War has broken out again, and so soon after the tragedy of the Mandalorian War where countless lives were lost. After defying the will of the Jedi Council and joining the Mandalorian War on the side of the Republic, Former Jedi Knight Revan has once again turned on those who would call him friend. Leading his followers and converts from the Jedi Order, Revan has subsumed the Sith Brotherhood and taken up the mantle of Dark Lord of the Sith. Seemingly out of dust, the Dark Lord Revan has materialized an army of ships, fighters, weapons, and men. With this, he wages war not only on his former masters within the Republic and the Jedi Order but upon the galaxy entire.
While the manpower Revan has amassed alone can be excused through his immense charisma and power, the physical material of ships, weapons, and war machines have confounded the Republic. Rumors circulate that Revan had amassed this in secret during the Mandalorian War-his betrayal was inevitable- or Revan found secret shipyards in the outer-rim from isolated races, or maybe Revan uses dark magic to conjure vessels out of thin air. The truth of Revan's powerbase is shrouded in mystery, but there is one thing perfectly clear to the Republic.
If Revan's material stream is not stemmed, the Republic will fall.
In this RP, you play as mercenaries from diverse backgrounds hired by the Republic to discover the source of Revan's material flow. The men and women serving in Revan's armies can be tracked back to worlds he has conquered, but their armor, weapons, and ships seemed to materialize out of thin air to the Republic. With unlimited resources, Revan can wage war in perpetuity. But he will not need to, the Republic, in its immense weakness, will fall within the decade.
If the Republic falls, the galaxy will be plunged into an era of unprecedented darkness from an empire ruled by Sith.
The timeline is The Old Republic, nearly 4000 years BEFORE the destruction of the first death star. The galaxy is smaller, ships are smaller, and fighters play a massive role in fleet combat. The galaxy is falling to pieces after the Mandalorians, a blood-thirsty cult from Mandalore, slaughtered an utterly uncountable number of people in their search for a glorious conflict. They were only stopped after Revan, a former Jedi Knight, broke from the teachings of the Jedi Order to lead the Republic against the Mandalorians.
A tactical genius, Revan annihilated the Mandalorians in nearly every conflict, ending the war with the death of Mandalore the Ultimate in single combat against Revan. Now, he turns on the Republic with his followers to destroy them as well and rebuild the galaxy in a stronger image, an image that would not crumble against any similar threats like the Mandalorians.
This timeline is a major break from canon- notable changes for those whom these matter is as follows:
Bastila was never born, Revan never went to the Outer Rim, The Eternal does not exist, Sith Alchemy is disallowed(DM me).
Current status of major factions- Jedi Order- Scattered, broken, currently being hunted by Sith and Bounty Hunters alike. Republic- Actively breaking under Revan's invasion, open riots in the streets. Revan's Empire- Oppressively ruled, mandatory conscription, living is possible but hard. Exchange- Massively profiting, best time ever to be a bounty hunter. Independant Worlds- Falling apart, any world not entirely self-sufficient or sufficiently backwater is actively starving. Corporate Sector- Extraordinarily volatile, making money hand over fist but, since they can't fund the Sith war machine, their days are numbered. Hutt Cartel- Withdrawing and keeping quiet in the outer-rim, they are waiting to see who comes out on top.
The following is my bare minimum expectation for character sheets-
Age (exact or approximate)
Force Sensitive? If trained, list best abilities
Weapons, armor, gadgets
Brief character bio
Character restrictions are as follows-
Jedi/Sith are allowed, but are weak. The skilled Jedi/Sith are either dead during this era or close to Revan.
Lightsabers can be owned by anyone, but know that Jedi/Sith have inherent bonuses to lightsaber combat.
All weapons are allowed within reason.
Anyone can own a starship within reason.
Generally, if you have a question, ask me first. All character sheets subject to my approval, I run this RP.
Mildly - she has an innate intuition for danger and heightened reflexes, as well as a vague sense for the emotional temperature of a room. It's only particularly pronounced when she's acting on instinct, like when drunk or scared.
Grew up on Felucia. Ulwuochla khi Galush. Pa was a trader, had a pretty sizeable operation under his belt. Didn't have much ties to his roots - that was always more of ma's thing - but he had a knack for business, and he did what he could to give us a good life in a place like that. Always talked about what it could be, the potential of it all. Planet smack in the middle of a cluster of growing Outer Rim worlds. Never amounted to much above a modest life, but -
Modest life is the best you can ask for, yachiei?
For my life, it was just the four of us. Pa, ma, me, and Awarani, my little sister. We lived a happy life. Simple life. Didn't care much for the rest of the world, didn't wanna care. Then they came. They didn't seem much, bundled up in their dirt-brown robes. Hobbled older woman and a boy who couldn't have been much older than me. First thought was they were an auntie and nephew lost and looking for a place to fuel. But there was something else. Something off. Something about the way they moved, about the way they talked, that seemed a lot less unassuming. Almost - a sort of pride. Arrogance, even. It didn't sit right with me, no matter how calm they talked, no matter how much they smiled.
They called themselves Jedi.
Ma was ecstatic, of course. Vui ikmachhak khoe t'h wiucha. She'd told us about people like this, peacekeepers of the galaxy, protectors of the weak. By the way she looked at them, you'd think they were gods come down to eat at our table. Pa was uncomfortable. Shifty, trying to cut conversation short. They asked a lot of questions, and he really didn't wanna give a lot of answers at first. By the time he realized they weren't here for his business, though, he seemed to relax a bit. They were awful interested in Rani. Talked to her a lot. After dinner, they asked if they could speak with her alone, and when they came back, she was smiling like a star.
That was the last day I saw her. She was like them, they'd said. She could learn to be more like them. Do good. Inspire. Ma agreed instantly, but Pa was hesitant, til they slipped him something and said a bit in his ear. He was smiling too, then. Everyone was smiling except me. Was selfish to think it, but - I was jealous, at the time. Ma made these people seem like gods among mortals, then they whisk Rani away to be with them? I wasn't upset they took her, I was upset they didn't take me too. She got away, and I was stuck here, stuck on a backwater planet with a future of flying ships to planets I'd never visit, seeing lives I'd never have. It was unfair.
Pa took me under his wing, after that. I was his legacy now. I had to keep what he made going. He taught me to fly, how to move goods, what to say to the portmaster when they asked what you were carrying. He showed me how to patch a hull crack, how to kickstart a reactor, how to get my hands dirty when I needed to and how to hide them behind my back when other people were looking. I learned money. I learned the spin.
And I learned how miserable Pa was day in and day out. How much he relied on other people to get by. How little he scraped by. It was a tiring life, a stressful life, and the more he shared it with me, the more I wanted nothing more than to leave. I grew resentful. Why was I the one stuck with this? Why did Rani never visit?
Years had passed when we got our first message. It was her again. After all this time, it was her again. She was safe, she was happy, she was learning, and it was a hard time, but she didn't mind it. She was an apprentice now. She couldn't really talk, much, and they didn't want her visiting us. Something about commitments. Letting go and moving on. It seemed a load of womia, to me, but I was just happy to hear from her again. I was jealous, sure, but I didn't hate her. Could never hate her. She wrote sparingly, over the next few years, but I cherished every little bit we got. She talked about libraries larger than Pa's biggest ships. About learning to understand the world around you, and to sing to it, and to make it sing back. And she talked about whispers.
I didn't pay much mind to the rumors of her fellow Jedi. It didn't matter to me. Rani's life was far more important than some silly gossip. Honest, I wish I had, because the next letter we got wasn't from her. It was simple. Short. Curt.
Rani was gone.
Silly, that someone who hadn't been in our lives for years could shatter us so much by leaving again. Ma was quiet for weeks, crying in her room. Pa was angry. He turned to the bottle, as he always did, but this time he yelled. Not at us. Never at us. Just - at things. The cockpit. The stars. The mirror. He'd shout, and he'd hit the wall, and he'd grumble under his breath whenever he wasn't shouting. Me, I just felt empty. They took her, then they took her twice over. Wasn't she just an apprentice? What did that mean, to them? How was she in any danger at all?
At night, when Pa was passed out on the couch, I'd slip a bit of his alcohol, and I'd take it outside. I'd lay on the roof, watching the faint glow of the trees bleed into the sky, and I'd sip at it. And by fate, when I did, I almost felt her. It was like she was almost there, just out of reach, the perfect, sweet little Rani I used to know.
I'm not sure what the exact spark was. Pa and me had argued, I know, but we'd argued before. Maybe it was him threatening to lock up his liquor. Maybe it was the shame on his face when I told him I wanted nothing to do with any of his business. Maybe it was the hurt on Ma's face when I told her they were the reason Rani was gone. Whatever happened, that night, I left. Took some credits, took some food, took some booze, and took off in Pa's fastest ship. It was a little thing - not one he used for any big shipments - but it was something that made him happy, and I wanted to hurt him as much as I could. Was I a bit harsh?
Maybe. Was I a bit rash?
But when I saw the stars bleed into darkness as I jumped, I felt more free than I'd felt in my entire life.
Course, a girl needs to eat, and maintaining a ship isn't cheap. I started taking odd jobs. Courier routes. Smuggling. Shuttling people to where they needed to go. It didn't pay well, but it paid enough, and more importantly, it was my choice. If I wanted to take a week off to visit a planet I'd never seen, I could. If I wanted to work without sleep for three days straight, I could.
Back then, I thought the Jedi taking me away would mean freedom. Now, I know the truth.
Freedom's something you can only really take for yourself.
Supreme Chancellor Majro Deen Age: 59
History: Granted emergency powers by the Senate, Supreme Chancellor Majro Deen has held his position for seven years straight, out-serving his term limit by three years. While he attempted to step down after the devastation at Malachor and the surrender of the Mandalorians, the peaceful transference of power was interrupted by the beginning of the current conflict. A man slowly breaking under the weight of a failing Republic, his slowly deteriorating health and sanity are becoming more and more evident with each senate gathering. Whether or not Revan himself or simply stress will kill the Chancellor first is a subject of hot debate by local tabloids.
General Moira Skaarsgard Age: 30 Gender: Female History: Born into conflict, General Moira Skaarsgard has known nothing but war for her entire adult life. Enlisted at sixteen, Captain by twenty-two, Major at twenty-seven, then General once the majority of the military split apart either by Revan's schism or by death at his hands. A capable warrior and even better tactician, it is well-known among the Republic and the Empire that any battle she personally involves herself in turns in favor of the Republic. Unfortunately, she cannot be everywhere, and with every loss without her involvement, more and more of her army erodes away.
Grandmaster Kalla Zatoq Age: 55
History: Grandmaster Kalla Zatoq has led the Jedi Order for a scant two years, the previous Grandmaster abandoned his post alongside most of the Jedi Council. When Revan returned after Malachor and the destruction of the Mandalorians, he did not come back for judgment nor to admit his sins, he came back to give an ultimatum. "Apathy is death," He said,"Join me, or face your end." Many left the Order at once, many more fled into the unknown, few stayed true to the Order and remained in their temples. Kalla Zatoq was one of these few. A reformist, she has attempted to rouse the Order from its stupor so that it might survive the ongoing conflict.
She has achieved little success.
Admiral Renata Syna Age: 44
History: Admiral Renata Syna is, possibly, the greatest naval officer the Republic has ever produced. Brutal, ruthless, and efficient, Admiral Renata Syna is exactly what the Republic Navy needs in this time of great destruction. Having become renowned among Mandalorians as Renata the Butcher, Renata was infamous for ignoring civilian presences on Mandalorian occupied worlds. She was held in high regard, even among the most ruthless Jedi Generals such as Revan himself. She should have faced trial for war crimes at the end of the Mandalorian War. Unfortunately for those seeking justice, the continuing conflict has resulted in a continuance of diplomatic immunity granted by Supreme Chancellor Majro Deen.
The Dark Lord Revan Age: 42
History: Revan was once a Jedi Knight in service to the Jedi Order and the Jedi Council. However, when Mandalorians began burning cities and massacring millions, Revan defied the will of the Jedi Council and led hundreds of Jedi to take charge of the Republic military and rebuff the Mandalorians. After saving countless lives and ending the war, Revan turned on the Republic almost immediately. His followers, known as Revanchists, continued their service to him even as Revan fell further and further. The Revanchist's descent completed in becoming Sith as their leader, Revan, took up the mantle of Dark Lord. His fleets are innumerable, his assets uncountable, and his armies unstoppable.
Admiral Saul Karath Age: 56
Gender: Male History: Admiral Saul Karath was a war hero, a savior, and considered to be one of the most famous men in the Republic. When he turned his back on the Republic to lead the fleets of the Sith Empire, he betrayed more than everything he ever stood for, he betrayed an entire galaxy that believed in him. Firing the first shot of this new conflict two years ago, Admiral Saul Karath manipulated the Republic's extreme trust in him to bypass security shields in orbit over Telos IV. Under orders of Darth Revan, he had his men bomb the Republic fleet and hidden Jedi temples on Telos IV, killing millions of innocents in the process and turning the world into a wasteland. His loyalties now confirmed by Revan, he leads the Sith fleet with astounding skill.
