- Joined
- Jan 11, 2018
- Messages
- 130
- Reaction score
- 47
Dace Malo
AGE
► 19
SPECIES► Human
HEIGHT► 1.78 m
WEIGHT► 58 kg
EYE COLOR► Dark Grey
HAIR COLOR► Black
HOMEWORLD► Corellia
GENDER► XX
FACTION► Alliance
RANK► Padawan/Rebel
FORCE SENSITIVITY► Yes
BIOGRAPHY
My name is Dace Malo. I know little of my father - only that his name was Lancer, he was from Coronet City, and he was a "kuffing sithspawn" and a "son of a rancor". Myy mother, Areta Malo, I knew well. She was my teacher, my confidante, my best friend. I loved her to the core and back, even when she leaned more and more on the drink to fight her depression.
My mother had been a smuggler and a thief before being recruited into a special division CorSec, but all that was before I was born. She started doing private work after I came around, disappearances and strange occurences; work that drove her deeper into the bottle.
I was to be her legacy. The only good thing she ever really did, she said. She taught me everything she knew. How to shoot, how to slice, how to pilot. I absorbed lessons like a sponge. I was quick with my hands, and I had reflexes like a dug. We lived in Coronet city for a time, and life was...good. Simple. True.
Or rather, I was just a child, with no understanding of what it meant to truly be free. The empire had taken an entire galaxy in its cruel fist, and its grip would only grow tighter as the years passed. I understood that people weren't happy I could feel it, sometimes, same as I could feel my own thoughts and emotions- but I didn't understand why. My mother's investigations led her increasingly to imperial agents, and occasionally, to the terrifying beings who heralded the imperial armies. The sith.
When I was nine, we fled Corellia. Those days, everything seemed like an adventure, every smelly transport, every dingy spaceport. We drifted from spaceport to spaceport and planet to planet, traveling further from Imperial Republica space until Nar Shaddaa, where we ran into a couple old acquaintance from her smuggling days: a pair of wookies who would come to be my family.
Lofkazza was the youngest of the pair, just a few years into her nineties. Her name meant “clever hunter”. She taught me everything I know about hunting and tracking. She was a decent enough slicer as well, and helped refine my amateurish technique. Lofkazza had been a bounty hunter- chasing prey through city steets and the deep holonet- for about thirty years before Wrribecca convinced her to join the crew of the Bertha.
Wrribecca was the elder, and our captain. His name meant "quiet blade”. Or defender, depending on the context; since he fought with a vibrosword, I preferred the more aggressive translation. Not that he'd ever been aggressive without reason. An old spacer and former slave, he had grown into a daring and capable pilot and a solid captain. I became his co-pilot shortly after we joined the crew- Lofkazza hadn't minded giving up her seat, and even though my mother didn't like it, even back then I was good.
Big Bertha was his ship before it was mine. I would sit with him as he tinkered on her, repaired dented hulls are replaced blown cryo-connecters and gyro-stabilizers. Eventually I was the one making the repairs while he sat and watched. He had been like a father, or the closest thing I knew to one.
He died in the breath after my mother, Lofkazza shortly after that.
It happened when I was thirteen. Still a child, really, for all my prodigious talents. We were on Nar Shaddaa, celebrating my first racing victory in a professional circuit. My mother didn't drink as much, and she smiled a little easier. I was as happy as I'd ever been. We had enough credits to repair the Bertha and pad our pockets, and no one was out to kill us.
Or so I thought. My father had enemies, and his enemies had found us.
A man with smoldering yellow eyes had walked into the cantina and strode up to our table with a soft smile on his face. It was a handsome face. Refined. The sort of face you saw on lead actors in holonet films.
I remember a deep sense of dread coming over me the instant before he walked into the cantina, like a black wave rising up to swallow me. Silence followed him into the room, a silence like death. I blinked, and the man buried the crackling tip of a glowing red sword into my mother's heart. He slaughtered the rest of my mother's crew with contemptuous ease before turning his sword- his lightsaber- on me. I remember the fear like ice in my veins. I was frozen beneath those cold, yellow eyes, but more than that, I remember the anger. The rage. The rage goaded me to stare him down, but the fear stilled my tongue.
He held my gaze. "You are certainly your father's daughter," he said with a harsh laugh. He drew back his sword, and knocked me out with a brutal backhand.
I did what any sensible girl whose just witnessed her family's brutal murder: I hunted after the bastard, and during my hunt I saw the galaxy that my mother and Wrribecca had shielded me from. I felt small and inadequate, drowning in impotent rage. I needed something to direct my anger at, to channel it through, lest I spiral into destruction.
