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About Razgriz

Year 10
  • Rank
    Defender of Mata Nui Defeated
  • Birthday 08/25/1996

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    dragging casuals to fridgetanamo
  • Interests
    freeing joe son

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  1. help my last active character is being held hostage in a google doc this is me blinking twice to signal that i'm in danger
  2. IC: The briefest of switches to single-line. <<Nova Two-One, this is Two-Three, howcopy?>> And under the guise of establishing comm clarity when both knew they were green, Nikolai could hear the smirk on the Alluvionite's face (and the full weight of his accent, so measured it was for official comms) as he a drew a pair of fingers to his brow in a cheeky "salute". <<Yo, Buddy. Still alive?>> Back to team frequency.
  3. IC: As though prompted, a third TEAMCOM notification appeared upon Nikolai's HUD roughly in time with the frame of yet another Spartan clambering into the barebones "cockpit" of one of the remaining booster frames. As the power systems and HUD linked, his Air Assault helmet feeding him such innocuous details as bearing, velocity, hardpoints, "hull integrity" (for what that was worth when piloting a glorified, 26th century F-104), and other such necessities for spaceflight. Hmhm. So, the top brass decided to put guys like him and Niko in the same unit as the Elite. Two ODSTs that were born and bred to kill her people, from the moment they left the womb. Well, bureaucracy had never been known for clarity of planning, but this seemed bad enough when he'd received orders day-of-operation to switch posts— to say nothing of throwing a man from a glassed planet into the same unit as the spectres of his past. He was going to need a lot of coffee if this were a sign of things to come. But, priorities. He had always slept with one eye open, this Covvie would prove no difference in that matter— not for now. In a ship surrounded by "demons" any overt action would only ensure her a swift end at the tip of some 7.62. For now, best worry about the hornet's nest their orders were to kick. Kig-yar always did have a satisfaction element to them, the slimy little weasels... <<Spartan Miguel Herrera, performing preflight checks. Lo siento, Nova Actual, but orders came in from the top around when our drone operator's did. I caught your briefing, but didn't realize they hadn't informed you I was joining, over.>> His voice, rich in timbre and melodically accented, carried over the team communications as he lightly tugged at the controls, checking for problems with the thrust vectoring systems, retros, other such minutiae of maneuvering. He'd done well on sims and in training exercises, as avid a learner as a Spartan as he was a Bullfrog or Hellbringer. In some senses, it hearkened back to the atmospheric fighters of the 20th century much more than the Longswords ever could, despite both inheriting the craft designation. Maneuverability was this thing's bread and butter... or more accurately, it's saving grace. If he could not manipulate a frame in the void, he was at best stranded for the ten to twenty minutes MJOLNIR was rated for... And at worst, an early meeting with mi padre. So, honestly, could be worse. He hadn't lied, either— he'd walked into the hangar just as she called the huddle, not seeing the need to speak up until she'd neglected to delegate him to one of the squads— and by that point, there was no sense in dragging feet, since everyone was mounting up. A slow Spartan was a dead Spartan. It was regrettable that such additions came at the last minute, yes, and each side of the equation was begrudged by it, but all he could do now was integrate as smoothly as possible. <<All systems green.>> Another voice of howling wind joined the growing cacophony within the Madrigal's hangar.
