Eisenhorn

Fallout: Montana (Accepting new characters)

Alexander Whitmoore

"Another day, another job. Let's see if anything interesting crops up."

Alexander Whitmoore was currently going through his belongings, preparing for another day earning his keep in Whitlash, though day was metaphorical in this case. His keep lately had been taking the late night or early morning guard shifts, providing an extra pair of eyes and hands to help relieve the stress that kind of tasking did. He never had settled into a single role, Whitlash didn't exactly bustle with pre-war tech needing a unique understanding and experience, though it did come up every now and again whenever some trader rolled in with something odd. Still, nothing that required a level of scientific know how that would leave people questioning just where this gunhand from the North had picked it up. Suited him just fine, frankly, showing his hand too much would get people asking questions, something that, if experience with the last time a town caught wind he was from the Brotherhood, should be avoided if at all possible. Lot of folks here seemed to have their secrets though, and something about the place just wouldn't let him go yet. Didn't stop him from slinging his bugout bag though, that never left his side, even on patrol. Especially on patrol, frankly, never knew when you might need to make yourself scarce.

Of course, the patrol wasn't exactly eventful, it never was these days. It kept folks content though, knowing they had folks walking the perimeter and keeping an eye out for trouble. Whitmoore had the luxury of even seeing the sunrise, something he wouldn't complain about. Everything folks had done, sun kept on rising and setting, regular as you might breath really. Helped put things in perspective, they couldn't screw things up that badly that the sun just stopped poking her head up over the horizon every morning. Someone could draw comfort from that, that things like that kept ticking on like nothing had changed. Still, with the rising sun meant his shift on the patrol was done, and sure enough his relief came strolling on out, and after a few pleasant words exchanged, and a report of nothing amiss, Whitmoore had the rest of his day clear. Well, until he turned in early, but that was a later problem. Strolling back into town, he took time to walk about, chatting with folks who were out doing work or taking care of chores, or like him had some downtime to chatter. It was good to keep up to speed with what was going on, and he'd settled in enough for folks to not mind the Northener chattering about nothing in particular.

Still, Whitmoore's wanderings were interrupted by the ringing of the town hall bell. That meant a meeting, which meant something came up. Another constant, really, the bell ringing in new excitement into their collective lives. Well, he'd heard an old pre-war phrase from one of his mentors growing up that such a thought brought to mind. 'May you live in interesting times', while pleasant on the face of it, was in fact quite the nasty thing to go saying to someone. Most folks never cared for interesting times, it upended lives and made things, well, interesting, which was the problem. That being said, though, he would be interested to see just what had come on blowing down the road, this time, and just how 'interesting' it would make things compared to the usual daily rigors of survival. Excusing himself, Whitmoore made his way to the town hall, a lot of seating already taken up. Couple different folks stood out, including one fellow who'd proven to be quite the entertaining person to talk with, kept up his own farm and helped feed everyone. Honest work, that, to be respected, and had taken up a sentry's position in the hall. There were a few other folk that stood out, though his dealings with them remained to be seen in earnest. He took up a place about halfway forward, leaning on a wall and making himself as comfortable as he could, leaving seating for those who would want for it more. He wasn't one for sitting about unless he had something to work on, and he doubted it would be the case here.

Warhammer 50k: The Second Age of Strife

"SECOND RANKS, SUPPRESS THE GUNNERS! FRONT RANKS, FIRE AT WILL, REPULSE THE SCUM! DRIVE THEM BACK INTO THE VOID AND LET THEM CHOKE ON THE VILE HERESY THEY SPIT!"

Stukov kept firing his shotgun into the ranks of the oncoming tide, sweeping back and forth and indiscriminately peppering the oncoming cultists with buckshot. He wouldn't resort to more esoteric ammunition, not yet, not until the need was truly dire. They were holding the line, thankfully, the constant drills and readiness exercises were paying dividends currently. Of course, not all things could go the way of the crew, and the blasted Tzaangor rushed forward to engage the frontline. Which meant they rushed right into the waiting stance of Stukov and his shotgun. He focused his attention on the closest, slam firing as the thing roared and carried forward, slowing its charge but not arresting it fully, forced to engage in melee with the abomination. But if they expected the Voidmaster to be found wanting, they would be sorely disappointed. A downward blade swing was deflected with a sideways bayonet strike, the reinforced weapon proving its worth as the blade narrowly glanced away, and left an opening for the Voidmaster to slam his bayonet upwards into the beast's throat, before firing the last shell in the weapon right into the things jaw, decapitating it in a spray of gore and blood. Stukov had a chance to shove the corpse back in time to catch, out of the corner of his eye, the Rogue Trader get launched back. As much as instinct screamed he move to assist, he had no such luxury.

Another of the Tzaangor were upon him, inclined to try and take advantage of the Voidmaster's emptied shotgun. Snarling, Stukov found himself engaged in a hard fought brawl with the creature, pitting his agility and experience versus the beast's strength and inhuman durability. He couldn't withdraw either, not without putting more of the line at risk of being overrun. Given the abomination gave him no room to reload, he had to strike with bayonet and reinforced stock, landing cuts and blows, though he would only be chipping away at the creature at this rate. This was no time for thoughts though, as another blade swing nearly took his head off, feeling the blade give him a near close shave over his head, though it created an opening to land a good thrust into its side, burying the bayonet deep and leaving a nasty open wound in its side, though he was back on the defensive again, though he was forcing openings when he could. He'd put this one down in due time, though not in time to assist the others with their trouble. He'd have to put his faith in their capabilities to not buckle so soon in the face of trouble that found them this soon.

