SgtEasy

Star Wars: Shattered Galaxy Roleplay

How do I get the CS?

@Hyyde322

It's in the Characters tab mate, the zeroth post. Use the raw button at the top of the post to get the raw formatting in BBcode:)

Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG Season 3- Shattered Dimensions

@KaiserElectric

Love the xenos but damn, Alien’s name is gonna be confusing. Maybe I’ll stick with Al then.

Also, I really put white bandages on the first part of the description then ended it with black bandages. Damn, aight I’ll fix that up.

Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG Season 3- Shattered Dimensions

I apologise for the clunky combat scenes and hope the POV changes were ok! I will add this with my character sheet as well.

Saviors and False Prophets

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O P : S A V I O R

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0030 - 5 years before current events - The outskirts of Cairo, Egypt

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Cairo's metropolitan center shone like a glowing oasis in the desert night, bathing the city in light. The nightlife was alive, the native populace and tourists mingling together. Parties were on full blast, spirits were at an all time high. Festivities crawled its way around normally empty streets. Families turned in for the night, children content with tomorrow's celebrations in the city gardens. It was Eid al-Fitr and Muslims across the world came alive, happy with the end of the month-long dawn-dusk fasting of Ramadan. A holy day of celebration and prayer. A day which always attracted the wrong sort of attention every year. A dark, nondescript van sped away from the shining city, accelerating across the highway into the dunes. The walls hummed and vibrated with the loud music, bass cutting over heavy hearts pounding in eardrums.

Six dark figures huddled close together in the van, two more at the front. The crack of the radio cut over the music. "Xray-leader, this is Giza-actual. Be advised, hostile camp has been spotted 10 clicks away from your current position. You are the closest response team, we have sent the GPS navigation to you now. ETA six minutes to perimeter, over."

A low, harsh voice cut through the quieting music. "Giza-actual, this is Xray-leader, wilco. Radio silence begins now. Eid el mubarak, Xray-leader out." A sharp click echoed in the metal confines of the vehicle. A low sigh almost escaped muffled lips and Tariq looked back at their team. These were new inductees to the 21^st Motorised Special Security Regiment on their first operation. Every team in a new batch had a shakedown operation to "bloody" them, as it was. This one seemingly drew a lucky straw and got an easy one. A hostage situation with several young girls kidnapped by an armed group of escaped convicts intending to "use" them for their festivities. Dangerous to the normal person but these were merely untrained criminals with poor shotguns and pistols. Nothing to trained killers like these. In combination with local police and Egypt's own Unit 777, they received word of suspicious activity around an apartment building in the city behind them. The 21^st was attached as a support unit with the Egyptians leading front. All they found was a drugged-up convict armed with a grenade.

Shots were fired and viscera splattered on the wall. The man stood there grenade in hand with several bullet holes in his abdomen and a sizable chunk of his head missing. By the Egyptian captain's report, the man tried to prime his grenade afterwards but the fuse failed. The undead spun around in circles, laughing while grey matter and intestines spilled on to the floor. He shouted in reverence, raising one and a half arms in the air with blood pooling underneath him. He spoke of a sacrifice of virgin maidens to a "prophet-come-again." Blood rituals of some sort, worship of a false prophet which provided the men the "miracle of freedom" and "heaven on Earth." By the time Duos had entered the scene, the seemingly immortal man told them they were too late. A school on the outskirts of Cairo, he cackled, there they would find true immortality. Alien kicked the creature into the wall breaking its spine and legs. The human-turned-abomination folded in on itself, mumbling of salvation.

Upon their advice, the teams split and scrambled to all known abandoned hospitals near the outskirts of Cairo and in surrounding towns. They had found them. Alien flickered his eyes over the team. Whatever skin peaked through their Kevlar bandages seemed pale, one operative visibly shaking. These were not veterans yet, a voice reminded him. He spoke up. "Prepare for unknown metahuman named "False Prophet", threat level presumed high. At least two dozen armed men, unknown number of whom are abominations and twenty hostages. Shoot to kill. Trust your training and your warrior instincts. Most of all, trust your fellow soldier. For the Greater Good."

Silence was followed by slow nodding, colour returning slightly to their exposed skin. The shaking one steadied herself, steel hardening in her blue irises. Satisfied, Tariq prepared for the situation ahead. 'Still not one for speeches Al? I've gone through our head and your people have some fantastic war speeches here. You should use some of them.'

Alien grunted in response, turning a knob on the dashboard to let the music drown out his soldier's fear. He had always approved of the fast moving rhymes and heavy beats of this American "hip hop/rap" - crude and very human but the violence had meaning. The shared minds agreed that music got the blood pumping or calmed the nerves, important when a being was on the eve of battle. Alien's ingrained battle hymns sounded very similar to the sounds of "rap". Human only wondered whether Biggie would have appreciated that his music impressed an extraterrestrial of all things.

---

Alien's Heckler & Koch MG5 sent tracer rounds flying down the wide, pillared corridor in silent suppressing fire. They had spent the last twenty minutes going through several defensive chokepoints, manned by both normal humans and those hidden abominations. The latter would soon expose themselves by being all too confident in their newfound immortality, laughing at the hail of bullets while their comrades hid behind walls and overturned tables. Alien zoned in on one's head flying off the body, cackling all the way. Its body crumpled but the head continued its laughing over the sound of suppressed gunfire. He made sure to fire a three round burst to silence it. His soldiers crept forward under the suppressive fire, going cover to cover in crisp fashion with the female leading from the front. Once his ammunition drum went empty, the six of them lunged over the barrier or around the corners, knives or guns flashing with precision. Strangled cries and screams rang out.

"Clear." The red had covered all of them now. The abominations seemed to bleed much more than a normal human being. The female's voice sounded cold, blood staining the black over her balaclava and bandages obvious. Human only faked gagging at the smell but Alien was silently appraising at the sight as they approached. This team were being bloodied well and this female human had the guts to stamp her fear. A predatory smile made its way on to their face. 'Really, of all the times to finally find a human woman attractive, you choose an operation with a death cult of all things? And when she's covered in blood no less? Allah save him, he is blind.'

Alien continued leading from the front, saving the inner banter, using his superior bulk to cover his soldiers. They hurried along silently, guns sweeping corners and rooms. Indoor fighting was slow, methodical and nerve-wracking. A gunshot from the dark could spell their end, a tripped IED could take out a whole team. With Tariq, it was a matter of waiting for their commander to spot something with their heightened hearing or vision. Chattering teeth, soft footfalls away from the group, the tension of the string rigged to a grenade. All could be heard or felt before the trap or ambush was sprung. They heard soft whispers through what sounded like a door twelve meters away around the corner.

The xenos lifted his fist, halting before the corner's edge. Three fingers were raised followed by a fist shaking side to side. They scurried silently around the corner and to the door, three operatives placing themselves on one side and three on the other. Nodding to the female, Alien kicked the door, sending it flying off its hinges. He closed his eyes. He took a step forward. Blood and bone was crushed against the opposing wall in the room, a gun clattering to the floor. Screams, thirteen in that distinctly annoying young human female pitch. Shouts and clamoring footsteps. Another step. Guns are cocked, the floor vibrating with movement. Distinct chink sounds are heard, two cylindrical flashbangs tumbling inside the room. The subsequent ringing would be blocked by his coverings. Another step, one foot into the room. Twelve figures placed around the room, surrounding the source of the screams. He hefted his rifle with one hand and slipped his knife into the other. He opened his eyes.

The layout of the room was chaotic, upturned desks and tables strewn as makeshift barricades. The human females were pushed in the opposing corner of the room against another door, the human males all curiously shirtless and armed in a semicircle around them. A broken door lay opposite Alien, a bloody humanoid figure underneath. No sounds. Not immortal then. But adorned with strange red tattoos? He noted this all with professional disinterest.

Leaping towards and over the nearest barricade, the killer known as Duos yelled at his disoriented enemies. "For the Greater Good!" he cried, stomping on the head of a crouching criminal, breaking its skull into its spine with a satisfying pulp. He moved swiftly, pointing his MG5 one handed to his right and fired an expert three round burst into the head of nearest enemy there. He kept firing, dispatching the criminals to the right with continuous three round bursts. He extended his knife-arm behind him at the sound of shuffling feet, piercing through a soft neck and ending it with pitiful gurgles out its mouth. In his peripheral vision he watched his team follow into the room, shooting at the disoriented attackers behind him. He smiled at the efficiency, killing the last attacker on his side who was coming-to, flesh splattering on several cowering females.

Alien turned to his team, nodding at them in approval, five bodies with three holes in their heads each. Expert killer-heroes for the Greater Good. He beckoned the female soldier forward and pointed at the cowering young ones. She nodded and beckoned the young ones forward, placating them with soft whispers. They were swiftly shepherded out of the room with the female and an escort.

