Post by Twysper on Dec 16, 2009 0:47:06 GMT -5
Password: Ysalimir
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Name: Mark Itri
Race: Human
Age: 18
Height: 5’7”
Weight: 128
Appearance: Mark has mussed autumn red-brown hair that he consistently cuts before it gets into his eyes. A lightly tanned complexion shades his skin. He is a lithe being, a wiry type of strong that seems to prefer to hide its presence. Determined, biting, hard green eyes, like jagged unpolished emeralds, have been his trademark since he started living among the DLA and lost his parents. Clothing-wise, as long as it’s a neutral shade of brown, green, or black, and it doesn’t hinder movement, he’s happy. Underneath his clothes, he has one tattoo inked on his skin by Candi after joining the resistance movement; the DLA’s marking, with one slash, differentiating him from the normal civilian. Mark is also often found wearing his DLA balaclava around his neck, ready to be pulled into place at a moment’s notice. Rarely does he ever completely remove it from his person. As far as weapons and other effects go, he always carries a multi-tool in his pocket, given to him by his mother. Lower on his right hip, he has a smaller scuffed blaster pistol sidearm scavenged from a raid on the Sith.
Personality: Devious, patient, and pragmatic. Most content when he’s planning. He tends to see all actions in grayscale, as in that right and wrong are extremely relative. If the end justifies the means, and the end is the destruction of more Sith on Dantooine, Mark is satisfied. In effect, he’d be willing to sacrifice non-vital members of the DLA as long as in doing so, he could justify it by getting at more Sith. Now note, that while that is indeed his constant personality, he’s able to drop into an act as soon as he deems it necessary, adapting to whatever situation he finds himself in. This is generally used for extortion and manipulation.
Birth place: Dantooine, Kylah plains
Occupation: Farmer/DLA member
Rank: His barred tattoo marks him as one step above civilian.
Bio:
Mark was born on Dantooine, to human parents, Aerel and Zach, of no rank or distinction, both being simplistic farmers that worked on once Bryce’s, now Erle Sampson's, farm. Mark’s mother, Aerel, was immediately given leave of her usual duties around the farm to take care of her new-born baby, and the boy was doted on by both parents when time allowed. Typically, Zach would work on the Sampson Farm for half the day, and then come to their small home on the outskirts of the farm to tiredly play with his son, and see his wife. Mark as a baby was always a little anxious, and a tad loud, though he was quick enough to stop after his mother was holding him. At age two, Mark started his toddling exploration of the small house, and engaged in normal, generally chaotic behavior; it’s called the terrible two’s for a reason. By the time he was three, Mark was speaking often, and had picked up a decent vocabulary of words and definitions for life on the farm.
This basic pattern generally continued until Mark was five. At five, he was given light chores around the house, and expected to clean up his small pile of toys himself. It was time to learn a little bit of responsibility. Along with those, Mark started basic school lessons with his mother and father, learning about farming and Dantooine itself from Zach, and other important things, like basic reading, the alphabet, and simple math from his mother. On weekends, Mark always noticed his father leaving with a scoped rifle. Shortly afterwards, he’d return, sometimes empty-handed, sometimes with food. Always with the same rifle. His five year old mind processed that the food was good after mama cooked it, and that the gun was related to food. Therefore the gun proved desirable.
One afternoon, Mark managed to tiptoe-toddle after his father, as Zach went to stow his rifle under the bed for easy access in case of raiders. Peering through the slit of the cracked door to see where his father had put the gun, the child noted the location curiously, and started to gallop off with his new secret. He made it two steps before his excited pace made his feet catch together. He fell down on the floor loudly with a thump, starting to sniffle. “Bad floor!”
Zach heard the thump, and quickly opened the door of his room to see his son getting up, immediately adjacent to the doorway. The hunter inferred where Mark had been standing when he had fallen, and quickly shushed the child by picking him up and carrying him inside the bedroom. Mark gushed quickly that he just wanted to see the gun, that the floor had tried to attack him, and that it should be spanked for its deeds.
Zach sighed, and setting Mark down on the bed, retrieved his rifle. After a period of lengthy explanation, Mark knew that the rifle was dangerous, and he shouldn’t play with it until he was at least ten. That was enough for Mark, because his daddy had also said the floor was going to be punished. Zach went outside the room and jumped up and down on the floor a dozen times while his son watched approvingly. “Bad floor.” The child stomped on it to emphasize the point.
Aerel agitatedly glared towards the small, rambunctiously noisy hallway from her relaxed position in a hand-carved rocking chair. “What the heck are you doing Zach?!”
Three lazy years rolled ponderously by at the Itri’s small home, and Mark’s parents tried to instill values in their growing child. This mostly came from his mother; Aerel liked to think that she had a superb grasp of right and wrong. Especially since most of his father’s ideals came from the few action holo-vids seen when he was a teenager, and was reinforced by repeatedly working to fend off bandits at the farm. Naturally, Mark became a hybrid of the two.
Mark's schooling progressed at a rapid clip under his mother's guidance by the time he was six. He had a desire to absorb knowledge as if doing so would keep him anchored to the ground. Basic mathematics were quickly conquered, the next to fall was reading, and then writing. This yearning for knowledge spurred him towards the initiation of creative experiments that usually had the unintentional side-effect of taking up the floorspace and destroying the objects they were carried out on.
