[center][h1][color=steelblue]Arkheus Identification Card[/color][/h1][color=slateblue]Bureau of Public Citizen Management[/color][/center]
[center][img]https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/214524939204689920/226597959247069185/art16947.jpg[/img][/center]

[b][color=steelblue]Name:[/color] Amias Darrieux[/b]

[b][color=steelblue]Aliases:[/color] Amy, Robert Jones, Add[/b]

[b][color=steelblue]Gender:[/color] Male[/b]

[b][color=steelblue]Age:[/color] 35[/b]

[b][color=steelblue]Job Title:[/color] Painter, Artist[/b] 

[hider=Extended Description]
[b][color=steelblue]Height:’[/color] 5’11’[/b]

[b][color=steelblue]Weight:[/color] 170[/b]

[b][color=steelblue]Hair Color:[/color] Brown, soon to be bleached blonde[/b]

[b][color=steelblue]Eye Color:[/color] One eye is a soft blue, while the other is constantly changing color, slowly crawling through the color spectrum.[/b]

[b][color=steelblue]Skin Color:[/color] Slightly Tanned Caucasian[/b]

[b][color=steelblue]Scars:[/color][/b][list]
[*]Long, skinny scar from a gash going up and down across his left eye.
[*]Scarring around both his shoulders from his cybernetic replacements.
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[b][color=steelblue]Tattoos:[/color][/b][list]
[*] A Japanese-style Irezumi piece [url=https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/79/8a/8a/798a8a324d66868cb0494f95a050b3fa.jpg]depicting a tiger[/url] emcompasses the entirety of Amias’ back.
[*] A [url=http://cdn2.bigcommerce.com/server1500/ac84d/products/646/images/1392/ANI-BRK-001__33769.1316502457.1280.1280.jpg?c=2]brand of sacrifice[/url] sits towards the back of the right side of his neck.
[*] A scene of [url=http://nextluxury.com/wp-content/uploads/chest-japanese-river-wave-tattoo-on-man.jpg]Japanese buildings against crashing waves[/url] adorns Amia’s chest, with the edges of it being muddled and cut off around his cybernetic arms.
[/list]
[b][color=steelblue]Modifications:[/color][/b][list]
[*] None.
[*]
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[b][color=steelblue]Cybernetics:[/color][/b][list]
[*] Amias’ left eye has been replaced by a cybernetic equivalent.
[*] Both of Amias’ arms have been replaced by cybernetics, his left being replaced with a  [color=green]Civilian[/color] grade [i]Perkins XM1[/i], and his right being replaced with an [color=FFA07A]Illicit[/color] grade [i]Medi-Arm[/i]. His left hand has been fitted out with its own holographic/touch screen wrist computer, concealed by a cover when not in use. In the palm of his left hand, there are also concealed cigar lighter and cutters. His right hand is a medically-outfitted arm, with a screen showing him a plethora of medical information, timing and alerts for his medication use, and a syringe and IV system that has been used for more questionable reasons than medical ones.
[/list]
[b][color=steelblue]Other:[/color][/b][list]
[*]Amias is an avid drug user, drinker, and smoker, who has managed to avoid addiction for the past few years. Or, at least, he thinks.
[/list][/hider]
[hider=Appearance]
When wandering around his scenic Sector One Mansion, Amias usually chooses to don any assortment of above the knee shorts, patterned crew socks, and when he feels like it, an unbuttoned button up shirt. Always sure to be covered in any assortment of dazzling colors and patterns, often clashing with each other, Amias is hard to miss.

When taking his usual trips to his favorite bars and drugs dens in The Core, Amias isn’t afraid to wear his more lavish, expensive outfits, or even some of the more outlandish pieces of avant-garde fashion stashed in his closet, but most of the time, he choses to wear his favorite tan pants, polished black boots, black shirt and jacket. Nice and fashionable without drawing too much attention. [url=http://st.cdjapan.co.jp/pictures/l/00/12/NEODAI-9052.jpg]Picture[/url] for reference.
No matter what, though, Amias makes sure to be dressed nicely in the best clothing money can buy. Wearing cheap or tattered clothing  (unless that’s how he bought them) is far from Amias’ taste or style.

[/hider]
[hider=Job Description]Amias is an artist, mainly a painter, who got his introduction to the industry through his father’s many connections in the art industry. He’s made a majority of his living painting different pieces and selling them to the highest bidders. Ever since his fall from fame after his accident, he has taken a pseudonym and has tried to sell his art again, not finding as much success as before.

[/hider]
[hider=Biography]
For the majority of his young life, Amias was always told one thing: [i][color=LemonChiffon]”You were meant to be an artist.”[/color][/i]

Amias was the product of two people already deeply involved in the art community. His father owned an art gallery in one of the more high class districts of Seremere, and his Mother was part of an Art Preservation Society based in the Core, leading to a cushy life of affluence.

Avant garde art, long dead painters, scenes of nature and Renaissance themed death all congealed together to make a rather sheltered childhood which molded Amias into the artist he would grow to be. Going outside, playing with other children? Not for our young artist. Instead, he submersed himself in a sea of water colors and oil pastels, swimming to lonely tropical islands, or to the clouds among the gods. Through the art he spent his days making and staring at, he left the white washed mid town apartment he spent all his days in, releasing his boredom and frustration out on his sketch pad. His first graces with the pad and canvas of course weren’t of the quality or skill they would eventually reach, but they were good enough to lay the foundation of Amia’s love of art for the rest of his life.

Skills improving rapidly, it became more and more and more apparent that Amias not only had the best pair of parents to lead an art influenced life, but he was also rich in natural talent. As this natural talent became more and more obvious, the role Amias’ parents played in his life became slightly more authoritative than before. Instead of leaving Amias to his own devices when he got to drawing or painting, suddenly had always had at least one pair of eyes over his shoulder, scrutinizing every stroke or line he put down. More and more often, an intrusive hand would come in to correct mistakes or change things that didn’t suit their tastes. Before he knew it, his parents were taking more and more charge of what he painted, inviting painting and art teachers over to correct his mistakes as he made them, teaching him new techniques and making the whole process more of chore than the hobby it once was.

As his talent was brought out by his parents monitoring and his tutor’s mentoring, the thin walls of his apartment slowly came down, and the world was opened to him, as his father began to take him and his art to the family's gallery to exhibit to colleagues and art enthusiasts alike. No longer were his paintings simply mystical imaginary lands, they began to be people, landscapes, images of life. His paintings took an unmistakable character to them, a sort of charm that no one could recreate. As if Life itself had planted itself still image on the canvas.

Amias aged, and he began to take little adventures all over Ark, going wherever the Mag Rails would take him. He saw the core for the first time when he was 18.

Poverty, disease stricken ghettos and street corners full of criminals, all set against a backdrop of large, foreboding skyscrapers dripping in neon lights and spray paint graffiti. To the young artist, who had never seen much other than the scenic forests and idyllic villages of Sector One, it was overwhelming. The smells of outdoor bathrooms and suspicious corner food paired itself with sights of wandering drug addicts and women of the night, leading to a delightfully horrifying change of style. Out of his fingertips flowed an entirely new life, a life that showed that something didn’t have to appeal to the eyes to be beautiful. The dying urban strife interweaved with the rising criminal underground was all so gorgeously ugly. Beauty in tragedy had absorbed the young artist.

His new subject matter was accepted well by his affluent counterparts, who enjoyed being able to see the pretty side of poverty from the comfort of their living rooms or the art galleries. Amias provided a glimpse of what everyone else was afraid to see with their own eyes: The Core, in all its splendid horror. He, alone, was brave enough to leave the cushy villas and hamlets of Sector One to explore not only The Core, but the burning souls toiling their life away in Sector Three, the depressingly lonely ice of Sector Four, the high rising triumphant cities of Sector Six, and everything else. 

In his travels and his art, Amias found something profound in the Ark. The Ark, in its divided and compartmentalized sectors, was the Human Experience, starting, ending, and existing all in the same moment. It’s quaint and humble beginnings and long stretches of peace, its ice cold loneliness when you least expect it, warm and awesome peaks, it’s rocky and rough patches, its fiery and miserable end, and evens it’s rotten, sinning core, which can take over it all in the blink of an eye if not contained. Even in it’s darkest and ugliest depths, some glimmers could be seen, some thing could be learned and there was always something beautiful, even it’s misery.

Emancipated.

Amias had been emancipated from Life’s heaviest task: finding one’s purpose. 
He found his purpose in his brush and pencil, showing all of the bitter suffering and sweet love that life had to offer, often mere steps away from each other. Before, art was something he loved to do and it freed him from his mundane sheltered life in a shut away apartment, but now, crafting a piece of art was him translating life itself, hoping someone, somewhere could understand it.

