BangoSkank

One Big Jace's Family

Name: My Birth Name is Julian Jace But You May Address Me as J (His name is Julian)
Gender: I have ascended beyond your concept of Gender (He's a dude)
Character Brief: Jace's Step Brother, Not Clear How that Works, Otaku gozi mashda sayonara uwu seppuku ichiban, Well Educated In What Is Actually Happening In The World Right Now You Fucking Lemming, You Wouldn't Understand, Divining the Mysteries of the Deep By Careful Meditation on the works of the greats such as Ohba-san, Takahashi-san, Koyama-san, Wachowski-san, and Stan Lee-San

One Big Jace's Family

Name: My Birth Name is Julian Jace But You May Address Me as J (His name is Julian)
Gender: I have ascended beyond your concept of Gender (He's a dude)
Character Brief: Jace's Step Brother, Not Clear How that Works, Otaku gozi mashda sayonara uwu seppuku ichiban, Well Educated In What Is Actually Happening In The World Right Now You Fucking Lemming, You Wouldn't Understand, Divining the Mysteries of the Deep By Careful Meditation on the works of the greats such as Ohba-san, Takahashi-san, Koyama-san, Wachowski-san, and Stan Lee-San

One Big Jace's Family

I call Conservative Asshole StepBro

Current Mood in One Gif

WH40k: New Frontiers and Promised Lands - A Rogue Trader Adventure

Roald had never really been one for high society, but this was an opportunity he was loathe to muss up with his usual weaknesses. He had set about cleaning and pressing his best clothes and preparing his papers and the card the night before. All plans had been prepared. He would wake up well early in the morning, arrange himself just so, take command of his unruly hair, and show up to the Windsor Suite neigh unrecognizable as the miserable cur he was. It was a good plan.

It hadn't quite come out that way, he mused, as he hurried naked about his small room in a rush to get himself presentable. He'd gambled that a little drink would help him get to sleep early, but as it so often did a little drink opened his eyes to opportunities for debauchery. Plans were changed, promises made, asses pinched, and now with no time to fix himself up and arrange himself just so he did the next best thing; he jumped up onto the sink, stuck his head under the faucet, and drenched his head. Snagging a dirty shirt from the floor he pressed it against his head to dry and flatten his thick uncooperative Ratling hair then got that same shirt halfway buttoned up before realizing it was the wrong one.

A few minutes later he slipped out the window and hurried out onto the rooftops, no time to take the streets. He would be late, there was no helping it, but taking to the roofs might make him fashionably late rather than obnoxiously late. Fashionably late was still a thing a Rogue Trader would appreciate wasn't it? Sure it was. It would have to be. Taking the rooftop route allowed him to cut a straighter path and saved him vital minutes. As he neared the Windsor Suite he saw below him a meticulously dressed man in parade uniform speaking with some Arbites, he would serve as a useful distraction for Roald. While the metal armed man spoke with them Roald scampered across the rooftops in a low, even for him, stance to get nearer the doors to the Windsor and out of sight.

After he heard the man in the Imperial Guard uniform enter he checked once more to make sure the Arbites were looking the other way and climbed down. The heavy doors moved slowly as Roald pushed steadily against them, and as he entered the antechamber gave himself one finally round of adjusting. Dusting off his shirt, pulling the sleeves and legs down, adjusting his cloak so that it falls just so, and flexing his feet uncomfortable as they were in the dress boots. Finally Roald hurried in behind the man, Sargeant Gustave Boucher, and made his own much less professional introduction.

"Roald Cliffbloom, Ratling, Trailblazer, Mechanic."

His eyes light up as he notes the food, the booze, and that other's have already began drinking. Rubbing his hands together eagerly he asks a vital question.

"What are we drinking?"

