Auz

Avonshire - D&D Based Adventure

I'm interested, making up a character

Auz's Lot

Tak 1

Takaror “Tak” Corr

Pics (Please ignore the tail, it is normal sized)

Full name: Takaror “Tak” Corr

Race: Tank Bred Krogan

Citizenship: True Krogan

Aliases: N/A

Age: 17

Gender: Male

Psych. Eval.:

As with all of the tank breds, Tak was imprinted with the extensive knowledge of the four major subjects to life; linguistics, mathematics, science and social studies. Each of these subjects were then pinned under the umbrella of warfare, with all tank breds being taught how to use each field, and sub-heading of that field, to their advantage in war. The genetics of all tank bred pure Krogans were made to be state of the art, enabling them more control over their base instincts, ensuring better performance under high-stress situations.

As a result, Tak was born, handed a shotgun and dropped straight onto the frontline. Warfare came as easy to him as breathing, cutting through enemy lines alongside his cohort with little trouble. For the first five years the tank bred acted without thought or hesitation, following his orders to the letter. Unlike his naturally born counterparts, Tak fought with no rage, no anger or bloodlust, he was cold, calculating and if need be, ruthless, similar to that of a machine.

It wasn’t until adolescence that Tak had his first real thought. At the age a five, a gnawing began under the plate of his brow. A slow, burning ebbing that was akin to a spark that would light a forest fire, like being born again but spiritually rather than physically. It was an anger and hatred that began to grow inside of him but not of those he faced on the battlefield, no, this was about control.

With each order given to him, every life he took, every world he scarred, that feeling grew. He didn’t fully understand it or where it came from but the feeling was like a virus that spread throughout the tank breds. For Tak, emotion began to swarm his mind, overloading his senses to the point where he began to lag behind when compared to his brothers. Eventually frustration boiled over into an incident on an Asari settled world. An event that would become a catalyst for his future behaviour and something that got him pulled from the front line.

His superiors blamed all of this on Tak’s move into an adolescent stage and a failure to take the Right of Passage. But even now, after the death of Fortlack and the taking of his own Right of Passage, the feelings have not dissipated.

After becoming further disillusioned by his own brethrens political games and ploys, Tak began to research matters of the soul, coming across philosophy and the works of several human philosophers. Slowly he has begun to realise that he has a “monster” inside of him, one that lusts after war and death with an insatiable hunger. He fears that if he feeds that monster, then it will consume him.

Out of fear of what he can do to others, Tak isolates himself, avoiding contact, instead trying to get a hold of his emotions. Any attempts to pry these emotions or deeper thoughts out of him lead to an outburst of frustration and rage. Instead preferring to work through these problems alone, attempting to understand why he is like this and how he can forever kill the monster inside.

The council of Pure Krogan’s either overlook these feelings or are unaware, instead seeing Tak’s value as a warrior. As a result the tank-bred is being lent to those in power as a further extension of their peace ambitions, hoping that his success in the Spectre program will bring them closer to ending the war.

Phys. Eval.:

Tak stands at an imposing 2.75m, amassing 320kg of pure Krogan. He is daunting to look at and inspires fear in most creatures (just as he was bred to), possessing an incredible amount of strength. He was also bred to have much stronger plating, with more of it covering his body then regularly born Krogan.

Maturing into adolescence, he has moved from a dark green colour into a metallic blue, with his head plate still forming. It's unclear if his unusual colour comes from his genetic alteration, or if this is simply just a phase of adolesence but there appears to be no downside to this.

(OOC: Please ignore the tail in the picture, his tail is regular Krogan size, I'm just unable to edit it out. Cheers.)

Biotics:

Born as a Battlemaster, the Neo-Krogan biotics have very much become an extension of his fighting style and emotions. Always possessing the ability to put up a barrier and perform a biotic charge , Tak has seen the recent addition of being able to release a flare . Pent up emotions of unstable rage and anger allow him to release a massive biotic charge, though it leaves him exhausted, drained and even vulnerable after.

Qualifications:

Tak is the pinnacle of genetic technology, being bred with the strength and resilience of Krogan, the intelligence of Salarians, the martial discipline of Turians, the adaptability of humanity and even the dexterity of Drell albeit rather wasted on the Krogan physiognomy. Specifically Tak was bred to be a daunting figure in an attempt to demoralise the enemy before they even picked up a rifle.

He has fought extensively on the front lines of the Neo-Krogan Rebellions and as a result is able to operate medium to heavy weaponry, employ the use of demolitions and can lead small unit’s on the battlefield.

History:

One hour was all it took for the tank bred to be thrust onto the front line. Born, handed a shotgun and told to take a hill alongside his freshly, fully formed brethren, Tak was dropped onto a planet he had only dreamed about in the tank. It was a process that would be repeated for the next five years, being dropped into wherever the fighting was the heaviest and turning the tide of the war.

There was no significance in those battles, for every enemy that fell, another fifteen would take their place. For every world they took, another would appear on their strategic map with their superiors salivating at the idea of conquering it. It was monotonous, endless violence where everyone in it fought in a cruel and brutal manner.

Fortlack and the other Rebel clan leaders saw the tank breds as nothing but an edge over their enemies, a strategic gold mine that would see them to glory and victory. As such, there was no line that they wouldn’t make the tank breds cross, slaughtering civilians in person or from space, execution of POWs, mutilation of their enemies, biological warfare, it didn’t matter. For the newborn Krogan, their actions were meaningless, there was no difference between man, woman or child, there was simply the objective as they didn’t know any better.

Tak was no different in the beginning, engulfed in battle he would have no trouble gunning down whatever creature stood in the way of his objective, tearing apart other races limb by limb if need be. Every night he would dream of nothing but more warfare, the imprint of his tank life haunting his subconscious every time he shut his eyes.

Among his squad there was little chatter within those first years. There was no aggression or animosity between them like the naturally born Krogan. Instead they walked around in a kind of zombified state, aware of each other's existence but knowing the acknowledgement of such things was meaningless.

Even now Tak couldn’t tell you what day that all began to change. A feeling in his head began to grow, starting like a headache, something began to gnaw behind his forming plates. It was so subtle at first that the only memory worth remembering was an instance where his squad was preparing for an ambush. There he was, primed to take the first shot, eying down his enemy through the sight of his gun with his finger stroking the trigger ever so delicately, waiting for the precise moment to strike.

But then, right as the order was given, a sharp pain in that spot caused him to miss the shot. He had never missed a shot under those circumstances before, though his team successfully mopped up the enemy squad, the moment resonated with him.

It wasn’t long before he found himself drawn to similar events, questioning superiors orders, slight hesitations when it came to the gunning down of other Krogan and pausing momentarily at the death of his allies. Something began to stir inside his chest, like that feeling behind his plate had grown like a vine, twisting its way down his spine and around his hearts.

That same something began to stir in all tank breds and over time, these anomalies began to grow to the point that Fortlack began to take notice. Older tank bred Krogan began being put forward for almost suicidal runs to stop them from reaching maturity while stepping up production of fresh specimens. Those who survived began to organise meetings in secret, away from the natural borns. The tank breds had grown smart enough to know that they were experiencing an awakening, an adolescence and maturity in which they would be able to form their own identity.

Shaman were created in an unofficial capacity, hidden among the ranks with only the pure and true Krogans having knowledge of who was who. With this newfound sense of identity each tank bred was free to choose a clan of their choice, taking a step forward and coming closer to the realisation of a new destiny.

Still wrestling with these new feelings, Tak sought out a Shaman in his unit. Tak was told of how their superiors had made them fight without honor and this is why they had been given a new awareness. So they could see the truth and through the lies of their superiors, that there would be a new day dawning for the Krogan and the formation of a grand final clan in which the true Krogan would lead.

The Shaman told Tak that in order to rid himself of these feelings, he must fight with honour and in the name of his brothers and sisters, not for Fortlack and his kind.

One day they had been tasked to invade an Asari settled world. Their superiors had deemed the factories and mines of that world to be important enough to launch a full scale invasion, rather than trying to bomb it from orbit. This should have been a routine run for Tak, it wasn’t his first time taking a world the other races called home, they all knew civilian casualties would be high and unavoidable.

Tak and his squad were dropped from orbit in pods into a town at the foot of an eezo mine. The community was etched in between a valley with the Asari fortifying a frontline at the only road into town. Though they had littered AA guns throughout the houses, they weren’t enough to stop the Rebel Clans assault. Tak’s squad (along with other squads) dropped in behind the frontline defences and assaulted them from the rear.

Tak himself was shot off course, flak from an AA gun glanced his pod, sending him crashing through the roof of a hall. As soon as the doors flew off he was set upon by a natural born Krogan, the two rolling around on the floor as screams erupted from all around them. Instinct had kicked in and it wasn’t before Tak gained an upper hand, freeing himself up to grab his combat knife. Just as he went for the killing blow, he was hit by two biotic charges, causing him to fall back on his ass and off the Krogan.

Again, instinctively, Tak reached for his assault rifle, pulling it from his back and taking aim towards whatever had fired the charge. The Krogan on the ground screamed for Tak to stop, holding up his hand and slowly getting to his knees. Behind him were two small Asari’s, children in appearance, their faces soaked in tears. Confused Tak uttered what felt like his first fully formed sentence to anyone outside of the clan. He asked the Krogan why he fought with children, what kind of tactic was this?

The Krogan replied that he was no soldier, this was his family, their mother was defending the front gate but he had left Tuchanka long ago, no longer wishing to be a part of the constant cycle of violence. Tak knew that their mother was dead and said there was no escape for them but the Krogan asked him to help them get out through a secret tunnel in the mines. The Krogan told Tak that he didn’t have to be a part of this, he could make a choice like he once did and that there was more to life than this.

Tak could feel the tearing of his soul as his nature wrestled with itself. He could hear the Shaman’s words, that this Krogan had forgone his honour by leaving his clan but there was more to this, the genophage had taken away their ability to have children but still life had found a way. The Asari were so delicate, how could they love something so brutish? Then there was the innocence in the children's eyes, what was all of this?

Emotions overwhelmed the tank bred, he began to tear apart the kitchen in a fit of rage before aiming a gun at the Krogan on the floor. Tak told him that he was without honour for leaving his kin and as such he would be killed but, in the same vein, his children would be spared and be allowed to leave. The Krogan agreed and asked his children to turn away.

Tak killed the Krogan just as his squad arrived. The other tank breds had slaughtered the defenders at the entrance and were sweeping the town clean, as per orders. Tak explained to his squad what had happened and that their Shaman had spoken to him about honour. The others were unsure what order to disobey, they were each in their own stage of awakening and it was something that manifested individually.

It only took one of the other tank breds to decide that their orders were more important for things to go south. His squad member raised his shotgun at the two little girls and Tak snapped. He tore into his squadmate, screaming for the girls to run and fought a brutal hand to hand fight.

In the end it took 5 tank breds to take Tak down, not knowing if the girls had got away. Luckily for him, the mutiny had occurred. Fortlack and any who stood with him had been killed and a New Pure Krogan council had been formed. Tak’s outburst was put down to him going through adolescence and he was ordered to be taken from the front lines to undertake their newly formed Right of Passage.

He thought all of this would bring him peace but away from the front lines he had become more restless than ever. The Krogan’s words that day had stuck with him, adding to the gnawing feeling in his soul. More than that the new council of Krogan had made Tak a pawn in their own political games, offering him up as a part of their peace proposal. The Shamans' promise of a grand new Clan had begun to ring hollow as Tak saw his older brethren fall into the same patterns of control.

But rebellion had got them nowhere, so Tak hatched a plan. He would play the good soldier, serving the New Council and C-sec to the letter, all the while hatching an escape plan. When the prospect of renewing the Spectre program came up, with the addition of moving out from the immediate thumb of their superiors, Tak jumped at the opportunity. He petitioned the New Council to be their representative, to which they agreed.

Position:

Tak's primary role is a Shock Trooper and although he may have other talents, he has no idea what they could be. At least he’ll be good for heavy lifting in the meantime.

Recruited:

No

Inventory & Logistics:

Weapon wise Tak has the following in his possession:
- Graal Spike Thrower
- Striker Assault Rifle
- ML-77 Missile Launcher

Armour wise, Tak sports medium armour, allowing him to be more fluid in combat. Together with his natural shell, both layers provide the protection level of heavy armour when it comes to covering his vital organs. Though this leaves some of his joints exposed.

Notoriety:

5/10

Due to his unique genetic design, Tak is well known within the Neo-Krogan’s, though they do not know him personally. Outside of their clan, he is relatively unknown.


Misc.:

Tak has brought on board training equipment, books and bookshelves, as well as a computer for access to the internet. All donated by his government.

[Blasts from the Past]: Yes

Auz's Lot

Ollie

Sam ‘Ollie’ Oliver

Name: Sam ‘Ollie’ Oliver

Age: 35
Gender: Male

Appearance: Considered a pretty boy by his colleagues in his younger days, Ollie has matured into a gruff gentleman kind of look. His hair is dark brown, medium in length on top, swept to the back and shortly shaved on the sides. He sports a thick moustache with 5 o’clock shadow over his strong jawline. Facially he has prominent cheekbones with slightly gaunt cheeks and deep ocean blue eyes.

Standing at 6’1, the man is in decent athletic shape, still able to run down younger perps with relative ease. He weighs a healthy 85 kilograms and somehow has managed to maintain a decent diet all these years despite his personal struggles.

After suddenly being transported to New Atlantis, Ollie’s right arm has become seemingly infected. From his right hand to just below his elbow, that part of his arm has turned black with cracks that run through it. The cracks reveal a fiery glow that emanates from within, giving off warmth but not enough to burn when calm, the same can’t be said if he becomes angry. His fingers have become slightly longer and have morphed into more of a claw or talon.

Over time and with use of his magical abilities this ‘infection’ will spread ending up looking like this.

Currently it looks like this


Personality: As a boy Ollie’s mother used to say he was so loving and caring, always happy and spreading joy wherever he went. A tough and strenuous adolescence changed that, life began to harden his personality, forcing Ollie to set aside his weak emotions, instead becoming cold and calculating.

With his career, things became more morbid, forcing him to bury his emotions even further down inside. The only emotion that ever really appeared was rage, venting out in short bursts of anger, though that was and is rare. Most of the time he learned to use his numb ability to his advantage in the workplace, though it did remove him from being able to connect deeply with others and made him more robotic. He is aware of all this though, and does try to hide it behind comedy, he does enjoy making himself laugh and is often quick witted and dry in his humour.

Deep down he still has an eternal struggle between who he was born as, a good and kind nature, versus his nurtured cold and emotionless monster.

Backstory: Growing up, life was never easy for the Oliver family, after a nasty accident at work Sam’s father was left with major back problems, leaving him unfit for most jobs. In order to cope with this and the added financial stress, the man turned to alcoholism, losing himself to the drink. Unable to cope with the abuse and anger that came with addiction, Sam’s mother became distant and numb, barely ever leaving her room or even acknowledging anyone else.

Sam himself was left to care for his younger brother, John, who was 10 years his junior. At only 3 years old the boy needed round the clock care, so Sam brought John to their grandmothers and set out into the world looking for a job. Living in a poor neighbourhood the place was wracked with crime and a job, especially one for a 13 year old boy, was impossible to find. So it wasn’t long before Sam fell in with a bad crowd.

Those in charge used the adolescent to peddle drugs, either running them from location to location or selling them outright on the corner. Sam made good enough money doing this to provide for his family but it took an emotional toll on him. There was no love in gang life, anyone considered to be weak was instantly preyed upon by others, often getting them chastised to the point of breaking down or even putting them in hospital through physical violence. Sam was forced to master his environment, forcing himself to become numb; he integrated himself deeper into the gangs ranks.

It wasn’t long before things became even more hostile when an opposing faction moved in on their territory. Events snowballed as retaliation begat retaliation, leaving all sides blind. Those who Sam had grown up with began to drop like flies and he knew it wasn’t long before someone would come for him or his family too. Knowing there was only one way to protect the only thing he had ever cared about, Sam abandoned his family and old life behind, hoping those still left around would see that he had no real connection to his brother and would therefore leave him alone.

Using what little money he had left, Sam moved to the other side of the country, finding himself in another downtrodden city. Not wanting to repeat the same mistakes of his past, the young man applied for the police academy. Six months later he was working the streets and it wasn’t long before he was progressing up the ranks. Sam used his experiences as a troubled youth to his advantage, being able to pick up on crimes a lot easier than others and coaching others in the way that drug gangs worked. After two years he was offered a job as a detective and he began to hone these skills.

Though Sam had progressed, his past still troubled him, suffering from insomnia due to nightmares in the form of deep seeded guilt. After a string of failed personal relationships, Sam felt enough time may have passed to try and make contact with his family again. He called his grandmother only to find that his brother was missing. Their money had long run out and John had opted to provide for the whole family by taking up a job in New Atlantis just before the island cut itself off from the world.

Taking a leave of absence from work, Sam travelled home for the first time in over a decade. He sifted through his brother's things and put the pieces of the case together. He could only find small bits of evidence from the things left behind, with his biggest clue coming from John’s journal, referencing a mysterious man offering some sort of job. Who was this man and what was the job? Sam couldn’t find the answers and every official channel he explored was just a dead end after dead end.

That was until she appeared.

Skills:

Problem solving
Critical thinking
Communication
Attention to detail
Keen understanding of human behavior and psychology.
Ok computer and technology skills
Basic hand to hand skills
Decent small firearms knowledge

Items of Note:

SIG Sauer P320 9mm
Two additional ammo clips
John’s journal (small pocket sized notebook)
Mobile phone

Abilities: Due to his detective skills, Ollie’s sixth sense is really prominent, often able to help him find clues in the area and react quickly when there is magic involved.

As mentioned above, the ‘infected area’ that is his right arm, is imbued with the elemental power of fire and earth. Using his pistol as a conduit for the magic, he is able to shoot hot, metallic magma rounds at enemies with the actual gun itself changing in appearance to look like an extension of his right arm. The magma slugs burst open after penetration for maximum damage both on the outside and inside of a target. When returning it to its holster or handing it off to his left hand, the gun goes back to a regular shape and look.

As Ollie uses magic, the blackened area grows similar to a virus (hence why it’s referred to as an infection) as well as in moments of anger. The actual area also appears to have a mind of its own, physically manifesting itself for Ollie, appearing as his brother John. In reality the magic is just a manifestation of his fractured personality (with his negative traits inhabiting the magical area) and will only appear for Ollie to see.

The arm itself also doubles as a defensive ability, fusing to metal or rock on touch (not in an instant but given enough time) and imbuing the object with magic. Ollie is able to defend himself from the magic of others using the object as a shield. In terms of close quarter offensive ability, the arm (and whatever part of Ollie the infection has spread to) has superhuman strength, there is no magical ability other than this though.

Finally the arm can possess others of his own power level, or beneath, on touch. If the target is unwilling and of the same power level, then it only acts as a debuff, inhibiting the target's magic ability to a degree or temporarily restricting movement. If the unwilling target is a much lower power level, the level of control is greater. The greater a target's magic resistance, the more difficult the possession or control of the target is.

If the target is willing (an ally for example) then the powers of Ollie can be used to some degree (they gain its strength and toughness) but the willing target will be affected by their own negative emotions in the same way, i.e manifesting a “dark” version of themselves only they can see. If a willing target also has magic resistant abilities, this will also make possession difficult, thereby lessening the effect of the magic.

Possession can also work on inanimate objects, though only in relation to the elemental base of fire and earth. For instance, a pile of rocks could become a golem, or a flame atronach could be conjured from fire. Again this would be affected by Ollie’s negative emotions, with the creature taking on that “dark” persona and lasting for as long as Ollie can manage it.

When touched, the ‘infection’ will spread over a small area the same in appearance as Ollie, making it noticeable on the target (friend or foe).

Melee: 10
Ranged: 16

Focus: 15
Spread: 2

Burst: 10
Sustain: 10

Force: 5
Finesse: 10

Defense: 15
Agility: 2

Support: 10
Sabotage: 15

Auz's Lot

Gin

Gin

Name: Gin'ibak'aosame
Species: Chiss
Sex: Male

Profession: Gray Jedi, Jedi Sentinel/Investigator

Reason for being present in the Bitter End: Finishing the final job given to him by the Jedi Order, pursue Callidus to know if he has truly fallen to the Dark Side and if so, bring him to justice.

Looks

Personality Description:

During his younger days in the Order, Gin was always a bit of a larrikin, rebelling against his teachers in small, yet annoying ways. There was one master, however, whose teachings always resonated with the Chiss. What began out of a childlike fascination of a shared similarity in name, Qui-gon quickly became an idol for the young boy as Gin took a serious fascination with his work, including the masters criticisms of the order.

The young Chiss had always understood why he was offered up by his parents to the Jedi for having ‘the Sight’, but did find himself at times missing being among those who resembled him. As such he spent a lot of time alone, choosing instead to tinker with his lightsaber and hone his force awareness skills.

As with most beings in the universe, the transition into adulthood was both abrupt and filled with hardships. Major heartbreak and the devastating loss of the Jedi Order has left Gin reeling and in pain. He has lost sight of the teachings of the Jedi, seeing the flaws in their ways as the reason for their ultimate destruction. Though to say he has fallen to the Dark Side would not be true. Instead he seeks balance, he is angry about the injustice done to the Order, he is passionate for his former lover and he seeks to do right in the galaxy, which has since become a cold and cruel place. Gin’s strong sense of duty is now what drives him, to finish what he started and find balance in the process.

With the title of Jedi Sentinel/Investigator, Gin also possesses the skills and knowledge of problem solving, critical thinking, attention to detail, keen understanding of sapient species behaviour and psychology and excellent tracking abilities. The majority of his force powers have been sharpened to exacerbate this.

Character Bio:

In the closing days of the Republic, hearsay snaked its way through the Order with word that Jedi Master Valens Sarethi was in fact alive. Impossible, the council was quick to dismiss such rumours as nothing but whispers in the dark, firmly believing that such nonsense would dissipate in the shadow of galactic war. They should’ve known better than to underestimate their former colleague as theories began to spread like wildfire in the Temple of Coruscant, with each iteration getting wilder and wilder. First he was a fallen Jedi who went by the name of Callidus, then a Sith Acolyte, then a Sith Lord and finally a Sith Lord, Darth Callidus, who was drawing up a new Order.

Preposterous, the Force did not echo with such darkness and so the council held true to their belief, until the theft of the Jedi Temple’s Vault. What was taken is still unknown to this day but the act was so blatant and audacious that it forced the Master's hand.

As such Jedi Shadow Ashuvehe was assigned a new, fresh faced Padawan, Gin'ibak'aosame and both were tasked with following Callidus into the Unknown Regions of the galaxy. Gin was chosen for both his emerging abilities as a Sentinel and Investigator, and the fact that Chiss were quite a common site in the Unknown Regions. Ashuvehe, a Mirialan, was a well renowned agent of the Jedi Shadow arm of the Order, despite being quite young herself, leaving the council quite confident in their ability to find the wayward Jedi.

Venturing into the unknown, the two quickly formed a bond with their skills as Jedi meshing together seamlessly. As their time pursuing Callidus went on, Gin and Ash slowly became infatuated with one another. With them being so far out from the Order and away from its strict teachings, love quickly blossomed. Gin was quick to stray, pointing out the flaws in their doctrines, while Ash was torn between the two, fearing that their love would lead to the Dark Side.

Despite the confusion, the two still remained effective in their pursuit, cornering Callidus on an urban world in the Unknown Region. They had narrowed down his location to a city on the planet's surface and were preparing for apprehension when a message from the order came through. The Masters had grown more desperate, sensing that a critical moment in the war was approaching and they needed all hands on deck to finish the fight. Ash was asked for an evaluation of Gin’s skills, if he was ready to become a Knight, then she would have to return to known space, while the Chiss would be ordered to follow Callidus but not to engage him. Once this critical moment had passed, Ash would return and together they would confront Callidus.

Gin protested this, saying that if they moved quickly, they could capture Callidus and return together. Ash was much more hesitant, telling Gin she could not disobey direct orders and that even if they returned together, this would mean they could no longer be a couple. The young Chiss raged at the notion and upended their room, cursing the Order. Ash’s fears had been realised, seeing that the Dark Side’s influence had begun to grow as a result of their love. In the middle of the night she left, leaving a small message as to why and stating that another Jedi would return to capture Callidus. She begged Gin not to follow her and keep to their teachings but also said she would always hold a special place in her heart for him.

Gin, though heartbroken, did as commanded. It was only when a massive disturbance among the force was felt, as well as Ash being in pain, that Gin abandoned his post. Returning to known space, the young Chiss quickly learned that the order had been destroyed, receiving the message from Obi-Wan to hide and survive. Gin attempted to look for Ash but the destruction of the Republic and the ruthless nature of the Empire left little evidence of any sort of trail.

Accepting defeat, Gin did as he was asked, hiding on backwater worlds and surviving by any means necessary. All until the rumours of Callidus’s infamy surfaced once again, once again he had stolen something of value but from the Emperor himself. Gin wasted no time in taking up pursuit once more, hopeful that if Ash was still alive, she would do the same but also seeking redemption in the eyes of his dead brothers and sisters.

A hologram projected snapshot of Ashuvehe

Auz's Lot

Tak 2

Tak 2

Full name: Takaror “Tak” Corr

Race: Tank Bred Krogan

Citizenship: True Krogan

Aliases: N/A

Age: 15

Gender: Male

Psych. Eval.:

Notes From Neo-Krogan Government:

To Whom It May Concern,

Battlemaster Takaror Corr is one of the finest additions to our species. As with all Pure Krogans, he has extensive knowledge of the four major subjects in life; linguistics, mathematics, science and social studies. Each of these subjects have been pinned under the umbrella of warfare, with all our superiorly bred brethren being taught how to use each field, and sub-heading of that field, to their advantage in battle. The genetics of all Pure Krogans have been made to be state of the art, enabling them more control over their base instincts and ensuring better performance under high-stress situations.

His superior and unique genetics have been finely tuned to create the ultimate warrior, one who is cunning, cold and calculated. A Battlemaster with no opposing equal.

Again, as with all Pure Krogan’s, Takaror was placed onto the battlefield within moments of being born. He, his squad and regiment were one of the finest additions to our great army. They were paramount in turning the tide of the war for the old rebellion and the formation of the new Krogan Empire.

After the events of our victory at Fulmar, it was proposed that Takaror joined C-sec as an example of our capabilities and what we could bring to the table if our peace treaty was accepted. Though the peace treaty has not been formally recognised, C-sec graciously accepted our offer.

With Regards,
The Krogan Council

An Interview With C-sec Officer, J Farnworth:

Good morning Officer, we’d like to start this interview by asking for your thoughts on Takaror Carr.

“Tak”, as the tank-bred likes to be called, is a dog on a leash. He will both swear loyalty and threaten to murder you in the same sentence should he deem it necessary. Those bloody tank-bred’s did nothing but breed a killing machine on legs but damned if he isn’t the most effective machine I’ve ever seen. Once that leash has been removed I don’t think there’s anything that could stand between that monster and it’s objective. Hell, I could’ve sworn that one time I saw it chew through straight steel to get through to our suspect on the other side.

Thank you Officer. We’d also like your thoughts on the incident that occurred with Takaror and another lower ranked Officer.

Well, understandably, some of the other races didn’t take too kindly to his presence among our ranks, especially the Turians. They would try to give the thing hell for it but it was like throwing insults at a black hole. Only time I saw him react was when one of the Turians pulled a pistol on him. Damn idiot pulled a pea shooter on the biggest and meanest krogan I’ve ever seen, cost him an arm and a leg. Had to keep the tank-bred in isolation since, kept the troops safe and the politicians happy.

Thank you again Officer. Would you recommend Mr. Corr for further services with C-sec high level operations?

Please note that the Officer laughed at this question for a full 30 seconds before rendering an answer.

Here’s what I’ll say about, Mr. Corr, you could throw that thing into the deepest darkest corner of this galaxy and I’m certain it would come out with barely a scratch on it. You find a way to control a beast like that? He’ll be worth more to you than an entire fleet.

Notes From Observation and Interview Process:

Mr. Corr initiated our interview by stating that he did not like to talk, or rather, that he was not used to it but he would “do as he is commanded”. Aside from that, Mr. Corr was rather well versed and had an almost poetic like way of structuring his sentences.

Interestingly, Mr. Corr is very forthcoming and unashamed of his actions during the war. The way he expressed them was very matter of fact. The same goes for the actions of the coalition forces, including the genophage; he held no animosity to any of the galactic races and just sees it as “war being war”.

We were able to gleam a few insights into his past, finding that he had gone through a ritualistic trial, similar to that of regular krogans, just after the death of Fortlack. It was implied that the tank-breds had Shamans in their ranks before the assasination of their former leader. As such, the Shamans had spoken of honour in combat, claiming that Fortlack and his ilk made them fight without it. This brought a great shame among their brethren and hence he was killed.

After some more digging we found that Mr. Corr’s particular Shaman had spoken to him of morality, right and wrong in simplistic terms, and he admitted that the concept was lost on him. Mr. Corr expressed a technical understanding of it but could muster no true feelings towards it.

Direct Quote: “It is akin to what I imagine it is to be colourblind, as in, everyone else knows what colour looks like, yet it is indescribable to someone who cannot see it.”

Afterwards we held a brief discussion on the human thought experiment, ‘Mary’s Room’, which Mr. Corr politely thanked us for and vowed to look into it himself. It’s important to note the young tank-bred has a childlike fascination with the subject.

We then went on to ask about his commendations during the Battle of Dumart. Mr. Corr’s responses to this were both distant and curt, explicitly stating that he had nothing to say on the matter. Even going as far to make what we believe was a veiled threat, though to him, it was just pure honesty.

In Summary:

There is no question of Mr. Corr’s combat prowess. Even if his actions in the Neo-Krogan Military are exaggerated, C-sec’s account shows what a valuable asset he could be. It’s beyond clear that the young tank-bred is in need of an authority figure, someone to guide him and act as a moral compass. We also suspect he has trust issues as a result of some sort of incident with the new Krogan Council but we have no solid evidence to back this up.

Given what we know about the assigned leadership, we recommend Mr. Corr for the renewed Spectre Program.

Phys. Eval.:

In Mr. Corr’s case, he and his squad were part of a particularly unique breed that aimed to psychologically demoralise the enemy by making them much larger than ordinary krogans. They also have been bred with thicker platting, making them even harder to kill. Not only this but the latest generation of Pure Krogans have all been bred to be Battlemasters and thus have a powerful command over biotics.

The young tank-bred stands at an imposing 2.75m, amassing 320kg of pure Krogan. He is daunting to look at and possesses an incredible amount of strength. Maturing into adolescence, he has moved from a dark green colour into a metallic blue, with his head plate still forming. It's unclear if his unusual colour comes from his genetic alteration, or if this is simply just a phase of adolescence but there appears to be no downside to this.

(OOC: Please ignore the tail in the picture, his tail is regular Krogan size, I'm just unable to edit it out. Cheers.)

Biotics: Born as a Battlemaster, the Neo-Krogan biotics have very much become an extension of his fighting style and emotions. Always possessing the ability to put up a barrier, perform a biotic charge as well as pulling and slamming their targets, Mr. Corr has seen the recent addition of being able to release a flare. Pent up emotions of unstable rage and anger allow him to release a massive biotic charge, though it leaves him exhausted, drained and even vulnerable after.

Qualifications: Tak is the pinnacle of genetic technology, being bred with the strength and resilience of Krogan, intellect that matches the Salarians, the martial discipline similar to that of Turians, the adaptability of humanity and even the dexterity of Drell; albeit rather wasted on the Krogan physiognomy. Specifically Tak was bred to be a daunting figure in an attempt to demoralise the enemy before they even picked up a rifle.

He has fought extensively on the front lines of the Neo-Krogan Rebellions and as a result is able to operate medium to heavy weaponry, employ the use of demolitions and can lead small unit’s on the battlefield.

History:

A Summary of The Reports Given by the Krogan Council and C-sec:

Mr. Corr was born and simultaneously put into military service in 2284. He fought for 10 years in the Neo-Krogan wars before the Battle of Dumart in 2294

During this battle Mr. Corr and his regiment were tasked with taking and holding the mining and port city of Dumart on the Turian planet of Fulmar. Being such an important planet for the Turians, coalition ground forces outnumbered the Krogan Army significantly. Though initially the Krogans took the city in a surprise attack that coincided with another attack one system over, Mr. Corr and his regiment were pushed back to the centre of the city with a lot of their force being routed.

It was here, according to the logs, that Mr. Corr’s unit ordered one of their remaining battleships in orbit to ram itself into one of the planets moonlets, sending large pieces of it into the atmosphere and directly onto the battlefield. While not big enough to reduce the city to complete rubble, the pieces of the mini moon created enough chaos for the Krogan forces to be able to rally and regain control of the city. Afterwards, they successfully dug in and held for almost a month until reinforcements arrived. Though the regiment was essentially wiped out and the remaining Krogans had to be reassigned as a result.

Mr. Corr received multiple commendations and hence was offered up as part of the proposed peace treaty to join C-sec. Though the peace treaty has not been accepted formally, Mr. Corr did take up a position in Citadel Security.

During his time in C-sec, the young tank-bred has performed admirably, barring his run up on a single incident.

According to reports given by his superiors, the incident came about when others in C-sec instigated a fight. Once physical contact was initiated (in the form of a M-3 Predator being fired at Mr. Corr) he practically tore his opponent limb from limb without remorse. It’s a miracle that the Turian C-sec Officer survived, whether their survival was on purpose or not remains unknown. As a result, Mr. Corr was isolated in a housing facility and released only when they needed him.

Position: Mr. Corr’s primary role is a Shock Trooper and although he may have other talents, he has no idea what they could be. At least he’ll be good for heavy lifting in the meantime.

C-Sec Status: C-sec member of the Direct Engagement Team (D.E.T)

Inventory & Logistics:
Weapon wise, Mr. Corr has the following in his possession:

- Graal Spike Thrower
- Striker Assault Rifle
- ML-77 Missile Launcher

Armour wise: Battlemaster Armour

Pic

Notoriety: 5/10

Due to his unique genetic design and victory on Fulmar, Mr. Corr is well known within the Neo-Krogan’s, though they do not know him personally. Outside of their clan, he is relatively unknown.

In relation to C-sec, his allowance into the organisation caused something of a stir. Even though most avoid him the majority of members are well aware of his presence among their ranks.


Misc.: Mr. Corr has brought on board training equipment, books and bookshelves, as well as a computer for access to the internet. All donated by his government.

[Blasts from the Past]: Yes

Auz's Lot

Jin-Soo

Seong Jin-Soo

FILLED OUT BY THIRD PARTIES

FULL NAME

Seong Jin-Soo (Jin)

AGE/DOB

Forty (40) / 10/16/1980

GENDER

Male

ETHNICITY

Korean/American

HEIGHT/WEIGHT

5’9’’ / 175lbs

HAIR COLOR/EYE COLOR

Hair: Black / Eyes: Brown

SCARS/MARK/TATTOOS

Two scars, one on his stomach and another just above his right eyebrow

- -- LINE BREAK -- -

CURRENT OCCUPATION

Unemployed

CURRENT RESIDENCE ADDRESS (CITY/STATE/ZIP CODE)

Caulders Hollow, North Dakota, 58075

BUSINESS ADDRESS (CITY/STATE/ZIP CODE)

N/A

PHONE NUMBER

[phone]

STATE OF DRIVER'S LICENSE

N/A

E-MAIL ADDRESS

[e-mail]

PROBATION/PAROLE/SOCIAL WORKER NAME AND NUMBER

Mark Butler / [phone]

- -- LINE BREAK -- -

CLOTHING

Casual, jacket, tee, jeans and hiking boots

JEWELRY

Thin gold chain/necklace

SOCIAL NETWORKING SITES

N/A

ANY PHYSICAL/MENTAL/MEDICAL CONDITIONS

PTSD

LAST KNOWN LOCATION

Jin was last seen outside what was the family restaurant at around 9pm. The return of Mara had prompted him to return to the site of her disappearance. Some say he was drunk, others, just inconsolable at the news his daughter had not been seen for two years. Either way, he was asked to leave.

POSSIBLE DESTINATION

Many believe that Jin has just up and skipped town. There's even a rumour brewing he's taken the young Ricky with him.

- -- LINE BREAK -- -

KNOWN ACQUAINTANCES

Seong Sang-Hyun
Family, Brother
Sang, the only family member to stick by his brother Jin. They aren’t close but are in contact. Sang has helped set his brother up after his release from prison.

Seong Ji-Dae
Family / Sister
Ji, mother of Do-Yun and sister to Jin, the two originally had reconnected just after the disappearances of both their children. Though, over time, the reminder of the pain they both shared proved to be too much. Ji wrote a letter to Jin upon his release, delivered by their brother Sang.

Mark Butler
Probation Officer
Mark is a good man and a good cop. Too many times has he watched the system create monsters out of misunderstood men, with them being released back into society like a fish onto land. Mark does his best to not only ensure his parolee’s don’t skip town but actually turn their lives around.

Ricky Hightower
Friend
Ricky's a nice but somewhat odd kid, a signature of how much the world has changed in days gone by. Nevertheless they're the only one who's treated Jin with any respect, figures he should return the favour.

- -- LINE BREAK -- -

RELATIONSHIP TO PREVIOUS MISSING EIGHT

Father to Seong Ha-Eun

THE DOOR

MSP: Maximum Security Prison Incorporated brings to you our highly rated: Hollow STEEL Door
- Excellent for high traffic areas, control rooms, and cells
- A coverable small window (No sense reminding them the outside world exists!)
- UL classified: fire rated (Wouldn't want those crims cooking themselves too easily!)
- The toughest damn door in the industry (But priced less than you'd expect!)
- Insulated for sound and temperature (Don't want to hear those pesky cons cry at night!)
- 10 gauge steel face plates and 3/16" internal stiffeners(Good luck breaking them down to shank one another, are we right?)
- Available in a variety of painted finishes or galvanized (From white, all the way to a light tan!)

- -- LINE BREAK -- -

STATEMENTS

Seong Sang-Hyun
Brother and Site Foreman for Welders & Son Construction
“Despite everything you’re probably seeing in his file, my brother is a good man. You gotta understand what it was like when we were kids, we didn’t have much choice and there was a family to feed. I know his wife's family had money but there was just a way of doing things, he felt like he had to provide not only for his wife and daughter but for us to. I know… I know that doesn’t excuse what he did but he did his time, he lost his wife and his daughter, he’s paid his debt to society and then some. I know my brother, he wouldn’t… he wouldn’t just leave us, not like this. Please try to find him.”

Mark Butler
Probation Officer
“No, there was no indication or anything to suggest that Jin was about to or has skipped town. I’ve been at this job for 15 years and I know a runner when I see one. The man just came across as… broken I guess is the best word for it. I know he was keen to find out if his brother could get him a job on site and at least try to make something of himself. Sure, I had heard the reports that he was hanging around the restaurant but who can blame him for that? He just wanted to know what happened to his kid. That’s why I can’t believe he skipped, that was the only time he seemed to light up, at the mention of his girl. I think he was trying to put the pieces together but… well who knows what happened.”

Josephine Waiken
Wife of Deceased Partner in Crime, Single Mother, Welfare
“That bastard is gone? Good. I hope everyone will now know what a piece of shit he was. He framed my Johnny! We all know he was the one that pulled the trigger that night, hell, for all I know the son of a bitch probably got my hubby killed up in that hell hole. If it wasn’t for him my baby would have a father! As for if I’ve seen him? Hell no, he should know not to come around these parts, my brothers would return the favour!”

- -- LINE BREAK -- -

ATTACHMENTS

N/A

Jin's Stats

◈ 𝔹𝕆𝔻𝕐 ◼◼◼◼◼◻ ◈ 𝕊ℙ𝔼𝔼𝔻 ◼◼◻◻◻◻ ◈ 𝕄𝕀ℕ𝔻 ◼◼◻◻◻◻ ◈ ℂ𝕆𝕆𝕃 ◼◻◻◻◻◻ ◈ 𝕎𝕀𝕃𝕃 ◼◼◼◼◼◻ ◈

TRAITS & ARTEFACTS

◈ ◈ ◈

HARDENED:

[+2 BODY ; -2 COOL] Maximum security prison is nothing but a concrete jungle where only the toughest survive. Dog eat dog, kill or be killed, no man goes through their time unscathed; so you learn to fight, to train your body and mind for it, always watching your back. There isn’t much talk in a place like that.

SOLITARY:

[+1 WILL ; -1 MIND] Twenty long years, can you imagine that? Do you have any idea what it’s like to be stuck suffocating between the four walls of a box day in, day out? Life becomes a perverted groundhog day, crawling by at a snail's pace with every second feeling like an eternity. Everyone breaks, there’s no exception to that but there are those who adapt, whose wills become stronger over time as they reflect on what brought them there and the thought of eventual release. While at the same time there’s a piece of that place that they will forever carry in their mind.

PATIENCE:

[+1 WILL ; -1 SPEED] Then there are the times where you have to learn to pick your battles. Not every hill is worth dying on but a thinking man is often slow to react.

◈ ◈ ◈

EMPTY ARTEFACT SLOT

Brief Description

EMPTY ARTEFACT SLOT

Brief Description

EMPTY ARTEFACT SLOT

Brief Description

◈ ◈ ◈

INVENTORY

• An Unopened Letter A letter from Ji, somewhat crumpled but unopened.
• Nokia 3310 Strongest phone in the world and the inspiration for many memes, at least that’s how Ricky refers to it.
• A Wallet Contains a couple of 20’s, some change and a picture of Ha as a toddler

Auz's Lot

Venatra

Venatra, The Huntress

| 𝐆 𝐑 𝐄 𝐘 𝐖 𝐀 𝐑 𝐃 𝐄 𝐍 𝐀 𝐑 𝐂 𝐇 𝐈 𝐕 𝐄 |

---

"I only work for money. If you want loyalty, hire a mabari."

---

| 𝐂 𝐇 𝐀 𝐑 𝐀 𝐂 𝐓 𝐄 𝐑 𝐈 𝐍 𝐅 𝐎 𝐑 𝐌 𝐀 𝐓 𝐈 𝐎 𝐍 |

𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄 |
Venatra the Huntress
𝐀𝐆𝐄 |
27
𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 |
Female she/her.
𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐄 |
Qunari.
𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐍 |
Tal Vashoth.
𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐒 |
Qunlat.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐊 |
Warden Recruit/Conscript
𝐇𝐄𝐗𝐂𝐎𝐃𝐄 |
DarkMagenta

---

| 𝐂 𝐇 𝐀 𝐑 𝐀 𝐂 𝐓 𝐄 𝐑 𝐀 𝐏 𝐏 𝐄 𝐀 𝐑 𝐀 𝐍 𝐂 𝐄 |

𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 & 𝐁𝐔𝐈𝐋𝐃 |
The Qunari stands at 5’9 and is lean, yet muscular
𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐗𝐈𝐎𝐍, 𝐄𝐘𝐄 & 𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐑 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐑 |
Sporting traditional grey-blue skin, Venatra is soft to touch, with her complexion being smooth and blemish free. Her eyes are a mesmerising sunrise orange while her hair is pearl white.
𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐒 |
The Huntress was born with a single set of horns. Following her hair, they curve back behind her head- with several sets of gold rings binding the lowest part- subtly flicking up at the end, a few inches behind her skull. Rose-colored Vitaar patterns her face and hair, serving as the only remnant of her distant people’s culture. Her hair is worn partly in a bun with the rest flowing down past chest level
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐅𝐈𝐓 |
Leather wraps most of Venatra. Winding its way from her feet up to her thighs, the thick hide is a dark, almost black, brown. Broad strips criss-cross over each other, weaving their way down her shoulders to her palms. A large solid piece hugs her lower back tight as it leads up, crossing over each other to cover her breasts, meeting at her neck. A final section is bound around her waist with two large thick lappets that fall down between her thighs. Merlot red, a cloth skirt covers the rest of her lower half, slit up her left leg to allow for freedom of movement. Her stomach, completely exposed, is completely covered in Vitaar. Whereas the other parts of her skin, from arms to legs, is patterned with the paint. Begrudgingly, the Wardens crest is worn on her left shoulder. Pic
𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐌𝐒 |
There’s several sides to a Qunari like Venatra. If you catch her in a casual setting, one that’s familiar to her, she’ll carve her way through a crowd; loud, boisterous and clamoring for its attention. She wants to be entertained, impressed by the people around her. Something to liven up this dreary show we call life. The woman is open and honest but harshly so, unafraid to tell people how it is or admit to her constant misdeeds. If she catches a whiff of coin, then she’ll make a beeline towards opportunity; charming, lying or taking it by force.

From uneasy environments, to hunts, to battle, Venatra will stand at the ready. Her feet will be squared, shoulder length apart, while her body is side on, poised for action. Her trademark sarcasm and dry humour will fall to the wayside as she eyes her prey. Striking like a viper.

---

| 𝐂 𝐇 𝐀 𝐑 𝐀 𝐂 𝐓 𝐄 𝐑 𝐈 𝐍 𝐍 𝐄 𝐑 𝐖 𝐎 𝐑 𝐊 𝐈 𝐍 𝐆 𝐒 |

𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 |
Venatra is driven by her desires. She wants the most out of life and money is the key to getting that. She had been doing very well for herself until recently, flying a little too close to the sun and getting burned. Conscripted into the Wardens, she originally sought a quick exit. A dramatic escape that would see her name return to the tip of people's tongues. But now, seeing that the Wardens have sway among the common folk, she seeks an opportunity to abuse the power given to her for her own gain. The people’s respect for the Order is a weakness that can be exploited, she just needs to figure out how.
𝐂𝐀𝐏𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐒 |

• Formidable: Venatra is a warrior through and through. She is unyielding in her ferocity and has the strength and stamina to overcome almost any enemy.
• Charming: Akin to a venus flytrap, the Huntress is known for swaying others with her honeyed words. Helpful, if you’re on the right side of it.
• Confident: Venatra walks into any situation with her head held high, incredibly comfortable in her own skin. Hardly anything can diminish this trait.

𝐅𝐋𝐀𝐖𝐒 |

• Selfish: Venatra isn’t dying for anyone or anything, especially for some ridiculous foreign cause.
• Greedy: Money makes the world go round and is about the only thing that makes this girl smile.
• Apathetic: The lives of those around her are of little concern to Venatra, she couldn’t care less about the pointless goings on of commoners. She'd be a lot happier selling them off to the Imperium if the opportunity presented itself.

𝐕𝐈𝐂𝐄𝐒 |

• Coin: You got it, she wants it. Why? She doesn’t know, nor care, just tell her what you’re after and she’ll provide.
• Wine: Got to do something with all this change. Might as well be something fun.

𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐇 |
Fun. The world is full of men looking to die for one stupid cause or another. Ugh. So boring. Why do that when you can make money? Then you can do whatever it is you desire! Isn’t that truely what life is about?

---

| 𝐖 𝐀 𝐑 𝐑 𝐈 𝐎 𝐑 |

☒ 𝕮𝖔𝖒𝖒𝖚𝖓𝖎𝖈𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓 | +2
Persuasion, Deception
☐ 𝕮𝖔𝖓𝖘𝖙𝖎𝖙𝖚𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓 | 0
Stamina, Drinking
☐ 𝕮𝖚𝖓𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌 | 0
Navigation
☐ 𝕯𝖊𝖝𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖙𝖞 | 0
Light Blades
☐ 𝕸𝖆𝖌𝖎𝖈 | -2
N/A
☒ 𝕻𝖊𝖗𝖈𝖊𝖕𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓 | +3
Tracking, Seeing
☒ 𝕾𝖙𝖗𝖊𝖓𝖌𝖙𝖍 | +2
Spears
☐ 𝖂𝖎𝖑𝖑𝖕𝖔𝖜𝖊𝖗 | -1
N/A

𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐙𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 |
Reaver

A natural talent of all Qunari, Venatra uses her Reaver abilities with glee. Able to twist the minds of her prey, she can alter her own appearance in the eyes of her foe, filling them with dread and fear. Or, alternatively, she is able to flood their spirit with waves of psychic pain, crippling her unlucky opposite. On the battlefield, the Huntress is driven by her own physical pain and suffering, using it as fuel to strike harder and faster. Then, vampirically, she feeds off the essence of those who have been slain. Drawing life from their flickering embers.

𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒 |
Shield Training

Novice

Description

You can wield shields of Small and Medium Size

Observation

Novice

Description

You notice things others do not.

Intrigue

Novice

Description

You know how to play the Game.

Armour Training

Novice

Description

You can wear leather and mail armor without suffering a penalty.

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| 𝐄 𝐐 𝐔 𝐈 𝐏 𝐌 𝐄 𝐍 𝐓 & 𝐁 𝐄 𝐋 𝐎 𝐍 𝐆 𝐈 𝐍 𝐆 𝐒 |

𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐃 |

• Small, gold painted, Hoplon Shield
• Leather Armour as described above
• Throwing Spear

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐃 |

• Shortsword
• Dagger

𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐊 |

• Health Potions
• A Full Sack of Coin
• Several bits of Assorted Jewellery
• 2 Cans of Vitaar
• Bladder of Wine
• Hair Brush
• Some Casual Clothes, Including a Dress
• Rations/Waterskin/Bedroll
• Perfume

---

| 𝐑 𝐄 𝐋 𝐀 𝐓 𝐈 𝐎 𝐍 𝐒 𝐇 𝐈 𝐏 𝐒 |

CHARACTER NAME| Maliphant DeGardet: “The Human gods’ toy soldier, all wound up and ready to go. Honestly he could talk with a mouth full of marbles while underwater, blubbering about blood magic and all sorts of religious nonsense. The only time I can tolerate him is when he’s down to gossip about the others.”

CHARACTER NAME| Aldwin Howe: “The boy mage. A hoity toity child prone to bouts of immature rage. He’s awfully fun to mess with, especially when you poke and prod at his fairy tale beliefs. Rumour has it,” Cough “Mal,” Cough “that he likes girls with pointed ears. Unsure if I fall into that box but he’ll be disappointed to find that the men I like could step on a boy like that and not even notice.”

CHARACTER NAME| Anselm Niemeyer: “The sad and mopey sack of potatoes. I couldn’t even sell this Human for a profit in Tevinter if I tried. He thinks he hides it well, and maybe he does for the other idiots in this group, but I can see it. The man doesn’t even drink for fun, just that weird human style of drinking yourself into a depression. Ugh. Seriously. Where do they dredge these people up from?”

CHARACTER NAME| Lisotta Cassava: “The swamp girl. And I thought mages were weird already, you can’t get more strange than this human. Always standing in the background, hoping to be swallowed up by another's shadow. I will admit it is fun to mess with her; pointing out clouds that look like they mean something, crushing up leaves and leaving them at the bottom of used cups, making up stories about superstitions that my people believe. All fun and games. It’s what she gets for thinking she’s a better tracker than me. Not that she’s said it of course, but I know she’s thinking it.”

CHARACTER NAME| Cadarn: “Ah, the little man. I had heard his race was supposed to be great drinkers and enjoy a good banquet. This one barely says a word outside of crying about loyalty every four seconds. So dedicated to his little cause and so boring. Can swing that axe though.”

CHARACTER NAME| Rannon Bryce: “The big and grumpy one. Another stubborn human who drinks himself into a depression. All he talks about is serving this monotonous cause. If only he didn’t whinge so much and was grey with a nice set of horns. Then we’d get along a little too well.”

CHARACTER NAME| Marianni Neris: “Well strike me down, they actually picked up someone fun. Mari reminds me of a hornless me. The drinking, the killing, the brutal honesty. All of it equates to a good time. Hell, I’d almost think twice about selling her to the Tevinter’s. Almost.”

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Auz's Lot

Bahk

Bahk gro-Khadba

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Bahk gro-Khadba

____________________________________________________ Character Information Name - Bahk gro-Khadba Gender - Male Race - Osrimer Age - 60, 23rd of Last Seed, 3E388 Faction - Kingdom of Orsinium (former) Class - Warrior Birthsign - The Warrior ____________________________________________________ Skills and Attributes Major: Strength Minor: Endurance Expert: Two Handed and Smithing Adept: Hand to Hand and Acrobatics Apprentice: Heavy Armour ____________________________________________________ Spells Rien, “What do I look like, an Elf?” ____________________________________________________ Character Equipment Weapons Twin Orcish War Axes and a Steel Warhammer Armour An Assortment of Iron and Steel Heavy Armour along with a Chainmail Tee, Leather Pteruges and Leather Boots. Miscellaneous Mule Wagon Wooden Chest Tools set (Hammer, Shovel, Pick Axe, Tree Cutting Axe etc.) Blanket Farm clothes ____________________________________________________

A P P E A R A N C E Even for an Orsimer, Bahk was always monstrous in size and stature. His skin, a deep pale jade, was so thick that his combat instructors referred to it as hide; fearing his inability to feel the sting of their practice weapons would hinder his proficiency. His hands, calloused beyond all repair, could perfectly wrap around the head of an Imperial, just as his strength was probably enough to crush the life from it. His body, rippled thick with muscle, is a whopping 230 pounds of meat layered like an onion on a towering 6’3’’ frame. So large, Bahk can fondly remember a time where his wife, Zaz, joked to their friends that his only fear was the first floor of any house. Nowadays the Orsimer has his fathers farm to thank for keeping him in shape. Excellent genetics combined with running the place almost single-handedly has ensured he hasn’t lost an inch. Jutting from his jaw, the beast's tusks have grown in a sharp and jagged manner, so hefty in width that it makes it difficult for Bahk to smile. Further up, the bone of his brow (flanked by two ring piercings) is shaped in a permanent furrow, drenching the rest of his face in a natural scowl. At the base of his forehead, a deep scar is carved, streaking from the middle of his eyebrows at a 45 degree angle up his skull. Additional scars are etched across his pec, abs and his left bicep, permanent reminders of the trophies he once collected for his Kingdom. Even though his natural look oozes intimidation, there is a noticeable pain in his walk and the air in which he keeps himself. The mer’s shoulders hang just a little too low, his head often falling forward as his feet barely lift off the ground. In tandem, long gone are the days where Bahk would take adequate care of his hair. Knotting into a singular dread, the black brush mohawkes from just above his forehead, down past the first few vertebrae of his spine. Others have also expressed concern regarding his smell, admittedly there are times where he is so absent from the world that the Orsimer forgets to bathe. The only time he truly comes alive is by the forge or in the heat of battle. Here his muscle memory snaps into place as the rest of his body verberates with a youthful energy. It’s in these moments where he is able to laugh, shouting and jeering as his face fills with a look of exhilaration. The flicker of a flame that once burned brightly as a young Orc. Bahk is also a simple creature, unphased by the flashier dress sense of some of his rebel counterparts. Only in possession of 3 outfits, he makes the choice to live simply, unattached to most of what he carries. His primary and only casual outfit is a simple farmer getup. A collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a drawstring that criss crosses at the bottom of a v-neck. It’s woven together from a fraying wool, dyed a dark green and buttoned loosely up the middle. His slacks, a dark maroon, are made from cotton and inundated with shoddy patch jobs all the way up each leg. Looped through their belt rungs is a simple rope, the bindings of which are so worn that it appears to be one meal away from total destruction. Finally, and in stark contrast, is his leather boots. Almost wide enough to fit their resident minotaur, the boots are well crafted and kept in good nick, stretching all the way up his shin and stopping just short of the knee. Crafting them himself, Bahk is of the view that a soldier is only ever as good as what’s on his feet and this pair is always ready for action. Choosing to fight in heavy armour as most Orsimer do, Bahk sports several bits of scavenged steel and iron plates. Crudely bent to fit the oversized beast, he wears a steel chest and back piece, taken from a rather short Breton. Unfortunately neither piece goes much further than the bottom of his rib cage and are held loosely together with ties of leather. In order to counter this, Bahk wears a chainmail t-shirt. Extended by removing the rings that would normally cover the forearms, it’s reshaped to cover his exposed stomach and lower back. Two iron guards are strapped to each forearm, along with an iron spaulder that barely covers his left shoulder. At last a pair of steel plated thigh guards round off the set, doing their best to hide his quads. Scavenged along with the pieces of armour, Bahk wields a steel warhammer as his primary weapon. A basic instrument, the Orsimer was surprised by it’s adequate condition. The handle, made of hardwood, is splinter and crack free, appearing to be barely used. While the business end of the stick is solid, flat on one end and pointy on the other. His final getup is his traditional war pteruges. A defensive multi-layered skirt made from a series of leather lappets, worn around his waist. The skirt sports two palm sized steel rings that hang from each hip; holsters for his twin, orcish, war axes. Passed down from father to son, these items are all Bahk has left of his old life. Worn underneath his plating, the pieces are specifically made for an Orsimer’s moments of berserker rage. Removing all other pieces of armour and laying down his primary weapon, the freedom of his traditional clothing allows his rage to be channeled unimpeded or unencumbered. The only item missing from this extensive range is a blacksmith's apron. Fashioned out of leather, tanned with a dark brown finish and maintained to a pristine condition; the smock haunts Bahk’s every waking moment with him feeling naked without it.

_{P E R S O N A L I T Y}

Eroded, that was once the word his son used to describe his father. A weary old Orc, long past his time; no room for joy or love or life, just a mer worn down to a nub. At the time, it was a statement of frustration. The poor boy remembered too much of his father from his younger years and was at his wits end trying to get him back. Zaghrab's words barely registered at the time, simply bouncing off Bahk like a dagger thrusting at plated steel. Now? They’re all he can think about, lying awake at night, staring at the stars.

What keeps you going when everything you’ve ever known has turned to ash and you’re the one holding the torch? Memory can become like an ocean of never ending nightmares, slowly stripping what remains of your personality.

So what keeps Bahk from going under?

On a good day, it’s the memories of the happy times. Watching as his son takes his first steps; the smell of his wife’s perfume as he follows her around their home; the hope he felt seeing his people dancing in the street at the word Orsinium finally stood as a Kingdom in it’s own right. These cherished moments often force a smile. They prompt the giant to try to reach out to those around him through small gestures. These minor attempts at connecting with others manifest themselves subtly, like the sharing of mead, the lending of an ear or just joining the crew around the fire as someone spins a tale. Rarely is it more than this.

On the dark days he looks to strip himself of all emotion, choosing instead to fall back on his childhood training. The culmination of thousands of hours of discipline have formed an unbreakable backbone of routine. In these moments Bahk will seek solitude among the armaments, maintaining, sorting and repairing whatever he can. He possesses little patience for anything other than work and warfare on such occasions, and is best left alone.

Oddly enough vengeance is not a driving factor when it comes to Bahk’s reasons for joining the rebellion. The murder of his son by the Counts men was merely a symptom of his inaction, just as the murder of his wife was a symptom of his actions. In truth, the Orsimer views himself to be irredeemable in the eyes of the universe, choosing instead to dedicate what remains of his life to finding a ‘good death’ in an attempt to please Lord Malacath. Though what that precisely entails is unclear as his father set the bar high by choosing to fight and die for the Emperor during the Oblivion Crisis. It was a noble end for a noble Orsimer and it begs the question - “How does dying for a bunch of farmers compare?”

Overall, Bahk isn’t convinced of the cause but beggars can’t be choosers and the Orsimer is done with his inaction. A single step is better than none.

When it comes to others, Bahk deals in practicality, acting on what he sees in front of him compared to what he hears. Everyone starts as a blank slate, with their own words and actions painting their character. As a result he either trusts you or he doesn’t, he interacts with you or he doesn’t. You won’t win any medals with Bahk just for doing your job as he expects those around him to act with the discipline and mindset of a soldier. Anything less and the Orsimer will not hesitate to voice his opinion or bark a command. He has no time for games or anything intimate.

Despite this, he’s not wholly unapproachable. His return to combat has resulted in him having more good days than bad, leaving him available for a stiff drink every now and then. Sober, he’ll be tight lipped about his past but is known to loosen his tongue after a few beverages. The Orsimer will engage in deeper, more emotional conversation with less hesitation. Though there are none who know his whole story, most are aware of the fate of his fathers farm and his son. In a group setting, he’ll shy away from the spotlight no matter what type of mood he’s in as his wife was always the real talker. The pain of her memory can often be too much to bear. In a similar vein, the reminder of the failure that is Orsinium still cuts a little too deep, leaving Bahk to try and avoid direct interaction with other Orsimer where possible.

His commander’s are treated with the utmost respect, orders are not questioned, only echoed. He does not seek to command troops for himself or give council, that was who his father was. Instead, during combat, Bahk is a soldier in every manner of the word. An unbreakable wall of muscle, sheer will and strict discipline. He comes alive for the fight, relishing in all its glory. Attack is his best defence, primarily using his size and strength to quickly overwhelm whatever enemy stands in front of him. Bahk likes to finish the fight quickly. He can, however, also fight defensively if forced. His endurance outlasts most on the battlefield, enabling him to gain an advantage over his foe in time, often forcing an error through exhaustion. Magic is somewhat of a problem for the Orsimer, he doesn’t have much in the way of defence when it comes to a mage, choosing instead to avoid a fight if they’re not within spitting distance.

Even though there are the times where anger worms it’s way up from the pit of his stomach, times where he drives the hammer into the enemy a few more times than necessary. It is still rare to see his true berserker rage. Taught that such an emotion was to only to be harnessed in the most dire of situations, fury bubbles just beneath the surface, always just an arms length away, waiting for the opportune moment to present itself.

_{H I S T O R Y}

"I aspire to raise my race from the mire. I will bring them to equal standing with the other races of Tamriel…My goal is not to conquer Tamriel, but to create the orcish homeland." - King Gortwog gro-Nagorm

There once was a time where the name Bahk gro-Khadba was heralded all the way from the borders of Wayrest to the tops of the Wrothgar Mountains. A stalwart champion of the people, the Orsimer was a leader worthy of aspiration, carrying a family name that could’ve given way to a dynasty had the winds of fate been kind. Destiny, however, can be a fickle thing, giving to the creatures of Tamriel just as easily as it takes away.

Bahk’s story begins with his father, Khadba gro-Yazol, right hand to King Gortwog himself. Khadba was a fine example of what the King envisioned for the future of his people. Loyal, strong, formidable but most of all tactical; an Orsimer that thought before he spoke, watched before he moved and led the armies of Nova Orsinium to victory against their many enemies.

There are even those who say the idea for the duel against the Breton, Lord Bowen, was Khadba’s idea. For he expressed knowing that the Emperor would never have recognised their claim if they were to take land by force. More often than not, any praise for King Gortwog’s diplomatic accomplishments came hand in hand with the recognition of his valiant advisor.

So when a baby boy was born under the sign of the ‘Warrior’, it was seen as a direct blessing from Malacath; a gift for all Bahk’s fathers hard work. As such, the first and only child of Khadba, was made to repay the gift in kind by dedicating his life to the Daedric Prince and his Code. Training began as soon as the infant could stand on his own two feet. With his mornings being assigned to a series of combat drills and his afternoons consisting of pouring through texts and scrolls, that recounted the most famous battles of ages gone by.

As the years went by and adolescence creased the horizon, the boy began to grow large. Towering over his peers more and more with each passing day. His combat prowess came to him as naturally as his size and strength. Bahk was even capable of using dual fighting techniques born out of their infamous berserker rage. However, all was not perfect. Seemingly the more he succeeded outside the classroom, the harder it became to focus inside. Tactics did not speak to him the same way they spoke to his father. Recognising this, and determined to prove that all Orsimer were more than barbarians, Khadba introduced the growing boy to the smiths of the city. Discipline would be found in front of the hot coals that bound iron and orichalcum together.

"Orcish armor, hmm? Had me a set of that once. Ugly and strong, like those that forged it."

The practice did more than just speak to him. It sang a song more powerful than that of a siren, beckoning the Orsimer every evening to bask in the warm glow of the forge.

And that was it for a time. Combat in the morning, smithing in the evening and a private word to Malacath before bed. It wasn’t until he was 17 that he saw any real action.

The Warp in the West, an event that shaped several Kingdoms and yet is a mystery to almost all who were a part of it. When asked, Bahk would say it was akin to those first few moments in which you wake from a dream. You can only recall flashes of what you saw and while it was preposterous, you can’t help but question whether it was true or not. The armies of Orsinium fighting alongside an impossibly large golden statue? Slaying their enemies by the thousands? The ultimate Orsimer fantasy if there ever was one.

Regardless, left in the Warp’s wake was opportunity, a golden ticket handed to them by fate itself. Forty four Kingdoms had been reduced to four and the fight was on to see who could take a slice for themselves. The next few years were spent carving out new borders, with Bahk stepping out from the shadow of his father and forging his own path in his own unique way. The Orsimer proved to be an excellent soldier, unyielding on the battlefield and utilising the famed berserker rage at the most opportune moments.

Bahk’s claim to fame came during what started as a light skirmish on a newly formed Wayrest border, a year after the Warp. Initially, both armies were camped out on opposing sides of what was once the banks of a river, now turned marsh. Sat on either side of quite a wide stone bridge, the Orsimer had their backs against a rocky outface, with the only way to move being to follow the marsh up or down the banks.

On the opposite end, the enemy encampment was perched atop a slight incline, giving them enough of an advantage to stop the Orsimer launching an attack. Unfortunately for the armies of Wayrest, the bulk of their forces were spread thin fighting a three-way war on their western and southern border. This meant they were unable to press their advantage and with no reinforcements in sight, both armies had reached a stalemate.

The two groups had been there long enough for the Orsimer commander to grow a little too complacent. He believed he knew the enemy well enough not to try anything. While in reality the Wayrest army had a forced change of command, when a wayward arrow caught their previous leader in the neck. Their new commander was a Breton who was an intelligent but overly ambitious man. Desperate for recognition, he had the innovative thought to fashion their own bridge out of wood from their supply carts. Following the marsh downstream from where they were camped, they would build a bridge under the cover of darkness and move a significant chunk of their force across. Then they would begin a frontal assault across the bridge, followed by a surprise attack from the side, declaring aloud that reinforcements had arrived.

Initially the plan went off without a hitch. The Orsimer commander fell for their assault on the bridge, committing all his troops to their defence. The early hours of the morning mist covered the Bretons approach from their flank and by the time anyone realised, it was too late. The Breton’s forces cut neatly into the sides of the Orsimer. Horns blared as the men on the bridge cheered and cried out “reinforcements” as loud as they could, while the Orsimer troops began to buckle and fold. Believing their claim to be true, it wasn’t long before some of their rank began to rout completely.

Bahk, a captain at the time, was unconcerned about the surprise attack; not because he saw through the ruse but because retreat was not their way. He commanded his unit to break away from the bridge assault and form a thin, one man deep, shield wall, facing the enemy ‘reinforcements’. Rather than trying to try to stop the advance of the enemy itself, Bahk’s plan was to stop their own forces routing by giving them nowhere to retreat. Between their wall and the rock face, there was little else where to go.

The towering Orsimer stood in front of his own line, practically tearing his cuirass from his chest and throwing his warhammer to one side. Bare chested he roared, as more of their lines broke, pushing over any of his kin that came close to him before commanding them to stand and join his line. Any who got past the captain ran into the shield wall, forcing them to about face. Eventually Orsimer forces rallied and Bahk removed his twin axes from their place at his belt. He commanded his troops forward, still in formation, slipping behind them as they met the enemy line. His roars continued as they began to push the enemy back towards their newly made bridge. When one of his men spotted where they had come from, Bahk led a charge down the flank, along the riverbank, cutting off the enemy's retreat.

A great victory was had that day as the Orsimer slaughtered the force who had crossed the river before pushing what remained back over the bridge and securing the other side. Bahk was met with a promotion and many a commendation, becoming quite the celebrity in the process.

After a time, the region calmed, with the King opting for a diplomatic approach to their new found neighbours rather than at the tip of a sword. High off their victories and the founding of the new Kingdom, Gortwog partitioned the Emperor for official recognition and induction into the Empire. Envoys were sent back and forth from the Imperial City as the Orsimer people committed to them through taxation and the lending of military figures to the Imperial Army. Khadba was one such figure. In light of his son’s victories, promotion and adoration, Bahk’s father was sent along with a diplomatic envoy, swearing fealty to the Emperor and offering his services as a General in the Imperial Army.

Though Khadba started his time in the Emperor’s forces as a General in name only, he soon proved his worth and was fully integrated into the service. As such, he was assigned a plot of land in the county of Skingrad, for the day he sought to retire. A new right hand was assigned by the King and life prospered in Orsinium once more. Bahk took to writing letters to his father, sending them off with the Imperial Envoy that moved between the White Gold tower and Orsinium. It was during these moments (and probably through the intervention of his father on the other side of those letters) that a young Orsimer by the name of Zazsha gra-Badbu began to strike up conversation with Bahk.

Revered for her beauty and feared for her silver forked tongue, Zaz, as she liked to be called, was head of the diplomatic envoy. She was another Orsimer who fit the King’s bill of vision perfectly. The diplomat spun her words into an irresistible web with Bahk being caught in the middle, falling head over heels in love. The two became infatuated with each other, stealing whatever moments they could. It didn’t take long for the two to wed, with Bahk boasting how he had to lock her down before she talked someone else into it. The two married and produced a baby boy, giving him the name of Zaghrab gro-Bahk.

family pic

The boy was the spitting image of his mother and as time went on, he began to follow in her footsteps venturing into Cyrodiil alongside the envoy. Bahk was happy with his new life and despite murmurs within the ranks about his wife “dulling his blade”, the Orsimer took up a position helping command the city's guard. In his view, the borders were safe and the next step for his people would come from within, so there was nowhere more important he could be. The Kingdom was on the cusp of being formally recognised and even his father had taken up retirement on the farm, content with building a future for his new family before eventually seeking a good death, just as Malacath intended.

The story of Bahk would’ve ended here, happily ever after, if not for what came next. The Oblivion Crisis altered the world irrevocably and although the Orsimer were able to hold off the onslaught of Daedra long enough for Martin to sacrifice himself, the fallout would consume all that they had built.

The Emperor had died before officially recognising Orsinium as an official territory. Not that it would’ve mattered much as the whole of the Empire fractured, plunging into chaos. With no protection from the Empire’s legions, their enemies began to circle like vultures, poking and prodding at their borders. The King had grown old, with some fearing he had passed his time and others saying that his Hand sought the throne for himself. Whatever the reason Gortwog released a sweeping declaration that Malacath was nothing but a false god. A deceiver and a demon, their true god, Trinimac, was still out there.

Unrest gripped the city, whispers began to name the King as a heretic, a power mad tyrant putting their Kingdom in jeopardy. Zaz echoed these thoughts, expressing her concern for their people and their family to Bahk. At first the Orsimer refused to believe that such a thing could be true but as time went on and the reports from their borders became more and more concerning, the two decided something must be done.

Plans for a coup were hatched and a select mix of religious leaders, politicians and generals met in the dark of night to discuss their next moves. They couldn’t afford a prolonged changing of power, Gortwog had to be removed by force and they decided to replace the monarchy with a council. Doing so would make it easier to recruit others to their cause as the promise of power was always an enticing one. As quickly as things came together, they were even faster to fall apart. Someone slipped up and word got round to Gortwog long before they had the numbers to take a true stand.

All who were involved were bound and brought before the King’s Hand, Gurgoz, in one of the city's great halls. The punishment for treason was death, and all were handed the sentence bar Bahk and his family. For all the work his father, Khadba, had done and for the sake of their relationship, Bahk and his own were offered banishment. It was a charge that Gurgoz vehemently disagreed with, voicing his distaste as Bahk and his wife knelt in front of him, swords held at their throats.

Bahk, firing back, blamed the Hand and the King for dividing their Kingdom, stating that their enemies were in striking distance of their homeland and their time was coming to an end. Even if they truly believed in their newfound religion, they had made their people weak, dividing them at an inopportune moment. Death and banishment for all those involved would weaken critical infrastructure and the ability to survive the coming storm would be diminished. Gurgoz fired back, pointing out the fact that a Daedric Prince was responsible for destroying the Empire and worshipping one would mean that their people would never truly be free. They would never rid themselves of the base desires to destroy their progress and it was the final act of the only Orsimer to ever lead his people out of the darkness. A path to true freedom.

Gurgoz went further, getting personal. He faked surprise that Bahk had such passion left in him, especially after his wife had been nothing but poison in his ear, snuffing the oxygen from the fire that burned within. Pressing on, Gurgoz cited how everyone in the room regularly discussed how the Orsimer had become useless long before the final stage of his life, amazed that they had followed him into treason.

Bahk, on the other hand, lost it, flying into a rage about how all he had ever done was for the good of his people. With his hands bound in front of him, Bahk waited until the sword held at his neck swayed just far enough away to be ducked. Quickly moving to the side he brought his elbow into the groin of the guard, causing him to keel over. Determined to show him that he still possessed his rage in abundance, Bahk pounced, tackling Gurgoz to the ground and wrapping his hands around his neck. The guards, following strict orders not to kill Bahk, made an attempt to pull the giant Orsimer off the Hand. It wasn’t until one of them drove the pummel of their sword into the back of Bahk’s head that the rest were able to pull him off Gurgoz.

Still alive and even more enraged, the Hand took a dagger from one of his troops, walking over to Zaz and slicing her throat in one swift motion. Blood poured from her neck as she stared helplessly at Bahk, trying to reach out for her husband through her binds. Even in his condition it took almost every available guard to hold him down as she dropped to the floor, bleeding out. Gurgoz ordered Bahk to be re-tied and carried on a wagon out of their territory along with his son, proclaiming he was lucky even to be leaving with that.

The journey from the region was a blur, taken by two new recruits out of the city in the back of a wagon, Bahk lay face down, unable to speak or even calm his son from wailing for his mother. The guards, on the other hand, put a stop to Zaghrab’s cries by beating him into submission with Bahk barely registering what was going on. It didn’t take long for them to reach the border of Wayrest with the soldiers tossing the Orsimer from the cart, before cutting free the binds around his feet so he could stand freely.

Splitting up, one of the troops climbed back into the cart to grab the boy, while Bahk gestured to the other to cut the binds from his hands. Green as the recruit was, he followed the loose order, Bahk instantly snapping into action. The giant grabbed the guard's sword arm in one hand, stopping him from bringing it down into his own chest. With his other arm, the Osrimer grabbed the top of the recruits breastplate, pulling him in and delivering a powerful headbutt. The guard crumpled to the floor as the other moved towards Bahk, trying to slice down at him from the back of the wagon. Ducking the swing and retrieving the sword from the ground, Bahk was able to deflect the next few swipes before booting the cart with a powerful kick. Losing his footing, the guard fell from the back of the wagon and as he hit the floor, Bahk drove the sword through the gap in his neck, killing him instantly. The giant then pulled the head of the other guard up, just off the ground and slit his throat.

There was truly no turning back now, though consequences were of little concern to the Orsimer. Nor was his son for that matter, who, distressed by the sight of it all, had begun to wail once more. Returning him to the back of the wagon without another word, the two continued onwards towards his fathers farm.

The journey to the farm was long, made even longer by Bahk’s maintained silence and his refusal to stop along the way. Reaching his fathers farm they found it all but abandoned and overgrown. Weeds and crops ran wild, spilling over the boundaries of the fields and into the surrounding wilderness. While the cottage at the centre of it all stood eerily silent, watching over what was left.

Despite Zaghrab’s concern for his grandfather the two pressed on, with Bahk cutting his way to the front door. Entering the place he found a note sealed with the crest of the Empire, addressed to both him and his wife on top of a chest. Opening the letter, it revealed that just as the Crisis had occurred, his father had returned to the Imperial Legion to help them fend off the Daedra and hopefully find a good death in the process. It ended with Khadba signing off by expressing his pride; his son was truly worthy of carrying on his name and the future of all Orsimer would be safe in their hands.

Opening the chest Bahk found his fathers pteruges and twin axes, handed down to him by his father before him. No longer able to fend off the wave of emotion, Bahk fell to his knees and broke down. Head in his hands, the giant howled as his son stood frozen next to him, unsure of what to do as he had never seen his father like this before. Scared, Zaghrab cautiously approached the Orsimer, reaching out a hand in an attempt to comfort the Mer. Noticing the movement in the corner of his eye, Bahk quickly rejected the advance, choosing instead to bat his son's hand away before berating him in a fit of rage. Despite the condition of the cottage, Bahk sent the boy to a room telling him to stay out of his sight. Wearily, the aging Orc took the chest out back and began to bury it in the yard, hoping to bury his shame along with it.

The next few years were some of the hardest yet, between getting the farm up and running and Bahk's inability to deal with his role in the death of his wife, the relationship between father and son continued to sour. With Zaz’s features forever etched into his face, Zaghrab could do no right, his father criticised him on every possible occasion in the hope to drive the young Orsimer from his sight. Lost, Zaghrab began to blame his mother for the proverbial death of this once great warrior, placing the blame for their predicament squarely on her.

It wasn’t until word reached the farm of Orsinium’s fall that things came to a head. Overheard while trading in Skingrad, Zaghrab raced back to the farm to break the news to his father, pleading with him to venture to the strongholds in the North and help their people rebuild anew. Together they could make a difference, build a new Orsinium and dedicate it to their grandfather. Bahk scoffed at the notion, shooting down the idea. Greater Orsimer than they had tried, the dream of a free and independent Kingdom died with Orsinium, now whoever was left was just as lost and broken as he was.

Unable to bite his tongue for one moment longer, Zaghrab unleashed a volley of insults at his father, wishing he had never met the foul tongued witch that was his mother. Bahk offered nothing in return, choosing instead to simply head out into the field and finish the day's work. Not a single word in Zaghrab’s tirade swayed the old Osrimer, with it only ending when the young mer realised that there was no saving someone who did not want it.

And so he left, disappearing for days and even weeks at a time without so much as a word as to where he went or with whom. On the days when Zaghrab returned, he often came in reeking of alcohol, foul mouthed and covered in someone else's blood, muttering something about needing to lay low for a while. Bahk never cared, nor did he say anything to stop it, he just continued onwards, barely aware of the world that was slowly changing around him.

The end of the road came hard and fast one day when a small contingency of the Count’s men entered the farm. Back for a second time that month, the captain of the guard was demanding a further payment of septims. Alcohol on the Imperial's breath did not go unnoticed by Bahk who, while compliant, told him that they had taken everything during their last visit. It was at this moment, Zaghrab stumbled through the door, the stench of drink even more obvious on him. Immediately recognising the attempted shake down, the young Orsimer began to raise hell, telling the count’s men that they had no place picking on innocent farmers and to get off their property.

Noticing a few of the men’s hands drop to the hilt of their swords, Bahk stepped in front of his son, meekly asking him to calm down. Zaghrab turned to his father and began to push him, demanding to know where his pride had gone and asking why he had not gone to look for death yet. Amused by the family feud, the captain of the guard began commenting about how the boy might have his own position in the Count’s Army one day, likening his behaviour to theirs. Disgusted, Zaghrab pushed past his father, spitting at the captain and telling him that he’ll get his comeuppance soon as “the rebellion is coming”.

Immediately the troops responded by drawing their weapons, forcing the Orsimer to the floor before binding both of their hands and feet. The captain, crimson with rage, ordered both to be hung from the neck until dead, declaring them to be enemies of the Count. Dragged outside, by some of the men, the rest begin to set the farm ablaze by throwing torches on the roof and lighting their crops. Finding opposing tree’s both Orsimer are strung up in front of one another, their attempts to break their binds proving futile. Satisfied, the captain of the guard doesn’t waste any time clearing out his men, leaving Bahk and Zaghrab to their fates.

Whether it was the Nine Divines, Malacath, luck or just the sheer stupidity of the counts men, Bahk’s branch snaps right as the Orsimer loses consciousness; the fall to the ground shocking him awake. Still bound hands and feet, the giant writhes, attempting to get free as Zaghrab enters the final throes of his life. Fate delivers one final cruel twist of the knife as Bahk is forced to watch the life drain from the eyes of his boy.

His world darkened as the sound of fire roared in the background. Perhaps this was the will of Malacath, a punishment for one of the many crimes he had been party to. For a moment he conceded, envisioning himself wandering into the flame. He would bid his son goodbye, beg his father for forgiveness and end it all. Shifting in the dirt, the Orsimer flipped onto his side, looking up at the lifeless body of his boy, expecting to feel nothing but the pain of total remorse.

Fury found him instead.

Blinding white hot rage erupted from the pit of his stomach as the beast spewed up a blood curdling roar. An overwhelming strength seized every fibre of his muscles enabling the giant to fragment the binds that held his hands and feet. Leaping to his feat, Bahk unleashed another terrifying roar before vaulting up the tree and tearing off the branch that held his boy. The Orsimer set to work, grabbing whatever he could salvage from the farm, including his tools, and began to dig for his fathers chest.

Later that night, in the dying embers of the farm, Bahk laid his son to rest, erecting a small memorial to both him and his wife. Sifting through Zaghrab’s pockets, the Orsimer had found a note addressed to his boy, detailing that their group of bandits had been “chosen for the cause” and that they were to fight for Isobel.

Assuming this was the rebellion Zaghrab had spoken of earlier, Bahk went about gathering his things, tossing them in the back of his wagon. The note spoke of a well vetted meeting spot for potential recruits, so all the Orsimer would have to do is head there and wait.

Maybe it was the final words of his son, maybe it was the will of a god or the teachings of his father. Whatever it was, the warrior had finally returned.

---

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Bahk's Thoughts on Other Characters

Janus: “Three blades, nothing fancy but well maintained. His boots tell me that he is ready for action but he moves slow. It’s not age, I do not hear his bones ache for death but there was that one moment. An instant when his face met mine and for a split second, it was like looking in a mirror… Bah. Three blades. Knows how to swing them. It will do.”

Akamon: “His blade, I’ve never seen anything like it. There’s no doubt in my mind that it’s orichalcum but no Orsimer has ever crafted something so delicate. It doesn’t matter anyway, the Redguard prefers to dance with the thing more than he does fight with it. Prefers to charm those around him into the fight too. At least the fire in him burns brightly.”

Reyna: “I keep hearing talk of two young humans who hate Orsimer. A Breton and a Nord. The mages and the farmer swear it’s not them and that messenger boy just wets his pants everytime I look his way. Ugh who cares, there’s so many little humans scurrying about, it could be any of them.”

Quintus: “He fights with a pitchfork and talks to what should be food. If this is our army then death is on the horizon.”

Durzum: “I don’t care what the heretic fights with, he should’ve died at Orsinium.”

Velyn: “Hmph, Dunmer. Always too concerned with how their weapons look, rather than the strength of them. This one in particular talks in riddles, howling them at the moon as he plucks an instrument. He fights with reckless abandon of which the man beside him may end up paying for.”

Ando: “An unguarded Akaviri blade, kept in pristine condition. To wield such a thing speaks for itself. Don’t fight this one.”

Elara: “A mage; fights with a glorified twig and spends her time buried in books. Her hands are too clean and she sits too high on her horse.”

Reinette: “I’ve watched her for some time now. Not in the way Akamon does with those wandering eyes but in adoration. The way she dominates a room, commanding it with her words, just like she used to. Sure, there are days it pains me to watch but I can never bring myself to look away. I am drawn in, sworn to protect her, even though she may never know why.”

Guifort: “A crossbow, the weapon of choice for the unskilled. Luckily he is half Orsimer which means he can lift the damn thing. If the Count’s men could be talked to death then we’d have just the army for that. Not sure what good a priest is for anyone who isn’t already dead.”

Auz's Lot

Kysar

Kysar Proctus

	Kysar Proctus Barefaced | Venator 6’5 | 120kgs | 31 Palaven | 02/04/2156CE Turian | Sentinel

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Dossier

APPEARANCE◢

Kysar is wide for a Turian. Broad shouldered and heavy set with muscles, he is a bit of a daunting figure to look at. His bone white face tattoos only serve to compound that intimidating presence. Tattooed lovingly by humans during his time in Purgatory Prison, Kysar sees them as a spit in the face to all whoever called him barefaced. His mandibles fall long, and his razor-sharp spikes cut the air at the turn of a head. His eyes, a deep ocean blue, are capable of boring holes into even the thickest of Krogan heads. A detail the female of his species are often quick to remind him of, as they faun over the Turian. Despite not being there for long, Kysar has proved to be popular with the ladies around camp. Easy on the eyes and a bit of a mean streak, he’s the type of Turian you want to bring home if you want to piss off your Dad.

As with most Turians, Kysar’s posture has been built by the military. Unrelenting in his stance, the Turian moves with powerful strides and can stand still for hours on end. During combat, he glides over terrain without so much as a peep, striking with absolute precision. The armour given to him is state of the art. Despite being a criminal and part of a suicide squad, Turians are still a practical bunch. They do want the mission to be successful and so, outfit Kysar with some serious gear. Made to measure, the medium plated armour is cybernetic in appearance (only), offering as much protection as possible without hindering stealth or power capabilities. Kysar was also lucky enough to choose the decal finish of his suit, specifically requesting that ‘the carpet matched the drapes’.

MOTIVATIONS AND OUTLOOK◢

Life is hard, it’s the thing that kills you and boy howdy has it tried to kill Kysar. The Turian can scarcely remember a time when something or someone wasn’t at his throat. It’s only of late that he’s started to feel a lot better about that fact. Watching the galaxy gasp for air while being relentlessly assaulted has got him believing that maybe the humans were right, Karma really is a thing. Sarcastic, dry and quick witted, it’s hard to catch Kysar off guard when it comes to slights, usually beating those around him to the punch with some type of asshole-ish one liner. Surprisingly the guy isn’t winning any popularity contests and is a bit of a loner.

Kysar also feels no particular way when it comes to killing. He’s killed a lot of men in his time, some good, some bad, some that just needed killing. He can be both ruthless and ruthlessly efficient. He even sees the Turians current predicament as nothing to fret over. Sure, try to survive but if they didn’t and every Turian starved to death, then it was in service to the galaxy. As such, he offers no respite for their position and freely will tell people of it.

Though he still backs the Hierarchy, even he’s unsure why. Maybe it’s to prove them wrong, maybe it’s the memory of his father or the love he has for his mother, or maybe he just doesn’t see an alternative, until Sarah. Saving that woman and her family has got the Turian thinking for the first time in his life; it’s even kept him up at night once or twice. It’s possible that his mum was right and there’s more to life than being a cog in the machine or a lacky for the government. Perhaps love does exist and it’s worth the trouble. Maybe it’s high time to see one last mission through and get off this rock to find something worth having. Maybe.

INADEQUACIES AND FEARS◢

Kysar tolerates the name barefaced from the higher ups in the Hierarchy but he is unafraid to challenge anyone else. This, however, leaves him with a weakness to name calling and can be exploited. The flaw has gotten into trouble many times, with some of those times ending with him getting his ass-kicked for messing with the wrong crowd. When it comes to other species finding out and mentioning the name, the Turian is somehow even less kind. Willing to kill for the mere mention of it.

Though he serves the Hierarchy loyally and has shown to be so on many occasions, he’s still knows that he can never truly live a peaceful life among Turian society. This gives way to a deep seeded fear of loneliness. Listening to his mother’s stories of her and his father as a boy has left him wanting. While he has done his best to quash these feelings, they still linger somewhere deep down inside. He is afraid he’ll never experience love because of who he was born as. He is also susceptible to children, finding himself unable to say no and instantly throwing all thought of self-preservation out the window to protect them. Initially he believed it to just be Turian children but given what happened with Sarah and the kids, he now knows better.

Background

BACKGROUND◢

Since the Unification Wars of 500CE, Turians had worn their Colony Insignias with pride. Despite their xenophobic past, the face tattoos of their species took on a new meaning after the end of the war. Even though they were now one society, working towards one single goal, their individual homes still mattered and were something to be proud of. Barefaced was the derogatory term coined for those born without such privilege. Unlucky Turians who slipped through the gaps of their great hierarchical machine were shunned and harshly labelled as untrustworthy. Outcast, these individuals banded together to form small knit communities, often creating slums in the far corners of cities on Palaven. Despite their position and treatment, these Turians still dedicated themselves to society at large by often taking remedial roles such as cleaners, garbage collectors and menial labourers.

It was here, in one of these communities on Palaven, that Kysar Proctus was born to a poor mother and ailing father. Marcellus, Kysar’s father, was born with a genetic abnormality in which his ‘exoskeleton’ like plating was significantly less dense than that of regular Turians. Doomed to a life of poor health and unable to fulfil any role in supporting the Hierarchy, the Turian was given up for adoption by a prominent family at a young age. Unfortunately, the noticeable poor formation of his plating made selection near impossible, so in the end he was given to one of Palaven’s casteless communes. It was here in this community of barefaced Turians where he met Savita, Kysar’s mother.

Curious, fierce and passionate, Savita was the life of the party, full of energy and bouncing off the walls. Opposites attracted and from a young age the two were inseparable, with admiration turning to love during their adolescence. Despite their numerous adversities, the two had a whirlwind romance, the kind songs dream of, choosing to marry at quite a young age. With Marcellus unable to work, Savita took whatever jobs she could, often monkey branching from contract to contract. There, during one of her roles as a labourer to an offworld shipping yard, she fell pregnant with Kysar. They were both overjoyed at the news and even more so when Savita gave birth to a healthy baby boy. For the next two years, the family lived in absolute bliss.

