PC - Kava Notch

Name: Kava Notch
Age:27
Height: 6'3''
Weight: 265 lbs
Hair: Black, semi-tidy dreadlocks
Eyes: Narrow, Slate Grey
Skin: Dark and Ruddy

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"I hail from da place you might be callin' a Death Worl'. A place where da sun be hot enough to scorch flesh off da bone, and yer sandstorms gut ya like da fish you be. I was born deeep under da ground, a mining complex built for one reason, an' one reason only. Promethium-3. Da planet core be rich in the stuff, and we be there to see if it be 'viable.' If not fer dat, then no one even bother comin' to dis wasteland. But dey do, an' tha's the reason I was gang-pressed into de service of dis God-Emperor you all be liking so much. If I don't be makin it out alive, then dis little holo-recordin' be meaningless. But tonight I be makin' my bid for freedom, and tha's that."


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"I been here since day one, when dis place was first dug into da sands and these prospector teams be lookin' for da big score."

Images and scratchy film bites flash past your field of view. A mars-pattern orbital drilling laser glassing a tunnel a kilometer into the ground, before a pair of viking transports drop the door on the place. Not ten minutes later, the door is once again hidden by the deep, swiftly shifting sands. Only one of the diminutive vikings makes it back to orbit. An idiosyncrasy that will likely nag at the back of your mind until you realize the hull of the survivor is pitted and scarred from even an hour in that atmosphere.

The images shift forward in time. That glassed tunnel has cooled and solidified, and construction within has begun in earnest. Buildings anchored into that twenty-meter thick glassed sand. The vast open space in the middle, quickly being filled with row upon row of piping. The observation center, directly under the heavy metal shield holding the world at bay.

Another shift, this one to much better quality recordings. A five foot tall boy in his early teens, short dreadlocks, grey-dark skin and four-inch dreadlocks, moving and placing piping as servitors handle the delicate process of guiding the drill already deep underground. Several other workers, men for the most part, weld each section of piping onto the last, ensuring the drill can continue its exploration down.. always down, the piping in place for pumping up the valuable sludge that they hope to find.

The holo-vid speeds up to a near-ridiculous pace, as you watch thousands of feet of piping assembled and vanish into the drilling platform. Weeks scream by in the dated numbers at the bottom of the screen. Then the world seems to settle down once more. Holo is played out in real time, a powerful geyser of blue-black Promethium-3 bursts out of the drilling deck. The deathly cold liquid fuel freezes all that it touches, and that skinny teen that barely caught your eye before is the only organic thing left. He races away from the deck, off screen, and the holo fades to black.

"That be da Dynasty signing death warrants, mine and tha' of hundreds of people. Operations began ten years later, da Emperor hisself only be knowin' why they be takin' so long. Us? We be slavin' fourteen hours to da day, landin' them money buckets as many viable wells o' da rare fuel. I knew da day when this be startin' up in earnest be my last day o' livin'. Overhear' security talkin' about it on da patrol. Time to be gettin' out o' dis forsaken place, before it be clamin' my life as well."

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"I got onto da first fuel transport off of da' forsaken rock, bound for some hive I never did learn de name of. At twenty-three, I jus' didn't care. I spend six weeks cooped up in da forgotten cabins, eatin' what there be to eat an' biding my time. Time to stretch the old legs an' all that."

The image shakes as an unpracticed hand sweeps it from side to side. There's not much left of the building in the recording, except the burned-out foundation and most of the west all.

"Dis be where I made my start on' da world. Da first cutter to stare up at me and offerin' me coin instead of a knifepoint. Good call for 'im, I be tired of showin' these hivers that knives be better in their throats, not mine. I spend two years in de places like this, fightin' and lookin' intimidatin' for dey that pay. Then one o' their boss-men thought to hisself he'd get all high and might. Take on one of the big gangs, be takin' his cut of racketeering an' drugs. Dat be the day I shot a las for da first time."

