Post by Ely Ar'dhal on Jun 19, 2014 15:52:41 GMT -5
Name: Mikhail Shorn
Race: Human
Age: 27
Height: 6'
Weight: 180lbs
Appearance:
Personality:
Snarky and a bit sadistic, Mikhail Shorn enjoys playing with the emotions of others. He is amoral almost to the point of sociopathy. His self-confidence and charm are often used in a seductive manner. He is passionate, often acting out of impulse. Despite all this, self-destructiveness seems to be his constant theme, perhaps due to a suppressed self-loathing and loneliness.
All the actions he has taken thus far he believes he has done for love. In the kill or be kill world of the Omega Order he convinced himself that every life he ripped away was so that he could one day find Alexis. Now that he found her - and subsequently killed her - he has only one goal in mind: to rip apart every Dark Sider he can find in a quest to rob the lives of those who stripped him of morality and burdened him with the mantle of a monster.
Snide comments and disregard for authority often land Mikhail in trouble. Such stubbornness in the face of a higher power is one of Mikhail's more prominent traits, likely to get him killed.
In terms of mannerisms, Mikhail tends to act with a flippant air of nonchalant cynicism and charm. When trying to appear intimidating or threatening, Mikhail often gives them a wide-eyed, icy blue stare, his eyes seeming to look through others, rather than at them. He has an alarming lack of personal space that tends to unnerve others. He does not smile. He smirks. And he never laughs. He snorts and scoffs, but outright laughter has been squeezed from him.
Birth place: Procopia, Tapani Sector
Faction: None
Rank: Dark Jedi Knight
Previous Faction: Omega Order
Previous Rank: Dark Jedi Knight
Lightsaber: Single Blade
Color: Violet
Practiced Lightsaber forms:
Shii-Cho - 2
Makashi - 1
Soresu - N/A
Ataru - N/A
Shien / Djem So - N/A
>>Sub-form Backhanded - N/A
Niman - N/A
>>Sub-form Jar-kai, or Dual Wield - N/A
Juyo - N/A
Double Bladed Combat - N/A
Force-Sensitive Abilities or practices:
Telekinetic: 6
Telepathic: 3
Body: 3
Sense: 3
Protection: 0
Healing: 2
Destruction: 3
Specialized Skills:
N/A
Attributes:
Physical Strength: 6
Intelligence: 5
Speed: 6
Leadership: 5
Unarmed: 5
Melee Weapons: 3
Ranged Weapons: 5
Bio:
Mikhail Shorn's story begins far back in history, with the Shorn family originating from an ancient, but exiled, Tapani line of peasants. Once servants of House Melantha, the Shorn family claimed Shey Tapani as an ancestor. A claim highly improbable and unlikely. They lived in a neighborhood surrounded by fellow Tapani. All of them were forced to move during the last great uprising, which led to the collapse of the Noble Houses and the exile of many families. They ostracized the lower families and nearly worshipped the higher families. The Shorn family were third generation upriser Knights, former peasants who had done a service to a Lord earning the head of the household knighthood and making his family blood noble from that point on.
However, Mikhail's tale truly starts with that of his father, Casperli Shorn. A proud, stiff man, Casperli Shorn had to deal with the contempt of the other nobles for most of his childhood years. The other noble families despised uprisers, specifically because their blood was not truly noble. Of course, they were in the Republic now, where no one's blood was really noble, but that didn't stop them from discriminating. Casperli managed to gain the respect of the other nobles through his strict adherence to ettiquette and adept political maneuvering - something the nobles all respected, even in their enemies - by the time he was twenty. By the age of thirty, Casperli turned the Shorn name into one not to be taken lightly. As a man who adhered strictly to law and would not tolerate any foolishness, Casperli expected the same of his sons. They would turn into distinguished heirs of the family name. Proud descendants of the Shorn family. Their star would continue to rise into the heavens, propelled by adept hands, skilled at tactful manipulation and well-bred manners. In short, he expected everything that Mikhail was not.
The eldest of the Shorn brothers, Mikhail took a deviating path from the usual mannerisms of firstborns. Instead of being responsible, he was rash. Rather than quiet, introverted, and book savvy, Mikhail was a quick talking extrovert who lived a life full of action. As a young boy, he was a terror to the housemaids and a horror to be locked away at dinner parties. His father reacted with severe discipline, which only pushed Mikhail farther away and reinforced his disregard for authority. At first Mikhail acquiesced to his father's wishes. He was on the honor roll at school, the star of the sports team, and the idol of his younger brother, Seth, who he cared for deeply. And then Mikhail fell in love. Her name was Alexis. She was a peasant.
Mikhail's father would simply not have it. A peasant? In his house? Dating his son? No. Shorn tried to remind his father that they too had once been peasants, but his father would only shake his head sternly and say, "I will not hear more of this, son. We are noble now. We must behave as such." Casperli shut down the relationship and forbid them from seeing each other, which of course only made matters worse as forbidden love is that sweet nectar filling tales that make the heart weep with both sorrow and joy.
The young boy turned his hate on school, not thinking it worth his time or effort. He almost never went to class, received failing grades, and eventually had to be pulled out and given a private tutor, which didn't help matters at all. He was not an unintelligent boy. Just an unmotivated one. He continued to sneak out and see Alexis. Her auburn hair, laughing smile, and perfume - smelling faintly like strawberries - filling his heart, mind, and dreams. When Casperli found out, for it was bound to happen as these things so often do, he arranged for Alexis' family to be evicted. When Mikhail heard that Alexis had to move, away from him, away from the entire neighborhood, possibly even off planet, he grew furious. He knew his father was to blame. Somehow the old man had found out and burnt Mikhail's love boat down around his ears, even as it tried to set sail. Simple. Effective. Ruthless. A Shorn hallmark.
