Remnants of the Earth

Prologue
+ NAME +Bishop Anton Henrikson
+ ALIAS + Bish, Padre
+ AGE + 28
+ GENDER + Male
+ ORIGIN + Travica
+ SPECIES + Human? Mostly?
+ RESIDENCE + Travica
+ OCCUPATION + Seeker - Shadowman
+ FACE + Golden Blond hair / Orange eyes
+ STATURE + 6’1” / 180 lbs.
+ SEXUALITY + Pansexual, if you find cacti sexy.




__________________IN-DEPTH

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION
Average height with a wiry lean muscular build, Bishop generally doesn’t give a rat’s ass with how he looks. His gold blond hair is braided back in Viking-esque updo, shaved along the sides and back, usually left to stubble after a few days. It’s swept back, held between two braids on either end and the remaining length of it is kept braided and out of his face. A light pattern of stubble grows along his face, kept unkempt by a severe lack of vanity. He’s rugged and worn out a bit at the ends, but he makes do.

The scars that line his face were earned from missions years ago and a thick burn marks his neck, going down his chest and just underneath his left armpit. A few more scars adorn his fingertips and palms.  His arms and legs are marked with tattoos of various bands and logos.

Voice Claim: Cillian Murphy

PERSONA
“A toast to the ghost that’s inside our bones.”

Equal parts of snarky and surly and quiet and reserved, Bishop doesn’t really care about what people think of him. He’s a black sheep, in an odd roundabout way that’s both self-inflicted and because few people can stand him. He’s prone to socializing in an absolutely non-commiserating “misery loves company” kind of way. He prefers to observe others and react than to simply bowl headfirst into a situation like a bull in a china shop. Mainly because he can both enjoy the chaos and come and go as if a ghost - as if he wasn’t really there.

Always playing the Devil’s Advocate, Bishop enjoys tension, debate and discord, and never wholly agrees with one side or another. But otherwise he’ll absolutely will punch you in the face and curb stomp you if he has a mild enough reason to do so. He’s bristly and bold enough to just do what he wants without worrying too much about the consequences. But ultimately lives with them and moves on. Doesn’t dwell too long on minor regrets, and doesn’t cater to people that do. He worries about himself and that’s usually just about all he can handle.

- Things! -

- Trained to sing opera on a dare and became really fucking good at it. He's a baritone.
- Can totally do the hand-knife thing without cutting himself. The scars on his fingers indicate he’s had lots of practice.
- Master of paper mache royal jewelry. Also dabbles in makeshift baking. He’s never combined the two. Yet.
- Absolutely a barbarian. And proud of it.
- Heavy smoker. Anything that can slowly kill him.
- Loves Hardcore Punk rock and heavy metal. Will absolutely headbang for days. Or throw darts at his ceiling. He’s really good at darts.
- Doesn’t ask for much: a good bottle of hooch and some microwavable pizza pocket rolls will make him content. When he remembers to eat.
- Mild to more than mild bouts of paranoia. Usually needs to go on a trip to bring himself back down.

MAGIC/ABILITIES
Telekinesis: Pffthahahaha, super good yo.
Telepathy: Decently strong.

SONOKINESIS - Can throw sound, or mute an area within a certain radius. Useful for taking about baddies quietly, or distracting them elsewhere. If concentrated enough, he can create an intense infrasound vibration to confuse and disorient others as well, although this is considerably more taxing.

UMBRAKINETIC - Bishop’s talent with manipulating shadows stems into an intense projection side of things. He can create body doubles, exact replicas of others, and are real enough to be capable of manipulating the environment (ie. Retrieving an item, speaking via mimicry, etc). Or manipulate the shadows around him to create illusions on his person, effectively “shapeshifting” in a selected disguise. 


RELATIONSHIPS
Rocco Cyprio Renato de Travica - Best Friendo and best bar crawl buddy.
He’s an asshole! But they seem to understand each other enough to make it work.

Jason Venner - Friend.
Went through candidacy together and occasionally email with 'Sup.'

Pilot Noble Darius Henrikson II - Father - Deceased
Nataline Henrikson - Mother - Deceased

Brandt Ellysi Henrikson - Deceased
His twin, of whom he’s blocked out most of his memories of. The years apart didn’t quite sever the connection they had in childhood. They’d both gone their separate ways into adulthood, and Brandt had gotten involved with a nasty crowd. Despite the years, Bishop can’t forget those familiar eyes, nor the light that left them.

HISTORY
Bishop and Brandt Henrikson were born to a Pilot Noble’s family, the best of everything. His parents separated when they were about 6 years old, each one taking a twin with them and leading completely separate lives. Bishop never heard from his mother or his brother Brandt after that. He was taken into Candyhood at the age of 12 and pulled into the Seeker program just after graduation, returning home to Travica and has been there ever since. His father died not long after and his mother’s body was found in the lower levels of Haviah, with a gunshot in her forehead.

Epilogue
THREADS

{Open by Request. 8D hop in!}

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.

[M for Violence >>]

Calling it in this night this early was so so very tempting. The neon sign outside the barbershop door and the neon rods of blue, white, and red indicated that indeed the place was open for business, but for all Ludwig could tell he was the last living sentient creature on this level what with all the foot traffic that was clearly present outside his door. Ludwig didn't expect a huge bum rush of people. And the few appointments that made it  were all early birds and Ludwig, admittedly, enjoyed walk ins. The conversation wasn't always great, but it made time fly by and he made money, and made someone look fabulous.


The spontaneity of it all was generally worth it. Ludwig loved surprises. When they were pleasant. And when they paid. A few tried to skimp out on that once. Claim the haircut wasn’t their desire, or critique his technique to death until he couldn’t roll his eyes any further in his skull. Or just plain run out after he was finished.. They, for obvious reasons, didn’t bother coming back. Nor would they attempt it again in other places of business.

