Silly Cybin

The Sprawl

I'll also work on a write-up; my character may be pretty useless in a combat situation, it depends if I go with the idea I'm planning. Hope he can still be pro-active!

☾ NIGHTCALL ☾

Name:
Nathan Alderly

Age:
17

Gender:
Male

Species:
Former Vessel of a Demon Lord

Appearance:
5'8", 123 lbs. Ruffled and straight brown hair to mid-neck. Pale skin and extremely dark brown eyes with perpetually large irises, dresses in tatty, scruffy looking clothes (in contrast to the above picture). A jagged, some-what circular patch of scar tissue in the centre of his chest.

Mass Effect: Spectre Strike Force

Sorry for being flakey this weekend guys, had a lot on my plate. I've PM'd you with Syral's response, killer, figured the whole PM-ing conversation thing is probably easier!

Mass Effect: Spectre Strike Force

Syral passed through the airlock relatively quickly, humming a tune he only half-remembered, wearing his N7 leather jacket, 'military casual' look that he'd sort of naturally slipped into as his life had passed by. She was an impressive boat; larger than the previous Normandy, which was larger than the original. He breathed in, idly thinking about how he hadn't breathed fresh air in roughly two weeks, his schedule having him hop from one space installation to the next without much R&R time in-between.

He found his modest quarters, situated on the the second floor down, a large glass panel the only thing separating him from the ominously huge engine core. Oh, I see, Krios liked this sorta place, so obviously it's my cup of tea too He'd been studying the history and layout of the previous Normandies in his off-hours; where the crew resided, where the useful rooms were, even the inter-crew dynamics in a disturbing amount of detail. He wondered if his social life would become a facet of history. He unpacked his clothes into his locker and started playing some 21st Century Earth music he'd found on the extranet a few years ago; he'd become quite a snob for pre-contact Earth culture, it was entertainingly small-picture, something which relaxed him.

After stashing an emergency pistol in a shoe-box in his locker, he decided it was time to go make history and have an idle conversation. It was this moment he realised he hadn't touched alcohol for what seemed like a year, Galen having reminded him that alcohol could actually play a part on his life to some degree. He walked from his quarters, ignoring the map and trying to get as lost as possible. He eventually managed to find the bar after forty-five minutes of wandering and a ten minute conversation with the ship's cook, who seemed amiable. He at one point mentioned cooking a big Dextro-Amino suitable meal for him that evening, and in the interest of not dying of internal combustion Syral politely mentioned that Drell were Levo-Amino based lifeforms. The cook looked embarrassed and promised to read over the personnel files again.

Syral walked to the bar, waiting for a bartender before he realised it was a free-to-take situation. He identified the colour of bottle usually reserved for Levo-Amino alcohol and poured himself a large drink, knocking it back in one swig. He turned and noticed one of his crewmates sat on a fairly luxurious looking sofa. History books, here I come.. Syral thought to himself, wandering over in her direction.
"Naomi, isn't it? I've been looking over the files" He said casually, sitting on the arm of the sofa furthest from her, appreciating approaching a female in a bar in any culture seemed like a come-on. He tried to maintain an air of professionalism, not wanting to make her feel uncomfortable. He looked wistfully in front of him, rubbing the back of his neck. "Spectre Naomi, I am Spectre Syral Kiera. As a Spectre it's nice to meet another Spectre on this Spectre ship on this Spectre operation" He turned, smiling wryly, "Sorry, can you tell I'm excited?"

Mass Effect: Spectre Strike Force

Syral had barely managed to keep his eyes open, but it was finally over. Fifteen hours of travel in an Alliance bunk tended to dull a person's awareness somewhat. He let the Hanar glide into him; it was rare that Syral managed to evoke such a passive-aggressive reaction from a jelly, it seemed only appropriate to savour the moment. As the proceedings wrapped themselves up Syral stretched his arms, standing to attention was also not the best thing for his zen. He saw Galen shoot him a quizzical look regarding the Hanar; he shrugged his shoulders as non-chalantly as his aching muscles allowed, smiling absently. The Geth gave him and the rest of his new peers a respectful bow, Syral racked his brain for a traditional Geth sign of respect, but all he could think of was a digital transfer of data and intel. This being beyond his physical capabilities, he nodded in acknowledgement, the same absent smile from before finding its way back across his lips.

