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The Dark Fist
[fancybox4="http://i.imgur.com/wt4AXbI.jpg"]NAME: Galahdrim AgenorALIASES: The Dark Fist
AGE: 32
SPECIES: Human
HOMEWORLD: Unknown
HEIGHT: 202 Centimeters
WEIGHT: 101 Kilograms
EYE COLOR: Golden
HAIR COLOR: Dark
SKIN COLOR: Death Pale
MARKINGS: -
FACTION: The Sith Order
RANK: Sith
CLASS: Marauder
FORCE SENSITIVE:Confirmed
ALLIGNMENT: Lawful Evil
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BIOGRAPHY
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Son of Fire
In an isolated far away world where wide deserts cover the landscape and savage beasts roam upon the burning sands with hunger for flesh, lives a fierce nomadic people who listen to the loud whispers of the sandstorms, and endure the harsh realities of the desert life. Their solitary societies scattered around the hostile planet to scavenge whatever little resources there are to be found, they carry on a life of great hardship and danger, bound together by their code of honor and family. A fearless people of traditions and war, they have bred many a great fighters throughout the ages who have taken their respectful places within the history that is drawn upon the sands of this unknown backwater planet. Far from civilization and deep within the forgetten depths of the Galaxy, even these forsaken people had a greatness etched in them through the Force, the eternal energy that binds and preserves all living things. It was this greatness that would see one of their own leave his unique mark upon the pages of time itself. From these very sands would rise a man; a warlord of terror, his story built upon misfortune and tragedy, and his path leading to destruction and ruin. He was born to a powerful couple within one of these nomadic societies. His mother was the tribe shaman and his father the warchief. They spoke to the elders for omens of the boy's destiny, sensing the Gift of the Hunter in him, as the Peoples of the Sand called it. A fierce warlord he shall become, the elder said, her old voice trembling with excitement and fear as she spoke of the visions the boy carried. His path is one of blood and fire. And Tav'El Agor they called him from then on. Son of Fire.
The boy was a warrior from birth. Learning to adapte to the harsh, nomadic life in desert from a very young age, he began an unforgiving martial training under his father who raised him to do one thing alone. He spent many long and painful years mastering the ways of the warrior, eventually surpassing even the Warchief himself; the greatest their tribe had ever known. Galahdrim became a man of fierce determination and skill as a result of multiple decades spent in training with an iron discipline. The Warchief had constructed a machine of killing from the innocent little boy he first began to train many years ago, displaying him no mercy and love in the process. Galahdim knew no humane feelings, no compassion at all. He needed them not.
Eventually, he was told of the omens that the Elders saw upon his birth, and that his whole entire life up to that moment was merely a means of preparing him for the upcoming tests and battles. He was expected to show his gratitude to the Old Gods of the desert that his extremly zealot people believed in. He was to take it upon himself to become their tool, their dog of war. His single purpose in life was to satisfy some nameless, forgotten God he did not even believe in. Battle and hunt being all he knew, he had grown up to be proud warrior, refusing to acknowledge a mythical being higher of form than himself. It was him who endured years of tests, torture and the harsh will of the endless deserts, his destiny was his and his alone. Feeling betrayed by his family to have him enslaved to the Elders, he confronted the Warchief, his father, who ruled the tribe with an iron fist of fear. The old man had grown weak, however, and Galahdrim believed that his time to had come at long last.
The people did not agree, however, and he was cast out, until such a time that the Warchief would succcumb to the slow poison that is time, and he would return to receive his rightful place among his people. He embraced the scorching sands, the burning touch of the sun on his back, and the freezing hollow nights, where unspoken evil things walked the night as wind howled throughout the untamed, barren lands. Having nothing but the light of the distant stars to guide him and the blooded blade to accompany, he wandered alone in his isolated watch for many years to come. He would not go back. He would rather die than to humiliate himself in submission. As he tried desperately to hold on to his sanity and keep his will from breaking; he felt it. The Gift spoke to him. Countless years had past in misery, but the moment he had waited for so long was now. The Warchief had fallen.
