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Character Nomad

View character profile for: Nomad


Location - Aramar System - Xorel Cloud

Nomad cleaned his knife before sheathing it once more. He looked down at his handiwork. Five dead in ten heartbeats. Didn't even break a sweat. Of course he left the sixth one alive. He needed the coordinates for the new trade routes of the Aramar. And he would of course get it. Slowly, he would savour the screams like one savours an exquisite wine.

He rolled his broad shoulders looking at the terrified trader, slopped against the ship's hull with two holes in his kneecaps. He grinned under his helmet covered in tight dried scalps. He loved the fear his appearance instilled in these cowards. It was like an opiate to him, driving him to seek more danger, to deliver more pain, to take what he wanted and give nothing back.

The trade route of Aramar was one of the most important in the sector as it supplied weapons and resources to the Red Fists, a splinter cell of the now defunct GDF. They had risen to power in the area in the last years of the Bloodshed Uprsing. The new Armadan Council had decided to engage and further disrupt any factions in their path on their way to the outer rims. He twitched in anticipation. It had been too long since he had slayed anyone in hand to hand combat. Months since he was involved in the assassination of the High Council and the Bloodborn Elders.
He was to get the coordinates, rendezvous with a small force of Armadan ships, capture and destroy as much as they could, disrupting the route and the destabilise the Red Fists attempts to control the Xorel Cloud. Nomad the last of the Archangels was already feared and revered among the Armada forces as a beast of the void. A plunder of lives, a feaster of souls, breaker of men. Where he threaded death, misery and pain soon followed. The 'Void Reaver', they whispered in hushed and awed tones, even among the veterans of the war. Self made in the Pits of the Armada, forged in the crucible of battles of the Bloodshed Uprising, his name a curse on the lips of thousands of men and women, a name that would echo throughout coming the generations. Ruthless, without mercy, with a soul as dark as the shapeless ether.

With the High Council gone further anarchy was starting to descend on the galaxy. Even those societies that had weathered the war better than most would start to break and revert to the purest of all laws. Survival of the fittest.

He took his helmet and crouched by the wounded man. The self inflicted scarification on his face a patchwork of crosses and slashes rendering his features horrible to behold. He pulled his knife from its sheath again.

"Usually after a battle I etch my flesh with a small slash to mark another enemy vanquished. But those meat bags," he said motioning to the five corpses, "Are not worthy the space on my flesh. They were weak. Almost as weak as you." He said and casually plunged the knife in the man's hand twisting the blade wickedly. A piercing shout echoed inside the cockpit of the ship bouncing from the steel frame, as the blade cut through flesh, tendon and bone.

"I want the new coordinates for the Aramar trade route little man and all codewords for the enforcer ships protecting the convoys. Quickly! And maybe, just maybe I will let you die with some dignity and less pain than I really crave..."

A few hours later covered in grime and blood, sated and excited he warped towards his new goal. The Armada vanguard force following his beacon. First the Aramar route and than the system itself, and finally the Red Fists.

Fire and death would come crashing down. He roared to the void as his ship parted the warp like a spear.

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