Duos stood in front of the door with eyes closed, the rest of his team to his left and leaning against the wall. Flashbangs at the ready, weapons reloaded. Time to fight their first metahuman. The door crashed like the previous. No sound. Tumbling cylinders against cement floors, a flash. No movement. They opened their eyes and saw their first demons.

Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG Season 3- Shattered Dimensions

Why does my muse have to hit in the worst times? Its almost 2am and I stayed up fixing this - a character I had saved for another RP that never got use. Hope you can forgive the odd character sheet, I can change it easily enough! I thought there were a lot of heroes already so why don't I just add a hero? into the mix. A batman-esque {except not really) underdog (only slightly) with more tactical brain and brutishness, wealthy as hell and more a soldier.

Duos

D U O S

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^{TARIQ IBN HAKEEM AL-BARIQI ◼ B R I C K ◼ M A L E ◼ H E R O ?}

^{"Your race are a collective of interesting creatures, Human."}

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//SPEECH:

Olivedrab

//DESCRIPTION:

Tariq is a "man" of two species, melded and intertwined to create one new specimen. They way they speak, their mannerisms and their way of thinking is both similar and different to what most humans are used to. They walk unnaturally half of the time, a sort of limp to their stride that ruins the confidence and bravado they give off. They present themselves with a tall, straight posture unlike most tall people. They do not bend down and to any passerby, they could be seen as arrogant from afar. However, the nervous drumming of their fingers is always present and they would be seen frequently trying to stop a shaking left knee. Glitches in the otherwise perfect bond they had formed together.

The Alien represents them in physical form, standing at a muscular 6"5 with a rough edge to his look. Humanoid in shape with five fingers, two arms and two feet, under layers of clothing there is no distinguishing him from any normal person walking around. Of course, underneath these layers is anything but human. He was previously of a sand people, a warrior culture and so he has the build that best represents this. Bulging muscles hide behind clothing and wrapping. The black bandages that cover him warms his skin while also making it smoother to the touch when someone touches him while he is clothed. This is because his outer layers of skin are like sandpaper to touch, harsh and coarse with small spikes protruding where humans have joints. He has softer tissue under this hard, carapace-like outer skin and every two years or so, he needs to shed this natural armour that the Human likens to an insect shedding old skin. This is to let the inner tissue beneath the natural armour breathe and during this time, he would look like a skinned human and would be as sensitive as one. This results in him needing time indoors, away from the elements for at least 48 hours in an unconscious state.

Alien's natural birthmarks are like art, telling the story of his long lost family. They are four, large sandy stripes that come in pairs on his two feet. They split and come apart as they run up his body, intertwining and connecting into dozens of different pathways. It forms a flower like pattern over his torso but they all connect once more in a simple pattern on his face. These birthmarks tell a story of his ancestry, woven through years and years in a modified gene-sac. They do not change between the shedding of his skins and they never disappear. Whether this was natural for his species or he was genetically modified to be like this, it is unknown.

A product of the melding, Alien has Human's light emerald eyes. They shine quite obviously in stark contrast to the dark skin. Alien's face is adorned with three piercings, two golden earrings on his right ear and one silver piece on his bottom lip. The rough skin of his outer body carapace doesn't reach his sensitive face, his skin as smooth as a baby's bottom. Under Human's influence, a wry smirk is always present and their mannerisms become much cheerier, giving off an aura of friendliness and love. However, under Alien's influence, their movements become predatory. Face still like stone, eyes seemingly arrogant and judging, hands held ready in case of danger. To most, this is a clear sign of mental illness and so it is Human who is present during most days.

Tariq, in reference to both the Human and the Alien, wears traditional Saudi garb interwoven with Kevlar, a long flowing robe and Kevlar-bandaged from head to toe. Tribal sand-coloured markings adorn the otherwise midnight-black cloth, travelling up from the hem, intertwining from the legs and the torso before ending at their ghutrah (غُترَة), a white cloth of cotton mild. Black bandages cover from neck upwards, leaving only emerald eyes to be seen.

//IDENTITY:

Duos' true identity as an Alien/Human hybrid is kept under tight wraps by the Saudi government. Only the Al-Bariqi family, top officials and trusted officers are aware of their duality. Though well known as the son of the Al-Bariqi family, the tight 24/7 wrappings means Duos'abilities are seen as superhuman rather than extraterrestrial.

▼ B I O G R A P H Y:

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^{"I hope that you know that I find that nickname.. disturbing, Human. Try not to call me Al."}

There are two sides to Duos, the Human and the Alien. The Human, who now shares his original name of Tariq ibn Hakeem Al-Bariqi, was born privileged and rich in the deserts of Saudi Arabia. His father, an oil prince drowning in liquid gold, had the foresight to realise that his riches were tied to a potentially limited resource. Instead, he had invested his money into the nuclear industry, against the warnings of his fellow oil barons and friends.

When the value of oil dropped like a stone and a financial crisis loomed, the Al-Bariqi family did not fall like the others. They did not fall into bankruptcy or out of grace, they kept their riches and wealth. His father thrived where most failed and started his own nuclear plant in Saudi Arabia, funded by the Saud family to ensure that the country would be able to keep up with the West. This was the world that the Human was born into, a family of the top 1% in the world. His parents, Hakeem and Alya, were kind-hearted if a little too dedicated to their work to construct a healthy family. His brother Ali took care of him during his early years, a well-educated high school student who had tutors at home. While their maids and butlers did most of the chores, it was his brother that sung him songs at night to make him sleep, it was him who ordered bed-in-breakfast for him almost everyday.

The Human had come to respect and revere his brother. He was everything to the young one and tried everything to impress him, only being successful in creating amusement. But when Ali had to leave for medical school when the Human was only sixteen, the young boy was left alone once more. With little to no parental figures in his life and the maids and butlers being cycled through mansions every month or so, it was difficult for him to have anyone to connect with. It was through this loneliness that he had discovered his love for hip hop culture and the rich, cash-spending culture that came with it. His parents were okay with him spending their money to get anything he wanted, as long as he was happy they didn't care. Luxury cars, new phones daily, high-tech gaming, joyrides in the streets, even helicopter rides around the desert. It was a grandeur lifestyle of epic proportions, but it never truly spoiled his personality.

The values the Human had been first taught by his brother still stood. A portion of the "pocket money" he got from his parents was given to charity and he made sure not to show off his wealth too much. However, he was still a teen and a rich one at that. He still had an Instagram, posting a few photos of him and his luxurious lifestyle. Some people see him as an arrogant, spoiled rich boy and he was anything but that, however it is not wrong that he is more well off than most people. One day, Lady Luck and the general shit you got in life all fell on him one day, in the form of a helicopter crash. He had been taking his helicopter for a ride in the night, haven taken lessons in how to pilot one. It was a cold night in the Saudi Arabian sand dunes, his helicopter being the only man-made object for miles. His parents never approved of him going alone but he had hit that rebellious streak that every teenager possessed and so he flew anyways.

It was a glint in the night sky, barely perceptible to the human eye. Built from unknown metals and detected as mere debris by any satellite or radar, a small pod careening through space. Coming in slow enough to prevent burning up when it pierced our atmosphere, it seemed as though that its course was calculated and exact. Whether the resulting crash was a glitch in the system or not is something Tariq has yet to solve. It all happened in a flash, one moment the Human was flying a helicopter costing to the millions of dollars and the next moment, he was lying unconscious, bleeding in the desert sand as his pieces of his helicopter tumbled down the dunes. He had barely even registered the pod crash before he entered a coma, one that would last the next several days.

When he awoke, he would find himself in a small clinic in the middle of the desert. In a village of around 150 people, it was here that he would awake. Bandaged and dressed in a smooth silk, the Human opened his eyes to a doctor. He had been taken here by a mysterious man, very tall and very wide, dressed in black with a ghutrah on his head. He had dragged him to this very clinic, and he was informed that the man was waiting outside. Bewildered, suffering from shock and trauma, the Human decided stupidly to walk out of the clinic against the warnings of the village doctor. There, the man waited for him and then, they melded. It was quick and efficient but the results were anything but. The next couple of months were a blur, memories flooded a shared mind, thoughts were confused as to who was in control. Was this a dream? Is this all real? A flood of both nothing and everything entered their mind, events occurring without their full consent. They didn't mean to leave the house with only a note, they were directed to.