Journeying across the wild deserts, he returned home to a greeting people. Seeing the changes in him; how the cruel time had made the young man even tougher and stronger then before, the tribe received him with gifts and open arms. They bowed to him, respected him. The warrior had become the new Warchief.
Will of the Warlord
As soon as he started experiencing the life of a Warchief, he discovered the sheer ambition within himself. Being merely a dog of war in the past, he never had dreams of conquest and glory. Now that he had the means, it all changed. It was, after all, what he was created to do. Why stand idle while he could take everything? He had a warband, he was strong, blessed with youth and he commanded the loyalty of an entire tribe of nomads; his people. Promises of grandeur were made to him by the Elders. Go to war, they spoke to him; emerge triumphant against the overwhelming odds, and you shall seize the heavens, and all the Gods shall bow before you, Old and New alike. Seduced by promises of glory and victory he assembled his horde of fierce desert lions, and a legion of nomadic warriors began riding across lifeless desert to do battle with all the other tribes, their thoughts being of blood and slaughter.
First few victims fell quickly. Scattered and disorganized, they were unready and unaware. Galahdrim and his party of murderers easily overran the weaker tribes with their savage assaults, striking with lightning speed as they descended upon the unsuspecting prey out of nowhere, riding back into the endless deserts, leaving trails of bloody footprints and rising smokes behind each sudden raid. Each slaughter was followed by pillage, rape and loot. They killed hundreds of innocent souls in the name of the God of War, but left one single man alive each time. So that the word would spread. And all the children of the desert would hear of the coming onslaught. That the devil was coming for them. So the Warlord and his band of marauders made a name for themselves across the sands of fire. All had heard it. And all trembled.
Other chieftans gathered, seeking a solution against the warring tribe. After much dissucssions and disputs, they settled on an alliance, an union that saw all the nomadic peoples of the desert gather under one banner, leaving their differences aside to put an end to the menace of the Son of Fire. The alliance saw peoples from across the deserts unite against the common foe; brutal sand trolls of the Golden Mountains, cruel cannibals from far away rugged deserts who hungered from human flesh, nomadic warriors from all corners of the world, even the lawless raiders who roamed across the deserts had answered the call. All of them craved to destroy the marauders and their lord of war for good. What followed was a bloodbath for both sides.
Galahdrim, despite being terribly outnumered, rallied his men, boosting the ranks with fresh recruits from his tribe, slaves of conquest and freelancers who seeked glory, and then went to war against the alliance of the deserts. Accepting them in open field, two armies crashed in what became a total slaughter. Thousands lay dead upon the sands at the end of the day, red rivers cooled the blazing land. Two amassed armies fought day and night, casuilties increased but Galahdrim refused to surrender. In a last, hopeless attempt to break through the masses of infantry he rallied his horsemen, fiercest of his army, his tribesmen. The few warriors cut through flesh and meat and carved a path. The Warchief stood upon countless lifeless bodies and dueled the gathered chieftains of all the enemy by himself. He cut them down one by one, refusing to die to his severe wounds. As he neared death he became more and more terrible to behold, going on a crazy berserk. It was done. But once he looked around, he realized that the victory had cost him dearly. A few beaten and broken men here and there struggled up to their feet, not more than a few dozen. Of the thousands he led to field, these wreched souls were all that he had left. Victory was his, a pyrrhic success which marked the end of his army and his campaign alike. There was no one left to sing songs of glory and share the plunder. Leaving the handful of weak survivors to death where they lay, he walked upon the haunted fields where dead men sang to him; their killer. The fields were heavy with the stench of blood and far too silent even for his liking. So much death, for no gain at all. For the first time in his entire life, he felt disguisted of blood and killing. He would head home. It was time. For his war had come to an end. Broken and alone, he carried himself across the desert. The sun did not rise to hail him and the days were cold and dark.
