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____ Merek Vizsla
"Look not to the shame of the past, brothers, but to the glory of the future. We shall wash away the stain of our dishonor in the hot blood of our enemies."
- B I O G R A P H Y
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To those free of the burden of technology and the knowledge it brings, the galaxy beyond one’s night sky is a very small place. Indeed, some might live their entire life believing the twinkling stars above were little more than distant lights, or the spirits of ancestors gazing judgingly down upon their descendants. For others, however, the mercurial nature of Fate impresses upon the chosen few to be elevated above such ignorance, thrusting them into a great, vibrant galaxy to witness sights that lived only in the imagination, or to fight threats once thought to be something of embellished tale.
Merek of Clan Windreaver was once such a man, ignorant of the wider galaxy, serving and slaying for the honor of his people and his gods, Kaad and Harn-aghir. Raised among tribals on a planet experiencing its iron age, his was a life of tireless toil, of learning to make battle and pillage, and of bringing into this world new life – whether it be of blood or of the land’s material. Many were the conflicts of his people, devoted as they were to gods of war and destruction, and dire was the necessity of martial prowess. The greatest of glories could only be gained in righteous combat, and with so many others preying on those with something they coveted, conflict was a constant.
Clan Windreaver was situated along the coast, at the base of a mighty mountain range known to the locals as the “Kath’s Jaw” for its jagged, toothy appearance that curved along the continent like a hound’s jawbone might. Claimed decades prior from a rival clan, they had enjoyed relative prosperity from the sea’s bounty when it was not frozen and found plentiful game otherwise in the hills around. With such prosperity comes danger, however, and their peace would not be eternal, for such peace was anathema to their way of life.
At a young age, Merek had found himself in the tutelage of one notable individual of his clan: the wyrdcaster, from whom came the portents of prophecy and dictation of fate read in the tumbling of bone-runes and the oozing patterns of animal organs. To interpret the weave of fate was a mystical thing, indeed, and those blessed with the Gift would carry on to guide their clans through the trials of time. He had shown a predisposition to wyrdcasting, and so quickly was thrust under the wing of the aging seer of his clan.
Though the clans are spread far, and the cultures varied, there remained one consistent saga: of the Choosers – spectral men and women who arrived on fiery birds and fought with sorceries that could cast even the greatest warrior to his doom with but a single screaming burst of pale light. They would observe a great calamity and select among the worthiest of the fallen to join them in Paradise with their gods, where they might spend the rest of their days waging holy war. Merek, in a private reading of the entrails of a sacred hound, had prophesied the arrival of the Choosers, and, with it, the death of his people.
This prophecy was given to their elders, but there had been no decision made on it. They would continue to live and fight for their gods until the end times came, and when the Choosers arrived, they would fight with the fury of all the hells to earn their place in the sacred afterlife. Their wait would not take long, however, for within the year a rival tribe had come to claim what they believed to be rightfully theirs. The attack came at night, and when most of the grown warriors were away sailing, leaving behind only the younger warriors and other clan-essentials to manage defenses in their absence.
Merek fought with fury pulsing through his veins. Overtaken with a blood frenzy from the sudden and dishonorable assault, he had cleaved and tore into the enemy, knowing full well that he would only allow himself to fall surrounded by the corpses of his hated foe. As he had just split the skull of a man foolish enough to overextend with his short-sword, there came a noticeable lull in the action, causing all men to take a moment to gawk in reverent silence.
Atop one of the village huts, having arrived on the wings of an unseen wraith-bird, stood one of the Choosers. A woman, whose armor reflected no light, and whose visor resembled the sacred T-shape of their twin gods. The pause was brief, for with naught but a wordless gesture from the spirit to continue, the carnage resumed with renewed vigor. All those present were fighting for more than the survival of their people – they were fighting to claim their place in the sacred eternal afterlife with their gods, warring until the end of time.
Merek fought as if possessed by a demon, and very well might have been, for he waded through mounds of dying men, awash with blood and gore, twin bone-axes in hand, cutting and cleaving and carving this-way and that, desperate for a blessed place. He could feel the hidden eyes of the Chooser upon him, watching him glorify their gods with bloodshed. He fought until his muscles could strain no further, and he felt himself begin to falter. One misstep, one blow parried only at the last second, and the opportunistic grabbing of his ankle by a man he hadn’t fully slain saw him unbalanced and inky blackness overtaking his vision.
He awoke some days later aboard a foreign vessel drifting through space, wrapped in bandages and housed in a medical chamber. Believing himself to be in one of the hells, he had asked the caretaker by his side if he had died. “In a sense,” the man had responded, “But you’ve been reborn. Chosen for a greater purpose, to serve a greater cause.” What came next was a descriptor of the destruction of his clan at the hands of their foes, though not without significant cost that would very likely spell the doom of their attackers, too, in the days to come.
