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Post by DreadPirateMike on May 1, 2015 12:07:13 GMT -5
"Hoping to get a head start on the next day, I eat breakfast the night before. That way I can sleep in until two in the afternoon."
-Jarod Kintz
Name: Rikkavi
Race: Selonian
Age: 16
Birthplace: Corellia
Allegiance: Jedi Order
Status: Jedi Slacker
Rank: Padawan
Height/Weight: 6'1"/185 lbs
Appearance:
Rikkavi is, fur and claws aside, just another typical, feckless teenager (Well, technically a year or so into adulthood by the standards of his people. But that factors in neither emotional maturity, nor his disinterest in the ways of his people.), both freed and frustrated by an accident of birth. There aren't a whole lot of Selonians outside the Corellian system. More particularly, he doesn't tend to run into FEMALE Selonians, or many aliens close enough to strike his fancy. That being one of the primary reasons for a teenager to care much about his appearance...he doesn't. Hell, it's not like he needs to worry about skin blemishes, right?
The aforementioned fur is of a partial point coloration; most of his body is covered in a light, sandy brown, but darker highlights are to be found about the head and shoulders, as well as the tail. In these places, it runs toward chestnut. Although Rikkavi DOES reliably zombie shuffle his way into the sonic shower most days, he never bothers with brushing it down, and as a result it tends to be a bit poofy, except on his head. The fur's heavier up there, and as such held down a bit by its own weight. As with the rest of his species, his eyes are a uniform black, just like his nose. In spite of an appetite that might cause a Rancor to look on in bewilderment, a naturally fast metabolism, enhanced by his budding Force prowess, has enabled him to more or less retain the sleek Selonian build.
As far as attire goes, the general rule is "as much as he has to". As much as Selonian culture may be alien to him, the instincts remain strong, and clothes have always felt irritatingly confining to him, meant for specific tasks or harsh environments only. If someone forces the issue, he'll invariably go for some loose, thin and airy fabric, like cotton or silk. He DOES typically wear a Jedi utility belt, simply because having pockets is the one aspect of wearing garments that he really appreciates. It's been modified to support a light blue loin cloth; it's sometimes enough, after he mumbles something about "embracing his native culture". He possesses the typical Jedi robes, of course, but given that it takes a specific order to even get him to put on pants, they are very much for special occasions.
Personality:
Rikkavi is a model Jedi in the making, save only in cases where that would require him to actually take decisive action. Or...any action at all, really. His ability to fall asleep and stay that way virtually anywhere at any time is legendary. His one admitted ambition as a Jedi prior to being selected (To his considerable surprise.) as a Padawan was to wash out into the Service Corps, where expectations were held forever low, and he's rarely shown passion for anything else, save playing games and gorging himself. That's not to say it's impossible to get him to do any work at all, of course. He's always somehow managed to just barely scrape by in all his classes at the last moment. In fact every now and then, he surprises the hell out of an instructor by completing an assignment on time, correctly and without the slightest prodding. But such instances are in the minority, the result of a calculated prediction that a little actual work at that precise moment will keep the overall hassle, and therefore effort, as low level as possible.
Work smarter, not harder!
It would be exaggerating to call any of this a front; it all comes far too naturally to him. That said, beneath the veneer of apathy lies a slightly more complex individual than most ever see. The attitude of not much caring about the larger universe or his place in it started out as a coping mechanism to deal with some very profound loneliness and fear of the future as a small Youngling. He's truly moved on from none of this trauma, but things have changed for him in recent years, his Master and fellow Padawan providing personal bonds he's been lacking all his life. It remains difficult for him, however, to truly admit that he either trusts in or needs these, and so to the extent that it is a facade, it remains in place. But when it comes to those two, cracks have emerged.
In terms of his day to day interactions, he mostly keeps his heads down around the masters, and his default responses are set to sarcasm around the other trainees. They say that's the lowest form of wit, which is about what he usually shoots for. He's not usually too mean about it, though; for all his faults, truly cruel or aggressive impulses are few and far between with him. And he's patient to a fault, having won more than one Dejarik match by forfeit, simply sitting there and pretending to ponder his next move until his opponent becomes frustrated and leaves. He rarely makes a rash decision, taking all time he needs to consider all sides to an issue, sometimes more time than he even has. That doesn't bother him much; if he misses some deadline, then maybe people won't ask him to make the big decisions next time.
Lastly, to the consternation of many, he actually DOES hide significant stores of energy for when he's presented with something he truly enjoys or cares about. He especially and instinctively loves swimming. Get him in a big body of water where he can really move around, and he'll be at it for hours. Despite never being counted, by himself or others as particularly brave, he possesses hidden reserves of real courage as well. To date, and to his relief, these reserves have seldom needed to be tapped.
Ships/Vehicles: N/A
Equipment:
-Training saber, yellow crystal
-Deck of playing cards
-Wide conical hat
-Holonet link
-Jedi utility belt with extra pockets, to hold most of the above. Most of the other standard contents have been discarded and replaced with various snacks.
Stats:
Strength - Average
Agility - Average (Superior on four legs or in the water)
Intelligence - Above Average
Charisma - Average
Force Stats:
Telekinetic- Novice
Telepathic- Apprentice
Body- Novice
Sense- Adept
Protection- Adept
Healing:– Apprentice
Destruction– Unskilled
Combat Training:
Unarmed - Adept (Mainly because claws. Apprentice at a stretch if bound by sparring rules.)
Force Training:
Plant Surge - Novice
Detoxify Poison - Studying
Force Bubble - Adept
Other Training:
Dejarik - Adept
Horticulture - Apprentice
Mechanics - Apprentice
Slicing - Novice
Climbing - Expert
Swimming - Expert
Lightsaber Training:
Shii-Cho- Adept
Soresu- Novice
Biography:
Rikkavi's birth was special. It wasn't foretold in any ancient prophesies or anything. In fact, it didn't even merit a mention in any Holonet gazette. All the same, his arrival in the galaxy represented a significant statistical unlikelihood. Typically, males of the Selonian species accounted for only one in approximately every hundred births, and yet there he was, the second to emerge in a litter of six. Unusual as this was, however, it did not make Rikkavi himself special. At least, not in the eyes of his own people, who valued males for their biological role in the propagation of their species and nothing more. Even so, the health of the den was built on the health of every denizen, and all the usual tests were run.
At which point it became apparent that this little pup was special twice over.
He was Force sensitive, and more so than most if the midichlorian count was to be trusted. In truth, even this likely wouldn't have made any difference in Rikkavi's fate, but for the unique nature of his den. The Selonian equivalent of a city, here as well as on the homeworld, was made up of any number of these individual but interconnected dens, each providing some unique and specialized service. In the case of Rikkavi's den, that service was agricultural supplements to their food supply.
That meant the surface. And that meant humans. Their tunnels exited into the sunlight not far from a small farming town about 10 miles down river from Tyrena, and it was there that humans and Selonians worked the fields in common. That made diplomacy a secondary job of theirs, and this little oddity on their hands might just be more than another mouth to feed after all. They already had labor enough for the farming, and males enough to sire the next generation, but a contribution from their number to the fabled Jedi might just earn them a good return in the form of good will.
They waited about a little over a year before contacting the Jedi stronghold in Coronet City, ensuring his continued good health until he was properly weaned and able to walk about on his own. During this period, one of the infertile females, a warrior named Draala was assigned as his caretaker, and she took to this task as diligently as she had any other, seeing not merely to his safety, but also managing to teach him some common words of Basic. In truth, she took a liking to the squeaking little guy, often letting him ride on her back while she moved along at a full trot and treated him to a nice riverside breeze. This was, in truth, the closest thing Rikkavi would ever know to the maternal affection that children of other races took for granted, but it could only go so far, and for so long. In time, he could move about on two legs with some facility, and that was judged the proper time. Everyone knew about lightsabers, and that you needed hands free to wield one.
A week later, a knight in green robes arrived to confirm their initial tests, and off he went. He went frightened, confused and yelping in alarm, but at Draala's resolutely forceful urging, he went.
Youngling (2-12):
Despite all that initial fear and anxiety, and more on the crossing to Coruscant, Rikkavi's first couple of years with the Jedi weren't so bad, perhaps because there was nothing specifically Jedi-like about them. Lessons on the Force or anything else required the language skills, and saber drills required the fine motor control; until all that was in place, life at the Temple was essentially play group. They DID try to make him wear clothes, a hated and alien concept, but they gave up on that sometime after the third shredded and discarded outfit. So, once he got used to all the alien faces, all he had to deal with was eating, sleeping, playing and letting someone else worry about cleaning up after him. In short, his lifelong idea of paradise, and he managed to draw it out for awhile. Selonians matured a little faster than humans and their many closely related equivalents, which gave him the intelligence and pattern recognition skills to hide it.
When he'd been taken away from Corellia, he had no idea what was going on, no idea where he was going, and no control over any of it. This time, he STILL had no idea what awaited the older kids when the robed elders came to take them away, but he saw what all those kids had in common, and because he liked it where he was, he figured out how to exert a little control. It was the most "advanced" kids they came for, the ones who had mastered reading, running around upright, the more complicated games, whatever. Rikkavi knew he fit all those criteraia, but he didn't advertise it. He stuck to all fours, which was more natural and comfortable for him anyway, he didn't volunteer to read, and he stuck to the simpler games. Sadly, the grownups were smarter than he'd given them credit for, and after awhile, his cover was blown when they started offering him treats. Soon enough, it was his turn to go.
Right then and there, he decided he didn't much like the Jedi Order's idea of reward OR accomplishment.
Say what you will about self-fulfilling prophesies, but for the most part, he didn't like actual Jedi training any more than he'd expected. For one thing, everyone was suddenly a lot more strict. The instructors never yelled or anything - In a way, that was scariest thing. They didn't raise their voices more than was required to address a crowd, they didn't laugh or tell jokes, and it was rare to even see one of them give a real smile. It was almost like they weren't all there. - but it was still clear they were no longer taking no for an answer on the clothes issue. And everything was suddenly regimented. If he was hungry, he could eat only when they told him to. If he was tired, he could sleep only when they told him to. In time, of course, he discovered ways around these restrictions, but they were quite stifling at first. And that wasn't even getting into the actual lessons.
The first time he ever ignited his training saber with the rest of his Youngling clan, he became somewhat enthralled with its yellow blade and the memory it evoked of the Corellian sun. Before the instructor could notice and warn him, he'd burned his nose, instinctively hurled the training sword away, accidentally burning another Youngling in the leg, and run off screaming for the nearest dark corner. It was three days before they could coax him into even picking the thing up again. After that, he gradually became familiar enough with Form 1 drills, exhausting and tedious as they were, that he became confident he wouldn't hurt himself with the weapon again...just in time for introduction to blaster bolt deflection! And then, better still, BLIND blaster bolt deflection! After all this, formal classroom instruction should have seemed a welcome respite, and he certainly didn't mind not getting bruised and burned. But the lessons themselves, whenever he tried to make them fit with the rest of it in his head, just seemed so POINTLESS.
He had questions. As nervous as approaching the instructors sometimes made him, he asked. More than half the time, he wished he hadn't.
Why did they need to get shot at every day? Why would somebody want to shoot a BLASTER at him? Okay, then why were they blocking it with these light swords? Wouldn't a wall protect them better? Or another blaster? A real lightsaber could do WHAT? And they used these things? On PEOPLE? Never mind, he was pretty sure he knew exactly why people were always shooting at them! But what in all possible worlds did long division have to do with ANY of this?
And, as if all that wasn't bad enough, that first disastrous day of lightsaber instruction kept on haunting him, in the form of the other child he'd accidentally singed. Jho'zol'Fura was a jerk, more or less. To spend an hour around him was to know he required only the flimsiest of excuses to take a violent disliking to you. Rikkavi had accidentally given him a great one, and the bully of a Devaronian took great pleasure in coming after him full tilt in sparring sessions, especially once he saw the Selonian had neither the skill, nor the temperament to fight back much. Very quickly, however, the instructors learned to keep them separate, and the red jerk would find other targets. If Rikki ever ran into Jho while he was on a tear away from immediate adult supervision, he found a way to deal with that too. He couldn't catch him if he ran away on all fours, and couldn't follow him if he just dug in his claws and climbed the walls. That approach would get HIM scolded too, of course, since somebody had to repair the walls. But by this point, he'd repeatedly dissapointed or irritated his elders on a number of occasions, and while it hurt at first, he soon decided he could live with it.
