Post by Gallifreyman on May 25, 2014 17:44:07 GMT -5
"Darkness? Darkness is not evil. Darkness is not inherently wrong. Darkness is merely the absence of light."
Name: Shaden Talkerid
Race: Human
Age: 36
Height: 6'1
Weight: 201 lbs
Appearance:
A dusky man with slate-grey eyes and vibrant dark-red hair, Shaden is a vibrant, tall human male, with a lean spryness about him that belies his inherent craftiness. With his square jaw and sharp chin, his handsome face and kind features have earned him the trust of many, a trust often betrayed. His chest is crisscrossed with years of matted scar tissue, and his muscles are lean and fit, padded with vibrant muscles from years of mercenary work. This is a man who has had to fight for his life many, many times, and his highly trained physical skills give him an edge over many enemies even without the force. The harsh ice in his eyes meshes with his rippling, toned figure and impressive size to create an imposing figure, one that gives off an inherent air of taut intensity, like a snake poised in the instant before it strikes, both graceful and deadly.
His armor is designed to both augment his dexterous features while allowing him to utilize his lightsaber skills and Force abilities to their maximum potential, all while providing constant protection. A cobbled-together monstrosity consisting of fused Mandalorian-style plasteel and customized retrofitted Republic commando infantry armor and light, dyed robes for hard defense and quick movement, his armor is not at all elegant or beautiful. In fact, the personalized helmet, stolen from the corpse of a long-dead Mandalorian crusader, and the dark, malevolent robes, create an aura of fear and harshness that is designed specifically to send pure, unadulterated terror through those who look upon it. It is a thing of fear, it's every angle and contour designed to mesh with the shadows and enable silent stalking of prey, yet designed to inspire fear above all.
Personality: Fear. It makes the galaxy go round. Fear of the Jedi holds the corruption of the Republic in place. Fear of the Republic holds the people in place. Fear is everything. The fear of age, the fear of death, the fear of the unknown. And it is Shaden's own goal to master his fear, to become without fear, and in so doing, become fear. As a child, he feared his father. As a young man, he feared the pirate captain who commanded him. More recently, he feared the Darksider who taught him. All are dead now. All dead by his hand. And in killing his fear, he has mastered it. And through mastery, he becomes it.
When he was young, he had his life ripped him from him, all luxury and power torn from his grasp and forced to fight for his life from a young age. He quickly developed a sense of dependency upon himself, and himself alone. He learned too early what all learn eventually: the galaxy is a harsh place, bleak and desolate to all who inhabit it. Early on he was taught to horde his trust and to grant it sparingly, if at all. Hunted for powers he could not understand, desperately trying to protect those he loved, unable to flee to the once-protecting arms of the Republic: no choice was left to him. The Dark Side. The Jedi and those who follow their creed see the Dark Side as a vicious, corrupting influence, a cancer on the heart of he Galaxy. The Sith Lords of old and the practitioners of their craft embrace it wholly, becoming little more than mad caricatures of rage, greed, and pride. But the Force is not a thing, some massive influence that can only be controlled or let control you. It is a weapon, Shaden knows. And the Dark Side is but one blade of this weapon, a blade to defend yourself from fear and enmity.
Shaden is crafty and tactical, his mind lithe and ready to adapt to almost any situation. He values intelligence and quickness of thought over brute force and raw power. It is for this reason that he views the Sith as misguided-their power can only get them so far without thought or intelligence. But for all his emphasis on thought and planning, he has a bloodthirsty streak a mile wide. There is almost nothing he loves more than the rush of battle, the flow of blood. His craftiness and bloodlust make him a truly formidable foe, a strength that his power with the Force only serves to enhance.
Birth place: Corellia
Faction: Dark Jedi
Rank: Assassin
Previous Faction: None
Previous Rank: Force Sensitive
Lightsaber: Dual Wield, Single-phase, Single-phase.
