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[CHAR] [Storms and Shadows] - A Black Crusade inspired 40k Chaos RP.
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Flagg Strange. This outcome I did not foresee.
Member
Seen
3 mos ago
Museum of Imperial History, Divayth City
Alma Secundus, Calixis Sector
"My lord," said the Curator, "we are nearly finished. The Fyr Tablets are in the final crates- my servitors are bringing them aboard your craft now."
He was a frail man, in a suit of purple velvet with an ascot slightly stained. Watery eyes set deep in his bony face peered from behind a pince-nez at the Inquisitor. Fearful but curious.
"Good," said the Inquisitor. He had a rich voice, the slightly dismissive baritone of an aristo used to being obeyed, "You have been most efficient."
The loading bay was filling with the roar of the gun-cutter's engines as it powered up to leave. Heavy utility-servitors, thrice the size of a man, were clumping up and down the ship's open cargo bay, ferrying wooden boxes marked 'FRAGILE- IMPERIAL RELIC' in their industrial claws.
"A pity they should be taken from you, these treasures," offered the Inquisitor, turning to face the Curator, who took a half-step back. The Inquisitor's face- if he had one- was hidden behind a silver, expressionless mask, decorated by elegant tracery. The Curator was fluent in five tongues, including High Gothic, and familiar with dozens more, but he did not recognize the provenance of those weirdly sinuous runes.
"Well, I am of course sad to lose them from the collection," said the Curator, then hastened to add, "But anything for the Ordos, of course."
"If you only knew, my dear man," replied the Inquisitor. He was a tall man, clad in a black, hooded cassock, his robes edged with shimmering embroidery. One gauntlet-covered hand, silver like the mask, rested on the railing of the platform on which they stood overlooking the loading bay. The other clutched a black metal stave.
Inquisitor Love had about him all the menace and mystery the Curator associated with the dreaded Holy Ordos. His men, however, seemed of the rougher sort. Clad in unpainted metal armor-some of it rusted and stained- they milled impatiently and without apparent discipline about the loading bay, barking orders at the museum servitors and staff in a harsh tongue the Curator had never before heard. Almost all wore rebreathers, their eyes hidden behind glowing red optics.
The Curator's portable vox-unit blared to life- it was the voice of his assistant. She sounded frantic.
"Sir, sir, the Inquisition is here."
Inquisitor Love's cowled head tilted at that. Several of his men turned and looked up at the Curator. Annoyed to be interrupted and unnerved by the staring red optics, the Curator snatched up his vox-unit and snapped back, "Of course woman! I'm with him now in the loadin-"
"No," she replied, cutting him off, "A different Inquisitor is here, Kolens, he says not to let the other-"
Love almost casually plucked the vox-unit from the Curator's hand and crushed it in his mailed fist.
"You'd better run for it, my friend," he said, his voice as calm as though he were commenting on the weather, "My esteemed colleagues will not reward you for cooperating with me."
"I don't understand..." said the Curator. But the Inquisitor wasn't listening- he'd spun on his heel and was striding down the platform to the loading bay floor, black robes billowing out behind him as he issued orders in the harsh, foreign tongue of his minions.
For their part, the minions were suddenly more organized- taking up positions behind crates and spent fuel canisters, weapons unslung.
"By Terra," gasped the Curator, looking around for a place to flee. He found none, for the entryway to the loading bay was now crowded with planetary guardsmen.
The shooting started immediately, from both sides. The Curator cowered behind a lifter-control console as las-bolts and bullets filled the air around him. Curiosity conquered fear on one front, however, for he did not close his eyes. What he saw terrified him. Two figures in power armor, one marked with the sigil of the Inquisition, the other too large and horrible to be anything other than one of the Astartes barreled through the cluster of guardsmen pinned down by the entrance-way, unflinching as small-arms fire pinged off their armor.
"LOVE," this second Inquisitor was bellowing, "IT'S OVER, LOVE."
The Astartes said nothing, just blazed away at Love's men, who melted before his onslaught. Suddenly, both his weapon and that of his companion clicked uselessly as they tried to fire. Both paused, confounded for a moment at their jammed weapons.
It was then that the utility-servitors barreled into them, their heavy claws swinging, lines of corrupted-code blurting from their shriveled mouths. The second Inquisitor was knocked off his feet, but the Astartes took his assailant apart easily, using only his armored hands.
The Curator risked a glance around the corner of his hiding spot at Love's gun-cutter. He caught a glimpse of the black-robed figure with arms and stave extended, before the cargo bay clicked shut and the vessel launched itself from the loading bay in a deafening roar, disappearing quickly into the cloudless sky.
The second inquisitor was now on his feet, having killed the servitor attacking him rather clinically with a humming power-sword.
"SCRAMBLE THE FIGHTERS, I WANTED AIR COVER!" he was bellowing, as guardsmen surged past him to fill the bay.
The Curator felt a shadow fall over him, and looked up to see the vast bulk of the Astartes glowering down at him.
"What," said the Space Marine, "did they take?"
Alma Secundus, Calixis Sector
"My lord," said the Curator, "we are nearly finished. The Fyr Tablets are in the final crates- my servitors are bringing them aboard your craft now."
He was a frail man, in a suit of purple velvet with an ascot slightly stained. Watery eyes set deep in his bony face peered from behind a pince-nez at the Inquisitor. Fearful but curious.
"Good," said the Inquisitor. He had a rich voice, the slightly dismissive baritone of an aristo used to being obeyed, "You have been most efficient."
The loading bay was filling with the roar of the gun-cutter's engines as it powered up to leave. Heavy utility-servitors, thrice the size of a man, were clumping up and down the ship's open cargo bay, ferrying wooden boxes marked 'FRAGILE- IMPERIAL RELIC' in their industrial claws.
"A pity they should be taken from you, these treasures," offered the Inquisitor, turning to face the Curator, who took a half-step back. The Inquisitor's face- if he had one- was hidden behind a silver, expressionless mask, decorated by elegant tracery. The Curator was fluent in five tongues, including High Gothic, and familiar with dozens more, but he did not recognize the provenance of those weirdly sinuous runes.
"Well, I am of course sad to lose them from the collection," said the Curator, then hastened to add, "But anything for the Ordos, of course."
"If you only knew, my dear man," replied the Inquisitor. He was a tall man, clad in a black, hooded cassock, his robes edged with shimmering embroidery. One gauntlet-covered hand, silver like the mask, rested on the railing of the platform on which they stood overlooking the loading bay. The other clutched a black metal stave.
Inquisitor Love had about him all the menace and mystery the Curator associated with the dreaded Holy Ordos. His men, however, seemed of the rougher sort. Clad in unpainted metal armor-some of it rusted and stained- they milled impatiently and without apparent discipline about the loading bay, barking orders at the museum servitors and staff in a harsh tongue the Curator had never before heard. Almost all wore rebreathers, their eyes hidden behind glowing red optics.
The Curator's portable vox-unit blared to life- it was the voice of his assistant. She sounded frantic.
"Sir, sir, the Inquisition is here."
Inquisitor Love's cowled head tilted at that. Several of his men turned and looked up at the Curator. Annoyed to be interrupted and unnerved by the staring red optics, the Curator snatched up his vox-unit and snapped back, "Of course woman! I'm with him now in the loadin-"
"No," she replied, cutting him off, "A different Inquisitor is here, Kolens, he says not to let the other-"
Love almost casually plucked the vox-unit from the Curator's hand and crushed it in his mailed fist.
"You'd better run for it, my friend," he said, his voice as calm as though he were commenting on the weather, "My esteemed colleagues will not reward you for cooperating with me."
"I don't understand..." said the Curator. But the Inquisitor wasn't listening- he'd spun on his heel and was striding down the platform to the loading bay floor, black robes billowing out behind him as he issued orders in the harsh, foreign tongue of his minions.
For their part, the minions were suddenly more organized- taking up positions behind crates and spent fuel canisters, weapons unslung.
"By Terra," gasped the Curator, looking around for a place to flee. He found none, for the entryway to the loading bay was now crowded with planetary guardsmen.
The shooting started immediately, from both sides. The Curator cowered behind a lifter-control console as las-bolts and bullets filled the air around him. Curiosity conquered fear on one front, however, for he did not close his eyes. What he saw terrified him. Two figures in power armor, one marked with the sigil of the Inquisition, the other too large and horrible to be anything other than one of the Astartes barreled through the cluster of guardsmen pinned down by the entrance-way, unflinching as small-arms fire pinged off their armor.
"LOVE," this second Inquisitor was bellowing, "IT'S OVER, LOVE."
The Astartes said nothing, just blazed away at Love's men, who melted before his onslaught. Suddenly, both his weapon and that of his companion clicked uselessly as they tried to fire. Both paused, confounded for a moment at their jammed weapons.
It was then that the utility-servitors barreled into them, their heavy claws swinging, lines of corrupted-code blurting from their shriveled mouths. The second Inquisitor was knocked off his feet, but the Astartes took his assailant apart easily, using only his armored hands.
The Curator risked a glance around the corner of his hiding spot at Love's gun-cutter. He caught a glimpse of the black-robed figure with arms and stave extended, before the cargo bay clicked shut and the vessel launched itself from the loading bay in a deafening roar, disappearing quickly into the cloudless sky.
The second inquisitor was now on his feet, having killed the servitor attacking him rather clinically with a humming power-sword.
"SCRAMBLE THE FIGHTERS, I WANTED AIR COVER!" he was bellowing, as guardsmen surged past him to fill the bay.
The Curator felt a shadow fall over him, and looked up to see the vast bulk of the Astartes glowering down at him.
"What," said the Space Marine, "did they take?"
Name: Incurvatus Love, Ordo Xenos
Denomination: Undivided? Possibly Love still considers himself a Xanthite, but suspected by most of his Imperial peers to be a Phaenonite. Love has been declared excommunicate traitoris by Inquisitor Kolans of the Ordo Hereticus. This declaration was neither repudiated nor endorsed by Love's superior in the Ordo Xenos, Inquisitor Lord Gavel von Kesselbrood. To the chaos factions of the Vortex, Love is a known mercenary and his inquisitorial status (which he does not advertise, but is rumored among the chaos forces) is treated generally with indifference, mild curiosity or contempt.
Appearance:
A blend of machine and man, covered in a dark & hooded cassock. His face is an expressionless silver mask. He boasts a pair of clawed mechadendrites, each armed with close range cutting/welding lasers. These ae usually hidden in his robes.
Personality: Calm, cold, calculating, with a fairly business-first, mercenary attitude and a wry sense of humor. He is not particularly religious and affects disinterest in both the chaos gods and the Imperial faith. It is clear he sees the warp and its denizens as a potential source of power (and risk), not as something to be worshiped- which often offends the more zealous worshipers of the Dark Gods who often make use of his services. He is known to be a keen collector of xenos, mechanicus, and chaos tech-relics.
Biography: As an interrogator and young inquisitor of the Ordo Xenos, Love was always of a Radical disposition, but his true fall came through reading Heretek philosophical works, from which he became obsessed with self-augmentation. While his status as an Inquisitor is murky (he has contacts among his former colleagues of the radical persuasion), he now pursues his own agenda in Chaos territory, usually working as a mercenary and 'fixer' for warlords and power-brokers. He has developed a reputation as a formidable figure among the warlords of the Vortex, with the ability to operate clandestinely in Imperial space.
Skills: Love is an adept of heretek magic, and a fairly potent (probably low to mid Delta-level) psyker, though he does not make use of the more exotic magics of Chaos, being cautious about the risks of madness and mutation. In addition, his heavily augmented and modified body leaves him formidable in hand to hand combat when facing human foes, though in a brawl he could not hold his own against those heavily altered by the Warp, and would stand no chance facing an Astartes.
Familiars
Friendly, a combat servitor.
Weapons/Equipment
Force Rod
Flechette Blaster
Dark Eldar Wychknife (hypersharp short blade)
Inquisitorial Rosette
Denomination: Undivided? Possibly Love still considers himself a Xanthite, but suspected by most of his Imperial peers to be a Phaenonite. Love has been declared excommunicate traitoris by Inquisitor Kolans of the Ordo Hereticus. This declaration was neither repudiated nor endorsed by Love's superior in the Ordo Xenos, Inquisitor Lord Gavel von Kesselbrood. To the chaos factions of the Vortex, Love is a known mercenary and his inquisitorial status (which he does not advertise, but is rumored among the chaos forces) is treated generally with indifference, mild curiosity or contempt.
Appearance:
A blend of machine and man, covered in a dark & hooded cassock. His face is an expressionless silver mask. He boasts a pair of clawed mechadendrites, each armed with close range cutting/welding lasers. These ae usually hidden in his robes.
Personality: Calm, cold, calculating, with a fairly business-first, mercenary attitude and a wry sense of humor. He is not particularly religious and affects disinterest in both the chaos gods and the Imperial faith. It is clear he sees the warp and its denizens as a potential source of power (and risk), not as something to be worshiped- which often offends the more zealous worshipers of the Dark Gods who often make use of his services. He is known to be a keen collector of xenos, mechanicus, and chaos tech-relics.
