The first day of class had been about as productive as expected: not in the slightest. A few hours of Fiddle's finite life wasted on listening to names she was going to forget by tomorrow and exchanging numbers with study partners she'd text maybe three times throughout the semester before never speaking to them again. For someone like her who seemed hardwired to crave excitement and action it would have been afternoon of Hell, save for three things: Turner, Basker and the bottle of Ambien hidden in her backpack. It had been child's play to slip a couple pills in her mouth while she reached for a pencil and nearly as easy to disguise the fact that she was anything but perfectly lucid. Practice made perfect in all things and Fidelity was by now an old pro at hiding her drug abuse.
Who'd suspect the intelligent, wealthy heiress with near perfect grades of carrying around a private pharmacy? Her identity in the halls of university was quiet, intelligent, well-adjusted while the one she slipped into during the ragers she organized was loud, wild and absolutely unhinged. The two were kept apart out of equal parts convenience and necessity, two masks custom made to hide their wearer's insecurities. It was healthier for her that way.
So Fiddle juggled the two of them throughout the day, taking what little notes were actually required while she buzzed along in private euphoria. Her dogs were the only ones who know something was off, staring up at her with those accusing eyes as they rested their snouts on her legs. If they could speak they would have been hissing at her for her stupidity no doubt. Or was she just hallucinating? It happened sometimes, little things appearing in the corner of her eye or subtle changes that only she noticed. Whatever. Whether or not her precious pups knew or cared didn't matter if they couldn't snitch on her.
Class was dismissed before she knew it, Fiddle waiting patiently for everyone to leave so she wouldn't hold up the queue. With her dogs forming a protective barrier and her cane making up for her injured leg the cripple managed a relatively brisk pace towards the exit, tap-tapping her way out her gate and towards the nearest convenience store. If she didn't at least pick up a few microwave dinners or a bag of chips or something she'd end up eating more cold cold pizza with a mug of stale beer and there was only so much of that the human body could take.
The mist had gone ignored at first, Fiddle having reluctantly made peace with London's horrid weather long ago. The slight stagger in her step was chalked up to the drug's affect on her already impaired motor control. But the changing of the sky? The way her guardians were swallowed by the fog and how each breath seemed to hurt her lungs? Those were much harder to explain.
You've finally lost it Fiddle.
It had to happen sometime. Really she was only surprised it had taken this long. At a complete loss as to what the hell she was supposed to do the American looked about helplessly, seizing on the sound of a voice. "I'm here! Hold on, I'll come to you." If she really had snapped she'd rather experience her psychosis with someone else, imaginary or otherwise. She raised her cane and took an experimental swipe at the wall of fog, noticing the wooden charms now tied to its handle. A pair of dogs, perfect matches for the ones that she had just lost. Sure, that made sense.
The fog began to clear, the cane stretching and distorting it like a stick through a cobweb. A few more swipes and there was almost a path, the final one revealing-
"Holy fucking shit."
Her last swing had been stopped short by a solid object, a creature that she had only ever seen in her dreams and drawings. Stand at eight or nine feet tall with huge wings folded over its musclebound arms the Mothman stared straight down at her with those huge red eyes. She was frozen in place, unable to even breath as the thing looked past her face and into her soul.
"Holy fucking shit." The words were breathless, Fiddle's head swimming as she tried to make sense of the thing that should not be. She collapsed barely managing to support herself on her one good knee as she got a good look at the talons on its feet. A single kick from those six inch skin-slicers and she would have been reduced to scraps of meat.
Against all reason, all sanity she reached out, daring to tap a trunk-like leg with her knuckles. Hard muscle was hidden by downy black fuzz, the Mothman apparently not minding her touch in the least. All it did was give those wings a flap, their sheer mass displacing tainted air and soupy fog alike.
Fiddle laughed. It was a high pitched and frantic sound, pulling what little air she had left from her lungs and expelling it in a wheezing cry. The tears in her eyes burned almost as bad as her lungs, vision going blurry as her mind temporarily shut down. The creature was nothing more than a black blob with crimson light emanating from it, the figure swaying as she struggled to keep from passing out on the spot.
What the actual fuck.
She had always known cryptids were out there. Just didn't expect to ever see one so close.
No matter how many times she edits her appearance some things remain forever nonhuman, but thankfully are easily hidden. Indigo eyes with a cat's vertical pupils are hidden by contacts, her flexible spine and floating collar bone only noticeable if one were to walk in on her squeezing into some tight space. Her ridiculously low heart rate (less than ten beats per minute) and ability to operate in low oxygen environments are essentially invisible under normal circumstances.
Age: She lost track of the exact number long before living memory but she's been kicking around since the creation of the universe.
Bio: Whatever name Lynx had gone by at the beginning of time, however she had carried herself, she had probably already been bored. Springing into existence at the dawn of the universe fully formed and ready to rumble she originally quite liked the powers that had been given to her. But when the novelty wore off it quickly became apparent just how unpleasant of a life she was going to have. The speed at which she processed information meant that the world was in a constant state of slow motion for her, every moment spent waiting an unbearable torment.
Any hobby or pastime would have all the enjoyment sucked out of it within weeks or days, the Custodian quickly dissembling the activity and piecing it back together thousands upon thousands of times. She bounced from job to job, serving as everything from professional chef to starship captain to doctor and leaving after a few years when it became unbearably mundane. She merely existed for millions of years, trapped in constant race for gratification and amusement.
When some of her brethren went rogue it blindingly obvious that it wouldn't go well for them. The majority of Custodians that had stayed loyal had literal God on their side, only an idiot would have taken those odds. But fighting a doomed war followed by bitter defeat sounded more interesting than curbstomping a few rebels so of course she picked the losing side. The war went about as well as expected, she took out a few loyalists before getting booted out with the surviving rebels.
