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Discussion Starter #1 (Edited)
Rogal Dorn, Defender of Terra and Master of the Imperial Fists. His Blood continues on, not in the form of a Legion of hundreds of thousands in the yellow of the Imperial Fists, but in the Chapters that call themselves his Blood and carry on his legacy. The fearless Black Templars, the daring Invaders, the fanatical Excoriators, the resurgent Celestial Lions,the stubborn Crimson Fists, the proud Iron Knights, the bloodthirsty Executioners, and above all the stalwart Imperial Fists. They are all the Blood of Dorn, and many legends across the Imperium speak of them. This is one such legend.

Plot

For the roleplay you will take on the role of an Astartes from the bloodline of Rogal Dorn; your Chapter of origin is up to you. You are veterans of your Chapter, not renowned heroes or something of the like, but you have served for at least three centuries and your names are known if not lauded. You are not specialists in rank but you are Veterans, and that is why you have been chosen for the honour that your respective Chapters have bestowed upon you. It is 451.M40, and you have all been invited to attend and observe, or participate in some cases, in the 702nd Feast of Blades.

The Feast of Blades is an tournament exclusive to the Blood of Dorn where Chapters send representatives to battle each other, the victor will earn honour and glory for his Chapter and earn custodianship of the Sword of Sebastus, the Dornsblade, and be recognized as a Champion of Dorn. For whatever reason you all have been invited to attend, one or two of you may even be participants in this illustrious affair, and you have all travelled to the warzone of Oriax IV where even now the Imperial Fists battle against the mutant hordes of Kysperina the Bewitching. Honour is awaiting you all, you merely need to claim it.

No matter what happens.


The Rules

1.) No God-modding.
2.) Respect your fellow players.
3.) For each post I want at the very least two paragraphs, and those paragraphs must have at least 5 sentences each of a decent length. I intend to give you plenty to post about so lack of material won't be an excuse.
4.) Updates will be once a week at the least, once every 10 days at most.
5.) Do not deviate from the character sheet.
6.) If you are unable to post warn me ahead of time, especially in a battle situation as your character will suffer injury if you don't post. That is a penalty for not posting and not warning me in advance.


Character Sheet

Name:

Age: (At least 3 centuries of service to your Chapter, otherwise you wouldn't be considered a veteran.)

Chapter of Origin: (The following Chapters are available for your characters. Imperial Fists; Black Templars; Celestial Lions; Crimson Fists; Excoriators; Executioners; Hammers of Dorn; Invaders; Fire Lords; Iron Knights. I do not want popular Chapters overshadowing the others so each Chapter is only available once.)

Appearance: (I want to know what your armor looks like in addition to how you look, Veterans can wear ornate armour so don't feel you have to be plain about it. And lets try to be varied in this as well, not every Space Marine is bald with a craggy and flat face.)

Personality: (I expect this to be the longest or at least the second longest part of your character sheet. Make your character unique, and explain your personality in detail rather than just stating facts and no background behind them. As Veterans you have served for centuries so don't skimp on the details.)

History: (Again as Veterans you will have served for centuries, and you are well known enough to be invited to the Feast of Blades or even asked to participate so feel free to put in some heroic deeds or famous battles. You aren't a new Astartes, so you've seen a lot and i'd like to see that kind of detail.)

Gear: (Your basic gear will be the same. MK VII Power Armour, Frag and Krak grenades, and a Combat Knife. But other then that you may choose what you like, as Veterans you would have access to advanced weapons. Take in mind your Chapter of origin when you choose your weapons and also try to be varied, lets not have 6-8 players with Power Fists and Plasma Pistols. I don't want to see a weapon being used by more than two players.)


Current Characters

I am looking for five players minimum, and eight maximum. We'll see how many we get.

1.) Inhuatli Esteban (Farseer Ulthris) (Crimson Fists)
2.) Marcus Alexander Helstrom aka Watcher (Kaiden) (Imperial Fists)
3.) Krixus Orison (Chaplain-Grimaldus) (Iron Knights)
4.) Isaiah Melech (Words_of_Truth) (Excoriators)
5.) Conric (Unxpected22) (Executioners)
6.) Caderyn (Dark Angel) (Fire Lords)
7.) Solomon Feunand (Deus Mortis) (Celestial Lions)
8.) Antaeus (Angel of Blood) (Black Templars)


And that is all. I hope that this RP gets to happen, because I have a very interesting plot in mind. And a quick note to all who read this and think it sounds simple, pay attention to the "No matter what happens" part.