WH40k: New Frontiers and Promised Lands - A Rogue Trader Adventure

Roald Cliffbloom

Name: Roald Cliffbloom

Race/Species: Ratling

Gender: Male

Age: 43

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sanguinis Umbra

_{Edrick Manard}

_{C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y}

Edrick's personality matches his appearance, which matches his reputation prior to joining the Phoenix Order. A large, ugly, often meanspirited man, he has tempered these character defects somewhat as the hard process of his training proceeded. At 31 he is getting a rather late start. He may blame it on his Proletarian upbringing but it is really his own doing, and having grown up and lived among the people for 31 years and having often run in to trouble with the Crimson Eye no one is falling for that.

_{A P P E A R A N C E}

Edrick is 6'1" with a muscular body built through years of helping his Blacksmith father in the only way he ever truly learned to; by doing the most basic backbreaking aspects of the work over and over again and with great enthusiasm. His skin has darkened from long hours spent in the family shop and is marked here and there with small scars from his troublesome teenage years and his troublesome 20s. His hair is cut short at the sides and longer on the top, with a rather ragged beard on his chin. His most distinguishing feature is his nose, which healed poorly several times after being broken by one guard or another several times and generally for good cause.

_{P S Y C H O L O G Y}

Edrick's personality has changed rather considerably during his time in the Phoenix Order. He has not been able to completely shake his character flaws but finding a purpose and being held to a standard has change him. He has always been impatient, hyperactive, and prone to making rash decisions without considering the potential consequences of his actions. These flaws led him through a rather failed life prior to the Phoenix Order, but the training and punishment he received there tempered them.

_{E Q U I P M E N T}

• Heavy Plate
• Shield
• One Handed Mace
• Simple Hide Shoulder Bag on his Back holding a bed roll, a large skin of water, a simple knife with a holster, and about as much dried meat as he could afford.

_{H I S T O R Y}

Although his Father was a talented craftsman and a patient teacher Edrick had never really taken to the family business. For long years his Father had made the finest of weapons and equipment for the Crimson Eye and Phoenix Order and for long years he had showed Edrick each step in detail, but it never seemed to stick for him. On the rare occasion Edrick managed to pay attention to the long rather meticulous process he would come to the conclusion that he most certainly gives not a fuck about it. Edrick never enjoyed the detail work that separated a serviceable piece of equipment from an expertly crafted work of art. Edrick took more to the simple brute force aspects of it. Pounding metal ingots flat, heating them, folding again, pounding again, and then when the work was done he would take his pay and fine something or someone new to pound in one fashion or another.

From his mid-teens through his twenties Edrick lived in this way earning himself quite a reputation for better or worse, and mostly for the worse. Between drinking, fighting, and womanizing he found himself in trouble with the Crimson Eye on a fairly regular basis. Due to his contribution to his Father's business and his Father's businesses contribution to Bastion they generally took it easy on him. After a spirited beating he would generally be left with little worse than a broken nose. In time many of the Crimson Eye came to know him, some thinking of him disdainfully as an untouchable waste, others hoping he might turn his life around if only to carry on his Father's legacy and stop disgracing his name.

Not paying much attention to his Father's yammering on as he got deeper into the process of repairing a Ranger's sword one day a 30 year old Edrick was thinking only of a saucy red haired woman he had seen walking the streets. She seemed to have a certain exotic look about her and Edrick intended to get a closer look at it. Much closer. Wondering to himself what he might say to her the next time he saw her he was caught by surprise, turning quickly in reaction to a startled scream from Father. Thick smoke with a sheen to it had leapt up from the blade. Across the shop their eyes met in horror, Edrick paused only a moment before beginning to walk toward his Father but it was long enough.