Color: Red, Yellow
Practiced Lightsaber forms:
Shii-Cho: 5
Makashi: N/A
Soresu: 2
Ataru: 1
Shien / Djem So: 3
>>Sub-form Backhanded: N/A
Niman: 5
>>Sub-form Jar-kai, or Dual Wield: 4
Juyo: N/A
Double Bladed Combat: N/A
Force-Sensitive Abilities or practices: Terror by Chagrin
Telekinetic: 3
Telepathic: 1
Body:7
Sense: 3
Protection:1
Healing: 2
Destruction: 4
Specialized Skills:
Attributes:
Physical Strength: 5
Intelligence: 6
Speed: 7
Leadership: 5
Unarmed: 2
Melee Weapons:4
Ranged Weapons: 5
Bio:
A Harvest of Wrath
{Ages 1-15}
House Talkerid was one of the mightiest Houses on Alderaan, a lesser branch of the influential House Organa, and Dorel Talkerid was the mightiest Head of the House to live in a hundred years. A prominent governor, he had risen quickly through the political mire of Alderaan through a combination of impossible charisma and deep pockets. He married a daughter of a wealthy House and began cementing his role in Alderaan's political landscape, paying off Houses and gangs to glance the other way, or to pitch support to a crucial argument. But he was betrayed. Months before the birth of his son, his countless bribes were revealed to the public in a massive scandal, a disaster of mammoth proportions. Overnight, his allies abandoned him, forsaking all support. His wealth was lost. And those criminal gangs who he had paid tooth and nail to support him decided it was better to permanently end his influence, and his line. Mercenaries tore apart the once-prosperous House, picking it's members off like flies. Dodging the law and the gangs, Dorel used the last of his once-massive wealth to secret himself and his pregnant wife off-planet to Corellia.
And so it came to pass that the scion of House Talkerid, heir to immense wealth and status, was born in crippling poverty in a backwater on Corellia. His earliest memories were of the black rages his father would fly into, drunk paroxysms of anger at what once was, amidst the constant relocation between worlds, fleeing the justice of Alderaan and the bounty hunters that sought his father ruthlessly - or at least his father's growing paranoia of them. Coruscant. Corellia. Ruutan. Dantooine. Naboo. He grew hardy and self-sufficient picking pockets and running the streets on countless worlds in countless systems. No one ever suspected a child, and yet, with his father constantly drunk and raging, he had to gather the money. It was not rare the day he would bring in more from begging and picking pockets than his father would from whatever job he scavenged up on whatever world they crawled on that month. As he matured, he began to run with the street gangs, first simply bands of roving thugs, then the powerful gangs.
And as he grew older, he began to notice a strange innate luck about him. A pocket picked that no other could have picked. A lucky jump, or a fall, or a split-second of warning before his father swung a fist at his head. He began to notice things no one else could. It made him quicker, faster by a hairs breadth. It was this luck that let him survive the years on the streets. He grew in his worldly experience, became smarter and more streetwise. And as the years passed, this luck brought with it an itch. A sort of sixth sense, an burning he felt compelled to soothe. A call, of something greater.
When Shaden became fifteen, he had had enough. He challenged his brute of a father. Faced him down in the run-down hut on Nar Shaddaa he was calling a home for the time being. And when the former governor of Alderaan swung at him with a drunk scream of anger, his sixth sense was there, and he moved, turning aside from a punch that would have brained him. And it nagged again, deeper, darker, more enticing, calling him to strike in the split second while this man, who had only ever hurt and abused, screamed and beaten, had his guard down. And he felt it's call. He listened. And he swung, twisted and turned to jab at an open point on his father's neck, felt the shattering of bone, the twisting of cartilage as he brought his other hand up, and then the snap, the chilling snap of death.
He fled the hovel, taking his mother with him, leaving the corpse behind for the hunters his father had always feared to recover. And then, as he sat pondering what, exactly, he had done, he was approached. A Kel Dor in robes, black and brown, a Kel Dor with sickly orange eyes. He said his name was Domarh Komj. He spoke of visions, of fire and death. He spoke of Jedi and Sith, and of wars and worlds. He told Shaden that he had been a. Jedi Master, once, and that Shaden possessed a power he could not understand or control. But Komj could help him. He could protect his mother, feed her, support her. And all he had to do was obey. Obey, and learn.
RP Sample:
