Gaius Cassus WIP

[Ephriel Anatandro.]

Ephriel Anatandro. "I am Ephriel. You are next." OVERVIEW » NAME: Ephriel Anatandro.  » ALIAS: "The Angels Justice." » AGE: 132 standard Terran. » GENDER: Male. » AFFILIATION: The Imperium of Man.                                  - Blood Angels.                                         » OCCUPATION: Aspiring Champion. | Honour Guard. » FACE CLAIM: Artwork (Mine.) » PLAYED BY: aquilianshieldv.20 PROFILE THEIR ASPECT If one were to look upon the perfected visage of Ephriel form, they would find it hard to imagine that a twisted wretch born of a predisposition illness could attain such stature, but, once again, fate reached out her impassive arm and raised another hero from the red wastes of Baal. Renewed in the blood of a Primarch, Ephriel is a masterwork of Angelic beauty and martial superiority. A being that would not be out of place in some old Terran mythos or pagan religion. In truth, they would not be mistaken in believing so. A giant of a man, with infallible features. Broad shoulders, a wide and defined torso with all the accoutrements that go with such an aesthetic physique; all as if chiseled of the finest marble. However, the blemishes of his creation are not lost, the most identifiable being the black carapace interlink nodes dotted around his entire body, along with the lack of visible rib bones, a side effect of the enhanced bone ossification process. As for his appearance above the shoulders, it is no less divine, adopting the characteristics of his Primarch such as the markless, smooth skin, golden hair, and a firm jawline all tallied up with a pair of kind, hazel eyes. When not in the confines of a skin-tight suit of faux muscle bundles and framing and the fortress of his battle plate, he adorns a simple white robe, longer than he is tall which is wrapped around his groin and torso to preserve his modesty and relative privacy for social and political affairs, when he has the duty or time to attend them. On the much rarer occasions when he has his own free time, he adorns a simple, paint-stained cloth tunic and breeches, marked in the faded design of the IX's legion symbol. Noteworthy Features » Above average height. » Bright blonde hair.  » Soft brown eyes.  » Clear skinned.  » Above average looks. » Partially elongated K9's  THEIR PERSONA Ephriel is the rising star of the Blood Angel's second company, a shining paragon of the ideals set forth by Sanguinius as the rebirth of the Legion, where the barbaric madmen of the revenant were humbled, by the great Angel. Righteousness, honor, benevolence, to stand upright when one's character is tested. These are the hallmarks of what made the Legion, what gave it its reputation, and what now Ephriel strives to champion. Yet, he is not infallible, that is cemented within his own genetics. Rage. Such a word is synonymous with the Sons of Sanguinius. An anger, so red hot and poisonous it would give the sons of Nuceria pause. This fury innate within their genetic makeup acts as a ticking time bomb. Some break early, their minds reliving memories that are not theirs, seeing the great angel fall aboard the vengeful spirit, some rarer "become" sanguinius. This curse would break any other legion, but the Blood Angels, who had not forgotten their father's love, his guidance, and edicts through the years, stood tall above their inner daemons and conquered them to strive to keep his memory of what the legion was, alive. Ephriel is no exception. Whilst the rage of black and the thirst for blood flow through his body as much as any other, he too has learned to master these urges, to use them as a way to harden his mind and temper his wrath. This leads him to be more in touch with humanity, as he has felt the very essence of what his father wanted for mankind and so, is sympathetic with the common man and woman. In battle, he finds himself normally in a strange limbo. He is not an officer, no one of a certain rank yet he is one of the company command squad, the honor guard to his captain. He is a young, yet experienced warrior with authority behind his voice, not one that would command an army, more one that would rally a small group on its last legs.   » POSITIVE TRAITS ✔ Honour. ✔ Benevolence. ✔ Courage. ✔ Loyal. » NEGATIVE TRAITS ✘ Secretive. ✘ Boundless Anger. ✘ Self doubt. ✘ Critical. » LIKES ✔ Art. ✔ Sculpting. ✔ Swordplay.  ✔ Spice wine. » DISLIKES ✘ Cruelty. ✘ The Inquisition. ✘ Poverty. ✘ Needless loss. THEIR CONNECTIONS Allies » Rubio Berando. Ah, Rubio. Grim optimism personified. A friend since even before their ascension Rubio has always been the "Older" brother, even though their ages are comparatively the same, Rubio's calm temper has guided Ephriel throughout the years they have served, as if they were each other's shadows. A giant of a man, even as a child he could look the adult Blood Thrall guards in the eye, the genetic modification had only exaggerated his broadness and towering stature. » Aracel Tychandro The younger of the two warriors, Aracel is the little brother of the trio. Always having a friendly jab at Ephriel and Rubio for anything in the slightest, always in good jest, however. For an existence where war and death are a certainty, Aracel brings light through humor in the dark. » Captain Donatos Aphael, Master of the watch and "The Blooded." At first, a tenuous relationship at best, the captain saw in Ephriel the white-hot fury and bloodlust of his own youth. Many a time Ephriel was brought before Donatos for counseling and even censure, yet Donatos saw great potential in the young marine and took him into his personal retinue to learn from the experience of veterans who were in his very same position. Over time he proved himself worthy to Donatos and raised him to his personal honour guard. Enemies » Sergeant Isark Kaldaron (KIA) Sergeant Isark Kaldaron, 2nd company, Marines Malevolent. "A true, born and bred bastard." -Ephriel. Isark and Ephriel met upon the world of Kathona II, a joint and remarkably rare operation fought by their respective chapters. The campaign on the world was fierce and the butcher's bill was high against the Eldar corsairs raiding the agri world. Tempers were already high throughout the war, with the Marines Malevolent and willingly abandoning the Angels when the fighting turned fierce and not in their favor. The crux of this came about when Ephriel caught the sergeant and his squad looting the corpse of a fallen Terminator veteran. On a matter of honor fists were thrown until, in a losing bout, the sergeant drew his sword and faced down Ephriel. In defense, Ephriel drew his steel and crossed with Isark in a violent yet, short fight where he left the marine drowning in his blood. Since it was single and mutual combat, the Marines Malevolent and Blood Angels left the field in bitter terms. » Thousand sons Sorcerer Bakari (KIA) "I once thought my mind a fortress, he passed through its gates as if he had the key." Bakari was the leader of a fringe chaos warband that had infiltrated and taken over the hive world of Avitohol. Using his psychic influence he had turned the planet's astrophathic choir into a conduit to rally other sorcerers to the world, to further the influence of the warp within real space. When word of this incursion spread to the ears of the Angels, they took the initiative to contest their psychic call by planetary invasion. After weeks of hard fighting, casualties ranging high for both forces, Ephriel had the rare opportunity to face the enemy commander, Bakari. Still, a naive warrior, Ephriel charged only to be halted by a psychic assault to the mind. Bakari reached deep within his brain, reliving memories Ephriel had lived through, out of sheer curiosity. This would be his downfall. The psyker would by mistake, receive a backwash of mental scarring by the black rage within Ephriel, causing the sorcerer to throw himself back, babbling incoherently. His death was swift after his grip upon Ephriel was loosed, a combination of accurate bolter fire and an accurate stab from his sword. THEIR APTITUDES First and foremost, Ephriel is a son of Baal. Born to scum, disease, sickness, and blight, it is through his own inner grit and determination that he rose to be one of the Emperor's chosen bulwarks. On his own strength, he clawed his way out of depravity and up the status quo of the Blood Angels, from lowly scout to venerated honor guard. For what he lacks in grander tactical perspicacity he makes up for in raw martial talent. A mind that is laid open to the most inhumane thoughts of violent depravity, every day will eventually harden into a steely cage. Such is the case with Ephriel. However, for the mind of practicality and theoretical nature, pertaining particularly to stratagems and tactical movements, he is as average as any marine is, which in the grander schemes excels much further past the human limitation for cognitive function with psycho-indoctrination supplementation. In combat, Ephriel is second to none. A true exemplar of Blood Angel fury he fights with a concentrated anger in a non-defensive posture, always on the attack and never letting his opponent go on the offensive, like an oversized bully. However, this does not mean he is not capable of the technical aspects of combat. However, while Ephriel does not have the makings of a leader or one who would take a sum of warriors into battle, none can deny that he is truly an inspiring presence on the battlefield. Clad in artifice armor, in blood red and golden trim, wielding a sword taller than a man is tall, flashing in golden killing light. When he takes to the field, one can only assume that the Emperor has answered the desperate prayers of the faithful and sent forth one of his Angels of Death. Perhaps one of his greatest flaws of character is one he would gladly admit. Pride, the teachings of Baal have instilled in him the qualities of nobility and humbleness, especially when one has the strengths and abilities one has. Yet, this is not the pride of boasting or petty honour duels over perceived slights of character. His pride is of no retreat, no surrender, Ephriel would face down a thousand superior foes rather than run to fight another day. Running away was never his style. » STRENGTHS ✔ Peerless Duellist. ✔ Unspoken Charm. ✔ Young Veteran. ✔ Indomitable Spirit. » WEAKNESSES ✘ Cursed. ✘ Genetic Flaw. ✘ Prideful. ✘ Rooted Hate. Abnormal Traits » "Oh those eyes..." Whilst all of the sons of Sanguinius share characteristics with their primarch, the above-average rate of hair retention in successful candidates, and the changing of hair color to different shades of blonde. One cannot deny that Ephriel is uniquely well-proportioned. So much so, that for the rare view who see his face outside of his brothers and personal serfs, have a strange change of tune. Those who are angry and outraged at the marine will slowly return to a calm, and those who withhold information or tell a half-lie shall divulge the truth piecemeal, men and women alike sometimes stare without knowing when traditionally most look down and away when in the presence of a Space Marine. Ephriel is aware of this strange trait that follows him yet, does not openly exploit it. He has also noted that this trait does not affect those who are strong of will whilst all of the sons of Sanguinius share characteristics with their primarch, the above-average rate of hair retention in successful candidates, and the changing of hair color to different shades of blonde. One cannot deny that Ephriel is uniquely well-proportioned. So much so, that for the rare view who see his face outside of his brothers and personal serfs, have a strange change of tune. Those who are angry and outraged at the marine will slowly return to a calm, and those who withhold information or tell a half-lie shall divulge the truth piecemeal, men and women alike sometimes stare without knowing when traditionally most look down and away when in the presence of a Space Marine. Ephriel is aware of this strange trait that follows him yet, does not openly exploit it. . Officers in the guard and other organizations, fighters, men, and women of the cloth are some. ACCOUTREMENTS THEIR WEAPONS » Baal pattern Bolt-gun. A simple weapon, carried by Ephriel since the very beginning days of his service it is a brutishly simple yet artistically beautiful weapon. Whilst he himself did not forge it he had taken great care in decorating the gun, crafting its own furniture, trappings and carvings. A blood red housing accompanied by a wooden handguard with gold etchings. One would confuse this weapon for some relic of ancient past, used by countless heroes yet, it was simply just a boltgun in the hands of a Blood Angel.  » Zephon's Might. A blade forged by Ephriels own hand it strikes the perfect balance between artistry and brutality. As tall as a man and just as heavy the length of its blade is polished to a impossible mirrors reflection. The hilt was cast in the image of two angel wings, with a blood drop jewel encrusted in both sides. Ephriel named the sword after Zephon, one of the chapters oldest and most valiant heroes who stood at the very gates of Terra. Known for his will and fury even as the skies of humanities homeworld fell, Ephriel named this blade in his honour.  » Mark II Angelus-Ves pattern Bolt Pistol. As standard as the day he was issued it, this particular bolt pistol stands in stark contrast to the rest of Ephriel's equipment and battle plate. A blocky, brutish weapon with very few moving parts and easy maintenance protocols, it has seen many different worlds and has been a reliable part of his toolset. » Astartes combat blade. Simple, quick, dirty. The Astartes combat knife serves as a good friend in close quarters. As long as a man's finger tip to elbow and made of a thick nanotech material this particular weapon has been by his side since his initiation to the Chapter and has tasted blood on many different worlds. THEIR ARMOR Artificer MK VIII "Errant" Pattern Power Armor. Whilst no official MKVIII pattern exists within the annals of mars, this particular suit is a highly customized variant of MKVII. The characteristics of MKVIII being armoured channels to guide and protect exposed wires and coolant tubing, a faux ceremite dragon-scale weave to keep mobility over the stomach area whilst improving protection against small arms and slashes. Painted in the colours of his chapter and decorated to the highest order by artisans with runes, engravings and etches like those decorations in the Arx Angellicum itself. Blood Jewels, gold trim and a halo above his helm all work to signify the importance of this particular warrior and his pride as any other conventional warrior would adorn camouflage or occlusions.  THEIR EQUIPMENT » The Iron Halo. Perhaps one of the more prestigious articles in the Blood Angels armoury the Iron Halo is a award given in the form of a gold or silver halo placed commonly on the backpack or in the gorget. For the blood angels, the halo is placed arched over the helmet, keeping with the biblical theme of course. It uses a conversion field, the much more poorly understood big brother to the refractor which turns incoming projectiles into harmless light. However, this field in particular is only good for one or two powerful projectiles before needing to recharge in a time period of eight hours.  