"Well, isn't this exciting" He said to nobody in particular, walking forward and languidly gesturing to their grand surroundings with his right hand. "The future of Galactic Peace, a potential Krogan uprising and a call for tactful diplomacy" He stroked his chin with his index finger and thumb, turning his head slightly over his shoulder "I'm going to pack a colossal amount of weaponry". With that he turned, gave a far too casual salute to his fellow crew and walked back down the red carpet, ready to face the rest of his now substantially shorter lifespan. He walked slowly down the stairs, fiddling with his Omni-Tool, a recording window opened; "Recipient: Sila Kiera, Subject: Thanks. Sila, the meeting went well" He paused for several seconds, staring into the amber interface, "I probably won't die. With love, Syral".

Renley was ready to meet him, a stony, mystifying expression on his scarred mug. "Caught a peak of the other candidates, Kiera. Now, I know you're probably thinking you're out of your league" Syral sighed, once again pinching his nose, "But I just want to tell you.. you were within my top ten choices for this position" With that he saluted, his eyes staring at a spot slightly above Syral's head.
"Oh Captain, my captain. If I was able to, I'd be blushing"
"Cut the crap, smart-ass. Get your gun and don't screw this up" Renley turned on his heels and marched stiffly towards a group of nervous looking Alliance pencil-pushers.

Syral sighed, walking to the elevator doors with his head hung, sleep a welcome prospect. No time. "Get armour and weaponry" He said, trusting his eidetic memory to pick up on this moment of solitude. "Then, make way to docking bay"
He walked into the elevator as the doors slid open, pressing the button for the hangar section of the Wards. The only other personal effects he had were hanging around his neck. He thumbed the vial of Kahje water with a blank look on his face. Things were going to get interesting.

Mass Effect: Spectre Strike Force

I also have a concept for a loyalty mission, it'd probably be put onto the table after our ragtag bunch of misfits have encountered Cerberus for the first time. We've got a well-rounded team here, looking forward to seeing how they get on.

The Alcean Resistance

Rayf lent against the wall in the large, imposing chamber the castle guard had left him in. It had been a relief to be able to enter a building without first coming up with a cover-story; he had been travelling largely incognito since Alcea. The ceiling depicted a famous war in the history of Ilvance, the battle of brothers. Rayf had read a lot of information about Ilvance, having had the pick of the royal library in his youth. This mural depicted the critical moment of the battle, two ferocious armies facing each other, all ready to fight and die for the potential ruler they believed in. All of a sudden, the mother of the two opposing princes emerged from one army, standing in the centre of the battlefield and refusing to move until they had settled the conflict peacefully. It was a major event, and one that possessed a certain insightfulness and spirituality that Rayf appreciated.

He'd managed to slip through Alcea and over the border undetected quite easily, posing as a Priest of the Moon-Goddess in the border-town he'd wound up in then making his way through a forest that crossed between the countries. He hadn't eaten well or particularly rested in four days; this message, according to the resistance, was more important than any individual life. This is something Rayf firmly believed, having heard it. A captain among the castle guard entered from the door opposite, clearly giving Rayf a once-over to evaluate him as a potential risk. He, however, was exhausted and not in the mood. "Stare all you like, I've had compliments before" Rayf said, not opening his eyes, leaning his head against the wall.

"Oh good, you're a joker. Now look, I've been sent out to quickly to lay down a few ground-rules. Rule one, if the Queen orders it, we will decapitate you. Understood?"

"Actually no, could you explain that again?"

"Well this is a change of pace, a messenger who thinks he's a jester. I suppose everyone has an identity crisis occasionally. Rule two, no weapons inside of the chamber"

Rayf slowly and non-threateningly unsheathed his bayonet, offering it to the man he'd already made an enemy out of. Always thinking ahead, Rayf, very smart, he though idly whilst the man took his sword.

"Good. Rule three, watch your language and behave with a bit of respect, or.. well, I refer you to rule one, you jammy bastard"

"Well at least you're leading by example. May I see her? This is fairly urgent"

The guard nodded, leading Rayf to the chamber. Rayf tidied his deliberately unkempt hair and straightened his posture, the guard disappearing inside the door. A minute later he emerged once more and beckoned Rayf in. Taking a deep breath, Rayf walked determinedly into the room. "Your majesty, it's an honour. I am Rayf Calderwood, and I'm here to tell you that your country needs you"

Mass Effect: Spectre Strike Force

Syral walked aimlessly into the Presidium, about an hour before he was scheduled to meet the heads of all Galactic policy. The idea still seemed sort of strange to him; whilst being a good soldier and a notable N7 operative, being a Spectre? The idea just sounded completely ridiculous to him; plus, it opened the line of comparison between him and the legendary Commander Shepard, which anybody's bound to come out of not looking that favourable. He could feel the Galaxy's eyes on him and the weight of a thousand star-systems on his shoulders. "Good morning, Syral Kiera" an Avina terminal intoned in her traditionally placid way.

