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 To Rise Above the Fall Character List

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Lady Malys
She Who Must Be Obeyed
Lady Malys

Posts : 1102
Join date : 2011-05-18

To Rise Above the Fall Character List Empty
PostSubject: To Rise Above the Fall Character List   To Rise Above the Fall Character List I_icon_minitimeTue Jan 29 2013, 20:24

Here are your fellow travellers as we set out, in order of posting:

Player: Cavash.

Name: Daranúr Sselathar (Da-ran-newer Sell-a-thar)

Age: 182

Physical Description: Daranúr is a man of average height and a large build. Carring only for efficiency over his own appearance his shaven head is adorned with battle scars that run across the majority of his cranium.
Having noticed the intimidating effects of his appearance, Daranúr has spent a lot of his wealth on muscular stimulants, giving his dyed yellow eyes a far-off sheen and a well built stance that hints at his obsession with strength.

Personality: Daranúr Sselathar is a man driven by wealth accumulation, promises of power and he aspires for the fearful admiration of his subordinates. Even though he is not as cautious of other Dark Eldar as he possibly should be he is certainly not known for trusting anybody, or anything, as much as he trusts his own skill with a sword.
He is neither intorverted or extroverted and will gladly take control of the situation if there is nobody better for the job, even if it is somewhat resentfully.

History: In the lowest depths of T’llionoch the gangs would constantly squabble for control over the ancient crystal spires and walkways that the main palaces were built upon.
In these dark lairs of depravity Daranúr was born into a life of warfare and murder. With his parents and everybody he ever knew hooked on crude drugs refined by the territory’s Kabal, it was not easy keeping up with his kin in combat.
He had not always been strong; in fact, for the majority of his life he had specialised in ranged warfare and scouting, but this all changed the night he watched his parents die.
In his gang’s camp they rested in a near comatose state… such fools they were. In the dark Kabalites snuck in and torched their shelters to the ground. He watched his parents die in a blaze of pain. His mother was cut down, yet his father fought back, liquid flame sticking to his flesh.
His struggle was enough to by the child time to escape into the main city. Here he prowled for years attempting to earn a name for himself. Only through serving as a bodyguard to various scum of the lower city could he earn his fortune, but now he has come in search of a new adventure.

Key Skills:
Major skills: Intimidation and swordplay.
Minor skill: Drug knowledge.

Equipment: Duelling sabre (Close Combat Weapon), Splinter Pistol, Kabalite Armour, severed head trophies, Combat Drugs.

Sample Post: The hand removed itself imminently from his shoulder with the gaze he turned to the Pleasure House’s guard.
“So, we have a deal?” His employer asked the eccentric house-master.
He had no such interests in the dealings of his employer as long as he got his payment.
“Unfortunately I find myself lacking something…” The house-master replied, causing Daranúr to place his hand in the pommel of his sabre. Situations like this were often made much stickier than was required.
“What is it?”
“I find myself lacking faith in you. Sure, you say that you can deliver on time, but how do I know you won’t stab me in the back?”
“Because of the rates you will be paying me.”
There was a short silence.
Then Daranúr’s employer’s head rolled away from his shoulders.
The house-master laughed haughtily while drawing a deep breath from a chem.-inhaler.
“Good, Daranúr. I thank you for your work.”
He wiped his blade clean with his cloth before catching the bag of jewels thrown to him by the house-master’s guard.
Backstabbing was the nature of Commorragh, and often back stabbing was outshone by a good beheading.
“Got any more work?” He asked before being lead in to the Pleasure House.

Player: Shadows Revenge

Name: Caethir Zoanar

Age: 87

Physical Description: The skull white mask of an Incubus. No one outside of his shrine is worthy to see his face. Wears a dark purple trenchcoat overtop of his Incubus armor with the symbol of The Guid on his back, three circles connected a triangle. Hieght is 6'5"

Personality: Caethir is cold and calculating. He always has a cool head and can quickly and calming sort the situation out. These traits make him great at being an Incubi. His devotion to the Shrine of The Cobra Strike is above all else, other than himself and his greed for power. Infact Caethir's talent and power hungry ways has caught the attention of the Shrine's ruling council, and the Master Incubus ordered Caethir to be sent as a tribute to The Guild, and organization that runs deep through the ruling structure of Commorragh. The council hope that this special "training" will either forge Caethir into a strong contender for the next Master Incubus, or break him.

