Characters

A massive young warrior weighing three hundred and fifty pounds with the heavily muscled build of an apex predator, Ajax possesses surprising speed and agility in combat, ricocheting across ceilings and sliding across floors in battle. His face is boyish and capable of raw emotion, shown in wide white eyes and trembling lips when terrified by a hypercane or narrowed eyes and lips curled back from teeth in moments of wrath. He speaks in a deep voice nearly identical to his grandfather's from behind his helmet and is typically encased in dark starShell armor or a black and gray leopard warhelm while leading assaults or looming among high-ranking officers.

A blade-thin young man with fair skin and long white-blond hair that flutters behind him like a comet tail, Alexandar possesses a fine jaw and wide enamored eyes that reveal both prodigious confidence and occasional vulnerability. His cheeks flush bright red when embarrassed and his expression often settles into a smirk, giving him the refined, almost pretty look of a highborn aristocrat more suited to palace life than war. He stands with elegant posture in black chest armor that he fastidiously maintains with a silk handkerchief, pushing his long hair from his eyes as he moves with graceful precision even when emerging from a smoking wrecked mech with shell-shocked eyes.

A young woman under twenty years old with pale skin, bold high cheekbones, and a cruelly slashing pale Peerless Scar along her right cheekbone stands as a Gold fighter with long eyelashes and a lean build defined by stringy fighter muscles. Her body is marked by a lifetime of combat with six parallel scars raking her lower back, two old knife wounds near her heart, a terrible burn on her left arm, and an old wound claiming the top corner of her left ear. Lustrous golden hair frames her face with its golden eyes while she wears a green jacket and pants, her form showing the hardened resilience of a Sunborn warrior even when slick with oil.

A strikingly handsome young man of impeccable breeding with smooth lustrous skin, a wide and white smile, and golden curls that bounce like coiled springs around his regal head. Lively eyes dance over those nearby as he carries himself with natural arrogance and the bearing of a perfect knight, his body moving with graceful power whether in polished durosteel armor that shimmers like his hair or while galloping through enemies with a sword flickering like a tongue of fire.

A tall young man with a lean, powerful build featuring broad rounded shoulders, a tense mass of hard corded muscles binding his torso like armor, and exceptionally strong dexterous hands out of proportion to his frame. His skin is smooth, soft, lustrous, tanned, and entirely faultless without scars. Shoulder-length golden blond hair falls wild and unbound or is tied back by leather, framing a strikingly handsome and pretty face with golden eyes that shine like ingots and see the world with sharper clarity. Intricate golden sigils, a central circle with wings curving like scythes up the wristbones, mark the backs of both hands. A permanent scar crosses his belly from a past stabbing. He moves with lightning speed and agility, often appearing as a fierce, arrogant warrior in black and gold fatigues with a howling wolf emblem, golden recoil armor that fits like a second skin, or a white wolfcloak stained with blood and mud while carrying a cruelly curved slingBlade on his back.

A mid-twenties Gold Peerless Scarred stands with the tall athletic frame of an elite fighter pilot and Olympic Knight, his shoulder-length white-gold hair streaked black falling loosely around the shoulders of a tight gray scorosuit. Narrow dark eyes brood from a pale beardless face that mixes vestiges of beauty with large lips, long eyelashes, a depository of scars, scowls, and crooked cartilage, only his right ear remaining. A storm cloak flows behind him alive with shifting colors of cloud and lightning while his helmet bears a painted dragon cloaked in storm, the entire presence grave, commanding, and brooding with the brutal grace of a warrior from Io.

A 46-year-old man standing 1.75 meters tall possesses a slight, narrow-shouldered build that decades of training never managed to broaden, his posture bent by years of hard living and hidden pain. His face is distinctly swollen and puffy from heavy drinking with bloodshot weary eyes, sallow skin stretched over sharp cheekbones, and a cynical expression that speaks of constant calculation. Short unkempt dark hair threaded with gray frames his features while old scars from a Gold attack mar his chest beneath his clothing and an old right knee injury causes him to favor one leg. He wears rumpled suits layered with wool overcoats or sleek black neoPlast bodysuits with facial hoods, a pistol holstered at his leg or under his armpit, and carries the overall aura of a battle-scarred veteran turned opportunistic criminal.

