"Think I saw Rivers heading to the Colonel’s shack? The rest probably went to get chow before the debriefing. Maybe a nap if-” She began to answer when a commotion from the ‘Mech bays’ direction loud enough to be heard made her pause. ”Vad fan? Sound like your kind of party?"
Ziska
Ziska paused, leaning against Marit as she listened. Music blared, but it didn't sound like any normal sort of party. She heard grunting. She heard shouting. She heard crashing and smashing sounds. It sounded like battle. It sounded like fighting. Ziska knew the sounds well. She had fought her way across the dive bars of the Inner Sphere and Periphery. Pugilism had always been an outlet. A way to relieve the anger that she felt. The frustrations that gathered over the long, boring weeks of garrison duty. Fighting for their lives, had precious little time for R&R. And Ziska realized that she missed it.
Marit was right. It was a brawl. Exactly her sort of party. Ziska could feel her blood heating up. It was dumb, pointless even, to fight with friends and comrades. And yet, violence was often the solution, within the lance as outside of it.
Half dragging Marit, Ziska ambled forward with surprising speed, “Come on, Marit! Rivers and the Colonel can wait, we've a grand ball to attend, and we can't miss an invitation so kindly delivered.”
The scattered sea of swinging souls made identification difficult. Ziska didn't care. One enemy was as good as another. Laughing, Ziska shoved Marit gently away, ducking under a wild blow that sailed over her head from her left. Her hands rose in a flash and gone was any weariness that she had carried.
Her right hand measured the distance, darting forward and catching the bloodied astech over his cheek. He helped with pain, hurtling another desperate haymaker at Ziska. Dancing just out of range, she stepped back in and hammered her fist over his nose. Blood poured from his nose and the young man collapsed onto his knees, raising a hand fearfully, muttering something about giving up.
Ziska smiled, lightly patting him on the head, as if petting a favored dog. Engrossed in her theatrics, Ziska didn't see the bottle that crashed into her shoulder and the oil covered woman that followed.
Caught between her strong arms, Ziska sprawled, fighting to remain standing as she pulled and pushed her new foe towards the ground.
She saw another shape moving towards her and shouted to Marit, "Giggles, 2 o'clock, cover me!"
A high elf, touched by the slow beginnings of undeath, Sariel is said to have been cursed by her close association with the undead. Her skin is pale, her hair midnight, and her eyes seem almost to glow with a cold, baleful blue light. Hidden beneath a layer of fabric, her right arm is skeletal, and moves through arcane means.
The light of the elves has begun to fade from her being. Warm joy now turning to cool detachment. Sariel moves no longer with the effortless grace of her people, but with the ghostly agility of the undead. Her visage has become that of a fell apparition, conjured from the depths of some long forgotten tomb.
Personality
Sariel is a creature driven by her singular obsession with understanding the cosmic forces of life, death and undeath. Marked by her studies, her emotions have been tempered by the wisdom of the grave. She feels all that she once did, but she notes a growing detachment in her passions and a cold chill that has begun to envelope her soul.
Far from menacing in most situations, Sariel is polite, kind even, if permitted such graces by the situation or those she encounters. She knows that many fear her. She knows that many revile her. She holds little hope for reconciliation. The Maw is proof enough of the paltry mercy offered by the kingdom. Sariel does not deceive herself. She sees no advantage in such desperate deception. They will not free her, all know this to be true, but the dead counsel her to be patient, and Sariel intends to heed their whispers.
Imprisonment has done little to dampen her confidence. However, Sariel remains far from reckless and the dark, damp cell in which they have left her has only sent her gaze further inwards. Even in the Maw there are dead to speak to. They can take her arcane components. They can take her possessions. And they can take her beloved grimoire. Sariel does not dispute this. Yet, a wizard, a necromancer, a true seeker of the truths that lie beyond death itself cannot be so easily dissuaded.
In happier times, Sariel was disagreeable only when faced with the ignorant and those quick to judge her for her vocation, reviled as it is across the land. For all her differences with her kin, she still possesses the storied charm of the elves, transformed as it has been into the dread presence of the grave. She navigates social interactions in the Maw with unexpected ease for a wizard with a habit of engaging in lengthy conversations with the dead.
Uninterested in tradition wreathed in ceremonial judgment, Sariel is unconcerned with the social mores and taboos that would restrict her practice of necromancy. In turn, she would happily offer others the same freedom and keeps an open mind.
Background
"Unhappy rumors have reached my ears, Aldhelm. They say a darkness hangs over the High Fells of Valandor. I pray that you have returned to us now to dispel such fearful tales."
Bowing down on his left knee as he entered the room, Aldhelm rose with greater difficulty, feeling his many years as he slowly stood up. He was no longer a young man. It had been fifty years since he had arrived in the Spired City. He had fought and defeated great evils. The faded scars and old injuries earned from such deeds were plain for all to see. He was a hero in Talcus, Aldhelm knew, for all the good it did him.
He had been richly rewarded for his services to the kingdom. He had risen to highest echelons of society. He had a title. He had lands. He dined with the nobility. He spoke with members of the royal family. He had more servants than he could count. He had a cadre of apprentices learning under his careful tutelage. And he slept in a luxurious bed. However, such gifts did not come without a heavy price. He knew the rich rewards he had received had to be safeguarded through continued service. Knowing this did little to diminish the weariness he felt deep in his very bones. Leaning heavily on his staff, Aldhelm collected his thoughts, considering how best to begin.
"I bring grim news, my lord Baron. There is a dark presence that dwells in the tomb of Adgyth Mara, a sorcerer who can summon the undead, a necromancer."
Loud gasps escaped from the members of court scattered in familiar groups across the great hall and the Baron raised a calming hand, smiling good-naturedly as he beckoned for order to be restored.
"My old friend, surely you jest. Perhaps this spellcaster is simply a maleficent conjurer, a charlatan dabbling in the black arts in order to frighten the simple, wretched people of the lands."
"I would offer such findings happily my Lord, a base magician would not trouble me. Alas, there have been sightings of growing groups of undead gathering and moving across Thalore. To what end, we do not yet know. However, it is only a matter of time before this foul creature, this baleful necromancer, assembles an army of undead and proceeds to threaten the nearby settlements."
"What do you suggest?"
"We must act, your grace. We must secure the silver mines of Umeth. The King would be most displeased if the supply of silver was interrupted."
"Of course," the Baron agreed, nodding sagely. "And of the necromancer?"
"Forgive me, my lord, but I have already taken the liberty of dispatching Inquisitor Nelriel and her company. I did not wish to trouble you with such trifling details."
"Inquisitor Nelriel? Heartening news, indeed!" the Baron proclaimed with a smile, to a smattering of cheers and clapping hands,"Why, I almost feel sorry for this pitiful necromancer."
"Just so," Aldhelm said, returning the board smile with a forced expression of joy that he hoped would not be correctly divined.
"What do they call you?"
"Cefrey."
"I see... Who sent you? Oh, don’t bother lying. Don't tell me that stumbled here by happenstance. I know you did not come here by your own accord. I know you came here at the behest of another."
Cefrey hesitated. There was subtle violence in the soft words of the stranger and Cefrey knew she did not have much time," Aldhelm the Bright Handed"
"I know him."
"You cannot."
"Oh, why not? He knew my master. He was ever a friend of Taman Hakothi in those distant days," the robed figure said, taking a slow step forward, her cold blue eyes filling Cefrey with inescapable dread.
"Stay back! Don’t come any closer!" Cefrey stammered, pressing her back against the ice covered stone of the tomb, pointing the tip of her blade at the other speaker. "What do you want?"
A faint look of amusement crossed the pale elf’s face, "To talk, nothing more. I wish to know why Old Aldhelm sends assassins to invade my home and to murder me, most rudely, in this hallowed place. "
Cefrey tried to stay calm. She tried to think. She was cornered, surrounded by a host of undead, bristling with weapons and armor. They had lost Kalli to a trap as they entered the second level of the tomb. Brem had fallen to a hail of arrows not long after. The cleric accompanying them, Cesvel, had burned when he tried to rebuke the approaching undead. Nelriel had told her to run, screaming as an axe split her skull open. It had been a trap. Their spells had failed them. Their wards had been useless. The Necromancer had been ready. And Aldhelm had been wrong.
"Where is Vladislak? What have you done with him?" She meekly managed, her blade growing heavy in her hand and beginning to shake.
"Your friend is dead. Like the others that came with you."
"Why?"
"Do not ask foolish questions. You came here to kill me. Did you think that I would not defend myself? Your friend chose his fate. As did the others that came with you. And now you may choose yours."
"Please…"
The crypt echoed with the loud clatter and clank of metal as the expressionless skeletons closed in on Cefrey, holding their weapons ready.
"No. No. No, stop that," the necromancer chided, her voice rising softly with command,"Do not do that. Do not beg. You had a choice. You always have a choice."
Inquisitor Tessele clasped her hands together and offered a quick prayer before she lit the votive candle sitting on the battered wooden table in front of her. Brilliant light shaped by her divine magic began to spread across the room, driving away the darkness that surrounded her. She felt a pang of sorrow as she studied the figure sitting in the chair across from her, wrapped in lengths of chain. Dipping the tip of her quill in ink, she began to write in a careful hand.
"State your name, wizard, so that it may formally be recorded."
"You know my name."
Tessele smashed her first into the table, uninvited flames of anger erupting in her bosom as her voice rose, "I will not ask you again, state your name, prisoner."
The reply came slower than the first, each syllable carefully delivered, "You know my name. You know me."
Unwelcome, painful silence followed, until unable to stand it any longer, Tessele spoke in a mournful tone,"You are Sariel, Sariel Amastacia."
"Indeed, I am. I am Sariel Amastacia."
"So there you sit, chained, and left to languish in the darkness."
"I have no need for any light. Certainly not for the light."
"So they say, always and unfailingly."
"I do not care. You waste my time. You bore me with your foolish prattle."
"Your time is mine to waste."
"Assuredly," the shackled elf agreed. "You are the inquisitor, are you not?"
"You subverted an agent of the crown. You had her murder a court wizard."
"No, I simply repaid Aldhelm for his poor manners and for his deeply insulting foolishness. The assassin…well, I gave her a choice. It would seem that she found undeath preferable to death. Have you found her? Have you captured her yet?"
Tessele chose not to reply, pursing her lips in fresh irritation and anger.
"Aha, now that is interesting. What will your superiors say? A wight on the loose in Talcus. I doubt they will be very pleased."
"Where is she?"
"In truth, I do not know. She is no longer bound to me. Her geas ended when she killed Aldhelm. As I promised her when we struck our bargain."
"You released a wight in the city? To what end?"
The necromancer seemed to study Tessele with a pitying look before she spoke, "A wight is no lesser undead. She retained the memories of her life. Her personality was untouched. She possessed free will. I am not cruel. I have little desire to enslave sentient creatures."
"Such kindness," Tessele hissed, "And yet, you summoned an army of undead, razing the town of Camor to the ground. One hundred innocent souls, lost in one night."
"An accurate count, by my measure, but they were not slain by my hand alone."
"You deny it then?"
"It was not my intention to fight in the town. Unfortunately, your soldiers did not share my apprehensions about conducting a battle among the peasantry."
"Do you regret nothing?"
"What is there to regret, Tessele? I offered them a way out. I simply wanted to be left alone. The tombs were not theirs to claim. My home was not theirs to sully. And my work was not theirs to interrupt."
"You blame us for the slaughter?"
"What reason is there to lie?"
"You killed innocents. You killed the King’s men. You killed servants of the Holy Sun."
"Your clerics, your paladins, and your crusaders killed themselves with their own foolishness. I offer no apology for the deaths of the wicked."
"Wicked! They were good, kind souls devoted to the one true faith-"
"Oh, kill me now! But spare me this ridiculous moralizing. Do not insult me with pitiful stories. You sent killers. You sent evil men. Their faith will not absolve them from their deeds. The righteous dead feast on their souls this day! I promise you that. I have but to listen and I can hear the screams of your soldiers. And I can hear the laughter of their countless victims rising louder still."
"You are the monster they said you were. I had vainly hoped that they might be wrong."
"There was no mistake."
Tessele’s voice wavered, her hands balling into tight fists, "I thought you lost, Sariel. I thought you were dead. After the battle of Eliorin. I looked for you. I looked for you for weeks. I searched for your body. And I found nothing."
"I was never lost," the wizard interrupted, seemingly unmoved.
"Where did you go?"
"To the East, beyond the narrow sea. I sought out learned masters of magic, the great wizards of the forgotten ages. The ancient undead hidden from your prying eyes, impossible for you to imagine with your ignorance, and shielded from your greedy violence."
"You found them then, the hateful liches still remaining?"
"They are not so hateful, at least when you are polite."
"We heard stories about a great disaster befalling the lands of Thalore. It was said that the people had fallen into the hands of a Necromancer."
"It was peaceful, before you came."
"You consort with the undead. You damn you very soul, Sariel, there is no peace in that!"
The wizard leaned forward, placing a skeletal hand over Tessele’s before the inquisitor had time to pull back.
"Tessele, there is only fear in your words. You do not see. You do not listen. You do not understand. You are blinded by the light. You are deafened by the thunder of your new faith."
"You are halfway in the grave and you speak like that!" Tessele shouted, almost jumping back as she withdrew her hand, sending the candle clattering to the floor. She pointed at the wizard's skeletal arm,"Look at yourself, Sariel! You are dying, you are turning into a monster."
"If I have changed, then it is only for the better."
"You have traded your flesh. You have bartered away your soul. And for what? Unholy magic?"
"This?" the necromancer scoffed, raising her skeletal arm. "That arm was a small price to pay for knowledge."
Talents
Spell Caster with a Capital S - Sariel is no mere hedge wizard, no unstudied practitioner of magic, and no unrestrained spellcaster. No, she is a wizard, a true wizard, a supreme magic-user who draws on the subtle weave of magic that permeates the very cosmos to cast powerful spells.
Necromancer - Sariel is a necromancer, a feared and hated wizard concerned chiefly with mastering the school of necromancy magic. Her spells manipulate the power of death, unlife, and the life force that animates all living creatures.