They didn't mean to gather money by capitalising on the Human's properties and inherited investments, they were directed to. They didn't mean to become the Hero of Arabia, they didn't want to leave their home to fight crime. They didn't mean to live together, they wanted to be separate from each other. Two individuals cannot be in one body, it merely resulted in a storm of chaos, two people going in and out of unconsciousness rapidly. It was at this point that their thoughts were mostly controlled by the being called the Human, the first couple of months in where the body was in prime directive mode but thoughts could not overcome the Alien’s instinct.

Neither remember what took place in those few months, nor their first dozen conversations. Their combined brain was working on overload, trying to sort every memory to create two individuals, two personalities. It was stressed, following the prime directive of its genetic coding to create two lifeforms within itself while also commanding the body to do what the directive told it to do. It was during this tumultuous and chaotic period that Alien, who the Human had taken to call Al, introduced itself in their shared consciousness. He was a warrior, born from a genetically engineered cloning sac on his home planet. It was a harsh place, sandstorms and deserts as far as the eye could see. Things like an oasis were rare and closely guarded by a tribe.

They were a dying race, doomed to be drowned underneath the desert sands, their planet too harsh to support life any longer. The sandstorms had worsened over time and many of them saw the beginning of the end. Alien was taken from his home by visitors at a young age, kidnapped and put into a strange spacecraft. They coded with his DNA, collecting data samples, and genetically engineering the young xeno. His race was of great interest to these strange celestial beings, as they melded. The Meld is a process in which you combine personalities with another warrior out of respect, resulting in one body with a split personality. A combined might, intelligence and will of two individuals. After what felt like years of experimentation and genetically engineering, the young Alien was stuck into a pod and sent off in to a wider galaxy.

To continue the legacy of his honour-bound people beyond the stars, to meld with a specimen of a different race and to cement himself as a warrior without peer. Given the knowledge of centuries of warriors across his species, his oath binder him to prove himself by solving injustice within the galaxy. His first planet was Earth, and this was how Duos began. When the Human and Alien finally settled, they awoke to their body’s uncontrolled actions.

Duos left a trail of broken bodies, malformed chest cavities and bullet holes. Murderers, rapists, pedophiles and low-level thugs found their match in him. His family had been made aware of the situation when the Human contacted them, wondering where he had been the last two months. Overcoming initial shock, his father’s eyes glinted with sudden opportunity. Contacting his friends within the government, most notably the Crown Prince himself who he had on his personal phone, he explained the chaotic killings of the last two months. He weaved his words with sweet opportunities. A Hero of Arabian stock. A way for them to get ahead in the Middle East so their rivals in Iran and Israel could not match their influence. A way to improve their standing in the world, a grand PR move. Propaganda and online influencers can just dull the brutality of Duos’ actions.

And so, albeit reluctantly at first, Saudi Arabia had raised its first hero – DUOS. Officially opted into Saudi Special Security Forces, they passed through harsh special forces training with flying colours (aside from the swimming part, which Saudi propaganda is quick to hide from others). Being able to deadlift 500kgs for reps before running an ultra-marathon tends to help in a way. The Saudi military, understanding the duality of Duos and urged by the Saudi government, gave the Alien the rank of Captain and the Human a rank of Private, due to the differing levels of military experience between the two (pointing it out causes the Human constant grumbling). They have since led numerous operations with a squad of hand selected killer soldiers, taking down numerous terrorist organisations (particularly targeting Shiites by the lead of their Saudi command) across the Middle East. Their squad eventually rose in number and popularity, becoming a whole regiment that held the place of the government’s most key strategic asset both militarily and in foreign relations. They acted as a motorised infantry force, backed by a command structure and armed with the latest technology available to the Armed Forces. Though Duos was their figurehead, they were made up of multiple squads with their own Captains, often figures Duos has befriended and gained the trust of under his own command. Technically, they are under the over-command of now appointed Major Hakeem ibn Muhammad Al-Bariqi, the Human’s father though more as a political choice and as an active liaison to the government to point the regiment in the right direction. Strategy and operational tactics lies with now Commander Tariq, or the rank of Aqid.

Saudi Arabia’s standing in the Middle East has only risen in the past few years, gaining influence which only served to lower that of their rivals. Money flowed into the Al-Bariqi pockets. Middle East nations, and that of the Arab world (at least those with Sunni-majority), sung praise.

And so, with their position secured as leader of the Arab World, Saudi Arabia and Hakeem ibn Muhammad Al-Bariqi turned their opportunistic eye on to the world. They look towards the crises developing in the USA, and seeks to improve their public relations with their most strategically important ally. Offering their best of the best, the 21^st Motorised as a show of support with Duos as their lead. However, as always, the USA offers a whole different ballgame. Both Human and Alien wonders if they are biting off more than they can chew, looking at the destruction wrought across the leading country in the world. They can only hope, that with their loyal comrades at their back, this would not end up as folly.

▼ P E R S O N A L I T Y:

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^{"Get used to it Al, I got used to the fact that 'Tariq', my original name mind you, refers to both of us outside the military."}

The prime directive. The reason the Alien had been sent here in the first place. To fight injustice, crime and prejudice in a different world, to prove himself amongst another species as a warrior without peer. To continue the legacy of his long lost people, to show that his species would not go quietly thin the night. This powerful force in their minded, genetically coded into their combined personalities, this is what drives them to move forward. To fight criminals and save the innocent. This is what they call the Greater Good, a mental drive within them to do the right thing for the majority. Whether this meant killing a criminal for repeating their crimes or sacrificing one person for the lives of two, it does not matter for they will act with cold logic. This has brought into question whether their actions are justified, whether their value of "no mercy" was immoral or not. This does not stop their almost cult-like following on the Internet, many agreeing in the way they do things. For the Greater Good.

However, this almost religious zeal towards this ideal has been tilted somewhat with their merging. The Human had always looked favourably upon the Saudi government and the country as a whole, thus Duos appears wholly ignorant towards their own government’s scrupulous and untoward actions. In fact, the capital punishment is even held in high regard by Duos, even that of dissidents. How could a government which had supplied the Human’s family with so much opportunity and wealth be so bad?

This ignorance to wider geopolitical knowledge combined with naivety keeps them firmly under the noses of their government and the Human’s father. The Greater Good ideology can be manipulated with sweet words and distractions. Otherwise, the Alien and the Human have a cordial relationship and are often very friendly towards one another. The Human is more diplomatic, nicer and generally charismatic although the naivety of youth and a golden upbringing still shines through. The Alien can be gruff and rude with a very strict code of “what is right” but is fair, willing to here reason before blowing a hole in a criminal’s forehead. They both find heavy camaraderie with their fellow soldier and respect them, which often leads to some hero worship.

▼ A B I L I T I E S / S K I L L S:

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^{"You shall learn soon Human."}

//POWERS:

◼ Heightened Senses and Reflexes | The average specimen from Alien's race possesses better senses than the average human. Tariq has very good eyesight, focusing on objects much faster than a human, they can track using smell, hear through soundproof walls and can even taste more and get more out of a meal. They have also been genetically engineered to have very fast and reactive reflexes, their minds when fully tuned to their body, can command it quickly to do their bidding. Take into consideration their athletic body, higher-than-average strength and speed, they are essentially a step above the base Homo Sapien in a physical sense.

◼ Supreme Strength | The ability to break a man’s skull with their bare hands or charge through metal doors is a pretty useful trait. But it has limitations. He can lift a car off its front wheels without effort or pull an airplane by the rope but Duos won’t be flinging boulders anytime soon. He likes to think that as long as his strength allows him to carry injured comrades off the field, he’ll be fine.

POWER LEVEL: Individually = street level. Strategically = city level.

//SKILLS:

◼ CQC Specialisation | With the memories of Alien's planet, culture and people contained within them, Tariq has mastery over dozens of empty hand and armed martial arts developed over hundreds of years of war. They prefer to incapacitate the opponent through brutalisation, using underhanded tactics and the environment to their advantage. Opponents often end up in hospital with injuries ranging from broken arms to a paralysed spine or just end up dead. Backed by his soldiers, Tariq/Duos offers a terrifying foe to those without superpowers.

◼ Expert Soldiery | Furthermore, being armed with an entire people’s knowledge of waging war allows for expert soldiery. Duos runs a strict meritocracy within his ranks, not allowing wealth or birth affect how he chooses his officers and soldiers (except for his immediate superior – his father). He drills them and exercises them daily, honing them into the fine tipped spear of Arabia. Countless operations around the Arab world has bloodied them well. But what is a soldier to a hero?
◼ Riches beyond imagination | Being backed by one of the up-and-coming richest governments in the world which view you as a highly important asset often results in a blank check. Being sent to constant operation after operation doesn’t allow for many spending sprees so this wealth is often used to ensure that Duos’ soldiers are fully equipped and trained for any threat (within reason).
◼ Prince Charming and his loveable Alien sidekick | Two personalities equals double the person! They have the intelligence and will of two people, two opinions from two different perspectives to judge on a situation. Through this, they make more informed observations and more intelligent answers to hard questions. The Human also has quite the charming personality and was known before the melding as a womaniser. This image has been slightly ruined by the fact that he now appears as intimidating to most people but he still has the words of a charmer. He is the talker while the Alien is the soldier and leader, that is how they have functioned for the last few years.