***
A False Redemption
His return was not taken well. Where are our sons? Where are the husbands and loved ones we sent to war? The women asked in sorrow, the children cried in disbelief. Chaos set loose upon the tribe. They cursed him and loated him. Galahdrim locked himself to his tent, neither came out nor spoke to any of them for many days. What was it that he was feeling? Guilt? Regret? Was he even capable of such humane emotions? He had grown weak like the father who he hated and detested. Summoning the Elders to his presence, he sought an explanation. Blaming them for their itiotic omens and vague promises.
The old women argued that his previous war was merely a beginning; first step in what wouıld become a long and painful journey. Gods demand more blood still. The witches allured him with their foul ways of dark arts, secretly influencing the mind of the Warlord to obey their will. They had gone mad with the untrained and uncontrolled extreme usage of Dark Side of the Force after countless decades, unbeknown to them. The Force was known as a magical power in the nomadic societies of the planet, which few could had the potential to wield.
None aid eyes upon them for a long time. The Warchief had summoned the Elders who were quick to answer, and the meeting went on for multiple days. It was strictly forbidden to go inside. Just as talks of uprising and chaos were beginning to spread within the war-weary and unhappy tribesmen, the Warchief emerged from his tent with the Elders at his back. His eyes were staring like a pair of bottomless empty pits, a bright golden light centered within each. People gathered in curiosity as to see what would come next. Nobody could foresee it.
Galahdrim drew his blades then mercilessly slaughtered his people to the last baby. They cried out, begged him to stop. The Warchief had truly went mad with bloodlust. He did not seem to enjoy his work. Not detest it either. There was nothing. He killed them all like animals, feeling nothing as if it was an everyday task. Looked them in the eye as they died. The Elders watched the massacre and carnage with crazed laughters. They were satisfied.
When it was over, Galahdrim turned to them. They laughed and crackled like the evil witches they were. What had he done? What have I done? His warriors and friends had always warned him that the influence of the Elders was dangerous and could lead to madness. He would not listen. Their dark arts and foul sorcery had led them all to insanity, and Galahdrim realized that his mind had been controled with that same twisted magic. He cried out in regret and disbelief as he viewed the bloodbath before him. Lifeless children, slaughtered women and old men. People who had trusted him and respected him. Why?! He screamed. Why?! Evil women answered. It was the will of the Old Gods. The Gods that you have been made slave to! Obey, dog! So these were the motives that have been driving them for countless years. Even since he has ascended to the seat of the Warchief, and even before that, they had been plotting their insane designs. More and more blood of the innocent. To be given as sacrifice to their wicked gods. By the hands of their would-be champion. Galahdrim had ruined everything. He had allowed himself to be controlled like a puppet. He felt sorrow and guilt for the first time. And there was anger. He charged at the Elders, determined to destroy them and their madness. It would be the first battle he would fight not simply for the sake of blood and killing. He had come to experience what it meant to be a person and not an animal of war. A person full of regrets and mistakes.
He was shocked as the Elders knocked him back with fierce bolts of lightnings that they fired out of their fingertips. They scorched his skin and kept him down with an immense pain, too much even for him to handle. He suffered dearly as a slight silhoutte of fear passed over him. Fear. He had not known of such a word before. But as he laid there struggling to stay alive, in the grip of death and defeat, he found the strength in himself. He would not be defeated so easily. Not by a bunch of crazed old women. He had to rise up. He roared a warrior's warcry in defiance. The Elders stopped, amazed by the man's strong will and determination. His skin color had withered due to increased exposure. Even in death, you defy us. Die and be silent child! Before they could unleash another barrage of lightning however, Galahdrim performed an amazing feat by leaping up and landing before them in a manner of second. Hurling one of his twin blades to maul an Elder he cut the other one's head off before the rest could act in desbelief. Trying to command some sort of telekinetic powers they attempted to push away, but Galahdrim stood ground. He commanded his body to move forward, trying to utilize his own Hunter's Gift through his willpower to deny them. Barely getting in melee range he decimated them, bashing the last one's head in with his bare fists as the wreched witch screamed in agony. She dropped death out of his hands, filthy blood covering the ground. Galahdrim collapsed in exhaustion and confusion. He sat there from dusk until next dawn, letting it all sink in. War was a reality that he could not simply run from. He remembered being a crazed warmongerer until recently. Until countless comrades and brothers of his died screaming in his arms. Yet here he stood, upon a pile of dead bodies that were his doing. His people dead and his mind disordered, broken, he made a decision. There was nothing left for him upon this planet.
