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post #8 of (permalink) Old 02-28-16, 04:30 PM
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Been a while since I've RPed here but I'm tired of lurking - I'm happy to make my triumphant return! This story seems really promising and I am excited to get started!


Name: Bozjen Kyrre

Age: 18

Appearance: Bozjen would be attractive for someone of his age and economic background if it were not for the damage that life in the Edge has done to his body. Slightly taller than many of his peers in the Edge, Bozjen is thin but strong, with a wiry muscular physique like a feral dog. The first thing most people notice about Bozjen is his mouth; due to years of smoking Cynax, most of his lower lip has rotten away, and all of the teeth in Bozjen’s lower jaw have been replaced with metallic substitutes. The combination gives Bozjen an almost skeletal appearance that many find extremely off-putting. He has a strong jawline, but his nose is crooked having been broken countless times, and the skin on his face is heavily pocked and marked. He wears his dirty brown hair in thin, rope-like dreadlocks that shake and bounce when he moves, and his bloodshot yellow eyes seem to blink far less often than is normal. Most of Bozjen’s leathery pale skin is covered in tattoos of various designs. Some of these tattoos, depicting machine codes and sigils of the Cult Mechanicus, were forced upon him during his years as an Adeptus debt slave; others, crude and jagged like barbed wire, are self-drawn. On the back of his neck, the backs of his palms and his sternum are small metallic rings approximately three inches across; during his years as a debt slave, shock probes would have been plugged into these, administering an agonizing electrical pulse in the event of disobedience.

Personality: There are some people living in the Edge who were meant for better things, those with pure hearts and faith in the Emperor who deserve better than the hot, savage life they were forced into. Some people are simply victims of circumstance, unlucky souls casts into a dark abyss of human depravity and cruelty, who tirelessly swim against the current of adversity and pain to search for meaning in an uncaring world. Bozjen is not one of these people, and what some call hell, he calls paradise. Being addicted to Cynax has rattled his mind, making him erratic and unpredictable, and yet he always seems to be in a good mood no matter how much misfortune comes his way. Bozjen cares almost nothing for the feelings or opinions of others, a disinterest so severe it borders on sociopathy; there are none Bozjen looks out for beyond himself, and as long as he can get paid, he has no qualms with anything he is tasked with. Born a slave and raised a criminal, he is no stranger to violence, and he’s been on the winning side and the losing side of more fights than he can possibly remember. Some in the Edge dream of better things, of life beyond the smog and the blood-scented air; all Bozjen dreams of is a warm bed, a Cynax joint, and a mountain of credits.

Background: Debt slavery is a common practice in countless worlds of the Imperium; it is an easy way for local governments to obtain cheap labor, since the death of a debtor means that their debt is simply passed to their child. Bozjen was born into such a debt, passed on by his unknown mother for reasons lost to time. From his birth until the age of six he was kept in a Mechanicus-owned orphanage, a squat building where children roamed and fought each other like wild animals without supervision or guidance. Once he was deemed old enough to work, he was assigned to manufactorum repair duty – a common job for children. These children, sometimes called “wrigglers” or “grease-worms”, were tasked with crawling through labyrinthine machines in order to find broken parts or jams and repair them. It is dangerous work, and few survive long – it is a testament to Bozjen’s determination and animal cunning that he was able to survive until the age of eleven. It was at this time that the great St. Cyrme’s Riots occurred, a short but violent worker’s revolt across Elysium that left countless millions dead. Bozjen was among the thousands of debt slaves who seized this opportunity to escape the factories and delve deep into the bowels of the city, where Mechanicus overseers either could not find them or could not be bothered to look.

Here, Bozjen first discovered his muse, the one thing that brought joy to his brutal life – Cynax. A powerful opiate-hallucinogen hybrid, Cynax when smoked imbues the user with a lethargic euphoria that lasts anywhere from two to four hours. Although it carries powerful visual effects, mostly changing colors and rippling visuals, it also heightens the senses, particularly vision and hearing. Cynax is also extremely addictive, with a first-time addiction rate of more than sixty percent; Bozjen is one of unknown millions who are irreversibly bound to the drug, and he credits Cynax with allowing him to survive the first few years living in the lower levels of the city. Life in those early years was tough, but he survived thanks to his vicious nature and fighting skills – skills which he quickly honed living on his own. Compared to life as a Mechanicus debt slave, the Edge was practically Bozjen’s Garden of Eden – the first and only place he had ever encountered where he was free to do as he wished.

Now, at the age of 18, Bozjen is a veteran of the dark depths of the Edge – an experienced drug dealer and thug-for-hire, he is almost more animal than man at this point. Times are tough, however, especially for a criminal working on their own, and recent hard times have forced Bozjen to join up with the Fangdogs in order to make ends meet. Bozjen’s background in mechanics and machinery still serves him well in his criminal enterprises, and it was such a background that allowed him to become accepted into the Fangdogs into the first place. Although Bozjen certainly shows due respect to his superiors whenever necessary, he holds no particular loyalty to the gang – he just follows where the money and the drugs come from.

Equipment: Bozjen’s clothes are extremely disheveled and minimal; he prefers to wear little in order to stay cool in the hot depths of the city. He wears a dirty pair of tan leather trousers with large, spiked black boots; he wears nothing on his chest other than a set of studded suspenders that hold his pants up. On his hands he wears rough fingerless gloves, with holes cut out on the backs of his palms where his shock disks are implanted. Strapped to his forehead is a thick pair of worker’s goggles that he wears during combat to protect his eyes; the lenses are cracked making it difficult to see but they have served their purpose well over the years. Slung over his shoulder is a medium-sized satchel that contains his bedroll, his stash of drugs and whatever other meagre possessions he carries; being used to a life of living on the move, he is accustomed to sleeping anywhere he can, and knows wise enough to keep his things on him at all times.

Bozjen’s weapon of choice is a long weighted metal rod approximately two-and-a-half feet long which he has attached a crudely cut piece of sharp metal to. It is an effective weapon that has saved his skin innumerable times; with the flat side used as a club and the sharp side used as a crude cleaver, he can just as easily hack flesh as he can break bone. He also carries two smaller knives on him as backup weapons, but the need for these is rare.

And what shoulder, & what art. Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand? & what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp, Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears, And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
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