"Um. Hello. I really don't need anything" Syral said, confused. Usually these things weren't meant to start the conversation, were they? "You have a message from Sila Kiera, London, Earth. Play message?" Syral sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and scrunching his eyes closed. "Download it to my Omni-Tool, condescending blue lady" It took only five seconds to download, his mother had never had much of a way with words. He clicked play and listened to the message through his ear-piece as he walked across the Presidium Gardens, heading vaguely towards the Council Chambers at a minimum level of determination. "Syral, I.. I just wanted to say good luck. Your father would be very proud. I.. Good luck. I know you can do it" The message ended as anticlimactically as it had began. Too little, too late Syral couldn't help but think.

He turned a corner and down a set of stairs with a confident stride, knowing full well he had lost his way, but relishing the opportunity to wander without a task at hand for the foreseeable future. He watched the Presidium Gardens fall away, the small crowds of dignitaries and white-collar workers blending into the colossal sterile mass of metal. His first time on the Citadel and he didn't even get time to be a tourist, what a life. He'd started the day arriving on his shuttle and since then had been going through the tedious screening process customary to first time visitors. The low and soothing elevator muzak settled his nerves as he thought about everyone's expectations for him. Drell, customarily, didn't occupy significant roles in Galactic Society, instead choosing to serve Kahje. Other Drell would think of him as ungrateful, that his life should be spent in service to the Compact.

The elevator doors slide open, and instantly he recognised a familiar face. "And here I was, thinking I'd never see the merciless Drill Instructor Renley for the rest of my days" The corners of Syral's mouth raised slightly, forming a tired but heartfelt smile in acknowledgement of his former Alliance trainer. "Cut the crap you iguana, your terrible sarcasm won't impress the Council" Renley replied in typical Renley fashion; gruffly and with a hilarious lack of humour.

"The years have softened you, sir"

"Hardy har fuck you. C'mon, you're earlier than expected but later than they wanted, there's a lot of unwritten political hoo-hah with the Council"

The two began walking, climbing the first of three staircases that preceded the biggest moment of Syral's life. "So, why are you here, Renley? Did the Alliance think I need reminding of my roots? They know I'm an Alliance soldier through and through" Syral's eyes became more distant, he could feel the familiar pinching sensation in his vertebrae that usually came before a flashback. The downside of eidetic memory, the traumatic stuff is even harder to forget. "I think I've proved where my allegiances lie"

"This is what I wanted to talk about. Look, everyone in the Alliance appreciates your choice on Titan, it helped us keep a valuable commodity and kept the flow of credits running, we'd be out of millions if not for you"

"Look, Renley, I did what my unquestionable commanders told me, I don't need you to try and tell me it was ultimately the right decision" Syral sped up, walking passed Renley and up the second flight of stairs.

"Hey, Kiera!" Syral turns, he could feel his fists becoming clenched and his mental grip loosening, a memory trying to pull him in. "Being a Spectre means making tough calls with no authority figure you can pass the blame to; you've gotta be ready to make the smart call rather than the moral one"

"Shepard would be proud" Syral muttered, turning and continuing. To continue the build-up of frustration, his greeter floated towards him, Syral's teeth started grinding against each other as the Hanar moved at its glacial pace in his direction. "Greetings, honoured one, welcome to the council chambers; I hope your journey was uneventful?"

"Salutations, gelatinous one" Syral said with a mocking aura of mirth, "My journey was as long-lasting and ultimately futile as the Enkindlers as a species, let's get going"

It was always difficult to tell if you'd riled a Hanar or not, but Syral had picked up a few visual cues. A slight twitching of the tentacles, a protracted silence, they even seemed to shift uncomfortably. "This one doesn't wish to become involved in an argument, this one was only being polite"

"Oh, well 'this one' isn't trying to be polite. Take me to the Council, squid" As a Drell, Hanar never expected this level of aggression from Syral. This only made it funnier to him.

"It's been a severe displeasure to make your acquaintance" The Hanar said as they reached the top of the stairs, managing to convey moodiness whilst still speaking in monotone.

"I've heard your people make good appetizers" Syral said over his shoulder as he continued to walk to the final set of stairs. He paused halfway up, steadying himself on the bannister, the memory finally taking him.

The smell of smoke and plastic explosives. I run faster than I ever have before, every step reigniting the embers of pain in my shoulder blade. Pistol bullet, anti-phasic round. I hear crying. I hear them over the PA system. Running down a long, overwhelmingly grey corridor. Away from them, the people who trusted me. They explain they're going to kill a hostage every minute I don't turn myself in; I could find a way out of this, I could save them. But, I need to diffuse that bomb. As I get to the half-way point I hear the first bullet over the PA. There are five more before I get to the bomb.

