Aulus Galerius Scaeva (WIP)

[Aulus Galerius Scaeva]

Aulus Galerius Scaeva

Aulus; Scaeva

Age: 31

Religion and Language: Scaeva is a native speaker of Amoraean, but throughout his military career has come to speak passable forms of a variety of the languages spoken by the factions which bordered on the Empire before the events of 410 and beyond, such as Archaean, Norskan, Yamataigo and tongues of the steppe hordes.

A devout supporter of Imperial authority, he has never questioned the legitimacy of the Amoraean pantheon, even with the growing popularity of the Blessed Isles’ one God toward the end of Gaios IV Atreides’ reign.

Faction Loyalty: Amoraean Empire

Alignment: Lawful Good

Profession: Heavy Commander, LEGIO II “Blood Eagle”

Appearance: Scaeva is six feet tall even, and weighing 200 lbs. He keeps in top physical shape as a rule of thumb, ever since his early teenage years when his father saw to it he was instructed in the martial art of Pankration. Scaeva maintains an intermediate skill level in the sport, as the tumult of recent decades has left little time for advanced study of the art. However his left-hand dominance (and cognomonic namesake) makes him an irregular opponent, and has won him numerous matches. He is of slightly lighter skin tone than is typical among Amoraeans, has lean and sharp facial features, and possesses deep-set eyes whose irises are dark enough brown they can be mistaken for gigantic pupils.

Personality: An insightful and intelligent man, Scaeva has seen much in his relatively young life. Participating in several disastrous and bloody military campaigns during the collapse of the “old” Empire has left a cold side to him. Most of the time he is a genuinely upbeat and amiable individual; the personality of his youth. But since the events of the collapse, he has been known to lapse into bouts of world-weary cynicism.

A staunch supporter of the Amoraean Imperial ideal, Scaeva has little love for the enemies of the Empire, and refuses to empathize with them. He recognizes them for what they are: vultures and fair-weather friends. Though always enthusiastic to allow diplomacy to run its course, he never enjoys when he is selected to be a part of negotiations.

History:

Strengths/Weaknesses (Heavy Commander, LEGIO II ”Blood Eagle”: Leadership, Operational Warfare)

Strengths:

Weaknesses:

Likes:

Dislikes:

Weapons:

Armor:

Extra

RP Sample:

Aching. Ringing in the ears. And heat, gods, the heat.

In his mind’s eye he imagined his face was directly adjacent a brazier, heating his skin to hugely uncomfortable levels. He wanted to move but he couldn’t. That was until the acrid stink of smoke and burning skin began to invade his senses, and Aulus Galerius Scaeva’s eyes shot widely open. Immediately he was aware of his surroundings, the plank deck of the forecastle aboard the Amoraean Navy Trireme Nephropidus.

The wooden casements of the forward fighting position were fully alight, the smoke issuing from the fires choking out all view of the pale blue sky. His first instinct was to jump to his feet, but something was still preventing him as he laid there on his back. He tried to gain strength to move himself by taking in a deep breath, but instead inhaled only smoke, and everything went dark again.

“Sir, wake up!” came a far-off voice, not seemingly deserving of much attention. “The ship’s on fire, and the Centuriae’s ordered an abandon!”

A rush of cold water shocked him back to reality.

Pulling himself up quickly to rest on his elbows, he saw his friend and optio Titus Bestia standing over him, an upturned wooden bucket in his hands. He could hear a great commotion on deck below, as some of the sailors no doubt continued to fight the fires. Trying a final time to move to no avail, he turned to look at his waist and legs: a crumpled and badly-charred corpse of one of the Nephropidus’s ballista operators blocked all movement.

Partially shocked at the horrifying sight and still somewhat dazed, Scaeva went into an unintentional stare at his predicament. Bestia noticed this, and quickly moved to assist his centurion, pulling the body and some errant pieces of heavy timber splintered from a nearby ruined artillery piece off of his superior and helping him to his feet.

