A dumping ground full of lacklustre characters

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Cpl. Marsh

	Rhavir Marsh 6'2" | 81kg | 27 Years Male Casbah City, Tribute - January 17th, 2524 UNSC Army

Profile

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Appearance

Years on several fronts can wear down one's look. With distinctive dark-tan skin, Rhavir was once a well-kept man, keeping himself to the standards of righteous military code nailed into his mind through boot camp. Presently, however, he is a different figure. A few strokes of the comb keeps his blackened, wavy hair in check when out of combat uniform, whilst he sports a loosely unshaven stubble across his jaw and chin. With bags under his amber-toned eyes on a good day, he looks like he's settled in to the conditions of the Human-Covenant war naturally. Built well enough to hold his own, he makes use of his slightly leaner stature by keeping up his pace, a natural athlete so to speak. Tucked beneath his gear, the best way to describe his body stature would be to just chalk him up as a regulation standard, not a figure of prowess.

Attire

As part of part of the UNSC Army branch, Rhavir's combat rig can look quite cumbersome from first glance compared to that of an ODST or Marine. Added protection, slightly heavier padding and ballistic armour. Generally, a medium military pack is slung over his back for additional tools for long-effort ground operational storage. Much alike other soldiers, Rhavir sports the standard issue UNSC Army BDU CH252 Helmet. In usual stations, the fatigues are generally patterned with a flat drab colouring to fit most of Atis' environments. Altered fatigues and armour camouflage patterns come in the form of forest green, concrete grey and alpine white. Across the stomach and chest, several combat pouches are littered for ammunition storage, utility deployment and general on-hand equipment useful for ease of access.

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Personality

Two driving motions have kept Rhavir alive throughout his years of service: normalised neutrality and a small dose of fear secretly tucked away in his mind. During psychological examinations following OPERATION: CRIMSON SCYTHE, Rhavir disclosed that he has spent months suppressing his emotional distraught from the war in an attempt to improve his combat effectiveness. Whilst he still shows a desire for his close team, whilst occasionally coming across as harsh, Rhavir has detached himself from the idea of a civilian life, or one of peace. During off-duty weeks, he was shown to have stayed relatively introverted and uncomfortable spending time doing normal activities. Occasional patrols and assistance with civilian issues back on Tribute had also alienated him from his comrades a few too many times. Now under a new regiment, he's spent most of his time on hand, whether it be through garrisons or direct operational involvement, just to keep his mind occupied.

Rhavir once told the psychological assessor that he fears the Covenant's technological capability. Having once felt more comfortable facing off against insurrectionists, potentially due to his childhood disdain for such active groups, the Covenant are still an opposition he remains on edge about. He knows of their power and their raw strength, especially citing a rational fear of the Sangheili, hating their 'dexterity' and 'flawlessness'. When it comes to his comrades, he's been noted as proving hard on them at times, whilst also deeply concerned over their safety, so much as to disengage from heavily dangerous combat scenarios in the past. Several attempts at getting him comfortable with leadership culminated in the assignment of 'Mike-October-1-5', to which he's set a standard for himself. With other squads and branches, he tries to maintain levelheaded, but does try to get on friendly terms at the very least with them, even if it means following strict orders.

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Arsenal

BR55HB SR - GL Variant
M6G Sidearm - 2546 Model
UNSC Standard Issue Combat Knife

Rank

Corporal

Specialisation

Fireteam Leader

Fireteam

'Mike-October-1-5'

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Biography

Being in the wrong place and at the wrong time can change the entire construct of a man; the foundation becomes moulded, changed into something irreversible. Rhavir was born on Tribute, January 17th 2524, to Lance Corporal William Marsh and Shalini Sardar. Early life began in the City of Casbah, capital to the planet. Shalini called it her home whilst William named it his place of operations. A dangerous world had already been inhabited. Insurrection had run rampant on the outbacks of the colony, with occasional strikes being launched against the city's core. Bombs and guns, firefights from cafes to libraries, for a while it didn't seem like anywhere was safe. William had been in service elsewhere prior to 2523, instead granting a transfer to feel as if he were actively contributing to the protection of his loved one and son. Anyone, however, who is versed in the rich history of Tribute and its insurrectionist stain would soon realise where everything started to go wrong.

Rhavir was a month old. An infant, a child who would cry at the occasional sound of IEDs being detonated on the other side of the city. Cradled in his mother's arms, the closing days of 'OPERATION: TREBUCHET' were filled with disaster. UNSC efforts were embarrassing, to say the least, with cells slipping away or being killed after their objectives had been completed. William Marsh fell victim to a convoy ambush. The story went that his platoon rode through the streets, right past an insurgent holdout, where explosives disabled their vehicle. What came next was a two minute gunfight, leaving eight insurrectionists dead alongside fifteen civilians and twelve UNSC Soldiers, William amongst them. As the news broke, distraught fractured the future for the young Rhavir, setting his mind into motion.

His early life was fuelled by a fear and hatred for the insurrection. He didn't need to understand motives, nor their formation. As a child, all that mattered was that his dad was dead and never got to see him grow up. School life would've been simple to go through, had it not been for February 11th, 2525. At age one, the Human-Covenant war broke out.

Life changed then and there. Insurrection activity depleted for a short while as the Covenant became the greater threat. Recruitment few skyward and the news was constantly filled with developing information on the unyielding foe. Stories of heroism and crippling defeat became the talk of the world. Daily updates fuelled his life, and soon he developed an innate fear for the Covenant, without full experience of their capabilities. That was until he hit the age of 17, just before his birthday, to enlist in the UNSC Army. From there, he took the time to get through base camp, stationed away from his homeworld in the Ankara Station facility, orbiting a small military colony in the Urano System.

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Affiliations

CAW!

Theme

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Roe'mynn, the Dexterous Nomad

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Name: Roe'mynn
Age: 18
Appearance:
As 5'8" a, loosely built man with a semi-raggedy look, Roe'mynn doesn't come across as the individual he is. Though lean, he doesn't showcase much muscle visually and looks rather average. Long umber hair drapes down to the back of his neck and circumnavigates his ears, all the while being generally ignored in style and ruffled to a untouched, virginal manner. Almost as if it were coated with flickers of dirt, his skin is a slight tone darker than being completely pale. And, though out of place, a feature of common interest seems to be his hazel-emerald blend in his iris, adding a splash of colour to his eyes. However, his complexion is rather sweet, smoothed by the gift of youth. When it comes to his attire, Roe'mynn tends to keep himself lightly clad, as to not weigh himself down.


Personality:
Unlike some adventurers, Roe'mynn can come across as a constrained young man with little input on life. However, with quick realisation, one would discover that he acts more as a person who puts value in blessings of the day, and the spoils of the night. Honour is not a concept he holds close to heart nor does he think of it as a pathway to solidarity. His upbringing taught him of present troubles to the civics of prosperous lands. An underbelly always exists - those who know of its cynical reality can learn to survive before others can. Regardless of him bordering cynicism, Roe'mynn can detach himself and become a rather cheerful individual, someone who enjoys the company of others on his travels and covertly depends on it for meaning. For he does not live life to achieve reward, as there is no goal for Roe'mynn to ascertain. He lives as days go past, hoping that the next chapter in his years would give him something to hold onto dearly.


Background:
And when civilisation returns, building kingdoms, towns and cities to house its people, there is always a group separated by culture. Nomadic, yet familial, the Wyandurah People were a small, closely tied community that moved by foot and hoof. In search of something, a select few individuals lead the group through the northernmost regions above Ahmeryca, where their origins are loosely connected to. These were the people that housed the birth of Roe'mynn, second son to the third collective of the tribe. Life was always met with great difficulty as their greatest foe surrounded them at every second: the unforgiving world of nature's climate.

The people, however, were not pushovers. Roe'mynn was brought up on the virtues of resilience, a testimony to their generations of survival. As per the civil roles, Roe'mynn was brought up as a defender, a child who trained vigorously to ensure that the people remained safe from threats. He was by no means a hunter, but a few times had proven the value of arming oneself. Specifically, he seemed to gain great proficiency with polearms, coupled with his natural dexterity. Eventually, he upgraded to a light, versatile glaive, shorter than most of its counterparts. Quick with his hands, all the while calculated and precise in where he landed his hits, all Roe'mynn knew was how to stay on the move and look out for the families that enlisted his help. Life became not about individuality, but the effort of the group and the housing of affectionate company. The community cared about each other and did everything within their powers to maintain their numbers if danger arose. As long as they kept moving in almost senseless directions, they could keep their eyes on the food they needed and maintain their course from settlement.

He trained from the moment he hit eight, and upon reaching the age of thirteen he saw his first encounter with the fabled creatures of the wild - the destructive prowlers that lurked in the mythos of Ahmeryca. And whilst he never fought them during the encounter, he used his nimbleness to whatever commands his elders gave him, be it distraction or supply movement. Following that day, he soon encountered something unexpected - his Eidolon.

On the banks of Ahmeryca, during a torrential rainstorm, Roe'mynn was separated from the nomads. Traditions of his family kept him alive for the first day, until he stumbled upon the spirit that would alter his life's journey for good. Initially, Roe'mynn tried to kill it, seeing it as a monster distorted by the feats of its past. The Eidolon immediately took a liking to the young boy's tenacity to stick a sharp blade into it, eventually wearing him down overtime through a light pursuit. Roe'mynn never understood why the creature took a liking to him, as if it were reading his thoughts or heart before his actions. After much exhaustion, the Eidolon spoke to him and catered for his safety until the rainstorm passed two days later. Compliant with his company, Roe'mynn offered it the opportunity to accompany him back to the nomadic people, as he believed it'd proved itself as an asset of survival. This was a poor choice, of course. When they eventually crossed paths, the Wyandurah People were mortified at the implication of the boy accepting the influence of the creature, and thus in an act of rage he was exiled westward, toward the shore, and told to find the community that would take him for what he was.

Three years have passed now. Roe'mynn doesn't have a community. He roams between towns within the Kingdom of E'lyzahbyeth from time to time, sometimes doing jobs, sometimes getting into hassles with low-end authorities, all with the Eidolon in close proximity. His lonesome travels have allowed him to further his polearm and glaive skillset, creating an independent young man with a grim view on the places he came from. One day, a great star flushed through the night sky. And when word spread of Elders looking for young talent to investigate its occurrence, Roe'mynn was amongst the first to put his name forward - not because of the promised wealth, the spoils of honour or the chance to see the outside world, but because he wanted a sense of purpose again.

Skills:

• Polearms - Specifically with the glaive, Roe'mynn has spent extensive and apt amounts of his childhood honing his ability with weapons of the class. Having a sharp blade postured into the body of a staff finds itself as the perfect combination, scaling it down ever so slightly to account for his smaller stature. Though they can prove tedious and burdensome in tight spaces, unlike a dagger or shortsword, his nimble fingers and accurate handiwork does its best to negate the troubles of his innate choice of martial fighting.
• Judicious Dexterity - From childhood, he always expressed a talent for his hands. Whether its with working on small mechanisms, threading needles or twirling poles between his fingers, Roe'mynn is proud of the handiwork he can commit to. It proves useful in a lot of situations, such as climbing, as well as any hand-based work.
• Nomadic - Being a nomad isn't just a status of constant movement. It's a lifestyle, in which survival is tested on the daily; where communities have to work together to provide for one another. Food, water, clothing, logistics and protection are the main pillars of a stable community. Rationing, improvised warmth and temporary shelters are menial work that he can provide to a small group of travellers alongside him.

Gear:

• Short Glaive - Though the weapon itself was considered a relic of the past, the high-carbon spring steel polearm, acts as a sturdy improvement over wooden counterparts, capable of bending and stretching itself whilst maintaining its strength.
• Tanto Boot Knife - Boot knives, doubling up for hunting and light craftwork, act as common emergency weapons for dire circumstances.
• Attire - Still rooted within the nomadic clothing he grew up with, layers of scarfs, light jackets and cloth act as protection from the elements and remove the hindrance of weight during combat. Occasionally decorated with belts, wraps, straps and fur, sitting atop of toe-capped boots and cargo trousers.
• Travel Pack - Stored dry meat and grain foods. Two clean cloths. Small canteen and a whetstone.

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Name: Aurin

Appearance:
Aurin appears as a transparent otter, glistening with an angelic, ethereal-like effect. Though transparent, with no discernible endoskeleton, Aurin does appear to be a living manifestation. Anyone can touch him and feel the cloud-like furry goodness of its spirited coat. Despite looking like a ghost, it cannot pass through solid objects, but it does seem to ignore gravity and floats around freely without too much restriction.


Abilities:

• Strong Gusts - As a creature of wind, Aurin acts as a defensive and evasive Eidolon. Using quick, widespread gales, it can try to push back nearby opponents, or enough to stagger them, giving Roe'mynn more space to work with.
• Concentrated Airburst - Instead of spreading the gusts around a wider area, Aurin can concentrate its windpower to more precise areas, or singular directions, which allows for greater precision. Creatively, it acts as a way to deflect specific targets, or to throw Roe'mynn at slightly extended distances for lunging at targets, dodging attacks or traversing terrain. However, due to the nature of its concentration, Aurin appears to get tired out a lot quicker when doing so.