LotN
 

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I'll hop on board.
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Name: Veteran Sergeant Inhuatli Esteban

Age: 405

Chapter of Origin: Crimson Fists

Appearance: In terms of appearance, Inhuatli is possessed of a dark reddish skin tone; no doubt a result of hailing from the more sun kissed parts of Rynn's world and is about the average Astartes' height. His head is somewhat bald, with the exception of a simple black, greying scalp lock laced with obsidian beads and a tattoo of the chapter symbol on the left side. The veteran's face alone can tell you of his story; though somewhat youthful looking, Inhuatli only has one natural, amber coloured, eye remaining. His right eye was taken by a stray Ork bullet during the defence of Somasi IV and now it is replaced by an azure glowing prosthetic. He also sports a simple beard, tied with a piece of cord.

Being a Veteran of the Crimson Fists crusade company, Inhuatli's power armour is ornately decorated to show this position. It is painted in the in the traditional blue colours of his chapter, as well as the red gauntlets and a red helmet with a white stripe to serve as an indicator of his membership of the 1st company and his rank of Veteran Sergeant. His right shoulder has a skull wrapped in a laurel wreath painted on it whilst the left is emblazoned with the symbol of the Crimson Fists. From his chestplate, hangs six purity seals, as well as inscriptions of worlds he has fought on. It is also adorned with a pure white loin cloth and his left knee is adorned with terminator honours.

Personality: A man of duality, outside of battle, he is a joker; always has been since before his initiation into the chapter and over 4 centuries of service in the Emperor's name has done little to diminish it. Inhuatli's sense of humour is dry, his sense of timing at inappropriate moments. Though his battle-brothers find his jokes tedious at best, but they wouldn't have it any other way. In battle however, the Veteran sets aside his sense of humour in battle, his encounters with the Dark Eldar teaching him that war holds no place for jokes, and becomes like a storm in the heat of battle. Many lifetimes of ranged combat have taught Inhuatli the true value of patience, knowing the appropriate time to act and when to hold back serves as his credo in the Chapter's Sternguard. As a result of the invasion of Somasi IV, hates the Greenskin hordes with every fibre of his being, having lost many a battle-brother to the bloodthirsty whims of the Orks, including those who served with him as part of a squad. However, it is also from the invasion that he has learnt to further respect the unaugmented humans of the Imperium for just as they are capable of the deepest cowardice, they are also capable of the greatest acts of courage when faced with desperate odds. Inhuatli still harbours a dislike of commanding officers who gained their ranks through prestigious birth rather than actually bleeding for it, but overlooks it if they prove to capable enough in their duties.

History: Inhuatli was born to a peasant family that lived in the more arid parts of Rynn's World. Life was hard, compared to the rest of the planet, there was no fertile soil. The locals were forced to hunt the creatures that wandered the wastes and those who were brave enough hunted in the toxic marshes towards the North. It was one day that the Veteran-to-be, aged 12, ventured into the swamps on his own. However, with more curiosity than sense, he had gotten lost. Were it not for his initiative and will to survive, the deeper parts of the swamp would have claimed him. A day into his sojourn, Inhuatli had stumbled across a ragtag group of youths in the swamp. Fearing that they were up to no good, he kept his his distance, but followed in the hopes they would lead him to safety. Four days of following through the most deadly parts of the swamps, Inhuatli's heart stopped as he came across a sight that he'd thought he'd never see; the Astartes of the Crimson Fists, the Emperor's Angels, were there overseeing these youths. With curiosity once more overcoming him, he walked out to see them up close. The chaplain at first seemed confounded at Inhuatli's arrival, but he wasn't the first young lad to randomly emerge outside of those originally chosen to undergo the trials. Alas, Chaplain Agosto was never one to turn down potential recruits who walk out of the mists. At the end of the day, Inhuatli was taken back to Arx Tyrannus, destined to undergo the procedures to make him into an Angel of Death

