Jamesyco

Into Perdition's Jaws

Paris Beurra

In a confusion of an explosion and being pushed back on his knee and shin, metal scrap shifted back a few feet until he was in a truck. "Fucking, asshole," he said after the explosion, the front of his shield now white and rapidly cooling as the mechanical beast strode towards him in drunken vigor. He grabbed the arm and proceeded to beat the dying beast with its own arm; when he noticed the ammunition about to cook-off, he just slapped the molten part of its arm against what he believed was its head and dropped it before hiding up underneath his shield for the cook-off.

"Ya missed ya fucking jackass," he muttered as he stood up and shoved his shield on the metal beast's top a few times.

He turned and started at a pace. He looked down the road at those impatient soldiers waiting for him and the other member of the team, and he started his sprint the last length taking his knee to slide and pop back up near the back of the ramp. He lifted himself to his feet and his shield up as he walked forward into the APC. He stood at the door looking in before grabbing the roof of the hull and walking inside. He moved close to the far end and he got on his knee putting his shield down on his side.

"If you have sunblock, use it... and give me what's left," he said as he lifted his mask up to let air vent into the suit. He was radiating heat as he turned his head as far as he could which was not far, "being this hot makes me feel like I am in my twenties."

He let his shield go and turned around before looking up, "or if you have an extra comms unit I can ride on top."

Warhammer 40k: Beyond the Pale - A Rogue Trader Adventure

Isaiah

As soon as he saw the nod he turned on his heel and started his walk. Striding quickly as he felt the deck below him along the ridges of his boots. He had pretty much everything he needed at the time, shotgun was just for formalities. He walked through the bulkhead and turned once again as he started through the maze of the ship, getting close to the sides of the hall to let the ratings pass.

Over his vox he listened to the captain, "I will be there shortly." he said as his strides grew longer, he paced himself some, mainly so he didn't burn his old body out before the fight even begun. But he began thinking some, he is the biggest target that screams 'For the Imperium' in the ship, and if he is going over to a ship full of things that hate even seeing something Imperial, he was going to have a fun fight. Maybe he could use that to his advantage.

He reached his room and opened the door. It looked almost standard for an officer's quarters if not for the boxes. Over his bed was a shotgun mounted to the wall, he walked to it and lifted it up. Taking the sling and pulling it from the barrel. The sling was moved up his arm and around his shoulder, letting the barrel sling below his right arm. He leaned down and got another sling, and a large canister of shells putting it around his neck and left arm, sliding it under the other sling so if he needed to take the shotgun off he could easier. The box of shells wouldn't interfere with movements as much as the shotgun would where it was currently hanging.

He turned back out of the hallway and headed to where he was being sent to, bending his elbow up as he took several shells from the canister, closing it behind them, and then putting one in the barrel, and the rest in the internal. Eventually, he arrived at the point and was greeted, "Oh it's nice to see you again knife ear." he stated, rolling his eyes, "But if these things are any more deadly in person then their ship is, should we not refine a plan for ourselves and ratings once we board? I have a few idea's but I don't they are beneficial to the centuries that knife ears spent learning to be sarcastic." He asked to the rest of the room.

Into Perdition's Jaws

Paris Beurra

Huh, it kind of worked, he thought as he smiled to himself. Was on the ground now, and this thing stood up.

The large man looked up and was reminded of the blast from last time; this wasn't going to be as bad as the last, which was concentrated on him, but it would do something if he weren't careful. He watched as the mech ran past him, and he decided that he wasn't done with it. It was running away; the only thing going through his head is, 'I am not done yet.' He started after it again, his shield on his side as he was going only for speed and momentum.

He turned his head to make sure that he had some form of vision on the roaring plasma that was going to hit near him any second now; this was his new plan, well, an old one, but a good one. Use something as cover, he knew this wasn't going to be a concentrated attack like last time, but it would still hurt if he didn't have some extra armor.

Taking advantage of the various weapons hitting it, "You forgot about something, jackass!" he said as he slammed into it from behind with his right shoulder in the desire to piss it off some, and also so he can have a chance to get in front of it. He then put his right knee on the ground and his heel in front of him as he turned to his left, pulling the shield up behind him for the blast as he slid along the ground with it.

He hoped that one he could trip the stupid pain in his ass once and for all, and two that he could use it from some extra material between him and the center of the blast. Three that if it didn't work, that he could use the shield to push him closer to his goal of getting the hell out of dodge.

Warhammer 40k: Beyond the Pale - A Rogue Trader Adventure

"It's cause it ain't Imperial, Master Trader, the only time I had face a vessel similar to that is when I was twenty-five years old... To my remembrance, it is far more advanced then what we have, they hate anything with imperial iconography, and they like sifting through trash." Isaiah closed his eyes for a moment, "the only thing I believe can turn the situation in our favor is if we appease them, go faster than them, or if you have some weapon hidden up your leave."

Thinking a bit more, "There are two other possibilities, dumping any trash compartment we have left with munitions and hoping they go for it."

His eyes narrowed towards the statuette in his hands, "but the question is, do they want us dead, or do they want that thing you have in your hand. Some stupid little trinket might have some importance to them, so I believe we suit ourselves out like the knife-eared darling and prepare ourselves for a melee, and if we are daring enough today, we try a boarding action of our own to damage it."

"Now, Master Trader, may I retire to my chamber, I may require my shotgun for the coming fight." he asked still looking at the idol for a moment before shifting his vision up to the traders head waiting for permission.

Into Perdition's Jaws

Paris Beurra

Pushing over trees in his path with his shield or head, clearing a nice splintered pathway of destruction for any who decide to follow, the armored man known as Sergeant Beurra, or Paris ran like a fat man to a buffet. His back began to look like a porcupine with metal projectiles sticking to the red hot metal of his armor. Inside, he began to look like a lobster of sorts. If it wasn't for ventilation, air conditioning, and him running, he would have likely been a roasted man. Burns had begun to form around large contact points, such as the hip, knees, elbows, neck, and hands.

He heard mainly static, but thankfully luck was on his side today as he was heading in the correct direction in his blind sprint. He hit the road and skidded into some probably dead guy's van leaving a large dent where his shoulder and head made an impact. Yelling and shouting ensued, and after realizing that he was against a vehicle he pulled his shoulder from its resting spot and started to move down the road again.

He looked to his left to see the bio construct. He prayed this thing was just using targeting systems with dumbfire munitions, they could at least be dodged. The hamster wheel began turning in his mind. If something was apart of a military, or whoever the fuck these guys were with, that they will likely have the same train of thought as him. A metaphorical crayon lamp over his head had begun to shine brightly. If he pissed this thing off, maybe it would focus on him as he was the biggest and baddest idiot on the field. Get rid of him, and it can have a field day with the others, after all, he did survive one of its attacks. But, if it's using dumbfire and shoots everything at a stationary target, that should give him a half minute to run the fuck away.

His leg dropped onto his knee as he slid a few feet and his shield on its side was mounted by his rifle. He aimed, "Oi fucknugget," screamed the angry armored man. "I bet you can't hit me!" he yelled out a shot rang out towards the bioconstruct, aimed at the main body. He shot a second time standing up, hitting his shield against the barrel of his rifle to make noise as he started to walk at a brisk pace towards it.

He noticed someone else was shooting at it from the side, but that did not matter to him. He lifted his shield up in front of him, and put it on the rollers for parts of his running duration. He was not at a good run, and still picking up speed as he went into a sprint, the red hot armor creaking and making enough noise to sound like a pile up on a highway. He took one last peek over his shield, putting his rifle on his back magnetically, and putting both hands on the shield, one on the main magnetic handle, and the left on the grip of his shotgun. He knew his target, and the metal man decided it was best to jump now for maximum potential also so if this didn't go the way he wanted he could pull the shield over him in case of retaliation.