The Presidium Council Chambers blurrily come back into view; Syral is hyper-ventilating, he practises some breathing techniques he'd learned whilst in Biotic training; lowers the heart-rate. He composes himself, then makes his way up the rest of the stairs, his limbs feeling slightly heavier. "Syral Kiera" The Asari councillor says, her soft, measured voice somehow carrying the length of the chamber. "You have an odd history"

Syral stands in front of them, his hands behind his back, his chin held high. "Doesn't everyone?"

"Not everyone gladly sacrifices innocent lives to get results. A Spectre doesn't just have to be ethical, they also have to be logical" The Salarian councillor says somewhat proudly. It sickens Syral, but he holds his tongue.

"I made a choice. It was either save the crew, or save a million hours of labour and keep our economy afloat. I took the logical option that helped the largest amount of people" He breaks his gaze for a second, looking down and to the left, as if addressing his own conscience. "And yet still I feel like a war-criminal"

"Regardless of feelings, you showed decisiveness and efficiency. This is why we believe you would make a good addition to the Spectre ranks. Do you accept our offer?"

Syral felt a sense of shame as he took a pause to decide. The decision he regretted most was the basis for his recruitment. He neglected to mention this, but he made a pact with himself that day to never put the innocent at risk again. This would probably interfere with his duties somewhat. He opened his eyes after a long pause and gave a slight smile. "If you will take me, I accept" And without fanfare, they entered his name into their Omni-tools. Wasn't quite the grand ceremony the Alliance made it out to be. "I'm not going to say I won't let you down, because I don't believe in certainties. I do promise that I'll try extra-hard not to, though" With that Syral joined his future comrades; a Quarian, a Geth and a Salarian. There he thought about the impression he'd made; the council painting him to be a ruthless baby-killer. He would have to prove his morality at the first opportunity. He watched the next recruit enter, and sighed in relief that everyone seemed as lost as he was.

---

A human woman had stood next to him, she looked as out of place as he felt. These were some of the most dangerous people in the Galaxy, was Syral really fit to stand amongst them? She whispered him some questions whilst the Council spoke. "Do you think it's almost over? Is that ship ours? Do your feet hurt?" He paused, but stifled a laugh, happy someone else wasn't that taken in by the excessive nature of the meeting. "In order? Possibly, I think so, and yes but I'm ignoring it"

Syral barely managed to restrain a few chuckles during Galen's entrance; Syral fundamentally respected disrespect to authority, a trait he'd picked up as his responsibilities became more numerous. He murmured in agreement when Galen suggested pressing on, not being sold by all of the emphasis on ceremony he'd seen. He looked forward to being led by this sly Turian, he seemed like a commander concerned with civilian safety rather than politics.

The Alcean Resistance

Here's my CS. Let the gaaaaames begin!

Name: Rayf Calderwood

Age: 21

Appearance:


Rayf is around 5'10" and is of a lean build, with wide shoulders and thin hips. He has a dark green tattoo of three circles in descending size on his left palm, each circle contained within the previous. He wears dark, padded leather armour beneath a navy blue long, cotton coat designed to resemble the attire of a Priest of the Moon-Goddess when buttoned, Rayf being a firm believer of hiding in plain sight. This is coupled with a silver-pendant in the shape of a crescent moon. On his right hand is a black Cestus glove (leather with a thin layer of metal-plating on the top of the hand and fingers), the cuff reaches to about mid-forearm. His left hand is bare.

Background/history: Rayf is the seventh (and youngest) son of Alistair Calderwood, the now deceased master of the Alcea royal library and a seasoned archivist. His mother passed away whilst in labour with him, an event that caused his father to bury himself in his work. Coming from a large family coupled with his father's heavy workload meant Rayf and Alistair never really had a true connection, Alistair too busy pouring through old, forgotten tomes until the early hours. He was mainly raised by his brothers, the eldest being a Knight in training who taught him the art of the sword. All but two of his brothers were killed in the slaughter at the castle, trying desperately to defend the king to no avail. Being raised in such a large family helped Rayf acquire an acerbic wit and a decent amount of social skills, not nearly as much as his brother Remley (a noted charmer), but enough to hold his own in a conversation.

In his younger years Rayf would often sneak into the castle in an attempt to visit his father. In his earliest attempts he was often quickly found, but as time went by he began to become more proficient in avoiding the Guards' eyes. Rather than sticking to shadows and sneaking he started blending with crowds, attempting feats of persuasion and cover stories, even occasionally disguises. This continued until the age of 13, when it was discovered that Rayf had latent magical abilities. He'd always been able to manipulate small things, but he blended into the mass of his family so much nobody had ever noticed before. They'd been revealed when he'd attempted to hold hands with a girl, his shaky emotional state making his magic act up which resulted in her hand being badly burnt. Her father was a noted ruffian and threatened him violently, meaning Rayf was sent away to study his abilities under the eye of his maternal grandfather, a court wizard in a small castle called Plainsgate several hundred miles from the city.

His brothers excelled within the kingdom, each becoming notable in their fields. This shamed Rayf, who had thought his magical talent would lead to his own success. His grandfather was a kind man, but his years hadn't been kind to him and his memory wasn't what it used to be, meaning Rayf didn't get the best tutelage. He was retaught lessons several times, but he never had the heart to tell his tutor. After a week it was discovered he was a particular type of magic user, something called a "palmcaster". This meant he just didn't have the inclination to be a master magic user, being able to manipulate reality itself; instead, his ability extended as far as his hand could reach. Apparently, where-as great acts of magic require a colossal amount of energy, the small spells available to Rayf were more subtle, which awarded a greater quantity of uses. He dedicated his training to using this magic to augment his pre-existing abilities.

He became quite popular in the small court as the years passed, even courting a couple of the castle's staff, falling quite in love with a woman in the kitchens there. She, however, didn't see their relationship as something quite as story-book and quickly broke it off. This made Rayf quite cynical towards relationships, his luck never having been that good with the opposite sex. Like any moody teenager, he learned an instrument to cope with the loss. He picked the flute, having admired the flautists that would play at royal ceremonies. He continued under his grandfather's tutelage, occasionally working on his swordplay with the guards in their training grounds. He had the pick of the castle armoury, and eventually settled on a strange longsword that lacked a hilt the Commander called a "Bayonet". It's similar to a machete, a flat blade with extremely sharp edges, the only advantage over a machete being the fact it also has a point.

At the age of 17, word was sent of the massacre at the castle, and the fate of the majority of his family. His grandfather by this point had completely lost his mental faculties and required constant care, Rayf having trained himself for the last year of his tutelage. Rayf''s first instinct was to return to the city and exact revenge, but his grandfather in a moment of clarity persuaded him out of it, saying a moment would come later to avenge his family. He agreed, but secretly communicated with the Resistance through messenger birds as soon as he'd caught wind of it. His grandfather died a year later, after the dust of the attack had settled. He settled his affairs at the castle and met the Resistance, beginning operations under their behalf. He killed his first man, a lone guardsman who had caught him attempting to sneak into the castle. This sent him into a crisis, but the leader of the Resistance managed to talk him out of it, after which Rayf became fully committed to the cause.. and a lot more careful in his espionage.

Skills: A fair swordsman, relying on swift strikes, dodging and intermittent magical assistance; this style also requires a very good sense of timing. He's got a knack for blending into crowds, subterfuge and persuasion. He has contacts throughout Alcea due to his communications with the resistance. His magic requires constant practise to keep up to a certain standard as well as possessing a steep learning curve, as such he only knows three spells he can use from memory.

1: Burning Palm - The palm of his hand heats to the temperature of a roaring flame, damaging others but not himself.

2: Stone Palm - His hand becomes coated in a thick layer of rock, becoming very heavy but very resistant to damage.

3: Charm - Can be used when touching someone, makes it significantly easier to persuade, though with this spell it is still impossible to persuade someone to do something they would never ordinarily do, such as persuading an innocent to murder. Also impossible to persuade someone who already hates Rayf or is distrustful of him.

4: Healing Hand - Can heal minor wounds and abrasions.

Something else?: Rayf is still an amateur at magic, as it stands. This stems from the late age his magic was discovered and his grandfather's senility, primarily. The tattoo on his left palm partially amplifies his magic, making it stronger than a typical palmcaster of his proficiency. Palmcasters (like magic in general) have very little solid information regarding them, it's believed it has something to do with how the magic travels through a person's body, a fundamental different nature to the process, a different path energy is set on.

His two surviving brothers are Arnold and Petyr, a mercenary and a Priest of the Moonlight-Goddess, respectively. They are both out of the country for different reasons at the moment, but they may return to Alcea one day.

Mass Effect: Spectre Strike Force

Attach an Eezo core and thrusters and he could be our ship! Stealth is good, but Space Thresher Maw? Forget about it.