Fallout: Montana (Accepting new characters)

Alexander Whitmoore

Name:
Alexander Whitmoore

Age:
37

Sex:
Male

Your S.P.E.C.I.A.L. / Skills:
Strength - 4
Perception = 5
Endurance - 8
Charisma - 5
Intelligence - 8
Agility - 6
Luck - 4

Skills:
Guns
Science
Unarmed

Appearance:
Alexander is a man of middling height, around 5'10" at the most generous estimates, with a build that's hard to pinpoint from under his clothing and gear. Alexander has jet black hair, mostly well kept and swept back, running down to the back of his neck while a thick, heavy beard also runs down a fair ways, giving him an almost wildman look if it wasn't for his attire. A long jacket with a peculiar winterized design often makes him stand out like a sore thumb, though he will never ditch the item, not even to save his life, while he wears apparently salvaged body armor underneath, the hard plates a hold over from pre-war designs. Sturdy blue jeans and well insulated boots round out the clothing, and one might be forgiven for thinking he had just marched out of some frozen north at a glance, though there is no evidence of any sort of identifying insignia .

Image

Armor and Equipment:
Keepsake Body Armor: Passed down father to son for as long as his family can remember, Alexander still keeps wearing and maintaining his family armor whenever the opportunity arises. While similar in style to the NCR Ranger armor, it lacks nearly as much protection, covering mainly the core of the body and seeming to lack a number of pieces that the more well recognized design has. Still, there is a decent amount of agility to work with, owing to the lack of plates interfering with movement or unplanned scavenged additions weighing him down either.

Bugout Bag - On his person at all times, Alexander has learned the hard way that sometimes you need to leave now, and as such keeps his most important worldly belongings on him at all times in this white bag. Has a variety of vital supplies, including stimpacks, food, clean water, radaway, the ammo for his guns, and a sleeping bag. While he may have other items on him at any given time or place, if things are in a scramble, he'll at least be able to get to relative safety before having to start worrying about problematic things like 'eating' and 'someplace warm to sleep'.

Weapons:
Lever Action Shotgun
10mm Pistol
Brass Knuckles

Personality:
Alexander is, on a day to day basis, generally a pleasant enough person to deal with. Usually maintaining a, if not optimistic, at least upbeat outlook in the face of most trouble, ready to crack a joke in the face of trouble when others might not exactly appreciate the attempts at humor. While not actively discussing or talking about things, the man can become lost in thought, entertaining trains of thoughts, whether they be of recent events, or reminiscing on the past and grappling with all the ugliness he's seen in his wandering vagabond lifestyle. He'll wax philosophical when given the chance, willing to debate and discuss beliefs and points of view, never seeming to take one side or the other, almost always acting as the 'Devil's Advocate' or otherwise at least challenging the beliefs of others. He is notably tight lipped when it comes to his own, though whether its because he doesn't want to share, doesn't know what he believes, or otherwise remains to be seen.

History / How they came to be part of Whitlash:
Alexander is the son of a Brotherhood of Steel Paladin, from a surviving enclave that set up in the North, past where boundaries of countries once divided the land. The nuclear winter hit hard there, requiring hardy flesh and hardier souls to survive, creating a rather pragmatic, if forgotten, offshoot of the Brotherhood that scoured the wastes for forgotten bases and convoys, making ends meet through such methods. Such an upbringing was not easy, nor was it kind, but the warmth of camaraderie kept them going when all else was stacked against them. So it was that the boy would be raised into a young man, although despite the promise of a path of prestige following in his father's footsteps, he couldn't help but want to range out on his own, cramping under the regimented confines of the Brotherhood bunker complex. This was a foreseen issue, and he was granted equipment, including his father's old armor, and the blessing to return once wanderlust had been satiated, or to return with finds that would help the Bunker and its denizens continue to survive.

So the young man, barely 18, went first South, and then East. He'd been told of Brotherhood bands to both the East and West, and his fateful decision would get him embroiled in a conflict between the Enclave and his Brotherhood comrades. To say the skirmishes and battles were unpleasant was an understatement, and the increasingly weathered man found himself growing more and more weary of the battles, making friends with others in his squad only to see them cut down by energy weapons not scant days later, and while part of him hates the Enclave for existing and forcing the issue, another part of him wonders what good the Brotherhood goals were if it constantly led to conflicts with both people trying to survive and other factions who may or may not ever have been a problem to begin with. After spending quite a few years fighting the Enclave and other enemies of the Brotherhood, Alexander left and went West instead, chasing the horizon and stories of a shining Jewel in the desert, New Vegas.

New Vegas would bring him into contact with various groups, various ideologies and beliefs, something that Alexander grew fond of learning, discussing, and challenging when need be. What had started as curiosity in the outside world had been tempered, through fire and blood, into an outlook of eternally questioning and second guessing everything, for the sake of teasing out what was worthwhile, and what should be cast aside. He never stuck around for long, either run out by people who got tired of his debates, or because it had grown stale and boring, and Alexander found himself heading back north to report his findings, and what had happened in the East, to his comrades. All he found was a frozen, empty bunker, long abandoned. No notes, no indication what happened, but no signs of conflict or violence either. A complete mystery, something that continues to haunt him as he wonder what happened. But no one survives alone in the North, not for long at least, so he went back south to warmer climates.

His arrival in Whitlash was not particularly eventful, nor even stood out for that matter beyond the peculiar design of this stranger's attire, but Alexander found the mix of people quite fascinating. By far one of the more recent newcomers, barely approaching his first year in the community, he earned his keep through oddjobs and helping keep the place secure, though his knack for technology and scientific endeavors came in handy whenever someone brought back some prewar tech, a mix of his old Brotherhood training and long years making ends meet on his own coming to the forefront. Still, he never discussed his past, and he gained a reputation for debate and discussion, matching a stubborn intelligence against any point or stance if given the opportunity or asked. He had not intended to stay very long, but something had kept him rooted here, be it the curious gathering of people or the strangely varied outlooks, something compelled him to stay here just awhile longer. So he stayed, pursuing this strange feeling and his own strange beliefs while earning his keep as needed.