* Animate Undead - By imbuing a pile of bones or corpse with arcane energy, Sariel can create an undead servant, raising the target as an undead creature in a foul mimicry of life. This is the first act of necromancy expected of any true necromancer. * Summon Undead - Calling forth an undead spirit, Sariel can manifest such a spirit into a corporeal form, creating an undead creature shaped according to her will. * Command Undead - By uttering dread words, Sariel can command those undead creatures unable to resist her demands. * Dark Mending - Channeling hateful necromantic energies, Sariel is able to heal the wounds of the undead and unexpectedly even her own injuries, suggesting a growing change in the nature of her being. * Deathless Vigor - Years of tireless study have infused Sariel's body with a deathless vigor and she has become something more akin to the undead she once freely kept in her cohort. * Dead Whispers - Searching for answers, Sariel has come to understand the whispers of the dead and is able to speak with them, provided they retain some level of sentience or sanity. * Thrall Boon - She has become acclimated to the undead, strengthening the bond she has with her undead thralls, offering these servants a powerful boon. * Undead Graft - Long before her capture, Sariel grafted a necrotic rune into her right arm, dissolving the flesh from her arm, and leaving behind a skeletal appendage. A mere touch from her right arm can siphon the life force of others, bolstering her own health, dealing necrotic damage, and even paralyzing those unfortunate enough to be trapped in her cold grip.
Arcane Scholar - Deeply concerned with the underlying mechanics and nature of magic, Sariel is an ardent student of the arcane. She seeks to uncover arcane secrets through extensive studies, even trapped as she currently is in the hellish pit of the Maw. Steeped in the writings of mages past and the cryptic advice of the undead, Sariel possesses an extensive knowledge of arcane lore and history of the realm.
Flaws
Necromancer's Stubborn Pride - Sariel is prideful, convinced of her own righteousness, how else could she wander a path that most perceive as leading only to inescapable damnation? Her pursuit of arcane knowledge has grown beyond mere obsession and Sariel is unwilling, perhaps unable, to consider the dangers inherent to such unwavering single-mindedness.
Undead Torpor - At times, Sariel appears to be wracked by the apathy often identified in the spirits of the dead. The concerns of the living no longer seem quite as important to her. The petty squabbles and bloody wars of the narrow-minded now seem beneath her enlightened mind. Even death has begun to feel like an old, familiar friend, rather than something she should be afraid of. Rousing Sariel from such musings and moods can require significant effort.
Still Human - Besides a skeletal arm and her slow transformation into something undead, Sariel remains distinctly mortal, a noticeable disadvantage when compared to some of the other prisoners in the Maw.
Equipment
Taken from her when they tossed her into the Maw, Sariel's arcane grimoire contains the culmination of her study of necromancy. It is no exaggeration to say that Sariel would do anything to recover her ancient tome. She can see the silver ruins inlaid into the black leather cover in her dreams.
Another of her prized possession lost to her jailers was a bag of holding containing a number of arcane components and small items of comfort.
Predictably, her guards also took away her ornate silver dagger, an enchanted blade that courses with the souls of more than one willing sacrifice.
Her final piece of confiscated property is a long robe, a gift from a patient demilich amused by her questions. An elegant garment made from exquisite black cloth, woven into the robe are protective magics far beyond mortal understanding.
Harmless text scrolled slowly across the contacts that Nadya wore. A friendly greeting that sent a shiver down her spine. She was wary of the Matrix. She didn't understand the Matrix. Not really. Not like she understood magic. Not like she understood violence. She didn't trust the deckers, riggers, and technomancers that lived there. And she didn't appreciate someone, even a teammate, beaming text across her eyes uninvited. She buried the small frown that followed beneath a gentle smile. Feeling her claws shifting expectantly.
Barely looking up from her cards, Nadya stretched a hand protectively over the growing pile of bottle caps, nicknacks, and small objects that were piled on the table in front of her. A collections of winnings she had acquired piece by piece from the large troll sitting across from her over the unfolding hours. Makeshift chips that they had hastily assigned Nuyen values to in a smattering of Vietnamese slang, insults, and rude gestures.
"I'm Wildfire," Nadya said, turning a steady glance towards the three strangers scattered around the cabin. Polishing off the glass of vodka she had been nursing, she offered another serene smile, "I'm the muscle."
She nodded towards Frost, "And that's Frost, she's the charmer."
Behind her mask, in the looming distance, Nadya could feel her nerves fraying. She hadn’t slept since they had accepted the job and the calm of meditation could only do so much to stave away the weariness that ate at her bones. The soft, cushioned seats offered her no respite. Comfort and class didn’t leave her with the space to relax among a rag tag group of walking uncertainties. She had eaten lightly, picking at small cuts of meat and cheese, deciding that poison or a sedative was unlikely. The puffers of Bliss she had tucked into one of the concealed pockets of her flight jacket sang their familiar siren song. Later she promised herself. When she and Frost were alone. She trusted the troll more than she trusted herself. She knew that she would keep her safe.