THEIR VEHICLES » MVII Mars pattern Jump-Pack. His only mode of transportation since being left stranded with his remaining brothers it serves as a good way to cover a long distance in a short amount of time, however, modified slightly by the forge masters on Baal allows this jump pack to fly and glide at the cost of reduced speed. BIOGRAPHY Early life and recruitment (Birth - 18 years)           Chapter 1: Salt. Salt. Endless miles, of salt. That was Baal Secundus. Under the blood red sky of an Oppressive sun, which penetrated the thin atmosphere like a bodkin point, life was being birthed. It was a special day, marking the child for glory as the planets rotation had captured the Arx Angellicum on Baal itself, orbital mooring bays leashed battleships of immense power and proportion. On the day of the child's birth, the Sky warriors made ready for war.  That is what his father told him, weekly, monthly as they lived cramped in the plain roamer, as he was educated in both the history of his tribe, his world and how to survive a world proclaimed, unsurvivable. Blood Eagles, Catch Spiders, Fire scorpions...cannibals, these are just the live threats to life, nevermind the hostile nature of the world and its skies. Yet, despite the horror of existence on such a place, there was a light in the darkness, a dream. His father declaring his special occasion of birth was no accident, for his tribe was one that had contributed many a warrior to the trials. His brother was one, he always looked up to him for whilst they barely spoke, he knew that their love was a bottomless well. His brother, died in the trials. He only regretted that he never was able to bury him.  On the day of his 13th, when secundus and his sister, Baalinda aligned, he began the trials. The first was brutally simple, survive the wastes. Many more devout tenants of the history of the worlds called it "The pilgrimage" for truly the destination was hallowed ground, Angels fall. Angels fall. Perhaps the most sacred place on the entire world fittingly was the place of challenge for potential recruits. No maps towards it existed but a simple guide was to be followed. North. Travel north, out of the salt pan and through the desert, north. Bidding farewell to his tribe, each family gave him a small rationing as a token of good fortune. Scorpion jerky, bottles of water, a wider set of goggles and a new still bowl. He felt guilt as he knew his chances of death were high and that these gifts may go untouched in the salt pan. As night came and the oven hot winds cooled, he slipped away.  Fortune favoured him, for through sheer convenience of transporting mineral thick salt slabs at sell-town, he had a comparatively shorter route to follow compared to other hopefuls from more distant tribes. Travel was only possible during the night, where harsh oppressive winds offered a kinder alternative to the day's insufferable sun and water was to be rationed down to the individual sip. Trudge after trudge, he trailed his frail feet across the white abyss, that was until soft thuds turned into cracking.  He stopped, eyes wide he carefully gazed down to the tip of his right foot, to see it was digging into the now apparent soft ground. Not good.  "See that over dere'?." Javarian whispered, his hands clutched around a rail-jacker. "Yes Pa, i do Pa." The boy returned in the same tone, his hands held his fathers coat as they crouched down behind the salt berm.  "Good lad, dat' there is crack salt, you remember crack salt dontchu'?" "Course i do Pa! I remember it like yesterday."  Javarian took his boney hand and scruffed the boys hair, a reaffirming gesture only a father could deliver. "Well then boy, watch dis'." Javarian threw a thick plate of seperated salt at the off-coloured floor. It landed, shattered into a thousand individual pieces and in a greater, horrifying surprise, something erupted out.  Catch spider. 10 legged, 6 eyed and larger then a adult grox it pushed its carapace violently through the crack salt. Its orange and red chitin almost seemed to be getting scorched by the sun as it filled its fanged mouth with salt before retreating back into its burrow, the salt slurry already beginning to harden and form a hatch.  "Remember lad, the salt pan 'as no shade, 'as no shelter save from our roamers. Crack salt provides the only shade for Catch spiders. Never, ever step on crack salt, you 'ere me?" Javarian petted  the childs head, bringing him close into his thick rad jacket to comfort the shaken boy. "Y-Yes pa, ill remember pa.." That, was four years ago. Even before he had aspirations of becoming an Angel his father had prepare him all he could to survive, trials or not.  What he had learned on his own whilst working in the salt fields was that catch spiders were extremely sensitive to rythmic vibrations, those matching footfalls. Yet if one were to walk in a random way, taking check steps and drags it remained docile.They also were a nocturnal creature, using the cover of night to keep distance and concealment when hunting their prey. He started to retreat, his feet moving in random patterns, swiping and sliding until he was far enough back from the off-color ground. Close, too close. Taking a shaky sip of his water, he collected himself and continued on. Three days in the salt pan, marching through the blistering hot days and sheltering in the frosty nights. Yet, he made it. Dry lipped, full of stigmata and ridden with carcinoma over his body, somehow he made it through the uninhabitable.  He stood before the mountains and found himself shaken. Sure he had heard stories about the incredible spires that scraped the heavens but to stand at the feet of those giants was stomach churning. But, what was he to do? He couldn't go back not only out of lack of water and sustainment for the journey but out of sheer shame of cowardice. Swallowing a mouth of chunky spit, he began to ascend the mountains. All was slow, painful and exhausting yet, steady. Squeezing through crevaces and ascending foot-worn paths he found himself awe-struck with the realisation that he truly walked the path of angels, he pondered if he shared the same footfalls with some angels who lived even now. Smiling, he marched on, his dehydrated lips cracking when they bared his cracked, dirty teeth.  "Stop, don' even think about turnin." He stopped, his eyes widened and his guts churned as the voice called out to him. It was young, the accent was thick. Foot falls, two sets of them, the figure wasn't alone, no chance to attack him and live, he thought.  "Well, Alright...turn." The voice was softer now, almost as if the figure feigned his dire threat. Turning, slowly, he was met by two boys. The first was a giant, he almost thought for a short moment that he had been cornered by a boy and his father, yet by his features, this was not the case. Thick slabs of muscle pushed through his dirty rags and like all inhabitants of Baal and her moons, was riddled with the pock marks of carcinoma and rad burns. The other was much more like himself, smaller by only half a hand and much skinnier framed he featured a patchy skull, tufts of hair missing and those that remained were matted and dirty. Yet, his eyes were as clear as water, bright blue and clear of muck, gunk and the strain of the sun.  The larger boy had a maul in his hand, caked in rock dust and battered beyond belief yet he did not want to meet the thing close up.  "Your teeth, show em."  The brute gestured with his hammer. Not seeing a positive way out of this other than complying he lifted his lips, revealing the plaque caked, cracked and yellow mess that his teeth were. He came closer, his maul hefted up onto his broad shoulders his eyes seemed to squint, like a scientist examining the experiment in-front of him. "Well...you don' look like a cannibal..whatchu think Aracel?" The brute looked back for a moment, Aracel shrugged, the weapon in his hand was comically smaller then his friends yet was still just as deadly with a good swing.  "He seems alright to me, 'sides he would of been alot bigger if he were."  "Fair!" The taller boy exclaimed, his posture relaxed and the maul came off his shoulders and rested on the floor, the weight of its head kept it anchored to the stone. "What's your name then Salty?" Aracel inquired, he now stood beside his friend, the contrast between their sizes were certainly stark and he felt that same feeling when he stood before the mountains.  "S-Salty? Why'dya call me that?" "Cause you live in tha' salt pan, that's why! By the Emperor do you know nothing salty? You've not even got any wings!"  The brute tapped the dissasembled allotment of poles and trappings slewn across his backpack, as did Aracel in turn. "Thats the only way to get to Angels fall salty, either that or walk but the angels don't like those who walk or so im told." In that one moment, he felt as if all was for nought. That he had wasted his time, shamed his family, his-self all in the short span of minutes.  Aracel began.  "Don't look down salty, say why don't we go to Angels fall together ay? Three hands are better than two and you don't look like the soft sort. What do you say Rubio." Rubio hefted the maul into a sling loop on his ruck-sacks harness, sitting high with the handle dangling down his back. "Never did catch your name, Salty."  Rubio cocked his head, his pock marked brow furrowed into a patchy eye browed squint.  "Alex, my name is Alex."  "Alex!?"  The two exclaimed, rubio looked more insulted then Aracel who looked more surprised.  Rubio exclaimed "Alex!? What kind of poxy name is Alex!? You...dont have a Angel name?" Rubio's bellowing voice quickly turned sombre, as if he was pitying Alex, like older brother nursing his youngers scraped knee.  "I-I do, but it is tradition from my tribe that only those within your own family may know your Angel name." "That right ay? Well..at least you have one, you have to give them it, so...yeah..." Rubio's thoughts seemed to trail off, there was a awkward silence before Aracel broke it. "Shall we?" Chapter 2: Fall. Another two days of marching, and they had arrived. Breaking "Bread" together, sharing stories, laughs and embarrassments. Alex had learned their stories, and them his. They were