Name: Rupert O'Donald

Age: Mid to late twenties (Is actually 28)

Gender: Male

Race: Human

Appearance: Standing at 6'4 with board shoulders and a body that has been shaped by hard work and labor, Rupert might not be the biggest or more intimidating person that the world has ever seen but he has been able to thrive none the less. His skin is white but years of being exposed to the various heat sources that the ship has to offer has burnt in a rather strange looking tan on his face where his safety equipment doesn't cover, the full extent of which is reveled when he removes his goggles or breathing mask.

His hair is a dark orange, but time on patrol around the ship often means that he needs to keep it short for professional reasons due to how much grim and filth tends to coat it before the end of his shift. His eyes are a dark blue.

Equipment/outfit wise, Rupert is almost always seen wearing the outfit of his office as High Janitor:

A pair of tinted safety goggles to protect the eyes from sudden bright flashes.
Breathing mask with an oxygen tank in the event of encountering a hazard on the ship in which having a personal air supply is required.
The standard chem treated and resistant yellow janitor jumpsuit.
A pair of yellow, firm grip and anti-slip galoshes (steel plated to help protect the feet).
Carapace breastplate
Lasgun/laspistol (depending on what section of the ship one is patrolling for size reasons)
Hand held flamer.
Melee weapon of choice (In Rupert's case, he favors a chainsword).

Personality:
Born into the Janitorial Union, Rupert understands the value of hard and often unappreciated work that needs to be done for the benefit of all. Having lived his entire life aboard a void vessel and often traveling through the parts of it that most voidsmen either don't know or don't care about, he is well aware of the dangers that can arise from neglect and is highly vigilant in the face of threats raging from basic maintenance to the variety of nasty critters and beasts that often try to infest and make their homes in the dark places of space craft.

Rupert will come down hard on the lazy and the incompetent, viewing both as worse then sin: Laziness and Incompetence not only risk the lives of the one committing them, but endanger the lives of everyone around them and the safety of their home in general. Rarely do the powers that be deem fit to provide the resources to reclaim parts of the ship lost to the void of space or other such hazards if the area isn't deemed important and allowing a piece of their home to be lost without just cause is inexcusable.

That being said, Rupert isn't above hearing people out when they have suggestions to improve a method in place. If it is discovered that steps in a maintenance cycle are unnecessary or only need to be done every so often rather then every time, he will happily streamline the process... but Emperor help the fool who tries to do this without alerting him first.

History:
Rupert was born into the Janitorial Union to a recently widowed mother; His father had been cleaning up a mess in the Medbay when the ventilation pumps failed and flooded the air with toxic fumes. Everyone who had been in the Medbay when it happened were incapacitated within seconds to die a horrible death, but some quick response time managed to see the area sealed off until repairs could be made and the area made safe again. The failure was discovered to have been caused by neglect due to an argument that was going on between the current team of tech priest Explorators and the Janitors over duties of care and who was in charge of maintaining what.

While he was raised without a father, when Rupert turned five he joined the cleaning staff in their duties of making sure that the ship remained at an acceptable level of cleanliness. The work was long, hard and at times dangerous due to the many hazards present in a void traveling capable ship. Most of the other crew members didn't care about the work you did and complained if something was missed. But it was work that needed to be done, so he did it without much more then some small grumbling every now and then.

When he reached his teens Rupert volunteered for Janitor training. Most children of the Union attempt the training at some point of another, through most in turn will end up dropping out of the program for a variety of reasons. Rupert's determination and vigilance paid off in the end through, completing the brutal training and becoming a full Janitor by the age of twenty. For eight years O'Donald prowled the ship to ensure that it remained in safe, operational condition and remained as free of invaders and pests as possible.

A few months prior to the ship being turned over to its new Captain in the form of Rogue Trader Drake, the prior High Janitor passed away and a new one had to be decided upon. As was tradition, the Janitors began by asking if any Janitors felt like they were not prepared for the responsibilities of the job of High Janitor and wished to decline being a contender. Round two involves the remaining Janitors being judged by their peers for any faults or flaws that would make them ill suited for the role. After the vetting process, the final round is to have all remaining Janitors that are still contenders for the role of High Janitor will draw lots, with the winner becoming the new High Janitor.

Rupert, after narrowly managing to defend his contention to become the High Janitor from the allegation that his father's death due to the fighting of the Janitors and the Tech Priests might make him hostile towards the servants of the machine cult, won the draw and ascended to High Janitor. Currently, he doesn't know what to really think of his new boss, but he intends to do his people and ship proud.

Skills:

Cleaner: Ever since he was five, Rupert has worked hard to keep the ship that is his home as clean as possible. While this does mean that he's qualified as a normal cleaner, these same skills are also useful for making... other types of messes disappear without leaving much in the way of evidence behind.
Maintenance Expert: While the tech priests might have a greater understanding of technology in general, when it comes to his home ship Rupert understands her systems and what makes her run better then any dozen robed cyborgs you could shake a metal rod at.
Ship Defense Expert: When it comes to repelling boarders, warp daemons or just pests in general, having such a good understanding and knowledge of ones home turf makes the job so much easier. The fact that he has spent at least eight years doing these very things gives him good experience as well.
Head of Security: While Rupert would happily punch out anyone who tried to label him as such, the role of High Janitor includes most, if not all, duties and responsibilities of the Head of Security for the ship... and to a lesser extent, the Captain/Rogue Trader Drake.
Ship Diplomat: In general, the every day members of the crew and their representatives would be more likely to talk to one of their own rather then some noble from Terra or his orkish pet... but the fact that Rupert understands the various nations on board the ship and thus who he needs to talk to helps get things done a lot smoother.

Equipment:

A pair of tinted safety goggles to protect the eyes from sudden bright flashes.
Breathing mask with an oxygen tank in the event of encountering a hazard on the ship in which having a personal air supply is required.
The standard chem treated and resistant yellow janitor jumpsuit.
A pair of yellow, firm grip and anti-slip galoshes (steel plated to help protect the feet).
Carapace breastplate
Lasgun/laspistol (depending on what section of the ship one is patrolling for size reasons)
Hand held flamer.
Chainsword of Office.

Miscellaneous:
Like almost all ships in the Imperium that have had a crew survive long enough for several generations to be born, national identities and tribes within the ship itself tends to form. Like all nations, as years go by they start to develop their own culture and history as events shape them. The Janitorial Union was formed shortly after an event recorded in ship history as 'The Betrayal', though exactly when this event happened is unclear. The head of the ship's armed forces at the time had gathered together loyalists to his cause and launched a mutiny in an attempt to seize captaincy, the resulting civil war gutting the ruling body of the ship as well as bleeding security dry. The head of security died and his mutiny failed, but without a unified enforcement force or strong leadership the crew had to fend for itself.

The Janitorial Union was originally made up of the ship's cleaning and maintenance staff, banding together and claiming a independent existence from the other nations that were forming at the time. While other nations fought over territory, the Janitorial Union instead decided on a more... nomadic existence since their duties required them to travel all over the ship. They still claimed key areas that were important to their roles of maintaining and keeping the ship in good condition while also raiding the various ship armories in order to not only defend their few tribal strongholds but also to take over the duty of purging the ship of unwanted... pests that would have normally fallen into the hands of the ships security forces.

Masterful diplomacy with the other ship nations ensured a peaceful existence and arrangements that would not only benefit them, but also the Janitorial Union as well. The cleaning staff and janitors were free to travel the whole ship in order to perform their duties without interference from whomever owned the area while also securing trade goods for their services, as well as serving as official messagers across national lines. Janitorial strongholds also became neutral ground for other factions to meet and discuss matters without having to worry about betrayal or assassination.

As time wore on, the roles of the cleaning staff and the Janitors began to change. While the cleaning staff maintained its role of cleaning the ship and minor repairs, the Janitors themselves morphed into a militant organization of pathfinders who roamed the ship in search of threats as mundane as neglected ship maintenance to active threats such as invaders and monsters roaming in the dark places of the ship that needed to be driven out. While the various ship nations maintained their own fighting forces, due to the Janitors ability to go anywhere in the ship freely to engage whatever threat was discovered to the ship they quickly rose to be considered an noble, elite fighting force that started to draw recruits from the fighting forces of other ship nations.

The position of High Janitor came about shortly after the ship returned to Imperial space and a new command was installed. While the title is more or less Head of Security in everything but name, the High Janitor also bares the responsibility of being the spokesmen of the ship's nation states and the (often times) foreign command of the ship so as to prevent... incidents from arising due to misunderstandings.

Only once in the history of the ship have the Janitorial Union gone to war with another ship state: When Cargonia attempted to expand its power and influence over the complete starboard side of the ship, it attacked all nations in its path... including one of the Janitorial Strongholds. The resulting war lasted to years, but in the end Cargonia was broken and remade into a more... humble nation by the coalition. While Cargonia paid dearly for its warmongering, the Janitorial Union ensured that the peace forced upon it was bearable, earning them no small amount of gratitude from the defeated ship nation.

Name: Maximilian Sebastian Nidavel

Age: 45

Gender: Male

Race: Human

Appearance:

Maximilian stands at around 6 feet tall, with thick, unkempt black hair and a beard that has very clearly not been cut in years. The pupils of his steel gray eyes are near constantly dilated to such an extent, it's often hard to to tell if the man is still 'all there'. His face is always covered in a viscous mixture of oil, sweat, soot and alchohol. Though he has some very noticably well built muscle, his bulging beer gut, constant stench, and generally disgusting state of being make it quite apparent whatever peak he had once reached has long since passed. His only set of clothes is a dark brown single piece jumpsuit, that has heavy padding over joints and vital organs. Though already dark in coloration, there are numerous visible stains from vomit (which has since been cleaned off), oil, and soot all over the jumpsuit.
Personality:
How Maximilian acts is primarily related to how enibrieted a state he is in-- when heavily intoxicated, Maxie (as he asks people to call him) is typically care free, laxidaisical, giddy as a child, and overbearingly friendly. At his typical level of intoxication, Maxie works hard, is quite friendly, and will talk the ear off of anyone who'll listen about 'the good ol days'. However, as he starts to sober, Maximilian begins to become restless, twitching, jittering, and shaking as his eyes go bloodshot. As his BAC continues to lower, Maxie becomes increasingly agitated and violent, becoming increasingly aggressive until he downs a bottle of amasec, or breaks down crying.

Aboard the ship, Maxie would play the part of heavy equipment operator, and general laborer, helping to repair and maintain the ship as his higher ups see fit.

History:
Maximillian Sebastian Nidavel was born the youngest son of the ruling Lord of house Nidavel, naturally being raised in splendor and luxury.   A natural with the blade at age ten, the young Noble became a rather formidable fighter at a very young age, and had an ego to match.  Unlike his two older brothers, who were level headed and diplomatic like their father, Maximilian was brash, arrogant and generally hot-headed, similar to his Uncle Gerald; house Nidavel's imperial knight, and well known for his efforts to thin the hordes of greenskins that plagued the knight world of Helgath.  Strangely enough, the boy took after his Uncle in more ways than one, as one could easily have mistaken them for a father and son.  As one would expect,  rumors of adultery began to circulate, and untrue as they might have been, such rumors sparked a burning disdain within Lord Adrian Nidavel, causing him to grow distant from both Maximilian and Gerald.  Despite this, a desire for recognition began to manifest itself deep within Maximilian's core; a longing to get his father's acceptance, regardless of the cost.

At the age of sixteen; with the passing of his beloved uncle, Maximilian finally had the opportunity to prove himself to his father, and underwent the ritual of becoming, to take his Uncle's place as house Nidavel's imperial knight.  Undergoing the rite seemed to only embolden the young warrior's hubris, as he became even more aggressive and egotistical both in and out of the knight.  Doubling down on his Uncle's war against the Orkish menace, Maximilian was able to successfully cull their numbers to nigh extinction on the planet over a four year campaign; often enjoying ripping apart Deff Dredds in ferocious melees. The campaign earned him many accolades, awards, and titles-- anything he could have possibly wanted could have been his.

Except his father's love.

Tensions that had built for years finally erupted in a single moment during the ceremony celebrating Maximillian's victory; when his father refused to embrace him atop the guilded stage upon which he was presented with his medals.  He had declared himself a freeblade, as it was his irrefutable right to do so if he saw fit.  If there was nothing he could accomplish on this world worth his father's acceptance, he'd find it on another.  In less than seventy two hours Maximilian was offworld, having joined a PMC by the name of  'Talon Military Contractors' a group of imperially sanctioned mercenaries that travelled between systems, acting as escorts and private militarized forces to wealthy imperial citizens.

For five years Maximilian stayed under this outfit, maintaining and repairing his knight all on his own, as the mechanicus had no representative amongst the crew.  However, the other members of the company had slowly grown tired of the ever inflating ego of the Imperial knight that had come to be known as 'Ravager', and eventually marooned the stuck up noble on a station orbiting Bakka, keeping his precious piece of archaeotech for themselves; likely to be sold on the black market.   Alone, without his beloved knight, and possessing little more than the clothes off his back, Maximilian sent a message back home, hoping and praying they would take him back.  Months passed as what little funds he had dwindled,  forcing him to sell his medals, one by one just to pay for food, water, and other necessities.

When he finally received an answer, the once proud Noble's spirit was crushed. Helgath had been swallowed by a warp storm. His home. His family. Everything that had ever mattered to him was gone.  It didn't take long for Maximilian's life to fall down a bottle of Amasec, as he let himself go in his entirety.  The only things that mattered to him now was trying to relive the feeling he once had as a pilot, and staying too plastered to remember how much he'd lost.  Taking the most dangerous jobs he could, operating the largest, most powerful industrial mining equipment the planet had to offer-- it still wasn't the same. It never was. It never could be.

For twenty years the once proud man began to rot.  His spirit withering until amasec was all that kept him going.  Every credit that he ever tried to save in order to leave that damnable station seemed to inexplicably transform into more alcohol.  The man had been ready to give up-- as if his luck had finally turned around; a Rogue Trader showed up in town, looking for crew....

Skills:

• Man in the Machine: Despite his obscene alcohol consumption, Maximilian has a way with heavy machinery that is almost mesmerizing to watch, manipulating every part as if it were an extension of his own body, without a doubt direct due to his obsession to recapture the feeling of piloting a knight.
• Iron Stomach: Some would call it a miracle of the emperor's divine will that Maxie's level of alcoholism hasnt managed to kill him. Not only can Maximilian consume vast amounts of alcohol, but he can also consume food that many would consider inedible with few side effects.
• Dead Nerves: As an already rather rugged man back in his glory days, Maxie has always been able to take a lickin' and keep on tickin'. As it turns out, being nearly blackout drunk can make even some of the hardest punches feel like a tap.
• Mechanical Expertise: Years of maintenance on both his knight, and various other pieces of large machinery had made Maxie exceptionally talented in repairing and maintaining such equipment.

Equipment:

• Flask
• Modified Rivet Gun
• Amasec
• Padded Laborer Jumpsuit
• Badly beaten box (what could be inside???)
• toolbelt

Name: Gustave 'Goose' Boucher

Age: 28

Gender: Male

Race: Human

Appearance:
Goose stands roughly 178 centimeters tall and has a rather muscular build considering his diet. His hair is a dark brown hue, is slightly curly, and is cut similarly to a crew cut. His eyes are a honey brown and his face bears a beard that's well due for a trim. Numerous scars are littered across his pale body, but the most notable of which is his left arm. Completely replaced from the shoulder downward with bionics after a rather close encounter a handful of years ago. He is also missing his left pinky toe.

His clothes consist of his standard-issue uniform of the 78th Bristonian Hellhounds as well as segments of carapace armor. Said uniform consists of flame retardant greatcoat and slacks that are colored a dark navy blue. The boots are a dark brown color and are steel-toed. His carapace armor seen better days but it still does a bang-up job of keeping Goose alive well enough. The symbol of his former regiment and rank are displayed on the left and right shoulder plates respectively. The helmet completely covers Goose's head and looks akin to a modernized Roman legionnaire helmet with a full faceplate that somewhat protects his face from injury. The lenses in the eye holes are tinted to reduce eye damage from prolonged exposure to very bright light sources.

His signature weapons consist of a Bristonian pattern flamer and a dark blue chainsword with crimson stripes zigzagging to resemble fangs. He also has the standard-issue bayonet as his fallback weapon.

Personality:
After meeting with and being recruited by the rogue trader, his personality took a turn for the better. He started to interact with people in a more personal manner rather than simply polite professionalism. He managed to significantly reduce his urges to end his life. And he managed to actually start befriending others. Overall, he is a better man from meeting his current boss. Though at times when he gets irate, he lets his hive ganger origins show.