Fame amongst the art community became the least of his concerns, but he garnered immense amounts of it. Soon enough, anyone who was someone in the art world wanted a Darrieux original, clammering to see every new creation that left Amias’ hands. His name was now work more than he ever imagined, but he wasn’t even the first to take notice of his growing fortune; it was his parents.

As Amias created new scenes of life on whims, his parents would gleefully take them and sell them to the highest bidder. Amias always made sure he got his fair cut, but the numbers never really mattered to him. Until he started actually looking at them.

Amias had already discovered the power of finding one’s purpose, but he was yet to find out the power that could be bought. As he began to take note of the exorbitant prices people would pay for his pieces, he also began to think of the things he could buy with the money. Fancier, more high class art equipment sure, but what about treating himself? He had found his purpose in life, so why not live a little? Soon, he would turn to the finer things in life, jewelry, designer fashion, women. 

His art took another turn again, incorporating a strange sense of indulgence, happiness with material things. Even if the meanings and stories behind his pieces stayed about as intriguing and deep, his works also took more superficial approach too.

Parties until the wee hours of the morning, all the finest women he desired, a little recreational drug use and some some occasional near alcohol poisoning, Amias had begun living vanity. It all ended when this vanity attracted the wrong kind of attention.

Poverty stricken, cold and hungry, most citizens of the Core are always hunting down new ways to scratch out a living. Whether it be honest, hard, poorly-paying work, or risky and most of the time fatal criminal work. Not surprisingly, a large amount of Core residents tend to choose the route of well paying criminal work at the cost of not only their lives, but often, the lives of others. One particularly popular line of work is the kidnapping and ransoming of important people, the reward is high, but the risk is even higher. Plots of this ilk tend to fail, but none as spectacularly as the one involving Amias.

While having one of his famous raging parties at his new villa, Amias was accosted by a psyker who had snuck in the party, knowing some dumb ass painter worth a fortune would be there. Not being the dumbest man in the Ark, Amias had security, whom quickly apprehended the psyker, but the incident was far from over. Quickly, it was noticed that this may not have been an ordinary Psyker. As it struggled to escape the grasp of the security, it became increasingly more rabid. They expected the handler to barge in at any moment and activate it’s Black Shard collar, but that hope was quickly dashed when they realized that the Psyker had no collar. It was loose, it was rabid, and it seemed to quickly losing control. This was no mere psyker, it had somehow escaped, and it was now seconds away from savagely losing its cool. Amias and his entourage tried to flee, but it was all in vain.

Before he knew it, the Psyker has broken out of the grasp of security, and began tearing its way through the party, towards Amias The then 24 year old Amias stood little chance against a Psyker in full rage. It tore into the artist's arms with Core Shard claws it drew from its hands, as Amias tried futilely to block the clawed hands that tore into him. A claw missed its mark and cut the artist’s eye, adding only the immense pain. Before security were finally able to kill the Core Fiend, a mess had already been made of Amias’ arms and eye, including an assortment of wounds in other places.

His arms and eye were irreparable. The other cuts and slices would heal on their own, but if something wasn’t done about the mangled mess of arms and bleeding eye, there was little hope for survival. Amias made the call himself, he was to take cybernetic replacements.

When he woke from the surgery, there were no visitors. No bouquet of flowers at the bedside. Not even a card. After 2 lonely weeks in recovery training with his new arms, Amias went home. His villa was empty. The mess from the party had been cleaned, but nothing else had changed. No visitors, no one except his new butler Bules. Amias tried for days to contact someone over his wrist computer, now built into his hand, but to no avail. Not even his parents. The profound sadness and loneliness he felt was only exacerbated as he gazed at the blue shaded icy paintings that hung on the walls of the villa. The ones of warm and triumph spoke little to him anymore, but the ones of death and despair shouted at him louder than they were ever meant to. The halls echoed with silence, and his ears shattered hearing it. It took days to finally realize.

He looked down at where his arms used to be, but saw metal imposters. He tried to draw, to paint, he wanted so desperately for form icy glaciers with lone figures stood atop the, but nothing that came from his fingertips could do it as before. His new arms could not paint. His art was done. His life amongst the affluent, rubbing shoulders with other artists of his caliber were gone. No one would want to be near the part robot man, with arms that could tear any human apart or an eye that could see through their skin and bone.
Once again, Amias sat behind white washed walls, trying to teach himself how to escape them through the canvas. His mind demanded a clean stroke, but his arms provided a sloppy one. It was as if he had to learn to walk again. Something that came so naturally to him before, he now had to relearn all over again. His arms could not paint what they once had, and the view that they used to paint saw a world in a different, more digitally filtered view.

