Post by lion on Dec 28, 2015 2:04:35 GMT -5
Name:
Mirajan "Jan"
Race:
Togorian
Age:
14
Birthplace: Dantooine.
Allegiance:
Dantooine Liberation Army.
Status:
DLA Rebel (Formerly civilian)
Rank:
Soldier (Support/machine-gunner)
Height/Weight:
2.14m (7'0), 140Kg (308lbs)
Appearance:
The first noticeable thing about Jan is, aside from his tiger-like Togorian traits, his size; by all human metrics, the boy is huge. Fourteen years of living from the land and with minimal technological assistance has given Mirajan a body hardened to the rigours of manual labour, as well as something of a far-less-than-beautiful appearance.
Whilst physically fit, Jan is not an athlete; he's strong but he hardly trains to be strong. Hard work and the beginning stages of puberty have already begun to shape his musculature to better suit the demands of life, but likewise his relaxed habits pre-invasion have given the boy a rather plump coat of body-fat to go along with it. Similar to the proverbial 'ale-gut', this girth gives Jan somewhat less of a threatening appearance, he looks less like a ferocious beast, and more akin to an oversized stuff-toy given life.
Thick, amber fur coats the boy's solid frame, lined with dark stripes along the spine and the backs of his arms and legs, and thanks to his less-than-bothered stance regarding his appearance, is usually fairly dirty and dishevelled. Thanks to this body coating, Jan doesn't often wear much in the way of clothing, when he has a say in the matter; trousers are about as much as he prefers to wear when given a choice, as the cloth rubs uncomfortably against his hair and causes the occasional static shock.
When it comes time to fight, however, Jan wears trousers, a jury-rigged durasteel chestplate fastened together with overalls, as well as a satchel pack; carrying with him his rations, water, extra barrels and ammunition. His face is covered by the DLA standard bandanna, designed to instil fear in the opponents he faces, and closer inspection of the boy shows the back of his left shoulder bears slightly shorter fur than normal; the site was shaved and tattooed with the DLA insignia when he was picked up by the group, signifying his status as a fighter.
Personality:
As with most farmers, Jan's fairly straightforward in his behaviour, and prefers to be honest in all matters, rather than try to benefit himself through lying. A hard work ethic was instilled into him from a young age, helping out wherever he could and with whatever tasks he was given on the farm, leaving Jan rather unafraid to get his hands dirty when the time comes. For Jan, he doesn't even need to fully know what it is he has to do; he'll try to think up ways on the fly rather than bow out because he doesn't know, and whilst this often leads to mistakes, they're mistakes he's willing to make to learn.
Jan, being raised in a Togorian household, is somewhat struggling with Basic; he can read and write to a modest extent, but is prone to resorting to Togorian when his broken grasp of Basic fails him. He's trying, of course, but it's a long process to learn a language, after all.
Among Dantooine's less-than-welcoming culture when it comes to outsiders, Jan values his friends; they are few and far between, especially when it comes to humans. If you're willing to look past his 'man-tiger' appearance and talk with him, he'll be civil and talk back happily, and as long as you're happy to roll up your sleeves and work with him, you're a friend to him.
However, whilst the boy is honest, whilst he's tough as rock, it's easy to forget that he's a child; there is a lot about the world and himself that Jan is still struggling to find out, and thrown into conflict with the Sith Empire on behalf of the DLA, a lot of stress has begun to fall on his shoulders. Mid-pubescent, Jan can be somewhat unstable at times thanks to the hormonal storm going on as he makes the change from cub to man, leading to the occasional violent outburst. After all, when the Sith landed, ten year old Jan quickly learned that whilst the world can throw you a lot of hard questions, and a lot of troubles with hard answers, a lot of those can be stopped dead with a good slugthrower at your side.
Among the DLA, Jan has found the Toydarian Bosco as something of a replacement father figure; learning from the rebellious quartermaster how to better maintain and repair the weapons that the DLA employs. At first, the practice was simply to keep his young hands busy, but Jan takes to the task now with some measure of enjoyment; every blaster kept clean, every slugthrower oiled, is a step closer to defeating the Sith.