A twenty-year-old short and petite Red woman with dark forearms and an unruly mop of vibrant red hair that frames her face in a wild explosion. Her large rusty eyes dominate her features alongside plump cheeks, while red sigils are prominently marked on the backs of her hands. Once thin enough to be lifted like a child and light as a child, her build has softened slightly with added weight in low gravity, giving her a healthier but still diminutive frame. She wears a faux-leather black jacket glowing with purple lights on the sleeves or a stiff high-collared servant uniform without a tie, often with a Bacchus pendant necklace tucked inside, her entire presence that of a resilient survivor from the mines adapted to the streets and citadels of Luna.

Lysander enters like a shadow of courts to come, thin and regal beyond his years, yellow-crystal eyes shining with unnatural clarity. His gentle hands belie the composure of old empires. You feel the weight of lineage in his quiet gaze.

Seraphina's oversized eyes gaze with coltish wildness, her pale face framed by messy cropped hair that defies taming. Those tender long bones move with untamed grace, dirt on her knees whispering of endless adventures. She feels like a storm bottled in a child's form, fierce and free.

A scrawny and tiny young man with khaki skin and a sharp hawk-like face that sneers with impish cruelty. Thin lips pull back from khaki teeth in a wicked grin while beady eyes sparkle with goblin mischief, his small frame draped head to shins in the fur of a wolf pelt that makes him look like a hairy demonchild scampering through the night or riding a small black mare with wolves at his heels. He moves with quick, darting energy, often coated in mud that darkens his black fatigues and face as he howls from beneath the pelt.

Thraxa bursts with wild-haired energy, her freckled face alight with a laugh that booms like thunder. There's a squat sturdiness to her that promises unyielding loyalty and fun. Her finger-to-lips wink hints at secrets and schemes yet to unfold.

A petite young woman with fair skin who barely reaches the shoulder of a tall man, Mustang possesses a delicate and graceful build that lends her a fragile appearance at times. Long golden hair sparkles in light and is usually worn in braids flowing down her back or coiled about her shoulders with leather bands, framing a heart-shaped face with quick features, a pert nose, and a mouth swift to form smirking smiles, pleasant frowns, or expressions of terror and regret. Her golden eyes sparkle with fox-like cunning and intelligence, often dancing or imploring, while she wears a wolfcloak streaked with crimson over a black tunic and muddy boots with spurs, carrying herself with graceful confidence even when limping or muddied.

A lean young Obsidian woman stands six and a half feet tall with a deceptively stunted build for her caste, featuring broad powerful shoulders, massive mitt-like hands, and an immense bulk that can eclipse light or haul grown adults like pillows. Her smooth unweathered face shows clear sloping cheekbones, big mopey eyes that swell with tears or darken with rage, a wide nose that flares in anger, full big lips, and a mangled smile of second-rate teeth, all conveying a puppyish gentleness beneath her giant frame. She wears black neoPlast suits for stealth or military chestplates and helmets for combat, moving silently despite her size whether hunching sheepishly in a booth, twirling an umbrella in massive fingers, or standing as an imposing bulwark with arms crossed like barricades.

A towering pale giant of an Obsidian, Volsung Fá stands bigger than any man with an obscenely muscular build that makes his bare chest and arms look like armored plates. His long white hair falls in a tail from his shaved skull down to his heels, with blue worm veins webbing the sides of his head. Black eyes glitter from within the tattooed skull of a Stained on his face, which carries a horrible scar across half his nose, whiskers on his chin, and mangled teeth in a huge maw. Metal replaces the front of his ripped-out throat and his entire left forearm and hand, ending in dagger-sharp extendable nails, while identical slave brands of House Grimmus mark his scarred muscular torso. He wears thick jagged armor festooned with long spikes, a triple-horned exotic beast skull helmet sparkling with gems, and drags a heavy chain bearing dozens of abnormally large enemy skulls.

