MachDhai
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MachDhai
by MachDhai Mon Jun 08, 2009 8:45 pm
Name: Bryce Karllandren.
Race: Human.
Age: 26.
Alignment: Good.
Hair Colour and Style: Short dirty blond.
Gender: Male.
Ht. & Wt.: 5'6", 170lbs.
Identifying Marks: A scattering of old war wounds, hidden under his clothes.
Background: Bryce is the last surviving member of a little-known Knighthood favoured by the young sons of Nobility. Oath bound to uphold their beliefs of honour and chivalry as only the young can, the group was well known for being well equiped but poorly trained, more prone to lounging and drinking then to actually righting the world's wrongs.
The Knights of the Dawn's reputation for harmless arrogance changed quickly with the onset of a brutal and grueling war between the Dales, a series of loosely related counties and city states that was their homeland, and the Imperial might of the Draggendan Empire. Absent from the crushing defeat of the Dale's combined armies in the first days of the war, they fought a long and grueling battle of attrition in which two thirds of their numbers lay dead amongst ten-fold their count at the Alganiase Ford, a natural choke point; their stand allowed the remnants of the Dale forces to escape and regroup.
Eventually over run, the surviving members began a series of daring and brutal raids, ambushes, and hit-and-run tactics that caused great distress and damage to the Imperial forces, earning the nickname of 'Ghosts of the Dawn', for they left no dead or wounded comrades behind, and grew quite skilled at hiding their tracks and masking their approach.
By the end of the war, the Dales had pushed the frontlines back to the original borders, and the Imperial forces were forced to sign a treaty as they in turn were invaded by other enemy states, bringing an end to the conflict. Now he travels the lands, seeking a purpose to his life or a good place to give his life to rejoin his friends in the after life.
Having ended the war at their own borders, the larger and more powerful Draggendan Empire painted their own beliefs onto the entire spirit of the war. Beyond the borders of the two regions, it is common belief that the Dales were the aggressors, that the Imperial forces attack had been brought on through treachery and underhanded raids by the weaker Dales. The Ghosts of the Dawn are not beloved war heroes, but rather the stuff of fireside stories the type told children by their mothers to keep them out of trouble.
Despite this, Bryce makes no effort of hiding his past, which often sees him run out of town, or at least shunned and distrusted for his 'war crimes.'
Pets: His warhorse, Longstep.
Special Abilities: None.
Weapons: Longbow, bastard sword.
Personality: Being the last survivor of what had once been a hundred-strong, close-knit circle of fellow Knights, Bryce is polite but distant. He`s confident, especially around women, but seems uninterested in settling down. His sole, unspoken purpose for his travels is simply to find a cause worthy enough to lay his life down for; he wishes to join his brothers in the afterlife, but does not want to go cheaply.
Appearance: Bryce has an air of importance and command about him, partly for his fine clothes and armour, his unwavering stare that expects no arguement, and his unmistakable confidence of movement and decision. Soft brown hair is in the traditional soldier's cut of an officer; long at the back, bound in a simple pony tail, trimmed short along the forehead and sides for comfort under a helmet. His skin is weathered and tanned from even his short years of campaining, but even the horrors of war haven't quite squashed his youth.
Tall and slender of build, he moves with the dangerous grace of an accomplished swordsman, hard blue eyes seeming able to pierce the heart of the most deplorable of men, seeming to judge and weigh them before oft dismissing them as nothing worthy his attention.
Race: Human.
Age: 26.
Alignment: Good.
Hair Colour and Style: Short dirty blond.
Gender: Male.
Ht. & Wt.: 5'6", 170lbs.
Identifying Marks: A scattering of old war wounds, hidden under his clothes.
Background: Bryce is the last surviving member of a little-known Knighthood favoured by the young sons of Nobility. Oath bound to uphold their beliefs of honour and chivalry as only the young can, the group was well known for being well equiped but poorly trained, more prone to lounging and drinking then to actually righting the world's wrongs.
The Knights of the Dawn's reputation for harmless arrogance changed quickly with the onset of a brutal and grueling war between the Dales, a series of loosely related counties and city states that was their homeland, and the Imperial might of the Draggendan Empire. Absent from the crushing defeat of the Dale's combined armies in the first days of the war, they fought a long and grueling battle of attrition in which two thirds of their numbers lay dead amongst ten-fold their count at the Alganiase Ford, a natural choke point; their stand allowed the remnants of the Dale forces to escape and regroup.
Eventually over run, the surviving members began a series of daring and brutal raids, ambushes, and hit-and-run tactics that caused great distress and damage to the Imperial forces, earning the nickname of 'Ghosts of the Dawn', for they left no dead or wounded comrades behind, and grew quite skilled at hiding their tracks and masking their approach.
By the end of the war, the Dales had pushed the frontlines back to the original borders, and the Imperial forces were forced to sign a treaty as they in turn were invaded by other enemy states, bringing an end to the conflict. Now he travels the lands, seeking a purpose to his life or a good place to give his life to rejoin his friends in the after life.
