Eisenhorn

Phantom Crew

Jericho Cross

Jericho stumbled out of the pod, grunting as he landed on his feet, the scentless smell of recycled air assaulting his nose while he quickly took gauge of his surroundings, and himself. Other pods, including other people recovering from their stasis, five including his own, were in the room. The table had clothes, his own being with reach while the others were not, and the only light was emergency powered, far as he could tell. He himself was wearing a damn ugly jumpsuit, and his head hurt something fierce. Right, his memory was wiped, he could tell that much from the complete lack of recollection of anything earlier than waking up in the pod. No, he could remember a thing or two. He was Jericho Cross, bounty hunter, and his actual gear and weapon wasn't on the table. Smart, don't give the disorentatited and possibly pissed mind wiped passengers arms so quickly. Was it smart? Something told him it was smart, internally, so he listened to that feeling while he took gauge of his fellow passangers. Not an impressive looking bunch, for the most part, and he grabbed his clothes, a tank top replacing his breastplate and his coat thankfully there, while doing so.

The slacks were a bit more snug than he felt was comfortable, but he wasn't going to waste time ditching the jumpsuit until he had time in privacy. He would also have to examine himself for scars, injuries, anything that might indicate hints to his past. Next came the tank top, which he remembered was worn under his breastplate for his own good. Chaffing, maybe? Regardless, it mostly hid the ugly as sin jumpsuit now, and tugging on his coat and boots pretty much completely made it vanish. No armor, he remembered there was supposed to be armor, but he reckoned that would come later once they figured out what the hell was going on. Speaking of they, his thoughts turned to the assembled group. Token women of the group, slim, short, and pale. Probably a pilot or spacer of some sort, looked like she didn't get much sun either way. Looked young, perhaps mid to late twenties? Not terribly imposing, either, so his thoughts quickly moved on. Next two were fairly average looking guys, some hard jawed kid, probably a glass jaw (figuratively speaking), and the other had some scruffy beard. He pegged those two around late thirties, and middish twenties, respectively. There was the old guy then, white haired, and probably one of the more dangerous men in this room. Sixties to seventies would be his guess there, and he jammed his hands in his pockets, finished analyzing each person for now, since no one had acted.

The woman started babbling first, not very impressively either, but Jericho didn't concern himself much with it. Rain Causwell, a name to the pale face. She seemed to be waiting for a response of sorts, and the bounty hunter shrugged and spoke, his voice gruff, both from not having spoken in who knows how long, and seemed to be a natural state of tone. "Jericho Cross, far as I remember it. Figure there is work to be done, so let's get this over with." Jericho, unlike miss Causwell, did not bother waiting much at all after the doors opened and the mention of heading to the bridge for answers was made. Good, he needed those right now. He also needed his gear, which he remembered having at some point, and really wanted right now. Answers first, then gear, then deal with whatever reason they were out...wherever they were right now. He would take the lead, by virtue of not waiting, following the path towards what he figured would likely be the bridge. And then, whoever this phantom speaker was, better have some answers. Not remembering shit out of a stasis pod didn't do much good for his temper.

Phantom Crew

Name: Jericho Cross

Gender: Male

Age: 37
Char. Type/Role: Bounty Hunter

Appearance:


Skills/Abilities: Rather unsurprisingly, Jericho is a dead accurate shot with his highly tooled pistol, something that probably saved the man's life more times than he could have counted. Most weapons, in general, have crossed into his use at one point or another, and he has a rather impressive grasp on combat and tactics, beyond being able to pick up most weapons and make use of them rather readily. Outside of a fight, Jericho is a natural tracker of both sentient and nonsentient species, especially those that he has crossed paths with before. He is also an armorer, capable of maintaining most weapons and armors, since there isn't much time for him to rely on others to patch his gear. Outside of walking, or running, most complicated vehicles are outside of his range of skills, and pray to whatever god you believe in he isn't the only hands available to patch someone up, since it will likely not end well for them. Unless he is burning a wound shut with a smoking barrel anything more complicated than that is answered by hard boozing and a hardy constitution. Needless to say, most medical professionals hate him.

Personality: Jericho Cross is a wary individual, who trusts slowly and is even quicker to abandon any hard earned trust he might have had in someone or something, only willing to usually trust what his own two eyes see, and what his gun can do for him. Jericho does not joke and takes a situation deadly serious, and often times either ignores jokes going over his head, or completely fails to register they were jokes to begin with. Jericho keeps a tight lock on his feelings, and as such typically has a real hard time interacting with people outside dragging them to be turned in for his payment. Needless to say, he isn't very popular. As such, he often drinks, heavily, when off duty, to the point that most of his paycheck, that isn't towards maintaining gear, is towards booze, often times drinking his meals rather than eating them. Get him drunk enough and he'll reach some semblance of an approachable human being, right up until he smashes the empty bottle over someone's head. So not really approachable at all, he hid a lot under this exterior but since he can't remember what now, thanks to the memory wipe, he tends to get angry when its brought up, or violent if drunk when its brought up. But he can be relied on in a bad situation to be himself, untrusting and ready to act to see a job done.