Journey Across the Heavens
Leaving the dead tribe to rot, he collected his weapons and clad himself in his personal war armor, then went off into the deserts. He knew how to go. Nomads, albeit isolated from the outside Galaxy and barely known at all, were visited in occasions by outcast alien traders who had established their lines outside of the Galactic centers of civilization and commence. Journeying day and night he reached what it seemed to be an outpost established by some lowly pirate scum. Approching them, he simply demanded passage abort their ship. When refused and humiliated with an "offer" that he should better transfer all his carriage and belongings after which they would accept him, Galahdrim murdered them brutally and captured the old freighter which was in their possession. Taking the pilot prisoner, he commanded her to fly the ship away from the planet and into the bright starts.
***
Many years past in exploration of this far, far away Galaxy for Galahdrim. He found it odd that for someone living inside it, he knew next to nothing. He would have killed the pilot girl if not for the fact that he needed a guide. First he had her serve him as a slave, then as they spent more time together he slowly grew attached to the girl and eventually two became partners, finding themselves doing all sorts of work around the Galaxy. She taught him everything; how to speak Basic, major planets, piloting, technology, everything he had been missing out for his entire life. But most of all; the girl taught him how to love. How to be a human, have feelings and care for people. Previously a slave of war with no personality, Galahdrim slowly discovered what it meant to love, that word he had heard so much of. He did not even feel the unholy passion for war and slaughter anymore. All he wanted now was to spend the rest of his with this girl who had given him everything. He remembered the countless freezing nights he laid naked in his bed, his body marked with whip marks and bruises. He recalled the sands burning his feet and sun scorching his skin as he brawled on and on for hours. He remembered the fields of battle where thousands laid dead, corpses swimming in the rives of blood and the faces of the slain staring at him. The band that rode to glory, pillage and loot. The Warlord... He had no need of these memories anymore. For he had found comfort.
He never told her about his Force connection. He rejected that side of himself entirely. Loving each other with no regards to anything else whatsoever, the pair decided to settle together in a remote planet to begin a new life. Some time passed, the best days Galahdrim ever lived. She was pregnant. He was to be a father. The joy he experienced when she gave him the good news was beyond description. Happiness this much was such a stranger to him.
One day after returning from work in nearby farmlands, he lost everything. Their house in flames. He rushed inside, running through the flames with no care for his own life, only to find her dead. That cursed day, he lost everything good in his life. The only person he ever loved, his human side, the future he dreamed with her. He buried every little piece of humanity he had worked so hard to achieve. He had done a mistake. Letting himself be attached to someone so closely was a mistake. Once again he realized that he was truly alone in this life, completely and utterly this time around. The warrior's path was the only way for such a dog like himself. He did not deserve to have happines, he never had. He buried his love in a beautiful, green plain. Everything she gave to him was gone with her.
He relentlessly tracked down the murderers for the next couple of months. Day and night, he chased their traces, seeked information and followed in their footsteps. When he finally found them, he performed the bloodiest, the most sadistic slaughter he ever commited. He had never taken such a pleasure from ending a life.
He wandered and drifted across the Galaxy alone, employing himself in every sort of filthy works. Assassin, mercenary, triggerman, bounty hunter. He did every kind of lowly job there was available for such a killing machine like himself. Thugs and bandits he ran across most time were easy prey, but he found him match during a mysterious encounter with a lightsaber wielding warrior in some Outer Rim planet where no men lived.