Picking up a Lightning Cola bottle cap in her left hand, Nadya rolled the garishly bright bottle cap across her knuckles. Holding the glowing neon disc in front of her as if examining some precious object she winked playfully at Frost, tossing it to her in a sudden flash of motion, "We said, these were worth 50¥, no? Your stack is growing unfortunately sparse, my dear sister. At this rate, I worry that you will not have any funds remaining by the time we reach Lisbon. Maybe poker's just not your game, Frost. We can always play something else..."
Unsure of how to respond, Dom offered only a faint smile watching the odd events unfolding around her. Being looked at, examined even, was one thing, but being prodded, and touched was quite another. The fog and the fearful word of the major had set a poor stage by her measure. The strange woman arguing with the knights did little to lighten the mood.
However Templar Weber seemed to know her and his annoyance seemed to suggest no real threat.
"I am the Scion of Metal, pleased to meet you, Miss...ummm...Renata," Dom said.
"Do you know much about these spirits?" She added, trying to steer the conversation away from arresting anyone, back to Sara's question, and towards the true purpose of their visit. Mad woman or not, it didn't hurt to be polite, and Dom had learned long ago that most people liked to be listened to and to have their concerns heard.
Standing 1.8 meters tall, Nadya has a lithe build, with subtle cords of muscle hidden beneath a graceful form. Fair skinned, she is ambiguous in terms of ethnicity, and it is hard to place where she exactly she is from. She has soft brown eyes set in almond-shaped frames that dance with curiosity. Her brown hair is wavy, cut with her own claws, and never reaches past her shoulders.
Gifted with a catlike elegance, Nadya moves with the steady ease of a predatory creature. Swathed in silence and shadows, she possesses an exceptional ability to move unseen and unheard.
Of two minds when it comes to fashion, Nadya alternates between corporate chic and punk styles dating from the Fifth World. Her day-to-day outfits are a rotating selection of second hand armored business suits, dress shirts, leather dress shoes, and expensive ties. For more relaxed settings, she does her best to capture an older spirit of punk through the heavy use of black jeans, torn band t-shirts, leather jackets, combat boots, and far too much black eyeliner.
Awakened
Yes
Archetype
Physical Adept
Berserk Berserker's Rage Combat Sense Counterstrike Critical Strike (Unarmed) Killing Hands Light Body Pain Resistance Rapid Healing Wall Running
Nadya is a student of the Yielding Way, more commonly known by runners as Jujitsu. This martial art is particularly useful for Nadya when she is faced with armored and armed opponents. Using the force of her foes against them, she is able to defeat such advantaged enemies even without any weapons. Her techniques center on subduing, throwing, and disarming her opponents.
- Called Shot (Disarm) - Chin Na (Catching and Locking Joints) - Clinch - Sacrificial Throw - Sweep - Throw Person
Bioware/Cyberware
Claws (Retractable) - Courtesy of her corporate creators, Nadya sports ten fingeres worth of razor sharp claws, much like those of a cat, that can be retracted or extended at her whim.
Synaptic Booster (R3) - As an experimental product, a prototype in almost every way, Nadya's entire nervous system has been heavily modified by Evo Corporation scientists. To permit lightning fast reaction times, the nerve cells of her spinal cord have been broadened and replicated with proprietary bioware, facilitating a neural bandwidth several times higher than that found in the unaugmented.
Personality
A tranquil sea in an ocean of violence, Nadya is one of the friendliest Shadowrunners that you will meet. She is a cheerful figure who will offer a smile and a polite nod, even as she prepares to cut you into smaller ribbons with her sharpened claws. Full of hope, Nadya bristles with a wild curiosity, a reckless desire to see and do more that drives her straight into the arms of fresh trouble.
Raised to serve as the personal servitor and bodyguard to high-ranking corporate executives, Nadya commands the full range of social talents required to hold such a position. She is a capable conversationalist, demonstrating a wide range of knowledge across cultural, historical, and political domains. A corporate education has subtly modeled her, permitting her to move easily through corporate and high society. She is warm, empathetic, and outwardly exhibits few of the characteristics of a vat born ninja.
Steeped in Zen Buddhist philosophy doled out by her corporate overlords, Nadya maintains a matter-of-fact approach to violence. She shows little remorse for her opponents and happily dispatching anyone that stands in the way of her objectives. However, there is a quiet honesty to her, a sense of unflinching moral strength and loyalty. She is who she is and makes no effort to pretend otherwise.