They stopped buying his art after the operation. No one wanted to own art made by a cog.

They stopped speaking to him after the operation. No one wanted to be associated with a cog.

They abandoned him after the operation. No one wanted a cog.

Amias took a pseudonym in hopes of being able to sell his art anonymously, one he got a feel for his new hands. His work didn’t have the same undeniable character as before, but it still looked unique enough, so it sold somewhat well. He wasn’t making the thousands to millions he had been making before, but it was still a start. A new start.

Needing inspiration, Amias began to take his trips into the core deeper and deeper, risking his life more and more as he dug. Soon enough, he was able to find the secluded drug dens and red light districts deep in the Core, and tried his hand at the new substances that flew around. The intense highs and new sights took their embodiment in his paintings, as they became more surreal, dealing less in the literal images of life, and focusing more on the abstract colors and shapes that formed it. His new style had a new, unique character that he hadn’t had before, and it meant only better for his sales on the market.

Spending large amount in drugs dens makes you friends and enemies, but luckily, all his friends are much more powerful than his enemies. Any man that comes in their den, spends a fortune on drugs, and leaves without causing problems is the friend of any drug lord or crime boss, meaning Amias had a bit of a special pass to the dens, and usually didn’t have to worry about anymore unwatned accosters. Painting by day, drug binging by night, Amias has withdrawn himself from the art community for the most part. He spends his riches on drugs and other fancy things, while practicing and honing the skill he once had mastered, hoping for a return to his days of glorious art.

In his lone manor, he sits, cigar smoke filling the air, paints, easels, canvases scattered everywhere, Bules walking around, tidying what he can, providing someone for Amias to bounce ideas and random rants off of. It is a lonely life for Amias, but he’d rather be lonely than to be surrounded by false friends and hopes.

Just like he thought of with the Ark, the dark core of his life is beginning to seep out, leaving him feeling more miserable and drained as time has gone by. He has surpassed the humble beginnings and victorious peaks of life, has tumbled and fallen in the sharp gravel of its rocky path, and is lying, shivering in its lonely, desolate ice. Though, slowly but surely, something is rising from beneath the ice.

[i][color=coral]Heat.[/color][/i]
[/hider]
[hider=Inventory]
[b][color=steelblue]Weapons:[/color][/b][list]
[*] [hider=PLW M6A2]
[img]http://orig05.deviantart.net/744d/f/2013/260/c/8/fa_alien_pistol_by_chrislazzer-d6mqa58.jpg[/img]
[color=limegreen]Class:[/color] [color=green]Civilian[/color]
[color=limegreen]Rounds:[/color] Approx. 50 Shots Before Shard Change
[color=limegreen]Impact:[/color] Medium
[color=limegreen]Shot:[/color] Laser
[color=limegreen]Mode:[/color] Semi-Automatic
[color=limegreen]R.O.F[/color] Medium
[color=limegreen]Shard:[/color] [color=red]Red[/color]

The PLW M6A2 is the top of the line in Laser personal defense weapons sold to Civilians. With it’s best in class accuracy at close range, lower than average recoil and decent punch, it is one of the best weapons money can buy. Legally, that is.

[/hider]
[/list]
[b][color=steelblue]Armor:[/color][/b][list]
[*] None, unless you think fancy, expensive clothes have any more protection than other clothes.
[/list]
[b][color=steelblue]Gadgets:[/color][/b][list]
[*] Amias’ left arm has a touch pad wrist computer built into it. It has a holographic display along with its high definition touch screen, built in high quality speakers, 1 TB storage space, and other expensive accoutrements. In the palm of his left hand there is a cigar cutter that can be removed to sharpen or replace the blades, and his index finger contains and butane lighter for his cigars.