Having ended the war at their own borders, the larger and more powerful Draggendan Empire painted their own beliefs onto the entire spirit of the war. Beyond the borders of the two regions, it is common belief that the Dales were the aggressors, that the Imperial forces attack had been brought on through treachery and underhanded raids by the weaker Dales. The Ghosts of the Dawn are not beloved war heroes, but rather the stuff of fireside stories the type told children by their mothers to keep them out of trouble.
Despite this, Bryce makes no effort of hiding his past, which often sees him run out of town, or at least shunned and distrusted for his 'war crimes.'
Pets: His warhorse, Longstep.
Special Abilities: None.
Weapons: Longbow, bastard sword.
Personality: Being the last survivor of what had once been a hundred-strong, close-knit circle of fellow Knights, Bryce is polite but distant. He`s confident, especially around women, but seems uninterested in settling down. His sole, unspoken purpose for his travels is simply to find a cause worthy enough to lay his life down for; he wishes to join his brothers in the afterlife, but does not want to go cheaply.
Appearance: Bryce has an air of importance and command about him, partly for his fine clothes and armour, his unwavering stare that expects no arguement, and his unmistakable confidence of movement and decision. Soft brown hair is in the traditional soldier's cut of an officer; long at the back, bound in a simple pony tail, trimmed short along the forehead and sides for comfort under a helmet. His skin is weathered and tanned from even his short years of campaining, but even the horrors of war haven't quite squashed his youth.
Tall and slender of build, he moves with the dangerous grace of an accomplished swordsman, hard blue eyes seeming able to pierce the heart of the most deplorable of men, seeming to judge and weigh them before oft dismissing them as nothing worthy his attention.
MachDhai- Mist
- Join date : 2009-06-08
Posts : 62
Age : 41
Location : Edmonton, Alberta
Re: MachDhai
by MachDhai Wed Jun 10, 2009 2:26 pm
Name: Jim MachDhai
Race: Human, Mage
Age: 28
Alignment: Good. Mostly.
Hair Colour and Style: Brown, worn jagged and unkept as if he cut it himself with a knife.
Gender: Male
Ht. & Wt.: 6'1", 190lbs.
Identifying Marks: Four vicious scars over his ruined left eye socket. His remaining eye is a flat, shallow expanse of storm-cloud-like grey without pupil, leading some to believe he is blind.
Background: Jim was, once upon a time, just a simple student studying medicine and surgery in the city of Calgary, Alberta, Canada. That was a different life; back then he was shy and caring, planning on getting his degree and moving to Africa where doctors were desperately needed. He had a crush on a girl, he had parents and a social life, and couldn't have fought his way out of a wet paper bag. He was just a soft, normal, student. Brilliantly skilled, tied for top of his class by the girl he liked so much, with loving and succesful parents.
That was a different life time; his parents wouldn't have recognized their own son only eight years later. What had once been a slender and sheepish boy had grown into a bitter and jaded man, scarred both in body and mind from hard years facing the horrors of the real world. As far as they know, their son is dead; killed with many of his old friends in the university library. No bodies were ever found, only blood and ash and empty bullet casings.
Awakened even before that day, Jim has built a reputation for himself amongst the Traditions and some of the other factions of the world, most predominately in New York city. An Untraditioned Mage, known more often as an 'Orphen' to the Traditions, a Mage without a Cable or even formal training. Fearless, in part through brutally strong will and for the numbing effect of everything he has survived, rumours abound amongst the younger Mages of him killing Werewolves unarmed, facing down powerful vampires or hunting things that prowl the city streets. He's best known as a problem solver and trouble maker.
Pets: His Familiar 'Shadow', an albino ferret.
Special Abilities: He has a high degree of skill over Forces and Prime energies, anything from radio waves, sound and telekinetic manipulation, to influence over concepts and primal matrices. His magic does not come without a price; Reality is a stubborn mistress and does not appreciate being manipulated to the will of any one person. Modern concept and belief greatly hinters his abilities, and anything that would be deemed 'impossible' is eventually punished.
Weapons: A silver Klaive (sword) earned in a fight with a Werewolf, as well as various ill-begotten blades and guns when needed.
Personality: Bitter and jaded to the umpteenth degree; he often refuses to work with others, not trusting anyone to be able help. He insists to take any dangerous burden alone, always claiming anyone else involved would simply 'get in his way.' He has a heavy and brutally honest opinion of others, usually intended to scare them away. But, not so deep down, the caring boy he once was still lingers and is the real cause for his outward appearance; he doesn't like others getting hurt, all too willing to sacrifice himself to protect others, often going out of his way to help someone in need.
He is clearly self-destructive, pushing himself too hard and willingly throwing himself into dangerous situations without a thought of self preservation. His one eye, despite it's unsettling storm-like appearance, seems to carry a hint of deep hurt, earned over the years from various perceived or real failures starting back on his last day in university.