For a moment, he soared before hopefully smashing into this thing's legs to knock it out from under itself, if not just tackle it to the ground. Because when in doubt, don't fuck around and find out with a shipload of pissed off and armed passengers.

The Emperor's Duty: A Warhammer 40K RP

Lt. Adrian Erest and the 123rd Exiol Light Infantry 22nd company - 3rd platoon

---

Between the

The roadblock was set up, two trojan carriers lined up on either side of the road, a mortar in the pit of one, and the trailer with the autocannon on it. They were mainly there to resupply any unit in the nearby operations area that was running low on ammunition, as well as to be a light fire support team if needed. Over the vox, there was plenty of comms communication coming from the units behind them closer to the manor. Adrian listened to the battle that raged further up the hive towards the governor's manor that the Arbites were at.

But there was a small crowd of about fifteen people on the trailer trojan looking at the radio, and the mortar team was in the trojan also listening to their vox.

"I bet the General is glad the newest regiment of soldiers is currently playing whack a palace today," Corporal Baum said staring at the radio. "Nat, you've been in the guard for a while, what do you think it is?"

The Seargent turned his head up at the man, and shrugged, "I've fought in the war, not in political stuff... We weren't in the briefing like the other regiment was... If anything it's some guy who wanted to try ruling his planet without the Emperor's light. I've fought in two wars against traitors. I guess this time, someone wanted to stop a war before it happened. But, if the traitors knew we were coming, fourth and fifth will likely have to be called, and we will likely take place for the second and first down the road."

Nat's hand raised down the road they were facing, "If need be we can always fall back to the operation area and have hottie over there can clear the way for the arbites to finish with whatever is left of those other guardsmen."

"Okay Seargent depressing, say that first company gets sent in and demolished and we get sent up there, what are we going to do. We are half strength at best, our only redeeming quality is the heavy weapons and fast armored logistics vehicles we have. Oh, also the fact that if we die, who is cooking dinner for all the other platoons?" Tilly spoke out.

"The fact that we have armored vehicles, the trojan is meant for logistics in inhospitable and hostile environments. Once we get there, we can set up triage for our wounded, as well as set up supporting fire. Once the fourth and fifth get closer, our flanks should be clear. The second has the only way up here right now. We are just here in case if someone starts getting their asses kicked harder than they can handle." Adrian said at the back of the pack. "Now, get back to watching the road... and be prepared to move out in a minute."

Adrian climbed aboard the trojan and entered through the cargo hatch on the roof of the hull, and moved behind the driver, Private Less. The lieutenant was smushed between a large number of standard laspacks, as well as a portable cooker. On the other side were several cots, a few tents, and some medical supplies. Just standard stuff for the logistics people to have. He listened to the vox broadcasts and closed his eyes listening to the voices.

He decided that it was time to start packing up, he felt like they were fixing to have to move soon enough, "Mount up!" he yelled out as he moved his head out of the cargo hatch. "We are going to be moving out shortly, tie down the autocannon, and hold on!"

"Mount Up!" was an immediate response from everyone in the small area.

As soon as he said to mount up, everyone was moving, the mortar team was pretty much in place, Corporal Cel just closed the driver's hatch. Gunner Laws and Corpswoman Dennve had also hopped inside the mortar pit of that vehicle, to split the group up somewhat more evenly. Meanwhile, Less had closed his hatch too, turning the engine over as black smoke poured from the exhaust for a moment before the sputtering engine decided it wanted to even itself out. There were ropes on the trailer keeping the wheels firmly planted on the trailer, but its crew was crouched next to it, waiting to grab hold when they moved out.

The rest of the squad had piled in with the Lieutenant, Corpsman Long was beside him and Lord across from him leaning on the cooker. The other guardsmen probably could handle it if everything went all right, but he had felt something to be off. Hopefully, no plea for reinforcements would come, but he was ready to set out from the small road that he was asked to sit in. They were logistics, they had tents and shit, not bodies for something like that. They could set up a triage center and bomb the living hell out of something from a short distance, but storming something was likely to be on the list this group of individuals was keen on doing. Maybe they could do something like make that triage center, or make sure that the inside of the palace was reduced to large chunks of rubble.

Warhammer 40k: Beyond the Pale - A Rogue Trader Adventure

Isaiah Hussian the III

Name : Isaiah Hussian the III

Age : 25 Terran Years in looks - 58 in years.

Gender : Male

Race : Human

Appearance :
Short length brown hair,(does have wigs for pony tail or curls for formal occasions), blue eyes and lighter caucasian skin, does use powder to make his skin seem more like porcelain. No mechanical implants.
Rather skinny, and shorter (110-130 lbs) (5'2 ft) His shape is about average, or leaner compared to most. No scarring through most of his body, he would seem to be a track runner without thighs.

Typically found wearing white pants, and Imperial Naval Jacket (blue torso with white arms) with midshipman insignia and a small pin on his collar signifying his house. (Grey and black pendant in a checkered pattern) Most of the time wearing white gloves. While on his belt is an issued laspistol, chainsword, glow-globe and data-slate. Can usually also be found with a Data-slate. Will also wear a cloak if he is on a long watch.

A young man, with an aged left eye, nearly white porcelain skin, and long white hair, that is either seen in a pompous wing and ponytail or just as a long single ponytail. His left eye is missing, but it does have a replacement false eye that is similar to his old one for show, but also a large cybernetic piece that he can wear. He does have a large vein-like bulge that goes down the side of his neck under his skin, it is somewhat flush, and looks like a buff guy broke a nerve.

He is taller than what he once was, at now six three. His knees having been replaced some short time ago, as well as his left shoulder blade. The synthetic skin hiding most if not all of the metallic bits. His form is still thin, but this hides the somewhat metallic strength of his somewhat rebuilt again body. His right arm though is buff compared to his other appendages.

He wears either one of two suits, one which is completely white similar to that worn in a ball room. The other is a dark blue, that of the navy with the ranking of captain plastered on it along with various badges and metals that he may or may not have deserved. With his white suit, he does have a laspistol of some kind inside the chest. But his naval uniform, he wears it all, his sword on his side and laspistol on the other. His belt lined with his data-slate, his power packs, and his light.

Personality : Young and extremely timid, Isaiah has yet to experience the world. Those above him he treats with utmost respect, and those below him and beside him he has no idea what to do with. Can be considered a coward in some situations, but when supported he can be valuable. He is not really adventurous, but he is someone to be in awe at some new things he finds as 'beautiful' mainly galactic bodies (suns that aren't the color of his, brightly colored gas clouds, etc) He does try to do his job the best he can, and if he doesn't know how to do something in his line of work, then he figures it out. Can be reluctant to give information out if something is wrong, i.e. someone missing from the shift or cargo missing. (kid really needs a person commissar with a fake gun)

After almost forty years of being in service to several Rogue Traders, he has gain a lot of knowledge. He has seen many stars, fought demonic incursions, xenos, traitors, and many other things. He walked the void of space after venting out his cargo bay to rid it of a fungal infection. He has aged like spoiled milk, becoming a frequent alcoholic, and an overall grumpy and angry man. He is not at home with a family, sitting in some mansion. He is out in the wilds of space, being angry as all hell as looks over the stars.

He has lived his life of adventure, his life in the Navy roster of a Rogue Trader, he has become a captain of nothing but cargo bays and galleys on several ships of varying levels of Imperial heresy. But, in general, he is a reliable old man. If you can bear his yelling, and complaining, you can see that most of his words have some sense and truth to them. He is a bountiful source of information and wisdom to those who can translate insane and angry drunkard.