I stopped hunting the man - a sith, I know now - and went back to work. I had always thrived with a goal to work towards. A purpose. I reasoned that fate had saw fit for our paths to cross the once- surely it could happen again. Patience was a new taste to me, and even it is bitter on my tongue.
I smuggled supplies to planets in need for affordable rates, sometimes for nothing. I took joy in defeating imperial patrols, in slipping their snares. As the slicer Qrys, I sliced into minor corporate networks to redistribute credits to worthy causes, my own pockets among them. I captured them who needed capturing, and I raced. Oh I raced.
The alliance found me after a race, in fact. Another victory, in the same tournament I had won at thirteen, at the same cantina where my mother died. It was becoming something of a macabre tradition to compete in the race and go there after. I would sit and drink and talk to the ghosts of my memories. Lofkazza. Wrribecca. Areta. The few friends I'd had back home. My bastard father.
The man had been interesting enough. Handsome, in a goofy way. He called himself Brent Fury. He had watched the race, seen how I dominated humans and beings alike. Reacted faster than even the fastest of them. Said that he'd been following me after my name kept popping up on alliance radar as a possible sympathizer.
He made me a pitch. Join the Alliance. Join the Jedi. "You've been fighting the good fight without us," he said, "and you've done good. But... you can do better with us."
He was annoying, but my instinct told me to trust him, and my instincts had never failed me.
I accepted his offer. How could I refuse? I had sought purpose after my family was taken from me. What greater purpose was there than to restore peace and democracy to a suffering galaxy?
That was almost three years ago. The Jedi Praxeum on Ifrane became my home, the knights and other initiates my family. Especially the younglings, few though there were. It was tough going at first. More than tough, to be honest. Without Knight Sakadi's help, among a few others, I might've gone the way I suspect my father did. I had a lot of anger and resentment to deal with. A lot of fear and hate. I still do, in fact. But I'm learning how to work through it, how to cope, how to live, and one day, I hope to bring the sith who murdered my family to justice without losing myself in the process. I hope to learn who my father was, and what happened to him. I hope to make the universe a better place. A brighter place, ruled by justice and fairness with swoop races in every system.
My name is Dace Malo. And I am a jedi.
PERSONALITY
Rebellious. Bold. Prideful. Clever. Needs to learn caution and patience. Collects trinkets and souvenirs from her travels. Sometimes small items of little value, and the collection follows little rhyme or reason. Cares little for laws and legality, and lives by her personal code of ethics: "Do unto other as you would have them do unto you, unless they''re sithspit sleemos." Surprisingly good with people; given to morbid humor and levity. She displays the pattern Corellian self-centeredness and pragmatism, though this is considered to merely be a defense mechanism. Resents certain authority figures, and sometimes seeks unnecessary conflict. Kind-hearted, and even now, a touch naive, or, more accurately, hopeful. She has learned to expect the worse, but she has yet to stop hoping for the best. Strong wanderlust.
Still carries significant trauma from the violent and sudden deaths of her mother and chosen family. Her anger is dangerous. Recommend a more traditional one-on-one apprenticeship.
SKILLS AND EQUIPMENT
I can speak fluent Shryiiwook and Hutteese, and I know enough Rodian to not get cheated out of my money. I speak binary, of course, and I know a spattering of obscure languages- mostly curses and insults. I'm handy with a blaster, but not so much with a rifle. Ditto for knives- I'm not exactly a fan of blood, and stabbing has always seemed too intimate for me. I know my way around a computer console, but I'm no Kelvin Mitnick. I've learned the basics of lightsaber combat, and have begun working out my own personal style. It's a far more philosophical process than I anticipated, I'm a fair hand at virutally all of the basic jedi techniques, but I won't be catching any blaster bolts anytime soon. Best just to get out the way of those, or knock them back to sender. with a well placed swipe of my blade.
I know a little about hunting and tracking, enough to collar a small time perp, but I'm not hunting wanted criminals across star systems. Lofkazza didn't have time to teach me everything about bounty hunting, and I truthfully didn't care to learn. Don't care for killing, save for extreme cases. I can astrogate like a pro, though. Numbers have always come easy to me.
--AZ-44 Blaster Pistol
--Purple Bladed-Lightsaber
--Medium Jedi Armor
-- MIA-01 Astromech: Mia
--XR-1200FP Light Freighter: Big Bertha
--67X Stormcloud Swoop Bike
--DTX-1480 Informaster
--Signal Tracer
--Port Scanner
Last edited:
