Eisenhorn

The Lion's Banner: A Fire Emblem-Inspired Anime Fantasy RP

Alright, finally got my fellow together, feel free to let me know if anything needs addressed, yeah?

CS

• Name: Urden Antiac
• Age: 29
• Gender: Male
• Race: Human
• Appearance:
  Appearance

  
  Stands at just about 6'1".
• Personality:
  On the surface of it, Urden is as quick to laugh and hoke as he is to breath. Quick to crack jokes and make offhand remarks on current circumstances, the chatty man is certainly lacking in the respect department, at least overtly. It is honest enough for who he is at a passing meeting or glance, however it is a façade to hide the mercenary beneath the smile who's out to make ends meet and nothing more, something that never quite reaches the dull amber of his eyes, no matter how much he laughs or shows mirth. Under the surface is a viciously pragmatic fighter, employing any and all manner of tricks, underhanded methods, and anything else that comes to hand to survive long enough to collect his pay. Still, he has a sort of mercenaries honor, as once he takes a job he'll see it done, as long as he got paid to do so, and if he's dumb enough to sign on for the long haul, that's on him. Beyond that, he enjoys a good drink, a good fight, and most importantly, a nice and fat sack of coin after a hard day's work, and really couldn't care less who he ends up working alongside.
• Brief Backstory:
  Urden was born into a small band of mercenaries, who typically committed to activities and jobs that were mostly dealing with small bandit groups and providing muscle and security for caravans and other odd jobs that didn't pay well but needed done. The young man, growing up, chaffed under this lack of variety and, becoming quickly apparent, pay, something he found a quick and fond love for. Still, before he split off from the group he learned to fight and carry himself, training with a two handed axe that had belonged to his mother, who had taken off shortly after he was born. He was also given a short blade, a 'proper weapon for a scrawny kid like him', and a parting farewell gift as the eighteen year old split off from the small band, convinced they would just wallow in obscurity for the rest of their days. He had bolder and grander plans in place, though to call 'Strike out and get rich' a plan was fairly bold of him.
  
  Being a freelance mercenary had its pros and cons, something that Urden would become incredibly aware of over the next decade of earning his keep through violence. Starting small, signing on with villages for fairly meagre sums to help scare off thugs, put the odd bandit in the ground, and generally began making a name for himself as a problem solver. He learned how to solve problems through any means necessary, given he rarely had the luxury of being on the side with the luxury of numbers. During this time he settled into a style of fighting that relied on speed and aggression to overwhelm most opponents, his two handed axe suited to the aggressive approach. He earned his fair share of scars this way, learning not just how to fight, but how to survive along the way. Though, word eventually reached him that his old outfit had turned to banditry, and for once he felt a call beyond just making coin, and that was quite a bit of anger that they gave up on earning their keep through honest, albeit bloody, work.
  
  This is how he would end up crossing paths with the Hraesleg Lions, a detachment of them crossing paths with Urden as he was planning how to assault the camp where his old outfit was. They struck a deal, he would lead them down and help clear out the mercenaries turned bandits, and he would get paid for his services as both warrior and informant. Picking out where the old blind spots still were in camp, especially since the bandits had gotten lax and fat in their relative safety, and the sudden lightning assault just after dusk didn't give much of a chance for the former mercenaries to fight back. Urden made sure he personally put his former commander, and father, to the axe, though he conveniently failed to mention the blood relation to the Lions after the job was said and done. Prepared to simply move on, it was suggested that he come back and strike up a more permanent contract with the rapidly rising star of the Hraesleg Lions, the Steel Princess herself. Seeing a chance at not just a rapidly fattening coin purse, but also the fame and prestige to be able to charge more, it wasn't much effort to convince him to join the detachment and meet the Steel Princess first hand.
  