Extras:
Alexander speaks with a bit of an accent, not unintelligible but, despite all the years away from home, uniquely stand out compared to what most folks will hear. Doing oddjobs and never settling into a singular role in the community has never exactly endeared him with the common folk, as most folks expecting him to just up and vanish one day, as abruptly as he arrived.

Fallout: Montana (Accepting new characters)

Work had me delayed, but here we are, got him sorted out finally.

CS

Name:
Alexander Whitmoore

Age:
37

Sex:
Male

Your S.P.E.C.I.A.L. / Skills:
Strength - 4
Perception = 5
Endurance - 8
Charisma - 5
Intelligence - 8
Agility - 6
Luck - 4

Skills:
Guns
Science
Unarmed

Appearance:
Alexander is a man of middling height, around 5'10" at the most generous estimates, with a build that's hard to pinpoint from under his clothing and gear. Alexander has jet black hair, mostly well kept and swept back, running down to the back of his neck while a thick, heavy beard also runs down a fair ways, giving him an almost wildman look if it wasn't for his attire. A long jacket with a peculiar winterized design often makes him stand out like a sore thumb, though he will never ditch the item, not even to save his life, while he wears apparently salvaged body armor underneath, the hard plates a hold over from pre-war designs. Sturdy blue jeans and well insulated boots round out the clothing, and one might be forgiven for thinking he had just marched out of some frozen north at a glance, though there is no evidence of any sort of identifying insignia .

Image

Armor and Equipment:
Keepsake Body Armor: Passed down father to son for as long as his family can remember, Alexander still keeps wearing and maintaining his family armor whenever the opportunity arises. While similar in style to the NCR Ranger armor, it lacks nearly as much protection, covering mainly the core of the body and seeming to lack a number of pieces that the more well recognized design has. Still, there is a decent amount of agility to work with, owing to the lack of plates interfering with movement or unplanned scavenged additions weighing him down either.

Bugout Bag - On his person at all times, Alexander has learned the hard way that sometimes you need to leave now, and as such keeps his most important worldly belongings on him at all times in this white bag. Has a variety of vital supplies, including stimpacks, food, clean water, radaway, the ammo for his guns, and a sleeping bag. While he may have other items on him at any given time or place, if things are in a scramble, he'll at least be able to get to relative safety before having to start worrying about problematic things like 'eating' and 'someplace warm to sleep'.

Weapons:
Lever Action Shotgun
10mm Pistol
Brass Knuckles

Personality:
Alexander is, on a day to day basis, generally a pleasant enough person to deal with. Usually maintaining a, if not optimistic, at least upbeat outlook in the face of most trouble, ready to crack a joke in the face of trouble when others might not exactly appreciate the attempts at humor. While not actively discussing or talking about things, the man can become lost in thought, entertaining trains of thoughts, whether they be of recent events, or reminiscing on the past and grappling with all the ugliness he's seen in his wandering vagabond lifestyle. He'll wax philosophical when given the chance, willing to debate and discuss beliefs and points of view, never seeming to take one side or the other, almost always acting as the 'Devil's Advocate' or otherwise at least challenging the beliefs of others. He is notably tight lipped when it comes to his own, though whether its because he doesn't want to share, doesn't know what he believes, or otherwise remains to be seen.

History / How they came to be part of Whitlash:
Alexander is the son of a Brotherhood of Steel Paladin, from a surviving enclave that set up in the North, past where boundaries of countries once divided the land. The nuclear winter hit hard there, requiring hardy flesh and hardier souls to survive, creating a rather pragmatic, if forgotten, offshoot of the Brotherhood that scoured the wastes for forgotten bases and convoys, making ends meet through such methods. Such an upbringing was not easy, nor was it kind, but the warmth of camaraderie kept them going when all else was stacked against them. So it was that the boy would be raised into a young man, although despite the promise of a path of prestige following in his father's footsteps, he couldn't help but want to range out on his own, cramping under the regimented confines of the Brotherhood bunker complex. This was a foreseen issue, and he was granted equipment, including his father's old armor, and the blessing to return once wanderlust had been satiated, or to return with finds that would help the Bunker and its denizens continue to survive.

So the young man, barely 18, went first South, and then East. He'd been told of Brotherhood bands to both the East and West, and his fateful decision would get him embroiled in a conflict between the Enclave and his Brotherhood comrades. To say the skirmishes and battles were unpleasant was an understatement, and the increasingly weathered man found himself growing more and more weary of the battles, making friends with others in his squad only to see them cut down by energy weapons not scant days later, and while part of him hates the Enclave for existing and forcing the issue, another part of him wonders what good the Brotherhood goals were if it constantly led to conflicts with both people trying to survive and other factions who may or may not ever have been a problem to begin with. After spending quite a few years fighting the Enclave and other enemies of the Brotherhood, Alexander left and went West instead, chasing the horizon and stories of a shining Jewel in the desert, New Vegas.

New Vegas would bring him into contact with various groups, various ideologies and beliefs, something that Alexander grew fond of learning, discussing, and challenging when need be. What had started as curiosity in the outside world had been tempered, through fire and blood, into an outlook of eternally questioning and second guessing everything, for the sake of teasing out what was worthwhile, and what should be cast aside. He never stuck around for long, either run out by people who got tired of his debates, or because it had grown stale and boring, and Alexander found himself heading back north to report his findings, and what had happened in the East, to his comrades. All he found was a frozen, empty bunker, long abandoned. No notes, no indication what happened, but no signs of conflict or violence either. A complete mystery, something that continues to haunt him as he wonder what happened. But no one survives alone in the North, not for long at least, so he went back south to warmer climates.

