Tell me about your FFG RPG characters

[Kilofix]

I have never played any FFG RPGs - but I have alot of their books. Mostly to read up on the fluff.

 

That said, I have somewhat of a selfish request; I'd like to hear about the characters you have created / currently play, but I don't have any characters of my own to share.

 

Can be for any of the series - DH, OW, BC, DW, can be as technical (specific stats / attributes) or as descriptive (no stats, just prose) as you prefer, and can include creation background and / or events in games you've played, or not.

 

This is more for my curiosity than anything - I like a good character story and all the better if its in my favorite 'universe'.

 

Thanks for sharing.

 

 

[Slips]

Oh I think this would be a good place to post this but : Theres an app (more of a browser based program really) out right now called Roll20.net that you can use to play Table Top RPGs with. It has all the dice rolling functionality needed. So that + Skype = you and others being able to play FFG RPGs from across the globe. You'd just need to set up a time of day and the like.
 
That being said, I'd also like to hear about good stories from one of these RPG's. Maybe some of you have stuff Rivaling the story of Grendel :http://1d4chan.org/wiki/The_Guy_Who_Cried_Grendel

[Tyear]

I think my favorite character as well as the one I played the longest out of any of them was Adalhard.

 

A Black Templar Assault Marine he was thrown in with a pair of Space Wolves who he bonded with a bit, both being from a martial upbringing though their almost 'pagan' rituals did rub him the wrong way. Another scion of Dorn stood with them, an Imperial Fist with who he had massive problems at first. More because the IF thought he was 'better' then Adalhard simply because his Brothers were not forced away by Dorn who felt that the true Sons of Dorn were stoic and remorseless not zealot crazies.

 

This led Adalhard into conflict with Wilhelm more then once, with the two Space Wolves, Thorgrim and Hrothgar often joining Adalhard's speeches about the truth of warfare, that to know ones enemy you must look him in the eye, split his chest and watch the light fade.

 

The leader however was the real problem, the Kill-Team leader was a Ultramarine, not a problem persé for the Templar, but when he found out Gaius was a psyker. It was only during a really nasty battle with a World Eater champion that Adalhard got into trouble, as in nearly dead trouble, it was then that Gaius nearly killed himself by using his psychic abilities and killed the champion. Grudgingly Adalhard accepted the act as merely Ultramarine efficiency, but when the time came the debt needed to be repaid it was and in full.

 

Gaius facing a massive warboss the Ultramarine was in bad shape, his arm had been ripped from him and the Warboss was about to rip his head off when Adalhard jump packed over a whole slew of boys, drop-kicked the Warboss and kept him at bay long enough for the Kill-Team to kill the minor gribblies and help Adalhard with the Warboss. That was the moment the pair made peace, they were Brothers, for none would risk themselves to rescue the other.

 

I played him for 2,5 years so, if you want more stories, feel free to ask.

[Imperialis_Dominatus]

I haven't been able to play Dark Heresy really, though I tried my hand at DMing a game, attempting to run a group through the mission rulebook. Never having done a P&P RPG before that experience dragged me down a bit- I hardly knew what I was doing, to say nothing of what they should be!

 

For a while I had the books and would just roll up characters and see what sorts of stories they told me. I've got two rival Inquisitors, and several of each class. One of each class I have done up a page of background on to offer an example to my potential players, or  a character they can use if they don't feel like rolling one up. I don't want to flood the thread by typing them all out, but here is one I like especially.

 

Isha Aenid Novia, a.k.a. "Calamity," assassin of Mosul, Mariayn Marches (rolled middling stats except for high Willpower and low Fellowship)

 

Isha was inducted into the Peacemaker Cloister Theta of Mosul, a frontier world ruled by various noble houses who owe fealty to their royalty and, in turn, the Emperor. These baronies maintain security forces but no standing armies, barred from such by royal edict. Instead, every non-peasant family must send its second son and second daughter to the various Cloisters of assassins native to the world. Mosul being so isolated, its armies must be united and answerable only to the King and Queen if disaster strikes. The assassins, then, moderate the necessary violence between the houses, justified by petitions to their leadership by a quorum of nobles who find themselves affronted by another house. In addition to freeing the Mosulite Blades of work more appropriately performed with delicacy, the Cloisters keep inter-barony conflict from devastating agricultural production and thus keeping intact Mosul's capability to meet the tithe and feed its people, despite scarce resources.