His role in the ship is like many a guardsman that the rogue trader had hand-selected, he was there to keep said rogue trader alive. At the cost of his own life, if need be. Usual routines consist of doing patrols and check-ups throughout the ship, but sometimes he spends his free time practicing with his weapons. Though his role doesn't change when he accompanies his lord in excursions, he specializes in close quarters combat and excels greatly fighting inside of locations like building complexes, tunnel networks, and trenches.

His main purpose in serving the rogue trader is because of his sense of duty and his way of atoning for his perceived wrongs. The pay is a nice bonus too. Though as of now, he is content to be his lord's loyal guard dog and extension of his will.

History:
Goose wasn't always what he is now. Before he was just some punk in a nondescript Hive City on the planet Briston, ready to kill anyone for looking at him the wrong way. He was known to deliberately cut off limbs of his opponents without mercy using a crude cleaver like sword. It even earned him the moniker 'Goose the Butcher'. He soon climbed the ranks of his gang and was the right hand of the gang. And with him as their enforcer, the gang itself expanded their territories exponentially. In this world, might was right and they were the most powerful present.

Life was good until the cults messed everything up by instigating a lesser chaos incursion in the middle of the lower hive. He and his gang were having none of it, this was their turf and they were not letting some cultists wrest their hard-earned prize. The PDF took their sweet time in arriving at the scene. As when they did, the majority of the lower hive was in a state of all-out war and over half of his gang were already dead. The PDF fell too and they had to wait until the local guard regiment to save their asses. A little too late considering that nearly a hundred thousand were dead and the cult was close to making a big enough portal to bring in an all-out invasion. The Bristonian Hellhounds quelled the problem in a span of a month. Goose was in awe. To him, these boys in blue were the toughest and strongest 'gang' that ever set foot in his city. He knew one thing from that day onward. He wanted to be a part of that 'gang', thus leading him to the recruiting center and joining up with the newly formed 78th battalion.

There he was hammered and beaten down to what the imperium needed him to be. Not some violent hive ganger scum, but a proper guardsman of the imperium of man. Gone was 'Goose the Butcher', there was only Recruit Gustave Boucher of the 78th Bristonian Hellhounds. He was only a boy at the time, but he soon was shipped out to fight on a world he didn't know, for people he didn't care for, against foes he couldn't ever imagined. Two campaigns against Orks and Chaos, a torn limb, and a whole battalion worth of lives later...Gustave had become the cynical and aloof character he was prior to meeting the rogue trader.

Guilt overcame his conscience. He asked himself why that he was the only one that survived the last battle and if he even deserved to keep on living. He never showed this side of him in front of others; he had to be the strong and dependable Sargeant Gustave. Years went on and the guilt piled up more and more just as much as the body count did. Finally, he was at the brink. One step away from taking his own life and freeing him from the burden. But as fate would have it, he was called into service by Lord Livingstone. There he learned that perhaps there was a way for him to be released from his guilt without splattering his brains across the floor. In the service of the rogue trader, Goose found meaning again.

Skills:

• Expert Melee Combatant: Goose is an expert in melee combat. May it be with weapon or not, he will be more than capable of standing on his own in a fight. Even before his formal training as a guardsman, he was a force to be reckoned with in his hive ganger days. Usually uses it when given the opportunity to flank and surprise enemy positions and when inside enclosed combat areas.
• Decent Shot: As a guardsman, he is expected to be at least proficient with a lasgun. True enough, he is a decent shot with a lasgun, but don't expect him to be making any trick shots with one.
• Quick On His Feet: 'The best way not to die is to keep moving in combat.' Those were the words his instructor had told him time after time Goose was beaten in combat training. He took those words into heart and ensured that while fighting, he keeps on mobile and his foes on their toes.
• Intimidating Presence: One nasty look from him is usually enough to get people to shut up and listen. He is a hardened veteran and a notorious ganger enforcer before that. If he wants you to listen, you will listen.

Equipment:

• Basic Guardsman's Kit
• Medkit
• Standard Issue Entrenchment Tool
• Hand Flamer Prometheum Cannisters
• Chainsword Power Cells
• Spare Chainsword Chain

Miscellaneous:
Absolutely hates fighting near salt water and sand. Once said elements get into his bionics, it causes malfunctions and immense pain.
Favorite food is any food that has flavor.
Collects small mementos from interesting experiences/people/places.

