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Khavel ???The Bear??? Haganiere

An Oryiak labourer who caught the taste for revolution, and suffered for it.

0 · 188 views · located in The Abandoned Slums

a character in “The Multiverse”, as played by XavierDantius32

Description

Name: Khavel “The Bear” Haganiere
Class & Rank: Sergeant
Age; 34
Gender: Male
Location of Birth; Rhostok VI, Japori (Outer Empire)

Physical Characteristics/Background: Khavel has been large, even for the hulking Oriyaks. He stands at roughly seven foot tall, with thick, tree-trunk like arms, wrapped with muscles that stand out like taught steel cables. His face is broad and simple looking, with a squat, boxer's nose and deep-set, pig-like eyes. His appearance often leads to him being underestimated, giving him a slight advantage in a confrontation.

His physique has been acquired through the natural trials of living on an impoverished world and through the work he acquired before leaving for Kronedegor . He started lugging crates at a local ammunition factory, his low dexterity meaning that he couldn't really process the machines used for making shells and rifle-parts.

The day-to-day monotony of working life left him feeling unfullfilled, and the brutal machinations of the overseer left him disenfranchised with the government as a whole. It was at this juncture, he ran off into the frigid wasteland, in search of the fabled revolutionaries who plagued the PDF from time to time. After a week of trekking, he found them and after a brief period of vicious interrogation, he was admitted into the group. His first operation, to attack a maglev train carrying rifles and ammunition was a disaster. As he moved into position, stolen MR-18 pressed into his shoulder, the Government forces swept in and surrounded the group, killing the ring-leaders with brutal pistol shots, and arresting the low level grunts.

After a few weeks in a frigid jail cell, subjected to regular beatings and torture, he was hauled up before a kangaroo court, all baying for the blood of the enemy of the state. However, the judge decided he could better serve the Oriyak cause in the PDF of some backwater world, and this is pretty much how Khavel ended up on Kronedegor.

Mental Disposition: Khavel has lived a hard life, forging a living on a world where the government take all you have, and the local mobsters take what's left. Consequently, Khavel is a take-no-prisoners person. He's learned to make the most of a frankly terrible situation, relying on himself more than anyone else. The back-breaking labour on Rhostok VI, combined with the oppressive government have left him resistant to authority, and sown the seeds of rebellion in his heart, unbowed by the brutal torture he suffered in prison. However, the fact that anything other than compliance in the PDF means a bullet in the back of his skull, Khavel cooperates sullenly, never directly resisting, but keeping his discontentment known.

Noted, Positive Qualities: Khavel's physical and mental strength are his main qualities. After all the shit that life has thrown at him, he is incredibly difficult to break mentally. His passion, and Oryiak spirit, if aroused make him a beacon of moral in a unit, inspiring those around him with rousing battle-songs.

Noted, Negative Qualities; One of his more obvious flaws is his hatred for the oppressive government that landed him in the PDF in the first place, meaning that outside the chain of command, and the omni-present threat of execution, he is more than likely to rise up against an officer, his inspiring and likeable nature giving him the opportunity to bring his entire squad along with him.

So begins...

Khavel ???The Bear??? Haganiere's Story

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With a dull grunt and a moan, a truely titanic specimen of a man slipped into the bar, shouldering aside a beligerent service android, and crashing in the soft leather upholstery of a booth.

Khavel grinned, ordering a large vodka from one of the androids, propping his titanic feet on the table. This really was the life, compared to that shithole of a PDF base. Plush seats, soft lighting, good alcohol and even better women. The Oriyak cracked his knuckles, shrugging off his thick parka to reveal a defaced UCON uniform, complete with holster and a stolen handgun.

Khavel had found it suprisingly easy to get to Wing City. After leading the charge across the loyalist barricades, he had hijacked an orbital shuttle, and vectored it out into the stream of Confederacy refugees, where he had hitched a ride out to Terra.

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Khavel ???The Bear??? Haganiere grunted and slurped from his bottle of Vodka, tuning out the commotion from outside. He was just here to drink, not start fights. Many people would expect the massive Oriyak to be a combat junkie, or a violent drunk. In truth, he'd given that up. If he'd wanted to fight, he would have stayed in the damn PDF camp.

Khavel started as the MR-24 wielding mercenary pushed his way through the door. Damnit, he thought he had got away from Kroendegor clean. Seems like they'd sent some Coalites to take him out. Rather than make a scene, Khavel reached for the serrated combat knife in his boot, ready to deftly flick it across the bar, and run.

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Khavel ???The Bear??? Haganiere swore softly under his breath. More of the Coalite fuckers. He reflexivly cracked his knuckles, his fingers almost itching for the weight of an MR-18, or any sort of rifle. If these mercenaries were out to get him, this could get very ugly, very fast. With one hand, he withdrew the compact machine-pistol from his holster, keeping the weapon out of sight under the table.

With his free hand, he took another hit from the vodka bottle, eyes wandering around the bar, looking for potential escape routes, and the most solid objects to use as cover.

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Khavel ???The Bear??? Haganiere relaxed slightly, slipping the pistol back into his holster. These guys were here to drink, not to fight. He hauled his frame up from the booth, pulling his parka around him. Staggering slightly from the amount of cheap vodka he had injested, Khavel slipped over to the counter, dropping down on a stool beside Jeeves. "Mind if I join you?" Khavel slurred in his thick accent, not really bothered about the reply.

"I'll have another bottle!" He called out to the nearest android, a broad smile crossing his face. This really was bliss.

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lookeed

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Khavel ???The Bear??? Haganiere looked up and sniffed, taking another long gulp from the bottle. He turned, nearly falling off the bar stool. "Fuck off, Pretty Aschen lady, or I crush your skull with one hand." Khavel's words were slightly distorted as he took another gulp of vodka. Swaying again, he presented Marlene with one of his fat Oriyak fingers, in the universal gesture for "Fuck Off".

Turning back to Jeeves, Khavel's simple face lit up with a smile. "Nawh, I'm from the outer empire. Shitty little backwater world full of snow and munitions factories."

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Khavel ???The Bear??? Haganiere grinned broadly, turning away from Marlene and back to his vodka. "To the service!" He slurred, raising the now three-quaters empty bottle in a toast.

"Yesh, the Outer Empire is much the same. Much like most PDF bases are the same. Or the interior of shitty Confederacy tramp freighters. Sometimes, I miss the fucking munitions factories. Always knew where you stood lugging boxes of rifles around."

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Khavel ???The Bear??? Haganiere turned to look around at the Hykran, belching slightly, his face losing some of its healthy blush. "Could'a snag one of 'em cigars?" The Oriyak slurred, his speech becoming even more distorted, his natural accent thickening.

"A carrier? In the fuckin' desert?" Khavel exploded with laughter, his thick, booming chuckle echoing around the bar, his head thrown back in raucos merriment. Clearly, the Oriyak's alcohol-clouded mind found the idea of large warmachines being abandoned in the middle of nowhere incredibly amusing. Maybe it was the natural scavenger in him.

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Khavel ???The Bear??? Haganiere took the cigar and stuck it between his fat, scarred lips, delving into one of his parka pockets, to produce a battered chrome zippo lighter, with a red star and "Rhostok Resists" crudely painted on both sides. Striking the flame he lit the cigar, and took a long drag, blowing a large cloud of thick smoke in Marlene's direction.

"Honeshtly, I don't give a shit who runs UCON anymore. Politics was never my strong point." Khavel pulled the cigar from between his teeth, gulping down some more vodka, before returning to the smoke. "Talking of evacuations, you shoulda heard some of the shit I got told by Confederacy refugees. Fuckin' crazy shit."

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Khavel ???The Bear??? Haganiere took a long drag on the cigar, blowing a large ring over the counter-top. "Seriously. Do you guys even kn--" Khavel's face hit the counter with a resounding thud, the cigar still hanging from between his teeth. The Oriyak let out a loud snore, his large chest rising and falling.

Clearly, the alcohol had finally got the better of him.

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Khavel ???The Bear??? Haganiere lurched into the bar, dropping the hood of his parka to reveal the aftermath of the previous night's exploits. The Oriyak's broad face was battered and bruised, his already crooked nose set with white tape, his large lips split in several places.

Hawking a gobbet of bloody spit onto the floor, Khavel padded across the bar, muttering darkly about the gang of Confederacy marines who had jumped him as he wandered back to the run-down apartment block he called home. It had been one hell of a fight, four on one. Khavel had definitly killed one of them, cratering his face like a meteor hitting a moon. He'd taken his fair share of a beating. At least two of his ribs had been cracked by visious kicks, and the knuckles on his right hand still tingled from the impact.

Khavel glanced around the bar, eyes taking in the soldier and the half-naked guy with a katana. They didn't look like trouble, but the Oriyak was unnarmed. Fucking Confederacy had taken the Verska he'd been carrying. He settled his massive frame on a bar stool, ordering a Vodka from the nearest android.