[*]Amias’ right arm has a second computer in it, but that is one is built solely to give him information on his vitals and health, alerting him when it is time to take his medication, and making sure he does not overdose on the various drugs he does. His right arm is a medical model, which is usually military, but it was bought illegally from the Underground, so it also has a small IV system in it, which Amias does usually use for his own medical reasons, but he often also uses it to inject fluid drugs as well.
[/list]
[b][color=slateblue]Key Items:[/color][/b][list]
[*] [b]nah.[/b]
[/list]
[color=steelblue]Miscellaneous:[/color]
[list]
[*] Amias, in his taste for unique or old things, usually sports a [url=http://www.matthewbaininc.com/assets/images/watches/3434/3434-z.jpg] 1972 model Rolex Day Date Presidential watch[/url]. Even if he could just use his wrist computer.
[*] If he has a pocket big enough, Amias almost always carries around one or a few of his increasingly expensive cigars.
[*] Amias owns a [url=http://i.imgur.com/ghUtVta.jpg?1]Aero Two-Seater[/url] for the rare times he doesn’t feel like using Mag Rail transportation.
[*] In case the lighter in the palm of his hand runs out of butane, Amias always carries his favorite [url=https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/1252/6591/products/16827_large.jpeg?v=1473308048]S.T. Dupont Gold Butane Lighter[/url].
[*] Since it’s his best way to relieve stress and vent his emotions, Amias always carries around at least a pocket sized sketchbook and drawing pencils.
[/list]
[/hider]
[hider=Pysker Dossier]
[i][color=FF7F50]Fuck Psykers.[/color][/i]
[/hider]
[color=steelblue][b]Proficiencies:[/b][/color][list]
[*] [color=green]Silver-Tongued[/color]:
Having spent a considerable amount of time amongst the more affluent and well-to-do, Amias has honed the craft of charm and speaking in front of people. At this point, charisma comes natural to Amias. He’s a smooth talker, even if he doesn’t have anyone to charm anymore.
[*] [color=green]Photographic Memory[/color]: 
You don’t always have your canvas and easel with you when you spot the perfect picture to paint, but luckily, Amias always had a pretty good photographic memory to serve him well. All he needs is a few good moments to commit something to memory, and it’s with him for good.
[*] [color=green]Fists and Firearm[/color]: 
After being left almost entirely alone with a set of new arms that were no good for painting, Amias needed a new hobby. Unlike most rich bachelors with nothing else to do, Amias picked up some mixed martial arts and target shooting. While not particularly great with a gun, his arms do lend themselves in physical confrontations, even if Amias is one to avoid them altogether.
[*] [color=green]Tolerance[/color]: 
Doing enough drugs over a long enough time, one tends to build up a bit of a tolerance, obviously. Amias, being the war horse he is, needs a bit more than the next guy to start feeling it.
[/list]
[color=steelblue][b]Limitations:[/b][/color][list]
[*] [color=salmon]Stay Away![/color]
Amias may be a charmer, he may be a talker, but it’s really just to keep things calm and civil. Amias isn’t into making friends or wooing partners. He doesn’t trust you and doesn’t care about your feelings. The last friends he tried to keep all left him on a dime, so he isn’t very fast to try and trust anyone else new.
[*] [color=salmon]Muddled Mind[/color]
Painting and drawing are the best and almost the only ways for Amias to clear his mind and vent his emotions. If he can’t do either for along time, his thoughts will begin to become unclear or hard to manage, he has a hard time thinking out situations and can’t make decisions easily. He’s prone to explode or shut down emotionally when the stress becomes too much to handle.
[*] [color=salmon]Staying Medicated[/color]
Due to the extent of the injuries he suffered and the amount of cybernetics he has to use, Amias needs to take medication regularly to make sure the pain from his surgeries doesn’t flare up and that the artificial nerves in his arms work correctly and that his body doesn’t reject them.
[*] [color=salmon]Good Ol’ Prejudice![/color]
Most of everything Amias hates about himself and his life can all be traced back to the actions of a single, crazed Psyker and his desire to get rich. It was all a Psyker’s fault. Unlike most people who would realize that it was just a lone psyker, Amias hasn’t had any particularly good experiences with Psyker’s to balance out, so, naturally, he tends to hate them. He doesn’t want to be around them, doesn’t want to talk to them, no contact at all.
[/list]
[b][color=steelblue]Likes:[/color][/b][list]
[*] Fine art.
[*] A fine cigar.
[*] Some recreational drug use.
[*] Someone to talk to.
[/list]
[b][color=steelblue]Dislikes:[/color][/b][list]
[*] Psykers.
[*] Cheap Drugs.
[*] Shitty Art.
[*] Most rich people. [i][color=coral]Ironic, huh?[/color][/i]
[*] Being interrupted when he’s making art.
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[b][color=steelblue]Important People:[/color][/b][list]
[*] His Butler and last friend, Bules.
[/list]
[hider=Character Relationships]
None yet.
[/hider]