The dust of this world was cloying. It was acrid, and fibrous, and carried the tang of metal. It seemed to sit in his lungs, whip like sandpaper against his plates and sting his eyes with every gust. The krogan themselves seemed unmoved by it. The women, some obviously heavy with child beneath their thick bolts of dark fabric, were particularly well-covered, and he envied them their protection against the rasp of sandy particles.
He had come to monitor the reconstruction of their homeworld, out of professional courtesy to his new allies and a personal need to step foot on the planet that had claimed his son’s life. Some part of him wanted to face what Tarquin and the lost soldiers of the Ninth Platoon had faced – and so he endured the grit that swept through the air, imagining the report of rifles shattering the silence, the dull roars of the Reaper abominations, the chatter of Cerberus comms – the ghosts of dead turians lost amongst dead ruins.
He could scarcely believe that such a nightmare had ever taken place here. Months after the war, the Kelphic Valley was unrecognizable - or soon would be - in relation to the vids he’d seen. Much of the rubble had been torn away, replaced by the foundations of a burgeoning metropolis. The disparate krogan who had clustered in the area had come together, clans and creeds immaterial, to begin anew. Most buildings were incomplete, but the progress was significant – incredible, really – given the devastation that had once been their inheritance.
Carefully tended greenery broke up the grey and sable of the landscape. Precious, drought-resistant plants endemic to Tuchanka had been rediscovered, and hearty asari imports, a gift in good faith, now bloomed alongside them. This was Tarquin’s legacy. All this life on a barren world. These people would be dead. These children would never have been borne of these parents. Beyond the inchoate spires of krogan architecture, the broken and jagged remains of a long ago civilization – and the Reaper invasion force – provided an ominous, looming reminder of the losses, the horrors that had occurred not far from here. It hovered over the living, like the hungry maw of the dead…but it was no longer strong enough to claim them. They were safe.
Even so, he knew the remains of the ancient bomb lay somewhere in that sprawl. He could not bear to face it. Not yet. Someday, perhaps, when he could forgive himself for the injustices that he had done to his son, he would stand over Tarquin’s eternal grave and say the words that he now never could. The apologies that could never be offered. Express the feelings that he had too often suppressed, or kept hidden. You were my pride and joy.
…Tarquin’s body had never been found. Adrien had never expected it to be. The Commander had witnessed his sacrifice with her own eyes, had seen him buried beneath tonnes of rubble and warped steel, the crush and press of rock, the isolated explosion as he had died.
Adrien turned away. Perhaps he was weaker for it, but he could not bear it. He would not. Not now. He hadn’t the will to face such things for a while yet. His own path to redemption was a long ways off.
—- But this was odd.
The figure of a turian on krogan soil was not one he had expected. While they might now be allies, the animosity of centuries was not easily forgiven by either side. He had not expected to find one of his own in such a remote place, notable only for the martyrdom of the Ninth Platoon. Perhaps this was an aggrieved family member, come to show their respects for the lost. He approached respectfully, eager to offer a word of comfort to an aggrieved family member, to empathize in the pain of loss.
Victus’ calmness only fueled his anger. How the hell could he be so calm?! This was not okay. He hated it, he hated everything about this. He was no leader, certainly not Primarch material. High Command had lost their damn minds and were dragging him down with them.
Giving the Primarch a glare, he pushed off the table and turned around brusquely, turning his back on him. He started pacing, stopped, turned to look at Victus again.
“Qualified? Me?” he scoffed. His voice was an octave higher than it should have been, shrill and loaded with disbelief. “With all due respect, sir, have you lost your mind?!” He started pacing again.
Step, step, step, step, pivot; step, step, step, step, pivot again.
“You’re wrong. I’m not made to be a leader. Of any kind. Let alone a Primarch.” He’d been a leader before, and what had it gotten him? His entire team killed, all but one, the one who had betrayed him. He couldn’t lead. It had been his fault and he could not lead.
No. He wouldn’t have it. No. No, no, no, no, no.
He couldn’t have it. They couldn’t just place an entire colony cluster in his hands, not knowing who he was, what he had done. No. No more deaths in his hands. No more decisions weighing on his shoulders.
He stopped again and fixed his eyes on Victus. “I was expecting to retire, sir.”
Lies. He couldn’t have taken retiring. He was young, he still had his entire life ahead of him. Retiring would have driven him up the damn walls. Still, anything sounded better than the Primarchy.
Victus needed to understand. He had to make him see.
He laced his hands together, resting them together on his desk, eyes keen but deceptively calm. He allowed Vakarian his little tantrum. It was hardly professional, but entirely justified. Too much had been placed on his shoulders. Not that he could not bear the burden – only that he should not have to. Not after all he had done.
“Garrus.” He finally broke through, his tone measured. If he had any reservations, he did not express them now. “You’ve shown to High Command that you are more than capable of truly quality leadership. Ironically, you would not be a Primarch now if you lacked such potential. You know better than most how expectations do not often lead to realities. You deserve better than this. That, I grant you. Believe me, I know the feeling of being trapped, being pulled from the place you belong. I may not have the record you’ve made for yourself in the past few years, but I’ve been a soldier for a long time. This is never how I imagined myself spending the middle years of my life.”
He stood at last, slowly circling around his desk. “But I’m staying, for good. I can accomplish a great deal in this position. Progressive changes that our people need. And you can do that, too. Show them that you’re a hell of a turian. You earned that much.”
[Msg; Primarch Vakarian] Blaming me again for that? Fine, I’ll take responsibility. It’s completely my fault. Don’t even bother about the entire Primarchy voting unanimously – it was all me. Damn me all you’d like for respecting you, for seeing your potential even when you can’t see it yourself. I know it’s easier.[Msg; Victus]: With all due respect, sir, you should have thought about that better before you made me Primarch.
[Msg; Victus]: Calmness and cordiality are not exactly in my repertoire. Especially not when I am forced to sit through that kind of bullshit.
[Msg; Victus]: Glad to see nothing has changed since the old days, sir. I expect I’m going to be cause for a lot more disappointment in the years to come. Not news, really.
Stomp, stomp, stomp, stomp.
He was furious. Outraged. Completely in disbelief. What the hell?! He had received the message early in the morning; someone had sent a messenger to fetch him as he slept by her hospital bed.
He had slept in a terrible position —what the hell were those chairs made of?— and his everything hurt. Tired and bleary, he had blinked at the young and jittery officer they had sent to get him and scoffed at the datapad he had handed him.
“You got the wrong turian, kid.” He’d half-yawned, stretching, twisting his neck to try and ease off the pain. “I’m not Primarch. It’s— it’s probably— Victus you’re looking for.” More yawning, more trying fruitlessly to get his neck to stop aching.
To his surprise, though, the officer had stood his ground and told him that no, he did in fact have the right person, and that he was now Primarch.
That was all it had taken for Garrus to freeze, narrow his eyes at the young man, then stand up and quite literally push past him. He needed to have a word with Victus. Primarch his damn scaly ass.
Stomp, stomp, stomp, stomp. Slam.
He banged the door to Victus’ quarters open, unceremoniously letting himself in uninvited, and downright glared at the interior decorations, as he scanned the room for his aggressor. Because that was exactly what Victus was. His damned aggressor.
He found the Primarch sitting at a table, calmly surveying him.
Garrus strode up to him, slammed his palms angrily on the table, and fixed the Primarch with the angriest look he could manage.
“It was you, wasn’t it?” His voice was icy cold, his subvocals betraying him to his rage. He did not care.
"Garrus. I was wondering when you’d arrive. I’d offer for you to sit down, but I see you’re not in the mood.” He’d stared down a raging clan chief, withstood heavy mortar fire during the Relay 314 Incident, outmaneuvered turian separatists on Taetrus, and weathered the Reaper War. This angry tirade – expected, for what it was worth – was hardly going to unruffle him.
Perhaps he was baiting the man, just a bit, but he had taken his post without passionate complaint. Yes, Vakarian had been forced to leave his lover’s side, but Victus had been forced to leave a burning Palaven. Sometimes, it was the sacrifices, not the victories, that made the soldier.
“When the Primarchy met, your name was put forward by Caelstonia of Invictus. I didn’t lie. I spoke my mind, my belief few would be more qualified than you. I know you’ve more than earned your dues. You helped the Commander save us all, but the Hierarchy is fragile. For what it’s worth, I suggested that we waive your name as candidate, but I was overruled. Take your anger out on me all you want, Vakarian,” he growled, “but it will not erase the fact that you’re the best damn turian out there, and that you will make a fine Primarch.”