Historia made a decent place for a crash landing. The Custodian found herself among humanity, a race that measured up to hers about as well as ants did to them. But how interesting they were! Fragile and short-lived creatures they still dedicated themselves to climbing mountains and crossing barren deserts, just as willing to create beautiful (by their standards anyway) works of art as they were to form armies and raze each others homes to the ground. Irrational and hot-blooded, driven to prove that their lives had meaning even though the universe would have forgotten about them in a million years or two, they were simultaneously kind of pathetic and sort of inspiring in their stubbornness.
The Custodian was fascinated by them and wanted to get a closer look, so she began to disguise herself as members of their race. She spent time in the guise of queens, knights, artist, beggars, murderers, thieves and every archetype under the sun, poking at society to watch how it squirmed. She helped establish codes of law and then proceeded to break them to get a look at the prisoners suffering in salt mines, commissioned great works of art for museums and then joined barbaric hordes and stole them. She spent time living on the streets, watching the faces of those who'd give her a few coins and those who acted as if she didn't exist.
It was essentially an undercover investigative report. She learned just as much about humans watching them drag Descendants out of their beds as she did seeing them band together to recover from natural disasters. Over the millennia she built up a strangely patronizing affinity for them, regarding them as amusing animals that could do tricks.
Eventually she ended up in Hermannreich in the form of a gunrunner turned revolutionary, working with a cell of freedom fighters that sabotaged military installations and assassinated high value targets until they were wiped out by a surprise raid. The alien made her exit as her comrades were being lined up for summary execution, escaping to Iliad under the guise of a gunslinger and mechanic turned insurgent fleeing political persecution. With her billions of years worth of technological experience both human and otherwise it was easy enough to set up shop as a mechanic and machinists, getting herself a job as the shop teacher at Marduk. She got herself another position as a history instructor, firsthand knowledge of the world's major events coming in handy.
And so Instructor Lynx became a upstanding citizen of Iliad, wiling away the time grading essays and dismantling engine blocks as she waited for the inevitable need to drop everything and run.
Mundane Skills: Quite frankly her skillset is immense to the point of being too long to list. But for the sake of getting into character the Custodian limits herself to whatever her current identity would be good at. In Lynx's case her skill with firearms and melee combat is quite literally superhuman, at a level obtainable only through her natural powers and millennia of practice. She is a talented alchemist and machinist, modifying her gear and crafting different types of ammo for different types of targets,and has a penchant for explosives. Her careers of planning and foiling assassinations and robberies give her a good sense of small-scale tactics, her specialty being ambushes and smash-and-grab type operations. Stealth is a given, the alien just as quiet as her current namesake when she wants to be.
Powers: Supernatural Senses- Like her namesake Lynx relies on her senses to get an edge over her opponents. On a day to day basis her sense of smell is as good as a dog’s, counting individual threads on a person’s shirt from across the room and hearing each breath they take. She’s capable of much more when she focuses but limits this to avoid sensory overload.
The real advantage is her ability to detect magic. If you’re paying attention there’s certain giveaways inherent to arcane energy. A low hum of some great machine, a minuscule hint of copper on the tongue, a faint shimmer in the air.Lynx can pick up on these clues that others miss and follow them, seeing through illusions and trailing mages by traits specific to their spells.
Super-Speed- Good luck getting the draw on her. Lynx can move at about the speed of sound when running and hit Mach 2 if she were to sprint all out. Incredibly fast but also incredibly exhausting. Moving that fast for any longer than a few hours necessitates her to eat about half her weight to fuel the boost in metabolism so she tends to cruise at four hundred or five hundred miles an hour (when she's not forced to crawl along out of discretion.)
Enhanced Endurance- Moving twice as fast as sound requires a tough body. Lyxn is mostly unaffected by extreme speed or temperatures and needs only a few hours of sleep a week. Her stomach is strong enough that she can taste poisons to evaluate their strength, her skin shattering mundane weapons and deflecting some spells. Walls are no trouble, able to be smashed through with no adverse reaction.
Equipment :Krait- One of the first things she made after being so rudely ejected from the One's favor. The glove houses a container for storing all manner of liquids and a nozzle designed to eject it as an aerosol up to 15 feet. Typically loaded with various irritating agents or toxins.
Wife and Mother- A pair of matched revolvers that she took off a dying loyalist in the war in Heaven. Prime examples of Custodian engineering they generate the energy required to fire and are "reloaded" by letting the excess heat drain. The hammers can be fanned for rapid fire but doing so runs the risk of overheating them.
Starstrike- The usage of advanced Custodian materials allow the bow to be as strong as steel while remaining flexible, able to loaded with arrows of varying types. It's most valuable trait is its ability to absorb and charge arrows with starlight, the energy channeled into the tip to punch through armor and unleash a corona of searing light inside them.
Savagry-A tribute given to her during her days as warlord, Savagery is designed to hold under the extreme stresses of her usage, staying solid under forces and temperatures that would reduce a normal dagger to slag.
Plasmids: Not actually part of a bacteria's cytoplasm but the combination of chemicals and computer input that let her change her face. A thoroughly unpleasant process that requires her to isolate for a week as her durable body slowly melts and reforms.
Tools- The selection of wrenches, hammers, drills, plasma cutters, and other tools she uses to fix machines and make bombs and arrowheads as well as the stockpile of materials for doing so. These range from sheets of metal waiting to be cut to old cars dumped out in her back yard and rusty weapons ready to be stripped for parts.
The Essentials- Cigars and her hip flask.
MAGs- An upgraded version of the Krait. Made with components from a crashed Custodian ship the Mobility Assistance Gloves serve a dual purpose. The first is to form a seemingly unbreakable bond with a surface to allow Lynx to make sudden stops while running and hang from buildings.
The second is to gather the kinetic energy produced by her movement and store it to be released as needed. This allows for movement in mid-air as well as adding substantial force to her blows.
Matriarch and Patriarch- Wife and Mother after being spruced up and getting their inner workings tweaked. Heat build up is now less of a problem and a "choke" has been added to allow for different shot patterns: a wide shotgun style spray, the normal shot that splashes against a target and a focused beam to punch through cover.
