Phelan Al'Rashid ibn Tahir
Mar 5, 2023 23:58:40 GMT -5
Post by Fate's End on Mar 5, 2023 23:58:40 GMT -5
Name: Phelan Al'Rashid ibn Tahir (Normally goes solely by Phelan, pronounced “Feh-lahn”)
Gender: Male
Age: 39
Height: 5'8”
Weight: 157 lbs
Allegiance: Harlequin Masque of Ash Winter
Rank/Occupation: Operative
Born: Minor village on the world of Tallarn
Appearance:
A touch on the short side, compared to many of his fellow tribesmen. Phelan has a rugged, fierce build. Sinewy and muscled, his appearance is that of a once carefree man given over to a life of hardship (the same hardship all in the Imperium's armed forces face). His skin is well-tanned and dark in tone. His eyes are bright blue and seem to always twinkle, especially when he's flashing a brilliant smile.
His hair is a coal black, though with a fair smattering of grey as well that speckles into his neatly trimmed beard. Generally allowing him to appear older than his true years. He walks with a limp on most days, aided by a cane and a myriad of different outfits depending on his role that day. And even when not using the cane, the limp remains. Lending credence to the fact that perhaps a true injury does lie under the surface, rather than a simple trick of acting.
History:
Phelan Al'Rashid was born to the desert tribes of Tallarn. And it's said that his mother insisted upon Al'Rashid (Rightly-Guided) in the vain hope to temper his wandering soul. If that is the case, it didn't appear to take. Almost from the moment of his birth, he was an energetic ball of fast hands, keen mind and a wicked sense of humor. A handsome lad who marched to the beat of his own oddly-tuned drum.
If there was one thing Phelan knew how to do, it was laugh at life and simultaneously rob it blind. Unsurprisingly the simple life of a tribesman on Tallarn didn't seem to satisfy him. Something else was calling, urging him onwards and upwards to greater glory (and loot. And booze).
Fortuitously for this rogue cursed with wanderlust, his skills found a new use after considerable (and according to his drill Sergeants “mindnumbingly painful”) training and honing. He found a new home and a way off world in the ranks of the Tallarn Desert Raiders. And he took to it as though he were born for a life of violence. From toying with rival tribesmen on Tallarn to hit-and-run tactics against the Greenskins and traitor guardsmen on three separate worlds before he was twenty-five, he earned accolades and vitriol in equal measure due to his vicious, underhanded fighting and brash personality.
By twenty-eight he was promoted to Lieutenant (much to the chagrin of the others up for said promotion) and sent off with his regiment to fight on another world. It was on this world that he died.
Or at least, according to the Imperium of Man. Greenskins by the thousand dealt his regiment hammerblow after hammerblow. And though finally defeated, the aftermath brought no respite for the remains of the 78th. For the battle against the cunning Orks was followed by a lighting-fast raid from predatory Drukhari slavers.
All Imperial Records of Lieutenant Phelan Al'Rashid ibn Tahir ended that day. His death was assured, according to the Munitorum. Even if he survived the initial encounter with the Xenos, there was no hope for his survival of more than a few months in the hellish landscape of the Dark City. His tribe was given notice of his glorious death, and his mother grieved for her loss.
Phelan's lot was not to die, however. Though that was unfortunately the lot of his few remaining soldiers as they were sent to the fighting pits of Commoragh to die for the pleasure of the gleeful onlookers. Being an officer, Phelan was spared the initial bouts, his skill with blade and laspistol was enough to warrant him a place of honor in the final conflict. And thus he was forced to watch as his men were dragged away screaming from the dungeons, never to return.
In the final culmination of fighting in the arena, Phelan brought honor to Tallarn, though his world would never know of it. He managed to kill a single Wych from the Cult of Desperate Agony, goading her and openly laughing in her face, drawing out her rage just as she was feeding on his fear. The combat left him bleeding from a dozen wounds and on his knees, but still breathing. His opponent lay glassy-eyed and dead upon the sand, her own blade protruding from her. With a last salty, sarcastic jibe shouted at the Xenos watching him, he waited for three other Wyches to finish him.
But the fatal blow never fell. Or rather, not upon him. A hiss of energy thrice made, and all three Wyches dropped dead, convulsing on the bloody sands as a brightly clad figure made its way towards him. The crowds were furious at the interference, of course. But when a full masque of Harlequins executes the surviving Wychs on the field and claims the lone surviving human for their own purposes, it was hard to argue. Especially with a Shadowseer, a war-pysker of the Aeldari, in their midst.