Beautiful ruthless Gold woman with predatory features

A slump-shouldered man in his fifties with umber skin and an unimpressive height, moving slowly with aching joints. His face features a prominent bulbous drinker's nose and looks like an angry puppy, with thinning hair on his head that he can scarcely spare and a tangled beard. Thick forearms cross over his chest as his orange eyes twinkle with sharp intelligence and private jokes. He wears a dirty uniform decorated with crossed wrenches, appearing exhausted and sweat-soaked like a veteran sea captain who has seen too many battles.

His sundark face holds a handsome ruggedness that draws the eye amid the hum of war machines. There's a quiet competence in his rangy movements, like a man who's seen the galaxy's grit and come out sharper. You feel the steady pulse of loyalty in his every glance.

His puffy hair frames a face that looks perpetually sulky, like a kid who's seen the worst of the playground fights and come away unimpressed. There's a quiet resignation in his slouch, weapons too big for his frame dragging at his shoulders. You can't help but wonder what dreams got beaten out of those wide, weary eyes.

A lean man of average height with fair skin and short dark hair, Colloway carries the perpetually exhausted look of someone who spends his days lazing on recreation room couches playing immersion games before shifting to the sensor room or pilot's chair. Dark circles rim his sharp eyes and his face rarely breaks into a smile, usually occupied instead by a burner cigarette hanging from his lips as he saunters forward to claim his seat. His rumpled ship attire and weary temple-rubbing give the impression of a wry, competent pilot who maintains an air of detached amusement even after battles or long voyages through space.

Gray threads his hair like old wires, creased face etched with a lifetime's grit, rusty eyes holding quiet fire. His limp arm drags but never his spirit, tobacco scent mingling with unyielding resolve. You sense the mentor who's danced through hell.

A towering fair-skinned man with a lean powerful build like a pine tree rather than a boulder, his strength evident in the bulging veins of his thick neck as he carries heavy loads. His head is entirely bald and intricately engraved with golden angels that glitter and catch the light with every movement. Sleepy eyes dance with mischievous sparkle beneath prominent swirling eyebrows, giving his giant Titan-like frame a surprisingly gentle aura as he glides forward for warm embraces.

An insidiously beautiful man with alabaster skin, slender legs, and a lithe build moves with graceful predation, his soft face dominated by eighty-thousand-credit designer cheekbones, plucked eyebrows, and twinkling rose-quartz eyes that hint at selfish cunning. Feathery pink hair stands straight up like a lazy candle flame atop his head, and he dresses in flamboyant dark finery such as a midnight-black overcoat with calf-length tails, jet-black asp skin jacket, high-collared silk shirt fastened with an onyx clasp, tailored pants, and shark leather boots, often adding violet lipstick for dramatic flair. A ghostly Byzantine tattoo crown with a black hand at its center activates on his forehead in ink that writhes like octopus tentacles sprouting thorns when he utters 'Ave Regina,' fading back to leave his pale porcelain skin unmarred.

Electra au Barca is a pale nine-year-old girl with a narrow, hatchet-like face like that of a sleek hunting dog. Her dusky gold eyes gaze out from beneath heavy lids with an aloof and judging intensity that reveals a deep grimness and feral nature. Exceptionally thin and wiry in frame, taller than her peers but still childlike and uncoordinated before puberty, she often wears a dour expression broken only by the occasional slashing smile, her entire presence evoking the dangerous intensity inherited from her psychotic Gold parents as she grips a razor with focused menace.

Lithe and sharp as a blade, her slanted dark blue eyes gleam with youthful fire under bone-white topknot. Skuggi runes dance across her unscarred face, a canvas of fierce heritage. She moves with the easy grace of one born to shadows and ice.

A bald elderly man with fair skin and a lean build stands wrapped in polar bear fur or purple robes that give him the sinister look of an evil necromancer. His narrow orange eyes burn with cruel intelligence from a sharp vulture-like face, his neck folds twisting as he cranes his head like a frazzled contemptuous owl. With fourteen fingers on his hands he manipulates intricate contraptions, often dabbing golden drug powder from his nostrils or resting his hands on his tummy in decadent repose.