To be quite honest, I think of myself as rather approachable and lenient regarding roleplays. Here are some guidelines, which can and will be updated as I see fit. Additionally, I would recommend that you read this page for a brief introduction to the mun.
Theme made by me. Do not steal.
For the moment, the automatic assumption is that all roleplays take place at any point after the Tuchanka: Bomb mission. This can change if otherwise specified. Alternatively, interactions may take place on the Citadel, the Normandy’s war room, various embassies, etc.
Ｆｏｒ ａｎ abridged ｈｉｓｔｏｒｙ， ｓｅｅ ｈｅｒｅ．
A C C E S S I N G || R E C O R D S
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_»Logged in. welcome, guest
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Public Access Terminal. View file: Primarch Adrien Victus
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Primarch Adrien Victus
[ Galactic standard years: 61 ]
[ Weight: not on record ]
[ Height: 203 cm ]
[ Gender: male ]
Wife: Calpurnia Victus [deceased]
Son: Tarquin Victus [deceased]
_»Personal history:
Segment under recalibration
Born 2125 on the planet Palaven. Neither records nor facial tattooing indicate that Victus was birthed in any Cipritine hospitals or clinics. [Redacted] Although on file, personal history has been removed from public record upon the Primarch’s request, citing his preference for privacy. Applications to view these files must be submitted to the Ministry of Home Affairs and undergo an approval process, as per section 12.41.83.
_»Medical profile:
Enjoying an extended, quality-enhanced lifespan similar to the 150-year average expected by the human species, Victus’ sixty-one years does not hold him back from engaging in active conflict. A diligent and seasoned veteran, he submits himself to a sustained and rigorous routine to maintain his carefully conditioned physical fitness and battle-readiness.
The Global Assessment of Functioning considers psychological, social, and occupational functioning on a hypothetical continuum of mental health illness. Primarch Victus’ mental health profile on this scale scores low relative to healthy individuals. Testing found indications of high levels of stress, anxiety, and depression present and modifying behavioral patterns. [Redacted]
_»Military hallmarks:
The name Victus has upheld a decorated military legacy since the Unification War. Adrien has continued that tradition, from the early away missions that earned him his first stripes in the legionnaire to his blisteringly successful strategies that led to a field promotion from colonel to brigadier general during the Relay 314 Incident. The general’s savvy, perceptiveness and brutal precision allowed him to excel in his military career. His meteoric rise through the meritocracy has been further propelled by sheer determination and resounding fortitude. If the art of war were a symphony, he would be its composer.
Victus’ practiced ability to command manifests in his passion and skill for tactical manipulation. It has been argued, mainly from turian high command, that the general’s unorthodox methods are reckless and impulsive, when really they are carefully calculated and have provided innovative strategies. Though the ethics behind his adroit mind have been put into question, no one can deny the effectiveness of his decisions on the battlefield.
In both training exercises and trial-by-fire on the mortar-scarred battlefield, Victus led his command to thwart hostiles with exacting skill and canny foresight. One of Victus’ most recent and notable victories exemplifies his martial intellect. During a brief war waged on Taetrus in 2185, Victus permitted a salarian spy ring to throw their outfits against turian separatists that the general was sent to eliminate, holding his men back until the skirmishers had decimated each others’ forces. This tactic earned him some criticism for the risky and ethically unsound strategy. However, Victus argued that he conserved more of his men and resources with this method and steadfastly maintained that he regretted none of his choices.
Indeed, the general sees little shame in being an opportunist in regards to warfare. Flank the enemy unseen; let them weary themselves and exhaust their resources; then, move in for the kill — swift, effective, and crushingly brutal. Vae victis. His modus operandi may cause many to question the general’s methods and how he thinks, but the general’s sole focus is loyalty and honor to his soldiers and his people.