 

Isha is quiet and reserved, finding it as difficult to relate to others as they find it to relate to her. Few among the Imperium are raised from toddlers in an environment designed entirely around turning them into weapons, to use potentially against their very blood- the practice of taking the second eldest of a generation means that a noble corrupted by excess, greed, or spite must weigh his vices against the possibility of being brought to justice by the blade of his closest kin. Isha is almost entirely an instrument bent to the will of a master- a fine tool for the cloisters and those who might retain their agents, such as the Inquisition.

 

Her retention as an Acolyte has proven no troubling transition. Ultimately, serving one organization that preserves the Pax Imperium is little different than serving another. Indeed, a period of peace on Mosul ensured that her first combat action occurred in service to the Inquisition. While her target practice served her very well, her bladework is sub-par and she proved squeamish, though capable, in wielding her sword instead of her rifle when it was necessary.

 

Aside from her skills and aloof nature, Isha is truly set apart from others by the strength of her self-assured faith in the God-Emperor. Each day, as part of her exercise routine, she balances her short blade in the center of her chamber upon its flat pommel, so the blade points directly upwards. She then contorts herself into a  handstanding position such that the point of the blade rests directly at the base of her throat, just barely penetrating the skin there. So precariously set, she meditates upon her duty to the Emperor and visualizes killing techniques. As her arms shake with fatigue, it would be obvious to any impertinent enough to observe her that she is one slip away from death, and yet, she maintains her poise until she deems it appropriate to release, slowly and gently, such that the blade does not waver and the single drop of blood upon it remains upon the tip. In times of great peril she will momentarily make a subconscious gesture to the small scab on her throat before taking action.

 

An electoo upon her shoulder blades and across her back signifies her employment; it takes the form of an aquila spread, with each wing-quill ending in a smoking gun barrel. When stimulated, it glows a faint red against her pale skin. The sigil is named "Calamity," and Lazerus, who happened upon her in such a state of undress as to see it and received a bloody nose for his trouble, calls her by it. (Lazerus is a punk-ass kid enforcer who gives everybody nicknames and tries to take the lead, even if it is inappropriate to do so)

 

Her desire to serve the Emperor has thus far overwhelmed all others, but while devout, she is no Officio Assassinorum operative or chem-gelded fanatic- she may yet prove only human. For death she has no fear- she was born to deal it, and one day receive it, as is the way of the blade and the gun. The erosion of her sanity and focus justfifiably terrifies her, however, and she shudders to think of dark things polluting her soul. For her faults, she has a focused hate to draw on- the greedy, unjust, selfish, and tyrants who do not submit to the ultimate and just tyranny of the Emperor. Truly it was said to her by a divining crone, "Thought begets Heresy; Heresy begets Retribution."

[N1SB]

Thank you for asking about our characters.  I have 2 characters, but I'll share the one that is more interesting IMHO.

 

 

--- Sister Maria Mendez: the backstory ---

 

"Maria!  Attend," commanded the priest.

 

"Yes, Padre," she replied.  Young Maria was sweeping the cloister, despite having trouble maneuvering a broom that was taller than she was.  Faith alone could move mountains, she was taught, thus Maria theorised her belief in the Holy Emperor was still not sufficient considering the difficulty she had shifting a pile of dust.  That theological dilemma would have to wait, however; for now, she had to attend.

 

"It is time for a most important lesson," her mentor said as he sat down by the fountain.  Picking up a fallen branch, he started drawing in the dirt.

 

Maria was confused.  She had long known she was the least clever of the orphans under the priest's care.  However, thus far she was merely told to do a.) chores, b.) whatever Padre told her to and, most importantly, c.) the Will of the Emperor.  None of these tasks required anything as complicated as a diagram, though one time she needed two tries to find out which end of a mop goes on the ground.

 

Standing faithfully by the priest's side, she looked down at the scrawls on the ground.  She saw:

 

 

|==|||==|

 

"Do you see this symbol?  One day...ah," sighed the priest.  Putting one hand to his face and the other on Maria's shoulder, he pulled her towards him to face the same direction he did.  Now, she saw:

___

][

=][=

  ][  

 

"One day, someone will appear before you and show this symbol to you," he said.  Maria wanted to ask why someone would show her the letter "I", but considering she still had trouble reading, she kept her mouth shut.  Padre continued, "He will ask a difficult service of you.  You must do as he says, for he speaks for the Emperor.  Now look at me, Maria."