Name: Apollyon Kaicero.

Age: 27.

Gender: Male.

Race: Human.

Appearance: An image of patrician perfection, Apollyon’s handsome face has been gene-sculpted in order to bring it up to the beauty standards of the esteemed House of Kaicero. His nose is straight and narrow, his lips are full and pleasant, his skin is light, grazed by the sun’s kiss, and his eyes are bright pools of iridescent sapphire -- though that is mostly by virtue of them being high-grade and extremely expensive bionic implants. He looks young and full of vitality and his close-cropped, golden hair does nothing to add to his age, nor does his clean-shaven jaw. While open and affable at first glance, there is an unsettling quality to the perpetual half-smile on his face and the shameless scrutiny of his gaze, which never wavers or bows to decorum. Apollyon is an aristocrat and a noble and he averts his eyes for no one.

His outfit is equally as expensive as his face, though it is fortunately much more practical and less ostentatious than the ceremonial court-garb Apollyon would have worn back home. A darrk gray, nanofiber overcoat layered with nigh-invisible plates of bulletproof carbon makes up the bulk of it, high-collared and long-tailed, fastened across his chest with pitch-black buttons. His hands are stuck in leather gloves, his feet in matte-black combat boots and the rest of his body in combat fatigues not dissimilar from that of the Imperial Guard, save for their dark coloration and the finery of their thread. It is both stylish and protective while still leaving him full range of motion, though it won’t stop a bolter round to the chest. A sash of bright imperial yellow wrapped around his waist adds a splash of color.

Beneath his ensemble, Apollyon’s body is flawless and free of scars, save for the faint lines left by surgeries performed by the best modification-surgeons of the House of Kaicero. In a faint echo of the Astartes, Apollyon’s body has been enhanced with dense muscle-fiber and stimm-glands that flood his body with combat drugs at his command, giving him preternatural strength and speed in melee combat.

Being fabulously wealthy from the outset of his adventure has given Apollyon access to highly exotic and exceedingly illegal weaponry; a Xenarch death-arc. It is a rifle-sized piece of xeno tech that uses powerful electrical generators wrought into the weapon to bring to life devastating blasts of storm-power, arcing tendrils of lightning that surge raw energy into hapless victims at close range, turning their bodies inside out. It is as powerful as it is impractical, with a low rate of fire and low efffective range, but it generates its own ammunition and makes for a terrifically intimidating display of force. If nothing else, Apollyon is fond of the theatrical. When the use of his death-arc is unwise or impossible, the enhanced aristocrat relies on a monomolecular combat knife in melee combat and a simple las-pistol as a sidearm.

Personality: Apollyon is an aristocrat through and through and it shows. His social behavior is based entirely around expectations and etiquette, entirely devoid of authenticity, for Apollyon has barely any empathy to spare for anyone but himself and his family. The inhabitants of the rest of the galaxy mean nothing to him, being either playthings or useful spectators to his life, and Apollyon is only as polite and well-mannered as he is because it’s what’s expected of him… and because it makes things easier.

Prone to boredom, Apollyon seeks out adventure and excitement in order to bring a sense of thrill to his otherwise dreadfully uninteresting high-born life, sparse as it is in challenges or danger, but the idea of submitting to the authority and hierarchy of the armies of the Imperium fills him with disgust. He is happy to be part of the Rogue Trader’s muscle, but only because the life of a mercenary is not as regimented as the life of a soldier and he retains enough freedom for it to be tolerable. He is eager to see the stars and the mysteries within and has a keen interest in xenos, simply for the fact that they are so different. Time will tell whether his naivety will be worn down and replaced with the xenophobia that is more commonplace in the people of the Imperium, or whether he might be drawn to thoughts and ideas that could be considered… radical.

History: Life as a member of the ruling class of Aphrodion IV is luxurious, comfortable and utterly boring. The House of Kaicero is one of the noble families that always has a seat on the Governor’s council and its scions have never eschewed the use, or misuse, of their status to gather considerable wealth and power. Apollyon was born as the third son of the family’s patriarch and as such never stood to inherit much in the way of interesting positions, but the family fortune was more than enough to provide him with a life of excess in perpetuity.

Apollyon had no interest in that whatsoever.