  Urden has been earning his keep ever since, maintaining a position as a mercenary first and foremost, but with a provable track record of loyalty once paid, he would find himself in quite the peculiar bunch. Didn't matter to him, granted, he was getting paid to do whatever the Princess told him to do, So if that meant working with a mostly figurative gallery of oddities, well, the coin was good all the same so Urden was staying a happy man.
• Equipment:
  Urden travels light, and doesn't bring much with him typically speaking. He has his mercenary uniform, a patchwork of mended clothes and a few pieces of token armor that are mostly there for show, though if a blow happened to strike there the worn steel would still do its job well enough. His pride and joy is his two handed axe, large to the point of almost being a poleaxe thanks to the length of its shaft, which he wields with heavy swings aimed to crash through defenses and lighter armor, the spike pointing opposite of the axe head providing an option against heavier armor. In a pinch he also still has the small arming sword in case he gets caught in a position too confined for his preferred weapon. He also has a small chest, where he keeps his coin, contracts, and journal, with the best lock he could possibly afford on it. The key being kept on a string hanging around his neck and often tucked under his shirt.
• Skills:

Axe Combat - Urden has dedicated the majority of his life fighting with axes, both his personal axe of choice and others such as hatchets and other throwing axes, and has developed a fighting style of his own that revolves around battering down and wearing through defenses of an opponent before they have a chance to outlast him. It has gotten him this far, and he is continuing to refine his efforts every time he ends up in a fight, convinced that, while it'll never be perfect, there's nothing saying he can't get good enough to convince the world otherwise.

Black Market Savvy - From negotiating contracts, acquiring supplies, extracting payment, or securing quick and discreet means to move from place to place, Urden has learned where to look not just for the best deals, but the kind of goods that would be frowned upon by polite society. Knowing what to ask and, more importantly, what not to ask is key in these sort of negotiations and dealings, but really Urden would have it no other way. It's where he does business most of the time, so it pays well to know how it works.

Thug - Sometimes being a mercenary means more than just killing, and Urden knows that all too well. Often times, a veiled threat, shift of the body, or twitch of the hand does more to dissuade trouble than anything else, especially if the client wants to keep bloodshed to a minimum. He has learned a variety of ways to intimidate and make his presence known as not only a threat, but one you really do not want to trifle with, and the more his standing grows? The more effective it'll get, which suits Urden fine. Means he can charge a higher fee.

The Lion's Banner: A Fire Emblem-inspired Anime Fantasy RP Interest Check

Sounds good, I'll hop on over there and start getting a character put together, if any questions come to mind I'll sound off!

The Lion's Banner: A Fire Emblem-inspired Anime Fantasy RP Interest Check

Well, Fire Emblem inspired ideas are certainly appealing to me, sure as sure, so consider me interested in the idea.

Warhammer 50k: The Second Age of Strife

Stukov saw, out of the corner of his eye, one of his men, a good and stout lad, too headstrong for his own good, move in and bayonet the abomination in the back. Granted, all that did was piss it off at this rate, but as it impulsively turned to throttle and kill the offending voidsman, that bought the Voidmaster precious moments to act. Quickly loading an inferno shell and racking it home, Stukov would slam the bayonet upwards, lodging it into the neck of the Tzaangor before jerking the trigger, incinerating the beast's head in a gout of fire and shot, dropping free the grappled Voidsman as Stukov shouldered the collapsing corpse aside, rapidly reloading standard buckshot before opening fire once more, covering the voidsman who had come to his aid.

"TO YOUR FEET, WE HAVE THE ADVANTAGE! NO DAEMONS WILL BREAK US NOW, SHOW THEM THE WRATH OF THE IMPERIUM!"

The Voidmaster reached to his belt, grabbing a concussion grenade, priming it, and hurling it towards the emerging Daemons. They still practiced Gellar Field failure drills, and often times it was simply more effective to seal off lost decks that had daemons on them until a return to realspace, Emperor willing, could be made. Failing that, explosives and heavy weapons were preferred. Frags were rare, as the fragments would do almost as much damage to ship's components as they would the enemy. But concussion grenades would maul flesh and even armored foes, as the shockwave cared not for light armor, without doing much to the ship itself. A perfect blend of completion of duties, and something to be mused on another day. Other explosions had staggered and left ears ringing, but the Voidmaster could not afford the luxury of being seen as faltering, keeping himself upright through sheer stubbornness and bracing. His men were doing exactly what was to be expected of them, and that left it to him to perform his duties. To carry on fighting, and screening his men as best he could, injuries, abominations, or daemons be damned.

Fallout: Montana (Accepting new characters)

Alexander Whitmoore

"Fine, I'll take the burden. Given the input so far, here's the plan."