Ships/Vehicles:
None
Equipment:
Togorian Automatic Slugthrower
Stats: (Feeble, Below Average, Average, Above Average, Superior, Legendary)
Strength -Superior
Agility -Below Average
Intelligence -Below Average
Charisma -Average
Combat Training: Slugthrowers: Apprentice
Other Training:
Farming and Agriculture: Apprentice
Mechanics: Novice
Slugthrower Maintenance: Novice
Blaster Maintenance: Novice
Crafting Ammunition: Novice
Biography:
Born in 3615, to the couple of Rarun and Tynin, Mirajan's childhood was a simple one; free of many of the concerns suffered by those among the greater galaxy. Credits were never an issue; they were rarely needed. Food? Plentiful for those willing to work to cultivate it, and work? Well, you were born into the work; it wasn't something you would miss out on as long as you had two hands, two feet and could hear instruction.
The life of a farmer, that was what lay before Mirajan. A hard life, rewarding in its simplicity, and one that few others could have ever been better suited toward.
It was Rarun, Mirajan's father, who had purchased the farmstead that would be his son's world; decades of mercenary and guard work for the various corporate entities and middling factions of the galaxy having eventually garnered enough money to procure the acreage on the Outer-rim planet. Peace, quiet, far removed from the galactic struggles; that was Rarun's gift to his loving wife and his soon-to-be child, one that he had hoped would in turn be his boy's gift to his own son when the time came.
For young Mirajan, there was no place better. For as soon as the boy could walk, he loved to roam the homestead, the fields, anywhere he could get to was fair game. Naturally curious, Mirajan had no shame in asking questions about everything around him, be it why the grass was green or why the Nerf they tended to had to be separated. As ever, though, these questions would be answered; Rarun nor Tynin sought to shroud the world in mysteries from their son, who would often be sat upon a knee and taught the ways of the life that would be laid out before him.
Once he was old enough to stand upright and bear load, Mirajan would begin to help around the small farmyard; working his way up through the chores. Weeds choking the vegetables? Tear them up. Helping to till the fields and plant the next crops? Hard work but easy once the boy was shown how best to use the tools. Broken down generator? Mirajan would be right there with his father whilst Rarun would effect repairs, explaining as he went the inner workings of gears, of the turbine within.
Of course, there was more to farming than simply making sure everything ran correctly, after all, for the local wildlife was something to contend with just as much as the seasons. Kinrath nests, stray Kath Hound packs, all manner of beasts would stray onto the farmstead in search of easy food; not a year went by that Mirajan could remember that didn't have at least one instance of some wild creature trying to get into the crops.
It was the first real display of violence that the boy ever saw, his father shooting down a quintet of ravenous Kinrath, but one that he would quickly go from audience to participant, as Rarun would teach the boy how to shoot. Perhaps one of his earliest memories, Mirajan could remember being sat down with his father before the workbench, in front of him laid out the myriad parts of a weapon taller than he was; his father's slugthrower. A warrior's weapon, Rarun had said, one that his own grandfather had made during the Mandalorian crusades, one that had protected many Togorians in its lifetime, and one that would eventually go from Rarun to Mirajan.
Much like the tools of the farm, Rarun would teach his boy early how to use the weapon, and how to properly care for it. It wasn't a blaster, Mirajan could remember his father saying, it needed great care and patience to keep in working order, but those gifts would be repaid in kind when the time came. From Mirajan, though, Rarun would make a request; prove himself capable of having responsibility, and if he could take care of the weapon, he could get to use it.
From the ages of six to ten, Mirajan worked; if he wasn't tending to the farmstead generator, he was out in the fields; tilling, sowing, watering and harvesting. Growing bigger with each day, Mirajan became stronger and stronger and his responsibilities grew all the more; in the years passing he no longer held the tools but used them. Rather than watch and learn, he would do; feeding the nerf, tilling more of the land, and when it invariably broke down, fixing and re-oiling the generator. He even got to use Rarun's gun for the first time; shooting dead a prowling Kath Hound during the dead of night with his father's guidance. Never had there been a prouder moment between father and son than right then and there.
And up until the Sith landed, it was good.
At the age of ten, Jan could remember clearly the events surrounding the Sith invasion of Dantooine; the bombings and the mad rush that the people had entered trying to save themselves. The loosely associated farms near his own, Jan recalled, banded together in an attempt to repel the invaders when they invariably dared to expand their attacks to the farms, burning down homes with the unfortunate still inside. The earth-shaking explosions of bombers overhead were akin to nothing Jan had ever encountered in his life, before or since.
Rarun, knowing the likelihood of the attack failing and knowing his wife would just as easily refuse to leave as he did, opted not to endanger his child; instead sending them on their way from the farmstead. Go, he had said, giving Jan his treasured gun and whatever ammunition he could spare, giving the terrified and tearing child the final responsibility a father could give; Jan was now in control of his own destiny, his own man. Run, get help, those were the final instructions Rarun would give to Jan, and the last words the Togorian boy could remember ever hearing from the only family he'd known.
The boy wanted to stay, of course, and tried to argue, but would eventually acquiesce and flee, trudging through the countryside with his father's gun and little else but the clothes on his back and the fur on his body to his name. It was a three day walk to the nearest settlement, but one that Mirajan made as best as he could; every step after the first day a gruelling battle of both mind and spirit. Nightmares plagued the boy as he tried to steal what sleep he could get through the nights on the road, the sounds of bombs and screams dominating his dreams.
When Jan arrived, the sight that greeted him was horrific; what no doubt were supposed to be open plazas and lush gardens, fine buildings and active citizens were little more than rubble; the town was in the midst of war, with the echoing reports of blaster fire howling across the horizon. Knowing little better, Jan did his best to try to trudge through the town, cradling his father's slugthrower the whole time, desperately using whatever back alleys and side roads he could to avoid being out in the open.
It was here, in a backalley behind a fruit shop, that Jan killed his first man.
It had been a complete surprise, Jan could remember, rounding a corner he thought safe to find a group of humans lined against the alleyway wall some twenty feet ahead of him; a small firing squad rowed before them. The officer of the group, facing Jan, looked about as surprised as a man could get as the feline child rounded the corner and, startled, raised his weapon; a face that imprinted on Jan's psyche.
It was a matter of life and death, the boy knew as the soldiers turned on command of their officer, and before he could even think about what he was doing, Jan opened fire. He'd fired Rarun's slugthrower before, but the sheer power of the weapon still caught the young Togorian by surprise; the kick bashing his shoulder firmly as he tried to brace it. Kinrath and Kath Hounds, large beasts as they were, often went down with only a burst or two, but panicked, the boy squeezed the trigger down and kept the stream of death going; the stuttering clap of death ringing out for several seconds.
What remained was a grizzly sight, for Rarun's slugthrower was far from a pea-shooter; the large rounds meant to punch holes in armour and cover had absolutely savaged the Sith soldiers, and their officer; completely pounding through their body armor and indeed, the bodies within. The air stank of blood and gunpowder, and panting as if starved for breath, Jan tried to steady himself. The troopers didn't move, like the Kinrath often did in their death throes, and the silence that followed left the Togorian jittery and nauseous; the only sound the chiming jingling of the slug belt shaking as the boy's hands trembled.
The two humans that he had saved, however, were certainly far from quiet; rushing over to thank their young benefactor, telling him to follow along, as they took up the blaster rifles that had moments before been poised to fire upon them. DLA, they called themselves, the two humans were part of a resistance of citizens opposing the Sith wherever they could, and whilst many had been captured or killed, the resistance was still fighting the good fight.
Jan, with nowhere else to really go and told to get help, knew only one way to go forward; ask to join. He was young, yes, but with nowhere else to go and with the Sith hardly about to distinguish young from old, there was little that exactly stopped the youth from signing himself on; following the humans for as long as he could to earn their trust.
Since that time, as the days turned to weeks, months and then years without word from the farmsteads, knowing his family had likely perished in the defense, Jan has stuck it out with the DLA; doing what he can to oppose Sith occupation. Due to his age, combat was never really an option in the early stages of Jan's membership into the fold; regardless of his prior actions, Jan was instead instructed to remain within the DLA compound, the 'Homestead'.
In the four years that followed, Jan instead made himself useful as best he could, despite the awkwardness that came with being an alien. Perhaps it was his age, or perhaps his work ethic and will to dirty the hands that helped to endear him to those around him, but there was no real overt displays of racism; only the occasional odd glance now and then from the rebels that came and went.
