Name: Caderyn, Champion of the Fire Lords.
Chapter: Fire Lords.
Appearance: Tall and handsome with a full, well-defined face. His cheekbones are angular, encompassing a thick-lipped, petulant mouth. His eyes are those of a Pyran mountain lion, purest, palest green, intelligent and hungry. As is befitting of a Fire Lord, Caderyn's skin is painted completely blue, a terrifying, hellish display of veterancy. Some - Like those of the Black Templars - May go as far to label this custom pagan, borderline heretical. The Fire Lords however, forever the warlords, welcome such judgment. A straight, unbroken nose cleaves his face; slightly upturned, giving him an arrogant, condescending look. Caderyn wears his red-blonde hair short, cut to the scalp neatly - Long hair is, after all, a potential grip for a bold enemy. A golden torc, emblazoned with swooping eaglets, encircles his throat. A raven, the Pyran bringer of death, is tattooed upon Caderyn's left cheek.
Beneath his plate, Caderyn is well-muscled, his body a weapon in itself, relatively untouched by the ravages of war. A single, bleached scar runs from his left breast, down across his stomach, before terminating at his hip - A painful reminder of Caderyn's less fortunate days, gifted to him by a particularly perfidious Eldar reaver.
Caderyn takes, like many of the Fire Lords, great pride in the care and function of his power armour. It is the scarlet and gold of his Chapter; polished to a mirror-sheen. Upon his left pauldron, Caderyn displays the symbol of his brotherhood proudly - A clenched fist being devoured by flames, picked out with rubies and obsidian. Flames are cut into the palms of his gauntlets, glowing with a curious inner-light that, thus far, Caderyn has declined to explain to outsiders. His helm is an ornate affair - A death-mask, serene and angelic, tears of bronze and platinum adorning the cheeks. For those observant enough, they will realise that the death-mask is Caderyn's own, a somewhat morose and fatalistic gesture.
Equipment: Amongst the tribes of Mundus Pyra, it is whispered that upon the painful, blood-spilling birth of their world, the Emperor gifted the Pyrans with two things - The sword and the shield. In war, Caderyn carries both. Illuminos, his sword, is double-edged, the blade decorated with a coiling fire-wyrm, stained rust-red by the cutting of a thousand throats; the pommel shaped like a pair of entwined, golden hands with pearl fingernails and platinum rings. His combat-shield is circular and covered with animal motifs, swirls and spirals. It is a great source of pride for Caderyn, the result of a day's worth of work, beaten and twisted into shape from the richest of Pyran metals. Caderyn also carries a serrated combat-knife and an unconsecrated boltpistol, the latter a replacement for Caderyn's former weapon; still heavy and unfamiliar in his grip.
Personality: As befits a warrior of the Fire Lords, Caderyn is a mercurial figure. His moods are as tempestuous as nature itself; sometimes Caderyn is quiet and brooding, lost deep in thought, whilst others he is loud and opinionated,unafraid to accuse and banter with his companions. Caderyn's fighting style echoes that of his ancient ancestors, to many appearing untrained, fearless, wild and savage - Though, to any swordsman, it is th exact opposite - Powerful and direct, designed to obtain the quickest decapitation. It is said amongst the Fire Lords that an enemy's soul is safe-kept in the head, and as such, Caderyn is an headhunter - Skulls being the greatest of trophies. In his long, honoured career as a champion, Caderyn has taken a hundred-and-fifty-five heads of renowned enemies, wading into the thick of battle to seek out the most ferocious of warriors. This secular fighting style has not won Caderyn many friends amongst the Fire Lords, but it has won him respect and fame as a great swordsman - One of the greatest, it is said, that the Chapter has known.
Caderyn is neither cruel or kind, though he has shown both in his times, being a somewhat cold character. He is constantly alert, to an almost paranoid degree, never arms reach from his blade and shield. Even allies are not exempt from his scrutiny; having been betrayed more-than-once by those he would call friend. This readiness for bloodletting, this detached, unconcerned nature, leaves many unwilling to know Caderyn. But, the champion cares little. Whilst he does enjoy company, he does not favour it. If alone, Caderyn can lose himself in thought - Hold his very own private symposium, something which he does too often. Despite being a warrior, Caderyn is also a poet and a reader; studying religious tomes, guides to war, sycophantic autiobiographies. Caderyn speaks a thousand dialects, some wholly, others partially - Including Fenrisian, Macraggian and Cadian. Despite these facts, Caderyn is not arrogant naturally, but it was rather an ugly trait drawn out by the arrogance of others.
