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Name: Alexis Williams
Age: 19
Speciality: Alexis is a natural born leader of men and woman, and whilst she doesn’t really have a way with words, is pretty down to earth and comfortable with mixing with the men and women under the command of her.
She’s a pretty good shot with her plainstrider, but is far, far better with her peacebreaker, and prefers using the latter to the point where she tends to use it in situations where the plainstrider might be a bit better, which can occasionally be a bit of a problem.
Gender: Cowgirl
Height: 6”
Weight: 160 lbs
Appearance: Alexis is, whilst certainly not beautiful, has a youthful ‘prettiness’ to her, with slightly tanned skin, a dash of freckles across her upper cheeks, nose and around her eyes, and somewhat larger than usual hazel eyes. Her hair is a dirty blonde colour with a little strawberry thrown in for good measure, and is cut to just below the shoulders, normally held up in a ponytail.
She wears the standard uniform of Texan regiments. These are a pair of ankle-high leather combat boots, a tan shirt, wide brimmed brown leather ‘ten-gallon’ hat and a light brown rucksack, as well as a pair of thick brown leggings. The ten-gallon hat is uniquely worn by Texan regiments, and it’s said that for a Texan to lose his or her hat is a grave thing indeed.
She wears the stripes of her command on her left shoulder, which is coincidentally where her rifle often hangs, the holster for her pistol on her opposite hip, low slung in order to be able to be whipped out quickly should, as she says, shit go south.
Other Appearance: Alexis has a promethium burn on her upper thigh, about five inches across and perhaps two high, almost perfectly following the curve of her hipbone. Other than this, she has no scars or tattoos anywhere on her body.
Personality: Alexis is almost a stereotypical miner’s daughter. Snarky, uncomplicated, and rarely found without a lho-stick in her mouth, almost exactly what you’d expect from one such as her.
She has a certain softness towards the men and women under her command however, and although she might cuss them out when they’re fucking idiots and will probably not be sympathetic towards whoever stole her whiskey, she’s generally good for a laugh or two.
History: Alexis’ father, William Williams, despite his comical name, is the owner of Williams and son, one of the many, many, many promethium mining companies that exploded shortly after the Imperium returned to Texanis. She’s the fourth generation since the big boom, and as such her family is, whilst not quite as rich as some of the truly massive companies, is still worth a pretty penny.
Growing up, Alexis received a contemporary education for Texans of her social standing, learning how to ride a horse and fire a gun, read, write, operate a vox caster (modified versions of which have been used on Texanis for millennia,) and many more abilities useful to life both in the guard and in Texanis in general.
However when she was picked for military duty, rather than buying her way out, she instead immediately applied for officer’s college. With her families’ ‘fame,’ she was able to enrol and was found good material to be an officer. After graduating, it was announced that she would be joining the Texanis 63rd Regiment.
Gear: Alexis carries with her the Peacebreaker autopistol and Plainstrider autogun, along with an officer chainsword. Being from a wealthy family who was able to afford carapace armour, she wears the tougher material rather than the standard flak.
Gear Personalisation: Her Peacebraker is quite ornate, a family heirloom (if you can call an item owned by only two generations an heirloom,) that her father owned, and has a pearl handle. Her Plainstrider however, is bog standard, with everything from the leather strap to the varnished finish fresh out of the factory. Her chainsword is similarly guard-standard.
Her peacebreaker has also been modified in order to be able to be ‘fanned,’ as in the hammer pulled back repeatedly very quickly in order to discharge the entirety of the gun’s cylinder in half a second or less, without sustaining damage, although this does require extra upkeep on her part.
Due to the fact that she is an officer, the traditional sabre that Texan guardsmen normally take with them has been dropped, and she instead has a Cadian issue combat knife, as in a hell of a lot shorter than she’s used to.
Speciality: Scout and tracker - having been raised in a constantly shifting landscape by a father who was essentially a lone law-enforcer he has become proficient in all that that entails; able to ride like a man twice his age and with as much experience, to track a man or beast simply by the slight indentation in the earth or the breaking of a twig, and eyesight and a sense of smell as sharp as anything, it seems the perfect role.
