Galahad Sagremore Dorn, Pilot Noble

[Astaire]

___________


___________


**

{NAME}
Galahad Sagremore Dorn

{ALIASES}
Darn it, Mor, Gal, Gala, any other variations of his names. "Saggy", "queenie", "iceman" or "saltpile" for those less keen on him.

{AGE}
37, although he looks quite prematurely aged

{GENDER, SEXUALITY}
Male, homosexual

{SPECIES/ETHNICITY}
Human, Aedolian

{HEIGHT/BUILD}
6’3” / 190cm, lean

{OCCUPATION}
Pilot Noble, Inquiry Acquisition Agent

{RESIDENCE}
A small place in Samariel, but he travels around

{VOICE}
Doug Cockle (as Geralt of Rivia)

{OST}
Sólstafir - Love is the Devil
Red Hot Chili Peppers - Encore

___________
IN DEPTH STUFF
___________

{PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION}

Quite the striking presence, tall, slim, angular, tough as a piece of jerky and militaristically straight-backed on all occasions. Galahad is a stern-looking man without a soft bit about him on all accounts, with a single pale eye and a piece of nondescript glass where the other has once been, his real age belied by largely grayed hair and extensive scarring.

In figure and posture, he’s true to his personality, appearing to be put together out of whips of corded muscle and slim bones under nearly translucent skin. He’s moderately wide in the shoulders - more so than elsewhere at least - and in possession of a strong pair of arms with heavy, worn down hands covered in a cobwebs of veins, but his legs are much more impressive. Galahad is all legs, although the left is machine from the knee down, tying into thighs made for crushing the hopes and dreams of the unfortunate. Admittedly, the prosthesis mimics the shape of the real leg faithfully enough to be barely noticeable in uniform and moves with the same finesse, but Dorn still isn’t keen on wearing shorts in public.
He almost always appears rigid, as though all his sinewy muscle had been strung up and kept at a constant threat. Although he relaxes in casual situations at least a little, Dorn in service has the body language of the drill instructor every candidate hates - severe, harsh, and leaving no room for objections or insubordination. If he’s in charge, he’ll damn well make you know it.

Galahad’s flawlessly chiseled jaw and high cheekbones had made him quite the looker in candidacy and his early years as a pilot, and though the years hadn’t been kind to him, his facial structure had been largely preserved, only slimmed and aged. His face is rectangular, somewhat elongated, with elegant features. His thick brows sit over deep set almond eyes, only a little tilted and ringed by thick, dark lashes that become especially prominent on his lower eyelid, but stress and the adverse effects of premature aging brought on by a demanding position are beginning to show in the form of deep rings and wrinkles around the eyes. He has a noble profile with a narrow, slightly pointed nose and high brow, quite thick lips usually pursed in a faint frown and a chronic case of resting bitch face, with a small silver stud on either side under his lower lip.
His remaining eye, the right one, is a pale gray as luminous as a LED light, here and there specked with flecks of blue, green, and a catlike yellow. The left had been taken by a scar stretching over a large part of his face, cutting across the brow diagonally and ending somewhere near the jawline, slightly below ear level; a smaller one in the same direction follows it a centimeter lower, down to his jaw. The eyeball itself is replaced by a plain white glass ball, devoid of any iris or pupil. His sensitivity and muscle coordination on the left side of his face is slightly impaired in comparison to the rest.

Once, his hair had been a deep, oily sea blue, though more than three quarters of it are now grayed to various shades of ashen and white, most visible on the temples and top. He keeps it a little above chin length, cropped short on the sides and back to keep it off his neck and fitting easier into a helmet, here and there riddled with scars that disrupt the flow of the hair. The top’s thick and a little coarse, usually swept back or tied, ruffled and wispy. On the job, it’ll be almost always neatly pinned back.

It was the war more than time itself that had marked Dorn, in the form of many scars, one missing eye and a mechanical leg. Beside the striking lines of slashes slicing across his face, the stitches on his shoulder (gained after his arm had been severed and sewn back into place with a replaced joint) are still quite visible, as is a multitude of others, centered more heavily on the left side of his body, both the mechanical damage of bullets and lacerations as the more irregular burn scars and patches of skin grafts necessitated by his curiekinesis. There are more precise, surgical incisions near the area of his kidney and abdomen, as well as more minor ones on the throat, hips and the rest of his body.
He has a tattoo of three slim stiletto daggers crossed over his heart, the middle one adorned with a single black drop of blood. On his back is a laurel-crowned reaper, stripped of all flesh and grinning, outlined with the words ‘don’t trust the skull’ right above the cracked cranium.

For a relatively high-ranked pilot, he dresses quite plain, if tidy. Dark, cold colors, button-ups, dark trousers and tailored outlines together with leather jackets, waterproof outdoor coats and long blazers are necessary parts of his wardrobe. It really depends on his mood and reason to leave his house whether he’ll choose comfort or elegance, but anything bright, provocative or particularly extravagant would be hard to spot. He gravitates towards grey, monochrome and navy blue and is only rarely seen without a coat or jacket, often holding his personal belongings in place of a bag. He has a weakness for nice shirts and polished, handmade fine leather shoes and gloves. At times, he can be spotted wearing sweats and a cap for the anonymity,  as well as a pair of shades to hide his blatantly obvious missing eye.

{PERSONALITY}

SALT AND PEPPER
Embittered. Dour. Dry. Despite a knightly name, Galahad hates to fuck around with white lies, pointless courtesy and fake smiles. He's a honest man with everything but his own feelings, which he'd never admit to having unless extremely inebriated or at death's door, to the point of coming off as harsh in many situations; his patience with perceived stupidity and irrational or straight up annoying behavior is short and quickly burns up into a dismissive bitterness. That's why he has a whole plethora of unkind nicknames, but luckily, Dorn isn't too concerned with people's opinion of him or public image as long as there's no slander targeting his work ethic, loyalty or integrity. He might hate tabloids, but it stems more from annoyance than caring about their content, and it might seem that he thinks he's better than you - actually, he doesn't think as much as know it.

MARRIED TO THE JOB
He's also notably down to earth, committed and responsible with his work and colleagues. It's a dirty work, but someone's got to do it. That someone's him, an existence that won't endanger anyone with his passing if that happens and fully devoted to his purpose, believing that you've got to work with what you got and give your best; his best simply happens to be deadly. A mechanical and largely unfeeling man in service, he can be intimidating and commanding, even terrible; he doesn't have much of a personal life except for training and drinking sprees, but his devotion to the state is absolute. He wholesomely believes in (or at least would like to hope for) a better future and that he can help create it - by eliminating those destructive elements such as Gospels that would seek to topple it. Which brings about...

THOU SHALT NOT BETRAY
...His high standards and harsh, burning hatred of Gospels. They betrayed their kin, their people and their masters. Galahad is loyal to his purpose even if he sometimes doubts whether he cares about the masses at all, of he's doing the right thing, but he's never once doubted that those that betray Aedolis are deserving of death. He hates traitors. He doesn't take keenly to misdemeanor and irresponsibility either, but they aren't as deserving of judgment as such a straight up failure.

NIETZCHE WAS RIGHT
God is dead. Dorn's a nihilist and materialist with no interest or belief or spirituality, believing in that which can be proven by fact and science and not clinging to sentimental values or senseless morality. His own is based on that which he'd seen proven - do unto others as you want done unto yourself, do not betray, bear no ill will to another if he does not bear it towards you and your people. The fact that existence is essentially meaningless doesn't necessarily devaluate it, but he has a very no-nonsense attitude towards life and the psyche.