Although he he is known for his cool head and speaks very few words, he has been known to get very violent when his honor is challenged. He is also quick to challenge someone, as it is the way that disputes are settled in the shrine. His tactical genius is also top of his class, and he constantly spends his free time reading strategies of war and politics gathered from many species.

History: No one knows about Caethir's life before the Shrine, as it is something he does not speak of. His mark was made when he defeated Klaivex Tarin of the Shrine of the Cobra Strike with only a small hand-made dagger. Ever since then he has become one of the Temple's most inspiring Incubi. A sort of mini-legend has started to form around him, as it seems wherever he goes, his team comes back with a single loss, the Klaivex. Although the rest of the team say the Klaivex died a noble death at the hands of the enemy, the rest of the initiates and Incubi alike speak rumors of Caethir killing them in one on one combat before the battle and taking command of the squad for the upcoming battle.

Key Skills: Major Skills: Hand to Hand combat, Tactics. Minor Skills: Agility, even in his Incubus Warsuit

Equipment: Klaive, Incubus Warsuit, a small pouch of bloodstones given to him for his asignments (holds 10, only has 3 to start)

Sample Post: Caethir stared in disgust as the two nobles infront of him discuessed the new style of the high class of Commorragh. This had only been the third asignment The Guild sent him on, and he already longed for the silent halls of the Shrine. Atleast there he could get a duel in or atleast be working on his attack form. But since he had been sent to The Guild to work as their mercenary, he had yet to even unsheath his Klaive in anger, much less be in a fight. He wondered why he had been chosen for this forced exile, but Caethir respected his Master descision, and would honor the Shrine with his actions.

His current contract from The Guild was to guard the son of a well off Archon, one of the nobles infront of him. The other was the child's "friend", if that word could ever be used to describe a relationship for any dark eldar. Their incessant prattle drones on and on. Who cares about how a particular wych is doing in the arena, or what drug is currently in style. They act as if they are the most important thing in the world, and Caethir smirked under the cold white mask at the thought of these two first realspace raid. When they realize how insignificant they really are, and how easily it is for death to rap at their door and take them deep into She Who Thirst arms.

A chill popped Caethir out of his thoughts. The temperature in the room dropped slightly. The two nobles were to interesting in their conversation, or were just too oblivious to notice the change, but there was no evident reason why the temperature should change. Caethir scanned the room looking for something, and out of the corner of his eye he caught a dark flash skip behind some furniture. He stepped up inbetween the two young eldar and slowly pulled his blade from his back. They protested at the Incubus intruding on their conversation, but Caethir payed them no mind. They knew not what was happening.

In a flash a streak of white jumped from behind the furniture and at the trio. Caethir was quickly able to parry the sickle sword and deliever a punch square into the gut of the would-be assasin. The assailant was thrown into the wall, leaving a decent dent in the wall. Caethir walked up and put his klaive into the mandrake's neck and drew some of the creatures blood.

"Why are you here daemonspawn, speak now or this breath will be your last."

The mandrake simply smiled in their sickenly wide grin, and Caethir felt a blade hit him in the back of the head. Luckily his helmet had taken much of the blow, but it left him dazed enough that the mandrake under him was able to wrestle the klaive out of Caethir's hands and kick him off. Caethir rolled into a crouching stance and was able to deflect another blow aimed at his head with his gauntlet. The two mandrakes stood inbetween him and his charge. Caethir had no choice but to end this quick, before his mark was hurt. He quickly reached into his pouch and pulled out a bloodstone and crushed it. The psychic shrieks of the tortured Eldar soul lashed out at the mandrakes, boiling one alive and throwing the second one up into the roof, only to crash down into one of the many luxurious chairs around the room.

