiming throughout the numerous data-halls surrounding the youth. The only thing louder than the incessant manufactorum-beat were the Mechanicus Chants which echoed, reverberating on the walls and datastacks. The Sacred Rites of the Databanks, the Holy Liturgy of the Omnissiah echoing through the chains; the servitors grating out a chorus of binary;the bells clanging in-time to the dispersal of fragrant smoke…there was a sacred nature to the operation of The God of the Machine, Deus Ex Machina – Imperator Machinex.

Arbusculus Formidatus (Dahti) was born into the Mechanicus Simplicius, the son of two poor manufacturers. His body was sickly, like so many of the Forge Worlds, but the Lathes pounded the genetics of his people. He was born with “mounds of flesh,” the corpulent nature of his gravity-bound brethren. Such are the consequences of ultra-heavy gravitational events forever altering the bodily structure of the inhabitants of the Lathes in the Calixis Sector. Sometimes mistaken for Squats, his people have become the center of the Mechanicus Calixis. And Dahti was gifted in the ways of memorization, of code, creed, architecture, structure, fundament, nuance, and further.
As on many other Forge Worlds, Dahti was given the opportunity to advance beyond his social class at various ages. At 14, when still thriving on the gruel served at luncheon, cooked and served by the Holy Machine, Dahti tested out of his social class…but his movement was halted by Administratum legislation. Again, at 16 years of age, Dahti tested far beyond his social class. The Lathes would needs permit him, at the second testing, to at least attempt an apprenticeship with an Enginseeer. Yet, again, the datastacks, infinite in their movement, disintegration, and reformation, prevented his upward movement. Finally, at 20 years of age, Dahti moved upward, venerating his parents, his elders, his lineage, being granted a Holy Ascension – he was inducted into the rite of the Lathe-Covenant, a full member of the Adeptus Mechanicus, Cultus Calixis.

Dahti spent many years foraging the datastacks of the Lathe-World Collective, delving deeply in the Quest for Knowledge, to prove to his superiors the inherent value of his work. He had dedicated himself as an apprentice of the Genetori, the Magos Biologis, in the hopes of one day entering their ranks. Dahti became a prodigy of Darcais Rex, a forthright Forgemaster, one of the foremost Magos Biologis in the Sector. At 36 years of age, he was already Consul Adeptus for Het’s Biologis Sector, nearly one of the youngest in his post. Dahti battled in the Quodlibetus Sanctus, the Great Debating floor of the Lathe-World Het, arguing that the human body itself was a complex and vehemently adaptable machine itself, just as worthy of of consideration, If not moreso than, the inorganic machine.
As Consul Adeptus, he was made Magos Biologis, a Genetor, at the age of 56. However, that was when the Indomitus Crusade descended in 999.M41.

Genetor Arbusculus Formidatus was drafted in 999.M41, and was assigned to lead 4 Skitarii regiments, descending from the Veracitus, in battle against the Chaos hordes on the Forge World Driantum. Under his command, the Mechanicus regiments were to support the Imperial Guard and a chapter of Space Marines, the Black Guard. There were two Medicae regiments and two defensive-arrayed Skitarii regiments. They were to come behind the forward advance and provide necessary supply. Of course, this was not how it would work. The memory of the invasion still haunts the memories of Dahti…the screams…the trenches…the promethium and the stench of daemon-flesh.

In two months, his Skitarii had been reduced to half. Dahti became bogged in Daemonic warfare stretching across the swamplands of Driantum. In that time, his medicae had managed to save the lives and limbs of countless Guard and Marines, but now the medicae themselves were starting to come under fire. Calls for resupply, for reinforcement, were met with a staunch – “Hold your position. Reinforcements are coming.” When, you did not know, but you held your position. Then, there came a call over the vox-caster…”Find cover, find cover, seal yourselves in. 77th Death Corps of Krieg inbound, relieving position E48.” Then came the nuclear hellfire. The sound of oblivion. It was a righteous sound, the screams of a thousand and ten daemons. The front moved forward, and the vast majority of the mutant and daemonic scum were eradicated. A basic line of defense was secured.