Biography: As an interrogator and young inquisitor of the Ordo Xenos, Love was always of a Radical disposition, but his true fall came through reading Heretek philosophical works, from which he became obsessed with self-augmentation. While his status as an Inquisitor is murky (he has contacts among his former colleagues of the radical persuasion), he now pursues his own agenda in Chaos territory, usually working as a mercenary and 'fixer' for warlords and power-brokers. He has developed a reputation as a formidable figure among the warlords of the Vortex, with the ability to operate clandestinely in Imperial space.
Skills: Love is an adept of heretek magic, and a fairly potent (probably low to mid Delta-level) psyker, though he does not make use of the more exotic magics of Chaos, being cautious about the risks of madness and mutation. In addition, his heavily augmented and modified body leaves him formidable in hand to hand combat when facing human foes, though in a brawl he could not hold his own against those heavily altered by the Warp, and would stand no chance facing an Astartes.
Familiars
Friendly, a combat servitor.
Weapons/Equipment
Force Rod
Flechette Blaster
Dark Eldar Wychknife (hypersharp short blade)
Inquisitorial Rosette
1x Like
Jb Because we're here lad
Member
Seen
6 mos ago
Name/Titles: Minos Bull-Head, also called 'the Cleaver'.
Denomination: Khornate
Appearance: Centuries of conflict and his dedication to gathering heads for his brass-clad master have bought change upon Minos that he can't say he does not welcome.
Where once stood a noble and handsome Astartes, now is a creature both more and less than he ever was as a transhuman.
Standing near eight-and-a-half feet tall outside of any form of armour, Minos' once proud visage was twisted and warped by dark energies into the likeness of a bullock - his entire body sprouting crimson fur that had gradually began to grey over time, his face lengthening with a crack of bone and flesh, now snouted in the way of a raging bull, and a pair of large horns jutting from his cranium that he has tipped with bronze.
This entire head is usually covered by a 'helmet' of black iron uniquely formed to fit his head and leave only his mouth, eyes and horns uncovered.
His Astartes physiology too meleded with that of his God, his form becoming infused in such a way that his mass almost doubled - and yet there is not an inch of fat on him - his original power armour unable to contain him and so discarded on some battelfield somewhere. He fights without protection on his torso, save for a branded Mark of Khorne burnt into his chest, trusting in Khorne and his own thickened hide and flesh to keep him safe.
Lastly were his once-human legs, twisted and warped into hoofed limbs, these and his loins covered by ramshackle carapace armour coloured crimson by the blood of innocents.
He fights with no firearms, but carrys two chainaxes of ancient providence, neither one having ever broken or let him down... yet.
Personality: In spite of his bodily form, and of his chosen deity, Minos is far from a stupid brute or frenzied killer.
No, Minos likes to believe he embodies the memories of those legendary figures of Ancient Terra - Akhilles, Alaksander who men called the Great and so on - seeking out the enemies champions and either besting them or hoping that his skull finds its way to the side of Khornes throne.
To this end he is not really a team player, though can (and has) fought alongside others on numerous occasions; it is unfortunate that most of them eventually came to the attention of his blades.
No, he is no strategist or battlefield tactician, but he is not yet a ravening monster either. Indeed he remains calm and collected for the most part, combat only sharpening his focus even further, nevertheless needing to isolate himself after prolonged conflict lest he dispatch those around him.
Overall he lives by his own 'code', though even he could not tell you what it is exactly, going where Khorne bids him and accepting his outbursts of violence as they come.
Biography: Minos began his life as Minosian Etrokalos, inductii of the XII legion, his memories of that early life and his first assemblage on Bodt fading in and out just as all his other memories do with exceptional alacrity.
Great detail will not be given here, but needless to say - as a member of the 'Bloody 13th' expeditionary fleet - Minosian was a part of the transformation which overtook the World Eaters legion and forever fractured them from the once-noble War Hounds to a thousand splintered warbands of crazed psychopaths.
The Horus Heresy camy and went, Minosian shed the blood of friend and foe alike, fully embracing the new patronage of the legion by what he saw as the ultimate warrior deity.
Millennia ultimately passed, entire lifetimes of war consumed within the Eye of Terror, which eventually led to the former World Eaters ascending from a mere pawn of the Blood God to a more gifted champion in his name.
After being transformed by his patron, and uninterested in any form of following, Minos (as he was now styling himself) made his way back into real space and, with Khorne's help, a worthy challenge of his skill.
He has been attracted to the service of Eromulus Krynne because of their desire for the gauntlet, a gauntlet washed in the blood of thousands, an artefact worthy of dedication to Khorne, and so he has made his way to Skuberrima and the Screaming Vortex.
Perhaps, finally, he may find a fight worth having, and if not... well...
Blood for the Blood God, Skulls for the Skull Throne.
Other: Not currently, but I may think of some later.
Denomination: Khornate
Appearance: Centuries of conflict and his dedication to gathering heads for his brass-clad master have bought change upon Minos that he can't say he does not welcome.
Where once stood a noble and handsome Astartes, now is a creature both more and less than he ever was as a transhuman.
Standing near eight-and-a-half feet tall outside of any form of armour, Minos' once proud visage was twisted and warped by dark energies into the likeness of a bullock - his entire body sprouting crimson fur that had gradually began to grey over time, his face lengthening with a crack of bone and flesh, now snouted in the way of a raging bull, and a pair of large horns jutting from his cranium that he has tipped with bronze.
This entire head is usually covered by a 'helmet' of black iron uniquely formed to fit his head and leave only his mouth, eyes and horns uncovered.
His Astartes physiology too meleded with that of his God, his form becoming infused in such a way that his mass almost doubled - and yet there is not an inch of fat on him - his original power armour unable to contain him and so discarded on some battelfield somewhere. He fights without protection on his torso, save for a branded Mark of Khorne burnt into his chest, trusting in Khorne and his own thickened hide and flesh to keep him safe.
Lastly were his once-human legs, twisted and warped into hoofed limbs, these and his loins covered by ramshackle carapace armour coloured crimson by the blood of innocents.
He fights with no firearms, but carrys two chainaxes of ancient providence, neither one having ever broken or let him down... yet.
Personality: In spite of his bodily form, and of his chosen deity, Minos is far from a stupid brute or frenzied killer.
No, Minos likes to believe he embodies the memories of those legendary figures of Ancient Terra - Akhilles, Alaksander who men called the Great and so on - seeking out the enemies champions and either besting them or hoping that his skull finds its way to the side of Khornes throne.
To this end he is not really a team player, though can (and has) fought alongside others on numerous occasions; it is unfortunate that most of them eventually came to the attention of his blades.
No, he is no strategist or battlefield tactician, but he is not yet a ravening monster either. Indeed he remains calm and collected for the most part, combat only sharpening his focus even further, nevertheless needing to isolate himself after prolonged conflict lest he dispatch those around him.
Overall he lives by his own 'code', though even he could not tell you what it is exactly, going where Khorne bids him and accepting his outbursts of violence as they come.
Biography: Minos began his life as Minosian Etrokalos, inductii of the XII legion, his memories of that early life and his first assemblage on Bodt fading in and out just as all his other memories do with exceptional alacrity.
Great detail will not be given here, but needless to say - as a member of the 'Bloody 13th' expeditionary fleet - Minosian was a part of the transformation which overtook the World Eaters legion and forever fractured them from the once-noble War Hounds to a thousand splintered warbands of crazed psychopaths.
The Horus Heresy camy and went, Minosian shed the blood of friend and foe alike, fully embracing the new patronage of the legion by what he saw as the ultimate warrior deity.
Millennia ultimately passed, entire lifetimes of war consumed within the Eye of Terror, which eventually led to the former World Eaters ascending from a mere pawn of the Blood God to a more gifted champion in his name.
After being transformed by his patron, and uninterested in any form of following, Minos (as he was now styling himself) made his way back into real space and, with Khorne's help, a worthy challenge of his skill.
He has been attracted to the service of Eromulus Krynne because of their desire for the gauntlet, a gauntlet washed in the blood of thousands, an artefact worthy of dedication to Khorne, and so he has made his way to Skuberrima and the Screaming Vortex.
Perhaps, finally, he may find a fight worth having, and if not... well...
Blood for the Blood God, Skulls for the Skull Throne.
Other: Not currently, but I may think of some later.
"Princess" Natalia Periwinkle the Purple
Denomination: Slaanesh
Appearance: Like many fervent followers or Slaanesh, Natalia's appearance could be described as garishly ostentatious by the king of understatements. Every aspect of her appearance has been styled to be as over the top as possible. In a more social setting, Natalia dresses in the most flashy, gaudy, and facinating dresses possible, decked from head to toe in jewels. Her hair is often styled in some Marie Antoinette level of insanity. Unlike most Slaaneshi adherents, however, her dresses are rarely provocative in a sensual nature, rather preferring a sense of a garish mockery of nobility. In armor, Natalia's philosphy isn't much changed. Her armor is a deep purple, almost like a set of armor made from pure amethyst. Her blade almost seems to look like a slab of serrated quartz, and even her bolter is decked in jewels.
Personality: If only one word could be used to describe Natalia's personality, that word would be ego with a capital E. Natalia must be the best at anything she considers herself to be the best at. A menial would be exceedingly lucky if they were merely killed for suggesting otherwise. If one plays to her stylized whims and plays along, however, Natalia is quite a congenial woman, and can be surprisingly generous to those in her favor. Generosity is yet another sensation to experience, after all. Still, in the end everything comes back to that ego, and Natalia is more then willing to steal the credit of her compatriots and take all the glory. Clearly, they embarked on their feats in her name, after all.
Biography: Originally Natalia Oshorov, a young noblewoman daughter in the Calixis Sector, Natalia played the part of the demure heiress who's role was to further the family name on her backwater hive. Behind the scenes, however, Natalia was quite the ambitious woman, and would work to see what she could personally use from her family and suitors to further her own desires of power. Unsurprisingly, she was wooed and corrupted to the whims of chaos by a worshiper of Slaanesh who sought to use her to corrupt the planet. However, he was quite surprised to suddenly find himself being sacrificed to the Prince of Pleasure, and Natalia seizing his plan for herself in the 11th hour. Fleeing the planet as all hell literally broke loose, she utilized her connections one last time to amass a crew of sycophantic raiders, and made for the Ragged Helix to pillage and plunder to her hearts content. All shall come to fear the Pirate Princess Natalia Periwinkle the Purple. Just nobody tell her that they don't yet.
Natalia has been called by Krynne because of her rather explosive entry into the great game in the favor of Slaanesh. As an aspiring pirate queen herself, Natalia is more then interested to go looking through the treasures of ancient chaos pirates.
Hank Dionysian Mystery
Moderator
Seen
4 days ago
Name/Titles: Gharl the Bloody, Ol’ Yeller, the Baron-Bull of Broken Bones.
Denomination: Khorne.
Appearance: Gharl is an Ogryn Bone’ead and that simple fact entirely dominates his appearance. Ten feet tall, taller even than an Astartes and stronger to boot, Gharl is a hulking mountain of muscle and bone whose mass has swelled to even greater size with his simple-minded devotion to Khorne. His face is a rough patchwork of scars, with an ear and a piece of his nose missing. Two eyes, as hard as flint and illuminated by an unnatural light that glows in the dark, gaze out at the world with brutal cunning and cunning brutality from beneath a heavy brow. Even more strangely, two thick black horns jut from his forehead in the fashion of a Terran bull, and his neck bulges with the fortified musculature to use them as a weapon.
His vast form is clad in an impossibly large set of blood-splattered carapace armor that turns him into a walking fortress, and he is armed with the ripper gun that is the Ogryn’s trademark weapon -- though he is just as liable to use his massive plated, bone-studded fists and gore-horns to turn enemies into red paste.
Personality: Smarter than the average Ogryn thanks to the B.O.N.E. procedure that turned him into a Bone’ead, Gharl is remarkably similar in temperament and intelligence to an Ork Nob. He possesses a primitive, primal cunning that makes him a very effective warrior, capable of operating on his own and making tactical decisions on the battlefield, even if those decisions don’t usually amount to more than an answer to one question: “How can Gharl get closer?”
His devotion to Khorne is unwavering and sublime in its simplicity. Gharl loves to kill. Khorne loves it when Gharl kills. Therefore, Gharl is quite fond of Khorne. When that resulted in a beautiful set of horns sprouting from his head, Gharl’s fondness of Khorne was elevated to unprecedented levels of gratitude and dedication. As such, anyone that promises Gharl ample opportunities to make Khorne happy by way of violent slaughter has the Ogryn’s loyalty. This makes him the perfect mercenary for heretics and cultists and Gharl has made quite a career as a favored living weapon of Chaos.
He was affectionately nicknamed Ol’ Yeller by the Chaos Marines that turned him into the Khorne-worshipping killing machine he is today because of his habit to yell “BLOOD! SKULLS!” at the top of his lungs when engaging in combat, for the whole catchphrase is usually too long for him to remember in the heat of the moment.
Biography: Gharl vaguely remembers that he once served different masters, small men with little rifles that he fought with, for the glory of some golden-haloed man or other, but that is the distant past to him now. What he more vividly remembers is the pain and the anger he experienced after an engagement gone spectacularly wrong, when his regiment was almost destroyed to the man by an army of Khornate worshippers. The Berserkers among them had captured the Ogryn alive after witnessing him turning cultists into paste with his bare hands, as Gharl’s simple-minded penchant for violence both amused them and had earned their approval. Gharl’s loyalty to the golden-haloed master had been strong, but endless gladiatorial trials and the roaring cheers of the Khorne Berserkers had eroded his memories and his devotion.
