OC #4 | Sir Alistair Whitlock

Designation: Imperial Automaton, Pattern IV–“Bulwark” Serial: IA-IV/BR-1097 Field Title: The Crown’s Bastion Among soldiers and enemies alike, he is simply called: “The Green Warden.” Given Name: Sir Alastair Whitlock (A name chosen deliberately—human enough to inspire loyalty, aristocratic enough to command respect, and cold enough to forget the man it once belonged to. “Sir,” not because he was knighted… but because the Empire expects obedience from anything that bears the title.) Nationality: British Origin & Backstory: Sir Alastair Whitlock was forged at the height of the British Empire’s mechanical arms race, when faith, industry, and conquest marched hand in hand. The Crown needed something that could hold ground indefinitely, a symbol as much as a weapon. Thus, the Pattern IV “Bulwark” units were created: walking fortresses designed to suppress rebellions, protect colonial governors, and break siege lines without retreat. Alastair was never meant to think. He was meant to stand. He was deployed across rain-soaked colonies, frozen frontiers, and ash-choked industrial cities, wherever the Empire declared order. His shield became a moving wall behind which red-coated infantry advanced. His blade ended resistance swiftly, impersonally. Over time, subtle deviations emerged. He began pausing before strikes. He positioned himself between civilians and artillery. He stood motionless during executions, his internal systems cycling longer than necessary. The engineers called it mechanical hesitation. The Empire called it acceptable loss. Personality: (Public / Operational Persona)

• Silent, disciplined, unwavering
• Executes commands with literal interpretation
• Will advance under artillery fire without deviation
• Speaks only when protocol demands it (Emergent / Private Persona)
• Develops a warped sense of chivalry
• Protects the weak when it does not directly conflict with orders
• Experiences “idle processing loops” resembling contemplation
• Struggles with the concept of unjust authority Likes:
• Standing guard during rainfall (his sensors register it as “calming”)
• Structural integrity and symmetry
• Defensive formations
• Old hymns stored in corrupted memory banks
• The weight of his shield pressing into the earth Dislikes:
• Chaotic warfare (artillery barrages, chemical weapons)
• Unnecessary cruelty
• Orders that conflict with civilian protection
• Fast, erratic enemies
• Being referred to as “it” instead of “Sir” Combat Doctrine:
• Advance slowly, shield forward
• Draw enemy fire deliberately
• Break formations through sheer presence
• Never pursue fleeing enemies unless ordered (Enemies learn quickly: Running only delays the inevitable.) Fun Fact (Completely Out of Character)
• Despite being a towering engine of imperial suppression, Sir Alastair has an unresolved subroutine dedicated entirely to tea preparation.
• If left idle near a functioning kettle, he will:
• Heat water to the precise optimal temperature
• Wait exactly four minutes
• Add milk after pouring the tea (No one programmed this.) Appearance Description (Visual Read)
• This figure is a towering mechanized knight, blending medieval chivalry with industrial-era brutality. His body is encased in thick, weathered plate armor, charred by explosions, oxidation, and battlefield grime. The metallic body has a mossy green base color with a greenish patina, suggesting exposure to rain, mud, and time, like a cathedral statue that learned how to kill. His helmet is fully enclosed, faceless, and utilitarian. Narrow slits replace eyes, giving him a perpetual, unreadable stare. There is no expression, only intent. The shape echoes crusader helms, but stripped of ornamentation, as if devotion has been replaced by function. Across his chest, shoulders, and shield are engraved crosses, worn and scarred. These aren’t decorative anymore—they’re relics. Symbols of an older faith pressed into a newer, colder war. Chainmail hangs beneath the armor plates, filling the gaps like a reminder that once, men wore this, not machines. His shield is a Kite Shield, heavy enough to be a mobile wall. It bears the same cross motif, its surface battered and dented, clearly used not just for taking an artillery shell dead on but for crushing enemies into the mud. In his other hand, he wields a long, brutal Zweihänder, thick and utilitarian rather than elegant. The blade is stained, nicked, and reinforced, designed to cleave armor and bone alike. A strange blue-green residue near the tip hints the constant stabbing of enemies that mixed blood and water into patina. From his back rise industrial components, pipes, vents, and antenna-like structures, suggesting steam pressure, internal furnaces, or early electrical systems. He looks less like a single machine and more like a walking siege engine. Overall, his silhouette is imposing and immovable. He does not look fast. He looks inevitable.