  4. Name: Miguel Herrera Species: Human Gender: Son of Toledo Nuevo, y Domingo Herrera, thank you very much. Age: 30 Appearance: Standing at 6'9 and weighing in at a lean 300 pounds (you know, for a Spartan), Miguel is naturally somewhere close to a foot taller than he was as a Bullfrog, but keeps mostly the same proportions of "athletic and balanced", if on the trimmer side of the equation. To any that knew him prior to his date with ORCHID, this means exactly squat, as the man now looms over them and feels like he's made of stone. But the more things change, the more they stay the same— he still has the same earthy eyes, strong onyx brows, and dashing, daring smile. His features are charmingly robust, accompanied by a close-cropped head of black hair and a serendipitous mustache that are mindful to not get terribly out of hand, though he half-jokingly contends that he should be allowed a "properly suave mane". Can tone his Exoplanetary Spaniard accent down on a mission. Happily refuses to everywhere else. His posture is quite lax for a Spartan, even considering he's a IV, and he'll quite readily chat and joke as though he were still a soldier of more mortal ken. Attributes the small, linear scars on each cheekbone to a near-miss involving a Sangheili energy sword, but the jury's out on whether or not it's as true as the "shaving with one's own combat knife" story. Rank: Spartan Personality: That the stereotype of combat soldiers being hardcases has to an extent still survived into the 26th Century is no problem of Herrera's. Like many an ODST among those they recognize as "their kin", he is lighthearted, goofy, and seemingly carefree in interpersonal interactions, a gracious and welcoming host in his quarters and openly approachable outside of them. His lax affectations serve to disguise what they stem from in the first place— a full confidence in his own skill. Miguel may have that distinctly Hispanic flair for bombast, yes, but he has trained long and hard for this life of warfare, and it shows in his constant and consistent readiness for anything. When one rarely sleeps, they tend to find the time to keep themselves sharp everywhere else. Given his history within the UNSC prior to becoming a supersoldier, it is safe enough to say that he has no lack for bravery. Something of a rogueish streak within him rears its head in battle, especially in the face of Covenant forces— underhanded tactics and fighting with some panache are both perfectly acceptable psychological warfare to him, even if military discipline and a "strict code of honor" are sources of pride. Notably hides his darker emotions behind his usual veil of amiability and good humor. Background: The son of a UNSC factory worker in the city of New Toledo, Miguel was born into a mild spring on September 29th, 2528, on the world of Alluvion. The childhood he enjoyed there was, by all accounts, rather normal— for a Border World with the spectre of War looming over it. It was certainly no coincidence that his father Domingo had a habit of "bringing his work home with him", per se, teaching his young son about the firearms he produced quite far ahead of schedule. But, one must remember, a little rough-and-tumble is to be expected on the colonial frontier. Childhood scuffles before dinner. Adventuring just a bit too high up the many trees and getting yourself stuck. Receiving earfuls from your mother for breaking something when trying to "hammer at the forge" like your father, while he tries to stay stern and angry atop bubbling mirth. Kid Stuff, really. As time went on, the rambunctious child, then preteen, began to seriously wonder where his path in life would lead. He wasn't half the man his father was, an opinion he knew he would always hold, but that pride he held in knowing his family was fighting the good fight, forging weapons to beat back their foes lead to a conflict of desires within the boy. Would he follow in the factory footsteps? Would he take his boundless energy into the front lines? For all he loved his father, he could not say while still so young. And then 2542 happened, and the Covenant made the choice for him forever. New Toledo and its factories, being key strategic assets to the UNSC, were swiftly attacked by the Fleet of Particular Justice in the initial assault against the major population centers and spaceports. Given as the initial probes the year prior had stirred up a full military response by the UNSC, he had enough time to get out alive— but only barely, on one of the last evacuation vessels to retreat behind allied lines before the support fleet arrived and began to glass the surface of the planet, many millions of lives still succumbing to flames. One such was Domingo Herrera, having taken a solemn, unanimous vow alongside his foreman and fellow floor workers to produce supplies around the clock for the troops securing the escapes of their loved ones. Toledo Nuevo was beaten, yes, but they would never be broken. Now robbed of the man he worshiped as a hero, the home he loved dearly, and the great majority of his family, Miguel found a gaping wound rent into his heart by fire... and with fire it filled again. It was a shame he were not just a few years younger— he would have made for a very good III. The young man, only 14, turned all of his precocious energy towards the fight with singular focus, that which he had so lacked in his life before. Even within the confines of the ship, before he relocated, he began to train his body— racing down its halls until he dropped. For the next 4 years, this continued without pause, for when a man of Alluvion takes a vow, only an act of God could stop him from seeing it through. Running, calisthenics, even taking up classes with a fencing instructor— all were towards a singular goal. September 29th, 2546 saw the enlistment of one very spirited marine. After psychological screening and, as he tells it, answering the question of "How do you feel about working with open flame?" with "Better than the aliens will.", he graduated boot and was shunted straight into a Hellbringers unit, where he defied the harrowing odds of survival for a full year. At the earnest nudging of one of