✦ Name: Vera Andreyevna Makarova (but, Vera, Vera will do just fine) ✦ Age: 27 years ✦ Age (Appearance): 27 years ✦ Gender: Female ✦ Time in Service: X ✦ Appearance: Hard to miss in a crowd, Vera is tall, measuring well over six feet. Maintaining the habits of her mortal life, Vera remains committed to keeping herself in tip top shape, and despite the fact that it provides her little physical benefit Vera continues to dedicate a portion of each day to physical exercise. Colored by a lifetime spent getting into and out of trouble, Vera has by neccesity developed a functional, athletic build. Her movements are fluid, agile, and efficient, if perhaps a bit uncouth and surprisingly quiet.
Fond of subtle acts of defiance, Vera has a modest collection of tattoos inked across her light skin. Of particular note is the large, roaring tiger, covering most of her back. Inquiries as to the meaning of any of her tattoos is rarely well-received and Vera seems oddly reluctant to permit others, even other reapers, the briefest of glances of the symbols etched into her skin.
Her last remaining vanity from her time as a mortal is her long blond hair that reaches past her shoulders. Unless the situation demand otherwise, she keeps her hair pulled back into a well-ordered ponytail. Her pale blue eyes are far from cold and burn with a carefully contained fury. Beneath a collected exterior smoulders quite the temperament and Vera goes to great lengths to hide this usually unwelcome trait. However, woe be it to those who manage to crack Vera's mask of professionalism and see real anger in her eyes.
In death, Vera is an exceptionally formal dressers. She favors bespoke three piece suits in solid colors, cut in all manner of fashions and fabrics, but inevitably dyed in shades of gray or black. maintains a tasteful collection of ties and dress shirts. One of her most cherished possession is a pair of black 14-hole Dr. Martens boots adorned with gunmetal gray shoelaces, shaped from smooth leather, and polished until they are as spotless as a mirror.
A chain smoking fiend in life and unlife, Vera is rarely found without a pack of cigarettes and a battered Zippo lighter engraved with an enameled US military crest. The discerning customer might note that the reaper smokes a long discontinued brand of Soviet era cigarettes, simply called Laika, after the legendary space faring dog.
The Zippo lighter Vera perpetually carries on her person looks less like a well-kept museum object and more like a Zippo lighter that has been buried in the jungle for more than fifty years after being run over a couple of times by a tank for good measure. The factory engraving is worn down to the very metal, but upon a close examination it is still possible to make out the original text (SPECIAL FORCES GROUP, 1st SPECIAL FORCES VIETNAM). The lid has been hand engraved with a name (SFC Thomas E. Karlsson, 31st ENGR DET, 11 FEB 68 – FEB 69,). On the reverse of the lighter is a skillfully hand carved map of Vietnam.
On the reverse of the lighter is a skillfully hand carved map of Vietnam overlaid with words in Russian, Кто не рискует, тот не пьет шампанского.
How Vera acquired a Zippo lighter of Vietnam war vintage and why she seems to guard it so zealously remains a mystery.
✦ Weapon: Banishing all thoughts of brandishing a dagger, Vera instead wields a two handed longsword that has been meticulously forged in the style of a Western European 14-15th Century blade. The sword is long, reaching well over a meter in length, and slowly tapers into an exceedingly sharp point. Despite the size of her sword, Vera's chosen weapon is no brutish, unnecessarily heavy bludgeon, but rather a precisely balanced weapon intended for medieval warfare.
An exceptional example of the latest and greatest technological innovation in the early 14th century,centering on how to cut or skewer (through gaps in plate armor), Vera's sword possesses an expertly honed flat hexagonal blade cross-section and a weight saving fuller that runs along a third of the blade. In short, beyond being the unmistakable work of a master weapon smith, Vera's personalized bit of sharpened steel represents an optimized compromise between thrusting capability and good cutting characteristics.
✦ Magic Branch: Abjuration
✧ Surprising no one more than herself, Vera has talent for the protective magic spells generally considered to be at the heart of the school of Abjuration.
✦ Spells:
✧ Dispellere (Dispel Magic)
Targeting a creature, object, or magical effect within 120 feet, Vera dispels active spells centered on her chosen target. The exact number of spells that are dispelled depends on the level of magic employed to cast said spells and the time Vera has to cast her own magic. Given the on the fly nature of reaping Wisps with a capital W, Vera generally favors quick off the cuff verbal applications of dispel magic. However, when there is a need for a powerful shaped charge of magic countering energy, Vera has been known to commit the spell to writing in an ornate script befitting only the finest calligraphy books.
✧ Globus invulnerabilitatis (Globe of Invulnerability)
By channeling her magic through spoken or written words, Vera creates a faintly shimmering magical barrier around herself that protects her from physical and magical damage. The magical sphere appears in a 10-foot radius around Vera and remains for up to a maximum time of a minute. When casting this spell using spoken magic, Vera must decide whether the magical barrier protects against physical or magical damage. Furthermore, to guard against more powerful attacks, Vera requires more preparation. Weathering a blow from a very powerful foe, many foes at once, or very many powerful foes would require a lengthy amount of chanting or sizable stack of elaborately written spells prepared well in advance. Provided that the magical barrier holds, spells cast from outside of the barrier have no effect on creatures within the barrier and physical blows do nothing more than send sparks of magic into the air.
✧ Frigore Pyramidem (Cone of Cold)
Slinging a modified variant of the evocation spell, Vera sends a blast of cold air hurtling forward from her hands, enveloping everything caught within the cone of cold in sheets of ice. Creatures encased by the frost are significantly slowed down and suffer the ill effects of severe frostbite, receiving moderate cold damage. Surfaces or objects impacted by the icebound air are covered by a thick layer of ice that hinders movement due to a sudden, unwelcome slipperiness. The spell has a maximum range of some 60 feet.
✧ Vincula Fati (Imprisonment)
Summoning magical restraints, Vera firmly roots a target to the ground, holding them in place with the heavy ethereal binds. The target is bound until the spell ends or is dispelled, preventing any movement beyond that permitted by the spellcaster. When cast verbally, the spell takes almost a full minute for Vera to cast. Writing the spell takes significantly longer, but allows the spell to restrain much more powerful targets. Thematically, Vera prefers to inscribe the spell on objects such as chains, ropes or other bits of string. A decidedly close range spell, Vera must be within 30 feet or less to be able to magically imprison her foes. The lucky or powerful can avoid being bound by the spell by resisting the underlying magic at work.
✦ Texty Stuff:
Albert leaned against the dresser, sucking in air and wheezing. One hundred years. One hundred years of learning. One hundred years of research. One hundred years of biding his time. One hundred years of hiding. One hundred years of avoiding the monsters he knew lurked in the shadows. One hundred years of slipping away from the hunters, the collectors of the dead, the reapers, as some of his more learned brethren called them. There were obscure mentions in faded books. Whispers began to tell of figures emerging from beyond the pale. Beings without names, faceless and obscured. Small truths buried in centuries of rumors, impossible to extinguish, the stories endured. Even as evidence of the reapers presence was debated by the loose councils of wizards with the passing years.
Wasted. Wasted! Ruined by a single, momentary slip of his attention. He had felt so secure. He had been so comfortable. He had settled. He had acquired all the necessary regents. He had been so close to completing the ritual. So close! But now, now they had found him. Hunted him down. Chased him from one safe house to the next. They wouldn't stop. They didn't seem to sleep. He could see them everywhere. The same two women. A tall blonde wearing a suit. A short brunette with a pixie cut. They were walking nightmares that had invaded even his fitful rest.
He swallowed, feeling the lump growing in his throat. Tears burned at the edge of his eyes and he gasped for more air. He knew he didn't need to breath, he hadn't for some time, but he found the habit hard to break. They had been chasing him for days. He had burned his last contacts. He had called in his last favors. And still. Still, they pursued him, like bloodhounds, unwavering following his trail. They had driven him underground. They had forced their way past his wards. He had used the last of souls he had horded. They had exhausted resources acquired over long decades.
The heavy oak door splintered, flying off the hinges, as it shattered into hundreds of tiny wooden projectiles. Shadows coursed forward, a roiling wave of blackness that enveloped the room in a hazy fog. Albert felt dread poisoning him, rotting him from within as his hands began to shake.
He didn't wait to identify the solid figure that followed, bounding into the room in a fell swoop. The fireball in his hand roared across the room smashing into the door frame with a deafening boom. He dove for cover, closing his eyes, shielding them with his hands. He could feel the flames licking at him, the air being forced from his lungs by the hungry flames, and the painfully hot caress of the growing inferno as it exploded into existence. He could hear screaming, his own voice. Months of frustration and fear igniting across the surface of his spirit, a thick tar as dark as the night.
Silence. Silence followed.
Crawling from behind the charred dining room table, Albert opened his eyes, staring at a room full of ashes and crumbling cinder blocks. There was only the low flicker of the dying embers his spell had birthed. He allowed himself a smile, a brief moment of glee.
He saw the movement too late. The blade arced towards him and he watched as it cut through the wrist connecting his left hand to his left arm. A kick smashed into his sternum and sent him crumbling backwards against the wall. Howling in a mad rage, he muttered curses, sending a scorching ray of flames across the room, chasing the shadowy figure that darted away from him.
Tracing the path of his attacker, he dragged his remaining hand across the breadth of the ruined room. The jet of flame smashed into the figure with a sudden crack of arcane energy. Dividing, the fire flattened, folding to the away from the advancing figure that seemed to be pushing back the fire. Shoving his hand forward, Albert tried to push harder, sending even more flames flowing at his obscured opponent. He could feel his fingers going numb as he burned through his last reservoirs of energy.
His mouth twisted into a stubborn sneer as she tried to stand. Shifting into a surprised O as the blade ran him through. Stumbling, Albert fell and the back of his head smashed against the burnt rubble that had once been pristine hardwood floor. Bright light faded to darkness and Albert felt himself begin to fade. Propping himself up on his elbows, he tried to speak, rasping, and desperately grasping for words.
A flicker of metal shone from the nearby darkness. A loud metallic clink summoned sparks that leapt together into a small flame.
"I knew. I always knew you were coming."
"Все это было просто сном с самого начала," came the reply, a woman's voice, not unkind, and then a metal thunk as the flame vanished. "Никто из нас никогда не был свободен."
"I'm sorry...I don't understand. What did you say? I had to try."
"It was all just a dream to begin with," the woman said, stepping closer, a circle of burning embers gentle swaying near her mouth. A puff of smoke trailed behind her as she drew closer,"None of us have ever been free."
Albert felt a pang of anger, "Don't you speak to me that way! Don't you lecture me! I was free! I lived! What do you know!? Do you know what you are doing? Do you even know who you are working for? "
The woman shrugged easily, her sword hefted in the crook of her arm seemed light despite the size of the blade,"Doesn't matter. I don't care. I'm a cleaner. In this life and the next."
"You're a killer. You're a murder, just like me."
There was a hint of anger in her eyes, a rough frown flashed over her lips,"You damaged this world. You stole from the living. You damned souls far more innocent than you. Do not play games with me, Albert Colthurst. I know you. I know what you did. I know your crimes."
Albert faltered, pulling back in a moment of abrupt regret. He tried to crawl, but found his arms were useless.
"Smoke?" he heard from above him. She stood over him, as he rolled over, holding out a pack of cigarettes.
"I...I quit thirty years ago. For my wife. She never liked the smell. She said it was a dirty habit."
"Yes," the woman agreed, offering a small smile. "Very bad."
"I don't suppose she'll know? I don't suppose I have much time left? So why not, please, hand me a cigarette if you would?"
"No, not much time," she said, nodding solemnly. He struggled to follow her hands as the lighter flashed open again. Dark drops grew into large pools of blackness at the corner of his eyes. He heard her sitting down next to him, felt the cigarette as she placed it between his lips.
"I'm sorry," he said breathing in a burning cloud of nicotine. The taste brought back memories. 1957. Happier times. He almost thought he could see her in front of him. "I- I never meant for this. I never meant for any of this to happen. I just couldn't give up. I couldn't give up when I was so close. You understand? You understand, don't you?"
"No need, I understand," his killer said. "It is alright, Albert. You are absolved."
"By who, you?" Albert managed, laughing as he fell into a fit of coughing. Another meaningless gesture for a ghost. It felt good though. It felt right. He felt human. He felt like himself.
"No," she laughed too, but she was only half smiling.
"What comes after this? A new life?"
"Maybe? Maybe something? Maybe nothing?"
"How will I know?"
"You won't."
"I want to live. I want to see my wife. I want to see my son."
"Then tell yourself you will."
Vera sat unmoving, a cloud of smoke rising to the ceiling from the cigarette slowly dying between her ash covered lips. The remains of the wizard lay next to her, smouldering in the charred table cloth she had wrapped him. Two packs of cigarettes were scattered around her, blackened firebrands fading in the uninvited wind.
She had waited long enough. It was time. She had indulged in her habit, in her vice. A small price to pay for a moment of quiet.
Rising to her feet, Vera gently slung the table cloth over her shoulder and left the wizard's crumbling home behind her.
The asphalt was the color of an abandoned tombstone, cracked, and blackened with filth.
Vera frowned, the dregs of her last cigarette dangling loosely between her lips. Smoking couldn't kill her, not anymore. It was a filthy habit. A filthy habit for a filthy place. She wasn't sure what she, Miss Death, saw in her, what she saw in any of them. She didn't care. Cleaning was cleaning. A job was a job. Even death couldn't change the unfairness of the world. She had no great aspirations. She nursed no great hopes. She had spent a lifetime in the shadows. She had stolen. She had threatened. She had hurt. She had maimed. And she had killed. What were the hardships of another life, this time spent in the fading light?
The gem felt weightless in her hand, held in place by the loop of silver wrapped along the length of her right arm, beneath her suit jacket and the fine cotton dress shirt that she wore. The sword had felt lighter still, made for her, sword hilt resting perfectly in her hands. She did not like the thoughts that awoke after a job. She did not enjoy the purposelessness. And she detested the peace. She needed a drink. She need another cigarette. And she needed a good f–
"Did it work?" a singsong voice interrupted. Too light. Too cheery. And much too pleasant.
"It worked," Vera replied.
"I told you it would. It took me almost a day to transcribe that spell. You can't imagine how sore my hand is. Nice illusion though, wasn't it?"
"It worked, Lucia."
"Oh, come on, admit it, you were impressed! Vera, stop being such a kill joy! We won! We did it! Another baddie bites the dust! We should celebrate! Before we head back, they won't notice if we spend a couple of more hours here. Live a little, why don't you?"
"You are crazy, you know that, yes?"
"All a matter of degrees, my sweet Vera."
"I am not sweet."
"Ah, you say that, but I know, I know that deep down you are a big softy."
Posting this before I got to do some social drinking and make a lot of terrible choices.
I'll probably add some more prose to the Juggernaut section tomorrow, but gotta go go soon, so alas.
Edit 1: Edited some CS stuff, mostly prose (I am sorry if you read it).
Edit 2: Wrote out Juggernaut stuff, search for a tolerable to good image to use continues.
══════||DOSSIER||══════ "A killer with the manners of a rabbit - this is the most dangerous kind." ══════════════════════════════
BASIC INFORMATION
► FULL NAME || Деря Два Седъм (Derya Dva Sedym) ► CALLSIGN || ► PRONOUNS || She/Her ► AGE || 23 ► HEIGHT || 170 cm ► WEIGHT || 60 kg ══════════════════════════════
SKILLS
► Trained Tactician || Trained in the ways of war, Derya fights with the flexibility expected of any Bekleyen İbadet created Ilyat commando. When caught in the net of her enemies, she falls back on the unexpected, knowing that all are expendable in the end. ► Military Survivalist || Appearances may deceive, water richness may obfuscate, healthy flesh can hide, and Derya for the softness she chooses to display has learned to live off of the land and to survive in unwelcome environments. To discover paradise, to find solace, and to seek comfort, is to lose the edge required of any warrior. ► Kader Kiraz Adept || A Juggernaut pilot must not be reliant on a Juggernaut to achieve military success, thus Derya has been taught, and she has trained with the storied weaponmasters of Kader. She is an adept of their strange school of combat, capable with arms or without and near or far from her foes. ► Talented Musician || Gifted with all manner of instruments and in song, Derya is a capable musician, able to entertain beyond matters of the knife. ► ||
══════════════════════════════
══════||APPEARANCE||══════
"Movement in shadows. Shadows in movement. Strike without thought and without hesitation."
Wrapped in layers of fabric, adorned in sweeping robes and hoods, Derya possesses the athletic build required of a Bekleyen İbadet weapon. Beneath concealing attire, she wears flexible formfitting suits of a distinctly exotic design. Pleasantly average in height, Derya moves gracefully and with calm poise, more like a dancer than a soldier, to the great credit of her rigorous teachers. Rarely reveled outside of her private quarters, her long black hair runs well past her shoulder and is kept in alternating styles of buns. Outside of military operations, Derya's features are framed by elaborate jewelry and decorative designs pleasing to the eye.
══════||PERSONALITY||══════
"Seek freedom and become captive of your desires. Seek discipline and find your liberty."
A calm wind in a roiling storm of violence, Derya easily rides the crashing waves of conflict that have enveloped the crumbling remains of the Eternal Empire. Certain of her purpose, she appears strangely content with her fate. She does not question. She does not try to barter with fate. She has simply accepted that she is a weapon. A sword to be pointed by her current master at the target of their choosing.
Derya is friendly, showing a marked inclination towards civil functions of all kinds, and seems to bristle with energy around others. Outwardly, she possesses few of the obvious abnormal tendencies noted in many of the vat born conscripted from birth into martial castes. However, a closer examination, particularly by a gifted psychologist, will reveal a personality honed an sharpened towards a single purpose. Human experienced enslaved in the service of attaining more efficient performance and achieving more desirable results.
According to the Bekleyen İbadet, every experience carries a lesson, a memory to be carefully recorded, and a wisdom to be brought back for further study. Victory or defeat, success or failure, such things Derya's teachers argued mattered largely in terms of the lessons learned. Her training began with learning how to learn. The first lesson her tutors instilled in her was that she could learn. She could be faster. She could be better. She could be more efficient. She could do more. This belief, this certainty in her own ability to learn, has shaped Derya into a person full of wild curiosity that allows rapid learning.
Cognizant of the limitations of her own freedom, Derya is discreet in her intellectual inquiries and avoids asking questions that she suspects would be poorly received coming from a subordinated vat born. Trained by some of the finest minds remaining in the galaxy, Derya is a product of the meticulously structured education that the Bekleyen İbadet employ to prepare more elaborate vat born creations for service to the Bekleyen İbadet or esteemed customers. Although she has been educated far beyond most other vat born soldiers, even Juggernaut pilots, an attentive observer might notice subtle absences in Derya's education, deliberate gaps in her knowledge, the deft touch of her Bekleyen İbadet creators. Surprising many, despite such hardened limitations on her studies, Derya was encouraged by her teachers to pursue interests that would cultivate her humanity.
To serve faithfully as a juggernaut pilot, Derya has been conditioned to control her emotions. She has been taught to compartmentalize any thoughts and feelings which may threaten her combat performance. She feels. She thinks. But she does not blindly react. And she does not let her the sharp edge of her instinctual reflexes be blunted by the poison of doubt. Instead, any mental objects that threaten her abilities are projected into a carefully contained and hidden alter-ego, until Derya has time to enter lengthy cycles of meditation and to appropriately examine such problematic creations of her mind, before discarding them. Far from a weakness, this inner core of barriers, what the Bekleyen İbadet call the Kumun Altındaki Deniz, provides Derya with a deep ocean of willpower.
Buried beneath layers of Bekleyen İbadet conditioning and unwavering discipline, a sleeper slumbers on the edge of stirring. An eccentricity born from time among the comparatively free, Derya posses a newly discovered tendency towards romanticism and compassion that often seems at odds with her creation. To quiet a deep, growing desire for personal affection, Derya performs small acts of devotion, personal behaviors that are carefully hidden even from her most trusted Keepers and commanding officers. This secret core of being provides Derya with a remarkable internal strength and Derya herself has begun to suspects that it may be part of an underlying Bekleyen İbadet design.
Derya is a knife, a serene weapon forged by the hammer blows of the . Sharpened against the whetstone of ancient knowledge and tactical simulations. Pointed at the enemies of her masters by the shadowy ruling council of the Bekleyen İbadet. And a blade bloodied across the stars.
She is a weapon adorned with her own humanity, not weakened through fading flesh, but strengthen by the fires of her soul and long communion with her juggernaut.
Human and machine, psychic seeker and enslaved soldier, more than a weapon, less than a free woman.
══════||BACKSTORY||══════
"A process cannot be understood by stopping it. Understanding must move with the flow of the process, must join it and flow with it."
Деря.
Derya.
Деря Два Седъм.
Derya Dva Sedym
Model dva, varianta sedm.
Model two, variant seven.
Genetic patent, #759381. Registered to the now reputedly defunct BASC (Beroun Advanced Science Conglomerate).
Created twenty three Standard Years ago by the infidel fleshweavers of BASC, Derya represented the culmination of a century long project to channel genetic memories and psykhyk powers in vat born humans. Given form by scientists laboring under the aegis of BASC, Derya maintains a warm fondness for the researchers that fabricated her.
Assembled from cells painstakingly and secretively collected over long eons by dissident scientists laboring nanometers from the brink of eradication, Derya nonetheless fell into the hands of the Bekleyen İbadet.
Derya was no more than a small collection of cells, when the Bekleyen İbadet reclaimed what they had lost when scientific apostates violently left to form BASC. Her creators had been cynical rebels steeped in the arcane rituals of science. A collection of exiled scientist generals, heretical corporate politicians, and zealous biotechnicians, joined in seeking a way to escape the reach of their progenitors, the ever enigmatic Bekleyen İbadet.
Artificially birthed under the vigilante watch of Bekleyen İbadet inquisitor colonels, Derya was raised among the questioning people, the open handed worshipers that inhabited the planet of Sirrofoldek, the ancestral stronghold of the Bekleyen İbadet. Safeguarded beside the secrets of the fanatical genetic manipulators, Derya flourished in the safety of the planetary system that the isolationist Bekleyen İbadet zealously protected.
Created as part of the seventh batch, the recreated revision of an earlier failed precursor line, Derya alone survived from an original production run several batches deep. She knows nothing of her failed batchmates, her siblings, and precious little of her geneparents. She was told that her proximal geneparents were famed pilots, saint warriors that served the first rulers of the Kazymov Dynasty. Venerated heroes, they were judiciously noted by early corporate scientists for their Psykhyk powers. Great pains were taken to acquire the information of these warriors. A fortune in coin, many lives, and more than three tons of DELTA were spent to secure enough cells for replication.
Derya knows little of this, save what her Keeper has told her. She knows she is an orphan, spawned long centuries after the deaths of her geneparents in battle. She has learned that they were holy martyrs, lost during a campaign to liberate the desert planet of Písek from infidels refusing to recognize the Sirian Empire. She knows that she is a soldier. She knows that she is a weapon. She knows that she is a pilot created to serve her superiors in the most exemplary fashion.
Her earliest memories are of her childhood. She remembers the creche planet of Starý Kolín. An experiment in humanity, Derya was raised under the care of a foster mother and father in a small village near the great mountain of Korzhegzy. Light-years away and years later, Derya still holds her memories of her foster parents and the cozy cottage they lived in close to her heart. The smell of familiar stews, spiced with drops of DELTA is never far from her the surface of her awareness.
Once grown, a child of some seven standard years, Derya was removed from the care of her foster parents and placed into one of the many centers of learning the Bekleyen İbadet had established to train the vat born. Early tests to confirm her potential gave way to rapid days of foundational instruction, and then a psyonik implant, a practice deemed unethical to most beyond the merciless Bekleyen İbadet. Weeks gave way to months and then years. A vital time for Derya, a space of strict discipline and unwavering structure, days designed to reshape the mind, body, and spirit. Acceptance and the death of disobedience was insured through violent kindness and surgical blows.
Foundational education gave way to careful testing. Long tasks designed to discover weakness. Grim challenges that filtered out the flawed vat born. Many failed. Many were reassigned. Some died. Derya succeeded, showing potential, and the promise that the work of the genetic manipulators had not been in vain. Still, there was time for friendship. Her teachers encouraged it. Derya received a psyonik implant. She learned to fight. First with her hands. Then with her legs. And then with her entire body. Fervent believers in the perfection of the saint warriors of old, the Bekleyen İbadet remained convinced that purification of being was necessary for the cultivation of true warriors, the human-machine hunter-killers only mentioned in ancient whispers. Instructed in violence, Derya came to know intimately exotic weapons and training instruments, lost to the greater galaxy, remembered only in historical accounts. She read the works of old masters, the scripts of soldier philosophers and the manuals of anchorite assassins. Cast deep within her own thoughts, she catalogued her nervous system, meditating as she tried to contemplate nothingness. Ruhun Bıçağı, her teachers called it, freedom from mind-attachment,the trance demanded of a true Juggernaut pilot.
Shortly before her thirteenth birthday, Derya was sent away to advanced schooling at the Bekleyen İbadet military academy hidden beneath the never-ending storms of Waqti Fiican. Here, the early assessments of her instructors were confirmed, and Derya was shepherded through complex patterns of military training. Immersed in deadly simulations, she experienced conventional warfare, the combat openly expected of great warlords. Skirmishes, battles, and wars fought at an accelerated speed. Deaths, real deaths, were the ultimate teacher, and the Bekleyen İbadet had vat born to spare. Under the tutelage of shadowy genetic assassins, Derya learned the many intricacies of asymmetric warfare.
Only when her psyonik powers had grown and she had survived her first trance, her first communion with the ancient Juggernaut she had been assigned, and the death of her old self, was Derya accepted as a fully trained Juggernaut pilot. She had become a seeker, the human-machine her masters desired. A dreamer unburdened by doubt. A planewalker unhindered by fear. And a weapon unhesitant.
Intended for profit since her inception, Derya was delivered to a Prince Baron with enough funds to purchase a vat born pilot from the Bekleyen İbadet once the scientists of the Bekleyen İbadet were satisfied with her development. Any deeper designs intended for the young woman remain unknown to her and she knows only that she is one of the precious few elite pilots the Bekleyen İbadet willingly part with. Fighting in a brutal planetary civil war that soon exploded into system wide conflict, Derya honed the skills she had been taught, and earned a reputation as a fearsome fighter.
Sharpened into the biological hunter-killer the Bekleyen İbadet desired, was sold again as soon as the minor conflict (as far as the rest of the imperial remnants were concerned). Tirelessly serving in a string of mercenary companies, noble guards, and assorted military forces, she has fought her way to the very edges of what remains of the Eternal Empire. Leveraging her talent for subterfuge and asymmetrical warfare, Derya has spent much time hunting the countless pirates that threaten the trade of DELTA in the furthermost regions of the galaxy.
Recently, Derya has been bartered to the Admiralty-Governor Khorchidian - Lord of Kyzyl-Dash for half a ton of extremely potent DELTA and now counts herself among the troops fighting for the good Lord.
══════||TRIVIA||══════
"Beginnings are such delicate times."
══════||DOSSIER||══════ "Without change something sleeps inside us, and seldom awakens. The sleeper must awaken." ══════════════════════════════
"Sharp and quick is the line between life and death."
