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Where were you when the Republic fell?
The poster featured a bruised and beaten Republic trooper staring accusingly out from the page, their sense of betrayal palpable. It was first class propaganda. Over it however had been scrawled pro imperial slogans and the like; clearly the townsfolk of New Myrna were not impressed with the idea that they had somehow not given enough in the war. The craters where their schools and hospitals once were stood as testament to the opposite - New Myrna was a place accustomed to sacrifice.
The floating cities of Metellos were staunch Sith territory now, but this was a recent development. The leadership of the world, if they could truly be called that, had mounted a spirited defence when the Imperial Fleet came for them during the closing stages of the war. They refused all demands for surrender confident in the fact that a relief force was en route, holding out against all odds for the best part of a month before it dawned on them that no help was coming - they had been abandoned in favour of protecting the more critical core worlds.
It was an easy task for the Sith to use this betrayal as motivation for a planetary surrender, promising stability and security as a part of the new Sith Empire. The floating cities, easy targets for an unopposed Imperial Navy, each accepted terms fairly quickly. It was the squalid townships on the polluted surface that offered more resistance, certain that the apathy the Republic displayed for their well-being was better than downright oppression at the hands of the Sith.
From that turning point the planet had to all intents and purposes, fallen. The Imperial Navy moved on, leaving simple advisors inserted into the planetary government to oversee transition to Sith rule. The surface dwellers, numerous and resourceful though they were, had no chance in the ensuing civil war - the cities used their guns and their ships, preserved thanks to their surrender, on the folk below. They aimed not for centres of resistance, for this would make martyrs of them all and fuel the fires of conflict for years to come. Instead they vaporised the schools and the hospitals, the clinics and the bomb shelters. It was a campaign of brutality, crushing the rebels with the weight of their own consciences.
In the end the situation became hopeless - more children had died than soldiers did in the initial defence against the Sith, the resistance had no fight left in it. The terms of their disarmament were absolute, and Metellos was done. The Sith claimed another world on their path to Galactic domination.
Mkvenner moved past the poster, purposefully not looking up at the looming presence of Primia hovering overhead. The floating cityscape had been slowly migrating across the Myrnan skyline for two days now and he could barely suppress his anger every time it wormed its way into his view. He had a job to do, today was not a good day to get stopped and searched for an angry look.
His beard itched and he scratched it for the thousandth time today, it had become riddled with lice since his last wash and annoyed him ceaselessly but he was loathe to shave it off - a nice bushy growth was perfect for obscuring facial features without appearing to be doing so, even if it was giving him grief. Forcing himself to ignore his discomfort, Mkvenner ducked under the tarpaulin curtain serving as a door for the Damned Devaronian, his meeting point for today.
The place wasn't really a cantina, more a collection of rubble and blasted furniture arranged in such a way that one might mistake it for an actual bar after too many of the foul drinks the so called barkeep served. He brewed it himself, left with little choice after the persecution of the planet surface, out of a mixture of engine coolant and surface run off from the vast hovering cities above. It had killed more than one poor soul looking to drown their sorrows a little too thoroughly.
There were precious few other patrons, but he did his due diligence and cast an eye around for known Sith collaborators before taking a seat next to his friend and comrade, Jenno. She grinned and placed a filthy metal mug of fermented coolant and piss into his palm. “Today's the day, Venn. I hope you're packed and ready.”
He drank the contents of his mug in one reluctant slug, grimaced, then forced his face into a genuine looking smile - she smirked back and he was certain she hadn't had a drink herself - probably the wise move. “ You know me, Jay, always ready for a holiday. Does the boy know?” Truthfully he was pleased. The pair of them had been scavenging for months, taking on all kinds of unsavoury jobs and enduring the constant risk of discovery by Sith investigators, all in the name of nothing they truly believed in. Finally they were looking at real pay off, a way through the travel ban and away from this world, never to return.