Personality: "Blessed" with otherworldly speed and the required reaction time to manage it every moment of everyday in Lynx's life is more or less a living hell. Her natural impatience combined with the fact that time appears to move much slower for her than it would anyone else means that she bounces around from distraction to distraction, spending scarcely a few minutes on anyone thing before moving to the next. Her self-restriction of her speed causes her to twitch and fiddle with coins and other small objects, a nervous tic she passes off as shell-shock.
While she understands the difference between right and wrong it doesn't really factor much into her daily life. She does what the current persona she's inhabiting would do whether that's building orphanages and going on one woman crusades to rescue kidnapping victims or earning a reputation as fearsome raider pillages villages for sport. The morality of an act is much less important to her than if its in-character or interesting.
"Lynx" is more or less a good person, an exiled freedom fighter turned mechanic and teacher. She pays her taxes, shows up to work on time and gives students the extra attention they require and always has customer's repaired items returned to them promptly. She has a poker game every Thursday, plays golf on weekends with friends from work or just around the neighborhood and generally presents as a good-natured veteran that is sometimes a bit off.
Faction (Marduk, Ishtar, or Cassandra Club when it's founded): Marduk for the time being, whatever seems interesting after that.
Are you a Descendant of the Illuminated Poet?: No
Important Relations: -Lilith: A pickpocket, beggar and all around street rat Lynx picked up off the street shortly after arriving in Iliad. In return for room and board she serves as Lynx's apprentice and errand-runner, working on orders that come in when her boss is out. -Ereden Helbrien : Four or five centuries ago the Helbriens slighted Lynx in some way she's now forgotten about. Since she was posing as stranger sorceress at the time she cursed the family so that every thirty years they would suffer tragedy, a promise she has been making good on since then because it's mildly funny. Much to her delight a couple of their number brought their family to Iliad in an attempt to escape the curse and now the son is one of her top students.
Ereden is studious, serious and determined so it was no surprise to Lynx that much of his studies were devoted curses and how to break them. She hasn't decided if she'll let him succeed.
-Lieutenant Rin Mistold: An old poker buddy of Lynx's and higher up in the local law enforcement. In return for bringing the beer and snacks to their weekly games Lynx is more or less immune to the noise complaints sometimes generated by her late experimentation.
-Family: She lost track of how many spouses, flings and common law partners she's had over the years and doesn't much care to try and remember. None of them ever knew her true nature and she generally either waited for them to die before cutting ties with the family or simply disappeared from their lives. Her children were simply told their Custodial powers were their form of magic.
In total she's mothered (and fathered depending on her form at the time) hundreds of offspring and would have a truly incredible amount of descendants, not like most if any of them would know who she is.
An increase in rank hadn't meant the end of Ingran's normal duties, it had simply piled more on. The Tempestor Prime commanded some of the deadliest men and women the Imperium had to offer on missions too dangerous or high stakes for anyone else to handle but that didn't mean she had someone to take care of her gear for her. Each Scion was responsible for every item issued to them, the proper upkeep of which was as sacred a duty as any other. Everything from the Omnishield helms that allowed them to see in the dark and while floating in the vacuum of space to the Slate Monitrons displaying how close to death they were had required hours of training to use and maintain. She had earned the brands on her chest that gave her the right to wield them and to dishonor her efforts by passing the work off to an underling wouldn't have sat well with her or her troops.
So Isadora did what every Scion had to: disassemble and reassemble every bit of gear she had to make sure all was in working order. Her monoscope was the first to be inspected, its lenses carefully cleaned and the bulb inside checked for any dim spots. The Slate was up next, re-calibrated to sync up with her body's lifesigns so anyone could see her state of health. The Prime worked slowly, deliberately, the same way any good craftsman treated their tools. Her trade was in death and her instruments were designed to help her deal it but the same basic principles applied. Her equipment was kept clean because she respected it and she respected it because it allowed her to do her job.
The servitor's beep came just as she had ejected the hydrogen flask from her Plasma Pistol, Ingran ignoring it for the moment required to whisper the rites of handling. Any deviation from the litany would spell disaster, a second's impatience enough of an offense for the fuel to explode with the power of a sun. Only when the volatile fuel was set to rest did she turn towards the hologram of Hera, bowing her head in greeting.
The first objective was standard enough. Get boots on the ground and capture an enemy fortification for their own use and ensure that no one in the area was left alive in order to take it back. The same sort of mission she had taken part in and led dozens of times now. Isadora studied the map as her fellows were given their instructions, calculating the fastest routes to and from the estates and all the back alleys and choke points branching off of them. Hive cities were interesting, much more tightly compacted than some of the flat agri and feudal worlds she had been deployed to. Plenty of spots for ambushes and and counter-ambushes, windows for snipers to pop out of and sewers where scum could scurry about in safety.
So the Arbites, Assassins and Guard would be handling the estates? An interesting combination, one that would no doubt prove to be effective. Her fellow Progenium graduates were damn good at kicking in doors and what little she knew of the throat-slitters was enough for her to be confident in their abilities. The rank-and-file Militarum were valuable if only for sheer numbers, every lasgun fired at the enemy a hammer blow from all of humanity.
The Scion officer sent silent thanks to the Emperor that the Melta torpedoes were under someone else's jurisdiction. The digi-weapon version hidden in her metal middle finger was destructive enough for her to want to avoid being nearby when a stray shot set off something larger. Let the Mechanicus handle those, dangerous technology was their domain. She was much more comfortable with the work assigned to her and the Soritas, the eradication of the local lowlifes. "As you command Inquisitor so it will be done."
There was nothing else to say. The orders of the Inquisition required no explanation and allowed no questioning save that of clarification and Ingran wouldn't have thought to do so anyway, not when she still had maintenance to do. The sun gun was carefully pieced back together and its machine-spirit placated with prayers of function before she stepped out to relay the orders to her troops. There was no discussion as Strike Force Lambda filed into the Devourer that would ferry them to the surface of Yunnalin V, no sound except that of armaplas rubbing against ceramite and power packs being fitted into weaponry.
Fifteen of the Imperium's best being sent to deal with a bunch of slum-dwelling thugs? The gangers should have felt honored.