Mikhail fought with his father. They raged for hours. And hours turned todays. Whenever they saw each other another fight would break out. Seth eventually stepped in, reminding them of their mother, Casperli's wife, who had died of disease so many years ago, almost before Seth was born. The youngest Shorn asked if this was what she would have wanted, to see them fighting constantly. The two stubborn men eventually came around. Mikhail was seventeen. He told his father that when he was eighteen he would be leaving to join the Galactic Republic Army. Casperli pretended to be reluctant, but accepting. In secret, he was almost overjoyed that his son would be joining the Army. Perhaps that would teach the boy respect and dignity. Casperli suggested that if the boy must go into the army then at least he should attend officer training school, which Mikhail complied to.
Joining the Army:
Officer Training School was perhaps the toughest physical point in Mikhail's young life thus far. The days seemed never ending. The trainers were ruthless in their examination, attention to form, and punishments for failure. Mikhail's body hardened with muscle but so did his mind. Thinking muscle. This was something he wanted. True, he hated most authority, but with the right motivation even he could listen and obey. And he desperately wanted to be good at this, leading soldiers. It was what most young boys dreamed of, but Mikhail had never stopped dreaming. He didn't know if he could do it. Be that leader. Strong, but charismatic. Ruthless to the enemy, but empathetic to his troops.
Motivated to succeed, Mikhail did so. He graduated OTS as a 2nd Lieutenant and received a position as a platoon officer. Six months later his platoon was deployed into combat.
His first taste of battle was horrifying. The image of the hot zone, where his platoon had to land, is forever seared into his memory. Countless bodies lay strewn across the ground. Smoke rose in pillars from wrecked vehicles. A never ending, staccato sequence of explosions created towers of exploding dirt and ripped men to pieces. He was the third man to get off the shuttle. He remembered this because the first two died, cut down by an unseen sniper in a spray of pink mist and plasma. He remembered the first blood to splash across his armor, that of the man in front of him when he stepped on a mine and had his legs blown off. And above all these he remembered the terror of his first kill, the simple raising of his blaster, lining up the sights, and pulling the trigger, leaving a man dead, scorching holes in his chest. Perhaps a man not so differrent from himself. But dead now. Dead as the others Mikhail had had to kill.
As Shorn began to hop around the galaxy on campaigns, he socialized with the other officers. He was a man now, with a killer smile and a deadly wit. He was a hotshot in the Army who rode expensive speeders through crowded city airways on whims, loved many women, and drank himself under the table with routine pleasure to hide from the miseries of combat. Because if he didn't he might go insane. He saw Seth occasionally. The kid had joined the Starfighter Corps and wasn't doing too bad. His brother was a deeply empathetic man and it surprised him that the kid had transferred from medical to Starfighter. Seth said he'd realized the need for violence in order to achieve peace, even if he didn't like it. Mikhail just shook his head. Peace was an illusion.
His platoon was relegated to pirate mop up. It was a never ending chore, with high casualties and a low success rate, with any progress being nearly neglible. For every pirate group they killed another one would pop up just like it. There are a great deal of skirmishes that Mikhail saw. Recounting them all would take up much time and many words. Suffice it to say that he fought long and hard, until one day he found himself on the edge of large crater on some planetoid. The crater was a massive one, made by some meteor millions of years ago. Below, in the crater, were the armed defenses of the enemy pirates. The pirates knew they were coming and they were prepared.
Mikhail would be damned if he sent them all down there to their deaths. So far, he'd been a fairly good leader. Charismatic, always. Intelligent? Sometimes. But above all he tried to be empathetic. It was hard, when so many of his men saw him as the perpetrator of their misfortune. He'd had to see them suffer through so much on this campaign to end piracy. The politicians on Coruscant didn't understand the impossible task they'd assigned. All they cared about was giving the order so that they could tell the voters they had a strong anti-piracy stance. They didn't actually care about the lives of his troops. All they cared about was getting re-elected and looking good for the limelight.
He tried to get them to reconsider the orders, but it was futile. Reluctantly, he ordered the assault into the crater and he, along with 36 other soldiers, charged down. Several survived. Mikhail was disgraced. He began to drink heavily. He disregarded orders and became more rebellious and arrogant. Soon, news came that his brother had died in an engagement. Mikhail snapped. He raved at the officer's bar about it being the fault of politicians and senile senior command. A superior officer laid hold of him in order to calm him down, but Mikhail lashed out. Not with hands or feet. But with his mind. The senior officer was blown back by an unseen force as Mikhail channeled his anger into the man. The man was flung through the plaster of the wall and he fell a whole story into the ground below. The room became silent.
The young Lieutenant knew his reflexes were faster than most, that he was able to run faster and farther than other humans. He'd just chalked it up to good physical endurance. And he remembered odd instances, when he would want something in his hand, reach to grab it, and find it there already. More of the puzzle snapped into place, but he was missing so many pieces.
Mikhail Shorn left the planet in a hurry, deserting the Republic Army before he could be court martialed. It wasn't his fault he'd killed the man. He hadn't meant to, but he'd just been so angry.
One with the Dark:
Once outside of Republic space, he investigated what had happened to him and came across the Force and Jedi. Of course, the Jedi operated with the Republic. He couldn't go back. Yet, eventually, he learned of the "Dark Jedi." Since he couldn't go back to the Republic, he fled to find answers on the deserted world of Nam Chorios. It seemed it was not so deserted after all.
A Dark Jedi cult was attempting to amplify their numbers, but in secret. Mikhail was one of many initiates. But he was one of the few who survived. The initiates were a culmination of people the Dark Jedi had found who were force sensitive. The training was... severe. Mikhail did not see the outside of the facility for several months as they put his body and mind to the test.
There are many who spend years practicing martial forms. They are good, yes. But nothing can quite compare to the training instilled in an intense year of a gladitorial camp run by sadistic trainers, when learning means living and defeat death. Day in and day out the initiates trained for combat. They were given practice lightsabers, non-lethal, and for endless hours would spar against real Dark Jedi who didn't hold back punches or kicks that left a mouth bleeding or a rib bruised. Of course, were it is written "they" Mikhail would think "I." For in this camp from hell he began to think in terms of "I" and "them." No "Us." No "We." Just Mikhail Shorn. Alone. The other initiates couldn't be trusted as all had been told from the start that at the end of the year there would be an initiate-wide fight to the death. Those left standing would be given the rank of Apprentice. So, initiates of a particularly devious run would try to fix the game in their favor. Any opportunity offered to eliminate another initiate would be taken. Poisoned food, an overly rough sparring match that left compound fractures, a broken neck from a fall down a flight of stairs. And the Dark Jedi didn't really seem to care. Oh, if they were caught they were executed on the spot. As long as the initiates were clevered enough they got away with it. But the Force has a way of picking those who are neither weak nor stupid to wield its power.
The routine exercise built Mikhail into a lean muscled killer. He would wake up at seven, eat breakfast hurridly at the open cafeteria after checking for poison in his food, then follow the other initiates to the large obstacle course in the middle of the facility - which constantly changed its layout of obstacles - for aerobics and cardio from seven thirty to eleven. They would have a break to eat lunch, then back to work again for lightsaber combat from eleven thirty to four in the afternoon. This was Mikhal's favorite part of an otherwise routinely miserable day as the Dark Jedi approached it in a fairly free-form way.
Each initiate learned the basics of Form I, Shii-Cho. They would then choose which of the forms they wanted to study. As this gave them a bit of free will, Mikhail thought of his decision long and hard as it would most likely determine his fate. Soresu was too defensive for him. Against so many opponents he could not count on defense alone. He needed a strong counter-attacking style. Ataru was aggressive, but Mikhail could not be certain of the gym layout. Ataru needed space for acrobatics and Mikhail couldn't guarentee he would have that. Vaapad was too advanced. Niman was pathetic. Djem So/Shien's aggression appealed to him, but ultimately Makashi was the style of the duelist. And it was Makashi Mikhail chose. The form was elegant, precise, and deadly. Few initiates chose Makashi. It was an older style, like Shii-Cho and many preferred the acrobatics of Ataru or the aggressiveness of Shien.
With rapt attention, Mikhail would listen to and obey the Dark Jedi instructor in charge of Makashi. He never learned the Dark Jedi's name, or saw the face beneath the armor. He only heard that distorted voice issuing instructions that could make the difference between life and death. He practiced Makashi's footwork until his feet hurt. He hated the routineness of it, loathed the kata he constantly had to practice to understand the different thrusts possible, and despised the constant lectures on control and precision. But he struggled for it, motivated by the primal instinct to survive. And with time, he grew to be competent compared to the other initiates.
The Dark Jedi trained the initiates in the ways of the Force from four to eight, their exhaustion from lightsaber combat and physical exertion making the Dark Jedi push them all the harder. If they found any initiates lacking they would were killed on the spot and a short lecture on non-toleration of weakness was given. Mikhail would have left, but he didn't really have a choice. Besides, he was starting to enjoy this power. Immersed in the presence of the Dark Side, Mikhail became addicted to it surely as if it was alcohol. The indescribable pleasure resulting from channeling that cimmerian strength which resembled nothing so much as an avalanche colliding into a flow of lava made him almost want to stay. He was not particularly skilled at the areas of precognition, feeding off others' rage and anger, telepathic attacks, or enhancing his strength and speed. However, Mikhail thought of new and inventive ways to utilize the telekinesis of Force Pushes and Pulls to his advantage in a fight.
Four days before the final trial, the initiates built their lightsabers. They were given all the materials necessary and told only to build. If they did not build one in time for the final trial, they would enter it without a blade. Mikhail had never been gifted with circuitry. He was not the best pilot in the world and mechanical things seemed to despise him. He, along with many other initiates, did not finish building in time. Though he had stayed up and worked endlessly for four days and nights, with barely any food or water, Mikhail was seized along with the other initiates, thrown into the obstacle course, which now resembled an arena, and told to fight to the death. The final six left standing would be Apprentices.
Without a lightsaber, Mikhail was easy pickings. He almost died during the opening moments of the fight several times, barely managing to avoid the ruthless attacks of sabers. Finally, he got clever and pulled the body of another unarmed initiate in front of a thrust. Callously, Mikhail had used another human being as a meat shield. A year ago, he would have been shocked by his actions, but the Mikhail of the present just wanted to survive. He managed to kill the initiate wielding the lightsaber before she could recover from the thrust. He broke her neck with a violent twist of his arms and snatched up his blade. The wanton slaughter began in earnest now. Another initiate had seen Mikhail's tactic and used it on a saber armed opponent, but for the most part the unarmed initiates died swiftly.
Mikhail wasted no time in cutting down those initiate armed with lightsabers who stood busily trying to cut down the unarmed. Utilizing Makashi's precision thrusts, he squared off against another saber armed initiate. In two parries, a feint, and a thrust, Mikhail found himself staring at a corpse with his lightsaber sticking through its chest. He was surprised at how easy it had been. In a one on one duel, without any blasters involved, Mikhail would have been considered one of the foremost among the initiates.
Within the space of several minutes the blood bath was over. Severed limbs and amputated bodies littered the battlefield, but Mikhail and the five other initiates had survived the training from hell. Shorn lay in recovery for a full day after that. He built an actual lightsaber the day he woke up, working on it constantly for a whole week until it was finished. He would never go unarmed again, if he could help it. Released from the training camp, Mikhail accepted the rank of Dark Jedi Apprentice. Why put all those months spent in hell to waste? Why indeed.
