Some thug with a gun
Driven by an unyielding lust for wealth and prestige, Emir above all searches for the ways to imprint a lasting legacy upon the Imperium and those that follow in the retinue; and is despoiled by the greed that accompanies such lofty aspirations.
Emir is cunning and hedonistic at best, obsessive and tyrannical at the worst.
High risk? High reward? There can be no other alternative or middle ground. Either all plans and actions benefit by large, or must be manipulated into doing so.
Merchant goods, weaponry, STCs, salvage ops, Xenos gear, information, slave and drug trafficking, it matters not what a trade house aspires to. Any job that can yield the maximum benefit for power will be considered.
Emir believes that whatever can be exploited, should be, and what cannot be bought or captured, should be annexed by force.
At the end of days it doesn’t matter the exact path taken, but that the nigh-immortal legacy being created will garner the fear and respect needed to flourish.
Standing tall, albeit with bad posture, Emir gives an air of authority and ruthlessness. His somewhat lanky build betrays the coldness of his grey colored eyes. Intolerance and paranoia dot the sharp features of his face; flecks of blond amidst the red hair of his short-cropped beard and combed-back hair.
Never wishing to forget the call to his Rogue Trader legacy, Emir has the full contents of his Warrant of Trade tattooed on both of his forearms, and branded on his back. The time spent as a prisoner by the Chaos regiment still shows as the Eight Pointed Star carved below his collarbone.
Born unto and orphaned on the hiveworld Caldera, Dimir knew neither the affection given by a family nor the steadfast bonds of friendship that come with camaraderie shared by peers.
Growing up on the filth sodden and overrun streets, Emir knew at a young age what it means to represent survival of the fittest. Turning to assault and bloodshed just to eat or build shelter to last the night, violence and ambition were the ways of the world; as common as breathing. Those without the skills to sabotage and murder were destined to become the next penniless corpse beside a ditch at daybreak.
During the countless and infamous press-gangs, scores of members of the Departmento Munitorum would turn to the cesspool of hiveworlds coercing and rounding up tens of thousands of wayward and cast aside youth for potential conscription into the Astra Militarum or the Adeptus Astartes. Emir was just one such lucky example.
Failing all but two of the necessary tests for Aspirants; scoring high in aggression during the psychoanalytic exam, and equally well in the ballistic practicum, Emir was shipped with the rest of the failures as Guardsmen to Cadia to “toughen up”. It was here that he spent many exhaustive and ruthless years training to be nothing but a disposable pawn and human cartridge under the banner of the Imperial Guard; until a relatively small event changed said path.
A legion of Chaos Undivided stormed the outer walls of the fortress world and captured a few dozen regiments of the newly broken Guardsmen. Taken to labor and death camps just outside the reaches of the Eye of Terror, those deemed worthy enough to be slaved were carved with the Eight Pointed Star below the collarbone and sent to perform tasks to maintain the black crusade. The rest would be slaughtered wholesale.
Emir and a large portion of his regiment were assigned the task of maintenance and upkeep on the weapons and vehicles used by the Chaos forces. After months of physical degradation and torture, Emir would concoct a scheme with the remaining ex-Guardsmen to escape and seek life. Or suffer a vile and abortive death.
With the attempt in tow, Emir and the others simultaneously hijacked numerous escape vessels and small craft to escape the death world that had interned them.
Only partially successful, Emir was the only one to survive albeit at a cost; his ship sailing from the ionosphere clear into a incoming warp storm.
Tossed and battered like a ragdoll, Emir suffered extensive physical and mental harm. The fading glow from the ships geller field indicator reflected the cosmic horrors and eldritch forces seen outside the crafts’ starboard porthole; the hull and interior walls of the ship visibly shifting into impossible contortions and bleeding a slow, dark ichor.
As fleeting and violent as it began, the ordeal ended. Now stranded inside the Koronus Expanse, Emir’s small craft was discovered by the passing fleet of a renowned and ancient Rogue Trader. Centuries of costly rejuvenation and youthening procedures had rendered the aging and fragile Rogue Trader infertile. However as feeble as his body was, his mind and teachings were as vast as the expanse itself.
Emir was enthralled; after being taken in by the Rogue Trader’s retinue this was the next closest thing he could call a family. Day after day Emir rebuilt himself by studying and working to improve the trade house and seek his master’s approval and acceptance. Taking increasingly risky and high-rewarding contracts using his knowledge of the criminal underworld, Emir was named the inheritor of his master’s legacy and the just as ancient and renowned Warrant of Trade, signed by the Emperor Himself and three of His Primarchs.
And now here begins the building of a new dynasty, by whatever machinations necessary. All ends justify all means.