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Khavel ???The Bear??? Haganiere swept the shot from the Android's tray, downing it in one gulp, barely registering the firey liquid as it burnt its way down into his gut. The Oriyak yawned, wincing as the movement of his face caused half-healed cuts and bruise to scream out in pain. The steel-plated doors of the large metal cabinent behind the counter caught his eye. It looked like a reinforced weapon cabinet, and inside it lay the answer to all his problems.

The Oriyak shrugged out of his parka, revealing the defaced UCON uniform and the empty leather holster at his hip. With slow, deliberate steps, Khavel paced around the counter, scooping up one of the more solid looking stools, weighing it in his hands.

With a grunt, Khavel swept the stool back, and swung it forward in a wide arc, the padded head aimed squarely at the centre of the cabinet. There was an almighty crash, like a shotgun blast, the door crumpling beneath Khavel's immence strength. The doors were mangaled and useless, the lock shattered, one pannel heavily caved in. It looked as if a demo charge had been used on it.

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Khavel ???The Bear??? Haganiere grinned broadly, tossing aside the now utterly useless stool with a clatter of metal on stone. The hulking Oriyak helped himself to another bottle of Vodka, taking a long gulp to dull the pain from the shockwave that was now coursing up his arm.

Placing the bottle on the counter behind him, Khavel set his massive hands into the crack between the two crumpled doors, and wrenched them apart, revealing a treasure trove of military hardware. The Oriyak ignored the substandard Armex-450's, and half-broken assault-rifles, instead grabbing an almost completely new UCON MR-18, and a large box of ammunition.

The smile that spread across the Oriyak's battered face was irrepresable. He hadn't held a rifle like this for over a year now, and the weight and heft was reasuring. Slinging the rifle over his shoulder, Khavel grabbed a clear plastic bag, full of gleaming magazines, which he began to stuff hurridly into the pockets of his olive-drab uniform.

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Khavel ???The Bear??? Haganiere finished stuffing the MR-18 Magazines into his pockets, and turned back to the cabinet, grabbing a pair of chromed semi-automatic pistols, their barrels distended by magnetic rail systems, sliding one into the empty leather holster, and the other into the back of his uniform pants.

He snatched up his olive-drab satchel, and started packing it full of pistol magazines, and a brace of grenades that he found in one of the cabinet's far recesses. Re-armament complete, Khavel made an attempt to close the cabinet's shattered doors, and took up the bottle of Vodka, taking another hearty gulp, before retreating to a booth in the bar's far corner to tinker with his new weapons.

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Khavel ???The Bear??? Haganiere propped his large boots up on the table top, the MR-18 in his lap. Khavel proceeded to field-strip the weapon, his massive hands showing suprising dexterity as he unhooked each individual part, laying them out on the seat next to him, the broad smile still fixed on his face.

ALthough he didn't miss the Kroendegor PDF, or the regimental life UCON had forced upon him, he did miss the weaponry. The UCON MR-18 was one of the finest weapons in the galaxy, and he had missed the reassuring weight of one in his hand. Pulling a knife from his boot, Khavel picked up the weapon's composite stock, and began to etch the Oriyak emblem into the material.

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Khavel ???The Bear??? Haganiere lurched into the bar, dropping the hood of his parka to reveal the aftermath of the previous night's exploits. The Oriyak's broad face was battered and bruised, his already crooked nose set with white tape, his large lips split in several places.

Hawking a gobbet of bloody spit onto the floor, Khavel padded across the bar, muttering darkly about the gang of Confederacy marines who had jumped him as he wandered back to the run-down apartment block he called home. It had been one hell of a fight, four on one. Khavel had definitly killed one of them, cratering his face like a meteor hitting a moon. He'd taken his fair share of a beating. At least two of his ribs had been cracked by visious kicks, and the knuckles on his right hand still tingled from the impact.

Despite the visious wounds decorating his face, the Oryiak was smiling. The MR-18 hung losely from its sling, Khavel's right hand resting on the hand grip, the other holding the satchel over his shoulder, the bag clinking as the dozen or so magazines rattled together like loose change.

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Khavel ???The Bear??? Haganiere brushed past Straken, heading for the counter, one hand curling around the MR-18's grip. Last time the two had met, he'd been held at gunpoint for not being part of the bastard's fucking private army. Khavel swore softly under his breath, as he had hoped to escape all the military bullshit when he high-tailed it from Kroendegor.

Ah well, Vodka solves all life's problems. The brutish Oriyak settled at the bar, chuckling softly at the still mangeled gun-cabinet, ordering himself a large bottle of vodka. He set the rifle down beside him, checking his holster for the long barrelled rail-pistol.

Grunting, Khavel accepted the Vodka, turning to look around the bar for a desierable drinking partner.