Further clarity came in the days, weeks, and months later. He had been chosen, indeed, but not by the heavenly guardians of his gods. Rather, he had been selected by the Mandalorians of Vizsla to join them in glorious battle. His wounds were severe, but it was nothing modern medicine couldn’t heal, and he was a young, fit man with many years of conflict ahead of him. The months and years that followed saw his introduction to the clan. Schooling of Mandalorian history, culture, tactics, and all else followed, with the foundation of intense martial and physical training to hone his body into a weapon for Kad Ha’rangir, the true god of his people, and the influencer of the ignorant tribes of his home world.
Having now been given a greater purpose, Merek of Clan Vizsla wanders the great, wide galaxy, sowing destruction in the name of his god, carrying with him the final legacy of his clan. His is a life of faith and fury, of bloodshed and unremitting conflict. There is but one fate for his people – to conquer a galaxy that rightfully belongs to the Mando’ade, and he will see it to its bitter end.
- P E R S O N A L I T Y
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Where once ignorance dwelled within his mind, Merek is a man reborn into his true culture. Like all Mandalorians, his primary concern is with the waging of war. There is little else more sacred than bloodshed and destruction, and all that he does is done with reverent respect to The Destroyer.
Possessed of a mercurial disposition, he is a gruff, loud individual who holds little patience for whelps and weaklings. His upbringing was filled with cruel trials and tribulations, and he judges the worth of everyone he meets based on the battle-marks they wear on their skin and their armor, and in how they conduct themselves in the face of adversity. In battle, he is erratic; some days he is prudent and acts with great caution, other days he’s overwhelmed by religious fanatical devotion to conflict that he can barely contain his fury, throwing himself into the fray with reckless abandon.
Not given towards educational pursuits, he is nonetheless interested in the esoteric and the arcane – a habit from his days as a wyrdcaster on Weik that he refuses to shake. He still maintains his old traditions, and many of his quirks might come across as odious to those without a tribal, deeply superstitious upbringing, though he’s not particularly one to care for the opinions of others.
Loyalty is important to him, and there are fewer ways to forge lifelong bonds with another than in the crucible of combat. He is slow to trust outsiders but shows little hesitation when embracing kith and kin. His word is his bond, and he places a great weight on the importance of these oaths once given. It is difficult to shake him from something once he has given it purpose in his mind, and he refuses to cower before fear or uncertainty, instead seeing all strange things as a new challenge to surmount.
- A P P E A R A N C E
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Merek is robust. Thick cords of muscle line his bulky frame, honed by years of unremitting brutality and savagery. Glacier-blue irises rest beneath untamed eyebrows, a frenetic shock to them that belies any attempts at a calm exterior. A braided beard takes up most of his face, concealing the gaunt, angular facial features and various small cuts and nicks beneath. Across his body is a gnarled webwork of knotted, pinkish scars, aging bruises, and all other manner of physical sign of toil and conflict. If these seemed to cause him any discomfort, he did not make it readily apparent.
He tends towards more practical clothing, but he practically lives in his armor. It is rare to see him outside of his second skin, but he does not shy away from removing his helmet in the company of comrades and family. He often adorns his armor with the pelt of an animal, more out of traditional habit and desire to remain connected to his world than little else.
- P O W E R S_ A N D_ A B I L I T I E S
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Like others of his kind, his talents are firmly nested in the realm of the application and management of violence. He is well-trained in a diverse number of skills related to his lifestyle, chief of which is his strength of arms.
He is trained to use a variety of blasters in combat, though his preference is for the up-close-and-personal nature of blaster pistols, preferring to see his enemy before he kills them. He’s still an adept sharpshooter and prides himself in his ability to hit targets at range.
He thoroughly enjoys the more visceral nature of close quarters combat, often preferring to close the distance using his pistols before engaging his foe in melee, knowing that the shock trooper methods employed by the Mandalorians are enough to send most foes running, something he has practiced since he was able to wield an axe.
Finally, due to inexperience, he is an amateur pilot. He relies on the aid provided by astromechs to compensate for his own clumsiness in this regard.
- R E L A T I O N S H I P S
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+ — Ally | | o — Neutral | | - — Enemy/Rival
o Whoever (Whatever)
Note: This list only documents significant relationships Merek has developed.
- E Q U I P M E N T
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Below is a listing of Merek’s gear and assets. Commonplace utility items are implied to be carried on his person. All grenades are otherwise safely stored. All firearms come with 2 spare magazines.
General Loadout
- Personal Beskar’gam
- BM-548 Blaster Rifle
- BM-357 Python Blaster Pistol
- Beskad
- Vibro-dagger
- 1x Frag, Smoke, Concussion, PL-50 Stun Gas Grenade
- Datapad
- Wrist & Helmet commlink
Miscellaneous Equipment
- R O L E P L A Y S
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The Saga of Merek Windreaver
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