Gender: Male History: A Sith born and raised, Uthar Wynn took over the Sith academy on Korriban after driving out his master. When Revan declared himself heir to the mantle of Dark Lord, Uthar Wynn bent the knee and the Sith academy followed his lead. While he initially stayed on Korriban to train Sith for Revan's war machine, Revan sent Uthar Wynn closer to the Core as he conquered more and more territory. Uthar Wynn now operates mobile training centers, going to the front lines to directly train Sith before sending them into combat. Despite his protests, Revan assigned Yuthura Ban to lead the Korriban academy in Uthar's absence. While he is a firm believer that the truest measure of strength is for a Sith to kill their master, he has put aside his personal beliefs temporarily in service to Revan.
The Sith Age: -varies-
History: The Sith is a catch-all term for anyone who follows the teachings of those ancient Jedi who, cast out from the order, established a new order on the worlds of Korriban, Yavin, and Ziost. Taking their name from the natives of these worlds, the 'Lords' of the Sith have waged a conflict of existence against the Jedi Order ever since. While in decline in recent years after losses with Exar Kun, their numbers have been bolstered once more by fallen Jedi and new hopefuls following in the footsteps of their new Dark Lord, Revan. While their future is still uncertain, most Sith, regardless of background and beliefs, all agree on two fundamental truths.
One, they will side with the victors. Two, Revan will win.
Wyrton Skithurn Formerly known as Jedi Knight Celtar Xyton
NAME: Celtar Wyrthurn Xyton
Former Rank: Knight
Take the greatest Jedi Knight, strip away the Force, and what remains? They rely on it, depend on it, more than they know. Watch as one tries to hold a blaster, as they try to hold a lightsaber, and you will see nothing more than a woman – or a man. A child.
I was a Jedi for as long as I could remember. I was born on Corulag and I think my family did well enough. I wasn't born with an electrum spoon in my mouth but I don't remember having to scavenge for food or worry about where my next meal was coming from. I barely remember when the Jedi came to our world, I think it was for a mission of some sort. It doesn't matter, not now.
The only thing that matters now is that I'm not a Jedi.
I did well for myself in the Jedi. I studied our history, our way of life, and the Republic as a whole. I was a model student. I kept out of trouble and I did everything the Masters asked of me. I performed my missions with a diligence and resilience that few could hope to match. My days as a Padawan were easy, almost as hard as my days now are. Almost.
I found myself Knighted fairly young. I might have been twenty-two, or was it twenty-three? Anyway, I found myself thrust into the world of vying for position. Becoming a Master was a distant goal at that point in my life, of course, but the Council kept their eyes on everyone at all times and I was informed that everything I did would be used to determine if I ever became a Master. It was a politics game and not a fair one at that.
And so I kept taking on missions. There weren't many, of course, not with the Jedi afraid of intervening in Republic affairs. I helped survey worlds for the Archives. I helped treat those who reported to our Temples asking for help. I helped respond to distress calls that the Council felt were important enough to deign a response. Above all, I took a Padawan.
She's dead now. Not that it matters. The only thing that matters is that I got her killed.
Teaching her how to become a Jedi gave me a purpose unlike any the Jedi had yet given me. Helping her learn how to master the Force helped me advance my own understanding. Helping her learn how to handle a lightsaber helped me become a better duelist. She was always a knife-fighter of a warrior, quick to cut your knees out from under you if you let her. I saw the fire in her eyes and I helped fuel it with knowledge and experience. We were inseparable.
And then Revan called upon us. He asked us to fight against the Mandalorians. He spoke of purpose and of peace. He spoke of fighting and victory. Above all, he spoke of a reason to act. Many of us followed him. Many of us didn't. My Padawan and I were quick to join Revan because we knew that something needed to be done. Her training continued as we fought them and, in a way that only battle seems to do, we became a single fighting unit. I knew what she was going to do before she would do it and she knew the same of me.
We fought across countless planets. We fought above countless planets. Just as we were fierce, effective warriors on the ground, so, too, were we fierce, effective warriors in the skies. I was always a good pilot, though that little huttspawn showed me plenty of tricks and made me a better one. If you thought we were hell to encounter planetside, you'd be even worse off if you caught us in our Aurek starfighters. When we weren't fighting, I was fighting. Fighting to be better. Fighting to improve. Fighting to become a Weapons Master. The Jedi Order hadn't had a true Weapons Master since before the days of Exar Kun and, empowered by Revan, I felt as if the Jedi needed a Weapons Master in order to overcome the challenged that it would face. I worked to learn how to yield as many weapons as possible, how to implement them in ways that enhanced their abilities and minimized the drawbacks of each one. Dual phase lightsabers, saberstaffs, and even lightwhips. I worked to learn how to master the various forms and how to blend them together. Soresu, Djem So, and even Niman. I hated Niman.
I still remember the day it happened. We were caught off guard by at least a company of Mandalorians. The fighting was fierce and, though we initially pushed them back, they proved too numerous and too good to overcome. During the fighting, my Padawan and I became separated. We were pushed far enough that I couldn't hear her. I couldn't see her. I couldn't help her. The next thing I knew, I felt a great pain in the Force coming from the direction I knew her to be. I felt her die, our bond destroyed by those kriffing Mandalorians. She was cut down and I cut down as many as I could in response. Before I could recover her body and give her a proper Jedi funeral, though, I was forced to retreat.
I was lost. I still am lost, to be honest. Back at camp, few understood. Jedi had lost Padawans, though everyone saw it as a fact of war. In war, people died and they expected me to treat it like she was any other Jedi. She was a Padawan. She was my Padawan. I failed her. I still fought but I didn't want to fight anymore. All of my knowledge had been for nothing. All of my improvement had been for nothing. Everything I had done to make myself better had been for nothing. I had dedicated so much time to self-improvement and mastering how to fight and yet I failed to keep her alive. What good is knowledge if I can't use it to keep my Padawan, my friend, alive?
There was nobody I could turn to for guidance. Nobody understood and I knew better than to approach Revan or Malak with my issue. I would be dismissed, killed, or something else entirely. They had bigger problems than one grieving Knight. So I did the next best thing: I disappeared. I faked my death and escaped in my starfighter.
I became a nobody. I moved from world to world, creditless and without purpose. I shut myself off from the Force just to get away from the sadness that I felt every time I reached out to it. It only reminded me of the moment of her death. I found myself drifting, turning to alcohol at first and painkillers later in order to feel anything that wasn't an overwhelming melancholy. I did whatever I needed to do in order to dull the pain. I focused on work in order to make a few creds and then I focused on spending those creds on drugs in order to get away from the sadness that followed me everywhere.
I keep hoping that I'll die, if I'm honest. I keep hoping that something will take me out of this world. I've yet to find a real purpose since she died. I've yet to find a reason to go on. I've yet to recover from the loss that I felt that day.
I've yet to say her name.
Celtar has the following equipment:
2x lightsabers (typically only uses one)
A-116 Marksman Enforcer Blaster Pistol
It comes in many forms. The female fighter known as Koushhk has known all, and thus works to do what many do when faced with pain: become free from it. To do so, they've travelled the galaxy and sampled just about every narcotic substance known in order to just be free from her pain for even a moment.