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Hjadana Vishin'ee

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Profile

Name: Hjadana Vishin'ee

Age: 27 Years - 11 Months

Gender: Male

Race: Half-Marsh Elf

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Characteristics

Appearance:
Rounding up to an unimpressive 5'11, at least by contemporary elven standards, Hjadana loses most of his heritage by looks alone. Bar the slightly-bulkier-than-slender body stature, he's found himself physically resonating with the latter half of his bloodline - the human side. Lightly pallid skin, accompanied by frostbitten irises, and a gentler posture makes for an interesting character, matched with his personality. Graced with a heavy sway of hair left almost naturally styled, there's an aura of a laid-back soul decorated with a grey quarter of his left fringe. Very few elven features are noticeable, let alone those of the normal elves. His greatest giveaway is the subtle yet sharp prick at the top of his ears; the constant reminder of where he came from. Other than that, he's relatively clean, occasionally well-dressed and a presentable figure amongst a sea of disgruntled adventurers. Out of those adventures, he usually dresses in plain but wonderfully coloured garments, laced with personalised jewelry.


Personality:
Like most people, there are two or more sides to Hjadana. First, there's the common face: that in which most nameless faces see on first glance. A collected individual, to their guess, with a resting face of comfort. It's been that way for as long as he could remember, and Hjadana knows that such an approachability has often given him great opportunities. It transitions into his commitment to the adventure, acting as the driving force to keep at it until the end - as well as the interactions of his allies around him.

On the contrary, there is a great lowness to his personality. Complete with his collectiveness, he's sharp and sometimes deeply silent, being more akin to having conversations arrive at his doorstep rather than for Hjadana to deliver the first word. Such nervousness has prevailed at the worst of times, and can bring out the pessimistic imbalance he feels with himself. He's aware of a lack of personal love for himself, instead finding himself to be quite loathsome, and continuously tries to battle it with the mask of a charismatic, chipper individual.

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Gear & Traits

Skills:

• Polearms - Specifically with the glaive, Hjada has spent extensive and apt amounts of his childhood honing his ability with weapons of the class. Having a sharp blade postured into the body of a staff finds itself as the perfect combination, scaling it down ever so slightly to account for his smaller stature. Though they can prove tedious and burdensome in tight spaces, unlike a dagger or shortsword, his nimble fingers and accurate handiwork does its best to negate the troubles of his innate choice of martial fighting.
• Judicious Dexterity - From childhood, he always expressed a talent for his handiwork. Whether its with working on small mechanisms, threading needles or twirling poles between his fingers, Roe'mynn is proud of the skills he can commit to. It proves useful in a lot of situations, such as climbing, as well as tinkering, in compensation for his lacking elemental capabilities.
• Nomadic - Being a nomad isn't just a status of constant movement. It's a lifestyle, in which survival is tested on the daily; where communities have to work together to provide for one another. Food, water, clothing, logistics and protection are the main pillars of a stable community. Rationing, improvised warmth, maintenance and temporary shelters are menial work that he can provide to a small group of travellers alongside him.

Gear:

• Short Glaive - Though the weapon itself was considered a relic of the hunt, Hjadana has taken a strong liking to the proficiency of both the polearm and blade combination. A reinforced wood and iron base was constructed to balance out its weight, allowing for greater control in dexterous strikes.
• Tanto Boot Knife - Boot knives, doubling up for hunting and light craftwork, act as common emergency weapons for dire circumstances.
• Attire - Still rooted within the nomadic clothing he grew up with, layers of scarfs, light jackets and cloth act as protection from the elements and remove the hindrance of weight during combat. Occasionally decorated with belts, wraps, straps and fur, sitting atop of toe-capped boots and the light padding of leather for combat protection.
• Travel Pack - Stored dry meat and grain foods. Two clean cloths. Small waterskin and a whetstone.

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Elemental Information

Element: Wind

Abilities:

• Airburst - Having been unable to tap into his elemental capabilities anywhere as much as other magic users of his age, the main reliance comes on using a burst of wind to propel himself short distances. Though traditionally a tool of evasion, other benefits come as dealing swifter strikes, outmanoeuvring well-paced opponents and assisting in both climbing and jumping.
• ??? - On the cusp of achieving a second ability, which would still put him behind his contemporaries, the frustration of achieving a minor understanding of what he can do and then opening the path to mastering it comes with great misery.

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History

Background:
And when civilisation thrives, building kingdoms, towns and cities to house its people, there is always a group separated by culture. Nomadic, yet familial, the Sacrani People were a small, closely tied community that moved by foot and hoof across the lands of Mynol. Though not exactly famous, their existence is documented quite nicely by local cartographers and scholars alike. Accustomed to the various swamps, marshes and seas, the tribe thrived alongside the bloodlines of Marsh Elves. At least that was right up until 30 years ago, when the barriers were broken down and several other species were accepted into the ring. A move most controversial, a brooding disturbance came at the cost of internal stability.

Three years later, Hjadana Vishin'ee was born as the biproduct of bastardisation within the communal collective. Two lovers, one marsh-elven and the other human, conceived his existence with great contest from their peers. Whilst he wasn't the first mixed-blooded child to be born into the group, he was the first who seemed like a permanent inclusion. Many others left shortly after birthing their offspring, but things seemed different for the raising of Hjadana. Or at least, they looked stable. Unfortunately, that was not the case. See, his mother, blessed be her soul, was not of nomadic descent. She was the human in the family, and shortly after bringing him into the world, she left his unannounced. The abandonment to his elven father was but the first in many piling issues for the boy.

So, with only a father to look up to, one who never wed his lover, the bastard-child yearned to idolise his parental figure. The marsh elf held a strict demeanour, but he did love his son at the least. Most of what he did outside of clan duties was for the betterment of Hjadana's safety and development. It was more than he could've asked for, and yet the void of his mother's escape left a great hole in his childhood. Without a mother to call his own, he found himself downtrodden on his legitimacy. Worse yet, his half-blood status seemed to have drastic obstructions into developing his elemental heritage. He struggled to even discover his first ability and soon found himself at the will of his lack in self-confidence. This was further exasperated by the climactic shift in power.

The nomadic tribe's size had nearly tripled since the opening of its bloodlines. Though most were still marsh elves, the population became burdensome for both themselves and the attention of one King Ludrix Nacht. With a tight hold of the Kingdom's politics, and the national idea that the 'Slayers' were the dominant third party group under agreement of law, the Sacrani expansion caused many anxious eyes to fall on their potential. Uncooperative with authorities, several scuffles broke out in unexpected coastline territories occupied by the King's garrisons. Where a smaller tribe would pose no worry, the grand size made them far too overbearing. When the dust settled and the few that had been killed were laid to rest, the law came down upon them. Either they destabilised themselves or such a violent clash would be held against them for as long as his dynasty ruled.

Leaders are generally smart individuals, and they know how to get what they see is best. With King Nacht, he was no exception. The tales of the tribe's inner instability as a response to its rapidly expansive nature led to an exploitative radicalisation. Soon, those that were accomplices of non Marsh-Elf tribesmen were set aside, pushed to be second-class to their allies. A day later, the first death occurred, and a second followed hours after. The nomads were in their final stage of reducing their population. A swift move divided them in half, and Kjadana was painted with its ghostly brush. An outcast, of birth right and his failing elemental progress left him vulnerable at the age of 16. He was casted out when things became violent, making it out so much as to see the bruises and cuts caused by their force.

And thus, the next chapter began. He'd found himself where he imagined his mother would've been. Alone in a world where collectives survived and individuals scraped by barely. Though the oceans, marshes, swamps and emerald seas proved to be his true home, he loathed it for what it cradled inside - a fractured home. He hooked himself up with a small band of mercenaries as a junior quartermaster, and stayed with them for shelter and hospitality.

The group almost immediately left the land in search for something else. They travelled between kingdoms and cities, encountering an array of jobs that helped Hjadana learn of the world's variance. He thought little of home in the day and stared in solitude at night. Long story short, the mercenary group got him involved with the wrong people and he soon left, with a little bit of combat experience under his belt and a lot of quartermastering on his metaphysical portfolio. Back alone, he wandered the lands and did odd-jobs and a few small adventures alone. In that time, he finally mastered his first elemental ability and felt a surge of opportunities open up. He explored, helped contractors map out cave systems and used both his dexterity and nimbleness to keep earning enough money to live comfortably between inns, towns and cities.

Now a developed man, using charisma and charm to fly through community's, he tried to bury his colder self for a more optimistic coat of paint. He danced between jobs, fell out with contractors over deliberately not following orders to achieve greater rewards, flirted with death and townswomen on a irregular basis and eventually found the money, time, weaponry and personality to call himself an adventurer. And it was just as he travelled into Lowick where the chaos began. And when it did, the King's request for adventurers was just too hard to pass off. In the end, it didn't matter if he'd succeed, at least not when he first signed up. Either he'd be killed a sinner of personality or he'd complete it and move on.

It was a shame he was so blissfully unaware of the boots he was strapping himself to, or the community that he was surrounded by. Whether they'd be his closest allies, of heartly bonds and relationships, or his biggest adversaries was out of his scope of thought.

[Jeep Wrangler]

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Takai Shunsen

	Takai Shunsen 'Taki' 5'9" ~~~ 91kg ~~~ 30 Years ~~~ Heterosexual ~~~ Birthplace: Itoman, Okinawa - Japanese January, 2001 ~~~ Callsign: 'North 5-2'

Profile

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Appearance

Takai Shunsen - once a meagre figure amongst his affiliates, the last three months have given him time to work on his physicality. Rigorous physiotherapy has given him a bit of bulk, more so than his previous stature pre-casualty, and he stands at an above-average height for his nationality: 5'9. Before, the long ruffled hair of the man seemed to give him the merit of reservation. He sports a much shorter hairstyle in line with Iwata Honomi's old colouring and style. His facial hair, though longer, is a lot more pristine in its presentation. To say Takai had tidied himself up would be an understatement, and it all came as part of a psychological package of 'self-care for sanity'. With that, the core features of his appearance remain the same. Green eyes, thin lips, same height; he still has relics of what he was before. Except for two specific areas - the right leg and the left forearm. Both are now replaced, fitted with something a lot less natural. At the cost of these replacements, his damaged muscle augmentations have been completely removed to reduce the threat of internal injury.

As for his attire, things are more or less the same as they were before. On duty, he's still capable of equipping the PHUD, or Personal Heads Up Display, as he had done before with the little braces in his temples. Though it's a middle-ground between a helmet's HUD and a fully engraved eye-implant, it grants that extra diversity between usefulness and preservation of natural looks. On a more common note, Takai still wears traditional NSF outfitting. He still wears operational gear, though his field-services are mostly levelled at investigation work, in which he can shift to a more sharp-casual look. On-base, he's usually seen with the usual in-house clothing, be it shirts and combats, with boots being the go-to footwear. Off duty, he still retains a slightly broken down fashion sense, a remnant of what he wants to fix.

Personality

Old habits die hard. And, additionally, they refuse to lay to rest when radicalised by trauma or discouragement. Takai is still determined to see his tasks through. Letting someone get away is a failure unless instructed otherwise. It creates a miserable aura around him, and worse still it grants horrific opportunities for them to strike back. In a nation, and city, where violence is the true form of changemaking, Takai has felt a burning desire to not let the target get on favourable grounds. The same habit had nearly cost him his own life.

Personally, he's become a mixed bag. A strict aura of professionalism is present around most people. Its a coping mechanism, some might say, to make up for his failures months prior. It also matches his tidier appearance. When it comes to discussing his limbs, he prefers to keep it silent and hates settling for much more. At times, where it may prove difficult for him to perform a specific dexterous task, he tries to make it discrete and is quick to turn attention elsewhere. Equally, his personal prowess has given him a slight extended trust from past superiors, and has also hidden away his actual self. Those who get close to him can pry out that kinder soul previously considerate of others. His trauma is still a fresh memory. The more favourable compatriot hasn't been fully lost, it just needs the kick back into gear. Other than that, he can be calculated and patient when required - to some that's all they need from him.

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Role

Investigative Combat Specialist - NSF

Previous Employment

Kyoto Police - Honshu Special Investigation Agency (H.S.I.A)

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Biography

Okinawa, the smallest of the five main Japanese islands, was the birthplace for young Takai; he was brought up within a reserved family, who made up a strict and disciplined collective. His bloodline reached held prominence during the imperial age of Japan's history, and as such it still retains some of its core values. Excellence, prosperity and wisdom are all achieved through service to the greater picture: home. National value was intrinsic, and pride in their bloodline was hammered in from a young age. His school life reflected this, where he was pushed to achieve only his best and nothing less at the cost of comfort and peace. Every week, he and his family would listen to stories told by Takai's own Grandfather and Great Grandfather, one speaking of their time within the Imperial Japanese Air Force. The other spoke of his time in the army during the Second World War. Both coming from officerhood, it seemed rather miraculous that both had survived, holding the contradictory belief of living to fight another day if the next day needed them more. Saipan, Okinawa and the Battle of Midway were commonly mentioned throughout their tales. Some of it may have been embellished, but it gave for a quiet and exciting childhood hobby.

Takai hadn't questioned their legitimacy at all, though it gave him the right to consolidate their perspectives as he aged. The thirst for knowledge drove him to perform well throughout his education, where he took enjoyment out of physics and mathematics. Fully, he loved deducing things. It was like a mini adventure, a walk in the footsteps of great geniuses until they changed everything in a precise prediction. Life continued quietly. The fascination gave him a quiet and lonesome childhood in which he occupied his time with reading and problem-solving. It was a faint reality that the love he held for finding answers led him on an absolute path. The fog covering that path was then brushed away in 2012 when the bomb fell.