The Long Fall:
Once inducted into the Omega Order, Mikhail was introduced to their goals and purpose. The cultists all had lost loved ones. The founding members fell believing they could somehow bring the back. In their quest for knowledge they learned of the Netherworld, a place where horrible spirits were kept alive. The goal was to acquire enough members - strong members - to open the door. But for that they needed materials. Smokestone, to amplify telepathy and other materials whose purpose Mikhail never fully understood.
He participated in several of the Dark Jedi's raids. Sometimes they killed civilians, sometimes they killed militants. Sometimes they didn't kill at all. But wherever they went sorrow seemed not far behind. Mikhail hated what he had become. Hated the darkness, hated the urge to destroy, the rage. But he also loved it, the power it gave him. Slowly, he learned to enjoy the abilities of such power. This was the complexity of humanoid nature, so filled with contradictions.
Now a Dark Jedi Apprentice, Mikhail trained under the Lord Tirdarius. The man was stern as iron, but committed to seeing the Omega Order unified. Tirdarius despised the squabbling ways of so many of his compatriots, thinking himself above it all. Mikhail hated him. He saw too much of his father in the man and it terrified Shorn. Under Tirdarius, Mikhail learned how to manipulate small objects with his mind and accelerate them to speeds resembling a shotgun blast. A power known as ballistakinesis.
While quite adept at the technique known as Force Persuasion, Mikhail always proved susceptible to telepathic attacks such as Force Fear. Tirdarius often practiced his own Force Fear techniques on Shorn, leaving the man in a catatonic state for a day or more. Worse, Shorn's lightsaber skills were not up to par with the rest of the Order's apprentices and as Mikhail focused more on the intricacies of other Force techniques and his abilities with the saber waned.
Despite the brutality of the initiate training camp, the Dark Jedi themselves were purposed for several goals. Bringing back their lost dears, acquiring wealth through various black market deals and raw physical force, and oddly, healing. Many of them had fallen in pursuit of resurrecting the dead. As such, they saw the Dark Side's power as a tool not merely for destruction, but for new life. Yet, their results foundered. The healing offered by the Dark Side was only temporary. Nevertheless, Mikhail and others trained in such abilities.
Five years he spent in this manner, learning powers and going on various raids in an attempt to collect enough materials for the "cause." They all had lost love ones. They told themselves they did it all to see them again. Part of Mikhail wanted to believe them. Part of him also just wanted to kill them. Finally, Mikhail gained the status of Knight. He could fire bolts of lightning from his fingertips and choke the life out of a weequay with a mere thought and a gesture. But he still ached at the thought of Alexis. With the Dark Jedi's databases more fully open to him, Mikhail resumed his search for her. He found Alexis... now Alexis Barca. He wouldn't let it stop him. He needed to see her again.
The newly minted Dark Jedi Knight traveled to Fondor incognito and located his former love's skytower mansion. She married wealthy. The ensuing encounter, in which he accidentally killed Alexis, then slaughtered her husband and children in a fit of rage, left Mikhail horribly mentally scarred and in horror at what he'd done. He blamed the Dark Jedi for turning him into a monster and most of all, he blamed his father.
Utterly lost, Mikhail returned to the only home he had... the Omega Order. He found them preparing for the first trial of their meditation chamber, built nearly entirely out of smokestone. Shorn watched as the most powerful masters of the Order, including Lord Tirdarius, attempted to open up a portal into the Netherworld.
And they succeeded.
They tore a hole in the fabric of reality and saw beyond, but they knew naught what they had done. A terrible being from the Netherworld entered through the portal and savaged the minds of all those involved in the ritual. Tirdarius called to Mikhail, begging him for help. Shorn stood in the doorway and watched, a hollowness in his heart. At last, the Dark Jedi Knight did as asked. He reached out his telekinetic power and with all his might wrenched at the keystone of the meditation chamber. It was said in the old days that architects were made to stand underneath their arches to validate their handiwork.
Shorn sought no such validation for the Omega Order's masters. The keystone tore free, and with it part of the vaulted roof. Stones rained down, killing their creators. In the chaos and confusion, Mikhail made his getaway to the complex's hangar and fled the system.
Confused and still unsatisfied with the hole in his heart, he came to Coruscant the Jedi's help. He would not convert to the light, he believed himself too far gone for their help. But he would have his vengeance, even if he had to cooperate with the Republic to do it.
RP Sample:
A bar of crimson hummed end over end in a mesmerizing whirl that nearly cut off Mikhail's head. Shorn swayed slightly, letting the lightsaber pass him by. "Dark Siders, always throwing away their toys," he sneered.
The lightsaber returned to its owners hand. Three peons of the wrong side of the Force stood in front of Mikhail. The Dark Jedi appeared at ease despite the unmatched odds, though in his heart he felt stark terror.
"No recruitment speeches?" he asked snidely.
Silence.
He snorted. "Not even a 'we have cookies'?"
They attacked.
Shorn flung out his hand and a wave of the Force rippled out, hitting the lead attacker in the chest and hurling him off his feet and into the wall with a loud crunching.
Mikhail practically shuddered with pleasure. Nothing came so sweet to his ears as the wet snapping of a Sith's bones. He only regretted he had not felt the breaking of those calcified twigs with his own hands. He could imagine it though. In his mind's eye he could feel the visceral impact of his knuckles against the man's side, something giving beneath his raw strength. It made him feel... powerful.
He fully gave in to the fight, relishing in his inner sadist. They deserved to die. All of them. He would not hesitate to be the hand of judgement. More, he craved to be on the side of what was right. And for once in his life, he knew exactly what was "right." How did he feel about killing them? "I feel... righteous."
Those icy blue eyes of Mikhail Shorn, so cold and filled with fathomless emotion now turned a liquid gold, tinged by a deepening red. "Sith eyes." The eyes of a murderer.
"No," he thought, unleashing the fury inside, "A murderer of monsters."
