Sarpedon — Roleplayer Guild

The furthest back Vorgen can remember, his family had always been members of some strange church. It had an overly long and elaborate name, as many of them are wont to, but it in the end, it was basically equating the Emperor with the light of whatever strange star happened to shine on the hive world he'd grown up on. The only problem was, this church was practically in the underhive. This was the last level considered to be civilized by the arbites, at least in this hive, and as such, it really wasn't all that civil. But some pillars of the slightly shady community had banded together and put up a church, and put together something of a neighbourhood watch. Thale's father had been heavily involved in both projects, and often dragged his son around with him. Not wanting to be left behind, Vorgen's mother would usually be found trailing behind them, slightly exasperated, and wondering what chicanery was about to pop up next.

It went without saying that they attended every single service at the church. The Emperor's Light was far too important to skip, though Thale could have done without all the tip-toeing and arm raising. It seemed normal enough, as far as churches go, and things only got weird when the original pastor died, and a new one shoved his way into place. Always a rather brash fellow, the new pastor was very vocal, and it got to the point where he very nearly lost the entire flock when he declared himself the new man in charge. It was only with some very strange innovation that he kept everyone from abandoning what had once been a fairly important part of their daily lives. 

The first thing he did was insist that all the children stay at the back, and after some serious pew re-arranging, he even organized a sort of play area, despite the fact that none of the children seemed terribly interested in playing. Frustrated by the apathy in the offspring of his flock, he handed out crayons and colouring books, and refused to let anyone not old enough to work further than a quarter of the way toward the front of the church. Vorgen was plenty old enough to work at this point, but his parents didn't seem to care, so he took advantage of his devilish cuteness and stayed back with the other children. The only problem he had there, was the only crayons they ever got were shades of red. It was a disappointing realization, but it did keep anyone from fighting over colours. To pass the time, he did his best to turn ordinary scenes into interesting ones with only shades of red. Every single image just turned into a hellscape, however. That didn't even slow down the pastor's enthusiasm though. He proclaimed every one of them to be brilliant, and hung them up on the altar. To say it was very strange would be to put it lightly. Vorgen was bewildered by the fact that anyone could think his "art" to be anything better than "decent". Especially since they were literally pages he'd ripped from a colouring book.

It might have made sense to Vorgen after "The Event". But he didn't care to think on it, and now it only bothered him in dreams. The new pastor's sermons were often riotous and it was rare than anyone left not bleeding. It wasn't clear what went on there, as no one would say, but it had to be something violent. Eventually, all that violence culminated in something horrifying. In his dreams it was always a Bloodthirster. The daemon would hack its way out through the pastor's abdomen, as if it were possible for something so massive to hide there in the first place, and then it would lay waste to the churchgoers, before chasing down Vorgen himself. In reality, it was a Bloodletter, but it resulted in roughly the same chain of events. Everyone except for Thale was slaughtered, their skulls added to Khorne's throne. Not that he understood what any of it meant at the time. 

The only reason Vorgen survived at all was his quick wit, and natural agility. When fear gripped him, the boy turned into a ruthless machine. He callously tripped the youngest child there into the path of the bigger boys, creating an irresistible diversion for the daemon as he sprinted away. By the time he decided he was safe, the daemon had forgotten about him and spent about an hour rampaging about the underhive before a temporary alliance of gangers and arbites poured sufficient gunfire into the abomination to cause it to dissipate. 

At first, he returned home, and carried on as normal. He hadn't actually seen anyone get killed. He'd only heard screaming and caught a glimpse of a brief fountain of blood. He held out hope. A week went by before that hope crumbled. Having decided his parents weren't coming home, he knew he had to do something. He'd seen this happen to others, and knew that the last thing he wanted was the arbites showing up and dragging him off to Emperor-knew-where, so Thale packed up what he could carry, and everything of value in the house. He tried to keep holding out hope that his parents were alive, but at this point, considering all the things he'd seen so far in his young life, the boy decided to pretend it wasn't going to happen. He cashed in everything of value he didn't mind parting with at a local pawnshop, but didn't get further than that before someone from an orphanage across the level offered him a ride. It wasn't the best idea, but orphanages weren't bad, and he was tired. By the time he arrived at an unknown destination, he had no idea what consciousness was any more.