Ludwig had a small e-reader in hand and lightly tapped on the buttons on-screen buttons to the next page. He was draped languidly in the first barber’s chair, right leg crossed over his left knee, raven black hair slicked back and sides cleanly shaven. He cut quite the elegant figure in that chair, his black sleek oxfords, slim cut dress pants and white button down with the sleeves rolled up at the elbow. The man didn’t need to wear suspenders, but they were comfortable he enjoyed the little clips he could hang from it.

The ac was on, and he sat right underneath the vent, but he couldn’t help but feel hot and stifled, and even parting his collar a few buttons down did nothing to alleviate the sensation of burning up. Ludwig grunted, swapping legs and flicked the page on his book - some sci-horror nonsense from a small time Aedolian author - it was in interesting read but the climax left a little to be desired.

“And yet I can’t stop reading your books,” he mumbled to himself. The pirated copy obtained from keycodes courtesy of Sven made the addiction a little too easy to service. Sure, he could probably go back to Aedolis and buy it, but going back was probably stupid.  And it was free, so why bother.

The faint chime of the digital doorbell rang once, the door swinging open and Ludwig didn’t bother to look up until the sound of feet came stomping closer to him and impatiently tapping on the hardwood floors.

Ludwig tilted his head, eyed the boots that dared scuff his floor and raised his brows as the slender legs revealed a wildly attractive figure. A woman in uniform - a Red apparently - tilted her head at him and tapped her boot again when she met his gaze, arms crossed over her chest. “You’re still open I’m assuming?” she asked pointedly, pursing his lips.

Whether the impatience was forced or valid, he couldn’t tell. Ludwig still smiled and pushed himself out of the chair, setting his tablet down and whirling it around for her. “Of course,” he grinned and beckoned her to sit. “We are open quite late as well. For those that want to stay sharp even after their work shift. So you’ve come to the right place. Welcome. Please have a seat, err Miss…” Ludwig extended his hand out to her, which she tucked hers in quickly and withdrew before he could even squeeze it to properly shake.

“I’m just here for the works,” she sighed exasperatedly and sat down delicately. With a flick of her head, her hair swished and it was completely unraveled before Ludwig. “Just a trim off the bottom, please. Layered, and washed after. Please. I’ve had a really long day.”

“Ahh, I can do that. Tis a simple task,” he nodded and proceeded to get to work. “Red Shirt, I see? Do you come by this district often?”

“Hm? What, oh yes. Not on this side though. My main beat’s on the far side from here. I don’t usually wander in here. But I needed a cut and thought, what the hell? Live on the wild side. The inside doesn’t look nearly as dreadful as the out,” she sighed, eyes flicking back to glance at him here and there. 

Ludwig felt the hackles rise on the back of his neck and as he snipped away her hair, working delicately and taking his time, he immediately felt uncomfortable. Red shirts didn’t just walk in here out of the blue. And she had a lot of nerve to insult his shop. “Well, what is the saying? Ah yes. Do not judge a book by it’s cover, no? You might be pleasantly hrm, surprised.”  He cleared his throat and began the process of layering it, looking at her reflection in the mirror.

“Pfffthahaha! Surprised yes. Pleasant? That remains to be seen. Although, I did hear good things about this place. You’re that one fellow they call Luddon right?”

“Aye. Tis true. I am the one occasionally referred to as such. This is my shop, and I am it’s proprietor.” He cleared his throat again. As if it wasn’t obvious.

“Really now? I had a hell of a time finding this place. It’s not really out in the open. It’s no wonder there’s no one else in here besides me,” she snorted callously. “Besides, with the business you do get, I hope they tip well, yeah? Otherwise, you might have to close up shop.”

“Why do you say that? I get pretty busy when I must.”

She didn’t answer, instead delicately uncrossing her legs back and forth. “I mean only that the rent alone for this kind of space is probably quite high. Even if the district itself isn’t all that expensive.  I dally here and there in real estate. Nothing to snort at, but I know my way around it. Probably have to have some kind of side business to make ends meet.”

“…I do pretty well for myself. A man’s got to make a living some how.” he tried to shrug it off, pausing in his cut here and there to focus on not smacking her upside the head.

“So I’ve heard,” she murmured and kept staring at his reflection in the barber station mirror. “You look like the kind of guy that knows his way around the station too. I’m willing to bet you do more than just make a living, Mr. Luddon. In fact some people might even say you don’t trade fair. Might even be a little upset at the deals you’re making. Probably cheated the wrong person. How could you tell?”

Ludwig paused, staring right back at her. “I wouldn’t believe everything one hears,” he cleared his throat impatiently.

“Sometimes, Mr. Luddon. Your past catches up with you. Mr. Hemming sends his regards.” She flashed him a smile before shifting her legs again, but this time she didn’t cross them. Instead she flew up out of her chair and tried to fire the small pistol she had in her grasp.

Ludwig narrowly dodged by a hair, one crisp raven lock flying free and burned off by the bullet. He yelped, falling backwards on his haunches as she wrenched the barber’s cape from her front, the buttons snapping off and aimed her gun at him. He quickly rolled left, scuttling across the floor on his belly and reaching for a pair of scissors he’d dropped in the midst of the scuffle and launched them at her when he ducked behind the chair.  The scissors scathed her wrist, and he scrambled out from cover, a momentary distraction enough to tackle her to the floor.

Her pistol fell from her grasp, yelping along with him as they struggled to reach for the gun. Ludwig’s eyes narrowed and instead he pulled the straight razor from his suspender clip and raised it high, wicking the blade across part of her throat, a gouge into her side before she moved. Red Shirt no longer bothered with the gun, her eyes going saucer wide as she launched her fist at his fast, hitting him hard enough to make his teeth clank down on his tongue and blood squirt from the corner of his mouth.

Ludwig fell backwards, and she scrambled on top of him, unceremoniously stronger than she appeared, slamming another fist into his cheekbone that felt a lot like a fucking metal hammer.  His eyes flashed white, his eyeball just about exploding on the impact, as she tried to wrench the razor from his hand. With a scream, Ludwig smacked his forehead into hers and when she was reared back enough, kicked her chest into the mirror across from him, shattering the glass and throwing everything on the counter to the ground.