But at least the food was still free, which he learned was something of a novelty in the galaxy. And as the years went on, there were a FEW other bright spots. The one bit of required instruction at the Temple which always clicked for him was on the nature of the Force. The midichlorian test years before had not misled; the Force moved easily though the young Selonian, and he was always receptive to it. He actually got pretty good at the blinded blast deflection, at least he seemed to do better than he did without the blinders. Soon enough, he could pretty reliably sense and avoid all his least favorite people. He even achieved perhaps his most brilliant recognized success one day, when, struggling with his defense, he found himself just desperately wanting the damn blaster bolts to STOP, only to find the demand heeded, a shimmering shield briefly flaring to life around him. It collapsed almost immediately, and it was years before he could get it back reliably without the right combination of fear and desperation at work. But creation of a stable barrier at the age of seven, even briefly, was a rarity, and perhaps the only time he ever truly impressed his instructors.
But there was a difference between LISTENING to the Force, and making it do tricks for him. Some days he could; on others, it seemed that the more the masters made him try, the more distant the Force felt, as if it were recoiling like an affronted house pet. And even if he COULD get the hang of it, blow clear past their wildest expectations for him even, then what was the point? To become a great Jedi? As far as he could tell, most Jedi who got stuck with that label were ultimately remembered for becoming either a particularly horrific Sith Lord, or the fearless warrior who had to deal with said Sith lord. He knew in his bones, with relief and regret respectively, that neither of those were him. The only other "successful" path seemed to be the old sage who found some quiet mountain top and meditated their way to something vague but presumably awesome. As far as he could tell, that was as easily accomplished by a mediocre Jedi. Or no Jedi at all.
It was in the Temple gardens some time during his ninth year that he finally felt like he might have hit upon some clue to what his path should be. He'd always liked the place, the greenery and the warm sunlight making its way through the transparent roof reminding him of those dimly recalled fields he'd once known. He'd have spent his nights there if it was allowed, watching the stars through the special filter that screened out the accumulated light pollution of...he always kept forgetting how many millennia of Coruscant civilization. He DID pass a good few hours in pleasant, undisturbed slumber there; he had this one favorite tree, off in a corner to hide the evidence of being climbed, and always kept leafy enough to obscure him as he curled up in its branches. There was more to it, though; this was the one place where he didn't even really mind the work too much. He felt a curious mix of kinship and jealousy around the plants of the arboretum. Nobody troubled a thornbush, pressured it to try and grow into anything other than its nature would make it. The caretakers just gave it what it needed, and let it be. Sometimes they needed a little bit more, though. And in time, he realized he had that little bit more to give. It required directly touching the plant in question or the soil it was trying to grow in, not to mention a lot of concentration, but if he tried, he could visualize the plant's path, really SEE what it was trying to become, and give a little nudge. It was nothing huge, just getting a stubborn bud to blossom here and there, but it was satisfying.
Now, there was no such thing as a Jedi Gardner. But there WAS the AgriCorps, the biggest of the Order's service branches who went around helping to provide stricken planets with healthy crops and the like. The food would still be free, which was a growing passion of his, he'd still have shelter, and if the Force wanted to talk to him, he'd paid attention enough to know it could do that anywhere. The AgriCorps WAS for losers, of course. From what he could understand, it was mainly washouts, occasionally sprinkled with the odd Knight or Master who wanted a break from stopping wars and being oblivious to the women they caused to swoon with their gleaming teeth and shining laser swords. But maybe that was the right fit for him after all. He was a washout from birth, after all, surplus genetic material to his own people and a constant letdown to the Jedi. At least in the Corps, expectations would be held forever low. He could get used to sneaking off for naps in the sun and the tall grass, and finding nobody much cared.
So, his plan was set. Nobody had ever cared about him, so it was high time he saved himself some stress, and embraced not caring either. He kept practicing his little plant trick (It had a name, apparently. Consitor Sato.), and he even took to learning a bit about machinery so he could one day maintain the agricultural equipment he'd have to use. Other than that, life was now his personal vacation. He didn't practice his lightsaber unless the Masters were actually watching. In his classes, he did the bare minimum to avoid creating more work by having to do the assignment over, and tended to just barely scrape by on the grace of being smart enough to more or less grasp all the material. Even when it came to use of the Force, he deliberately held back for fear of giving the higher ups ideas, and he was able to hide amidst the middle of the pack there as well. His free time was usually spent either napping in his tree, naked as the day he was born, or playing games on the holonet.
By the time he was twelve, this policy of ennui had worked all too well. As the rest of his Youngling Clan departed one by one, following the Jedi Knights who'd chosen them as apprentices, nobody showed even the sligtest interest in the notoriously lazy and inept Rikkavi. He'd gotten pretty good by this point at convincing himself it didn't hurt anymore, though he had to admit, it galled him more than a little when even the red horned creep was chosen before him. But the plan was on track. He'd even found himself a nice big sun hat. Now, he just needed to wait for the announcement.
And then came the big surprise.
Padawan:
He recognized Verity Vyshaan, of course. She was the one who'd come to take the red jerk away. And as such, he knew more or less who she was. He personally couldn't have cared less, but every Jedi who picked up a lightsaber with aspirations of using it well seemed to talk about her at some point. She'd been around forever, and to hear some people tell it, you'd think she could use the damn thing to fight, etch a landscape piece, and order Melahnese takeout all at the same time. That said, he wasn't sure why he was seeing her AGAIN, and it took hearing it twice to understand she was there specifically to see him. Three times to understand WHY.
Verity Vyshaan wanted to teach him. To be a Jedi. A real one.
To say he was skeptical was putting it mildly. On some level, perhaps, he knew what he really needed, and also knew that a Jedi simply couldn't provide the sort of loving bond that a lifetime without it had failed to wholly eradicate the ache for. But even on a level he could actually admit, the arrangement seemed improbable. He sure as space Hell wasn't any kind of Weaponmaster in the making, and he told her so, but that didn't seem to put her off too much. She assured him that while her primary calling may be as a duelist, she knew a thing or two about the Force as well, and was pretty confident she could give him some help along the Consular path even as she got his bladework up to spec. Which, she further assured him, she would. When he further insisted that he WANTED to go join the AgriCorps, she reminded him that the option was never closed to him, that any Jedi up to and including a High Council member could and HAD made that choice. But it would be his CHOICE, not his excuse to give up on himself.
