Post by Dayl on Dec 22, 2019 17:27:28 GMT -5
 Vig Full Name • Viggo Loroto Nickname • Vig Race • Human Birthplace • Nar Shaddaa Age • 31 Gender • Male Sexuality • Pansexual Faction • Fringe Concept • Rank 2 Dark Jedi juggernaut slicer Languages • Basic, Huttese (fluent), Droidspeak (fluent) Assets • Dark blue, dual phase lightsaber; armorweave coat; Vig's fortune (currently north of 500,000 credits in value); slicing droid; datapad and other slicing equipment Appearance Face Claim • Hafþór Júlíus Björnsson Height & Weight • 6'10"; 433 lbs Overall Looks • Vig's entire being screams for challenge -- he's nearly seven feet tall and weighs at least double what most human males of his age do. And not an ounce of that is fat. His size and his bulk does mean that Vig is not as agile as other people, but the Force is his ally in that regard. His appearance is meticulous, both in regards to his physique and his coiffure. His hair is light brown and short, with his hairline high on his forehead. He keeps a short, tight beard on his face. Despite the deep set of his emerald eyes, they can sparkle with malignant curiosity that belies everything a first impression of this behemoth might entail. His body is covered in scars from his work or his training. Starburst of stabbings, scouring slashes from dodged or less-than-dodged blaster fire, and even a set of scratches from a mad Wookiee adorn his body. But, Vig is a tough bastard. It would take more than some superficial wound to even have him acknowledge it. Vig liked to dress well and had an extensive wardrobe of nice clothes, although as his training with Sintan progressed he preferred lighter clothing for easier movement. Black with a splash of flamboyant color is his style, with short sleeves or longed rolled up under a tunic, with a special pocket sewn to keep his lightsaber on him and yet out of sight. Personality Profile There is one word that can sum up Vig's disposition: venomous. He always has a wisecrack or a dig or a condescending response that he's more than happy to supply in any situation. Vig likes seeing others squirm, no matter the scenario; whether it's a man begging him not to send holo footage of his indiscretions to his wife or a pummeled enemy begging him not to finish them off, Vig is at his highest point when he's brought someone low. He's nasty, crude and vulgar, and delights in making people uncomfortable with his words, with his actions or even with his size. That isn't to say Vig won't show deference when it's in his best interest, but whoever Vig defers to had better deserve it. He's rude, not stupid. Vig loves to live his life boldly. Alcohol, narcotics, single nights of companionship, races, gambling. All of these things bring him joy, although the final two tend to be coeval because Vig has never found a race he was able to enter due to his size. Loud and brash, any cantina or watering hole that Vig is in becomes a party because of the big spending, lumbering loudmouth. Of course, being the biggest, meanest extortionist on the Smugglers' Moon doesn't leave too much time for leisure and more often than not, Vig can be found lifting weights or elbows deep in a computer system. After all, there ain't no rest for the wicked, and you don't get strong and stay strong by pissing away your credits at the cantina. Vig is a self-reliant parasite. Where there's people keeping secrets in the shadows, Vig sees profit. He sees an avenue to be exploited to gain leverage for the future. He might be little help roughing it, but drop him in civilization and in no time he'll have someone coughing up a credit chip because they owe their firstborn child to the bulky brute whose presence spells misfortune for the weak. This exploitative, menacing nature translates to his demeanor in combat: he'll bellow and mock and try to turn any advantage against an opponent, whether through superior physical strength or his considerable strength with the power of the Force. Background Father • Unknown Mother • Giella (d.), 35, escort Siblings • None Other Important Connections • Sintan (d.), 76, Force tuor Overall History • Vig, Vig It rhymes with pig He ate a Hutt To get so big Vig, Vig He got so dumb By jamming a conduit With his thumb Escort was the polite term for Vig's mother, but he didn't know her because he killed her. At least, that's what the other kids at the school said. They weren't orphans. They got to go back to families. He lived with a series of inattentive foster parents. He was bigger and slower than they were; easily a head above the other kids and bulky even from a young age. His mother had some money saved up and it was doled out for his education and to keep him in food and clothing, but the fostering system siphoned it off. Instead of clothing, it would be a new holoscreen or some other frivolity. Despite mismanagement of money that was rightfully his, Vig grew. And grew. And kept growing. And as he grew so did the frequency of the teasing. He started to get into fights and that's when he could do the teasing. He'd been a quiet child but by the time he was twelve, he was starting to grow into a bastard. Vig knew he could hurt