For as long as he can remember, Apollyon was more interested in the stars and the rest of the Imperium, and as he grew up that interest extended beyond the Imperium. The stiffness and unending baroque traditionality of highborn life wore on him like a cheese grater and he turned to combat training with the family’s highly skilled cadre of bodyguards in search of something, anything, that would save him from his boredom. He had a taste for combat that was immediately evident and a few days of pleading with his father was enough to have the family’s surgeon-retainers turn their considerable skills towards the enhancement of his body; if a member of the House of Kaicero was to have martial aspirations, he would do so with the most cutting-edge of tools at his disposal.

He was not satisfied until he could beat all of the family’s bodyguards in the practice cages in single combat. After that, the only challenges that remained beckoned from the stars. Apollyon’s father was truthfully glad to be rid of his third son, whose boredom meant he was liable to lash out in unpredictable and unsettlingly callous displays towards the family’s servitors and indentured serfs, and he gladly sent Apollyon on his way to the stars with nothing more than a dream… oh, and some very expensive xenos tech and battle-gear purchased with family credits.

Apollyon has been drifting towards the outer rim of the Imperium ever since, odd mercenary jobs and assassination contracts turning him from an absolute greenhorn into something resembling an experienced soldier-of-fortune, though it is fair to say he had gotten by with luck, sheer fearlessess and the unfair advantage of his enhancements as much as skill. It wasn’t until he discovered the recruitment messages of a Rogue Trader in the far orbiting stations of Bakka that Apollyon felt the true twang of mystery and excitement that he had been searching for.

Skills:
Bionic Enhancements: Apollyon’s body is modified to enhance every aspect of combat, from the targeting sensors in his bionic eyes to the strength and speed of his semi-artificial limbs to the potent combat drugs that slow down his perception of time and allow him to match an Eldar Banshee blade-for-blade.
Knife-Fighter: The aforementioned blade combat is performed with a monomolecular combat knife that serves as an extension of Apollyon’s arm, such is his skill with his favored melee weapon. It won’t stand up to a Chaos Marine with a chain-axe, but it does the job against almost everything else.
Fastest Gun in the West: Long hours on the practice range and unnaturally sharp eyesight mean that Apollyon is a crack shot with his las-pistol, though the effective range is limited by the nature of the weapon itself. Apollyon is particularly good at drawing his weapon and placing a las bolt between someone’s eyes in the blink of an… well, an eye, in the fashion of an old remembrancer-pict from Ancient Terra.

Equipment:

• 3 photon flash grenades.
• 3 las-pistol charge packs.
• Data-slate.
• Auspex.
• Credit chit.
• Xenarch death-arc.
• Monomolecular combat knife.
• Last-pistol, standard issue.

Miscellaneous: Apollyon plays a mean game of regicide, though he makes for a poor loser.

Name: Roald Cliffbloom

Race/Species: Ratling

Gender: Male

Age: 43

Physical Description (as detailed as possible please, pictures not accepted.):
Roald is small in stature, not surprising for a Ratling, and hairy, also not surprising. He's tan and oddly fit for a race commonly known for their pot bellies. He has wild overgrown eyebrows and an up turned nose scrunched up with a large forehead. He has thick messy dark brown hair which is gradually going gray and sideburns as well as a neigh permanent five o' clock shadow. His default facial expression is a frown.

Attire:
Light Brown/Grey Head Wrap
Climbing Ropes Wrapped Up Around Shoulder
Green Cameleoline Cloak
Militarum Auxilia Chest Strap with Two Pockets and Skull Emblem
Standard Olive Drab Uniform Shirt and Pants
Thick Belt with a Canteen Holder Attached on One Side and an Ammo Box on the other
Bandaging Wraps Around Wrists/Hands and Ankles/Feet

Personality:
With his fellow Rogue Traders, whether alone with them or peacefully exploring a town with them, he is loud, crude, coarse, obnoxious, drunken, lecherous, gluttonous, and yet somehow still charming. He takes full advantage of his small nonthreatening stature and large eyes so that even when he presses things too far and gets a well deserved slap or shove the conversations generally keep on. He is easy to talk to, easy not to take seriously, and somehow despite how offensive he can be he rarely actually offends. He wants the things everyone wants, he's just more open about wanting them and generally wants more of them.