Gear:
- Custom Revolver: Jericho's pride and joy is a massive caliber handcannon, which utilizes various ammunition types for varying jobs, all of which can be loaded in the blink of an eye, such is the bounty hunter's experience with the gun. The two most common being an armor piercing, for hard targets, and hollow point for softer, less hardy targets. He also carries a Less than Lethal round that, barring shots to the vital organs or head, usually wont kill. Usually. More exotic ammo exists, but Jericho rarely carries them unless he knows he'll need it. The revolver also has a laser sight and small optic, although the optic sees dubious amount of use since Jericho often fires via the still intact iron sights.

- Body Armor: Jericho maintains several lines of personal defence, the first and most obvious is not being where the rounds are. As such, his equipment is deceptively light weight for its strength, but only really covers the vitals in hardplate. The first physical line is his old duster, fitted with a ballistic weave as well as cushioned in the right spots to alleviate blunt force. His most obvious defense is the thick composite breastplate, which is composed of several materials to interweave into a more effective defense than any of them alone would provide. It is also the heaviest part and is in no way, shape, or form concealable, and is, like any armor, hardly proof against everything. But it covers the most common bases, coated with energy diffusing outer layer and the rest a series of composite layers designed to hold up to varying degrees of small arm calibers.

- Tracking Devices and wrist mounted PDA: Tiny, less than a square inch in size, devices that Jericho can plant or even throw onto escaping targets, which then allows Jericho to track them with his specialized PDA. They have limited range and battery life, and the PDA itself is otherwise average and unassuming beyond the tracking mechanic, unequipped for any sort of hacking or specialized work beyond the program loaded to indicate location of a tracker.

Grim Darkness, Only War, You Know The Drill.

There, knocked out a fast one, the other half action he had left was used Readying his Lascarbine, since attempting to cast Smite was a half action.

Grim Darkness, Only War, You Know The Drill.

Jericho watched the torrent of Ogryn fire proceed to rip apart another pair of Orks down while the Commissar joined in and helped put them down as well. Reaching out to join into the fray, once more, calling upon the warp Powers that so defined his role within the Guard. Yet, as the torrent flew forward, he realized something was wrong. No, this was not going to end well as he grimaced, blasts of static warp energy sparking from his fingers and eyes, shuddering as his mortal frame attempted to contain the eldritch energies running amok within his thin frame. Tasha, Emperor bless her soul, was ready for this. Early in their relationship as comrades he had instructed her on something he was not fond of, known as the Ultimate Sanction. Simply put, violence tended to have the chance to curtail the effects of the Warp backlashing against a psyker. If fast enough, one could prevent them outright or vastly reduce the severity, which Tasha was quick to spring into action, the stock of her rifle slamming into his back, throwing him unceremoniously downwards with a pained thump.

The warp powers diffused from the shock and damage to its container, blowing outwards in the relatively harmless manner of the stone oozing blood wherever it was damaged. Unsettling, to be sure, but knowing what Perils could have awaited him, it was the far lesser of two evils. He kept his head down, taking cover while Tasha remained at his side, despite the danger that entailed, as the party was well aware of, if they hadn't been before, how dangerous Psyker powers could be, both to the enemies, wielders, and even allies if things get bad enough. The shock of the warp recoiling was always unpleasant, thankfully no worse than usual, so caving to the insistent glare, he did not try again, instead readying his Lascarbine, a hold over from his regiment, a compact and reliable affair that was, while less magnificent than his warp born powers, was pretty much certain NOT to explode on him and get him, and the others around him, killed. He was never a very good shot, he never had to be, holding fairly basic riflemanship. At least he knew the shooty end from the stock.

Warhammer 40,000 - Chasing Chaos

@Andromedai

Heresy, delicious, delicious heresy. After all, we can take this into Black Crusade territory yet, just you wait and see.

Warhammer 40,000 - Chasing Chaos

@Monochromatic Rainbow

Its always part of the plan, just whether its part of your part or not that is the question, eh?

Warhammer 40,000 - Chasing Chaos

@Monochromatic Rainbow

Ok Tzeentch, now you're being lazy mate.

Warhammer 40,000 - Chasing Chaos

@Monochromatic Rainbow

Well, good luck figuring out what the book is saying. This IS Tzeentch we're talking about.

Warhammer 40,000 - Chasing Chaos

@Monochromatic Rainbow

For being a filthy heretic, you're not that bad, it seems. Better be careful whats in those books, mind, or might be getting some horror nonsense going on.

Warhammer 40,000 - Chasing Chaos

@Monochromatic Rainbow

Bit rusty on my drugs, normally a follower of Tzeentch, besides, mixing them tends to complicate matters, period.