They were, nevertheless, family; desperate for attention and a figure to anchor to, to combat the loneliness that would come to grip the boy, Jan sought company wherever he could. Where the boy found it was, surprisingly, in the armoury; the gruff Toydarian quartermaster having seen use for the Togorian's small fingers to assist in cleaning slugthrower casings. Desperate for the distraction, reminded of home as he was with the work, Jan would often come to the armoury to help out; cleaning casings soon became inventory of stock and, eventually, repairing the weapons themselves.
At the age of fourteen, however, having grown taller and stronger in his age, and with many awkward questions asked toward the Homestead medic about growing problems, Jan has begun to find himself keen to do more for the DLA; to step above the role of simply 'chore work' and actively bring the fight to the Sith.
Roleplay Sample:
"Do you think we can win?"
The thought had swam around Jan's head ever since he'd overheard the two soldiers chatting as they patrolled the halls of the Homestead; a candid snippet of conversation the boy wasn't privy to but nevertheless heard. The tone of voice, hushed and imploring of honesty and support, with six mere words had gripped the young Togorian, and throughout the entire day, seemed to haunt him.
Could we win?
It was a hard concept to consider, one that Jan knew he had found himself wondering more than once ever since that fateful day four years ago, finding the DLA and throwing his lot in with them. The DLA fought the good fight, and as holodramas often depicted, even if it took the last man they would stand victorious in the end, but there was always that grim spectre of doubt lingering over the young man, leaving him feeling hollow.
How could they win? The Sith seemed limitless in number, every trooper killed seemed to be replaced almost as fast, much in the way of the opposite for the DLA, whose numbers dwindled ever closer toward non-existence with seemingly each passing day. Weapons were hard to come by, people who could actually use them even less so, and it seemed of late that every blaster pack salvaged or found was paid for with a life or a limb.
Who could fight against those odds?
A slow breath left Jan's body; the boy's soft chest sagging gently as the Togorian shifted, staring up at the ceiling as if trying to stare through it. It was hard to sleep; third night in a row that he'd gotten barely a few hours without nightmares again, leaving his mind open to the wandering, distracted path of thought. It was tempting to get up and walk, to stretch his legs and maybe go fire off a few rounds into the distance to let off some steam, but the feline-man thought the better of it; his fatigue winning out against his discomfort.
It was going to be another long night.
Mirajan "Jan"
Race:
Togorian
Age:
14
Birthplace: Dantooine.
Allegiance:
Dantooine Liberation Army.
Status:
DLA Rebel (Formerly civilian)
Rank:
Soldier (Support/machine-gunner)
Height/Weight:
2.14m (7'0), 140Kg (308lbs)
Appearance:
The first noticeable thing about Jan is, aside from his tiger-like Togorian traits, his size; by all human metrics, the boy is huge. Fourteen years of living from the land and with minimal technological assistance has given Mirajan a body hardened to the rigours of manual labour, as well as something of a far-less-than-beautiful appearance.
Whilst physically fit, Jan is not an athlete; he's strong but he hardly trains to be strong. Hard work and the beginning stages of puberty have already begun to shape his musculature to better suit the demands of life, but likewise his relaxed habits pre-invasion have given the boy a rather plump coat of body-fat to go along with it. Similar to the proverbial 'ale-gut', this girth gives Jan somewhat less of a threatening appearance, he looks less like a ferocious beast, and more akin to an oversized stuff-toy given life.
Thick, amber fur coats the boy's solid frame, lined with dark stripes along the spine and the backs of his arms and legs, and thanks to his less-than-bothered stance regarding his appearance, is usually fairly dirty and dishevelled. Thanks to this body coating, Jan doesn't often wear much in the way of clothing, when he has a say in the matter; trousers are about as much as he prefers to wear when given a choice, as the cloth rubs uncomfortably against his hair and causes the occasional static shock.
When it comes time to fight, however, Jan wears trousers, a jury-rigged durasteel chestplate fastened together with overalls, as well as a satchel pack; carrying with him his rations, water, extra barrels and ammunition. His face is covered by the DLA standard bandanna, designed to instil fear in the opponents he faces, and closer inspection of the boy shows the back of his left shoulder bears slightly shorter fur than normal; the site was shaved and tattooed with the DLA insignia when he was picked up by the group, signifying his status as a fighter.