He couldn't say for sure what made him go along with her, but he did. And he soon regretted it, when it became clear that simply avoiding Joh'Zol'Fura as he'd done so well all those years was no longer an option. He TRIED being nice at first, hoping against his better judgement that maybe these months with a Master had sanded off some of those rough edges, but that hope was quickly dashed. At best, Jho ignored him. Fortunately, the Devaronian's physical aggression was kept in check beyond the odd surly shove so long as Verity was present. Rikkavi was none too pleased to discover that the frequency of sparring matches was intensified under Verity's regime, and considerably harder to duck out of, but his bouts with Jho DID become a source of some considerable petty satisfaction whenever Jho tried to take things too far. The wise Jedi master, it seemed, was by no means above treating the bully to a masterful, if restrained taste of his own medicine. And as she had promised, she found time to help Rikkavi develop his own specialty, sensing out a pace and style that suited his personality. She had to be stern with him when he fell asleep in the middle of meditation, of course, but compared with the tongue lashings he'd gotten for that in the past, it seemed almost tender.
Everything very suddenly changed one hot summer day. He was in the middle of one of his hated saber sparring matches, but things were going unusually well. They were in the gardens, which Verity had quickly recognized as a place of tranquility for him, and while his blade and footwork may still have been slow and sloppy by the standards of any Knight, he was feeling pretty good that day. His blade was consistently where it needed to be in order to stop Jho's assaults, and he could feel Verity's approval, something he was finding it harder and harder not to admit he wanted. But when she was suddenly called away - He never did catch exactly what the problem was that required her attention so urgently. - it all collapsed.
He deactivated his saber. Jho did not; she hadn't technically told them to stop, and it soon became clear that his fellow Padawan wasn't taking no for an answer, so Rikkavi reluctantly re-ignited his own weapon, only to be quickly overwhelmed and disarmed. That should have been it, but no Dark Jedi would stop there, so how was it proper training if they did? And so the assault continued, and he had no means of defending himself from it. His fur coat gave him some protection against the burns, but not enough; as his increasingly frantic pleas were ignored, all the pain and fear of that first day of training came rushing back to him, and rational thought abandoned him.
When it returned, Jho was lying on the stones unconscious and bleeding, and...and he could taste blood in his mouth. And it was all over his claws. He screamed for help again and again until he could hear the sound of running footsteps. He sat unresponsive as the healers tended to his own hurts, but they could do nothing for the numbing terror that he might have killed the other boy. When Verity herself at last came to him and promised the Devaronian would be okay after a few days in a kolto tank, the news was met with a slumping of the shoulders as some of the tension went out of him, and then a sudden rush of tears he could seemingly do nothing to contain. He stiffened again for a moment, his fur standing on end on surprise when the Sephi's arms closed around him in a somewhat awkward attempt at a comforting hug. But then, he had nothing to compare it to, and he relaxed a moment later, eventually falling fast asleep.
Things were different after that. The next time he saw Jho, he tried to apologize, only to be rendered speechless with surprise when the Devaronian beat him to it. Ashamed as Rikkavi was of what he'd done, it actually seemed to have done Jho some good. It's not so much that he was suddenly NICE or anything, but being the helpless one for once had apparently given him some perspective, and he at least made an effort to be tolerable. It was a start, anyway. There were lectures from Verity for both of them, but she didn't seem mad at him, and eventually, she even came up with a way the two of them could compete without her watching them like a Bat-falcon. Dejarik actually seemed to suit them both quite well; the warrior in Jho had another skill to master, and Rikkavi finally found his patience more useful than the other's strength.
Rikkavi's perhaps not a whole lot different these days. He's still indolent as they come, and Verity often finds her patience and creativity tested getting an honest day's work out of him. He's still extremely uncomfortable about admitting how much the two most significant people in his life mean to him. And he still has a tough time imagining that he'll ever make a proper Jedi. But bit by bit, Verity's skill and persistence, combined with the presence of something not entirely unlike a thuggish older brother in Jho, has started to produce real gains. Some of his Force abilities remain a little stunted from years of refusing to hone them properly, but where he's good, he's unusually good for his age. And he's finally gotten good enough to start learning a second saber style.
He'll probably never say it, but he hopes he'll make his master proud one of these days.
Roleplay Sample: Co-written with Dutch!
Jho sat opposite of Rikkavi, lounged back against the stone chair that sat in the hall of the Jedi Temple. It was pouring rain, and Verity was tied up in a High Council meeting. Thus her students did what they could to stay occupied while they waited. His black eyes stared the selonian down, his fellow padwan perched in the same position for minutes now staring at the dejarik board on the small table between them. With one leg crossed over the other knee, the devaronian jiggled his foot impatiently as he stared Rikki down.
Even blacker eyes didn’t initially give away much, but soon enough, Rikkavi couldn’t suppress his grin anymore, and it was accompanied by what only those who’d spent a lot of time with him would recognize as a slightly sheepish twitching of his nose. He never rushed a move at this game unless they were playing with a timer, never moved until he’d considered all the options and variables at his leisure. But for the past minute or so, he’d just been drawing things out, and he suspected he was caught. He’d discovered very quickly and with no particular surprise after Verity had first tasked them with discovering the finer points of this game together that he dealt far better with simply sitting there for an extended period. Technically, a table kicked over in frustration was a forfeit, and therefore a win for him, but after their Master had gently but firmly asked a few times that he not be a wretch, he’d agreed not to exploit the gulf in patience.
Much.
“Sixth...no, seventh Ilthar Gambit. You’re really charging in full tilt, huh? I thought you’d learned to be careful about that.”
“Just make your move.” Jho quipped shortly, followed by a haughty huff.
“Sure, why not?” Rikkavi retorted with uncharacteristic enthusiasm that almost universally indicated he thought he was on to something good. After taking a moment to triple check that his defensive line was solid enough to withstand the immediate threat for a few moves, he shuffled his kath hound over on the left flank to unleash his Kintan Strider. “Not too often I manage to outduel you.”
Jho shifted to plant both bare feet on the floor, elbows at his knees as he considered a way to get around facing the Strider full on. Rikki had already taken Jho’s Savrip and K’lor’slug, which left him with nothing that could face that piece. For a moment Jho stared at the dejarik board. The next moment the devaronian lad scowled with squinted eyes at Rikkavi before both hands upturned the stone table.
“The horn head maneuver! Haven’t seen that one in awhile.” Flashing a quick thumbs up, Rikki stood up and began to stretch, only to abruptly stiffen and sniff the air attentively. “Do you smell nerf jerky?”