The blow only seemed to daze her momentarily, her body slamming hard to the ground. The scissors were right at her finger tips, which she grasped firmly and lunged for him again. The tip was stabbed firmly into his shoulder, and Ludwig’s face was rent red with rage. Blood seeped from the pair as they continued their dance of destruction around the shop. The skin on her knuckles had worn away to metal underneath, and Ludwig could see now why she hit like a freight train.

“Just-fucking-die,” he growled, when she had him on the ground for a second time and had both hands crushing around his throat. His own free hand gripped one wrist and tried to find anything nearby to stall them, meanwhile it felt like his entire skull was about to explode. He reached out and felt the familiar grip of the pistol.  He gripped it as quickly as he could, before his visioned turned black and wedged the barrel underneath her chin before pulling the trigger, blood splattering out the back and onto the ceiling as she slumped back uselessly.

“FUCK!” he growled and caught his breath.  “Fucking fuck! Fuck you Sven! I’m going to skin you!”

Ludwig didn’t know a Mr. Hemming, and he didn’t want to know who they were. But no doubt that whoever sent this would-be assassin they were after Sven - ahem, Smiling Jack - for some bullshit he’d come up with. And like always Ludwig was the one that had to clean up after them. It wouldn’t be the first time - no, and that didn’t make him any less pissed off - and it definitely wasn’t going to be the last. He sighed and went about the clean up, rolling the heavy ass Red Shirt, which already had blood on the inside of it from what he could only assume was the previous owner.

Just when he thought his day couldn’t get any better. He couldn’t very well have a body just cooling off in the back. This was still a legitimate business…  And not to mention he’d have to close up the next day to seal up the bullet holes.  Fuck his life.  Ludwig sighed exasperatedly and removed the clothes from the Red Shirt, revealing the places where she was augmented, the surgeon cuts were messy and stitches still sewn into her. “I could have done you better. Real shame,” he sighed.

After a few hours the body was wrapped up and bundled into a duffel bag. The only real duffel bag he had on hand and he cursed quietly to himself as he hoisted the body up over his shoulders and nearly keeled over from the sheer weight of it. A change of clothes had been in order, as well as a make shift bandage. His shoulder would be out of commission for a while, and the shop itself wasn’t completely beyond repair. It sucked.

“Fuck my life,” he whispered, mapping the route in his head where he’d have to dump it too. Avoiding actual Red Shirts and other unsightly people. He sure as shit hoped no one would miss this would be assassin. If they were looking to get Sven Luddon’s head smashed in, they’d have to get in line. The next time he saw that little shit, he was toast.

The pathway to the nearest airlock was dock CNA-32d in the next Sector over. Not too occupied, and if he timed it right, he could catch the Red Shirts between shifts. Yup. Yes, he was just another guy with a giant duffel bag headed to the docks. Just like everyone else. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nope, not at all.

Ludwig carefully carried it out of sight, feeling the hour was just about that ‘night shift’ change in approximately 13 minutes.  Yup, this was gonna be a walk in the proverbial indoor space station kinder’s play park.

Thus far the laser tracker hadn’t failed him. He’d gotten this far and like hell was he about to let the prey get away now.

Esca was little more than a blur against the metal warehouse walls, even his armor blending in as he moved about. His natural cloaking kept him from being nothing more than an anomaly in camera footage, and what security systems were in place were disabled upon his passing. He moved quietly, and his feet leaving no trace as they scraped across concrete and metal grates where his prey had left a cacophonous trail in his wake.

He moved like any other prey, noisily, breathing heavily, sweating and leaving massive amounts of heat signatures on his tracer, the hud of his mask adjusting to the depth of field as he saw that heat signature move around a corner and through a series of crates. The large boxes might have hid him well from view, but it would just take a few swift movements and Esca would be on him like a cat on a mouse.

Mice, however, were never this difficult.

Ardan Troy was a wanted man. Probably took some wee old lady’s shopping goods and made off with it. Or stepped on too many small children in his time on the playground. Or maybe he’d stolen someone’s winnings in a card game, but whatever the case there was a hefty price on his head and it was one that Esca planned to collect on. Bounties were generally easy, particularly when the prey didn’t see him coming.

They rarely ever did. And on Cancer, even with his scales and spines, he blended in with the rest of the rabble here. It was a motley collection of scoundrels, gamblers, mercenaries, pirates, murderers, artists, and other hunters like him out for a quick score. Ardan was good at covering his steps. Mostly, anyway. But a slip up at a casino had caused him to be kicked out, half drunk, with a broken hand, and no one to give a shit about it. Except Esca of course.

With the prey crippled, it’d make his capture that much easier.

The layout of the warehouse was leveled, it was an older structure in the middle of a busy street within the station’s center, and a broken window later had Ardan crawling inside, quickly followed by the Jauxi. It would have been ideal to push him into a trap, net him and drag him out. But the quiet building, save for the guards on staff, would make an ideal amush spot, and his ship wasn’t too far away thankfully.

Esca’s hud blinked with the signature’s movement, he climbed higher onto some shelving, his clawed feet making nothing more than a soft tapping here and there in the darkness of that wide room, and he avoided the laserlight scope of a camera above him. Ardan was moving into the next room, a hallway bordering the movement of a guard. No other casualties were necessary, and Esca’s business was with the prey.

Ardan managed to evade the guard’s patrol, and Esca spied a ventilation shaft not far from him. He made a running jump and dug his claws out into the vent’s outcropping, gripping it and prying the plate right open before crawling through. It was a wide cylindrical tunnel, and a direct route to the next room. 

Esca carefully pushed the grate off at the exit and looked around for the prey, not seeing anything else other than traces of other heat signatures from abnormal materials in the room. It was hot in here. With three guards patrolling the grounds. One on each corridor and one in the center. Two of them however seem preoccupied with a conversation just below him, where he launched himself again from the vent’s outcropping, the power in his legs bursting his forward thrust.

He landed with a soft roll into a box, and the movement was enough to disturb that conversation.  Quietly, Esca cursed while the voices below echoed with subsequent, “What the fuck was that?” and lights began to flash around them.

Well, shit.  Esca, growled softly, a soft purr that echoed just at the base of his throat and he quickly began searching for Ardan’s trace. Little shit wasn’t going to get away.

“What a super weird and shit dream that was,” Grisham mused to himself. Except he knew the aching in his head wasn’t because of a long restless sleep. No Pilot wanted to be carted to the Axis Point, get mindfucked without so much as a “how d’ya do,” beforehand. Granted the nap before that was sorely needed and what little he could remember was only vague glimpses before leaving from Cancer Station.

His friend was there. The big burly dude with a lot of tattoos. He remembered punching his face in and the faces of a lot of other assholes in that fighting pit. That’s where the rest of his hair went too, now that he thought about it.

When his hand reached up and rubbed at the shaved head, a frown curled in the corner of his mouth, grunt following where his temples still throbbed. Grisham blinked hard, scrunching his eyelids tightly. His head was still foggy and his vision was a little fuzzy around the dges but goddammit he just wanted to be on his way home already. The long absence from any sense of comfort ebbed it’s way into the meager excuse he called sanity and ate away at it like a brain parasite.

He’d been checked out for medical and cleared. Now only if the rail to Amristah was not dead set on taking another year to come into station before he turned 41. That would be great. All of his instincts might have pointed more north if things had been different.  They might have directed him to Adstreia where he still lived technically speaking, still worked, still had people he cared about there.

Grisham had been a lot of places. Made a shelter where he could find an excuse to do so. He had a lot of places he belonged, but only one home. Somehow in the last year and or so Amristah had become it. The destination where he could lay his head down against a strong chest and a beating heart, feel embraced in a comfort he didn’t even know he missed until he’d gone without it.

The feeling like he’d been in trapped in a void, had lost time, been stuck while everything else advanced around him, made him stagnant - frozen in a cryochamber and waiting to be brought back to life once more. Grisham blinked and just when he thought his restlessness was going to make him change cars again, he heard the sound of the rail finally coming to a halt and the vague lurch as it into station. The hiss and opening of the doors as he meandered out, feeling drunk, the dizziness swirling his vision until the blearing led lights flashed the directions back home, back to the apartment.

He checked his wrist, he still had the code for it. One beep of his wrist and he could flop on that couch and go to sleep. Did he really want to sleep again? Not really, but the ache in his body, the sensation of real gravity was something to get used to and feeling connected to his dragon again soothed him enough to relax. That he was home now and he could rest at last. A week at most and then it would be back to work. He missed his marbles, his friends, his squad, his yote.

Yote…  Grisham had poked into chat and to say that his stomach didn’t flip when he saw Yavul’s name appear across the screen of the Pilot Chat was like saying he could breath underwater. Grisham’s gut lurched hard and he raised a hand up cover his mouth, trying to fight back the tears that were welling up when he was walking back, ignoring the gasps and sounds of people who recognized him on the street. He was almost home Yote Man. 

“I’m coming home to you. I’ll be at the apartment,” he texted back on his returned com, the familiar feel of cold metal and glass over hands that had been roughened and cleansed time and again from blood in that awful pit. The fear of never coming home again had been real, and even just being thankful of having someone to come home to, while enough, didn’t really set in until now. To think that just a year ago, he would have been content to go out in a fiery blast and called that a sound end. And how easily it could have been if not for the ‘kindness’ of strangers. Kindness that had went as far as someone else selling him into a Pit fighting ring and Grisham would have stayed there if he hadn’t gotten lucky. Goddamn was that luck.

Like a drone, oblivious to the outside world, Grisham blinked and he was in front of his door, taking in a deep breath and waved his wrist in front of the lock. Once it beeped, he reached for that door knob…and paused.  His eyes scowled down at his hand, the way it trembled with his fingers outstretched. The fear still lingered, of losing everything he’d fought so hard to come back to and his breath hitched. Funny he didn’t remember his eye balls growing hot, and the sensation of a tear slipping down his warm cheek startled him.  Grisham swallowed down the hard lump in his throat forcing his hand to reach for that knob and push the door open, closing it quietly behind him.

He dropped his bag by the door and stepped softly onto that familiar hardwood flooring. The tear disappeared into his beard and he removed his jacket it, throwing it on the hook next to the door and dove for the couch, hugging that pillow tucked in the corner of it and took in a deep breath, his gut flipping at the smell of minerals and earth and Yavul, another tear rolling down his cheek.

Prologue
+ NAME + MDK - 101
+ ALIAS + “Proteus”, “PegoMan 5000”, “Bruce” as his phone sex line name, “Maximov” as his online handle
+ AGE + Manufactured dated around 20 years ago. Mentally, mid-30’s.
+ GENDER + Male by vocal designation
+ ORIGIN + Imogen Innovations, Aedolis
+ SPECIES + Limited Edition Combat Droid
+ RESIDENCE + Home, Home on the Rails.
+ OCCUPATION + Part-time Mercenary / Bodyguard, Phone Sex Operator, and one-time underwear model
+ FACE + Cerulean Blue Glowy eyes / Hair - N/A
+ STATURE + 6’10” / 3580 lbs.
+ SEXUALITY + If it’s Gouda for you, it’s Gouda for Me. But not actual cheese.”




__________________IN-DEPTH

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION
Built as an expensive battle droid - the first successful prototype - designed for intense combat and infiltration. The cubes that combine together are small enough to thread together and form sinew-like muscles attached to the a central reactor core inside Proteus’ chest, locked into a droid chassis. Fully armored up, Proteus stands at approximately 6’10” with spaces in his armor for upgrades and mod attachments to further augment his killing ability. He’s come a long way from his initial manufacturer production line, still maintaining parts of his armor pieces with it’s scoring and the old battalion insignia on the outside of his armor right under his model number.