Whitmoore finally spoke up, having simply observed and listened while the others chimed in and said their pieces. Questions of whether or not a group this size could take on the raiders, dissent in that they could, questioning as to a million different possible ways to take the situation on. Whitmoore gave himself a moment to compose himself, reminding himself of what his brothers and sisters taught him growing up back in the bunker on leadership. One leader, one vote. Advisement was all fine and well, but it was ultimately the leader, whether its a scribe or a paladin, who makes the call. And takes the fall, if the call is wrong. There was makings of a good plan here, a lot of ideas to digest, but end of the day, they were raider scum. They would gladly take them for a ride and not turn a single hostage loose as 'leverage' for future extortion, while keeping them barely alive and thoroughly abused. No, there would be no honest negotiation with them, but who said anything about honest negotiation.

"We have the manpower and resources to make this happen. While every one of these raiders have to be put down for the good of the area, she's right, the moment gunfire starts, they start executing, if for no other reason than spite. So, we don't give them the chance. We have a map giving us a rough layout, and as we get closer, we have our best sneak case the place ahead of us, find a good backdoor. Places like this never only have one door, and once that's determined, we split into two teams. The backdoor team takes the best sneak, and two supporting. Ideally those who can break and enter, and fight well enough to hold a line if things go south. They go in, find the hostages, get em out. If they can't, they hunker down and keep the raiders from getting trigger happy. The rest back up our best talker, who's going to sell the raider leader such a line of brahman shit that he won't even know it stinks. Keep him talking, keep him and his goons distracted until one of two things. A predesignated signal, or shooting starts. And then? Not a single raider gets out alive, and we push to clear the place as quickly as we can. Make sense?"

Whitmoore had, during his little laying out of a plan, walked up to where the map was, and gave it a once over while considering his own words. He wasn't a fan of giving orders or, hell, taking them either. That being said, someone had to do it, and he was prepared to take the fall if this didn't work. He could always move on, even if it meant being exiled for failure, the rest could simply lay the blame at his feet. Objectively, he had the least the lose in this situation. The woman had spoken truly, and while he wished they had time for fancy drugs and waiting, they didn't. The raiders would be expecting a group to come with the supplies, or to negotiate, or something. Snow had been mentioned which, in better circumstances, would have brought a fond smile to his face.

"Long as we keep our bearings straight, the snow will help us actually. Because the raiders will be just as blind as we are, with some experience leading the way, we can get a good count of things before they ever realize we are there."

Fallout: Montana (Accepting new characters)

Alexander Whitmoore

"Another day, another job. Let's see if anything interesting crops up."

Alexander Whitmoore was currently going through his belongings, preparing for another day earning his keep in Whitlash, though day was metaphorical in this case. His keep lately had been taking the late night or early morning guard shifts, providing an extra pair of eyes and hands to help relieve the stress that kind of tasking did. He never had settled into a single role, Whitlash didn't exactly bustle with pre-war tech needing a unique understanding and experience, though it did come up every now and again whenever some trader rolled in with something odd. Still, nothing that required a level of scientific know how that would leave people questioning just where this gunhand from the North had picked it up. Suited him just fine, frankly, showing his hand too much would get people asking questions, something that, if experience with the last time a town caught wind he was from the Brotherhood, should be avoided if at all possible. Lot of folks here seemed to have their secrets though, and something about the place just wouldn't let him go yet. Didn't stop him from slinging his bugout bag though, that never left his side, even on patrol. Especially on patrol, frankly, never knew when you might need to make yourself scarce.

Of course, the patrol wasn't exactly eventful, it never was these days. It kept folks content though, knowing they had folks walking the perimeter and keeping an eye out for trouble. Whitmoore had the luxury of even seeing the sunrise, something he wouldn't complain about. Everything folks had done, sun kept on rising and setting, regular as you might breath really. Helped put things in perspective, they couldn't screw things up that badly that the sun just stopped poking her head up over the horizon every morning. Someone could draw comfort from that, that things like that kept ticking on like nothing had changed. Still, with the rising sun meant his shift on the patrol was done, and sure enough his relief came strolling on out, and after a few pleasant words exchanged, and a report of nothing amiss, Whitmoore had the rest of his day clear. Well, until he turned in early, but that was a later problem. Strolling back into town, he took time to walk about, chatting with folks who were out doing work or taking care of chores, or like him had some downtime to chatter. It was good to keep up to speed with what was going on, and he'd settled in enough for folks to not mind the Northener chattering about nothing in particular.