Gender: 'Cowboy'
Height: 6' 0”
Weight: 180.6 lbs
Appearance: Much like almost everything about him – from his personality to alterations to his uniform – Liam stands out in that he is an outsider to the regiment (and the Texanis culture in general) and, while slowly but surely changing to fit into his new found regiment, he retains much of what he was taught as a younger man; this goes as much for how he looks as anything else.
Standing at six feet exactly, Virgil has the odd and not self-aware honour of being actually rather attractive!
Piercing blue eyes, a strong and perpetually clean-shaven jawline and slightly pointed nose set against skin of a milky white, framed by eyebrows and a crop light chestnut hair kept constantly cut short, and a pair of full but slightly down-turned lips all come together to form a face of perfectly symmetrical proportions.
When one travels south they will find a deceptively slender but broad-shouldered torso of corded musculature, those shoulders and slightly calloused hands well used to heavy weights and endurance in harsh environments where others might fail; likewise his legs, well proportioned as they are, keep him firm and steady whether riding in the saddle or chasing prey through a sand or snowy tundra.
Like all those of the regiment he has been given, but doesn’t necessarily wear, the standard-issue uniform: ankle-high leather combat boots, a tan shirt, wide brimmed brown leather ‘ten-gallon’ hat and light brown rucksack. Although he does wear the boots, shirt, and rucksack – all perfectly ironed and folded when in storage – he has altered it slightly by wearing upon his head a Campaign hat rather than the 'ten-gallon', a pair of midnight blue riding breeches with a vertical yellow stripe down the outside of each leg, and over his shirt he can sometimes be seen sporting his father's old militia tunic, commonly known as a 'red serge'. Although he also owns a pair of brown riding boots, he often finds them unwieldy and much prefers the Texan combat boots.
Other Appearance: Apart from a puckered scar just below the left half of his ribcage, caused by falling from a horse and onto sharp stones, he is fortunate enough not to have anything else marring his body...not yet, anyway.
Personality: On a scale of one-to-ten as to how Texan he is, well, Virgil would surely be pretty low down; where his comrades seem rash and gung-ho, he is collected and cautious. Where they are large fans of the liquor and hard booze, he is almost tea-total. Where they smoke and carouse as if every day were their last, he makes notes, trains with an iron discipline, keeps his weapons in perfect working order, and intends to remain alive.
In spite of all this he does have a certain innocence about him, his manner polite at all times, and with a natural gift for understatement; this has ensured that he has made friends and bonded with some of the Texans, if only out of a sense of protectiveness at his perceived naivete.
All-in-all he is a pleasant oddity to have around, an unusual mass of curiosities from a differing culture, willing to learn and ingratiate himself into the good graces of his comrades and smile while doing it.
History: Born on the colony world of Nova Drookia, the one and only frontier world colonised by the swamp-savages of Drook, Virgil underwent an upbringing and education not too dissimilar from those he now serves alongside; Nova Drookia is a planet of warm summer and cold winters, of forests teeming with good hunting, and mountain ranges spread across wild plains and hills all criss-crossed with lakes and valleys of lush grass in the summer and frozen tundras in the sub-zero winters – what he found when his family emigrated off-planet to Texanis and the Eastern Fringe was much of the same when it came to animal rearing, the riding of horses and inhabited by hardy colonists.
The only real difference – from what they could see at first... - was the heat.
Liam Allaway, a horse breeder and member of the Nova Drookian Militia – a small but well organised policing force on their home planet - and his wife Emma, a seamstress and loving mother of their teenage son, moved from their own planet to the north of Texanis with a small contingent of their own countrymen when they heard of the opportunities in the cultivation of herds and rearing of high-quality steeds.
Little did they realise that their only son would be half-recruited and half-conscripted into the Sixty Third Texanis, a newly founded regiment of relative youngsters looking for new flesh; due to his upbringing and the natural way he slipped into a military role, Virgil was considered a perfect candidate.
Sure, his hotchpotch uniform, including elements of his fathers old uniform that represent both where he came from an a proud tradition to boot, have marked him out as surely as his accent would have, but in service to the God-Emperor and with the thrill of adventure coursing through is veins it is something that the recently turned twenty 'man' can (and will have to) cope with.