The holo-vid is taken from a camera inside the building. Fighting breaking loose, a number of scrappy gangers with stub-revolvers, knives and two las pistols begin rushing the front door. A furious storm of hellgun fire tears through every window and door in a coordinated assault, and half of the defenders die then and there. They die horribly.

Limbs, weapons and heads are smeared everywhere soon after. The assault team blows out the door and most of the lower wall, concussion knocking back the carnage that they'd wrought moments later and turning many of the other defenders and their meager cover into pulp. A las pistol strikes a now-familiar face, that of Kava, as he peeks around a pillar at the back of the establishment. Its in his hand a moment later, and after a quick glance-over, he thumbs the weapon's power setting to full and begins firing out of cover.

His hand dwarfs the tiny laspistol, but he makes almost every shot count. One of the black-clad enforcers falls, then another. Anyone who gets too frisky and decides to advance on his position.. dies. After those furious few moments, they stop firing at him, and a man walks into that ruin of a building that doesn't fit. Gold jewelry on his fingers, black armor inlaid with gold. His booming voice echoes around the shattered room.

"Five hundred thrones to the man who kills him."

Kava glances out of cover for a moment; those narrow gray eyes, his wicked smile shining white in the gloom and the half-spent pistol the only visible things. When his head isn't blown off his shoulders, he notes every man is still in cover, the only target presenting itself is the man with the black and gold ceramite armor. His mirthful laugh echoes around the room, every bit the counterpart to the leaders' voice.

"Dese teeny boys o' yours be too scared to be takin' another shot at me. Call dem off so we can be talkin' business, boyo."

A vein stands out on the leader's pale grimace of a face, rage in his eyes as he pulls out a bolter and raises it. His head vanishes from his shoulders a moment later, after catching a well-placed las shot in the teeth.

"Negotiation's be concluded, then."


The broad-shouldered giant that is Kava steps out of the shadows, spent pistol cast aside and a fire-axe in one fist.

"Who else be feelin' lucky, boyos? No? Den you be findin' me someone to be talkin' to about business."


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The holo ends, and a woman's clinical voice speaks, soft words echoing around the silent vid-chamber as a footnote to the recording.

"This is an account of the life of Kava Notch. He spent two years revolutionizing how the gangs of Hive Notradamus waged war and did business, requiring the attention of both the Adeptus Arbites and the Imperial Guard to purge.

This man is an enemy of the Imperium, having played a key role against several Imperial Guard attempts to rid this hive of its corrupting gang presence. His body was not found when the underhives were purged with the holy flames of the Emperor. He is to be considered armed, extremely dangerous, and very resourceful.

The follows is the last known recording of him, mere moments before the entire underhive was vented with gaseous promethium and purged with holy fire."

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Kava is wearing a full suit of gold Mark-II Enforcer Light Carapace Armor, a hellgun held in his hands with practiced ease and an Aquilla hung around his neck. He turns to the holo-recorder on the ceiling, that wicked grin on his lips. "You be lookin for me, but I won't be bein' here too much longer, boyos. I be livin' when all dat you cherish be dust, and I be back when your children's children be makin' bricks out o' dat dust. I be gettin' dem too."

He raises the hellgun, the image washing out in a flash of brilliant red light.


The vid-room powers down, auxiliary lighting coming on, and the hooded Arbites agent steps out of the room without another word. A smirk on her lips.










Physical Description: Kava is a giant of a man, to say the least. Standing at 6'3'' with shoulders broader than some stand tall, thick musle roped over his frame. The death-worlder has tree-trunks for legs, and he fights with the ferocity of the great lion he resembles. Dreadlocks are often tied back behind his head, and he never is without a knife and a pistol in easy reach. He wears the Aquillia around his neck, often hidden, and he is rarely without a cigar or an iho-stick on his lips or tucked behind one ear, unlit. His voice is deep, his accent strange, and has made lesser men faint with a narrow glance and two words spoken in soft, deadly malice.