Aboard the ship he serves as the mechanic. His small size allows him to get around the moving parts more easily and to attend to them from angles that many wouldn't be able to. His curiosity, persistence, and ample application of grease, oil, lubricant, or whatever other fluid he thinks likely to help him solve a problem have served the ship well in keeping things moving. Often times the smell of oil and muffled sound of incoherent swearing echo from the oddest sections of the ship.

In the field, when out on a mission, he is much more professional and quiet during the scouting and traveling phases. Given an order he will quickly find a way to escape even his fellow Trader's view and then pop up again some time later having ventured ahead far afield. When the rifles start cracking his loud whoops tend to accompany his return fire and often, immediately after one of his traps goes off, his barking laughter can be heard from somewhere or other in the battlefield.

One of his goals is to become influential/powerful/wealthy enough to improve his peoples standing in the Empire. After the many slaughters and near genocide at Ornsworld he wants to secure a future for his people and be remembered for doing so. His secondary goal is to get laid, get paid, and repeat that cycle over and over as much as possible until he drops dead. It is often not at all clear which is the priority for Roald.

He is a drunken lecherous loud mouth, but also a sneaky, half mad, mean, little bugger. He works for a paycheck, the notoriety, and to get his hands on booze, drugs, tech, and women from across the universe.

History:
Roald's professional life began in the Militarum Auxilia. With his fellow Abhumans he served in this specialist division of the Astra Militarum as a member of a crew of Ratlings. He didn't manage to fit in quite as well as he had hoped. While his combat capabilities were exemplary his personality didn't do him many favors. Certain things are expected among a company of Ratlings but even then there are limits. Roald's inability to exist within these bounds led to his exile from the Militarum Auxilia.

He had served well as a Trailblazer. His confidence, restlessness and some tendencies toward solitude made him a perfect fit for the primary responsibilities of the role, and his penchant for explosions and sometimes rather disturbing exuberance when sending rounds into the general cranium region of unsuspecting enemy troops served him well. He'd joined them in enough campaigns and saw them through enough tight spots that when his general debauchery and penchant for "borrowing" stuff from adjacent units and the populace in general got him in trouble he was assigned to stay on at the latest nothing planet and help to settle it.

He figured out fairly quickly that the soil was terrible, the company wasn't much to look at, and there was no one and nothing fun to shoot. The sedate life of a settler would never fit him and so he had joined on with the first Rogue Trader to make a stop on that dirt clod of a planet and so began his life as a Rogue Trader.

Skills:
Roald is the consummate Trailblazer, having found a role that fits his natural abilities and inclinations rather well.

In town, or during his Auxilia days around camp, he is quite proficient at procuring near anything he or his unit need or want. When he chooses to he can be very outgoing and friendly, while he is almost always obnoxious and coarse. He is fairly good at disarming hostile but not yet violent strangers due to his diminutive size in the hope to gain useful information about nearby likely hostile areas or the location of fun toys to play with.

Despite his often loud and obnoxious nature among his crewmates when he is on the job he is eerily capable of evading detection and remaining undetected while moving through hostile areas at a relatively high rate of speed. He can swiftly move up the sheerest cliffs and wiggle through the smallest of openings due to his small stature and considerable proportionate strength. Having moved unseen through these areas he is then able to help others navigate their dangers with minimal risk utilizing freshly made trails or old trails freshly uncovered.

When things inevitably wind their way toward some folks he is fond of shooting a lot of folks he doesn't particularly care for he utilizes some of the tech has has managed to "acquire" over the years to harass, distract, and slow down the enemy. Stealth cloaks, combat webbing, ropes, hooks, all manner of traps, and his small size and fondness for finding crevices to stick himself into (hee hee) allow him to create opportunities for himself to engage the enemy when they are at their weakest.

When it comes down to the actual shooting he uses those traps, his small size, his speed, and his accuracy with his Long-Las to confound the enemy and attempt to set them up to be ambushed by his fellow Traders or caught in their own crossfire. He has the uncanny and sometimes downright unsettling ability to set traps up in the most devious of places to inflict grievous wounds and sew discord.

Equipment and Weapons:
-Vox-Caster
-Monocular Telescope
-Canteen on Belt
-Cameleoline Cloak
-Climbing Gear

-Long-Las Rifle
-Combat Knife (attached to waist)
-Various traps and trap making materials