Race: Human
Age: 27
Height: 6'
Weight: 180lbs
Appearance:
He has dark, unkempt hair that comes down just over his ears. His face is all sharp lines and high cheekbones, with dark arching eyebrows above piercing eyes of a glacial blue. He has a lean build, with whipcord muscles that make him resemble the wolf more than the lion. Shorn almost always moves with an air of casual nonchalance that shows his flippant disregard for the galaxy, save for when he is pushed to anger, at which point he attempts to unnerve others by ignoring personal space and getting in their faces. An ever present smirk adorns his features, occasionally complimented by expressive eyebrows. Unlike other pompous Force Users, Mikhail does not wear robes. He favors leather jackets and plain, dark clothes.
Snarky and a bit sadistic, Mikhail Shorn enjoys playing with the emotions of others. He is amoral almost to the point of sociopathy. His self-confidence and charm are often used in a seductive manner. He is passionate, often acting out of impulse. Despite all this, self-destructiveness seems to be his constant theme, perhaps due to a suppressed self-loathing and loneliness.
All the actions he has taken thus far he believes he has done for love. In the kill or be kill world of the Omega Order he convinced himself that every life he ripped away was so that he could one day find Alexis. Now that he found her - and subsequently killed her - he has only one goal in mind: to rip apart every Dark Sider he can find in a quest to rob the lives of those who stripped him of morality and burdened him with the mantle of a monster.
Snide comments and disregard for authority often land Mikhail in trouble. Such stubbornness in the face of a higher power is one of Mikhail's more prominent traits, likely to get him killed.
In terms of mannerisms, Mikhail tends to act with a flippant air of nonchalant cynicism and charm. When trying to appear intimidating or threatening, Mikhail often gives them a wide-eyed, icy blue stare, his eyes seeming to look through others, rather than at them. He has an alarming lack of personal space that tends to unnerve others. He does not smile. He smirks. And he never laughs. He snorts and scoffs, but outright laughter has been squeezed from him.
Birth place: Procopia, Tapani Sector
Faction: None
Rank: Dark Jedi Knight
Previous Faction: Omega Order
Previous Rank: Dark Jedi Knight
Lightsaber: Single Blade
Color: Violet
Practiced Lightsaber forms:
Shii-Cho - 2
Makashi - 1
Soresu - N/A
Ataru - N/A
Shien / Djem So - N/A
>>Sub-form Backhanded - N/A
Niman - N/A
>>Sub-form Jar-kai, or Dual Wield - N/A
Juyo - N/A
Double Bladed Combat - N/A
Force-Sensitive Abilities or practices:
Telekinetic: 6
Telepathic: 3
Body: 3
Sense: 3
Protection: 0
Healing: 2
Destruction: 3
Specialized Skills:
N/A
Attributes:
Physical Strength: 6
Intelligence: 5
Speed: 6
Leadership: 5
Unarmed: 5
Melee Weapons: 3
Ranged Weapons: 5
Bio:
Hates his life, does Mikhail Shorn
Wishes he had ne'er been born
Provoker of the ladies' wrath
A bitter, snarky psychopath
-in 'Connory: Sage of the Space Lanes -
The Definitive Collection,'
A.E. Sorose and G.Q.Beorht, eds.,
University of Rudrig Press
However, Mikhail's tale truly starts with that of his father, Casperli Shorn. A proud, stiff man, Casperli Shorn had to deal with the contempt of the other nobles for most of his childhood years. The other noble families despised uprisers, specifically because their blood was not truly noble. Of course, they were in the Republic now, where no one's blood was really noble, but that didn't stop them from discriminating. Casperli managed to gain the respect of the other nobles through his strict adherence to ettiquette and adept political maneuvering - something the nobles all respected, even in their enemies - by the time he was twenty. By the age of thirty, Casperli turned the Shorn name into one not to be taken lightly. As a man who adhered strictly to law and would not tolerate any foolishness, Casperli expected the same of his sons. They would turn into distinguished heirs of the family name. Proud descendants of the Shorn family. Their star would continue to rise into the heavens, propelled by adept hands, skilled at tactful manipulation and well-bred manners. In short, he expected everything that Mikhail was not.
The eldest of the Shorn brothers, Mikhail took a deviating path from the usual mannerisms of firstborns. Instead of being responsible, he was rash. Rather than quiet, introverted, and book savvy, Mikhail was a quick talking extrovert who lived a life full of action. As a young boy, he was a terror to the housemaids and a horror to be locked away at dinner parties. His father reacted with severe discipline, which only pushed Mikhail farther away and reinforced his disregard for authority. At first Mikhail acquiesced to his father's wishes. He was on the honor roll at school, the star of the sports team, and the idol of his younger brother, Seth, who he cared for deeply. And then Mikhail fell in love. Her name was Alexis. She was a peasant.
Mikhail's father would simply not have it. A peasant? In his house? Dating his son? No. Shorn tried to remind his father that they too had once been peasants, but his father would only shake his head sternly and say, "I will not hear more of this, son. We are noble now. We must behave as such." Casperli shut down the relationship and forbid them from seeing each other, which of course only made matters worse as forbidden love is that sweet nectar filling tales that make the heart weep with both sorrow and joy.
The young boy turned his hate on school, not thinking it worth his time or effort. He almost never went to class, received failing grades, and eventually had to be pulled out and given a private tutor, which didn't help matters at all. He was not an unintelligent boy. Just an unmotivated one. He continued to sneak out and see Alexis. Her auburn hair, laughing smile, and perfume - smelling faintly like strawberries - filling his heart, mind, and dreams. When Casperli found out, for it was bound to happen as these things so often do, he arranged for Alexis' family to be evicted. When Mikhail heard that Alexis had to move, away from him, away from the entire neighborhood, possibly even off planet, he grew furious. He knew his father was to blame. Somehow the old man had found out and burnt Mikhail's love boat down around his ears, even as it tried to set sail. Simple. Effective. Ruthless. A Shorn hallmark.