Sadly, Marcellus was not long for the world, developing an invasive and aggressive cancer that riddled the poor Turians body. He died not long after, leaving Savita broken-hearted and with a boy to raise all on her own. Life had handed her lemons but the woman never complained, finding solace in the life they had shared and determined to give the living reminder of her husband a better life than either of them were ever afforded. Savita did her best to preserve the memory of Kysar’s father and pushed the boy to become something more. At 15 Kysar was made to apply for the military alongside the majority of Turians his age. Life in the military would either make or break him, Savita thought but adolescence had been kind to the boy who was a foot taller and a decent chunk wider than most. Little did she know, it would do both.

Barefaced. That was the name the others gave him, even his instructors. They did everything they could to bring Kysar down. On top of rigorous and gruelling training, he was given the worst duties, from latrine duty to cleaning the mess alone. Bullied wherever he went, he was constantly being physically challenged by groups of kids at a time. At first, he took it, believing that that’s what a true Turian would do. Stand with honour against the slings and arrows of others, never swaying in conviction. A noble but unrealistic view, it wasn’t long before Kysar learned the grim reality of torture, that everyone breaks eventually.

One evening, after a particularly long and hard day of training, Kysar was cleaning the latrines when several other Turians entered. Fresh from a bout of hand to hand training, the group were keen to test their ability, cornering Kysar, with the leader of the clique challenging him one on one. The teenager knew it was a trap, even if he bested their leader or came close to it, the others would join in and he would return back to his cot covered in bruises. He tried to walk away but the others encircled him, their leader calling him every name in the book, throwing the odd hook here and there. It wasn’t until they began on his mother that the group really got underneath his skin. Shoving the leader back, the group pounced, fists and feet flying everywhere as they pummelled Kysar into the wall. It was there, in that moment, that the young Turian thought of his mother, ashamed that he had failed her and the memory of his father. He knew she wanted more from him but he could no longer abstain from temptation.

Anger surged through him like lightning as a blue light enveloped his being. The more they punched, the stronger the light grew, finally erupting with a roar from Kysar. The others flew back through stalls and walls, each of them receiving some sort of serious injury. The Turian had just discovered he was a biotic.

Branches shifted with Kysar being made to train with the Cabals. Life was harder and more physical than ever before. Here they were pushed to be the best of the best and there was no room, or tolerance, for weakness of any kind. Trainees were to be ground into dust so they could be remade from clay anew. Still an outcast, Kysar was no longer left behind. Trained in everything from infiltration to piloting, a Cabal was only as strong as its weakest link. His Kabalim, Inventus Scipio, was one of the best. The aging Turian always seemed to churn out the cream of the crop but was often mired in controversy. He was obsessed with personal glory and seemingly clung to this feeling by constantly putting his own needs above that of hierarchy.

Regardless, Kysar was finally becoming the Turian he had always dreamt of. The Cabal moved past training and into live scenarios. Their first assignment handed to them by Scipio was to infiltrate a recently formed smuggling ring. Turian military hardware was being sold to the Blue Suns by an unknown official and it was their job to find out who. Kysar was chosen to make contact with a long standing inside man they had placed within the Suns, who would then accompany him during weapon sales. The goal was to offer them the same hardware at a better price, hopefully drawing their competitor out of the shadows or at least gathering more information about them. The rest of the group would play supporting roles, keeping an eye on hand offs from the shadows and finding what they could through any other means. Kysar played the role of smuggler for years, gathering all the evidence he could but was always seemingly one step behind his faux rival. It wasn’t until a deal went wrong that the Turian found out why.

Deep in the hidden corridors of the Citadel, the usual suspects met to complete the transaction. A crate of Armax Arsenal was on offer, being sold for a quarter of what they were worth on the open market. The deal unfolded just like any other until officers from C-Sec swooped in from all sides. Outgunned and outmanned, the few there surrendered, with Kysar coming in without issue. In the interrogation room, the Turian spilled out their sting operation, angry that C-Sec had interfered with Cabal operations. The officers retorted with an investigation of their own, dropping a huge vanilla folder packed to the brim with evidence. They claimed that there was no ‘other smuggling ring’, only his. Laid out before him were logs upon logs of evidence, claiming that Kysar had gone rogue due to his mistreatment in the military, highlighting the incidents reported during his youth as a root cause. They then went on to show how the report of the original smuggling ring was doctored, an excuse to launch a venture of his own.

It was impossible, the Turian claimed, he couldn’t have co-ordinated this by himself as a mere trainee. Plus, the others in his Cabal could also vouch for him, they too were put on assignment and Scipio had all their proof collected. The C-Sec officers then produced further evidence; no one in his Cabal, bar Kysar, had been assigned to any such thing. The truth finally dawned on the young Turian when his Kabalim entered the room. Scipio played the victim, disgusted by his students choices, condemning him as a Turian and claiming that he knew he shouldn’t have allowed a barefaced into the program. The case was airtight and of course the money from the smuggling had disappeared into the ether. Now there was just one loose end to take care of. Invictus asked for the officers to clear the room, releasing Kysar to make it appear as if he had broken free. When asked why he did it, Scipio simply laughed, it was the money of course, the military paid like shit and…

Kysar ignited, hitting his former instructor with a slam mid speech. The Kabalim hit the floor with with such force, his side arm came loose. The young Turian was quick to collect it and even quicker to fire, killing the older of the two. When interviewed later, officers would ask Kysar why, if he was truly innocent, would he kill Scipio.

“I knew the score.” Kysar replied. “He betrayed us all and was going to get away with it. There was no choice, not really.”

With murder of a senior official added to the charge list, Kysar was sent to Purgatory. Despite the claim of the prison’s warden, the floating penal colony was easier on the Turian than his time in the military. The guards, mostly made up of his own kind, were quick to resurrect his old label of barefaced. Though, finally off the leash, any inmate who repeated such a thing was killed unless the guards got there first. Held over the course of several years, the Turian earned a reputation just shy of their meanest inmate, Jack. Perhaps inspired by the best, he also allowed other human inmates to tattoo his face, seeing it as a final ‘fuck you’ to the customs that had plagued him his whole life. He may have been clanless but at least he was now his own Turian.

Freedom came shortly after, when Shepard’s release of Jack brought the entire prison crashing down around them. Overpowering a guard moments after the kerfuffle began, Kysar managed to acquire a gun, using it to force his way onto one of the few lifeboats on board. Ejecting from the doomed vessel alone, the Turian fled the system, charting a course for Palaven. Instead of choosing to go on the run, Kysar returned to the Hierarchy in a bid to honour Turian tradition and try to clear his name once and for all. Impressed with the soldier’s survivability, the powers that be promptly threw him back into military prison, resealing his case without further investigation. There he remained until the Reaper invasion.

Attacking several systems at once, the Reapers moved quickly to overwhelm both the Batarian and Human forces. Striking at the Turians next, Taetrus fell before the Hierarchy could lift a finger. With the realisation of just what they were up against dawning on every species, the brass was quick to enact a sweeping declaration. All hands were needed on deck and those in military prison had a chance of freedom if they signed up for the ‘Extreme Tactical Insertion Squads’, colloquially known as suicide squads. Not wishing to die in prison, Kysar signed and was assigned to a squad of 15 others. Their first task was to wait as Fleets 29 through 32 retook the Mactare Relay then they would follow with a planet invasion of Taetrus.

Warp bombs were sent via the relay to clear the enemy laying in wait on the other side. The Hierarchy’s tactic of smothering the enemy with overwhelming force was employed with the fleets performing a mass jump. What followed was horrific. Live videos were broadcasted from the Reapers as they tore the fleets apart, followed by more footage of them saturating ground forces planet side. The order for reinforcements to be sent through the relay came just as the Reapers appeared, Palaven side.

Kysar’s mission was scrapped, with his new one being to report for active duty on Manae. There, he and his squad were put to the test by clearing LZ’s and scouting positions for forward bases. Unable to get a communication away to his mother on Palaven, Kysar's request to be redeployed to the surface was denied. The fighting on Manae continued, even after the assassination of their Primarch and the flight of their newly appointed General turned politician. They were ordered to hold for as long as possible until reinforcements arrived.

Doing so in the most unexpected fashion, re-supply came in the form of Krogans who hit the planet's surface running. Together, ground forces on Palaven pushed back the Reapers and gained significant ground. It was a huge morale boost for the Turians with Kysar and squad being ordered to return to orbit and link up with 6th Fleet. There they’d assault the Cerberus held world of Aephus, infiltrating and downing several anti-air batteries, allowing the fleet to take back the surface and send the human terrorist organisation packing.

A final order was given for the Turians dwindling squad to meet up for a final assault on Earth. Linking up with an armada of galactic forces, Kysar’s mission was to assist the human’s in a direct assault on London. They were to reach a forward base in the capital before participating in a final attack on a heavily fortified Reaper position. Saddled up, the crew made it far enough to be dropped from orbit in one of many Kodiaks. Reaper resistance was fierce as the crew approached the FOB, with flak from AA darkening the sky. Just as their target crested the horizon, the crew were winged by shrapnel, sending the carrier careening towards the ground. Crash-landing in the desolate city, they were quickly engaged by Reaper ground forces, pushing the five survivors of Kysar’s squad into a nearby office building. Doing what they could, the Turian’s barricaded the door. Attempting to establish communication with command, all they were met with was the static of white noise.

Stranded on a foreign world in the middle of a warzone, the squad began to panic. Kysar tempered their fear by suggesting that they head to the roof. The building was effectively a maze, the Reapers could lose track of them and a visible line of sight would help them reconnect with their main objective. With everyone in agreement, the crew made their way up a single floor, only to bump into a small family of surviving humans. Two children, a boy and a girl, a young woman and a man begged Kysar’s squad for help. The husband was in a bad way, bleeding heavily from a gunshot to the gut, they had been caught in the commotion caused by the Turians crash landing. The others in the squad were quick to dismiss them, there was little hope for them as things were without the anchoring of civilians.

Kysar, on the other hand, couldn’t help but draw a parallel between the humans. It was something about the way the wife dragged her husband along, something in her eyes that screamed determination. She wasn’t going to give up on him, just like his mother refused to give up on his father. Kysar ordered the others to go on ahead, picking up the husband and slinging him over his shoulder. He would be right behind them.

Scrambling up the stairwell, everyone moved as quickly as they could. The squad had long moved ahead when Kysar began to hear shooting. Reapers had dropped in from above, with dozens upon dozens of husks scaling the side of the building and scouring it for survivors. Ducking onto the 33rd floor, Kysar burst through the door, barricading them all in an office, preparing to make a final stand. Deciding to radio into command one final time, he received word that Shepard was aboard the Citadel and was trying to activate the Conduit. His final orders were to survive and pray to the Spirits that the human could end this. With his rifle empty, Kyser made his final stand, unleashing his biotics as husks began to break through the barrier. As hopelessness closed in around them, a blinding red light rushed from on high, blanketing the city.

The husks fell dead as Kysar, wounded but alive, returned to the office to celebrate. Sadly for the family, the Turian was only able to share in a bittersweet moment, finding the husband dead in his wife’s arms. Leaving them to their moment, Kysar climbed the stairwell to find the body of three of his comrades. Removing their dog tags, he pocketed them and returned once more to wrap the body of the man. Spotting the FOB, the survivors make their way across, meeting up and being processed with the few that remained.

Reconnecting with what was left of High Command, Kysar came to learn that their forces had committed to the restoration of the relay. Dextro rations were finite and the stranded Turian population numbers in the millions. Without possibility of resupply on Earth, returning back to their own system was their only hope. Brought before General Invectus, Kysar was told he is one of the last biotic soldiers that remained. The Cabals were all but wiped out during their high-risk missions and the Turian is needed now more than ever. Admiral Nitesh, leader of the human forces, had been making moves that left the non-human forces wary. As such Kysar’s orders were to infiltrate the ranks of the Earth forces and report back on their movements. Finding the irony hilarious, he reluctantly agrees on the written promise that if he does it, he’ll be free from prison. Accepting their arrangement, the General detailed his mission as two-fold. Several downed Turian ships had been raided by human survivors, rations had been taken and were now being sold in a black-market rings. Kysar is to do his part in dismantling this network or expose it to the correct authorities. His other mission is to keep an eye on Admiral Nitesh Singh as the Hierarchy doesn’t trust him. He’s to report anything that is ordered of him as a part of this new group that has arisen.

Capabilities

POWERS◢

- Armour Piercing Ammo speciality
- Lift grenades
- Slam
- Overload

ACCOMPLISHMENTS AND CRIMES◢

Purgatory Rap Sheet

- Numerous Accounts of Treason
- Numerous Accounts of Smuggling
- Numerous Accounts of Sale of Illegal Goods
- Numerous Accounts of Grand Larceny
- 1 Count of 1st Degree Murder
- 1 Count of Murder of a Military Official
- Numerous Accounts of Assault
- Numerous Accounts of Manslaughter
- Numerous Accounts of 2nd Degree Murder

War Accolades

- Battle Honour Recorded for the Battle of Manae x2
- Battle Honour Recorded for the Battle of Aephus
- Battle Honour Recorded for the Battle of London, Earth

RELATIONS AND AFFILIATIONS◢

- General Invectus - Alive
- Atticus Basilic, ETIS Squadmate - MIA
- Refugee Sarah Parker - Alive
- Refugee Wendy Parker - Alive
- Refugee Matthew Parker - Alive
- Savita Proctus - Status Unknown

OPINIONS◢

(For group members and NPCs; fill after IC introduction)

Inventory

CREDITS & VALUABLES◢ Letter from Parker Family, Physical Picture of Mother and Father, 1000 creds	OUTFIT◢ Medium armour, pictured above
WEAPON & TOOLS◢ Omnitool, M-96 Mattock, M-3 Predator	CONSUMABLE◢ Dextro rations 4 Lift Grenades Medigel Thermal Clips
ID & DOCUMENTS◢ None	BAGS & CONTAINERS◢ Rucksack

Kysar Proctus 2.0

Kysar Proctus

"Venator"

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D O S S I E R Species Turian Homeworld Palaven Age 31 Height/Weight 6’5 | 120kgs Class Sentinel Affiliation Earth’s Turian Hierarchy L O A D O U T - M-96 Mattock (Armour Piercing Rounds) I - X5 Ghost Assault Rifle I - M-3 Predator I - Electrified Omni Blade I - Medium Plated Armour, As Pictured Above I N V E N T O R Y - 2845 creds - Dextro rations - Medigel - Thermal Clips - Letter from Parker Family - Rucksack - Physical Picture of Mother and Father P O W E R S - Warp II - Overload III - Slam I - Tech Armour I - Dominate (New) II

A P P E A R A N C E Kysar is wide for a Turian. Broad shouldered and heavy set with muscles, he is a bit of a daunting figure to look at. His bone white face tattoos only serve to compound that intimidating presence. Tattooed during his time in Purgatory Prison, Kysar sees his facial markings as a spit in the face to all whoever called him barefaced. His mandibles fall long and his razor-sharp spikes cut the air at the turn of a head. His eyes, a deep ocean blue, are capable of boring holes into even the thickest of Krogan heads. A detail the females of his species are often quick to remind him of. Easy on the eyes and a bit of a mean streak, he’s the type of Turian you want to bring home if you want to piss off your Dad. As with most Turians, Kysar’s posture has been built by the military. Unrelenting in his stance, the Turian moves with powerful strides and can stand still for hours on end. During combat, he glides over terrain without so much as a peep, striking with absolute precision. The armour given to him is state of the art as despite being a criminal and part of a suicide squad, the Turian Heirarchy are still a practical bunch. Made to measure, the medium plated armour is cybernetic in appearance (only), offering as much protection as possible without hindering stealth or power capabilities. Kysar was also lucky enough to choose the decal finish of his suit, specifically requesting that ‘the carpet matches the drapes’. B A C K G R O U N D Since the Unification Wars of 500CE, Turians had worn their Colony Insignias with pride. Despite their xenophobic past, the face tattoos of their species took on a new meaning after the end of the war. Even though they were now one society, working towards one single goal, their individual homes still mattered and were something to be proud of. Barefaced was the derogatory term coined for those born without such privilege. Unlucky Turians who slipped through the gaps of their great hierarchical machine were shunned and harshly labelled as untrustworthy. Outcast, these individuals banded together to form small knit communities, often creating slums in the far corners of cities on Palaven. Despite their position and treatment, these Turians still dedicated themselves to society at large by often taking remedial roles such as cleaners, garbage collectors and menial labourers. It was here, in one of these communities on Palaven, that Kysar Proctus was born to a poor mother and ailing father. Marcellus, Kysar’s father, was born with a genetic abnormality in which his ‘exoskeleton’ like plating was significantly less dense than that of regular Turians. Doomed to a life of poor health and unable to fulfil any role in supporting the Hierarchy, the Turian was given up for adoption by a prominent family at a young age. Unfortunately, the noticeable poor formation of his plating made selection near impossible, so in the end he was given to one of Palaven’s casteless communes. It was here in this community of barefaced Turians where he met Savita, Kysar’s mother. Curious, fierce and passionate, Savita was the life of the party, full of energy and bouncing off the walls. Opposites attracted and from a young age the two were inseparable, with admiration turning to love during their adolescence. Despite their numerous adversities, the two had a whirlwind romance, the kind songs dream of, choosing to marry at quite a young age. With Marcellus unable to work, Savita took whatever jobs she could, often monkey branching from contract to contract. There, during one of her roles as a labourer to an offworld shipping yard, she fell pregnant with Kysar. They were both overjoyed at the news and even more so when Savita gave birth to a healthy baby boy. For the next two years, the family lived in absolute bliss. Sadly, Marcellus was not long for the world, developing an invasive and aggressive cancer that riddled the poor Turians body. He died not long after, leaving Savita broken-hearted and with a boy to raise all on her own. Life had handed her lemons but the woman never complained, finding solace in the life they had shared and determined to give the living reminder of her husband a better life than either of them were ever afforded. Savita did her best to preserve the memory of Kysar’s father and pushed the boy to become something more. At 15 Kysar was made to apply for the military alongside the majority of Turians his age. Life in the military would either make or break him, Savita thought but adolescence had been kind to the boy who was a foot taller and a decent chunk wider than most. Little did she know, it would do both. Barefaced. That was the name the others gave him, even his instructors. They did everything they could to bring Kysar down. On top of rigorous and gruelling training, he was given the worst duties, from latrine duty to cleaning the mess alone. Bullied wherever he went, he was constantly being physically challenged by groups of kids at a time. At first, he took it, believing that that’s what a true Turian would do. Stand with honour against the slings and arrows of others, never swaying in conviction. A noble but unrealistic view, it wasn’t long before Kysar learned the grim reality of torture, that everyone breaks eventually. One evening, after a particularly long and hard day of training, Kysar was cleaning the latrines when several other Turians entered. Fresh from a bout of hand to hand training, the group were keen to test their ability, cornering Kysar, with the leader of the clique challenging him one on one. The teenager knew it was a trap, even if he bested their leader or came close to it, the others would join in and he would return back to his cot covered in bruises. He tried to walk away but the others encircled him, their leader calling him every name in the book, throwing the odd hook here and there. It wasn’t until they began on his mother that the group really got underneath his skin. Shoving the leader back, the group pounced, fists and feet flying everywhere as they pummelled Kysar into the wall. It was there, in that moment, that the young Turian thought of his mother, ashamed that he had failed her and the memory of his father. He knew she wanted more from him but he could no longer abstain from temptation. Anger surged through him like lightning as a blue light enveloped his being. The more they punched, the stronger the light grew, finally erupting with a roar from Kysar. The others flew back through stalls and walls, each of them receiving some sort of serious injury. The Turian had just discovered he was a biotic. Branches shifted with Kysar being made to train with the Cabals. Life was harder and more physical than ever before. Here they were pushed to be the best of the best and there was no room, or tolerance, for weakness of any kind. Trainees were to be ground into dust so they could be remade from clay anew. Still an outcast, Kysar was no longer left behind. Trained in everything from infiltration to piloting, a Cabal was only as strong as its weakest link. His Kabalim, Inventus Scipio, was one of the best. The ageing Turian always seemed to churn out the cream of the crop but was often mired in controversy. He was obsessed with personal glory and seemingly clung to this feeling by constantly putting his own needs above that of hierarchy. Regardless, Kysar was finally becoming the Turian he had always dreamt of. The Cabal moved past training and into live scenarios. Their first assignment handed to them by Scipio was to infiltrate a recently formed smuggling ring. Turian military hardware was being sold to the Blue Suns by an unknown official and it was their job to find out who. Kysar was chosen to make contact with a long standing inside man they had placed within the Suns, who would then accompany him during weapon sales. The goal was to offer them the same hardware at a better price, hopefully drawing their competitor out of the shadows or at least gathering more information about them. The rest of the group would play supporting roles, keeping an eye on hand offs from the shadows and finding what they could through any other means. Kysar played the role of smuggler for years, gathering all the evidence he could but was always seemingly one step behind his faux rival. It wasn’t until a deal went wrong that the Turian found out why. Deep in the hidden corridors of the Citadel, the usual suspects met to complete the transaction. A crate of Armax Arsenal was on offer, being sold for a quarter of what they were worth on the open market. The deal unfolded just like any other until officers from C-Sec swooped in from all sides. Outgunned and outmanned, the few there surrendered, with Kysar coming in without issue. In the interrogation room, the Turian spilled out their sting operation, angry that C-Sec had interfered with Cabal operations. The officers retorted with an investigation of their own, dropping a huge vanilla folder packed to the brim with evidence. They claimed that there was no ‘other smuggling ring’, only his. Laid out before him were logs upon logs of evidence, claiming that Kysar had gone rogue due to his mistreatment in the military, highlighting the incidents reported during his youth as a root cause. They then went on to show how the report of the original smuggling ring was doctored, an excuse to launch a venture of his own. It was impossible, the Turian claimed, he couldn’t have co-ordinated this by himself as a mere trainee. Plus, the others in his Cabal could also vouch for him, they too were put on assignment and Scipio had all their proof collected. The C-Sec officers then produced further evidence; no one in his Cabal, bar Kysar, had been assigned to any such thing. The truth finally dawned on the young Turian when his Kabalim entered the room. Scipio played the victim, disgusted by his students choices, condemning him as a Turian and claiming that he knew he shouldn’t have allowed a barefaced into the program. The case was airtight and of course the money from the smuggling had disappeared into the ether. Now there was just one loose end to take care of. Invictus asked for the officers to clear the room, releasing Kysar to make it appear as if he had broken free. When asked why he did it, Scipio simply laughed, it was the money of course, the military paid like shit and… Kysar ignited, hitting his former instructor with a slam mid speech. The Kabalim hit the floor with such force, his side arm came loose. The young Turian was quick to collect it and even quicker to fire, killing the older of the two. When interviewed later, officers would ask Kysar why, if he was truly innocent, would he kill Scipio. “I knew the score.” Kysar replied. “He betrayed us all and was going to get away with it. There was no choice, not really.” With murder of a senior official added to the charge list, Kysar was sent to Purgatory. Despite the claim of the prison’s warden, the floating penal colony was easier on the Turian than his time in the military. The guards, mostly made up of his own kind, were quick to resurrect his old label of barefaced. Though, finally off the leash, any inmate who repeated such a thing was killed unless the guards got there first. Held over the course of several years, the Turian earned a reputation just shy of their meanest inmate, Jack. Perhaps inspired by the best, he also allowed other human inmates to tattoo his face, seeing it as a final ‘fuck you’ to the customs that had plagued him his whole life. He may have been clanless but at least he was now his own Turian. Freedom came shortly after, when Shepard’s release of Jack brought the entire prison crashing down around them. Overpowering a guard moments after the kerfuffle began, Kysar managed to acquire a gun, using it to force his way onto one of the few lifeboats on board. Ejecting from the doomed vessel alone, the Turian fled the system, charting a course for Palaven. Instead of choosing to go on the run, Kysar returned to the Hierarchy in a bid to honour Turian tradition and try to clear his name once and for all. Impressed with the soldier’s survivability, the powers that be promptly threw him back into military prison, resealing his case without further investigation. There he remained until the Reaper invasion. Attacking several systems at once, the Reapers moved quickly to overwhelm both the Batarian and Human forces. Striking at the Turians next, Taetrus fell before the Hierarchy could lift a finger. With the realisation of just what they were up against dawning on every species, the brass was quick to enact a sweeping declaration. All hands were needed on deck and those in military prison had a chance of freedom if they signed up for the ‘Extreme Tactical Insertion Squads’, colloquially known as suicide squads. Not wishing to die in prison, Kysar signed and was assigned to a squad of 15 others. Their first task was to wait as Fleets 29 through 32 retook the Mactare Relay then they would follow with a planet invasion of Taetrus. Warp bombs were sent via the relay to clear the enemy laying in wait on the other side. The Hierarchy’s tactic of smothering the enemy with overwhelming force was employed with the fleets performing a mass jump. What followed was horrific. Live videos were broadcasted from the Reapers as they tore the fleets apart, followed by more footage of them saturating ground forces planet side. The order for reinforcements to be sent through the relay came just as the Reapers appeared, Palaven side. Kysar’s mission was scrapped, with his new one being to report for active duty on Manae. There, he and his squad were put to the test by clearing LZ’s and scouting positions for forward bases. Unable to get a communication away from his mother on Palaven, Kysar's request to be redeployed to the surface was denied. The fighting on Manae continued, even after the assassination of their Primarch and the flight of their newly appointed General turned politician. They were ordered to hold for as long as possible until reinforcements arrived. Doing so in the most unexpected fashion, re-supply came in the form of Krogans who hit the planet's surface running. Together, ground forces on Palaven pushed back the Reapers and gained significant ground. It was a huge morale boost for the Turians with Kysar and squad being ordered to return to orbit and link up with 6th Fleet. There they’d assault the Cerberus held world of Aephus, infiltrating and downing several anti-air batteries, allowing the fleet to take back the surface and send the human terrorist organisation packing. A final order was given for the Turians dwindling squad to meet up for a final assault on Earth. Linking up with an armada of galactic forces, Kysar’s mission was to assist the human’s in a direct assault on London. They were to reach a forward base in the capital before participating in a final attack on a heavily fortified Reaper position. Saddled up, the crew made it far enough to be dropped from orbit in one of many Kodiaks. Reaper resistance was fierce as the crew approached the FOB, with flak from AA darkening the sky. Just as their target crested the horizon, the crew were winged by shrapnel, sending the carrier careening towards the ground. Crash-landing in the desolate city, they were quickly engaged by Reaper ground forces, pushing the five survivors of Kysar’s squad into a nearby office building. Doing what they could, the Turian’s barricaded the door. Attempting to establish communication with command, all they were met with was the static of white noise. Stranded on a foreign world in the middle of a warzone, the squad began to panic. Kysar tempered their fear by suggesting that they head to the roof. The building was effectively a maze, the Reapers could lose track of them and a visible line of sight would help them reconnect with their main objective. With everyone in agreement, the crew made their way up a single floor, only to bump into a small family of surviving humans. Two children, a boy and a girl, a young woman and a man begged Kysar’s squad for help. The husband was in a bad way, bleeding heavily from a gunshot to the gut, they had been caught in the commotion caused by the Turians crash landing. The others in the squad were quick to dismiss them, there was little hope for them as things were without the anchoring of civilians. Kysar, on the other hand, couldn’t help but draw a parallel between the humans. It was something about the way the wife dragged her husband along, something in her eyes that screamed determination. She wasn’t going to give up on him, just like his mother refused to give up on his father. Kysar ordered the others to go on ahead, picking up the husband and slinging him over his shoulder. He would be right behind them. Scrambling up the stairwell, everyone moved as quickly as they could. The squad had long moved ahead when Kysar began to hear shooting. Reapers had dropped in from above, with dozens upon dozens of husks scaling the side of the building and scouring it for survivors. Ducking onto the 33rd floor, Kysar burst through the door, barricading them all in an office, preparing to make a final stand. Deciding to radio into command one final time, he received word that Shepard was aboard the Citadel and was trying to activate the Conduit. His final orders were to survive and pray to the Spirits that the human could end this. With his rifle empty, Kyser made his final stand, unleashing his biotics as husks began to break through the barrier. As hopelessness closed in around them, a blinding red light rushed from on high, blanketing the city. The husks fell dead as Kysar, wounded but alive, returned to the office to celebrate. Sadly for the family, the Turian was only able to share in a bittersweet moment, finding the husband dead in his wife’s arms. Leaving them to their moment, Kysar climbed the stairwell to find the body of three of his comrades. Removing their dog tags, he pocketed them and returned once more to wrap the body of the man. Spotting the FOB, the survivors make their way across, meeting up and being processed with the few that remained. Reconnecting with what was left of High Command, Kysar came to learn that their forces had committed to the restoration of the relay. Dextro rations were finite and the stranded Turian population numbers in the millions. Without possibility of resupply on Earth, returning back to their own system was their only hope. Brought before General Invectus, Kysar was told he is one of the last biotic soldiers that remained. The Cabals were all but wiped out during their high-risk missions and the Turian is needed now more than ever. Admiral Nitesh, leader of the human forces, had been making moves that left the non-human forces wary. As such Kysar’s orders were to infiltrate the ranks of the Earth forces and report back on their movements. Finding the irony hilarious, he reluctantly agrees on the written promise that if he does it, he’ll be free from prison. Accepting their arrangement, the General detailed his mission as two-fold. Several downed Turian ships had been raided by human survivors, rations had been taken and were now being sold in a black-market rings. Kysar is to do his part in dismantling this network or expose it to the correct authorities. His other mission is to keep an eye on Admiral Nitesh Singh as the Hierarchy doesn’t trust him. He’s to report anything that is ordered of him as a part of this new group that has arisen. Time with the SRN Namibia What a walk in the park. Some doped up Drell’s meddling with Reaper tech lost the plot and began attacking anything with a pulse. Yeah we lost one of the team but as the locals say, you can’t make an omelette without breaking a few eggs. I did my part, helped take out a few of the morons, some weird bug thing and cracked open their little device. Done, easy in and easy out. Havana They tell me that this city survived almost unscathed from the war. Shit, could’ve fooled me. Purgatory was prettier than this. Eh, whatever. We’ve got to hand off what’s left of that weird Reaper tech to some Doctor. Maybe he’ll figure out how it lobotomised those Drells, who knows. Honestly, I can’t believe the Hierarchy is worried about this group, this SRN shtick is so easy it’s almost boring. M O T I V A T I O N Human’s in the clink had a famous saying, “Don't take life seriously. Either way, you won't make it out alive.” A catchy mantra that spoke to Kysar on such a deep level it revolutionised his outlook on life. For the longest time he could scarcely remember a time when something or someone wasn’t at his throat. Armed with the wisdom of some long dead human, he has since begun to roll with the punches. Sarcastic, dry and quick witted, it’s hard to catch Kysar off guard when it comes to slights, usually beating those around him to the punch with some type of asshole-ish one liner. Surprisingly the guy isn’t winning any popularity contests and is a bit of a loner. Kysar also feels no particular way when it comes to killing. He’s killed a lot of men in his time, some good, some bad, some that just needed killing. He can be both ruthless and ruthlessly efficient. He offers no respite for the Turians current predicament on Earth and freely will tell people of it. “Isn’t this the total sum of what our leaders have always preached? Death in the pursuit of something bigger than the individual? Congrats, we won the war and will be rewarded as such.” Perhaps somewhat ironically he still loosely follows orders from the Hierarchy, even though he's unsure why. Maybe it’s to prove them wrong, maybe it’s the memory of his father or the love he has for his mother, or maybe it’s just something to do. Either way, there is something else though, a seed of doubt that has begun to worm its way from the back of his mind. Sarah. Saving that woman and her family has got the Turian thinking for the first time in his life; it’s even kept him up at night once or twice. It’s possible that his mum was right and there’s more to life than being a cog in the machine or a lacky for the government. Perhaps love does exist and it’s worth the trouble. Maybe it’s high time to see one last mission through and get off this rock to find something worth having. Maybe. F L A W S Kysar tolerates the name barefaced from the higher ups in the Hierarchy but he is unafraid to challenge anyone else. This, however, leaves him with a weakness to name calling and can be exploited. The flaw has gotten into trouble many times, with some of those times ending with him getting his ass-kicked for messing with the wrong crowd. When it comes to other species finding out and mentioning the name, the Turian is somehow even less kind. Willing to kill for the mere mention of it. Though he currently serves the Hierarchy loyally, he still knows that he can never truly live a peaceful life among Turian society. This gives way to a deep seeded fear of loneliness. Listening to his mother’s stories of her and his father as a boy has left him wanting. While he has done his best to quash these feelings, they still linger somewhere deep down inside. He is afraid he’ll never experience love because of who he was born as. He is also susceptible to children, finding himself unable to say no and instantly throwing all thought of self-preservation out the window to protect them. Initially he believed it to just be Turian children but given what happened with Sarah and the kids, he now knows better. M I S C Purgatory Rap Sheet - Numerous Accounts of Treason - Numerous Accounts of Smuggling - Numerous Accounts of Sale of Illegal Goods - Numerous Accounts of Grand Larceny - 1 Count of 1st Degree Murder - 1 Count of Murder of a Military Official - Numerous Accounts of Assault - Numerous Accounts of Manslaughter - Numerous Accounts of 2nd Degree Murder War Accolades - Battle Honour Recorded for the Battle of Manae x2 - Battle Honour Recorded for the Battle of Aephus - Battle Honour Recorded for the Battle of London, Earth RELATIONS AND AFFILIATIONS◢ - General Invectus - Alive - Atticus Basilic, ETIS Squadmate - MIA - Refugee Sarah Parker - Alive - Refugee Wendy Parker - Alive - Refugee Matthew Parker - Alive - Savita Proctus - Status Unknown

Opinions

Zenn | Shadow
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Kysar doubts Zenn would punch him.

_{↳Hmmm. Zenn is short and so thin. Sometimes the little guy just blends into the background. Though I suppose what else are you supposed to do when your callsign is Shadow. He's also got a bit of pep to him in a firefight, so what should I call him? Maybe.. firework? Spark plug? Sparky? Eh, it'll come to me.}

_{↳Zenn. Not too long ago I was wondering what name to call him, didn't expect it to be friend. Now we're close, the do anything for each other type close. Spirits. I do wish he'd stop saying nice things about me and maybe say some more about himself. He deserves it. A good soldier, a better friend, the best man.}

Amina | Rogue
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Kysar thinks Amina will punch him at some point.

_{↳Aha man, what to call this one? So spoilt for choice here. Cerberus dog, space racist, reaper lacky, reaper lover, Illusive loyalty? I guess these are supposed to be shorter and catchy. Reapy? Ha! Cerberus was a funny group though, thinking aliens are assholes only out for themselves, only to become the biggest group of assholes out for themselves. But eh, what do I know, I'm also an asshole out for myself, so maybe she's not half wrong.}

_{↳I didn't expect Cerbs to be the wildcard. Zenobia had that crown fair and square. But Amina surprised me. Seems obvious the more I think about it. Our conversation has left me wanting more, to unravel the enigma. I think there's a lot we can learn from each other.}

Zenobia | Lunatic
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Kysar thinks Zenobia might karate chop a butterfly? (He doesn't know what crazy people will do)

_{↳This chick is bonkers (heh that's the name right there). Reading her dossier was creeeeepy. Me in another life shit. Ugh, gives me the shivers. Bonkers is alright though, just don't know why you'd want to be a part of the Eclipse aka the galaxy's cannon fodder but hey, maybe that's one reason why she's called Lunatic.}

_{↳Bonkers is still cool. I didn't know anyone was capable of wolfing down food like that. I knew Turian's couldn't sing, maybe that's why we're so serious. I think I saw her disappear with the Pinball towards the end of things. Ha! Classic Z.}

Solveig | Wraith
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Kysar would love to see Solveigs arm punch through someone (Not him though).

_{↳Gotta love Awks, she's got perseverance I'll give her that. Doing her best to connect with others in the group through awkward conversation. Maybe she feels bad for not reaching out more with our last team? I.. er.. guess I still don't know how I feel about her leaving. I, um, well? Ah shit, I think her foot in mouth syndrome is contagious.}

_{↳Awks is quite the woman. I've enjoyed watching her open up; her jokes, her awkward smiles, her efforts to talk even though she hates it. I admire her. I'm happy she's got someone like Zenn and Zenn has someone like her. It would be too obvious to talk about her as a soldier, it's the person underneath all that, she's the one worth applauding.}

Nadara | Sunset
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Kysar thinks Nadara might punch him if her eyes don't stop rolling at him.

_{↳This one is easy. Heels. The way she spends her time clomping around on those bad boys, I'm surprised the enemy don't hear her coming from a mile away. Such a picturesque portrait of an Asari. She's endlessly fun to annoy. I suppose I did let her down, though I heard her father was a Krogan. They dig scars right?}

_{↳If you'd asked me about Heels yesterday, my opinion would've been day and night to how I feel now. Can't say it's the opposite but it's good to know there's something rolling around up there. Seems like life might be a bit of a burden to her, so she tries to shrug the whole thing off. As long as she doesn't hand another one of us over to her mother we'll be ok. Although, word around base is that she's got that Matriarch charm. So maybe I wouldn't mind being handed off...}

Rebirth

Six years ago…

“He’s a slow eater.” Kysar sat, hunched over the table, looming over a book he had open on the desk. Sat opposite the Turian was a skinny human, his face long and bony as if he was sorely underfed. Also reading a book, the man brushed his long straight black hair behind his ear, using a finger to run along the page sentence by sentence.

“This is what you called me into the library for? To tell me Voeus has trouble with mastication?”

Kysar rolled his eyes at the unnecessary wording. “Kerry, c’mo- Ugh, no. It’s because he eats slowly. It means he's the last one out of the mess hall almost every time. The other guards get so sick of waiting for him that they all leave bar one.”

Kerry flipped the page of the book, raising an eyebrow as he did so. “So, what, you mean to tell me you’re planning on taking out one of Augutius’ top enforcers and a guard? That’s vacuous, even for you.”

The Turian growled, if only he could huff red hot steam out of his nose like a dragon. “Will you just shut up and listen?” The human held up his hands, gesturing he’d let it go. “The guards take turns on whoever stays behind in the mess to look after Voeus. Every second week of the month, on a Tuesday, it’s the Batarian, Krarvan.” Kysar flipped a page of his book, refusing to look anywhere else. “The guy’s got a bladder the size of a peanut and can’t hold in anything. I’ve got us kitchen duty, so you offer all the guards a nice big drink about 20 minutes before everyone starts to clear out and then we wait.”

The Turian cleared his throat, quickly looking around to make sure no one could hear them. The coast was clear. “He’ll radio someone to replace him but won’t be able to hang around long enough to do a proper switch. I test ran this last week. When he leaves the room, I’ll strike hard and fast. Voeus won’t know what hit him.”

Kerry smiled. “Venator.”

“What?” Kysar replied, his face screwing up with confusion.

“Venator. It was a position in the Roman army, an ancient human civilisation that conquered a decent chunk of the known world. These guys were expert hunters and trackers, had a natural gift for it as well as a lifetime of training. A very honourable job. It’s what you are, in fact, you’d be interested to know that it’s born of the latin word-”

“Kerry,” Kysar grabbed the edge of the human's book, making sure his pronged fingers were in view of the human’s peripherals. “Don’t do the encyclopaedia thing, we don’t have time.”

Though normally impressed, on the inside at least, the Turian was trying to be somewhat subtle and didn’t need Kerry getting locked on, spouting things he’d seen with his perfect photographic memory. Kysar had chosen the library especially, so as not to over stimulate his neuro-divergent friend with the overwhelming noise of the prison but he also did not want the man to draw any attention.

“Right, sorry Kysar.” Kerry turned another page with a sheepish look on his face. “I do have one question though, why do this? Why risk starting something with Augutius? I know he controls the next few blocks over but the guy is well connected. He also has a small army at his beckon, even you can’t kill them all. Something like that would take like a decade.”

“I reckon I could do it in five.” Kysar chuckled, smiling. “But er, um no, it’s not because of that. It’s because…” The Turian looked up from the book at Kerry. Life in Purgatory had been hell but both had landed on the inside at about the same time, sharing the cells next to each other. They’d decided to watch each other's back and as such had become almost friends. Well, as close to it as you could become in a place like that anyway. Kysar couldn’t be around Kerry 24/7 though and lately Voeus had taken issue with the human. Their last interaction in the shower room had left Kerry in a semi-serious condition in the med-bay.

The Turian felt his knuckles tighten as his mouth remained open, barely able to croak. The human looked up, catching Kysar’s straining hands. “Oh don’t tell me, it’s because he called you Bareface?”

There was a violent snap inside the Turian’s chest as his anger bubbled up. “Don’t.” He warned.

“C’mon Kysar, you’ve really got to do something about that temper. You’re a smart guy but that anger just steamrolls over everything. You can’t go starting a war all becau-”

The Turian stood, resisting the urge to pound his fist into the table, or the human’s face. “Kerry, shut the fuck up.” He hissed through gritted teeth. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The man watched as Kysar left the room, shaking his head. “And they tell me I’ve got issues processing emotion.”

---

Two Weeks Later…

The heavily mechanised door whirred, springing to life as a series of encryptions connected to its locking mechanics were solved and opened. The door smoothly and slowly opened to a cramped, dingy cell with no windows and a single bright light. Slumped in a corner with an empty look in his eyes sat Kysar. The plan had gone off without a hitch, Voeus was dead and the Turian had been thrown into solitary confinement. Unlocking the shackles from around his feet, the guards grabbed Kysar from under his arms and began dragging him back to his cell.

As with most fresh out of isolation, it would take tens of metres before the Turian could walk on his own two feet. He had been starved, beaten and mentally tortured. The light in his cell never shut off and the room was too small to lie down completely flat in. With no furniture or any level of stimulation, two weeks felt like two years.

Almost back at his cell, Kysar found his feet and tried shrugging off the guards grip to walk on his own. The Turian was too weak though and the two men threw him down, back into his cell. Coughing, Kysar sat up as the doors closed and put his back against the bars, calling out for Kerry.

“Hey! Ker-” The Turian was interrupted by a round of coughing, quickly remembering he hadn’t spoken to another soul in two weeks. Slowly making his way over to the sink, he cupped some water in his hand and began to gently drink. After finishing, Kysar approached the bars again, standing and leaning on them. “Kerry? Spirits; you there? Have you had too good a week without me?”

“Shut the fuck up!” A fearsome growl came deep from within the cell next door. Way too deep for Kerry or any other human for that matter. What? A Batarian?

“Where’s the human? Did they transfer him after the incident two weeks ago?”

The Batarian chuckled, a long and slimy whine from the back of his throat. “Your human friend is dead. Word is that Augutius saw to it personally. I heard they did him nice and slow, slit his cheeks open, pulled out an eye, took fingernails and teeth.” The creature stopped, his laugh interrupting him. “Ohhh that boy suffered. Augutius wanted to send a message…”

Suddenly the bars began to move, disappearing into the walls as both cells opened. Kysar backed away, moving further into his cell, his face expressionless. Deep within his mind the words of the Batarian replayed over and over. His friend was dead. His friend had been brutally tortured to death. His friend was dead and it was his fault.

A wound began to open up deep inside. As if someone had pulled the plug from a drain and now everything that had made the Turian who he was, was now circling it. One by one pieces of him fell away as an icy grip breezed over him like a dry ice mist.

Standing in the doorway, the Batarian snarled, closing in on Kysar with a makeshift shiv in his hand. Flourishing back and forth, he flipped the knife in a threatening motion. And yet, the Turian stood still, his face giving away no expression, just frozen like a statue. The stranger closed the gap between them and with a vicious thrust, the knife slipped into Kysar like butter, stabbing him in the side of the abdomen.

The Turian made no noise, only looking down to see the shiv stuck inside of him before meeting the eyes of the Batarian. The stranger smiled, his needlepoint teeth salivating. Kysar felt… nothing. No hate, no anger, there was nothing left, except death. In a flash, the Turian’s hand shot from his side, grabbing the intruder’s hand and the handle of the shiv in one swift movement. With an iron-like grip, he held both in place as he snatched the creature by the scruff of his top. Pulling the Batarian in, Kysar met his nose with his own forehead, causing a sickening crunch.

Falling to the floor, the intruder wailed out in pain. Kysar, without a word or an expression, removed the knife from his side and in one fell swoop, slashed the bastard's throat. Removing his bedsheet, he cut a small bandage for himself and twisted the rest into a kind of rope. Tying it around the Batarians ankle, the Turian went out to the balcony and tied the other end to the railing. His row of cells overlooked their wings’ yard, everybody in the whole block could see what Kysar was doing. Flinging the body over the edge, prisoners began to whoop as Batarian hung there, being bled dry.

With a message of his own, Kysar had begun a crusade of vengeance.

---

Five years later…

Warden Kuril sat high above his subordinates in the prison's control room. His chair resembled more of a throne with plush, comfortable leather, adorned with silk capes that draped from its armrests and back. The space itself was laid out in a stair-like formation, with each level down deemed less and less important. No one sat at the top level with the Warden. To even approach the Turian meant you were met with daggering eyes and a great big sneer.

Hanlen Kibbolt, the Warden’s Second in command, could never bring herself to look up as she climbed to his side. A nervous mess of a woman, she had permanent beads of sweat on her forehead. Kuril enjoyed watching her squirm and grovel at his side. “Er.. Sir, we have an issue with one of the inmates.”

The Warden snorted a laugh. “All of these beasts have issues Hanlen, it’s why they’re here.”

The woman shifted, what had begun as beads of sweat had now turned into a river. “Yes, of course Sir, sorry, Sir. It’s just that, well,” she paused, placing a datapad on the armrest of the Warden. Hanlen was never allowed to hand him something directly. “This one is causing us extra issues.”

Lazily, Kuril picked up the pad, flicking through the personnel file of inmate 14677. “Hanlen, I’m running an entire prison of these primitive animals. Why are you talking to me about one single inmate?” The Warden sighed, tossing the datapad on the ground for his Second to retrieve.

“Well, Sir,” she said, as she bent down. “His name is Kysar Proctus and he’s taken out several high profile inmates. Totally wiped out the block king, Augutius and his gang. It’s cost us quite a large chunk of investment.”

The Warden gripped the arms of his chair tightly, grumbling as he swung around to face his Second. “So?! Just bill the Hierarchy to make up the difference? Do you really need me to tell you how to do your job?”

The Second gulped, using her sleeve to wipe away the now ocean of sweat on her forehead. “Um, well, Sir, that’s the issue. The Hierarchy won’t pay up anymore for the inmate and he’s not exactly a threat to civilians like some of our other inmates are, so we’re unable to cajole them.”

The Warden roared, standing to his feet and grabbing the rail in front of him. “These disgusting creatures, can’t they see what I’m trying to do here? What I’m trying to build? They’re lucky they’re little cash cows or so help me I’d just space all of them.”

Kuril’s eyebrows raised as the Turian had an ‘aha!’ moment. Turning back to his Second, he hissed. “There’s your answer Hanlen, we simply cut our losses with the inmate. Have them tossed into the void.”

Suddenly an alert sounded off in the room as a yellow warning light flashed.

“Cerberus ship on approach, Sir.” One of the subordinates stationed near the bottom called out.

The Warden stopped, sitting back down in his chair. “Belay that request Hanlen, we can see to it after. I need to focus all our resources on this next guest. This Cerberus operative is worth more than every inmate in here combined, we need to be ready to take him by surprise.” The Second nodded, opening her omni-tool and sending out a command for the crew to be on standby.

Below the Warden, a traffic control officer radioed in. “Normandy SR-2, you’re all clear to dock.”

Auz's Lot

Silver

Silver

NAME: Silver or Silvershot

SPECIES: Voidhanger

AGE: 23 in appearance, 85 in real time

FACTION ALIGNMENT:

Before being incorporated by the GES he worked for an independent owner of a Mega-Corporation. He has no ties to any governments and is disinterested in each faction's games.

HEIGHT/WEIGHT: 6’2, 120kg’s (accounting for cybernetic parts)

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION:



BACKGROUND PRIOR TO BEING SELECTED FOR THE MISSION:

Silver was born in the Void, though where, when or to what family within the mysterious race he does not know.

During a run through the edges of Pact space, his ship ran too close to a patrol for their liking. In the ensuing engagement Silver’s ship was destroyed, along with a decent portion of his natural born body. Whether it was through some series of luck, ether or natural ability, Silver clung to life and was picked up by a large time scavenging corporation.

Recognising the value in even a partially intact Voidhanger, they stabilised Silver and kept him alive long enough to put him on the black market. There he was bought by parties unknown with the intention to sell him as an exotic trophy in order to seal an upcoming corporate merger. The majority shareholder of the mega-corporation was known to be an eccentric trillionaire, Nolan Grimes.

Though instead of adding Silver to his xenogenic collection, Nolon saw a different kind of purpose. He had heard the rumors of the Voidhangers and was well aware of their strange connection to the Ether (a subject that fascinated him more so). As a result, Silver was imbued with cybernetics, redesigning his internal structure, parts of his arms, part of his skull and completely rebuilding the lower half of his body.

Why Silver was able to retain his own mind and not be constrained in any manner is a question that the Voidhanger still asks himself even today. Regardless he was brought back better and stronger than ever. He spent the next several years training and actively engaging in corporate espionage and assassinations. Always corporate and never political, Silver (Nicknamed Silvershot), stayed out of the limelight creating an infamous name for himself.

Though he has never met any Voidhangers, he has grown not to care for the galaxy's politics or wars, he simply exists for the function he was brought back to do. For the longest time Silver believed himself to be without attachment and even without feeling, allowing himself to get lost in the cold calculation and logic needed to be an assassin.

This was until his contract was sold. It was an odd mission, his employer tasked him with stealing documents from the GES. What the documents contained Silver didn’t ask, he never did, but he infiltrated the black site with success. Not saying it was easy but he pulled it off without the operation going south, retrieving the documents and relaying them back to Nolan.

It was only when Nolan’s deal with unknown parties went south that the GES came knocking. Though instead of vengeful reprimand, they brought a deal, access to information about certain Archaeotech projects in exchange for Silver’s contract. Nolan didn’t even blink before signing him over. And there began a new life for the assassin, though how long it would last is anyone's best guess.

REASON FOR MISSION RECRUITMENT:

Even before his heist at the Gnosis black site, Silver’s infamous reputation was well known within the corporate and even political world. Rumours swelled throughout the communities with some stating the man glides through the thickest of walls and others believing he can morph into existence through any shadow cast.

In reality the Voidhanger has honed his ability to slip into the Ether and is now attempting to learn how to blink,. His preferred method of assassination is ship to ship, piloting a small stealth craft and pulling off otherwise impossible maneuvers to be able to reach his targets in the black of space using his natural space immunities.

Though considering how this mission is shaping up, maybe the GES were still sore about the heist and that’s why he’s here. Regardless, nothing matters, not to Silver, the goals haven’t changed, only the path to get there.

WEAKNESSES:

Unknowingly to Silver, his biggest weakness is actually psychological. Not knowing his kind, years upon years of shutting down his emotions and a final betrayal of the only father figure he ever knew has left him rattled. Everything is starting to bubble to the surface leading to a potential explosion or collapse.

This, in turn, is affecting his ethereal abilities. The rush of emotion causes him to lose focus and make mistakes, either leading him to spend too long in the sub-dimension or causing real world consequences.

Another weakness is working within a team. Silver has never had to co-exist or work alongside anyone, he has no experience in this area and is not overly fond of the idea. The work he produces is like an operation or a delicate artform, others detract from this.

Combat wise, Silver is not built for frontal assaults or dug in grunt warfare. His armour is light and built with stealth in mind. He can slip in and through enemy lines but leading a charge across no man’s land is basically suicide.

Finally his immune system on planets is still subpar, though his cybernetic enhancements overcome the most severe repercussions, his natural born immunity deficiencies (planet side) still come into play now and then. If unfocused and untreated, they can become a real problem.

SKILLS AND TRAINING:
Silver has excellent knowledge in the following areas:

Long range sniper
Hand to hand combat
Swordsmanship/daggers
Throwing knives (and variations of)
Deception skills/lying
Natural born ethereal abilities

He also has a decent knowledge in the following:

Explosives
Tracking
Languages of the UCL
Healing/repairing himself (and himself only)
Cybernetics/robotics
Programming
Piloting small ships

LOADOUT:



Camouflage ability “invisibility cloak” more like translucent, so still partially visible
Suit is solar powered
AI scout drone (in built into the suit, can help with repairs to suit/cybernetics)
Silenced High Impact Sniper
Silenced pistol
Small Ammo pack with 3 mags for the rifle and 4 mags for the pistol

AUGMENTATIONS:

Shoulder mounted darts (stun and poison)
Cybernetic filter system
“Hidden blade” wrists that can be removed and thrown, suit can manufacture more from scrap metal
Right hand has an EMP charge, not powerful enough to take down full power armour but can fry vital circuits if placed in the correct spot, or override door panels etc.
Knock out gas left hand
HUD interface
Powerful legs
Thrusters for jumps or movement in space, cannot fly

ETHEREOLOGY:

Silver, although he had no training from other Voidhangers, has honed his natural abilities over a much longer time period. He is able to heal his flesh and fade out of existence in the physical plane. He can reach the full minute before needing to return.

He’s also pushing himself to learn how to blink. He has learned to do it over less than a meter but struggles to move further.

PERKS:

Silver has the Unearthly Resilience and Traveller of Outer Realms abilities. He has also kept a hold of his defence shield, not needing to improve it in any way.