The day was one of fear. The alarms all across Japan. The sirens and the calls to not panic. Thousands questioned what had happened, and then the sound of Tokyo's evaporation emerged as a thunderous clap in the sky. The emotional torment, the anger, the news coverage - all contributed to a new burning legacy. The dangerous path. His family, adamant to not see their nation torn apart by foreign powers, turned to fury. Takai's siblings were convinced into enlisting for military service. However, Takai himself was hesitant towards it. Whilst he was still young at the time, he wanted to uphold those values in a different manner. Through weeks of conversation, trying to convince them, they eventually settled on his ideas to join the emergency services - the police. And, with it settled, he glided through the rest of his years with above-average results until he was ready to leave and apply for the job.

He travelled to Kyoto and went through the motions of becoming an officer of the law. They were dire times, and with the expansion of a newer, brighter Tokyo on the horizon, Takai made it clear that he wanted to start in a favourable position. Life in Kyoto wasn't as bad as it could've been. The rise of technology gave run-ins with junkies and a few smugglers of electronic goods, but there wasn't too much in the way of chaos. Murders, gangs and the faintest trails of neocults and accelerationist groups slowly emerged, giving him a good three years of experience. On that third year, he garnered a reputation of stepping slightly out of his responsibilities, looking into a few criminal cases and making conclusions for formal reports. Failing to meet eye to eye with several of his officers, many of his working partners thought of joining a recently acclaimed Military Unit formed within the JSDF. Article 9 had been abolished, and out came the new wave of military interest surging throughout the nation. Many individuals were hopeful of the newfound rise to power the nation was suspected to go through, and yet Takai was adamant not to join up.

Instead, as the numbers in his policing precinct began to shrink, the overload of work began to bury Takai, ruining his social life once more and restricting him to long nights away from home. A previous lover of his, long term at the time, left his side due to the recent absurdity of his work hours, finding him to be only loyal to that of his duty.

Whilst not encouraged, it was praised long enough for a new organisation to pick up his trail. A combat investigation unit took his name to their registers: The Honshu Special Investigation Agency - or HSIA - was a governmental directed organisation based across Japan. Centralised into the newly erected NeoTokyo, the agency was spearheaded in combatting rising civil unrest amidst the expansion of the metropolis and the hard-to-ignore nationalistic outcry. At the time, under Prime Minister Abe Yoshihito, the weakness in the cabinet left them to fester wildly. Takai was given light augmentations to better suit his role. Thus, the headmounts for the PHUD were set in place.

His assignments were dusty, taking him across many of the city's darker corners. Human trafficking, early cultists and a violent gang war took him from strip-clubs to casino strips, workshops and the all-fearful exclusion zone. Particularly, the last location housed activity most unwelcomed. A congregation of Korean exiles, with undying wishes to Tae Jeong-Mun's legacy, were operating in the largely empty zones previously eviscerated by their icon's fire. This was the first taste of Takai's intense, and extensive, combat experience. Fifteen minutes of combat, just on the fringes of radioactive pockets, created a dire and deadly confrontation.

Shortly after, however, NeoTokyo and all of Japan was flipped on its heels. From within the JSDF, an expansive special operations group known as the Jinrai broke free of its command and attempted to coup out the newly elected Prime Minister, Konno Mashai. Though it failed, what followed were several days' worth of panic. The HSIA were in preparation to make moves into the situation but were held off by their commanders. At the end of the 5th day, all members of the HSIA were granted transfer to a newly formed National Security Force - the NSF.

Life in the NSF was a lot more rigorous. Takai underwent specialist training, was enlisted into a combat team and then registered as an investigations specialist. This was in 2029, at the outbreak of this shadow conflict. Back then, it wasn't much of a war. Many within the NSF considered it underground policing, and nothing more. At the time of his arrival, as one of the NSF's founding lower staff members, he was introduced to Iwata Honomi, who took him under her wing as a mentor figure, and a friend. Later on, a foreign recommendation from Iwata brought Kaz into the ranks, and the two began a lite friendship over the years. This all continued relatively peacefully, with dead-ended investigations and only the occasional combat raid taking place until mid-2030, where the Jinrai had finished reorganising itself. Their strikes were harsh and their operations on the weapons market grew exponentially. Takai found himself under a lot of pressure keeping up with the world around him. Its ever shifting dive into violence and chaos was a lot to adjust to, but he tried to maintain a smile on his face, even when Iwata dropped out after an Op gone wrong.

2031, August 29th. Iwata's monitoring after her discharge opened up an investigation when her name was crossed in Jinrai communications. In the lead up to another raid, Takai Shunsen was tasked with shaking down her household whilst she was due to leave her home. Kaz joined him, but the mission went downward soon after. Double-crossed by the ones who'd fed them intel, Iwata returned home with Jinrai personnel. A skirmish ensued and whilst in pursuit of Iwata, Takai injured her and cornered her in another building. Unaware of what she was doing, he faced retribution as she detonated an explosive, tearing up the building and critically wounding Takai as she perished.

He was uncovered with a missing forearm and leg, rushed to medical and was stabilised. Nine days later, he woke up under the administration of Doctor Miho Enri. What came next was a rushed rehabilitation programme. Three months of gruelling work, starting with cybernetic replacement, aimed to get him used to the replacements before the sensation of the lack thereof got there first. Physiotherapy constantly, self-care treatment and hours of calibration forced him back into a working manner at the cost of his personality and mental wellbeing. With November rolling around, it was soon time for him to return to service as a new man, with a new look, body and mental state.

Equipment

---

Field and On-Duty

• Combat Unit of the NSF
• Personal Heads Up Display, tailored to his face mounts.
• HRV ZR68C NSF Carbine
• H&K Mk. 24
• SUPA 8 - Breacher Shotgun

---

Theme

---

[Jeep Wrangler]

---

Corporal Robin-Charpentier

---

___________________________________ Jean Robin-Charpentier, 19 ________________________________________________________________________________________ Valois | Darcsen | Liege, Valois, Atlantic Federation ___________________________________ [+] ▼ E X T R A I N F O R M A T I O N ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► DOB - 25/09/1895 ► Height - 5'11" / 181cm ► Weight - 165 lbs / 74.8kg ► Hair Color - Peacock / Black ► Eye Color - Dark Green ► Classification - Rifleman ► Rank - Corporal by circumstance ► Sexuality - Heterosexual -

D E T A I L E D A P P E A R A N C E Jean began his service as a sort of well-catered individual who made an effort to appear pleasant for his peers, and whilst maintaining that neat and tidy aesthetic proved difficult he carried it with him all the way to the trenches, right up until the conclusion of the Assault on Hill 58. The best way to describe the 5'11 Darcsen is raggedy - when on the frontlines - partnered with the faded shade of his skin and dying emerald glimmer in his eyes. His hair has grown in length but remains swept back and over his ears to keep it beneath his head-dressing. Notably, he's gained a stock to his body mass, having grown out of his meagre frame from before. That's not to say he doesn't take care of himself; he cleans when he can and puts the effort in to maintain his uniform, if possible. An additional coating of an unshaven stubble has also taken form around his jaw and mouth. In the early years of the war, he'd have been chastised for not shaving, but that far into the apocalypse, no one really seemed to care all that much anymore. Though rare to crack a smile to those unknown, and seeming to hold a persistent alertness, the dreariness in his gaze has created a vapid shell of who he once was. When speaking of apparel, the development of the Federation's infantry gear has shown wear and tear until it became more of a tool of practicality than prestige. Jean's own is no different. A mishmash of drab greens and browns, even a dark beige cloth helmet cover handed over from campaigns in far away lands. On each shoulder, the stitch marks of two flags sit on either shoulder. The left houses the Atlantic Federation's military insignia, adopted during the standardisation of 1913. On the right should be the flag of Valois, however Jean's own one has been ripped off, with only the seams still being left.

---_{P E R S O N A L I T Y}

Who is Jean but the broken stare of a lost generation, whose innocence was ripped out with the spines of the deceased. A once optimistic yet careful, well-mannered individual, Jean's wartime experience has worn him down. Pessimistic, as a catch-all term. Though not devoid of hope, his circumstances both on the frontline and news of familial tragedy have made for a somewhat quiet and nervous individual. The last few months, however, have allowed him to build a mould for his role as a Corporal. He isn't without merit and tries to maintain his role for the sake of those in his platoon, only exposing his greater weaknesses when out of combat. Able to at least hold conversation if prompted, Jean's nature of bottling up problems had nearly proven fatal once, yet still finds discomfort in sharing details of his misfortunes simply in disregard to his importance as an individual. Still, if the mood is right, he'll put on a little smile and will do what's needed to please the crowd, even if a little unorthodox from his usual practices.

Above all, Jean's once empty hobby of poetry and writing has exploded into a quiet passion. Most silent hours he spends alone are done transforming his struggles, experiences, sightings and visions of the future into text. Literature is his drive, and so he tends to be far more conversational about anything that aligns with the creative output.

Alternatively, a somewhat cynical and lightly nihilistic side has come out from the war. Whilst he cares about those around him and their wellbeing, sprinkles of light upon the worst that humanity has had to offer fails to resonate with him. What he's seen and done to survive face to face engagements with the Imperials, other humans no less, has shown how painfully brutal life can flip to in an instant. He simply hopes others don't have to ever go through the experiences he and many worse off have, but never will he ever try to stop it; for the fabrics of human nature is built upon the deaths of millions. Any Darcsen, he felt, should have known this better after the pains of their history.

---_{B I O G R A P H Y}

Helen Robin and Herman Charpentier were of two different social standings. One one hand, Helen was from a family of upper-middle class wealth, and after studying archaeology she garnered local fame among North Valois Darcsens as an expeditionary explorer, heading through older regions of forgotten civilisations for the thrill of discovery. Herman, on the other hand, was a man of little success. On the fringes of middle class and lower class, the ex-businessman was driven out of his hometown and was left wandering among Darcsen communities, eventually meeting Helen, and sparking the relationship that led to the birth of Jean.

By the time Jean was born, sharing both their surnames, neither of his parents were married. They'd settled down in the city of Liege a few months. Additionally, he had an older sister. One Olivia Robin-Charpentier. It seemed that the introduction of children to the family had ground all high-end income to a close. Helen became homebound and lost the time to find infamy across the globe, falling short of her goals, whilst Herman spent many thousand hours pumping his life and energy into a failing welfare industry set up for struggling Darcsens of the early 1900s. Everything ground to a halt, and their life stagnated. And so, a co-dependency was spawned out of the siblings, who grew very reliant on one another's dynamic to bypass their childhood days, to stand up for each other (albeit poorly) against other schoolyard kids and to occasionally work around the local community for scraps of money. By the time Helen had returned to archaeology, she made one fatal error on her returning trip, badly injuring herself.

With Valois' hospital bills piled on to their already feigned status, the Robin-Charpentier family descended further down the social ranking. Helen's determination to not take life sat down usually caused more issues for the family as a whole, but it was that admiration that thrived in Olivia's commitment. In November, 1910, she enlisted for a career in the Valois Army, securing a stable and, at the time, well paid income. Unfortunately, it preceded the worst event human history had seen. March, 1911EC - the newly formed Atlantic Federation was attacked, and war was upon the continent. Olivia was sent straight off to the frontline, partaking in many of the early skirmishes across the ever-moving frontline, until the Imperials reached the first bloodied campaign of the war: The First Crossing of the Maren River. Olivia's life ended there. All that was sent back to the mourning family was a greyscale photo of her, drabbed proudly in serving attire, and a medal in her name.

Jean was initially broken by her death, and still to this day mourns the loss of his greatest friend and closest family member. At aged 15, he could barely make any sense of the loss, and neither could his father. Greater social pressures and the closing of Liege's welfare organisation hammered the final nail in the coffin, and the family became jobless. They sold their home and settled in a far smaller shelter. And, as the years of struggle passed, Jean became the target of a radicalised loyalist movement - The White Feather Callout.

Hundreds of disenfranchised mothers, wounded fathers and emboldened children roamed the streets at night, with extensive Darcsen community targeting, and planted symbolic feathers around the city. Cowards, it stood for, and the world wouldn't repay their fear. Even those afflicted by the horrors were still committed to the larger scale, pressuring thousands of men into accepting the conscription where resistance had begun to grow. Jean became the target of such, and even the name of Olivia was used by neighbours and shoppers to further drive him to it. And when his name was called by the authorities, he held out his palms and they took him out to become a soldier.

August, 1914EC. At 18 years of age, Jean was trained alongside a newer platoon of recruits. Driven by the shame his own neighbours had bestowed upon him, he forced himself to excel in training. Without the real war to hold him back, he made hand of leadership exercises and kept physically well; such commitment landed him a 'Lance Corporal' in-house promotion specifically for the platoon, as a few other standout recruits were given elevated start-ups. Come deployment, all soldiers were scrambled, and a newly given Darcsen Lance Corporal was sent to the 15th Atlantic Rifles to join them at the Garnian Salient. Jean, only having experienced a few weeks of the war's stagnation in the trenches, partook in his first major battle, a charge up Hill 58, which saw him survive and fill the boots of a dead Corporal. Greater, undeserved responsibility was placed on his shoulders, and he was left with the traumatic news of his parents' tragic deaths during a Liege Darcsen protest turned violent. With nothing to go back home to, Jean degraded as an individual.

He integrated poorly within his newfound platoon but eased into a few friendships. His stain of a declined mental state and confidence in life, without the assurance of anything back in Valois, took a toll on his ability to lead and garner the trust of his fellow soldiers, more so in his mind than anywhere else. Amalgamating to the Siege of Amone, his second great deployment, Jean saw fierce fighting in the open streets of a crumbling city. Brutal close-quarters engagements, the first deployment of gas and lightly armoured technical warfare sent him further down the rabbit hole, concluding in an attempt on his own life squandered by missing ammunition. Yet when he left the battle, victorious with his regiment, he tried to vow improvement upon himself. For a while, he distanced himself from his friends, only keeping in touch whenever necessary or provoked, and watched many of them take leave as the autumn came to an end. Jean refused the R&R, and remained on the frontline until it slowly began to numb his nerves.

---_{P O T E N T I A L S}

Weathered Soldier: Jean may not have served for the longest period of time - in fact his official military service started at the start of 1914 with extensive and gruelling training - yet the 15th Atlantic Regiment have been on the forefront of 1914's most brutal fighting. Hill 58 and Amone, and between the city siege and the winter of 1914, he's seen endless hours sat in sunken trenches, on sentry duty, and withstanding Imperial gas attacks across the frontier. All in all, Jean has allowed his somewhat grim worldview to solidify.

"The Darcsen Plight": As easily identifiable as any, Jean is a Darcsen. And though that lineage ties all the way back to their Gallian and Europan days of conquest, the world will never let him forget their disdain for his people. Whilst many sympathise, many others let their discontent be known. Thus, Jean is far more at ease around Darcsens like him than those around him - lest it damns his mind, he still maintains a balanced approach toward other walks of life.

The Writer against His Nation: Jean has grown to despise Valois and thus rejects the concepts of nationalistic values. His nation has done quite enough to stamp out his family's legacy, and now it holds his hands in bindings to fight for both survival and pride (with only one reflective in him). This is reflective in his most recent writing pieces, one of which had him temporarily punished. One day, he hopes to not make fame of his writing, but an audience in which to hear his pen.

Details of a Warman: One thing that hasn't disappeared is Jean's keen eye for the finest of changes around him. A few times has seen his eye catch the movement in the dirt, the creeping of an Imperial raiding party and the glint of a marksman's scope, sometimes giving him the best warning a man could get. Though it does assist the paranoia of endless war, it's kept him on his toes and quick-thinking when it was his neck in the noose.

---_{E Q U I P M E N T}

- SM-Longfield Mk. 3
- Rubette-Pistole
- Typically 2 Fragmentation Grenades
- Valois Service Bayonette
- Improvised Cogwheel Club
- Typical Webbing - Field dressings, gas mask, ammunition, binoculars etc.
- Volhynian Legionnaire's Cap
- A pack of cigarettes

---_{F A M I L Y}

- Helen Robin (Mother - Deceased)
- Herman Charpentier (Father - Deceased)
- Olivia Robin-Charpentier (Older Sister - KIA)

---_{R E L A T I O N S}

---

-A Template by Load Wraith

sorry yam this is my template mr anderson my template

[Jeep Wrangler]

---

Sidney Sharpe

---

___________________________________ Sidney Thomas Sharpe, 27 ________________________________________________________________________________________ Haddington, Scotland | Absolutely not from Delta City | ___________________________________ [+] ▼ E X T R A I N F O R M A T I O N ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► DOB - 22/09/1961 ► Height - 5'11" / 181cm ► Weight - 169 lbs / 77.8kg ► Hair Color - Blackish-Brown ► Eye Color - Amber ► Occupation - Freelance / Newspaper-leased Photographer ► Zodiac Sign - Virgo -

D E T A I L E D A P P E A R A N C E Sidney, or Sid, is quite a lean-looking individual. He's not a skeleton by any means but he hasn't the thickest of builds. It bothers him very little, he's of a healthy weight and has the energy in him to go at his job for hours on end. The energetic side of him isn't reflected in the somewhat lazily kept blackish-brown hair upon his scalp. But at the very least, he isn't the type to look too scruffy, fashion and natural features in mind. On the contrary, his facial hair at least seems pretty well-trimmed. On the topic of fashion, Sid has an affinity for very bland clothing. Plain drab button shirts, with a little single-colour jacket or the occasional coloured puffer vest, of which je promises it wasn't another Marty McFly-inspired sign of the times. No, he's quite adamant that he got there first. Other than that, his profession has never required anything more than presentable casual-wear. Sure, a tie for the occasional meeting with someone important, but a full-piece suit is a hard fit for his wardrobe. Occasionally, a more homely UK/European brand comes and goes on his apparel, but with the least-flashy clothes on the market, it can't exactly be that easy to tell the difference.

---_{P E R S O N A L I T Y}

If there's one thing certain about Sidney, it's that opportunism pays the bigger bills. The odd vacancy and uncertain income has made for a reluctantly adventurous individual, who - in dire times - is willing to plunge his photographic skills into different industries. Stress is all but natural to the job, but he persists with an energetic press onwards through life. He wouldn't describe himself as competitive, but if it means getting a second chance to keep at what he does, then it's not an entirely incorrect perception of his on-site work ethic. Then again, he does at least try to keep his ego far at bay, not that there's too much of it to begin with in the professional scene.

And what is he like outside of the Delta City Times cutthroat hours on capturing the next headline in film? Well, it's quite relaxed. He enjoys the sort of quiet moments when he can, but he was never impartial to the lively scene of Delta's music limelight, or even the lesser known street motorsports that make light on the rarity. Always a spectator, though. To be a participant can sometimes require a nudge and pinch from the odd acquaintance or friend, but it's never like he regrets it too much - so long as no harm comes to himself. Then again, he can't help but feel a little disheartened by his occasional financial struggles. The cheap apartment and bikeless motorcycle license keeps him in that needless desire to try and succeed. And with that comes friends, making the right and wrong calls on the people around him. He's an outsider by blood, for sure, but to maintain connections is always a point of interest. The odd cheek and jabs of a friendly lad has given the wrong impression before, but at least with his faded accent he doesn't suffer from communication efforts, allowing for him to socialise comfortably with others.

---_{L I K E S & D I S L I K E S}

---Likes:

► Some cheeky spectating
► Motorcycles
► Nature Walks
► Travelling
► Review Writing
► Night life
► Actually being able to afford rent

---Dislikes:

► Controlled environments
► City inaccessibility
► Those people who always start with "you have an accent, don't you?"
► Being static
► Cluttered spaces
► The god-forsaken heat
► Spicy foods
► Being unable to afford rent, again

---_{B I O G R A P H Y}

Come the age of boredom, birth and infancy. Sidney Thomas Sharpe was raised in the town of Haddington, over the pond, off to the East of the much more recognisable Edinburgh. Was a quiet life, so to speak. A mum from Hertfordshire, southern-english bred, and a father from the very town itself - all things were as sweet and sound as they could be. For the first half, he was just a boy who took to the streets after school to avoid the odd detention from the headmaster, but it wasn't until his family was gifted a 1972 Olympus OM-1 camera that the budding personality was caught between white still frames. At first it was just a nice techy-addition to the Sharpe's, but when his mother grew less protective of it four years later, Sid found himself able to sneak off away to capture all the moments he could, until the film ran out of course. It was a great commodity for the local area, and on the rare months when he got more film, be it on a blizzardly Christmas morning or family gathering, he became far more interested in capturing the aesthetics of the world, rather than just battling his mates for the cheesiest pose.

Sid's passion had come into full fruition by the age of sixteen; the blossom of all things characterised. The liberation of an enthusiastic parent at least guided his passion onward, and he kept the camera going, even so far as to scrounge together change for repairs if it lost its way, until the lifespan ended with his rather expensive venture: and off he went, in 1980, to the Melbourne Photography Studies College, all the way on the other side of the globe. To his luck, the career professions of his parents were enough to see him escape the stone homes of his lovely town to the most blistering heats he'd ever known. And there he studied, furthering his desire to be a photographer in the brutal game of life. He never quite achieved top of his class, but in witnessing Australia's prime photographers achieve respected awards, he grew to understand the grandiose potential of riding the tide to success.

He ended his education pretty anti-climactically, but it soon picked up when a fellow classmate, Roger, asked if he wanted to take the plunge towards the states for the opportunities of a lifetime: freelance photography in the cities of lights, skyscrapers and business. And that very decision took him to the gates of Delta City, where the at the bottom-life began. They rented out a criminally cheap apartment, not to say it was of much quality, and made their days' earnings by offering their services to small companies, assisting in advertisement campaigns and on the one occasion, a single submission to the Delta City Times. Now, Max eventually cut his losses after stringing himself up with the worse crowds available, and without so much of a word he hightailed it to another state, where whether he remained in country or not was a mystery. This left a now lonely Sidney to take on 1985 on his own, and though he suffered dearly, by 1986, he at least gave himself some security when he took on a job at the Delta City Times, one in which he was temporarily fired from until being rehired in 1987. It took him to the street races for photos on freelance duty, to the scenes of criminal aftermaths and before several celebrities, yet he felt the pressure of a high demand weigh him down. And without much of a trusting social circle, he set his eyes on a contingency plan should the Delta City Times drop him on another dime.

---_{S P E C I A L T A L E N T}

The Fly on the Wall: Time behind the camera can be a lonesome exercise. Sure you meet a lot of people, but he's never found the ones who stick around enough to become a part of his life, for better or for worse. At the least, he's a perceptive lad with a knack for artistic photographic detail. Maybe it's pretentious, yet he doesn't big himself up as being so.

---_{F A M I L Y}

► Benjamin Sharpe (Father - Passed Away in 1987)
► Herman Charpentier (Mother)

---_{R E L A T I O N S}

To be updated as RP develops

---_{F A V O U R I T E S O N G}

---_{C S 2 | P.I.S.}

Player Interaction Scale

Sitting around a nice, comfortable:

3.

---

-A Template by Load Wraith

About the Player:

► Age: 20
► Where in the world: England
► How many years writing/roleplaying: Nine years (I got an early start)
► How often can I post: Usually once or twice a week, but uni tends to fluctuate that availability a bit.
► Anything else: I'm a university student first and foremost, but I published a novel recently so that's fun. Do some music shindigs on the side, quite a lot of bass, bit of synth too.

sorry yam this is my template mr anderson my template

[Jeep Wrangler]

---

Vael'Ginis

_{На Заре}

---

___________________________________ Vael'Ginis vas Intervention nar Ceepal, 30 ________________________________________________________________________________________ Quarian | Ceepal, Migrant Fleet ___________________________________ [+] ▼ E X T R A I N F O R M A T I O N ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Birth - 2160 ► Height - 6'1" / 181cm ► Weight - 171 lbs / 78.8kg ► Hair Color - ??? ► Eye Color - White ► Classification - Combat Engineer ► Rank - Citadel Security Serviceman ► Sexuality - Heterosexual -

D E T A I L E D A P P E A R A N C E As with most Quarian, Vael isn't typically identified by their physical appearance, but by the suits they adorn. And with him stands a somewhat blander design on first glance. A once eccentric and colourful suit had since been replaced with something a lot duller in design. A thick crimson tone runs across his upper-torso and hood, made from thick, elasticated wraps. Where his individuality comes from is etched into the wraps themselves - a family pattern passed through several generations, sourced from an unfamiliar design on one's past pilgrimage, gives him his main sense of attachment to the suit he adorns. The vast majority of his suit is of a dark grey and black, with strips of dark olive drab headed down either side of his thighs to his heels. Two small semicircles sit on either side of his hip, coated in the same shade as his hood, which is then buried beneath another elasticated wrap that circumnavigates his waist. His visor blends in well enough with its brooding purple tone, washed out like the remnants of a long-passed regent. And beneath that purple shade lies the two white eyes that shine through, as well as a faint outline of the Quarian's face. As with most, he's done little to show his crew or previous servicemen much of what he looks like, with only a few proper exceptions in life.

---_{P E R S O N A L I T Y}

Once before, there was an adventurous and brash Quarian that had every incentive to go down the rabbit holes of danger to see what laid beneath the lights and sun-kissed plains of planet surfaces and ship decks. That was a while back. When one Vael'Ginis nar Ceepal found what was beneath the surface, something far more familiar to how he entered the SSV-Intervention came about. Vael is something of a blunt individual; he's got a sense of direction and sees to make it as minimally exciting as can be, though still has a deep-rooted willingness to peer ahead whilst he still can. He's cautious in a sense that he's thorough. Double checking, to triple checking. If he's made a system, he has also attempted to back it up several times. This anxiety disguises itself as a drive to do better and what he does, and has brought him a remarkable distance since his lowest hours in life, but at some point that sort of pressure mounts itself.

But as a conversationalist, he's been known to flipflop between the ease of a river's flow to that of a brick wall. There's always a slight reluctance to bring personal reasoning into everything he does, and he does his best to wave it off if he can. Still, his love for tinkering has put him in a place among the many of his ship. It's a fresh start from where he was before, and the countless new faces does bring itself the benefit of fading into the obscure crowds of nobodies, lest the ship's crew had their eyes on bringing out a lost Quarian sense of purpose. Then again, those who hadn't emerged from the Reaper Invasion with the mental scars to prove so were either cold, far gone or used to the horror that had besieged them.