By some fluke of fate, there was also an absence of children Mark's age for him to interact with on the Sampson Homestead. They were either too young or too old, and it didn't help that his parents were also self-conscious about allowing him to mix with other children that were deemed to be out of their 'class.' Said class existed mostly in Aerel's head, but the few patches on her child's clothes, generally obtained from Mark's own rambunctious behavior and not from original status, served to highlight her point. Mark didn't mind, those that he had met didn't appreciate his generally superior attitude, even through childhood. Superior in that even at a young age, he always exercised a great deal of foresight for events and actions, and didn't exactly hide his critical behavior.
When he was eight, Mark’s mother inquired if her son could be taught by one of the tutors at the farm, as she was running out of material to teach, and he still wanted, demanded to know more. Without much hesitation on the part of the tutors, Mark started being given further lessons to augment his mother’s. She had decided after much internal debate that her son gleaning as much knowledge as possible would be an asset to his future far outweighing any current selfish motives of her own. She was quite pleased with her explanation to Zach.
Mark also started to spend more time with his father out in the fields, working. While he preferred the more personal, quiet, sunny afternoons of his youth, learning about Dantooine while wandering outside the house, he also grew to (slightly) appreciate the bond of working and sweating together. In his mind, it was hard to replace or break something like that.
Two more leisurely years trickled by in the same fashion, Mark was now ten. He had been waiting to turn ten for –years;- ever since his father had told him about the rifle. In and of itself, his birthday gift from Zach consisted of shooting lessons, while his present from Aerel was a shiny new multi-tool. She cautioned him to watch the blade on it while Zach rolled his eyes wryly, and bid Mark to follow him outside, rifle in hand and slug-thrower pistol on his hip.
The first time Mark shot the rifle, the recoil launched the scope backwards like a startled deer, connecting solidly with his forehead and almost knocking the youth over in the process. Angrily rubbing the forming bruise on his head, Mark took a firmer stance and under his father’s amused direction, proceeded to try again. Once bitten, twice shy; the youth made sure to grasp the rifle tightly, and move his head farther away from the scope in the future. Over the years, Mark would slowly increase in accuracy with the weapon, but it was never preferred over Zach’s pistol. Which was the next weapon Mark was shown. Furthermore, mostly because it didn’t hit him in the face like the rifle had, he grew to dote on the firearm. When asked, his father showed him a few different stances and techniques for shooting the gun, and Mark grew to prefer it all the more, practicing during his free time when he was done his work around the farm. If it wasn’t for the rifle’s merit of being able to shoot accurately at a far longer range, and its use for hunting, Mark would’ve opted to avoid it completely. It wasn’t long after that, that Mark started to go on hunting trips with his father and a few other residents of the farm, proving an apt hand at it, though fancy the field-dressing, he did not. As he grew older, he mentally acknowledged that he engaged in the activity for the love of the chase, and quiet clarity of the moment when the sights of his worn scope lined up on a wandering Iriaz.
As far as interacting with other members of the farm went, Mark started to isolate himself quietly at the age of twelve. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy their company, because he did, to an extent. Rather, it was that he currently didn’t have anyone close to his age to play with, or talk to and he started to view life at the farm as repetitive, albeit necessary. His mood somber and withdrawn, he’d often go for walks, absently carving a piece of wood while he trotted along, or borrow Zach’s swoop bike to ride and explore without a word to anyone. In truth, one of the only times of the day he’d ever talk to anyone conversationally was when he was working. Work around the farm for him now started to consist of him doing odd-jobs; anything and everything. This led to him starting to pick up a wide range of basic understanding for jobs that went on at the farm.
When he was thirteen, three notable things happened. First off, Mark’s figure started to change, further gaining wiry muscles from his work on the farm and hunting on the weekends, trading most of the remainder of his baby fat for a lither form, along with also having his growth spurt. Secondly, his mother had another baby, a girl, who they named Gren. Mark appeared to only be passively interested in her, and he was content to watch her if his parents needed him to, but inwardly, he very much enjoyed the new company.
Third, finally, and perhaps most importantly to him, Mark had finally decided to visit the smuggling town of Flint. Consequentially, his quiet phase died out as he realized talking to people there, specifically to further his own ends and knowledge, was profitable. Mark brought this new revelation back to the farm with him, reopening up to people, and his parents, who had been quite worried about him. By the time he was fifteen he had a natural gift for getting people to listen to him, coupled with intelligent reasoning and clever phrasing, lending him a likable air wherever he went. Even so, with a lack of other teenagers his age to talk to, Mark did not have many people he actually deemed ‘friends.’
When he was home and simply relaxing, Mark had short talks with his father, and longer teaching sessions. He was taught the basics of how to defend himself if unarmed, or if he had a knife, in case of a raid. Zach being significantly more minded towards the defensive, focused on teaching Mark how to avoid, block, and deflect, rather than attack, which irritated the boy to no end.