Still, Whitmoore's wanderings were interrupted by the ringing of the town hall bell. That meant a meeting, which meant something came up. Another constant, really, the bell ringing in new excitement into their collective lives. Well, he'd heard an old pre-war phrase from one of his mentors growing up that such a thought brought to mind. 'May you live in interesting times', while pleasant on the face of it, was in fact quite the nasty thing to go saying to someone. Most folks never cared for interesting times, it upended lives and made things, well, interesting, which was the problem. That being said, though, he would be interested to see just what had come on blowing down the road, this time, and just how 'interesting' it would make things compared to the usual daily rigors of survival. Excusing himself, Whitmoore made his way to the town hall, a lot of seating already taken up. Couple different folks stood out, including one fellow who'd proven to be quite the entertaining person to talk with, kept up his own farm and helped feed everyone. Honest work, that, to be respected, and had taken up a sentry's position in the hall. There were a few other folk that stood out, though his dealings with them remained to be seen in earnest. He took up a place about halfway forward, leaning on a wall and making himself as comfortable as he could, leaving seating for those who would want for it more. He wasn't one for sitting about unless he had something to work on, and he doubted it would be the case here.

Warhammer 50k: The Second Age of Strife

"SECOND RANKS, SUPPRESS THE GUNNERS! FRONT RANKS, FIRE AT WILL, REPULSE THE SCUM! DRIVE THEM BACK INTO THE VOID AND LET THEM CHOKE ON THE VILE HERESY THEY SPIT!"

Stukov kept firing his shotgun into the ranks of the oncoming tide, sweeping back and forth and indiscriminately peppering the oncoming cultists with buckshot. He wouldn't resort to more esoteric ammunition, not yet, not until the need was truly dire. They were holding the line, thankfully, the constant drills and readiness exercises were paying dividends currently. Of course, not all things could go the way of the crew, and the blasted Tzaangor rushed forward to engage the frontline. Which meant they rushed right into the waiting stance of Stukov and his shotgun. He focused his attention on the closest, slam firing as the thing roared and carried forward, slowing its charge but not arresting it fully, forced to engage in melee with the abomination. But if they expected the Voidmaster to be found wanting, they would be sorely disappointed. A downward blade swing was deflected with a sideways bayonet strike, the reinforced weapon proving its worth as the blade narrowly glanced away, and left an opening for the Voidmaster to slam his bayonet upwards into the beast's throat, before firing the last shell in the weapon right into the things jaw, decapitating it in a spray of gore and blood. Stukov had a chance to shove the corpse back in time to catch, out of the corner of his eye, the Rogue Trader get launched back. As much as instinct screamed he move to assist, he had no such luxury.

Another of the Tzaangor were upon him, inclined to try and take advantage of the Voidmaster's emptied shotgun. Snarling, Stukov found himself engaged in a hard fought brawl with the creature, pitting his agility and experience versus the beast's strength and inhuman durability. He couldn't withdraw either, not without putting more of the line at risk of being overrun. Given the abomination gave him no room to reload, he had to strike with bayonet and reinforced stock, landing cuts and blows, though he would only be chipping away at the creature at this rate. This was no time for thoughts though, as another blade swing nearly took his head off, feeling the blade give him a near close shave over his head, though it created an opening to land a good thrust into its side, burying the bayonet deep and leaving a nasty open wound in its side, though he was back on the defensive again, though he was forcing openings when he could. He'd put this one down in due time, though not in time to assist the others with their trouble. He'd have to put his faith in their capabilities to not buckle so soon in the face of trouble that found them this soon.