In time, the anger and pain was replaced by a savage thirst for blood and a perverse enjoyment of the combat that they put him through, and Gharl came to respect the Berserkers and listen to the things they spoke of; a giant warrior on a throne of skulls in a pool of blood named Khorne, who liked it very much when Gharl turned another captured Eldar into an impact crater for the amusement of the Khornate armies. This was more in line with what Gharl really liked. He remembered that the small men with little rifles would chastise him when he was too violent, too brutal, but these warriors approved.
They had no need for him on the battlefield, however, and thought it would be funny if they simply unleashed the bloodthirsty Ogryn they had created onto the universe to wreak havoc in his own time. Gharl was unused to making decisions for himself, however, so after the armies had departed and left him behind on one of the charnel-worlds of the Eye of Terror, he was swiftly swept up into the service of an aspirant warlord. When that war was over (because the warlord died), he moved on to the next person who told him what to do.
From one world and employer to the next, Gharl refined his tastes and talent for carnage and developed a reputation as a reliable butcher and living battering ram, eventually drawing the attention of a certain merchant....
Other: Paradoxically, Gharl is attracted to pretty things and his meager personal belongings include various pieces of jewelry, carvings and artworks that he likes to look at.
Denomination: Khorne.
Appearance: Gharl is an Ogryn Bone’ead and that simple fact entirely dominates his appearance. Ten feet tall, taller even than an Astartes and stronger to boot, Gharl is a hulking mountain of muscle and bone whose mass has swelled to even greater size with his simple-minded devotion to Khorne. His face is a rough patchwork of scars, with an ear and a piece of his nose missing. Two eyes, as hard as flint and illuminated by an unnatural light that glows in the dark, gaze out at the world with brutal cunning and cunning brutality from beneath a heavy brow. Even more strangely, two thick black horns jut from his forehead in the fashion of a Terran bull, and his neck bulges with the fortified musculature to use them as a weapon.
His vast form is clad in an impossibly large set of blood-splattered carapace armor that turns him into a walking fortress, and he is armed with the ripper gun that is the Ogryn’s trademark weapon -- though he is just as liable to use his massive plated, bone-studded fists and gore-horns to turn enemies into red paste.
Personality: Smarter than the average Ogryn thanks to the B.O.N.E. procedure that turned him into a Bone’ead, Gharl is remarkably similar in temperament and intelligence to an Ork Nob. He possesses a primitive, primal cunning that makes him a very effective warrior, capable of operating on his own and making tactical decisions on the battlefield, even if those decisions don’t usually amount to more than an answer to one question: “How can Gharl get closer?”
His devotion to Khorne is unwavering and sublime in its simplicity. Gharl loves to kill. Khorne loves it when Gharl kills. Therefore, Gharl is quite fond of Khorne. When that resulted in a beautiful set of horns sprouting from his head, Gharl’s fondness of Khorne was elevated to unprecedented levels of gratitude and dedication. As such, anyone that promises Gharl ample opportunities to make Khorne happy by way of violent slaughter has the Ogryn’s loyalty. This makes him the perfect mercenary for heretics and cultists and Gharl has made quite a career as a favored living weapon of Chaos.
He was affectionately nicknamed Ol’ Yeller by the Chaos Marines that turned him into the Khorne-worshipping killing machine he is today because of his habit to yell “BLOOD! SKULLS!” at the top of his lungs when engaging in combat, for the whole catchphrase is usually too long for him to remember in the heat of the moment.
Biography: Gharl vaguely remembers that he once served different masters, small men with little rifles that he fought with, for the glory of some golden-haloed man or other, but that is the distant past to him now. What he more vividly remembers is the pain and the anger he experienced after an engagement gone spectacularly wrong, when his regiment was almost destroyed to the man by an army of Khornate worshippers. The Berserkers among them had captured the Ogryn alive after witnessing him turning cultists into paste with his bare hands, as Gharl’s simple-minded penchant for violence both amused them and had earned their approval. Gharl’s loyalty to the golden-haloed master had been strong, but endless gladiatorial trials and the roaring cheers of the Khorne Berserkers had eroded his memories and his devotion.
In time, the anger and pain was replaced by a savage thirst for blood and a perverse enjoyment of the combat that they put him through, and Gharl came to respect the Berserkers and listen to the things they spoke of; a giant warrior on a throne of skulls in a pool of blood named Khorne, who liked it very much when Gharl turned another captured Eldar into an impact crater for the amusement of the Khornate armies. This was more in line with what Gharl really liked. He remembered that the small men with little rifles would chastise him when he was too violent, too brutal, but these warriors approved.
They had no need for him on the battlefield, however, and thought it would be funny if they simply unleashed the bloodthirsty Ogryn they had created onto the universe to wreak havoc in his own time. Gharl was unused to making decisions for himself, however, so after the armies had departed and left him behind on one of the charnel-worlds of the Eye of Terror, he was swiftly swept up into the service of an aspirant warlord. When that war was over (because the warlord died), he moved on to the next person who told him what to do.
From one world and employer to the next, Gharl refined his tastes and talent for carnage and developed a reputation as a reliable butcher and living battering ram, eventually drawing the attention of a certain merchant....
Other: Paradoxically, Gharl is attracted to pretty things and his meager personal belongings include various pieces of jewelry, carvings and artworks that he likes to look at.
Name/Titles: Ga'duk (& Viron)
Denomination: Nurgle
Personality: Ga'duk is possessed by a Plague Bearer deamon, driving the dim Ogryn to serve the Plague Father. The deamon allows the Ogryn to act on his own but will urge him to further the goals of Chaos and Nurgle in particular when the opportunity arises. The constant pain of rot and the nagging of a deamon has driven the Ogryn insane, while still more stable than a Khornate Berserker he is prone to fits of self harm and pleading (worship) to Papa Nurgle to take his pain away. When Viron grants this request however Ga'duk is generally quite jovial, laughing at his own thoughts and the tickle of maggots crawling across his form. Otherwise he largely acts as an unstoppable wall of flesh and muscle the endurance granted to him by Nurgle allowing him to survive wounds that would be fatal to nearly all others.
Biography: The ogryn was stranded on a space hulk filled with chaos forces after the boarding party he was apart of was slaughtered. Ga'duk was wounded on the Space Hulk though not seriously, however due to lack of proper medicae treatment his wound became infected, over several days the Ogryn fought and survived several run-ins with gibbering lunatics. However his wound's infection grew and Ga'duk was on the verge of death when the hulk shifted back into the warp. A Plaguebearer deamon found him, drawn to the rot and infection running through his veins, and rather than gutting the dying Ogryn the deamon gave him an offer. The offer was to take the pain away and to make him tough and strong again, Ga'duk was too dim to really understand what the deamon was offering. He agreed though and was possessed by the deamon which corrupted and bloated his body but also making him more powerful and durable than he ever was before. For years Ga'duk was tormented by the deamon and sowing death and decay across the space hulk, killing hundreds of demented heretics and traitors making Nurgle plague zombies to wander the hulk falling on anyone not worshiping the Plague father.
The Ogryn's coming to Euromulus Krynne was pure happenstance, or a nudge by Nurgle to balance the great game. While wandering on the shattered remains of a small cargo shuttle that was thousands of years old an explosion inside the hulk knocked the shuttle loose sending it spinning off into the warp. The Ogryn being protected by his deamonic passenger survived his trip through the warp being deposited on Euromulus Krynne's ship in a crash landing that should have shattered his body. Ga'duk's Ogryn endurance enhanced by the deamon allowed him to survive and, with nothing better to do, join the band of mercenaries as repulsive dumb muscle.
Other: Ga'duk carries the weapon of his deamon, an axe that functions just as a Plaguesword.
Denomination: Nurgle
Personality: Ga'duk is possessed by a Plague Bearer deamon, driving the dim Ogryn to serve the Plague Father. The deamon allows the Ogryn to act on his own but will urge him to further the goals of Chaos and Nurgle in particular when the opportunity arises. The constant pain of rot and the nagging of a deamon has driven the Ogryn insane, while still more stable than a Khornate Berserker he is prone to fits of self harm and pleading (worship) to Papa Nurgle to take his pain away. When Viron grants this request however Ga'duk is generally quite jovial, laughing at his own thoughts and the tickle of maggots crawling across his form. Otherwise he largely acts as an unstoppable wall of flesh and muscle the endurance granted to him by Nurgle allowing him to survive wounds that would be fatal to nearly all others.
Biography: The ogryn was stranded on a space hulk filled with chaos forces after the boarding party he was apart of was slaughtered. Ga'duk was wounded on the Space Hulk though not seriously, however due to lack of proper medicae treatment his wound became infected, over several days the Ogryn fought and survived several run-ins with gibbering lunatics. However his wound's infection grew and Ga'duk was on the verge of death when the hulk shifted back into the warp. A Plaguebearer deamon found him, drawn to the rot and infection running through his veins, and rather than gutting the dying Ogryn the deamon gave him an offer. The offer was to take the pain away and to make him tough and strong again, Ga'duk was too dim to really understand what the deamon was offering. He agreed though and was possessed by the deamon which corrupted and bloated his body but also making him more powerful and durable than he ever was before. For years Ga'duk was tormented by the deamon and sowing death and decay across the space hulk, killing hundreds of demented heretics and traitors making Nurgle plague zombies to wander the hulk falling on anyone not worshiping the Plague father.
The Ogryn's coming to Euromulus Krynne was pure happenstance, or a nudge by Nurgle to balance the great game. While wandering on the shattered remains of a small cargo shuttle that was thousands of years old an explosion inside the hulk knocked the shuttle loose sending it spinning off into the warp. The Ogryn being protected by his deamonic passenger survived his trip through the warp being deposited on Euromulus Krynne's ship in a crash landing that should have shattered his body. Ga'duk's Ogryn endurance enhanced by the deamon allowed him to survive and, with nothing better to do, join the band of mercenaries as repulsive dumb muscle.
Other: Ga'duk carries the weapon of his deamon, an axe that functions just as a Plaguesword.
Personality: Gobbles is a jovial and loving creature. It loves to play and give affection to anyone it can, willing or not. Unfortunately its play and affections is usually exceedingly fatal due to Nurgle's Rot. Ga'duk however is not effected already being afflicted by the diseases of Nurgle. The beast loves to play wrestle and fetch things for the Ogryn and only occasionally eating the unfortunate cultist.
Size: ~4ft belly to back ~8ft long
Sample: "Gobbles!" Ga'duk shouted searching for his loyal pet aboard the ship. He was following the trail of slime left by the creature so he could find it before it caused too much trounle, it always acted out when it wandered off. Besides the boss would yell at him again if it killed too many. It didn't take long, the creature rarely went far, before his shouts attracted the creature. It rounded a corner in the corridor jaw hanging open in a grotesque smile dripping with gore and offal having already putrefied and devoured some poor cultist. Ga'duk laughed and held out his arms as the beast charged him tackling him to the ground licking and gnawing on his arms and face while its tentacles grabbed him as if he was any other plaything that it would be eating in short order. Ga'duk however laughed and lifted himself up off the ground powerful enough to lift the bloated monster with him.
Gobbles let go of him and followed the Ogryn around as he searched for the latest victim of the beast. He found the cultist putrefied and torn apart due to his pets play, the monster obviously still wanted to play so he hefted his axe and severed the mans head. He hurled the head down the corridor hard, his strength making it fly far down the hall. He shouted "Go git em!!" after his throw but winced as some crew member entered the corridor about the same time being struck by the head. He looked down in confusion for a heartbeat or three before he looked back up to see Gobbles charging at him. The crewman screamed in terror as he was bulled over, quickly infected by Nurgle's Rot and held down as it liquefied into foul fluids and bloated flesh. Now Ga'duk new the boss was going to yell at him for letting a crewman die.
Ollumhammersong
Member
Seen
2 days ago
Name/Titles: Magister Tri'Chlan, Vizier of deceit, Keeper of Divine Lies, Master of the Ninth Brotherhood
Denomination: Tzeentch
Appearance:
Personality: Tri'Chlan has sold his soul completely and in perpetuity to the deceiver. The man Tri'chlan was as an Imperial astropath is in no way the same creature he is now. He is a creature moulded in the image of Tzeentch, in the aspect of the Great Diviner, who both foretells futures and obscures them with lies and half-truths. He is a normally reserved and capricious being whose whims and goals can be utterly devoted to a single task for years at a time or change with each passing hour. He can often seem irrational and inscrutable and that is mostly by design. Lest any potential rivals think they can find and exploit patterns in his behaviour.
Biography: Once a sanctioned psyker serving within the Imperial navy, An astropath and diviner who fell to the promises and influence of the deceiver nearly three hundred terran years ago when the ship he served on became lost in the warp.
What happened during those years spent at the mercy of the warp and to fates of his original crew are mysteries Tri'chlan does not share. Never-the less it was during that time that Tri'chlan the astropath became Tri'chlan the aspiring sorcerer. Selling his services to warlords and despots, in exchange for secrets and power, and selling his soul ever more to Tzeentch.
During those years he betrayed most warlords he served under, helped a small few rise to glory, and manipulated the rest onto paths that would lead to their eventual downfall. Ultimately he sought to see his own status rise over that of another. Gaining fame, consolidating resources, power and servants. Eventually leading him to his current status and commanding his own vessel.
What ultimately lead him into the orbit of Skuberrima were the whispered promises of his familiar commanding him in the deceiver's name to the blasted world. Weeks of divinations and dozens of sacrifices convinced him that this time at least, his familiar was not speaking lies. And that the blightened world held significant potential. less so the warleader Krynne as she would serve but a means to his end. But if there was one powerful relic to be recovered from this world, surely there could be a second...
Other: Tri'Chlan rules as lord and master over a dedicated cult of followers known as the Ninth Brotherhood. These cretins and outcasts view the Vizier as a prophet of the great deceiver, and that by following him they may themselves be blessed and transformed both spiritually and literally. These cultists are slaved to his will and view his inscrutable whims as absolute. They have and will sacrifice themselves to further his rituals, or plunder and rape in furtherance of his ambitions. Capturing slaves, stealing, or otherwise scrounging any and all scraps of arcane secrets and all other manner of oddities and materials that may or may not prove invaluable to their master's eldritch studies. Or at the very least prove to be amusing curiosities.
The cult of the Ninth brotherhood claims home to an Infidel class raider known as the 'Tear of Betrayal'. Which serves as a useful mobile laboratory and safe haven. From this tiny fortress the magister can freely delegate all matters of leadership he cannot be bothered to oversee and focus the majority of his efforts on his studies and divinations that guide him to the next arcane treasure. The cult itself works hard to ensure that their master can continue to work with minimal interuptions and as a result the cult operates with a large degree of independance. With only occasional direct commands from their lord, and those often in the form of bizzare metaphors and esoteric riddles that require significant effort to interpret.
Tri'Chlan's personal equipment consists of a warp touched force stave that was once topped with an Imperial aquila but now bears the rune of tzeentch. His armour has been similarly transformed and reforged to fit his mutated and freakishly distorted body.
He also wields a rune inscribed warpsteel blade, though tri'chlan is mutated into a form surpassing the strength and speed of an average mortal he is still in reality a poor swordsman, and the blade is used primarily for ritual, sacrifice, and defence. Finally a masterfully crafted laspistol often rests in his third hand.
His final 'gift' from his master is a small, spiteful daemon who serves as his familiar. A curious creature, often seen in a form smaller than even an orkiod snotling. It can never the less never be mistaken for one at a glance. It sees, hears and whispers all into it's master's ear. It also serves as a conduit between himself and the deceiver. It constantly shares a mixture of secrets, hints, outright lies, and direct commands to be fufilled, and tri'chlan spends no small amount of time and effort discerning which is which.
Denomination: Tzeentch
Appearance:
Personality: Tri'Chlan has sold his soul completely and in perpetuity to the deceiver. The man Tri'chlan was as an Imperial astropath is in no way the same creature he is now. He is a creature moulded in the image of Tzeentch, in the aspect of the Great Diviner, who both foretells futures and obscures them with lies and half-truths. He is a normally reserved and capricious being whose whims and goals can be utterly devoted to a single task for years at a time or change with each passing hour. He can often seem irrational and inscrutable and that is mostly by design. Lest any potential rivals think they can find and exploit patterns in his behaviour.
Biography: Once a sanctioned psyker serving within the Imperial navy, An astropath and diviner who fell to the promises and influence of the deceiver nearly three hundred terran years ago when the ship he served on became lost in the warp.
What happened during those years spent at the mercy of the warp and to fates of his original crew are mysteries Tri'chlan does not share. Never-the less it was during that time that Tri'chlan the astropath became Tri'chlan the aspiring sorcerer. Selling his services to warlords and despots, in exchange for secrets and power, and selling his soul ever more to Tzeentch.
During those years he betrayed most warlords he served under, helped a small few rise to glory, and manipulated the rest onto paths that would lead to their eventual downfall. Ultimately he sought to see his own status rise over that of another. Gaining fame, consolidating resources, power and servants. Eventually leading him to his current status and commanding his own vessel.
What ultimately lead him into the orbit of Skuberrima were the whispered promises of his familiar commanding him in the deceiver's name to the blasted world. Weeks of divinations and dozens of sacrifices convinced him that this time at least, his familiar was not speaking lies. And that the blightened world held significant potential. less so the warleader Krynne as she would serve but a means to his end. But if there was one powerful relic to be recovered from this world, surely there could be a second...
Other: Tri'Chlan rules as lord and master over a dedicated cult of followers known as the Ninth Brotherhood. These cretins and outcasts view the Vizier as a prophet of the great deceiver, and that by following him they may themselves be blessed and transformed both spiritually and literally. These cultists are slaved to his will and view his inscrutable whims as absolute. They have and will sacrifice themselves to further his rituals, or plunder and rape in furtherance of his ambitions. Capturing slaves, stealing, or otherwise scrounging any and all scraps of arcane secrets and all other manner of oddities and materials that may or may not prove invaluable to their master's eldritch studies. Or at the very least prove to be amusing curiosities.
The cult of the Ninth brotherhood claims home to an Infidel class raider known as the 'Tear of Betrayal'. Which serves as a useful mobile laboratory and safe haven. From this tiny fortress the magister can freely delegate all matters of leadership he cannot be bothered to oversee and focus the majority of his efforts on his studies and divinations that guide him to the next arcane treasure. The cult itself works hard to ensure that their master can continue to work with minimal interuptions and as a result the cult operates with a large degree of independance. With only occasional direct commands from their lord, and those often in the form of bizzare metaphors and esoteric riddles that require significant effort to interpret.
Tri'Chlan's personal equipment consists of a warp touched force stave that was once topped with an Imperial aquila but now bears the rune of tzeentch. His armour has been similarly transformed and reforged to fit his mutated and freakishly distorted body.
He also wields a rune inscribed warpsteel blade, though tri'chlan is mutated into a form surpassing the strength and speed of an average mortal he is still in reality a poor swordsman, and the blade is used primarily for ritual, sacrifice, and defence. Finally a masterfully crafted laspistol often rests in his third hand.
His final 'gift' from his master is a small, spiteful daemon who serves as his familiar. A curious creature, often seen in a form smaller than even an orkiod snotling. It can never the less never be mistaken for one at a glance. It sees, hears and whispers all into it's master's ear. It also serves as a conduit between himself and the deceiver. It constantly shares a mixture of secrets, hints, outright lies, and direct commands to be fufilled, and tri'chlan spends no small amount of time and effort discerning which is which.
Andreyich AS THOUGH A THOUSAND MOUTHS CRY OUT IN PAIN
Member
Seen
0-24 hrs ago
Name/Titles: As an Alpha Legionnaire, he has any amount of names including Alpharius. Though he was born with the name Mannfred Skorzeny, the alias he goes by is Laszlo Octavius.
Denomination: Chaos Undivided(?)
Appearance: Laszlo is particularly short for a Space Marine at little more than two meters, a trait that has helped him to at times masquerade as a human. His facial appearance is not memorable, and many who witness him will give varied descriptions on his appearance. From a shaved head to long hair and said hair being from blond to jet black. His skin has been described from being pale as Valhallan snows to the dark shade of Vulkan's sons, whilst his eyes can be the same or Ultramarine blue. All of this is in truth is largely thanks to surgeries performed by one of Bile's students. He has no outwardly visible mutations or other marks of Chaos, for all intents and purposes being a normal Astartes on first inspection, though given the current warband he is with being disproportionately Slaaneshi he makes sure to have a more handsome visage when sans helmet.
His armour is very similar, being seemingly ordinary Corvus pattern armour, well made and perhaps master-crafted without ornamentation of any Chapter to allow a quick re-painting of it for a new disguise and cameleoline often covering it to further aid in stealth. His weapons are likewise good but unmarked things, easily switched about. A combi-melta, a power-sword and a bolt-pistol all given to a Warsmith of the Iron Warriors to modify it enough so no Chapter affiliation could be cast upon it.
Personality: The Alpha Legionnaire's personality is difficult to discern for the secretive nature in his very genes. In truth, as a veteran of the long war in the Alpha Legion Laszlo is not quite sure of his very own values and beliefs, his personality likewise indiscernible even to those who have known him for long. He has become uncertain of the very things that define him having to juggle so many personalities from a Chaos Lord's sycophant to trusted advisor of a leading Imperial campaign. The only thing he holds dear to the depths of his heart is devotion to the supreme plan of his Primarch, which - he believes - he is still following most faithfully.
Perhaps one thing has come to characterize him across all of the personalities he enters, and that is disgust with the universe as a whole. Both traitors and Imperium alike have degenerated to such a miserable point, and for all his centuries in both the Empyrean and real-space he has "seen it all", so to speak, and he is not impressed. Though born with a nature neither violent nor impatient, the almost cyclical history of his existence has lead to some outbursts on supposed comrades — however, only after their purpose has expired in an attempt to moderate madness with professionalism.
Biography: Mannfred Skorzeny was born but a few decades before the beginning of the great Brother-War. As a child he was noted for strength and intelligence as are most candidates for the Legiones Astartes but in his case something stood out in particular to the Alpha Legionnaire. Though the boy was physically several standard deviations ahead of other children his age he was noticeably smaller. Whereas for most Legions this would have been an instant disqualifier, in the Alpha Legion this was almost a blessing. Though tall Marines were often required for the Alpha Legion to help ordinary brothers disguise as the Primarch, a short Marine was useful for infiltrating mortal realms.
Mannfred did not require a false-hood to be hidden in amongst newly found human worlds in the great Crusade, which was particularly useful when going through subterfuge in worlds with higher technologies where a false-hood could be detected.
But the Marine proved to have more than just size on his side. He worked well with firearm and blade, he played any given role perfectly, and he was an accomplished if not quite a great leader and commander in the field.
But a single squad commanded by the Marine who came to be known as Laszlo given sufficient time and resources would achieve the subjugation of an entire system. As time went on and the Horus Heresy approached, Laszlo ascended further and further into the circles of trust in his Legion, the Marine being informed of more and more complex schemes and webs of trickery in the Legion, much of what he knew or rather believed he knew proving to be false. But though he came into the Primarch's circle of trust, the very reason he was selected for service in the Legion became the inhibitor of his career's growth. Particularly, he never crossed the boundary of drinking the Primarch's blood.
Though he never acknowledged it nor gave any sign of it, this placed the seed of frustration and jealousy in the heart of the Space Marine. It was the eve of the heresy and the Alpha Legion was undergoing the long task of infiltrating other Legions and the Imperium itself but on the mind of Laszlo was only proving himself to Alpharius and Omegon.
War began, and the Alpha Legionnaire sought out the aid of a renowned Emperor's Children Apothecary. Alas, he could not find Fabius Bold himself, but he did get ahold of one of his greatest students and as time went on this was perhaps for the best. Over the course of the heresy a long course of surgeries was performed on the Legionnaire, from the sonic resistance and screams that characterized proto Noise Marines to augments in his body allowing him to readily change its structure and appearance (with even the potential of augmenting his height) to general physical surgeries. He passed tests of loyalty when his brother Legionnaires under the guise of foes capturing him tortured and interrogated him but his only response was an attempt at suicide using his betcher's gland.
Yet in spite of all this, he was still not granted the honour of drinking the Primarch's blood for the banal reason of his height, and as the heresy ended it became apparent he would not ever now be given the chance to ascend into the ranks of those who became as the Primarch himself.
With the great scouring and the very nature of how traitors operated changing, Laszlo travelled across much of the Galaxy. He lost the Cruiser under his command at the siege of Terra as per plans, but others in the Legion failed to uphold their part of the scheme and so he found himself alone, and vulnerable.
He went with some members of the Sons of Horus, they who soon became the Black Legion. He travelled with them for a very long time, at many points once more crossing with other members of the Alpha Legion with whom he would soon once more travel with.
But first, he needed the aid of the Black Legion in finding the same Emperor's Children Apothecary for final augments to himself. He came upon him, in a port more than a millennium after the Horus Heresy, but the fellow had changed beyond recognition. An attempt to speak with him and ask for more was quickly halted when it became apparent the Apothecary wanted to experiment and ply far more dark sciences than those of the past on one of his previous works and it seemed he wouldn't take no for an answer.
Laszlo carefully manipulated his new Black Legion comrades into going to war with the warband of the Apothecary turned Slaaneshi Sorceror. He was killed after a year of exchanges in both realspace and the warp, and thus the warband outlived its usefulness to Laszlo.
He once more travelled the Galaxy, this time in search of perhaps a final vial of the Primarch's blood. The Marine met now grand members of his Legion across the Galaxy like Occam himself, along with many upstarts born long after the Great Crusade and ignorant of the Legion's ultimate conspiracy.
After travels of several millennia in real space the Legionnaire decided it was time for a different approach. He once more joined with the Black Legion, travelling the Galaxy with them on his strange quest.
With his new comrades his service was quite long, centuries perhaps, until he ended up on a world that would change his prospects for a long time. From his intelligence it was a suicide mission, but he learned the slain Apothecary of his past was not in fact slain and he decided that - for this case - he would make an exception to reason. The Marine after fierce battle with rival cultists was believed to be dead on the world, and left stranded upon it.