Caethir stood up and picked up his klaive. He hated the thought of having a lowly mandrake disarm him, but it was through a ruse, and put it to the back of his mind as a reminder to train when he got back to his cell. Both children were curled up on the ground weeping. This must of been the first time they were ever in true danger, and it did not look well for them.

"Get up and act like true Ynneas Eladrith"

Caethir walked over to check on the two attackers. The one had fallen into She Who Thirst's embrace, while the second still had some life in him. The Incubus walked up and picked up the mandrake by his throat.

"Who hired you?"

The mandrake, coughing up clots of blood, started this gutteral, chittering laugh. It echoed through the entire house. The noise could chill the very suns themselves if allowed, until it was ended by a sharp snap of bone.

Caethir threw the pittiful shell of what was once a dark eldar against the wall. Very few have what it takes to get mandrakes for an assassination attempt, and even fewer survive such attacks. The Archon was right for hiring Caethir to protect his son, and for the honor of the Shrine he would do just that.

"Finally, some fun" Caethir smirked to himself.

Player: CaptainBalroga

Name: Valarauka

Age: 50

Physical Description: Valarauka is a tall, wiry vatborn with a cheap, out-of-fashion genetic pedigree, one copy out of thousands. His face is pale and his demeanor calm, but a close observer can see the telltale signs of depravity, and his piercing green eyes are beginning to show knowledge of the Thirst that consumes his older brethren. He wears his black hair long and braided, with golden skull ornaments that match his earrings. His blue spiked Kabalite armor has been stripped of its insignia, and is missing a vambrace.

History: From his first moments he has known a warrior's life, dragged from his tube to have a pistol placed in his hand and sent in the direction of those who would invade the Kabal of the Ninth Tower, to kill or be killed. He killed that day, and for years afterward, paying his Lordship for the gift of his life by giving death to his enemies with no thought for himself. His prowess was such that he was made a full Warrior, and sent into realspace as a harvester. The raids were easy and the spoils were delectable. Greed began to stir in young Valarauka's heart as he enjoyed the fruits of this lifestyle, the taste of souls and drugs and flesh ever on his mind. Higher pay was required. His very first plot was to engineer the death of his squad leader and to promote himself to the vacant position. His squad-mates were given incentive not to protest. Life was good.

Then, recently, disaster struck. A lover spurned by the Archon two centuries ago had finally acquired the means to revenge the slight after dancing her way into the good graces of the Supreme Overlord. The petty Kabal was helpless against this sanctioned reprisal, and the Ninth Tower was slaughtered wholesale within minutes. A record of the Archon's look of disbelief at the sight of his old flame and her splinter cannon made the rounds of the highborn dinner parties, then the entire Kabal was largely forgotten the next cycle. Valarauka only survived because, at the time, he was indulging in a payday binge at his favorite fleshpot. Now he finds himself homeless, unaffiliated, broke, and off balance. He was lucky to survive the purge, but luck does not last for long on the streets of the Dark City.

Personality: Valarauka delights in all of the typical Commorite traits: short temper, cruel humor, self-indulgence, and, most of all, pride. Now, though, he is in shock from losing all he had in life. Survival is his motivation. He knows he must find a safe place to rest before his stims run out...but would not be a beggar. He lived a Sybarite's life, and to give up the pay and little power that gave him would kill him as surely as any Mandrake's blade. That is what he says to himself now, but he grows more desperate by the hour, wandering the city and injecting himself with everything he can to stave off two fatal things: panic and sleep.

Key Skills:
Major Skill- Gunslinging
Minor Skills- Leadership, Poison Use, Athletics, Deceit

Equipment: Kabalite Armor, 2 Splinter Pistols, Recreational Drugs (Valarauka's Blast Pistol was in the Kabal shop for repairs, a shop that is now a smouldering ruin. He would kill for a replacement)

EDIT: Sample Post

Let it never be said that Commorragh is not a city of feelings. There is an awful lot of feeling going on in the city at any given moment, some of them new and interesting, but the emotional range of the Eldar is so vast and their language so powerful that an incredible number of nuanced feelings have been catalogued into concise rune structures. Valarauka felt as though he had a single rune emblazoned on his forehead, a sign that he was dealing with a powerful feeling that in its most blunt form would be expressed as 'Bitter Envy For Those Who Have Died Before They Knew Their Fate'.