In 2186, Victus served on Menae in an organized effort to hold back the Reaper forces. It was during this conflict that his predecessor, Primarch Fedorian, was killed when his shuttle was shot down by the enemy. According to his impressive rank in the meritocracy and the Hierarchy’s stringent succession protocol, Adrien Victus was to inherit the mantle of Primarch of Palaven. Like the ideal of the quintessential turian he had both managed to defy and epitomize, he quelled his regret and hesitation, stepping forward to assume his new role. Yet, Victus vowed he would fight to his dying breath to stop the Reapers.
{ Victory…at any cost. }
_»Personality profile:
In his youth, Victus was a more open, impulsive turian. The instigator of conflicts more often than not, he earned little favor with his elders until he learned to marshal himself and others with a cool mind and far-seeing prudence. His fire may have been tempered, but even curbed flames maintain their wildness — and can bite and scar and sear just as hot. Indeed, the fire still simmers in his belly. He is slow to anger, but he rages as bitingly as Palaven’s scorched summers when provoked.
General Victus is older than the average soldier, having reached a position in life that draws from both experience and a steadfast, unwavering demeanor. He is resolved in his actions and rarely acts as he did in his tempestuous and unbridled youth — which varied from idiotic dares to downright recklessness. Victus is someone who comes across as stern and abrupt in his commands, but with a sense of care and underlining compassion as well which has sparked admiration in the soldiers he treats as equals.
War is in his blood, and his soldiers are more than just anonymous weapons; they are his brother-in-arms. Victus’ allegiances are such that he would gladly fight and die standing beside you, a trait for which he has gained recognition and garnered adoration and loyalty from those he fought alongside. To lose a man under his watch is a personal loss that is not shown, but felt, and kept with him throughout his life. Ask the general to list the servicemen and women that have given their lives for the Hierarchy under his command, and he will answer is precise and unswerving detail. A soldier to the marrow, his very being calls for him to be unyielding in his decisions and to accept the loss which war brings without remorse — the greatest of honors for his people is to be remembered, and Victus makes sure to remember them all. His dead, his many dead, are never forgotten.
“The strategist in me admires their brutality. The turian in me knows I’m watching the destruction of fifteen thousand years of civilization. My civilization.”
Primarch Victus is a somber and silent individual when alone. He is an entity who spends his days putting forth all his time and energy into others, only to then find himself at a loss of what to do when it is just him; restless and agitated if he can not find something to occupy his thoughts with. Such things are maddening in a sense, the ever-present silence drowning him, only to be overwhelmed with past transgressions and memories he does not care to recollect. This troublesome rumination was a non-issue when he was still a soldier, when there was no time for sitting, no time for recollecting or waiting or bureaucracy and answering diplomatic transmissions for hours on end.
Victus is utterly obdurate, which time has proven to be both his strength and his weakness. The suddenness of being thrust into a position that the turian general thought would never come during his lifetime had abruptly shattered his world, and placed the battle-forged leader into an entirely different environment from what he was used to — one that he must adapt to and shape to suit his purposes — like any other war-ravaged zone.
_»Current status:
Following the death of Primarch Fedorian and Victus’ subsequent appointment in his stead, he has remained Primarch of Palaven. He has no remaining family left in this fractured galaxy, and continues to throw himself into ensuring the rebuilding of his homeworld and upholding relations with the Hierarchy’s allies [while keeping careful watch on its enemies].
Yet, even though it was not something he personally ever wished to be tasked with, Adrien dutifully accepted the position and made sure to serve diligently in his new rank for the good of his race. He lives by the unspoken code he always has: emotions and desires are trivial vis-a-vis the needs of the many, which far outweigh the needs of himself or his loved ones.
Victus has been forced to employ many methods appropriate for his new position, mowing down diplomats with both mind games and his stubborn resolve, offering peace where previously there had been hostility, and utilizing tactics that he has found to be invaluable within his new position — unusual methods and skills now implemented and used to gain tactical advantage over politicians.
However, a void has begun to open within the battle-hardened warrior. While his schedule is always busy following the Reaper War, the old general has been left with little to fight for. For an individual bred and raised on war, on action, there is now far too much time where he is left with just himself and his thoughts. However, Victus refuses to let this interfere with his responsibilities; his duty and loyalty belong to his people ‘til the day he dies… Victus prays that the Spirits will grant that it is at least with a rifle grasped in his talons rather than in an office.
_»Session Inactivity Notice. Time expired. Logging out …
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