Divinant and inquisitorial acolyte
Homeworld: Highborn World – Rhuidian Alpha
Background: Adeptus Astra Telepathica
Elite Advances: Psyker (Sanctioned)
Age: 53 (Appears 19)
Build: Thin, Wiry
Hair: Short, Black, and messy
Quirks: Never seems to smile. Permanently wears a scowl. Only speaks when absolutely necessary.
Enemies: The Advisor (more info in bio)
Standing at a mere 5’6", weighing in at merely 120lbs, and appearing to be only 19 years of age, Ishamael seems relatively unassuming. One look into his eyes, however, reveals an individual who is not to be trifled with. He wears a look of anger, a dark hatred that stems from a past drowned in blood, but you’ll never hear him speak of it. Not openly, at least. A few unlucky people have been given glimpses of his past through a telepathic link established by Ishamel, who now goes by his Sanctioned name, Nae’blis, which means Chosen One in a dialect that should have long since been deceased.
“By Fire be Purged.” – Unknown Philosopher, found burned to a crisp.
It turned out that the constant memory of his planet and his people burning could not escape Ishamael. He had trained his mind in the way of the Astra Telepathica, in hopes to temper the rage that boiled within, but all he could do was harness that rage into an endless fire, to be poured onto his enemies. Witnessing first-hand the power of the Genestealers, horrors that he had been raised to believe were only children’s stories, Ishamael began to embrace the fire and turn it into a weapon against them.
His enemies will know a fear and a pain that few will ever know and survive, and yet it is only a hint of what he is capable of. As his rage increases, and the fire, like liquid, pours from his hands, the center of his forehead glows with a penetrating, burning red eye. To look into it is to know death by fire. Planets will burn, and its inhabitants will be cleansed. In the name of the Emperor. May he protect.
“Kill them. Kill them all.” That is what Ishamael’s father’s Advisor whispered into his ear, before that fateful night.
Ishamael’s childhood was relatively normal for a Highborn son of one of the wealthiest lords on the planet Rhuidian Alpha. He was schooled, which he excelled in, and he was taught nothing of the true perils of the world. Everything was seen through a rose-coloured lens. That was until his father, Sammael, hired himself an Advisor.
Not given a name, the Advisor never left his father’s side, was always hooded and cloaked, and would whisper into Sammael’s ear whenever a decision was to be made. It was obvious from the start that Sammael was being manipulated by the Advisor. Sammael began to become a recluse, refusing to see or speak to anyone except his Advisor, even Ishamael’s mother, Moiraine. Ishamael knew that something was amiss. He could sense it, almost as if he was able to read the emotions in his parents and the servents, and any who came to see Sammael. But Ishamael could detect nothing from the Advisor.
One day, while his father was in his study, the Advisor pulled Ishamael aside. This was the first time that Ishamael has ever spoken to the Advisor, but it would not be the last. “Ishamael, you are destined to do great things. I have foreseen it.” the Advisor’s lips did not move when he spoke, “You will come see me after your lessons at school, and I will teach you the ways of the Warp.”
For three years Ishamael would see the Advisor after his schooling, and for three years, the Advisor would teach Ishamael the ways of the Warp. To tap into its infinite power, to harness it for himself. Little by little, Ishamael learned, and soon began to crave the Warp’s succor.
One day, Ishamael was walking by his father, and he stopped dead. Somehow, upon looking at his father, he entered his mind, and saw chaos. His homeworld in ruins, burning a ceaseless fire. Mountains of corpses, screaming and cursing the name Demandred. A glimpse of the disastrous future that awaited him, and all from the hands of his father.
For three years, while Ishamael learned the ways of the Warp, his father, at the bidding of the Advisor, had been slowly ripping apart the planet, causing untold suffering to the masses.
In a rage, Ishamael confronted the Advisor, and told him what he had seen from his father, still ignorant that the Advisor was behind it all. “There is still time to change the future you have seen, Ishamael. We must find your father.”
His lust for knowledge of the Warp had taught him many things, such as where exactly his father was at that moment, and Ishmael, accompanied by the Advisor, confronted his father. “You will bring destruction to our world, father. I have seen it. And I will stop you.” Ishamael strode up to his father, and plunged a dagger into his heart before his father could say a word, but he mouthed what seemed to be “betrayed..”, before falling to the floor, dead. Looking down at his dead father, Ishamael bent, and using the knife, plucked out one of Sammael’s eyes. Placing it in a pocket as he stood, he saw his mother, staring in horror at the sight before her, “What have you done, Ishamael? He was your father!” Before he could get a word out, the Advisor produced a Las Pistol, and with precision aiming, claimed Moiraine’s life. “Come, Ishamael, there is work to do. The future you have seen has not yet been prevented.”
In a daze that could not be explained, Ishamael followed the Advisor to the roof of the palace he resided in, and found atop it a construct that can only be described as a massive satellite dish. Ishamael believed it to be for deep space communication, but he would soon come to realize its true, nefarious, purpose.
At the base of the dish were two halos, attached to the dish by cables. The Advisor picked one up and handed it to Ishamael, while he placed the other one over his own head. Flicking several switches, the machine hummed to life, and the Advisor turned to Ishamael, his hooded face barely visible, revealing only bone-white skin, and two fire-red eyes, staring at him. “Now Ishamael, your training will be complete. Your planet is a disease, a virus in this sector. For too long the Demandred family has poisoned the lives of my people, and the final revenge will be mine,” Linked to the Advisor as he was, Ishamael was given a glimpse of the true horrors that his family had committed. His father achieved his royal status through chaos and butchery, murdering his way to the top, and creating a Highborn city with its blood as the foundation. The red eyes narrowed to slits as he stared at Ishamael, “Kill them. Kill them all.”
The infinite and damning power of the Warp opened up to Ishamael, amplified to gargantuan proportions by the dish and by the Advisors own trained mind. One thought was in Ishamael’s mind: Kill. And kill he did. Establishing a massive telepathic link to every individual in the city and beyond on the planet Rhuidian Alpha, Ishamael shared his singular thought to its masses – Kill.
When it was done, Ishamael awoke on the roof of the palace, the Advisor gone. Groggy, he walked to the edge of the roof and stared down to a city of fire and death. His vision had come to pass. Little by little, it came to him what he had done, and who had orchestrated the massacre. The Advisor.
Fleeing the planet, Ishamael knew that for someone with his abilities and in his position, he had but one option: redemption. Ishamael fled, eventually allowing himself to be rounded up into the Black Ships. Impressing his captors with his already developed skills, he was brought into the fold of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica.
Ishamael devoted himself to study, knowing that the Scholastia Psykana would grant him the skills and tools required to find the Advisor.
Over 30 years have passed since that day, and Ishamael, now going by his Sanctioned name Nae’blis, still seeks the man who betrayed him, his family, and his people.
Wearing a hooded cloak that is blacker than black, it is hard to see who really exists beneath it. Now serving the Inquisition, the past several months have not been kind to Ishamael. His pale skin, hidden by his clothing, is now covered in runic tattoos, warding him from daemons. His hair is gone, and his forehead, when visible, is also marked with tattooed runes. Various books, tomes, and scrolls hang by his side, connected by steel chains. His cloak, augmented with flak plates strategically sewn in, is embroidered with black lettering, more wards against various daemonhosts. He rarely speaks, and when he does, it is hardly above a whisper, and yet he is always heard clearly.