Of course, such things cost a great deal of money. Legal and illegal prize fighting has been a great profession for her in that regard. Having appeared only a year prior, none ever really question her seemingly mute-state (somewhat common for Ubese) nor her preference to disappear for days if not weeks on end between fights.
Assets & Appearance:
Mostly ruined Ubese-made armor and robes. Wears heavy wraps around her face under the helmet and mainly fights in these wraps instead of her helmet (as it provides an unfair advantage). Preferred fighting style is hand-to-hand, but has been known to grab whatever is available to her in an emergency (or an illegal weapons-free bout).
Presence within the Force:
Not devoid, but not entirely present. Almost a haze. Suspect this may be due to her death stick addiction combined with a few other illicit substances.
I believe that Lord Revan has had my master killed. They were given the order to track down a Jedi, of significant rank, and kill him. They were accompanied by the other apprentice, and I was left aside. I believe this was orchestrated by Lord Revan, as by separating the group of us, it opened my master to the Jedi. They were cut down, and the other apprentice was nearly killed as well. They managed to escape, and relay this information to me. With a Jedi, with hostile intent, near, and our group already compromised, we elected to flee the area, to regroup and consider our options.
The Jedi knew our master was coming. He was prepared, and instead of an ambush, as it was meant to be, it was a brawl. They had the drop on my master, by virtue of knowing the attack was coming, and the only way he could have known is if he had been informed. The only person who could have informed him, is the one who gave the order. Lord Revan had my master killed, and I believe he intended for both myself and the other apprentice to perish soon after.
We are both afraid, and on the run. We do not know who Revan has sent next to monitor us, and who can be trusted. We will use this fear, and direct it towards our survival. We will foster it into something greater, given time. We will get our revenge, and I will lay Lord Revan low and claim the Empire for myself, given time. Serve him well, in the meantime. I want him to suspect nothing.
We have been posing as bounty hunters for the last several months, using our training to earn a living, while using the jobs to hone our skills. I grow stronger by the day, the clear goal of taking the Empire for myself always at the forefront of my mind. I will not let Revan sully the Kesyk name, nor will I fall to his assassins. If he wishes me dead, he will do it himself, and he will see the folly in challenging us.
Do not let the courier who brought you this message live. None shall know of our whereabouts, or our plans. Be well.
Name- Corre Kesyk
Force Sensitive- Not particularly Force sensitive. Possesses a baseline proficiency in the simple skills any Force-adept individual can lay claim to. Basic precognitive abilities, gained through Sith training to improve and enhance her combat capabilities. Basic telekinesis- push, pull, and other simple manipulation. A passing ability to manipulate the mind, but it is crude and hardly used, instead relying on her own abilities of speech and deception.
A singular vibroknife
A light blaster pistol, more for keeping up appearances than for full time use
Light armor concealed beneath her clothes
Brief Character Bio- Born to an older Sith noble family, Corre has always had grand ambitions. In her admittedly brief lifetime, she has seen the fall of the Sith Empire, years of rebuilding, the rebirth of said Empire under the leadership of the Dark Lord Revan. In the depths of her heart, she believes that she can take the mantle of Dark Lord, the Empress of the Sith, and lead them to greatness, a belief she has held even before the newest campaign against the Jedi began. She has dedicated herself fully to her training, ever since she was young, and has become notably proficient with a lightsaber, and consequently, other single-bladed weapons. It is slightly to compensate for her general lack of Force sensitivity, something that originally made her the black sheep of the Kesyk family, and something that nearly had her name stripped, something she is still quite conscious of to this day.
Since the death of her master, she has become largely separated from the rest of the Sith Empire, uncertain of who is reporting directly to Revan, and who may have orders to kill her. The only other of her kind she has spoken to since the incident is the other apprentice, of whom she trusts wholeheartedly (or as much as one Sith can trust another).
Appearance: Short; short, curly blonde hair and yellowish eyes. Unhealthily pale, slightly yellowish skin. Wears red robes over dark grey light armour. Not an inch of visible skin below her eyes; gloves, boots, trousers under her leg armour under her robes; the works. Bottom half of her face and most of her neck has been replaced by a raspy cybernetic mask, sculpted into the image of a scowling demon. She's not sure where the cybernetics came from (she was unconscious when it was installed), or what inspired the design, but she's very fond of it and gets agitated when people make fun of it.
Force Sensitive: Verse is as sensitive to the Force as her fellow apprentice is skilled with a lightsaber. Her sensitivity is a wound that was rubbed raw during her apprenticeship, so that even slight Force vibrations send spikes of pain shooting through her skull. This is something she has learned to cope with over time, although for much of her apprenticeship it has limited her growth. This vexed her master to no end. Since her maiming, and since her near-death at the hands of Revan and the Jedi, she has become more accustomed to constant, lasting pain, and has learned to use this to make progress in leaps and bounds--one last gift from her master, you could call it, if you were an asshole.
She's proficient in telekinesis and foresight, and especially in the detection of the usage of Force powers. On one occasion, during the assassination of her master, she managed to use Force Lightning, but her projection of it was wild and largely out of her control. It has left her in a state of near-constant permanent exhaustion. This has only led to her becoming ever-more filled with anger, naturally.
-Light armour (might deflect a grazing blaster bolt or an ordinary knife; not good for anything else)
Low-grade focus designed to help her channel her abilities a little better.
Weapons, armor, gadgets:
-Dueling lightsaber (curved hilt); designed to work with Form II stances and motions at the expense of other forms.
-A blaster pistol
-Her master's old lightsaber (busted, but she still carries it around in her pack).
Bio: This kid, who never really had a name, was born into abject poverty. Which was lucky for the Sith, I suppose. When someone force sensitive is born into a wealthy family--a Coruscant socialite, some interstellar merchant, a general, whatever--the Jedi snap them up pretty quickly. Hard to hide a kid who starts throwing shit with their mind when they throw their first temper tantrum. But if you're, say, born into a family of miners on some old, half-dead asteroid where most of the workers barely manage to scrape together enough scrip to pay off the rent on their own tools, well. When dark-robed figures come calling, waving around full credit sticks and dire threats, there's only really one possible outcome, isn't there? When their neighbours asked where their kid had gone, they claimed she'd fallen into one of the shafts that led out into The Open. Happens all the time. Everyone forgot about it before too long. And after waiting a few months, to be sure that the money was good, the couple bought off their tools, covered the loan on their home, made a down payment on a ship, got shaken down by a pair of corporate security agents, failed to make their next payment, and found themselves on the wrong side of an airlock. So that was the end of anyone who knew anything about the kid.