---_{B I O G R A P H Y}

Early Life

Vael'Ginis nar Ceepal was born, of course, aboard the Migrant Fleet vessel known as the Ceepal, a small machinist ship that was among the most unremarkable in its ranks. His father was quite the hallmark example of a formal crewman. His skills in electrical engineering proved among the best for their far smaller and strangely designed flotilla vessel, and so it would have been only natural for the lessons of Vael's paternal tutor to be pushed onto him. At first, Vael was very compliant, taking immediate interest in the intricacies of VI management and shielding systems, both from the micro and personal levels all the way up to the ships barriers. But as with youth came a need to do all else with his life, and the pilgrimage was soon coming into place. Back then, he was far more adventurous and excited to see what laid beyond. He had heard stories of those who'd landed feet first into worlds unfit for the ship-borne Quarians, and those who'd came back with many stories to tell. Those excited him beyond comprehension. His father warned him to take more care in his practices and to find something more grounded to suit his needs, but Vael was all too keen to take what he'd learnt from his father into a dangerous place - that alone would've been worth the pilgrimage and would've given any fleet captain proof of his worth.

Pilgrimage

So, he found himself aboard many ships on his journeys beyond the fleet. At first it was a case of jumping between shipyards and orbital stations in search of work and direction. Unlike some of his Quarian friends who'd settled somewhere in order to find something concrete, Vael took interest in going as far down the rabbit hole as he could. He began by hitching rides with travelling merchant ships between systems, before he took a defacto job posting aboard a Turian diplomatic ship as an engineer, where he received his first security training. From there, he spent some time on the Citadel. Life was somewhat challenging aboard the infamous station, as it was for most Quarians who'd set foot there, but by tugging on the diplomat's cloak he managed to secure access onto the station. This however resulted in him living with relative scarcity, and he regularly made trouble for himself by attempting to gain access to maintenance areas forbidden to the public. Around this time he'd convinced himself that he wanted to be something of an infiltrator - or anything of similar adrenaline thrills, for at the very least it'd benefit the Migrant Fleet's peacekeeping operations.

His exploits on the Citadel were short-lived. Twice he found himself in front of C-SEC desks getting a stern telling off, with one including a fine, yet it eventually funnelled him into a bar one evening, which bumped him into Graham Siletto. The human male talked the night away with him, and he was introduced to the life of excavation. They were more of a small, privatised group that entered caverns suspected of containing Prothean artefacts and, more importantly, being commissioned to investigate events such as mine collapses and disasters. It was the perfect setup for Vael, as it gave him a somewhat honourable goal, but he soon became hooked on the thrill of it all. His practical knowledge of electrical engineering made him a solid asset to the small team of humans, asari, turian and a Salarian, of which he grew fond of. Cestal Azoma was quite the talented engineer, of which Vael made a strong attempt to learn from her machinist background. Engines and ground-based excavation technology soon became an additional passion for the young Quarian. However, the job postings soon became more and more dangerous.

Come late 2182, the team found themselves underprepared for an excavation dig no one could've made ready for. Though at the time it was without any seemed reason, a small collection of Geth were caught digging up for remains. A violent clash broke out and the group were forced to retreat out of the mine with half their numbers dead. Vael was, admittedly, a little shaken, but he tried to rally up his fear at the time to show the greater good for his fleet. He'd taken a single Geth arm and brought it with him back to the fleet, ending his pilgrimage with rapid disturbance. Soon, he was quarantined and questioned in private over the acquirement of the piece, and though he was at least saved from exile through the commendation of two admirals, his word was immediately put on lockdown. There was to be no spreading of Geth beyond the Perseus Veil, for they believed it would spread panic for what could've been an unorthodox case of rogue machines. Several months later, the Eden Prime War began.

Marceko Scout

At the turn of 2183, Vael had been accepted as an engineer aboard the Marceko, a patrol fleet that housed its own company of off-fleet scouts. He worked on the lower decks for the first half of his service, and he heard rumours of the Geth being spotted on Eden Prime - a human colony. Many engineers aboard the Marceko were offered alternative employment as scouts within the local Marine platoons, though few like Vael accepted the position. He felt as if there were more to be seen, more that needed experiencing and more that was kept behind lock and key. Vael's drive became more of an obsession. It was here that he received actual military training, and the at-the-time Vael'Ginis vas Marceko was sent in moderate secrecy to nearby systems, investigating leftovers of Geth presence. Once the Eden Prime war ended with the traumatic invasion of the Citadel by Sovereign, an event in which most Quarians missed out on, the inner anti-Geth sentiment that was all but natural for his kind brewed within Vael.

2184 saw the closing end of the Eden Prime War. The Alliance became reliant on patrol fleets and civilian ships to report Geth presence after the Battle of the Citadel. Vael's platoon was picked to partake in independent raids of their own, attempting to salvage some of the machinery themselves. Though the purpose was unknown, this was in part due to an opportunity for Admiral Daro'Xen vas Moreh to acquire tech to study with. Vael became rather delinquent in these times and had let his hatred for the Geth show in his actions. His attitude was better depicted in his brash change of outfitting, as extended raids upon planets gave him new assets to his clothing. The bulk of these publicised raids were over by mid-2184, but these continued on in private after the Alliance deemed the threat neutralised. Quarian desires to ensure there were next to no holdouts led to a heavy commitment to eradication. Often at times, Vael argued with his superiors, who shared vested interest in gathering Geth technology for study.

By 2185, the Collector issue began to rise, and an increasing number of Geth holdouts found in large numbers led to a struggled uphill battle between the creators and their lost servants. Vael's view of peaking under the blankets and descending down into the dangers of the galaxy began to be peeled from his body at this point, though he was still steadfast in being the first scout to take note of and study holdout electrical defences. His platoon had minimal involvement in the Collectors' scourge of human colonies however there was once an exchange of fire between a Cerberus reconnaissance team and Vael's platoon. It would be the only time Vael had ever been fired upon by the human organisation.

Of course, a terrible crisis struck the Migrant Fleet in 2185. The Alarei went dark, and the ship had been compromised from within by Geth brought to Admiral Rael'Zorah vas Alarei. Whilst a treason court case was managed within the Migrant Fleet, several squads of Quarian Marines attempted to board the ship, but were always repelled or slaughtered. Vael saw friends enter the shuttle and never make it back on the return journey. It wasn't until an infamous human Commander stepped in and solved the situation that the crisis was put to rest and the trial sorted, however the scout found great distress from the real prospect of Geth intrusion.

The Reaper Invasion / Battle for Rannoch

After the Alarei Incident, and the acquittal of the Admiral's daughter, Vael's hatred turned to dangerous obsession once more. He put himself forward for every mission his platoon was offered. Geth raids became ever the more frequent, and talks of build up toward a war for Rannoch were soon felt on the whispers aboard the fleet. He found himself landing on planets and stations once never visited, and was placed on extended operations with the task of rooting out Geth resistance. Many believed at the time they were dealing with the remnant to their enemy, but it was during 2186 when that belief came to a screeching halt.

Vael found himself on a raid when the hour struck: and like a swarm in the sky, three Reaper vessels descended to the surface of a city. The Quarian team had heard news of a Geth hideout beneath the urban surface, but they were soon plunged into a terrible state of survival. It took them an hour to get offworld and to leave the system in haste, back to the Migrant Fleet, but the shock and awe of the Reaper scourge shook Vael. The following invasion of Rannoch then mounted on the pressures toward him, who went through the motions of grief, trauma, denial, hatred and ended on a sense of misdirection. The first hour he set foot on Rannoch was a memory he thought he'd enjoy, but it was spent under a hail of gunfire with Quarian soldiers caught under hellfire. His home ship, the Ceepal, was lost to Geth fighters in the battle. Eventually, the war ended with the majority of the Geth being killed by coordinated fleet fire. The prodigal Human Commander destroyed the Reaper on the planet's surface with the help of the Heavy Fleet, and so the Creator-Geth War ended in what should've been a triumph. Vael felt a strong emptiness afterward, and struggled immensely with the cost of familiar life.

During the Battle for Earth, Vael's platoon was sent instead to Mars in a joint-operation with Turians to seize Reaper harvesting plants that had since been moved from earth, more as a distracting or crippling blow to the planet's presence if the Battle for Earth failed. Then again, with the amassing of the Crucible and the largest armada known to the Galaxy, failure was almost an assurance of death. When the Crucible fired, Vael's platoon had been surrounded and cut down to but five members, caught in a desperate last stand against Husks and Marauders. But something on Earth had gone correctly, and the guns fell silent. The Reapers dropped dead to the ground, and the war seemed to be over.

Post-Reaper Life

Having been with the vast fleet in the Sol System, the Mass Effect Relays were most in a damaged state across the Galaxy. With the combined efforts of all those still within Sol and its neighbouring systems, the human Mass Effect relay was soon in a state of moderate operation a month later, leading to the gradual return back to the Citadel. Along the way, several members of the Migrant Fleet's occupants drifted away whilst many made the arduous journey back to Rannoch. Vael couldn't bear the pressure of all he'd been through and irrationally decided to stop by the Citadel, where he watched his surviving fleet limp back home. Many Quarians made refuge and life on the Citadel as well, but the vast majority still went back to experience their recaptured home.

Two years after the Reaper Invasion, Vael went from civilian work as an electrical engineer back into armed service in the newly formed Citadel Security Fleet. He'd spend much of his civilian life in the already overloaded therapy clinics for post-traumatic stress disorder, but he was deemed fit and untroubled enough to fit the already stretched restrictions in returning to service. He underwent additional training and mainly spent his time on small research stations posed as a guard, before he was given a transfer recommendation toward the SSV-Intervention, a new ship in the line of the Citadel's Peacekeeping Doctrine, inspired by Shepard himself. The SSV-Intervention was still in its trial phase, but that landed him among the second wave of crew to join under Captain Te'yany Janniius, the somewhat mysterious Captain at its head. He decided to stick with the ship in its final moments before deployment, landing him as an official member of the crew.

---_{P O W E R S}

Overload: An electrostatic discharge set upon a chosen target. An engineer's favourites upon shields and synthetics, as well as doubling up as a way to damage equipment.

Sentry Turret: A small and autonomous sentry turret that can be deployed nearby. Mostly needs replacement if destroyed, but equipped to chip away and suppress opponents. Ideal for chokeholds. Can be equipped with an upgraded flame variant, though those are limited in numbers.

Energy Drain: Though primarily for draining shields and reimbursing his own, Vael finds this to be more useful as a means to do his standard engineering job. It is rudimentary as it wasn't its intended design purpose, but on the fly transfer of energy from one machine to another in quick succession is a sort of layman's side-gig for the tool.

---_{E Q U I P M E N T}

- N7 Hurricane
- M3 Predator
- Arc Grenades
- Suit-integrated Bandolier for Thermal Clips
- Reconnaissance module (zoom enhancement) for Suit Visor
- The Beloved Omnitool that every Tom, Dick and Harry has

---_{F A M I L Y}

- Rai'Ginis vas Ceepal [Father - Deceased]
- Kalash'Tala vas Ceepal [Mother - Alive]

---_{R E L A T I O N S}

To be expanded

Te'yany Janniius

The SSV-Intervention's Captain has conversed with Vael on multiple occasions. He was among the second wave of crew to join the ship during its testing trials, with the first wave simply being the leadership key figures and skeleton crew at its bare minimum. The two talked mostly on professional terms, as most had with the Captain, however he was once called into the Operations Room during trials. He claims it wasn't for anything major, but hasn't spoken about it since leaving. They seem on relative terms but the now cautious Quarian has his worries and doubts.

---

-A Template by Load Wraith

[Jeep Wrangler]

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Toda Ujiteru

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___________________________________ Toda Ujiteru, 34 ________________________________________________________________________________________ Regito, South Osha | Oshan ___________________________________ [+] ▼ E X T R A I N F O R M A T I O N ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Y.O.B - 1462 ► Height - 5'10" / 178cm ► Weight - 179 lbs / 81.2kg ► Hair Colour - Blonde ► Eye Colour - Blue ► Class - Swordmaster ► Company Role - Sergeant-At-Arms ► Previous Occupation - Retainer -

D E T A I L E D A P P E A R A N C E One Toda Ujiteru has quite the build. Though not nearly as imposing and stocky as some of his mercenary counterparts, there's still quite a lot of meat on the bone from his 179lbs of muscle. However, such a below-peak stature has worked more favourably with his persistent fighting style. Of course, the blonde hair and blue eyes of the ex-Retainer were once a stand out feature in his home town, but as his travels have since taken over his life the features have simply faded into that of a normal travelling man. Surrounding his chin and mouth is the darker-toned beard that, whilst quite thin, does give that additional gristle to a somewhat stoic natural expression. And the dangerous life of Oshan political servitude has brought his face and torso with a few notable scars, with one prominent one located down his thigh. He is something of a rag-tagged traditionalist when it comes to his usual sense of fashion. The life of a mercenary is one of convenience to a state of affairs, and so he has made little effort to abandon the attires of which he brought and maintains with him. Outside of combat, he typically wears a faded and lacking-in-beauty robe, with lighter toned shirts beneath them. Though, that's mostly for other climates, the true homely attire comes when he stacks it with layers upon layers of scarfs to match the mountains and reaches of his homeland. But most definitely, his combat attire and armour remains the most familiar. A scuffed and largely unceremonious set of light, flexible retainer armour hailed from Osha, also padded out with warmer sets of clothing.

---_{P E R S O N A L I T Y}

Outside the hours of combat and work, there lives a sort of mixed-bag of moods. He's professional in most senses, but that hasn't stopped him from easing up around the mercenaries around him. It's a trait he's carried with him for a while, that business-like sense, but the business of a Retainer often gave him ample opportunity to speak out. His reservations are loosely kept if he feels strongly otherwise and has, in the past, been outspoken towards a few contracts and group performances in debriefs. But the hardened side is easily let loose when the mood calls for it. There's benefit to being able to unwind, to drink and to sing in the hours of success, but unless the individual has prompted him with a topic far less serious than that of the Company's functionality, he remains staunch on his approaches to most on-the-job scenarios.

