Post by Silas on Jul 19, 2011 2:26:17 GMT -5
Every Perfect Story...
Name: Dumisani Amara
Race: Nihran
Age: 33
Height: 6’2”
Weight: 167 lbs
Appearance:
Personality:
Birth place: Astrum V
Faction: Sith
Rank: Initiate
Previous Faction: Grey Jedi
Previous Rank: Knight
Bio:
Sent Away for a Gift
They were three; mother, father, and son with a happy family where they were all but perfectly happy in their life. This proud family were neither so rich as to be of note, nor could they be considered poor by any stretch of the imagination, instead they lived contently in the middle class. Their eldest son was named Nasiim after his father, whom loved him dearly as a father should, with the strong hand to guide him along his path rightly, but a paternal smile that gave his son no greater happiness. All stories must come to an end, though, and theirs’ was in the face of babe as Bahiya became pregnant. For a long nine months they waited frivolously, on the edge of anticipation and fear as they waited for the new child.
When asked, they had declined to know the gender of the child, for they never thought it could make any difference if it was a male or a baby girl. Secretly his father yearned for the latter because he already had his prodigy, now he needed a princess to take up their lofty manor with his wife. In the waning weeks of the term, the woman began to experience slight complications. At first they didn’t think it would cause any problems, however the healer of the village demanded she put under her constant watch.
Not sure what else to do, the father went back to work the next day, he picked up his shovel to turn over another pile of dirt, as he’d never understood the technology in Lawaailig; this had been the way it had always been, and always would be for the man. With his wife and unborn child’s lives at stake he was distracted slightly, but he’d always been a head strong worker; evermore to pick up the shovel, or pitchfork to continue his work. A straight back brought the cultivation of the dirt, strong arms would sow the seeds, and in the end a bountiful harvest would come to the family.
At home the young boy looked out of the window as the screams of his mother began to echo through the wooden walls of their small house. There would be no additions for the babe just yet, he would live in the parents’ room till they could make a small lean-to, and convert it into a room. So, the open doors seemed hollow as he tried to ignore the sounds as the mid-wife had demanded of him when labor had first began. It was all he could do to sit there, to watch the sun in the sky while his fingers curled around a pendent his mother had given him as he’d left the room. Small knuckles turned white as the fist tightened; the pain that shot up his tiny fingers ignored. All he wanted as to run into the other room, to save his mom, but silence gripped him like a glove as he was swallowed by pain.
The noise stopped as another started, the sound of a small babe’s cries as it took its first breaths not gently, but with rage. Perhaps he understood the dire nature of his birth; however his first squalls brought with it an eerie silence as the old woman whom had delivered the baby desperately made an attempt to save the mother. Her face had already begun to pale as she stepped from the room with the boy in her arms, and fresh dried blood between her fingernails. Tragedy brought this boy into the world as his mother passed away, quietly, discretely.
As We All Fall Apart
One of Nasiim’s first recallable memories was that of his father’s torn face as he lay over the bleached out figure of his dead wife while silent sobs wracked his bodies. For a brief second he’d given attention to his newborn son as his eyes lit up, but now that light had died, and pain remained. The old maid whom had tended for Bahiya as she had given birth closed the door, and began to take care of the children. First she put the already sleeping child into a makeshift crib, before she sent the boy to bed with quick words.
“Remember, child. Eventually we all must go to the after-life, but you must mourn today. For tomorrow it will be time once again to pick up your things and move on. Never forget that.”
When she had left, the boy lay awake in bed with his eyes locked on the ceiling as he tried to comprehend the idea that his mother was gone. When he woke the next morning old tears were dried on his cheeks, but his father had recuperated at least on the outside. In his eyes there still lay a shadow over his eyes where a bright joy had once been. However, before they began the preparation for the mother’s funeral he took time to name the new child Dumisani. The name of a warrior, he’d said. Nasiim’s father had always loathed warriors.
The funeral then commenced as a chronicler came to write upon her the beautiful black script that would cover her body soon. When the boy asked what it mean the old man got a misty look on his face as he began to recite a script from on old text:
We have only one story. All novels, all poetry, are built on the neverending contest in ourselves of the spirit and despair. And it occurs to me that despair must constantly respawn, while the spirit, while the warrior, is immortal. Despair has always a new fresh young face, while the warrior spirit is venerable as nothing else in the world is.
The words seemed strange to him at the time, like a riddle. However, they sounded eloquent, and his mother had always been an eloquent being.
What Do You know of Fear.
Every morning the father of the two children would wake to go out in his fields as callused hands found another strike of the hammer, or the fall of the axe. Each day the routine would follow as a woman took care of his kids for him, as Nasiim noticed that his father had less time to tell him stories at night, or to play the games they once had. Now there was a solemn tone in his voice when he spoke, but ever vigilant he still gave time for his kids, poured into them virtue, and set a tireless example of a hard working man. Soon the eldest son began to help him as Dumisani began to speak some of his first words, as the small child began to take steps.
As all father’s do he boasted, and rejoiced in these things but there were not so loud as when his eldest had accomplished similar feats. There were reservations he had forced himself to take with Nasiim that came much easier when it was the face of his youngest he saw. It was not so hard to let him learn on his own, rather than try to stop him when he did something heedless or stupid. There was no time to play with either of the children now for there always seemed to be another thing to do, another weed to pull, or another ghost to haunt him.
While the father worked his bones away for the money to keep his house together, a woman came each day to keep watch upon the young children. She would tell them the stories of their ancestors, of the warrior spirit, and of the world after; in these stories she one day explained to them that they would someday be faced with a task. In this they must find themselves, or be ripped into a fate far worse than death. She told them of the ways of their father’s and secretly she began to sow an idea into the young Dumisani’s mind; she wanted him to grow to be a chronicler, but she withheld this. His father had always thought he would be a warrior, but she saw the kindness in him. A chance for either greatness, or failure that she was determined to nurture, to grow, and to become old knowing she had made a difference.
As the children grew, Dumisani fell in ease with a bow in his hands as he and his brother hunted deep into the woods around their house. Nestled in a swath of land next to a river they found ease as they hunted, and tried to best each other with their prowess. Nasiim was much quicker than his brother, but Dumisani held the strength, the power of the two. He had a laughable wit to him as well, where his brother was the intelligent one, the kindly one whom seemed to be able to bring a smile upon anyone’s face. Dumisani seemed to be the one easily forgotten, to be left behind in the star that was his brother.
The woman who checked on them began to teach them the basics of reading, of how to make legible script, and of basic. Their tongues became nimble as she began to stretch beyond the stories of their ancestors, to tales of planets where there were nothing but buildings that tore at the skies. With a heated voice she told them stories about old knights, and their foes that battled with strange swords that were liquid fire. No one really knew where this woman had come from, but it didn’t take long for the boys’ father to realize she had spent time abroad at the galaxy. She seemed to know much more about the galaxy than she gave herself credit for.
It was this wisdom that imbued itself in the two kids of Nasiim first of his name and as such they became well known around for their quick tongues. More often than not they found each other more interesting company than the other kids their age, and chose to spend their hours playing games with each other. They would race the others, they would participate with their dramas, and play parts in their intricate games, but they were always autonomous in their own way. Like a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit right.
As they grew, their father found more and more tasks for Nasiim, while Dumisani was more often sent to do work in the house, to keep it clean. While he was in no means less capable than his brother, there were simply tasks to be done in both areas, and someone had to do them. Occasionally the younger would be sent out to the fields, and his hands would become blistered, or burnt as they were not used to the hot sun.
They were often taught of how to survive on their own in the woods by their father, though. It was the times when they could be family, when they could rely on each other without reservations. Their father brought them information about the varying flora and fauna that grew in the area, along with what they would face on their rite.
It was soon, though, when Dumisani was only 11 when his brother decided to take his rite, with a smile of confidence he took his leave. Days turned to weeks, weeks to months, and it was a long while before the boy they’d once known came back to the village. The innocence in his eyes had begun to drift away, to become stern, and the childish nature he’d once known now only found a strength he’d never realized he had. When the boy came back a man, his father had never been so alive in all the years his youngest son had been alive, while it simply reminded his brother of the way things were before.
He remembered his brother’s first words to him when he got back, “Isn’t it great Dumisani?”
“Of course! You passed your rituals,” He had said with laughter.
“No, father. He’s back to the way before. Before mother died.”
He had paused before he’d said the last part, but Dumisani knew what he had begun to say before you were born. For the first time, when he should have been happy, he felt nothing more than loneliness, and most of all a gnawing fear. The fear that he’d been the cause of all the pain he’d caused his father, the ill look he’d gotten all too often when he was around his son, and most of all that death so long ago. While his brother had meant to bring happiness, he did nothing more than destroyed his brother, and all he’d thought was good in this world.
Lightsaber: Long Handled Lightsaber
Color: Red
Practiced Lightsaber forms:
Shii-Cho | 5
Makashi | 5
Shien/Djem So| 3
Force-Sensitive Abilities or practices:
Telekinetic: 7
Telepathic: 4
Body: 7
Sense: 6
Protection: 5
Healing: 0
Destruction: 8
Specialized Skills:
Attributes:
Physical Strength: 8
Intelligence: 6
Speed: 7
Leadership: 2
Unarmed: 6
Melee Weapons: 3
Ranged Weapons: 7
Force Attunement: -5
RP Sample:
