Centurion Hrask's page

Hrask, a soldier rather than a leader, waits for one of the other marines to offer a suggestion.

'Very well, you shall have your price. Let us hope, for your sake, that I find the reward worth my time.'

"And how exactly to you expect us to do that?

"I cannot help but notice that what you offer only splits one way, yet here there are five of us. There is something you are not telling us."

For those without the skill, Common Lore (Screaming Vortex) can be used untrained at a -20 penalty.

Common Lore (Screaming Vortex) 43 - 20 = 23 : 1d100=6

One degree of success.

Your shuttles land just outside the city proper, and you are escorted into the city by handfuls of handsome slaves.

Hrask steps down the sloped ramp of the shuttle clad head to toe in his battered armor. He gazes at waiting slaves from behind an impassive mask of armorplas and ceramite, standing impassively for long moments before the delegation's headman recovers his wits and manages to choke out a greeting.

Hrask grunts in reply, sparing no words for the petty underlings. He allows the slave to stutter partway through the usual selection of groveling platitudes before cutting him off with a curt wave of one massive hand. Another gesture is all that is required to convince the slave that his charge is tired of waiting.

Accompanying the slaves through the crystalline metropolis, he keeps his eyes in constant motion, evaluating this new environment. The city different than most he has visited over his exodus from imperial space, untouched as it is by the destruction and fury of war. Yet he senses the rippling undercurrent of conflict hidden beneath the placid exterior, the battles fought here will be of a different sort. As long as the money holds, Hrask could not care less.

"I shall be honest," he says as he sees you all enter. "I have had very little experience with your kind. Sit, sit... or... not. However it suits you, my lords. Do you eat? I hope I give no offense, but the legends of the astartes make you out to be quite superhuman, so I find myself at a sudden loss at what to expect."

Hrask understands the importance of appearances in such negations and does has no intention of remaining standing while his host sits, as doing so would clearly show Hrask as subservient to him, a state of affairs which is far from true. However, Hrask, like Regulus, notices that the flimsy chairs of this establishment would crumple like tinder under his weight. He instead elects to lean lackadaisically against a nearby wall, at least as lackadaisically as one can whilst clad in nearly a half tonne of powered armor.

He takes the chance to thoroughly inspect all those present. The merchant seems to have summoned a diverse group of Astartes, all independent sorts such as himself. He knows a few by name or reputation and none stand out in his mind as either interesting or dangerous, though is is careful not to show any of them his back. Studying the ork bodyguards shifting irritably in the background, Hrask is glad he chose to retain his helmet. He offhandedly scrolls through the list of warlords with bounties on orks should the opportunity arise before turning his full attention on the marines jovial host.

Fixing Grath in his steely gaze Hrask speaks his first words since arriving on this accursed rock:

'I already ate. Now, if we could get down to business? I was assured this opportunity would be worth my time, so I suggest we not waste any more of it'

Seeing the orks shift aggressively at his terse statement, Hrask mentally rehearses killing them for the third time since entering the airy cafe. Mentally drawing a bead on each of their twisted faces and squeezing the trigger.

Hrask sits alone in the cavernous hold of the transport, the humming threnody of the Warp ringing in his ears. Before him lie the disassembled parts of his bolt pistols, arranged in neat rows on a tan oilcloth. One by one, he inspects the parts with a critical eye, pausing occasionally to scrub away some nigh imperceptible spot of dirt. As each part passes muster, he lovingly fits it into its appointed place and the deadly efficient weapons of an Astartes take shape before him.

He cocks his head to one side as the tone of the warp drops in pitch. Retrieving a pair of polished bolt rounds from one of the dozens of patches which festoon his chest, he fits one into each chamber and slams the bolt closed with a practiced flick of the wrist.

Satisfied, Hrask smiles.

They have arrived.

Very cool, Hrask. But if you cast off the colours of the Astral Claws, what colours are you wearing now?

Hrask has allowed years of damage and neglect reduce his armor to bare ceramite in most places, though some spots do still show the blue and gold of the Astral Claws.

This is Ellipsis, here is the background on my character:

Hrask spent a century obediently serving the corpse-emperor as a mighty Space Marine, his reward was betrayal. Inducted into the Astral Claws chapter in the years leading up to the Badab War, Hrask was assigned to lead formations of human warriors in the name of the God Emperor and the Tyrant of Badab. In this time, he lead his men to victory against xenos raiders and heretical insurrectionists, developing a reputation for ruthless efficiency. Then, the Astral Claws were betrayed by their brothers, and something broke in Hrask's mind. When Hrask and his men were thrown onto the front lines of the Badab War, he burned with hatred toward those he once saw as his brothers, the Adeptus Astartes. Time and again Hrask would stalk a loyal marine through the chaos of battle, sacrificing tens, hundreds of men to give him the opportunity to close for the killing blow. Then, abruptly he ran out of men. The Badab War was ending, and the Astral Claws were in retreat, scrambling to protect their few remaining planets.

Hrask scorned these orders, his loyalty to the chapter long since burned away by the incompetence of his commanders. Casting off the colors of the the Astral Claws, Hrask now serves only himself, traveling as a mercenary across the Imperium. He has served countless masters, always the consummate professional, until one day he abruptly vanishes. The reason is always the same, he has learned of a Space Marine who has made the fatal mistake of traveling beyond the protection of his treasonous brethren. Hrask stalks these wayward souls, then he teaches them what it means to be betrayed.

The anger in Hrask's heart is cold and calculating, but burns nonetheless. There is no boundary he will not cross in his quest to hunt down those who betrayed him, no sin he will not commit.