Remnants of the Earth

Message Incoming -Captain Xavier Lockhart to Pilot Royal Banning Lockhart
Hey Banning,

Holy shit, Pilot Royal? That’s dedication. Wow. I can’t say I’m really surprised though. You’re a Lockhart after all. But that isn’t why I’m emailing you. I know this is kind of out of the blue like this. And I know it’s been years. I heard you were having a baby. Good news tends to travel fast don’t it? Even to shithole rocks like this one, but I just wanted to say congratulations.

I’m going to be in Haviah soon. Probably by the time you receive this message. It’s asking a lot, believe me I know, it’s just I can’t go and live out the rest of my life not knowing my grandchild. And you have every right to hate me. I don’t deserve a second chance, but I guess I’m going out on a limb here. I want to start over; bury the hatchet, clean slate, start fresh. I’m not the same man I used to be. And I know you aren’t either. I’m going to be in Haviah for a few months. If you don’t reply, I’ll understand. But I’m hoping you’ll change your mind.

-Captain X. Lockhart.

It had been more than a month since receiving that email. Banning lost track of how many times he’d read it over and over. So many that he’d memorized it word for word by heart. That when he told Izzy about it, he hadn’t even had to open the message to visually show her what he meant. He just recited it aloud, closed his eyes and seeing the small mound that was showing on her belly.

3 months. Had it really only been three months? It seemed like only yesterday that she’d called him over for dinner. Went all out, made all his favorite foods and desserts and even had cracked open a cold one for him. Banning remembered sitting at that table, practically salivating at the foods in front of him. Steak and cake and burgers, and a homemade pizza. Banning was almost beginning to feel uncomfortable at how much he could eat. And when she cracked open that beer…  Only then did he get the distinct feeling something was wrong.

Was this just her way of letting him down easy? Did he step on her shoes too? Goddamn. And…

“So how do you feel about having babies?”

His eyebrows stayed to his damn hairline for about five minutes. “"If it means I get to be a better dad than my dad, I'll take a million. If it means PR is running a campaign for adoption, those flight suits can give gnarly wedgies.” That was the before. The after came in the form of Banning rather quiet when she told him. Then in that not so vague silence, he broke it with a scream and promptly ran out the door..

In hindsight it probably looked bad, leaving like that after being told that she was pregnant. The screaming probably made it worse.  Banning only knew that when he came back, he’d never seen her so hysterical before. His view, briefly blocked by a massive chinchilla, had also been disrupted by a bouquet of flowers and a copy of her favorite movie. He dropped it all on the table next to that uneaten pizza. Wrapping his arms around her and assailing her beneath an assault of kisses was instinctual, and he clung to her when tears of his own slid down his cheeks. Did she really think he would leave her like that? No. She was his and he was hers and having it any other way made Banning’s belly somersault into a terrible sickness. This was his baby, and if he could do anything to help ease her into that transition he would.

There was no question, no hesitation in the slightest, moving in, sharing a home with her. She was his family now, and with or without that baby, she always would be.

Which just made it all worse when he read that email. And read it again to make sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him. Banning’s chest hollowed out and he wanted to be sick, wanted to feel anything other than the emptiness that plagued him when he thought of Xavier coming to Haviah, of even being on the same planet as him. Why couldn’t he just die on that rock? Why couldn’t that just be the end of it? But what if it was true, what if he was different. And could he really live without having let his child know where he came from?

Bury the hatchet, he’d said. Clean slate.

Banning hadn’t realized he’d been crying that morning. It was still dark, and his body remained curled up beside that small rounding belly, Lady Gwendolyn Fuzzybelly the First in the far corner of the room. Emergencies only that was for. Banning wiped his eyes with the bed sheets and kissed at Izzy’s belly and cheek before he got up. Breakfast wasn’t going to make itself. 

The response had been short to the previous night. Come over for dinner, the Citadel, and don’t bring anything, but that probably wouldn’t stop him. Banning felt no need to get dressed up. A tank top and joggers would do. Not even bothering with shoes either. Just flip flops because it’d be a waste of energy if this proved to be nothing more than him trying to scope out business he had no right to know. Banning made pizza, and was tempted to open up that bottle of wine. It was never too early to get shitfaced…

But he stopped himself and set the bottle back on the rack. That bottle in particular he reserved for when Izzy could drink again, they would have it together, and he’d felt the urge to drink a lot less since moving in with her. Banning didn’t know when he’d arrive. Somewhere in the vicinity of 7 o’clock, or so Xavier’s email had stated.

Banning slumped onto the corner of the couch, staring at the blank screen of the TV. His left hand twitched, grasping at the cloth of his sweats, fist clenched so hard his knuckles turned white. “If that motherfucker is late, I’ll rip his goddamn head off,” Banning growled.

{Open by Request}

The job would be simple. Easy money. Credits to buy him supplies for a week. Or a gun. That...was a little more difficult to obtain. The whip at his side usually seemed little more than ornamental. It was an old Edani wrangling whip, used mainly for taking down steer or runaways by those in the trafficking business. The whip itself was sixt feet long with a barbed popper at the tip. The barb belonged to his father. The electrical switch was his own touch. A shock ripe enough to burn the hair right off your nuts.

Not that he knew from experience. Not at all.

Okay, maybe that one time. It was just a test phase.