Gear: A peacebreaker autopistol, a plainstrider autogun, and a cavalry sabre.
The only pieces of non-standard equipment he carries are a 'smithe and wezzon' pattern autopistol kept in a holster at his hip – a ten to fifteen round pistol with ambidextrous safety levers, a one-piece rear wraparound grip, and a rear sight fully adjustable for windage and elevation. This was also his fathers.
Alongside this is his favourite weapon for his role, a Nooslar Forty-Eight bolt-action rifle with a twenty-six inch barrel, and capable of fitting any Guard-issue sight to its top.
Lastly is a knife equally capable of skinning a catch or disembowelling a xenos aggressor, with it's twenty-four inch blade and curvature that would make a Catachan proud.
Gear Personalisation: None, except for labelling each item – although branding would be more appropriate a term – with his name and regiment. He doesn't like to deface Imperial property.
Speciality: Dale has been trained as a Commissar, and is therefore highly skilled at "encouraging" Guardsmen to fight in the face of overwhelming odds, as well as ensuring loyalty and moral purity amongst his charges, specific training to detect Warp taint and possession in psykers, and inspiring the troops to great things with stirring speeches before battle and a stream of battle cries and prayers to the Emperor during it. Incidentally, he is also a very capable fighter and officer in his own right, surprisingly so for his relatively short time in the Commissariat, for which he has been raised up to Junior Commissar as a sort of trial run for full Commissardom.
Gender: Cowboy
Height: 184 cm
Weight: 95 kg
Appearance: Dale Dimmadome's appearance is surprisingly non-standard for a Texanis native, for not many Texans possess the rather pale skin and light red, damn-near bright orange hair that defines the Dimmadome bloodline. Accompanied by pale blue eyes, a lean and muscular build drawn from years of training in the Schola Progenium and the Commissariat both, and a face that would be quite rounded if not for the starkness of his teenage years, Dale is not quite handsome so much as he is intimidating.
This only applies further when one considers his uniform, which includes all the standard trappings of a typical Junior Commissar: a black undercoat, combat pants, jack boots, and gloves; a black-painted plasteel breast plate with the symbol of the Aquila upon it; two Aquila pendants worn on chains around both wrists; and the iconic black great coat and peaked officer's cap, differing from a full Commissar's uniform by being lined in blue rather than red, and with the emblem of a Junior Commissar upon the cap rather than the Prefectus death's head.
Other Appearance: Due to a tendency toward aggression and backtalk in the earlier portions of his Schola education, Dale's body is heavily scarred from large amounts of corporal punishment. Most notably, a long, whip-thin line of scar tissue mars much of the left-hand side of his face, though he is at least blessed in the sense that it has not notably deformed his appearance or affected his faculties, indeed serving to make him more intimidating than he otherwise would be. He has also had the Imperial Aquila tattooed on to the back of his left hand, and plans to have the Commissar's skull tattooed in the same place on his right once he finally achieves full Commissar rank.
Personality: If he'd remained within his father's company, he'd be about as Texan as a Texan corporate asset gets. As it is, whilst he retains many of the quirks of speech from his childhood, his Texan nature has been all but destroyed, and he has become rather a harsh, Imperium-devoted individual - he's not going to execute anybody who doesn't deserve it, and in fact is not allowed to execute people without permission at the moment, but he's certainly not against smacking the daylights out of anybody who might dare to falter in their duty to the Emperor, including failures as mild as a rookie mistake. However, knowing Texan nature, he is quite cautious about doing so too often, as even though he is Texan himself, it's always plausible that some "accident" may take his life; thus, for the time being at least, he plans to lead by example rather than execution, seeing the squad he's assigned to as employees in a sense, with the motivation that they're more likely to work harder if you're firm, but fair with them.
History: Dale Dimmadome was born to Doug Dimmadome, owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome and other Dimmsdale Dimmadome Dimmporate Dimmaducts (as the slogan went), in the town known as Dimmsdale, just south of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome. His mother unfortunately died during childbirth, and Doug Dimmadome quickly took on a new wife and had a second kid, though it was always the plan for Dale to take over from Doug when he eventually passed away. As the heir apparent to a large corporation, Dale was taught from a young age the ins and outs of running Dimmsdale Dimmadome Dimmporate Dimmaducts, as well as how to make a proper public appearance, chat to the company's investors, and so on and so forth, and all without his childhood being particularly neglected, complete with a great deal of gunplay. His life, as it seemed, was peachy keen.