Galahdrim's outlaw partners were utterly crushed by the single warrior. The unknown warrior performed deeds Galahdrim tought were not possible for a human being to do. As his partners fell by one to the unknown warrior, he realized that it was Force in work. This man was a Force wielder. Galahdrim never knew the Force was capable of empowering an ordinary warrior to such amounts of power. His blaster was useless against him. He had to resort to the weapon he hated. The Sand King, the blade of the Warchief. A fierce duel followed, even though Galahdrim was undefated for life in melee and commanded immense skill, he was out of practice and the warrior barely brought him down, resorting to foul trickery through the Force where his bladework proved lacking to break through his defences. Finish it. I do not fear death. Galadhrim spoke as the crimson blade was aimed at his throat. You are strong. You can learn to wield the Force as a weapon the way I do. Call me Master, bow before me. And I shall make you an udefeatable juggernaut of the Sith, you only have to give yourself to my teachings. The only offer more tempting than death was the concept of being undefeatable. Why die when he could enslave the Galaxy within the flames of war and chaos? Why give up before making every last wreched being tremble? Everyone deserved to suffer in the way he had for his whole life. He accepted. He sensed the call of the Dark Side, before realizing that he had indeen been a dark sider with his decisions and choices ever since he had taken the now fallen seat of the Warchief.
He quickly began a harsh and unforgiving training. He learnt of the Sith, he stuied their ways and trained his body day and night. It was easy adapting to the usage of Force and wielding it in battle thanks to his past as a lifetime fighter. Merely a year passed and he had already ascended to the rank of Warrior. He willingly sank deeper and deeper in the darkness, for the promise of power and strength. Sheer ambition and relentless training quickly turned him into a strong dark sider and a respected Sith. He slew the weakling he had been forced to call master in single combat. After that point, he knew there was no longer a way back. He devoted himself to the Order of the Sith, commiting his whole existance to the quest of one day bringing the Galaxy to it's knees, after which a dark order of iron disicpline and law would ascend, ruling with a cruel but just fist. A new creed of strength and law he envisioned.
Such is his story. The hidden story behind the dark Sith juggernaut nobody truly knows.
[fancybox4="http://i.imgur.com/O4aOayt.jpg"]PERSONALITY
Galahdrim is a scared and battered soul. His persona is largely shaped by decades spent training for war under iron discipline, the battles he fought that followed those years, and his suffering throughout his past. After everything he has been through, it is only natural that he has evolved into the heartless dark fist that he is. He is without a doubt evil and unforgiving.
He displays an utter devotion to the ways and teachings of the Dark Side and the Sith Order. His presence is crushingly dark sided and dreadful. Conquest in the name of the Sith is his ultimate goal, destroying and remaking the whole Galaxy in the flames of war. He loves the thrill of battle and duel. He greatly enjoys taking life and bringing suffering to those who oppose him. To Galahdrim, crushing skulls and breaking bones is a delightful pleasure. The man is a boiling source of hatred and anger. While he never expresses his feelings and rarely ever displays any emotion at all, deep within he is a conflicted and broken man. Over the years he discovered that easing the pain was possible through the carnage of slaughter and chaos. He feels at home in a field of battle and nowhere else. Yet despite all his inner conflicts that haunt him, he manages to seem like an invincible machine of war to the outside world. In a moment of fighting or dueling he is unhesitant, efficient and clear visioned. Yet when the night falls and he rests his head on the pillow, the sleep never comes easily.
There is little else other than war and blood that he is committed to. He is fiercely proud and strong willed, and has a thirst for power. He never tolerates cowardice and incompetence. Albeit he enjoys inflitcing pain, it is rarely without purpose. He seems to dislike torture methods and rather does his work quickly and efficiently, having little care for twisted pleasures. He has a strange obsession with disliking to take innocent life. This is quite odd considering the type of person that he is. The man who knows nothing of mercy and is always eager to brutally smash enemies and threats, tries to keep clear of killing innocent souls for reasons known to him alone.