Having built a new life, Nadya cares deeply for Frost and aggressively maintains that the troll is her older sister. Arguments suggesting otherwise, no matter how well-intentioned, are liable to be very poorly received. Beyond the strength of her personal ties, Nadya is deathly afraid of being captured and returned to Evo Corporation. As a result, she will react violently and with complete abandon to any attempts to restrain or imprison her.
Qualities
Ambidextrous - Left hand, right hand, it doesn't matter all that much to Nadya, she's learned to use each of her two hands as well as the other, particularly when it comes to combat.
Biocompatibility - Designed from the ground up to be a bioware test bed, Nadya's doesn't just accept bioware implants, but slots them in seamlessly as if they were always a part of her body, lessening the impact such scientific meddling has on her to the point that it is no longer noticeable outside of exploratory surgery.
Catlike - Nadya sleeps like a cat, moves like a cat, falls like a cat, and scratches like a cat. She's stealthy. She's scarily silent. And even unarmed she has claws that HURT.
Prototype Transhuman - A walking, talking fairy tale, Nadya is a whispered story come to life. An genetically crafted, experimental post-human prototype cooked up in the deepest, darkest depths of an Evo Corporation's laboratory. Built better than a baseline human, her body has been tastefully enhanced with discreet, bleeding edge bioware that would make a back alley street doc sing with glee. The downside to such improvements is that Evo Corporation is keen, very keen to reacquire their lost arcane wonder.
Way of the Warrior - Way of the Warrior - Nadya has run, she's fought, and she's fucking bled. She's spent her life turning her body into a lethal weapon. She's got that shit. That shit that keeps her going, long after she's got no reason to."
Big Regret - Deep within her psyche, Nadya has buried a series of corporate missions. Successful in every way, they trouble her, not due to the final outcome, but rather because of what she did.
Driven - Nadya wants answers. She wants to know when she was born. She wants to know where she was born. She wants to know where her genes came from. And she wants to know what happened to her friends. This obsession drives Nadya, sometimes propelling her headfirst into danger.
Addiction - Nadya is mildly addicted to stimulants. Lacking easy access to corporate combat drugs, she relies on a carefully paced dosing and use of Cram, Jazz, Kamikaze, Novacoke, and Psyche. She is particularly fond of recreational usage of Bliss, designer Novacoke, and pharmaceutical grade Psyche.
Wanted - Having spent no small amount of money to design, develop, and train Nadya, Evo Corporation is very interested in "recovering" their lost prototype transhuman.
Equipment
Steyr TMP - Aiming to suppress enemies long enough to get up close and personal, Nadya favors a Steyr TMP loaded with 30 rounds of FMJ. To allow some volume of fire, she keeps three spare magazines tucked on her person. She stores the machine pistol in a concealable holster worn in the small of her back, helping to ensure it remains hidden from prying eyes. Given her distinct lack of a datajack or smart link capable cyberware, Nadya utilizes the built-in top-mounted laser sight to help her hit her targets. For discreet missions she has purchased a removable silencer.
Defiance EX Shocker - Acknowledging that sometimes dealing out death isn't the right choice or alternative, Nadya carries a Defiance EX Shocker, a wireless taser capable of putting down even an adult troll.
Pepper Punch Grenades x 2 - To resolve desperate situations or to buy some needed space, Nadya finds pepper punch grenades to be just the thing.
Armor Jacket - Nadya's most prized possession is a reproduction United States Air Force A-2 flight jacket. Created from ballistic fiber weave, Nadya has had the jacket modified to suit her personal tastes, affording greater protection from electrical, fire, and chemicals. Emblazoned on the back of the flight jacket is the text Flying Tigers, a squadron insignia showing a cartoon Bengal Tiger with blue wings leaping in between two blue rays, and below that the text American Volunteer Group. When asked, Nadya says that the jacket was a gift from her older sister, Frost. [Concealed Pockets] x 2 - Large enough to store a holdout pistols, commlink, or other similarly sized objects. - [6 Non-conductivity] - [4 Fire Resistance] - [2 Chemical Protection]
Auctioneer Business Clothes - Nadya owns several pairs of used armored suits that she has had tailored to fit her. She makes good use of the concealable holster discreetly sewn into the jackets. - - [4 Non-conductivity] - [2 Fire Resistance] - [2 Chemical Protection]
Gas Mask - Tucked on her person, Nadya keeps a compact but effective gas mask. It's hard to avoid eating her own Pepper Punch grenades otherwise.
Transys Avalon - Keen to avoid being hacked or jammed, for proper comms, Nadya owns a competitively priced Transys Avalon commlink.
Meta Link - Nadya has two cheap Meta Link commlinks intended only to be used as burner phones.
Micro-Transceiver - For missions, Nadya has a set of ear buds and an adhesive subvocal microphone to allow hands-free communication. Critically, the Micro-Transceiver permits voice communication via good old radio waves for when broadcasting live on the Matrix is not an advisable option.