//ATTRIBUTES:

◼ HEIGHT | 6 ft 5 in

◼ WEIGHT | 315 lbs

◼ STRENGTH | Superior to that of a normal man

◼ MOBILITY | Runs as fast as a fast man but has superhuman stamina

◼ INTELLIGENCE | Higher than average but naïve, mostly limited to operational and strategical intelligence

//LIMITATIONS:

◼ Two Clashing Personalities | Tariq is still made up of two different entities, no matter how cordial they seem. This can lead to unfortunate disagreements within their body even with the uniting force of the prime directive. These arguments can occur during totally normal and human situations that Alien does not comprehend, or during high-risk hostage situations where they argue the most viable objective. These clashes result in a delayed reaction time, which can spell the end of a mission and thus it's failure. As the two have become closer, disagreements become rarer but they still happen, usually with very strong points on both sides.
◼ A Slow Switch | To switch control between the Human and the Alien, it takes one to two hours. During this time, they are absolutely vulnerable to outside influences and the elements which is why they spend theis time inside. However, this is a weakness that can be easily exploited and because of how long the switch takes, Tariq can be stuck in a sticky situation where the wrong personality is in control. For example, Alien would be very useful if they were trying to fight a group of criminals in the streets but would become useless in convincing a criminal to drop their weapon. The slowness of the switch restricts their capabilities as the other can advise a personality to do something but they are not tuned to do it naturally. Though both have learned to be soldiers, the Alien is more attuned to warfare than the Human.

//WEAKNESS:

◼ Fuck Water | Water is neither personality's friend. Tariq's heavy and rough skin makes him sink in water and with neither the Human nor the Alien knowing how to swim, it is likely that they will one day die because of drowning. Rain or any sort of water splashing unto them can also be harmful as certain properties within water makes them weaker with slower reflexes and normalised senses. Water basically turns them into a normal human being except with an alien biology and appearance. This is why they try and use very waterproof clothing when going outside to avoid being severely weakened. However, the act of drinking water does not affect them nor do droplets of water.

▼ N O T E S:

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//SUPPORTING CAST:

▼ ALLIES/RESOURCES
◼ Major Hakeem ibn Muhammad Al-Bariqi| The Human's father, a great supporter of his son’s achievements and acts as Duos’ direct connection to the Saudi government. Acts as the direct guiding hand for Duos and his Holy Chosen, a name that Hakeem chose himself. Cunning, opportunistic and intelligent, he is the "brains" behind the entire Duos image, even going as far as putting forward a comic book titled "Duos and His Holy Chosen" printed across the Arab World. He seeks power for his family and his country though overconfidence can blind him easily.

◼ Saudi Arabia and the Arab World | Revered as a hero amongst the people, Tariq arose from seemingly nowhere and tackled crime around the country. They became some sort of folk legend, stories spoken about them at night time to make children sleep. This spread to much of the Arab World, allowing Duos to be welcomed in any of these countries. The greatest “real” resource Duos can gain from however is his popularity, which would mean that anything resulting in his downfall would have serious repercussions upon the region. Anyone with any geopolitical knowledge and wishes to keep the newfound stability within this region would stay well away.

◼ 21^st Motorised Special Security Regiment – “The Holy Chosen” | As “Commander”, Duos has access to the most elite Arab special forces in the world. Under the Alien’s special training and knowledge, these men (and some women, despite the Human and his father’s initial protests. The Alien found no purpose in leaving out a whole 50% of the population) are deadly even without their extraordinary Commander beside them. This personal regiment offers Duos operational reach and access to helicopters, other special security assets and Saudi military resources. Though several companies are tied to operations back home or elsewhere abroad, the 1^st Chosen, including Duos and the Major, will be making an appearance as allies. Members will be expanded upon as they are introduced.

Saviors and False Prophets

---

O P : S A V I O R

---

0030 - 5 years before current events - The outskirts of Cairo, Egypt

---

Cairo's metropolitan center shone like a glowing oasis in the desert night, bathing the city in light. The nightlife was alive, the native populace and tourists mingling together. Parties were on full blast, spirits were at an all time high. Festivities crawled its way around normally empty streets. Families turned in for the night, children content with tomorrow's celebrations in the city gardens. It was Eid al-Fitr and Muslims across the world came alive, happy with the end of the month-long dawn-dusk fasting of Ramadan. A holy day of celebration and prayer. A day which always attracted the wrong sort of attention every year. A dark, nondescript van sped away from the shining city, accelerating across the highway into the dunes. The walls hummed and vibrated with the loud music, bass cutting over heavy hearts pounding in eardrums.

Six dark figures huddled close together in the van, two more at the front. The crack of the radio cut over the music. "Xray-leader, this is Giza-actual. Be advised, hostile camp has been spotted 10 clicks away from your current position. You are the closest response team, we have sent the GPS navigation to you now. ETA six minutes to perimeter, over."

A low, harsh voice cut through the quieting music. "Giza-actual, this is Xray-leader, wilco. Radio silence begins now. Eid el mubarak, Xray-leader out." A sharp click echoed in the metal confines of the vehicle. A low sigh almost escaped muffled lips and Tariq looked back at their team. These were new inductees to the 21^st Motorised Special Security Regiment on their first operation. Every team in a new batch had a shakedown operation to "bloody" them, as it was. This one seemingly drew a lucky straw and got an easy one. A hostage situation with several young girls kidnapped by an armed group of escaped convicts intending to "use" them for their festivities. Dangerous to the normal person but these were merely untrained criminals with poor shotguns and pistols. Nothing to trained killers like these. In combination with local police and Egypt's own Unit 777, they received word of suspicious activity around an apartment building in the city behind them. The 21^st was attached as a support unit with the Egyptians leading front. All they found was a drugged-up convict armed with a grenade.

Shots were fired and viscera splattered on the wall. The man stood there grenade in hand with several bullet holes in his abdomen and a sizable chunk of his head missing. By the Egyptian captain's report, the man tried to prime his grenade afterwards but the fuse failed. The undead spun around in circles, laughing while grey matter and intestines spilled on to the floor. He shouted in reverence, raising one and a half arms in the air with blood pooling underneath him. He spoke of a sacrifice of virgin maidens to a "prophet-come-again." Blood rituals of some sort, worship of a false prophet which provided the men the "miracle of freedom" and "heaven on Earth." By the time Duos had entered the scene, the seemingly immortal man told them they were too late. A school on the outskirts of Cairo, he cackled, there they would find true immortality. Alien kicked the creature into the wall breaking its spine and legs. The human-turned-abomination folded in on itself, mumbling of salvation.

Upon their advice, the teams split and scrambled to all known abandoned hospitals near the outskirts of Cairo and in surrounding towns. They had found them. Alien flickered his eyes over the team. Whatever skin peaked through their Kevlar bandages seemed pale, one operative visibly shaking. These were not veterans yet, a voice reminded him. He spoke up. "Prepare for unknown metahuman named "False Prophet", threat level presumed high. At least two dozen armed men, unknown number of whom are abominations and twenty hostages. Shoot to kill. Trust your training and your warrior instincts. Most of all, trust your fellow soldier. For the Greater Good."

Silence was followed by slow nodding, colour returning slightly to their exposed skin. The shaking one steadied herself, steel hardening in her blue irises. Satisfied, Tariq prepared for the situation ahead. 'Still not one for speeches Al? I've gone through our head and your people have some fantastic war speeches here. You should use some of them.'

Alien grunted in response, turning a knob on the dashboard to let the music drown out his soldier's fear. He had always approved of the fast moving rhymes and heavy beats of this American "hip hop/rap" - crude and very human but the violence had meaning. The shared minds agreed that music got the blood pumping or calmed the nerves, important when a being was on the eve of battle. Alien's ingrained battle hymns sounded very similar to the sounds of "rap". Human only wondered whether Biggie would have appreciated that his music impressed an extraterrestrial of all things.