 

Maria looked at him.

 

"Do you understand?" he asked.

 

"No, Padre," she replied.

 

"But will you obey?"

 

"Yes, Padre."

 

"Perfect."

 

--- Sister Maria Mendez: the actual campaign ---

 

Sister Maria grew up, but she didn't grow any smarter.  She became a nun in her small, isolated Imperial Cult, doing chores and looking after the orphans until the day a stranger showed her something that still looked like the letter "I".

 

Of course, the stranger was a member of the Inquisition.  He had a mission for her, using a lot of High Gothic words she didn't know to do things she didn't quite understand.  Fortunately, her duty wasn't to understand.  Her duty was to obey.

 

Her weapon was a sacred club.  It was technically a rifle, given to her order along with a dozen rounds of ammunition by the Adeptus Ministorum.  They were all considered sacred relics, including the bullets, so they were never fired.

 

Instead, her temple developed a special martial arts involving using the rifle as a sort of gunstock warclub, which she became a master of.

 

If ignorance was Humanity's Shield, then she was a Living Landraider.  She weaponised her stupidity.  Her mission involved fighting a Genestealer Cult that embedded itself on her planet.  With their claws and monstrous forms, she assumed they were Daemons.

 

The GM was so entertained by her blind belief of Genestealers as Daemons, he allowed her Faith Powers from Blood of Martyrs to work on them.  As she used her gun as a blunt instrument against the Emperor's enemies, so was she the Emperor's blunt instrument.  Not very sharp!

 

It took me so much mental effort to play someone that dumb properly.  In a Dark Heresy game, where everyone's trying to figure out conspiracies, being clever, it turned out the idiot of the party was the most useful in keeping the team alive.

Edited September 3, 2014 by Not 1 Step Backwards

[Hyaenidae]

I tried creating a character once, before I simply decided that RPG's just aren't for me. Enjoy.

 

 Character Description:

Psychological:

Suffering from Transhuman Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Al-Rashid consistently deals with bouts of rage, paranoia and a number of nervous tics ranging from shaking hands to involuntary muscle twitches. Most of these fade when in combat, though intense flashbacks are known to consume him during high-stress events, screaming out orders to long-dead brothers, and howling his rage at opponents who aren't there. Having been betrayed by first the High Lords of Terra, his old Chapter leadership, the Imperium, the bastard Lugft Huron, and finally his own brothers-in-arms, Al-Rashid has a firm belief to never suffer the leadership of fools ever again, knowing in his heart that anyone who he follows will end up killing him for their own gain, his own goals unfulfilled. His personal goals are simple; make every Chapter and institution that assisted in extinguishing his beloved Tiger Claws suffer, and force them to remember until the End Times the fury and vengeance of the extinct Tigers of Krodha. Of course, Al-Rashid has no chance of causing any true harm by himself, lacking any real leadership potential or advanced intelligence and cunning, and is unwilling to work with anyone to accomplish his violent, lofty goals, leaving him in a perpetual catch-22.

 

Though he once believed he was the last pure Tiger Claw, the decades he has spent within the Vortex has dissuaded him from such a lie. His unnaturally long life is proof of that, and the fact that something cast him into the ashlands at the other side of the galaxy still nags at his mind. He despises the Powers that rule his exiled home, seeing them as just another group of masters that will betray him whenever they desire. Of course, there are the voices too.....

 

Physical Appearance:

Al-Rashid Ibn Krodha stands at a stunning 2.8 meters tall, and is wide across the chest and shoulders; a natural born brawler. His sheer size is further accented by the battered and chipped power armour he wears. Repainted with rebellious pride in the colors of the Tiger Claws before the Palace of Thorns fell, his plate is a patchwork mess of different marks and models torn from the bodies of his many victims during the Badab War. Each section of stolen plate has had a palm-sized Chapter symbol of it's previous owner carved into the surface, in memory of the foes who've dared cross his path. Though the armour was once the charcoal and goldenrod of his beloved Tigers, decades of continuous combat and exposure to the black ash-sand of the unnamed desert hell-planet amongst the Gloaming Worlds that Al-Rashid calls home has turned his heraldry a scorched black and gray, the paint crackled and sand-blasted. Over his shoulders, he wears a simple, ragged cloak of black leather, so as to better break up his immense profile while wandering the black sands, searching for food, shelter, and personal challenges to keep his sword-arm in practice and strong.