Most of his coloration has faded a little over the last 20 years, with a gunmetal gray base coat, and slate blue armor chest plate and accents, and black frame mod ports along his arms. His helmet has a bulletproof visor that retracts into the frame around his head, which can also be further be detached and fixed with something else. The cubes underneath the armor pieces are small enough in size to appear seamless, feeling smooth for the most part and partly ridged where they twist into his frame. The armor itself is utilitarian in nature without a lot of extra pieces to catch on and drag. The greaves go over his ‘muscles’, clamping onto portions of the frame around his thighs, shinguards built in just underneath the knee, and the sections of his feet split off into separate ‘toes’ for better balance. He tends to move very quietly for such a heavy machine, by virtue of his design.

His effectiveness in combat made him a highly sought after model, but the expense kept him largely exclusive. 

Voice Claim: Idris Elba

PERSONA
“Are you aware of your meatbag status?”

Casually blunt and thoroughly self-aware, Proteus is a misanthropic troll of an automaton, making light the general sufferings of others purely because it amuses him, generally with dark caustic humor. In fact, Proteus rarely does anything the doesn’t amuse him. If a modicum of entertainment could be gained from it, he’ll do it. He has no real empathy for others (meatbags in particular), not because he’s incapable of it but the choice is his to employ it and the wasted effort rarely is worth his time. He tends to find most interpersonal interactions annoying and likes to poke fun where he can.  His worries are few, and his confidence is aplenty, but is less inclined to prove his casual superiority.

Those he chooses to spend his time with tend to have a quality he enjoys or finds intriguing, and they generally are a select few. Being generally unimpressed, makes him bored and he moves along to the next more interesting thing. Wandering in general public between domes has only slightly curbed Proteus’ murderous personality, and some days he muses about the old times of carving scores of Edanis to pieces with a few emp grenades and hollow points. Ah, those were good days.

- Things! -

- Likes honey, bees, and casually gardens in Margad because of how important bees are in general. Finds the concept of how something so small can have such an impressive impact to be particularly fascinating.

- Dislikes Pegos with a heated passion. He’s reduced the small plastic blocks to a melted puddle with his plasma canon by the crateful on more than one occasion.

- Loves to mess with all kinds of mods, both with weapons and his armor pieces, and it’s a nice way to pass the time.

- Always places adds on Dragonslist for bodyguard or mercenary work for what he’d say are fairly competitive rates. In between that, he moonlights on a phone sex operator. Because he can make his own hours, tap right into the call from anywhere, and the pay isn’t half bad.

MAGIC/ABILITIES
MDK Model 101 - Inspired by the trashed construct of alien tech, the use of small variable cubes that can alter shape and density fused via it’s core to a robotic chassis. Although an expensive model (no doubt from the use of experimental technology), MDKs (Murder - Death - Killer) were programmed to be effective killers.  Coupled with advanced AIs, MDKs were designed with adaptive programming to understand varying degrees of combat situations from anything ranging from hand to hand to assassinations, etc. They possess Tactical Precision Arrays, room for weapons modifications, and anti-corrosive shielding on their plated armor. Proteus himself was usually sent ahead of his squadron to clear out a room of enemies prior to their advance since he could take more damage without the risk of extensive casualties. 

Physically, MDKs are heavy and designed to take a beating, with exceptional reflexes and elemental resistances, waterproof, shock resistant.  While he’s skilled in a large array of weapon types, if left without, he still has plasma canons in his wrists, charged from residual energy from his reactor core (which has shielding that slides down to protect it when not in combat). And if he’s to be believed, it’s down right sexy.  “It’s all in the aerodynamics.”

RELATIONSHIPS
Lieutenant Dylan Eidelweiss  - 55, Deceased - His last commanding officer in the Edani War. The last and only meatbag he’s ever genuinely respected.

HISTORY
The first successful unit of a handful of limited edition combat droids designed by Imogen Innovations in the waning years of the Edani War. Taken from alien technology, they managed to replicate the reactor core technology that allowed the creation of his droid type. The expense of making him left him very rare, ultimately purchased for use by the commanding officer of the 47th Infantry Commando Squadron - “Hellbenders” - used mainly for infiltration and ‘meat grinder’ combat. Dubbed Proteus by his commander, he proved effective and was shipped back home once the war was over.

Unfortunately his commander never made it back and was considered KIA, leaving Proteus to his own devices, declared independent and a free operator. He’s spend the last two decades a somewhat decorated veteran, although he doesn’t consider himself such, dabbling in various jobs mainly for publicity and fun.

For now, though, he’s a meandering transient, taking odd jobs for the pay and going wherever he pleases. And although there is some itch to his trigger finger, he does his best to keep it down.

Epilogue
THREADS

Spinning. The world was spinning, and no amount of passing gray and vague green could stay within frame enough stay in memory. There was nothing he could hold onto that image, the spinning of that skiff nor the spinning in his head. Every time the half-crescent marble passed across his vision, his confusion compounded and Grisham’s head only hurt more. The voices were fading away, the echoes familiar and when they were gone, he tried to reach out for them and heard nothing. That vacancy hurt more and more the longer his skull thumped, the little gray and green dot passing by again and again.

Heavy breaths, his heart pounding and for an abrupt hot second he feared the blood in his helmet came from his lungs, if something inside ruptured. If a routine mission had gone wrong because it couldn’t handle the pressure of leaving the atmosphere and guiding a satellite into orbit. An inkling fear that his body had betrayed him and would no longer let him do the job he’d been trained to do day in and day out.

His heart was still pounding and the blaring sirens coming from his flight couch dash made the silence in his head all that much more deafening. Grisham growled, his panting breath coming out in soft puffs as he tried to reach forward. A blink and the small pebbles of tears beaded away from his eyes, his gloved hard slamming hard on the dash to try and silence them. His hand trembled, grunting more to try and get the sirens to stop, flipping gauges and trying to right himself in the seat as his trajectory continued.

“FUUUUCK!” he hissed, his hand slamming again and the small pressure valves erupted from the skiff’s dented and damaged hull to try and counter the force by which he was spinning. The hiss righted the small vessel, the pressure eventually slowing the velocity. Small segments of the hull had been smashed to bits, and there was a crack in the cockpit viewfinder. Grisham’s gray green eyes blinked slowly taking in the damage as the sirens made him see red. Grisham undid the buckles that strapped him to his chair, the lock behind him trying to click into place.