his COs, he took a stab at ODST. After a year's work carrying a fuel tank on your back and attacking entrenched positions with streams of aerosolized rage, orbital drops didn't seem terribly awful by comparison, you know? The training was otherworldly, asking everything even a man like him had, but he refused to be Returned To Unit. Domingo Herrera did not raise, nor die to save the life of, a quitter. Full marks. The overseers of the program took one look at Miguel and slotted him into an additional training regimen, noting his bravery: Bound School. Colloquially, this made him a "tadpole", as it set his future to be within the "Bullfrogs", or ODST Air Assault Unit. He, of course, had no issue with the idea of a volatile backpack. For another two months he was drilled on AA tactics and the usage of the Series 8 Jetpack system in urban warfare, and then the PFC was off to the races. Serving under an even-handed officer, he was allowed just enough wiggle room for a few peculiarities to slip through in combat, but luckily seemed to understand when he was being reined in. His bravado did not supersede his fellowship with the rest of the fireteam, and he could hang tough with any of them in any situation. His drops took him to vistas such as the Siege of New Alexandria, Manassas, even a stint on Earth, in his ancestral home. Following war's end, Miguel was one of the many that were more than happy to still take the fight to remnant forces that defied the armistice, blood still running hot at the notion. He continued to serve as a Bullfrog, skirmishing with belligerent forces until Spartan Ops approached him with the prospect of a three-week paid vacation on Mars. Ever the daredevil, the sales pitch hadn't even finished before he'd agreed. Equipment: Cyclops Armor and an Air Assault helmet make for a sharp ensemble in urban camouflage. Magnum comes standard, as does the combat knife. Everything else... the phrase "Marines make due" has survived for well over 500 years for a reason. Given his experience in the role of Air Assault Jump-Jetting, it's a no-brainer that he'll be wearing the Series 8 if the need arises. He's got the training. The same can be said for the M7057 flamethrower, but these situations tend to be less common than the former. Skills: Fearless, deft, and startlingly comfortable around most things involving flame, Miguel's main deviations from the general well-rounded Spartan wheelhouse find themselves mainly in his distinct specialization in the realm of Air Assault. A former "Bullfrog", or member of the ODST's Special Purpose Forces Air Assault unit in standard nomenclature, he specializes in the verticality and mobility necessary for urban combat, bounding from rooftop to rooftop via jetpack to secure and hold key firing positions. This naturally necessitated a comfort with CQB tactics as well— no sense in letting the floor below your objective go unattended when a group of Jackals could be nested within. Given that his military career began with a stint in the pyrotechnics division (dubbing themselves the "Hellbringers"), he's quite familiar with the M7057 weapon platform and acting in a small squad role. If you need a man to engage entrenched infantry or quickly take a point over difficult terrain and do either with a maximal score on style, look no further. As for his downtime hobbies, he quite enjoys the historical fencing of his ancestral homeland as well as cooking, finding the both of them therapeutic, even meditative. Flaws: Has an overdeveloped sense of vengeance. The torching of New Toledo left many scars on its proudest son, and the largest of which was the hole in his heart shaped like his father that he wished to fill with the blood and ashes of the monolithic enemy that took him away. While the peace agreement has forced him, like anyone, to mellow internally, not even his affable air can fully hide his distrust for the races that were just yesterday the bitterest of foes. He's an insomniac, barely skirting the UNSC-mandated 150 minutes of sleep per 48 hour cycle— and his showmanship streak likely doesn't stem from purely clinical idea of "psychological warfare" as he claims. Perhaps seeing demons wreathed in flame while dreaming left him with a few ideas on how to even the score, but we all know the saying of what happens to those who play with fire.
  5. screw it, I'll riot anyway, just to do it
  6. i won't believe in anything until tiragath comes back
  7. See you as GLORY champ in 3 years baby
  8. just let me dust off the "i'm gonna kill this game" bit
  9. OOC: @Unreliable Narrator IC: Cipher - Ga-Koro Streets "It's not bad for a guy who by all accounts picked it up a day ago. You got a feel for it quicker than I'd figured." Offhanded explanations aside, I openly allowed myself a thoughtful frown as I folded my arms and pondered the actually pertinent question he'd asked. Dorian and I had met here several times before, true, but it always seemed as travelers crossing paths rather than anything else. Ever since Anthyn, we seemed to be content to simply meet when those journeys intersected and part once either respective road led us to. No real rhyme or reason beyond "I tend to show up for the important bits" that I knew. To be honest, this was the first time we'd earnestly promised to meet somewhere specific in recent memory— That is, if you ignored where his pit stop was gonna be. Regardless, this meant that I hadn't the most perfect grasp of who he really knew from here— names like Flay, Tuara, Skyra, Onuzek, Stannis, and Cael all passed through my train of thought, but I knew many of them to be scattered to the four winds as we ourselves, and didn't know them near as much as I knew he knew them. Even if we all shared one story, I knew preciously little about even some of my closest allies. ...Well putting it like that makes it sound lonely as all karz. Yeesh, Compassrose. "Can't say." I finally replied, shrugging my shoulders. The bird on my pack seemed to be used enough to the natural sway of my cadence already, so he wasn't overly bothered. "We have a nasty habit of just dropping in and out on eachother. Even a guy like Onuzek, I've only met the once before."