 

Underneath his battered Mk. V helm, Al-Rashid's face is a weathered map of age, combat, hatred and misery. Nearing 750 years old side-real, his dusky, tanned face is lined with the years he has lived, further wrecked by scars both small and brutally large from his preferred combat methods. The worst of these is a massive gouged scar running across the right side of his face, from the lip, across the cheekbone and temple, and ending an inch above his gnarled ear. Underneath his eyes are tattoos, vows of vengeance and hate written in the gentle calligraphy of the desert people of his youth. His black hair, gray along the temples and salted throughout, is slicked back with spiced oils. Most prominent are his shockingly amber eyes, which practically glow, a natural genetic trait of all Krodhian born natives.

 

His equipment is battered and scarred as he. The filthy Umbra pattern bolter he carries jams frequently, his shield beaten by hundreds of years of bolts and blades, even the pouches along his plate have been torn and re-sewn dozens of times. One item, though, he cares for like a child; his prized Krodhian-crafted Kopis. Lovingly oiled, it's edge gleaming a silvery white, the hilt and handle beautifully carved with tiger's heads and inlaid with gleaming enamel, the blade he named 'In-Tikam' ('retaliation' in low gothic) is his last physical connection to his lost home. With this sword, Al-Rashid carves his revenge into every Astartes he can find, honoring the long-dead with his bladework. It is the only thing that resembles happiness that Al-Rashid feels any longer.

 

Character Background:

The last of a dying breed, Al-Rashid is one of a handful of surviving Krodhian-born Tiger Claws left after the Badab War. Taken from the nomadic bedouin sword dancers of the equatorial deserts of Krodha, Al-Rashid proved to excel in close combat from his earliest days, and served as a tribe-brother first in the Tiger Claws' 8th Household, then as part of the illustrious 1st Household, for nearly 300 honourable years. Assigned to the fated Strike Cruiser Bakasurra and the 2nd Household for extended patrols, he was among the handful of Tiger Claws left in existence after their ship arrived in real-space fourteen centuries after it departed, their Chapter now long dead, their home world a blasted, irradiated wasteland. A council was held aboard the Bakasurra, hanging in orbit above their corpse of a world, to decide the future of the Chapter after Tribe-Captain Vetala failed to return from Terra, and the last of the Tiger Claws had received an unexpected guest. Having heard of survivors, Chapter Master Lugft Huron himself had traveled to Krodha, with a proposition to rebuild the Tiger Claws, should they agree to assist the Astral Claws in helping him conquer the Maelstrom. Al-Rashid was one of those who at first rejected the idea of returning to their parent Chapter, instead voting for a final crusade into the Great Eye and an honourable death, but he and the small opposition was ultimately out voted, his brethren twisted by Huron's charisma into actually believing his blatant lies.

 

Grudgingly, Al-Rashid followed his brothers, repainting his armour gunmetal and cobalt, and waging war alongside the LXVI Tyrant's Legion's 4th Retaliator Squad. As the Badab War broke out, Al-Rashid slowly began to believe that, though he hated him, Lord Huron had been right, seeing the false righteousness of the gutless Imperium with open eyes as he slaughtered their heroes aboard their own ships, as well as understanding that his beloved Tigers would truly become extinct should the Astral Claws falter in this war. Seven years of constant boarding actions and planetary assaults took a toll on Al-Rashid's mind and spirit, turning the once-honorable man into a murderous, paranoid monster, desperate to slaughter every bastard who had dared to despoil his dream of the Tiger Claws reborn. As world after world fell before the loyalist Astartes, the LXVI was eventually ordered to fortify the Palace of Thorns itself, Al-Rashid finally understanding that his Chapter was to die. In direct contradiction to standing orders, he repainted his plate in the charcoal and goldenrod, swearing that if was to die, it would be in his extinct Chapter's heraldry. Al-Rashid found himself fighting the most violent and bloody engagement of his long life, crossing swords and trading bolt rounds with Star Phantoms in razor-wired corridors and study chambers swirling with Astartes gore, every wrong move or missed shot paid for in blood and pain. Bleeding from two score wounds, weak and unsteady from blood loss that not even his study frame or healing ability could fully stop, Al-Rashid was finally brought low. Distracted as the vox-channels came alive with word of Lugft Huron's death, he was struck in the head by a heavy bolter round, his face splitting open from lip to temple. Al-Rashid fell into darkness, his misery and hatred swallowed by a welcome death. Or so he thought.

