Sith Order Maros Lasan

[Pantor]

Maros Lasan

AGE
► 30
SPECIES
► Human
HEIGHT
► 6'1"
WEIGHT
► 176
EYE COLOR
► Yellow
HAIR COLOR
► Brown
HOMEWORLD
► Taris
GENDER
► Male
FACTION
► Sith
RANK
► Sith Champion
FORCE SENSITIVITY
► Yes, trained

BIOGRAPHY

There is nothing good on Taris. There hasn't been in a long time and likely never will be again. There are ruins and famine and monsters and between it all there are sometimes people. That was the world Maros was born into. Twenty levels beneath the overgrown sprawl and islands of civilization is the Sump. It is a festering pool beneath the planet's skin. Amid a collection of trash shanties he laughed and played. He worked the salvage pits by those vast seas of tainted water and waste. He hunted coin-crabs and roasted them over chem pits. Maros was a child like any other until the stranger came. He was from above. They called him Dromidae and he was a god among rats with his powers of the mind and red blade. He plucked Maros from the squalor and sent him to Korriban to become a man.

By the time his training was complete Maros had come to realize that he hadn't just not been a man living in the filth. He had not been a real person. None of them were. The people he'd left behind, his family, his friends, even the servants and attendants at the academy. Dromidae and the instructors had shown him what it really meant to exist. To take will and make it real, tangible power. To be truly free. Maros saw the universe through new eyes and there was no going back. The academy had made a true believer out of undercity garbage. When they sent him to the ISB he understood the real purpose of their work in a way most did not. What the value of that special kind of care they practiced was when directed by people, not self-serving sentient animals.

When Altair Din expelled the Sith from Imperial service the world stopped making sense. Lions made to bow and grovel by sheep. The just and natural order of the galaxy turned on its head. To Maros this was only further proof that lesser beings could never be trusted to think for themselves. Their only thoughts to grasp at what they cannot have and undermine greater works. He, like most of his kind, wanted to fight the imperial betrayal. The perversion they had brought to bear. Only Maros found that he was alone in his spiritual crusade. So many Sith, so many people, had no instinct but to cling to material power, to the systems and institutions made by lesser beings. In only a few months he found himself alone with his lightsaber and intermittent messages from his distant benefactor, Dromidae. But he was a man. He was a real person. Maros had himself if nothing else.

Skills

Maros is a duelist in ethic and in practice. There is beauty in a blade's fluid motion and in the patterns it describes. In the ideas they rouse in the synapses. He is a pilot in the same way that an old man is the athlete he was many years ago. He does not like flying, but he can. That is normally enough. He is a telekenetic. A passable telekenetic. He is naturally talented with a blaster but his lack of practice means moderate skill. More than anything, however, Maros is a survivor. He can scrape, scrounge, and skulk his way through any environment. It is in those situations that he feels most in his element.

Equipment

+ Lightsaber, bronze hilt (Single Bladed)
+ Robes and decorative golden armor
+ Blaster Pistol
+ PGC-2021 Smartpad

Relationships

(To Follow)

Story

1. • To Follow