-Jarod Kintz
Name: Rikkavi
Race: Selonian
Age: 16
Birthplace: Corellia
Allegiance: Jedi Order
Status: Jedi Slacker
Rank: Padawan
Height/Weight: 6'1"/185 lbs
Appearance:
Rikkavi is, fur and claws aside, just another typical, feckless teenager (Well, technically a year or so into adulthood by the standards of his people. But that factors in neither emotional maturity, nor his disinterest in the ways of his people.), both freed and frustrated by an accident of birth. There aren't a whole lot of Selonians outside the Corellian system. More particularly, he doesn't tend to run into FEMALE Selonians, or many aliens close enough to strike his fancy. That being one of the primary reasons for a teenager to care much about his appearance...he doesn't. Hell, it's not like he needs to worry about skin blemishes, right?
The aforementioned fur is of a partial point coloration; most of his body is covered in a light, sandy brown, but darker highlights are to be found about the head and shoulders, as well as the tail. In these places, it runs toward chestnut. Although Rikkavi DOES reliably zombie shuffle his way into the sonic shower most days, he never bothers with brushing it down, and as a result it tends to be a bit poofy, except on his head. The fur's heavier up there, and as such held down a bit by its own weight. As with the rest of his species, his eyes are a uniform black, just like his nose. In spite of an appetite that might cause a Rancor to look on in bewilderment, a naturally fast metabolism, enhanced by his budding Force prowess, has enabled him to more or less retain the sleek Selonian build.
As far as attire goes, the general rule is "as much as he has to". As much as Selonian culture may be alien to him, the instincts remain strong, and clothes have always felt irritatingly confining to him, meant for specific tasks or harsh environments only. If someone forces the issue, he'll invariably go for some loose, thin and airy fabric, like cotton or silk. He DOES typically wear a Jedi utility belt, simply because having pockets is the one aspect of wearing garments that he really appreciates. It's been modified to support a light blue loin cloth; it's sometimes enough, after he mumbles something about "embracing his native culture". He possesses the typical Jedi robes, of course, but given that it takes a specific order to even get him to put on pants, they are very much for special occasions.
Personality:
Rikkavi is a model Jedi in the making, save only in cases where that would require him to actually take decisive action. Or...any action at all, really. His ability to fall asleep and stay that way virtually anywhere at any time is legendary. His one admitted ambition as a Jedi prior to being selected (To his considerable surprise.) as a Padawan was to wash out into the Service Corps, where expectations were held forever low, and he's rarely shown passion for anything else, save playing games and gorging himself. That's not to say it's impossible to get him to do any work at all, of course. He's always somehow managed to just barely scrape by in all his classes at the last moment. In fact every now and then, he surprises the hell out of an instructor by completing an assignment on time, correctly and without the slightest prodding. But such instances are in the minority, the result of a calculated prediction that a little actual work at that precise moment will keep the overall hassle, and therefore effort, as low level as possible.
Work smarter, not harder!
It would be exaggerating to call any of this a front; it all comes far too naturally to him. That said, beneath the veneer of apathy lies a slightly more complex individual than most ever see. The attitude of not much caring about the larger universe or his place in it started out as a coping mechanism to deal with some very profound loneliness and fear of the future as a small Youngling. He's truly moved on from none of this trauma, but things have changed for him in recent years, his Master and fellow Padawan providing personal bonds he's been lacking all his life. It remains difficult for him, however, to truly admit that he either trusts in or needs these, and so to the extent that it is a facade, it remains in place. But when it comes to those two, cracks have emerged.
In terms of his day to day interactions, he mostly keeps his heads down around the masters, and his default responses are set to sarcasm around the other trainees. They say that's the lowest form of wit, which is about what he usually shoots for. He's not usually too mean about it, though; for all his faults, truly cruel or aggressive impulses are few and far between with him. And he's patient to a fault, having won more than one Dejarik match by forfeit, simply sitting there and pretending to ponder his next move until his opponent becomes frustrated and leaves. He rarely makes a rash decision, taking all time he needs to consider all sides to an issue, sometimes more time than he even has. That doesn't bother him much; if he misses some deadline, then maybe people won't ask him to make the big decisions next time.
Lastly, to the consternation of many, he actually DOES hide significant stores of energy for when he's presented with something he truly enjoys or cares about. He especially and instinctively loves swimming. Get him in a big body of water where he can really move around, and he'll be at it for hours. Despite never being counted, by himself or others as particularly brave, he possesses hidden reserves of real courage as well. To date, and to his relief, these reserves have seldom needed to be tapped.
Ships/Vehicles: N/A
Equipment:
-Training saber, yellow crystal
-Deck of playing cards
-Wide conical hat
-Holonet link
-Jedi utility belt with extra pockets, to hold most of the above. Most of the other standard contents have been discarded and replaced with various snacks.
Stats:
Strength - Average
Agility - Average (Superior on four legs or in the water)
Intelligence - Above Average
Charisma - Average
Force Stats:
Telekinetic- Novice
Telepathic- Apprentice
Body- Novice
Sense- Adept
Protection- Adept
Healing:– Apprentice
Destruction– Unskilled
Combat Training:
Unarmed - Adept (Mainly because claws. Apprentice at a stretch if bound by sparring rules.)
Force Training:
Plant Surge - Novice
Detoxify Poison - Studying
Force Bubble - Adept
Other Training:
Dejarik - Adept
Horticulture - Apprentice
Mechanics - Apprentice
Slicing - Novice
Climbing - Expert
Swimming - Expert
Lightsaber Training:
Shii-Cho- Adept
Soresu- Novice
Biography:
Rikkavi's birth was special. It wasn't foretold in any ancient prophesies or anything. In fact, it didn't even merit a mention in any Holonet gazette. All the same, his arrival in the galaxy represented a significant statistical unlikelihood. Typically, males of the Selonian species accounted for only one in approximately every hundred births, and yet there he was, the second to emerge in a litter of six. Unusual as this was, however, it did not make Rikkavi himself special. At least, not in the eyes of his own people, who valued males for their biological role in the propagation of their species and nothing more. Even so, the health of the den was built on the health of every denizen, and all the usual tests were run.
At which point it became apparent that this little pup was special twice over.