For most of the thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth years of his life, Mark was overjoyed at the break in monotony the town of Flint offered after work on the farm ended. He thrived on the energy, the vibe, of the smuggling town. There existed a constant thrill for him there, the adrenaline of not knowing what would happen being the most alluring drug for him. It was anarchy at its best. Small, uncontained fist-fights were used to settle any matters quickly, and information was always being loudly volunteered into thin air at any cantina in town. All one needed was a quick wit to stay out of trouble, and quicker feet to race away from danger. Mark perfected his ability to fade and listen from the corner of a cantina, to piece together, infer and deduce what the scraps of information meant. He basked in simply –knowing.- Not to mention that whenever Mark was given opportunity he would cheerfully relieve a being of one of their possessions. Why he did so was as much a matter of ingrained curiosity as simple basic greed. If he desired something, he weighed chances and analyzed the prospect and result of being caught. Then he either moved to take it wholeheartedly, or he simply did not. This led to him, with agonizing slowness, obtaining tiny amounts of credits, random junk that he had no immediate use for, and his most prized possession at the time, a tiny hold out blaster that had, whether by accident or chance, slipped out of someone’s sleeve holster and onto the floor of the cantina Mark had been in late one night.
After biding his time and amassing enough information on going-ons in the town of Flint from overhearing conversations, Mark started to break into information trading, using his small amount of stored credits to finance trading among the other individuals in town that specialized in the same thing. They had a habit of not taking him seriously, until he, mostly by sheer luck, located a smuggled-then-stolen crate of high-end speeder parts and sold them the location, which they in turn sold to the original smugglers, while Mark was given a tip and told to keep his mouth shut. The next day, Mark overheard that there had been a small four-way shootout around the location of town the crate was in. He didn’t feel guilty. It wasn’t his fault, it was entirely another being’s choice. And so Mark slept soundly.
All in all, Mark was enjoying life and his responsibilities on the farm. He had his baby sister to help take care of, work enough to keep him occupied, and a pastime that kept him enthralled. Soon though, all three things that had made his life meaningful would be taken away…
The Sith invaded almost without warning, laying waste to Dantooine brutally and effectively, and quickly diffusing through the planet like black ink in clear water. Would-be messengers of the coming storm riding swoops and speeders were picked off from a distance by Sith snipers and strafing interceptor craft, as the Sith Empire tried to contain the news of the attack.
Incidentally, Mark had heard rumors of the Sith the night before they attacked, at one of the cantinas in Flint, and it had him sleeping with his small blaster in his pocket that night, not exactly wanting to tell his parents that he had been hanging around in cantinas, and yet unwilling to dismiss it as pure fiction.
Mark, Aerel, and Gren were all home when Dutch came to warn them of the impending assault. Mark immediately ran to grab his father’s rifle and ammo cartridge from under the bed, and in a flash, was ushering his mother, who was clutching Gren, out of the house. They ran all the way to the farm’s hangar without incident, where Mark helped his mother and sister into a land speeder before starting to dash around asking for his father. After receiving a few confused answers, Mark hitched up the strap of his rifle on his shoulder, and started to head out towards the sounds of rifle reports and blaster fire. He was stopped by Erle and some other farm workers running in from the direction of the fight, none of them his father, and before he could open his mouth to protest, he was being roughly lifted onto a speeder himself. His common sense told him to stay put in the starting speeder, clutching his father's rifle like a lifeline with one hand, the other clinging to the edge of the vehicle. Then it was racing away with the other speeders from the farm, who had been waiting for the other adults to leave, and just in time, because the roar of Sith bombers was fast approaching. Bombs seemed to fall in slow motion as Mark peered over his shoulder through windswept hair, watching the farm in its last moments. He wanted to remember his home. Then, in an instant, the place where he had grown up, where he had poured hours of his time, was gone, the continuing line of explosions catching the tail end of the fleet of retreating speeders. Another part of Mark’s world was gone, though he wouldn’t realize it until he arrived at the crystal cave.
His mother, sister, and father had all died in the attack. His father, it was explained, was one of those who had stayed behind to try and hold off the Sith on foot. The realization dawned on Mark slowly after he looked through the survivors, and when it finally did, he slid down the cavern wall he had been leaning on, pulling in his knees and crying softly into the rough fabric covering his knees.
In the same hour, Mark resolved to further be cold and pragmatic. He kept everything buried inside, down deep, where he could control his hate and grief efficiently, like a generator. An efficient generator that would last a lifetime. One could say that after that day, Mark was colorblind. Everything was in grayscale, though his green eyes gained a hard, determined quality. Things he wouldn’t have done before the attack, suddenly became viable options. He was alone, even in the cavern of like-minded humans.
When Erle revealed that he used to be part of a counter-terrorism force, Mark pounced on the promises a rebellion offered. He happily helped anywhere in the resistance he could at first, pushing himself until with cool indifference, his sixteenth birthday passed by, a month, two weeks, and five days after the destruction of the Sampson estate, and the loss of his family. No one in the DLA knew about its existence, and Mark liked it that way. As soon as Erle asked for people to set up traps, Mark found he had a knack for constructing them, along with an instinct for exactly where they should go. At the same time, he also started assisting on guerrilla raids, fighting zealously and actively when it came time for action, and proving to be a passive, patient strategist when planning them, though his thoughts generally stayed in his own mind. With time and experience, his traps started to become more elaborate and devious, for instance, constructing a tripwire that when triggered, set off a five second timed delay explosive, causing the Sith to take cover on the ground, which would be embedded with carved wooden spikes hidden by the loam in the surrounding area. Combine with auxiliary sniper fire for maximum effectiveness.
As the DLA started to gather more refugees of the Sith to its cause, Mark developed a respect for all of the leaders, namely, Erle, Dutch, Allistair, “Mo”, and Tim, and gained a disregard towards the lives of the average citizenry. This in turn, started him wanting to use the citizens who lacked the ability or will to fight in… other, more controversial, ways.