Alternatively, as previously mentioned, there is a side of relaxation. Some may have called him a bore for his love of reading, and the occasional pastime of painting when the days are set to be long and eventless, but he persists, for the decorations bring out a new set of life and, in some swindles, profit. But he's a mercenary, and mercenaries aren't known for being entirely quiet. The rowdiness can persist to levels of his companions, but in dangerous scenarios, it's with focused eyes that he remains calculated and quick on his feet. As such, there's a small aspect of deviance as to why he bands with such mercenaries.

---_{B I O G R A P H Y}

The Life of Toda Ujiteru

Osha's brilliance stemmed from what many considered to be its thriving place on the continent. Trade was guaranteed in most large towns, and down in the south, by the waters of the coast, but a few notable ports were hosts to trade, influential business meetings and, more importantly, the diplomacies that occurred outside of Queen Ilha Fujuri's earshot. It was almost the perfect setting for a young Toda Ujiteru to thrive. Born to a merchant family, Toda instead took inspiration from a local teacher - his uncle, Toda Iemochi. Unlike his father, his uncle had taken the fruitful life of a Retainer, heavily leaning into political protection and a life of graceful defence. And, as most fighting men do, he went against the wishes of his family and fell under his Uncle's tutelage, where he began his specialisation of blades and swords. But of course, the training life of a Retainer came with the skills of reservation, diplomatic insight and the loyalty instilled within those they serve, so long as the price remains right.

At age seventeen, a young Toda Ujiteru emerged as a secondary Retainer beneath his uncle, who in turn answered to a local Lord, Bito Nobusane. Banditry could be an occasional problem the further north tradesmen went, and in the mountains lurked many threats to the personal gains of lords across the South. Bito Nobusane's influence, however, resided within those mountains, and he saw fit to barter and disrupt the schemes of vultures on high rocks. The Lord himself attended many of the diplomatic meetings with his Retainers, and Toda Ujiteru learned greatly of the weaponised tongue. Stoicism in an approach, whilst not always successful, led to prominent influence, and the earliest teachings of politics within Osha surfaced. However, the Lord's efforts were mostly in vein, and skirmishes between his hired forces and the bandits were frequent, allowing the younger Retainer to spend two years honing his skills.

He became enamoured with a pride that came from Osha's rich landscapes. The markets that sold, bought and expanded profits throughout the towns became something to protect, rather than something to crack down upon, bar illegal sales, but as his role became less caught in the conflicts of interests with banditry, he fell further into the knowledge of wider influences.

He never saw himself as anything other than a Retainer for his life, as his Uncle had done so for the entirety of his, but it was when a supposed shipwreck victim was placed in Nobusane's holding cell that he was indirectly faced with a future employment opportunity. The Kitsune washup went through standard procedures, and Toda Ujiteru was given ample opportunity in the day she spent in holding to question her. In talks about their lives, he suggested that she were to turn to mercenary work, so long as her work never brought her within Osha's borders - unless she were under their contract. This conversation instilled the mercenary life within his mind, though always at the back, as he soon became bogged down with the politics of Osha.

There weren't many who paid much attention to the flow of diplomats and reaches of foreign superpowers. Many Oshans remained unbothered by the greater meddling of Nohr and the far closer Hoshido Empires. But when Toda was twenty-five, Lord Nobusane was murdered after he became very vocal over portside diplomatic dealings. It was as he lobbied for Lords and Ladies, even the Queen herself, to begin vetting the claims of legitimate undermining from, particularly, Hoshidan political figures. Of course, the desire to stray further and further from the Solar Throne painted a great target against the culturally similar, yet far removed society that Osha boasted, and the Gulf it primarily traded through was a thriving hotspot of convenience for all nations that held prominence there. Nobusane's murder was discovered to have been done by Toda's uncle, a man who'd been bought out and - from the younger Retainer's point of view - had become disillusioned with ideas of sphering creating prospective growth at the cost of an independent culture.

Toda was shortly whiplashed into subtle, quiet and largely unseen political rivalry. Lords and Ladies feuded in secret, mostly beneath the Queen's nose, to better gain a foothold in what exploded into a cesspool of futures for Osha and its throne. It was during these times when, after months of drifting and switching Lords, Toda Ujiteru fell under the servitude of one Lady Naitou, an eccentric sleuth who seemed more mysteriously driven to retain Osha's complete independence. However, her methods were bolder, typically making chess pieces out of her contacts, and though he remained as her Retainer for a year longer, she soon convinced him to assist the cause beyond Osha's borders. He was given no direction, only a few contacts to begin life as a Mercenary, sacrificing the Retainer life for what she saw was a mean to an end. And through a few pulled strings, Toda Ujiteru arrived at the amassed Silver Hawks as a forgettable addition to their ranks.

And slowly, over time, he felt his distance from his homeland show as he grew attached to the band in which he'd been given to. He still heard from Lady Naitou, through small and subtle means, and still retains a sense of attachment to her, though his options and knowledge of where he sits has grown so muddied that the Silver Hawks themselves have become a home for him. It was only recently, however, with the ascension of a familiar Kitsune that Toda Ujiteru was pulled into a state of importance, as the Sergeant-At-Arms, in what was to be an uncertain future for the Mercenaries.

---_{S K I L L S}

Light-footed: Paired with great stamina and quick-thinking, Toda maintains his combat style with speed to greatly empower his sharpened strikes against opponents. And though his armour is durable, its comparably flexible to opposing platemail armour sets that rely far more on taking hits than avoiding them.

Man of the Arts: Aforementioned was his interest in painting and, on a lesser known scale, singing. Between the violent life of mercenary work and the brash splendours of inter-battle life throughout the Silver Hawks, the hours that be equally spent working on visual or aural crafts help to hone the stress-less attitude towards his position of responsibility.

The Virtue of Patience: A benefit of being a retainer before a mercenary was that the expectations of lucrative results were tendered and brought down to reality. To him, there was no gold in rushing into the silver mine.

Hands covered in Dirt: Though ultimately locked to an ideal, he remains unafraid to paint his hands in dirt and blood, should it be for a purpose. Senselessness may be his enemy, however he knows that cleanliness requires the removal of grime, and one can only do so without impunity.

---_{W E A P O N S}

► Tang Dao - Styled Sword
► Smaller Wakizashi

---_{R E L A T I O N S}

To be updated as RP develops

---_{T R I V I A}

► Immaterialist, exemptions from traditional items
► Stores a few of his artworks in a kitbag
► Voice rather gruff, but easily understandable
► A bit of a returnable flirt
► A bit too caring for his swords

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-A Template by Load Wraith

[Jeep Wrangler]

Conrad Louis-Callaghan

C O N R A D
C O N R A D

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^{_{"Trust issues in this line of work should be inevitable."}}

//C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T //C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T //C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y //C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y Conrad Louis-Callaghan _________________________________________________________ 35 | ♂ | Bisexual _________________________________________________________ Single - Widower | Solo | Afterlife Merc / Ex-NetWatch //P H Y S I C A L P R O F I L E //P H Y S I C A L P R O F I L E [+] ▼ P H Y S I C A L T R A I T S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Build - Athletic, average build, tall ► Ethnicity - White-European ► Hair Colour - Black ► Eye Colour - Faded Blue ► Other - Old, small burn mark on right cheek, small blunt-force-trauma scarring on back and blade scar on left shoulder. - //C H A R A C T E R N O T E S //C H A R A C T E R N O T E S [+] ▼ K N O W N A S S O C I A T E S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Elyse Louis-Callaghan - Conrad's younger sister, and only living family member. She works at a small electronics store in Westbrook. ► Norman Reiner - An old NetWatch agent, still within the group. Sometimes fixed Conrad up with Merc work or assisted in netrunner-based jobs. ▼ C H A R A C T E R I T E M S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Constitutional Arms Liberty (Expensive) - A robust 12-round, semi-automatic handgun. Conrad's choice of carry, typically tucked in an underarm holster. ► Militech M221 Saratoga (Basic) - A famous, albeit common, submachine gun. A reliable fire rate saved for jobs that require more firepower. Not for concealed carry. ► NetWatch NetDriver Mk. 4 (CorpSpec) - Although considered CorpSpec, this out of date cyberdeck of the far more powerful NetWatch NetDriver Mk. 5 in current use holds its own as a comparably useful Merc tool. Installed w/ Cyberware Malfunction, Breach Protocol, Short-Circuit and Ping ► Tire Iron (Basic) - A reliably shaped club for desperate beatdowns. Good for incapacitation, but can typically be fatal. ► Old Ballistic Vest (Basic) - A hand-me-down of sorts. Wearable under and above shirts, but does a better job at withstanding blunt-force than stopping anything high-calibre. Once stopped a pistol bullet - once... ▼ S K I L L S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► NetWatch Trained - Having served NetWatch for just over a decade, necessary skills surrounding the Net and Quickhacks are part and parcel with the portfolio. ► Dexterous Hand - NetWatch typically required fast hands to make for quick work. Another quick trick he learned was his way around handguns above all other forms of weaponry, being a personal favourite for concealment and reliability. ► Negotiator - Though he lacks the spirit of his happier days, he still knows that words and bargains can make for bloodless reward. Handy for fixer negotiation, job offers and anything that can bring out an extra Eddie or two. A lack of trust, however, is always at odds with this, and can combat it when he needs it the most. -

//C H A R A C T E R H I S T O R Y //C H A R A C T E R H I S T O R Y Conrad Louis-Callaghan's heritage was all over the place, but concentrated from two nations in particular: North America and Western Europe, most likely France. Early on in life, he lived an almost anti-nomad lifestyle, in that his family were constantly on the move, but were never attached to a clan or an sorts during such times. He was the eldest of two children, the other being his sister Elyse, and despite financial hardships, his mother and father retained a healthy relationship. Wherever in France he was born, a few months later they'd left, and such an early detachment from any sort of land had set a precedent for what constituted as a home for the young boy. Back then, a home was the people he could be surrounded by. Nowadays, Conrad's view has warped. At age sixteen, his family finally found a place to stop running. Night City - City of Dreams. Such an ever-enticing slogan. Life was difficult at first but a sudden boom in financial stability for the family landed them with the first real apartment they'd had in years. His mother went on to work as a Doll on the opposite side of the city and his father distanced himself with work under the radar. Ironically, family settlement was what tore the family in two. Elyse kept close tabs on Conrad as he fell in and out of small street life, working odd-jobs, such as an important step at a cyberware store. After he was fired at age nineteen, he swiped a cyberdeck and fell into bad blood with the owner, who in turn made do with a partnered netrunner to financially ruin and disrupt the family in which he hailed from. Things spiralled out of control a little. Conrad's father took to pursuing the netrunner and booked himself a body bag. It was only when NetWatch picked up on the week-long spree when they came across Conrad, who was halfway on his trip to foolishly go after the netrunner through The Net. Though NetWatch did the work, the Agent on call - one Najee Chabani - saw to help alleviate the family's financial collapse. He offered Conrad a job and training under NetWatch, arguing that his desire to go after the netrunner was full of all the spunk and drive of an Agent, just without the necessary skills. Conrad agreed fairly quickly and soon detached his life from Elyse and his mother. Conrad spent years working his way up as a trainee to certifiable Agent. Along the way, he fell in love in a volatile working environment. Beatriz Soria - another NetWatch Agent stationed near his regular beat. Her job was centred around Blackwall protection. Of course, the height-of-his-life Conrad and her hit off rather well, and five years later, they were married. All romance, probably the best and only great thing he could think of happening in Night City besides the stable yet dangerous career path he'd taken. But, two years into their marriage, the cold hand of NetWatch espionage played its deck. Beatriz began working with the Voodoo Boys in breaching the Blackwall. A two week game of cat and mouse ensued, and eventually Conrad reached her before the assigned agent in pursuit. He was still caught in the belief that she could be reasoned with. Yet, despite their time together, her beliefs were too steadfast, and in violent confusion, a gunfight broke out. Seconds later, Beatriz was dead. Conrad's life soon spiralled downward. In 2074, Conrad left NetWatch two months after Beatriz's death. He fell into a long-felt depression. His home, the one he dedicated to be around, had done everything behind his back, and it edged him into a dark place. For two years, he became addicted to Glitter, and spent the first year stumbling around in brood. It wasn't until his mother died of a drug overdose in 2076 that he was hit with a sensory restart. In eight months, he'd been funded by Elyse to get off of Glitter and to seek employment. Another month later, he discovered of his father's actual line of work as a Solo Merc in Night City, albeit an ill-fated one. Without too much money to his name, he made his dive just before the turn of 2077, with his skills as an ex-NetWatch employee to bolster his porftolio. Unfortunately, it's seemed that, even still, he never really healed from the scars of Beatriz. //D E T A I L E D A P P E A R A N C E //D E T A I L E D A P P E A R A N C E Back in his prime, there was a lot more professionalism, and arguably more Merc, to the look of Conrad. But the last few years had their toll on the man. Longer, shaggier hair now coats his skull and neatly organised stubble has been replaced with a less-stylised moustache and beard. The smoothness to his face has been doused in rugged coarseness. And worst of all, the life in his eyes has dimmed and dulled in the face of struggle. Thus, he appears to be a brooding individual, one who sometimes comes across as uncaring, both in attitude and appearance, but to those who garner more than a minute with him, the looks often can seem deceiving. Fashion was never a big game, even before his downward spiral. Corporate business wear was replaced by long coats, practical sets of cargo trousers, jackets and plain button shirts to hook holsters underneath his arms. He never stands out for anything, though he does still own a business suit, just in case. If any is provided, he clenches on to the NetWatch setup of putting protective vests underneath his main shirt, though they're more for assurance and second-chances than anything else. Cybernetically, the somewhat well-built Conrad is surprisingly bare for most NetWatch agents. Apart from a barely functional Ballistic Coprocessor - which itself acts more as plating on his hand than its original intended function - his pride and joy comes from an out of date NetWatch NetDriver Mk. 4; a heft downgrade from what NetWatch runs presently but on par with competitive Mercs. Other than that, he's only managed to remain mostly barebones on enhanced cybernetics that are beyond netrunning, for the cost was always just out of reach. //P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) //P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) Conrad Louis-Callaghan is your man who'd risen from hardship, only to go crashing back down. Trust and personal connections are the mainstay of his contribution to the cast, whilst also adding the ex-Corp layers of connections that come of use to a Merc. The betrayal and death of his wife is still a very real trauma that haunts him, and his side-gigs may involve him investigating more and more into the remnant mess of the Voodoo Boys, of whom were supposedly ransacked at the turn of the year. However, his main function among the sea of Mercs is finding personal meaning left in life and reviving the once told motto of his family: Home is those in which you are with. It's a lot more reserved in terms of the grand scale of the city, being more of a micro-personal journey to recovery through those he may end up working with, or the very real and potential threat of slipping further down the rabbit hole as the Merc life eats him up. Incidentally, another potential side-gig would be figuring out as an individual what he believes in. NetWatch was his life, but once out, there's a gaping hole left in ones life. As a Merc, should he still do what he did before, or should he detach himself completely until he can build a new Conrad, one who's defined not by the badge he wore but the marks he leaves in the Merc Life, and for the impacts he makes on others he may grow to love, hate or collaborate with.

[Jeep Wrangler]

---

Vhi T'ourjus

	Vhi T'ourjus 'The Interceptor' 5'5" | 59kg | 26 Years | Confederate Clique Birthplace: Presumably Carlac Mirialan | Mandalorian

Profile

---

Appearance

A Mandalorian's Clothing

Vhi's differences as a Mirialan aren't too apparent - her skin, though decorated by ink of a meaning even she, herself, isn't sure of, remains the typical emerald green, whilst her hair is at a shortened, jet black style. It sat more comfortably under the helmet that way. She falls short of 5'6" by a hair's length. And to contrast her skin was her bright, blue eyes, easily the most delicate part of her lesser-kept appearance. Though, of course, her most notable asset is the famous - or equally infamous, depending on the associate - attire of the Mandalorian. The armour itself is pretty light, with only the chest, pauldrons, bracers and helmet being made from duraplast. The rest remains as akin to a flight suit, colour-toned to accompany her sacramento-green armour. It's main ideal purpose is to support the great flexibility of any Mirialan, though in actuality, it better reflects her shortcomings as a Mandalorian and fighter.

Personality

Steadfast is the ideal state in which she'd have settled for. Yet reality often proves difficult and, in some ways, degrading as recurring trends came through. Though not necessarily chipper-and-cheery all in all, she tries to maintain the headstrong icon she had set out to be. She initially maintains the professionalism as such, but has the ease of letting loose from a life left to difficult circumstances for any Mandalorian in training. However, she's been prone to misjudge and miscalculate to a fault when in roles requiring her boots firmly on the ground. Yet comfort is derived from the seat of any interceptor she knows well. Inside, she becomes a different person - calm. Collected. Insistent on achieving something before withdrawal. Something can be said about Vhi as a person, face-to-face, but to the Confederate Cliché, the seat of a star-interceptor has made her worth keeping around.

---

Ship

Previously, her skills as a pilot were honed from whatever was provided to her. Most of these were cheap and sometimes inefficient spacecraft that could only be used in rapid strikes against patrol squadrons of the Republic, but on the right occasion, she'd be gifted something that could dive into the grime of a true space battle. Currently, she flies an M3-A Scyk Interceptor, in its second styling. Its additional prongs allow it to function much better in-atmosphere than the common first style. Typically, it's armed with twin-laser cannons and a quad-proton torpedo launcher, though the latter can be swapped out for six concussion missiles.

---

Biography

Vhi T'ourjus was, supposedly, born on Carlac - a cold planet out in the far reaches of the galaxy. Her mother had died during childbirth and, though quick to keep on the move, her father was left to care for her. She never really knew what he did as a job, but after a childhood of back and forth between planets, they rested once more on Carlac at around a time when, far off into the snowscapes of the planet, a ship crashed - having been shot down by a Galactic Republic pursuit party. Among the crew of four, two survived. One of these was one Kalis Sallarah - one of the legendary mandalorians that were whispered on passing mouths in small communities. Her armour was, even when scratched, the greatest sight Vhi had ever witness to. It brought out a maternal prowess in which she'd never experienced.

After some brief introductions, her father willingly offered to give them asylum as the same pursuing force made touchdown on Carlac. Though her father knew why, Vhi had been too young to ever comprehend why Kalis and her surviving compatriot had warranted the attention of a small Republic taskforce. Such a few months had come around that Kalis' biases on galactic politics had started to trickle down onto the young Mirialan. Eventually, the risks of such mutual protection blossomed. Republican pursuers caught up to them. A standoff ensued. Four were left dead, including her father.

Life shifted rapidly. She was still young and unable to care for herself. As a token of gratitude for their cooperation, Kalis adopted the young Mirialan and led her on the path to adopting the Mandalorian culture. With such little ties to the spiritual nature of her people, and in such a dire need for maternity, it was agreed upon with flying interest and grievance for her father. Yet that life was no happy redemption. Truth be told, Vhi struggled to keep up with the demands of a mandalorian warrior. Though agile, her capabilities in hand to hand combat, or with any weapon, were rather short-sighted. Commonly enough, and arguably without any loving support, Kalis admitted little patience for her shortcomings. Years passed, and by the age of seventeen, when she'd received her helmet and chestpiece of duraplast armour, her nomadic life continued when Kalis and her partner inexplicitly abandoned her. No word or trace came of them. The message was clear. Whoever they were, they'd felt nothing but disappointment in her.

Life took a turbulent turn. She contemplated what it meant to be a mandalorian, a question still left unanswered to the current date, but she kept her armour and stayed true to the meaning of its colours - duty. She vowed to dedicate what she could to honing a craft never perfected - that of a warrior. She coasted between passing by bands of mandalorian warriors, from time to time, occasionally trying for mercenary work, but her shortcomings with blasters and the such left so much to be desired of her. Yet life's other consequential disasters had other plans.

The Confederacy of Independent Systems had risen up. The burrowed in dissatisfaction with all that the Republic and Jedi Order represented left a somewhat desperate Vhi to sign up, training as a pilot, for she'd made use of several cargo vessels herself in her nomadic state. The CIS found use for her agility and, remarkably, staunch concentration when in the seat of a starship, and she quickly shifted into interception. This new life of hers, donned in her mandalorian armour, left her with little time to actually practice what she had fallen short of. Her insecurities were never amended and, when the eventual collapse of the Republic and rise of the Empire came through, she'd been left a young adult without any strong sense of whether she was truly a mandalorian or not. But as a new dawning war arose, one thing was for sure: she'd maintain her ties as a confederate interceptor pilot. After all, they did sponsor and buy her pauldrons and bracers in thanks for her successes and exploits as a pilot.

---

Skills & Weaknesses

Firstly, her talent as an interceptor pilot is undeniable. Though not the best, her comfort in the seat of such craft and agile nature has made her a notable addition to the surviving CIS forces, especially when many of her contemporaries had grown misfortunate in the overpowering rise of the Galactic Empire. Her affinity for boundary-breaking manoeuvres and, if possible, use of local obstructions, such as asteroids, debris, or in-atmosphere terrain, allows for her to shake off and keep track of opposing ships long enough to survive as long as she had - though the Empire itself opens a seemingly impossible task for anyone like her.

She's a bohemian pilot, so to speak, and as battles or exercises tend to become hastily thrown together, adaptation is a well-received trait of hers. Squadrons in the CIS were used to breaking rank, especially if integrated with the previously amassed droid armies and navies. Any pilot like her has to be self-reliant, and capable of reading a space battle where communications may turn sour. Alternatively, she knows when to bug out and quit a fight, or a dead soldier can be replaced, but a dead pilot will forever be a lost figure.

Yet her weaknesses stand true and high. Her life has been riddled with the disappointing standards of her fighting capability. Mandalorians have the conventional status of warriors, regardless of their roles. She never became something like that. Her hand to hand ability can't be relied on and her usefulness with a blaster is only limited to that of her single pistol, and both skills have been regarded as "barely enough to survive an encounter". Such setbacks have disappointed smaller Mandalorian bands she'd passed.

Equally, comes the confidence that is shattered in such cases. She doesn't control a foot battle, or a duel with her opponent, she quite literally crawls at her situation for survival. Her agility may have well been the only thing to keep her alive, but outside of the cockpit, she struggles to maintain any sense of calm and quality. She maintains a strong drive to practice and hone her skills, but they've never come into fruition in a life of leaving others disatisfied.

Equipment

---

Alongside her mandalorian armour, she has a single, slightly short-barrelled RG-4D Blaster Pistol. Additionally, a commlink is attached to the side of her helmet, and her holsters hold a vibroknife, commonly used for service rather than combat. Her apparel also comes with attachment slots for piloting survivability gear, such as temporary oxygen support and suit pressurisation.

---

[Jeep Wrangler]

Vael

_______________________________________________ Personal Data D A T A Full Name - Vael - Previously: Vael'Ginis vas Lestiak Designation - Socket Species - Quarian Age - 31 (b. 2152) Origin - Shellen, Migrant Fleet Classification - Engineer Unique Specialization - Quarian Electrical Mechanist - Psyche Analysis P S Y C H E That itch... By all measures, Vael meant well in his studies. In times of crisis, stagnation and in the death of progress, the unorthodox play their decks. For Vael, this retains itself in the itch - the small scab on his skin that needs to be picked. Technology is the wayward path. And thinkers tend to pursue until disproven. When circuits can make ends meet, even if by theory, that encompassing desire often fails to keep itself at bay, and he yearns to pry apart, and to remanufacture, whatever may prove useful. The Deep Roots of Shame No matter how else he could justify such thins in his mind, his actions and his circumstances, those aware and willing to exploit the shame that comes with exile from the Migrant Fleet may find both ease and a rabbit hole to fall down. Either he wipes it in the new life, or forever chases bygone time. The Agitated By all means, the path he walked was never the planned route. His boots are stained with the soil of countless worlds he never wanted to go to, and have muddied the corridors of several ships he should not have known existed. Life's slaloms weigh down on the pressure a Quarian like Vael may have felt. He knows there is a better life, and as such, his social fuse can fall short in stressful overtures. Whether that becomes reliance on others, or solitude, the varieties are often centred on who else he joins on perilous voyages. Equipment E Q U I P M E N T M-3 Predator There is no needed introduction to the M-3 Predator. Since his exile, it became a lot easier to get his hands on something rather plentiful in maintenance. It's a robust, hard hitting heavy-pistol, but far lighter and moderate than its far more specialised counterparts. Why, he considers it his primary choice of weapon. Vael is one of pistol preference, fancying a lighter build and display of electrical finesse. M-9 Tempest The Tempest is a particularly high fire-rate submachine gun, evocative of a closely administered fighting style. Though sour at long range engagements, the weapon boasts a respectable volume of fire for a lightweight package. Though the Predator takes Vael's fancy, there is never a time where a handgun may fall short in its dependency. ARC Grenades Voltage is the companion to the electrician. Where fragmentation grenades are often reliable, most beings carry shields, electronics and have hard-wired systems in their ships. What brute force may do, so might the high voltage zap of an electrical, handheld explosive. Record R E C O R D Vael's Pilgrimage As part of his pilgrimage, Vael had found his adept love for technology beyond the keen interest of youth. Why it was of note was that he was there to witness the first-hand bite of the Geth, where with a four man team, to which himself and only one another survived, he showed capability in technological study and warfare. Exile from the Migrant Fleet Vael's ventures into Geth technology brought many eyes upon his work. Studying and tearing them apart at the seems, often without official lab support, raised further suspicion, which resulted in a scout vessel - the Olarik - to be lost to an awakened Geth unit. Accusations flung of sabotage, and quietly into the night was he exiled, with the Admirals of the Fleet surely hoping to not only prevent any repeated mistake, but to also shy away any knowledge of the Geth having been amongst the fleet at all - even if it were only one. Nothing like that could ever happen again. The Merc-Mech Throwdown Often a story for loose lips, this skirmish was as part of Vael's hired contract somewhat early in his nomadic career. Two mercenary groups had turned violently against one another on a Turian colony. Human imports of mechs and other machinery often made it a local proving ground, where fabricated justifications were often put into place for either faction to use their welcomed toys. Small settlements were often their crossfired grounds. Though the story often varies, Vael certainly had a large part in frying a lot of the circuits, as well as locking internal systems down enough to hamper any chance of use. Connections C O N N E C T I O N S Jiral A familiar Quarian exile who put him on the fighting path. Her circumstances for exile were often debated, from murder to sabotage, to petty alternatives, but she has remained the first source of reliance for Vael. Howard Stanrick The old hot-headed survivor of the Geth Encounter during Vael's pilgrimage. Ties were cut very soon after, and the once confident tout of Howard has become a bitter adversary against the Quarian. Not often can he speak of why. Yifu'Yeemm vas Lestiak A once close childhood friend of Vael. They have kept in contact through the most vague and spread apart catch up calls. Each time, her voice has grown less caring and kind to his position. If there was another life, they'd still be in close contact.