Gloved hands wrapped around where a small object was lodged in between the from and the lock itself. Repeated attempts to connect met with failure and every second he took to dislodge the small piece of metal, the greater the chance of the emergency door ripping open completely. Why it hadn’t yet he didn’t know and he wasn’t going to wonder at. Not now.  With a loud grunt eventually the piece of metal was wrenched out and the lock clicked into place. The hiss of securing itself, made Grisham drift back to his flight seat and strap himself back in.

A few more flipped switches and taking hold of the flightstick and the sirens finally ceased their screams, leaving his head vacant once more.

What the fuck had happened? Did he remember? Where were the others?

”Lock, stock and barrel? Can you read me? Krush? Lizard Skinner.  Am I coming in clear?” he broadcasted out.  And received nothing for his troubles. Nothing but silence.

The throbbing of his temples did nothing to alleviate the struggle for recollection. He had no marbles to reach out to, and he tried first to control his breath. Calm down, Alberich. This isn’t your first courser. And it ain’t no intergalactic cruise ship.  You’re on a skiff in the middle of nowhere. How did you get here?


——
“Easy does it. We’re closing in on the coordinates now. Don’t rush it, Chatterbox…” That was his voice uttering those commands. Was Matt doing something wrong? No…  No, nothing was going wrong. Everything was in place. The Talon Satellite was up and almost fully operational. The squadron had done what it was trained for - if anything this was a routine mission and he would be back home to message Yavul that he’d made a decision on the bathroom tiling they were discussing.

It was routine…  All they needed to do was enter in the correct diagnostic array and it would be up and running. His job was to get it into orbit. Make sure it worked then he’d be home in time for supper. 

It was routine… Lasagna…yeah that sounded good with a nice glass of ice cold sweet tea. Yavul’s favorite. Maybe a hint of brandy for the old dog since he couldn’t have a drink - his own fault really. Who made bets like that?  Grisham didn’t even want to think of the embarrassment he felt when it at blatantly backfired on him. Boy did the ol’ Yote know how to sweet talk him, and squirm in all the right ways.

He’d be home in no time he told himself. It was routine.

The trajectory of flying debris surrounding the planet he’d called home had come out of nowhere. The mission would be quick, but when the diagnostic array failed to connect, Grisham went forth himself to reposition it. Just a millimeter more, was all it would take the array would connect. That was all it needed. Just a little bit more. Aaaand there.

Grisham slowly used the pressure valves to push him away from the satellite. It was perfect and when he heard confirmation of the lock on, he could head back with the rest. The timing was just within the orbital debris. Or so he’d thought. Suddenly something slammed into him so fast that it caught the tail end of the skiff and sent it into a spin, sending it out and away. The skiff hissed and the glass cracked, and before he could counter the spin or maneuver out of the way and even larger piece of debris crushed the left side of the ship, the force of which slammed Grisham’s head against the inside of his helmet, and everything went black.
—

Everything came screaming back to him. The sirens, the voices of his squadron. The realization that the gray green dot that he’d seen floating past the cracked window was not earth, but some other rock. That he’d been slammed so far off the star map his own squadron couldn’t even reach him. His comm had been dead.  And the gauges were all ready low or near-empty. He didn’t know where he was, and even if he did, he didn’t have enough fuel to get back.

Grisham Alberich, Pilot Royal and Commander of the Hellions, was a sitting duck in unknown territory, and the quadrants he tried to read on his scanner fizzed out. Did he risk sending out an emergency beacon? Anyone could find him, and if Edanis or Librans found him first, he was already toast. A Pilot Royal would make a mighty prize for anyone and he checked his comm again, smacking it because that was the Solartan way to get anything to work.

Radio Silence…

Grisham’s hand hovered over the distress signal beacon.  He glanced down at the rifle he had in the compartment next to his flight couch. He wasn’t unarmed. If someone wanted to burn him, they weren’t going to take him alive.  A second of hesitation and nothing more, and the power levels were stripped to the barest minimum - no lights, no outgoing calls, even the life support that kept the temperature regulated was to be activated if need be. Grisham activated the beacon and pulled the rifle close.

“Fire fire,” he whispered, staring out into black. “Burning bright.  Like a beacon in the night…”

 ”Look the red dot just north by northwest of Amristah, Coyote Man, that’s where you’ll find me. Don’t worry. I’m going up just for a few. I’ll be back before you know it.” Those were distant words now. But words he repeated nonetheless.

This time he said it aloud and to nothing more than the silence in his helmet. “I’ll be back before you know it, Yavul. You have my word.”

   “So…which should I get 2% or non fat? What’s the difference? Hmm, both? Both. Both is good right, lil baby?” Indigo Rook grinned down at the little half-human, half-Kulshedra baby squirming on the baby leash and looking up at him with doey baby eyes and blowing raspberries at him. She said something incoherent and coo’d lightly, blowing more wet raspberries. “Okay okay, the two percenter would be better.”

Almond screamed and tugged again on the child leash from around her waist. She coo’d again and looked up at him with pleading eyes. “Okay okay, the whole chocolate milk again. Don’t you ever get tired of chocolate milk?” he mumbled, shaking his head, reaching into the door and putting the small carton of 2% away and getting out the chocolate milk that had her gasping and making grabby hands for it. He set it into the basket instead and pushed it along the freezer aisle even though she reluctantly was tugged along.

Okay so maybe shopping wasn’t the funnest thing for a toddler to do. Almond chewed on her hand a little bit, using her teeth and growling softly. Didn’t say much of anything although she knew words like “Dada” and “Campferr” for the little stuff campfire that gramma and grampa made for her when they found out he had a little one.  Deego couldn’t be prouder; the little scamp liked to be on her feet, she was energetic and adventurous.

He just had her baby harness strapped to him just in case. And a bjorn across his chest…just in case. Because what if she got lonely and wanted to be carried. At least the bjorn would leave him hands free and he could still have her close to him. Was that so wrong?  She was his baby and she needed her daddy, and he was going to take care of her until she didn’t need him anymore. That’s what good daddies did, and he was determined that be the best goddamn daddy in Aedolis and the whole goddamn galaxy…aaaaand.