Trodes - Uninterested in a datajack, Nadya keeps a pair of wound up trodes, for those rare times where she needs to connect to the matrix or pop up her own DNI.
Bliss x 2 - Racked by nightmares, guilt, and a host of unresolved issues, Nadya keeps a stash of Bliss to help her hit new levels of calm. It's hard to feel bad when you are floating on clouds and feeling only the warm fuzzies. The pain resistance afforded by Bliss is merely a happy side effect as far as Nadya is concerned.
Cram x 2 - Sometimes even a souped up super soldier needs an additional edge on a run and Nadya makes no bones about adding amphetamines to her arsenal.
Jazz x 2 - One of her oldest friends, Nadya turns to Jazz when she needs to turn up the noise up a notch from the usually delightful Cram fueled rush.
Kamikaze x 1 - Nadya's last resort on a run is a quick shot of Kamikaze that she keeps on her person. Dangerous in any dosage, the tailored combat drug is the closet replacement Nadya has managed to acquire to the proprietary drugs that Evo Corporation supplied her with.
Novacoke x 2 - Cast into high society, albeit as a servant, Nadya nonetheless has warm feelings concerning social drugs like Novacoke. A stimulant to keep her awake, keep her moving, and to help the good times flow seems like a wonderful thing to her.
Psyche x 1 - Purely for pleasure and to solve occasional puzzles, Nadya seeks out Psyche.
Zen x 1 - When meditation fails her, Nadya turns to Zen to enter trance-like states.
Silver Credstick Standard Credstick 2 Stim Patches (Rating 6) 1 Trauma Patch 1 Tranq Patch Medkits (Rating 3) Medkits (Rating 6) 10 Stealth tags 10 Data Chips 10 Standard tags Chisel/Crowbar Mini-welder Metal Restraints 10 Plastic Restraints
Background
"Yeah, I've heard the rumors. So what? We all have. They're just stories. You think the Megacorps could keep it under wraps if they had pulled it off? If they had managed to create something new? Something different? Something post-human?"
"Nah, don't make me laugh, Chummer. There isn't an army of super soldiers squirreled away in some bunker and kept on ice."
- Pr1nce$$
The dwarf appeared out of the shadows, ambling confidently through the crowd. In his hands were two glass mugs slopping over with beer. He made no greeting as he put down the mugs. Beer spilling with every inevitable shift of the wobbly table. He pulled out a battered pack of cigarettes with a shrug, taking his time. He had learned decades earlier to enjoy the small moments. Holding a cigarette lazily between his lips, he extended his right index finger, a small flame setting it alight. Smiling, he took a long pull, embers moving towards him as he inhaled, and then exhaled a thick cloud of smoke. His grey eyes lingered on the woman sitting in front of him.
"Let me tell you a story..."
"It starts in the Ural mountains. In an underground research facility. Yamatetsu Corporation. Course' they call themselves Evo Corporation now. There was always this idea. This pipe dream that the corporate scientists couldn't let go of...Transhumans."
"I'm told that the pitch went something like this: "What if we could build our own army? What if we could force the next evolutionary leap? What if we could go beyond humans and metahumans? What if we could create real post-humans. Our own genetically crafted soldiers. Patented, of course. No cumbersome cyberware, but bioware, special organs grown into them from their inception. Awakened, fully powered spellcasters. The perfect synergy of augmentation and magic. No weaknesses and no flaws."
"The execs ate that shit right up. And I'll give the bastards credit. It was successful. As far as corp wonder-weapon projects go, anyways."
"Most of the subjects weren't viable. So they were recycled. Turned into spare parts. Or just tossed into the blender and thrown back into the vat as fresh genetic material. Turns out it's not easy to paste together a grab bag collection of genes. Who would've thought?"
"Those that made it...let's call them potential candidates, were spirited away to a corporate creche. Raised by corp caretakers. Minded by corp minders. And watched by corp security. SOP for a serious outfit. What was a smidge more novel was running their subjects through a training program designed by some half-mad AI to maximize the rate of Awakenings."
"That was the only real hiccup. You can't force Awakening. Even the best and the brightest researchers couldn't crack that nut. So instead, they brute forced it. Probably best not to ask how many times they had to start over. How many bodies they chopped up to end up with just one Awakened. Some of the lucky failures were repurposed, stuffed with chrome and used for corp ops. The rest...ah...well, I don't need to spell it out for you."
"The successes. The vat born that Awakened were spirited off to a string of corporate academies. Finishing schools, if you want to think of it that way. They were taught how to act. They were taught how to blend in, how to fit in among the rubes and the elites. They were taught how to fight. They were coached by trusted physical adepts. They were instructed by vetted mages. They were turned into corporate weapons."