Mikhail fought with his father. They raged for hours. And hours turned todays. Whenever they saw each other another fight would break out. Seth eventually stepped in, reminding them of their mother, Casperli's wife, who had died of disease so many years ago, almost before Seth was born. The youngest Shorn asked if this was what she would have wanted, to see them fighting constantly. The two stubborn men eventually came around. Mikhail was seventeen. He told his father that when he was eighteen he would be leaving to join the Galactic Republic Army. Casperli pretended to be reluctant, but accepting. In secret, he was almost overjoyed that his son would be joining the Army. Perhaps that would teach the boy respect and dignity. Casperli suggested that if the boy must go into the army then at least he should attend officer training school, which Mikhail complied to.
Joining the Army:
Officer Training School was perhaps the toughest physical point in Mikhail's young life thus far. The days seemed never ending. The trainers were ruthless in their examination, attention to form, and punishments for failure. Mikhail's body hardened with muscle but so did his mind. Thinking muscle. This was something he wanted. True, he hated most authority, but with the right motivation even he could listen and obey. And he desperately wanted to be good at this, leading soldiers. It was what most young boys dreamed of, but Mikhail had never stopped dreaming. He didn't know if he could do it. Be that leader. Strong, but charismatic. Ruthless to the enemy, but empathetic to his troops.
Motivated to succeed, Mikhail did so. He graduated OTS as a 2nd Lieutenant and received a position as a platoon officer. Six months later his platoon was deployed into combat.
His first taste of battle was horrifying. The image of the hot zone, where his platoon had to land, is forever seared into his memory. Countless bodies lay strewn across the ground. Smoke rose in pillars from wrecked vehicles. A never ending, staccato sequence of explosions created towers of exploding dirt and ripped men to pieces. He was the third man to get off the shuttle. He remembered this because the first two died, cut down by an unseen sniper in a spray of pink mist and plasma. He remembered the first blood to splash across his armor, that of the man in front of him when he stepped on a mine and had his legs blown off. And above all these he remembered the terror of his first kill, the simple raising of his blaster, lining up the sights, and pulling the trigger, leaving a man dead, scorching holes in his chest. Perhaps a man not so differrent from himself. But dead now. Dead as the others Mikhail had had to kill.
As Shorn began to hop around the galaxy on campaigns, he socialized with the other officers. He was a man now, with a killer smile and a deadly wit. He was a hotshot in the Army who rode expensive speeders through crowded city airways on whims, loved many women, and drank himself under the table with routine pleasure to hide from the miseries of combat. Because if he didn't he might go insane. He saw Seth occasionally. The kid had joined the Starfighter Corps and wasn't doing too bad. His brother was a deeply empathetic man and it surprised him that the kid had transferred from medical to Starfighter. Seth said he'd realized the need for violence in order to achieve peace, even if he didn't like it. Mikhail just shook his head. Peace was an illusion.
His platoon was relegated to pirate mop up. It was a never ending chore, with high casualties and a low success rate, with any progress being nearly neglible. For every pirate group they killed another one would pop up just like it. There are a great deal of skirmishes that Mikhail saw. Recounting them all would take up much time and many words. Suffice it to say that he fought long and hard, until one day he found himself on the edge of large crater on some planetoid. The crater was a massive one, made by some meteor millions of years ago. Below, in the crater, were the armed defenses of the enemy pirates. The pirates knew they were coming and they were prepared.
Mikhail would be damned if he sent them all down there to their deaths. So far, he'd been a fairly good leader. Charismatic, always. Intelligent? Sometimes. But above all he tried to be empathetic. It was hard, when so many of his men saw him as the perpetrator of their misfortune. He'd had to see them suffer through so much on this campaign to end piracy. The politicians on Coruscant didn't understand the impossible task they'd assigned. All they cared about was giving the order so that they could tell the voters they had a strong anti-piracy stance. They didn't actually care about the lives of his troops. All they cared about was getting re-elected and looking good for the limelight.
He tried to get them to reconsider the orders, but it was futile. Reluctantly, he ordered the assault into the crater and he, along with 36 other soldiers, charged down. Several survived. Mikhail was disgraced. He began to drink heavily. He disregarded orders and became more rebellious and arrogant. Soon, news came that his brother had died in an engagement. Mikhail snapped. He raved at the officer's bar about it being the fault of politicians and senile senior command. A superior officer laid hold of him in order to calm him down, but Mikhail lashed out. Not with hands or feet. But with his mind. The senior officer was blown back by an unseen force as Mikhail channeled his anger into the man. The man was flung through the plaster of the wall and he fell a whole story into the ground below. The room became silent.
The young Lieutenant knew his reflexes were faster than most, that he was able to run faster and farther than other humans. He'd just chalked it up to good physical endurance. And he remembered odd instances, when he would want something in his hand, reach to grab it, and find it there already. More of the puzzle snapped into place, but he was missing so many pieces.
Mikhail Shorn left the planet in a hurry, deserting the Republic Army before he could be court martialed. It wasn't his fault he'd killed the man. He hadn't meant to, but he'd just been so angry.
One with the Dark:
Once outside of Republic space, he investigated what had happened to him and came across the Force and Jedi. Of course, the Jedi operated with the Republic. He couldn't go back. Yet, eventually, he learned of the "Dark Jedi." Since he couldn't go back to the Republic, he fled to find answers on the deserted world of Nam Chorios. It seemed it was not so deserted after all.
A Dark Jedi cult was attempting to amplify their numbers, but in secret. Mikhail was one of many initiates. But he was one of the few who survived. The initiates were a culmination of people the Dark Jedi had found who were force sensitive. The training was... severe. Mikhail did not see the outside of the facility for several months as they put his body and mind to the test.
There are many who spend years practicing martial forms. They are good, yes. But nothing can quite compare to the training instilled in an intense year of a gladitorial camp run by sadistic trainers, when learning means living and defeat death. Day in and day out the initiates trained for combat. They were given practice lightsabers, non-lethal, and for endless hours would spar against real Dark Jedi who didn't hold back punches or kicks that left a mouth bleeding or a rib bruised. Of course, were it is written "they" Mikhail would think "I." For in this camp from hell he began to think in terms of "I" and "them." No "Us." No "We." Just Mikhail Shorn. Alone. The other initiates couldn't be trusted as all had been told from the start that at the end of the year there would be an initiate-wide fight to the death. Those left standing would be given the rank of Apprentice. So, initiates of a particularly devious run would try to fix the game in their favor. Any opportunity offered to eliminate another initiate would be taken. Poisoned food, an overly rough sparring match that left compound fractures, a broken neck from a fall down a flight of stairs. And the Dark Jedi didn't really seem to care. Oh, if they were caught they were executed on the spot. As long as the initiates were clevered enough they got away with it. But the Force has a way of picking those who are neither weak nor stupid to wield its power.
The routine exercise built Mikhail into a lean muscled killer. He would wake up at seven, eat breakfast hurridly at the open cafeteria after checking for poison in his food, then follow the other initiates to the large obstacle course in the middle of the facility - which constantly changed its layout of obstacles - for aerobics and cardio from seven thirty to eleven. They would have a break to eat lunch, then back to work again for lightsaber combat from eleven thirty to four in the afternoon. This was Mikhal's favorite part of an otherwise routinely miserable day as the Dark Jedi approached it in a fairly free-form way.
Each initiate learned the basics of Form I, Shii-Cho. They would then choose which of the forms they wanted to study. As this gave them a bit of free will, Mikhail thought of his decision long and hard as it would most likely determine his fate. Soresu was too defensive for him. Against so many opponents he could not count on defense alone. He needed a strong counter-attacking style. Ataru was aggressive, but Mikhail could not be certain of the gym layout. Ataru needed space for acrobatics and Mikhail couldn't guarentee he would have that. Vaapad was too advanced. Niman was pathetic. Djem So/Shien's aggression appealed to him, but ultimately Makashi was the style of the duelist. And it was Makashi Mikhail chose. The form was elegant, precise, and deadly. Few initiates chose Makashi. It was an older style, like Shii-Cho and many preferred the acrobatics of Ataru or the aggressiveness of Shien.
With rapt attention, Mikhail would listen to and obey the Dark Jedi instructor in charge of Makashi. He never learned the Dark Jedi's name, or saw the face beneath the armor. He only heard that distorted voice issuing instructions that could make the difference between life and death. He practiced Makashi's footwork until his feet hurt. He hated the routineness of it, loathed the kata he constantly had to practice to understand the different thrusts possible, and despised the constant lectures on control and precision. But he struggled for it, motivated by the primal instinct to survive. And with time, he grew to be competent compared to the other initiates.
The Dark Jedi trained the initiates in the ways of the Force from four to eight, their exhaustion from lightsaber combat and physical exertion making the Dark Jedi push them all the harder. If they found any initiates lacking they would were killed on the spot and a short lecture on non-toleration of weakness was given. Mikhail would have left, but he didn't really have a choice. Besides, he was starting to enjoy this power. Immersed in the presence of the Dark Side, Mikhail became addicted to it surely as if it was alcohol. The indescribable pleasure resulting from channeling that cimmerian strength which resembled nothing so much as an avalanche colliding into a flow of lava made him almost want to stay. He was not particularly skilled at the areas of precognition, feeding off others' rage and anger, telepathic attacks, or enhancing his strength and speed. However, Mikhail thought of new and inventive ways to utilize the telekinesis of Force Pushes and Pulls to his advantage in a fight.
Four days before the final trial, the initiates built their lightsabers. They were given all the materials necessary and told only to build. If they did not build one in time for the final trial, they would enter it without a blade. Mikhail had never been gifted with circuitry. He was not the best pilot in the world and mechanical things seemed to despise him. He, along with many other initiates, did not finish building in time. Though he had stayed up and worked endlessly for four days and nights, with barely any food or water, Mikhail was seized along with the other initiates, thrown into the obstacle course, which now resembled an arena, and told to fight to the death. The final six left standing would be Apprentices.
Without a lightsaber, Mikhail was easy pickings. He almost died during the opening moments of the fight several times, barely managing to avoid the ruthless attacks of sabers. Finally, he got clever and pulled the body of another unarmed initiate in front of a thrust. Callously, Mikhail had used another human being as a meat shield. A year ago, he would have been shocked by his actions, but the Mikhail of the present just wanted to survive. He managed to kill the initiate wielding the lightsaber before she could recover from the thrust. He broke her neck with a violent twist of his arms and snatched up his blade. The wanton slaughter began in earnest now. Another initiate had seen Mikhail's tactic and used it on a saber armed opponent, but for the most part the unarmed initiates died swiftly.
Mikhail wasted no time in cutting down those initiate armed with lightsabers who stood busily trying to cut down the unarmed. Utilizing Makashi's precision thrusts, he squared off against another saber armed initiate. In two parries, a feint, and a thrust, Mikhail found himself staring at a corpse with his lightsaber sticking through its chest. He was surprised at how easy it had been. In a one on one duel, without any blasters involved, Mikhail would have been considered one of the foremost among the initiates.
Within the space of several minutes the blood bath was over. Severed limbs and amputated bodies littered the battlefield, but Mikhail and the five other initiates had survived the training from hell. Shorn lay in recovery for a full day after that. He built an actual lightsaber the day he woke up, working on it constantly for a whole week until it was finished. He would never go unarmed again, if he could help it. Released from the training camp, Mikhail accepted the rank of Dark Jedi Apprentice. Why put all those months spent in hell to waste? Why indeed.
The Long Fall:
Once inducted into the Omega Order, Mikhail was introduced to their goals and purpose. The cultists all had lost loved ones. The founding members fell believing they could somehow bring the back. In their quest for knowledge they learned of the Netherworld, a place where horrible spirits were kept alive. The goal was to acquire enough members - strong members - to open the door. But for that they needed materials. Smokestone, to amplify telepathy and other materials whose purpose Mikhail never fully understood.
He participated in several of the Dark Jedi's raids. Sometimes they killed civilians, sometimes they killed militants. Sometimes they didn't kill at all. But wherever they went sorrow seemed not far behind. Mikhail hated what he had become. Hated the darkness, hated the urge to destroy, the rage. But he also loved it, the power it gave him. Slowly, he learned to enjoy the abilities of such power. This was the complexity of humanoid nature, so filled with contradictions.
Now a Dark Jedi Apprentice, Mikhail trained under the Lord Tirdarius. The man was stern as iron, but committed to seeing the Omega Order unified. Tirdarius despised the squabbling ways of so many of his compatriots, thinking himself above it all. Mikhail hated him. He saw too much of his father in the man and it terrified Shorn. Under Tirdarius, Mikhail learned how to manipulate small objects with his mind and accelerate them to speeds resembling a shotgun blast. A power known as ballistakinesis.
While quite adept at the technique known as Force Persuasion, Mikhail always proved susceptible to telepathic attacks such as Force Fear. Tirdarius often practiced his own Force Fear techniques on Shorn, leaving the man in a catatonic state for a day or more. Worse, Shorn's lightsaber skills were not up to par with the rest of the Order's apprentices and as Mikhail focused more on the intricacies of other Force techniques and his abilities with the saber waned.
Despite the brutality of the initiate training camp, the Dark Jedi themselves were purposed for several goals. Bringing back their lost dears, acquiring wealth through various black market deals and raw physical force, and oddly, healing. Many of them had fallen in pursuit of resurrecting the dead. As such, they saw the Dark Side's power as a tool not merely for destruction, but for new life. Yet, their results foundered. The healing offered by the Dark Side was only temporary. Nevertheless, Mikhail and others trained in such abilities.
Five years he spent in this manner, learning powers and going on various raids in an attempt to collect enough materials for the "cause." They all had lost love ones. They told themselves they did it all to see them again. Part of Mikhail wanted to believe them. Part of him also just wanted to kill them. Finally, Mikhail gained the status of Knight. He could fire bolts of lightning from his fingertips and choke the life out of a weequay with a mere thought and a gesture. But he still ached at the thought of Alexis. With the Dark Jedi's databases more fully open to him, Mikhail resumed his search for her. He found Alexis... now Alexis Barca. He wouldn't let it stop him. He needed to see her again.
The newly minted Dark Jedi Knight traveled to Fondor incognito and located his former love's skytower mansion. She married wealthy. The ensuing encounter, in which he accidentally killed Alexis, then slaughtered her husband and children in a fit of rage, left Mikhail horribly mentally scarred and in horror at what he'd done. He blamed the Dark Jedi for turning him into a monster and most of all, he blamed his father.
Utterly lost, Mikhail returned to the only home he had... the Omega Order. He found them preparing for the first trial of their meditation chamber, built nearly entirely out of smokestone. Shorn watched as the most powerful masters of the Order, including Lord Tirdarius, attempted to open up a portal into the Netherworld.
And they succeeded.
They tore a hole in the fabric of reality and saw beyond, but they knew naught what they had done. A terrible being from the Netherworld entered through the portal and savaged the minds of all those involved in the ritual. Tirdarius called to Mikhail, begging him for help. Shorn stood in the doorway and watched, a hollowness in his heart. At last, the Dark Jedi Knight did as asked. He reached out his telekinetic power and with all his might wrenched at the keystone of the meditation chamber. It was said in the old days that architects were made to stand underneath their arches to validate their handiwork.
Shorn sought no such validation for the Omega Order's masters. The keystone tore free, and with it part of the vaulted roof. Stones rained down, killing their creators. In the chaos and confusion, Mikhail made his getaway to the complex's hangar and fled the system.
Confused and still unsatisfied with the hole in his heart, he came to Coruscant the Jedi's help. He would not convert to the light, he believed himself too far gone for their help. But he would have his vengeance, even if he had to cooperate with the Republic to do it.
RP Sample:
A bar of crimson hummed end over end in a mesmerizing whirl that nearly cut off Mikhail's head. Shorn swayed slightly, letting the lightsaber pass him by. "Dark Siders, always throwing away their toys," he sneered.
The lightsaber returned to its owners hand. Three peons of the wrong side of the Force stood in front of Mikhail. The Dark Jedi appeared at ease despite the unmatched odds, though in his heart he felt stark terror.
"No recruitment speeches?" he asked snidely.
Silence.
He snorted. "Not even a 'we have cookies'?"
They attacked.
Shorn flung out his hand and a wave of the Force rippled out, hitting the lead attacker in the chest and hurling him off his feet and into the wall with a loud crunching.
Mikhail practically shuddered with pleasure. Nothing came so sweet to his ears as the wet snapping of a Sith's bones. He only regretted he had not felt the breaking of those calcified twigs with his own hands. He could imagine it though. In his mind's eye he could feel the visceral impact of his knuckles against the man's side, something giving beneath his raw strength. It made him feel... powerful.
He fully gave in to the fight, relishing in his inner sadist. They deserved to die. All of them. He would not hesitate to be the hand of judgement. More, he craved to be on the side of what was right. And for once in his life, he knew exactly what was "right." How did he feel about killing them? "I feel... righteous."
Those icy blue eyes of Mikhail Shorn, so cold and filled with fathomless emotion now turned a liquid gold, tinged by a deepening red. "Sith eyes." The eyes of a murderer.
"No," he thought, unleashing the fury inside, "A murderer of monsters."