"All of those insects...those dim-witted warriors...those cross-eyed gunners...those speed-addled pilots...those half-cocked, inbred, pox-ridden, impotent, slack-jawed, pretentious trueborn" he said, spitting out the last word as if it were a piece of rancid meat.


Valarauka lifted his face out of his hands and looked around once he realized how loud his voice had become. No one in the bazaar seemed to notice, or at least none deigned to show him the least bit of attention. A single ex-Kabalite, sitting and raving to himself, without enough sense to keep his guard up? He was already dead. Worse still: there was no profit to be had by his death. He had no riches but his soul, which must be a pitiful thing indeed. Valarauka thought he heard a chuckle, and sought its origin. His hands went to his brace of pistols, their familiarity infinitely reassuring. A single hint of a threat would have set him off like a shuriken trap, and the market would descend into an orgy of blood-spilling for a few, brief moments. That would be the end of him.

"No...I will not give them the satisfaction." he whispered, and he eased his hands off of his guns. They were sweating ever so slightly, a sign that his stims were still active. After they were gone, all he had left of his stash were those which warped the senses and took his mind to better places. They could be his last comfort, to take the edge off of the cold emptiness that comes from knowing you are about to die. Valarauka stood and and started walking through the cluttered, affecting a detached visage. A helmet would hide his terror better, but then he would be marked as someone who had something to hide. No, better to keep them guessing, to keep stalling, to keep playing for that lucky hand. Warriors had followed him willingly into death because they thought he knew what he was doing. Bluffs could not be called lightly in the Dark City...had not Vect triumphed each time his rival thought he was bluffing? Thus could Valarauka use the preservation instincts of Commorragh against itself.

"I have only to fear the insane. But, who doesn't? Vect I suppose, since I heard he removed his fear surgically centuries ago..."

And so the ex-Kabalite walked through the streets muttering to himself, and anyone who had similar apprehensions for dealing with the insane gave him a wide berth.

Player: Noctus Cornix

Name: Excision

Age: 103

Physical Description: Brutality. That is the single word that can describe the monster that has come to be known as Excision for little else remains the nameless monster. Like so many of his kind, the wrack is a creature that no longer resembles anything remotely Eldar in nature. A patch work on stiching and flesh-weaving, his body has become a sinew of leathery pale flesh and twisted dark metal. Where once had been two spindly arms, now there is four, the severed limbs of some poor forgotten soul grafted into the wrack’s shoulders and spinal column. Of his two original hands, they remain largely unadulterated, the right forearm reworked and implanted with a flensing gauntlet for better access to retracting needles and sharpened blades to preform the duty of his master. The two newer arms are both completely integrated with crude bionics from the elbows down it two black metal claws to better flay his ‘guests’ and the left housing the integrated liquefier gun. Like all of his kind, the creature’s face is hidden by the featureless mask of black metal, only the vertical vent slits of the face giving him any sort of identification. He wears very little in the way of clothing or armour, wearing only a simple waist tabard of blood-stained skins and a few metal plating upon his thighs and stomach. He leaves the upper portion of his body bare however, for lesser beings to marvel upon his former master’s horrific work.

Personality: There is very little that can be said to mark out Excision from any other Wrack. He is virtually silent unless absolutely necessary, calm and stoic in the face of even the few most obscene and horrific atrocities that would make an average Commorite shudder. He is desensitized from the carnal desires of his people, seeking few pleasures of the flesh or those offered by drugs. Instead his mind is fixated almost solely on the art of flesh-weaving, eager to learn more and more of the arcane arts of the Haemonculus shapers that rule Commoragh behind the scenes of it all. There is, however one subtle difference that allows him to stand out against his silent comrades, and that is the deep burning sadism that flows through his veins and goes beyond that of your average Dark Eldar. Patient and brutal, he falls into an unparalleled state of euphoria as he tortures his victims, cutting and tearing and ripping for months at a time. He drinks deep from their suffering and anguish, savoring all the nuances of agony and the cacophony of screams he creates with his work. It is truly the only thing that fuels him on, even his own ambition. For one day he dreams to aspire to the status of Haemonculus and unlock the secrets of their art so that he too may inflict the greatest suffering that even damnation falls pale in comparison to.