Like as decoys and distractions for the more useful fighters and leaders.
Anyone lacking at least the one barred tattoo, given to him by Candi, probably isn’t going to get any respect from him. After having Erle and Dutch captured on an ill-fated raid, Mark has, with the same cold indifference as usual, merely continued his work while waiting for a call to action from one of the remaining Kylah Rats.
Attributes:
Physical Strength: 5
Intelligence: 6
Speed: 6
Leadership: 4
Unarmed: 3
Melee Weapons: 4
Ranged Weapons: 5
Alignment: 0
RP Sample:
Mark was sitting in a corner of the DLA’s subterranean base,, his mind alert and active, green eyes glinting lightly with amusement while his ideal scenario of using civilians for something useful played out in his head…
He was quickly trotting over to a downcast new arrival sitting on the floor of Homestead, a friendly smile on his face, and thoughts that consisted of anything but contained in his head.
“Hey, I’m Mark, what’s your name?” The slightly pudgy, black-haired older male looked up at the confident sixteen year old ruefully before finally answering.
“Sal.”
Mark sat down next to the new arrival, his personal estimate put him at fourty-five years of age. “Hiya Sal, what brings you to the DLA?”
“The Sith destroyed my shop. Burned everything. Including the rest of my family.” Sal sighed, and Mark noted the subtle clenching of his fists. Sal would do for what he had in mind.
“Would you like to help us get back at the Sith?”
After a moment’s deliberation, where Mark saw a mix of emotions darken the man’s face, Sal looked up, brown eyes now determined. “…Count me in.”
Mark waved Sal to his feet quickly, noting how easy it was to convince people to help when memories of their family dying were brought to the surface. Mark himself had buried all the memories of his families months ago.
“Look, all we need you to do is walk down this trail here,” Mark tapped a wavy line on the map he had pulled out of his back pocket. “-to scout for a Sith patrol.”
“Alright?”
Mark paused to clarify. “All you need to do is walk down that trail, that’s all. We just need confirmation on a group of soldiers before we can move.” Mark started walking with him towards what had been dubbed Mo’s entrance, strides relaxed and even.
“Alright.” Sal nodded with a wry smile.
Mark handed over a small functional blaster pistol, instructing him that it was for emergencies only, and a commlink, given weight inside with nothing more than rocks. Then he proceeded to set Sal on the trail, and ushered him off with a “Good luck!”
As soon as Sal was out of sight and headed in the right direction, directly towards the route the Sith patrol had been taking, Mark raced back inside the base, grabbing the three best marksmen on hand with their rifles, hurriedly half-explaining that there was an opportunity to shoot at some Sith in their territory if they moved now. Mark led them cautiously down the side of the mountain in the direction he had sent the store clerk on. Occasionally, Mark would hear the sharp report of a twig breaking from below him, and nodded satisfactorily as he continued stalking Sal with the other members of the DLA. This continued until they were about a mile or two away from Homestead, and then they suddenly heard blaster fire and yelling. Mark rushed forward with the fighters he had brought with him, having them take up positions in view of the scene below them. Mark observed the situation through the scope of his rifle. Sal looked to have been shot a few times, but was still alive, and trying to aim the blaster he had been given at the eight soldiers surrounding him. The Sith were gathered around the fallen form, taunting the clerk by taking away his blaster. Mark exchanged a look with every sniper from their positions, and they took up aiming positions before letting loose an accurate salvo of lead, immediately cutting down three of the soldiers. Another one followed immediately afterwards, Mark’s bullet finding its mark in a spray of blood. He ejected the spent cartridge, and loaded another one quickly, taking aim as another three shots rang out, and dropped two more of the Sith that had gone prone on the ground before the remaining three got up to run with shouts of “DLA!”
Mark watched with satisfaction before going to tend to Sal with a sigh. Two more rifle reports rang out, and two more Sith dropped. It had taken all of five minutes to wipe out a patrol. Mark loved results.
Mark tore off a strip of his shirt to bandage the older man’s shot arm before subtly slipping the commlink out of Sal’s pocket and onto the ground while two of the other DLA members kept watch carefully, and the third came to help him carry Sal. With a grunt, the two of them lifted Sal to his feet, and supporting him carefully, started to head back up the trail.
“We’ll cover your tracks and get rid of the bodies, then we’ll be right behind you.” One of the marksmen said, before heading down to start just that. Mark nodded and started the trek back to Homestead with his burden. This had been a good idea. Now it just needed the cherry on top. Mark looked down at the in-pain Sal and smiled pleasantly.
“We got those bastards for you Sal. All of them. You’re a hero.”
“I am?” The older man blinked confusedly, and the member of the DLA opposite him winked conspiratorially, figuring that Mark was trying to keep his spirits up. Which was partly true. Mark was planning on starting a rumor at the medical ward to cover his own hand in the manner. Something that would inflate Sal’s ego to the point where he’d deny having someone else giving him the idea…
“Definitely. We’ll get you patched up and good as new, and then we’ll see if we can find something else for you to do…”
Mark blinked out of his daydream, and then smiled from his spot on the floor of Homestead darkly.
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Name: Mark Itri
Race: Human
Age: 18
Height: 5’7”
Weight: 128
Appearance: Mark has mussed autumn red-brown hair that he consistently cuts before it gets into his eyes. A lightly tanned complexion shades his skin. He is a lithe being, a wiry type of strong that seems to prefer to hide its presence. Determined, biting, hard green eyes, like jagged unpolished emeralds, have been his trademark since he started living among the DLA and lost his parents. Clothing-wise, as long as it’s a neutral shade of brown, green, or black, and it doesn’t hinder movement, he’s happy. Underneath his clothes, he has one tattoo inked on his skin by Candi after joining the resistance movement; the DLA’s marking, with one slash, differentiating him from the normal civilian. Mark is also often found wearing his DLA balaclava around his neck, ready to be pulled into place at a moment’s notice. Rarely does he ever completely remove it from his person. As far as weapons and other effects go, he always carries a multi-tool in his pocket, given to him by his mother. Lower on his right hip, he has a smaller scuffed blaster pistol sidearm scavenged from a raid on the Sith.
Personality: Devious, patient, and pragmatic. Most content when he’s planning. He tends to see all actions in grayscale, as in that right and wrong are extremely relative. If the end justifies the means, and the end is the destruction of more Sith on Dantooine, Mark is satisfied. In effect, he’d be willing to sacrifice non-vital members of the DLA as long as in doing so, he could justify it by getting at more Sith. Now note, that while that is indeed his constant personality, he’s able to drop into an act as soon as he deems it necessary, adapting to whatever situation he finds himself in. This is generally used for extortion and manipulation.
Birth place: Dantooine, Kylah plains
Occupation: Farmer/DLA member
Rank: His barred tattoo marks him as one step above civilian.
Bio:
Grass roots
Birth- age 8
Mark was born on Dantooine, to human parents, Aerel and Zach, of no rank or distinction, both being simplistic farmers that worked on once Bryce’s, now Erle Sampson's, farm. Mark’s mother, Aerel, was immediately given leave of her usual duties around the farm to take care of her new-born baby, and the boy was doted on by both parents when time allowed. Typically, Zach would work on the Sampson Farm for half the day, and then come to their small home on the outskirts of the farm to tiredly play with his son, and see his wife. Mark as a baby was always a little anxious, and a tad loud, though he was quick enough to stop after his mother was holding him. At age two, Mark started his toddling exploration of the small house, and engaged in normal, generally chaotic behavior; it’s called the terrible two’s for a reason. By the time he was three, Mark was speaking often, and had picked up a decent vocabulary of words and definitions for life on the farm.
This basic pattern generally continued until Mark was five. At five, he was given light chores around the house, and expected to clean up his small pile of toys himself. It was time to learn a little bit of responsibility. Along with those, Mark started basic school lessons with his mother and father, learning about farming and Dantooine itself from Zach, and other important things, like basic reading, the alphabet, and simple math from his mother. On weekends, Mark always noticed his father leaving with a scoped rifle. Shortly afterwards, he’d return, sometimes empty-handed, sometimes with food. Always with the same rifle. His five year old mind processed that the food was good after mama cooked it, and that the gun was related to food. Therefore the gun proved desirable.
One afternoon, Mark managed to tiptoe-toddle after his father, as Zach went to stow his rifle under the bed for easy access in case of raiders. Peering through the slit of the cracked door to see where his father had put the gun, the child noted the location curiously, and started to gallop off with his new secret. He made it two steps before his excited pace made his feet catch together. He fell down on the floor loudly with a thump, starting to sniffle. “Bad floor!”
Zach heard the thump, and quickly opened the door of his room to see his son getting up, immediately adjacent to the doorway. The hunter inferred where Mark had been standing when he had fallen, and quickly shushed the child by picking him up and carrying him inside the bedroom. Mark gushed quickly that he just wanted to see the gun, that the floor had tried to attack him, and that it should be spanked for its deeds.
Zach sighed, and setting Mark down on the bed, retrieved his rifle. After a period of lengthy explanation, Mark knew that the rifle was dangerous, and he shouldn’t play with it until he was at least ten. That was enough for Mark, because his daddy had also said the floor was going to be punished. Zach went outside the room and jumped up and down on the floor a dozen times while his son watched approvingly. “Bad floor.” The child stomped on it to emphasize the point.
Aerel agitatedly glared towards the small, rambunctiously noisy hallway from her relaxed position in a hand-carved rocking chair. “What the heck are you doing Zach?!”
Three lazy years rolled ponderously by at the Itri’s small home, and Mark’s parents tried to instill values in their growing child. This mostly came from his mother; Aerel liked to think that she had a superb grasp of right and wrong. Especially since most of his father’s ideals came from the few action holo-vids seen when he was a teenager, and was reinforced by repeatedly working to fend off bandits at the farm. Naturally, Mark became a hybrid of the two.
Mark's schooling progressed at a rapid clip under his mother's guidance by the time he was six. He had a desire to absorb knowledge as if doing so would keep him anchored to the ground. Basic mathematics were quickly conquered, the next to fall was reading, and then writing. This yearning for knowledge spurred him towards the initiation of creative experiments that usually had the unintentional side-effect of taking up the floorspace and destroying the objects they were carried out on.