"Hard to tell though, innit?" The dwarf said, pausing to take a long pull of beer. Draining most of one mug, he grinned, nudging the other mug towards the woman. He raised a hand in her direction as he continue, "How do you know? How do you really know if you're sitting across from a souped up physical adept bristling with bioware worth more than a small mountain of credsticks?"
The woman tensed, her hands tightening into fists, and the dwarf could see the violence in her eyes threatening to travel to rest of her body. She was quicker he knew. Far quicker than he had ever been. Even in his prime, long decades ago.
"That was the point, obviously. Corp execs and socialites like to be discreet. And who doesn't want their own vat born ninja?"
"How do you know all of this?"
"Trade secrets, I'm afraid," the dwarf said with a wink, "But I don't need to convince. You know it's all true, don't you, Nadya?"
"Yes."
"How'd you get away?"
"Field ops in Beijing. A high value extraction. We were guarding a turncoat scientist willing to come over from the Big A. We were compromised. They located our safehouse. Some hotshot Azzie decker pinged it and vectored a Azzie kill squad. Most of my team was wiped out, including my handler. There didn't seem to be much point in fighting after that. The mission was a failure. And I had a chance. So I ran."
"Still, you knew they had to come looking. There was no chance they wouldn't notice you weren't dead."
"Yes, but I had a head start."
"You did! And you caused quite a ruckus. In truth, I didn't think you'd make it."
"I got lucky. Found a boat. Made a deal. Got off the mainland. And made some friends."
"Oh, I know all about your friends, particularly your large friend. And incidentally, the cannon she has pointed at me right now. I don't think she'll miss at this range. Shall we call it 1.5 km?" the dwarf said, flashing a golden smile. The metal gleamed in the half-lit darkness, as he waved nonchalantly across the beer garden.
"She won't miss," Nadya agreed.
"Wonderful! However, as I said, you needn't worry. We are on the same side."
"There are no sides. Only runs. Only corps to be avoided. And you...who are you?"
"Grimjack, my dear Wildfire, call me Grimjack."
"Why are you helping me?"
"Call it an investment."
"Who are you working for? Ares? Aztechnology?"
"Goodness, no. I serve no master, save myself, of course."
"Flux State?" She asked, reaching backwards across the years in search of motivation.
"Ha, no, they were children. I've been at this game longer than that."
He could see she had made a decision. He could sense the shift in her aura. The dwarf raised both his hands, holding palms facing forward, "Hey, hey, relax! I told you, we're on the same side."
"Hmph! You keeping speaking of sides. What side is that?"
"The only side worth fighting for, razorgirl, you just don't know it yet."
Staring across the arena, Cold Hands felt only a sense of continued peace as the gates opened. She had tried to explain to the guards that she had no intention of running. Certainly, she had no desire to fight them. They were weak and unworthy. Killing them would not have brought her closer to her goal. Besides, she could see the challenge laid out in front of her, the winding path, the red wound carved into the blood red sands of the arena by the Unfortunate Son. She accepted it. And she welcomed it.
The metal adorned man in the room with her seemed shaped for battle. There was little kindness in the work that had reforged his flesh. The guards had said little beyond threads of violence. They had said nothing of the other fated combatants. They had said nothing of her opponent.
Standing next to the other prisoner, Cold Hands kept her eyes on the arena. She wished to miss not a moment, and spoke words untouched by the growing energy of the roaring crowd, "Tell me stranger, who fights the first bout?"
Returning from my flu bout, I have wrapped up my character sheet (mostly adding adept powers and doing some quick spot checking, I didn't bother with actually calculating final PP or adept power levels since we are more RPing than going full table top, but let me know if you want me to do so).
"Hey, Ziska! Back in one piece for a change?” Marit hollered with a broad grin on her face. ”You’re awesome by the way, have I told you that? When we liberate a suitable watering hole, remind me I owe you some drinks for today. The TAG was on point."
"You can't get rid of me that easily, Marit," Ziska said, escaping Dr. Yuri's grasp in a sudden flurry of motion. Any sign of weariness or fresh pain vanished from her face in a heartbeat, as she focused all her thoughts on matters of merriment. She hadn't survived fighting off two heavier BattleMechs to die of boredom. Drinks. She wanted to drink. She wanted to party. And she wanted to...fight?
"But please, tell me more about how awesome I am, it has been too long since I received an appropriate measure of compliments, given my peerless reputation in this undoubtedly fine and heroic unit."
Matching Marit's step and avoiding the doctor's growing scowl, Ziska wrapped an arm good-naturedly over Marit's shoulder, taking small advantage in having to support less of her own weight, "Say...where is everyone else? We need some drinks to celebrate our successful mission, no?"
wanderingwolf
Red Wizard
Bork Lazer
BunniesOfDoom
Dark Light
vietmyke
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wintersoldier
TokyoPewPew
Snowdrops