Appearance: Tall and solidly built, he often wears a battle-worn old brown leather aviator jacket, most of it overed in patches to cover holes or tears, and surgical grade stitching along the various cuts and rips. An astute eye would probably notice that much of the coat's damage hasn't come from usual wear-and-tear with marks that look suspiciously like they came from claw or tooth, bullet or flame.
His skin isn't much better; while able to heal his wounds, he leaves the scars as a reminder to himself of past weakness, to drive him to improve and work harder. His gaze is hard to meet for long, the weight of the world bearing heavily down upon him for all to see. He often seems exhausted, more often mentally then physically, the self-condemned stones on his shoulders weighing him down towards an undoubtably early and shallow grave.
Race: Human, Mage
Age: 28
Alignment: Good. Mostly.
Hair Colour and Style: Brown, worn jagged and unkept as if he cut it himself with a knife.
Gender: Male
Ht. & Wt.: 6'1", 190lbs.
Identifying Marks: Four vicious scars over his ruined left eye socket. His remaining eye is a flat, shallow expanse of storm-cloud-like grey without pupil, leading some to believe he is blind.
Background: Jim was, once upon a time, just a simple student studying medicine and surgery in the city of Calgary, Alberta, Canada. That was a different life; back then he was shy and caring, planning on getting his degree and moving to Africa where doctors were desperately needed. He had a crush on a girl, he had parents and a social life, and couldn't have fought his way out of a wet paper bag. He was just a soft, normal, student. Brilliantly skilled, tied for top of his class by the girl he liked so much, with loving and succesful parents.
That was a different life time; his parents wouldn't have recognized their own son only eight years later. What had once been a slender and sheepish boy had grown into a bitter and jaded man, scarred both in body and mind from hard years facing the horrors of the real world. As far as they know, their son is dead; killed with many of his old friends in the university library. No bodies were ever found, only blood and ash and empty bullet casings.
Awakened even before that day, Jim has built a reputation for himself amongst the Traditions and some of the other factions of the world, most predominately in New York city. An Untraditioned Mage, known more often as an 'Orphen' to the Traditions, a Mage without a Cable or even formal training. Fearless, in part through brutally strong will and for the numbing effect of everything he has survived, rumours abound amongst the younger Mages of him killing Werewolves unarmed, facing down powerful vampires or hunting things that prowl the city streets. He's best known as a problem solver and trouble maker.
Pets: His Familiar 'Shadow', an albino ferret.
Special Abilities: He has a high degree of skill over Forces and Prime energies, anything from radio waves, sound and telekinetic manipulation, to influence over concepts and primal matrices. His magic does not come without a price; Reality is a stubborn mistress and does not appreciate being manipulated to the will of any one person. Modern concept and belief greatly hinters his abilities, and anything that would be deemed 'impossible' is eventually punished.
Weapons: A silver Klaive (sword) earned in a fight with a Werewolf, as well as various ill-begotten blades and guns when needed.
Personality: Bitter and jaded to the umpteenth degree; he often refuses to work with others, not trusting anyone to be able help. He insists to take any dangerous burden alone, always claiming anyone else involved would simply 'get in his way.' He has a heavy and brutally honest opinion of others, usually intended to scare them away. But, not so deep down, the caring boy he once was still lingers and is the real cause for his outward appearance; he doesn't like others getting hurt, all too willing to sacrifice himself to protect others, often going out of his way to help someone in need.
He is clearly self-destructive, pushing himself too hard and willingly throwing himself into dangerous situations without a thought of self preservation. His one eye, despite it's unsettling storm-like appearance, seems to carry a hint of deep hurt, earned over the years from various perceived or real failures starting back on his last day in university.
Appearance: Tall and solidly built, he often wears a battle-worn old brown leather aviator jacket, most of it overed in patches to cover holes or tears, and surgical grade stitching along the various cuts and rips. An astute eye would probably notice that much of the coat's damage hasn't come from usual wear-and-tear with marks that look suspiciously like they came from claw or tooth, bullet or flame.
His skin isn't much better; while able to heal his wounds, he leaves the scars as a reminder to himself of past weakness, to drive him to improve and work harder. His gaze is hard to meet for long, the weight of the world bearing heavily down upon him for all to see. He often seems exhausted, more often mentally then physically, the self-condemned stones on his shoulders weighing him down towards an undoubtably early and shallow grave.
MachDhai- Mist
- Join date : 2009-06-08
Posts : 62
Age : 41
Location : Edmonton, Alberta
Re: MachDhai
by MachDhai Wed Jun 10, 2009 5:25 pm
-Wheel of Time-
Name: Byron Gaidin
Age: 27
Nationality: Andoran
Hair Colour and Style: Soft black, worn in a simple pony tail down to mid-back.
Gender: Male.
Ht. & Wt.: 5'10", 160lbs.
Identifying Marks: Penchant for fine clothes, mischevious smiles.