Fallout: Montana (Accepting new characters)

Alexander Whitmoore

Name:
Alexander Whitmoore

Age:
37

Sex:
Male

Your S.P.E.C.I.A.L. / Skills:
Strength - 4
Perception = 5
Endurance - 8
Charisma - 5
Intelligence - 8
Agility - 6
Luck - 4

Skills:
Guns
Science
Unarmed

Appearance:
Alexander is a man of middling height, around 5'10" at the most generous estimates, with a build that's hard to pinpoint from under his clothing and gear. Alexander has jet black hair, mostly well kept and swept back, running down to the back of his neck while a thick, heavy beard also runs down a fair ways, giving him an almost wildman look if it wasn't for his attire. A long jacket with a peculiar winterized design often makes him stand out like a sore thumb, though he will never ditch the item, not even to save his life, while he wears apparently salvaged body armor underneath, the hard plates a hold over from pre-war designs. Sturdy blue jeans and well insulated boots round out the clothing, and one might be forgiven for thinking he had just marched out of some frozen north at a glance, though there is no evidence of any sort of identifying insignia .

Image

Armor and Equipment:
Keepsake Body Armor: Passed down father to son for as long as his family can remember, Alexander still keeps wearing and maintaining his family armor whenever the opportunity arises. While similar in style to the NCR Ranger armor, it lacks nearly as much protection, covering mainly the core of the body and seeming to lack a number of pieces that the more well recognized design has. Still, there is a decent amount of agility to work with, owing to the lack of plates interfering with movement or unplanned scavenged additions weighing him down either.

Bugout Bag - On his person at all times, Alexander has learned the hard way that sometimes you need to leave now, and as such keeps his most important worldly belongings on him at all times in this white bag. Has a variety of vital supplies, including stimpacks, food, clean water, radaway, the ammo for his guns, and a sleeping bag. While he may have other items on him at any given time or place, if things are in a scramble, he'll at least be able to get to relative safety before having to start worrying about problematic things like 'eating' and 'someplace warm to sleep'.

Weapons:
Lever Action Shotgun
10mm Pistol
Brass Knuckles

Personality:
Alexander is, on a day to day basis, generally a pleasant enough person to deal with. Usually maintaining a, if not optimistic, at least upbeat outlook in the face of most trouble, ready to crack a joke in the face of trouble when others might not exactly appreciate the attempts at humor. While not actively discussing or talking about things, the man can become lost in thought, entertaining trains of thoughts, whether they be of recent events, or reminiscing on the past and grappling with all the ugliness he's seen in his wandering vagabond lifestyle. He'll wax philosophical when given the chance, willing to debate and discuss beliefs and points of view, never seeming to take one side or the other, almost always acting as the 'Devil's Advocate' or otherwise at least challenging the beliefs of others. He is notably tight lipped when it comes to his own, though whether its because he doesn't want to share, doesn't know what he believes, or otherwise remains to be seen.

History / How they came to be part of Whitlash:
Alexander is the son of a Brotherhood of Steel Paladin, from a surviving enclave that set up in the North, past where boundaries of countries once divided the land. The nuclear winter hit hard there, requiring hardy flesh and hardier souls to survive, creating a rather pragmatic, if forgotten, offshoot of the Brotherhood that scoured the wastes for forgotten bases and convoys, making ends meet through such methods. Such an upbringing was not easy, nor was it kind, but the warmth of camaraderie kept them going when all else was stacked against them. So it was that the boy would be raised into a young man, although despite the promise of a path of prestige following in his father's footsteps, he couldn't help but want to range out on his own, cramping under the regimented confines of the Brotherhood bunker complex. This was a foreseen issue, and he was granted equipment, including his father's old armor, and the blessing to return once wanderlust had been satiated, or to return with finds that would help the Bunker and its denizens continue to survive.

So the young man, barely 18, went first South, and then East. He'd been told of Brotherhood bands to both the East and West, and his fateful decision would get him embroiled in a conflict between the Enclave and his Brotherhood comrades. To say the skirmishes and battles were unpleasant was an understatement, and the increasingly weathered man found himself growing more and more weary of the battles, making friends with others in his squad only to see them cut down by energy weapons not scant days later, and while part of him hates the Enclave for existing and forcing the issue, another part of him wonders what good the Brotherhood goals were if it constantly led to conflicts with both people trying to survive and other factions who may or may not ever have been a problem to begin with. After spending quite a few years fighting the Enclave and other enemies of the Brotherhood, Alexander left and went West instead, chasing the horizon and stories of a shining Jewel in the desert, New Vegas.