By some fluke of fate, there was also an absence of children Mark's age for him to interact with on the Sampson Homestead. They were either too young or too old, and it didn't help that his parents were also self-conscious about allowing him to mix with other children that were deemed to be out of their 'class.' Said class existed mostly in Aerel's head, but the few patches on her child's clothes, generally obtained from Mark's own rambunctious behavior and not from original status, served to highlight her point. Mark didn't mind, those that he had met didn't appreciate his generally superior attitude, even through childhood. Superior in that even at a young age, he always exercised a great deal of foresight for events and actions, and didn't exactly hide his critical behavior.
Changes in Attitude, Growing Up
Age 8 to age 15
When he was eight, Mark’s mother inquired if her son could be taught by one of the tutors at the farm, as she was running out of material to teach, and he still wanted, demanded to know more. Without much hesitation on the part of the tutors, Mark started being given further lessons to augment his mother’s. She had decided after much internal debate that her son gleaning as much knowledge as possible would be an asset to his future far outweighing any current selfish motives of her own. She was quite pleased with her explanation to Zach.
Mark also started to spend more time with his father out in the fields, working. While he preferred the more personal, quiet, sunny afternoons of his youth, learning about Dantooine while wandering outside the house, he also grew to (slightly) appreciate the bond of working and sweating together. In his mind, it was hard to replace or break something like that.
Two more leisurely years trickled by in the same fashion, Mark was now ten. He had been waiting to turn ten for –years;- ever since his father had told him about the rifle. In and of itself, his birthday gift from Zach consisted of shooting lessons, while his present from Aerel was a shiny new multi-tool. She cautioned him to watch the blade on it while Zach rolled his eyes wryly, and bid Mark to follow him outside, rifle in hand and slug-thrower pistol on his hip.
The first time Mark shot the rifle, the recoil launched the scope backwards like a startled deer, connecting solidly with his forehead and almost knocking the youth over in the process. Angrily rubbing the forming bruise on his head, Mark took a firmer stance and under his father’s amused direction, proceeded to try again. Once bitten, twice shy; the youth made sure to grasp the rifle tightly, and move his head farther away from the scope in the future. Over the years, Mark would slowly increase in accuracy with the weapon, but it was never preferred over Zach’s pistol. Which was the next weapon Mark was shown. Furthermore, mostly because it didn’t hit him in the face like the rifle had, he grew to dote on the firearm. When asked, his father showed him a few different stances and techniques for shooting the gun, and Mark grew to prefer it all the more, practicing during his free time when he was done his work around the farm. If it wasn’t for the rifle’s merit of being able to shoot accurately at a far longer range, and its use for hunting, Mark would’ve opted to avoid it completely. It wasn’t long after that, that Mark started to go on hunting trips with his father and a few other residents of the farm, proving an apt hand at it, though fancy the field-dressing, he did not. As he grew older, he mentally acknowledged that he engaged in the activity for the love of the chase, and quiet clarity of the moment when the sights of his worn scope lined up on a wandering Iriaz.
As far as interacting with other members of the farm went, Mark started to isolate himself quietly at the age of twelve. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy their company, because he did, to an extent. Rather, it was that he currently didn’t have anyone close to his age to play with, or talk to and he started to view life at the farm as repetitive, albeit necessary. His mood somber and withdrawn, he’d often go for walks, absently carving a piece of wood while he trotted along, or borrow Zach’s swoop bike to ride and explore without a word to anyone. In truth, one of the only times of the day he’d ever talk to anyone conversationally was when he was working. Work around the farm for him now started to consist of him doing odd-jobs; anything and everything. This led to him starting to pick up a wide range of basic understanding for jobs that went on at the farm.
When he was thirteen, three notable things happened. First off, Mark’s figure started to change, further gaining wiry muscles from his work on the farm and hunting on the weekends, trading most of the remainder of his baby fat for a lither form, along with also having his growth spurt. Secondly, his mother had another baby, a girl, who they named Gren. Mark appeared to only be passively interested in her, and he was content to watch her if his parents needed him to, but inwardly, he very much enjoyed the new company.
Third, finally, and perhaps most importantly to him, Mark had finally decided to visit the smuggling town of Flint. Consequentially, his quiet phase died out as he realized talking to people there, specifically to further his own ends and knowledge, was profitable. Mark brought this new revelation back to the farm with him, reopening up to people, and his parents, who had been quite worried about him. By the time he was fifteen he had a natural gift for getting people to listen to him, coupled with intelligent reasoning and clever phrasing, lending him a likable air wherever he went. Even so, with a lack of other teenagers his age to talk to, Mark did not have many people he actually deemed ‘friends.’
When he was home and simply relaxing, Mark had short talks with his father, and longer teaching sessions. He was taught the basics of how to defend himself if unarmed, or if he had a knife, in case of a raid. Zach being significantly more minded towards the defensive, focused on teaching Mark how to avoid, block, and deflect, rather than attack, which irritated the boy to no end.
For most of the thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth years of his life, Mark was overjoyed at the break in monotony the town of Flint offered after work on the farm ended. He thrived on the energy, the vibe, of the smuggling town. There existed a constant thrill for him there, the adrenaline of not knowing what would happen being the most alluring drug for him. It was anarchy at its best. Small, uncontained fist-fights were used to settle any matters quickly, and information was always being loudly volunteered into thin air at any cantina in town. All one needed was a quick wit to stay out of trouble, and quicker feet to race away from danger. Mark perfected his ability to fade and listen from the corner of a cantina, to piece together, infer and deduce what the scraps of information meant. He basked in simply –knowing.- Not to mention that whenever Mark was given opportunity he would cheerfully relieve a being of one of their possessions. Why he did so was as much a matter of ingrained curiosity as simple basic greed. If he desired something, he weighed chances and analyzed the prospect and result of being caught. Then he either moved to take it wholeheartedly, or he simply did not. This led to him, with agonizing slowness, obtaining tiny amounts of credits, random junk that he had no immediate use for, and his most prized possession at the time, a tiny hold out blaster that had, whether by accident or chance, slipped out of someone’s sleeve holster and onto the floor of the cantina Mark had been in late one night.
After biding his time and amassing enough information on going-ons in the town of Flint from overhearing conversations, Mark started to break into information trading, using his small amount of stored credits to finance trading among the other individuals in town that specialized in the same thing. They had a habit of not taking him seriously, until he, mostly by sheer luck, located a smuggled-then-stolen crate of high-end speeder parts and sold them the location, which they in turn sold to the original smugglers, while Mark was given a tip and told to keep his mouth shut. The next day, Mark overheard that there had been a small four-way shootout around the location of town the crate was in. He didn’t feel guilty. It wasn’t his fault, it was entirely another being’s choice. And so Mark slept soundly.
All in all, Mark was enjoying life and his responsibilities on the farm. He had his baby sister to help take care of, work enough to keep him occupied, and a pastime that kept him enthralled. Soon though, all three things that had made his life meaningful would be taken away…
End of Silence
age 15
age 15
The Sith invaded almost without warning, laying waste to Dantooine brutally and effectively, and quickly diffusing through the planet like black ink in clear water. Would-be messengers of the coming storm riding swoops and speeders were picked off from a distance by Sith snipers and strafing interceptor craft, as the Sith Empire tried to contain the news of the attack.
Incidentally, Mark had heard rumors of the Sith the night before they attacked, at one of the cantinas in Flint, and it had him sleeping with his small blaster in his pocket that night, not exactly wanting to tell his parents that he had been hanging around in cantinas, and yet unwilling to dismiss it as pure fiction.
Mark, Aerel, and Gren were all home when Dutch came to warn them of the impending assault. Mark immediately ran to grab his father’s rifle and ammo cartridge from under the bed, and in a flash, was ushering his mother, who was clutching Gren, out of the house. They ran all the way to the farm’s hangar without incident, where Mark helped his mother and sister into a land speeder before starting to dash around asking for his father. After receiving a few confused answers, Mark hitched up the strap of his rifle on his shoulder, and started to head out towards the sounds of rifle reports and blaster fire. He was stopped by Erle and some other farm workers running in from the direction of the fight, none of them his father, and before he could open his mouth to protest, he was being roughly lifted onto a speeder himself. His common sense told him to stay put in the starting speeder, clutching his father's rifle like a lifeline with one hand, the other clinging to the edge of the vehicle. Then it was racing away with the other speeders from the farm, who had been waiting for the other adults to leave, and just in time, because the roar of Sith bombers was fast approaching. Bombs seemed to fall in slow motion as Mark peered over his shoulder through windswept hair, watching the farm in its last moments. He wanted to remember his home. Then, in an instant, the place where he had grown up, where he had poured hours of his time, was gone, the continuing line of explosions catching the tail end of the fleet of retreating speeders. Another part of Mark’s world was gone, though he wouldn’t realize it until he arrived at the crystal cave.
His mother, sister, and father had all died in the attack. His father, it was explained, was one of those who had stayed behind to try and hold off the Sith on foot. The realization dawned on Mark slowly after he looked through the survivors, and when it finally did, he slid down the cavern wall he had been leaning on, pulling in his knees and crying softly into the rough fabric covering his knees.
Solo
age 15-present
In the same hour, Mark resolved to further be cold and pragmatic. He kept everything buried inside, down deep, where he could control his hate and grief efficiently, like a generator. An efficient generator that would last a lifetime. One could say that after that day, Mark was colorblind. Everything was in grayscale, though his green eyes gained a hard, determined quality. Things he wouldn’t have done before the attack, suddenly became viable options. He was alone, even in the cavern of like-minded humans.
When Erle revealed that he used to be part of a counter-terrorism force, Mark pounced on the promises a rebellion offered. He happily helped anywhere in the resistance he could at first, pushing himself until with cool indifference, his sixteenth birthday passed by, a month, two weeks, and five days after the destruction of the Sampson estate, and the loss of his family. No one in the DLA knew about its existence, and Mark liked it that way. As soon as Erle asked for people to set up traps, Mark found he had a knack for constructing them, along with an instinct for exactly where they should go. At the same time, he also started assisting on guerrilla raids, fighting zealously and actively when it came time for action, and proving to be a passive, patient strategist when planning them, though his thoughts generally stayed in his own mind. With time and experience, his traps started to become more elaborate and devious, for instance, constructing a tripwire that when triggered, set off a five second timed delay explosive, causing the Sith to take cover on the ground, which would be embedded with carved wooden spikes hidden by the loam in the surrounding area. Combine with auxiliary sniper fire for maximum effectiveness.
As the DLA started to gather more refugees of the Sith to its cause, Mark developed a respect for all of the leaders, namely, Erle, Dutch, Allistair, “Mo”, and Tim, and gained a disregard towards the lives of the average citizenry. This in turn, started him wanting to use the citizens who lacked the ability or will to fight in… other, more controversial, ways.
