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 Posted: Thu Jun 06, 2013 1:18 pm
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Posted: Thu Jun 06, 2013 10:28 pm
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~Name: Nayendril Threshervan
~Planet of birth: Cadia
~Age: 18
~Rank: Conscript
~Years of service: First
~Company: Alpha
~:Squad/Squad-leader: 1st Alpha/ Lt.Markus Dayrune
~Weapon of choice: Rifleman
~Equipment: Kantrael M36 Lasrifle , Bayonet, M36 power packs.
~Personality: Nayendril is usually pretty nonchalant and laid back despite the grim circumstances he was faced with being born on Cadia around the same time as the black crusade was occurring. Honestly he's very often been referred to as a smart-a** who needs to shut the feth up by comrade and commander alike through most of the very basic training. It just doesn't really seem to get through to him that some people can't find the bright side at their own demise. Optimism is a wonderful thing as far as he's concerned and can do wonders for one's survival odds when faced against the near impossible or highly suicidal. In his eyes life is nothing but a series of very wonderful surprises. Until one final bad one.
~Biography:
- Premilitary/Recruitment: Naynedril was practically born for war having been raised on the fortress world of Cadia shortly prior to the thirteenth black crusade it's a miracle he survived the invading legions of heretics and chaos marines. Though he doesn't remember his parents he does remember being told that they were sacrificed to the chaos gods during the attacks a single guardsmen taking him in under his wing that one guardsmen became known to be his father. The guardsmen had found him at a very young age and decided to train Nayendril on the assembling,maintenance, and care of a lasgun as well as how to shoot before he was drafted into the white-shields. Originally he was to joint he same regiment as his father upon reaching age but his father was recently killed fighting the archenemy. Now currently being pushed into active service he's been transferred to a dog mix of RIP troopers for his indoctrination. Baptism by blood more like it.
- PDF: Term of Service: Nayendril aside from always having an unfulfilled desire to avenge his own parents pushing him on in his goals was born on Cadia and trained much like the rest of his youth for combat being marked as remarkably exceptional through his training as a white-shield in the Cadian woodlands after the black crusade he was barely missed by the selection process to become a Kasrkin and enter the Interior guard by the announcement of his regiments mobilization for war. As well as the fact that he wasn't to be going with the rest of them rather being re-assigned to a coalition force of new recruits. Should be interesting at least.
~Appearance: My face
~Nothin like dry rations: Gambling, Napping, Drinking, Firing drills, Cracking a joke or two. Getting on other guardsmen's nerves occasionally.
~Fethin shoot it. Liars, Thieves, Traitors, being woken up. Vermin, Generally getting shot at.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~Name: Grave Arinkvev
~Planet of birth: Vostroya
~Age: 42
~Rank: Sergeant
~Years of service: 24 years
~Company sad (Alpha))
~:Squad/Squad-leader: ((1stAplha, Lt. Markus Dayrune))
~Weapon of choice: Vostroyan Lasrifle
~Equipment: 2 Krak Grenades and Carapace Armour
~Personality: Grave was started on a course toward the military life at a young age on his father's estate, and even then he was known to be an ornery boy. Twenty-four years in the Guard did little to mature him, surrounded by the dregs of the galaxy and waiting as all Guardsmen did, for a horrible death. The only reason he has never reached a higher rank than Sergeant stems from his upbringing; every time he'd get a promotion he'd do something incredibly stupid and bring the higher ups down on him. He was the epitome of an Imperial Sergeant however besides his quirks - of which there are many. He's a campy ol' sergeant but sometimes appears outwardly hardened in battle - his most jovial moments though come after survival with a long drink and whatever hilarity ensues.
~Biography: Being the first born son on Vostroya meant that Grave was not raised with the ideas of refinery that came of being in the upper class. Instead he was subject to rigorous training and forced to live in the outdoors along with the other firstborn in his father's social circles. He saw his eighteenth birthday as an escape from the rough lifestyle, and in a way it was. The young Private was a natural at fitting in with the other degenerates in their ranks, quickly establishing a picking order aboard their ship on their way to whatever adventure awaited.
It was so long ago that the name of that first planet he spilt blood on was gone from memory, awash in a sea of blood from a dozen worlds, and all of his friends from the old world were picked away one by one until only he remained. Graves distinguished himself many times in his illustrious career, and who knew what adventures lay on this next leg of his journey.
- Premilitary/Recruitment: Prior to joining was his father's training, which had him living in the boreal forests far beyond anything he'd known. He grew with the seasons and became a formidable hunter and survivor in those harsh lands. That's where he learned the skills that formed the foundation of his skills as a Guardsman. Recruitment came at age seventeen with a year of officer training before being shipped off planet.
- PDF/Militia?: Term(s) of Service:
~Appearance:
~Nothin like dry rations: A fine cigar, some rotgut firewater and a warm ruck.
~Fethin shoot it.: Sarcasm, disrespect and foolishness.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Name: Hazael Hotfoot
Planet of birth: Pyrene (ratling agri-world)
Age: 24
Rank: Trooper
Years of service: One and a half.
Company: Alpha
Squad/Squad-leader: Attache regiment.
Weapon of choice: Fire Support
Equipment: 9003-pattern Flamer, Silas 8002 laspistol and power packs, B2202 dagger
Personality: Hazael is gregarious, but nefarious. While the ratling woman does not try to harm her comrades, and she is generally a source of great fun (and cooking), she does little to improve the impression of her race by succumbing to kleptomaniacal urges. Her smile retroactively becomes sinister when one witnesses her bearing the same smile as she torches a rabble of Slaaneshi cultists with her disproportionately-large flame weapon as she did while frying “fritters”.
Biography:
- Premilitary/Recruitment: Pyrene is an agri-world predominately populated by the ratlings; a race of small-bodied abhumans. As such, its snipers and foodstuff are its principle exports. Hazrael (one of eighteen children of His Lord Rotundity, the Duke of Dinner, Hapher Hotfoot) was responsible for overseeing a shipment of gapples (a sweet fruit) to the munitorum depot. A series of mishaps in the base while she was performing her duties led to her conscription as punishment for deeds that, to this day, she flagrantly denies (mostly because she’d never let herself get caught) wholeheartedly.
PDF/Militia?: Term(s) of Service: She will serve and fight for the God-Emperor until she admits to her crimes. This may take a while. Upon deployment, Hazrael displayed an unusual amount of daring for her kind. Most ratlings prefer to hang back and tech off targets from the safety of extreme, long range with sniper rifles. Hazrael’s talent with fire and ability to quickly and efficiently get anywhere without being noticed led her quartermaster (rumored, though never confirmed, to have been an ex-Sororitas) to first assign her a flamer to “burninate” humanity’s foes with clinging, incendiary promethium. Ratling and flamer have been bound to each other ever since.
The commissar approved of this practice until he caught her lighting a cigar (lho-stick, actually, but the size disparity caused some confusion) with the pilot-light of her weapon. She was promptly sent to RIP to learn the importance of conserving munitorum-issued supplies. How she was sent to RIP rather than a penal battalion, as dictated by the Munitorum Guide, is still a mystery. Pie may have been involved.
Appearance: Tiny by human standards: normal for a ratling. Red-haired, brown-eyed, wide-mouthed/eyed. She generally appears to be beaming.
Nothin like dry rations: Gapples, copious amounts of alcohol, a good cigar, card games, and an open fire. The bigger the better.
Fethin shoot it: Dry rations, the color blue, and spiders. Spiders are made to “do the burny dance”. |
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Posted: Fri Jun 07, 2013 11:52 am
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Posted: Fri Jun 07, 2013 11:54 am
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Posted: Fri Jun 07, 2013 11:56 am
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Posted: Sun Jun 09, 2013 3:06 am
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Posted: Sun Jun 09, 2013 3:49 am
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Posted: Sun Jun 09, 2013 4:16 am
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Posted: Sun Jun 09, 2013 4:05 pm
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DarkElf27 Vikki Stardust DarkElf27 So I'm clear, what exactly does "RIP" Regiment mean in this instance? 'Re-training, Indoctrination, or Punishment' cat_ninja Ahh, makes sense. Disparate and varied leftover troops pressed into a new chain of command. Experience doesn't really matter at that point, just making sure they bend to the will of their new commanders without resistance.
Exactly. ^~^ to be used as cannon fodder by the imperial war-machine |
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Posted: Thu Oct 10, 2013 12:43 pm
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Posted: Thu Oct 10, 2013 7:21 pm
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Posted: Sun Oct 27, 2013 7:31 pm
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Posted: Sun Oct 27, 2013 8:15 pm
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Posted: Tue Nov 12, 2013 4:52 pm
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