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Khavel ???The Bear??? Haganiere lurched into the bar, dropping the hood of his parka to reveal the aftermath of the previous night's exploits. The Oriyak's broad face was battered and bruised, his already crooked nose set with white tape, his large lips split in several places.

Hawking a gobbet of bloody spit onto the floor, Khavel padded across the bar, muttering darkly about the gang of Confederacy marines who had jumped him as he wandered back to the run-down apartment block he called home. It had been one hell of a fight, four on one. Khavel had definitly killed one of them, cratering his face like a meteor hitting a moon. He'd taken his fair share of a beating. At least two of his ribs had been cracked by visious kicks, and the knuckles on his right hand still tingled from the impact.

Despite the visious wounds decorating his face, the Oryiak was smiling. The MR-18 hung losely from its sling, Khavel's right hand resting on the hand grip, the other holding the satchel over his shoulder, the bag clinking as the dozen or so magazines rattled together like loose change.

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Character Portrait: Khavel ???The Bear??? Haganiere

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Khavel ???The Bear??? Haganiere Khavel lurched into the bar, dropping the hood of his parka to reveal the aftermath of the previous night's exploits. The Oriyak's broad face was battered and bruised, his already crooked nose set with white tape, his large lips split in several places.

Hawking a gobbet of bloody spit onto the floor, Khavel padded across the bar, muttering darkly about the gang of Confederacy marines who had jumped him as he wandered back to the run-down apartment block he called home. It had been one hell of a fight, four on one. Khavel had definitly killed one of them, cratering his face like a meteor hitting a moon. He'd taken his fair share of a beating. At least two of his ribs had been cracked by visious kicks, and the knuckles on his right hand still tingled from the impact.

Despite the visious wounds decorating his face, the Oryiak was smiling. The MR-18 hung losely from its sling, Khavel's right hand resting on the hand grip, the other holding the satchel over his shoulder, the bag clinking as the dozen or so magazines rattled together like loose change.

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Character Portrait: Khavel ???The Bear??? Haganiere

0.00 INK

Khavel lurched into the bar, dropping the hood of his parka to reveal the aftermath of the previous night's exploits. The Oriyak's broad face was battered and bruised, his already crooked nose set with white tape, his large lips split in several places.

Hawking a gobbet of bloody spit onto the floor, Khavel padded across the bar, muttering darkly about the gang of Confederacy marines who had jumped him as he wandered back to the run-down apartment block he called home. It had been one hell of a fight, four on one. Khavel had definitly killed one of them, cratering his face like a meteor hitting a moon. He'd taken his fair share of a beating. At least two of his ribs had been cracked by visious kicks, and the knuckles on his right hand still tingled from the impact.

Despite the visious wounds decorating his face, the Oryiak was smiling. The MR-18 hung losely from its sling, Khavel's right hand resting on the hand grip, the other holding the satchel over his shoulder, the bag clinking as the dozen or so magazines rattled together like loose change.

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Khavel ???The Bear??? Haganiere looked up at the Lord General and his men, wondering why the hell they were holding a planning meeting in a frakking bar. No matter, Khavel was just here to drink. He'd been living a life in the lap of luxury since the Lizard-folk started paying him money to screw beacons onto the UCON transports. He had a pocket full of UCON cays, and a rabid thirst.

He settled himself on a bar stool and ordered a large jug of neat vodka. This stuff was like weak horse-piss compared to the stuff they brewed up in the Outer Empire, but it would do. When the thick jug arrived, Khave swept it up and took a long drink, like an Ox at a pool.

His piggy eyes watched the planners with interest, wondering what exactly was going on. It was strangely reminiscent of the times he'd spent aboard the tramp-freighters, running from the teeth of the damn-lizards who were now keeping him in liquor.

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Khavel ???The Bear??? Haganiere did that

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As Stracken reached out for the barrel, Khavel dropped

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As Stracken reached out for the barrel, Khavel dropped the snout of the weapon and squeezed the trigger. The weapon rasped as the electromagnetic rails powered up and hurled the slug at Stracken's knee.

Khavel had not stepped away, and as such, it was likely that the barrel was almost pressed into the joint of the General's leg. This, coupled with the high-velocity of the MR-18 would make evading the hit incredibly difficult.

As the sound of the shot died away, Khavel moved away from the group, weapon aimed at Stracken's head.

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Khavel ???The Bear??? Haganiere had layed the MR-18 down on the ground, and was squatting beside it, with his hands behind his head. As the boom of the prosecutor split the city, he let out a whoop, turning to stare at the nearest guardsman. "You're in for a world of hurt now, sonny boy."