Nero internally shuddered and tilted his head, heterochromatic eyes flickering to the neon signs around him. Directories leading to and from here and there. Docking station 34b-2 was where he was at right now, and up ahead of him was a patrol walking just right out of the doorway. The job was simple.

Get to the drop location, extract the package and take it to its destination. That package happened to be sitting in a jail cell, and needed to not be in a jail cell. It wasn’t that hard, and anyone worth their salt in the transportation business could see that. Libra station, though, not a lot of folks were up for that. Space station far too big and rigid to fit in your pocket, and it was easy to get lost if you weren’t careful. Nero was never careful, but then, what couldya do?

He shrugged out of the jacket he was wearing, the little AV logo on the left breast embroidered in raw and ruined leather. It was an old jacket and the insignia meant nothing. Where did he get it, anyway? Probably nicked it from some store when passing through Tynova. He didn’t like spending too much time in one place. Stagnancy made his palms itch, and his heart rate pick up.

He was getting antsy, just standing here, casually beside the docking port entrance and he wiggled his toes loosely in his boots. The palms were starting to itch and he glanced up at the Libra station patrol walking through the docking entrance. They were huge, a pair of them, burly and easily dwarfing Nero by a full head. Size didn’t matter to him.

And he eyed the weapons they had on their holsters, and the batons beside them. Thooose would be a bit of a problem. But then that was the point wasn’t it. Nero wiggled his toes again, taking in a deep breath and rolled his shoulders again. The duster of his jacket was off and so were his pants in layered shirt. As he stepped forward into the LED lighting, Nero held his breath, standing there in nothing more than his loosely tied boots that rose up mid-shin, the belt of his whip holstered around his shoulders and waist, and boxer briefs with the phrase “Start Fire Here” bedazzled on his ass.

“Game face. Game face.” It was now or never.

“Good Morning, Libra Station!” he cried out as he casually walked over to those patrol units, in their brazen blue jump suits and held his arms above his head. “Good morning, Officers what a lovely day we’re having, ain’t it. Lovely day to be alive. Lovely day to get in all this fresh recycled oxygen into my lungs. Love it. It’s great! Fanfuckingtastic!”

“Move along sir, this is not an area for civilians to be running around. Much less tourists in their fucking underwear!”

“I would, buuut, ya see, I kinda got lost. And lost my clothes on the way here. This place is fucking huge.”

“Get lost! We’re on duty here.”

“Looklooklooklooklooklook, I’m not trying to be a nuisance, but I mean, you’re not very good soldiers if you can’t even help a guy find his pants. Some shithole this turned out to be!” Nero grinned at the pair as one scowled and the other one glanced at his partner.

“Last warning, asswipe. Get the fuck out of here.”

A lick of his lips and he could feel his heart rate slowing down, just enough to push out everything that was kind of clouding his mind. “Come on. Show a little mercy! These aren’t even my shorts! I found them in a bar bathroom. No wonder your asses lost the war.” Nero sneered and threw his head back in a cackle, the little slits at the edges of his mouth opening a little wider.

“What the fuck did you say? Scum like you comin’ in here, talking big like that,” the soldier that was scowling stepped forward towering over Nero. “You got something on your mind.”

“You need a breath mint because, whoa, hot dogs at 7 AM. Damn!” And with that Nero rolled his wrist back and shot the base of his palm into the patrol’s nose. A shower of blood spewed out and rained on Nero’s arm, leaving the guy reeling backwards. Too close for comfort that one.

The second man wasted no time and pulled out the security baton from his belt and crashed it against Nero’s ribs. “HOLY SHIT! GAME FACE!” Nero made a high-pitched noise and staggered sideways. Two against one was hardly fair. Even if he was holding back. The baton came side winding again, this time buzzing with a mad electric spark that burn his flesh and made Nero suddenly smell burnt toast.

Nero fell this time and rolled hard to the side. He groaned, those shocks reverberating something mad. He groaned and held his gut. “Is that all you got!?” he hissed, his face red, and trying not to cackle as Mr. Bloody Nose recovered and kicked him firmly in the gut. Nero grabbed his ankle when he tried it a second time and pulled him over his torso, exposing his groin and Nero slammed his fist upward with all he had, cracking knuckles against those family jewels.

“Game face! Game face!” Another shock from a baton and Nero yelped, squirming on the ground as they plucked him up and whipped him around to place restraints on him.

“Drag this stupid fuck right off to a goddamn cell! Ugh, my fucking nose! You’re gonna pay for that one, dickhead!” The larger of the two growled, and pulled up the com on his shoulder, calling in the disturbance.  "Assault on a patrolman. And lookie here.  Armed too!" He laughed and yanked the whip from the holster on the side. "You're gonna have a great time."

Yup, the job was simple all right. So far, so good.

Prologue
+ NAME + Sash'avir Bella Beckett
+ ALIAS + “Sasha”, “Officer Beckett”, “Inspector”, “Bella” (Only his mama can call him this), "Nines" (Online handle)
+ AGE + 32
+ GENDER + Male
+ ORIGIN + Solarta, Aedolis
+ SPECIES + Human (Old Essyrni)
+ RESIDENCE + Margad, Aedolis (Green and Mean, son)
+ OCCUPATION + Military / Police Investigator
+ FACE + Dusty Black hair / Silver eyes
+ STATURE + 6'0 / 196 lbs.
+ SEXUALITY + Pansexual




__________________IN-DEPTH

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION
Sasha isn't bad to look at, although he considers himself average in comparison. He is not one to squander a compliment if handed to him though. He has a rich umber tan, with a choppily cut mop of dusty black hair, braided along the sides and around the back, and the top loosely disheveled.  His job keeps him fit for the most part, athletic and enjoys recreational body building, and martial arts.

His eyes are an odd silver that refract light, giving them a rainbow effect when people look at them. In the dark they seem little more than reflective disks, a cold metallic empty stare. He has tattoos on the back of his ears, where studs line the entire lobe of his left one. And the index finger is missing from his right hand, so he's gotten into the habit of shooting with his middle finger.

Down his spine is an orchid, from the base of his shoulder blades, drawn upside down, with other stems branching out along his ribs, and at the etched V of his hips.

PERSONA
Personally speaking, Sasha is about as subtle as a dragon in a porcelain shop. Conceal, don't feel, and deflects criticism with delightfully scathing humor. Part self-amusement, part defensive measure. Got a shortcoming but you're too focused on him? He'll be more than happy pick at those scabs for you. Things just tend to be easier that way.

Deep down, he's a realist. At least with the important things. He has no expectations. To him, it's much better to be pleasantly surprised than horribly disappointed. He isn't bitter, quite the contrary in fact. He wants to hope for the better, simply by expecting the worst. Life will not go your way in every particular.

But much in that way, there are no damaged goods. Second chances and all that. If it's broken, try and fix it. If it quits, then at least you did what you could. And that's all anyone can do.

Sasha can succumb to momentary bouts of paranoia, be it his hackles are standing on end or there's a change in the air. A sickening gut feeling that at any point in time something bad is going to happen. It doesn't always, but it's gotten him out of situations that otherwise would have gotten just hair short of his head being blown off. If he starts smelling burnt toast, something's up.

- Things! -
- Distrustful of birds. In particular crows. He tends to be able to have lengthy conversations with them and they're smartasses that never ever have anything nice to say. They also like to follow him around. He's convinced they're stalking him. On the other end: Has never been friends with cats. Ever. He gets close and they hiss and swat at him. Sasha just can't catch a break.

- Likes bracelets. He has lots of them. Loves the leathery braided ones and has a collection of old-timey hand cuffs too. He's even made some with a broken link to look like bracelets.

- Loves action movies. Huge martial arts film buff.  The cheesier the better. If senseless enough he can sometimes be seen reenacting scenes from these movies, and will recite them line by line.

MAGIC/ABILITIES
TBA

RELATIONSHIPS
TBA

HISTORY
Sad Panda? Maybe. Probably. Definitely.

Epilogue
Current Threads

Complete Threads

[M just in case]

Sometimes he dreamt of Kincaid. Thought back to the way they used to touch, a life that was a thousand years ago and a million light years away. Maybe not that long ago. As distant as they were, wherever they were, if they still even existed.

Time was odd that way. After a while, everything seemed to blend together. Normally, he could put the pieces together just fine. He wasn't picky. The bad memories were always much more coherent than the good ones, the synapses maintaining connection for much longer. When he concentrated really hard, Nero could focus long enough and the flashes persisted. And he sustained the thought of his old friend. Remembering the touch on his skin. 

They were gone now, or dead. Or both. Didn't really matter now. Hindsight was always clearer, more focused, and right now all Nero Foretti wanted to do was crash and burn on the tail end of an ecstasy that could do little more than leave a slow burn in his veins. That was what he liked most.

The only thing burning right now was the cigarette at the end of his lips. And he took a long drag. Nothing fancy. In fact it was a classically rolled smoke that he had grown accustomed to doing himself out in the Frontier. One of the only good things he learned to do on that bloody red rock. No pun intended. Fingers idly scratched at the scars on his arm, where he could stil sometimes feel the points of teeth tearing into his flesh.

He’d been careless then, even he could admit that. Very little had changed in that thirty years. Or was it forty? Another thoughtful drag on that smoke and Nero adjusted the hood over his face.

There would be a crash and burn here at some point. Maybe. But not tonight. The light down here suited him just fine. Artificial and didn’t make his skin all tingly. That was always nice. He couldn’t say he was fond of Aedolis. But he had a few contacts here. Just the ones that could tell him when another like himself came through, or if there was a decent job to be had somewhere. This time, he was here because the going had been rough, and the vine had been dried.

He just needed one good lead. Point his nose in the right direction so it were. The hooded jacket was scuffed from use, the leather worn out and he stuffed his hands in his pockets, lips playing at the smoke’s end, coming up the steps to this end of an upper level line. The train. That rush of adrenaline, it made his hair stand up on end. It was so tempting, how all it would take was one little step off that platform and he’d become mush against those tracks. Little more than a mark of red paste. That would solve so many problems.

It was little more than a temptation. And there would always be another time when he would get that opportunity. Night time now, he always felt a little more alive. He would still meet with his contact. Find out if there was anything worth looking for, then buy his way back off this damn toxic wasteland.  Maybe to Cancer, maybe to Libra station. He’d flip a poker chip. See which one the fat lady landed on.

Nero sniffed the air, and his hair stood on end again. There was no train coming…..  It was something else. Juice box.  Gaaawds…  Don’t jizz. Not here, not in public, he quietly told himself. But nothing could still the shiver that coursed down his spine. Nero blinked those heterochromatic eyes and he licked his lips. That psychic aura, strong deep and fluid, was so utterly tantalizing. How on this godsforsaken rock could he resist.