His trials in the Dark city had nearly shattered his sense of self. And his time with the Harlequins seemingly finished the job. He spent much time in the company of the Shadowseer that saved him as she tried to convince him of a truth he was not willing to accept. He attempted escape from their wandering camp several times. But in his final attempt something gave him pause, halting his retreat. A figure approached him and posed a question. He answered, and then for the first time in months he returned to the camp without having to be brought back. Giving himself wholly over to the ways of the Masque of Ash Winter. Perhaps even finally finding a home for his wandering soul.
Most recently he has been tasked with duties on Haven’s Garden by his Masque. Bringing along several other human operatives of his Masque that he recruited from a world called Naris. Their duties so far have been helping who they can, when they can. All the while waiting for the Small Game, the Mortal Dance.
Personality:
Once Phelan was a brash, youthful, arrogant young man. To be honest, a total bastard. Now something new has overcome him. A dramatic change from his time serving the Imperium. There is still a wit to him. A spark of sarcasm, a glimmer of mirth to his eyes. Intelligent and cunning, though now combined with a wisdom that seems almost impossible, often giving him the air of someone far older than his thirty-nine years.
A new sense of morality has overtaken him as well. A broadening of his horizons and a deeper understanding of things few others guess at. With aid from his fellows in the Masque of Ash Winter, he has blossomed into an actor of sorts. Easily able to slip into several personas, all swirling around the central being that is his core. A foolish boy no longer, he now stands a wiser, more thoughtful individual.
Equipment:
A few sets of clothing of different makes (including a uniform of the Armageddon Steel Legion), and a standard issue Armageddon laspistol and lasgun when he needs to blend with Guard forces.
A pair of glasses that while he technically doesn't “need” them, actually do aid him in reading.
A crystalline Neuro Disruptor given to him by the Shadowseer of the Masque of Ash Winter. Beautifully crafted and exquisite in appearance, it stays well hidden in his belongings. Only brought out in the most dire of circumstances.
High Concept: A high price paid for knowledge gained (Phelan knows more than he should. It has caused incredible damage)
Trouble: Madly in love, or just Mad? (Who can say? Phelan definitely would say madly in love. Others might disagree)
Aspect: A taste for fine text (He likes books)
Stunts:
Steady Hand: Due to his training, Phelan can take a +2 when he Carefully aims a shot.
No, really, the leg hurts: When new damage is done to his leg, Phelan takes a -2 to any Quick Actions.
I read about that: Once per session, Phelan can attempt to use his extensive knowledge to gain insight onto a dangerous situation (if appropriate).
Approaches:
Careful: +2
Clever: +3
Flashy: +1
Forceful: +2
Quick: +1
Sneaky: +0
Gender: Male
Age: 39
Height: 5'8”
Weight: 157 lbs
Allegiance: Harlequin Masque of Ash Winter
Rank/Occupation: Operative
Born: Minor village on the world of Tallarn
Appearance:
A touch on the short side, compared to many of his fellow tribesmen. Phelan has a rugged, fierce build. Sinewy and muscled, his appearance is that of a once carefree man given over to a life of hardship (the same hardship all in the Imperium's armed forces face). His skin is well-tanned and dark in tone. His eyes are bright blue and seem to always twinkle, especially when he's flashing a brilliant smile.
His hair is a coal black, though with a fair smattering of grey as well that speckles into his neatly trimmed beard. Generally allowing him to appear older than his true years. He walks with a limp on most days, aided by a cane and a myriad of different outfits depending on his role that day. And even when not using the cane, the limp remains. Lending credence to the fact that perhaps a true injury does lie under the surface, rather than a simple trick of acting.
History:
Phelan Al'Rashid was born to the desert tribes of Tallarn. And it's said that his mother insisted upon Al'Rashid (Rightly-Guided) in the vain hope to temper his wandering soul. If that is the case, it didn't appear to take. Almost from the moment of his birth, he was an energetic ball of fast hands, keen mind and a wicked sense of humor. A handsome lad who marched to the beat of his own oddly-tuned drum.
If there was one thing Phelan knew how to do, it was laugh at life and simultaneously rob it blind. Unsurprisingly the simple life of a tribesman on Tallarn didn't seem to satisfy him. Something else was calling, urging him onwards and upwards to greater glory (and loot. And booze).
Fortuitously for this rogue cursed with wanderlust, his skills found a new use after considerable (and according to his drill Sergeants “mindnumbingly painful”) training and honing. He found a new home and a way off world in the ranks of the Tallarn Desert Raiders. And he took to it as though he were born for a life of violence. From toying with rival tribesmen on Tallarn to hit-and-run tactics against the Greenskins and traitor guardsmen on three separate worlds before he was twenty-five, he earned accolades and vitriol in equal measure due to his vicious, underhanded fighting and brash personality.