Alas, the grinding gears of the Imperial bureaucracy would wind up crushing him. It took ten years to register his mother's death, and then both she and Doug Dimmadome himself were falsely marked as having died in service to the Imperium, which led to an interesting confrontation by some men in official-looking uniforms one day when Dale was ten...
'Are you Dale Dimmadome?' 'Yessir, I sure am. Dale Dimmadome, son and heir of Doug Dimmadome, owner of Dimmsdale Dimmadome and other Dimmsdale Dimmadome Dimmporate Dimmaducts! How can I help y'all?' 'I'm sorry to tell you this, but your mother and father have died in service to the Imperium.' 'Pardon, WHAT?' 'I, ah, understand you may be shocked, and will want a few minutes to process this...' 'Wait, wh-when did they die?' 'According to this document, ten years and one hundred twenty... six year fractions have passed since then. Our apologies about the delay in informing you, by the way.' '...but I saw pa leave the house five minutes ago, to get smokes!' 'I assure you, he died a long time ago.' 'Nnnnope, he's definitely alive. He runs the Dimmsdale Dimmadome, and other Dimmsdale Dimma-' 'Dale, he is dead. The Adeptus Administratum has him logged as deceased.' 'Oh? Then who has raised me and my kid brother for ten years, huh?' 'Presumably not Doug Dimmadome.' 'Well, the guy sure GOES by that name.' 'Does he have identification along those lines?' 'Uh, like pictures of himself with his information and stuff? Most likely, yeah.' '...you may be mistaken about his identity, then.' 'Okay, so now y'all're plannin' on sellin' me this story, about how my da, Doug Dimmadome, owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome and other Dimmsdale Dimmadome Dimmporate Dimmaducts, who I, Dale Dimmadome, have been RAISED BY for my ENTIRE LIFE to run Dimmsdale Dimmadome and other Dimmsdale Dimmadome Dimmporate Dimmaducts, has in fact been dead for that entire span of said life, DESPITE runnin' a highly successful company that has its fingers in pies across Texanis for the aforementioned period of time?' '...yes.' 'Get the hell off my property, you fuckin' hicks.'
What happened immediately after that was kind of hazy, but long story short, Dale woke up in some ship in the middle of space, on the way to the nearest Schola Progenium, whilst some fat-yet-muscular priest-looking man brandishing a riding crop smacked him across the face and told him to shut his mouth whenever he so much as attempted to say anything, much less demand that he be returned to his home with his parents. The next few years of his life, suffice to say, were rather dreadful, as whenever he insisted upon talking out of line, he was dragged out of class and beaten rather horrendously, though in spite of his twelve-year-old self's lack of awareness of non-Texan guns, he did achieve great skill at arms by applying similar principles to the new weapons he was presented with.
By the time he was thirteen, and had finally wised up to the fact that he wasn't going to be returned home, his body was a patchwork of scar tissue, and his face had been permanently marked. That said, it occurred to him at some point that the harder he worked, the sooner he might be allowed to return home to Texanis, albeit sorely changed from the boy he had been when he was abducted, and perhaps unlikely to ever run any aspect of Dimmsdale Dimmadome Dimmporate Dimmaducts. And he still had his corporate training and skills with guns to work with, after all, on top of the Schola's own education... at the next Emperor's Day testing, he would show all the makings of an excellent Commissar where his aptitude was previously inadequate for anything particular, and so be handed off to the Officio Prefectus, where he found himself excelling at many of the more vocal aspects of the profession, as well as further improving his skills with weaponry of various sorts.
With but eight years of Imperial training, Dale Dimmadome finally found himself in a squadron of fellow Cadet-Commissars, raring to advance upon the enemy, and in doing so to perhaps advance to full Commissar status. And over the coming months, Dale would prove to be shockingly capable in this regard: where his fellow Cadets died in droves, he would live; where hails of gunfire pinned his allies, he would manage to duck and dive through the firestorm and lay down enough of his own lasgun attacks to take out critical foes, that the Cadets could push onward; and whilst just a few of his more experienced fellows were raised to full Commissars in the time he spent as a Cadet, he was noteworthy for displaying ability far in excess of what he ought to for his experience. Some of his fellows claimed he'd made deals with daemons... or else that he possessed the Emperor's own luck.