---

Alien's Heckler & Koch MG5 sent tracer rounds flying down the wide, pillared corridor in silent suppressing fire. They had spent the last twenty minutes going through several defensive chokepoints, manned by both normal humans and those hidden abominations. The latter would soon expose themselves by being all too confident in their newfound immortality, laughing at the hail of bullets while their comrades hid behind walls and overturned tables. Alien zoned in on one's head flying off the body, cackling all the way. Its body crumpled but the head continued its laughing over the sound of suppressed gunfire. He made sure to fire a three round burst to silence it. His soldiers crept forward under the suppressive fire, going cover to cover in crisp fashion with the female leading from the front. Once his ammunition drum went empty, the six of them lunged over the barrier or around the corners, knives or guns flashing with precision. Strangled cries and screams rang out.

"Clear." The red had covered all of them now. The abominations seemed to bleed much more than a normal human being. The female's voice sounded cold, blood staining the black over her balaclava and bandages obvious. Human only faked gagging at the smell but Alien was silently appraising at the sight as they approached. This team were being bloodied well and this female human had the guts to stamp her fear. A predatory smile made its way on to their face. 'Really, of all the times to finally find a human woman attractive, you choose an operation with a death cult of all things? And when she's covered in blood no less? Allah save him, he is blind.'

Alien continued leading from the front, saving the inner banter, using his superior bulk to cover his soldiers. They hurried along silently, guns sweeping corners and rooms. Indoor fighting was slow, methodical and nerve-wracking. A gunshot from the dark could spell their end, a tripped IED could take out a whole team. With Tariq, it was a matter of waiting for their commander to spot something with their heightened hearing or vision. Chattering teeth, soft footfalls away from the group, the tension of the string rigged to a grenade. All could be heard or felt before the trap or ambush was sprung. They heard soft whispers through what sounded like a door twelve meters away around the corner.

The xenos lifted his fist, halting before the corner's edge. Three fingers were raised followed by a fist shaking side to side. They scurried silently around the corner and to the door, three operatives placing themselves on one side and three on the other. Nodding to the female, Alien kicked the door, sending it flying off its hinges. He closed his eyes. He took a step forward. Blood and bone was crushed against the opposing wall in the room, a gun clattering to the floor. Screams, thirteen in that distinctly annoying young human female pitch. Shouts and clamoring footsteps. Another step. Guns are cocked, the floor vibrating with movement. Distinct chink sounds are heard, two cylindrical flashbangs tumbling inside the room. The subsequent ringing would be blocked by his coverings. Another step, one foot into the room. Twelve figures placed around the room, surrounding the source of the screams. He hefted his rifle with one hand and slipped his knife into the other. He opened his eyes.

The layout of the room was chaotic, upturned desks and tables strewn as makeshift barricades. The human females were pushed in the opposing corner of the room against another door, the human males all curiously shirtless and armed in a semicircle around them. A broken door lay opposite Alien, a bloody humanoid figure underneath. No sounds. Not immortal then. But adorned with strange red tattoos? He noted this all with professional disinterest.

Leaping towards and over the nearest barricade, the killer known as Duos yelled at his disoriented enemies. "For the Greater Good!" he cried, stomping on the head of a crouching criminal, breaking its skull into its spine with a satisfying pulp. He moved swiftly, pointing his MG5 one handed to his right and fired an expert three round burst into the head of nearest enemy there. He kept firing, dispatching the criminals to the right with continuous three round bursts. He extended his knife-arm behind him at the sound of shuffling feet, piercing through a soft neck and ending it with pitiful gurgles out its mouth. In his peripheral vision he watched his team follow into the room, shooting at the disoriented attackers behind him. He smiled at the efficiency, killing the last attacker on his side who was coming-to, flesh splattering on several cowering females.

Alien turned to his team, nodding at them in approval, five bodies with three holes in their heads each. Expert killer-heroes for the Greater Good. He beckoned the female soldier forward and pointed at the cowering young ones. She nodded and beckoned the young ones forward, placating them with soft whispers. They were swiftly shepherded out of the room with the female and an escort.

Duos stood in front of the door with eyes closed, the rest of his team to his left and leaning against the wall. Flashbangs at the ready, weapons reloaded. Time to fight their first metahuman. The door crashed like the previous. No sound. Tumbling cylinders against cement floors, a flash. No movement. They opened their eyes and saw their first demons.

Edit= Oh god a sample post! That's embarrassing. I'll fashion one out tomorrow, I just remembered as soon as I hit "Post Reply".

2nd edit= Well, later on this afternoon

An Unseasonable Chill

My altogether normal and unprepared aspiring boxer!

Clay

| Boxing | Disappointing himself | Oranges | Fire |

---

Physical Description:
Standing at 6 ft 5 in and 221 lbs wet, Clay is a natural heavyweight. He cuts an imposing figure, intimidating in a way that cannot be easily described. Thick eyebrows and piercing brown eyes are poised to intimidate but he keeps an easy look on his face, easy smiles all around. His skin a dark chocolate, calloused in many places but clean of wrinkles. Small, immaculate silver studs adorn his ear with a dull golden stud in the helix of his right ear. A clenched jawline with stubble leads to broad shoulders and an athletic figure. His hands are meaty and large, feeling like rocks coming to break your neck . His stride is light with a bounce in the step, the bearing of confidence and easy going attitude. Clay, from the get-go, was never set to be a normal person. He always contained boundless energy when he was younger, always growing larger than the other kids. He only got bigger and bigger, long arms with unfair musculature. He was a born boxer and was naturally inclined towards athleticism.

Age:
19

Relationship with Hildon:
Hildon is the town he grew up in as a boy, before his parents decided to move to New York City for better opportunities outside a small town. He doesn't remember much from his childhood here but does like coming here after training camps as a place to wind down. Something about a place far away from NYC, one he was born and raised in, calms him. Locals often don't know he came from here unless they knew his parents or grandparents. He enjoys the peace the place provides but finds it too quiet if he stays too long.

Occupation:
An aspiring pro, now Amateur Boxer but currently does security on the side to make ends meet.

Useful Supplies:

• 2000 Toyota 4Runner with offroad tires: With his grandparents too old to drive around, they've gifted it to Clay for his to use when visiting as they never really left the cabin nowadays. He's used it a few times now, back and forth between Hildon and New York City having gotten his license at the age of 17. It is left unused in a garage otherwise, as who in their right mind would drive a car in NYC?
• Solar head lamp: Running before dawn often times leaves athletes in an unwelcoming dark. The solution? Why a head lamp of course! Flashlights don't make sense when you're super-setting between jogging and sprinting uphill on a long dark road.
• Several hoodies and puffy jackets: Morning runs are unforgivably chilly so Clay has some winter-esque gear packed. But this was July, surely there'd be no reason to have some serious winter clothing, right?

Backstory:
Contrary to popular belief, the modern boxer does not have to be born and raised in tough dog-eat-dog environments like the movies tell you. But Clay did not have the easiest childhood.

Clay was born to the son of a Nigerian businessman and his African American wife, conceived in New York City. His paternal grandfather disapproved of the relationship between his father Ahmad and his mother Arya and as the elder of the house, told the pair to either get rid of Clay or get out of his house. Still madly in love, they fled to Arya's hometown of Hildon to begin anew, Ahmad taking his wife's last name and adopting the nickname John to fit in. Ahmad was forced to work odd jobs around the farms around town while Arya was the breadwinner as a nurse, returning from her travels with husband and child in tow. The newborn Clay often stayed to accompany his mother while she worked in the market, selling the citrus only for most of the money to go back to the providers.

Most of Clay's early years spent in the isolated cabin of his maternal grandparents who, unlike his "dick of a grandfather", welcomed his family with open arms. Even as a comparatively "poor family", he could not recall any times in which food or water was difficult to find. They were not a broken family either, his parents loved each other and the family was together quite frequently. If he could recall, he would remember smiles and happy faces. They prayed together and slept near each other. His father was a humble man who did not speak much and earned little but was easy on the smile. His mother had always been his favourite however.

Arya frequently told stories of New York City to her child as he grew up, having moved there young and had met his father there while studying. She told him of the abundance of lights in the city skyline, the fast moving cars, the money that flowed easy for hard workers. She lovingly recalled meeting his father, something that made baby Clay's face contort in childlike disgust. She also bitterly told him about her move to his paternal grandfather's place upon Ahmad's insistence, ending up in the situation they were in. But she had always ended the stories with a kiss and a youthful smile, popping an orange piece in his mouth. It was where he got his near-addiction to oranges as a child that carries on to this day to a lesser extent.

The family eventually moved back into the Big Apple when Clay's paternal grandfather died, leaving an unexpectedly rich inheritance and an apartment for his father. An apology perhaps? One did not look a gift horse in the mouth. He then spent much of the next part of his life growing and growing. Ahmad, an avid fan of boxing, was keen to throw his son into the ring with whatever spare money he could scrounge up. He claimed that he could tell his son will be a future champion, gripping his arms with excitement and lifting him in the air. This would be a golden age of the young boy's life as his family's life began improving. His father found purpose as a fireman, using naturally gifted brawn he claimed to have used to "woo his mother off her feet" while she continued as a nurse. Ahmad was happier during those times, genuinely enjoying helping people rather than working the odd jobs. Clay's time was well spent in the gym and school, his grades stayed positive and life was good.

The end of summer came round in the second year optimistic 21^st century and Clay returned home from the boxing gym. He was a large ten year old and was paired by his coach to the bigger kids. Training with them always left a smile on his face. That smile slipped at the sight of his crying mother, kneeling at the floor of their home, head burrowed in her hands. It disappeared when he saw the towers burning in the distance and heard the sirens he had missed on his way home.

The loss of Clay's father was hard. He died a hero, doing something he loved to do. This would leave an impact on the growing boy, just old enough to understand loss but too young to properly process it. To his mother's dismay, his grades would drop but his training would only intensify. He found brotherhood and father figures aplenty within his gym, a lifetime membership awarded to the son of a fallen hero. His mother would only grow to approve of her son's sudden focus and drive. Better that than fall into the despair that had grown in their hearts. Though she flinched during his first amateur fight, and every fight since, she would stay to berate his cutman and coach, to "teach her boy how to win better." Inspired by this growing encouragement and his late father's wishes, Clay only grew stronger within his teens. Forgoing the traditional goals of tertiary education and office jobs, focusing on doing something he loved to do. As his father had done.

Now, after a particularly rigorous training camp done and an upcoming international professional debut, Clay readies himself for this chance to prove himself. Taking leave from his security job, he travels to Hildon as a chance to calm his nerves.

Star Wars: Shattered Galaxy Roleplay

Urr'argh Ak-Shaffi, the Wanderer

Personality ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ Hero. Outcast. Failure. Much scorn and praise can be contributed to this Ghorfa. The weight of burden rests heavily upon him. The bonds of servitude are latched upon his people. He must will himself to be strong against his growing desperation. To be the hope his united kurantt deserve. A wandering soul trying to find cause, gather strength, gain power to free his people. Savagery. Brutality. Cunning. All traits must be called upon to save the children of the Dune Mother. He appears churlish, overconfident and rude, many dismissing him as a mere upstart primitive. Beware those who underestimate him, for they will find krayt poison in their food and a bomb in their guarded safe spaces. Death comes for those who stand in the way of the kurantt. In the contrary, those who know him personally know him as honourable, in the Ghorfa sense. He does not lie, he does not hurt the young or frail. Fiercely determined to his cause, there is something to admire in this fierce primitive. Barbarism hides cunning, using the skewed views of the outsider to form a protecting image around him. They think him senseless, dumb, unable to grasp the greater scope of the galaxy. But he is a storyteller, the wisdom of his entire people is branded into his brain. Armed with the annals of history, a greater mind can be created from that of a primitive. One aware of shortcomings and strengths, patiently waiting for the time to strike. He is limited in this great galaxy and he is painfully aware of it. Notable Skills ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ Survivalist: Wasteful children the Dune Mother makes not. This one can utilise expert survival knowledge learned from years in the sands and stars to be self-sufficient from dreaded civilisation. Isolation makes people strong, lest they break under the pressure. Terrorist or Freedom Fighter?: Improvised explosive devices can be made out of wires, overcharged blaster packs and a simple trigger. A spiked fall trap can be hidden under carefully placed tarps and foliage. Ambushes can be set against supply lines or sleeping troops. People can be taken hostage for ransom, better supplies, better guns, to be turned against the oppressor. Torture is a tool wielded expertly to reveal movements of kidnappers and the kidnapped. Primitive gunsmith: The slugthrower is often dismissed by the wider galaxy as loud, inefficient and primitive. Can a regular blaster kill a man 1000 meters away? Can blaster packs contain poisons which drag a man's death out to hours and hours? Can it brutally take a chunk of alien flesh out of its torso, viscera splattering over its comrades? Many have dismissed his rifles and many have thus fallen to them. Primitive chemist: Taught by the shamans of the wastes, he wields a basic understanding of chemicals and poisons to inflict pain unto his enemies. Poisoned slugs, yellow-green gas lethal to sapients without rebreathers, flammable clear liquids which offer a strong drink to pass the time. Rudimentary, limited knowledge but wielded with deadly effectiveness. ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔	_______________________________________________ Urr'argh Ak-Shaffi 45 Ghorfa Average	Personal History ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ Storyteller. Wanderer. Chosen of Beyond Her Grasp. Chieftain of the Dune Sea. This one was once trained by a she-devil, an Ulia-ah deemed different from the others and thus separated, to be trained as a tale weaver. Hour after painstaking hour, he would recite the verbal history of his people. From the time they emerged from the gardens as Kumumgah to when they were struck down to Her Grasp in the sands, changed into the Ghorfa. Failure in his recitation would cause the pain of death upon him. He would take over his predecessor, the she-devil taskmaster taken to wander aimlessly in the Dune Sea, as he will do for his own successor. As is the way. The title of storyteller changes often, for the dunes are cruel as She is cruel. An elder storyteller can spell doom for a tribe, for an early death of a storyteller means a tribe falls to infighting, unworthy of the Ghorfa. He thus taught another young one swiftly after, following in his predecessor's footsteps and cast out into Dune Sea. As is the way. Star Wanderer he became, a Beyond, taken by an outsider as pet and subordinate. Taken beyond Her Grasp, further than the fighting twin brothers in the sky. He learned the ways, the tongues, the civilisation of the outsider. He saw naught but things to look down upon. They fought just as the Ghorfa, were just as greedy and just as cruel. They call him primitive but all he could see was folly, blinded by their arrogance in technology. He would escape when his master turned on his people, as any freethinking Ghorfa should as Her children do not kneel. He would return to Her children scattered from the heights he had seen them before, brought low by an enemy he had years to learn from. Hero they would call him, Chieftain of the Dune Sea. Failure, the outsiders would whisper later on. A primitive terrorist failing his primitive people. His people cast into the bonds of servitude, under the heel of civilisation. Justice has come for the lawless, as the outsiders would claim it. But still, the Ghorfa do not kneel in the starmetal hulls of their captors. Bound and bloodied, they plot and scheme, planning the excruciating deaths for those who brought them low. And he shall free them, stowed away in one of the starmetal ships. He will free his kurantt or die trying. Notable Possessions ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ Gaderffii: Traditional two-handed weapon of the Ghorfa, a favoured weapon of Her children. With one spiked end and a bludgeon on the other, it is a crude, simple tool. No adornments, only scratches and dents inflicted upon it by enemies laid low. His is customised, a barbed spike to rip the fleshy chunks out of poor sapients and frequently dipped in krayt venom. Custom Cycler slugthrowers: When resources were still aplenty for her children, he had fashioned two innovations for his people. One a shorter barreled, smoothbore Cycler with a lever-action loader and cartridge, a faster firing mechanism for shorter ranges. Another a longer barreled, scoped, traditional bolt action variant for sniping, effective for targets 800 meters away. As long as one can calculate trajectories with relevant gravitational acceleration, coreolis effect and wind speeds, this can extend to targets 1000 meters away. Poisons and chemicals: Brewed and wielded by the shamans, he has with him tools to make a sapient's death cruel and extended. Kill painfully so that your enemies flee. Inflict horrible chemicals gas and poisoned rounds so your enemies suffer. Or incapacitate them so they may suffer more personally. Stored within opaque glass vials upon his person, saner sapients would call him a madman. Witnessing the effects of these first hand, they would be madmen if they did not run away. ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

_{Affiliations
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}
Urr'argh bows to no one. His only bond is one to his kurantt.}

Star Wars: Shattered Galaxy Roleplay

Forgive my eagerness but my muse cannot be stopped hehe. Here it is ->

Urr'argh Ak-Shaffi, the Wanderer

Personality ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ Hero. Outcast. Failure. Much scorn and praise can be contributed to this Ghorfa. The weight of burden rests heavily upon him. The bonds of servitude are latched upon his people. He must will himself to be strong against his growing desperation. To be the hope his united kurantt deserve. A wandering soul trying to find cause, gather strength, gain power to free his people. Savagery. Brutality. Cunning. All traits must be called upon to save the children of the Dune Mother. He appears churlish, overconfident and rude, many dismissing him as a mere upstart primitive. Beware those who underestimate him, for they will find krayt poison in their food and a bomb in their guarded safe spaces. Death comes for those who stand in the way of the kurantt. In the contrary, those who know him personally know him as honourable, in the Ghorfa sense. He does not lie, he does not hurt the young or frail. Fiercely determined to his cause, there is something to admire in this fierce primitive. Barbarism hides cunning, using the skewed views of the outsider to form a protecting image around him. They think him senseless, dumb, unable to grasp the greater scope of the galaxy. But he is a storyteller, the wisdom of his entire people is branded into his brain. Armed with the annals of history, a greater mind can be created from that of a primitive. One aware of shortcomings and strengths, patiently waiting for the time to strike. He is limited in this great galaxy and he is painfully aware of it. Notable Skills ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ Survivalist: Wasteful children the Dune Mother makes not. This one can utilise expert survival knowledge learned from years in the sands and stars to be self-sufficient from dreaded civilisation. Isolation makes people strong, lest they break under the pressure. Terrorist or Freedom Fighter?: Improvised explosive devices can be made out of wires, overcharged blaster packs and a simple trigger. A spiked fall trap can be hidden under carefully placed tarps and foliage. Ambushes can be set against supply lines or sleeping troops. People can be taken hostage for ransom, better supplies, better guns, to be turned against the oppressor. Torture is a tool wielded expertly to reveal movements of kidnappers and the kidnapped. Primitive gunsmith: The slugthrower is often dismissed by the wider galaxy as loud, inefficient and primitive. Can a regular blaster kill a man 1000 meters away? Can blaster packs contain poisons which drag a man's death out to hours and hours? Can it brutally take a chunk of alien flesh out of its torso, viscera splattering over its comrades? Many have dismissed his rifles and many have thus fallen to them. Primitive chemist: Taught by the shamans of the wastes, he wields a basic understanding of chemicals and poisons to inflict pain unto his enemies. Poisoned slugs, yellow-green gas lethal to sapients without rebreathers, flammable clear liquids which offer a strong drink to pass the time. Rudimentary, limited knowledge but wielded with deadly effectiveness. ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔	_______________________________________________ Urr'argh Ak-Shaffi 45 Ghorfa Average	Personal History ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ Storyteller. Wanderer. Chosen of Beyond Her Grasp. Chieftain of the Dune Sea. This one was once trained by a she-devil, an Ulia-ah deemed different from the others and thus separated, to be trained as a tale weaver. Hour after painstaking hour, he would recite the verbal history of his people. From the time they emerged from the gardens as Kumumgah to when they were struck down to Her Grasp in the sands, changed into the Ghorfa. Failure in his recitation would cause the pain of death upon him. He would take over his predecessor, the she-devil taskmaster taken to wander aimlessly in the Dune Sea, as he will do for his own successor. As is the way. The title of storyteller changes often, for the dunes are cruel as She is cruel. An elder storyteller can spell doom for a tribe, for an early death of a storyteller means a tribe falls to infighting, unworthy of the Ghorfa. He thus taught another young one swiftly after, following in his predecessor's footsteps and cast out into Dune Sea. As is the way. Star Wanderer he became, a Beyond, taken by an outsider as pet and subordinate. Taken beyond Her Grasp, further than the fighting twin brothers in the sky. He learned the ways, the tongues, the civilisation of the outsider. He saw naught but things to look down upon. They fought just as the Ghorfa, were just as greedy and just as cruel. They call him primitive but all he could see was folly, blinded by their arrogance in technology. He would escape when his master turned on his people, as any freethinking Ghorfa should as Her children do not kneel. He would return to Her children scattered from the heights he had seen them before, brought low by an enemy he had years to learn from. Hero they would call him, Chieftain of the Dune Sea. Failure, the outsiders would whisper later on. A primitive terrorist failing his primitive people. His people cast into the bonds of servitude, under the heel of civilisation. Justice has come for the lawless, as the outsiders would claim it. But still, the Ghorfa do not kneel in the starmetal hulls of their captors. Bound and bloodied, they plot and scheme, planning the excruciating deaths for those who brought them low. And he shall free them, stowed away in one of the starmetal ships. He will free his kurantt or die trying. Notable Possessions ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ Gaderffii: Traditional two-handed weapon of the Ghorfa, a favoured weapon of Her children. With one spiked end and a bludgeon on the other, it is a crude, simple tool. No adornments, only scratches and dents inflicted upon it by enemies laid low. His is customised, a barbed spike to rip the fleshy chunks out of poor sapients and frequently dipped in krayt venom. Custom Cycler slugthrowers: When resources were still aplenty for her children, he had fashioned two innovations for his people. One a shorter barreled, smoothbore Cycler with a lever-action loader and cartridge, a faster firing mechanism for shorter ranges. Another a longer barreled, scoped, traditional bolt action variant for sniping, effective for targets 800 meters away. As long as one can calculate trajectories with relevant gravitational acceleration, coreolis effect and wind speeds, this can extend to targets 1000 meters away. Poisons and chemicals: Brewed and wielded by the shamans, he has with him tools to make a sapient's death cruel and extended. Kill painfully so that your enemies flee. Inflict horrible chemicals gas and poisoned rounds so your enemies suffer. Or incapacitate them so they may suffer more personally. Stored within opaque glass vials upon his person, saner sapients would call him a madman. Witnessing the effects of these first hand, they would be madmen if they did not run away. ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

_{Affiliations
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}
Urr'argh bows to no one. His only bond is one to his kurantt.}

Star Wars: Shattered Galaxy Roleplay

Nice ideas, I’m pretty keen. This seems pretty cool and a good way to exercise my writing. I had already worked on a Star Wars character before I swiftly left this aight some years ago. I got a little excerpt here showing a little insight to the character I’ll cook up for the RP. I think he’s fit in this post-apocalyptic type RP. Hopefully I’ll get a sheet out soon:)

Chieftain of the Dune Sea

Mother Dune did not make a loving mother and her children were vindictive and fiercely independent. Ghorfa do not kneel. They did not kneel to the Builders of old, resisting until the heavens split and Mother Dune wrapped all the gardens under her sand. They did not kneel to the outsiders, creators of civilisation which hunted their people like rats. They did not kneel to the Dune Sea, her waves swallowing whole villages. They did not even kneel to the Demon of the Sand with its glowing shrashkka, a vengeful ghost kept at bay by their sacrifices and totems in a now desolate village. It would take much for a single Ghorfa to kneel, much less its whole species.

But for when the sky split open and villages are razed. When water holes long revered by the sand dwellers be emptied. When their precious Uli-ah are taken away by monsters before they can even marry. That is when things change. When the tale begins anew, the creation of a chapter unforeseen by the Storytellers. Tribal chieftains, wizened shamans, raid-party leaders and the greatest story-tellers gathered in the empty cave of a hunted Krayt Dragon. Tensions were high, talons gripping rifles and gaderfii tightly. The Dune Mother let its whispers caress the fires of each group, carrying the tension around. Masseffi howled and barked at rivals, unbothered banthas tended to by jumpy riders. Only the shamans and the oldest storytellers sat calmly amongst the greatest gathering of this nomadic people.

In a rough circle around a small fire, light and shadow licking the tall walls of the cavern, sat the leaders of the Ghorfa. Urr’argh Ak-Shaffi sat among them, calmly shifting his rebreather to sit more comfortably on his face. The movement alerted most of the room, nervous glances and scowls passed each denizen of the circle. They had sat there for six hours now, ever since the Wanderer had stated his terms. If the situation was not so dire, they would have been killing each other for past insults and greed. The desperation was clear to all in attendance.

“We must unite.” Urr’argh stated again, as if recounting a proverb from the old tales.

More nervous glances broke out, small shifts and fidgets. To speak among strangers who could understand you is to show weakness. That is why many Ghorfa would neglect to speak the language of the outsiders, though they knew how to. The Ghorfa way was as isolationist as it was nomadic. Speaking their guttural tongue to people outside of your clan was taboo. Despite sharing the same cloth, the same blood, the same Mother, the peoples were still split by culture.

A shaman two persons across from him raised his chin. A challenge to his statement. Two chieftains followed promptly. An alliance perhaps? Who knew the Ghorfa could ally themselves even without his guiding hand. Urr’argh mused under their gazes.

“We have no choice. They are slaughtering us. Extinction follows. These are not ghosts of the Dune Sea. She is not responsible. These are not the Builders come again. Those devils are not responsible. These are outsiders. They pose a problem. You must kneel to me. I am the strongest.”

Hacking coughs of protest came from others of the circle. A raid leader stood, gaderfii held accusingly at Urr’argh. A visible show of defiance against his wisdom. Those broad shoulders shook in rage, the cloth coverings upon his head trembled. This was an insult of the highest order. A Ghorfa did not point at another Ghorfa with a sacred gaderfii unless they challenged something utterly wrong to them. In credit to the Wanderer, he merely pointed his chin forwardand flexed neck muscles, throat bobbing through the skin-tight cloth. A calming gesture, one of peace. Of surety. For one has to be sure of his own strength to expose his throat to the pointed end of a gaderfii.