New Vegas would bring him into contact with various groups, various ideologies and beliefs, something that Alexander grew fond of learning, discussing, and challenging when need be. What had started as curiosity in the outside world had been tempered, through fire and blood, into an outlook of eternally questioning and second guessing everything, for the sake of teasing out what was worthwhile, and what should be cast aside. He never stuck around for long, either run out by people who got tired of his debates, or because it had grown stale and boring, and Alexander found himself heading back north to report his findings, and what had happened in the East, to his comrades. All he found was a frozen, empty bunker, long abandoned. No notes, no indication what happened, but no signs of conflict or violence either. A complete mystery, something that continues to haunt him as he wonder what happened. But no one survives alone in the North, not for long at least, so he went back south to warmer climates.

His arrival in Whitlash was not particularly eventful, nor even stood out for that matter beyond the peculiar design of this stranger's attire, but Alexander found the mix of people quite fascinating. By far one of the more recent newcomers, barely approaching his first year in the community, he earned his keep through oddjobs and helping keep the place secure, though his knack for technology and scientific endeavors came in handy whenever someone brought back some prewar tech, a mix of his old Brotherhood training and long years making ends meet on his own coming to the forefront. Still, he never discussed his past, and he gained a reputation for debate and discussion, matching a stubborn intelligence against any point or stance if given the opportunity or asked. He had not intended to stay very long, but something had kept him rooted here, be it the curious gathering of people or the strangely varied outlooks, something compelled him to stay here just awhile longer. So he stayed, pursuing this strange feeling and his own strange beliefs while earning his keep as needed.

Extras:
Alexander speaks with a bit of an accent, not unintelligible but, despite all the years away from home, uniquely stand out compared to what most folks will hear. Doing oddjobs and never settling into a singular role in the community has never exactly endeared him with the common folk, as most folks expecting him to just up and vanish one day, as abruptly as he arrived.

Fallout: Montana (Accepting new characters)

Work had me delayed, but here we are, got him sorted out finally.

CS

Name:
Alexander Whitmoore

Age:
37

Sex:
Male

Your S.P.E.C.I.A.L. / Skills:
Strength - 4
Perception = 5
Endurance - 8
Charisma - 5
Intelligence - 8
Agility - 6
Luck - 4

Skills:
Guns
Science
Unarmed

Appearance:
Alexander is a man of middling height, around 5'10" at the most generous estimates, with a build that's hard to pinpoint from under his clothing and gear. Alexander has jet black hair, mostly well kept and swept back, running down to the back of his neck while a thick, heavy beard also runs down a fair ways, giving him an almost wildman look if it wasn't for his attire. A long jacket with a peculiar winterized design often makes him stand out like a sore thumb, though he will never ditch the item, not even to save his life, while he wears apparently salvaged body armor underneath, the hard plates a hold over from pre-war designs. Sturdy blue jeans and well insulated boots round out the clothing, and one might be forgiven for thinking he had just marched out of some frozen north at a glance, though there is no evidence of any sort of identifying insignia .

Image

Armor and Equipment:
Keepsake Body Armor: Passed down father to son for as long as his family can remember, Alexander still keeps wearing and maintaining his family armor whenever the opportunity arises. While similar in style to the NCR Ranger armor, it lacks nearly as much protection, covering mainly the core of the body and seeming to lack a number of pieces that the more well recognized design has. Still, there is a decent amount of agility to work with, owing to the lack of plates interfering with movement or unplanned scavenged additions weighing him down either.

Bugout Bag - On his person at all times, Alexander has learned the hard way that sometimes you need to leave now, and as such keeps his most important worldly belongings on him at all times in this white bag. Has a variety of vital supplies, including stimpacks, food, clean water, radaway, the ammo for his guns, and a sleeping bag. While he may have other items on him at any given time or place, if things are in a scramble, he'll at least be able to get to relative safety before having to start worrying about problematic things like 'eating' and 'someplace warm to sleep'.