Faction Name: Tempestus Scions Force Name: Strike Force Lambda of the 11th Yunnalin Raptors Leader Name: Isadora Ingran Leader Bio: Ingran hadn't been lucky enough to join the Progenium when she was an infant. She was nearly ten when she learned about the death of her parents from the same man who was dragging her off to the Schola. The specifics of their deaths and any last words were superfluous details no one saw fit to provide. All that mattered was that they had been veterans of the Guard who had served with distinction on a number of worlds, and she was going to continue their legacy of obedience. The Schola Progenium was a sharp contrast from the home she had once known, her room more of a cell than living quarters and the staff more prison guards than caretakers.
It was in the Schola that the whelp learned that there was little difference between education and physical punishment. The Drill Abbots made sure she learned High Gothic as they barked orders, knocking her about with each misunderstood direction. It was the same way they taught her the tenets of the Imperial Creed and proper weapon maintenance and the seemingly thousands of little things that had to be done perfectly if she wanted to eat that night. A nasty existence for a child, but one so stritcly regimented that there was almost no time to think about it.
By the end of her first year she had more or less adjusted. The body and mind could only be broken so many times before it became routine, cracked ribs and crushed spirit a better outcome than what some of her peers experienced. Isadora was learning to duck when others froze up and got hit by stray Autogun rounds, to field strip and put back together all manner of weapons before the Abbot on duty kicked her in the ribs for being too slow. Without realizing it she was adapting to her surroundings, becoming used to both intense violence and study in equal measure. No day was ever easy but neither did she wake up each morning expecting not to come back to bed alive.
By fifteen Isadora was ready for almost challenge that could have been thrown her way. But the one thing she would never have been able to was the Correction Throne. The feeling of the needle jutting through her skull was one that would stay with her for the rest of her life as was the sensation of the dirus chemical coursing through her brain. Nearly every memory of her previous life was erased, scraped from her mind and replaced with unflinching loyalty to the Imperium.
As time passed it became clear that Ingran's talent were more in the field than in the Administratum or a convent somewhere, the student transferred into the Ordo Tempestus's advanced training. It was there that she learned the skills that would set her apart from the rank and file Militarum that her mostly forgotten parents had been part of. Orbital insertion, sabotage, long-range reconnaissance, and more were drilled to the point of perfection, Ingran and her fellow Scions being honed into knives designed to pierce the weak spots of any enemy.
Upon graduation she was inducted into the 11th Yunnalin Raptors, her first battlefield operation against a force of orks that had sprouted up on an agri-world. After a decade of some of the most intense training mankind had conceived the heat of battle felt just like home. Each mission she undertook was a chance to do what she was best at, purging xeno and heretic alike across dozens of planets.
As her unit lost troops and her service record grew Isadora naturally progressed through the ranks. The bloody fight against Dark Eldar raiders on a frozen death world that had cost her a finger was the same one that saw her reach the rank of Tempestor, and the raid against a den of heretics on a supposedly compliant Imperial world earned her that of Tempestor Prime.
Now just past thirty Ingran dedicates herself to the eradication of the enemies of humanity, hunting down high-value targets and eliminating nests of corruption. The call of an Inquisitor was not one to be ignored, the Tempestor Prime answering the summons with fourteen of her best troops.
Direct Superior: Troop Count: 15 Extraordinary Troops:
Tempestor Prime Isadora Ingran: If an Inquisitor is calling for help the situation requires the best of the best. The Tempestor Prime brings a level of skill and leadership unmatched by the troops under her command.
Field Chirurgeon Hadrian Julo: Carries the team's medical supplies at the expense of heavier weapons. Able to fight just as fiercely as any of his comrades his efforts are usually focused on getting the team and its allies back into the fight.
Tempestor Maren Calgar: Ingran's second in command, she typically serves as leader of a squad when the force is split.
Scion Nathaniel Legel: A veteran of the Tempestus Scions, Legel specializes in laying down suppressing fire. Carries the force's volley gun.
Scion Solon Thresas: While each Stormtrooper is able to strip, repair and replace every part of their personal equipment Solon works on the team's vehicles and any other machinery found in the field. Also carries the Vox-Caster used to coordinate with allied forces.
Scion Sym Latoria: One of the newer members of the team. Eager to prove herself she carries the plasma strike force's plasma gun.
Basic Equipment:
Tempestus Scions Carapace Armour
Omnishield Helm
Slate Monitron
Micro-Bead
Hotshot Lasgun
Combat Knife
Monoscope
Frag and Krak grenades
Extraordinary Equipment:
Martyr's Gift Field Service Medi-Kit: Carried by
x1 Power Sword and Bolt Pistol carried by the Tempestor Prime
x1 Melta Digi-Weapon built into the bionic knuckle of Ingran's right middle finger
x1 Hotshot Volley Gun carried by Scion Legel
x1 Plasma Gun carried by Scion Latoria
x1 Martyr's Gift Field Service Medi-Kit carried by Chirurgeon Julo
x1 Clarion Vox Array carried Scion Thresas
x2 Hotshot Laspistols carried by Julo and Thresas
x2 Taurox Primes equipped with battle cannons, twin autocannons and storm bolters.
Why Were They Selected: An Inquisitorial summons can't be brushed off with merely token support. Tempestor Prime Ingran trusts herself to handpick and lead troops worthy of the Inquisition.
Relationships:
- With Inquisitor Hera: "She's the one in charge. Do what she says when she says it and don't make her mad. For the duration of this operation we work for her." - With the Adeptus Arbites: "This kind of thing is their whole deal so pay attention. Watch what they do and how they do it, they know the hives better than us." - With the Adepta Sororitas: "Our sisters can be a bit overenthusiastic in the heat of things but it's always an honor to serve alongside the Daughters of the Emperor." - With the Adeptus Tempestus: "We're the best at what we do, that's why we're here. Make me proud." - With the Assassins: "I know almost nothing about them and what I do know I don't like. Keep an eye on them, assuming that's possible." - With the Astra Militarum: "Nowhere near as well equipped or trained as we are but still a very necessary component. They'll hold the line and soak up enemy fire so we have to space to do our job." - With the Skitarii: "They're more machine than they are people but they'll back us up just the same. Don't expect them to make much conversation with them."