Background: Byron fills an odd niche amongst his fellow Gaiden. Perhaps not quite as skilled as the next in battle, his true worth as a Warder is his ability to get into nearly anywhere without undue difficulty. From infiltration and stealth, to bluff and charisma, he makes a grand spy and can even disarm tense situations well enough with a quick wit. While he excels in urban stealth and social situations, he’s a fair hand in the woods as well, with tracking and survival.
He has recently returned to the Tower after nearly a year of penance. Being a bit too comfortable with the ladies, he had caused a bit of trouble locally and it had been decided he needed to spend some time away, where he could learn to curb his easy going nature. The exact terms of his penance aren’t publicly known, but it can be easily assumed he went somewhere there aren’t many women. In actuality, his unique abilities were put to use in Lugard, where he had been causing all sorts of trouble, encouraging alliances between Houses and merchants, in an attempt to stabilize the ‘country.'
Exactly how and why he ended up training in the Tower had always been a matter of speculation. He was no son of an important family, there was no interested Tower recruiter...he just showed up one day as a boy and signed up. No possessions to his name; no name even to speak of. Just Byron, from 'near Caemlyn.' He could hardly write his own name, having signed with an 'X' on his first day. But even with the curious scars on his back, hints of a haunted past, the boy had been full of life and easy going, standing out from the other Warders in Training for his penchant for practical jokes and ability of shirking duties and sneaking off with a Novice or Accepted. Most oddly though, those few times he was ever caught with one of the girls, they were never really doing anything...a game of stones, discussing books. He would seemingly adapt to whatever their favorite topic might be, apparently happy to just ease their stress with a friendly game or discussion with no underhanded goals in mind.
Weapons: A decent enough hand with a sword and bow, he's much better with short spear and crossbow, with a penchant for daggers and a more fluid, less dangerous seeming hand-to-hand style then what is favored by the Aiel.
Special Abilities: Diplomacy and misdirection, inpersonation and lip reading, poisons and stealth. A veritable Jake of All Trades, master of a few. Often thought to be some sort of Gleeman without his cloak, or a Noble without an entourage...even a bumbling village idiot or drunkard. Whatever the situation might need.
Personality: Byron has a remarkably easy going nature despite his years of vigorous training as a Warder. Where so many came through with the personality of jagged bricks, he emerged much as he had when he entered. He seems the classic womanizer, who enjoys dancing and carousing in taverns, but he does have a serious side to him when it’s needed. Fond of a game of dice or cards, a few too many drinks at the local tavern, or a comical story most would have found too embarrising to share, he's the type that's easy to get along with.
Appearance: Boyishly handsome and always smiling, he has soft brown eyes and well kept long black hair worn in a simple ponytail reaching to mid back. He favours fine clothes, usually in dark colours which help define his physique. Supple leather boots that reach half way to his knee, the tops folded out to reveal a softer brown interior, with snug fitting breeches that do well to show off the turn of his calf and well defined legs. A simple white tunic, unlaced from mid chest to neck, and a simple black coat that is rarely ever buttoned up. Soft blue eyes, well offset by his dark clothes and hair, and a simple, if often unkept, goatee.
Name: Byron Gaidin
Age: 27
Nationality: Andoran
Hair Colour and Style: Soft black, worn in a simple pony tail down to mid-back.
Gender: Male.
Ht. & Wt.: 5'10", 160lbs.
Identifying Marks: Penchant for fine clothes, mischevious smiles.
Background: Byron fills an odd niche amongst his fellow Gaiden. Perhaps not quite as skilled as the next in battle, his true worth as a Warder is his ability to get into nearly anywhere without undue difficulty. From infiltration and stealth, to bluff and charisma, he makes a grand spy and can even disarm tense situations well enough with a quick wit. While he excels in urban stealth and social situations, he’s a fair hand in the woods as well, with tracking and survival.
He has recently returned to the Tower after nearly a year of penance. Being a bit too comfortable with the ladies, he had caused a bit of trouble locally and it had been decided he needed to spend some time away, where he could learn to curb his easy going nature. The exact terms of his penance aren’t publicly known, but it can be easily assumed he went somewhere there aren’t many women. In actuality, his unique abilities were put to use in Lugard, where he had been causing all sorts of trouble, encouraging alliances between Houses and merchants, in an attempt to stabilize the ‘country.'
Exactly how and why he ended up training in the Tower had always been a matter of speculation. He was no son of an important family, there was no interested Tower recruiter...he just showed up one day as a boy and signed up. No possessions to his name; no name even to speak of. Just Byron, from 'near Caemlyn.' He could hardly write his own name, having signed with an 'X' on his first day. But even with the curious scars on his back, hints of a haunted past, the boy had been full of life and easy going, standing out from the other Warders in Training for his penchant for practical jokes and ability of shirking duties and sneaking off with a Novice or Accepted. Most oddly though, those few times he was ever caught with one of the girls, they were never really doing anything...a game of stones, discussing books. He would seemingly adapt to whatever their favorite topic might be, apparently happy to just ease their stress with a friendly game or discussion with no underhanded goals in mind.