Weapons:
Lever Action Shotgun
10mm Pistol
Brass Knuckles

Personality:
Alexander is, on a day to day basis, generally a pleasant enough person to deal with. Usually maintaining a, if not optimistic, at least upbeat outlook in the face of most trouble, ready to crack a joke in the face of trouble when others might not exactly appreciate the attempts at humor. While not actively discussing or talking about things, the man can become lost in thought, entertaining trains of thoughts, whether they be of recent events, or reminiscing on the past and grappling with all the ugliness he's seen in his wandering vagabond lifestyle. He'll wax philosophical when given the chance, willing to debate and discuss beliefs and points of view, never seeming to take one side or the other, almost always acting as the 'Devil's Advocate' or otherwise at least challenging the beliefs of others. He is notably tight lipped when it comes to his own, though whether its because he doesn't want to share, doesn't know what he believes, or otherwise remains to be seen.

History / How they came to be part of Whitlash:
Alexander is the son of a Brotherhood of Steel Paladin, from a surviving enclave that set up in the North, past where boundaries of countries once divided the land. The nuclear winter hit hard there, requiring hardy flesh and hardier souls to survive, creating a rather pragmatic, if forgotten, offshoot of the Brotherhood that scoured the wastes for forgotten bases and convoys, making ends meet through such methods. Such an upbringing was not easy, nor was it kind, but the warmth of camaraderie kept them going when all else was stacked against them. So it was that the boy would be raised into a young man, although despite the promise of a path of prestige following in his father's footsteps, he couldn't help but want to range out on his own, cramping under the regimented confines of the Brotherhood bunker complex. This was a foreseen issue, and he was granted equipment, including his father's old armor, and the blessing to return once wanderlust had been satiated, or to return with finds that would help the Bunker and its denizens continue to survive.

So the young man, barely 18, went first South, and then East. He'd been told of Brotherhood bands to both the East and West, and his fateful decision would get him embroiled in a conflict between the Enclave and his Brotherhood comrades. To say the skirmishes and battles were unpleasant was an understatement, and the increasingly weathered man found himself growing more and more weary of the battles, making friends with others in his squad only to see them cut down by energy weapons not scant days later, and while part of him hates the Enclave for existing and forcing the issue, another part of him wonders what good the Brotherhood goals were if it constantly led to conflicts with both people trying to survive and other factions who may or may not ever have been a problem to begin with. After spending quite a few years fighting the Enclave and other enemies of the Brotherhood, Alexander left and went West instead, chasing the horizon and stories of a shining Jewel in the desert, New Vegas.

New Vegas would bring him into contact with various groups, various ideologies and beliefs, something that Alexander grew fond of learning, discussing, and challenging when need be. What had started as curiosity in the outside world had been tempered, through fire and blood, into an outlook of eternally questioning and second guessing everything, for the sake of teasing out what was worthwhile, and what should be cast aside. He never stuck around for long, either run out by people who got tired of his debates, or because it had grown stale and boring, and Alexander found himself heading back north to report his findings, and what had happened in the East, to his comrades. All he found was a frozen, empty bunker, long abandoned. No notes, no indication what happened, but no signs of conflict or violence either. A complete mystery, something that continues to haunt him as he wonder what happened. But no one survives alone in the North, not for long at least, so he went back south to warmer climates.

His arrival in Whitlash was not particularly eventful, nor even stood out for that matter beyond the peculiar design of this stranger's attire, but Alexander found the mix of people quite fascinating. By far one of the more recent newcomers, barely approaching his first year in the community, he earned his keep through oddjobs and helping keep the place secure, though his knack for technology and scientific endeavors came in handy whenever someone brought back some prewar tech, a mix of his old Brotherhood training and long years making ends meet on his own coming to the forefront. Still, he never discussed his past, and he gained a reputation for debate and discussion, matching a stubborn intelligence against any point or stance if given the opportunity or asked. He had not intended to stay very long, but something had kept him rooted here, be it the curious gathering of people or the strangely varied outlooks, something compelled him to stay here just awhile longer. So he stayed, pursuing this strange feeling and his own strange beliefs while earning his keep as needed.

Extras:
Alexander speaks with a bit of an accent, not unintelligible but, despite all the years away from home, uniquely stand out compared to what most folks will hear. Doing oddjobs and never settling into a singular role in the community has never exactly endeared him with the common folk, as most folks expecting him to just up and vanish one day, as abruptly as he arrived.

