Andreyich — Roleplayer Guild

Name: Victor Freud (no relation), or "Siggy/Sicky."

Age: 37

Gender: apache attack helicopter male

Appearance: 6'1, he has slick brown hair and green eyes, he has somewhat but a relatively strong chin to "compensate." He weighs 185 pounds and has a muscular build but not enough to make him stand out as any sort of "body-builder" when clothed; however he will often make a show of great biceps so that people would think that the stuff under his civilian clothing is muscle rather than armour. He has a cross scarred on his right shoulder blade from his teen years and lots of various bullet and blade scars all over himself. 

Agency/Organization: Blackwater Inc./Academi

Education/Experience: homeschooled/tutored, but very well until 18. 4 years training on Blackwater's grounds, 2 years of protection services and guarding services, assorted Blackwater contracts from then to the present day.

Background:
Victor was the fifth child and fourth son to a wealthy oil baron in Texas, Ben Freud. He grew up with a classic rich-kid life, playing golf and listening to classic or jazz music when family was around, snorting coke and spending nights with working girls when it wasn't. He had a very good private education which he came to value knowing that as a fifth child he would need his wits unable to rely on the inheritance he would get. At least not if he wanted to keep up his life of debauchery.

When he was twenty his education was more than a year from having stopped, and he had to start working. By this time his father was much older and crankier, and started to speak of the "good old days," nuclear families, fighting the foreigners and "cock-sucking commies," so on and so forth. His father gave all of his male children an ultimatum; become a man by fighting or be disinherited. One of his brothers was too frightened, packing all the cash he could and running off. One joined the Marines, and another the air-force. Victor, in his opinion, made a slightly better choice and joined a PMC; the newly founded Blackwater incorporated thanks to an under-the-table investment in the company by his father. At first it was just like a bootcamp, where he trained for months and eventually years until the US invasion of Afganistan came, and Blackwater received a contract. Feeling himself ready, Victor agreed to go and fight for his inheritance. There he did all kinds of work, while initially it was merely guarding generals and Central Intelligence Agency compounds. It was near the end of the war that things got "interesting" for him. It was one fateful night when they were escorting a CIA operative, or some other brown-noser when they hit a series of improvised land mines. While the armoured vehicles could take them, they were not able to withstand a barrage of rocket-propelled grenades that followed. 

When Victor awoke it was with a dead mercenary on his face and remains of his vehicle upon him. It was by sheer luck that he wasn't noticed when moments later one of the enemy commandos picked up the body upon him, and dragged it into a circle. With a crane of the head Freud could see that the bodies were put into a sort of pentagram, split open be it with blades or teeth. There was some shouting by the terrorist into the sky, then he poured diesel dyed green all over himself and the bodies and set them on fire, cackling until the last moment. It seemed Victor's ordeal wasn't over, when a flash and an explosion of sound much like a stun grenade happened. Probably coming from another surviving gun for hire, it was a while before the ringing stopped, the sounds of shooting overhead while it was still there. However when it did, Victor saw nothing about. Eventually, reckoning himself to be safe he clambered out and looked around. Where the man had burned himself there was now little more than a pile of slowly burning bones.

At this point he heard shouting, shooting and turned just in time to see the man who knocked him down. When he looked back he saw that they were uniformed, shouting a foreign language. It was strange because it wasn't German or a Romance language. It sounded more like one of the Eastern coalition languages, some sort of Slavic perhaps? Their uniforms weren't NATO issued but they were uniforms nonetheless. For now he assumed them to be the Afghan allies, and turned to see what they were running from. It was clear that the ten or so men now running towards him firing old weapons were the ones behind it. Some were still aimed at the men running and one was shot down. Victor promptly reacted getting his M4 and fired upon them all, the men not expecting resistance quickly succumbing to a better trained soldier; three fell while the rest retreated. He walked over at first to the fallen enemies, and noted that while one had the typical Kalashnikov, two others had old bolt-action rifles, perhaps from even before the first world war. Then he went to inspect one of the fallen retreating soldiers, and was very surprised indeed. He had a Soviet patch on his shoulder, and a cold-war era Kalashnikov carbine. He was also wearing no armour, a practice much more common at the precise time that the Soviets had troops deployed in Afghanistan. However, that was thirty years ago, a Russian wouldn't still be there! He reasoned that the Afghani government would re-purpose gear left behind by them. But... that didn't explain how the man had blond hair and blue eyes, a trait oh so common in the peoples of the middle east. He was dumbfounded, and then another ring came, this time from one of the fallen enemies firing and hitting flashbang whilst in his death throes. 

He collapsed to the ground, having recently had three flash-grenades explode near him made a pain unbearable and he screeched into the sky and put his head to the ground with his eyes shut. When he finally returned to a state where he could deal with the world around him, it was to see another one of the company's trucks drive up, the door open and a contractor urging him to get in. In too much pain to speak or take his hands off his ears to hear, he ran in and the truck drove off. When they arrived at an ISAF base he was given first aid and then asked for a report. He omitted the parts that would sound insane, like the thought that he traveled back in time to see a fight between Mujahideen and Communists. They were somewhat suspicious that he was seemingly the only survivor, but eventually let him go. 

He kept on with his duties and did them well when returning to Academi, but when speaking or spoken to he seemed almost constantly in a state of shell-shock. He knew it was probably just a soldier with old Soviet gear, and it was an outlier that the terrorists had such old weapons but the thought that perhaps the self-immolation was some stupid ritual, or something else inexplicable haunted him. Finally he took a year's paid vacation for "stress" reasons, and returned for the last year of the Afghanistan war to take revenge on those who killed his friends on that day. The men with him were not good people - perhaps even bad ones - but they were his friends. He slaughtered civilians and Soldiers alike but got little reprimand being by now quite high in the Corporate ladder of the killing company. The war was over, and he took more private contracts like guarding rich kids and oil fields, or breaking up the odd protest or so. Once again, he was still too shocked by what he had seen and only recently had he finally come out of his shell of insanity. It was only days after he became "normal" again, his boss told him that there was a big government gig coming, and he was chosen for it. He took it as a rebound job, finally out of his traumatized stupor. 

Personality: like most PMC troopers, he is motivated mostly by caring only for that which is dear or important to him, money being close to the top of the list of such things. He remembers horribly some of the times he was forced to kill the innocent, moulding his cynical mind.. He will put others in the way of harm if it can save his hide somehow in pretty much all cases but those involving his comrades, dear friends or relatives. However, even then desperation can do lots of things. He is hardened by a heavy cynicism and has generally a hardy mentality and a stubborn head even if it will prove detrimental. However, more recently he has began to develop some changes. He is starting to feel remorse that his younger self-didn't, however at the same time he is becoming more politically minded seeing what he does as a necessary evil for order, stability and for civilization as it is known rather than his playboyish disregard for life around him. While not very evident, this change of heart may grow over time and rip him apart eventually. Additionally, now that he is higher in Blackwater's hierarchy he has read up on past operations and now knows details about what he was doing in the past which he rather would not. At this great crossroads in how to lead one's life, he has yet to make a choice. The fact that he hasn't made it, and what he is making it about leads him to a near suicidal depression. 

Skills:
Gifted(+5): Marksmanship - long guns, Marksmanship - handguns
Adept(+3): Marksmanship - sniper, Hand-to-Hand, Awareness
Average(+2): Stealth, SERE, Demolitions/EOD
Novice(+1): Law (gotta know how to legally defend yourself after shooting them civvies), Military Science, Tactical Driving, First Aid

Weaknesses: on the spectrum of autism, type 1 diabetic (can't wait to die because I didn't have apple juice or insulin in the desert). He is also vice filled, being somewhat addicted to alcohol, tobacco and recreational drugs. While he can more or less keep off of the latter he can badly suffer from withdrawal of the first two. 

Non-fighty stuff: expensive and usually tailored two-piece or occasionally three-piece suits. When truly "relaxing" he'll wear jeans along with a polo-shirt and shoes, along with a sweater and sunglasses if needed. Still, he will often wear disguised protection along with it all. He will carry a glock-18 machine pistol with a silencer, some new phone, a pocket and trench knife, a pocket watch, a compass, a flask of aged scotch, a gold ring, tasers (one as a gun and one requiring contact) and deodarant.

Fighty stuff: full private purchase armour that is marginally better than the standard-issue alternative. A fire retardant anti-stab balaclava, ballistic helmet, face mask, and military goggles. Soft kevlar torso armour with a hard (steel or ceramic) insert protects the organs. He is armed with a 45-70 government Magnum Research BFR, an imported AK-107 with a variety of things to attach to the rail and a woof finish to mask it as an AKM. He has a bandolier with a tear gas, smoke, flash, incendiary, stingball and frag grenade. For CQC he will carry a bowie knife and a telescopic baton, and for improved door-kicking his boots have over-sized steel caps. 

Foreign Language(s): Fluent German, Latin and Spanish. 

Clout: Blackwater/Academi friends will willingly give nearly any pertinent intel with minimal red-tape, namely (Ex-Marine Colonel) Program Manager (rank below Country Manager in most PMCs as I am told, not sure about Blackwater specifically) Lee Stafford and (. His father is also useful since he is an oligarch and can call in favours with oligarch friends.

As you can see a very martially focused guy. I may have made him a bit over the top, tell me if anything needs fixing. 

Also

is his theme song yo

I do not know if it is too long, or if I was too verbose or I made it too long or... well let's just see shall we?

Brokk stared back and forth between the scene of carnage and death, and the young skirt chaser. "Oi, 'urry up youngit - no not like that!" he screamed as Fortune made the hole in the ship. He gripped his hair with one hand and covered his mouth's scream with the other only to realize he was releasing the rope and quickly grabbed back onto it. "Damn youngits and their youngit ways... they're even worse when damn umgi, running after anything with long hair and a dress showing some leg...." he said. In fact, he said, or rather grumbled much more. He didn't like grumbling as much as a typical longbeard, but he still enjoyed it, especially when there was a good subject regarding which to be displeased. Sometimes, he and his elder comrades were actually angry when all was well, simply because there was nothing to be angry about. There was of course the lack of things to be angry about to be angry about, but they didn't want to go down that rabbit hole; even the oldest Dwarf knew that someday he just might get bored of complaining, especially when already they did so regarding nearly everything. 

It was regarding the behaviour of the longbeards that he was thinking when he saw the Knightly umgi fight. Yes, the Bretonnian fought quite like one of them. They never did more or less when was needed, it was like a weedy youngster playing chess against an old wise sage. The latter had simply done it for longer and more often, and was just better at it than any urk, be it a grobi, elgi or raki. Sometimes they even moved slowly or lazily, something never expected in combat. Yet somehow the axe was always in just the right spot to split the enemy in two, the shield was always there to block a strike no matter how clever, and the boot was always there to turn a groin into mush. The Bretonnian seemed to at least have the experience of them. Brokk would never say the Knight fought as well as a Longbeard, but one could come close. 

He considered throwing his cinderblast bomb or blasting charge upon the Norscan ship to just be done with it all, but then he realized that this was an umgi ship, not a sturdy Dawi ironclad. Fire was always a hazard, not an ally here. He grunted a little and noticed another Northman coming close. Hoping to cut off the lad's rope and then make the Dwarf just a little bit shorter, no doubt. Well he was having none of that, no! He whimpered and made himself shiver, feigning senile fear. He pretended to be anxious for the lad to come up (which he was, but for different reasons) so that he could protect him from the brute. However just before the critical moment he tugged at a throwing az and let it spin in the air to go into his chest. He wasn't willing to risk a hit upon the head, for the ship was in constant motion and he didn't want to lose and az when he was so far from any civilization to replace it. Just so the man would not topple over and plunge into the water and make his axe lost to the sea, he pulled at his hammer and with the sharpened pick-side of it struck the man in the right side of the stomach and then pulled hard. The weapon would rip off the skin and clothing and hook some intestines onto itself but the force would make the man fall to the floor rather than overboard. The Ranger placed his foot on the throwing axe now dislodged and on the ground so it wouldn't slide away, put his hammer away and then pulled at the rope to hopefully get the boy up, scolding him in Khazalid as he did so and clipping him on the ear for defacing the ship as he would clamber on.  

Andreyich Member

AS THOUGH A THOUSAND MOUTHS CRY OUT IN PAIN

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