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Conscience Killer - Black Rebel Motorcycle Club
I Gave You All - Mumford and Sons
Name: Sven Borislav Diederich
Nicknames: Nicknames are pointless. Why have a name if you're too lazy to pronounce it? His is easy enough. If you're ballsy enough to call him something that he doesn't like, he'll probably twist your teeny body into a living pretzel or eat you alive. Or throw you overboard. Honestly, there's a long list of things he could do. Those sound as unpleasant as what he'd actually do to you, too. There is one person who persists calling him a horribly emasculating name, and for some reason unbeknownst to others, Sven tolerates it. Any comment made on it is met with one of his skull-burning shut-the-hell-up, mile-long stares.
Pronunciation: ( s-v-EH-n ) ( b-oh-rih-s-LAH-f ) ( d-EE-deh-rihk )
Age: Forty-four
Race: Human
Height and Weight: 6'2â and 280lbs
Sexuality: Heterosexual
Build: What do you get when you mix an ox with a brick wall? Or a particularly heavy-sailing ship that's got the meanest looking animals tromping down it's decks? Probably whatever Sven is made up of. He's certainly not like any slender-shouldered boy made up of puppy dog tails and snails or however it goes. Four decades breathing down his neck hasn't subdued his presence, or made him any less deadly then men half his age. He carries himself with the assurance of a natural-born warrior, a slobbering hound and a stone-sober pub brawler. Stocky, broad-shouldered and pretty damn sturdy. You probably wouldn't be surprised if he said that he benches his crew mates for chump-jokes (and surprised if you found out that he didn't). Like how does he even get through the door kind of beefy. Or how does he manage to wash his back? Tight shirts? Impossible. Those questions are left unanswered.
Appearance: First and foremost, Sven's facial features aren't exactly aesthetically pleasing. There's no charming smile hiding behind his grim expression, awaiting a single word to blossom into something even remotely handsome, so I wouldn't go holding my breath if I were you. He has seen much death and so many atrocities when it comes to war that it's reflected in the mournful look lurking within the deep blue of his eyes, like the sifting muck kicked up at the bottom of a lake, whilst his stern mouth naturally forms a flat, painful frown in times when he is lacking in composure. Stern, severe, somber. It is rare to see him smile, if he's actually ever done so in anyone's presence (it's said that his lips lack those muscles, in jest). But he does smile, or at least he's capable of doing so. It just might not be at any of your crappy jokes, is all. He's always been relatively tall for his age â and if you think he wouldn't play up his formidable height, then you've got another thing coming. No effort is needed. He just needs to stand there, cross his arms, and look at you. His hands are reminiscent to bear paws; deeply calloused and as rough as sandpaper raking across your cheek. Incredibly broad-shouldered, Sven's stature is best described as bearish, carrying on with the uncanny comparison â or at least, it's the only animal that looks anything like him.
It isn't likely that you'll find a suit tailored to fit him and it's just as well because he's not the type of guy you'd bring to parties, anyway. There's a pretty hefty mix of differing genealogies in him. It's in the sharp cuts of his cheekbones, or the rectangular makeup of his jawline. His strong aquiline nose, slightly hooked. Unassuming? Hardly. This doesn't exactly work in his favour if said mission calls for subtlety. He's best left back at home base, if that's the case. Sunken eyes chambered deeply into his face, perpetually drawn into a glare, rimmed with fatigue. He used to have something like a pompadour of thick black hair in his youth, but ever since âthe incidentâ Sven's taken to shaving the sides of his head in memorandum, in memory of what happened and what he had to do â like shearing whatever was left of his immaturity, forcing himself to grow up a little faster. It suits him, anyway. The military had no qualms with his new haircut. Like a scrummy hedgehog. Or a fluffy cat who's been skimmed with a razor in it's sleep.
His inner workings are a mess of mechanical beautificationâs. In other words, Sven's had a lot of work done because of internal damage, external damage and overall a lot of physical abuse. It's a wonder he hasn't died. There's white spinal plating down the centre of the back and sockets visible on the back of the neck and above the tail-bone; shaped like small circular disks with tiny strips of copper. It's really the only thing on his body, asides from the internal mechanisms, that don't need any maintenance. On a particular hairy mission, Sven's spine had been shattered at the lumbar and cervical sections, which forced him to have an experimental surgery involving his spinal column being replaced by an artificial, reinforced implant. These implants articulate similarly to a human spine, with no notable flexibility advantages. Instead, Sven finds himself suffering frequent bouts of back pain. Two ribs, the right clavicle and parts of his collarbone have also been reenforced. His forearms have been heavily worked on, stretching up to the highest point of his shouldersâ plated with metal slats, bolts, and steam-operated gizmos that need frequent maintenance because of it's peculiar model. There's some pretty intricate tattoo work done, too. You'll probably never hear what it means or why he got it done.
Demeanor: The Lieutenant's been called a fierce, bloodthirsty monster, but these particular tales are exaggerated, at least to the point where it could be said that he wouldn't necessarily strike before being provoked first. There's worse things he could be called than killer, ruthless sonnuvabitch, murderer. In broader terms, Sven's described as an obscure, mysterious man who doesn't take shit from anyone unless he likes them well enough to let things slide. Need something done for you? He'll probably do it if you've proven yourself to be at least a little handy. If you're as useless as a tit on a bull, then don't go expecting anything from him.
He's not evil and he's certainly not a bad guy, but his pessimism is unmeasurable and he can be particularly bad-tempered when it comes to stupidity, naivety, and gullible folk. Profoundly intimidating? Probably. He's a dangerous person to be around, and a fantastic ally to have when you're backs against the wall, in need of sharp eyes to keep your sorry butt from frying. Weathering the storm, or stomping down the unbeaten path, has always been the way the Lieutenant's dealt with things. Fully capable of taking much pressure heaped onto his shoulders without so much as complaining â it's far more difficult to ask for directions, or seek help, then to turn away and tough it out on his own.
In some ways, if you squint hard enough, the Lieutenant's incredibly classy, or else he's not some slop digging through the trash. He's not elegant, or graceful, or any adjective that'd describe dainty swans with their ballet slippers and slender fingers, but he's capable of periodical refinement. These particular traits can only been seen in retrospection, on closer examination. It'd be interesting for anyone to get that close, anyway. His cunning derives from his dark sense of humour; certainly, it's in the way he makes his peers shiver in their boots without so much as cracking his knuckles. That in itself takes some small amount of manipulation.
He may look like he's all brawn with little brain, but that's far from the truth. Experience and tragedy and hopeless situations have shaped an impressive, if not formidable, man. For all his physical strengths, the Lieutenant can appear fragile, and vulnerable, given certain perspectives. He may seem simplistic, and sometimes he really is, but there's a lot more going on beneath the surface. Trying to understand what he's thinking by his body language? Try again. Mutely looking out a window, while probably just thinking about a hot cup of coffee, could easily be misconstrued into thinking he's in a bout of sullen anger. Inapproachable, inexcusably incapable of any large range of normal facial expressions.
Highly unpredictable. The Lieutenant's pretty damn nonchalant when anyone touches on personal subjects. It's only when someone's intentionally pushing his buttons that he reacts â violently, and he always ends up completely tipping the scales of what was extended. Overboard much? He doesn't see it that way. If someone's willing to tango with him, then they probably understand what the consequences will be. His unique ability is to mess with people's heads in a really unpleasant fashion. Feeling awkward? He'll intentionally grind your gears â but he still manages to keep it light and impersonal. It keeps him spry, keeps him feeling young.
Pragmatic, straight-forward, undeniably blunt. His tolerance for large groups is pretty ignominious. For short periods of time, the Lieutenant fares well with said groups, then when he's had enough and needs to recharge, he'll disappear for a few hours and reappear as if nothing happened. Trust has always been a big issue. He keeps himself well hidden, shearing off personal questions before they're even voiced. People donât need to know his business, and he'd much prefer keeping them out of his hair. The less that is known about him, the better. Knowledge is power, and that power can make you weak. He's more protective of himself and his people rather than any material objects he may possess, and if the former is threatened, the Lieutenant can get downright vicious. No one hurts his people, otherwise they get their heads bitten off.
Figuratively? Literally? Who knows. Sarcastic, moody, snarky. The Lieutenant has a hair-trigger, unpredictable temper when you touch on certain subjects, and godlike patience when other things should actually bother him. Confrontational? He'll get in anyone's face without batting an eye. Courage and fearlessness are two very different things and if there's anything that he knows best, it's that it's far easier to be brave for someone else than for himself.
Quirks: His ultimate weakness? Little kiddies scampering around his legs. He instantly transforms into a weird-looking mamma bear totting kids on his biceps, letting them swing around until they're good and satisfied with their game of pilot-fighter. He's never had any of his own, but he and Judith had been planning to have two or three. If a hundred-pound man making faces and making pew-pew-pew sounds unnerves you, and you're stupid enough to comment on it later on, then he'd suggest looking away. Don't even snicker, or press your hand to your mouth to stifle any giggles. He'll teach the kids how to put someone in their place in two seconds flat. And he definitely won't treat you with the same sort of ruffled friendliness. His kindness is reserved for pitiful pups and kids / or things that can't defend themselves. Otherwise, get the hell outta' his face.
Fears: If you would've asked him that years ago, the Lieutenant's response would've been much different. Losing the closest ones to him? That's already happened. Losing Judith had been on of his greatest fears. When he did lose her, all other fears seemed menial and childish in comparison. Betrayal? His brother's betrayal had been the ultimatum to rattle his senses, shaking apart every foundation of trust he'd built with his peers, his family, his friends. He's not so sure what he's afraid of anymore. Maybe it's his inability to care about dying. Or having nothing to fight for.
Role: Brawler, head-cracker, terrifying bear-man.
Weapons of Choice: His hands? No, really. Though Sven prefers intimate combat, he still carries a variety of weapons on his person. Normally, he's found carrying a heavy double-barreled shotgun strapped to his back. Hidden in a secret compartment stitched into the sides of his boots are matching double-edges blades; made up of Damascus metal, forged elegantly. There's another hostler clipped to his thigh which holds a fixed blade; 9'5" inches, thickly set steel.
Armor/Apparel: The Lieutenant wears a sturdy nano-suit wound up with whirring gizmos and steam-operated heat packs located at all his key joints. It's essentially a powered exoskeleton, similar to what's keeping his spine from wriggling free like a shaky robot. The same technology that's been making astounding strides in creating prosthetic limbs has been applied to the GS-5 Military Suit. The framework itself has been worked on several times, rehashed and redone by the engineers in his old battalion. There's certain switches embedded into the collar of the suit that's used for specific situations; it's able to adapt and absorb energy in various forms: heat, solar, electrical, carbon and radiation. The wearer's strength can be amplified for short periods of time by dispensing adrenaline into his body, injected slightly above his hips. Sven has to continuously resupply the vials and check whether or not the needles are working properly. Using such methods have been frowned upon. The visors nothing special â just looks cool and keeps the sun out of his eyes.
Fighting Style: Fortunately for him, and unfortunately for others, the Lieutenant did serve in the military and has been trained in a healthy variety of techniques to keep himself alive. Specific techniques and martial arts such as bando, CQC and boxing have been integrated into his daily routine. Forms and techniques in bando are based on the movements of animals. Such routines include the boar, bull, cobra, leopard (or panther), monkey, python, scorpion, tiger, deer, paddy bird, and viper. The moves in each pattern are characterized by the animal which they imitate. Thus the python form includes crushing, strangling and gripping moves, the tiger form involves clawing and ripping, the viper form stresses flexibility while the deer form develops alertness.
It generally leaves the initiative to the opponent and relies heavily on countering maneuvers, but Sven's always been overly aggressive; opting to strike first, rather than utilize his opponents momentum to subdue them. If he's fighting someone, then his intentions aren't in debilitating them. Strike first, strike down. His combative training included close-quarter striking techniques, close-quarter hand-to-hand combat fighting and defensive counterstrike techniques. He's been taught to abandon flashy, complicated moves typical of most martial arts and rely on his instincts. In short, the Lieutenant specializes in close-combat; like a brawling bear with it's claws wound around your neck.
Place of Birth: Xantus
Social Status: 2nd Lieutenant in the 236th Battalion
Personal History: The Lieutenant was unsurprisingly born into a very militant family, shifting about Albion frequently, and as easily, as any nomadic creature could. His father was the Captain of a particularly important government warship and his mother an intelligence officer within the same Sector. His older brother was also an up-and-coming soldier who wanted to do more with his life than follow in his father's footsteps, though these particular thoughts were spoken in-between shushed whispers whenever he and Sven's father fought over his murky future. His family was rarely together at any one time. He mostly grew up by himself, only hearing stories about his absentee family members. Friends came and went. Faces blurred together. Long lasting memories weren't really formed until he was older, later into his teens. What was the sense? He wouldn't stay in one place long enough to actually make any friends and if he did then he'd just be bummed when he left somewhere else. No one would want to send letters to a non-permanent address.
Her name? Judith. Judith Sibil. His first friend. His first love. His first everything, really. Before Sven Diederich became the Lieutenant, he was just a kid head over heels in love with his best friend, in a city that he actually stayed in longer than a few months.
- Grows up with her, ends up staying with his grandparents when his parents shuffle off somewhere else but promises his dad that he'll join the Corps with he's old enough
- In the meantime, his brother jumps ship and deserts his Battalion for unknown reasons
- Sven and Judith get engaged and he enrolls into the military, gets shipped into the 236th Battalion
- Assigned a mission that involves tracking his brother down and dragging his butt back for his penalty
- He finds his brother at his house
- In the process of trying to arrest him, his brother holds Judith hostage and ends up killing her and wrecking Sven's face with a knife before getting taken down
- Sven continues his service for many years alongside Leo Skybound
- Eventually joins The Guild and shortly thereafter Gwendolyn's merry crew aboard her ship
Professional History: What did he have to lose? His entire professional history, and the better part of his youth had been spent in the military. Serving was all he knew. He lived, ate, and breathed it. It ran thick in his blood, in his family. It was something that built him up from nothing and destroyed everything he'd grown to love. A rush and a shock, like surfacing from the coldest, murkiest waters. How far along did he have to go before he retired? Before enough was enough. People asked him questions. People tried to shuffle him off somewhere else where he wouldn't have to think so goddamn much â but it all flew past his head, because his mind was always ten thousand miles away in the empty house that reminded him of her, of him standing in the doorway with those empty eyes. Might as well been eyeless.
Initially, it'd been hear-say. Avalon Dawn? The Guild? What did any of that mean, anyway? His brothers moved away or died or disappeared. They weren't really brothers. Not in the ordinary, family-type way. In a deeper, meaner way. Teething against the bit for something better than to wither away on an old porch thinking about things he'd rather not remember, the Lieutenant did what anyone in his position would do â he enlisted, or at least, he joined up. It felt the same. A little less heavy. Like any rough-and-tumble establishment, Avalon Dawn could always use extra muscle. Especially if said muscle had military knowledge, and the ability to tote a weapon as well as keep his own without them.