Born a pesant, to pesant workers. Scratching out an existance, amongst the meager scraps. Insignificant, forgotten, and unwanted by the wealthy. Fighting for every credit, amoungst the rif-raff, and villans. Always looking upwards, towards the stars. Someday, one day, in the black.

From namless grunt, endlessly grinding. To Opperations Officer with in the G.O.M, with the Light Horse Brigade. The hard work finally pays off, now respected by my brothers in arms. No longer a peasant, living one day to the next. But a proud pilot, with my own fleet. A corner of space to call my own, and a sence of place in it.