Dirt
C'était toujours de la saleté. Des tranchées terriennes et des trous de renards, des ogives et des cratères d'artillerie. Muck et la boue, le sable et la poussière. Dirt, Dirt et plus Dirt. Kraeger se demandait, combien de temps avait-il passé dans la terre? Pas seulement sur le sol, mais en dessous. Son armure teintait chaque nuance de brun que l'on pouvait imaginer à un moment ou à un autre. Il était certain qu'il avait été couvert de terre bien plus souvent que de sang. Mais combien de temps avait-il passé à s'agenouiller, à s'allonger et à s'étouffer de terre? Les jours, c'est sûr. Des semaines? Absolument. Des mois? Très probablement. Des années? En toute probabilité oui. Des années sur ses genoux ou squatter dans des œuvres de terre, qu'ils soient ses ennemis ou les ennemis. Des tranchées à l'eau et des trous boueux de renards.
Il avait passé un mois entier dans un trou profond de 4 pieds avec de l'eau fétide jusqu'à son nombril. Un mois. Il avait à peine bougé. Quand l'eau allait tremper dans le sol et laisser juste de la boue, il devait se battre pour éviter d'être coincé, il était si épais. Au moment où l'ordre de passer par le haut et de précipiter un bunker fortifié est venu son armure n'était plus gris. Il avait passé plus d'une heure à éplucher des couches de boue après cet assaut.
Et maintenant, il était de nouveau là. Squatter dans un trou. Et cette fois, la saleté l'enterre littéralement. Kraeger avait creusé son trou rapidement, et s'était couvert presque aussi vite. Il ne s'était jamais plaint d'être sale.
Non, maintenant le sentiment claustrophobe, crampé, de pouvoir à peine bouger les bras ou les jambes, squattant incomfortablement sur ses haunches, presque complètement sauf pour sa propre respiration... c'était paisible. Il pourrait penser clairement ici, encore plus que lorsqu'il s'est mis au combat. Pour lui, c'était un temps de réflexion. Un temps pour se reposer et attendre... après tout, il n'y avait pas grand-chose à faire. Ils attendaient depuis des heures à l'extérieur du château. Lui et tous les autres Légionnaires. Ils étaient de beaucoup de légions... la plupart avaient une équipe, bien que la plupart étaient un sac mixte de légions plutôt que n'importe quel groupe unifié. Puis il y avait quelques-uns comme Kraeger, loups solitaires. Pas d'escouade, pas de frères,
C'est juste un marin solitaire. Il n'était pas sûr de ce qu'il ressentait. Il avait été sergent juste avant... et bien son équipe était morte, et c'était presque mal de prendre un autre... pour l'instant au moins. Il secoua la tête à peine dans son trou, ces pensées le tourmentaient. Ils étaient complexes, pas simples comme le trou. Il ne pouvait plus le réduire à des chiffres, son ancienne équipe. Combien de temps a duré sa tranchée? Quelle était la profondeur du trou du renard? Il avait raison d'avoir abandonné sa légion? Son père? Des questions beaucoup moins simples commencèrent à s'infiltrer dans son esprit.
Il ne pouvait pas être plus heureux quand le signal est venu. Comme les autres, le vétéran de Iron Warrior explosa de son hilé dans le sol, c'était assez profond pour masquer sa poitrine et son midriff du feu. Tandis qu'il se tenait la terre était poussé autour d'un cercle, créant une petite barrière pour dissuader un ennemi de simplement rouler un explosif dans sa fortification. Ce serait juste assez. Kraeger a scanné l'élégant château comme des claxons avertisseurs saignés, des gardes humains brouillés pour couvrir et des armes et des défenses automatisées sont venus en ligne. Plusieurs ont déjà été exterminés par d'autres Légionnaires ou ont été engagés au moment où Kraeger a fait surface.
Kraeger a soulevé son propre boulonnier avec un faible grognement, et a choisi ses cibles.