Faction Name: Tempestus Scions Force Name: Strike Force Lambda of the 11th Yunnalin Raptors Leader Name: Isadora Ingran Leader Bio: Ingran hadn't been lucky enough to join the Progenium when she was an infant. She was nearly ten when she learned about the death of her parents from the same man who was dragging her off to the Schola. The specifics of their deaths and any last words were superfluous details no one saw fit to provide. All that mattered was that they had been veterans of the Guard who had served with distinction on a number of worlds, and she was going to continue their legacy of obedience. The Schola Progenium was a sharp contrast from the home she had once known, her room more of a cell than living quarters and the staff more prison guards than caretakers.
It was in the Schola that the whelp learned that there was little difference between education and physical punishment. The Drill Abbots made sure she learned High Gothic as they barked orders, knocking her about with each misunderstood direction. It was the same way they taught her the tenets of the Imperial Creed and proper weapon maintenance and the seemingly thousands of little things that had to be done perfectly if she wanted to eat that night. A nasty existence for a child, but one so stritcly regimented that there was almost no time to think about it.
By the end of her first year she had more or less adjusted. The body and mind could only be broken so many times before it became routine, cracked ribs and crushed spirit a better outcome than what some of her peers experienced. Isadora was learning to duck when others froze up and got hit by stray Autogun rounds, to field strip and put back together all manner of weapons before the Abbot on duty kicked her in the ribs for being too slow. Without realizing it she was adapting to her surroundings, becoming used to both intense violence and study in equal measure. No day was ever easy but neither did she wake up each morning expecting not to come back to bed alive.
By fifteen Isadora was ready for almost challenge that could have been thrown her way. But the one thing she would never have been able to was the Correction Throne. The feeling of the needle jutting through her skull was one that would stay with her for the rest of her life as was the sensation of the dirus chemical coursing through her brain. Nearly every memory of her previous life was erased, scraped from her mind and replaced with unflinching loyalty to the Imperium.
As time passed it became clear that Ingran's talent were more in the field than in the Administratum or a convent somewhere, the student transferred into the Ordo Tempestus's advanced training. It was there that she learned the skills that would set her apart from the rank and file Militarum that her mostly forgotten parents had been part of. Orbital insertion, sabotage, long-range reconnaissance, and more were drilled to the point of perfection, Ingran and her fellow Scions being honed into knives designed to pierce the weak spots of any enemy.
Upon graduation she was inducted into the 11th Yunnalin Raptors, her first battlefield operation against a force of orks that had sprouted up on an agri-world. After a decade of some of the most intense training mankind had conceived the heat of battle felt just like home. Each mission she undertook was a chance to do what she was best at, purging xeno and heretic alike across dozens of planets.
As her unit lost troops and her service record grew Isadora naturally progressed through the ranks. The bloody fight against Dark Eldar raiders on a frozen death world that had cost her a finger was the same one that saw her reach the rank of Tempestor, and the raid against a den of heretics on a supposedly compliant Imperial world earned her that of Tempestor Prime.
Now just past thirty Ingran dedicates herself to the eradication of the enemies of humanity, hunting down high-value targets and eliminating nests of corruption. The call of an Inquisitor was not one to be ignored, the Tempestor Prime answering the summons with fourteen of her best troops.
Direct Superior: Troop Count: 15 Extraordinary Troops:
Tempestor Prime Isadora Ingran: If an Inquisitor is calling for help the situation requires the best of the best. The Tempestor Prime brings a level of skill and leadership unmatched by the troops under her command.
Field Chirurgeon Hadrian Julo: Carries the team's medical supplies at the expense of heavier weapons. Able to fight just as fiercely as any of his comrades his efforts are usually focused on getting the team and its allies back into the fight.
Tempestor Maren Calgar: Ingran's second in command, she typically serves as leader of a squad when the force is split.
Scion Nathaniel Legel: A veteran of the Tempestus Scions, Legel specializes in laying down suppressing fire. Carries the force's volley gun.
Scion Solon Thresas: While each Stormtrooper is able to strip, repair and replace every part of their personal equipment Solon works on the team's vehicles and any other machinery found in the field. Also carries the Vox-Caster used to coordinate with allied forces.
Scion Sym Latoria: One of the newer members of the team. Eager to prove herself she carries the plasma strike force's plasma gun.
Basic Equipment:
Tempestus Scions Carapace Armour
Omnishield Helm
Slate Monitron
Micro-Bead
Hotshot Lasgun
Combat Knife
Monoscope
Frag and Krak grenades
Extraordinary Equipment:
Martyr's Gift Field Service Medi-Kit: Carried by
x1 Power Sword and Bolt Pistol carried by the Tempestor Prime
x1 Melta Digi-Weapon built into the bionic knuckle of Ingran's right middle finger
x1 Hotshot Volley Gun carried by Scion Legel
x1 Plasma Gun carried by Scion Latoria
x1 Martyr's Gift Field Service Medi-Kit carried by Chirurgeon Julo
x1 Clarion Vox Array carried Scion Thresas
x2 Hotshot Laspistols carried by Julo and Thresas
x2 Taurox Primes equipped with battle cannons, twin autocannons and storm bolters.
Why Were They Selected: An Inquisitorial summons can't be brushed off with merely token support. Tempestor Prime Ingran trusts herself to handpick and lead troops worthy of the Inquisition.
Relationships:
- With Inquisitor Hera: "She's the one in charge. Do what she says when she says it and don't make her mad. For the duration of this operation we work for her." - With the Adeptus Arbites: "This kind of thing is their whole deal so pay attention. Watch what they do and how they do it, they know the hives better than us." - With the Adepta Sororitas: "Our sisters can be a bit overenthusiastic in the heat of things but it's always an honor to serve alongside the Daughters of the Emperor." - With the Adeptus Tempestus: "We're the best at what we do, that's why we're here. Make me proud." - With the Assassins: "I know almost nothing about them and what I do know I don't like. Keep an eye on them, assuming that's possible." - With the Astra Militarum: "Nowhere near as well equipped or trained as we are but still a very necessary component. They'll hold the line and soak up enemy fire so we have to space to do our job." - With the Skitarii: "They're more machine than they are people but they'll back us up just the same. Don't expect them to make much conversation with them."