Background: Mundus Pyra is a broken, twisted world. Great oceans of lava, visible from orbit, scour the land - Poisonous gasses rendering many of the planet's mass uninhabitable to even the most advanced of bioforms. Sharp, dagger-like mountains jut from the surface, thousands of feet high, sheer and unwelcoming. Marshes of mud, as thick and clinging as molasses, render even more of the land inhospitable. To an outside observer; an Imperial explorator or a rogue trader, the world would be categorised as a death world - Not unlike Catachan or Miral - But to the tribesmen of Mundus Pyra, it is but one thing - Home.
Caderyn was born amongst these tribes, the son of a war-chieftain, Caragar. His folk, the bronze-skinned Bretarnae, were fierce and barbaric, worshipping the Emperor as a black-skinned, golden-eyed war-god. The shamanic rulers of the Bretarnae, the Harwarda, proclaimed that once ever generation, all boys of age must compete in a great bloodletting ritual. It fell upon Caderyn, as the eldest son of the strongest chieftan, to bring honour to the Bretarnae.
He set off, carrying but a spear and shield, from the walled safety of his home-fort into the wilds. With his hair braided and his skin painted blue, the boy was surely a nightmarish figure, stalking through the steam-shrouded wastes, chanting in his native tongue. He was not alone, however, a dozen other boys following in his wake, each equally as naked and equally as bloodthirsty. Four of these Bretarnae boys would fall to Caderyn's own hand, challenging his leadership and earning the price of insubordination. Of the other eight, Caderyn's boyish impatience would eventually grant them death, also. And so, at age ten, Caderyn took his first skulls.
Stumbling across the pit-dwelling of a fire-wyrm, the Bretarnae boys entered as one group, spears jutting out over the rims of their shields, water-soaked leather hiding their faces. In the darkness, dry, scorched bones cracked beneath their feet. Deeper into the cave they ventured, foolishly daring the hell-beast to reveal itself. With a silent cry of blistering furnace-heat, the fire-wyrm was upon them, claws rending and fangs crushing. Five of the Bretarnae fell within as many heartbeats, lifeless and mangled, eyes staring on in horror. Caderyn alone was unfazed, launching his spear at the beast's chest, where it pierced with an unholy howl. Two more of the boys fell, crushed beneath the fire-wyrm's paws, as it sought out the offending hand.
Unarmed, save for his shield, Caderyn bellowed for his remaining companion to act. He did so, turning and fleeing, an act that ended in the jaws of the mighty serpent. Alone, armed with only a shield, Caderyn stood his ground. The fire-wyrm was a true monster, it's hide hardened by heat, one eye closed beneath red-raw scar tissue. But Caderyn was bold and fearless, straightening, embracing the prospect of death. The fire-wyrm lunged, and at the last moment, Caderyn rolled aside, bringing the rim of his shield down upon the beast's snout with a crunch. Shards of teeth and bits of tongue erupted forth with a pained howl, the sole, hateful eye searching the darkness for Caderyn.
The Bretarnae princeling did the unthinkable. Snatching up a broken spear, he leapt onto the fire-wyrm's back, skin blistering where it touched the creature's hide. It bucked and roared, crushing rock and Caderyn's corpse-band beneath it, attempting to dislodge it's killer. But Caderyn, emboldened by the prospect of death, simply rammed the spear into the fire-wyrm's brain-pan. It slumped, twitching, throwing Caderyn across the chamber. Bloodied and bruised, with bleeding, cracked thighs, Caderyn emerged victorious. He carried the still-warm body of the fire-wyrm home, upon a sled of scales, much to the awe of his people. When he eventually entered the gates of his town, he found a great commotion. He was an hero, an Emperor's-send, bringing honour and pride to the Bretarnae. And soon, he realised why. His father and the Harwarda surrounded a figure, a giant in gilt, too broad and too muscled to be one of the Bretarnae.
In a language that was too sweet, too rich, the giant informed Caderyn that he would be accompanying him to a place where only the dead went - The heavens.
And so it was, that Caderyn of the Bretarnae became a Space Marine. His induction was relatively unworthy of note; his body accepting the gene-forged organs of the Astartes with little problem. Caderyn excelled as a Scout, finding that the treacherous, wild and cunning methods of the Tenth Company suited him well - And he soon earned his marksman honours, emptying the skull of the Ork warlord Nagara Toofsmasher on Vicora - Slipping away into the darkness like the wraith of Pyran myth. But this was not his destiny.
His true-calling was that of the blade. Elevated into the Eighth Company; Caderyn soon honed his skill as a swordsman, besting many of his brothers in the dueling-halls. On the hulls of starships, in jungles and searing deserts, in cathedral-cities and hives, wherever Caderyn's sword swung, only blood flowed. He was unstoppable, a comet, the brightest and most ferocious of the Eighth. This, soon, caught the attentions of his superiors. His Captain applauded him, placing him among his own honour-guard after but a century of faithful service.
It was here that he would remain, for a century and half, leading countless pyromaniac charges with his sire. However, on the mining world of Arcatanus, Caderyn's lord fell to the poisons of an Eldar reaver. Blinded by hatred and the desire for vengeance, Caderyn too allowed his guard to fall, and paid for it. The Eldar's sword, a vibrating, nigh-on invisible blade, cleft Caderyn's chainsword in two and sliced through armour, flesh and bone. The Eldar fled, carrying the Eighth Captain's lukewarm body with them, disappearing into the night. Steaming in the cold air, Caderyn grasped onto life, vowing that one day, somewhere, he would slay the Xeno that bested him.
The Arcatanus Campaign broke Caderyn. It left him hollow and embittered, locked away in his own private chambers, sneering and spiteful. Was it not his responsibility, as shield-bearer of the Eighth, to safeguard his sire's life? Had he not failed to stop the blade of the Eldar reaching his Captain's throat? These questions occupied Caderyn's mind for days upon end, haunting him. He was, by the agreement of each and every of his brothers, broken. It was the intervention of the First-Captain, one Brenos Phorus, that saved Caderyn from a life of melancholic misery.
Brenos was an unrelenting figure, unforgiven and prone to violent outbursts. Summoning Caderyn to the training chambers, Brenos proceeded to beat him bloody. Weakness and self-loathing, he said, had no place amongst the warriors of the Emperor. It was an unforgivable sin, a cancerous growth that would fester until Caderyn slipped into the grasp of the Archenemy. The likes of the Heresiarch Horus, Brenos grunted, fell because of such vices. When the two were done, Caderyn laying at the First-Captain's feet, Brenos offered Caderyn a new life; a place within the hallowed First Company, the hundred-and-twenty strong Teulu.
Caderyn accepted, and as he rose from the bloodied ground, found himself reforged. When word reached the Fire Lords of the 702nd Feast of Blades, Caderyn was undoubtedly the sole representative. He, aboard the frigate Fire-wyrm, was alone sent to the Oriax IV warzone. And it would be there that Caderyn would either be cemented in legend among the Sons of Dorn, or lost to the annals of time.
And there he is, my first character in nearly a year; he's not great, and there's a lot left to be desired, but I hope he makes the cut. Me and Unxpekted would like our characters to have some form of history, so I imagine we'll both edit something in about that... Looking forwards to roleplaying with you all once again!
Nyctophobia- Fear of the Dark Angel.
"No one ever spoke about of those two absent brothers. Their separate tragedies had seemed like aberrations. Had they, in fact, been warnings that no one had heeded?"
'Killing a man is like fucking, boy, only instead of giving life you take it. You experience the ecstasy of penetration as your warhead enters the enemy's belly and the shaft follows. You see the whites of his eyes roll inside the sockets of his helmet. You feel his knees give way beneath him and the weight of his faltering flesh draw down the point of your spear. Are you picturing this?'
'Is your dick hard yet?'
''What? You've got your spear in a man's guts and your dog isn't stiff? What are you, a woman?'