 

When he unhappily awoke, it was to thunderous howling and cheering ringing down the corridors of a ship he didn't recognize, and into the hold of the bloodstained medical bay he lay in. In suspended animation for weeks as the Corpse Takers attempted to save his life after he had been dragged away during the Exile, Al-Rashid stumbled drunkenly down the corridor to a large hanger that had been converted into a surgery room, where he was greeted by a sight that horrified him to the core. Dozens of his brothers, both Astral and Tiger Claws, their former heraldry blasted away by black and reds, their plate carved with symbols that burned his eyes, standing in a circle around....a man? A monster? A daemon? No, he realized, something far worse....

 

Lord Lugft Huron, the Tyrant of Badab, reborn. A macabre mess of bionics and twisted flesh, his armour covered in the symbols of the Pantheon, swollen with the dark powers that had saved his wretched, pain-filled life. The men he had once called brothers surrounded him, their arms raised, screaming praises to their beloved Tyrant, returned to them from beyond the veil, and the four winds that had brought this atrocity into being. The thing that was once Lugft Huron raised his voice, and the assembly all dropped to their knees in supplication. All except Al-Rashid. Growls and curses were muttered as Al-Rashid dared to question out loud the path his former brothers had taken, before the Tyrant. Al-Rashid called for the true sons of Krodha to stand against this atrocity, and was aghast when not a single soul stepped forward, not even his own blood-brothers. Not Corien, not Rutao, not Lorek, who was the most vocal against the Tiger Claws' assimilation. The bonds of blood spilt were too strong. A nerveless smile crept over the Tyrant's face, and he declared a death warrant upon Al-Rashid's head on the spot. As one, every living being aboard the ship drew knives, chainswords, and bolters. Al-Rashid slammed his bulkhead of a shield against his shoulder, and made a quick retreat as bolt rounds hammered into the curved slab of adamantium over and over, cutting down anyone who tried to bar his path. He was barely able to make his escape, stealing a Caestus Assault Boat and blowing his way out the docking bay with the melta cannon. It was one of the worst mistakes he would ever make.

 

Distracted by the recent events and flight for his life, Al-Rashid was unaware that the Cruiser he was aboard was deep within the warp, at the edge of the Maelstrom itself. Worse yet, he had garnered the attention of at least one minor entity who, for at least a moment, found Al-Rashid's plight humorous and entertaining. His unshielded ship was ripped along the unnatural tides, spiraling out of control, and sent screaming across the galaxy. Al-Rashid saw time and space tear apart, saw colors that defied description, saw the truth from the lies and the lies within the truth, saw ten billion years of life and death, saw....too much. For the second time, unconsciousness beckoned, and Al-Rashid had no choice but to obey.

 

Awaking amongst the twisted wreckage of his stolen ship, Al-Rashid stumbled out into ash-sand and featureless dunes, the sun above a dull blue, the sky blazing with unnatural fires, and no signs of advanced civilization anywhere. Over weeks of travel, surviving on ancient skills half-remembered from his childhood in the deserts of Krodha, and bloodily interrogating any that came across his path, Al-Rashid was able to learn little. None could agree what the name of the planet was, though every one of them knew where it was; one of the trapped, cursed satellites of the Gloaming Worlds, at the edge of the Screaming Vortex. Al-Rashid Ibn Krodha was in Hell.

 

The denizens of this ashen purgatory speak of a fell star that broke from the burning sky decades ago, and delivered a blackened dervish with glowing green eyes, wrapped in dark leather, that murder any who meet him, be it man, beast or demigod, with a sliver of shining light. They say he roams the ashlands, masterless and restless, searching for a way to return to the sky that birthed him, to kill the other demigods that rejected him so. They also whisper that they hope his dream is fulfilled one day.... life is hard enough without praying to the Four Winds for safety from the monster that travels the black dunes.