In short, he stuck up like a nail in a wooden beam. Far from being hammered down, however, at least one high-ranking Commissar took note of his prowess, and at just shy of twenty years old, he was removed from the Cadet squadron by one Commissar Julian Jackson, and with the approval of an unknown Commissar-General offered the rank of Junior Commissar, in preparation to ultimately raise him to Commissar proper. Naturally, he accepted the role, and was promptly informed that he'd be stationed with the Texanis 63rd Regiment, a fact that brought him great joy, though he was notably uninformed about the nature of the regiment as practically brand new until just before meeting them for the first time.
Gear: Were he a full Commissar, Dale would be afforded rather more substantial gear than what the standard Texanis Guardsman is given, namely a bolt pistol and chainsword at minimum, and depending on notoriety potentially even a power weapon or two. As it is, he has been given the regiment's standard weaponry, and nothing else save a vox recording describing his execution permissions, which in fact he is perfectly alright with for the time being, as it allows him to go back to some of his Texan roots in a uniform that otherwise lacks them, though he laments the lack of rapid fire options in their unique equipment.
Gear Personalisation: None. The Officio Prefectus does not look kindly upon vandalisation of Imperial equipment.
Name: Clayton Robert Blevins Jr. Age: 18 Gender: Yer goddamn right he's a cowboy. Height: Six foot. Weight: One ninety seven.
Speciality:
Accuracy, even by the standards of his yee-hawing, 'hey y'all watch THIS!' planet. He hits what he's aiming at every time. In addition to his tobacco spitting skills, he's also mighty handy with a rifle, but his ability to land tobacco where he aims it is pretty unnatural. Someone reported him to a commissar as a potential psyker. That pissed Cleet-Bob off. It was found to be a total lie of course, that's all skill, no Nurgle, though Papa Nurgle no doubt smiles fondly upon Cleet Bob's spitting skills.
Appearance:
He wears a beard and a moustache. If someone were asked to describe him, it'd be 'tall, dark and devoid of deep thought.' In addition to the uniform, he has a duster coat that he brought along just in case the weather is bad wherever they go. His hat is also a genuine Smetson, not that issue junk. It's a far cry from what a Cadian looks like, but at least his skivvies and socks are in camo (realtree), right?
Other Appearance:
There's a round scar on his bicep from a bullet entry wound, and a funny story to go with that one.
Personality:
"What the heyll kinda question is that? You must be a special kind of stupid there." (10)
History:
Clayton comes from a prosperous cattle baron family in West Texanis, one of those extended clans that has a lot of the land that's been sub-divided up among cousins but is run by the head of the family like a business. So there was almost no reason to leave family land except for school and hey, there was still plenty of work to do back home. His part of Texanis is particularly rural. They don't always get into politics, but Blevinses have been there for all sort of events; it was a Blevins (his grandfather), for example, that (along with half the planet) shot that carpet-baggin' sumbitch Rogue Trader that was about to set himself up all high and mighty on Texanis and announcing it. That dog just don't hunt.
So, by the time Cleet-Bob got there, they were teaching Human History in the classroom, which was a blood-soaked saga of combat and enemies all around. Sort of like Texanis History Class, but with Alien Space Communists, Alien Hippies, Alien Hooligans and really Alien Aliens. On the day he spoke to the recruiter at Texanis A&M University, Cleet Bob's reaction was, "You mean you want us to sign on up and go to brand new worlds and scrap with all these things we've never even seen before?"
"Yes. It's a terrible place, but the Emprah sacrificed himself..."
"Well hell, sign me up! Those Tau sound like some really snooty sumbitches, think they're good eatin?"
Gear:
Peacebreaker autopistol, Gorgemaker shotgun and a sabre. Also, he brought along his dogs. A couple of Texanis Mastiffs; Taylor and Pierce.