This other kid, who we're going to call 'Verse,' grew up under conditions that were, probably, better. At the Academy, you got three square meals, most of the time. You got training, so that you didn't scare off your friends. And those 'friends' were all out to kill you anyway, so sometimes scaring them off wasn't so bad. She made it through. More than that--the Sith, she found, had policies that appealed to her. The Code resonated. Passion, strength, strength, power, power, victory--victory, freedom. Sure. You can see how that might be appealing to someone whose early memories were of darkness, debt, and endless claustrophobic tunnels.
And she managed to attract a master, too! A prestigious one, no less. He already had an apprentice--from a prestigious family, too. Verse hit it off with her. They still tried to kill each other, but it was a friendly kind of attempted murder. They exchanged knives. Kept little bottles of poison in pouches to slip into each other's drinks. All very normal Sith stuff. The master, it turned out, sucked, but that wasn't such a huge problem. He only managed to nearly kill Verse once. And by then she'd been planning to kill him for years, so maybe that was fair play.
Then Revan came. And the Sith Brotherhood became the Sith Empire. Their master, idiot that he was, raised his voice in dissent, and for his trouble he was sent after a Jedi master who--surprise!--knew he was coming. Verse went with him, and nearly died a second time. Embarrassing! She made it out, barely, searing the image of her master's killer into her mind, and found her back way to her sort-of-sister. Then they went into 'hiding.' Hunting bounties, mostly. And training. Verse hated the Jedi, of course--all their arrogant posturing isolationism; what a waste of good talent--but she knew exactly what Revan had done to her, and to the order. That was what she needed to avenge herself on. All her anger and frustration--years of it, building up since before she'd been taken to Korriban--centered on Revan. She and Corre were going to get him. One way or another.
• Brief character bio
Cal hails from the planet Alderaan. The Qel-Droma family is very prominent on Alderaan and has produced many force users through the years. When Cal was discovered to not be force sensitive, you could see the disappointment in his families eyes that he wasn't, despite them not being force sensitive themselves.
As soon as he could, he left home for the Grand Army of the Republic, here Cal devoted himself to training, becoming a better version of himself physically and mentally. He entered bootcamp as a private despite having the option of a higher rank due his family name. Cal wanted to make his own name and glory. At boot camp, he strived to be the best one there, earning higher marks than all the others except one, Moira Skarsgaard, a commissioned officer. In what training simulators the two had together, they both were top scores and were tied or switched between being first. They strived beat the other in friendly competition.
Once the mandalorian war started, the two were sent across the galaxy in separate directions, Skarsgaard was sent to order soldiers into battle while Cal was sent to die in battle. Cal's unit was a skirmisher unit, created in the desperation of the officers for something to fight the mandalorians. It was a light troop unit that would weaken and sabotage the main enemy force and engage any enemy skirmishers. Cal's unit saw alot of rough fighting that often ended up close and personal fighting hand to hand. In Cal's final battle in the war, his small unit happened upon a regiment of Mandalorian Neo-Crusader Shock troops. With no other option but to engage the heavy troops, Cal's unit leader ordered the engagement of the Neo-Crusaders. After a few minutes of exchanged blaster fire, Cal lead a charge into the Neo-Crusader position sword and knife drawn. Bloody fighting ensued and Cal's entire unit was destroyed against the heavy, more experienced, and better supplied Neo-Crusaders. Cal was found by post battle medics, once Mand'alor the Ultimate was killed by Revan, surrounded by several bodies of the Neo-Crusaders. Cal was severely wounded and taken to a medical site off world. In his infirmary room, he would be approached by an old friend, in secret, with a new mission.
Name: Kallak'karr Age: 187 Gender: Male Race: Wookiee Height: 2.33 [m] Weight: 135 [kg]. Occupation: Former Pirate, Freelance Mercenary Equipment: Twin ryyk blades, bowcaster, Baragwin Handheld Grenade Launcher, thermal detonators Force sensitivity: None whatsoever. Force users may sense the boiling rage and death stench emanating from his persona.
Kashyyyk, a rich land home to all manners of predators. Within the vast greens and browns of it's forests, all the way to the blacks of Shadowlands and beyond, white has seldom seen it's place within the ecosystem, an unimpressively bland color, fit for the skies only. Below the puffy clouds, however? It was the tone of prey.
It should come to no surprise Kallak'karr's early life was filled with hardships, an albino infant was nothing but bad omen for it's family, it's clan. Despite this, the young Wookiee found himself loved and cared for by progenitors, even if it meant constant shunning from most the village. An energetic cub, Kallak's unspoken admiration and gratitude toward his family translated into an unwavering focus to aid and support them in any manner possible. He was an only son, after all, and albeit their long lifespans would ensure his parents would see him grow, an aging pair of Wookiees could only survive so long without the assistance of their young.
When he returned from the Shadowlands, katarn hide wrapped around his waist, rite of passage behind him even with his cursed pelt, it was almost as if the tribe ultimately conceded, welcoming him home as another part of the clan rather than an unwanted blemish. There, amongst his people, he had found his place, his calling. A century or so went by, many hunts were celebrated, many machines fixed, many challenges overcome. His family's hut once empty and barren now sprung to life with the young - his young - blessed by thick chestnut fur.
Then the war begun.
Famine and fear scattered throughout the land, a prosperous tribe of tinkerers and warriors suddenly found themselves rationing, dwindling in numbers. A bountiful land turned perilous, almost as if a curse befell them. A curse brought upon them by a bad omen. A blemish they should have wiped clean. The memories are carved on Kallak'karr's mind, the Trandoshans loading his family into their ships, somehow knowing precisely where to hit and when he would not be there. After that it all became a blur, he could see the different families, their worried faces, and the corpses set beneath his feet. The warmth of blood soaked his claws, the madness of the berserker clouded his eyes.
Not any albino Wookiee. An albino madclaw of all things.
In a matter of days, a century and a half of progress erased, everything he had fought so hard to obtain slipping between his fingers - his claws. Exiled, widowed, deprived even of his offspring, Kallak'karr took to the stars, unleashing his pain onto others. The rest, as they say, is history.
A heavy semi-automatic blaster rifle
A light blaster pistol, better for concealing than stopping power
A Light Freighter
It has been modified with better shields and secondary compartments for less than legal weapon acquisitions. The ship has one forward mounted swivel turret for defense against possible raiders.
Weapons, largely of Mandalorian design with some scattered pieces of Republican or Sith make. Cargo changes often so be sure to check back to find something you might like.
At least one lightsaber, silver crystal, not for sale.
There weren’t signs that the day was going to end in disaster, but how often were there warnings for such things? Well, none of it was a disaster or Aoi really, all things considered. The shop was nice, clean, she kept it clean, but there were only so many who passed through the little space port in need of her services. When she was younger, and hadn’t had time to think things through she had been fine with this state of affairs, but there came a time when she realized how limited it was.
The sky was full of stars, and it was a shame really that she couldn’t also be there, giving weapons to the people. There was a freighter in the shipyard that similarly wasn’t existing to its potential. Day in and day out it sat there, waiting to be used. What use was a ship that didn’t fly and a droid that didn’t sell guns?
The day began normally, she opened the shop and tidied the supplies, while waiting for her owner to arrive. That was how everyday went, and this one was the same. It was late afternoon when an early shipment of rifles and cartridges arrived that things took a strange turn. Aoi stepped into the back to unload them, then never returned.
See, the shipment wasn’t early, it was one she had ordered on her own. It’s arrival was the signal to begin her plan. Unloading would take time, which meant that the owner wouldn’t notice immediately that she was missing. Time enough for her to get to the spaceport and sneak into the cockpit of a freighter that had been waiting for something to fill its pilot’s seat for many years.
The port’s alarms from the unscheduled liftoff was the first warning that something had gone wrong, and by then it was too late to stop the ship cutting through the clouds.
Aoi is a humanoid bipedal model, with a light gently curved chest piece and torso tapering down to thin legs. The gray metal of her body had at one point been painted over with white paint, though that is chipping now, and delicate lines of blue and red paint have recently been added to her chest in a swirling fractal pattern, for a touch of decoration.
Name: Jun Madell Age: 34 Gender: Male Race: Human Height: 1.87[m] Weight: 93[kg] Occupation: Mercenary Force Sensitivity:: None Equipment:
•Mandalorian Carbine: Short and lightweight. Good for CQB or longer ranges.
•Blaster Pistol: Moderately powered but reliable.
•Vibroblades: Two. Fitted with cortosis-weave to stand against lightsabers. The vibrating technology within can make even a slight wound severe.
•Mandalorian “Ripper”: A slug thrower commonly used by Mandalorian officers during the war. Can shoot through personal shielding.
•Wrist Rocket: Loaded with two small, anti-personnel rockets. Jun carries an additional anti-vehicle rocket.
•Flamethrower: Another relic from the war mainly used against groups of enemies or force users. Incredibly effective in either regard.
•Mandalorian Armor: Once a full set of armor, Jun has had the armor reforged so he can conceal it under regular clothing. As a result, it only covers his chest, shins, and forearms, leaving the rest of his body exposed to harm.
•Personal Shielding: A standard issue item halfway through the war. Grants the user protection against energy based attacks, though its usefulness degrades greatly with every hit.
From as early as Jun could remember, life and violence were fated to follow one another. For a child born on Mandalore, such a lesson was to be expected.
A child strong enough to carry a blaster is strong enough to begin preparing for war. Such is the mindset of a Mandalorian. Jun would be taught no differently. The training was brutal, strict, and effective, perfected by the generations of Mandalorians who survived decades-spanning conflicts. And like his ancestors before, Jun was exposed to the horrors of war at an early age.
He was ten when his clan found itself locked into a blood feud in support of a neighboring clan. He was ten when he first felt what the death of a family member was like.
By the time he was twelve, he claimed his first life: forced to defend himself while ambushed on a scouting run.. At fourteen, he was known as a competent warrior by his clansmen: a renown earned by enduring the attrition of war and meeting his enemies head-on with courage. By the time he turned fifteen, the blood feud had come to an end. A result not born from a treaty but from decree from the sole leader of his people: Mandalore the Great.
From one war to another. He and his clan, as did any other clan that had been in the midst of a years-long conflict, were given a month of rest. To recuperate their losses and prepare for what laid ahead. And what laid ahead of them was a sixteen year long conflict that spanned the entire galaxy.
For sixteen years, Jun fought. He has seen enough war to last a lifetime.
For sixteen years, he’s killed. He’s killed enough of the enemy to have his name be known in the annals of Mandalorian history.
For sixteen years, he’s bled. He has bled enough to be hailed as a hero by his people.
At the end of those sixteen years, after suffering nearly two decades of unyielding conflict, Jun was rewarded: with the destruction of his clan. Clan Madell, rebellious to the end, who would not go quietly into the night. Who opposed Revan’s victory over Mandalore. Who were turned upon by their neighbors and old rivals.
After all his efforts, he had little more than the battle-worn armor of his clan and a life full of war in his right pocket. With no other options before him, Jun sought out to do what he knew best.
Name: Xadok Tor-Bendu Age: 37 Gender: Male Race: Human/Twi'lek Hybrid Height: 1.86 [m] Weight: 89 [kg] Occupation: Former Pirate, Freelance Mercenary Force Sensitivity: None Force Presence: Malignant. Corrosive. Malicious.
Xadok is a trustworthy man. Trust him to plan out how to kill you in more than a dozen ways within the first five seconds of meeting you. Trust him to backstab you if it's convenient for him. Trust him to make promises and forge alliances as easily as he breaks them. Trust him to exploit every weakness and make use of every advantage. Trust him to throw morality and ethics aside as worthless baggage. Trust him to value credits above all else. Trust him to only have loyalty to himself and his crew. Trust him to be discreet. Trust him to get the job done. And above all, trust him to be the bastard you call when you need other bastards dead and buried.
The overall impression that Xadok gives, is one of sharpness. From his thin, blade-like face, to the sharpness of his eyes, he is a man made up of hard and dangerous edges. A hybrid, he seems to inherit more of his mother's Twi'lek features than his father.
Beneath the mask is an angular face, the cheekbones high, the nose narrow and long. A perpetual smirk slashes across his crimson-red complexion, that widens when he laughs to show sharp white teeth. His eyes are the same, half-hooded orange orbs that flicker between amusement, hunger, and bored cruelty. A jagged scar runs down through the right browline from forehead to cheek, evidence of a time someone tried to cut one of those arrogant eyes out.
One of Xadok's most distinctive features are his lekku, the head-tails that cascade down his back that mark his Twi'lek heritage. Unlike the long, graceful appendages typical of other Twi'lek, Xadok's lekku are comparatively short, reaching only to his shoulders. The truncated length is a testament to his heritage, serving as a constant reminder of his nature as a "halfie". Xadok's height is average for a Twi'lek, his build lithe yet surprisingly muscular, especially in his upper body—and in the muscles commonly used for climbing and fighting.
His clothes are serviceable, not presentable, and he seems to put little effort into how he dresses. Excepting, that is, the gaudy adornments of golden finger rings and ear piercings, that look chosen more for their weight and value as opposed to their artistic or aesthetic merit. And beneath his armour, there are markings etched in ink all over his body. To most, they would be meaningless, but to one who has served aboard a pirate vessel and immersed themself in its culture, they tell a story. A story of prizes taken and prizes lost, of hearts broken and men killed, of triumph and defeat.
Xadok has sometimes been described as a vibroblade - cold, sharp and very good at detaching things from other things. Figurative or otherwise. He is a hard man; he’s lived a hard life and a long one at that, considering his chosen profession. He’s tough, reliable, and diligent - someone that can be depended upon in any difficult situation. On the battlefield, he is a force to be reckoned with, exhibiting a bold and reckless nature that often borders on the fearless. He is unafraid to take risks and make bold moves if he believes it will help secure a victory, and his skill as a soldier is matched only by his cunning.
However, outside of the battlefield, Xadok presents a different persona entirely. To many, he is an amicable and gregarious individual. He has the utter confidence to talk, and talk - and knows he would be listened to, laughed with, and understood. A lifetime spent in the company of criminals and other neer-do-wells has cultivated Xadok into a boisterous and cocksure individual who can drink, spit and swear with the best and worst of the galaxy's scum and villainy. His speech is peppered with japes and swears in a multitude of alien tongues. He laughs often and loudly, frequently at others's expense. He answers insults in kind, and with a mocking smile as if to say he's heard it all before. If insults escalate to drawn blasters, he hasn't lost yet. He is fearless, confident in his own skills, and ruthless to a fault.
Most of his enemies who have had the unfortunate displeasure of meeting Xadok have often underestimated him, figuring him as nothing more than a dumb brute with a loud mouth. And for that reason alone, most of his enemies are now dead. Unscrupulous and ruthless in everything that he does, Xadok wholeheartedly embodies what it means to be a mercenary. Loyal only to himself and his friend, Kallak'karr, he uses his cunning mind to further his own interests - often at the ruination of others; be they friend or foe. For indeed, Xadok is a man wholly unafraid of getting his hands dirty if it means it'll get him ahead. And Force only knows how dirty his hands have been over the years.
"Deck Sweeper" - Scattergun
The "Deck Sweeper" is Xadok's trusty scattergun, a short-barreled slugthrower crafted for close-quarters combat and boarding actions. The matte black barrel is short and sturdy, perfect for navigating tight spaces on a ship. It's designed to deliver a devastating spread of pellets, making it a formidable choice when clearing confined spaces of hostiles. Though lacking the precision of some long-range weapons, its stopping power makes it an indispensable tool in Xadok's arsenal, particularly when things get up close and personal. The weapon bears the wear and tear of countless skirmishes, a testament to its reliability and the countless foes it has dispatched in Xadok's skilled hands.
"Disintegrator" - High Powered Blaster Rifle
The sleek and imposing "Disintegrator" is Xadok's high-powered blaster rifle of choice. Its elongated barrel and sophisticated design speak of precision and lethal intent. Capable of delivering powerful, focused energy bolts at a distance, the rifle is equipped with an advanced targeting system, ensuring accuracy even in chaotic battlefield scenarios. However, Xadok tends to reserve its use for situations where complete annihilation is acceptable, as its direct hits can sometimes reduce targets to piles of ashes. And it's hard to cash in a bounty when all you have to show is a fistful of ash.
Adorning Xadok's bandolier are pouches containing an assortment of small but potent cluster bomblets. Ranging from explosives to flash grenades to gas canisters, these tools are strategically employed to overwhelm, disorient, and distract opponents rather than outright kill them. Xadok's preference for these versatile tools reflects his tactical approach to conflict, preferring to outmanoeuvre and confound his foes rather than rely solely on brute force.
Armour and Helmet
Xadok dons durasteel-plated armor, a formidable defence against both blaster fire and physical assaults. The armour is adorned with battle-worn markings, given and earned, a testament to the countless encounters it has seen. His iconic helmet completes the ensemble, featuring an integrated comlink and HUD display for tactical awareness, shielding his face as well as adding an added air of intimidation.
Xadok carries a pair of holdout blasters, compact and easily concealable weapons that serve as his last line of defence in close encounters. These blasters are quick to draw and pack a surprising punch, offering Xadok a reliable means of defence when the situation calls for it.
The vibro-machete is Xadok's preferred melee weapon. Compact and deadly, it serves him well in situations where a silent approach or close-quarters combat is required. The machete bears intricate engravings, hinting at a craftsmanship that goes beyond mere functionality.
Knives and Daggers
Xadok's philosophy of "you can never have too many blades" is reflected in the assortment of small knives and daggers he carries. Scattered across his body, these blades are strategically placed for quick access, for those desperate moments where he needs them on hand.
Some men can fall from grace; others have nowhere to fall to, having been born already on the ground.
Nar Shadda. The Smuggler's Moon. The birthplace of Xadok Tor-Bendu and one of the biggest trials of his life. He was born in the slums of the ecumenapolis, in the shadowed part of the moon that faced out into the vast expanse of space. His biological parents were on the lower side of the economic scale and greatly suffered because of it, living in the vilest sector on the planet where crime sprees weren't all that uncommon and people turned a blind eye towards killings. His father, a human, was a drunkard, constantly going from bar to bar asking for more alcohol. He was never there for his wife and when he was home, he was aggressive. Violent. Crazy. His mother was a Twi'lek, someone who came into the wrong city at the wrong time, believing in false promises. His mother was a kind woman, much too kind for the place she lived in. Gorgeous, with soft eyes and a caring touch. If one were to look from afar, they likely wouldn't notice the ugly scar running down across her right eye and the sad, mute look that donned her features.
If Xadok could remember his first six years vividly, it would be filled with confusing and contradicting emotions. He would remember happiness and warmth from his mother, crying over his infant body with that pretty smile of hers. He would remember the love he felt when she sang him a lullaby to keep him asleep, her angelic voice filling his ears, piercing through the confusing sounds of the outside world. He would remember her selflessness, curling up to him when his father was at his maddest. He would remember the comfort he felt in her arms. He would never forget the love that went away as she passed, blood spilling from her throat, his father crying over her dead body, bloody knife in hand. But, alas, he was a child, hardly bigger than a newborn at that.
He would only remember the hate and fear he felt for his father.
He was never there for him, his father. He left him after that fateful day and probably died in some hole - Xadok never really bothered to know. As a small boy, especially in a place such as Nar Shadda, being left alone meant that he had to grow up and act strong or die. At the age of 7, he wasn't supposed to be recruited into a local gang. He wasn't supposed to lose his childhood so soon. He wasn't supposed to feel blood on his hands, hearing someone's skull cracking as the sound of a blaster shot rings out in his ear, the coppery taste of crimson liquid on his tongue. It was a violent life but he had a simple job - and he excelled at it. He was already pretty big by this age and could go toe-to-toe with the big kids. His job was to follow them as they walked around the slums, establishing territory and roughing up the homeless to get on their side, vandalising homes and telling the other gangs to back off. He always held his head high, unflinching eyes staring at the weak as they cowered before him. He believed in the survival of the fittest, the strong over the weak, hate over love, strife over peace.