PANDORA'S BOX
Dorn hasn't been nicknamed an iceman and a saltpile for nothing. His internal world, save for a penetrating bitterness and seemingly permanent annoyance with any whimsical antics, is tightly shut off from the public and even those relatively close to him - in fact, it's often even closed off from More himself, who doesn't like dealing with his own emotions after finding no suitable outlets and instead prefers to drown them in a few liters of tequila. He can't express himself well in those matters, often scolding himself as a weakling and hypochondriac whenever worries surface. They're much like something between the tide and internal bleeding - coming in surges, hidden on the surface and ravaging him from the inside. He's been dealing with disillusionment, jealousy and loneliness for years, finding himself submit to the occasional strong surges of emotion, but hadn't found the kind of closeness that would allow him to let it out. Thus, he bottles it up, filling more jars with unexpressed feelings by each bottle of liquor he drains. Perhaps his job is a relief in itself to every self-destructive urge, reminding him of the fact he's alive and vibrantly so, even if not in the most pleasant of ways.

GREGOR SAMSA AWOKE
He isn't happy with himself and the person he's become. He's trying to change, yes, trying to hold others back from committing to the same mistakes as himself, but it's hard and doesn't always work out; he found that in time he's built a tough shell around himself and now can't break out of it. The bad and that which lets him survive persists at once. Sometimes, he wonders whether he's become a loveless alcoholic and there's little to no salvation left, only to decline back into nihilism and tell himself that it doesn't matter. He has a shard of warmth and humanity left beneath his cold exterior, but it's buried deep, and he often believes himself beyond salvage and therefore focuses it outwards instead.

Fun Facts!:

• keeps his personal life private, especially matters of mental health, work and relationships, and often goes on a last name basis
• collects and paints miniatures as well as unique guns, which are his only valuable personal possessions
• struggles with PTSD, alcoholism and symptoms of borderline personality disorder, but is very much not keen on therapists and hasn't seen one for years. Has a hard time putting his emotions into words and expressing them properly.
• is more fond of change and traveling than familiarity; routine means falling into a rut and succumbing to self-destructive vices easily
• is a surprisingly good climber and likes being in elevated places like a hawk, happiest beneath a wide open sky. Or dome.
• strictly pragmatic. Really dislikes superstition and strong religious belief if taken as more than interesting, but obviously untrue stories.
• hates wearing jewelry with a passion. Except for the two piercings, cufflinks and the occasional tie pin, he never wears any
• can't seem to get used to a regular daily regime, his sleep and wake up hours change frequently
• likes reading psychological novellas and historical novels. He's actually very well educated.
• uses his fake eye and empty eye socket for jokes and tricks when drunk. There's been a huge number of things in his eye and a similar one his eye has been in, up to and including drinks, online auctions and various people's various orifices. Drunk Gala is far less uptight.

{SPECIAL ABILITIES}

TELEPATHY
Above or slightly above average. It fulfills its purpose, although it's not his strongest suit.

TELEKINESIS
Moderate and enough to be a threat in combat to others, it's more potent when used in combination or tandem with his curiekinesis than otherwise. Usable to type or perform mundane things in daily life.

CURIEKINESIS
In his youth, when illumokinesis and its offshoots were even rarer than it now seems to be, Galahad was a special kind of prodigy. Rather than having control only over the visible part of the electromagnetic spectrum, his kinetic abilities extend over all wavelengths. He's able to control and change wavelengths as well as adjust the trajectories of photons, resulting in powerful surges of microwave or gamma rays or long radio wave transmissions for emergency use in communication. What he lacks in finesse he more than makes up for in range and strength; a real powerhouse at his best, it's much easier for him to imitate the irradiating effects of stellar flares or nuclear weapons than it is to create an effective disguise for himself and maintain it. His specialization lies in the offensive, ranging all the way from melting bursts of infrared rays to molecule-disintegrating surges of concentrated x-rays and gamma radiation.
However, with great power comes great responsibility. If forced to sacrifice fine control for raw firepower - because Dorn's abilities are quite strong with no holds barred - particle-disintegrating rays, radiation and x-rays can be dangerous both to himself and any teammates within range. Radiation sickness is common, he's been long since rendered infertile by his own abilities and several of his internal organs had been replaced due to radiation damage when even anti-irradiation lining inside his flight suits didn't block all of it out.