Such calm assertiveness silenced the hacking coughs. The shaman lowered his chin and the two subordinates followed quickly after. The raid leader still stood, knees tensed and grip tightening. His raiders, cloths painted red from the blood of outsiders, were as tense as their leader, eyes shifting at the shadows looking for unseen enemies.

Urr’argh cracked his neck, bending it to an obscene angle for a human. The sound echoed in the cavern. A calm threat of violence, opposing the insubordination of the raid leader. The raid leader reluctantly sat back down, chin downwards in submission. An almost imperceptible nod came from the Wanderer, an act of acceptance. He looked back at the group.

“I was cast out of my clan, a storyteller surpassed by another, as is the way. I was ready to be eaten by the Dune Sea. To wander aimlessly with the Mother. I was instead taken from her grasp, from her nature by these outsiders.” The word was spat out, phlegm impacting against the inner world of the rebreather. The younger ones flinched. Inner Water was as sacred as the Outer Water. Such disregard must contain great hate.

Urr’argh continued with the green mucus dripping through a crack in his rebreather. “I am Wanderer for I have walked where no Ghorfa has walked before. Aside from our kurantt brothers and sisters, who have shed their old ways for that of the Ghorfa, none of our people have reached the stars. I was kept as pet, slave to the outsiders, trained in their inferior ways of raiding. I was taught their common tongue, told our tongue was primitive.”

The denizens of the circle sneered as he did, throwing sand into the air in protest. The Wanderer nodded in ascent. “They enslaved me to their ways. They do not have kurantt, they forced the terms of brotherhood upon me. But through this, I learned of the enemy. I learned their tales, their stories. I befriended them, as much a Ghorfa could pretend to befriend outsiders. I learned of the Great Beyond, of wars eternal, bloodshed greater than any Ghorfa has seen.”

“I wandered among the stars, beyond the struggling brothers and learned this all. I know more than any Ghorfa here has or ever will. I boast of killing green monsters, ten of whom could kill a krayt dragon with their fists! I boast of killing a shaman with glowing shrashkka, like the Demon of the Sands! I boast of conquering a metal beast, green fire spewing forth from its metal skin!” Urr’argh has stood, towering over the masses in passion. His shadow crept upwards into the upper darkness of the cavern, fingers drumming at his side with excitement.

“I boast, standing before you elders. Leaders of the Ghorfa. I come before you as the strongest. Against these raiders of the stars, only I am worthy as leader of our people. I know them, I have been with them, walked among them. I know how to defeat them.” Urr’argh bent down, grasping his customised cycler rifle and slammed its butt into the rocky ground. A challenge to authority. To not challenge it is to submit. He stood rigidly, weight shifted forward.

The first dissenter emerged from his left, lunging from the ground with a short, sharp shrashkka in hand. The Wanderer raised his strangely short cycler rifle one handed, cranking the lever mechanism while doing so. Grasping the rifle’s wooden barrel steadily, he fired point blank into the dissenter. A gaping hole appeared at their centre, the man crumpling to the ground.

Spurred on by the action, several other dissenters stood weapons in hand, silently running at the Wanderer. He swiftly placed a round through each Ghorfa, talons cranking the lever action with practised ease. As the last body fell, the sand shifted behind him.

Urr’argh twirled, the butt of his long rifle extended. He blocked the swing from an incoming gaderfii, ornate wood standing strong against scrap metal. He pushed, staggering his opponent backwards before punching a round through their head. Blood splattered on to the cavern wall.

Urr’argh turned, slamming the butt of his rifle on the ground. The sounds of the dying permeated in the silence afterwards, as if spread by the uncaring Mother. The others glances at each other, looking for other dissenters. The shamans rose and knelt, chins lowered in submission. Others followed swiftly after until all knelt before him. Before the crack of dawn, before the struggling brothers stood over the Mother, he was named Chieftain of the Dune Sea. And so the war began in truth.

---

The Tatooine Wars or the Freedom Wars as the Tusken held them, were a series of heated battles between several slaver parties and the tribes of Tusken Raiders on Tatooine. The locals of Bespin had long grown tired of the constant raids by the nomadic species of Tatooine. With the Massacre of the Farms of 186 ABY and the ever growing number of refugees to Tatooine, food supplies were running scarce. Violence and anarchy, already ever present on the desert world, threatened to spill over even the smallest bit of grain.

The eyes of the desperate turned towards the Tusken, a nomadic, primitive people which lived beyond the farms and the protective walls of civilisation. A group of savage specimen, wary of outsiders and fiercely protective of their young. They harassed and killed those they labelled outsiders, taking young children and inducting them into their barbaric lives. Few interacted with them without blaster fire and lived. Those who spoke of a proud, honourable people were dismissed as fools. They saw raiders, thieves, kidnappers and murderers. Unthinking monsters.

The years of shattering wars across the galaxy were favourable upon the children of the Dune Mother. They had raided with impunity, the lack of any real orderly response from the locals allowed them to spread and multiply. The Tusken peoples, or Ghorfa as they would call themselves, thrived in the chaos. No Empire, with Hutts too busy with fortifying their more profitable holdings, they had no authority to answer to. A lawless time awarding a lawless people. Populations thrived.

The locals grew envious. And so, several people of import among the Tatooine populace emerged with a solution. Slaver parties frequented the space around Tatooine, indiscriminate in their taking. As a backwater desert world, Tatooine was often regarded as a poor source of slaves and missed by these bands of slavers. Low population density and thus a lack of any real creds. But the locals, vying for primitive food and riches, green with envy, updated these slavers on the real local population.

More tribes had littered the Dune Sea than ever before, krayt dragon caves emptied out as permanent resting places for a nomadic people. More potential slaves, more potential creds. And thus, striking a deal with the devil, the locals pointed out the migration movements of the Tusken. When the twin suns were hot and high in the sky, they would sit in large tribal encampments hitching primitive tents to defend against the scorching suns.

This is when the slavers would strike, blasting the armed Tusken menfolk while swiftly capturing the women and children in their tents. Such exotic and strange aliens could sell nicely to the odd fetishists of high society. A shock collar can be an efficient tool of submission for even the most prideful. This would continue for months on end. Villages would be razed. Tusken warrior parties returning to the scorched remains of their brothers and the disappearance of their kurantt.

Scattered and separated, the Tusken could not do much. It was as if the Builders had come again, taking away their peoples once more, beyond the grasps of the Dune Mother. One Tusken would rise above the others however. Urr’argh Ak-Shaffi, the Star Wanderer, the Chieftain of the Dunes, the Beyond. In one night, he united the peoples as no other had before.

A storyteller, revered for his wisdom. A wanderer, cast out from the tribes. An outsider, one who has been beyond the grasp of the Dune Mother. An enigmatic, strange example of his primitive species. What a fascinating specimen. He would lead his people against a superior foe with expert knowledge of his foes. He knew how to fight the slaver for he had been the slaver, taken away years before as a pet of a slaving party. Returning to his people through unknown means, he would be revered as a fantastic warrior and great strategist.

Urr’argh wielded the raiding mind of the Tusken and the advanced knowledge of outsiders as his weapons. With zeal, he used poisons, natural chemicals, brutal melee weapons and slugthrowers to bite back against the invaders. Ambushes, feigned retreats, IEDs, artificial sinkholes, spike traps, bantha charges. All were utilised against the slaver enemy. But primitive tactics could not stand against the metal hulls of starships. Technology would win the day. Ambushes would be spotted by advanced scanners, IEDs triggered by unfeeling recon droids, bantha charges laid waste to by concentrated blaster fire.

Every victory was celebrated but every defeat was a crushing loss, a tribe defeated and scattered. Failure was imminent, the bonds of servitude closing itself upon the Tusken people, like their Kumugah predecessors before them. As though the uncaring Dune Mother had left them, Urr’argh would be captured once more during the fiercest battle of the Tatooine Wars.

The slaving of the Tusken people, the greatest war the primitive species had ever seen, would take a mere year. A blip in the annals of history. Another species forgotten among countless others. And Urr’argh, Chieftain of the Dune Sea, the Wanderer, would be cast out once more from the Dune Mother. Into the uncaring, shattered galaxy.

- Unknown Historian 191 ABY

Precipice of War - The Big Leagues of NRP (Only generous tippers need apply)

I come back and I found out the guild’s down and someone was crazy enough to rp Great Britain.

What a time to be back. I’m recovering from my bite but will work on posts when I get over my horrible jet lag

Is broccoli just a small tree?

Eggs are just 🅱oneless chicken