At no point in her life had Dahlia ever expressed interest in music as a career. She had enjoyed plonking out little melodies on the grand piano in the hall and singing along as she did so but playing as a job? That would just make it work. But she had shown aptitude in it and in the Sangrey family that meant she had locked herself in. Around the same time her skin had turned blue and her feet morphed into hooves had started to grow from her scalp the little pseudo-demon was surrounded by the best instructors money could buy. Hours upon hours spent with vocalists, violinists, pianists, past and present professionals being paid hundreds of dollars per hour to turn Dahlia's hobby into her new way of life. Time not spent in school or other lessons was dedicated to practicing scales and studying music theory, writing and rewriting compositions that would never see the light of day.
Dozens of hours had blurred into hundreds and then thousands, Dahlia being molded into a master without her asking or consenting to process. There was no point in complaining about it. Her elders were as eldritch and immovable as the scarcely understood power that had marked her with golden eyes and heavy horns, she may as well have asked the rivers to unflood or a volcano to revert its eruption. It was better to accept it and move on as best she could, performing in concert halls and at events across Iliad. She sang with a smile, another crown jewel in the Sangrey's collection of cultured, intelligent future leaders.
So the Games were hardly even a change in schedule. Nergal had more or less demanded she be part of the team and so she was, armed with her bow and the ability to warp probability as needed. "Oh yes, very exciting. The same way jamming my tail in a socket would be." The spade tipped appendage had curled itself around leg, Dahlia's dry snark hiding the tension she always felt when her family's pride was on the line. "I should have asked you about outfits Helena, you're more familiar with this kind of show."
She had worn what she usually did performing. A cloak the same dark cobalt as her skin with a black dress covering to just above the hooves nervously kicking at the stage and arm length gloves, a veil with her horns poking through hiding all of her face from the audience. Save for her eyes of course. The gold was just bright enough to be seen through the material, dim lighthouse bulbs almost hidden by heavy fog. It was dramatic in the extreme but by design, playing up the inherent exotic mysteriousness of her "condition" and hiding the injuries and changes that would result from using her more powerful abilities for too long.
"If that's really how you think we should play it then I guess we have no choice."
A lie of course, lip service to an order she'd ignored at the first sign of trouble. If the amateurs across from them did better than expected there wasn't a chance Dahlia wouldn't cheat. A cruel though combined with a note or two from her violin could cause strings to snap and voices to crack awkwardly, instruments becoming untuned in a heartbeat. There was more riding on this than a couple of pages. She had family in the crowd who would be displeased in the extreme if she embarrassed them in front of the horde watching.
Despite Helena's naive adherence to the art it was nice to have another professional on her side. One of them really should have been handling vocals as well, hopefully the bundle of spikes and studs masquerading as a student knew what she was doing. "If you end up needing a break Vell give me a signal and I can sub in for you." The offer was out there for her to take up or reject as she saw fit. All Dahlia could now was wait for the start.
Faction Name: Tempestus Scions Force Name: Strike Force Lambda of the 11th Yunnalin Raptors Leader Name: Isadora Ingran Leader Bio: Ingran hadn't been lucky enough to join the Progenium when she was an infant. She was nearly ten when she learned about the death of her parents from the same man who was dragging her off to the Schola. The specifics of their deaths and any last words were superfluous details no one saw fit to provide. All that mattered was that they had been veterans of the Guard who had served with distinction on a number of worlds, and she was going to continue their legacy of obedience. The Schola Progenium was a sharp contrast from the home she had once known, her room more of a cell than living quarters and the staff more prison guards than caretakers.
It was in the Schola that the whelp learned that there was little difference between education and physical punishment. The Drill Abbots made sure she learned High Gothic as they barked orders, knocking her about with each misunderstood direction. It was the same way they taught her the tenets of the Imperial Creed and proper weapon maintenance and the seemingly thousands of little things that had to be done perfectly if she wanted to eat that night. A nasty existence for a child, but one so stritcly regimented that there was almost no time to think about it.
By the end of her first year she had more or less adjusted. The body and mind could only be broken so many times before it became routine, cracked ribs and crushed spirit a better outcome than what some of her peers experienced. Isadora was learning to duck when others froze up and got hit by stray Autogun rounds, to field strip and put back together all manner of weapons before the Abbot on duty kicked her in the ribs for being too slow. Without realizing it she was adapting to her surroundings, becoming used to both intense violence and study in equal measure. No day was ever easy but neither did she wake up each morning expecting not to come back to bed alive.
By fifteen Isadora was ready for almost challenge that could have been thrown her way. But the one thing she would never have been able to was the Correction Throne. The feeling of the needle jutting through her skull was one that would stay with her for the rest of her life as was the sensation of the dirus chemical coursing through her brain. Nearly every memory of her previous life was erased, scraped from her mind and replaced with unflinching loyalty to the Imperium.
As time passed it became clear that Ingran's talent were more in the field than in the Administratum or a convent somewhere, the student transferred into the Ordo Tempestus's advanced training. It was there that she learned the skills that would set her apart from the rank and file Militarum that her mostly forgotten parents had been part of. Orbital insertion, sabotage, long-range reconnaissance, and more were drilled to the point of perfection, Ingran and her fellow Scions being honed into knives designed to pierce the weak spots of any enemy.
Upon graduation she was inducted into the 11th Yunnalin Raptors, her first battlefield operation against a force of orks that had sprouted up on an agri-world. After a decade of some of the most intense training mankind had conceived the heat of battle felt just like home. Each mission she undertook was a chance to do what she was best at, purging xeno and heretic alike across dozens of planets.