Relationship to the Dynasty : His family is of a bunch of nobles, but he really has no ties to the rogue trader or his family.

History : Isaiah grew up in a kind and gentle world in his estate, he traveled the planet some. And lived in almost complete luxury due to his status. In his early years he was taught that the human body was perfect the way it was, but to preserve the family at later ages once proven a decent heir or of some importance. They would be given allowances for minor life preservation treatments. Minor due to the world being somewhat out of the way of most imperial trade routes, so not that high on the economic level. But the planet was a Feudal world, living the ways of nobles, and his family being one lower on the totem pole in the planet.

In his education, he was found to be an extremely good pencil pusher, and therefor was to be inducted as one of the planets bureaucrats. But his father decided he should take a different route, and enlisted his son in the Grand Imperial Navy. It was due to other political reasons as well, such as they wanted honor and prestige from the son, as well as a chance to get him out there to other nobles who may have been enlisted into the Navy, or Astra Militarum.

Once given his rank of Midshipman due to his noble status, he was quickly to be found as an Officer of the Watch while most ranking officers were off duty, and quartermaster, due to his good skills with pushing paper. Due to this, and his abilities with other people, he was found to be somewhat of an underdog. His previous Captain, deciding that it would be better for him to put his skills in paper pushing, moved his station to an actual station rather then a ship. There for he, and the pencil pushers of various creed within the Imperium at the station were to inspect ships, their contents, the crew, and the ship itself while in port and dry dock. To rot away as pencil pusher, lest a crew of adventures were to save him, or he was to be kidnapped while inspecting a ship. Because who cares about some lowly midshipman?

He has been transferred around a bit by rogue traders for his ability to keep the cargo bay somewhat clean and orderly. And as a gift to a new fledgling rogue trader, his services were offered as long as the pay was similar and the title was somewhat better. He has been with rogue traders for a long period of time, mainly as a quartermaster and cargo bay controller. But he has slowly been working with command staff and even in small engagements in the bridge. Once he was even given command of the ship when a rogue trader decided he wanted a vacation. For that he was given a few days down on planet and regenerative treatment to make him look younger and to give him a new liver. In his travels he has also been trained in maybe service skills such as cooking, cleaning, being a servant, and some in the commander role of parts of the ship and as a pseudo-armsman.

He is still serving in the Imperial Navy, and they have deemed him to become a Captain now, does he get his own command, no because they have no idea where he is, but they do pay him as he does check in with the Administrautum at some stops.

Skills : Extremely good with numbers, organizing shifts, ordering and stocking goods, ammo, and other needed things.
Knows how to use basic Imperial Weapons, chainsword, and his power sword
Knows how to cook, and how to get higher quality goods for cooking.
Has officer clearance
Is extremely perceptive of things in stock, and can find contraband, as well as knows basic layout of most Imperial ships.
Servant skills
Luxury cooking
Being a fledgling commander

Equipment :
Laspistol
power sword
Basic Naval Officer Garbs
Naval Captain insignia
Data-slate
Glow-globe
recorder
a powerpacks for the laspistol

-in quarters
shotgun
standard naval cloak
Flak Weave
shells for the shotgun

Misc :

Into Perdition's Jaws

Paris Beurra

Incoherent yelling, as well as sounds of metal, mechanical parts of armor, and a loud whining sound, were coming from up under the flyer as it was summarily being lifted from the bottom by a slightly annoyed man with armor and a shield and bombarded from the top by an epileptic's nightmare of flashy mortars. That poor ship, being stuck between a rockheaded man and a large grouping of explosions.

Thankfully for Paris, the ship was lightening up significantly, but it was also heating up extremely fast. He slowly started to pivot the shield up while resting it on his legs to give his joints some help, as well as even out the bombardment on the shield once the ship eventually broke over his shield if it ever did. He closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to deal with the lights above him and looked down so that the more fragile bits over his eyes would be damaged by anything explosive.