He was Force sensitive, and more so than most if the midichlorian count was to be trusted. In truth, even this likely wouldn't have made any difference in Rikkavi's fate, but for the unique nature of his den. The Selonian equivalent of a city, here as well as on the homeworld, was made up of any number of these individual but interconnected dens, each providing some unique and specialized service. In the case of Rikkavi's den, that service was agricultural supplements to their food supply.
That meant the surface. And that meant humans. Their tunnels exited into the sunlight not far from a small farming town about 10 miles down river from Tyrena, and it was there that humans and Selonians worked the fields in common. That made diplomacy a secondary job of theirs, and this little oddity on their hands might just be more than another mouth to feed after all. They already had labor enough for the farming, and males enough to sire the next generation, but a contribution from their number to the fabled Jedi might just earn them a good return in the form of good will.
They waited about a little over a year before contacting the Jedi stronghold in Coronet City, ensuring his continued good health until he was properly weaned and able to walk about on his own. During this period, one of the infertile females, a warrior named Draala was assigned as his caretaker, and she took to this task as diligently as she had any other, seeing not merely to his safety, but also managing to teach him some common words of Basic. In truth, she took a liking to the squeaking little guy, often letting him ride on her back while she moved along at a full trot and treated him to a nice riverside breeze. This was, in truth, the closest thing Rikkavi would ever know to the maternal affection that children of other races took for granted, but it could only go so far, and for so long. In time, he could move about on two legs with some facility, and that was judged the proper time. Everyone knew about lightsabers, and that you needed hands free to wield one.
A week later, a knight in green robes arrived to confirm their initial tests, and off he went. He went frightened, confused and yelping in alarm, but at Draala's resolutely forceful urging, he went.
Youngling (2-12):
Despite all that initial fear and anxiety, and more on the crossing to Coruscant, Rikkavi's first couple of years with the Jedi weren't so bad, perhaps because there was nothing specifically Jedi-like about them. Lessons on the Force or anything else required the language skills, and saber drills required the fine motor control; until all that was in place, life at the Temple was essentially play group. They DID try to make him wear clothes, a hated and alien concept, but they gave up on that sometime after the third shredded and discarded outfit. So, once he got used to all the alien faces, all he had to deal with was eating, sleeping, playing and letting someone else worry about cleaning up after him. In short, his lifelong idea of paradise, and he managed to draw it out for awhile. Selonians matured a little faster than humans and their many closely related equivalents, which gave him the intelligence and pattern recognition skills to hide it.
When he'd been taken away from Corellia, he had no idea what was going on, no idea where he was going, and no control over any of it. This time, he STILL had no idea what awaited the older kids when the robed elders came to take them away, but he saw what all those kids had in common, and because he liked it where he was, he figured out how to exert a little control. It was the most "advanced" kids they came for, the ones who had mastered reading, running around upright, the more complicated games, whatever. Rikkavi knew he fit all those criteraia, but he didn't advertise it. He stuck to all fours, which was more natural and comfortable for him anyway, he didn't volunteer to read, and he stuck to the simpler games. Sadly, the grownups were smarter than he'd given them credit for, and after awhile, his cover was blown when they started offering him treats. Soon enough, it was his turn to go.
Right then and there, he decided he didn't much like the Jedi Order's idea of reward OR accomplishment.
Say what you will about self-fulfilling prophesies, but for the most part, he didn't like actual Jedi training any more than he'd expected. For one thing, everyone was suddenly a lot more strict. The instructors never yelled or anything - In a way, that was scariest thing. They didn't raise their voices more than was required to address a crowd, they didn't laugh or tell jokes, and it was rare to even see one of them give a real smile. It was almost like they weren't all there. - but it was still clear they were no longer taking no for an answer on the clothes issue. And everything was suddenly regimented. If he was hungry, he could eat only when they told him to. If he was tired, he could sleep only when they told him to. In time, of course, he discovered ways around these restrictions, but they were quite stifling at first. And that wasn't even getting into the actual lessons.
The first time he ever ignited his training saber with the rest of his Youngling clan, he became somewhat enthralled with its yellow blade and the memory it evoked of the Corellian sun. Before the instructor could notice and warn him, he'd burned his nose, instinctively hurled the training sword away, accidentally burning another Youngling in the leg, and run off screaming for the nearest dark corner. It was three days before they could coax him into even picking the thing up again. After that, he gradually became familiar enough with Form 1 drills, exhausting and tedious as they were, that he became confident he wouldn't hurt himself with the weapon again...just in time for introduction to blaster bolt deflection! And then, better still, BLIND blaster bolt deflection! After all this, formal classroom instruction should have seemed a welcome respite, and he certainly didn't mind not getting bruised and burned. But the lessons themselves, whenever he tried to make them fit with the rest of it in his head, just seemed so POINTLESS.
He had questions. As nervous as approaching the instructors sometimes made him, he asked. More than half the time, he wished he hadn't.
Why did they need to get shot at every day? Why would somebody want to shoot a BLASTER at him? Okay, then why were they blocking it with these light swords? Wouldn't a wall protect them better? Or another blaster? A real lightsaber could do WHAT? And they used these things? On PEOPLE? Never mind, he was pretty sure he knew exactly why people were always shooting at them! But what in all possible worlds did long division have to do with ANY of this?
And, as if all that wasn't bad enough, that first disastrous day of lightsaber instruction kept on haunting him, in the form of the other child he'd accidentally singed. Jho'zol'Fura was a jerk, more or less. To spend an hour around him was to know he required only the flimsiest of excuses to take a violent disliking to you. Rikkavi had accidentally given him a great one, and the bully of a Devaronian took great pleasure in coming after him full tilt in sparring sessions, especially once he saw the Selonian had neither the skill, nor the temperament to fight back much. Very quickly, however, the instructors learned to keep them separate, and the red jerk would find other targets. If Rikki ever ran into Jho while he was on a tear away from immediate adult supervision, he found a way to deal with that too. He couldn't catch him if he ran away on all fours, and couldn't follow him if he just dug in his claws and climbed the walls. That approach would get HIM scolded too, of course, since somebody had to repair the walls. But by this point, he'd repeatedly dissapointed or irritated his elders on a number of occasions, and while it hurt at first, he soon decided he could live with it.
