"Roald," the Ratling introduced himself to the lad, Daniel, and stuck his hand up to shake while looking around.
Happily the lad was still with him, Roald figured they'd both have a greater chance of finding and being accepted by the Rogue Trader group together. Numbers were less suspicious, a big group was easier to trust than a small one but a small group was still drastically less suspicious than a lone recruit.
"Brains're the thing lad," he said formulating a simple but executable plan. Turning back he saw Daniel had a gun and learned he wasn't too afraid to use it. The lad was ready to go, which was a damn good thing to be right about now. It was hard to guess how well Daniel moved but he at least had the will to move.
"Here's what we're gonna do," he leaned in to Daniel and explained his plan. A simple plan really. They'd start from the outside and move in checking out the ships. It would be hard to tell for sure which ship was a Rogue Trader and they would have to be careful not to draw attention from anyone on board the ships, but they could both blend in pretty well. Some of the ships could be counted out pretty quickly, clearly military or clearly enormous shipping vessels. If they moved quickly between the remaining ships they could hopefully find the Traders before they themselves were found.
Roald smiled, the lad was headed the same way as he. Toward adventure, booze, women, hopefully a generous fortune, albeit for a better and more pressing reason. "No soul huh, folk have said the same about me." he replied, though the kid did have that look about him. Didn't seem to be a jest for Daniel as it was for him.
Roald didn't have too much trouble keeping pace with the lad, he was used to moving quick from scouting about, but he did find it difficult to keep up with the full sized youth who set a proper pace while also keeping his drink divided between his glass and his belly. While the lad explained a bit about himself and his situation Roald dealt with the pressing matter of that drink.
Belching after downing it rather quickly he replied, "Unscrupulous, dirty, soulless, in search o' real money an' dishonest work. Pleasure ta make your acquaintance an' you was right on all accounts. I'm lookin' for work, I'm a abhuman, and one a them flyers is surely ours."
The lad is almost too big for it but Roald moves to grab a hold of the lad who was leading and pull him just off toward an alley as they continue on. Daniel could resist easily if he'd a notion to but as Roald continues on, assuming the lad followed mostly of his own volition, he explains between robust burps.
"Skies been busy of late, docks are sure to be full an' flowin' through with folk," he peeks around corners, continuing to speak to the lad who is hopefully with him, "If'n you really ain't got no soul we should stick together. Word gets 'round fast out here. Lot of low folk like me heard about the Traders comin' into town. Folk might be lookin' for ya, shouldn't be lookin' for me but if they see me I might be in a spot. Got duties here I ain't real keen on seeing to, ya hear me lad?"
So often in this world so much of fate rested on the head of a pin, so much was up to chance. If it should lean one way you might find yourself dining among the powerful and fucking among their wives. If it should go the other way you might end up shot, run through, mutilated, chopped up, reconstituted, and serving some prick who steadfastly refuses to simply let you die. A single moment could change your whole life, the lives of your future children, everything. It all rests upon the head a pin.
Such is a slightly cleaned up version of Raold's thoughts as a sweaty out of breath young man walked up to him, causing him to stop short and very nearly indeed spill his beer.
"Oi, you know where the Rogue Trader that's coming could be found?"
"Fuck," Raold, summed up that previous paragraph into one word, "Almost made me spill my beer."
The young man was wearing unappealing but practical clothes, dirty sweaty, tired, and looking for some Rogue Trader's. He was Raold's kind of people.
"Yeah," he replied with a grin and took a long drink of his beer, "Ah know where they'll be. Name's Raold, what you running from kid?"
What rules did your themed anime arena use Tojiko?
You could use that as a starting place, see which rules seems reasonable to folks here, which need to be modified, and which just don’t jive at all. It won’t be an all encompassing scripture, but you could get a rule system in place and figure out a narrative to christen it.
Might take some work to find the right balance so the rules inform without constricting, but you never know until you throw an interest check up and test it out.