  10. OOC: @Unreliable Narrator IC: Cipher - Ga-Koro, Gaksi's Bird Store. Blankly, I stared over my shoulder at the Matoran's leaving form. ... A pair of beady black— no, actually dark brown— eyes tried to meet mine, ensconced within a mess of sun-colored plumage. I slide mine down, and find the Screamer nested (somehow) within the crook between my bedroll and the strap of my bag. Right down at the bottom corner of my line of sight. A soft chirp heralded a nibble at the corner of my kanohi, maybe as some attempt at allopreening. Luckily for the little guy it wasn't under the impression my face was a chew toy. It'd have really soured my notoriously good mood. But, more importantly, the sensation made everything click into place. ...Alright. You got me, you little son of a brakas. I started to follow him through the throng, after giving Kotzu and Gaksi my thanks on the way out.
  11. IC: Cipher - Ga-Koro (Gaksi's Bird Store) "You sure?" I asked, idly waving away a beak from behind me as it tugged curiously on something it wasn't supposed to. "I've got time if you need it. Believe me, these things like to work out either way."
  12. OOC: @Unreliable Narrator IC: Cipher - Ga-Koro I smirked, touching my knuckles to the lively Ko-Matoran's. "Got a mean left hook on him. Good to meet you." My fist practically dwarfed hers in frame alone, through the natural difference in build between us as Matoran and Toa. Factoring in that hers was (to my knowledge) so much less conditioned than mine on top of that... Must have felt a little weird for both of us. I've thrown a lot of punches in my life, and I won't call all of 'em smart; my first two knuckles were a touch more pronounced than anyone else in the building's. Probably felt like fistbumping a rock on Kotzu's end. Pulling away, I made sure to mind the ceiling— Ga-Koro housing, being on a lilypad as it was, was a bit smaller than other villages by necessity of light weight. Not to the point where I myself was squeezed, but there wasn't much extra headway left for, say, a halberd made to Toa scale— polearms are generally accepted to be taller than their wielders by a noticeable margin, after all. I'd held it in my off hand at a bit of an angle as we entered to minimize the chance of dragging a spearhead through Gaksi's roof. This was all to say nothing about carrying camp on my back through this mess of caged avians. I wouldn't have been surprised if a few of the more adventurous ones didn't try to grab a flap of a pocket, or maybe my hastily stuffed duster within one, through the bars. I never knew much about owning them, but experiencing them in the wild taught one more than enough about how they played when they saw something they could get their beaks around. Deal with that when it came. For now, I'd let my friend and his friend catch up quietly.
  13. OOC: @Vezok's Friend @Unreliable Narrator @Tyler Durden IC: Cipher - The Great Takea Cool and refreshing, I downed a healthy swig of the cactus water. Took a fair bit of rummaging around behind that cabinet of hers to retrieve it... well, all I'll say is that I appreciated the note of florality and how smoothly it went down. I've never really kept track of the economics regarding cactus water shipment, so I didn't know how much of a windfall this really was— but all the same, it was fresh as advertised. Bottle she used looked fancy enough. I'd feel pretty safe in guessing the Skakdi— Rhow, I'd heard in passing— had treated us to a good one. "Obliged." I replied, raising the mug for a moment in thanks before my smile shifted to a smirk. "And it was my pleasure. I like this place, y'know?" As Rhow then made her way over to Arero, so did my attention. He'd managed to suss out the second marine's accent fairly well now, and had been giving a brief rundown on the idividual he was looking for... a "Kotzu". Sold tea, pale Akaku-shaped mask, Ko-Matoran... In spite of myself, I'd begun to run through my admittedly short list of names and faces to try and peg a match while I savored the slightly bittersweet water. Couldn't tell you why. Ko-Koro was a rare stop for me most of the time— I've probably wandered the drifts more. Even though I always make sure to at least look for civilization, within all that whiteness that was easier said than done. Nothing came. I had a vague recollection about passing a birdseller one of my visits to Ga-Koro, at least, but it certainly wasn't a solid one. Never patronized one of those in my life, thankfully. Taking an animal into my life would be cruel and unusual to the poor thing, for sure. I got into too much trouble. Not that I'm gonna say it to his or his friends' faces, but it'd probably get eaten. Ah, he was walking back over. Guess things finished up. "Ready when you are, pal." I replied with an easy grin, setting the empty mug down onto the table as I scooped up my halberd from the depths of the booth. "You've got a friend waiting." "...That way we'll probably meet in Ga." Clock's ticking, D.
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