Having checked in pm that it was alright to so apply with this..<br/><br/>Name: Neremeth<br/><br/>Race (or faction): Eldar Harlequin (info) (http://wh40k.lexicanum.com/wiki/Harlequins)<br/><br/>Age: 100<br/><br/>Sexuality: Straight<br/><br/>Appearance: Neremeth, appropriate to his role in the great performances of the fall, moves all in tall sinuous lines and lithe muscle, shifting between the measured precise grace of an acrobat, and the looming and predatory lope of a wolf. There is a sense sometimes that he might burst into a flurry of motion, and the energy of that is only thinly pent up. The purple and gold chased costuming he favours is tight over his body, with a long coat in similar colours worn over, and worn open to flutter and trail after him in sweeping movement. His hair is a wild, thick black mane he occasionally dyes with streaks of colour to match his clothing. The face mask he sometimes wears is an all red, metallically glinting affair save for black on black eyes, crafted for his role in the great masques to have an expression that smiles in tantalizing promise, yet projects a cold menace. His true face underneath is one closer to the ageless and angular perfection of his people, but years of wearing his mask has given him an echoing semblance to it. That impression is offset only by the light, distant humour in his pale blue eyes. There is a sense of emptiness to him, of a void, that the grace of his step is born in a certain lack of existence, that if one were to blink, he would vanish into shadows.<br/><br/>Position on the ship: Passenger/hired sword and security.<br/><br/>Equipment: Stormglove, Harlequin's Kiss, Fusion Pistol, Neuro Disruptor, Flip belt, holo suit, Mask of Fear, various stringed instruments, small cymbals on bands to fasten around his body, various dyes and face paints, an array of knives, tiny skulls and multicoloured balls for juggling.<br/><br/>Reason for being on the Ship: The paths it takes and things it encounters play a part in his wandering missions.<br/><br/><br/>Bio<br/><br/>He laughed, and was damned for it. It was not that he stood out so greatly from his people before this, one of the small groups of recent births though he was. Nor was it that he stood out so greatly from the practiced, preternatural skill of his people, there were others who had the wherewithal, strength, stealth and speed to be amongst the Striking Scorpions. But it was for him to be left alive and kneeling in the gory wreck of his squad, a hand holding in his innards over the severity of his own wounds, and it was for him to laugh. It wasn't that he had descended into hysteria, or madness (arguably), indeed he felt eerily calm, like a sense of utter clarity had descended over him. It was simply that it all seemed funny. And it was for him, in that deep, rich laugh all the while, to grab up the grenades of his brethren, stagger quickly to the misshapen creature rampaging freely towards such of his people that were fleeing to their ships, and jam them into the beast's exposed wounds.<br/><br/>He thought it was especially hilarious that the ruin of his body was still somehow alive after being flung from the explosion, but it did let him lie on his back on the ground of a blasted world, watching the ships of his people make a withdrawal from it in full. There were worse deaths one could have, he mused.<br/><br/>He waited for darkness and torment to claim him, but instead saw a riot of colour, and a circle of stylized masks staring down at him. Ritualized tones asked why he had laughed, and he decided to play along with a dying hallucination, smiling through a bloody rictus grin that when the choices were to weep and despair, or laugh and fight, it seemed to him a pleasing thing to pick the more cheerful option. If nothing else, when Slaanesh came to claim his soul, he may as well make himself as confusing and nauseating a meal as possible. After a pause, he added that they had to admit, such as was once the greatness of his people finding themselves come to pathetic circumstance of dying in gore and filth, was a pretty good sick joke by the universe. It was at least a little bit funny.<br/><br/>The masks nodded in acknowledgement, and what he thought was even regret. In retrospect, he should have probably given a different answer. But it was an answer to see him taken up by the Harlequins, healed and trained. Made faster than he was, stronger than he was, his detached humour used to school him in ancient lore that might have otherwise torn apart his mind, his skill elevated to the point of making him a one man tempest in close combat. Remade and reborn as a follower of the Laughing God, who he felt a resonance with as a being after his own heart. And finally initiated in full, subjected to the possession of a greater daemon that would either transcend or destroy him. It was a desperate struggle, he felt his will and that of the daemon, tearing, tugging at his very soul, and he knew in much greater detail now the agonizing consequences of failure. Yet there was that calm again, settling over him, and again he had to laugh, it felt like the game of a child to him. And therein was his solution, a child's solution. He pulled with all his might, and the daemon pulled to match, confused enough by the Eldar's amusement to let his will define the shape of their contest in this fashion. And at the very height of psychic strain.. Neremeth simply let go, and the daemon careened off wildly, shrieking into spiritual void. Unfortunately, so too did Neremeth's soul.<br/><br/>But it felt so right in the aftermath, that he was soulless now, fearless now, among the Solitaires. It was the only right destiny of the calm laughter of the battlefield. Other than death, to be sure. The Laughing God was the only salvation that remained for his people, and the God's Harlequins were his hands. He found it even trade to be remade into one who replenished their numbers, for all that almost every road he now walked would end in death and an eternity of torment. But for now it was his to wander as a scout, watching the movements of Chaos for Harlequin troupes to guide battle towards, watching his own people, for potential candidates to recruit to follow the Laughing God's way. His experiences were strange, and wondrous, and horrifying. He often booked passage with Rogue Traders when he felt like keeping his travels off the webway and obscured from the variety of enemies of the Harlequins that were now his own. Such ships besides often moved close to fringe or isolated communities he might otherwise never get a look at. He would pay his way with his skills, offering himself as a point of the spear for boarding or exploring parties, providing the sense of security that only comes with knowing the being guarding you is a peerless murderer.<br/><br/>And when it pleased him, he would make use of the other talents that had flared to life in the room left by the void of his spirit, song and dance of aching enough beauty to distract from the sense of the unerring about him, from the knowing that the core of his being was nothingness. And who knows? Perhaps he would make it to be one of the eternal guardians of the Black Library. Perhaps he would die, and his Laughing God would triumph against all odds to save his soul. But chances are that he would end in the torment almost all the Solitaires did. Still, it hardly troubled him. All that effort to save him that day, and this is how he ended up? You have to admit, he would say, that's at least a little bit funny.<br/>