Fate led him to a son of the Night Haunter, whom he initially believed to be one of the foe. But an understanding was swiftly reached, one based upon neither Marine wanting to die but quickly growing to a sense of trust. It was a slow transition born of necessity, growing out of the mere alliance of necessity it was at first. The Marines were very different, but their skills almost perfectly complementary and together they were able to hijack a ship off of the world.
With a vessel controlled only by a Captain under duress, the two knew they had a weak grip on their predicament at best, and after some thought they decided to head to Skuberrima. It was a vile den for sure, but such was an environment both would thrive in.
Other: Though he is a Veteran Alpha Legionnaire with all the prowess that entails, much of Laszlo's might comes from a series of surgeries he received from a student of Fabius Bile. He can shout with blood boiling volume even without a helmet to amplify his voice, feeling nothng of such sound's effects. But volume is not the only thing he has control over, a wide selection of intonation available to him. He can with some effort change his facial appearance, and with time that of his whole body. Further, he has better smell borrowing what the Apothecary learned from dead Space Wolves and resistance to the elements borrowed from Slamanders all of which is in addition to a general step towards the "perfection" that the Sons of Fulgrim aimed for.
Denomination: Chaos Undivided(?)
Appearance: Laszlo is particularly short for a Space Marine at little more than two meters, a trait that has helped him to at times masquerade as a human. His facial appearance is not memorable, and many who witness him will give varied descriptions on his appearance. From a shaved head to long hair and said hair being from blond to jet black. His skin has been described from being pale as Valhallan snows to the dark shade of Vulkan's sons, whilst his eyes can be the same or Ultramarine blue. All of this is in truth is largely thanks to surgeries performed by one of Bile's students. He has no outwardly visible mutations or other marks of Chaos, for all intents and purposes being a normal Astartes on first inspection, though given the current warband he is with being disproportionately Slaaneshi he makes sure to have a more handsome visage when sans helmet.
His armour is very similar, being seemingly ordinary Corvus pattern armour, well made and perhaps master-crafted without ornamentation of any Chapter to allow a quick re-painting of it for a new disguise and cameleoline often covering it to further aid in stealth. His weapons are likewise good but unmarked things, easily switched about. A combi-melta, a power-sword and a bolt-pistol all given to a Warsmith of the Iron Warriors to modify it enough so no Chapter affiliation could be cast upon it.
Personality: The Alpha Legionnaire's personality is difficult to discern for the secretive nature in his very genes. In truth, as a veteran of the long war in the Alpha Legion Laszlo is not quite sure of his very own values and beliefs, his personality likewise indiscernible even to those who have known him for long. He has become uncertain of the very things that define him having to juggle so many personalities from a Chaos Lord's sycophant to trusted advisor of a leading Imperial campaign. The only thing he holds dear to the depths of his heart is devotion to the supreme plan of his Primarch, which - he believes - he is still following most faithfully.
Perhaps one thing has come to characterize him across all of the personalities he enters, and that is disgust with the universe as a whole. Both traitors and Imperium alike have degenerated to such a miserable point, and for all his centuries in both the Empyrean and real-space he has "seen it all", so to speak, and he is not impressed. Though born with a nature neither violent nor impatient, the almost cyclical history of his existence has lead to some outbursts on supposed comrades — however, only after their purpose has expired in an attempt to moderate madness with professionalism.
Biography: Mannfred Skorzeny was born but a few decades before the beginning of the great Brother-War. As a child he was noted for strength and intelligence as are most candidates for the Legiones Astartes but in his case something stood out in particular to the Alpha Legionnaire. Though the boy was physically several standard deviations ahead of other children his age he was noticeably smaller. Whereas for most Legions this would have been an instant disqualifier, in the Alpha Legion this was almost a blessing. Though tall Marines were often required for the Alpha Legion to help ordinary brothers disguise as the Primarch, a short Marine was useful for infiltrating mortal realms.
Mannfred did not require a false-hood to be hidden in amongst newly found human worlds in the great Crusade, which was particularly useful when going through subterfuge in worlds with higher technologies where a false-hood could be detected.
But the Marine proved to have more than just size on his side. He worked well with firearm and blade, he played any given role perfectly, and he was an accomplished if not quite a great leader and commander in the field.
But a single squad commanded by the Marine who came to be known as Laszlo given sufficient time and resources would achieve the subjugation of an entire system. As time went on and the Horus Heresy approached, Laszlo ascended further and further into the circles of trust in his Legion, the Marine being informed of more and more complex schemes and webs of trickery in the Legion, much of what he knew or rather believed he knew proving to be false. But though he came into the Primarch's circle of trust, the very reason he was selected for service in the Legion became the inhibitor of his career's growth. Particularly, he never crossed the boundary of drinking the Primarch's blood.
Though he never acknowledged it nor gave any sign of it, this placed the seed of frustration and jealousy in the heart of the Space Marine. It was the eve of the heresy and the Alpha Legion was undergoing the long task of infiltrating other Legions and the Imperium itself but on the mind of Laszlo was only proving himself to Alpharius and Omegon.
War began, and the Alpha Legionnaire sought out the aid of a renowned Emperor's Children Apothecary. Alas, he could not find Fabius Bold himself, but he did get ahold of one of his greatest students and as time went on this was perhaps for the best. Over the course of the heresy a long course of surgeries was performed on the Legionnaire, from the sonic resistance and screams that characterized proto Noise Marines to augments in his body allowing him to readily change its structure and appearance (with even the potential of augmenting his height) to general physical surgeries. He passed tests of loyalty when his brother Legionnaires under the guise of foes capturing him tortured and interrogated him but his only response was an attempt at suicide using his betcher's gland.
Yet in spite of all this, he was still not granted the honour of drinking the Primarch's blood for the banal reason of his height, and as the heresy ended it became apparent he would not ever now be given the chance to ascend into the ranks of those who became as the Primarch himself.
With the great scouring and the very nature of how traitors operated changing, Laszlo travelled across much of the Galaxy. He lost the Cruiser under his command at the siege of Terra as per plans, but others in the Legion failed to uphold their part of the scheme and so he found himself alone, and vulnerable.
He went with some members of the Sons of Horus, they who soon became the Black Legion. He travelled with them for a very long time, at many points once more crossing with other members of the Alpha Legion with whom he would soon once more travel with.
But first, he needed the aid of the Black Legion in finding the same Emperor's Children Apothecary for final augments to himself. He came upon him, in a port more than a millennium after the Horus Heresy, but the fellow had changed beyond recognition. An attempt to speak with him and ask for more was quickly halted when it became apparent the Apothecary wanted to experiment and ply far more dark sciences than those of the past on one of his previous works and it seemed he wouldn't take no for an answer.
Laszlo carefully manipulated his new Black Legion comrades into going to war with the warband of the Apothecary turned Slaaneshi Sorceror. He was killed after a year of exchanges in both realspace and the warp, and thus the warband outlived its usefulness to Laszlo.
He once more travelled the Galaxy, this time in search of perhaps a final vial of the Primarch's blood. The Marine met now grand members of his Legion across the Galaxy like Occam himself, along with many upstarts born long after the Great Crusade and ignorant of the Legion's ultimate conspiracy.
After travels of several millennia in real space the Legionnaire decided it was time for a different approach. He once more joined with the Black Legion, travelling the Galaxy with them on his strange quest.
With his new comrades his service was quite long, centuries perhaps, until he ended up on a world that would change his prospects for a long time. From his intelligence it was a suicide mission, but he learned the slain Apothecary of his past was not in fact slain and he decided that - for this case - he would make an exception to reason. The Marine after fierce battle with rival cultists was believed to be dead on the world, and left stranded upon it.
Fate led him to a son of the Night Haunter, whom he initially believed to be one of the foe. But an understanding was swiftly reached, one based upon neither Marine wanting to die but quickly growing to a sense of trust. It was a slow transition born of necessity, growing out of the mere alliance of necessity it was at first. The Marines were very different, but their skills almost perfectly complementary and together they were able to hijack a ship off of the world.
With a vessel controlled only by a Captain under duress, the two knew they had a weak grip on their predicament at best, and after some thought they decided to head to Skuberrima. It was a vile den for sure, but such was an environment both would thrive in.
Other: Though he is a Veteran Alpha Legionnaire with all the prowess that entails, much of Laszlo's might comes from a series of surgeries he received from a student of Fabius Bile. He can shout with blood boiling volume even without a helmet to amplify his voice, feeling nothng of such sound's effects. But volume is not the only thing he has control over, a wide selection of intonation available to him. He can with some effort change his facial appearance, and with time that of his whole body. Further, he has better smell borrowing what the Apothecary learned from dead Space Wolves and resistance to the elements borrowed from Slamanders all of which is in addition to a general step towards the "perfection" that the Sons of Fulgrim aimed for.
GM
Name/Titles:
Laverna Titius.
Denomination:
Slaanesh.
Appearance:
Of average height, and a nimble fighter’s build, Laverna has an agile physique. Elements of her appearance, such as her hair, and piercings, seem to change on a frequent basis, and her pale flesh is covered with scars, and tattoos.
Personality:
Having grown up on the harsh and desolate world of Messia, Laverna’s personality is typical of one raised in such a Darwinian environment. She is cold, callous, and cruel. The young woman is emotionally stunted, and rarely forms personal connections.
What little flare of life she possesses comes from her infatuation with art, and her love of chems. The longer that Laverna has spent away from Messia, the more animated she has become.
Whilst her formative years forged a merciless and ruthless killer, Laverna has come to learn that there is more to the universe than Messia, and stands on the cusp of a dark rebirth.
Biography:
Born in the ruined city of Mekonta, Laverna was raised as a slave, which lead to a life competing in bloodsports for Drilling Barons, and Messia’s other “elite”. Her successes in the arena earnt her a spot in the expeditionary forces which traveled outside of Mekonta, in search of promethium.
It was on one of these expeditions that Laverna and her comrades were abducted by pirates working for Euromulus Krynne.
The merchant sought new bodies to be put to work as mercenaries, harvested for parts and organs, or forced into slavery.
Throughout the trials which the Mekontan’s were put through as a display of worth, Laverna excelled, and the depraved Krynne took a shining to her.
In the years to follow, Laverna rose to prominence as Krynne’s most cold-blooded weapon, and favourite plaything.
It was through Krynne that Laverna learnt what it meant to live a life of extreme decadence, and to indulge one’s darkest desires.
It was also through Krynne, that Laveran would come to hear the name of Slaanesh.
Other:
Laverna has a fondness for Glittershells, and tends to utilize them in long-ranged combat. For close-quarters, she prefers the use of her Æthéme blade.
Laverna Titius.
Denomination:
Slaanesh.
Appearance:
Of average height, and a nimble fighter’s build, Laverna has an agile physique. Elements of her appearance, such as her hair, and piercings, seem to change on a frequent basis, and her pale flesh is covered with scars, and tattoos.
Personality:
Having grown up on the harsh and desolate world of Messia, Laverna’s personality is typical of one raised in such a Darwinian environment. She is cold, callous, and cruel. The young woman is emotionally stunted, and rarely forms personal connections.
What little flare of life she possesses comes from her infatuation with art, and her love of chems. The longer that Laverna has spent away from Messia, the more animated she has become.
Whilst her formative years forged a merciless and ruthless killer, Laverna has come to learn that there is more to the universe than Messia, and stands on the cusp of a dark rebirth.
Biography:
Born in the ruined city of Mekonta, Laverna was raised as a slave, which lead to a life competing in bloodsports for Drilling Barons, and Messia’s other “elite”. Her successes in the arena earnt her a spot in the expeditionary forces which traveled outside of Mekonta, in search of promethium.
It was on one of these expeditions that Laverna and her comrades were abducted by pirates working for Euromulus Krynne.
The merchant sought new bodies to be put to work as mercenaries, harvested for parts and organs, or forced into slavery.
Throughout the trials which the Mekontan’s were put through as a display of worth, Laverna excelled, and the depraved Krynne took a shining to her.
In the years to follow, Laverna rose to prominence as Krynne’s most cold-blooded weapon, and favourite plaything.
It was through Krynne that Laverna learnt what it meant to live a life of extreme decadence, and to indulge one’s darkest desires.
It was also through Krynne, that Laveran would come to hear the name of Slaanesh.
Other:
Laverna has a fondness for Glittershells, and tends to utilize them in long-ranged combat. For close-quarters, she prefers the use of her Æthéme blade.
Name/Titles: Castigus Sharak
Denomination: Chaos Undivided.
Appearance:
Towering at approximately nine and a half feet tall out of his power armor Castigus frame is on the tall end of the space marines range of heights. With pale skin, black eyes, and dark stingy black hair he is readily identifiable as a Nostroman native. The right side of his head has been shaved away and Nostroman script spiders across the pale flesh in blue ink. Crawling down the right side of his face and neck; the tattoos continue down over his right shoulder. A gift or perhaps a curse from the Ruinous Powers the tattoo is a warp mutation.
The Astartes gene-bulked body features the characteristic ports of his black carapace. Beneath his skin dark lines have begun to appear tracing veins and arteries; another visible sign of his increasing corruption.