Soon he hoped he could join the fight and not be under the light artillery fire. But his yelling persisted, mainly things insults at the artillery itself. The artillerymen and women were likely a distance off. He was lucky it wasn't anything larger than a mortar-like this. He began thinking about this and how he should have brought a bigger suit of armor. It would have hurt more when they hit the ground, but it would have definitely faired a lot better than what he was currently wearing. Nearing the bombardment's ending, he lifted the metal bit from his vision and lifted his head. Trying to see if he could find anything that resembled a friendly person, most of the traffic over the comms system he received was drown out by mortar fire.

Well, he was hoping that the others were faring better than he was. His armor could withstand something like this under the shield, and for a good amount of time since he was able to have everything locked in the joints. The only time it wasn't locked down was when he was shifting onto a single knee. He thought for a second about what he would do after the initial bombardment. To him, at that moment, he was safest in the middle of it. His shield could withstand the temperature and most of the blasts of this size. If he was on edge, he could be blasted off balance or get caught from a stray round. At least here, he and anyone who might still be with him would be hidden from any sensors, the explosions and superheated materials around him would hide him from most heat and communications sensors, so unless if someone could detect his life force or decided to look under a smoldering wreck, there was a low chance of anyone finding him.

But on the other hand, he could try and help the others out, rush out from under the wreck in a lull, and book it to more reliable cover. From there, either engage or create... he looked down at the small triangle at his feet. If they were from that one person, that could cause some trouble in the enemy ranks. He might have to do it blind to keep the visor of his helmet safe. But it would stop that enemy advance for a short time; maybe he could regroup and retreat with his allies.

The incoherent yelling and insults had stopped.

His hand went around the small little triangle device, waiting to activate it once the mortars stopped. His rifle was mounted on the shield, ready as well for once the device was thrown. He planned on tossing it towards those watching the artillery show then start backpedaling. Those who survived that well could probably follow once everything was dissipated. That is what he did; as soon as the last mortar fell, he pushed the shield out from under the flier and raised it vertically. His body and armor pressed against as he activated the small solar tablet and tossing it over the shield before he lifted it and started hightailing it in the direction of the person who gave him that tablet.

He looked over his shoulder and ran as fast as his armored ass could in the direction the tablet person went. He was not fast at all, and he did hear pinging on the metal suit he was wearing. His head-turning as he started to see the gas spreading out behind him, and he turned to his left a bit, so his shield blocked some of his body as he ran. He ran like his life depended on it, or like a man who had his steak and beer forcibly taken from him.

Warhammer 40k: Beyond the Pale - A Rogue Trader Adventure

@Jb Always down for WHrp my friend

Isaiah Hussian the III

Name : Isaiah Hussian the III

Age : 25 Terran Years in looks - 58 in years.

Gender : Male

Race : Human

Appearance :
Short length brown hair,(does have wigs for pony tail or curls for formal occasions), blue eyes and lighter caucasian skin, does use powder to make his skin seem more like porcelain. No mechanical implants.
Rather skinny, and shorter (110-130 lbs) (5'2 ft) His shape is about average, or leaner compared to most. No scarring through most of his body, he would seem to be a track runner without thighs.

Typically found wearing white pants, and Imperial Naval Jacket (blue torso with white arms) with midshipman insignia and a small pin on his collar signifying his house. (Grey and black pendant in a checkered pattern) Most of the time wearing white gloves. While on his belt is an issued laspistol, chainsword, glow-globe and data-slate. Can usually also be found with a Data-slate. Will also wear a cloak if he is on a long watch.

A young man, with an aged left eye, nearly white porcelain skin, and long white hair, that is either seen in a pompous wing and ponytail or just as a long single ponytail. His left eye is missing, but it does have a replacement false eye that is similar to his old one for show, but also a large cybernetic piece that he can wear. He does have a large vein-like bulge that goes down the side of his neck under his skin, it is somewhat flush, and looks like a buff guy broke a nerve.