His arrival in Whitlash was not particularly eventful, nor even stood out for that matter beyond the peculiar design of this stranger's attire, but Alexander found the mix of people quite fascinating. By far one of the more recent newcomers, barely approaching his first year in the community, he earned his keep through oddjobs and helping keep the place secure, though his knack for technology and scientific endeavors came in handy whenever someone brought back some prewar tech, a mix of his old Brotherhood training and long years making ends meet on his own coming to the forefront. Still, he never discussed his past, and he gained a reputation for debate and discussion, matching a stubborn intelligence against any point or stance if given the opportunity or asked. He had not intended to stay very long, but something had kept him rooted here, be it the curious gathering of people or the strangely varied outlooks, something compelled him to stay here just awhile longer. So he stayed, pursuing this strange feeling and his own strange beliefs while earning his keep as needed.

Extras:
Alexander speaks with a bit of an accent, not unintelligible but, despite all the years away from home, uniquely stand out compared to what most folks will hear. Doing oddjobs and never settling into a singular role in the community has never exactly endeared him with the common folk, as most folks expecting him to just up and vanish one day, as abruptly as he arrived.

Warhammer 50k: The Second Age of Strife

Gerard had settled on a modest course, modest by the standards of those present at least, of meals as the others began filing in. The Harakoni Primaris, with his handler in tow as well. Bodyguard was...a nice term for it, as he understood the man was there to ensure the Psyker would not lose all control and become a threat to his allies. A grim necessity, but one of many that their lives required. Still, the man, despite his recaf addiction, had not proven to be an unpleasant fellow, though frankly he'd had very little dealings with the psyker. Still, the display on the strawberry was noteworthy, ballooning...no that wasn't the right word for it, it didn't look unnatural despite the obvious change in size, it was improved upon rather than forcibly altered. Quite the precise work, something that would be appreciated in the coming hard times no doubt. The voidmaster offered a polite nod to the psyker and his handler when they settled in, though not interrupting whatever meditations the man had begun to undertake.

“Well that’s gotta be th’biggest strawber’I’ve ever seen!”

The Kin certainly seemed to agree with Gerard's unspoken considerations, and was a man that the voidmaster, frankly, he did not have a good read on at all. Pleasant enough as well, brewed his own drink as far as he understood it, and he'd caught glimpses of the Kin in the observation deck, watching the passing Webway with various tools that were quite beyond Gerard. The gear heads were probably intensely interested in the Kin's kit, but they probably didn't have the resources to barter with to get the clothes off the fellow's back, so that really was that. Still, the technological prowess and sheer fighting capabilities would be most welcome indeed when trouble finally came knocking. A question being directed at him got his thoughts back on track, whether he'd seen the webway before, and he shook his head briefly.

"This is the first time, my last vessel never had the luxury. I did take a look on the observation deck, quite the display, much calmer than normal methods." Gerard wondered to himself whether the webway might have saved his last vessel, not having to make perilous jumps through the warp and very possibly being tracked by the chaos pirates, would have saved most of the souls on board that vessel. Something to ruminate over when he had a stiff drink, this was to be a grand feast ahead of a daunting, many called impossible, task. Impossible didn't mean much to Gerard anymore, the state of affairs the galaxy found itself in was impossible, and they lived it every day. The Captain offered a toast, the voidmaster joining the display alongside the others who were present, and the feast began in earnest.

Which, of course, would not last as the moment Gerard heard the weapons impacts on void shields, he was already on his feet and halfway out the door. He had to grab his shotgun, determine where the most severe breach was, and from there respond accordingly. The ship was already coming to general quarters, disciplined chatter across the vox as lockers armed and prepared to repel boarders, and the voidmaster moved at a full sprint, crew making way without a word as he stopped at his office, grabbing the shotgun and as much ammo as he could stuff into his fatigues, and was on his way back to the officer's suite to report to the Captain when the all too familiar tremors, tearing, and noise of assault boats breaching the hull rang out. He had just reached the doorway of the suite to make initial reports when the sounds of pitched battle echoed down from the observation deck.

"Voidsmen are responding to all boarding actions, most pitched appears to be the Observation deck. Heading there now, Sir." With that, Stukov took off yet again, armed and ready to respond, and as he turned the final steps towards the intense sounds of battle, it was a grim scene. Many Voidsmen were pressed by the tide, no heavy weapons had made it up here yet, and the outnumbered crew would not hold long on their own. The shouting, las fire, and other weapons on hand were joined by the slam firing barks of the artificer shotgun, announcing to all hands the arrival of their Voidmaster, his voice roaring above the din as he advanced and took command of the situation.

"FORM. RANKS! ASSUME TOTAL KILL PATTERNS, THERE IS NO DRIVING THEM BACK TO THEIR VESSELS! SECONDARY LOCKERS, GET DECK SWEEPERS TO THE OBSERVATION DECK NOW!" Gerard moved himself to the thick of the fighting, every time his shotgun ringing empty he would rack the slide only half way, ejecting the empty shell and reloading through the same port, before racking and loading normally when possible. Anyone who engaged him in melee would find bayonet and reinforced stock waiting, and his plan was to create as much space as possible for the beset voidsmen to form ranks. One would normally hope the rest of the combat capable in the officer's suite would join him, but frankly, Gerard had settled into combat mode, it was another pitched boarding action, and he would sooner die than have another vessel get overrun.