“Well ain’t I a lucky boy,” he murmured quietly to himself and quietly let some distance gain between his and his target. He didn’t need them to be in immediate visuals for him to tail them. He could follow that scent anywhere. It didn’t take long for it to become embedded into his memory.  His focused realigned itself. Double vision coming together at last.

Oh….what was this.  Another one?

Yup, this was his lucky night after all.

Prologue
+ NAME + Indigo Rook
+ ALIAS + Pilot Echo Dorian Rook, “Dorian” (His people name), “Deego”
+ AGE + 97
+ GENDER + Male
+ ORIGIN + “Pyre Town”- Haviah, Aedolis (Mid-Level)
+ SPECIES + Kulshedra! 8D
+ RESIDENCE + Haviah, Aedolis
+ OCCUPATION + Marketing/PR “Desk Jockey”, Former Scout
+ FACE + Cerulean Hair / Cerulean eyes
+ STATURE + 6'6” / 244 lbs.
+ SEXUALITY + Pansexual




__________________IN-DEPTH

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION
Average sized for a male Kulshedra, Indigo, or as he prefers “Deego”, has always been lithe and slim. Deego's build tends to be wiry and lean, he's tall and has some muscle. However being at a desk has made him a little flabbier than normal. His split jaw is usually spread into a grin too stupid to be scary, and his eyes a deep cerulean forming into proper predatory slits. Indigo scales slash across his forehead, slant down across his left eye, nose bridge, and lower right jaw.

His skin is a nice natural tan, where scales decorate his collarbone and down his spine, a deep rich indigo trailing to the base of is tail and around his hips toward his groin. Splashes of scales pattern between his abdominals and chest.

Being inside has very little reason for Deego to give a shit how he looks. He's scruffy and his hair is long and sometimes singed at the ends. He walks with a bit of a limp, and experiences stiffness in his right knee.  A long scar runs along the inside of his right thigh and on the inside of his ankle toward his clawed feet. No scales grow there.

PERSONA
Deego is an idiot. Or maybe he's just really good at pretending to be in order to deflect anyone from dumping any real responsibility on him. Or maybe he's played at it so long, he's forgotten that somewhere, deep down, he has a brain lingering inside his skull. Or maybe he got knocked around a few too many times in his key developing years. No one can really tell, and he makes no effort to make any sort of distinction.

He's a goof-off and a show-boater. Even if the end result is nothing at all to be proud of. He finds joy in the little things in life. Even if life is too short for everyone else, he enjoys living it one day at a time. Can be a little forgetful. Or a lot of forgetful. He doesn't know, he can't remember.

- Things! -
- Irrevocably lazy, and yet somehow not. It just takes a while for a fire to be lit under his ass.
- Isn't nearly as superstitious as his parents are about the 'Heavenly Fire' but still keeps a candle lit when he can.
- Boxes recreationally. May have been punched in the head a few too many times. But he's got a thick skull. It's fiiiiiine.
- Doesn't over think things. Goes with the flow and is hard pressed to take anything really all that seriously. Except Almond. That baby is serious business.

MAGIC/ABILITIES
Has enough telepathy and telekinesis to be inducted and graduate from Candidacy.
*TBA!

RELATIONSHIPS
Cinnamon Rook - Younger Brother - Status: ALIVE 8D
Almond – His daughter! Status: ALIVE
   Approximately 2 years old. She's a little devil and a ball of energy. She gets into everything and anything. Though they've only met recently, Deego already loves her. He has no idea who the mom is.

Tovaari
A dragon as equally as lazy as Deego. Her legs are slender and her feet large and broad, with mechanical claws that like to click on the ground and make musical tapping sounds. She has no ambition, and it's no wonder why she's remained an Echo for so long.

A spinal augmentation has been made along her ribs and leave corrugated ridges along her ribs, and her entire tail has been replaced with a barbed mechanical one.

HISTORY
TBA*

Epilogue
Current Threads

Complete Threads

Prologue
+ NAME + Jocelyn Manitoba
+ ALIAS + “Josie”, “Joe”, “Jo-Jo”, “Jace”
+ AGE + Appears 29-30
+ GENDER + Male
+ ORIGIN + Haviah, Aedolis
+ SPECIES + TBD (Whenever I think of it)
+ RESIDENCE + Errwhere
+ OCCUPATION + High-Class Gigolo
+ HEAD + Heather Eyes (Erica Cilliaris) / Champagne Pink Hair
+ STATURE + 6'2” / 197 lbs.
+ SEXUALITY + Yes, please.




__________________IN-DEPTH

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION
One cannot simply stress enough the importance of maintaining the temple in which you worship. In Josie's case, he would never be one to shun a potential worshiper (and can be rather symptomatic of his profession). Broad shoulders and a fit athletic build, Josie with no sign of fat on him. He's on the slim side, with finely tuned and corded muscle, and quite vascular along his forearms and upper arms.

Short and closely cropped to the sides over pointed ears, his champagne pink hair, although wavy, is long enough to be styled often parted on the left and pushed back out of his face – thin and soft to the touch. Both of his ears have gauges in them, and the upper portions of his left ear with two diamond studs in them. His eyes are a vibrant piercing heather, with the outer edges of his sclera somewhat darker and highlighting closer to the pupil. Jocelyn's lips are full and the upper just bent into a slight bow-shape, usually in a mischievous Cheshire cat grin, canines a little pointier than most.  At his face's center is a medium broad nose, and a gently sloping brow, eyes deep and cheekbones high.

