Editing Character:Reliability N. Martel

* Name: Reliability N. Martel
* Rank: 9
* Careers: Tech-Priest\Magos
* Background: 
* Appearance: 

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==Characteristics==

*WS 45
*BS 45
*S 66
*T 70
*Ag 24
*Int 48
*Per 31
*WP 34
*Fel 14

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*'''Wounds:''' 21
*'''Fate Points:''' 3
*'''Corruption:''' 0
*'''Insanity:''' 10
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*'''Total XP Spent:''' 
*'''Unspent XP:''' 
*'''XP to next rank:'''
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===Armour===
Common C. Dragonscale Power Armour (IH p.137) (AP 8 All)
*Head 8
*R. Arm 8
*L. Arm 8
*Body 8
*R. Leg 8
*L. Leg 8
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==Skills==
Ciphers (Secret Society: Sollex)<br>
Common Lore (Machine Cult)<br>
Demolition<br>
Intimidate<br>
Literacy<br>
Secret Tongue (Tech)<br>
Scholastic Lore (Tactica Imperialis)<br>
Speak Language (Low Gothic, Volg Hive Dialect)<br>
Tech-Use<br>
Trade: Miner<br>

==Talents==
Basic Weapon Training (Las) <br>
Electro-graft Use <br>
Hatred (Tech-Heretics)<br>
Jaded<br>
Light Sleeper<br>
Melee Weapon Training (Primitive)<br>
Pistol Weapon Training (Las)<br>
Unshakable Faith<br>

==Traits==

==Transition Package==

==Mastered Skills==

==Paragon Talents==

==Ascended Traits==

==Minor Psychic Powers==

==Major Psychic Powers==

==Ascended Psychic Powers==

==Gear==
Glow Lamp <br>
Mechanicus Robes<br>
Spare parts (assorted)<br>
Vial of Sacred Machine Oil<br>
Badge of Office<br>
Auspex<br>
Combi-tool<br>
Vox-caster<br>
Optical Mechandendrite<br>
Ballistic Mechandendrite<br>
+ Laspistol (from starting gear)<br>
Multi-Laser<br>
Good C. MIU Unit<br>
Some kind of suspensor rig/hydraulic lines to hold up the Multi-laser<br>
3 Krak Grenades<br>

==Background==

Born somewhere in the industrial mires of Volg, on blighted Fenksworld, the child that would become Magos Martel seemed destined to lead a short and unpleasant life. Orphaned by incessant warfare, Martel was drafted into one of the feuding gangs and inducted into a life of violence at the age of 12. He survived dozens of small wars, but was caught by a Mechanicus press-gang, out searching for pliable labour. Nerve-stapled and fitted with crude mining agumentics, Martel was send deep under the bubbling loam of Volg, searching for valuable ores in the damp and dark.

<<WAS NOT BORN OF FLESH BUT FORGED FROM IRON!>> <<FLESH FAILS, BUT IRON ENDURES!>>

<<MINE IS THE DRILL THAT SHALL PIERCE YOUR FLESH!>>

By dint of tenacity and skill, Martel survived longer than his peers and superiors, earning some meagre promotions. He was accepted as a Lay-Brother of the Mechanicus in his 19th year, and almost immediately requested to join the Skitarii, the elite Tech-Guard of the Mechanicus. He was accepted and prospered there, moving rapidly though the ranks. He was tutored and accepted as a Tech-Priest, gaining agumentic enhancements, armour, and weapons to match his new rank.

<<THE MECHANICUS TOOK FROM ME MY SENSE OF FEAR, MY SENSE OF PITY, AND MY SENSE OF MERCY. UNFORTUNATELY FOR YOU, THEY ALLOWED ME TO KEEP MY SENSE OF HUMOUR. RUN, MORTAL.>>

Martel swiftly gained a reputation for accepting and surviving suicidal missions. He was therefore seconded to several Inquisitorial retinues, usually in an advisory and fire support capacity. He was a politically useful tool: outwardly lacking in ambition, dogmatic, and very, very efficient. When Inquisitor Tomax was confirmed to be a corrupt madman, Magos Martel was the only survivor of three hundred agents sent to clear the lower tunnels of the Inquisitor’s fortified estate. He sustained serious damage, but succeeding in executing every one of the Inqusitor’s servants and corrupt experiments that crossed his path, dragging himself from the catacombs after six days of fighting. 

<<AM A MAGOS MILITANT! I WAS BUILT FOR WAR! IT IS MY NATURAL CONDITION, HUMAN!>>

Like all Tech-Priests, Magos Martel wears a deep crimson hooded robe, concealing most of his body. Every inch of his flesh is concealed beneath thick power armour, which gleams whenever he moves. His face is a stylized skull mask, a holdover from his Skitarrii days. His two “normal” arms are augmented by a set of extra limbs grafted to his torso and back. To his left, an upgraded version of his familiar mining drill spins ominously, while his right arm is assisted by a titanic servo-arm, engraved with prayers to the Machine God. He towers over men of flesh, a paragon of machine-assisted death and war. 

Former masters have informed him that he is, perhaps, a little less than gregarious, so he carries a small bag of “sugar-based sweets”, which he resorts to as a social defence mechanism. His voice is booming, designed to trigger mammalian fear-instincts. His emotions are distorted and mostly absent, but he does seem to show signs of humour beneath the mask. Certainly, he is most “alive” in battle. He is also a truly faithful servant, following orders to their absolute logical limit.