Warhammer 50k: The Second Age of Strife

"Right, the week's drills have been disseminated to each of your data slates, make sure the lockers and squads are up to standards before beginning the drills. Just because we have the luxury of a relatively safe leg of the journey doesn't mean we get to slack off. I expect drill reports within a standard day after completion of the drill, as usual. Now get going, another day of work to be done." The subordinates departed after saluting, leaving Gerard Stukov alone in his office/quarters/whatever purpose it was serving today. While relatively spartan by Rogue Trader standards, it was leaps and bounds more luxurious than anything that the voidmaster had known before. That didn't excuse anyone else that answered to him from being able to slack off, however, as the voidmaster was determined to keep this ship as safe as he could possibly ensure, which meant plenty of drills, maintenance, and a whole battery of readiness checks to ensure the safety of ship and crew.

Turning from the closed hatch, Gerard started going through his own data slate, reviewing upcoming meetings he was required to be at. Silas Celeton, the Rogue Trader he was in the direct employ and the ship's Captain, was having a meeting for the various senior officers on board the ship. He had been both pleasantly, and unpleasantly, surprised to be serving aboard another Dauntless class so soon, as heavily retrofitted and modernized as this one was, the new weight suited her well. That being said, he tightened the straps on his carapace breastplate, something he wore at all times when not actively in his rack, and gave himself a once over. Dressed about as well as usual, fatigues and armor, any exposed bionics were clean and polished, clean shaven as usual, both head and chin. Good, he was as presentable as he ever got, and he patted himself down briefly. His pistol was securely holstered, the shotgun secured in the rack beside his desk, it wouldn't be needed for this meeting, doubly so since they were undergoing webway transit currently.

"Right, let's see what the skipper has rattling around in that head of his today..." Exiting his quarters, Gerard moved at brisk pace. He'd be just a few minutes early, which was the bare minimum to be acceptable frankly, but the meeting with the subordinates had ran longer than anticipated. Typical, frankly, hence the built in wiggle room between meetings and such. Fortunately he had not eaten yet, given the meal that was waiting. Swapping nods and quick words with crew as he walked, he did as he always did, kept as up to date on the ship's condition, as well as her crew, at all times. He was no Tech Priest, but it was often easier to talk to another human than it was the the gear heads, and he had more experience talking to them given his own encounters with them. Though thanks to his wandering thoughts, he arrived at the officer's suite in rather short order and, after a moment, entered.

"Sir, Gerard Stukov reporting. Seems like I've made it early as usual." Gerard would give a crisp, brief salute to the Rogue Trader before taking a seat, patiently waiting for the others who would be attending to arrive. A rather mixed bag, by all accounts, but what Rogue Trader could boast something as impressive as having an utterly mundane inner circle of officers and advisors? That being said, he did review his data slate again before the others arrived, seeing if anything worth mentioning would be present currently. Everything had been going as smoothly as one could reasonably expect, which was unusual in and of itself. Perhaps this meeting would be the thing that unstuck everything, such was life sailing the stars after all.

Warhammer 50k: The Second Age of Strife

Voidmaster Gerard Stukov

CS

Name: Gerard Stukov
Age: 54
Species: Human
Appearance:

Height: 5'9"
Weight: 221lbs

Role in the ship: Senior Voidmaster
Notable Equipment and Augmentations:
Bionics - Stukov has seen limited bionic implantation, mostly to repair and make good damage he has received during his time fighting bloody and pitched boarding actions, providing security during shore parties investigating planetary situations, and otherwise requiring rebuilding. While having no limbs fully replaced, he has had a number of internal organs replaced, machinery taking the place of flesh and blood, his experience valued more highly than the resources spent on keeping him alive. The most overt is the left half of his head has a sturdy plate in place, a bionic eye replacing what was lost as well as providing some degree of additional protection.

Mixed Carapace/Flak Armor - While he doesn't wear a full suit of it, Stukov has salvaged, requisitioned, and 'acquired' enough material to have a carapace breastplate sturdy enough to keep his already ravaged insides from getting any worse. When deploying or on duty, he also has flak armor that he wears over his legs and upper arms, preferring to keep more on his feet rather than simply try to soak up incoming fire, though given his previous injuries, this was very much a hard learned lesson. Otherwise, he favors fairly standard fatigues, sleeves rolled up or cut off completely as appropriate.

Artificer Shotgun - The weapon that marks Voidmasters out from their subordinates, the expertly crafted weapon is as much an heirloom at this point as it is simply a master crafted weapon. Pump action, to not risk mechanical failure during prolonged combat, the weapon has seen more combat and conflict than its current owner. Reinforced for close quarters engagements, including a permanent bayonet fixed to the front, it is capable of loading a wide variety of shotgun loads and tackling a variety of situations. Stukov prefers buckshot, though keeps a handful of slugs and inferno shells on hand just in case a special situation arises.

Naval Pistol - Standard issue sidearm for Imperial Naval personnel, even now, Stukov favors it over heftier options like bolt pistols, or more ubiquitous ones like las pistols. Using a specialized autopistol ammo designed to fragment and reduce damage to ship systems while maximizing damage to minimally armored or unarmored flesh. Like other models, the weapon is reinforced and sturdy enough to use as in a melee as a bludgeon without immediate risk to damage or misfire.

Combat Knife - Kept in a boot sheath, there is not much to say about the ubiquitous combat knife. Single edged, mono edged, and weighted for both fighting and throwing, when all else fails, there's always a knife for a last ditch stand, or prying open a ration can.

Concussion Grenades - Another voidsman favorite, these weapons rely on sheer force of the detonation to damage and kill threats, and only grow more dangerous the more compact and confined the space they are thrown into becomes. Stukov always has several on hand at any given time, and values them highly, even if a frag might do more immediate damage, the concussive force can do wonders on modestly armored infantry, especially if caught at ground zero or hemmed in and unable to get clear.