Weapons: A decent enough hand with a sword and bow, he's much better with short spear and crossbow, with a penchant for daggers and a more fluid, less dangerous seeming hand-to-hand style then what is favored by the Aiel.
Special Abilities: Diplomacy and misdirection, inpersonation and lip reading, poisons and stealth. A veritable Jake of All Trades, master of a few. Often thought to be some sort of Gleeman without his cloak, or a Noble without an entourage...even a bumbling village idiot or drunkard. Whatever the situation might need.
Personality: Byron has a remarkably easy going nature despite his years of vigorous training as a Warder. Where so many came through with the personality of jagged bricks, he emerged much as he had when he entered. He seems the classic womanizer, who enjoys dancing and carousing in taverns, but he does have a serious side to him when it’s needed. Fond of a game of dice or cards, a few too many drinks at the local tavern, or a comical story most would have found too embarrising to share, he's the type that's easy to get along with.
Appearance: Boyishly handsome and always smiling, he has soft brown eyes and well kept long black hair worn in a simple ponytail reaching to mid back. He favours fine clothes, usually in dark colours which help define his physique. Supple leather boots that reach half way to his knee, the tops folded out to reveal a softer brown interior, with snug fitting breeches that do well to show off the turn of his calf and well defined legs. A simple white tunic, unlaced from mid chest to neck, and a simple black coat that is rarely ever buttoned up. Soft blue eyes, well offset by his dark clothes and hair, and a simple, if often unkept, goatee.
MachDhai- Mist
- Join date : 2009-06-08
Posts : 62
Age : 41
Location : Edmonton, Alberta
Re: MachDhai
by MachDhai Wed Jun 10, 2009 5:38 pm
-Warhammer 40,000-
Name: Trooper Constantine Nichodemus.
Race: Human, Cadian.
Age: 19.
Alignment: Good.
Gender: Male.
Hair Colour and Eyes: Buzz-cut brown hair, with dark green eyes.
Ht. & Wt.: 5’8”, 170lbs.
Identifying Marks: Surprisingly grizzled, veteran look about him.
General Appearance: At first glance, he seems just like your average Guardsmen. Until one notices the tattoo along his left eyebrow, Eldar runes. The branded symbol on his right wrist, a symbol of brotherhood amongst Orcs. And the Imperial barcode on the back of his neck, marking him the henchman of an Inquisitor, which had a line branded through it. His right shoulder pad is a bony plate from a tyranid, a similar plate on his right thigh for added protection. He wears standard pattern Cadian flak armour, with a dark green uniform, marked with the single chevron of a senior trooper.
Background: For someone so young, he’s seen it all. Genestealers in the Gryphon planetary belt. Daemons and traitor legions at the Cadian Gate. Ork raiders in the Ultima Segmentum. Necrons, Eldar and their dark cousins, and had even crossed bayonets with fellow Guardsmen on various rebelling planets. His career started in the conscript platoons at the Cadian Gate at the age of ten. And then he had found his way into the employ of an Inquisitor for the next seven years. When the Inquisitor finally died, preventing the summoning of a greater deamon on some nameless, obscure planet, he had found his way back into the ranks of the Guard. He served briefly in a mixed regiment formed to deal with an Ork Waaagh! that threatened to spill over into Imperial space along the Tau border, he was finally released from service and awarded Pilgrim-rights to wander as he saw fit. Since most of his kit was brought with him from his time as a Henchmen, he was discharged with his belongings, turning in only spare uniforms and a few odds and ends.
Pets: Worg. An intelligent wolf-like creature the size of a large dog that he found on a backwater planet as a pup one day, that has stuck with him ever sense. Thanks to it’s fierce loyalty, he’s found himself shafted with the position of forwards scout/tracker, landing him in the thick of things without support. He’s lovingly named it ‘damn mutt.’ Or just ‘Mutt’ for short.
Special Abilities: Exceptionally well trained and strong willed. Resourceful, and an amazing knack to ‘find’ just what he needs whenever he needs it. Regiments he serves in have an unusually high number of Lost Kit reports filed by officers. Qualified on any Imperial vehicle and most single pilot space craft and gun ships. And damn fine on a horse, to boot. He's learned a trick or two from his time as an Inquisitorial Henchman, in matters of deceit and manipulation; something that's kept him from being executed by more dire and serious Commisars that he's slighted and annoyed these past few years.
Weapons: C42-S Cadian Longbarrel rifle. Autopistol with extended clip. Dark Eldar duelling knife.
Personality: Bitter and jaded to the life of an Imperial Guardsman, Johnson’s 9 years of service have awakened him to many strange realizations of the universe around him. The unfathomable corruption of Chaos and it’s ability to touch anyone not withstanding, he’s learned that not all horrible xenos are evil and bent on the total destruction of mankind. Two weeks spent surviving on a Deathworld with a trio of Eldar aspect warriors. A drinking contest with an Orc when both their patrols had wiped each other out. A long conversation with a dying Dark Eldar Witch aboard a troop transport in an isolated section of the ship thanks to compartnment depressurization and hull breaches. He’s more open to xenos then most Guardsmen, not as closed minded.