A slender Red woman with a delicate brittle build and prominent bones that speak of a hard life in the mines, her nimble fingers showing poorly maintained nails often caked in dirt or blood. The left half of her face is strikingly beautiful with soft skin pale as milk stretched over fine delicate bones, while the right half is a horrific distorted mass of ragged running scar tissue folded like rivers from a steam burn. Dark eyes glitter with perpetual cold anger and cruel intensity, her mouth set in a hard line that exposes uneven bottom teeth. She wears practical mining vests that can open to reveal bombs strapped to her stomach and keeps sharp knives hidden in her sturdy boots, projecting a constant readiness for violence and an aura of vengeful intensity.

A battle-tested female Gray in tactical gear with fair freckled skin, ashen hair shaved down into a short mohawk, and a solid square jaw that works constantly on a piece of gum. Her wide face carries a smashed nose and is dominated by narrow dark gray eyes, the right one a motionless bionic implant that feeds her rifle data. A scar notches one eyebrow, and intricate Gray sigil tattoos mark the back of her small but capable hand. She projects a tough, no-nonsense veteran aura with her cinderblock-shaped head often topped by an assault helmet, her tense expression dripping sweat after combat.

A formidable Gold warrior with pale alabaster skin toughened by conflict to the texture of a miner's heel stands poised in battle-worn swan armor, its winged shoulders dented yet the flaming heart on her breastplate glowing brightly. Her full lips are marked by two scars, her nose is small and sharp, and her defining eyes feature every gradient of gold spiraling inward to dark pupil pits resembling an eclipse. She carries herself with knightly grace, fingers resting on the flame-etched hilt of her razor, her athletic frame radiating both beauty and lethal intent.

This colossal fair-skinned Gold stands as a titan carved more from rock than flesh, his neck so thick no hands could wrap around it and his burly arms crossed or gesturing with knotted knuckles. With his head shaved bald unlike most Golds and a thick beard dyed blood-red that glows like a brand when lights dim, Kavax presents an imposing figure with great arching eyebrows and a wide-grinning face. Only three fingers remain on his massive left hand as he scoops up his red-gold sharp-eared fox Sophocles, letting the creature nuzzle into the forked red beard while he rumbles in a deep voice or roars compliments that terrify those around him.

Her moonface gleams cold under pocked burns, cheeks drawn tight with cruelty that chills the air. Teeth clatter in her braids like grim talismans, missing fingers a stark badge of savagery. She rides lean and merciless, a predator's gaze daring you to look away.

Orion's squat frame bulges with shoulders like forged iron, azure tattoos glowing on dark skin under pale arctic eyes. Bald and commanding, she smirks with a pilot's knowing edge. You sense the math of stars in her every calculated step.

A colossal black-skinned bald shaman of immense girth towers over those around him, his face and body alive with swirling bright blue rune tattoos that interlock across his features and bare arms. Thick arcane eyebrows overshadow his unexpectedly childlike face while only scarred keloid holes remain where ears once were, and his right hand twists like a mass of ginger roots. He moves wrapped in a glossy cloak of raven feathers cinched by a scarlet scale belt, red scale boots on his feet and a massive fourteen-point elk horn headdress rising from his brow, the tips crusted in dried blood. His left hand bears seven heavy rings set with rubies and diamonds, and he carries a dragonbone staff when performing rituals.

A lean and proud ten-year-old boy with straw-colored hair that can become matted with sweat during exertion frames a round face flushed with youth. Intense rose-gold eyes burn from under long lashes, set above a dead-set jaw like his father's, while his head remains bare of any sigils. Smaller than expected yet almost the size of an adult like Dano, his callused hands show training despite his childlike frame and he carries himself with a mixture of noble confidence and vulnerable terror when threatened.

Pebble hovers at the edge of the group like a shadow that's learned to bite back, her presence a quiet spark amid the tower's chill. There's a raw tenacity in her stance that pulls your eye, hinting at stories etched into her young frame.