Skills:
Close Quarters Combat - Broadly speaking, Stukov's specialty is in getting stuck into a fight and carrying out a battle as close as he can get. A reliable shot, though no marksman or even on the same footing as most Guard troops drilled in lasgun fire, he often acts as a first line between hostiles getting close to his subordinates, directing fire when necessary but otherwise screening enemy combatants. Between shotgun, bayonet, and naval pistol, the voidmaster tends to blend close range shooting and melee in a way informed and trained by long years of experience and training. The style is necessarily brutal, aimed at finishing a fight quickly, lacking the elegance of a duelist or the precision of a sniper, though more than one hostile has seen their last mistake being to underestimate the brutality as simplicity.

Security Operations - A great deal of Stukov's life revolved around patrolling the ship he was on, always alert for trouble that might be brewing, be it stowaways, mutinous crew, or worse. Securing an area is a necessary skill, as well, when retaking overrun decks or setting up a forward post on an enemy ship to coordinate further boarding actions, just being able to set up barricades and seal bulkheads isn't enough. Being able to spot problems or things that are out of place are just as vital as the knowledge of how to, at a glance, pick out how to not only best fortify a location, but with what they might have on hand.

Field Maintenance/Jury Rigging - Stukov has a practical understanding of a broad spectrum of mechanical and weapons systems, capable of field stripping lasguns and other infantry weapons down, rigging up a fix for a problem, and slapping it back together. He doesn't do this in front of the Mechanicus, when he can help it, of course, but he is quite the natural at jury rigging and improvising when push comes to shove. More electronic systems, however, are not nearly as certain a thing, though if its nothing more complex than a hatch control panel, he can rig it up reliably enough, though the more complex the electronics, the less reliable this talent is.

Biography: Gerard Stukov was born on a refueling and rearming space station, one that saw a great deal of traffic by forces both going to, and from, besieged planets and systems, seeing the near constant bustle and traffic of supplies, soldiers, and others who had a reason to dock and walk the station decks. His family had been voidsmen for as long as they could track, and Gerard was going to be no different, regardless of any personal beliefs in the matter. Raised by the station security as much as his own flesh and blood, he would sign onto the first vessel in service of Ultramar that was in need of fresh voidsmen. A rather short wait, by all accounts, and he was inducted on board the Blind Judgment as one of the freshest voidsmen tasked with protecting the ship, and engaging in boarding actions.

It would not take long for conflict to find them, or the other way around, and would spend the next 30 years serving across various fronts and facing various foes of Ultramar. Whether it was luck or skill, the Blind Judgment had a long and successful career, the cruiser would carry out a variety of anti pirate operations, engagements against hostile fleets, and patrolling the cold void of the space between planets and systems. Of course nothing lasts forever, and that included the ship that the recently minted Voidmaster, having spent his entire career working up the ranks from rank and file to increasingly senior leadership positions as those above him perished or themselves filled the boots of the dead above them, and it would be Chaos renegades that spelled the ship and most of the crew's doom.

On an independent patrol they would be jumped by a four cruisers to match the Blind Judgement, a light cruiser, alone with her few escorts. The boarding craft were quick to launch, after a valiant effort by gun crews to stave off the impending assaults, blunting the first wave of assaults that led to pitched battles across the decks that only become more desperate, eventually leading to the armed crew holding the engine room to make the fateful decision to overload her reactors, consigning her to death over capture. Stukov led as many voidsman and crew as he could to the lifepods, aiming for the nearest planet. Better to risk getting shot to pieces by chaos fighters than a certain death from the overloading reactor. Most of the escape pods would not make it, indeed torn apart by withering passes by fighters or, worse, captured and hauled back towards the chaos pirate fleet. Of course, the final explosion of the Blind Judgement would take countless pirates and traitors out, and more importantly, provide cover for the surviving life pods.

Crash landing on the nearby planet, weeks away from the nearest settlement of any sort, Stukov would gather as many as he could, administer mercies to those who could not move or keep up, and led the grim march through the jungles towards the clearings they saw on the, albeit incredibly rocky, descent into atmosphere. Nearly half the already depleted survivors of the crew wouldn't make it, the jungle proving almost as deadly as the conflict they'd already survived in the void above, but the depleted members of the crew, Stukov at the head, stumbled into the seemingly abandoned observation outposts, though forgotten supplies and prefabricated buildings would prove far more welcome shelter than huddled clearings, trying to keep the hostile jungle at bay.

A Rogue Trader would respond to the distress beacon the survivors jury rigged, the away team finding a skeleton crew of survivors who would be glad to never see a jungle again. Stukov, for his part, stayed aboard the Rogue Trader, the rest of the survivors departing at the next station to report what happened to the Blind Judgment to their supreriors and work from there. Stukov felt he owed a debt to the Rogue Trader, and with his old ship dead and gone, he didn't want to simply wait idly by on another vessel for the same to happen again. Plenty of stories, maybe even some of them true, were told of Rogue Traders and the kinds of lives they led. Stukov signed on as seasoned Voidmaster, and would remain aboard when the new orders came down from on high.

A suicide mission, to reclaim some artifact found by Mechanicus forces, and bring it back. No excess could be spared, which was typical. Stukov would wonder about the details they didn't have, but ultimately, he had sworn an oath. The Rogue Trader's vessel was his charge as much as those he served, and it would only end when he died, or if another ship was shot out from underneath him. He would almost prefer the former at this point, given the far flung distances they will be at, it was unlikely rescue would ever arrive in time. But, Stukov knew his orders, and the orders of those around him, and he would see them through. Even if it felt like a fool's errand, nicely as that could be put.