Crimson Eye in the market place had heard the shout and turned to see, and the Crimson Eye knew at once exactly what they had seen and exactly what it meant for the Blacksmith and his shop. It had been his Father's poor luck that a bit of infected blood or flesh had been caught up in the metal. Perhaps in the pitting about the pommel, perhaps in the filigree along the blade, whatever was caught and where ever it was caught as the blade heated up the flesh had flashed up and set it's vapors into the air. Anyone in Bastion could tell you what must come next, it is inevitable. As the Crimson Eye advanced toward the shop Edrick eyed his Father's hammer, but before he could move toward it he met the gaze of one of the Crimson Eyes. He knew as plain as day, if he reached for the weapon they would surely be upon him. From there it all happened with an impossible speed. A brief apologetic look from his Father as he wiped the infected blood and smoke from his face, some brief indeterminate words from Crimson Eyes as they gathered about his Father, his Father dropping to his knees head held high, and then only blood and fire.

Before the embers of his Father and his Shop had died down Edrick found himself in a cell awaiting inspection. While he awaited judgement some of the Crimson Eye came to speak to him, from a safe distance. They offered him a new Shop and steady work, if he could carry on his Father's work. He could not. Not even close. The days after they left and before he was cleared were long, but then he was set to be released. Released into a world he had no real place in, his only marketable skill his ability to perform the simplest most monotonous and back breaking of labor. When his release came some of the Crimson Eye who had slain his Father and burned his home came to meet him and shine some light on his position. They told him what he already knew, that he had no future, and then they offered him one.

As a final gift to his Father they would offer Edrick one last shot at a life worth living or a death worth dying. He would get no favors if he chose to try out for the Phoenix Order, but they would see to it that he got a foot in the door. As it turned out that foot in the door was all Edrick needed. His mistakes were corrected violently, they spoke to him in a language he understood. His successes were met with more and harder work to do. Years of hard work had hardened him enough that he had made it this far through his Aegis training. He took some hard hits as the days wore on, but he dealt some pretty hard hits out himself. It wasn't pretty, but neither was he.

Sanguinis Umbra

_{Edrick Manard}

_{C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y}

Edrick's personality matches his appearance, which matches his reputation prior to joining the Phoenix Order. A large, ugly, often meanspirited man, he has tempered these character defects somewhat as the hard process of his training proceeded. At 31 he is getting a rather late start. He may blame it on his Proletarian upbringing but it is really his own doing, and having grown up and lived among the people for 31 years and having often run in to trouble with the Crimson Eye no one is falling for that.

_{A P P E A R A N C E}

Edrick is 6'1" with a muscular body built through years of helping his Blacksmith father in the only way he ever truly learned to; by doing the most basic backbreaking aspects of the work over and over again and with great enthusiasm. His skin has darkened from long hours spent in the family shop and is marked here and there with small scars from his troublesome teenage years and his troublesome 20s. His hair is cut short at the sides and longer on the top, with a rather ragged beard on his chin. His most distinguishing feature is his nose, which healed poorly several times after being broken by one guard or another several times and generally for good cause.

_{P S Y C H O L O G Y}

Edrick's personality has changed rather considerably during his time in the Phoenix Order. He has not been able to completely shake his character flaws but finding a purpose and being held to a standard has change him. He has always been impatient, hyperactive, and prone to making rash decisions without considering the potential consequences of his actions. These flaws led him through a rather failed life prior to the Phoenix Order, but the training and punishment he received there tempered them.

_{E Q U I P M E N T}

• Heavy Plate
• Shield
• One Handed Mace
• Simple Hide Shoulder Bag on his Back holding a bed roll, a large skin of water, a simple knife with a holster, and about as much dried meat as he could afford.

_{H I S T O R Y}

Although his Father was a talented craftsman and a patient teacher Edrick had never really taken to the family business. For long years his Father had made the finest of weapons and equipment for the Crimson Eye and Phoenix Order and for long years he had showed Edrick each step in detail, but it never seemed to stick for him. On the rare occasion Edrick managed to pay attention to the long rather meticulous process he would come to the conclusion that he most certainly gives not a fuck about it. Edrick never enjoyed the detail work that separated a serviceable piece of equipment from an expertly crafted work of art. Edrick took more to the simple brute force aspects of it. Pounding metal ingots flat, heating them, folding again, pounding again, and then when the work was done he would take his pay and fine something or someone new to pound in one fashion or another.