History: Life before he put on his mask was meaningless. His past as a worthless street rat that fed on the scraps and struggled desperately to survive meant nothing. The name he bore in long days past was tossed aside and forgotten. And that is simply the way things are. Though he may be a trueborn, his blood bore no inheritance and his ‘parents’ died long before he could even grow to care about them. And so he lived the life of a petty thief for decades, forced to steal to survive and preying on petty animals and vermin that scurried through the twisted alleyways of lower Commorragh. The child was born with an innate lack of basic understanding, his mind quick to learn the laws of survival and stealing yet impossibly slow for even a Dark Eldar to understand the meanings of desire, fear, and ambition. Already not quite right in the head, the child quickly found a dark pleasure in preying on those weaker than him, beginning to slow ease his way into a meal and savoring the act of killing all the more enjoyable. When he learned of the skin-walkers that made art of that which he sought, the young child still ventured into the dark underbelly of the city and there he would find his home.

And now we come to the time where he placed the mask upon his face and his once meaningless and worthless life now found something of value. The now nameless young man gave himself body and soul to the Coven of the Black Descent, greedy to learn their ways and use it for his own addiction. At first, none would take him, the Flesh-Weavers disowning the boy for his sheer lack of ambition. However, there was one who would accept him with open arms, seeing the potential of one with nothing to lose. To those back on the streets of Commorragh, he was mocked for being ‘slow and stupid’… But to the Haemonculus Vaeghex, he was seen as pure, unadulterated. Unlike those who came before who seeked only the political power the Coven held, instead he was seen as something greater, a true disciple of the flesh…

And so he was bestowed the name of ‘Excision’, given to him by his master for his ‘beloved pet’. He followed his master everywhere he went, drinking deep the knowledge given to him and unlocking the secrets of the Skin-Walkers. He was a loyal subject who obeyed every command, eager to inflict pain upon his master’s test subjects and earn the adoration of the only being in the galaxy he ever loved. When his master fell in real-space, his body torn asunder and his soul devoured by a Slaaneshi Sorcerer, the wrack was broken. Devastated by the loss of his father figure, the Haemonculus-to be departed from the Coven after no other Haemonculus would take him. Homeless, and Masterless, the Wrack roams the streets of Commoragh, selling his skills and talents to those in need of such services yet too poor to call upon the aid of a real Haemonculus.

Key Skills:
Major Skills- Torture, Flesh-Weaving
Minor Skills- Close Combat

Equipment: A hand sickle attached to a long barbed chain several meters long. At the end of the other chain is a large ring to which is attached three other chains each a meter long and end with long crooked meat hooks. Both the sickle and the hooks and bathed in a virulent toxin only those who served the Coven of the Black Descent have been given the antidote to (Counts as two close combat weapons), Liquifier Gun, an assortment of smaller knives, blades, and syringes.

Sample Post: “Remember, my child, that pain is the secret of life. Without pain, there can be no measure of existence. Without pain, there can be no worth. Without pain, there can be no joy…”

The youth stood at the edge of the operation slab, his chest of leathery flesh and patchwork stitches heaved up and down at a ragged and uneven pace. He tried to control his intake, gasping for air as his hot breath vented into the frozen room as a thick fog. Another of his kin lay beneath him, or what had once been. The splayed and eviscerated ruination stretched before him had come in a fit of frustration, a need to stay off the withdrawals of his incessant addiction. The body had once belonged to a Kabalite, some nameless and worthless child of the birthing chambers that had earned the ire of her masters and was given to him as a token of ‘good will’ as they called it… Good will or not, her worthless life ended as it was born, quick and filled with utter agony.