His left arm and left pectoral are covered in abstract tattoos that coil a bit over his shoulder, deltoid, and creeps up the collarbone and up his neck, and cuff at the wrist. Stylized fiery band wraps around his hips and spirals around his thighs to cuff at his knees.

PERSONA
Intelligent, vain, and quietly self-confident. Being that he offers companionship – for a small fee of course – he never projects himself to be the center of attention. He's handsome and charismatic and one might be hard-pressed to hold that against him; he's if anything a gentleman and does his job exceptionally well.

A man of distinguishing tastes, Josie takes pleasure in what he does and has a pent house apartment in every major Aedolian city. His independence is important to him – even with important contacts, he remains unattached – and does as he pleases – and who he pleases – when he pleases. Is he vain? A little. Vanity only wishes it looked as good as he did.

- Things! -
-  Secrets, secrets, and more secrets – Josie makes a hobby of collecting them. For fun, for profit, for protection. It's really not that surprising how easy it is for people to let their guard down, once their pants are around their ankles.

- Loves beautiful things. And while true it is subjective, he loves admiring beautiful things and people. There's rarely a type of person he isn't attracted to.

-  Jack of many trades. Master of None. Save one. He's always been more of a hands-on learner. He has a lot of miscellaneous knowledge that might have no actual impact on his daily life but has come in hand on a number of client outings – and he has a habit of tailoring his own mannerisms to best fit his clients. He's had a number of awful jobs that thankfully never panned out.

MAGIC/ABILITIES
- REFLECTIVIST -
“I'm rubber, you're glue” or however the saying goes, Josie is a blank slate to those that attempt to invade his mind – always. He's well versed in the stigma that comes with his condition – and its tendency to put people on edge. His easy-going personality seems to make for it. Most of the time.

RELATIONSHIPS
Mostly clients! He's got a lot of them!
*TBA

HISTORY
He has one! As soon as I think of it.

Epilogue
Current Threads

Complete Threads

Prologue
+ NAME + Hugh McConway
+ ALIAS + Pilot Echo Hugh McConway, “Connie”, “Hughey”
+ AGE + 29
+ GENDER + Male
+ ORIGIN + Adstreia, Aedolis
+ SPECIES + 1/3 Djinn, 2/3 Human
+ RESIDENCE + Haviah, Wherever Serenity goes. There's work to be done!
+ OCCUPATION + Pilot Echo / Welder / “Heat” Mechanic
+ COUNTENANCE + Teal Eyes / Deep Maroon Hair
+ STATURE + 6'4” / 236 lbs.
+ SEXUALITY + A Pretzel (Homoflexible)




__________________IN-DEPTH

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION
Hugh is well...huge. He's tall and well-built, thick corded muscle along his limbs and back, and traps for days. Since it's attained mostly from working anyway, Hugh is left to have a steady diet of wine, beer and calzones. He's barrel-chested, and strength exudes from his physique. His mop of dark maroon hair, and similar albeit thinner patches on his chest belly and limbs.

If he isn't wearing his coveralls for work, he's probably at home lounging all day in sweats and a tank. But that isn't to say he won't drop everything to get dressed to go out if need be.

PERSONA
Much like fire, Hugh is always ready to burn. In the 'Go' phase. He'd drop whatever he was doing in a red hot second if someone he cared for needed him for absolutely anything. Text him at 3 in the morning because you're drunk and think donuts were the best thing the world, he'd skeddadle for it in no time at all. Don't mistake his kindness for weakness, he's makes it pretty clear on people he likes and those he doesn't. Hugh is excitable and outgoing, and loves to have a good time when there's a good time to be had.

When he isn't easy smiles, he's opinionated and bull-headed, letting his emotions get the better of him. Letting him get flared up, is ill-advised.

- Things! -
- Dancing. Hugh looooves to dance. The guy, admittedly, is not the best dancer, but he loves to a opportunity to get down. He always has music playing while he's working, either out loud or being enjoyed through some head phones.

- Calzones are love. They're life.

- Loves dogs! Well, any animal. But especially dogs.  He'd drop everything in his arms to go and pet a stranger's dog regardless of what he was doing. If you have a dog and he's talking to you, chances are it's because of your dog.

- Peaches. Loves peaches. You're a peach, they're a peach, he's a peach. Everyone's a peach. If he starts calling everyone a peach, he's probably really drunk.

MAGIC/ABILITIES
PYROKINETIC:
Hugh's talent for pyrokinesis seems to stem on a prodigy level. His talent for creating heat and manipulating fire caused his dragon to decide welding work was the perfect placement for him. He can still get burned if he's not paying attention and the patches of hair missing from his arms are a testament to that.  Yet he loves what he does and can't see himself doing anything else. (Although if drunk and pressed, he'd admit if he wasn't a Pilot, he'd probably end up being a dancer).

RELATIONSHIPS
Pilot Noble Serenity Silinrul - Friend, and technically he's her assistant. Loves referring to her as 'Siren'
Annette McConway – Mother, Status: ALIVE (for now)
Jeanie McConway – Eldest Sister, Status: ALIVE (unfortunately)
Branden McConway – Eldest Brother, Status ALIVE (unfortunately)

Balthasar
A larger dragon, just under standard elephant size, with a bulky-barrel chest and thick neck with fluxing ventilation ports on the sides of his neck. He has a crown of horns along his brow line and all along his forehead that extend upward in two rows of parallel spines. He has two compartments installed on either side of his torso that hold most of Hugh's tools, the heavier ones anyway, and keep them locked away safely.

HISTORY
Hugh grew up with the best goddamn mother anyone could ask for. Middle-level Adstreia wasn't too bad, and having three mouths to feed was one hell of a damn chore, but Annette did the best she could. He's never once wondered who his father was, nor does he care since the guy didn't seem to care enough to stick around.

Graduating from Candidacy gave Hugh the resources to get his mother the help she needed when her mind began to fail her. She has good days and bad days, and Hugh spends whatever time he isn't working with her. Moving her from Adstreia to Haviah was costly, but worth it, just so that he could be close to her.

Epilogue
Current Threads
Sleep is for the Weak and the Sleepy [M]
Complete Threads
The Greatest Shape of All. Folded [M]

Prologue
+ NAME +  Eresaya Ibsen Lear
+ ALIAS + “Gamma” “Ibsen” “The Scarecrow”
+ AGE + 30-32 (He doesn't really know)
+ GENDER + Born “female”, Identifies as Male
+ ORIGIN + Teinari outpost
+ SPECIES + Mutated Human
+ RESIDENCE + Wastes, Whatever hole in the ground he finds.
+ OCCUPATION + Scavenger / Scrapper
+ COUNTENANCE + Deep Navy Blue Hair / Yellow eyes
+ STATURE + 5'11” / 177 lbs
+ SEXUALITY + Unknown




__________________IN-DEPTH

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION
Ibsen has never had an imposing figure. His body tends to be lean, and with muscles lithe and stringier than he'd like. The exposure ratio of muscle to fat tend to be on the former side rather than the later. With food being scarce, it's no wonder that Ibsen is lean, and prefers it stay that way. His chest (boobs are gone) is built and shoulders are strong enough to lift a man clear off the ground and smash him into the floor.

There is a constant hunger to his hooded eyes, yellow and predatory and glow in the dark – to which he wears dark glasses and goggles to circumvent – and has his hair shaved to one side of his head and shorter on the other (over ear length). A thin, narrow nose over medium – lips that give Ibsen a grumpy pout. Truth be told it's a little hard to get past the burn on the side of his face, in a slanting v-shape on the underside of his left eye over in the groove of his cheekbone and alongside his temple and cascades in a distinctive line along his neck and collarbone.

PERSONA
Ibsen makes a point of not taking anyone's shit – no matter what lame excuses they come up with. He's self-sufficient, taking what he needs to survive, having responsibility only for himself. He has little humor (and a creepy ass grin, so he's been told). He's practical and matter-of-factly, his speech tends to be taciturn and gruff, and as direct as possible.

He doesn't trust easily, and when he does, it's fluid at best. Business deals remain business, and Ibsen makes a point of never getting personal. Mainly because he's rather at a loss when it comes to emotion and that sort of thing. No, it's much better to keep people at a distance.

- Things -
- Tends to have a short fuse, and doesn't shy away from making this apparent from anyone that tries his patience.
- Ibsen is incredibly handy. Tinkerer would be putting it lightly, but he seems to find a use for junk parts and fixing them into something new. He has a bowie knife fashioned from a junked car with a bone handle and fixed up his motorbike in much the same way. Small electronics are particularly fascinating.
- Secretly has a love of sweets (cookies and cupcakes especially), but rarely gets a chance to indulge them.
-Years of looking over his shoulder has made Ibsen a self-induced insomniac. Will only sleep properly for a few hours in some dark hole he's dug out for himself.

MAGIC/ABILITIES
- Irradiated Blood -
When uncut, Ibsen's blood is perfectly safe inside his body. His blood gives him a certain immunity to the toxic environment of the Wastelands.  He can wade through water completely unharmed by radiation or other harmful chemicals that have since poisoned the earth. Likewise, eating the mutated animals that roam the land is perfectly fine.

On the other edge of the blade, a single droplet of blood is incredibly toxic. Exposure to it is acidic and corrosive, and can burn flesh and even metals, and can cause malignant tumors to grow on others if they're exposed to it overlong. Least to say, it's an awful way to die.

RELATIONSHIPS
Marash Lear, Teinari Outpost Commander, 'mother', STATUS: Deceased.

*TBA

HISTORY
Ibsen has been on his own for most of his life. The years have a tendency of blurring together in one lump sum of misery and regret. He was found as a child by the Commander of a Teinari outpost and taken in, raised as her own. Ibsen never called her more than Commander, but she was kind and showed him affection and taught Ibsen how to survive.

Not everyone in her unit agreed however. An outpost was no way to raise a child. And not everyone agreed that the Commander was the best person for the job. Some had other intentions about their goods, their supply, their stockpile, and when the Commander began to poke around to see who was taking things, some figured the Commander ought to mind her own business before something bad happened.

And it did. Ibsen only has flashes of that memory, mainly the flashes of that bomb that exploded in the Commander's bedroom one day, and the fiery blast scorched part of Ibsen when he tried to go inside. After that, nothing was the same. They felt it was better that Ibsen no longer stay at the outpost. Ibsen agreed...but not before gutting the throat of the man he suspected of killing the only family he had.

Now the Wasteland is the only place he calls home.

Epilogue
Current Threads
Nothing Says 'Hello' Like a Fist to the Face
Complete Threads

[Open by Request]

If he had to look at that ugly motherfucker again, he'd put a bullet in his head. A thought that Glover could entertain but not enact. A dirty fingernail scratched at the indentations on the side of his head just beside the metal ports in his temples where his headband was meant to go.

Stupid Sandborne. Stupid dirty businessman that you clearly knew were rotten fucks, and they got away with it because they were too smart, too rich, or knew too many people in just the right places to get away with it.

Maybe to anyone else, it wasn't anything serious. Seeing his smug face, with that fucking pencil-thin mustache smirking smartly at him as he winked and had Glover escorted out of his office. Suspicion of mage trafficking...  It was a crock of shit, and with nothing on him, their meeting was closed. He supposed the worst they did was knock the cigarette out of his mouth, but even then Glover did not appreciate the rough treatment.

His hand reached into his leather jacket, the worn brown already fading from the years. Fingers slipped around the grip of his gun, standard issue for a detective. And he was tempted to pull it out, aim upward, try his luck and see if the projectile would somehow smash through the 15th floor window and into Sandborne's head.

Glover stood there on that mid-level street, the rush of a car behind him making his spine quiver at the sensation of movement. No, he wasn't worth it. Nothing was, and instead he reached down to pick up the dirtied cigarette. With a flick and wipe against his shirt, he tucked it gingerly against the corner of his lips and ignited the light with his Hippo lighter, momentarily admiring the engraved animal on the back of it.

Another time and a million lightyears away. Or however that saying went. The lid silenced that flame and he wandered away from Mandir & Crowe, Law Associates, another tower amongst the rest of the towers that comprised the steel and glass spinal cord of Tynova.

A long drag through thin lips confirmed what Glover had been feeling most, and he needed a walk to cool off. Bright lights were blinding and in one blink, he went from glassy skyscrapers to older stone, brick and mortar, steam billowed up from grates in the ground. The world was a fucked up place, and folks were the same no matter where you went.

Let the right hand never know what the right was doing, and all that. The same story. He'd heard it before.

Somewhere along the way, Glover found himself wandering toward the rear of some strip club. Red lights glared beneath the bumping vibration of overhead speakers, and they switched to blues and green as he glanced up to see a dancer remove their top and slide closer to the pole they were favoring. His vision blurred and he ignored the heat it brought to his blood and the way his pulse quickened.

He wasn't here to have a good time. The one he was looking for was working out the back rooms. Marian was the name right? Right. If there was one person that would know something useful it was her. And if anything, she'd have something else to ease his mind.

Glover's meeting was short and to the point. And he was flopped out on a ratty cloth recliner that could use a bit more strips of duct tape to be held together properly. And he knocked back the pills and chased it down with a shot of rum. He fought the sensation to be sick, and he paid her with a slap of a hundred on her dresser.  “So you got a lead?” he asked, sitting back up and observing her with those lazy, hooded eyes.

The sight of Marian was one to behold. Supple flesh, amber skin, and tits that could carve ice with how cold the room was right now. He grinned lazily and took another long drag from his cigarette, the orange glow of it igniting the harsh angles of his face, and the shadows under his eyes momentarily lightning.

“You really ought to get some sleep, Glover. I can arrange that for another 500,” Marian giggled, taking the money and folding it neatly before tucking it into her bra.

“I didn't come here for an expensive nap,” he hissed. “You now why I'm here.”

“To get stoned out of your head, and to know where you can find dirt on any schmucks that've made their way through my door. Tough luck, Glover,” she sniffed and sat before her vanity, tossing back that ebony hair. Glover had a mind to reach out and pull it back. He only imagined himself doing it. Hands weren't part of the deal. His hand hung loosely at his knee, but a shift in posture made it grip the inside of his thigh.

“So cut the shit,” he sighed, lips pursing and blowing out another cloud of gray.

“Nothing too interesting.  Sorry, honey. But maybe next time. I'll keep a look out just for you” she said. 

Fucking hell, as if that wasn't a waste of time. It was time he got back to his apartment anyway. Glover sighed and went out the back way, cutting through the alleyway and glancing up at the three moons above Tynova. The stars dotted that abyss and were burned into his retinas, and the high was only now just starting to kick in, and he felt the ground shifting in him in slow motion.

It was going to be a long walk back.

Prologue
+ NAME + Grisham Lewis Alberich
+ ALIAS + Pilot Royal Grisham Alberich, “Grim”, “Mr. Dynamo” (By some comedian in PR)
+ AGE + 40 (May 22nd)
+ GENDER + Male
+ ORIGIN + Adstreia, Aedolis
+ SPECIES + Human, mostly
+ RESIDENCE + Adstreia, Aedolis
+ OCCUPATION + Pilot Royal, Squadron Commander for the Adstreia Hellions (Onyx Team)
+ COUNTENANCE + Forest Green hair / Blue-Gray eyes
+ STATURE + 6'3” / 222 lbs.
+ SEXUALITY + Pansexual




__________________IN-DEPTH

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION
Grisham may very well be a human wall of muscle. His powerful form complements his rather harsh personality, but he's a rather gentle giant when he doesn't have to make a show of it. His right forearm is a prosthetic piece that has had a number of improvements over the years. Synthetic flesh over it certainly feels real enough.  With a low brow and his medium lips drawn into an eternal frown, it's no wonder he's earned the nickname 'Grim'.  A large heavy nose sits at the center of his face with a square jaw and a number of minute scars strewn across this lips and cheekbones, the facial hair growing haphazardly on his face, sporting unruly medium length hair, graying sporadically.

The right side of his torso and hip and upper thigh are burned and the flesh is still quite tender from time to time. Grisham is rather apathetic about his scars. He earned them, but he doesn't see them as a badge of pride.

The Hellions logo is tattooed on his back, various aviation themed designs over his shoulders and arms and chest.

PERSONA
Not unlike his nickname, Grisham is an old war dog has fortified himself into being the strong capable Pilot and leader that he is. He's serious, with a very dry and morbid sense of humor. And it's not uncommon for people to not get his jokes. He throws himself into his work, training the Hellions, and looking for ways to make them better due to a melancholic sense of duty. He has a respect for the other squadrons, although he doesn't enjoy participating in the Aedolian games, but will do it for his team and for Adstreia. He's proud of his city, his team – which has become his second family. Or in this case, his only family.

Experiences in the war have hardened Grisham. Although he may not always seem like it, he's quite meticulous, eyes always looking for a shortcoming he can exploit. He is not easily goaded, but nor does he back away when faced with a threat. He fights like an animal, using any possible outlet to survive, to get the job done. New bloods can be particularly irritating. But if they earn their place, then he's much more forgiving. If he likes you, you'll know it. He'll go to hell and back for those he cares most for.

But when the daylight wanes, Grisham goes home to his empty apartment, tries to find thing to do distract himself, and rarely sleeps. He keeps himself alive with cigars, whatever he can cook, and sometimes a bottle of brandy or wine. The truth is, he's incredibly lonely, often reflective, he wants to relate to others, to have a long deep conversation, but is often awkward in how he goes about it. He is not much for flair, but his gestures are no less genuine.  He has no taste for posh or ritzy things or folks, whatever is simple works for best for him. It's what's inside that's the most real. And it's that reality sometimes that terrifies him.

- Things! -
- Fought in the War with Edanith and Libra, that cost him his right arm and burn scars along the lower right side of his torso. He doesn't consider himself a 'hero' and wants only to do his job as he's meant to do it. Buries his unpleasant memories deep inside.
- Heavy smoker. Usually has a cigarette hanging from his lips, and really doesn't give a shit what people think of his habit. Also carries a boot flask because he's 'that guy'.
- Has the name “Isaak” engraved on the back of his dog tags
- Has recently taken up blacksmithing as a hobby and uses the facilities at the Stellarium to work on projects. He's gotten really good at making tiny scorpions.

MAGIC/ABILITIES
- EMPATHY -
Grisham's particular talent with empathy stems into an almost psychokinetic level. In battle, he is capable of influencing the thoughts of enemies enough to see horrific visions, to trick them into believing that what they're seeing is real, although it's little more than a projection of what Grisham is thinking/feeling at that time. In their temporary mania, an enemy can possibly turn on themselves, their allies, flee, or become paralyzed with fear.  These horrors, in order to keep from believing they are real himself, are imprinted into objects so that they might later be destroyed. Training has taught him to control when he does this, and he's as per usual a little more sensitive to the emotions of others.

- PSYCHOMETRY -
Being able to read thoughts and memories in an object might not have much bearing in a combat situation at first consideration. It's true that it is a psionic ability that Grisham uses very little except for when he actively imprints a memory, whether real or not, into an object to be stored for later. He does this as means of mental cleansing, storing awful images of things he's seen, or created, into small glass marbles. These ones he's destroyed. And some memories, no matter how hard he's tried to erase, they stay burned in his mind. He's learned to block out reading most of the emotions/memories in every day objects (door knobs, drinking glasses, etc.) but sometimes little flashes have been known to get through.

In addition he has very strong telepathy, to better communicate with his squadron across vast distances in space. His telekinesis is below average.

RELATIONSHIPS
Isaak Alberich – Son, deceased
Lisle “Lisa” Wiseau – Ex-Wife, STATUS: Alive. (They are not on speaking terms. Don't ask her. She doesn't wanna talk about it.)

Kurush Suhail, Pilot Noble, Squadron Leader of the Adstreia Hellions.
Jaime McLeod, Pilot Cardinal, Squad Member of the Adstreia Hellions
Sparrow Anderson, Pilot Echo, Squad Member of the Adstreia Hellions
Vaas Sayd, Pilot Echo, Squad Member of the Adstreia Hellions
Locusta Sadeghi, Pilot Echo, Squad Member and Medic of the Adstreia Hellions

Yavul Hyakinthos Pilot Royal, Squad Commander of the Solarta Valkyries - Fellow Rival and one of his best friends.

Haruxhir (Ha-Roo-Sheer) - Dragon
 (WIP)

HISTORY
From a long line of Pilots and upstanding military family, Grisham Alberich knew he was going to be a Pilot. He'd dreamed of it, and he couldn't have been more ecstatic when he was inducted into the Candidate program. Life was going according to plan, then the war happened, and it was as if everything was accelerated to light speed. Much of it feels blurred in hindsight, graduating, being inducted into the Hellions, the fighting, his marriage, and the loss of his son, and the subsequent divorce that followed.

Accidents happen, they said. No matter how many precautions are taken, there's always room for fault. Sure, that's how it always went.

At the end of the war, Grisham was given command of the Hellions when the old commander perished.

Epilogue
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