By Astartes standards, Inhuatli's time in the Scout company was relatively uneventful; They were usually sent to deal with petty revolts and small xenos groups who strayed into their assigned protectorates. It wouldn't be until his first year as a Battle-Brother in power armour that he would enter his first significant battle. The fight was against the Eldar Pirates of Commorragh and when they were beaten back, they took numerous Astartes with them back to the Dark City, some were Inhuatli's squad. As a result of such a dark outcome, the Crimson Fist would silence his razor sharp tongue when in battle, believing that it would bring bad luck to make light of such a situation. The next significant engagement would be against a large planetary rebellion, alongside Imperial Guard of the Onerasi 29th. Though the campaign was successful, Brother Esteban was somewhat disgusted at the expenditure of Guardsmen like Heavy bolter shells; disgust then turned to silent outrage when he learned that most of the Onerasi officers were aristocrats who have not been serving for a long time, some Lieutenants were even fresh from basic training. From that day on, he would harbour an intense dislike of officers who gained their positions through prestigious birth rather than bleeding to earn their ranks.

150 years later, now a Tactical Sergeant, elements of the 3rd and 5th companies would be dispatched to the night-shrouded planet of Morpheus Prime to deal with a small warband of Traitor Marines. When the Crimson Fists landed, they learnt the hard way that the Chaos Marines were not the only danger on this forsaken world. Within the perpetual darkness, lurked alien predators whose very claws and wings can penetrate ceramite as though it were incorporeal. Patience was key here, the creatures relied on the impulsiveness of their prey to make the best of an ambush; however their metabolisms required them to feed constantly, should the prey stay clear then they will hurl themselves so they don't starve to death. As soon as this was realised, the Crimson Fists slowed their advance down, dealing with the Night-spawned creatures and traitors along the way. It would be five months until the Angels of Death finally cleansed Morpheus Prime of the enemy, but such slow advance was worth the small number of casualties. Captain Drakken himself reckoned that if the they rushed the campaign, more Battle-Brothers would have been slain.

The final shaping moment for Inhuatli, now a Veteran of the Crusade company, was Orkish invasion of Somasi IV in 350.M40. He was assigned to the Terminator squads that defended the Mechanicum forges from Greenskin infiltration and sabotage. Slowly but surely, their numbers proved detrimental against the blessed armour of the Terminators. A day before the Lord Hellblade's return, a stray bullet penetrated a weak point in the lens of the helmet, rupturing the eye ball as it pierced deep. Upon learning of the destruction of the thunderhawk that carried fellow Crusade company veterans was shot down and set upon by the Orks. Having to make do with a slapdash ocular prosthetic, Inhuatli was a part of the final charge that finally saw Somasi IV freed from the Greenskin menace by the reinforcements. Alas, he had lost many good brothers during the war, warriors he had known since his recruitment into the Chapter. For that, the Veteran has developed an extremely intense hatred of the Orks, killing any who dare threaten the Emperor blessed Imperium he serves and bringing vengeance to all the honoured Veterans who were so mercilessly butchered by Greenskin.

Gear:
  • Mark VII Power armour
  • Frag and Krak grenades
  • Combat knife
  • Boltgun with Sternguard ammunition
  • Power fist
  • Melta bombs
 

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I'll be up for this, is it ok if I have sometime to think on my character, going to Games Day tomorrow and need to get an early night. The chapter I'm interested in though is the Excoriators. Could I potentially have a power whip?
 

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Working on a Templar. Expect to see a sheet soon!
 

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Name: Watcher (Born Marcus Alexander Helstrom)

Age: 359

Chapter of Origin: Imperial Fists

Appearance: Youthful in appearance for his age, Watcher sports shoulder length dark brown hair and a lightly tanned completion. His facial features are strong and angular, broken only by a light scar across the bridge of his nose and his three metallic service studs. His jaw is covered with a light layer of stubble, "Just enough to light a flare" he often jests. Of average Astartes height and build, he looks every bit the part of a Sorn of Dorn, all but his eyes. A chilling combination of green and blue, almost ethereal to behold, and the last reminder of his once noble heritage.