{RELATIONSHIPS}

CARTIÉRE - a pure white, impressively bulky male with astonishingly piercing eyes and much of his hind portion and belly mechanical, Cartiére is no sweetheart. Fiercely selective with the pilots he accepts, he demanded both extraordinary psionics and a mental fortitude made of steel, and only barely chose Galahad - after smiting him with one of his massive claws that took his left eye entirely. He's manipulative and fiercely ambitious, much more so than Dorn himself, a trait that has began imprinting on him with times. The two of them aren't friends, that was always clear. While in bouts of anger Cartiére might resort to physical violence, he's more fond of mentally tormenting his pilot in case something doesn't go according to his will. He'd regularly disconnect him from the network and seems to be highly critical of his past pilots that had died already, warning Dorn himself against being a failure too - there's certain disillusionment in him once he found out that the miserable old drunk sod likely has no chances of becoming an Imperial.

BLU MOON - an old friend from his candidate years, Blu was the one who helped him overcome his shyness in his early years and had become something alike to a fourth sister at the time, albeit much different than his blood family. She was all the things he wasn't, and one of his closest friends through the time, onward through the war as well. Without her, he'd likely be dead by now. He had only recently resumed contact with her more strongly, after a decade of relative silence.

ANTOINE GENET - Galahad's first love, a middle class fighter pilot in the standard military, without any psionic capabilities. Him and Antoine met by pure chance, on the street no less, and it was An who asked for his number; only a few weeks later they had both realized the other was in the military as well. Somehow, everything had escalated from there and the two of them went from acquaintances to friends to lovers despite the war going on. Galahad had become very attached to him, and the news of his death when they had already made plans to get married - after he hadn't even managed to say goodbye - was extremely devastating.

FEDERICO DORN - although already in his seventies, Federico is still a very chipper man and very enthusiastically running his empire of enterprise, shielding both media such as TV channels and magazines as well as hotels, charities and whatnot; whatever in this field you think of, Federico's probably dabbled in it at some point and perhaps still cashes in on it. He was a father more for show than any other way, strongly imposing his desires on his child, but he couldn't be called neglectful or cruel. Galahad hadn't contacted him in more than a decade and has no intention to, though his father still sometimes attempts to call him; he isn't keen on facing him after the things that had happened, between them and otherwise.
The Kiwi magazine, a popular weekly tabloid, as well as the five star White Mussel hotel chain are both Dorn family businesses.

ALMA DORN - his mother, once a prolific fashion model, nowadays mostly retired and appearing in public as Federico's consort. Although she was loving enough during his youth, it seemed that she's always more preoccupied with something else. Once, Galahad had unknowingly picked up her call when drunk - about four years ago. It was the last time it happened, and after finding him in such a state, she seemed repulsed.

ISOLDE DORN - Dorn's eldest sisters, now in her late forties and working a good government job. Due to a large age difference, they were never particularly close. She is well-known particularly for the number of marriages she's been involved in, none of which lasted more than five years.

CONSTANTINE DORN - the middle Dorn daughter, and the softest clay in their father's hands, Constantine - or Conti, as she was nicknamed at times - was always the perfect middle child. Naturally extroverted and beautiful, she went on from modelling just like her mother to become a well-known actress and despite being in her forties is still largely popular and starring in many movies. They bear a certain level of physical resemblance that had even been uncomfortable to Galahad himself after estranging himself, but he never really hated Conti. They were just too different from each other.

GUINEVERE DORN - only two years older than Galahad himself, she had also always been his most favorite. Guinevere is a curious and creative soul, not as shy as he had been, but lacking Isolde's brazenness and Constantine's love of the spotlight; she's also the only one with whom he keeps in contact, if very barely so, only letting her know he's alive every few months. She still works for her father, managing her own TV channel.