Additional Notes: Stukov has an intense dislike of climates both bitterly hot and miserably humid, as they remind him of the jungles and predators that had dogged their every step. While having no preferences for most luxuries, the man does enjoy a good cigar when he can afford to get his hands on one, or three.

Warhammer 50k: The Second Age of Strife

Alright, no more delays, CS time.

Voidmaster

CS

Name: Gerard Stukov
Age: 54
Species: Human
Appearance:

Height: 5'9"
Weight: 221lbs

Role in the ship: Senior Voidmaster
Notable Equipment and Augmentations:
Bionics - Stukov has seen limited bionic implantation, mostly to repair and make good damage he has received during his time fighting bloody and pitched boarding actions, providing security during shore parties investigating planetary situations, and otherwise requiring rebuilding. While having no limbs fully replaced, he has had a number of internal organs replaced, machinery taking the place of flesh and blood, his experience valued more highly than the resources spent on keeping him alive. The most overt is the left half of his head has a sturdy plate in place, a bionic eye replacing what was lost as well as providing some degree of additional protection.

Mixed Carapace/Flak Armor - While he doesn't wear a full suit of it, Stukov has salvaged, requisitioned, and 'acquired' enough material to have a carapace breastplate sturdy enough to keep his already ravaged insides from getting any worse. When deploying or on duty, he also has flak armor that he wears over his legs and upper arms, preferring to keep more on his feet rather than simply try to soak up incoming fire, though given his previous injuries, this was very much a hard learned lesson. Otherwise, he favors fairly standard fatigues, sleeves rolled up or cut off completely as appropriate.

Artificer Shotgun - The weapon that marks Voidmasters out from their subordinates, the expertly crafted weapon is as much an heirloom at this point as it is simply a master crafted weapon. Pump action, to not risk mechanical failure during prolonged combat, the weapon has seen more combat and conflict than its current owner. Reinforced for close quarters engagements, including a permanent bayonet fixed to the front, it is capable of loading a wide variety of shotgun loads and tackling a variety of situations. Stukov prefers buckshot, though keeps a handful of slugs and inferno shells on hand just in case a special situation arises.

Naval Pistol - Standard issue sidearm for Imperial Naval personnel, even now, Stukov favors it over heftier options like bolt pistols, or more ubiquitous ones like las pistols. Using a specialized autopistol ammo designed to fragment and reduce damage to ship systems while maximizing damage to minimally armored or unarmored flesh. Like other models, the weapon is reinforced and sturdy enough to use as in a melee as a bludgeon without immediate risk to damage or misfire.

Combat Knife - Kept in a boot sheath, there is not much to say about the ubiquitous combat knife. Single edged, mono edged, and weighted for both fighting and throwing, when all else fails, there's always a knife for a last ditch stand, or prying open a ration can.

Concussion Grenades - Another voidsman favorite, these weapons rely on sheer force of the detonation to damage and kill threats, and only grow more dangerous the more compact and confined the space they are thrown into becomes. Stukov always has several on hand at any given time, and values them highly, even if a frag might do more immediate damage, the concussive force can do wonders on modestly armored infantry, especially if caught at ground zero or hemmed in and unable to get clear.

Skills:
Close Quarters Combat - Broadly speaking, Stukov's specialty is in getting stuck into a fight and carrying out a battle as close as he can get. A reliable shot, though no marksman or even on the same footing as most Guard troops drilled in lasgun fire, he often acts as a first line between hostiles getting close to his subordinates, directing fire when necessary but otherwise screening enemy combatants. Between shotgun, bayonet, and naval pistol, the voidmaster tends to blend close range shooting and melee in a way informed and trained by long years of experience and training. The style is necessarily brutal, aimed at finishing a fight quickly, lacking the elegance of a duelist or the precision of a sniper, though more than one hostile has seen their last mistake being to underestimate the brutality as simplicity.

Security Operations - A great deal of Stukov's life revolved around patrolling the ship he was on, always alert for trouble that might be brewing, be it stowaways, mutinous crew, or worse. Securing an area is a necessary skill, as well, when retaking overrun decks or setting up a forward post on an enemy ship to coordinate further boarding actions, just being able to set up barricades and seal bulkheads isn't enough. Being able to spot problems or things that are out of place are just as vital as the knowledge of how to, at a glance, pick out how to not only best fortify a location, but with what they might have on hand.

Field Maintenance/Jury Rigging - Stukov has a practical understanding of a broad spectrum of mechanical and weapons systems, capable of field stripping lasguns and other infantry weapons down, rigging up a fix for a problem, and slapping it back together. He doesn't do this in front of the Mechanicus, when he can help it, of course, but he is quite the natural at jury rigging and improvising when push comes to shove. More electronic systems, however, are not nearly as certain a thing, though if its nothing more complex than a hatch control panel, he can rig it up reliably enough, though the more complex the electronics, the less reliable this talent is.

Biography: Gerard Stukov was born on a refueling and rearming space station, one that saw a great deal of traffic by forces both going to, and from, besieged planets and systems, seeing the near constant bustle and traffic of supplies, soldiers, and others who had a reason to dock and walk the station decks. His family had been voidsmen for as long as they could track, and Gerard was going to be no different, regardless of any personal beliefs in the matter. Raised by the station security as much as his own flesh and blood, he would sign onto the first vessel in service of Ultramar that was in need of fresh voidsmen. A rather short wait, by all accounts, and he was inducted on board the Blind Judgment as one of the freshest voidsmen tasked with protecting the ship, and engaging in boarding actions.