By twenty-eight he was promoted to Lieutenant (much to the chagrin of the others up for said promotion) and sent off with his regiment to fight on another world. It was on this world that he died.
Or at least, according to the Imperium of Man. Greenskins by the thousand dealt his regiment hammerblow after hammerblow. And though finally defeated, the aftermath brought no respite for the remains of the 78th. For the battle against the cunning Orks was followed by a lighting-fast raid from predatory Drukhari slavers.
All Imperial Records of Lieutenant Phelan Al'Rashid ibn Tahir ended that day. His death was assured, according to the Munitorum. Even if he survived the initial encounter with the Xenos, there was no hope for his survival of more than a few months in the hellish landscape of the Dark City. His tribe was given notice of his glorious death, and his mother grieved for her loss.
Phelan's lot was not to die, however. Though that was unfortunately the lot of his few remaining soldiers as they were sent to the fighting pits of Commoragh to die for the pleasure of the gleeful onlookers. Being an officer, Phelan was spared the initial bouts, his skill with blade and laspistol was enough to warrant him a place of honor in the final conflict. And thus he was forced to watch as his men were dragged away screaming from the dungeons, never to return.
In the final culmination of fighting in the arena, Phelan brought honor to Tallarn, though his world would never know of it. He managed to kill a single Wych from the Cult of Desperate Agony, goading her and openly laughing in her face, drawing out her rage just as she was feeding on his fear. The combat left him bleeding from a dozen wounds and on his knees, but still breathing. His opponent lay glassy-eyed and dead upon the sand, her own blade protruding from her. With a last salty, sarcastic jibe shouted at the Xenos watching him, he waited for three other Wyches to finish him.
But the fatal blow never fell. Or rather, not upon him. A hiss of energy thrice made, and all three Wyches dropped dead, convulsing on the bloody sands as a brightly clad figure made its way towards him. The crowds were furious at the interference, of course. But when a full masque of Harlequins executes the surviving Wychs on the field and claims the lone surviving human for their own purposes, it was hard to argue. Especially with a Shadowseer, a war-pysker of the Aeldari, in their midst.
His trials in the Dark city had nearly shattered his sense of self. And his time with the Harlequins seemingly finished the job. He spent much time in the company of the Shadowseer that saved him as she tried to convince him of a truth he was not willing to accept. He attempted escape from their wandering camp several times. But in his final attempt something gave him pause, halting his retreat. A figure approached him and posed a question. He answered, and then for the first time in months he returned to the camp without having to be brought back. Giving himself wholly over to the ways of the Masque of Ash Winter. Perhaps even finally finding a home for his wandering soul.
Most recently he has been tasked with duties on Haven’s Garden by his Masque. Bringing along several other human operatives of his Masque that he recruited from a world called Naris. Their duties so far have been helping who they can, when they can. All the while waiting for the Small Game, the Mortal Dance.
Personality:
Once Phelan was a brash, youthful, arrogant young man. To be honest, a total bastard. Now something new has overcome him. A dramatic change from his time serving the Imperium. There is still a wit to him. A spark of sarcasm, a glimmer of mirth to his eyes. Intelligent and cunning, though now combined with a wisdom that seems almost impossible, often giving him the air of someone far older than his thirty-nine years.
A new sense of morality has overtaken him as well. A broadening of his horizons and a deeper understanding of things few others guess at. With aid from his fellows in the Masque of Ash Winter, he has blossomed into an actor of sorts. Easily able to slip into several personas, all swirling around the central being that is his core. A foolish boy no longer, he now stands a wiser, more thoughtful individual.
Equipment:
A few sets of clothing of different makes (including a uniform of the Armageddon Steel Legion), and a standard issue Armageddon laspistol and lasgun when he needs to blend with Guard forces.
A pair of glasses that while he technically doesn't “need” them, actually do aid him in reading.
A crystalline Neuro Disruptor given to him by the Shadowseer of the Masque of Ash Winter. Beautifully crafted and exquisite in appearance, it stays well hidden in his belongings. Only brought out in the most dire of circumstances.
High Concept: A high price paid for knowledge gained (Phelan knows more than he should. It has caused incredible damage)
Trouble: Madly in love, or just Mad? (Who can say? Phelan definitely would say madly in love. Others might disagree)
Aspect: A taste for fine text (He likes books)
Stunts:
Steady Hand: Due to his training, Phelan can take a +2 when he Carefully aims a shot.
No, really, the leg hurts: When new damage is done to his leg, Phelan takes a -2 to any Quick Actions.
I read about that: Once per session, Phelan can attempt to use his extensive knowledge to gain insight onto a dangerous situation (if appropriate).
Approaches:
Careful: +2
Clever: +3
Flashy: +1
Forceful: +2
Quick: +1
Sneaky: +0