Watcher has earned many distinctions during his long service to the chapter and his armour is adorned with dozens of honours and badges of glory. His left shoulder guard bears the chapter's sigil proudly, and his terminator honours adorn his right. Purity seals and imperial script decorate his venerable set of Mark VII armour. His most prized award is emblazoned on his helm, the seal of the Inquisition, a reminder of his term of service in the Deathwatch.

Personality: An observer by nature, Marcus is a man of few idle words. While helpful and quick to wit among his brothers, he prefers to spend his down time in contemplation and strategy. Trained in warfare from infancy by his father's advisers, and reinforced by the Chapter, Watcher is always seeking to improve his understanding of battle and can often be found with a data slate or dusty tome on strategy. He is slow to anger and often among the first sought for council by his brothers, and despite the infrequency of his words, knows exactly how to inspire courage in his allies and dread in his enemies. During battle Watcher retains his cool and calm attitude, always seeking to strike for maximum impact with a minimum of wasted movement or ammunition. In his own words "Not flashy merely efficient."

In dealing with those of other chapters or the Imperial guard Marcus is doubly vigilant, outwardly polite and respectful where appropriate but always watching for the taint that tore his homeworld apart.

History: Born to one of the most powerful families of the Veridus system. Marcus was the sixth son of the mighty Lord Gerion Helstrom, a decorated hero turned politician. Around the time of his birth, disputes over future inheritance between his elder brothers led to a split in the allegiance of the family, with two of the later-born leaving to begin their own House. With the family's wealth and estates shared among the eldest sons, Marcus became the inheritor of the family's military tradition and was tirelessly drilled in combat and warfare as soon as he could understand it.

On the eve of his eleven birthday, war erupted. Marcus' treacherous elder brothers had returned to claim what they saw as their birthright, and they were not alone, thousands of the planet's formally loyal defenders made war upon the noble families of Veridus in the name of their new found chaos masters. Lord Helstrom hastily mobilized what remained of the PDF and his household guard and met the traitors in the fields around the estate, however it soon became obvious that this was a battle he could not win. The heretics had allied with warp spawn and even with his brilliant military mind, Helstrom knew this feud could not end in victory. Sending out a distress call with the the highest urgency his status allowed he sold his life dearly.

Eight days later, drop pods rained from the sky as the Imperial fists 4th company arrived to cleanse the taint of chaos, the Astartes were greeted by the sight of a corpse strewn warzone. The last few dozen loyal soldiers were garrisoned inside the Helstrom manor, dangerously low on ammunition, and held together by the courage and leadership of an eleven year old boy. The battle was won by the Imperial Fists but the eldest of the traitor brother escaped. Marcus was tested thoroughly for the weakness that had claimed his elder brothers, and after finding nothing but a fiercely loyal and disciplined mind was accepted as an initiate of the Chapter.

In his first months of service, Marcus quickly acquired his call sign 'Watcher,' he had a keen eye for detail and an even keener aim but seldom spoke outside battle. Seeking to rid himself of any lingering trace of his families weakness, he adopted the callsign as his own, and though officially he is Marcus Helstrom to the Imperium at large; to the chapter he is simply Watcher. As his talent and understanding of warfare increased, Marcus found himself drawn to the art of strategy and the broader aspects of warcraft. While exceptionally skilled with both blade and bolt as all Imperial fists are required to be, Marcus is most lethal with a Stalker Bolter, able to employ the weapon with deadly efficiency in both attack and defense which has made him an exemplary member of the Stern guard and a highly effective devastator squad leader.

Over the next centuries, Watcher mastered the arts and disciplines of the Astartes and became a fine leader and mentor to younger generations of imitates. His greatest test however was found outside of the chapter, in service to the secretive Deathwatch. Called upon to end the threat of newly discovered and hyper agressive breed of insectoid Xenos, Watcher led his team of Astartes into their planet sized hives and deployed the virus bombs designed by the Inquisition. The mission cost the Kill team two outstanding battle brothers, and after his term of service Marcus traveled to both Macragge and Fenris to pay his respects.