He is taller than what he once was, at now six three. His knees having been replaced some short time ago, as well as his left shoulder blade. The synthetic skin hiding most if not all of the metallic bits. His form is still thin, but this hides the somewhat metallic strength of his somewhat rebuilt again body. His right arm though is buff compared to his other appendages.

He wears either one of two suits, one which is completely white similar to that worn in a ball room. The other is a dark blue, that of the navy with the ranking of captain plastered on it along with various badges and metals that he may or may not have deserved. With his white suit, he does have a laspistol of some kind inside the chest. But his naval uniform, he wears it all, his sword on his side and laspistol on the other. His belt lined with his data-slate, his power packs, and his light.

Personality : Young and extremely timid, Isaiah has yet to experience the world. Those above him he treats with utmost respect, and those below him and beside him he has no idea what to do with. Can be considered a coward in some situations, but when supported he can be valuable. He is not really adventurous, but he is someone to be in awe at some new things he finds as 'beautiful' mainly galactic bodies (suns that aren't the color of his, brightly colored gas clouds, etc) He does try to do his job the best he can, and if he doesn't know how to do something in his line of work, then he figures it out. Can be reluctant to give information out if something is wrong, i.e. someone missing from the shift or cargo missing. (kid really needs a person commissar with a fake gun)

After almost forty years of being in service to several Rogue Traders, he has gain a lot of knowledge. He has seen many stars, fought demonic incursions, xenos, traitors, and many other things. He walked the void of space after venting out his cargo bay to rid it of a fungal infection. He has aged like spoiled milk, becoming a frequent alcoholic, and an overall grumpy and angry man. He is not at home with a family, sitting in some mansion. He is out in the wilds of space, being angry as all hell as looks over the stars.

He has lived his life of adventure, his life in the Navy roster of a Rogue Trader, he has become a captain of nothing but cargo bays and galleys on several ships of varying levels of Imperial heresy. But, in general, he is a reliable old man. If you can bear his yelling, and complaining, you can see that most of his words have some sense and truth to them. He is a bountiful source of information and wisdom to those who can translate insane and angry drunkard.

Relationship to the Dynasty : His family is of a bunch of nobles, but he really has no ties to the rogue trader or his family.

History : Isaiah grew up in a kind and gentle world in his estate, he traveled the planet some. And lived in almost complete luxury due to his status. In his early years he was taught that the human body was perfect the way it was, but to preserve the family at later ages once proven a decent heir or of some importance. They would be given allowances for minor life preservation treatments. Minor due to the world being somewhat out of the way of most imperial trade routes, so not that high on the economic level. But the planet was a Feudal world, living the ways of nobles, and his family being one lower on the totem pole in the planet.

In his education, he was found to be an extremely good pencil pusher, and therefor was to be inducted as one of the planets bureaucrats. But his father decided he should take a different route, and enlisted his son in the Grand Imperial Navy. It was due to other political reasons as well, such as they wanted honor and prestige from the son, as well as a chance to get him out there to other nobles who may have been enlisted into the Navy, or Astra Militarum.

Once given his rank of Midshipman due to his noble status, he was quickly to be found as an Officer of the Watch while most ranking officers were off duty, and quartermaster, due to his good skills with pushing paper. Due to this, and his abilities with other people, he was found to be somewhat of an underdog. His previous Captain, deciding that it would be better for him to put his skills in paper pushing, moved his station to an actual station rather then a ship. There for he, and the pencil pushers of various creed within the Imperium at the station were to inspect ships, their contents, the crew, and the ship itself while in port and dry dock. To rot away as pencil pusher, lest a crew of adventures were to save him, or he was to be kidnapped while inspecting a ship. Because who cares about some lowly midshipman?

