Reinhold Klegg

'Sandrunner'

Played by: Sandrunner

[[Image:File:Http://i.imgur.com/AdXeg4S.png|245px|link=]]

INFORMATION

Mortal bee, Male, Thirties?

Aliases: None known
Nationality: English/German (speculative)
Residence: New York
Employer: Unknown
Function: Unknown

• Handler's Remarks •

• Appearance, Personality and Skillset •

• Contacts and Loyalties •

• OOC Info •

So, Reggie Klegg, Reinhold if you like it auf Deutsch, Sandrunner, the guy who jogged out of the Sahara to brighten up our lives. Well, sort of. Not much fun at a party, but he throws a great physical. Starts you off with a trippy fMRI, lighting up in all the wrong places, especially if you get him to play with a knife or a blade. Follows up with a hot, hot, hot core body temperature. Like, permanent fever sort of deal, and still metabolism on the low side. Go figure. Blood’s a traffic jam of oval erythrocytes. Long loops of Henle in the kidneys… hell, our man can probably drink saltwater. Plenty of neat little details that make him the resilient bastard he is. It’s like evolution took another sniff at Reg and then decided to go all Jackson Pollock on his ass. And then covered up its tracks, cause his mtDNA’s vanilla homo sapiens sapiens.

So, he ain’t a missing link. What he is, is what we call an open question. There’s his little alien prison story, which is a crock of shit, but he believes it, and a man’s got to believe something to be any use. A run-of-the-mill so-called-secret bionic soldier programme would be an easy bet, but nix on that. We checked. I mean, we [i]checked[/i]. Anyway, whatever. The bees wanted a piece of it. He got buzzed sometime in 2012. Went pretty subtle, apparently, or else no one paid too much attention. Few months later, we found him working security for Médecins Sans Frontières and flying planes out of El Aaioun. Now, don’t get me wrong, everyone loves wiping orphan noses and jabbing polio shots, really, but talk about missing the forest for the trees - this was missing the forest for the texture of the bark.

So, we made sure to paint him blue, just in case. Frankly, I’m surprised the Templars didn’t get to him first. Come on, zero sense of fun and a bleeding heart? That’s their sweet spot right there. Just the type to fall for some bastion-of-salvation-against-the-dark story. What we promised him was a little more personal. A shot at figuring himself out and a shot at going back to wherever he thinks he belongs. The moon. Alpha Centauri. Dragonfly 44. Whatever. It’s working. When he found that Heidelberg birth certificate we threw together for him, it made him so happy it brought a tear to my eye.

So, that’s Sandrunner. Useful guy to have around. Wouldn’t exactly let him fondle the crown jewels just yet, but if you drop him in some hellhole, he’ll probably come back in one piece and maybe a few scalps at his belt. The Bee’s been doing the Lord’s work with that gonzo physiology of his. Already a top-flight facilitator of interactions between sharp metal and soft flesh, these days if you blindfold him and throw a hook, odds are he’ll duck the right way, if you know what I am saying. You’d think a pinch of anima-flavoured chaos would loosen him up a little, but no. Just that much more paranoid and confused. Like the old saying goes, you can put a bee in a man, but you can’t make him groove.

Reinhold is 1.88m in height, although tends toward a hunched posture. He presents with a vaguely Caucasian set of features, a mess of short brown hair and a short full beard. His eyes are on the green side of hazel, and on closer inspection his skin is weathered and marked with subtle sunspots. His exact physical age is uncertain, and his aberrant physiology makes a firm determination difficult, but early thirties is a good working assumption.

With rare exceptions at leisure, Reinhold carries bladed weapons wherever he goes, at the very least a machete if not the usual arming sword. In an effort to make these less conspicuous, as well as indulging his dislike of cold weather, he favours wearing watchcoats and dusters in the field. Not a great fan of uniforms.

Though an excellent close-quarters combatant, he is an indifferent shot, and lacks formal military training, which occasionally manifests itself in rookie tactical mistakes. An aspect of his anima infusion has been a certain capacity for short-term premonition; unfortunately, he is still very much in the process of learning to separate wheat from chaff where this power is concerned.

He is a confident pilot of small fixed-wing and rotary aircraft, capable of making himself quickly at home in an unfamiliar cockpit. His experience of flying third rate dune-jumpers in the war-torn Western Sahara has left him with a knack for emergency landings and improvised repairs.

Whether or not Reinhold has had formal schooling is uncertain. He is literate in English and German, and speaks passable Hassaniya and dreadful French. His general learning is a hodge-podge of obscure rabbit holes and laughable blind spots, particularly in certain areas of culture. Notably, he has a passionate hobbyist’s interest in astronomy, space travel, and theories of exobiology and extraterrestrial intelligence.

In terms of personality, Reinhold is a serious, reliable man. Few would call him charming, but he is generally polite and calm. Despite the best efforts of the Illuminati, he has a way of focusing his ethical scope to the here-and-now, which occasionally interferes with the demands of the greater fight against the rising darkness.

(WIP!)

Always up for some cross-pollination of background stories (Get it? get it...) and, of course, hooks for forward-looking RP. If your character's bummed around the NGO scene, helped train new Lumi bees (or was one themselves), run an op requiring some fancy flying, happens to be an alien conspiracy buff or an exoplanet spotter, likes swords... you know. Don't be shy, I'm almost certainly worse at this than you are.

Generally not into romance, and reserve consent on maiming/permadeath. (the latter would have to be pretty special)

Everything is still a work in progress, needless to say.