Gear: - Stalker Pattern Bolter
- Relic Power Sword "Xiphos"
- Frag and Krak Grenades
- Mk VII power armour
- MK VII 'Deatwatch' pattern helm
 

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Sooo tired after GD today, will also get to writing my character tomorrow. Are Power Whips allowed, just wondering as I think it's characterful for the Excoriators.
 

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Discussion Starter #8
May I join? I have not done an RP yet but would like too. Also seeing as you are looking for 8 but only list 7 options on chapters may I be a Blade of Dorn? My own home brew chapter who are obviously Dornian?
I have added two more Chapters to the options. I would very much prefer you use an established Chapter as it means I can use what is written about that Chapter to create situations unique to characters from that Chapter, things that will speak to them directly as a part of that Chapter rather than generic things.

@Farseer Ulthris

I like it. Accepted.


LotN
 

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Ok, first time doing this but here we go!

Name: Veteran Brother Krixus Orison

Age: 370

Chapter of Origin: Iron Knights

Appearance:
Orison is a touch shorter than an average astartes though is muscular and broad even by their standards. Hailing from a high grab world this is natural to many who originate there and his stature is deemed acceptable within the parameters to have been labeled Homo sapiens, but only just.

Orison has a broad face with a strong jaw line. His hair is cropped short in a militaristic fashion and he bears 3 service studs above his left eye. The right side of his face is marred by a scar running from the temple to his lip, giving him the appearance of a permanent sneer.

Orison wears a suit of Mk7 Aquilla power armour though his left shoulder plate and greave are both studded heresy variants awarded for valour earlier in his service. Like all of his chapter he wears a small shield bearing his chapter logo upon the left of his chest. He wears a tabard at his waist detailing his many battle honours and his armour bears 4 purity seals placed on the shoulders, chest and backpack. The icon on his chest is a stylised aquilla. His helmet is a standard Mk7 variant with enhanced optics on the right eye. His service stuffs are mirrored on the helmet above the left eye. He bears a Crux terminatus on the knee pad of his right leg.

On his waist Orison has his 2 marksman awards on a chain as well as the skull of the arch sorcerer Mathletox who he personally decapitated. The skull is encased in gold and embossed with the aquilla on its forehead.

At his hip is a black scabbard held in place with golden chain, engraved on the scabbard are the names it's previous owners. Sticking from this is the golden hilt of his power sword.

Personality:
Orison is known as being blunt and to the point, he will not suffer time wasting and dithering nor is he one for wasting time on idle chatter when actions could be made. This has led him to e a somewhat uninspired leader. Whilst he excelled in the position as a squad sergeant within the third company he is not destined to rise much further. He may one day command a stern guard squad but will more likely find his place in a post as a company champion or even the honour guard. This is a
Situation he is more than happy with.

Orison is a man of actions not words, though when he speaks it is usually of import, Orison thinks carefully about what he says. His attitude towards idle
Chatter extends to himself also.

A man who places much in skill at arms and honour Orison is well known in the chapters honour cages, readily able to settle disputes with blade rather than words. He will fight furiously to defend his brothers as well as those who he perceives to be honourable or those who show him honour and respect on turn.

History:
Orison does not remember anything of his life before astartes save occasional flashes of deep cold and mountains of the chapters homeworld. Orison began his service with a devastator squad after being promoted to Initiate but found his home once he was promoted to the 4th tactical squad in the 3rd company. Orison preformed many feats of skill at this early stage in his career, gaining his first marksman's honour whilst half blinded by an Ork blade that later scarred his face. By his first century of service Orison was appointed as Sgt of 4th squad after his predecessor was slain during a boarding action against the Eldar.

During the Astelcross crusade Orison earned his position within the 1st company as well as his 2nd marksman's honour after shooting an eldar Aurtarch who was aboard a falcon that was moving at speed, placing his round into the xeno's head as the door was closing. Once on the 1st company he joined one of the Sternguard squads. Whist serving here he ended the Mathletox schism after he decapitated the possessed sorcerer with one blow.

Orison has proved his skill at arms many times, being awarded a magnificent power sword after slaying the Ork Weirdboy Zapzagga in personal combat he also slew no less than 4 Khorne Bezerkers in hand to hand defending the Beta 459 listening post from invasion. For these deeds and many others he was selected to attend the feast of blades.

Wargear:
Mk 7 plate with studded left pad and greave.
Frag and krak grenades
Bolt pistol
Power sword
Modified Bolter with Sternguard ammo and enhanced optical link targeting scopes. (Orison favours the longer range Kraken rounds and usually has these loaded)
 

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Discussion Starter #10
Ok no worries.

I would like to reserve the Iron Knight

Post Reserved for Character sheet to follow by end of Tuesday night.
No reserving. I will only allow a Chapter to be claimed when a character sheet has been posted and accepted.


LotN
 

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Name: Veteran Squad Whip Isaiah Melech

Age: 325

Chapter of Origin: Excoriators

Appearence:

Isaiah is roughly the same stature of a normal marine, his features are rather angular with a strong jaw line and rigid cheek bones, he has several scars criss crossing his face, along with a very small closely shaven mohawk of white hair. He has slag grey eyes and a sombre look to him.

He wears predomiantly Mk VII armour but he has a studded right hand shoulder pad, on his left shoulder pad he bears the Excoriators chapter symbol, the Stigmartyr, a red gauntleted fist with a lightning bolt held in it's palm. All over his armour is several burns, cuts and what looks like damage however each is accompanied by some very minute lettering which describes how he came to get them.

He carries a finally wrought combi bolter with secondary flamer and at his waist appears to be a whip of some sort.

Personality

Isaiah is a sombre man, although he's very taciturn and stubborn when it comes to combat, his poor social abilities may have condemned him to a life of squad leadership however inwardly he is quite happy with situation within the company and would rather maintain his personal control over a squad than to be at the command of someone else.

History

Isaiah has yet to suffer from the "curse" that plagues all the sons of Dorn that bear the ivory white of the Excoriators chapter. His rise to Veteran Squad Whip was relatively slow as he wasn't one for playing politics with the higher command, however he was duitiful and when his squads previous whip was struck down by an Ork Nob, he swiftly took over the leadership of his squad as he was the oldest serving marine, upon taking command he repelled the Orks, garroting the Ork Nob with a line of steel cabling from a nearby collapsed building. Rather than replace him after the battle he was promoted to Squad Whip before eventually becoming the Veteran Squad whip.

It was during his most recent action that he received further attention of his Corpus-Captain when he went toe to toe with a renegade champion of the red corsairs in single combat wielding a power sword and his favoured combi bolter, his enemy wielded a strange power whip, which his enemy used disarm him of his power sword, in turn Isaiah used the flamer part of his combi weapon to screen him from further attacks until he was able get close and personal with the champion, what followed was a battle of sheer strength as Isaiah used every available piece of debris and his fists to bash the champion's head to a bloody pulp. Taking the whip he presented it his commander, it wasn't until he was chosen to represent the chapter in the Feast of Blades that the power whip was returned to him, having been purified and cleansed of all corrupting influences it was given as a gift to celebrate his choosing.

Equipment
Mk VII armour with studded right shoulder pad.
Frag and krak grenades
combat knife
Master Crafted combi flamer
Power Whip
 

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Name: Vanguard Veteran, Axe Brother Conric

Age: 362

Chapter: Executioners

Appearance: He has thick black hair that stands on end, the spiky tips reaching a couple inches above his scalp in the thickest places. He has dark brown eyes, a strong bridged nose, and cheeks covered in black facial hair scruff, one side also full of scarred pockmarks. His lips are neither to thin or too thick, but they are rather pale. The top half of his right ear is missing, damaged during battle.

His metallic dark blue power armor is of Mark VII design. Two black axes cross in an X over his chest. Because he is vanguard, his left and right shoulder pads remain the same dark blue as the rest of his armor, with a dark silver trim, the left brandishing the chapter emblem twin axes over a red shield.

For his best kills, whether they be most honorable, most difficult, or of an incredible importance, he has made a tradition of drawing his finger through their blood and making a streak down his helmet's faceplate. He started on the right side and has progressed to about the halfway point. Of course, the color of the blood dulls overtime, so they are darkened lines, the oldest ones near his right ear piece now barely black smudges. He has preserved them the best he can despite wearing the helmet through countless battles and weather conditions.