A bald woman in her late fifties with skin the color of a walnut and distant pale blue eyes that often gaze into infinity as she syncs with her ship. Her frame is strikingly frail and delicate with limbs as thin as a grasshopper's and a latticework of ribs visible against her torso, giving her an almost brittle appearance despite her steady command as a veteran pilot. She wears loose gray cotton pants and a comfortable old sweatshirt, usually sitting barefoot in the contoured pilot's chair of her vessel with the quiet confidence of someone who has spent decades among the stars.

A battle-aged man in his forties with fair skin weathered by years of war. His pale flinty eyes retain a sharp boyish glimmer as he surveys his surroundings with the gaze of a seasoned sharpshooter. Numerous black and gold teardrop tattoos cover his cheeks, dragon tattoos circle his neck, and a hawk and crescent moon brand is seared into his forehead. He wears heavy black armor as dark as the void between stars, accented by purple bands at the joints and a silver crescent moon inside the pyramid of the Society on the chest plate, embodying a loyal dragoon commander and Praetorian leader.

A twenty-year-old woman of diminutive height stands no higher than an adult man's breastbone, her slight and lightweight build so small she looks like a child even among the Howlers. Her head is buzzed, drawing attention to her flat nose and the generous freckles scattered across her fair-skinned face, while metallic interface sockets are embedded in her forearms for connecting to towering mechs. She wears a black Pegasus Legion jacket, often damp from rain, her posture bold and arms folded in determination as she grins with the resilient spirit of a Red born in the mines of Lykos.

There's a feral edge to Screwface, like a mine rat who's learned to bite before being bitten, his twisted grin promising mischief or mayhem. He moves with the jittery energy of someone who's survived by being quicker and meaner than the rest. You can't help but wonder what scrapes have sharpened that cunning glint in his eye.

She towers like a frozen monolith, blue eyes piercing through solemn silence, those tattooed second lids a mark of ancient ice. Her presence hushes rooms, an unreadable force of quiet power. You wonder what storms brew behind that Obsidian calm.

A massive warrior with a powerful muscular frame, moon-pale skin covered in tattoos and old scars, and a long dark valor tail of hair flowing down his back to his tailbone interwoven with war trophies. His unusually delicate face holds an avian bone structure, a nose broken twice, gaunt freckled cheeks, full notched lips, and intense black eyes shot with silver. He cuts an imposing figure in battered white pulse armor mounted with the skulls of slain warlords, frequently wearing a gigantic helmet fashioned from an African sand hydra skull and topped with meter-long green poison feathers while carrying a greataxe sized for a giant.

A non-binary individual of thin salamander-like build stands disheveled yet precise, their wan face with its notably thin lips often locked in a bored or grim expression. Sharp eyes flick observantly from within pale delicate features while the figure shivers inside a midnight cloak or is bundled head-to-toe in thermal gear for extreme cold. The White Logos carries themself with unimpressed detachment, a slender androgynous silhouette that nods thanks or leads others through hangars and high tables with quiet efficiency until the final instant of violent disintegration.

A small boy of ten years old with flaxen hair and a narrow face looks out through reptilian eyes filled with cold curiosity. He stands short enough that his eyes barely crest the top of a chair, his small hands and slight childlike frame identical to the original Adrius in every physical detail and tic. Fair-skinned with the delicate engineered beauty of a Gold heir, he carries himself with the unnatural poise of an emperor despite his youthful appearance.

Shadows cling to his dark face, where experience has carved lines deep as fault lines. Clad in pure black pulseArmor, he radiates the chill finality of his title. His presence whispers of battles ended, not begun.

Her kind eyes, shadowed by swollen lids, hold a quiet depth that speaks of unspoken burdens. There's a gentleness in her darker features that contrasts the chains binding her, drawing you in with silent plea. You sense a soul weathered yet unbroken.

His mask—a sexless child's face with writhing serpent hair—stares with inhuman stillness, forearms cracked like desert earth. Those pallid, spider-thin hands promise cold precision. An aura of relentless, masked menace chills the air around him.

Immaculate and poised, he stands as the epitome of Gold precision, every line of his form radiating controlled power. His pristine presence feels like polished marble—beautiful, unyielding, watchful. You sense loyalty carved into his very stance.

Her bootleather skin, etched with throbbing white lines, stretches over a lean athletic frame that moves like coiled danger. Narrow mean eyes peer from under a sheltering nose, orange nails flashing with diamond rings. She feels like a lizard ready to strike from the shadows.

A sheet-white giant with a stim-grin splitting his handsome brute face, massive shoulders rolling like boulders. His presence booms with unyielding camaraderie, even chained and stumped. You feel the raw power of a man who laughs at pain.

There's a quiet strength in the way he carries himself, shoulders squared without a hint of defeat, his bearded face lit by eyes that seem to hold the warmth of home fires. You feel an instant pull toward his goodness, like a lantern in the deep dark—steady, unyielding, and true. In his presence, the world's harsh edges soften just a fraction.

Her dark face peers out from a shaggy mane, eyes blazing with a daring that belies her tender years—eleven going on forty. She moves like a feral cat, clapping hands or whistling with impish glee amid danger. Something ancient lingers in her grin, pulling you into her wild world.

A shadowed specter of armored fury, the Love Knight looms like a storm on the horizon, heart emblem gleaming mockingly amid tattered desert garb. Their grip on the razor whispers promises of violence, every step a predator's unhurried advance. You feel the chill of their relentless pursuit before they even speak.

Her cherrywood skin glows warm against the wild graying nest of her hair, tribal tattoos whispering ancient stories across her arms. There's a serene strength in her gaze, like a grotto fire she's tended through storms. You feel the unyielding heart of a woman who counts every point in life's duels.

There's a lean, fox-like slyness to him, eyes squinting like a cave fish's from the shadows, clever and sinister in equal measure. His cackle cuts through the air like shattered glass, promising mischief that's anything but harmless. You can't shake the feeling he's always three steps ahead, hungering for something just out of reach.

There's a hollow vacancy in his gaze, as if the fire that once burned there has long since guttered out. His slumped form speaks of a man unmoored, the weight of an invisible chain pulling at his spirit. You sense the echo of authority now reduced to whispers, compelling yet pitiable.

His narrow face holds a pleasant mask over cold eyes that miss nothing, copper hair parted with military precision. Small of stature yet he commands the marble steps like they were built for him. There's an incorruptible chill in his presence, promising order amid chaos.

His presence chills the air like a relic from a forgotten empire, withered features etched with the weight of centuries and eyes that pierce like ancient blades. Blood traces faint paths down his pale skin, a stark reminder of unyielding vitality amid decay. You sense the iron will that has outlasted generations, commanding obedience without a word.

A pale-skinned Obsidian man past fifty stands six and a half feet tall with a gaunt and thin build, his spine protruding like a fossil beneath sun-starved skin. Greasy white hair spills from a deeply receding hairline distorted by a half-completed scalping that indents the front of his head like the bottom of an egg, while a filthy beard covers his chin. His face is saturated with tattoo ink including spirit eyes on the eyelids that stare when he blinks over deep sunken black intelligent eyes that watch with sinister mathematical curiosity rather than a warrior's posture. The backs of his knotted hands are embedded with solid black Obsidian caste crescents, and runic blue tattoos mark his lower legs as he moves with the presence of an Ice shaman.

A tiny miracle wrapped in swaddling, his blotched skin still slick from birth, crying with the raw force of new life before latching on to nurse. Those clamped-shut eyes hold the quiet promise of a world yet to be seen, while the delicate winged sigils on his hands mark him as something wondrously singular. In his fragile warmth, there's an aching tenderness that pulls at the heart.

There's a raw spark in her freckled face, tangled hair wild as her shifting moods—from dazed wander to defiant glower that dares the world to break her. Slender and unpolished, she carries the weight of survival like it's her shadow, pistol in hand and fire in her eyes. You can't help but wonder what storms she's weathered to stand so unyieldingly raw.