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