Warhammer 50k: The Second Age of Strife

Gerard had settled on a modest course, modest by the standards of those present at least, of meals as the others began filing in. The Harakoni Primaris, with his handler in tow as well. Bodyguard was...a nice term for it, as he understood the man was there to ensure the Psyker would not lose all control and become a threat to his allies. A grim necessity, but one of many that their lives required. Still, the man, despite his recaf addiction, had not proven to be an unpleasant fellow, though frankly he'd had very little dealings with the psyker. Still, the display on the strawberry was noteworthy, ballooning...no that wasn't the right word for it, it didn't look unnatural despite the obvious change in size, it was improved upon rather than forcibly altered. Quite the precise work, something that would be appreciated in the coming hard times no doubt. The voidmaster offered a polite nod to the psyker and his handler when they settled in, though not interrupting whatever meditations the man had begun to undertake.

“Well that’s gotta be th’biggest strawber’I’ve ever seen!”

The Kin certainly seemed to agree with Gerard's unspoken considerations, and was a man that the voidmaster, frankly, he did not have a good read on at all. Pleasant enough as well, brewed his own drink as far as he understood it, and he'd caught glimpses of the Kin in the observation deck, watching the passing Webway with various tools that were quite beyond Gerard. The gear heads were probably intensely interested in the Kin's kit, but they probably didn't have the resources to barter with to get the clothes off the fellow's back, so that really was that. Still, the technological prowess and sheer fighting capabilities would be most welcome indeed when trouble finally came knocking. A question being directed at him got his thoughts back on track, whether he'd seen the webway before, and he shook his head briefly.

"This is the first time, my last vessel never had the luxury. I did take a look on the observation deck, quite the display, much calmer than normal methods." Gerard wondered to himself whether the webway might have saved his last vessel, not having to make perilous jumps through the warp and very possibly being tracked by the chaos pirates, would have saved most of the souls on board that vessel. Something to ruminate over when he had a stiff drink, this was to be a grand feast ahead of a daunting, many called impossible, task. Impossible didn't mean much to Gerard anymore, the state of affairs the galaxy found itself in was impossible, and they lived it every day. The Captain offered a toast, the voidmaster joining the display alongside the others who were present, and the feast began in earnest.

Which, of course, would not last as the moment Gerard heard the weapons impacts on void shields, he was already on his feet and halfway out the door. He had to grab his shotgun, determine where the most severe breach was, and from there respond accordingly. The ship was already coming to general quarters, disciplined chatter across the vox as lockers armed and prepared to repel boarders, and the voidmaster moved at a full sprint, crew making way without a word as he stopped at his office, grabbing the shotgun and as much ammo as he could stuff into his fatigues, and was on his way back to the officer's suite to report to the Captain when the all too familiar tremors, tearing, and noise of assault boats breaching the hull rang out. He had just reached the doorway of the suite to make initial reports when the sounds of pitched battle echoed down from the observation deck.

"Voidsmen are responding to all boarding actions, most pitched appears to be the Observation deck. Heading there now, Sir." With that, Stukov took off yet again, armed and ready to respond, and as he turned the final steps towards the intense sounds of battle, it was a grim scene. Many Voidsmen were pressed by the tide, no heavy weapons had made it up here yet, and the outnumbered crew would not hold long on their own. The shouting, las fire, and other weapons on hand were joined by the slam firing barks of the artificer shotgun, announcing to all hands the arrival of their Voidmaster, his voice roaring above the din as he advanced and took command of the situation.

"FORM. RANKS! ASSUME TOTAL KILL PATTERNS, THERE IS NO DRIVING THEM BACK TO THEIR VESSELS! SECONDARY LOCKERS, GET DECK SWEEPERS TO THE OBSERVATION DECK NOW!" Gerard moved himself to the thick of the fighting, every time his shotgun ringing empty he would rack the slide only half way, ejecting the empty shell and reloading through the same port, before racking and loading normally when possible. Anyone who engaged him in melee would find bayonet and reinforced stock waiting, and his plan was to create as much space as possible for the beset voidsmen to form ranks. One would normally hope the rest of the combat capable in the officer's suite would join him, but frankly, Gerard had settled into combat mode, it was another pitched boarding action, and he would sooner die than have another vessel get overrun.