He could not savor this delight, no not this time. The blurring pain in the back of his skull ached more than it had ever before. He could not take the time to savor his drug, to relish the suffering he inflicted… He required a more blunt approach and it was just enough to stave off his own burning agony. His arms, all four twisted claws of dark metal, were coated in blood. Long arterial arcs of crimson decorated the exposed flesh of his chest and arms, a visible recognition on his own body that he had made quite the mess. But that hardly seemed to matter… Instead his thoughts were elsewhere, the curious and longing question creeping into the back of his mind once more.
Where was he to go next?...
The question puzzled him as he fingers fumbled through the pulpy meat that lay before him, the warm life-fluids comforting him, easing his mind for a time. It allowed him a moment of clarity. The creature whimpered as his thoughts turned to his master… If his master was he, he would show him the way. He would not be so lost and confused… His thoughts were torn back to reality as he heard the opening of a door behind him, his heady jerking backwards to face the Kabalite warrior in dark crimson armour standing there. “The Archon will see you now.” The raider said to him, but the Wrack was hardly listening.

Instead he was sizing up the raider, his thoughts running through exactly 168 ways to kill the warrior in a span of ten seconds. But this was only natural, his instincts to kill coming to the forefront. He didn’t trust these Kabalites… And they didn’t trust him…

With a simple nod, the Wrack turned away completely from the body he had only moments ago eviscerated for his own pleasure as if it no longer even mattered to him. He had work to do.

Player: Psycheer.

Name: Chy’ier

Age: 5yrs from the tube.

Physical Description/ Personality: Chy’ier is of normal height and build for a Dark Eldar vatborn. He is uncharacteristically naive and prefers to work with a group, but will to listen to his intuition to defend himself. He wears worn and ill fitting armor bearing the colors and markings of the recently late Kabal of the Many Faced Bear.

Chy’ier is curious to see the galaxy, or for that matter, the whole city!

History: Chy’ier was born into his Kabal during its last gasping breaths, he was being delivered when it was exterminated by multiple rivals. Somehow Chy’ier survived, not only the attack on the delivery raider, but also the 20 story fall with the wreckage.
The first cycle was particularly rough on Chy'ier, constant pang of hunger and not really understanding why he is constantly having to fight for his life. Surviving ended up being a side effect of understanding his environment, and preventing the repetitive cycle from ending his existence. The first lesson was that the victor to a fight got the spoils, namely food (corpses at times), clothes, and weapons to help defend himself.
Chy'ier's most favored possession are the trinkets that dangle from his rifle, odd sort but when caught in the light of a fire or a glow from one of his grenades he can be transfixed for a time, sometimes listening or talking to them as if in a deep conversation.

Key Skills: Major: Luck, Survival Instincts Minor: Splinter Rifle/Carbine

Equipment: Battle Weary and ill fitting Ghostplate Armor, Splinter Rifle, 2x Plasma Grenades, a knife, and some trinkets of various colors shapes and sizes.


While walking down a narrow passageway deep in the underbelly of the city that he recently learned to call Commorragh, something didn't seem to be right. Initially he thought this was a good path to wander through, hoping to see the ladies dancing with the kymerae before they leave the city again. Now that he had gotten this far, he wasn't so sure.

Em'eyeth are you awake?

I know, I know, do you sense it too?

yes, yes, are they going to hurt us? Oh good idea!

Chy'ier quickly moves closer to what he later finds out is the wreckage of a raider. Curious to all the doodads and pieces but also as if on a mission, he quickly finds something he can use. With the once inaudible buzzing quickly getting louder Chy'ier realizes that his time is short, he prys his new yet ruined club from the blast shield that was cradling it during its prime and moves into the little cover he could find. Sporting the weapon as best he could, he waited for the Reavers to close in him he had watched the spectacle of their races and fighting matches, so he knew that they would come at him fast and hard.

Chy'ier swung the mass end of the weapon as hard as he could around from the cover he was hiding behind as the first Reaver flew past. A satisfying tremor came through the shaft of the weapon, as he made contact with the second Reaver, causing the weapon to be torn from his hands. The weapon went flying and fell with the mass end closest to him, interestingly as the weapon hit the ground it activated with a pop and a single black beam shot out of the shaft where his hands were not a second earlier, cutting the first Reaver in half.

