Approved Aorri Besh, The Drunken Jedi


Jedi Knight. If the archives are still correct, that is. Don't think Zatoq would be letting one of her best duelists go, now, would she?
Late twenties, in Galactic Standard Years.
A Kaleesh; nearly six feet tall. Often clad in a turban, traditional robes that bear similar patterning to that of his kin. A carved mask of bone taken from a felled erkush completes the ensemble.
Yes. Even with the alcohol. Imagine if he were sober.
– Starfighter, Aurek-class.
– Lightsaber, standard configuration. A burnt orange blade extends from the hilt when activated.
– Cylindrical "ravado" saber sheath and blade-diffuser (experimental).
– M3-M8 ("Me Mate") Astromech Droid.
– BL-28 Blaster Pistol.


Life, I have found, is often unforgiving to the loyal.

Take Awarani. A fine student-- the finest a Jedi could ask for, really. Had to leave her family behind, but ensured her loyalty to the Order. Asked the right questions; believed the right lies. Even still, she'd always asked if she could visit her family, her sister-- but never pushed too hard, never called my judgement into question. When I'd caught her attempting to send a letter back home, I'd let her; she'd apologized for days after. I understood, really-- the need to say something, anything, so I allowed her the chance I'd never been given. And beyond that day? Excelled in training-- a natural talent for the Force. Would spend hours in the Archives, reading what she could about the history of the Jedi, absorbing their past teachings to better understand my own. Loyalty.

Loyalty to me. Loyalty to the Order. Loyalty which meant accompanying me upon a mission to a fringe colony to investigate rumors of Sith occupation.

Loyalty that ensured her faith in my ability to save her when a stray bolt struck her neck. My connection to the Force was weak; weaker than hers. Wasn't able to heal the damage. Sabers were always her blindspot-- I'd always told her that, always drilled deflection maneuvers. Form V, Shien variant. Even worked a few teachings from Ataru into sparrings-- she was a novice, yes, but all apprentices were. She'd needed more time. I'd told them she'd need more time, and they sent her along with me anyways. And while we had been sitting in that damned Republic transport cruiser, approaching that backwater shithole of a planet, Awarani had turned to me as if she'd known. I trust you, she'd said. Loyalty.

Sitting in that damned Republic cruiser, she'd died in my arms while we'd departed. And what did she get for being loyal, then? A remembrance, a word of grief from her acquaintances, and a firm order not to disclose any important details to the family. So I obeyed, for a while, until I couldn't stand the guilt and sent a singular message to Felucia, hoping that Rani's relatives could, at the very least, find closure. So they could be rewarded for their loyalty to their daughter by receiving a letter I wasn't even allowed to send, bearing information they weren't even allowed to know. And perhaps it was for the best, I'd reasoned. For a time, I'd wanted to visit the planet myself, tell them myself. I had been forbidden from going.

And so I remained.

They'd buried her, and that was that. I tried to move on. Moreover, I turned to my old Master for guidance. Ulten Syvor was hardly a perfect man, but he'd raised me into the Knight I was then. Taught me all I knew. We were close with one another; we trusted one another. There was hardly a man more devoted to the Order, at the time-- a man whose heart bled for peace, ached for balance. The Mandalorian Wars extracted a toll upon the Order that was felt for over a decade; no aid was to be extended, no intervention that would not be met with exile. He opposed the ambivalence of the Order as much as the war itself, but kept his lips tight and his mind at peace. Focus on what you have the power to change, he told me-- and so he did. Loyalty.

And so the Mandalorian Wars ended, and a new front began. Poetic, perhaps, that the Jedi were such a fierce target of Revan's new order-- and fitting that it were the loyal Jedi that so readily bore the cost. Syvor, being a skilled warrior and Force user, was a primary target of Revan's sweeping cleanse of the Order-- which meant the constant threat of Sith assassinations. The constant threat of death being a mere misstep away would begin to crack any man's conscience, and Ulten was no exception. He began to become weary. Paranoid. But, above all else, that trust remained. I stood by him, at his guard, when he received anonymous correspondence that a Sith adept-- Vinor Jakal, a name he hardly knew and hardly cared to know-- and his apprentice were currently bound to intercept our travels. We lured them to Rodia, kept ourselves company with stories and holochess, and waited to spring our trap.

We hadn't expected it to be easy, and yet the result was still far worse than we could have imagined.

Jakal's apprentice had been tenacious. Skilled in the force, from what he could tell, though an apprentice all the same-- the force-lightning she unleashed nearly killed herself in addition to Master Syvor. Presuming her dead-- or, at the very least, deserving of some measure of mercy-- I turned to the matter of Jakal. Syvor had nearly been incapacitated by the lightning, and a slice to his midsection put him down for the rest of the fight; it was up to me to finish what my former master had started. Jakal was weak; a cornered animal. I cut his saber arm from his shoulder. Then, when he begged like a dog-- as men like him were apt to do, in their final moments-- I lopped his head from his neck. By the time I'd returned my attention to the apprentice, they were gone. Dead, hopefully. I alone stood the victor, avenging my master. My friend. Loyalty.