But at least the food was still free, which he learned was something of a novelty in the galaxy. And as the years went on, there were a FEW other bright spots. The one bit of required instruction at the Temple which always clicked for him was on the nature of the Force. The midichlorian test years before had not misled; the Force moved easily though the young Selonian, and he was always receptive to it. He actually got pretty good at the blinded blast deflection, at least he seemed to do better than he did without the blinders. Soon enough, he could pretty reliably sense and avoid all his least favorite people. He even achieved perhaps his most brilliant recognized success one day, when, struggling with his defense, he found himself just desperately wanting the damn blaster bolts to STOP, only to find the demand heeded, a shimmering shield briefly flaring to life around him. It collapsed almost immediately, and it was years before he could get it back reliably without the right combination of fear and desperation at work. But creation of a stable barrier at the age of seven, even briefly, was a rarity, and perhaps the only time he ever truly impressed his instructors.
But there was a difference between LISTENING to the Force, and making it do tricks for him. Some days he could; on others, it seemed that the more the masters made him try, the more distant the Force felt, as if it were recoiling like an affronted house pet. And even if he COULD get the hang of it, blow clear past their wildest expectations for him even, then what was the point? To become a great Jedi? As far as he could tell, most Jedi who got stuck with that label were ultimately remembered for becoming either a particularly horrific Sith Lord, or the fearless warrior who had to deal with said Sith lord. He knew in his bones, with relief and regret respectively, that neither of those were him. The only other "successful" path seemed to be the old sage who found some quiet mountain top and meditated their way to something vague but presumably awesome. As far as he could tell, that was as easily accomplished by a mediocre Jedi. Or no Jedi at all.
It was in the Temple gardens some time during his ninth year that he finally felt like he might have hit upon some clue to what his path should be. He'd always liked the place, the greenery and the warm sunlight making its way through the transparent roof reminding him of those dimly recalled fields he'd once known. He'd have spent his nights there if it was allowed, watching the stars through the special filter that screened out the accumulated light pollution of...he always kept forgetting how many millennia of Coruscant civilization. He DID pass a good few hours in pleasant, undisturbed slumber there; he had this one favorite tree, off in a corner to hide the evidence of being climbed, and always kept leafy enough to obscure him as he curled up in its branches. There was more to it, though; this was the one place where he didn't even really mind the work too much. He felt a curious mix of kinship and jealousy around the plants of the arboretum. Nobody troubled a thornbush, pressured it to try and grow into anything other than its nature would make it. The caretakers just gave it what it needed, and let it be. Sometimes they needed a little bit more, though. And in time, he realized he had that little bit more to give. It required directly touching the plant in question or the soil it was trying to grow in, not to mention a lot of concentration, but if he tried, he could visualize the plant's path, really SEE what it was trying to become, and give a little nudge. It was nothing huge, just getting a stubborn bud to blossom here and there, but it was satisfying.
Now, there was no such thing as a Jedi Gardner. But there WAS the AgriCorps, the biggest of the Order's service branches who went around helping to provide stricken planets with healthy crops and the like. The food would still be free, which was a growing passion of his, he'd still have shelter, and if the Force wanted to talk to him, he'd paid attention enough to know it could do that anywhere. The AgriCorps WAS for losers, of course. From what he could understand, it was mainly washouts, occasionally sprinkled with the odd Knight or Master who wanted a break from stopping wars and being oblivious to the women they caused to swoon with their gleaming teeth and shining laser swords. But maybe that was the right fit for him after all. He was a washout from birth, after all, surplus genetic material to his own people and a constant letdown to the Jedi. At least in the Corps, expectations would be held forever low. He could get used to sneaking off for naps in the sun and the tall grass, and finding nobody much cared.
So, his plan was set. Nobody had ever cared about him, so it was high time he saved himself some stress, and embraced not caring either. He kept practicing his little plant trick (It had a name, apparently. Consitor Sato.), and he even took to learning a bit about machinery so he could one day maintain the agricultural equipment he'd have to use. Other than that, life was now his personal vacation. He didn't practice his lightsaber unless the Masters were actually watching. In his classes, he did the bare minimum to avoid creating more work by having to do the assignment over, and tended to just barely scrape by on the grace of being smart enough to more or less grasp all the material. Even when it came to use of the Force, he deliberately held back for fear of giving the higher ups ideas, and he was able to hide amidst the middle of the pack there as well. His free time was usually spent either napping in his tree, naked as the day he was born, or playing games on the holonet.
By the time he was twelve, this policy of ennui had worked all too well. As the rest of his Youngling Clan departed one by one, following the Jedi Knights who'd chosen them as apprentices, nobody showed even the sligtest interest in the notoriously lazy and inept Rikkavi. He'd gotten pretty good by this point at convincing himself it didn't hurt anymore, though he had to admit, it galled him more than a little when even the red horned creep was chosen before him. But the plan was on track. He'd even found himself a nice big sun hat. Now, he just needed to wait for the announcement.
And then came the big surprise.
Padawan:
He recognized Verity Vyshaan, of course. She was the one who'd come to take the red jerk away. And as such, he knew more or less who she was. He personally couldn't have cared less, but every Jedi who picked up a lightsaber with aspirations of using it well seemed to talk about her at some point. She'd been around forever, and to hear some people tell it, you'd think she could use the damn thing to fight, etch a landscape piece, and order Melahnese takeout all at the same time. That said, he wasn't sure why he was seeing her AGAIN, and it took hearing it twice to understand she was there specifically to see him. Three times to understand WHY.
Verity Vyshaan wanted to teach him. To be a Jedi. A real one.
To say he was skeptical was putting it mildly. On some level, perhaps, he knew what he really needed, and also knew that a Jedi simply couldn't provide the sort of loving bond that a lifetime without it had failed to wholly eradicate the ache for. But even on a level he could actually admit, the arrangement seemed improbable. He sure as space Hell wasn't any kind of Weaponmaster in the making, and he told her so, but that didn't seem to put her off too much. She assured him that while her primary calling may be as a duelist, she knew a thing or two about the Force as well, and was pretty confident she could give him some help along the Consular path even as she got his bladework up to spec. Which, she further assured him, she would. When he further insisted that he WANTED to go join the AgriCorps, she reminded him that the option was never closed to him, that any Jedi up to and including a High Council member could and HAD made that choice. But it would be his CHOICE, not his excuse to give up on himself.