“Thanks Titus, I guess we’re even now?” With a quick shake of his head, Scaeva was back in action and moved quickly to the now-empty slot in the forecastle casement where its ballista had once been housed.

Before him was a scene of utter chaos, barely discernible through clouds of smoke wafting across the light waves of this part of the Shiraz Sea. Northmen longships darted through what was left of the shattered Imperial squadron, fiery bolts streaking from their archers and artillery pieces to find their marks in the distressed Imperial hulls. It had been a fool’s errand in the first place, a desperate attempt to relieve the siege of the capital of the Empire. Thousands of levies had been given little training, promised large amounts of coin, and were then crammed like livestock aboard one of the last uncommitted squadrons of vessels the Empire could field.

Dangerously overcrowded to the point of altering the warships’ seaworthiness and handling characteristics, the flotilla was too juicy a target for the experienced Northmen naval commanders with their nimble raiding vessels to pass up. The battle had started poorly, and had gone from bad to worse: not at all to Scaeva’s surprise. And that was precisely when a flaming projectile had devastated the forward fighting tower he had been observing the carnage from. Extremely fortunate Bestia had found him.

“Over the sides now! Abandon!” came the call from the deck below, shouted by hundreds of hoarse voices ripening with renewed panic. Despite the poor visibility, Scaeva could make out a yellow and a white signal banner which were quickly run up the mainmast: the ship was sinking. No Imperial ship carried a signal flag to tell that it was set on fire.

Scaeva instantly made up his mind and shouted to his second over the din, “I think we’ve been here long enough, Optio!” and pointed down toward the water. “I’d rather swim for a bit than roast alive!”

Bestia smirked in spite of the situation, “Thought you’d never say so, I’ve had enough of this ship to last a life-”

Just then, the Nephropidus gave an extreme lurch to starboard. The resulting list was so great that surely all three banks of starboard oars submerged. Neither man had time to brace himself, and both Scaeva, Bestia, and scores of men on the deck below were dumped deep beneath the dark waters.

Taking some time to regain the surface, Scaeva struggled to stay afloat amid the churning masses of humanity. Some screamed for aid, others moaned in agony, many fought in jumbled splashing melee for control of floating pieces of wreckage. The centurion himself struggled to see what had become of his second in command, against the lapping waves.

After a surreal stretch of what seemed like hours, as his muscles burned from extreme fatigue in treading the treacherous water, the call “Centurion Scaeva! Can you hear me?!” could be made out through the hideous noise. It was a rescue launch from a nearby warship that had been carrying other non-commissioned officers from Scaeva’s own reorganized legion of levies.

They rowed immediately toward him, and plucked him from the cold sea. He collapsed onto the bottom of the boat, coughing up seawater.

“Glad we found you when we did, Aulus,” said the familiar baritone voice of fellow Centurion Rufus Apliado as he wrapped Scaeva in a blanket. “Most of those that went in the water are just floaters now,” his voice grew quieter as he trailed off to look out at the scene of destruction.

Staring up at him still coughing, Scaeva asked, “Bestia? Did anyone get him out?” He searched the stoic faces of the others in the boat as he managed to get upright to look out at the remains of the fleet. The Northmen raid fleet was nowhere in sight. They had achieved their victory as more than two thirds of the Imperial vessels that had been present were either beneath the waves, on fire, or in the process of sinking. Between the dilapidated hulks search boats similar to this one moved about, prodding at a lifeless sailor here, pulling a delirious man from the waves there. Everyone aboard the tiny boat knew that the man was gone.

“He must have never come back up,” Scaeva mused, half to himself.

“We’re to return to the remaining ships, and then make for Altinum,” Rufus muttered, then quickly pointed toward the northeastern horizon, eyes wide. A black stripe edged its way slowly across the cloudless blue sky. “The capital’s burning.”

Every man present sat in somber silence punctuated only by the shallow waves lapping at the hull of the boat, and the thunder-like cracking of sinking battleships. The true collapse of the Empire had begun, and these veterans had the front row seats.