Gear Personalization:
The biggest modification that Cleet-Bob has is the shotgun. He's added some leather and some wood-carving to the stock for a better grip, and the sling is designed to make it comfortable and easy to use while riding. Most notably, it has a Texanis A&M logo prominently displayed. He's so enamored of making a Tau into food that he's calling his sabre "Sashimi" and is keeping it that dang sharp.
Well we only got the two melons I say we fill one with s h i n e and the other with tannerite
Eighteen || Female || 5' 5" || 130 lbs
S p e c i a l i t y
Jack of all trades, master of none. Unless you count roping and riding 'cause she can wrestle anything with legs. She learned to shoot at the age of five; never too young to protect the chattel from rustlers and varmints. She's handy with explosives, just ask the John Deere at the bottom of the pond, but hey, she did "catch" some fish. And there was never a lack of weaponry choices around her house to fiddle around with.
A p p e a r a n c e
Plaid, leather, lace and fringe. She wears a beat up black stetson over sun bleached mahogany curls that usually find their way in and out of a messy assortment of braids. She's got a glimmer in her mischievous hazel eyes that says the girl can take a punch and a smile that begs you to try it. She's got an extremely expressive face; eyebrows, eyes and lips that dare her to try and loose at some hold 'em. She has dimples that betray an innocence she'd rather hide and usually does, pulling up the black paisley bandana that's tied around her neck for dust storms.
[ & ] O t h e r
She's got her family brand, "J" with horns, on her left butt cheek "Come And Take It" tattooed between her shoulders on her upper back Star for Texanis tattooed behind her right ear Scar on her left arm where her brother Boone shot her with an arrow
and then mangled trying to pull it out before Pa noticed
P e r s o n a l i t y
If Davie Crockett fucked a bottle of whiskey and then John Wayne drank it, she'd likely be the resulting tipsy two step. She talks too much, too loud and lady like meant she was fixin' to cook a pie when a neighbor took ill. She ain't the brightest lightning bug in the jar but Pa always says she made up for it with her gumption. Then again, she was the first girl after four boys so Pa always thought she hung the moon. The baby-can-do-no-wrong attitude cranked her wild child nature to an absurd level. She pulled on the reins once a blue moon, usually after Mama came home crying because the ladies at church were whispering about her heathen daughter. But it wasn't really her fault she had an unyielding need to keep up with the boys and often jump at their dares to impress them. She's the product of a sheltered life; easily impressed to the degree that little things amaze and fascinate her.
H i s t o r y
You hear Meemaw tell it and they've been on Texanis since right of way went to the tumble weeds. Their roots have grown roots and the folks she calls kin numbers a little less than half of their head on the ranch. Cattle ranchers, the lot of them. Mama says she was born trouble, popped out right in the back barn while the devil was beating his wife and Pa was chasing down a troublesome mustang in the western fields.
She'd never really aspired to much, let alone any thoughts of greatness. Hell, if she could win the buckle from that gap toothed Kessler boy she'd be tickled pink and probably call it a life worth living. She did always love the stars though. When everyone else was watching the mudders she'd lean back in the bed of the pickup and wonder what all was going on out there. She'd name them silly things, like the baying hound and the beaten bandit and make up stories about all the things they meant and try not to think about the taint of xenos and city folks.
Boone and Flint got into moonshinin' with the Curry boys and Bronc married a girl from money whose family set him up with some city boy job. Remington, always the responsible one, was fixin' to take over the homestead and so her family started grumbling about her finding her own path. Likely they meant settle down, take a job as a teacher, but she went right on and enlisted. See those stars she'd been dreamin' about, meet some xenos from exotic lands, and kill 'em all.
G e a r
She's got the regular standard issue weaponry plus a cattle prod that can be extended to about an arms length strapped to her right thigh, opposite from her peacebreaker autopistol. Plainstrider autogun rests on her back, combat knife stuck in her boot. Plus she carries a saddle bag with all the fixin's for homemade explosive rounds; good for a bit of a boom and can take down the thick skinned space hogs of Texanis, likely would have the same result for a xenos.
[ & ] P e r s o n a l i z a t i o n
Both the peacebreaker and plainstrider have adapted grips of pink camo engineered polymer