And yet, the victory was short-lived. Ulten became a cripple; worse still, he became jaded with the Order, their teachings, and their treatment of him in the aftermath of our phyrric victory. Blind in one eye, and stricken with spasms in his dominant arm, he confided in me the depth of his injury and the nature of his helplessness. I listened, for I could do nothing else to help; I watched, agonizingly, as the great man I knew fell to darkness. Innocent inquiries as to the true allegiance of our betters, at first. Then, nights spent in the Archives, reading forbidden entries. Whispers of Korriban. Of Revan. The Order was weak; he was not. The seduction of unnatural power had stolen away his reason, and I was forced to act when he confessed his desires to defect. Out of courtesy-- out of loyalty-- I gave him a chance to leave, to exile himself and never return. The pain in his eyes was secondary only to his rage.

And so I fought him. For the Order. To preserve balance, and to kill this thing that had poisoned the memory of the man I once loved as a brother. It was simple enough, really. He knew he was in no shape to duel me, but he fought regardless. Perhaps to make me hurt. But it was a simple bout-- I knew his weaknesses, after all. The weakness in his right arm, the blindspot of his right eye. How could I not best him?

The Order accepted my recounting of the incident. An audit of his activity within the Archives and a search of his starship revealed plenty more beyond my testimony, and I was hailed as a hero for the murder of my friend. For his years of unyielding faith to the Order, Ulten Syvor was rewarded with a death reserved for lame cattle. They did not bury him, and so I returned his body to Corellia; they did not grieve him, and so I bore the burden alone. I see them, sometimes-- Awarani Tor and Ulten Syvor. Visions of the dead, here to remind me of what I have taken from those who trusted me. The liquor is often enough to dull the shades, but there is no escape within my dreams. Those, I bear forevermore.

That is my reward. For my loyalty.

And so I remain.


Your blade is your arm. It is your hand, your fingers-- your bone and sinew, your flesh made iron will. Pray you do not lose it.

Trained in the arts of swordplay from a young age, it was only natural that Aorri translated these skills to lightsaber combat upon induction to the Jedi Order. His extensive discipline in the Seven Forms has come at the expense of his force abilities; while his copious alcoholism has neutered his connection to the force to basic offensive maneuvers-- simple force leaps and saber-tosses-- the relative dampening of emotions and flow state the Kaleesh experiences are both enablers of terrifying skill. Those who have yet to see him fight drunk are apt to underestimate him.

Aorri Besh welcomes this blunder.

The oldest of forms, and the most fundamental. With an emphasis upon collected, unrelenting strikes and non-lethal disarming of the opponent, Aorri mastered as much knowledge as was necessary to move onto subsequent disciplines; however, given its potent similarity to traditional swordfighting, much of the Kaleesh's blend of styles incorporates defensive stances reminiscent of ancient weaponry. The shorter blade of Aorri's saber-- not quite as small as a shoto, but not quite as long as a traditional blade-- allowed him to practice a method of swordplay that was largely one-handed, with the off-hand often used as a counterbalance.*
*For visual reference, think of a traditional chinese jian and the flourishing stance used therein. - Q

Arguably the form with which Aorri is most well-learned, the Second Form encouraged flourished movements, elegant movements in tune with strikes, and precision with the strikes of a lightsaber. It was the use of Makashi-based feints that allowed him his victory over Vinor Jakal-- a fitting fate, perhaps, given the form's proclivity for use against Sith duelists.

Aorri's skill in this form extends to tight defensive maneuvers when cornered; additionally, under conditions that may exhaust the Kaleesh, the Third Form is a reliable means to conserve stamina while maintaining a proper defense against opponents. While not as extensive as his knowledge in Makashi, Aorri's study of Soresu has afforded him foundational defensive tenets that help to cover blindspots in his skillset.

By far the least-studied of the Seven Forms for the Kaleesh, given its reliance upon the Force. While his baseline skills as a Jedi allow him basic maneuvers-- longer strides, stronger leaps, and the ability to manipulate his blade with the Force-- anything advanced is simply beyond his reach, and leaves a gaping weakness in an otherwise strong defense. Given his propensity for practical combat over that of the Force, Aorri has opted to study that which allows him a concrete defense against force abilities from potential opponents, and nothing more-- as anything more is beyond his capabilities, given his present condition.

Given his unreliable ability to detect blaster fire with the Force and dodge accordingly, Aorri has adopted tenets from the Shien variant of the Fifth Form to aid in his ability to defend against blaster fire and deflect bolts when applicable. Given his propensity to rely upon the Second Form, he has not given much time to study or practice Djem So, the second variant of the Fifth Form.

Derivative. All that he could learn from Niman has been tought in prior forms; he avoids the Sixth Form like the plague, and looks down upon practitioners of Niman. It is complacency.

The forbidden form; the Ferocity Form, as known in restricted archival retellings of the Seventh Form's tenets. Reliant upon fervent emotion and controlled rage to garner a relentless offense that surpassed even Shii-Cho, it has been promptly banned in several circles of the Order due to its tendency to seduce practitioners to the dark side of the Force. That ruling was, of course, when the Jedi were not being slaughtered like cattle in their very temples.

And what better duelist to rely upon anger than one that has dulled it beyond relief?