[Kilofix]

Thanks for sharing folks.

 

I feel like if I played Dark Heresy - I'd want to work towards a slightly insane, ex-possessed, Acolyte (from Radical's Handbook).

[Slips]

Damnit heathens just write a novel already and become the next A D-B! Edited September 3, 2014 by Slipstreams

[Captain Nameless]

Ah, so that's where he started from.

[Hyaenidae]

Taa daa. You know my sneaky secret now.  :P

[Transgressor O'Malley]

I am currently playing Rogue Trader as an Explorator who was raised in and is now the leader of a heretek cult whose heresy consists in believing that the glory of the Omnissiah in its eternal transcendence is infinitely greater than the petty past achievements of humanity and that, for this reason, all machinery of whatever origin, be it human, xeno, biological or daemonic, should be fully developed, optimised and explored. He fully believes that the "mainstream" Adeptus Mechanicus are the real hereteks.

 

I can elaborate regarding genetor-ing, daemonology, personally suppressing mutinies while serving as acting captain, infecting himself with a meme-virus (Tears of the Dragon from DH Inquisitor's Handbook), horribly failing to chase down rumours of STC fragments, etc, if anyone cares to read more.

Edited September 4, 2014 by Transgressor O'Malley

[Iron Father Ferrum]

I never could get into a Dark Heresy game that ran longer than two sessions, but my Deathwatch characters were something awesome:

 

 

 

Mathias Bael, Techmarine of the Iron Hands

 

Mathias Bael of Clan Company Shologar was basically the "tank" of his squad.  Although slow-footed and somewhat lacking in social graces, he was exceptionally tough -- due in some part to a bevy of augmetic upgrades to his superhuman form, as one might expect from a son of Ferrus -- and his resilience was only bolstered by the Errant-pattern power armor he received from his Iron Father upon his selection to join the Deathwatch.  He was so ignorant to pain and damage that he once took a direct hit to the plastron from a Tau plasma weapon, suffering naught but some melted paint off his armor.  In combat, he preferred to act from range, eventually upgrading his personal Tigrus-pattern bolter to a combi-plasma with targeter.  Not that he ever avoided close combat; in one engagement against Hive Fleet Dagon, he personally accounted for seven genestealers, three of them crushed by his servo-arm and two more gutted via his bayonet.

 

It really was hilarious that my character literally took no damage in the entire campaign.  A Toughness score of 52 with Errant armor and the armor bonus from the Flesh is Weak trait meant that my ability to soak damage was through the roof -- something akin to needing 25 damage dealt just to put a wound on him to the chest.  It got to the point that everyone started calling me "The GM's Girlfriend" because of his inability to actually hurt my character.

 

 

Brother-Sergeant Balian Blade-Breaker, Tactical Marine of the Fire Angels

 

Balian, a veteran of the Badab War, was nominated as sergeant and lead his kill team to many victories over the forces of Chaos and xenos alike.  He earned his moniker of "Blade-Breaker" in the team's first mission, in which they encountered a minor Daemon Prince.  While the rest of the team kept the entity's minions at bay, Balian and Salvatore, the team's Blood Angel Librarian, went after the Prince.  Armed with his trusty power sword, Balian engaged the Prince while Salvatore flanked him.  Balian's blazingly fast defensive work confounded the Prince, and the Fire Angel then disarmed the Prince with a well-executed parry that shattered his opponent's dark blade.  This left the creature open for Salvatore's banishing strike.

 

Balian was my character for a more Chaos-oriented DW campaign, and I created him using the make-a-chapter rules before the Fire Angels got their own rules in a later supplement.  I then took a talent called. . . Right Tool for the Job or something similar, and took a power sword as a result.  Thank goodness I did, or else that Daemon Prince was going to eat us alive (which we were later on told was kind of the point; he was supposed to be the big bad of the campaign, who dealt us a defeat and put several members in the Apothecarion and then we'd want vengeance, yadda yadda yadda...).  My point is, my creation-level Space Marine stood toe to toe with a Daemon Prince and survived.  It's the stuff dreams are made of.

[Cpt_Reaper]

Darn it...I want to play deathwatch so much ;n;