It would not take long for conflict to find them, or the other way around, and would spend the next 30 years serving across various fronts and facing various foes of Ultramar. Whether it was luck or skill, the Blind Judgment had a long and successful career, the cruiser would carry out a variety of anti pirate operations, engagements against hostile fleets, and patrolling the cold void of the space between planets and systems. Of course nothing lasts forever, and that included the ship that the recently minted Voidmaster, having spent his entire career working up the ranks from rank and file to increasingly senior leadership positions as those above him perished or themselves filled the boots of the dead above them, and it would be Chaos renegades that spelled the ship and most of the crew's doom.

On an independent patrol they would be jumped by a four cruisers to match the Blind Judgement, a light cruiser, alone with her few escorts. The boarding craft were quick to launch, after a valiant effort by gun crews to stave off the impending assaults, blunting the first wave of assaults that led to pitched battles across the decks that only become more desperate, eventually leading to the armed crew holding the engine room to make the fateful decision to overload her reactors, consigning her to death over capture. Stukov led as many voidsman and crew as he could to the lifepods, aiming for the nearest planet. Better to risk getting shot to pieces by chaos fighters than a certain death from the overloading reactor. Most of the escape pods would not make it, indeed torn apart by withering passes by fighters or, worse, captured and hauled back towards the chaos pirate fleet. Of course, the final explosion of the Blind Judgement would take countless pirates and traitors out, and more importantly, provide cover for the surviving life pods.

Crash landing on the nearby planet, weeks away from the nearest settlement of any sort, Stukov would gather as many as he could, administer mercies to those who could not move or keep up, and led the grim march through the jungles towards the clearings they saw on the, albeit incredibly rocky, descent into atmosphere. Nearly half the already depleted survivors of the crew wouldn't make it, the jungle proving almost as deadly as the conflict they'd already survived in the void above, but the depleted members of the crew, Stukov at the head, stumbled into the seemingly abandoned observation outposts, though forgotten supplies and prefabricated buildings would prove far more welcome shelter than huddled clearings, trying to keep the hostile jungle at bay.

A Rogue Trader would respond to the distress beacon the survivors jury rigged, the away team finding a skeleton crew of survivors who would be glad to never see a jungle again. Stukov, for his part, stayed aboard the Rogue Trader, the rest of the survivors departing at the next station to report what happened to the Blind Judgment to their supreriors and work from there. Stukov felt he owed a debt to the Rogue Trader, and with his old ship dead and gone, he didn't want to simply wait idly by on another vessel for the same to happen again. Plenty of stories, maybe even some of them true, were told of Rogue Traders and the kinds of lives they led. Stukov signed on as seasoned Voidmaster, and would remain aboard when the new orders came down from on high.

A suicide mission, to reclaim some artifact found by Mechanicus forces, and bring it back. No excess could be spared, which was typical. Stukov would wonder about the details they didn't have, but ultimately, he had sworn an oath. The Rogue Trader's vessel was his charge as much as those he served, and it would only end when he died, or if another ship was shot out from underneath him. He would almost prefer the former at this point, given the far flung distances they will be at, it was unlikely rescue would ever arrive in time. But, Stukov knew his orders, and the orders of those around him, and he would see them through. Even if it felt like a fool's errand, nicely as that could be put.

Additional Notes: Stukov has an intense dislike of climates both bitterly hot and miserably humid, as they remind him of the jungles and predators that had dogged their every step. While having no preferences for most luxuries, the man does enjoy a good cigar when he can afford to get his hands on one, or three.

Warhammer 50k: The Second Age of Strife

I do like the what-if angle being taken here, I am indeed interested in seeing where this ends up going, sure as sure.

Warhammer 40k: Enigmas of the Warp

"Only a phobia if it isn't justified or rational, which it most certainly is." Stukov was not interested in trading barbs with some xeno, no matter how determined it was to convince them that it was anything more than looking for the real reason it was here, and spend their lives to see it happen. Whatever higher machinations it had in mind, the armsman knew for fact, would not find an ally in him. The only thing that stayed his hand was Morgenstern's orders to the contrary, and the fact they had bigger problems to sort out. The open warp anomalies and cult presence were both equally concerning, as was the hazardous objective they had located. But no, they were going to be gallivanting about instead of securing the object and investigating the leads they had. Of course, Morgenstern put her foot down on not overdoing it, despite any amusement she may have found in such a contest. Fortunate indeed he was not feeling particularly festive nor competitive at this point at time.

"Duly noted." Stukov wasn't wasting his breath on stating the obvious, given the clearly untouched items in front of him. If he needed food, he had rations he could wolf down between firefights, and that would suffice. Solares' reaching for "his" food elicited no reaction from the Armsman as he instead referred to his dataslate, reviewing the situation and conditions they would be dealing with while on the planet. He would at least be as prepared as he could be, despite recent damaging of his equipment and the mild fact he was, by all accounts, critically under armed compared to the rest of the retinue. He had some ideas to rectify the situation, of course, but that wasn't going to happen in some needlessly fancy restaurant. Rather, he would need to get back to the base armory, restock, rearm, and if need be requisition the equipment he had in mind. Maybe have his arm replaced as well, given it was tainted by the xeno trickery, but he would have to burn that bridge when he came to it. The tech priestess, mad as she was, would no doubt be all too willing to hack his arm off if it meant 'upgrading' him, something to keep in mind. At the mention of being ready to move out, Stukov nodded briskly.

"Sooner we get moving the better. Let's get this done with." If he had any say in the matter, Stukov would have been up and on his feet right now, heading off for the transport to get their objective back to base. But it wasn't his say, and he wasn't going to just run off because he didn't like the orders or plan that was given. Better or worse, he was one to follow orders. At least rational ones, and while he firmly believed the current ones stretched that definition, well, that wasn't grounds enough to consider them unlawful. Not yet, at any rate.