Now it is a dream, a nightmare, long past. Having served his time, the Genetor Dahti was awarded for his “heroic valor” in the face of overwhelming odds. Their position had held out for three months. As it turned out, they were 20 km behind enemy lines at the time of the Krieg relief effort. For Dahti, this proved a most lucrative opportunity. Being in charge of the front for so long gave him plenty of opportunity to experiment on behalf of the war effort and his own Quest for Knowledge expanded in proportion to the number of corpses which flooded his way from the frontlines. During the Invasion of Driantum, Dahti became quite the Xenobiologist, his deep interest in the inner functions of organic life extending beyond the human form and into the daemonic, eldari, and more. His horrific methods came to the fore in the push on Verghaz, a central manufactorum-city of Driantum, when his soldiers began to display unique biological implants. For his work, he has been both commended and condemned, depending on who reviewed his actions.

Now, Genetor Formidatus has leveraged his honors and his position to afford the opportunity to be aboard a Rogue Trader Vessel as a Magos Errant, working aboard His Divine Purpose, under Edmund Andamar, as the Medicae Genetor-General. Formidatus is a most excellent ally in uncertain situations, as he and his medical staff’s capabilities often far exceed the standard of so many others. The Magos Formidatus himself is certainly…eccentric…and experimental. However, his loyalty to the Emperor is unwavering and his will relentless. Formidatus is sworn to House Andamar, and his word is unbending.

•Appearance
o The Genetor is a broad, stocky, and burly fellow who stands at about 5’4”. As far as Mechanicus Magos go, he is still rather fleshy and his face is mostly unaltered, aside from his eyes, which still appear quite human. His skin is a pale-gray and his hair is white – this is not from ill health or age but are his natural tones. His countenance is usually stern and contemplative. He wears the traditional white and red robes of the Mechanicus Medicae.
•Implants
o Potentia Coil, Respirator Unit, Electro-graft, Cybermantle, Cranial Circuitry, Mechadendrites - Medicae
Pattern, Electoos, MIU, Calculus Logi, Synthmuscle, Second Heart, Bionic Eye (Right).
•Equipment
o Lathe-pattern Power Maul
o Hetti Lightning Gun
o Mechanicus Dragon Scale Armor
o Guardian Skull

A former member of the Imperial Guard among a unit of Abhumans, Roald Cliffbloom has found he fits much more comfortably among the Rogue Traders. As is true for most Ratlings Roald has no home and no real place of belonging. A people scattered across the cosmos they often find themselves seeking new homes. A place to create a new civilization, to grow roots, to grow fat and raise children. To ensure the next generation of Ratlings is free to enjoy all the things their predecessors had enjoyed long long ago before the fall of Ornsworld. Roald rejects all that shit. He has decided he rather likes the roaming and takes rather naturally to the roguery.

Here he finds his restlessness a virtue rather than a particularly obnoxious vice. Across this vast universe there are always new places to explore, new treasures to acquire, new concoctions to drink, and new women to flirt with. Occasionally one or two of those ventures may even prove fruitful.

The times of peace, fleeting though they often are, are small treasures but Roald quite enjoys the more violent side of life as a Rogue Trader. There are so many interesting places to go and so many interesting people and xenos to kill in those interesting places. Whether he is slowly threading through dense vegetation on some jungle world in an attempt to listen in to what nonsense a group of Orks are mumbling about to each other, or picking his way up a cliffside, wedging himself into cracks and crags to see what nasty surprises might be awaiting everyone around the next rise...it is all so much better than marching about with the Imperial Guard waiting to find out what hopeless battle you're expected to jump into next.

With no home to fight for and little hope of establishing a new home this is what the world offers Roald. To travel the cosmos looking for interesting places to fight, frolick, fornicate, and maybe try some booze he hasn't had yet and a steak made out of whatever animal is the most dangerous on that planet. Maybe make a fortune in the process. That'd be nice.