From his mid-teens through his twenties Edrick lived in this way earning himself quite a reputation for better or worse, and mostly for the worse. Between drinking, fighting, and womanizing he found himself in trouble with the Crimson Eye on a fairly regular basis. Due to his contribution to his Father's business and his Father's businesses contribution to Bastion they generally took it easy on him. After a spirited beating he would generally be left with little worse than a broken nose. In time many of the Crimson Eye came to know him, some thinking of him disdainfully as an untouchable waste, others hoping he might turn his life around if only to carry on his Father's legacy and stop disgracing his name.

Not paying much attention to his Father's yammering on as he got deeper into the process of repairing a Ranger's sword one day a 30 year old Edrick was thinking only of a saucy red haired woman he had seen walking the streets. She seemed to have a certain exotic look about her and Edrick intended to get a closer look at it. Much closer. Wondering to himself what he might say to her the next time he saw her he was caught by surprise, turning quickly in reaction to a startled scream from Father. Thick smoke with a sheen to it had leapt up from the blade. Across the shop their eyes met in horror, Edrick paused only a moment before beginning to walk toward his Father but it was long enough.

Crimson Eye in the market place had heard the shout and turned to see, and the Crimson Eye knew at once exactly what they had seen and exactly what it meant for the Blacksmith and his shop. It had been his Father's poor luck that a bit of infected blood or flesh had been caught up in the metal. Perhaps in the pitting about the pommel, perhaps in the filigree along the blade, whatever was caught and where ever it was caught as the blade heated up the flesh had flashed up and set it's vapors into the air. Anyone in Bastion could tell you what must come next, it is inevitable. As the Crimson Eye advanced toward the shop Edrick eyed his Father's hammer, but before he could move toward it he met the gaze of one of the Crimson Eyes. He knew as plain as day, if he reached for the weapon they would surely be upon him. From there it all happened with an impossible speed. A brief apologetic look from his Father as he wiped the infected blood and smoke from his face, some brief indeterminate words from Crimson Eyes as they gathered about his Father, his Father dropping to his knees head held high, and then only blood and fire.

Before the embers of his Father and his Shop had died down Edrick found himself in a cell awaiting inspection. While he awaited judgement some of the Crimson Eye came to speak to him, from a safe distance. They offered him a new Shop and steady work, if he could carry on his Father's work. He could not. Not even close. The days after they left and before he was cleared were long, but then he was set to be released. Released into a world he had no real place in, his only marketable skill his ability to perform the simplest most monotonous and back breaking of labor. When his release came some of the Crimson Eye who had slain his Father and burned his home came to meet him and shine some light on his position. They told him what he already knew, that he had no future, and then they offered him one.

As a final gift to his Father they would offer Edrick one last shot at a life worth living or a death worth dying. He would get no favors if he chose to try out for the Phoenix Order, but they would see to it that he got a foot in the door. As it turned out that foot in the door was all Edrick needed. His mistakes were corrected violently, they spoke to him in a language he understood. His successes were met with more and harder work to do. Years of hard work had hardened him enough that he had made it this far through his Aegis training. He took some hard hits as the days wore on, but he dealt some pretty hard hits out himself. It wasn't pretty, but neither was he.

Sanguinis Umbra

Hey folks. Haven't finished my Character Sheet and I'm literally about to go to sleep, but I sent TsarDev a roughly half finished one for Edrick Manard. A big mean ugly bashy boy. I should have the finished form done tomorrow as all I have left is History and I already know what it is I just have to type it out in a halfway competent way.

WH40k: New Frontiers and Promised Lands - A Rogue Trader Adventure

Username: BangoSkank

Character Name: Roald Cliffbloom

My Hider

Race/Species: Ratling

Gender: Male

Age: 43

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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