[i][u]The Unsung hero.[/u][/i] Deep within the ship, a sphere of violet energy bubbles up, releasing within it a warrior. [i]For thousands of years, he had wandered through this dark, grim Galaxy...[/i] The shaded figure stood up on it's two large legs. [i]And those thousands of years, he spent battling whatever the galaxy could throw at him. For every fight, a memento. For every army vanquished, a souvenir. For every enemy slain, redemption. Whatever the grim galaxy could push on him, he pushed back.[/i] Slowly, he opened his four violet eyes, one of them being marked by a deep, searing scar. They scanned the darkness. [i]He lived a life, once. Somewhere else, beyond this realm, this universe, this time. He was brought here against his will. But he wouldn't let that defeat him. If something had brought him here to destroy him... they had failed. It had only hardened him. Made him stronger.[/i] The metal floor thundered as he stood up on his two heavy legs. Although milennia had passed, the man hadn't aged a day. He was stronger than ever, his muscles strong and lean. [i]Eldar. Tyranid. Orks. Necron. Tau. Imperial. Chaos. He had fought it all. Sometimes alongside them. Sometimes against them. Never had he been thanked for his sacrifices. Some knew of him, of his legend. They had a nickname for him.[/i] As he walked, he looked at his four arms. Two of them, made from Necron metal after having lost them in a battle. His arsenal varied, containing trophies taken from his enemies. From space marine armour, he had made himself new protection. From the Tau, he had taken ranged weapons. From the Imperial Guard, he had taken heavy weapons. From the sisters of battle, Inferno weaponry. From the Eldar, Mighty witchblades, and their strange eldritch magic. From chaos, psychic powers had been gained. From the Tyranids, the pincer of a Carnifex was shaped into a sword. And that, only to name a few. [i]His body carried the scars of his long life of battle. But a life that never ended for him.[/i] On his back, he wore a long, torn purple cloak, with a hood. It was once the banner of something. The only thing he had maintained from his other life. [i]His nickname was given to him by his ability to wield any weapon for any situation, regardless of the matter. He always had something for everything always an ace up his sleeve.[/i] They called him the Jack of All Trades. Traliks, the Fallen. His eyes quickly settled to the darkness. [i]"Hmm... a ship... ancient."[/i] His English was without a flaw. Many years of practice will do that. He sniffed the air around him. [i]"Hmph. Chaos. And by the size... this is definitely the bloodwrath. I don't know what Satirus wants with me, but he will only have dead lackeys to pay for it."[/i] He grabbed his weapons. In one hand, the lower left, he carried a Daemonhammer, weapon of the Inquisition. Thanks to his superior strength, he needed but one arm to wield such a weapon. In the lower right hand, his automatic heavy shotgun. How this ork weapon even functionned or held together, Traliks had no idea. But he had come to learn not to question Gork and Mork's mysterious ways. After all, it was thanks to it that he could carry all of his equipment. In his upper right hand, a mighty Singing spear, an eldar double-headed lance and battleaxe, with its two split heads on each end. And in his upper left, a Tau Ion Cyclic Raker. Devastating weapon against any foe. Wandering the depths of the ship, Traliks, standing around the height of a primarch, his hooded cloak trailing behind him, expected anything to come at him. [spoiler]openito my friends.[/spoiler]