{HISTORY}

Galahad; a near-mythological knight and dragon rider. Ages had turned the hypothetically historical figure into an ideal, twisted by the people's dreams and desires as to what the flawless knight should be. Nonetheless the name remained connected with its bearer and as such became an epitome of honor, bravery, strength and virtue as knightly ideals of Adela of old.

Federico Dorn, with his love of history of ages long past and an interest in his idealized vision of class and style that some might consider unhealthy, knew precisely why he had chosen that name for his fourth child and only son. A male progeny to follow in his steps had been his aim ever since the first gray strand appeared in his smooth prussian blue hair; he claimed to have loved him ever since he first saw him, screaming and covered in the viscera of the womb, but famous men often say such things when asked by the public. Their trustworthiness is not absolute.
The Dorn family, a Haviah enterprise magnate of the disgustingly rich upper castes, never lacked in anything. And neither did Galahad himself, save for perhaps his parents' attention and affection - he had anything his heart could ever desire if it just wasn't an hour of his father's time or his mother's kiss after she had just applied her crimson lipstick.

His family put a lot of stock in manners, class and education, and as such he'd had a childhood surrounded by tutors and instructors, expensive toys and the vast emptiness of a penthouse too huge for too few people. His father spoiled him rotten and forced him into a rigid mold at the same time, weighing the child down with the burden of responsibility and expectations - to excel at everything, never break decorum, don't bring shame to the family. He learned the piano and the violin, studied every subject his father put him up to, and in his spare time and loneliness took to books. They gave him what he lacked. Closeness, an illusion of a home. And living in a world of words and letters, life was better.

Now, Federico and his perfect little family never lacked any public attention, and as such he insisted they are presented as absolutely perfect - something Galahad wasn't all too keen on, disliking the rumors in tabloids or being the center of everyone's focus, but his father liked to parade him, dress him up well and show his perfect son off. And coincidentally, that was also how his psionic abilities were discovered at the early age of eight years old, through bad photos with blurred, burned and overly dark captures that somehow always failed to capture the boy's image. Someone had noticed the trend, resulting in suspicion and a subsequent screening. Sure enough, it was found out that Galahad is a potent psychic and therefore prime Pilot material.

His parents were overjoyed. The psionic ability had skipped a generation, not having resurfaced since the time of his grandfather; now, a new pilot in the family meant new vistas of opportunity for fame, profit and pride.
Galahad didn't share their excitement. It meant yet more expectations, his father's hand of steel hammering him into the shape of the perfect son with hopes that he might once rise to a high rank. Besides his parents' galas, official parties and social events, he didn't really have a social life of his own.

In a way, entering candidacy was a blessing. He was thirteen, and at first it was a shock - there were so many people his own age, the shy little bookworm that he had become was far out of his depth. Bunks, other candidates, his long teal hair suddenly shaved off to a military buzzcut, a rigorous schedule. Unbeknownst to him, his father's education had prepared him well, only the physical side was lacking; the candidate program quickly made up for it. And he learned, and excelled.
Soon after entering candidacy, he was discovered not to be an illumokinetic; he lacked the fine control necessary for creating fine guises, but could manipulate ultraviolet and infrared rays as well. At last, his psionic specialty was coined curiekinesis, manipulation of electromagnetic waves and photons with a specialization in high frequency waves. It had extended his time in stage 4 slightly, but in training had been recognized as a hypothetically large asset and he went on to graduate without greater issues. The war machine was running on all its power and demanded new gears.

Galahad was hopeful, an ambitious young pilot with dreams of a war won, proudly serving his country and rising through the ranks. He was almost able to see himself as the knight his father's choice of name had predestined him to be.