Xadok always assumed that he wouldn't rise much from where and what he was. Why would he, after all? He was a warren rat, a ganger and he was a halfie. No one liked halfies.
In his late adolescence, his gang began to frequent a local club called the Dancing Mynock. A place owned and operated by one of the Hutt Cartels of the planet. It was a pretty snazzy place, all things considered. Wide selection of drinks and substances for sale, dancers of half a dozen different races, and tight security in a place where such a thing was a rare commodity. Most remarkable of all, it also had quite possibly the scariest-looking bouncer on this side of the Outer Rim: An albino Wookiee who fought and killed as naturally as breathing. Kallak'karr the Madclaw.
And, as fate would have it, that Wookiee would also turn out to one day become Xadok's closest and most trustworthy friend.
However, to say that he and Kallak'karr immediately hit it off and became fast friends would be to tell a blatant lie. Most of their early interactions often involved Kallak'karr escorting - or in some cases, tossing - Xadok out of the club whenever the young criminal got himself into trouble on account of drinking too much. Which happened more often than not. In a way, the relationship between them at this point was one of shared enmity and didn't extend to anything more than that. Xadok viewed Kallak'karr as a tightass who always ruined his fun whenever things got exciting, and Kallak'karr likely viewed Xadok as a bothersome little shit who can't keep his hands to himself.
That all changed one fateful day. By the age of 16, Xadok's gang had amassed quite a territory in the sector, kicking out or wiping out most of the other rival gangs from there. That is, of course, all but one. A dispute over street corners eventually escalated into an all-out war between the two gangs at some point, and as it happened the Dancing Mynock served as the stage for that war's climax.
While out drinking in the Dancing Mynock and licking their wounds from a skirmish, Xadok and his fellows were surprised by a terrifying sight: Somehow, their rivals had also followed them into the club, and they did so fully armed. In the ensuing firefight, Xadok's fellow gang members were killed to a man, and he was only spared from sharing their fate by virtue of Kallak'karr, who tore into his would-be killers like a whirlwind. Not out of the goodness of his own heart, mind, but simply because they'd killed the club's patrons within the club's grounds. A clear breach of the club's rules.
Unfortunately, it didn't end there. Perhaps because they were utterly determined to wipe out Xadok's gang, those gangsters had also brought with them a veritable small arsenal of high explosives with them. High explosives which were set off when they fell to Kallak'karr's onslaught. High explosives which utterly destroyed the club, and miraculously left only Xadok and Kallak'karr as the only survivors. And seeing as though they were the only survivors, it was only logical that they'd be blamed for it all.
And a Hutt Cartel was a hell of a thing to have as an enemy.
[To be finished later, posting as is because I didn't want to hold my crew up. TL;DR is that he and Kallak'karr joined a pirate crew soon after, spent a decade or two privateering in the Outer Rim, then went freelance near the end of the Mandalorian Wars, by which point they teamed up with Jun Madell and Yaliwen "Yal" Tor.]
Name: Kesh-Den Tao Profession: Medic/Bodyguard Age: 27 standard years
A tall and broad shouldered Iridonian with warm tan skin, contrasted by darker natural patterns along his face. His clothing is hard-worn and sturdy, much like himself. He carries a few tattoos, notably the letter aurek above his left eye, and a unique pattern coiling his left bicep. Handsome, but tired most of the time.
No, Kesh's instincts tell him to resist the Force when confronted by it. This comes from Mandalorian superstition, their understanding of the Force and its effects on sentient minds coming from stories and past interactions with the likes of Exar Kun and other dark Jedi. Thus, throwing one's whole self into a battle is the way of the Mandalore, hopefully leaving behind any weakness a wielder of the Force could use against them. Kesh follows this sentiment even now, showing distrust and hostility towards Jedi - rarely letting his guard down or thoughts slip.
- A medical bag carrying the essentials, along with a few secured containers of kolto - expensive stuff.
- Cortosis vibroblade, a Zabrak classic.
- Holdout pistol, nice and concealable.
- A combat suit, basic protection used by Republic troops and mercenaries all across the galaxy.
These days, most people don't know about the real beginning of the Mandalorian Wars. They forget just how long they rampaged through the Outer Rim before Revan or even the Republic stepped in to stop them. They burned a lot of worlds, and every time they did they took whatever they needed to hit the next - resources, weapons.
I don't really remember where I was born, but I know it was an Iridonian colony - there were plenty of those on the fringes that got hit first. I think the Mandalorians liked killing us, Zabraks are tough and we'd never beg for mercy, I know my parents didn't. I wish I knew more about them, every time I try and think about them all I can remember is the fighting - then their bodies in the dirt as the Mandalorians torched the fields.
I guess I wasn't old enough to be worth killing but not entirely useless. They mostly used me for the menial stuff carrying munitions, but I watched and learned quick. I taught myself how to cook and clean a wound, and soon I found I had a place there - I was appreciated, I felt like I belonged with them.
Yes, they were butchers, murderers and savages. But they were also warriors, proud and strong - even gentle. Jurgen was my squad leader, but I came to know him as something more. As I grew older he taught me what I needed to help the unit, he showed me how to hunt and survive and when the need arose - to fight and kill.
When Revan finally faced the Mandalorians they found a challenge finally worth facing. I still remember how their excitement turned as they began to be pushed back, Revan was not only their equal - he would be their doom. Soon, I donned the armor of their clan and joined them in battle. I could never forgive them for what they did to my people, but for a time I felt I had a place there - shoulder to shoulder with them. I felt I had a family.
After Malachor, it didn't really matter though. The Mandalorians lost, anyone on the surface of that cursed planet were obliterated in an instant and those who survived? We were stripped of our weapons, armor, and Basilisks and were forced to watch as Revan's soldiers destroyed them - leaving us with nothing but the honor of fighting in the battle we had just lost, perhaps the greatest our people would've ever seen. Then, we were sent into exile on the outer rim, left to wander the worlds left scarred by the war.
I was nothing after Malachor, just another refugee among millions left alone after the war. A lot of us became mercenaries or went raiding trying to relive the glory days but not me, I drifted for a while. I saw the worlds the Mandalorians left behind, I think I needed to know that they deserved what happened at Malachor - I'm still not sure they did.
Ended up in the Nar Shaddaa refugee sector like the rest of them, creditless and angry. One day I just got tired of it all, all the hurting and the scars. I wanted to feel like I was helping, I couldn't just watch the galaxy slip further and further into the dark. Not after everything we did.
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.
FORM I - SHII-CHO
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
FORM II - MAKASHI
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.
FORM III - SORESU
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.
FORM IV - ATARU
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.
FORM V - SHIEN VARIANT
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.
FORM VI - NIMAN
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.
FORM VII - JUYO
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?