Years passed. He's still not sure how many. But when he woke up, things felt very strange. A bout of crippling illness had laid low many of the orphanage staff, and afflicted more than a few of its guests as well. Vorgen was one of them, and crazily enough, he was one of the lucky ones. His caretakers had also fallen ill, and after one of them was found dead, and another stopped showing up, his wing of the orphanage was left understaffed long enough for him to suffer through the incredibly brutal withdrawal symptoms of a whole cocktail of experimental drugs. It was probably the strangest and most painful time in his life, trying to scrape his way through weeks of torment and hallucinations as his own body seemed to rearrange itself. Finally, though, the haze cleared long enough for him to get his head, and his shit, together. Then, while trying to make a decision about what he should do, he caught a glimpse of the horrific, haunting look hidden in the eyes of one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen, and he fled. She chased him, surprisingly quickly too, but thanks to all the drugs he'd been pumped full of, Vorgen had no trouble in his flight, and when his pursuer finally did catch up with him, he beat her to death with a length of rusty pipe before she could turn her wicked injector gun on him. This did mean, unfortunately, that he'd left all of his things behind. On top of that, he was lost. On the other hand, the the thing his would-be assailant had been toting looked terrifying, and he took it with him, assuming whatever it was loaded with had to be worth something. His next step was to stow away on a freighter bound for elsewhere. He couldn't think of anything left for him on the planet, except maybe the stuff he'd left at the "orphanage" and there was no way he was going back there. On top of that, he couldn't risk getting caught up in some other psychotic organization. With a year, the planet was cleansed of all life after a Slaaneshi cult started a war with the local Khornate clergy. These events triggered an investigation, which then uncovered a Tzeentch-Nurgle war that had been going on for at least a decade. Upon realizing the extent of the heresy present on the planet, the Grey Knights were called in to exterminate anything and everything ever associated with the doomed planet. Vorgen wasn't away of any of that, however. He was too busy dealing with his own problems. 

Vorgen has only begun to realize exactly what had happened to him. After a second bout of what he assumed were withdrawal symptoms, he became the proud owner of the most attractive female figure he'd ever seen. And since he still had his original equipment, he found it didn't bother him all that much. Especially once his insane rack started netting him free stuff seemingly at random. All it took was the right tank-top or a plunging v-neck and suddenly there were people all over the place looking to help him with almost anything. Having decided that being a blonde bombshell was great fun, Thale didn't bother looking for a way to return to normal, which was where his problems really started. Not that he ever noticed.

The next few years were spent drifting, rather successfully, from place to place, while steadily stranger things began to follow in his wake. At first he just thought he was getting better at convincing people, but he knew something was wrong the first time he heard strange whispers while trying to talk down a trio of would-be rapists. They seemed more convinced than they should have been, this time, and while he wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth, he did go out and buy a gun. Just in case. It wasn't long before he came to the decision that there was something seriously fucked up going on in his head, though. The sort of thing you couldn't solve with a gun unless you wanted to stop being alive. The first time he made someone bleed from their eyes and ears unintentionally, Vorgen freaked out. But he knew what he had to do. He called on the blessings of the Emperor's Light. This only confused his Slaaneshi patron, and simltaneously stirred up the local berzerker warband. He didn't even make it as far as the next step, either, as the first sight of the arbites' precinct had him terrified and running for the shadows with visions of blackships haunting his mind. The terror only seemed to make things worse, and soon he found his own emotions fading into the background as he began seeking out the emotions of others.

A half-cocked psyker roaming around chewing on people's auras got a few people riled up enough to point the outsider in the right direction, thankfully. Especially after he started lurking around where the screaming was coming from, until he spotted someone who looked like they could be trusted. Unfortunately, he was right. A fellow, albeit senior, Slaaneshi pskyer took the awakening Disciple of Chaos under his wing, and the two of them spent a significant amount of time researching the darker arts together. It was here, during his time learning with the unpleasantly haphazard Slaaneshi cult, that he earned the nickname "Rack". It stuck, and he never had the heart to argue. He didn't think it mattered, since as soon as Vorgen felt like he had a handle on his psychic powers, he emptied a suppressed autopistol to the back of the psyker who'd been grooming him, and hitched a ride on the next shuttle off-world. Some help from a few of the dumber cultists had taught him some important skills, like how to actually aim and shoot a solid projectile weapon, which parts of a person are squishiest, and which are best for stabbing, and how to patch up the kinds of wounds you're likely to encounter as a psycho running around stirring the pot. He also got a lesson on which parts of an alien are most likely to be edible, but didn't trust that one so much. It was good to know that he no longer had to rely solely on his mental clout, though, and the feel of familiar iron hanging under his left arm was always a comforting one.

Now Vorgen is back to square one, more or less. Another new world, another fresh start in his old familiar getup. Cargo pants, combat boots, a figure-hugging tank-top or excessively-low-cut v-neck, and a well-loved leather jacket that obviously wasn't sure if it was supposed to be dark brown, or black. Regardless, he never zipped it up more than half way for multiple reasons. Today his pants were dark green, and his tank-top was a cheerful pale pink. Shortly before the shuttle ride down to the planet, he'd gotten a fresh crew cut to keep his hair out of the way, but he'd had the sense to leave plenty on top for styling in case of an emergency. Not that anyone cared what his hair looked like. Rocking a body like his, people only seemed to care about his tits, and Vorgen was more than happy to take advantage of that. Today's plan was to see if there were any pirate crews who wanted a pskyer around, and in a worst case scenario, he supposed he would always convince them. The idea of starting his own pirate crew, with blackjack and hookers, had occurred to him on more than one occassion, but the psyker didn't want that kind of responsibility. It was tiring enough running around waving his mental influence at people all day, having to do that to the same people all the time would get old quick, he was sure. Besides, if he forgot about the pirates and the blackjack, he'd have a much better time. That wasn't really an option, though, not if he wanted to accomplish any of his goals. He needed to focus. And he needed to find someone to springboard him on to greatness...
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