Physical Description (as detailed as possible please, pictures not accepted.): Roald is small in stature, not surprising for a Ratling, and hairy, also not surprising. He's tan and oddly fit for a race commonly known for their pot bellies. Wild eyebrows and up turned nose scrunched up with a large forehead. He has thick messy dark brown hair and sideburns as well as a neigh permanent five o' clock shadow. He often appears quite manic.
Attire: Light Brown/Grey Head Wrap Climbing Ropes Wrapped Up Around Shoulder Green Cameleoline Cloak Militarum Auxilia Chest Strap with Two Pockets and Skull Emblem Standard Olive Drab Uniform Shirt and Pants Thick Belt with a Canteen Holder Attached on One Side and an Ammo Box on the other Bandaging Wraps Around Wrists/Hands and Ankles/Feet
Personality: With his fellow Rogue Traders, whether alone with them or peacefully exploring a town with them, he is loud, crude, coarse, obnoxious, drunken, lecherous, gluttonous, and yet somehow still charming. He takes full advantage of his small nonthreatening stature, wide quick smile, and large eyes so that even when he presses things too far and gets a well deserved slap or push the conversations tend to keep on. He is easy to talk to, easy not to take seriously, and somehow despite how offensive he can be he rarely actually offends. He wants the things everyone wants, he's just more open about wanting them and generally wants more of them.
In the field, when out on a mission, he is much more professional and quiet during the scouting and traveling phases. Given an order he will quickly find a way to escape even his fellow Trader's view and then pop up again some time later having ventured ahead far afield. When the rifles start cracking his loud whoops tend to accompany his return fire and often, immediately after one of his traps goes off, his barking laughter can be heard from somewhere or other in the battlefield.
One of his goals is to become influential/powerful/wealthy enough to improve his peoples standing in the Empire. After the many slaughters and near genocide at Ornsworld he wants to secure a future for his people and be remembered for doing so. His other goal is to get laid, get paid, and repeat as much over and over until he drops dead. It is often not at all clear which is the priority for Roald.
He is a friendly drunken lecherous loud mouth, but also a sneaky, half mad, mean, little bugger. He works for a paycheck, the notoriety, and to get his hands on booze, drugs, tech, and women from across the universe.
History: Roald's professional life began in the Militarum Auxilia. With his fellow Abhumans he served in this specialist division of the Astra Militarum as a member of a crew of Ratlings. He didn't manage to fit in quite as well as he had hoped. While his combat capabilities were exemplary his personality didn't do him many favors. Certain things are expected among a company of Ratlings but even then there are limits. Roald's inability to exist within these bounds led to his exile from the Militarum Auxilia.
He had served well as a Trailblazer. His confidence and restlessness made him a perfect fit for the primary responsibilities of the role, and his penchant for explosions and sometimes rather disturbing exuberance when sending rounds into the general cranium region of unsuspecting enemy troops served him well. He'd joined them in enough campaigns and saw them through enough tight spots that when his general debauchery and penchant for "borrowing" stuff from adjacent units and the populace in general got him in trouble he was assigned to stay on at the latest nothing planet and help to settle it.
He figured out fairly quickly that the soil was terrible, the company wasn't much to look at, and there was no one and nothing fun to shoot. The sedate life of a settler would never fit him and so he had joined on with the first Rogue Trader to make a stop on that dirt clod of a planet and so began his life as a Rogue Trader.
Skills: Roald is the consummate Trailblazer, having found a role that fits his natural abilities and inclinations rather well.
In town, or during his Auxilia days around camp, he is quite proficient at procuring near anything he or his unit need or want. He can be very outgoing and friendly. He can also be very obnoxious and coarse. He is fairly good at disarming hostile but not yet violent strangers due to his diminutive size and goofy attitude, hoping to gain useful information about nearby likely hostile areas or the location of fun toys to play with.
Despite his often loud and obnoxious nature among his crewmates when he is on the job he is eerily capable of evading detection and remaining undetected while moving through hostile areas at a relatively high rate of speed. He can swiftly move up the sheerest cliffs and wiggle through the smallest of openings due to his small stature and considerable proportionate strength. Having moved unseen through these areas he is then able to help others navigate their dangers with minimal risk utilizing freshly made trails or old trails freshly uncovered.
When things inevitably wind their way toward some folks he is fond of shooting a lot of folks he doesn't particularly care for he utilizes some of the tech has has managed to "acquire" over the years to harass, distract, and slow down the enemy. Stealth cloaks, combat webbing, ropes, hooks, all manner of traps, and his small size and fondness for finding crevices to stick himself into (hee hee) allow him to create opportunities for himself to engage the enemy when they are at their weakest.
When it comes down to the actual shooting he uses those traps, his small size, his speed, and his accuracy with his Long-Las to confound the enemy and attempt to set them up to be ambushed by his fellow Traders or caught in their own crossfire. He has the uncanny and sometimes downright unsettling ability to set traps up in the most devious of places to inflict grievous wounds and sew discord.
Equipment and Weapons: -Vox-Caster -Monocular Telescope -Canteen on Belt -Cameleoline Cloak -Climbing Gear
-Long-Las Rifle -Combat Knife (attached to waist) -Various traps and trap making materials
@Jbcool Definitely have a thing for Halflings. Find it fun to fill a different role. In Fantasy I like them because they’re sort of unexpected heroes if heroes at all. Little dudes in a world full of murder machines. I really like Ratlings too. The idea of them contributing by laying traps, sabotage, scouting, and just climbing into weird overlooks to get an impossible shot. They’re nifty, and how annoying must it be to be one of the enemy all bad ass with a cool moniker preparing for a grand battle, tales of which will be heard for generations to come, only to get shot in the head by a big footed hairy midget.
I’m thinking of doing a degenerate Ratling Trailblazer. Used to work for the Militarum Auxilla but his sticky fingers and general debauchery saw to him being left on a nothing planet to help settle it. The soil there was crap and the company wasn’t much to look at either. He grew bored and joined up with the first Rogue Trader to set down on the dirt clod of a planet.
Seeks two things, though he’s not sure on which is the priority. One of his goals is to become influential/powerful/wealthy enough to improve his peoples standing in the Empire. His other goal is to get laid, get paid, and repeat until he drops dead.
Sneaky mean little bugger. He works for a paycheck, the notoriety, and to get his hands on booze, drugs, tech, and women from across the universe:
I made him for the Arena RPs but I'll happy change things around if needed
Name: Danger, Danger Fontaine Epithet: Masked and Mustachioed Macho...Guy Age: 32 Height: 6'4" pounds of towering manliness Weight: 246 pounds of raw hard muscle slathered in baby oil Race: Human Dominant Hand: Right
Weapons- All of Danger's weapons are fashioned from cheap steel and are designed to break easily. They are carted down to the ring in a shopping car.
-A Wooden Folding Table designed for little more than being broken in dramatic fashion.
-A Chinese folding metal chair initially designed for sitting but quite useful for bashing about the head.
-A wooden kendo stick
-A Stop Sign seemingly picked up off the street
-A single live and very confused Lobster
-A Black Duct-Taped Up Baseball Bat
The Man Known As Danger, Danger Fontaine, wears upon his person:
Urban Colored Camo Shorts
Black and White Gold's Gym Muscle Shirt
Black and White Wrestling Mask (trimmed back to allow his mustache freedom from the confines of his mask)
Red Entrance Cape
Danger, Danger Fontaine is a thickly muscled well tanned man and is never seen without an indulgent quantity of baby oil ensuring each and ever muscle fiber glistens under the stadium lights as does his perfectly manicured mustache. His build is best described as mercilessly powerful and massively sexual.