Like as decoys and distractions for the more useful fighters and leaders.
Anyone lacking at least the one barred tattoo, given to him by Candi, probably isn’t going to get any respect from him. After having Erle and Dutch captured on an ill-fated raid, Mark has, with the same cold indifference as usual, merely continued his work while waiting for a call to action from one of the remaining Kylah Rats.
Attributes:
Physical Strength: 5
Intelligence: 6
Speed: 6
Leadership: 4
Unarmed: 3
Melee Weapons: 4
Ranged Weapons: 5
Alignment: 0
RP Sample:
Mark was sitting in a corner of the DLA’s subterranean base,, his mind alert and active, green eyes glinting lightly with amusement while his ideal scenario of using civilians for something useful played out in his head…
He was quickly trotting over to a downcast new arrival sitting on the floor of Homestead, a friendly smile on his face, and thoughts that consisted of anything but contained in his head.
“Hey, I’m Mark, what’s your name?” The slightly pudgy, black-haired older male looked up at the confident sixteen year old ruefully before finally answering.
“Sal.”
Mark sat down next to the new arrival, his personal estimate put him at fourty-five years of age. “Hiya Sal, what brings you to the DLA?”
“The Sith destroyed my shop. Burned everything. Including the rest of my family.” Sal sighed, and Mark noted the subtle clenching of his fists. Sal would do for what he had in mind.
“Would you like to help us get back at the Sith?”
After a moment’s deliberation, where Mark saw a mix of emotions darken the man’s face, Sal looked up, brown eyes now determined. “…Count me in.”
Mark waved Sal to his feet quickly, noting how easy it was to convince people to help when memories of their family dying were brought to the surface. Mark himself had buried all the memories of his families months ago.
“Look, all we need you to do is walk down this trail here,” Mark tapped a wavy line on the map he had pulled out of his back pocket. “-to scout for a Sith patrol.”
“Alright?”
Mark paused to clarify. “All you need to do is walk down that trail, that’s all. We just need confirmation on a group of soldiers before we can move.” Mark started walking with him towards what had been dubbed Mo’s entrance, strides relaxed and even.
“Alright.” Sal nodded with a wry smile.
Mark handed over a small functional blaster pistol, instructing him that it was for emergencies only, and a commlink, given weight inside with nothing more than rocks. Then he proceeded to set Sal on the trail, and ushered him off with a “Good luck!”
As soon as Sal was out of sight and headed in the right direction, directly towards the route the Sith patrol had been taking, Mark raced back inside the base, grabbing the three best marksmen on hand with their rifles, hurriedly half-explaining that there was an opportunity to shoot at some Sith in their territory if they moved now. Mark led them cautiously down the side of the mountain in the direction he had sent the store clerk on. Occasionally, Mark would hear the sharp report of a twig breaking from below him, and nodded satisfactorily as he continued stalking Sal with the other members of the DLA. This continued until they were about a mile or two away from Homestead, and then they suddenly heard blaster fire and yelling. Mark rushed forward with the fighters he had brought with him, having them take up positions in view of the scene below them. Mark observed the situation through the scope of his rifle. Sal looked to have been shot a few times, but was still alive, and trying to aim the blaster he had been given at the eight soldiers surrounding him. The Sith were gathered around the fallen form, taunting the clerk by taking away his blaster. Mark exchanged a look with every sniper from their positions, and they took up aiming positions before letting loose an accurate salvo of lead, immediately cutting down three of the soldiers. Another one followed immediately afterwards, Mark’s bullet finding its mark in a spray of blood. He ejected the spent cartridge, and loaded another one quickly, taking aim as another three shots rang out, and dropped two more of the Sith that had gone prone on the ground before the remaining three got up to run with shouts of “DLA!”
Mark watched with satisfaction before going to tend to Sal with a sigh. Two more rifle reports rang out, and two more Sith dropped. It had taken all of five minutes to wipe out a patrol. Mark loved results.
Mark tore off a strip of his shirt to bandage the older man’s shot arm before subtly slipping the commlink out of Sal’s pocket and onto the ground while two of the other DLA members kept watch carefully, and the third came to help him carry Sal. With a grunt, the two of them lifted Sal to his feet, and supporting him carefully, started to head back up the trail.
“We’ll cover your tracks and get rid of the bodies, then we’ll be right behind you.” One of the marksmen said, before heading down to start just that. Mark nodded and started the trek back to Homestead with his burden. This had been a good idea. Now it just needed the cherry on top. Mark looked down at the in-pain Sal and smiled pleasantly.
“We got those bastards for you Sal. All of them. You’re a hero.”
“I am?” The older man blinked confusedly, and the member of the DLA opposite him winked conspiratorially, figuring that Mark was trying to keep his spirits up. Which was partly true. Mark was planning on starting a rumor at the medical ward to cover his own hand in the manner. Something that would inflate Sal’s ego to the point where he’d deny having someone else giving him the idea…
“Definitely. We’ll get you patched up and good as new, and then we’ll see if we can find something else for you to do…”
Mark blinked out of his daydream, and then smiled from his spot on the floor of Homestead darkly.
Even before age 2, he would be walking around, talking, getting into trouble, like any normal toddler. What did he do before he was given chores? Is the only interaction he got during his first 5 years just his dad playing with him? What else did he do? Friends on the farm? Just need more here.