Pulveria Nocte

Wyld Psyker Turned Astropath and Choir-Mistress Telepathica of the Tyrant Sun

Description:

Origin Path

Homeworld: Footfallen
Birthright: ?
Lure Of The Void: ?
Trials & Travails: ?
Motivation: ?
Career: Astropath Transcendent
Ship Role: Choir-Mistress Telepathica

Characteristics

WS 40 BS 32 S 30 T 37 Ag 40 Int 42 Per 42 WP 52
Fel 0042

Talents and Traits

  • Street Knowledge (-5 to Scholastic Lore tests not involving the Koronus Expanse)
  • Web of Contacts
  • Port of Call
  • Sixth Sense
  • Dark Soul (half normal penalty for Malignancy tests)
  • Heightened Sense (Hearing, Touch) (+10 to Awareness tests with these senses)
  • Jaded (only Terrors of the Warp cause Insanity Points or Fear Tests)
  • Peer (Underworld) (+10 to Interaction tests with this group)
  • Pistol Weapon Training (Universal)
  • Polyglot (treat all languages as Basic Skills, though at -10 penalty)
  • Psy Rating 3
  • Talented (Invocation) (+10 to tests involving this Skill)

Special Abilities

  • Soul-Bound to the God-Emperor (+20 to resist Possession or to opposed test against Daemon abilities; roll extra 1d10 on Perils of the Warp, discarding one die roll)
  • Psychic Powers (see below)
  • See Without Eyes (function as though not blind, but unaffected by vision-affecting attacks)
  • Choir-Mistress Telepathica (increase range of Astropathic Signals by one step)

Psychic Disciplines

  • Telepathy

Psychic Techniques

  • Astro-Telepathy
  • Thought Sending
  • Mind Link
  • Mind Probe
  • Psychic Scream
  • Mind’s Eye

Mutations

  • Wyrdling

Trained Skills

  • Acrobatics (Ag)
  • Common Lore (Adeptus Telepathica, Koronus Expanse) (Int)
  • Forbidden Lore (Psykers, Warp) (Int)
  • Invocation (WP)
  • Performer (Singer) (Fel)
  • Psyniscience + 10 (WP)
  • Scholastic Lore (Cryptology) (Int)
  • Speak Language (High Gothic, Low Gothic) (Int)

Movement

Half Move: 4 Full Move: 8 Charge: 12 Run: 24 Base Leap: 3 Base Jump: 60

Gear and Acquisitions

  • Force staff (Melee; 1d10+3 I; Pen 0; Force)
  • Laspistol (best craftsmanship) (Pistol; 30m; S/2/-; 1d10+2 E; Pen 0; Clip 30; Rld Half; Reliable)
  • Guard flak armour (AP 4 all locations)
  • Conversion field (Protection Rating 50; if more than 12 points of damage deflected, equivilent of photon flash grenade centered on wearer – wearer is unaffected)
  • Psy-focus and charm
  • Micro-bead and void-suit
  • Psyber-raven familiar (Quoth)
  • Archeotech Jetbike

Wounds: 9
Insanity: 0
Corruption: 2
Fate Points: 2

Total XP Spent: ?
Available XP: ?

Bio:

I am Pulveria Nocte, my clan dwelt upon the planet we called Midnight, in the center of a great black nebula in which no stars shone. We trekked the plains of glass and watched as purple lightning rained down from the ever-black sky. We hunted the razor beast and sipped ambrosia from the stems of succorwand. But most of all we sang to each other through the soulstorm that you call the Warp, and we told stories of the trickster and the corrupter. the brute and the young god, and our matriarchs taught us how to hide from the beasts of the screaming gulf and how never to treat with them and how to avoid their stain.

And then the Black Ships came, filled with mindsingers, and we called out to them and bade them welcome. For our hospitality, they called us heretics to a god we had never known. Imagine our horror, when those poor singers, men who tramped through the soulstorm with no more skill or caution than a stripling child, proclaimed that we worshiped the wicked ones.

They attacked without mercy, and though we were strong, they were many. Our most skilled elders were slain outright and the rest of us were herded like cattle onto the Black Ships, along with thousands of untrained others whose poor skills left them drowning in the soulstorm.

They took us to Terra, the calcified heart of the dominion of man, and the fed us like faggots to the bonfire that is the Golden Throne. I was the youngest, the least trained, saved for last. One by one, I felt my kinsmen die. I heard their screams in the Warp and felt my own soul being torn asunder. When my time came I was glad, I was last, and I knew beyond any shadow of a doubt that burning in the golden throne would erase every trace of me and end my suffering forever.

But as they led me to my doom, I hear another sound in the Warp, another voice that pierced the barriers I had not dropped in ten years since leaving Midnight. It was a scream of terrible suffering, endless agony, and utter despair. It was a mind that had known nothing but pain for thousands of years.

It was the Emperor, that withered husk, barely alive, unable to die, forced by his faithful to persist, instant by instant on the tattered edge of oblivion, channeling the death screams of countless millions of psykers.

Never had I seen such pain. My own unendurable suffering paled in comparison.

A faded memory of compassion prodded me, and I opened myself to that agony, to give what succor I could.

When I awoke, I found that the Emperor’s Light still burning in my mind. I had become an Astropath, linked to the Emperor and too valuable to waste, even if I was a heretic. They clergy instructed me in the Imperial creed, which I dutifully learned, and the Administratum stuck me on a ship and sent me to a space station at the far end of the galaxy, and they locked me in a room and forced me to send messages across the galaxy.

But you cannot really lock a psyker in a room. I explored the space station through the Warp, and began making contacts with soul-blind stationers, black-marketeers, smugglers, and other ne’er do wells. I helped them with their troubles, let them know what was on each other’s minds. I did favors in return for favors and began spreading my web of influence through the station and beyond. Seeking the day I might escape my prison.

Then I learned of a plot. There was a war brewing between two rogue trader houses, and one side sought to gain an early advantage by assassinating all the scions of the other house down to the last generation. To this end they had employed Ork freebooters, of all things, to attack an unsuspecting rogue trader scion, Morgan D’Stayn aboard my station.

As Orks are not known for subtlety, and as I was not, at that moment feeling particularly suicidal, I contacted Eurydice Magdalene, and ex-Sister of Battle with anger issues who I happened to know was between jobs, and informed her of the impending Ork attack.

Imagine my surprise when Magdalene broke into my chamber, chain-sword growling, and demanded I point out exactly who the traitors were in person and she was homicidally reluctant to have me deliver the information directly into her mind.

As sometimes it is better to be lucky than clever, I allowed myself to be kidnapped for the purpose. The Adeptus Astra Telepathica could, after all, hardly blame me for being abducted. Oh terror. Oh shriek.

We rescued D’Stayn, slew some Orks, and made our escape. After several rather harrowing adventures, Morgan became Lady-Captain Morgan, and asked us along as part of her crew. I agreed, if only she would see to the paperwork severing my contract with the Admininstratum. Since I had been judiciously destroying as many of my indenturship records as possible even before the Orks wrecked the station, and because she is a Rogue Trader, this turned out to be less of a problem than I might have anticipated.

So now I ply the stars aboard the Tyrant Sun, and I sing in the soulstorm, songs of succor to that poor tattered ghost who is the Emperor of all mankind.

Pulveria Nocte

Rogue Trader: Pride and Profit Querysphinx