Physical Ability- Danger, Danger Fontaine has inarguably perfected his craft. He is truly the picture of perfection. He is the image of intensity. The epitome of excellence. The physical manifestation of manliness. And also a generous lover, if you know what I mean. His grip is unbreakable, his mind unshakeable; his strikes are impeccable, his aerial game im...un...it's also pretty good.
Powers- Imagined Invulnerability - Danger, Danger Fontaine can ignore injuries that would incapacitate neigh any other man. Due to a combination of repeated traumatic concussions, pain killer use and abuse, and his massively inflated ego he can suffer great harm and continue on despite it. He is either numb to the pain due to a combination of nerve damage and pain killer use or simply able to power through it due to his own overpowering sense of self confidence. In short, while he is not actually in any way shape or form invulnerable to injury or damage he is fully capable of ignoring such damage until it becomes fundamentally physically incapacitating.
Supreme Arrogance - Danger, Danger Fontaine's massively inflated ego and additive brain damage due to regular traumatic head injury allows him to face adversaries that are clearly exponentially more powerful than he and believe he still has a very real chance of victory.
Delusion - Arguably all of Danger, Danger Fontaine's power is a result of this aspect of his mind. Despite what absurd circumstance he may find himself in and what inconceivable threat he may face, he will stalwartly believe that he is the Fan Favorite Face of World Wide Wrestling and that this is his shot at the big time. He can hear the roaring crowd. He can hear the commentators expounding over his miraculous musculature and marvelous mustache.
Unreasoning Rage - Danger, Danger Fontaine's patina of professional wrestling professionalism fades into oblivion if his mask is removed or his mustache is mussed up. Though he generally plays up for the adoring arena carefully watching his each and every match, when an opponent dares to remove his mask he loses his restraint entirely. As a great man once said, he loses his smile. Much of the posing and smiling fades away and he is left a raving animal, throwing out as many big moves as he can as quickly as he can, often to his eventual detriment.
Personality- Danger...Danger Fontaine. A self obsessed obnoxiously narcissistic professional wrestler, his greatest strength is also his greatest weakness. He is loud, because it is important that the millions and millions of fans, all slavering at the bit for just a little more Danger, hear each and every syllable of each and every word. He is self aggrandizing because who knows Danger better than Danger himself? He is light hearted and often cracks terrible terrible jokes, because he is THE MAN. He is the top, the pinnacle, the apex, the peak, the asymptote, the azimuth, the hyperbole, he is the the man and the only way to be THE MAN is to beat THE MAN and the only man who can beat THE MAN is THE MAN, which is him, he is therefore unbeatable. Ask anyone, they'll tell you. In the unlikely event he is one day beaten he is magnanimous in defeat because he knows, HE KNOWS, that belt is meant for one man and one man alone. THE MAN, which is him, Danger, Danger Fontaine, aka THE MAN. The Macho...Guy.
Background- Danger, Danger Fontaine dreamed through all of his childhood of becoming a professional wrestler and eventually managed to make his dream come true. Growing up in South Dakota he knew from a young age that he was destined for greatness and the greatest greatness he could envision was becoming a massive slab of tanned and oiled muscle body slamming other, lesser, tanned and oiled massive muscle slabs for the entertainment and adoration of the million and millions watching at home. Happily fueled on by the antics of his wrestling idols, action movies, and neigh every book and training program advertised in the back of comic books, he grew muscleyier and muscleyier as his dream became an inevitable future.
He worked his way up through the indies gaining a reputation as an enormous ass, but an ass who put asses in seats. Which is the best kind of ass. Taking inspiration from his idols from America and the world abroad he fashioned for himself a number of easily recognized moves and a very recognizable physique. Muscles, Muscles, Mask and Mustache. In time he made his way to the premier federation of the United States, World Wide Wrestling, and found great success. As well as he did he faced many injuries and eventually ended up as too big of a liability to the company to remain. This was likely a wise move as his massive ego led to him suffering many injuries that would have sidelined him if he weren't just such an egomaniac. Finally one day his ceaseless and impossibly hyperbolic bragging brought him to the attention of some very powerful beings.