Name: Trooper Constantine Nichodemus.
Race: Human, Cadian.
Age: 19.
Alignment: Good.
Gender: Male.
Hair Colour and Eyes: Buzz-cut brown hair, with dark green eyes.
Ht. & Wt.: 5’8”, 170lbs.
Identifying Marks: Surprisingly grizzled, veteran look about him.
General Appearance: At first glance, he seems just like your average Guardsmen. Until one notices the tattoo along his left eyebrow, Eldar runes. The branded symbol on his right wrist, a symbol of brotherhood amongst Orcs. And the Imperial barcode on the back of his neck, marking him the henchman of an Inquisitor, which had a line branded through it. His right shoulder pad is a bony plate from a tyranid, a similar plate on his right thigh for added protection. He wears standard pattern Cadian flak armour, with a dark green uniform, marked with the single chevron of a senior trooper.
Background: For someone so young, he’s seen it all. Genestealers in the Gryphon planetary belt. Daemons and traitor legions at the Cadian Gate. Ork raiders in the Ultima Segmentum. Necrons, Eldar and their dark cousins, and had even crossed bayonets with fellow Guardsmen on various rebelling planets. His career started in the conscript platoons at the Cadian Gate at the age of ten. And then he had found his way into the employ of an Inquisitor for the next seven years. When the Inquisitor finally died, preventing the summoning of a greater deamon on some nameless, obscure planet, he had found his way back into the ranks of the Guard. He served briefly in a mixed regiment formed to deal with an Ork Waaagh! that threatened to spill over into Imperial space along the Tau border, he was finally released from service and awarded Pilgrim-rights to wander as he saw fit. Since most of his kit was brought with him from his time as a Henchmen, he was discharged with his belongings, turning in only spare uniforms and a few odds and ends.
Pets: Worg. An intelligent wolf-like creature the size of a large dog that he found on a backwater planet as a pup one day, that has stuck with him ever sense. Thanks to it’s fierce loyalty, he’s found himself shafted with the position of forwards scout/tracker, landing him in the thick of things without support. He’s lovingly named it ‘damn mutt.’ Or just ‘Mutt’ for short.
Special Abilities: Exceptionally well trained and strong willed. Resourceful, and an amazing knack to ‘find’ just what he needs whenever he needs it. Regiments he serves in have an unusually high number of Lost Kit reports filed by officers. Qualified on any Imperial vehicle and most single pilot space craft and gun ships. And damn fine on a horse, to boot. He's learned a trick or two from his time as an Inquisitorial Henchman, in matters of deceit and manipulation; something that's kept him from being executed by more dire and serious Commisars that he's slighted and annoyed these past few years.
Weapons: C42-S Cadian Longbarrel rifle. Autopistol with extended clip. Dark Eldar duelling knife.
Personality: Bitter and jaded to the life of an Imperial Guardsman, Johnson’s 9 years of service have awakened him to many strange realizations of the universe around him. The unfathomable corruption of Chaos and it’s ability to touch anyone not withstanding, he’s learned that not all horrible xenos are evil and bent on the total destruction of mankind. Two weeks spent surviving on a Deathworld with a trio of Eldar aspect warriors. A drinking contest with an Orc when both their patrols had wiped each other out. A long conversation with a dying Dark Eldar Witch aboard a troop transport in an isolated section of the ship thanks to compartnment depressurization and hull breaches. He’s more open to xenos then most Guardsmen, not as closed minded.
MachDhai- Mist
- Join date : 2009-06-08
Posts : 62
Age : 41
Location : Edmonton, Alberta
Re: MachDhai
by MachDhai Wed Jun 17, 2009 6:48 pm
--Sci-Fi--
Name: Sergeant Alexander Wolffe
Race: Human
Age: 23
Alignment: Good
Gender: Male
Hair and Eye Colour: Brown buzz-cut hair, dark green eyes.
Ht. and Wt.: 5'10", 180lbs
Identifying Marks: Shrapnel scars on his left cheek.
General Appearance: Aged beyond his years, Alex already has grey hair coming in, barely noticeable thanks to the standard buzzcut he sports. His gaze is intense when in action, and weighed down with the weight of the world when off duty.
Background: Alex is a veteran of the Titan Wars, a rebellion of the colonies on the moon of Titan. Millions of colonists had taken up war against the Terran Government, the planetary garrison siding near to a man with the colonists. The battle had been long and bloody, starting with the fiasco of the Orbital Drops of day 1, where some 70,000 Marines had been dropped directly into the capital city of Novus Spes under cover of night. Thousands were dead before they hit the ground, lost to intense anti-air fire. And nearly half those that survived to the ground were turn coats, siding with the colonists.
It was the first major war of last two centuries; the occasional revolt, easily put down by planetary garrison forces, a failed government coup nearly a hundred years previous. War had been a thing of the past for most people, forgotten and ignored. The war on Titan was heavily televised, broadcasted through out the solar system and heavily slandered against the Marines. Video photage was often leaked of Marines firing on unarmed civilians, casualty reports were exagerated and the government often labelled as a totalitarian or militaristic regime.
Civillian support for the war was nearly non existant; terrorist attacks on military targets spanned the solar system, even on Earth. With the brunt of the fleet tied up in a blockade of Titan, trying to keep outlaws from bringing in more fighters and supplies, pirate activity had increased throughout the system, preying on troop transports and merchant vessels alike. This only continued to inflame the outcry against the government and military; the loss of a cruise ship near Pluto to pirates held the headlines for weeks and inflamed greater outcry.
The government had been forced to turn to conscription early in the war, as casualties were high. The conscripts ages ranged more and more with each year as literally millions of government troops were lost in the grim fighting on Titan and throughout the system. Anger bubbled higher and higher. The war dragged on for four years, and by the end the entire solar system had felt it dearly; government offices and military targets bombed, assassinations of government officials and even soldiers on leave targetted and attacked.
The truth of the war is known to only a very select few; even the majority of the troops on the ground have no idea what is really going on on Titan. The rebellion had been caused by an alien influence; an insidious relic found far below the planet's surface. Psychic beings of terrifying power were released and bent their attention to enslaving mankind. Few are immune to their powers, and most give in almost immediatly or simply go insane from their manipulations.
Special Abilities: Immunity to psychic manipulation.
Weapons: 17mm Charge Rifle (caseless, electro-magnetically fired ammunition)
Personality: Alex is one of the few who knows the truth of the Titan Wars. The knowledge is a double-edged sword; with it he can keep his sanity in the horrors of the war, driven towards the greater goal of beating the aliens without being bogged down by the things he has seen and done. With that in mind, he seems to have no trepidations of shooting turn-coats and affected civilians, earning him a dark, but efficient, reputation.
When on active duty he is intense; a real go-go-go individual. Run, don't walk. Walk if you can't run, crawl if you can't walk. He will often take the brunt of the risks, either not trusting his squad mates to do things right, or simply not trusting them not to turn on him first chance they get. He rarely seems to sleep when in the field, often going so far as to take stimulants to keep himself going for a few extra hours. When off duty, all the energy seems to drain out of him, the burden of the things he has done catching up with him. He has trouble sleeping, often relying on pills to help him get through the night.
Name: Sergeant Alexander Wolffe
Race: Human
Age: 23
Alignment: Good
Gender: Male
Hair and Eye Colour: Brown buzz-cut hair, dark green eyes.
Ht. and Wt.: 5'10", 180lbs
Identifying Marks: Shrapnel scars on his left cheek.
General Appearance: Aged beyond his years, Alex already has grey hair coming in, barely noticeable thanks to the standard buzzcut he sports. His gaze is intense when in action, and weighed down with the weight of the world when off duty.
Background: Alex is a veteran of the Titan Wars, a rebellion of the colonies on the moon of Titan. Millions of colonists had taken up war against the Terran Government, the planetary garrison siding near to a man with the colonists. The battle had been long and bloody, starting with the fiasco of the Orbital Drops of day 1, where some 70,000 Marines had been dropped directly into the capital city of Novus Spes under cover of night. Thousands were dead before they hit the ground, lost to intense anti-air fire. And nearly half those that survived to the ground were turn coats, siding with the colonists.
It was the first major war of last two centuries; the occasional revolt, easily put down by planetary garrison forces, a failed government coup nearly a hundred years previous. War had been a thing of the past for most people, forgotten and ignored. The war on Titan was heavily televised, broadcasted through out the solar system and heavily slandered against the Marines. Video photage was often leaked of Marines firing on unarmed civilians, casualty reports were exagerated and the government often labelled as a totalitarian or militaristic regime.
Civillian support for the war was nearly non existant; terrorist attacks on military targets spanned the solar system, even on Earth. With the brunt of the fleet tied up in a blockade of Titan, trying to keep outlaws from bringing in more fighters and supplies, pirate activity had increased throughout the system, preying on troop transports and merchant vessels alike. This only continued to inflame the outcry against the government and military; the loss of a cruise ship near Pluto to pirates held the headlines for weeks and inflamed greater outcry.
The government had been forced to turn to conscription early in the war, as casualties were high. The conscripts ages ranged more and more with each year as literally millions of government troops were lost in the grim fighting on Titan and throughout the system. Anger bubbled higher and higher. The war dragged on for four years, and by the end the entire solar system had felt it dearly; government offices and military targets bombed, assassinations of government officials and even soldiers on leave targetted and attacked.
The truth of the war is known to only a very select few; even the majority of the troops on the ground have no idea what is really going on on Titan. The rebellion had been caused by an alien influence; an insidious relic found far below the planet's surface. Psychic beings of terrifying power were released and bent their attention to enslaving mankind. Few are immune to their powers, and most give in almost immediatly or simply go insane from their manipulations.