He has been transferred around a bit by rogue traders for his ability to keep the cargo bay somewhat clean and orderly. And as a gift to a new fledgling rogue trader, his services were offered as long as the pay was similar and the title was somewhat better. He has been with rogue traders for a long period of time, mainly as a quartermaster and cargo bay controller. But he has slowly been working with command staff and even in small engagements in the bridge. Once he was even given command of the ship when a rogue trader decided he wanted a vacation. For that he was given a few days down on planet and regenerative treatment to make him look younger and to give him a new liver. In his travels he has also been trained in maybe service skills such as cooking, cleaning, being a servant, and some in the commander role of parts of the ship and as a pseudo-armsman.

He is still serving in the Imperial Navy, and they have deemed him to become a Captain now, does he get his own command, no because they have no idea where he is, but they do pay him as he does check in with the Administrautum at some stops.

Skills : Extremely good with numbers, organizing shifts, ordering and stocking goods, ammo, and other needed things.
Knows how to use basic Imperial Weapons, chainsword, and his power sword
Knows how to cook, and how to get higher quality goods for cooking.
Has officer clearance
Is extremely perceptive of things in stock, and can find contraband, as well as knows basic layout of most Imperial ships.
Servant skills
Luxury cooking
Being a fledgling commander

Equipment :
Laspistol
power sword
Basic Naval Officer Garbs
Naval Captain insignia
Data-slate
Glow-globe
recorder
a powerpacks for the laspistol

-in quarters
shotgun
standard naval cloak
Flak Weave
shells for the shotgun

Misc :

Into Perdition's Jaws

Paris Beurra

Incoherent yelling and bitching came from the front part of the wreckage behind the pilot's cockpit; the hole created was partially blocked by a large metal object, a shield with an arm attached to it. In hand was a pistol, that some parts looked incredibly shiny and new, but others looked like they had just been burned, and possibly part of an explosion that had happened several feet from where it's the owner was sitting. With a good pull of the armored suit and some good old fashioned suit strength, the arm and shield were free and able to be used again.

Stepping from a small portion of the wreckage was a large armor suit with an angry, furious man inside it. Not just from the crash but because something had happened in the crash, and possibly before the crash. The blast had done something very annoying, aside from killing one of the only humans within a thirty-foot radius, break his new toy. He had just gotten that thing as an early welcoming gift from his new employers.

"What in the everlasting fucking bullshit is this!" replied the angry noncom as he found himself in the wreckage of a crashed transportation flyer. His new shiny pistol broken, it's gas tube has broken open, and its energy distributer shattered. "I just got this damn thing, and now's it's broken. In the name of the fucking heavens, whoever broke my new damn..."

He was cut off by an ear-piercing screech of static in his ear, as someone had broken through, and then a voice came over the net. It was more or less a warning with the ambiance of a solid warzone inside it.

"Hey, can ya hear me? Who the hell knew we were gonna be landing here? And wait, by here do ya mean where we crashed or where we were supposed to fuc-k..." the static had gone back to static as he was midway through trying to interrupt the man to get some answers. Instead, he was interrupted by the static and something far more immediate to the noncom and anyone else who had survived the landing.

Above him, he watched as the metaphorical rockets' red glared above him, mortars. Several thoughts were going into his head, one to duck into the foliage for cover, two to duck back into the shuttle for cover, or three to duck into the shuttle and put his shield up.
All are likely to be good answers; foliage would help with the incoming enemies that, to him, with the standard-setting of his helmet, looked like tiny shadows moving in the distance.

"If you can hear me, get into cover!" his voice would echo out, he didn't remember if he saw anyone or thing in the wreckage as he was coming out.

Without much thought, he would jump towards the wreckage and pull himself and his shield under it as an added protection. This was his choice; he would hope that there were others nearby still alive it as it would likely be the safest place to hunker down before the fighting started. Maybe once everything goes up in mortar fire.