As her unit lost troops and her service record grew Isadora naturally progressed through the ranks. The bloody fight against Dark Eldar raiders on a frozen death world that had cost her a finger was the same one that saw her reach the rank of Tempestor, and the raid against a den of heretics on a supposedly compliant Imperial world earned her that of Tempestor Prime.
Now just past thirty Ingran dedicates herself to the eradication of the enemies of humanity, hunting down high-value targets and eliminating nests of corruption. The call of an Inquisitor was not one to be ignored, the Tempestor Prime answering the summons with fourteen of her best troops.
Direct Superior: Troop Count: 15 Extraordinary Troops:
Tempestor Prime Isadora Ingran: If an Inquisitor is calling for help the situation requires the best of the best. The Tempestor Prime brings a level of skill and leadership unmatched by the troops under her command.
Field Chirurgeon Hadrian Julo: Carries the team's medical supplies at the expense of heavier weapons. Able to fight just as fiercely as any of his comrades his efforts are usually focused on getting the team and its allies back into the fight.
Tempestor Maren Calgar: Ingran's second in command, she typically serves as leader of a squad when the force is split.
Scion Nathaniel Legel: A veteran of the Tempestus Scions, Legel specializes in laying down suppressing fire. Carries the force's volley gun.
Scion Solon Thresas: While each Stormtrooper is able to strip, repair and replace every part of their personal equipment Solon works on the team's vehicles and any other machinery found in the field. Also carries the Vox-Caster used to coordinate with allied forces.
Scion Sym Latoria: One of the newer members of the team. Eager to prove herself she carries the plasma strike force's plasma gun.
Basic Equipment:
Tempestus Scions Carapace Armour
Omnishield Helm
Slate Monitron
Micro-Bead
Hotshot Lasgun
Combat Knife
Monoscope
Frag and Krak grenades
Extraordinary Equipment:
Martyr's Gift Field Service Medi-Kit: Carried by
x1 Power Sword and Bolt Pistol carried by the Tempestor Prime
x1 Melta Digi-Weapon built into the bionic knuckle of Ingran's right middle finger
x1 Hotshot Volley Gun carried by Scion Legel
x1 Plasma Gun carried by Scion Latoria
x1 Martyr's Gift Field Service Medi-Kit carried by Chirurgeon Julo
x1 Clarion Vox Array carried Scion Thresas
x2 Hotshot Laspistols carried by Julo and Thresas
x2 Taurox Primes equipped with battle cannons, twin autocannons and heavy stubbers.
Why Were They Selected: An Inquisitorial summons can't be brushed off with merely token support. Tempestor Prime Ingran trusts herself to handpick and lead troops worthy of the Inquisition.
Relationships:
- With Inquisitor Hera: "She's the one in charge. Do what she says when she says it and don't make her mad. For the duration of this operation we work for her." - With the Adeptus Arbites: "This kind of thing is their whole deal so pay attention. Watch what they do and how they do it, they know the hives better than us." - With the Adepta Sororitas: "Our sisters can be a bit overenthusiastic in the heat of things but it's always an honor to serve alongside the Daughters of the Emperor." - With the Adeptus Tempestus: "We're the best at what we do, that's why we're here. Make me proud." - With the Assassins: "I know almost nothing about them and what I do know I don't like. Keep an eye on them, assuming that's possible." - With the Astra Militarum: "Nowhere near as well equipped or trained as we are but still a very necessary component. They'll hold the line and soak up enemy fire so we have to space to do our job." - With the Skitarii: "They're more machine than they are people but they'll back us up just the same. Don't expect them to make much conversation with them."
Fidelity caught the discrete look up and down and returned it with one of her own, the hand not on her cane scratching under Basker's chin as she took in her fellow student. Shaggy blonde hair, loose-fitting shirt and dark jeans, he was good looking in a sort of grungy "I either don't care about my appearance or really care about looking like I don't" sort of way. Fiddle answered his question without hesitation or annoyance, so used to them that she didn't even have to stop giving him the once over to do it. Laurence. Solid name, simple without any attached gimmicks or obvious meaning behind it. Certainly nicer than the label she had been saddled with in an attempt to force her into picking up the trait.
The American didn't put much thought into her (admittedly pretty blunt) flirting. She called her new acquaintance handsome because she thought he was, sat down next to him because she wanted to rest her leg and felt like getting closer to him. There was no room in her mind to fill with worries about whether she was being too forward, the same compulsion to scream down freeways and burn through pill bottles kicking in under these much more mundane circumstances. So Fiddle made herself comfortable, shoulder just brushing against Laurence's. He was stammering now, tripping over his words in a way that made her smile sweetly. Maybe she'd be able to go to dinner or a movie or something with him instead of spending another night feeding her various addictions?
Or maybe he'd be scared off by the appearance of some blond bimbo too stupid to use a map. "Sure thing, I'm not going anywhere. Not too quickly anyway! It was self-deprecating laughter born out of a need to feel something other than annoyance, or else she was going to smack the interloper upside her thick head with her cane.
"Next time maybe look for people not in a conversation, or wait until they're finished?
She was struggling to keep her tone neutral, all sorts of colorful language barely restrained. Turner was the one thing keeping Fiddle from unleashing her true opinion about the idiot, the subtle tap-tap of her cane on the floor calling him over to rest his head in her lap. "We were kinda in the middle of something there.
Fiddle didn't actually say "You blind, deaf and dumb bitch." but it was certainly implied.
An image of the character could go here. Ensure this is heavily detailed as well in the appearance segment too.
Name Ikei Timoti
Gender Male
Age 25, January 27th, 1934
Sexuality Heterosexual
Nationality Kiwi
Appearance Description of how they look, physically as well as in their uniform. There are differentiation in the army's clothing when it comes to both their role and personality, meaning that some are easily identifiable based upon their additional adjustments to their uniform. Mention these as well.