A thick chain is wrapped around his right shoulder guard, holding in place a fine black cloth with litanies stitched into it with scarlet thread. It hangs partially over the shoulder pad tucked tight at the bottom corner, the rest flows down to the abdomen and then works back up behind the shoulder for a complete loop. He also wears a tattered black cloth around the groin of his armor with three campaign badges woven onto it.

The lower legs of his armor are finely painted with faint skulls appearing in whisps of grey smoke, making it appear as if Conric is forever walking through the mists of dead souls he has slaughtered. His armor has many scars, just as his body, which he has chosen not to repair due to their significance, further proof of his deeds beyond the records ofthe chapter's death-speakers. There is an Astartes skull attached to the hilt of his chainsword, the handle protruding out of the wide-open mouth.

A Roman numeral five is located on his left knee. (note: I picked fifth company just because every picture I have found of executioner vanguard vets have the V company symbol. Odd to me if they are supposed to follow Codex doctrine.)

Gear: Conric carries a double headed chain axe and a storm bolter for his primary weapons. The teeth on his chain axe are viciously serrated and the artwork phenomenal, with four dark toned paintings of his greatest deeds; one on each side of both blade encasements. It took him decades to master the art form of a large twin bladed axe after using a chainswrod for his first century of service and then a single bladed chain axe. He also carries grenades, and a combat blade heavily detailed in fashion of the Fire Lords chapter.

Personality/History: Conric has become accustomed to be called barbaric, and any marine who has met him from other chapters has become accustomed to him defending his honor with aggressive force. He strictly adheres to his chapter's practices and methods of war. He makes it a point to remind others that the Executioners are a codex following chapter, and he is quite familiar with Guilliman's writings, having read them himself several times and the Codex Astartes even more so.

As many would expect, he supposes, he is a grim individual. He has met the occasional marine in his time of service who was intriguingly happy or humorous in spirit. None of these marines were from his own chapter of course. Though the process of becoming an Astartes drains nearly all that go through it from light hearted emotions, or emotions at all, he has noted that somehow in many chapters certain individuals will gain back these emotions over time.

In the world of the Executioners chapter, he cant see where this would ever have the opportunity to take place. It is a world of constant tension filled with the utmost potential for violence amongst battle brothers. Each one willing to main or even kill one another in name of their honor if need be. This is why other chapters call them barbaric, but this is how the Executioners live and it is how they have become such formidable, durable, and relentless opponents...they spend the time with their own chapter brothers tense and ready to fight at a whim. Even with three death speakers per company, keeping order amongst the Executioners has been a challenge as long as Conric can remember.

Conric has spent over three hundred years living with his Chapter's blood laws. He has a short temper himself, because of it. He also hates being told what to do. As all Executioners are expected to, he forged his own glory and has secured his honor within his chapter, or most of it at least. He knows his place, he knows his doctrine, he knows his chapter's sole purpose of killing the Emperor's enemies and nothing else...He doesn't need to be told what to do. His brothers rely on him in battle to know what to do and be able to do it, as does he rely on them to do the same.

Of the twin feral home worlds, Conric was born on Stygia. Amongst fire and ice, he practically raised himself, as he was expected to by his people. His people would come together when there was a threat to them as a whole that no individual could overcome but otherwise, an individual had to fend for themselves. He cares little for the deeds that got him into the chapter's ranks and dismisses what he remembers of his three century gone childhood with a wave of his hand.

He considers his first real memories to be those that began his long list of notations for his company's death speakers to read off when recounting his glory carving.

As a neophyte, he hated that he was forced to be a part of the small amount of long-range support the battle brothers brought to war with them. For the longest time the sniper rifle in his hands appalled him. It screamed to him that he was just an accessory. He was too ambitious for it. He wanted what the battle brothers wanted, to get in close to the enemy, to kill them in glorious slaughter up close and personal. But during a particular battle that had gone sour, that rifle served him better than he ever would have imagined it could. It happened when he discovered that if the battle brotehrs actually ended up needing long range support, then they needed it badly. Three squads ahead and below him were deep into an overwhelming number of an alien race who attached AI components to their armor. There was no honor it, the machines were fighting the battle for them; calculating, moving limbs to block or shield with utmost efficiency. As Usual the battle brothers has dived straight into close quarters combat, but this was the first time Conric saw it utterly fail. As soon as he saw the first Executioner's face as the battle brother turned around, he reacted immediately where the other scouts beside him hesitated. there were gaps in the armor he could see through the scope. He scored hit after blood spraying hit into the xenos' weak points. The Executioners never fall back, he learned, but he got the enemy off their toes and he was recognized for it. That battle alone launched him towards fast becoming a wearer of power armor.

After about 80 years or service, Conric had gotten used to the 'barbaric' ways of his chapter without realizing it, hardly even knowing the ways in which the Executioners differed from others. That is, until a decade long war against a hefty Ork incursion in the Segmentum Tempestus. For the first six years it was a joint operation with their founding chapter, the Imperial Fists. Since being a battle brother, he had heard of other companies meeting with or fighting with the Imperial Fists, they being the only chapter the Executioners had kept any real ties with, but he never actually met them himself. He first met one on the High Executioner's battle barge, then again in the deployment zone...and again next to them firing their bolters in dirt trenches. Each time he noticed more and more that the Fists acted a certain way towards he and his brothers, as if they didn't trust them 100%.

During the seventh year, another chapter came to support the fight, the Red Talons. The Executioners and Red Talons got along horribly, and the Talons dislike of the chapter was evident from the start, and was in no way subtle as it seemed to be from the Imperial Fists. If the Fists hadn't also been involved, The Executioners may easily have engaged the Red Talons as much as they had the Orks. To prove their superiority, the Executioners did what they do best, and severed the head of the Enemy leader, both literally and metaphorically. Fifth company was first to the Warboss, and Conric was right at his Captain's heels. Regretfully he didn't land the killing blow, but he did land the first.

Petty arguments that stemmed from that war with the Orks, many of which snowballed from fights with Imperial Fists and Red Talons, caused serious clashes amongst the Executioner leadership for decades to come. Leading his force to the defeat of the war boss was the first of many reason why Conric's company captain, Captain Osranik, felt he should challenge the High Executioner for his position. As was the chapter's custom, it was his captain's right to do so if he wished.

Osranik trusted Conric highly, but despite Conric's disapproval of the idea, Osranik challenged the High executioner anyway. Upon the High Executioner's barge where the bout began to unfold, one of the High executioner's veteran axe-brothers did the unimaginable, feeling so disgusted at the thought of Osranik taking the place of High executioner moved in to intervene and attack Osranik from behind. Once again Conric acted without hesitation when others did, and tackled his battle brother to the ground. They began a fight of their own while the captain and master continued on. Conric felt satisfied that the toughest dual of his life was one with another Executioner. He prevailed, first sticking his blade through his brother's torso before the beheading. However, captain Osranik was defeated and killed, as Conric had predicted would happen. The High Executioner promptly promoted Conric to fill the veteran's position. No one present knew why the other Executioner had made such a foolish decision, perhaps he knew he would die but had decided seeing Captain Osranik fail was simply more important than his life. No one would know now. It is that Executioner's skull that Conric has attached to his chainswords hilt.

Now that Conric was in his new position near the High Executioner, and more than a whole new century of battles under his belt in the vanguard, he began meeting more and more other veteran marines from the other companies, naturally, as well as from other chapters. Some of which he has learned he should be seeing at the upcoming 702nd feast of Blades.

(I may be adding a part on how he specifically knows one of the other characters if and when a certain someone posts their sheet.)
 

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My character is up, ended up completely different to my original idea, but I love it when that happens.
 

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I kept mine deliberately understated since I see the chapter he is part of as pretty understand and not well known, echoing how they came across in Legion of the Damned book.
 

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Name: Caderyn, Champion of the Fire Lords.

Age: 352.

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!
 

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Aye, you are correct. There's not much on the Fire Lords, so I run amok with them. :p
 
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