Physical Details ◢ At a rather inoffensive 6'1, Vael stands with a decent bulk to his frame. Clad in a dusty, yet clear, maroon garb, woven into his armour, he does not hold himself as one of the more eccentric of Quarians. Alternatively, he does still hold onto a variable addon of fur wraps and thigh pouches given to him by clandestine allies of old. It provides little protection or acclimatisation, as the suit covers that mostly, yet it remains a good reminder of the days spent in aimless wander. Personal History ◢ The whir of machinery had wrought a young Quarian with awe. Circuitry and cityscapes of wires and motherboards had been a great source of entertainment in his youth. The once Vael'Ginis nar Kila had been slated for a proud upbringing in electronics, engineering and mechanics, the valuable assets to the operations of the Migrant Fleet. And whilst childhood had granted him access to such an interest, the eventual time of his pilgrimage brought forth an opportunity to truly explore what it meant to investigate the realm of electricity. Vael'Ginis had first found himself in the hands of Howard Stanrick, the rogue-ish and daring local human who'd made a name for himself among gunrunners, contractors, fixers and shuttle runners in the Hades Nexus. Their initial meeting was under dangerous pretences; the typical kind, bound by a set of mercenaries shooting their way, and the two pairing in order to make it out in a decent piece. Howard was the type of man to drop the help at first opportunity, but through demonstrations of technological feat, and an affinity for getting into the thick of it, the two fell under one wing, and made clear a new path of gift gathering and oddjobs. It had once crossed Vael'Ginis' mind to leave then and there, but under the promise he'd made to his older and more esteemed childhood friend, Yifu'Yeemm vas Lestiak - of whom had completed her pilgrimage at that point - he was keen on returning with much more than valued skills. And that he did return, but only after he had encountered the Geth for the first time. To visit the bogeyman of an entire species is always a thrill, and a frightful one at best. Howard, Vael and an assembled team of closely knitted associates formed in their year or two's tribulations encountered them on the edges of Geth Space. A patrol, large and devoid of any emotion, scouting for unknown reasons. Conflict ensued, and whilst the memory was best kept blurred to the Quarian, there was something of a slip up, and obsessive switch that breathed fascination and seflishness into how he had behaved that day. Only two of them made it out, Howard as his partner, but on violent terms did the two separate. Vael returned to the Migrant Fleet with Geth Weaponry - as a showcase not of his prowess, but his technological willingness to study for the fleet. It was a sceptical and rather unpopular gift, but eventually the light ship Lestiak accepted his place, and he became a valuable field engineer. Yet the next year was troublesome, as he found himself picking apart at the Geth technology stored onto the ship more and more as the days went by. And soon after, the engineer believed that he could solve problems far greater than himself. Lost had the kindled flame of determination been amongst the Migrant Fleet. All wanted to see the planet none had witnessed, but no one had the means to do so. And in stagnation came ideas. Several Geth skirmishes would eventually gift the Quarian with mechanical bodies, and he soon claimed that within their very constructs lay answers to how they could be bested, as if such had not been tried centuries before. That obsession grew negligent, and in his hubris, he accidentally reactivated a larger geth soldier, resulting in ten dead aboard the Lestiak. His exile was swift, as it was silent. Panic was to be averted across the fleet. The Quarian was quickly trialled and set aside by the Admiralty Board. There was no place for the dangerously negligent, and the last look of his family and friend's disappointment forever stayed fresh in his memory. The years afterward were slow. Drifting between places, until of course he came across Jiral, the other exiled Quarian. She took care of him, but at an arms length. He relied on her too much, as did he emotionally attach himself to her sense of leadership. Whilst he grew more talented as an engineer, as well as a combatant in the line of mercenary work, he too soon found himself in a cycle of misdirection and all. An associate of Jiral then informed him of a notice in his name, from one ExoGeni. For all he knew, it was simply a convenient engineer, and that was all the pretence there was to his hiring. He accepted it. What else had he left to do, but rot in lonesome anguish away from the Migrant Fleet? Combat Analysis ◢ Harness energy, and one shall prevail - Vael's deep-rooted love for electrical engineering proved itself in his specialisation. A fast thinker knows that all weak foes rely heavily on the tech in their hands, not the abilities at their fingertips. Overloading equipment tends to be his favoured trick, and equally so is the use of sabotage. Heavy pistols and submachine guns are of great fancy, and though he used to rarely acknowledge such proficiency, his marriage of technological dismantlement through voltage and jamming has since been his greatest strength, paired kindly with in-the-field intrigue in ship systems and, of course, the Geth. Reason for Vacating Previous Situation ◢ ExoGeni wasn't a burning beacon of light. It didn't save him, it only provided the next pair of boots for him to tread within. What lays within ExoGeni is unsure, and he knows little of its exploits. It didn't bother him at first. So long as he was absent minded and busy, that was all that mattered. Though he hadn't accounted for the resurging emotions that come with attaching oneself to specialists such as himself.

[Jeep Wrangler]

Frankie

_{The Star}

---

_Name:

Franciszek Stanowski

_Arcana:

The Star

_Birthday:

September 2nd

_Appearance:

Frankie's a moderately-lean figure in build, though not quite frail, and holds the minimum portrayal of athleticism. He's short of any sort of facial hair - alternatively, he has a decent flush of dirty-blonde hair atop his head, paired with an icy-blue eye tone. His uniform often isn't any different from its default, newly bought style: the blazer remains loosely fit, the trousers and shoes are clean enough to pass, and he only often wears glasses for reading for long periods of time. The only standout difference is the small white scarf he often wraps and tucks beneath his blazer, whether around the hip or on show around the neck. In winter, he brandishes an olive parka, but all else remains much the same.

---

_Reputation:

Not so much a remarkable one. He's known by name, maybe by class too, but whilst he isn't shy of socialising, he hasn't set his foot in the door enough to be of any inherit value.

_Background:

Franciszek Stanowski hails from a quiet, little Polish family, consistent of himself, and a divorced mother and father, both split ten or so years back. Originally, Franciszek - or Frankie when anglicised for school, had grown up for the first five years of his life in Leeds, before moving southward to Sussex. His family could never boast much economic freedom, and regularly walked the line between the middle and working class social status. Much of his home and school life was without prominence yet he did his best to maintain good grades throughout his early-to-mid educational years. Where he excelled was in his literary interests, having spent so much time reading as both a hobby and as an initial way to catch up to his peers.

His offer to attend Harbour Academy came with much excitement initially. What was seen as a chance to brighten the news within his household, thankfully funded by a scholarship, the distance felt at home with his father soon dampened the chance to celebrate, and Frankie has since arrived at the academy with little direction to call his. The fault of a quiet, lonesome and bothered life quickly seemed to return to his catatonic state of inaction, and valueless ends.

_{Misc. :}

- Duck Chow Mein noodles remain the food to his heart. Blessed be the local noodle shop during his childhood.
- His favourite book as an answer often changes throughout the week.
- That white scarf of his doesn't have a brand label on it, and is somewhat shoddily made. It's a wonder if it even keeps him warm or not.

_Weapon:

A decently sized metal staff.

---

The Persona

_Persona:

Knucker
Born of the Star Arcana, the unnamed Knucker doesn't quite tote the sense of hope and joy for the future as expected, but the altruistic path is often encouraged by the beast itself, as both an honourable but also self-neglectful path to take.

_Moveset:

The Elements of Blessing - Kouga and Makouga - alongside the typical self-strengthening defensive effect, evocative of one's absolute stubbornness to have shut himself off.

[Jeep Wrangler]

Palmiro Giacobbe

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___________________________________ Palmiro Giacobbe, 18 [At Training Age] ________________________________________________________________________________________ Trainee Corps | Mediterranean | Alberlerst, Between Maria & Rose ___________________________________ [+] ▼ E X T R A I N F O R M A T I O N ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► DOB - 25/09/1895 ► Height - 5'8" / 177cm ► Weight - 148 lbs / 67kg ► Hair Color - Dirty Blonde ► Eye Color - Dark Green ► Branch - 108th Trainee Corps ► Rank - Trainee -

D E T A I L E D A P P E A R A N C E Palmiro is a fair-ish skinned lad, averagely built to adequately fit his chosen lifestyle. His hair is rather unkempt, a combination of loosely dangled hair and floppy top fluff that curls above his scalp. Regardless, it's never styled, or treated in a manner that is his own. It is what it is. Done and dusted, left to its own interests. Beneath those are hazel eyes, with a clean shaven jaw and angular chin. From the neck down there's the leanness that implies his slightly less intimidating strength, at least compared to contemporaries around him. He's paler than those like his mother and uncle, and the meagreness had once been a stale point of inter-family teasing. His appearance extends the calm, collected look he often shows. The less fore-fronted member of any given collective, he dresses rather averagely, maintains calm and sometimes nurturing expressions and exhumes a general style of ease. As once suggested, Palmiro is and always will be a product of his environment, rather than his own man in his own way. How eagerly the world has shaped him, and will, shall easily reflect in how he dresses himself, and how he carries those hazel eyes; whether with grace, anger, fear or cynicism.

---_{P E R S O N A L I T Y}

Initially, Palmiro is often seen as a grounded, eased source of reliance - a humble and often reserved individual that never makes his presence known than to those that lean on him. Of course, first impressions aren't all there is to see. And whilst it is true that the lad often entranced himself on principles of listening over speaking, beneath all lies that brooding potential - a cynicism or flourishing uplift of optimism. He very much is a product of his environment. With more time spent out of the house, maintained relationships were often hardly kept throughout his childhood days, and that it wasn't until the final few months, before everyone's lives changed, that he opened up. It was a natural transition, though. As though he'd been waiting for a very long time to speak his piece.

Within the confines of work, he is vaguely level-headed. Boisterousness was never his cup of tea, for there were no delusions or concrete proof of his prowess. He was astonishingly ordinary in that remarks. Someone capable, but not that capable. If for any reason the 112th Trainee Corps were to stumble and stagger in quality, so should he. But in the end, that makes him reliable, and almost predictable of what he is capable of. It works in favour of how he finds his role among others. Of course, much of that seems to shave off around the specific few that stretch beyond camaraderie, and towards staunch friendships and onward. Such is seen in his mannerisms around his very own horse.

---_{B I O G R A P H Y}

Palmiro was born in a very unremarkable set of circumstances. His father Pierre strove for a well-sized family but made do with only the one son, for try as they would, the married parents of his could not muster a flock. Legally speaking, his home is Alberlerst - a small farming village located somewhere between Wall Maria and Rose. His memories of home aren't like that of others, where every nook and cranny is known instinctively, through endless childhood exploration. No, Palmiro's family were of a logistical, trading side of life, akin to nomads of ancient time. Not that their were luddites, of course, they were simply travelling merchants, with a quaint, small abode situated in Alberlerst.

Most importantly, his lifestyle had delivered a family-orientated social life, one often devoid of those similar to his age. Once or twice he'd had a childhood sweetheart from a village he'd visit around once or twice, but so soon did they forget him that there never was quite a stuck landing. His early years was dependent on either himself, the horse he cared for, or his mother and father, all modelling his behaviour for the lifestyle they'd settled into. This did create a decent fascination for the sights and expanses of the walls' territories, though rarely did it go past Rose itself. And by the age of eleven, he'd tricked himself into believing he'd seen everything there was to see.

Things changed when Mateo came home, however. His uncle had always been a topic of little discussion. Palmiro's mother, Emma, often held him in high regard as a wonderful addition to the family, and that as her younger brother, he had lived an exemplary life of success once he'd joined the military. Pierre, his father, however had rarely let his name slip into the household. That bitterness, like snake's venom, had initially muddied the well of opinions a young Palmiro had for his uncle, but all those were shattered the days he spent with him.

Household tensions had grown, of course. Arguments became commonplace between Mateo and Pierre, and Palmiro's home life soon became miserable, for no matter how far they walked, with them came the miserable moods shared between them. Pierre left Palmiro at home more instead of taking him on his business ventures. And truthfully, the young boy had become enamoured by his uncle: the Scout. A title so prestigious among untrained ears that he'd almost experienced a newfound paternal love for what Mateo may have been. His stories were often disjointed though, and when pressed on what he was doing home, there was often silence.

Eventually, to make use of Mateo, he was granted additional tradesman roles in the family, and two caravans were set up to cross between the districts. On their second voyage, as Mateo so lovingly called it, he became more open about parts of his service he was less enthusiastic about - such as the titans themselves. They held an almost mythical status to someone like Palmiro, oblivious to their nature than what only common village-folk knew. The idea of them had frightened the much younger boy, yet it was never a story that could prepare him for the future. Unfortunately, their journey became a complicated mess. Several men tagged along their caravan and often spoke to Mateo, clad in military garments. They became sterner and sterner with each passing day. And eventually, things grew far too tense for them to continue the journey. For a temporary few months, with unrequited letters being shared between both his uncle and parents, they stayed at an old military friend of Mateo's, whilst things simmered down. This placed him in the Quinta District of the Western Wall Maria district. And it was a station long enough to await the worst that could happen.

---_{F A M I L Y}

- Pierre Giacobbe
- Emma Giacobbe
- Mateo Trentino

---_{R E L A T I O N S}
To be updated...

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