In his armor, Castigus is a terrible sight to behold. Painted in the colors of his legion the armor is covered with a variety of death motifs as originally encouraged by The Nighthaunter. Hundreds of decorative bronze skulls can be seen within the trim of his armor. Each wrought with varying degrees of expression in the brown arches and jaws of the skulls. Eschewing the bat-winged helm of other Legionnaires, Castigus helm is smooth save for his vox-grille which has been worked into the clenched teeth of a skull. Additional markings along his pauldrons and armor indicate his assignment to the Tenth Company, 3rd Claw as a Night Raptor. If the markings were not enough of an indication, Castigus preference for a jump pack often makes it readily apparent. Armed with Legion bolt pistol, bolt gun, combat Knife and chain axe, Castigus maintains the lighter close combat weapons of a Raptor over more archaic or heavy armaments.
Personality: On the opposite end of the spectrum from many of his companions in the Night Raptor’s ranks Castigus possess an almost laconic demeanor. Many could accuse him of being slow at the worst of times or overly patient at the best. While he may be slower to anger or bloodlust than his murderous brothers he still possesses the gene predilections of his legion. When combat or the need to inflict terror and pain are upon him Castigus loses much of his usual demeanor becoming vicious and brutal. True to his assignment as a Night Raptor.
Following the destruction of third Claw, Castigus has begun to learn to channel this hot burning viciousness. The change has been brought about more out of necessity than out of real want on his part as it stems from his new Alpha Legion brother. As if this change were not strange enough Castigus has also begun another, perhaps arguably more sinister, change in his personality. The Nighthaunter’s grim sense of black and white justice has begun to creep back into Castigus’ actions and thoughts. Where once he might have slaughtered everyone without a thought he now assigns sins for which they are being punished. Cowardice, Pride, Sloth, the list goes on.
Biography: Castigus was born on Nostromo and was raised there during the Great Crusade. His family were informants for one of the local crime bosses after the Nighthaunter had been called back to Holy Terra and the planet had deteriorated once more. During one of the selections for children to be sent as a tithe, he was selected. His parents were merely thankful that it was the youngest and not one of his older siblings who were chosen. Little did they know it was his age that was to be desired for he would be gene forged into one of the Emperor’s Astartes.
Years passed in a whirlwind for Castigus who passed the trials of a space marine and was finally assigned to 10th Company. Void Warfare Specialists. For a time it was almost a peaceful thing for him. They would be sent off to one theatre of war or another. By that time their reputation was established. The system or world would plead for mercy, and there would be mercy. The Emperor’s Mercy in the form of a vicious and sudden campaign of terror and brutality before order was restored. It mattered little to Castigus who the enemy was for it was a simple thing. Whoever his Captains and Primarch said he should kill. He killed with startling viciousness letting them scream out their last moments in blessed fear.
Then the time came, the Warmaster. Now the Arch-Traitor Horus decided it was for the best that the Emperor be dethroned. Once again he was pitched back into the fight but this time. This time it was different. Brother fought brother, and the carnage that was wrought across the Galaxy was apocalyptic. Castigus reveled in it as he always had but now his brother’s deviations were not so strange in light of Lorgar’s children allowing the Neverborn to ride their souls. Or for Slow and plodding Mortarion’s children to show up to the siege of Terra bloated with pox and disease. “Gifts” he later learned from the death god Nurgle. Still, stranger was Magnus’ Thousand Sons fully steeped in the powers of the Warp. The list went on. It didn’t matter.
While his brother’s boots found the soil of Holy Terra Castigus fought a different war. A silent one. In the quiet void between ships where he participated in boarding action after boarding actions. Racing down the hallways of Imperial ships and Space Marine battle barges alike. The Cult Mechanicus had sided with them after all… The rush had been something, unlike anything he had ever felt.
When all was said and done they fled into the night. Sowing terror and death across the stars before they were finally forced to limp into Eye space. Their Captain became the Exalted. Things changed. They always did. It was never really the same in light of Tera. Finally, the day came. He never could remember the name of the planet. Some Black Legion resisting bastion of Slaaneshi cultists. Didn’t matter. They screamed a lot. He couldn’t tell if it was from the fear they had inflicted or because they liked it. When it was all said and done he was left wandering on the surface of a still reeling planet. Alone without the other members of Third Claw with the Covenant of Blood vanished into the void.
That had been when he met the Alpha Legionnaire. After a brief standoff in which they determined that their goals were mutually aligned the two began the grim business of escaping the planet and finding a new purpose. An unlikely duo to say the least. But an effective and deadly one without a doubt. The cunning of a Twentieth Legion spook and the sheer unadulterated fear of an Eight Legion terror trooper working in concerted tandem.
Necessity and the will of the Gods have finally seen fit to bring the pair to the surface of Skuberrima. Strange enough to find a single legionnaire without a Warband, let alone two from different Legions. Running low on personal supplies it's clear the two are more than willing to sell their talents to the highest bidder. And their talents are nothing to be scoffed at.
Other: The Night Lords have several notable differences from other space marine Legions stemming from their heritage and the will of their Primarch. Notably They are capable of a Vox amplified shriek sufficient to incapacitate most augmented and augmented mortals for a period of time. In addition their power armor has been augmented to provide a type of auspex that augments their already perfect night vision giving them the ability to see living beings heat signatures, termed “prey sight”. Castigus was blessed with Nostroman heritage and as a result has the perfect night vision of his legion however bright unfiltered lights can be painful and disruptive to his sight without his helmet.
Denomination: Chaos Undivided.
Appearance:
Towering at approximately nine and a half feet tall out of his power armor Castigus frame is on the tall end of the space marines range of heights. With pale skin, black eyes, and dark stingy black hair he is readily identifiable as a Nostroman native. The right side of his head has been shaved away and Nostroman script spiders across the pale flesh in blue ink. Crawling down the right side of his face and neck; the tattoos continue down over his right shoulder. A gift or perhaps a curse from the Ruinous Powers the tattoo is a warp mutation.
The Astartes gene-bulked body features the characteristic ports of his black carapace. Beneath his skin dark lines have begun to appear tracing veins and arteries; another visible sign of his increasing corruption.
In his armor, Castigus is a terrible sight to behold. Painted in the colors of his legion the armor is covered with a variety of death motifs as originally encouraged by The Nighthaunter. Hundreds of decorative bronze skulls can be seen within the trim of his armor. Each wrought with varying degrees of expression in the brown arches and jaws of the skulls. Eschewing the bat-winged helm of other Legionnaires, Castigus helm is smooth save for his vox-grille which has been worked into the clenched teeth of a skull. Additional markings along his pauldrons and armor indicate his assignment to the Tenth Company, 3rd Claw as a Night Raptor. If the markings were not enough of an indication, Castigus preference for a jump pack often makes it readily apparent. Armed with Legion bolt pistol, bolt gun, combat Knife and chain axe, Castigus maintains the lighter close combat weapons of a Raptor over more archaic or heavy armaments.
Personality: On the opposite end of the spectrum from many of his companions in the Night Raptor’s ranks Castigus possess an almost laconic demeanor. Many could accuse him of being slow at the worst of times or overly patient at the best. While he may be slower to anger or bloodlust than his murderous brothers he still possesses the gene predilections of his legion. When combat or the need to inflict terror and pain are upon him Castigus loses much of his usual demeanor becoming vicious and brutal. True to his assignment as a Night Raptor.
Following the destruction of third Claw, Castigus has begun to learn to channel this hot burning viciousness. The change has been brought about more out of necessity than out of real want on his part as it stems from his new Alpha Legion brother. As if this change were not strange enough Castigus has also begun another, perhaps arguably more sinister, change in his personality. The Nighthaunter’s grim sense of black and white justice has begun to creep back into Castigus’ actions and thoughts. Where once he might have slaughtered everyone without a thought he now assigns sins for which they are being punished. Cowardice, Pride, Sloth, the list goes on.
Biography: Castigus was born on Nostromo and was raised there during the Great Crusade. His family were informants for one of the local crime bosses after the Nighthaunter had been called back to Holy Terra and the planet had deteriorated once more. During one of the selections for children to be sent as a tithe, he was selected. His parents were merely thankful that it was the youngest and not one of his older siblings who were chosen. Little did they know it was his age that was to be desired for he would be gene forged into one of the Emperor’s Astartes.
Years passed in a whirlwind for Castigus who passed the trials of a space marine and was finally assigned to 10th Company. Void Warfare Specialists. For a time it was almost a peaceful thing for him. They would be sent off to one theatre of war or another. By that time their reputation was established. The system or world would plead for mercy, and there would be mercy. The Emperor’s Mercy in the form of a vicious and sudden campaign of terror and brutality before order was restored. It mattered little to Castigus who the enemy was for it was a simple thing. Whoever his Captains and Primarch said he should kill. He killed with startling viciousness letting them scream out their last moments in blessed fear.
Then the time came, the Warmaster. Now the Arch-Traitor Horus decided it was for the best that the Emperor be dethroned. Once again he was pitched back into the fight but this time. This time it was different. Brother fought brother, and the carnage that was wrought across the Galaxy was apocalyptic. Castigus reveled in it as he always had but now his brother’s deviations were not so strange in light of Lorgar’s children allowing the Neverborn to ride their souls. Or for Slow and plodding Mortarion’s children to show up to the siege of Terra bloated with pox and disease. “Gifts” he later learned from the death god Nurgle. Still, stranger was Magnus’ Thousand Sons fully steeped in the powers of the Warp. The list went on. It didn’t matter.
While his brother’s boots found the soil of Holy Terra Castigus fought a different war. A silent one. In the quiet void between ships where he participated in boarding action after boarding actions. Racing down the hallways of Imperial ships and Space Marine battle barges alike. The Cult Mechanicus had sided with them after all… The rush had been something, unlike anything he had ever felt.
When all was said and done they fled into the night. Sowing terror and death across the stars before they were finally forced to limp into Eye space. Their Captain became the Exalted. Things changed. They always did. It was never really the same in light of Tera. Finally, the day came. He never could remember the name of the planet. Some Black Legion resisting bastion of Slaaneshi cultists. Didn’t matter. They screamed a lot. He couldn’t tell if it was from the fear they had inflicted or because they liked it. When it was all said and done he was left wandering on the surface of a still reeling planet. Alone without the other members of Third Claw with the Covenant of Blood vanished into the void.
That had been when he met the Alpha Legionnaire. After a brief standoff in which they determined that their goals were mutually aligned the two began the grim business of escaping the planet and finding a new purpose. An unlikely duo to say the least. But an effective and deadly one without a doubt. The cunning of a Twentieth Legion spook and the sheer unadulterated fear of an Eight Legion terror trooper working in concerted tandem.
Necessity and the will of the Gods have finally seen fit to bring the pair to the surface of Skuberrima. Strange enough to find a single legionnaire without a Warband, let alone two from different Legions. Running low on personal supplies it's clear the two are more than willing to sell their talents to the highest bidder. And their talents are nothing to be scoffed at.
Other: The Night Lords have several notable differences from other space marine Legions stemming from their heritage and the will of their Primarch. Notably They are capable of a Vox amplified shriek sufficient to incapacitate most augmented and augmented mortals for a period of time. In addition their power armor has been augmented to provide a type of auspex that augments their already perfect night vision giving them the ability to see living beings heat signatures, termed “prey sight”. Castigus was blessed with Nostroman heritage and as a result has the perfect night vision of his legion however bright unfiltered lights can be painful and disruptive to his sight without his helmet.
Guy0fV4lor Retaker of The Holy Land
Member
Seen
1 yr ago
Name/Titles: 'Jake' Jacob Elijah Moore
Denomination: Undivided
Appearance: Beneath the wide brim of his dark brown, and nearly black chapeu, is the face of a man who at one time may have been quite handsome. Rough stubble streaches across his rather chiseled jawline and up into his hair; the only interruption being the large scar upon his right cheek. A deep burn; shaped like a gash reaches from just below the right corner of his mouth, to a bit before his earlobe. Extending from the main body of the scar are several long red arcs vaguely reminiscent of electricity, the the deepest (and longest for that matter) of which span up into his brow, across the bridge of his nose, and down the side of his neck.
His eyes; an icy shade of blue, are cold, hollow and focused. Should he every take off his hat, the somewhat thin hair beneath is a dark brown, yet almost coated with a matte finish of gray, and is always neatly combed to the right side.
His attire is that of a hardy leather tail coat and vest that match the color of his hat. On his dark belt, there are two holsters carrying a pair of twin six-shooter bolt pistols, many small loops to hold ammunition, as well as a buttoned loop holding a vaguely metallic lasso. The dark leather gloves he wears have noticably metallic fingertips, and if one were to look closely, crude circuitry travels within the leather from these fingertips, and up into his tailcoat.
Personality: A twisted reflection of the man that once was, Jacob is cruel, sadistic and vulgar to almost a fine point. He loves nothing more than the thrill of breaking another person, and running down any who try to flee. Cheating, lying and theft are not necessarily below him, but he enjoys the previously mentioned evils far more than the subtleties of mindgames and trickery.
Perhaps the only vestige of his past self remaining is his rather polite demeanor, often eerily so.
He is more a man of action rather than words, typically the quiet type that speaks only when nessecary, or when spoken to.
Unlike most other devotees of the ruinous powers, Jake views the dark gods as benefactors whom can give him the power and knowledge he needs to pursue his own goals, rather than forces that innately deserve worship and veneration. Despite this, the lengths he would be willing to go to in order to recieve the favor of the the ruinous are nonetheless few and far between.
Despite how warped and twisted he may be, his love for Mary holds strong. Any who try to seduce him or merely suggest he partake in any action unfaithful to his beloved wife, shall either be met with hostility, or pursued with a ravenous vengeance by Jacob.
There are times that the man that was bleeds through; often when he is thinking of Mary, but only for fleeting moments at a time.
Biography:
There was a woman.
She loved him, and he loved her.
She was taken from him and he tried to save her-- and the rest is none of their fucking business.
If anyone were to ask Jacob Elijah Moore about his past, that's all he'd be willing to tell them.
Other:
Denomination: Undivided
Appearance: Beneath the wide brim of his dark brown, and nearly black chapeu, is the face of a man who at one time may have been quite handsome. Rough stubble streaches across his rather chiseled jawline and up into his hair; the only interruption being the large scar upon his right cheek. A deep burn; shaped like a gash reaches from just below the right corner of his mouth, to a bit before his earlobe. Extending from the main body of the scar are several long red arcs vaguely reminiscent of electricity, the the deepest (and longest for that matter) of which span up into his brow, across the bridge of his nose, and down the side of his neck.
His eyes; an icy shade of blue, are cold, hollow and focused. Should he every take off his hat, the somewhat thin hair beneath is a dark brown, yet almost coated with a matte finish of gray, and is always neatly combed to the right side.
His attire is that of a hardy leather tail coat and vest that match the color of his hat. On his dark belt, there are two holsters carrying a pair of twin six-shooter bolt pistols, many small loops to hold ammunition, as well as a buttoned loop holding a vaguely metallic lasso. The dark leather gloves he wears have noticably metallic fingertips, and if one were to look closely, crude circuitry travels within the leather from these fingertips, and up into his tailcoat.
Personality: A twisted reflection of the man that once was, Jacob is cruel, sadistic and vulgar to almost a fine point. He loves nothing more than the thrill of breaking another person, and running down any who try to flee. Cheating, lying and theft are not necessarily below him, but he enjoys the previously mentioned evils far more than the subtleties of mindgames and trickery.
Perhaps the only vestige of his past self remaining is his rather polite demeanor, often eerily so.
He is more a man of action rather than words, typically the quiet type that speaks only when nessecary, or when spoken to.
Unlike most other devotees of the ruinous powers, Jake views the dark gods as benefactors whom can give him the power and knowledge he needs to pursue his own goals, rather than forces that innately deserve worship and veneration. Despite this, the lengths he would be willing to go to in order to recieve the favor of the the ruinous are nonetheless few and far between.
Despite how warped and twisted he may be, his love for Mary holds strong. Any who try to seduce him or merely suggest he partake in any action unfaithful to his beloved wife, shall either be met with hostility, or pursued with a ravenous vengeance by Jacob.
There are times that the man that was bleeds through; often when he is thinking of Mary, but only for fleeting moments at a time.
Biography:
There was a woman.
She loved him, and he loved her.
She was taken from him and he tried to save her-- and the rest is none of their fucking business.
If anyone were to ask Jacob Elijah Moore about his past, that's all he'd be willing to tell them.
Jake was a simple man, living a simple life on the world of Wessar IV... An honest fellow that didn't smoke, drink, or even swear. He was a truely kindhearted and honest man, through and through; a true rarity in the grimdark 41st millennium. During the time Jake had lived there, Wessar IV had been something of a death world to the imperium. Though the surface of the planet was home to vast expanses of deserts, plains, and mountains; no large concerted effort bad ever been made to tame these lands, likely due to the small warp storms that would form and disperse every so often across it's surface, rendering such an effort likely doomed to fail, especially considering the already highly aggressive flora and fauna of the planet.
Most men of working age on this harsh planet would dedicate their lives to herding the massive hordes of the more placid animals that roamed the ever stretching plains. These men were dubbed 'wranglers', and Jake was one such man. They would spend their days on horseback, equipped with electrified lassos, knifes, and variants of the bolt pistol; designed reminiscently (and out of sheer coincidence) like the iconic six-shooter pistols that were once a staple of the ancient cowboys of Terra, defending the herds from the many threats that stalked the expanses of the untamed wilds.
It was a bleak way to live, as hundreds of wranglers would likely die every day to the elements, and depression was constantly looming over the heads of those that lived, threatening to drag them into its unfathomable depths. Some days, Jake swore he'd have long since lost his mind if it weren't for his one true love, Mary Fitzgerald; a fiery redhead that had claimed his heart back when they were children. Every three months, wranglers were allowed to return to their homes and see their families for a solar week before being sent back into the wilds. And each time he'd return to his beloved, she would be waiting for him on the front steps of their simple homestead, a bright smile on her face as he stepped into her loving embrace.
She was six months pregnant with their child when Jake would see her for the last time. He was riding toward their simple homestead in the dead of night, a pale moon painting the small settlement silhouette with an eerie light. It was quiet.... Almost as if the hustle and bustle of life within the town had been smothered to a whisper. By the time he'd seen them, it was already too late to act upon the foreboding dread that had been building in his chest. Illuminated in the moonlight, thin humanoid figures clad in black armor were accompanied by, large, malformed creatures, brutes that moved with pained, and unnatural limping. Grasped tightly within the hand; if it could even be called that, of one of these grotesque abominations, was the limp shape of woman, the red hue of her draping locks just ever so slightly discernable through the darkness. A blazing inferno surged to life within the core of the lone rider's soul as he drew his pistols in defiance, and opened fire.
Not a single shot hit it's mark.
One of the dark figures raised the unmistakable shape of weapon, as its masked face radiated a spiteful smile of cruel amusement. Had Strider not reared up in fear that exact moment, Jake's head would've been blown clean off. Tearing through the horse's neck, whatever the xeno had fired glanced off Jacob's right cheek, causing an excruciating pain unlike any he'd ever felt before in his life. As the night slowly faded away into nothingness, the man could only watch; paralyzed in agony, as the jagged black ships took off into the void of space, leaving the town burning, leaving the man to writhe as if they were mocking the futility of his attempt. By the time Jake had come to, the xenos raiders had long since left, the town nothing more than smouldering cinder.
Three days he trudged on foot through the blistering heat of the desert sun, and against all odds he made it to the nearest neighboring settlement after no less than seven close calls with death.
The man Jake used to be died out in the sands. The man that survived being a twisted reflection of his former self, one that sought a darker, more potent power, that he may reclaim his beloved Mary.
As days stretched into weeks, and weeks into months, the former wrangler eventually found himself in the employ of the merchant Euromulus Krynne; working upon one of the merchant's many ships as a security detail.
Little did he know that his employer had more in store for the man known as Jacob Elijah Moore...
Most men of working age on this harsh planet would dedicate their lives to herding the massive hordes of the more placid animals that roamed the ever stretching plains. These men were dubbed 'wranglers', and Jake was one such man. They would spend their days on horseback, equipped with electrified lassos, knifes, and variants of the bolt pistol; designed reminiscently (and out of sheer coincidence) like the iconic six-shooter pistols that were once a staple of the ancient cowboys of Terra, defending the herds from the many threats that stalked the expanses of the untamed wilds.
It was a bleak way to live, as hundreds of wranglers would likely die every day to the elements, and depression was constantly looming over the heads of those that lived, threatening to drag them into its unfathomable depths. Some days, Jake swore he'd have long since lost his mind if it weren't for his one true love, Mary Fitzgerald; a fiery redhead that had claimed his heart back when they were children. Every three months, wranglers were allowed to return to their homes and see their families for a solar week before being sent back into the wilds. And each time he'd return to his beloved, she would be waiting for him on the front steps of their simple homestead, a bright smile on her face as he stepped into her loving embrace.
She was six months pregnant with their child when Jake would see her for the last time. He was riding toward their simple homestead in the dead of night, a pale moon painting the small settlement silhouette with an eerie light. It was quiet.... Almost as if the hustle and bustle of life within the town had been smothered to a whisper. By the time he'd seen them, it was already too late to act upon the foreboding dread that had been building in his chest. Illuminated in the moonlight, thin humanoid figures clad in black armor were accompanied by, large, malformed creatures, brutes that moved with pained, and unnatural limping. Grasped tightly within the hand; if it could even be called that, of one of these grotesque abominations, was the limp shape of woman, the red hue of her draping locks just ever so slightly discernable through the darkness. A blazing inferno surged to life within the core of the lone rider's soul as he drew his pistols in defiance, and opened fire.
Not a single shot hit it's mark.
One of the dark figures raised the unmistakable shape of weapon, as its masked face radiated a spiteful smile of cruel amusement. Had Strider not reared up in fear that exact moment, Jake's head would've been blown clean off. Tearing through the horse's neck, whatever the xeno had fired glanced off Jacob's right cheek, causing an excruciating pain unlike any he'd ever felt before in his life. As the night slowly faded away into nothingness, the man could only watch; paralyzed in agony, as the jagged black ships took off into the void of space, leaving the town burning, leaving the man to writhe as if they were mocking the futility of his attempt. By the time Jake had come to, the xenos raiders had long since left, the town nothing more than smouldering cinder.
Three days he trudged on foot through the blistering heat of the desert sun, and against all odds he made it to the nearest neighboring settlement after no less than seven close calls with death.
The man Jake used to be died out in the sands. The man that survived being a twisted reflection of his former self, one that sought a darker, more potent power, that he may reclaim his beloved Mary.
As days stretched into weeks, and weeks into months, the former wrangler eventually found himself in the employ of the merchant Euromulus Krynne; working upon one of the merchant's many ships as a security detail.
Little did he know that his employer had more in store for the man known as Jacob Elijah Moore...
Other:
- Westar Pattern Bolt Pistols: Unlike the more traditional pattern of bolt pistol, Jake's Westar pattern bolt pistols boast higher accuracy and range, at the expense of a longer reload time, and a strict limit of holding a meager six shots at any time.
- Electrified Lasso: A staple tool amoung the wranglers of Wessar IV, this lasso is made from the fibres harvested from a specific bioelectric carnevorous plant native to Wessar IV. Though it does not innately hold an electric charge, its impressive ability to carry voltage is utilized via the specially made gloves of wranglers. When all five fingertips of a wrangler's glove come into contact with the lasso, a powerful and paralyzing electric shock is delivered to the ensnared target. When using all five fingertips of both gloves, the shock delivered is that of near-lethal level; making it increadibly useful when fighting off the death world's indigenous wildlife. As a precaution to protect wranglers from electrocuting themselves with their own weapon, the circuitry of the gloves extends into the inner vest, as well as the pants and boots of a wrangler's garb; subsequently grounding them.
- Supplementary Bandoliers: Out on the frontier, it's not often that you'll get any more ammunition than what's on your person at the time, subsequently, Jake wears a pair of leather bandoliers, each from shoulder to hip between his outer coat, and inner vest.
Lady Selune Lamia Queen, Young and Sweet.
Member
Seen
8 days ago
Kotys is a lady that looks of far higher birth than she actually is. She is lithe, slender and athletic, with prominent cheekbones and plenty of makeup to cover up whichever aspect of herself she deems unfitting of her that particular day. Beyond what was granted to her by birth, many of the more common signs of slaneeshi corruption display themselves across her. Her skin is marked with the Prince of Pleasure's symbol- its location etched into the skin just below her belly buttom, her tongue is unusually long and slightly forked, her eyes are particularly bright and abhumanly coloured, and despite wearing no perfume she always seems to have a pleasant odour, but there are no clawed arms or horns from her jaw.
In terms of how she acts, Kotys seems to have been born for the specific kind of shady politics that is oh-so-useful in the Imperium. Cunning, extremley manipulative and with few qualms for petty crimes such as blackmail, fraud, bribery, intimidation and politically motivated assault, Slaneesh's influcence has only increased her political acumen, not entirely overtaken it.
Besides political ability however, Kotys manages to tick most of the boxes when it comes to a folloewr of Slaneesh. Hedonistic, overindulgent, lustful and indulgent to a fault, Kotys' victories are marked by wild parties, many of which don't end until bodies are being carted away.
Born on Skuberrmia, Kotys never really had much of a choice to be a good, Emperor-fearing citizen. In the muck and dirt of the planet she was raised, her parents Slaneeshi cultists much like she would grow up to be. With her parents increasingly focused on debauchery rather than actually raising her, it was only the fact that Kotys was unusually intelligent and lucid that managed to carry her through her formative years without an overdose.
Once she was old enough to flee the nest she began to cultivate a reputation for herself, slowly creeping into first the peripharies, and then the lower boundaries of the politican machinations of the planet. Although hardly a VIP, her work has bourne small fruits- she can claim quite honestly to have a small following, and her 'office' is at least large enough to house the many colourful characters that come through its doors.
That being said, Kotys rapidly tires of being such a small fish. She wishes to place herself on the map of Skuberrmia, and the best way of doing so, at least in her mind, is to do something truly impressive- to drag the spotlight onto her by force.
In terms of how she acts, Kotys seems to have been born for the specific kind of shady politics that is oh-so-useful in the Imperium. Cunning, extremley manipulative and with few qualms for petty crimes such as blackmail, fraud, bribery, intimidation and politically motivated assault, Slaneesh's influcence has only increased her political acumen, not entirely overtaken it.