Personality:
As with most farmers, Jan's fairly straightforward in his behaviour, and prefers to be honest in all matters, rather than try to benefit himself through lying. A hard work ethic was instilled into him from a young age, helping out wherever he could and with whatever tasks he was given on the farm, leaving Jan rather unafraid to get his hands dirty when the time comes. For Jan, he doesn't even need to fully know what it is he has to do; he'll try to think up ways on the fly rather than bow out because he doesn't know, and whilst this often leads to mistakes, they're mistakes he's willing to make to learn.
Jan, being raised in a Togorian household, is somewhat struggling with Basic; he can read and write to a modest extent, but is prone to resorting to Togorian when his broken grasp of Basic fails him. He's trying, of course, but it's a long process to learn a language, after all.
Among Dantooine's less-than-welcoming culture when it comes to outsiders, Jan values his friends; they are few and far between, especially when it comes to humans. If you're willing to look past his 'man-tiger' appearance and talk with him, he'll be civil and talk back happily, and as long as you're happy to roll up your sleeves and work with him, you're a friend to him.
However, whilst the boy is honest, whilst he's tough as rock, it's easy to forget that he's a child; there is a lot about the world and himself that Jan is still struggling to find out, and thrown into conflict with the Sith Empire on behalf of the DLA, a lot of stress has begun to fall on his shoulders. Mid-pubescent, Jan can be somewhat unstable at times thanks to the hormonal storm going on as he makes the change from cub to man, leading to the occasional violent outburst. After all, when the Sith landed, ten year old Jan quickly learned that whilst the world can throw you a lot of hard questions, and a lot of troubles with hard answers, a lot of those can be stopped dead with a good slugthrower at your side.
Among the DLA, Jan has found the Toydarian Bosco as something of a replacement father figure; learning from the rebellious quartermaster how to better maintain and repair the weapons that the DLA employs. At first, the practice was simply to keep his young hands busy, but Jan takes to the task now with some measure of enjoyment; every blaster kept clean, every slugthrower oiled, is a step closer to defeating the Sith.
Ships/Vehicles:
None
Equipment:
Togorian Automatic Slugthrower
Stats: (Feeble, Below Average, Average, Above Average, Superior, Legendary)
Strength -Superior
Agility -Below Average
Intelligence -Below Average
Charisma -Average
Combat Training: Slugthrowers: Apprentice
Other Training:
Farming and Agriculture: Apprentice
Mechanics: Novice
Slugthrower Maintenance: Novice
Blaster Maintenance: Novice
Crafting Ammunition: Novice
Biography:
Born in 3615, to the couple of Rarun and Tynin, Mirajan's childhood was a simple one; free of many of the concerns suffered by those among the greater galaxy. Credits were never an issue; they were rarely needed. Food? Plentiful for those willing to work to cultivate it, and work? Well, you were born into the work; it wasn't something you would miss out on as long as you had two hands, two feet and could hear instruction.
The life of a farmer, that was what lay before Mirajan. A hard life, rewarding in its simplicity, and one that few others could have ever been better suited toward.
It was Rarun, Mirajan's father, who had purchased the farmstead that would be his son's world; decades of mercenary and guard work for the various corporate entities and middling factions of the galaxy having eventually garnered enough money to procure the acreage on the Outer-rim planet. Peace, quiet, far removed from the galactic struggles; that was Rarun's gift to his loving wife and his soon-to-be child, one that he had hoped would in turn be his boy's gift to his own son when the time came.
For young Mirajan, there was no place better. For as soon as the boy could walk, he loved to roam the homestead, the fields, anywhere he could get to was fair game. Naturally curious, Mirajan had no shame in asking questions about everything around him, be it why the grass was green or why the Nerf they tended to had to be separated. As ever, though, these questions would be answered; Rarun nor Tynin sought to shroud the world in mysteries from their son, who would often be sat upon a knee and taught the ways of the life that would be laid out before him.
Once he was old enough to stand upright and bear load, Mirajan would begin to help around the small farmyard; working his way up through the chores. Weeds choking the vegetables? Tear them up. Helping to till the fields and plant the next crops? Hard work but easy once the boy was shown how best to use the tools. Broken down generator? Mirajan would be right there with his father whilst Rarun would effect repairs, explaining as he went the inner workings of gears, of the turbine within.