And it was his first major shock. The dragon that had picked him, Cartiére, was no kind friend of his. When he chose him, he swiped him across the face, resulting in the loss of an eye. But he chose him, for his will and his resilience. Right after he recovered, he was sent to the fronts.
War is a cruel thing. It changes men, rips them apart from the ideals they once had and instills within them pain and cruelty without offering them a choice. Galahad held up from the start, believing it's for a good cause and that the future is hopeful. He fell in love, found a man that gave him what no one else did, and it brightened up his days - albeit, Antoine was later sent to a different front and they were apart, only visiting each other on occasion and through long video calls.
The two of them had been together for six years, enough to begin making plans for marriage. They only wanted a small ceremony, away from the public eye; Galahad hadn't revealed their relationship to his father for fear of being made too public for his liking, but Antoine was easily the sun and moon of his life.

Then, the news came.
An was deployed on a different front, far away. Dorn got regular updates through him, but battles meant that there were long stretches of electrosilence between them; during those, worry ate away at him for every day, but he managed somehow.
One evening, just after finishing a mission, he was contacted by Antoine's sister. She requested a video call on serious family matters, and Galahad already suspected the worst when he asked for permission. It turned out he was right.
Antoine had been severely wounded in combat and despite the best efforts of the medical team died only hours later.

Galahad broke down. He couldn't imagine living without him; An had become his everything, an existence on his own simply wasn't meaningful. Of course such an unhealthy attachment would never end well, something he was very much aware of and willingly ignored in the face of love, but only now he realized how much.
He borrowed money from his father, without his permission, to pay for the transfer of the body and burial entirely on his own; Federico found out, but he didn't care about his anger. Due to the damage, there was no open casket funeral. Galahad never had the time to tell Antoine goodbye or see him in his final hours.

Naturally, he had to return to the front, and he put all his attention and remaining strength to the fight, alternating between a catatonic apathy and almost martyr-like fervor on the battlefield; it was all he had left, the country and goal he was fighting for, fueled by grief and despair and a wish for revenge if one was to be had. But, truth be told, he wanted to be reunited with Antoine and meet his end somewhere in enemy fire after he'd given his absolute all, mowing down ranks (he never contemplated were the same as his lover) of the enemy. Cartiére was intent only on him pulling together and rising through ranks, mentally lashing him with cruel words to solidify his exterior and keep him fighting.
It was almost fatal. He had overused his body's capabilities and his own psionics, pushed into a corner and releasing a surge of high-frequency waves nearly equivalent to a nuke, and what happened after wasn't in his mind anymore except for shards of confused, half-conscious memory. Someone had found him, took him from the battlefield and patched his badly savaged body up. He lost a leg and almost his arm as well, and in those moments he had often wished that he would've simply died, or that heavy radiation poisoning will just claim his life now, despite the attention of the doctors.

It didn't, partially thanks to Blu. No one listened to his pleas to unplug him from life support, fortunately for himself; it was a very narrow brush with death, but he recovered, albeit it took a long time and he'd never be the same as before. The cold touch of a cybernetic when his legs brush one another in his sleep would remind him of what he fought for and how close to death he got, and the face that looked at him every morning from a mirror changed - gray-haired, exhausted, scarred and pale, the war had stared back down the barrel of a gun and its glance now clung to him. But the war itself ended (he was 26, though he felt much older than that at the time), and although it was terrible, things would settle back down into normal.

Dorn had nothing more to live for, so he turned to work and the bottle. He moved away from his overbearing family, as far from Haviah as he could, and broke all contact with them - he didn't reply to his father's increasingly insistent messages, ignored the invitations to Isolde's third and fourth wedding, shut himself off entirely and lived his life spinning between drinking sprees and work. All he now had was the country he served and his loyalty to it.
Things didn't get better, they just got more bearable. He grew accustomed to Cartiére's scathing remarks, the burn of alcohol at the back of his throat and swimming through his days in a daze between guns and shots. And that was fine, because he'd mostly given up on himself and put his hopes into others, if at all.

_________________

TIMELINE:
x

_________________