Ok, Deego, he told himself. That’s a little too much effort. How about the best daddy in the supermarket. Yup. Yeah. That’d be good.

“Almond. So what kind of cheerios you want? The honey kind right?” he mumbled, wandering through the cereal aisle and examining a box with one hand while the cart held the other and the little leash on his wrist going loose.  Huh.  He glanced down to his leg and blinked. 

The leash wasn’t attached to anything it seemed and had been chewed through…  “Almond?  OH Shit!” His face visibly blanched and all the color faded from his scales as he looked around for a tiny golden scaled fleshy baby and saw nothing. His heart immediately sank and he left his cart behind as he dashed out of the aisle and out toward the main supermarket runway.  And saw nothing more than a scattering crowd of people getting their late night shopping on.

“OH…fuckfuckfuckfuck!  FUCK!  Almond!” Deego’s heart raced and he called her name again and again and carefully inspected each aisle looking for a tiny drunk person. And no dice!

How many times had his eyes traced over the same letters, the same lines over and over again? You’d think with the number of times he’d read that note he’d memorized it word for word not, line by line. He did. Of course he did. Glover got fixated, would read it again, carefully fold it up and then keep it in his breast pocket, close to his heart right next to his smokes.

Then he’d fish one out, feel the paper and then pull both out. The doctors wanted him to quit smoking. Said he wouldn’t heal right if he kept on like he did, but what did they know? Them and their medical degrees, healers could only heal with their Mordecai and his was gone. A westward came in through Tynova and took Wil along with it.

The hollowed out feeling from inside Glover’s chest was continuously scraped and scratched at by his good arm. His only arm. No, the doctor’s didn’t see what he saw, didn’t know what he knew. They don’t know the thing that took his arm off, that tried to take Sevrin. They could keep telling him to quit lighting up all they wanted, and he’d keep musing along with them as he popped another painkiller, washing it down with actual water and tucked the smoke into his lips, flipping open the cap of his Hippo lighter and igniting the end of it the Atrade Light.

Rose gold eyes blinked and stared at the blank lifeless TV on his wall in that rundown apartment. If Wil was here, they’d probably complain about the dust building up in the corners. About the week old noodles he’d probably forgot about again. Glover grinned, taking a long drag from the corner of his mouth of that cigarette and blowing it out and laying his head back, staring at the ceiling.

Holding the smoke in his mouth, he reached and felt his hand graze across the itch on his chest again, where it was hollow, where the skin was already wearing away to raw patches of new flesh underneath. The place where Wil was. The ache should have felt dull by now. The skin could have started healing over if his hand didn’t keep picking at it.

Funny, how the doctors said he would mourn for the return of his arm. That he’d still feel it and try to reach for it only for it to not be there. Phantom pain they called it. Glover’s hand fell to the side of the couch and could feel the weight of something beside him, as if someone was sitting there. He could smell them so close, the little wisps of Wil’s hair when they took it down from a long day’s work.  The little cap that would somehow slip off from keeping that wonderful head warm on cold Tynova nights, and find itself on Glover’s own head.

The rustle of Wil’s jacket when it was taken off and Glover bet his whole remaining pack of smokes that if he opened his eyes right now, he would see those deep luscious browns. The kind he could fall right into when he looked at them, that made his heart leap up and beat in his throat when they met his. And he knew he would see those thick lips curl into a small smile, just this side of crooked when heat touched Wil’s cheeks. Those warm cheeks.

“I love you,” he found himself saying.

And nothing answered him right back. Glover opened his eyes and tilted it to the side, where Wil was sitting. Slowly, like water diluting water colors, Wil melted away. And the ache in his chest returned, his hand instinctively reaching out to touch Wil’s cheek before they faded and were gone.

“So that’s what they meant by phantom pain,” he murmured, blinking at his delusion.

His new arm was scheduled to come in the day after next. When he’d be reassigned and meet up with his new partner. They could reassign him, it wasn’t like had had any choice in that matter. They could do whatever they wanted, he wasn’t going to be there.

----
This was his last fucking pack of smoke. He’d have to make it last as long as he could. Just the thought of that was enough to make Glover’s skin itch and he wanted to scratch at his chest again. But it was already so red, splotches were actually starting to bleed out now and he sniffed in discomfort. No use crying about it now. Bleeding out here in the Frontier was likely a bad fucking idea.

“You sure you wanna go out there? Alone? There’s bandits roamin’ ‘round. I’m sure y’could hire someone in one of the settlements to go out and find ‘em.”

“They’re a friend of mine is all. They’re birthday is coming up and I wanted to pleasantly surprise them,” Glover chuckled as the horse went along slowly. Regular horse. He’d heard of the terrors that other people tried to ride that were the Badari. Scary fuckers. He had to admit he was curious. He wanted to ride one. Maybe he could lose the other arm and become ramen noodle man.

“Must be real ‘mportnt t’come out here then.” The other rider glanced back to him and then his arm, scowling thick grey brows together that made the lines in his face so thick the sweat from his forehead collected in them like little aqueducts. The hat on his head sat loosely, despite of it. “What happened t’yer arm there, pal?”

“Rabid squirrel.”

“Huh?”

“A really mean fucking rabid squirrel. Yup. Bit it right off. Clean through the bone,” Glover smirked, favoring the end of his curren smoke and taking a small drag on it.

“Err….ok.”  They said nothing the rest of the way, cresting where the well-worn road was going to turn in toward the next town. “Well, pal, this is your stop. Can’t go no further for me. Y’sure I can’t convince ya to come with me still? Ain’t nothing much that way. I saw a cabin once. Or I thought I did. But the heat does terrible awfuls to the brain.”

“Oh my brain pretty much looks like swiss cheese now, Jonboy,” Glover mused, hopping off the horse and looking up at the old man.  He grinned and dashed the ashes off into the red dirt. Yeah he really didn’t have the gear for this but if the directions were true, then it wouldn’t be that far off. He shrugged his backpack on his shoulder and tried to secure it there as best he could.