Of course, there was more to farming than simply making sure everything ran correctly, after all, for the local wildlife was something to contend with just as much as the seasons. Kinrath nests, stray Kath Hound packs, all manner of beasts would stray onto the farmstead in search of easy food; not a year went by that Mirajan could remember that didn't have at least one instance of some wild creature trying to get into the crops.
It was the first real display of violence that the boy ever saw, his father shooting down a quintet of ravenous Kinrath, but one that he would quickly go from audience to participant, as Rarun would teach the boy how to shoot. Perhaps one of his earliest memories, Mirajan could remember being sat down with his father before the workbench, in front of him laid out the myriad parts of a weapon taller than he was; his father's slugthrower. A warrior's weapon, Rarun had said, one that his own grandfather had made during the Mandalorian crusades, one that had protected many Togorians in its lifetime, and one that would eventually go from Rarun to Mirajan.
Much like the tools of the farm, Rarun would teach his boy early how to use the weapon, and how to properly care for it. It wasn't a blaster, Mirajan could remember his father saying, it needed great care and patience to keep in working order, but those gifts would be repaid in kind when the time came. From Mirajan, though, Rarun would make a request; prove himself capable of having responsibility, and if he could take care of the weapon, he could get to use it.
From the ages of six to ten, Mirajan worked; if he wasn't tending to the farmstead generator, he was out in the fields; tilling, sowing, watering and harvesting. Growing bigger with each day, Mirajan became stronger and stronger and his responsibilities grew all the more; in the years passing he no longer held the tools but used them. Rather than watch and learn, he would do; feeding the nerf, tilling more of the land, and when it invariably broke down, fixing and re-oiling the generator. He even got to use Rarun's gun for the first time; shooting dead a prowling Kath Hound during the dead of night with his father's guidance. Never had there been a prouder moment between father and son than right then and there.
And up until the Sith landed, it was good.
At the age of ten, Jan could remember clearly the events surrounding the Sith invasion of Dantooine; the bombings and the mad rush that the people had entered trying to save themselves. The loosely associated farms near his own, Jan recalled, banded together in an attempt to repel the invaders when they invariably dared to expand their attacks to the farms, burning down homes with the unfortunate still inside. The earth-shaking explosions of bombers overhead were akin to nothing Jan had ever encountered in his life, before or since.
Rarun, knowing the likelihood of the attack failing and knowing his wife would just as easily refuse to leave as he did, opted not to endanger his child; instead sending them on their way from the farmstead. Go, he had said, giving Jan his treasured gun and whatever ammunition he could spare, giving the terrified and tearing child the final responsibility a father could give; Jan was now in control of his own destiny, his own man. Run, get help, those were the final instructions Rarun would give to Jan, and the last words the Togorian boy could remember ever hearing from the only family he'd known.
The boy wanted to stay, of course, and tried to argue, but would eventually acquiesce and flee, trudging through the countryside with his father's gun and little else but the clothes on his back and the fur on his body to his name. It was a three day walk to the nearest settlement, but one that Mirajan made as best as he could; every step after the first day a gruelling battle of both mind and spirit. Nightmares plagued the boy as he tried to steal what sleep he could get through the nights on the road, the sounds of bombs and screams dominating his dreams.
When Jan arrived, the sight that greeted him was horrific; what no doubt were supposed to be open plazas and lush gardens, fine buildings and active citizens were little more than rubble; the town was in the midst of war, with the echoing reports of blaster fire howling across the horizon. Knowing little better, Jan did his best to try to trudge through the town, cradling his father's slugthrower the whole time, desperately using whatever back alleys and side roads he could to avoid being out in the open.
It was here, in a backalley behind a fruit shop, that Jan killed his first man.
It had been a complete surprise, Jan could remember, rounding a corner he thought safe to find a group of humans lined against the alleyway wall some twenty feet ahead of him; a small firing squad rowed before them. The officer of the group, facing Jan, looked about as surprised as a man could get as the feline child rounded the corner and, startled, raised his weapon; a face that imprinted on Jan's psyche.
It was a matter of life and death, the boy knew as the soldiers turned on command of their officer, and before he could even think about what he was doing, Jan opened fire. He'd fired Rarun's slugthrower before, but the sheer power of the weapon still caught the young Togorian by surprise; the kick bashing his shoulder firmly as he tried to brace it. Kinrath and Kath Hounds, large beasts as they were, often went down with only a burst or two, but panicked, the boy squeezed the trigger down and kept the stream of death going; the stuttering clap of death ringing out for several seconds.
What remained was a grizzly sight, for Rarun's slugthrower was far from a pea-shooter; the large rounds meant to punch holes in armour and cover had absolutely savaged the Sith soldiers, and their officer; completely pounding through their body armor and indeed, the bodies within. The air stank of blood and gunpowder, and panting as if starved for breath, Jan tried to steady himself. The troopers didn't move, like the Kinrath often did in their death throes, and the silence that followed left the Togorian jittery and nauseous; the only sound the chiming jingling of the slug belt shaking as the boy's hands trembled.
The two humans that he had saved, however, were certainly far from quiet; rushing over to thank their young benefactor, telling him to follow along, as they took up the blaster rifles that had moments before been poised to fire upon them. DLA, they called themselves, the two humans were part of a resistance of citizens opposing the Sith wherever they could, and whilst many had been captured or killed, the resistance was still fighting the good fight.
Jan, with nowhere else to really go and told to get help, knew only one way to go forward; ask to join. He was young, yes, but with nowhere else to go and with the Sith hardly about to distinguish young from old, there was little that exactly stopped the youth from signing himself on; following the humans for as long as he could to earn their trust.
Since that time, as the days turned to weeks, months and then years without word from the farmsteads, knowing his family had likely perished in the defense, Jan has stuck it out with the DLA; doing what he can to oppose Sith occupation. Due to his age, combat was never really an option in the early stages of Jan's membership into the fold; regardless of his prior actions, Jan was instead instructed to remain within the DLA compound, the 'Homestead'.
In the four years that followed, Jan instead made himself useful as best he could, despite the awkwardness that came with being an alien. Perhaps it was his age, or perhaps his work ethic and will to dirty the hands that helped to endear him to those around him, but there was no real overt displays of racism; only the occasional odd glance now and then from the rebels that came and went.
They were, nevertheless, family; desperate for attention and a figure to anchor to, to combat the loneliness that would come to grip the boy, Jan sought company wherever he could. Where the boy found it was, surprisingly, in the armoury; the gruff Toydarian quartermaster having seen use for the Togorian's small fingers to assist in cleaning slugthrower casings. Desperate for the distraction, reminded of home as he was with the work, Jan would often come to the armoury to help out; cleaning casings soon became inventory of stock and, eventually, repairing the weapons themselves.
At the age of fourteen, however, having grown taller and stronger in his age, and with many awkward questions asked toward the Homestead medic about growing problems, Jan has begun to find himself keen to do more for the DLA; to step above the role of simply 'chore work' and actively bring the fight to the Sith.
Roleplay Sample:
"Do you think we can win?"
The thought had swam around Jan's head ever since he'd overheard the two soldiers chatting as they patrolled the halls of the Homestead; a candid snippet of conversation the boy wasn't privy to but nevertheless heard. The tone of voice, hushed and imploring of honesty and support, with six mere words had gripped the young Togorian, and throughout the entire day, seemed to haunt him.
Could we win?
It was a hard concept to consider, one that Jan knew he had found himself wondering more than once ever since that fateful day four years ago, finding the DLA and throwing his lot in with them. The DLA fought the good fight, and as holodramas often depicted, even if it took the last man they would stand victorious in the end, but there was always that grim spectre of doubt lingering over the young man, leaving him feeling hollow.
How could they win? The Sith seemed limitless in number, every trooper killed seemed to be replaced almost as fast, much in the way of the opposite for the DLA, whose numbers dwindled ever closer toward non-existence with seemingly each passing day. Weapons were hard to come by, people who could actually use them even less so, and it seemed of late that every blaster pack salvaged or found was paid for with a life or a limb.
Who could fight against those odds?
A slow breath left Jan's body; the boy's soft chest sagging gently as the Togorian shifted, staring up at the ceiling as if trying to stare through it. It was hard to sleep; third night in a row that he'd gotten barely a few hours without nightmares again, leaving his mind open to the wandering, distracted path of thought. It was tempting to get up and walk, to stretch his legs and maybe go fire off a few rounds into the distance to let off some steam, but the feline-man thought the better of it; his fatigue winning out against his discomfort.
It was going to be another long night.