He couldn't say for sure what made him go along with her, but he did. And he soon regretted it, when it became clear that simply avoiding Joh'Zol'Fura as he'd done so well all those years was no longer an option. He TRIED being nice at first, hoping against his better judgement that maybe these months with a Master had sanded off some of those rough edges, but that hope was quickly dashed. At best, Jho ignored him. Fortunately, the Devaronian's physical aggression was kept in check beyond the odd surly shove so long as Verity was present. Rikkavi was none too pleased to discover that the frequency of sparring matches was intensified under Verity's regime, and considerably harder to duck out of, but his bouts with Jho DID become a source of some considerable petty satisfaction whenever Jho tried to take things too far. The wise Jedi master, it seemed, was by no means above treating the bully to a masterful, if restrained taste of his own medicine. And as she had promised, she found time to help Rikkavi develop his own specialty, sensing out a pace and style that suited his personality. She had to be stern with him when he fell asleep in the middle of meditation, of course, but compared with the tongue lashings he'd gotten for that in the past, it seemed almost tender.
Everything very suddenly changed one hot summer day. He was in the middle of one of his hated saber sparring matches, but things were going unusually well. They were in the gardens, which Verity had quickly recognized as a place of tranquility for him, and while his blade and footwork may still have been slow and sloppy by the standards of any Knight, he was feeling pretty good that day. His blade was consistently where it needed to be in order to stop Jho's assaults, and he could feel Verity's approval, something he was finding it harder and harder not to admit he wanted. But when she was suddenly called away - He never did catch exactly what the problem was that required her attention so urgently. - it all collapsed.
He deactivated his saber. Jho did not; she hadn't technically told them to stop, and it soon became clear that his fellow Padawan wasn't taking no for an answer, so Rikkavi reluctantly re-ignited his own weapon, only to be quickly overwhelmed and disarmed. That should have been it, but no Dark Jedi would stop there, so how was it proper training if they did? And so the assault continued, and he had no means of defending himself from it. His fur coat gave him some protection against the burns, but not enough; as his increasingly frantic pleas were ignored, all the pain and fear of that first day of training came rushing back to him, and rational thought abandoned him.
When it returned, Jho was lying on the stones unconscious and bleeding, and...and he could taste blood in his mouth. And it was all over his claws. He screamed for help again and again until he could hear the sound of running footsteps. He sat unresponsive as the healers tended to his own hurts, but they could do nothing for the numbing terror that he might have killed the other boy. When Verity herself at last came to him and promised the Devaronian would be okay after a few days in a kolto tank, the news was met with a slumping of the shoulders as some of the tension went out of him, and then a sudden rush of tears he could seemingly do nothing to contain. He stiffened again for a moment, his fur standing on end on surprise when the Sephi's arms closed around him in a somewhat awkward attempt at a comforting hug. But then, he had nothing to compare it to, and he relaxed a moment later, eventually falling fast asleep.
Things were different after that. The next time he saw Jho, he tried to apologize, only to be rendered speechless with surprise when the Devaronian beat him to it. Ashamed as Rikkavi was of what he'd done, it actually seemed to have done Jho some good. It's not so much that he was suddenly NICE or anything, but being the helpless one for once had apparently given him some perspective, and he at least made an effort to be tolerable. It was a start, anyway. There were lectures from Verity for both of them, but she didn't seem mad at him, and eventually, she even came up with a way the two of them could compete without her watching them like a Bat-falcon. Dejarik actually seemed to suit them both quite well; the warrior in Jho had another skill to master, and Rikkavi finally found his patience more useful than the other's strength.
Rikkavi's perhaps not a whole lot different these days. He's still indolent as they come, and Verity often finds her patience and creativity tested getting an honest day's work out of him. He's still extremely uncomfortable about admitting how much the two most significant people in his life mean to him. And he still has a tough time imagining that he'll ever make a proper Jedi. But bit by bit, Verity's skill and persistence, combined with the presence of something not entirely unlike a thuggish older brother in Jho, has started to produce real gains. Some of his Force abilities remain a little stunted from years of refusing to hone them properly, but where he's good, he's unusually good for his age. And he's finally gotten good enough to start learning a second saber style.
He'll probably never say it, but he hopes he'll make his master proud one of these days.
Roleplay Sample: Co-written with Dutch!
Jho sat opposite of Rikkavi, lounged back against the stone chair that sat in the hall of the Jedi Temple. It was pouring rain, and Verity was tied up in a High Council meeting. Thus her students did what they could to stay occupied while they waited. His black eyes stared the selonian down, his fellow padwan perched in the same position for minutes now staring at the dejarik board on the small table between them. With one leg crossed over the other knee, the devaronian jiggled his foot impatiently as he stared Rikki down.
Even blacker eyes didn’t initially give away much, but soon enough, Rikkavi couldn’t suppress his grin anymore, and it was accompanied by what only those who’d spent a lot of time with him would recognize as a slightly sheepish twitching of his nose. He never rushed a move at this game unless they were playing with a timer, never moved until he’d considered all the options and variables at his leisure. But for the past minute or so, he’d just been drawing things out, and he suspected he was caught. He’d discovered very quickly and with no particular surprise after Verity had first tasked them with discovering the finer points of this game together that he dealt far better with simply sitting there for an extended period. Technically, a table kicked over in frustration was a forfeit, and therefore a win for him, but after their Master had gently but firmly asked a few times that he not be a wretch, he’d agreed not to exploit the gulf in patience.
Much.
“Sixth...no, seventh Ilthar Gambit. You’re really charging in full tilt, huh? I thought you’d learned to be careful about that.”
“Just make your move.” Jho quipped shortly, followed by a haughty huff.
“Sure, why not?” Rikkavi retorted with uncharacteristic enthusiasm that almost universally indicated he thought he was on to something good. After taking a moment to triple check that his defensive line was solid enough to withstand the immediate threat for a few moves, he shuffled his kath hound over on the left flank to unleash his Kintan Strider. “Not too often I manage to outduel you.”
Jho shifted to plant both bare feet on the floor, elbows at his knees as he considered a way to get around facing the Strider full on. Rikki had already taken Jho’s Savrip and K’lor’slug, which left him with nothing that could face that piece. For a moment Jho stared at the dejarik board. The next moment the devaronian lad scowled with squinted eyes at Rikkavi before both hands upturned the stone table.
“The horn head maneuver! Haven’t seen that one in awhile.” Flashing a quick thumbs up, Rikki stood up and began to stretch, only to abruptly stiffen and sniff the air attentively. “Do you smell nerf jerky?”