The old man pulled the hat off his head and placed it on Glover’s dirty blonde waves, pushing them out and over his face.  “I reckon ya’ll need that more’n I will, pal. Well take care. Tell your friend I say hello.”

Glover said nothing, watching the horse clop away and Glover finally turned and set down the path.  The hat was already juicy with sweat but the miniscule shade did wonders to alleviate the pain of bright reflective sun on his vision. He was close, he had to be. He didn’t think about anything else. About the sweat on his own brow, tried not to focus on how hot it was as he trekked further into the rocky red landscape.

Didn’t even care if there were other wanderers like him trying to find someone they knew. Gods fuck it was so hot. It was so fucking hot. And his water...the last drop had gone onto his tongue somewhere between that big red fucking rock ahead of him, and the horse he’d seen with an old man that gave him a ride for a few dollars more.

Somewhere there had to be Wil. There had to be water. Maybe...maybe he could just take a little nap. Find a nice shady place to lie down in and settle there for a while. Then he wouldn’t be so thirsty. He wouldn’t be so tired.

Glover’s knees buckled underneath him and he collapsed on that burning red dirt, his hat coming loose from his head as he could barely keep his eyes open. The butt of his cigarette had been hanging loosely from his lips and fell into the dirt as well. He blinked, his vision doubling in and out, blurry, and he could see a cabin, and the door opening. That was all he saw before everything went black.

Prologue
+ NAME + Sammael
+ ALIAS + Sam, Samsam, Batboy, Rockhead, boulderbrain
+ AGE + 1312 (physically very well kept)
+ GENDER + Male
+ ORIGIN + Tienar? Somewhere underground
+ SPECIES + Gargoyle 8D
+ RESIDENCE + The Wasteland
+ OCCUPATION + Raider, Swooper, Scary Ass Mofo
+ FACE + Gray hair / Neon Green eyes
+ STATURE + 6'4” to 7'5” in beasty mode/ 226 lbs.
+ SEXUALITY + If it's got a hole and he's sufficiently riled, he's gonna try and bang it.




__________________IN-DEPTH

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION
He's a big boy, Sammael casually stands at around 6 foot 4 inches tall and is covered in hard muscle. Covered in a grayish-blue skin, his gray hair tends to stand out easily. Beneath an angular brow, the sclera of his eyes are darkened, enhancing the neon green of them surrounding vertical slit pupils, and almost seeming to glow in the dark. Four small white horn nubs grow out from his forehead just at his temples above his brow. He has red geometrically designed tattoos on his neck, back, chest, and legs. He has nubs underneath his shoulder blades that serve as fonts for his wings when he decides to unleash them, large leather bat-like appendages that can span up to 21 feet across from tip to tip, and a long and has a soft tuft growing at the end of it.

When fully transformed, Sam bulks out to 7'5”, his claws extend out, and he gets more feral in appearance. His eyes bear an unearthly glow, and his build becomes more robust, resilient to most physical attacks. He still retains his horns and ear piercings – an industrial and helix on his right ear and three lobe rings on is left.

PERSONA
“He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man.”
Serious and intelligent, Sam is a semi-grumpy brute. He can't be bothered to care more about something that has not taken his interest or his curiosity. He enjoys figuring things out for himself, with more of a hands on approach and likes to keep busy. Because if he isn't working or sleeping, he's prowling for things to hunt, usually at night.

He approaches things from a logical standpoint, can be denser than stone when it comes to deep emotional analysis and frankly he isn't fond of soul searching, personally speaking. He's feisty, gets hangry fast, but makes up for it in protective instincts. He'll jump head long into the fray for one of his own.

- Things! -
 - Picks his teeth clean with chewed up bones. Taking care of his teeth is among the most important things. He bares them when irritated and hisses, before swooping away (but won't ever admit that this is something he'll do).
Frequently wakes up from his stone naps to being draped in paint, tags, bows, and other shenanigans the Spinners come up with. Much to his indignation.
Tends to be more active at night than during the day, likes to scurry and squeeze into dark caves and rocky crevices, hiding there to sleep, or lie in wait. Very good at remaining stock still and pouncing when prey comes into reach.
Likes strong bitter drinks (coffee in particular) and earthy aromas. Has a particularly strong sense of smell, both a blessing and a curse when living among wasters.

MAGIC/ABILITIES
GARGOYLE
Historically named as guardians of stone, protectors of sacred ground, Sammael's clan of gargoyles are all but wiped out. He can change his form at will, become a complete winged beast complete with tail, claws, and teeth and jaws powerful enough to snap bones in half.  Or a hybrid between that and a more human like form. He's better acclimated to darkness, night, and caverns, with impeccable night vision, hearing and sense of smell, best suited to prowling and hunting, or sneak attacks.

Among his inherent gifts, his bite is venomous, releasing a neurotoxin that paralyzes and is fatal. His claws also cause a paralyzing effect, although it is much slower acting, to keep prey from escaping before he can close in for the kill. His growl emits infrasound vibrations, low frequency sounds incapable of being picked up by the human ear, but can be felt in various parts of the body, instilling feelings of terror.

As the phases of the moon gets closer to full, the more feral Sam becomes. He turns to stone once a month, usually hiding in cliffs and rocky areas, lacking a chosen mate to bond with. If he chose to bond with a mate, it would be during this time that he would go into a heat and procreate. Usually the bonds are powerful, and not easily broken.

RELATIONSHIPS
Rhaziel – His big brother. He's kind of a jerk. 8D

Iro – Raider/Wasteland boss
Artie – Iro's second in command, an annoying lil scamp. |8

HISTORY
From a clan of other gargoyles deep underground, extensively hunting the critters that lived there, and thriving for millenia. Slowly they were found and hunted down by humans that didn't understand – instead more focused on their fear than the purpose they served. Sam's clan was mostly obliterated, save for he, his brother and a few others,  his mother vanishing, and over time he watched as the earth decayed and the oceans become poison.  He's bitter, and became separated from any stragglers of his clan, and has been raiding in the Wastes ever since.

Epilogue
THREADS