Special Abilities: Immunity to psychic manipulation.
Weapons: 17mm Charge Rifle (caseless, electro-magnetically fired ammunition)
Personality: Alex is one of the few who knows the truth of the Titan Wars. The knowledge is a double-edged sword; with it he can keep his sanity in the horrors of the war, driven towards the greater goal of beating the aliens without being bogged down by the things he has seen and done. With that in mind, he seems to have no trepidations of shooting turn-coats and affected civilians, earning him a dark, but efficient, reputation.
When on active duty he is intense; a real go-go-go individual. Run, don't walk. Walk if you can't run, crawl if you can't walk. He will often take the brunt of the risks, either not trusting his squad mates to do things right, or simply not trusting them not to turn on him first chance they get. He rarely seems to sleep when in the field, often going so far as to take stimulants to keep himself going for a few extra hours. When off duty, all the energy seems to drain out of him, the burden of the things he has done catching up with him. He has trouble sleeping, often relying on pills to help him get through the night.
MachDhai- Mist
- Join date : 2009-06-08
Posts : 62
Age : 41
Location : Edmonton, Alberta
Re: MachDhai
by MachDhai Thu Jul 30, 2009 2:22 pm
Name: Michael Hunt / Runs in the Nights Shadows / Runsin
Species: Werewolf, Wolf Born
Age: Appears 28.
Gender: Male.
Wolf-Form: Nearly four feet at the shoulder and nine feet from nose to hips, Michael’s preferred form is a massive wolf covered in thick black fur streaked with the grey of age. Once fierce yellow eyes are tempered with the wisdom of age and the hint of deep sorrow that only faded in a fight.
Human Form: The few times he had to actually don his human form, he has taken to a rather outdoorsy style of dress. A stout pair of boots and old-school olive drab combat pants. A snug fitting white t-shirt under a usually open black and red plaid flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled up past his elbows. Although he hardly looked more then his late twenties, his skin held the deep weathered tan of a man who had been bare to the elements for much longer. Once jet black hair is now touched with grey at the temples worn in a simple pony tail to just past his shoulders and held in place by a time-worn strip of leather.
Background: Once upon a time, Michael had a Mate and even a child. There was a pack and a home, and things had been everything his kind could wish for. Nearly fifty years later, he still couldn’t sort out exactly what had gone wrong. His Mate had turned on them, betrayed the back. His son had died, his friends and family all gone in one night. It took more then a year to hunt his Mate down and exact his revenge. She had turned down a dark path and he nearly fell into it during the hunt. His revenge was tainted when he was taken by a Spirit of Rage; everything in his path was destroyed, his Mate included.
His rampage went unchecked for days before another Werewolf came to end him. That one had failed, and the dishonor of it all finally got through the cloud of rage and broke the Spirit’s hold. And for the next half century, he had taken to living on his own.
Personality: His less then sparkling past has led Michael to become one of the shunned Ronin of his kind. A stickler for honor and tradition, he disdains the younger packs that seem to be causing trouble every time he turns around.
Species: Werewolf, Wolf Born
Age: Appears 28.
Gender: Male.
Wolf-Form: Nearly four feet at the shoulder and nine feet from nose to hips, Michael’s preferred form is a massive wolf covered in thick black fur streaked with the grey of age. Once fierce yellow eyes are tempered with the wisdom of age and the hint of deep sorrow that only faded in a fight.
Human Form: The few times he had to actually don his human form, he has taken to a rather outdoorsy style of dress. A stout pair of boots and old-school olive drab combat pants. A snug fitting white t-shirt under a usually open black and red plaid flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled up past his elbows. Although he hardly looked more then his late twenties, his skin held the deep weathered tan of a man who had been bare to the elements for much longer. Once jet black hair is now touched with grey at the temples worn in a simple pony tail to just past his shoulders and held in place by a time-worn strip of leather.
Background: Once upon a time, Michael had a Mate and even a child. There was a pack and a home, and things had been everything his kind could wish for. Nearly fifty years later, he still couldn’t sort out exactly what had gone wrong. His Mate had turned on them, betrayed the back. His son had died, his friends and family all gone in one night. It took more then a year to hunt his Mate down and exact his revenge. She had turned down a dark path and he nearly fell into it during the hunt. His revenge was tainted when he was taken by a Spirit of Rage; everything in his path was destroyed, his Mate included.
His rampage went unchecked for days before another Werewolf came to end him. That one had failed, and the dishonor of it all finally got through the cloud of rage and broke the Spirit’s hold. And for the next half century, he had taken to living on his own.
Personality: His less then sparkling past has led Michael to become one of the shunned Ronin of his kind. A stickler for honor and tradition, he disdains the younger packs that seem to be causing trouble every time he turns around.
MachDhai- Mist
- Join date : 2009-06-08
Posts : 62
Age : 41
Location : Edmonton, Alberta
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