Chy'ier listened for a moment while everything stilled, then began walking to the first Reaver's corpse and wreckage, then moving onto the second.

I know, I know. Hot food, I get it.

The first one looks like mush. I don't want any of that one, everything is broken too.

I have no idea, it cooked our food though. If it were smaller we could take it with us.



Lets get a quick bite from the cooked one, so we don't need to worry about it at the games.

I know you like seeing the ladies, that's why I'm hurrying.

As Chy'ier approached the second Reaver's corpse, he slowly drew his knife and checked its sharpness.

Dinner's served

Player: KnightSeerValkia

Name: Kayle Amaryllis (Kay-L A-ma-ryl-lis)

Age: 159

Physical Description: As a woman of High Commoragh, Kayle has been groomed to exacting standards of physical perfection with a tall willowly frame yet still maintains both muscle and feminine form accenturated with bewitching eyes that appear to look like polished sapphires and a sharp high cheekbone structure.

Despite her wildchild and breakaway nature, Kayle prefers to keep her appearance rooted in High Commorite style with an elegant but messy up-do but adorned with a stylized Razorwing clip to keep it in place, least her whispy ash blonde hair falls to just above shoulder length.

History: Born into the elite sects of High Commoragh, Kayle was raised in the prestige and luxury her family could provide. However early on she began to tire of the trivialities of her social standing from the endless repetitive parties thrown for some decrepit dinosaur, tiresome and boring court meetings, even having her choice of slaves to cater to her needs did not bring a spark of enjoyment to Kayle.

But one day while Kayle was accompanied by one of her Incubi bodyguards in one of the market districts of Low Commoragh, Kayle and her guardian were almost ripped apart by passing Reavers chasing down some vermin through the streets. Enraged by those thugs, Kayle and her Incubi guardian 'gathered' information from the locals about the identity of the Reavers, and with her connections within High Commoragh quickly had the Reavers and their Succubi in the grand room of her family's estate.

However, what happened was not to Kayle's expectations, as she thought the Reavers would be quickly gutted by either her hands or from one of the Incubi guards while the Succubi would recieve a 'warning' which involved plenty of pain. Instead her father allowed the Succubi to suggest that they could use her to raise the profile of both the Cult and his own Kabal by having Kayle race the Reaver who got the closest to her.

Ready to eviscerate anything in her way, with the words her 'loving father' so accurately used "Either one blade in the front or one hundred knives to your back".

It took days of torture and maiming before she calmed down enough to begin her Jetbike lessons her father so 'kindly' arranged with an allied Cult. To her surprise, not only did she take to the bike so fluidly as if she always been riding all her life, but the high speed and danger ignited a part of Kayle she hadn't felt in cycles: excitement. Soon thereafter, she began to askew her social commitments and spent ever increasing time riding and modifying her jetbike to the disatisfaction of her father, causing at least one heated arguement within her father's court.

Anticipation, adrenaline and unadultered arrogance was coursing through her veins on her day of vengance with the excitement within the Arena was at it zenith as both Kayle and her opponent, some soon to be dead maggot known as Nox lined up at the starting point on their jetbikes. The explosion which signalled the start of the race was maddening like the screams of hundreds of slaves at once, but nothing compared to the roar of both the jetbike engines produced as they fired off the starting line.

The rush of adrenaline running through Kayle as she sped off on through the course was beyond exhilarating, the screams from the crowd adding to the pleasure she felt as her hunt for vengance had began as Nox took a slight lead. Rather then make it a quick death by her hands, Kayle wanted to show everyone just how worthless her opponent truly was, and she started with gambit with few shots from her Heat Lance aimed towards the leftmost Bladevane on his jetbike.

As quick as the shots blazed in the air, they had reached their mark shocking most of the audience as well as Nox, who up until this point had been manically mocking and taunting Kayle with a variety of colourful actions. Now however, the colour drained out of his face in fear as he looked back and saw the glee spread across his opponent's face.

