Weapon Skill :35
Ballistic Skill: 42
Common Lore Adeptus Arbites: +10
Common Lore Imperium: +10
Speak Language: Low Gothic
Speak Language: High Gothic
Melee Weapon Training: Primitive
Basic Weapon Training: Solid Projectile (SP)
Zarkov was born to a farming colony on a hive world. He grew up on the farm, learning from his father how the land was formed and what parts were most suitable to grow crops and livestock on. As Zarkov aged, he realised that his family was always more prosperous than the the neighbouring families. He discovered that his family was trading in illicit drugs and their farms income, although adequate, paled in comparison to the money that the drugs were bringing in.
Zarkov prided himself in being an honest and hard working person, however he was naive, he reported on his family and joined the Adeptus Arbites. His fellow students knew about the betrayal of his family and did not take kindly to it. Fearing that Zarkov would betray them were they to step out of line, they ostracised and bullied him throughout training. By the time Zarkov had completed his training, he was a dry husk of his former self. Filled with loathing for his fellow students he vowed that he would not rest until he had brought his former squad-mates to ruin. He began to plant drugs in their lockers, remove evidence that they had acquired and tip off people they were investigating.
In the process of bringing his colleagues down, Zarkov learnt that he didn’t respect people, he didn’t need to do the right thing and that playing by the rules only slowed him down. By the time he got off-world, Zarkov had few allies, but those he had, he had an almost obsessive loyalty to.
Zarkov had been with this crew of misfits for what seemed like an eternity. The horrors he had seen, the unhuman demonic entities no sane man should have to look upon gore and gib, strewn across the streets, bodies piled shoulder high… and not a damn thing he could do about it. He looked around him now, in the mess hall surrounded by his crew of fuckups. They ranged from the ineffective Castila to the incompetent Alleoric. Damn fool caved in a mans skull who we were trying to interrogate! Worst of all though was a decrepit, cowardly, pathetic excuse for a man whose name was Faggen.. the team referred to him sardonically as ‘Scumlord’ Not only was he downright incompetent at nearly every task assigned to him but he was a downright danger to the team.
Zarkov took a long drag on his Iho. Fucking things wouldn’t be the end of him, he didnt care what the fucking surgeon told him. Zarkov new that if something was going to kill him, it would no doubt be scumlord. Being forced to lead this band of rejects through the perils of space made him look back on the days spent in the academy with longing. At least then he new what shit was going to be ahead of him during the day: a beating here, a prank there… Out here though… No command, no mission, no idea what the fuck some higher up thought was the most ‘efficient use of human resources’.
Zarkov took one last drag on the Iho before crushing the butt under his foot and stood up. He looked around him, eyes scanning the room. Eyes finally coming to rest on the one man he knew he could rely on. The last man he wanted to. In a shadowy corner of the room, in a black bodysuit playing with what looked like… some human hair sat Pistol. The man who had killed a squadmate with almost no provocation seemed to be the only reliable teammate left.
Zarkov turned to the door of the mess hall and as he left he muttered to no one in particular “I gotta get the fuck outta here”