anyone who messed with him, and a year later, he was the size of a man with a beard that would rival one, too. When they hurt him, he hurt them back. And it worked for him, although it got him in trouble: in trouble at home and at school. But that was fine. People started to reach out to him. Older folks who needed a good set of hands for all sorts of work. Local criminals learned that the boy was more than willing to intimidate people to collect late payments. Running around with low-level crime lords exposed the impressionable and hungry Vig to the holonet and its slicers; his fascination took off and with proper stimulation of his mind, he started to develop a reputation. A reputation for being able to sniff out information that was profitable. In his eighteenth birthday, the remainder of the funds his mother had left in trust for him became available. It wasn't much, but it was a lump sum that allowed him to start lending money to people who were really hard up. With a little nest egg to get himself into business, Vig felt unstoppable. He offered people loans with interest that was insanely favorable -- to him. Their desperation was his gain, and Vig made sure that any arrangement he made was going to end with profit for him, one way or another. He was more than willing to forego a portion of one's monetary debt to him for a favor, whether at that point or in the future. And as he stacked credits, he was able to take more and more risks and earn his reputation. He played nice with other criminals, helping them when they could pay for his services or crushing them under the heel of his extra-extra-extra large boot. His size topped out short of seven feet, and the shadow he cast over the hab-blocks was one of menace. Only the foolish wanted to mess with Vig and lucky for him, there were plenty of fools on Nar Shaddaa. The dregs and heights of galactic society ended up on the greatest moon of Nal Hutta, and it was one of the former that adjusted the course of Vig's life. In a grimy cantina after he broke someone's wife's legs to get him to cough up five hundred credits, he was cleaning up at cards. He'd had quite a bit to drink and for Vig, quite a bit was at least a gallon of ale. He was howling with bass laughter after making a particularly cruel joke about a Rodian's father, a wizened old coot looking on from the bar. As a well intoxicated Vig went to leave, sweeping his winnings into the palm of a broad, tough hand, the old coot, his beard white and his eyes wide, accosted him at the table with six words that instantly inflamed Vig's temper: "Vig, Vig, it rhymes with pig." the man was flabbergasted and infuriated and Vig snarled without words as he made to wring the old man's neck and slam his head into the edge of the card table until his skull caved in. And he might have if he'd been able to make contact with the old coot. But he was too fast, too damn fast, for him to make contact. He was as slippery as an eel and even redirected Vig's movements until the two of them were outside the cantina and the old man had flattened Vig, laying him on his back as Vig huffed and puffed and swore and slurred. And then, the coot smiled. "You don't know, do you?" And then, he explained. He pulled Vig up, a feat that should have been impossible and squinted his brutish eyes at the coot. And Vig listened as the man seemed faraway and asked him how he couldn't feel Nar Shaddaa around him. Vig was confused for a moment but he felt like he couldn't speak as something in the man made him do just that -- he could hear something like *noise*, a deafening roar all around him. It was them, it was everything around them, it was him, and it hurt him. The coot chuckled and concentrated like some sort of -- Jedi. The noise dulled, but it was still there, like he could never be free of what the old man had done to him. And the old man told Vig to come find him tomorrow, and to bring plenty of money, before the muscled man's memory grew hazy and the coot was nowhere to be found. When he woke up, dozy and bleary-eyed after a night of hard drinking, cards, and getting his ass kicked, he had a message: an address, but there wasn't any tracking data associated with it. It was just there, and near where he'd been the night before. He took a chip loaded with two thousand credits and headed there after a shower and found a dilapidated foundry. Sequestered at the top was a hovel, a portion of the city-planet that had been forgotten by landlords or creditors for that time. And stood as if waiting for him was the old coot from the night before. He gave his name as Sintan, and told him that what he had touched briefly was an awareness of a greater world and a greater power than Vig had ever known. Sintan took Vig's credits and laid out a set of rules: for that same amount each month, Sintan would teach Vig to harness control of the power that slept within him. Vig was to arrive at noon each day. He had to answer all of Sintan's questions, but Sintan could opt not to answer any of Vig's. Vig was not to tell anyone of their arrangement. He was to bring lunch for both of them each day, and wine for them both. A bemused