Height 6'4"
Personality Ikei had planned to follow his grandfather's footsteps and become a doctor, probably getting a job at a large hospital in the city somewhere and becoming a respected surgeon. Instead he dropped out of medical school his second year and signed up to fight in Vietnam for the adventure. He hasn't looked back since. Military life is just as much a series of efforts to relive boredom as it strict discipline and combat and its there that he excels.
Rank Sargent
Role Combat Medic
Equipment -L1A1 Self-Loading Rifle: The standard issue rifle for New Zealand's troops in Vietnam. Preferred over the M16 for its increased stopping power and lack of mechanical issues. "Sweetheart" M1911: Bought off a GI for about fifteen dollars and a six pack. Ikei switched out his own L9 for it's stopping power, the grips didn't at all influence the decision. Honest. Medic's Kit: Carries bandages, sutures, antimalarials, bug spray morphine, splints and anything else a medic would conceivably need in some godforsaken jungle. Surgeon's Vibroknife: Designed to assist in both retrieval of wounded and in-field medical operations. The hypersonic vibrations allow the user to hack through vegetation and into downed vehicles before cracking open the patient's sternum or amputating their limbs.
Biography
Affiliations Who are they families, major friends or life-impacting individuals with prior to the war's beginning?
Relationships An optional segment that can be updated as it goes along, though most of the time this can just be merged into the affiliations tab.
Character Theme Not necessary, but can be used if wished.
Fiddle's alarm clock went ignored, its harsh beeping muffled by thick walls and her intense focus on the action happening on screen. Sleep, while certainly necessary, had seemed like a less productive use of time than online gambling. It had been maybe eight hours since she had started and in that time she had played approximately 800 hands (assuming she hadn't deviated too much from her hourly average of a hundred), winning just under half of them. She could have boosted this number of course using any number of the strategies peddled by supposed card sharks and numbers wizards but that would have diluted most of the fun.
Blackjack was a game of pure numbers, an example of random chance that had been carefully prodded at and quantified by centuries of experts. The odds were always the same each time you played: the house edge was about 2% (when she wasn't bothering with basic strategy of course) and she won about 48% of hands played. If she had been keeping track Fiddle would have found that of her 385 odd wins 19 of them would have been through being dealt a blackjack meaning that the remaining 366 were the result of standard hit-hit-stay play.
The money that won and lost (she just about broke even, having lost 4160 dollars and winning 3850 back) was entirely secondary. Fidelity got her rush just from experiencing the odds. If she had her way she would have spent another eight hours sitting there at her desk surrounded by empty energy drink cans and stale beers she had forgotten to finish. But while the incessant blaring of the mechanical clock could be ignored the two biological ones were much harder to brush off.
Turner and Basker, the best and brightest parts of her hectic and confusing life, had come to rescue their mistress from herself. There was nothing the little lady could do when her boys tugged her out of her seat except to reward them with pats on the head. "I know boys, I know. Breakfast time. They eat better than she did, the hounds devouring the steaks pulled out of the fridge for them while Fiddle contented herself with pain medication and cold pizza from the previous day.
Showering was the next step, an ordeal that required two stools. One was to sit on and the other to prop up her gimped leg. Back home her parents had one of the staff on hand to help her, an embarrassment that she was very much glad to be done with. All the babying and concern over her "disability" had been little more than an poor apology for their previous negligence. She had gotten along fine her whole life without them, she didn't need them to start paying attention while she scrubbed down.
Her body rinsed free of soap and her hair more or less combed she set about getting ready for the day, slipping on clothes, watch and leg brace and grabbing her bag. The alarm was finally silenced with a thwap of her cane, a short whistle calling her best boys over to be dressed in their little harnesses. The first time someone accused her of faking it had been enough to guarantee they would never go unemblazoned. With cigarette in mouth and keys in hand Fiddle slipped out of the penthouse inherited from her cousin, beelining for the stairs.
There was a much greater risk of her dying on the steps even if she hadn't been hobbling. The chance of an elevator suddenly collapsing was quite literally infinitesimal, a freak accident less likely than being struck by lighting and winning the lottery in the same day. Stairs on the other hand killed about a 12,000 people a year, of whom the majority had full mobility. The odds couldn't have been more lopsided and yet she still made the "wrong" choice every time. Stumbling down eleven flights seemed like less of a middle finger to the cosmos than riding up and down in the same little box that killed her cousin.
Descending was a deliberate process. Her cane never left the ground at the same time as her feet, keeping her grounded as her stronger leg touched the next step followed by the weaker. Once both were on the same level her stick could be moved ahead, the click of it against the stairs an auditory warning to anyone else insane enough to cling this far. Stronger, weaker, click. Stronger, weaker, click, all the way down.
And then once she was at ground level it was little more than a mile to Thame's Edge. Easy.
Not at all but Fiddle managed anyway. Her cane and her dogs made sure that no one got too close, giving her a solid circle of space to work with at all times. People tended to ignore her anyway thanks to the combination of her small stature and her obvious injury. Most people just scanned right over her and those that took a second look usually just wanted to gawk. Gawking was fine. She had been stared at and regarded as an object of curiosity ever since she had been chauffeured to little league games.
The cigarette was stubbed out against a wall and flicked into a trash can, Fidelity pushing open the doors to the university for her furry bodyguards before bringing up the rear. Honors Business, year three. Her last year of fucking about with no goals besides slow motion self-destruction, or at least fucking about with no goals while being funded by both parents. Once she had her degree she'd pick one of them to work for at random and likely never see the other again.
There was still time to kill before class and there wasn't really a better option than hunkering down in one of the common areas. She picked the closest one out of respect for her limited mobility, parking herself next to a much taller (who wasn't?) blond that she might have seen around before but wasn't going to rack her brains over.
"Howdy, how ya doing?"
With her light drawl and the way she rested her weight on her cane she could have been some Southern gentleman fresh off the plantation, a waved head signalling for the four hundred pounds of pup beside her to sit. Turner and Basker both looked up at the stranger as if sizing him, quietly panting as their mistress made small talk.
Chronic
Izurich
Noctis
JohnRoleplay
Hitman
Fetzen
Tortoise
Fish of Oblivion
Guardian Angel Haruki