The PSY-79B-7, commonly called the Базилйск (Bazïlýsk) is a prototype juggernaut primarily designed for ace pilots preferring lighter, more mobile juggernauts than more traditional models built on Destroyer type chassis. Utilizing bleeding edge systems that utilize and enhance the psyonik power of the pilot excels at using its high mobility to engage enemy forces at close to medium ranges where the powers of a psyonik pilot can best be employed. Adhering to this line of thinking, there are few safeguards built into the Bazïlýsk to prevent the pilot from stressing their body and mind beyond safe limits.
Companions of several quick, short years of violence, Derya is nonetheless exceedingly fond of K'hülya and has expressed more than once a reluctance at being separated from the juggernaut. Likely due to frequent use of the Psyonik Overclocker installed in the Bazïlýsk, K'hülya appears to rapidly have attained a measurable level of consciousness. According to Derya, the juggernaut possesses a richly developed personality and a growing collection of complex thoughts. It has proven difficult to parse out what Derya has experienced during the dream-like trances she enters when piloting the juggernaut. What little the pilot has been able to explain revolves chiefly around positive responses to entering these psychological states and communing with the Bazïlýsk. The open handed rite of birçok acının paylaşılması, as the Bekleyen İbadet termed it during Derya's training.
Regular reports compiled from Derya's weekly confessions with her assigned Keeper suggest a rapidly growing codependency between pilot and juggernaut. Alarmingly, despite gentle, but insistent, encouragement from her superiors, Derya has thus far been entirely unwilling or unable to reveal her juggernaut's name to others. Equally problematic are growing suspicions that her personal descriptions of many interactions with her juggernaut are entirely incomplete, imagined, or even deliberately falsified.
Data compiled concerning the combat performance of the Bazïlýsk indicates that the proprietary Elma Interface used to connect Derya to K'hülya may be having unexpected interactions with multiple unidentified factors affecting Derya's perceptions of reality. Prescribed meditation cycles, mild medication, and conditioning have thus far been able to anchor the pilot's material perception to a degree that currently exceeds projected parameters of psyonik pilot mental state. However, careful study of genetic and psychological markers has been recommended to ensure combat performance for the weapons system does not decline.
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► Psyonik Overclocker || Mounted within the left shoulder of the Juggernaut, beneath a layers of armor, is a Psyonik Overclocker. ► Jetpack || Encompassing the entirety of the back of the PSY-79B-7 is a jetpack that affords the Bazïlýsk with an ability to move rapidly across the battlefield in three dimensions. ► Weapon Mount - Right Arm || A weapon mount subsystem designed to support a gravwire weapons system on the Bazïlýsk.
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► Shield || Mounted directly on the left forearm is a medium size shield. ► Rotary Gun || Attached to the shield of the Bazïlýsk is a compact rotary gun. Boasts a high rate of fire, feeding from a drum or belt as needed. Accurate up to medium range, optimally employed at short range. Mounted on a special-designed frame the weapons system can be ejected from the shield if ammunition is depleted or whenever the pilot believes the weight of the weapons system is hindering the juggernaut speed and agility to an unacceptable degree. ► Gravwire Grappler || A magnetic grappler mounted on a microwire-fillament cable. Stored in the the right forearm of the Bazïlýsk, using a weapon mount subsystem, the wire gravwire can be used creatively in combat to grapple enemy juggernauts or hang from structures able to support the weight of the Bazïlýsk. ► Enkoimetic Weapon || Sword Type Б III A long hand-and-a-half sword, an Enkoimetic Weapon with a blade shaped like that of a saber, the Type Б III is a sword design favored by dexterous fighters.
When God hath ordained a creature to die in a particular Juggernaut, He causeth that creature's wants to direct them to choose parts that lead to stats at or below zero.
wanderingwolf,
Red Wizard,
Bork Lazer,
BunniesOfDoom,
Dark Light,
vietmyke,
Guardian Angel Haruki,
wintersoldier,
TokyoPewPew,
Snowdrops