Vig accepted, and his time as Sintan's student began. No two days were alike. Some days, the old man rambled on while Vig was expected to sit on the floor. Other days, it was dueling and maneuvers with a pair of practice sabers. Sintan taught him to listen and to see, and to call upon unknown power to augment his strength and his speed. The old man taught Vig to trust in his emotions and call on them, to muster whatever he could to summon the power of the Force to his command. The strictures of Vig's training ate into his time to make money, so the brute cut much of his leisure time in favor of business and study, whether it was reflecting on his teacher's words or practicing what he had been taught. Sintan did not advise Vig what to do with his training. His demeanor was unpredictable, but as long as Vig obeyed him even though his nature called out to not suffer the words of the strange old man, they continued on. Each day, an assortment of lessons or lectures. Each day, something new to learn or old to contemplate further. And to his surprise, Vig reveled in it, despite the absurdity of it. Sintan was not always a polite instructor, nor even easy to converse with. Whenever Vig asked whether Sintan had been a Jedi or something else, all he got was patronizing laughter. Sintan did not proscribe his teachings from any use Vig saw fit, and Vig applied it where he thought he could get away with it. A little push here and there on a weak, cowardly mind to negotiate better terms, a firm word applied to wring information out of someone, a brief boost of unnatural speed to catch someone and pummel them until they were ready to cough up their money or tell Vig what he wanted to know. The credits he paid monthly to Sintan were nothing next to the money he made every night. He came to equal the old man when it came to the physical aspects of his training -- the practice saber that Vig knew was meant to represent a lightsaber became almost like an extension of himself, but whenever Vig asked if he was to build his own, Sintan dismissed him and let Vig's anger smoulder. However, the benefits of the old coot's training outweighed his annoyance about armament, and their arrangement persisted. Until the Chorus came. The disease came first. It swept through the poor segments of Nar Shaddaa. Vig was not affected, for whatever reason. But Sintan became sick. He canceled their lessons, which he had never done. After days, Vig went to the man's hovel and found the person he had been closest to, thin and feverish and delirious, raving about spores and infection. He cursed at Vig and insulted him in between sobs about how he did not want to die, how he wanted to live but how he could not, and he bid Vig look in a chest after the end, pointing with a shaking hand and a bony finger to one of the only nice items that Sintan owned. "The end of what?" he asked, but it was too late. The old man almost looked at peace, and he laid back, breathing slower and slower until he did so no more. Vig had seen plenty of people die, but he had never mourned one before Sintan. He did not know any custom from the wizened man's planet, nor any custom of either Jedi or Sith. Vig went to the chest and opened it. There was a single credit chip and a parcel, wrapped in cloth and bound by a leather rope. Vig unwrapped it, but he knew by its shape what lay within. He took the silver object in hand. It would have been too big for Sintan, but it fit in Vig's hands well enough. Vig thumbed the activation stud on the hilt of the lightsaber and its blue beam sprang into existence with a sound he had only heard a handful of times outside holovids. The credit chip was for ninety percent of the credits Vig had paid Sintan for years of apprenticeship. He guffawed at the old man and his strange habits, and took his corpse to a terrace nearby. He was so light as to not weigh a thing over Vig's shoulder. He had no words for Sintan, but if anything, his silence was more of a gift to the man who, whether they had said it or not, has been Vig's master. He burned the corpse and scattered the ashes to the wind, as he surmised his quixotic teacher would have wanted. But Sintan's death was one of many in that time as plague marched across the galaxy, heralding invasion and devastation. Before his eyes, his home became embroiled in destruction that was so utterly foreign from anything he had experienced. As the Siege closed around Nar Shaddaa, Vig liquidated his presence in the slums and moved to a more prominent area -- already, the rich were receiving better care than the poor. He started processing lots of subcontracts from the Exchange as outlaw authorities and legitimate governments combined efforts against the existential threat of the Archeri. The devastation was horrible and the Archeri overwhelmed his senses. When they had been defeated, it was as if billions of voices stopped screaming. Maybe they could start to rebuild, and maybe it would be best for Vig to hook up his metaphorical wagon to an organization for a time, and the Exchange needed all the help it could get to try to assert some authority on the devastated Smuggler's Moon. |