Torturous traps ranging from deep drops, raised spikes and other fun death causing treats were weaved, bobbed and zoomed through as they sped through the track with more surprises such as Kayle brazingly getting in melee range of Nox and in exchange for a slash to her forearm with a dagger, she had placed a beautiful gash across his now fearful face. Kayle did want to torment him further, but between her excitement, his raging fear and a rush of adrenaline running through them both after their ballet of blades in the sky as they unlocked, Kayle had fallen just behind him with enough room to fire her Heat Lance point blank into his engine.

Without a microsecond missed, his engine blew in spectactular fashion in waves of blazing fire which spread across Nox and his metal junk pile of a bike and crashed into the raised spikes full throtle and impaled fatally across the jagged mass in a bloody heap. However, before Kayle could celebrate and sake her bloodlust the distinct roars of two more Reaver Jetbikes speeding directly towards her. Instinct and blind arrogance dictated her next move, which had her beelining towards the scrap wishing to call themselves Reavers.

Twisted glee across all their faces, with the crowd were screaming and cheering with frenzied joy as the three closed in, the boys firing a barrage of Splinter shards streaming past her with only inches between them and her body. Weaving, bobbing and with a bit of luck, she blow her engine on full charge and spun herself into a spinning lotus of blades into the faces of both Reavers with their visera, blood and bones exploding onto the vanes of her bike and scattering into the air.

Victory and celebration she couldn't enjoy, as she quickly removed herself from the Arena circuit and met her father and his guard back at their estate. A lesson he said, a lesson because she had slighted him socially within High Commoragh by missing the social funtions, he smirked as he looked upon her as she absorbed the information and exploded in spectacular fashion, cursing him and proclaiming she was done living in his social circle.

As she hopped onto her Jetbike, blew him and the rest of his court off and revved its engine he screamed out she's dead to him and she'll be begging to come back on her hands and knees, bloodied and beaten because she can't hack it. That was a few cycles ago, and she hasn't looked back once, only looking for more excitement any way she can take it.

Personality: Vivacious, unbound and unburdened from her highborn upbring, Kayle is driven by excitement over all else, with a penchant for deception via seductive means, but not above typical Dark Eldar behaviour such as arrogance, fury and comtempt. Though easily bored, if something does spark with Kayle she is relentless in her purse of it, with her reaver jetbike.

Key Skills: Major - Piloting; Minor - Scouting, Close Combat, Seduction, Repairs

Equipment: Reaver Jetbike equipped with Heat Lance, Wychsuit, Combat Drugs, Four Combat Daggers, Splinter Pistol.

Sample Post:
"Hey Princess, nice race out their" a voice whistled appreciatively as a female looked up from out of the hood of her jetbike.

"Wish I could say the same to you Cross, you were lucky that you raced a bunch of fools with that patch job on your grav-engine" the female replied with an arrogant laced smile across her refined features.

"Oh Princess, why do you try to wound me so,-" he smirked as he walked towards her in some foolish idea of seductive "especially since I came to suggest we 'celebrate' our mutual success together" his eyes roamed up and down her body with a glint in his eyes.

"And why should I give you any chance Cross?" she smirked deviantly at his poor seduction attempts "From what I've seen you wouldn't be able to keep pace" allowing herself a small laugh at her would be lover.

"You know, you should let your hair down more often-" completely disregarding her jab at his inflated prowess "and get with a real Eldar, not one of those high society deadbeats walking round like they mean anything" stopping just inches away from her, and still with eyes roaming her body.

Looking directly in his face with enough charm to fool even her own father "Maybe you could entertain me for a while" she mused as a hand slithered up and down his chest while slowly pushing him back towards a wall.

She got in close as he was leaned against the wall and whispered into his ear seductively "You know what they say, you can take a girl out of High Commoragh-", as she thrust a dagger in his chest, "-but you can't take High Commoragh out of the girl" she licked her lips in estacy as the blood and screams poured out of him.

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~ Aim to please, shoot to kill. ~

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Lady Malys
She Who Must Be Obeyed
Lady Malys

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