Besides political ability however, Kotys manages to tick most of the boxes when it comes to a folloewr of Slaneesh. Hedonistic, overindulgent, lustful and indulgent to a fault, Kotys' victories are marked by wild parties, many of which don't end until bodies are being carted away.
Born on Skuberrmia, Kotys never really had much of a choice to be a good, Emperor-fearing citizen. In the muck and dirt of the planet she was raised, her parents Slaneeshi cultists much like she would grow up to be. With her parents increasingly focused on debauchery rather than actually raising her, it was only the fact that Kotys was unusually intelligent and lucid that managed to carry her through her formative years without an overdose.
Once she was old enough to flee the nest she began to cultivate a reputation for herself, slowly creeping into first the peripharies, and then the lower boundaries of the politican machinations of the planet. Although hardly a VIP, her work has bourne small fruits- she can claim quite honestly to have a small following, and her 'office' is at least large enough to house the many colourful characters that come through its doors.
That being said, Kotys rapidly tires of being such a small fish. She wishes to place herself on the map of Skuberrmia, and the best way of doing so, at least in her mind, is to do something truly impressive- to drag the spotlight onto her by force.
Name/Titles:
Taenarion and Lesara Dépitcoeurix
Appearance:
It takes relatively little time when studying either of the Dépitcoeurix to come to the conclusion that they stray beyond the constraints of humanity. Their movements are lithe and fluid in a way that a human cannot match, more akin to a feline predator than the relatively meandering motion of a hominoid. Sometimes in the company of those that may be sensitive to such they obscure the more obvious elements of their appearance and conserve their motion, but once in action and revealed their can be little doubt.
Beyond this shared ancestry, however, the siblings have little in common. Taenarion strikes the more typical appearance for his species, pale and dark haired, hauntingly handsome in a manner that is supremely arrogant and cruel, his form is tank-grown with the lithe muscle of the Kabalite warrior caste. To those informed of the siblings family, Taenarion would seem to have almost identical resemblance to the patriarchal sire of the Dépitcoeurix, cloned from the gene-stock of his family for use in the ever cut-throat battles of Commorragh.
Lesara on the other hand, could not be mistaken for typical either as a scion of their bloodline or simply as a denizen of the dark city. Slightly shorter than average, with a powerful form for an Eldar, her eyes form motes of fey-light rather than a normal iris. Were it not for this, she might look akin to some of the more physically focused of her ilk, the wyches and beastmasters, but ultimately the curse which has caused her lifetime of exile from her peoples' shadow realm is not one that can be hidden. While usually, the soul of a Drukhari is a twisted, shrivelled thing, her own blazes with the warp touch of a psyker.
Personality:
As one might expect of the Drukhari, neither of the siblings are particularly warm beings. Forced to feed on the pain and suffering of others as all their kind are, lest they fall into the embrace of She Who Thirsts, their exile and thus longer periods of time in real space have made them creative in how they achieve this. They are not so supremely arrogant as would be the norm, willing to work with the lesser races for more extended periods than most to achieve their ends.
Much as their appearances differ on most points, so to do their personalities. Taenarion is a disciplined and cunning warrior, it is written into his very being by the procedure that birthed him. That is not to say he is quiet, or even uncharismatic, but once the fighting begins, or risks are involved, he maintains a cold focus that borders on zealotry to whatever his desired aim may be.
Lesara is more vibrant, strangely so, for her kind, gifted by the curse of the psyker with a fuller sense of self than many Drukhari possesses, she is less afflicted by the withering of the soul. In many ways this is masked as the combat and torture highs that the Drukhari of all ilks are known for, but it stems beyond that, she possesses the capacity for an existence beyond the vampiric leeches of her people, even if it is far more likely to damn her to oblivion.
Biography:
The Dépitcoeurix Bloodline is a relic of a lost age of the Drukhari, a fleeting memory of a time when the nobility of the ancient Aeldari Empire still ruled its last true enclave. At least, this is how they would tell the story. In reality, they were but one of many retainer families attached to greater houses. Centuries upon centuries of shadow war has all but removed the trace of the previous rulers of Commorragh, such that those which could once only claim to be valued servants, now cling to the faded scraps of their glory.
Even this barest grasp of greatness was denied to these particular Dépitcoeurix siblings however, caught in the last final challenge against the authority of Vect and the Kabals, many of the household, along with their retinues, were forced to flee the Shadow City, to the fringes of the Webway, and to the limited real space holdings of the Drukhari. It is during this moment of desperate exodus that the pair of Drukhari were born, one to the rare natural birth of a valued offspring, the other yet another tankbred warrior-clone of a far flung sire, aboard the same ship. The jarring cross into realspace would imprint most dramatically on the trueborn girl. The Drukhari are not without psykers from accident, a deliberate purge of the otherwise psychically gifted Aeldari race prevents the threat of demonic disjunction within the Shadow City, thousands of years of this practice has made the manifestation of such gifts rare. To be exposed to unshielded psychic energy of real space, and the predations of She Who Thirsts, at the moment of birth, however, may have contributed to the soul of Lesara alighting with psychic potential, that, or she was simply a rare birth among rare births, saved from immediate destruction by her family's desperate flight.
Away from Vect and the authority of the Kabals, the Dépitcoeurix were less inclined to maintain the laws of the city they had fled, and even less inclined to waste the birth of a trueborn child while already fleeing with diminished resources. Thus the young Drukhari girl was kept alive, as much a potential plaything as a member of a reduced family. While kept in relative isolation due to the risk any psychic potential has on the careful balance of the Drukhari's staving off of Slaanesh, over the centuries of her youth Lesara was still trained and prepared as any scion of a Drukhari household should be. Foremost among these were the art of the kill, cunning and cruelty.
Meanwhile, the tank born Taenarion lived surrounded by peers, just another warrior for the bloodline's ends. Trained to fight and kill in units, not as individuals, invested with just another ambition and selfishness to be manipulated, but never seen as more than the blades by which the bloodline would strike against its foes. Desperate as the exiled family were by this juncture, their tankborn were rushed to fight younger and younger. Before Lesara had even been allowed out of her own personal quarters, Taenarion had fought in raids against the lesser races in the desperate raids for souls, and against other Drukhari in the cutthroat politics of the Drukhair's real spaceports.
It was the final execution of the bloodline which sprung both siblings free from the roles they could have endured for centuries more. The period of grace from the pursuit of Vect's agents coming to a close, likely simply because the Kabals grew bored of what had distracted them in the interim. The Ancient Dying Sun Battleship that had long been the Dépitcoeurix's final stronghold being struck by a much more numerous force from the Shadow City. During the fighting, Taenarion found the usual urges of his 'programming' to fight and die for his genetic 'betters' overridden, and a new voice in his head. The pair abandoned what remained of their once 'noble' family to die, escaping within the sleek form of a voidraven.
Since then the pair of Drukhari have lead their lives as exiles, but in a far more isolated manner than before, condemned mostly to the horrors of realspace and the ever hungering draw of She Who Thirsts. They have swallowed their pride and worked with the lesser races, but recent events have presented an opportunity, one which they hope to use to secure themselves an existence beyond the scrap-feeding reality they find themselves in.
Other:
The stars themselves once lived and died at our command, yet you still dare to oppose our will.
Taenarion and Lesara Dépitcoeurix
Appearance:
It takes relatively little time when studying either of the Dépitcoeurix to come to the conclusion that they stray beyond the constraints of humanity. Their movements are lithe and fluid in a way that a human cannot match, more akin to a feline predator than the relatively meandering motion of a hominoid. Sometimes in the company of those that may be sensitive to such they obscure the more obvious elements of their appearance and conserve their motion, but once in action and revealed their can be little doubt.
Beyond this shared ancestry, however, the siblings have little in common. Taenarion strikes the more typical appearance for his species, pale and dark haired, hauntingly handsome in a manner that is supremely arrogant and cruel, his form is tank-grown with the lithe muscle of the Kabalite warrior caste. To those informed of the siblings family, Taenarion would seem to have almost identical resemblance to the patriarchal sire of the Dépitcoeurix, cloned from the gene-stock of his family for use in the ever cut-throat battles of Commorragh.
Lesara on the other hand, could not be mistaken for typical either as a scion of their bloodline or simply as a denizen of the dark city. Slightly shorter than average, with a powerful form for an Eldar, her eyes form motes of fey-light rather than a normal iris. Were it not for this, she might look akin to some of the more physically focused of her ilk, the wyches and beastmasters, but ultimately the curse which has caused her lifetime of exile from her peoples' shadow realm is not one that can be hidden. While usually, the soul of a Drukhari is a twisted, shrivelled thing, her own blazes with the warp touch of a psyker.
Personality:
As one might expect of the Drukhari, neither of the siblings are particularly warm beings. Forced to feed on the pain and suffering of others as all their kind are, lest they fall into the embrace of She Who Thirsts, their exile and thus longer periods of time in real space have made them creative in how they achieve this. They are not so supremely arrogant as would be the norm, willing to work with the lesser races for more extended periods than most to achieve their ends.
Much as their appearances differ on most points, so to do their personalities. Taenarion is a disciplined and cunning warrior, it is written into his very being by the procedure that birthed him. That is not to say he is quiet, or even uncharismatic, but once the fighting begins, or risks are involved, he maintains a cold focus that borders on zealotry to whatever his desired aim may be.
Lesara is more vibrant, strangely so, for her kind, gifted by the curse of the psyker with a fuller sense of self than many Drukhari possesses, she is less afflicted by the withering of the soul. In many ways this is masked as the combat and torture highs that the Drukhari of all ilks are known for, but it stems beyond that, she possesses the capacity for an existence beyond the vampiric leeches of her people, even if it is far more likely to damn her to oblivion.
Biography:
The Dépitcoeurix Bloodline is a relic of a lost age of the Drukhari, a fleeting memory of a time when the nobility of the ancient Aeldari Empire still ruled its last true enclave. At least, this is how they would tell the story. In reality, they were but one of many retainer families attached to greater houses. Centuries upon centuries of shadow war has all but removed the trace of the previous rulers of Commorragh, such that those which could once only claim to be valued servants, now cling to the faded scraps of their glory.
Even this barest grasp of greatness was denied to these particular Dépitcoeurix siblings however, caught in the last final challenge against the authority of Vect and the Kabals, many of the household, along with their retinues, were forced to flee the Shadow City, to the fringes of the Webway, and to the limited real space holdings of the Drukhari. It is during this moment of desperate exodus that the pair of Drukhari were born, one to the rare natural birth of a valued offspring, the other yet another tankbred warrior-clone of a far flung sire, aboard the same ship. The jarring cross into realspace would imprint most dramatically on the trueborn girl. The Drukhari are not without psykers from accident, a deliberate purge of the otherwise psychically gifted Aeldari race prevents the threat of demonic disjunction within the Shadow City, thousands of years of this practice has made the manifestation of such gifts rare. To be exposed to unshielded psychic energy of real space, and the predations of She Who Thirsts, at the moment of birth, however, may have contributed to the soul of Lesara alighting with psychic potential, that, or she was simply a rare birth among rare births, saved from immediate destruction by her family's desperate flight.
Away from Vect and the authority of the Kabals, the Dépitcoeurix were less inclined to maintain the laws of the city they had fled, and even less inclined to waste the birth of a trueborn child while already fleeing with diminished resources. Thus the young Drukhari girl was kept alive, as much a potential plaything as a member of a reduced family. While kept in relative isolation due to the risk any psychic potential has on the careful balance of the Drukhari's staving off of Slaanesh, over the centuries of her youth Lesara was still trained and prepared as any scion of a Drukhari household should be. Foremost among these were the art of the kill, cunning and cruelty.
Meanwhile, the tank born Taenarion lived surrounded by peers, just another warrior for the bloodline's ends. Trained to fight and kill in units, not as individuals, invested with just another ambition and selfishness to be manipulated, but never seen as more than the blades by which the bloodline would strike against its foes. Desperate as the exiled family were by this juncture, their tankborn were rushed to fight younger and younger. Before Lesara had even been allowed out of her own personal quarters, Taenarion had fought in raids against the lesser races in the desperate raids for souls, and against other Drukhari in the cutthroat politics of the Drukhair's real spaceports.
It was the final execution of the bloodline which sprung both siblings free from the roles they could have endured for centuries more. The period of grace from the pursuit of Vect's agents coming to a close, likely simply because the Kabals grew bored of what had distracted them in the interim. The Ancient Dying Sun Battleship that had long been the Dépitcoeurix's final stronghold being struck by a much more numerous force from the Shadow City. During the fighting, Taenarion found the usual urges of his 'programming' to fight and die for his genetic 'betters' overridden, and a new voice in his head. The pair abandoned what remained of their once 'noble' family to die, escaping within the sleek form of a voidraven.
Since then the pair of Drukhari have lead their lives as exiles, but in a far more isolated manner than before, condemned mostly to the horrors of realspace and the ever hungering draw of She Who Thirsts. They have swallowed their pride and worked with the lesser races, but recent events have presented an opportunity, one which they hope to use to secure themselves an existence beyond the scrap-feeding reality they find themselves in.
Other:
The stars themselves once lived and died at our command, yet you still dare to oppose our will.
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