He is certainly not a social type. Despite his looks and habits suggesting otherwise, he is clearly not simple minded either. He is cunning and calculating. Where his personal strength may prove lacking, he may resort to clever cheats, baits and feints. He is a resourceful tactician and inspiring leader.
His hobbies in personal life are limited at best. He is an alcoholic and is a hopeless loner. He usually trains and seeks knowledge in his free times, when he isn't busy drinking and living in the past. He seems quite reluctant to share anything personal, similarly, he is seldom interested in building close relations with people nearby him. He speaks and behaves in a distant, formal way. His manners often imply that he simply is not interested in small talk.
He is utterly true to his personal quests. Revenge, power, renown, death. All closely related to his nature. He has set goals for himself, and he rarely does anything which would not further his ideals. Dark side and the Force is the first and strongest claim he has to his aims. Thus, Galahdrim has dedicated himself to an intense, extreme study of the Force to further his power. Wealth, prestige, war, all are tools to him that he must have unquestioned control of. He is strong willed, ambitious, and quite prideful. He is a loner wolf he is sticking to the wider pack for now, but his plans for the future... only time will tell what's really on his chaotic mind.
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[fancybox4="http://i.imgur.com/mz32nLb.jpg"]SKILLS & ABILITIES
Galahdrim is a veteran and seasoned warrior. Trained from birth, to be an absolute menace upon the field of battle, he is remarkbly skilled in the use of every melee weapon ever created. He is an exceptional swordsman, Having more than two decades of experience under his belt, he is easily an intimidating swordsmaster, dangerously good. Spear, axe, mace, dagger, he has mastered all other weapons as well. In addition to being godlike with melee weapons, he is also trained to hold his own in unarmed combat, making him dangerous without a weapon too. The weight he can put behind each blow, his seemingly endless stamina and top notch body, as well as his durability, all are trained to the points often thought not possible for a human being. Galahdrim is a true beast when it comes to melee and unarmed combat.
His other practical skills include hunting, survival, tracking, and soldiering. He is an average starfighter pilot, and for an accomplished warrior such as himself, he certainly leaves a lot to be desired when it comes handling modern weapons. Blasters, demolitions, rifles, all seem sort of strange to him. His mind cannot comprehend the logic of why would anybody would prefer to fight from distance. He lacks the experience and the willingness to master these weapons. Also, he is not that great of an engineer or computer expert as well. His strengths simply lay in other fields.
Galahdrim's command of the Force is solid and he is well-trained. He has a strong grasp on telekinesis. He can direct his power into performing destructive feats, often strong enough to cause a good amount of physical damage and apply his energy with respectable force. Rather than a more patient usage of telekinesis, he is far more competent at using it offensively, may it be hurling away large objects at the enemy, or applying the Force directly as a powerful push. When further empowered with sheer anger and blood frenzy that he often feels very strong, his command of the telekinesis grows even more dangerous and destructive.
Galahdrim is adept when it comes to self-empowerment. As a fighter who takes such amounts of pleasure when overpowering his opponents through sheer melee lightsaber skill and physical strength, it is no wonder he has come to advance his self-augmentation applications to an expert level. He is able to increase his mental and physical fortitude drastically through the Force, paving the way for inhume amounts of agility, speed, fitness. His heavy, muscular body is used to fight with the massive armor that he often wears, and his self-improvement skill is advanced enough to overcome much of the physical burden, so it rarely slows him down. Altough it might still become a growing strain on the stamina after excessive amounts of fast manevouring.
His lightsaber skills are quite developed. He is a skillfull fighter who is an expert attacker and defender. He is an advanced practitioner of the Form V, and maintains at least a theoretical grasp of the other forms in the fundemantal level. [/fancybox4][fancybox4="http://i.imgur.com/mz32nLb.jpg"][/fancybox4]
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