Post by Moss on Oct 5, 2010 6:33:13 GMT -6
Moskva "Moss" Zayat
[/color][/center]"Nyet."
Valta still spoke the Old Language when it suited, when he meant to get his point across. Moskva exhaled slowly, vocalizer crackling slightly as he did, balaclava hiding the heat of his breath. He edged across the sand, peering over the ridge of their cold, barren overlook. The sun was rising in the East, bringing a slight flare to the lens of his scope, hiding partially the camp made at the valley's basin.
"Why not, Valta?" He whispered. Endeleev was prone on his stomach at the man's side, watching he camp through a pair of rusted binoculars. He turned from his watch to regard the bearded Valta, who sat on a rock with his back to the cliffside, rifle resting across his knees. He spat a wad of pipe tobacco to the ground, flexing the fingers of his cybernetic arm across his beard in some perverse immitation of a wise stroke.
"Dogs. The valley is too unpredictable at sunrise to stay downwind. We can't move close enough to the camp before they take notice, they'll flee."
Moskva nodded, taking count of the three men that were not resting in their tents. One was relieving himself on a bush, the other two were chatting around a cookfire. "And by noon they will be miles away," his voice buzzed, his eye not leaving the men that were not burning tea some several hundred meters off. "That caravan is carrying fuel cells taken from October territory, and we will have them back. If we can't disable them up close, then we do so from the cliffs."
The old man snorted, shifting his rifle from his legs and hunkering down with the rest of them. "Your stubbornness is going to get you killed one day, Moskva," he snorted. Endeleev was smiling, taking his view from the man some ways off that was now zipping his fly. He packed the binoculars into his bag. "Perhaps, but not before we get those damned fuel cells back."
Moskva smirked quickly, before letting his expression fade into cold aim. All three now had their rifles on their respective targets. "Well, comrades?"
The air cracked once, and a tea cup clattered against the dirt. The second man only had time to allow his jaw to drop in horror before a second round, this one a little low, passed through his neck. Finally, Endeleev gently squeezed the trigger, aiming for the standing man. The air snapped like a whip. But Endeleev had overcompensated for the downward angle of the shot. The bullet grazed his shoulder, and he cried out in pain. He spun quickly on his heels, running for the release lever to the dogs' chains.
And he fell with an outstretched hand just inches away from the switch.
Moskva's barrel was glowing with orange warmth, steam rising from its end. There would be no time to pat one another on the back, the Andersons were stirring in their tents, and they would no doubt emerge more prepared to deal with the trio on the hills than their companions.
At a Glance
Faction: Beverly Clan, as they have long been October Hive allies.
Strengths:
Moskva is a survivor. His uncanny ability, the way he manages to cling to life through sheer will alone when those around him have fallen, is his single greatest trait. In the Old Language, zayat meant "hare," And there is hardly a name more fitting. Moskva is focused, cautious to a fault and untrusting of others. There are few that can hide half as well as he. An expert marksman, Moskva opts for a simple 7.62x54mm bolt action rifle that carries five rounds per magazine over the semi- or fully automatic weapons often chosen by his peers. He will hide, he will sneak, and he will shoot only once before disappearing into the landscape like a rabbit into its burrow.
He knows a little about tech, enough to keep his weapons sighted and serviceable and allow simple repair of fuel cells.
Weaknesses:
Moskva is quiet, speaking softly in a raspy voice (damage from life as a child living in the service tunnels of the production ring of his hive), and his overall demeanor does not lend itself to making friends. Despite this, he attaches to the leader of a group, following them blindly and without hesitation. He is loyal, and he will finish the job he is given, even if it means endangering himself or others. Moskva is always looking for the greater good, something to hold on to in a life that has been filled with so very little. He is quiet, shy, and perhaps even a little naive.
Physically, he cannot run for long distances, or it will overpower the biomass generator that keeps him alive. As a sniper, his breathing is one of his most important physical aspects, and even that is hindered by his disability. He's self-concious of the numerous burn scars that line his skin.
Occupation: Hunter - Scavenger and Scout
Age: Twenty-Seven years
Gender: Male
Species: Cyborg - Scavenger
Appearance:
Moskva is tall and well-figured for a hive known for its lack of food. His hair is black, lined already at its tips with hints of gray. His face is a field of black-gray stubble and his chin and cheeks are lined with scars. His eyebrows are thick and sharp, and his eyes are the color of mahogany. The tone of his skin is pale, sharply contrasted by the darkness of his hair. His body is a sheet of scarred flesh from a particularly devastating incident in the steam tunnels when he was younger. His respiratory system was destroyed when the reactor in the production ring blew, sending super-heated steam into the service tunnels that he called home. He was supplemented with an artificial esophagus and trachea, synthetic vocal cords, and finally artificial lungs (and synthetic versions of the appropriate coronary arteries and veins). He speaks with a rasp, a voice that sounds almost robotic despite being capable of the inflections and nuances of normal human speech, despite a certain degree of static between each word.
His dress mirrors the militaristic utilitarianism of just about every aspect of October Hive. He often wears a dark gray balaclava to hide his face, with a goggle headset (slight zoom, and light-amplifying though not quite nightvision). He typically wears a faded green combat jacket, hooded, over a simple shirt. The jacket is adorned with several belts and ropes, with pouches filled with various odds and ends. His pants are dark gray utility pants, and at the back of his belt is a small leather pouch containing a generator that runs a tube into the small of his back. A sheath for a knife is wrapped around his ankle. Moskva wears simple black boots that have cracked and faded with time.
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Class
Tech: 3
Mindedness: 2
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OOC
Other Characters: None yet
How did you find us?: RAAAAAAAAWRMOAR [/ul]