Name: Kraeger Antal
Age: 187
Legion: Iron Warriors
Planet of Origin: Olympia
Physical Description:Kraeger is in every way an Iron Warrior. He has a stern and dollorous countenance. His eyes are a dark accusing grey and he has no hair. His face is thick and menacing with a long sacr running from his chin to his left temple. His left ear is mostly gone, having been lost to a particularly nasty ork and his bald head has several long scars. Wether these were self inflicted or battle wounds is unknown. His Eyebrows are thin and raven black, and he sports no facial hair. Normally he carries a doure expression, free of happiness or hope, only scorn and paranoia. Bags have developed under his eyes after going without sleep for far too long, even for an Astartes Legionaire. His armour, Crusade pattern, still carries his veteran hazard stripes and even the symbol of his legion... though the metallic skull has long since been purposefully defaced, ruined by its owner.
In addition his armour has begun to show sign of hasty and ad-hoc repairs. Magnetic studded plates cover his right pauldron and chest plate and scorch and poc marks have been similarly covered here and there about the armour. In addition, a few more markings on his armour seem to have been defaced in a similar vein to his Legions insignia, though it is unclear what they may have once been. He stands average for a Legionnaire, seven feet and several inches. His right arm is cybernetic, currently it is sheathed in his armour however.
Skillset:Kraeger was a Veteran, a son of Olympia and survivor of many of the Iron Warriors most vicious sieges. He was there during the decimation declared by Perturabo, helping to beat his brothers to death on the orders of a god; and he endured. He was there when walls were cracked and his brothers fell in droves;he endured. He squatted in trenches and fox holes, dirt and muck and shrapnel sprayed over him as well as blood from Legionnaires in the hole with him; and he endured. His skills are those of Endurance and siege, how to stand and fight longer and harder than anyone else. He and his bolter have stood in trenches and in the breaches of fortresses for over a century, and he has endured. He is most talented with his bolter at medium to close range combat common in a siege as well as trench fighting, fortification building, and the assault of strongholds. 
History:'When first I became an Iron Warrior, when first I saw Great Perturabo he gave us an order... an order of decimation. My friend Alris drew his straw and I helped beat him to death with my own hands. When we were ordered to dig a trench or foxhole, and sit for months without moving we did it. When it came time to burst from our fortifications and charge a gunline I did it without hesitation or a second thought. When a siege broke and we were ordered to slaughter everyone within I was the one to carry it out, the murderer who's hand held the axe. When Great Olympia rebelled and I was ordered to do the same to my home I did not question, I simply did. After I earned my stripes and was told to enter a lodge of equals, to discuss amongst brothers I did so. I never questioned an order, not once did I hesitate or refuse.
... Until Istvaan. I knew my orders, after the bombs I was to join in the obliteration of the stragglers. I agreed, never one to question and down our transport went. It never landed. In the atmosphere we were hit and went down. Only I survived. We had landed in... i-it was a pile of my brothers. I don't know how many, I couldn't count them all. For the first time I disobeyed an order without question. I found those survivors and joined them against my own legio- against my Primarchs orders. I struck the skull from my shoulder, I struck the totems and symbols of the lodge... but could not strike my stripes for they at least were my own. As they descended on us I hopped on the first transport away that I could find... I could never go back now... perhaps that was good.
Eventually, I do not know how long now, I came upon a rouge trader. Someone who said he could help me... I still don't believe him but its something. Maybe I can follow the right orders for once... I don't know anymore. I don't trust anymore... oh well, I suppose woe is me and all that. At least here my 'brothers' and good 'father' aren't here to hunt me... yet at least.
Psychological Profile:Kraeger is a bit strange for an Iron Warrior, possessed of a dark sourt of humour. Although he is stern and dollorous as they come, he has a strange wit when it comes to dark or black humour, using his and others misery as a source of comedy. Wether he simply enjoys this or its a coping mechanism is uncertain. What is certain is his wish for justice, justice and vengeance. Unfourtanetly, for his part in the slaughter at Istvaan he understands justice may mean his death... and wouldn't that be great for a laugh?
Equipment:
 Umbra pattern bolter: He has a leather strap he uses to hold it most often when not in use, preffering it to mag locking the bolter to him.
 Plasma Pistol, Stolen: Taken from an old 'friend' of his, he keeps it in a thermally cooled holster when not in use or on cooldown. The custom weapon is larger than most other plasma pistols and more powerful, but heats up much faster. He has taken to calling it the Biting Remark
 Mk.2 Crusade Pattern armour(modified): His armour is slowly becoming modified over time due to the need for repairs and maintenance, though it has not yet become what will one day be known as 'Heresy' pattern armour.
 Entrenching tool: Equivalent to the combat knives of other legions.