“He’s already where he needs to be, relax Venn. Did you really think I'd walk away with a deal that didn't include your son?” Reassured, his smile turned from forced to sincere. In another life, perhaps he and Jenno could have been more than friends - she was everything he looked for in a woman after all. As it was though, their bond was more akin to that of siblings than lovers, even thinking of her as anything more made him cringe inside. Perhaps they had been through too much together, perhaps the galaxy was just funny that way. It didn't really matter, he wouldn't change a thing even if he could.
She'd been there for Mkvarr’s birth, which meant she'd been there when Kaira died. Without a functioning hospital Mkvenner had been forced to deliver their child himself, and Jenno had helped every step of the way. She was a volunteer at New Myrna general, so she had at least a little know how even if she couldn't do it herself.
There was a complication. The umbilical cord was wrapped around the baby's neck and was strangling him as he birthed - had a professional been on hand there would have been no problem even with a lack of hospital, but alas there was only Mkvenner. He and Kaira knew they had a choice, for the only tool available to them was Mkvenner’s knife, red hot, sterilised by flame. Mkvenner chose Kaira. Kaira chose the child.
Kaira reached the knife first.
When he thought back, Mkvenner honestly wasn't sure if he was grateful she had spared him the horror of making his own choice, or angry that he hadn't been quick enough. He was still woken up at night by the guilt.
With Mkvaar already wherever their ride off Metellos was, he had little choice but to follow Jenno as she rose and left the bar. Shaking off his unresolved business he got up too, quietly thankful the poison he'd ingested earlier didn't sit him right back down or worse. She led him to the other side of New Myrna, to a shuttle on the outskirts that barely looked space worthy. A Kel Dor was waiting for them, holding a one year old human baby in his arms. Walking over, Jenno looked back and smirked her infectious grin again. “What did I tell you? Our pay off.”
Without a word, the Kel Dor handed over Mkvaar, lowered the boarding ramp and strode on board. Mkvenner followed him in, just ahead of Jenno. He never looked back. He knew there were too many ghosts watching him leave, and he didn't want to see them again.
Never again.
One year later.
“I can't.”
“Please, Jay.”
“He's your son.”
“You know what I do, he can't be close to that.”
“Yes, but-”
“But nothing. He's going to have a better chance than either of us ever got. Than Kaira ever got.”
“He'll have that with his father, not with aunty Jenno.”
“Neither of us believe that.”
The drop ship rattled under the turbulence of atmospheric entry, shaking Mkvenner from his reverie. The last he'd heard, Mkvaar was starting to speak, and the last payment Mkvenner sent was enough for preschool right through until primary education. He was calling Jenno “mama”, and was bonding well with the Nexu kitten she had for some reason thought was a good idea. Mkvaar had his chance.“Please, Jay.”
“He's your son.”
“You know what I do, he can't be close to that.”
“Yes, but-”
“But nothing. He's going to have a better chance than either of us ever got. Than Kaira ever got.”
“He'll have that with his father, not with aunty Jenno.”
“Neither of us believe that.”
The price of all that was a father. A father haunted by the ghosts of an escaped past. A father twisted and turned towards vengeance. A father exiled from his family, lest he bring his work home with him.
Mkvenner was a man forged from adversity. At this point the pain was gone, buried under a soothing avalanche of purpose. He was driven to a point that would be considered fanatical, if he truly believed in anything anymore. It was for the best he saw Mkvaar and Jenno only rarely, for though he loved each of them deeply, there was a dangerous glint in the way he stared nowadays that made Jenno nervous and his son go quiet in his presence. Indeed, the only time the pain was able to resurface was when he looked into their eyes, and saw a cold truth: That he no longer really belonged with them.
The past no longer pained Mkvenner because it was the past that had become his purpose - or at least putting it all to rest had become so. His ghosts, however, were not things easily excised.
And so he found himself in the drop bay of a mercenary frieghter, armed to the teeth and about to hit an Imperial munitions factory so hard it would take years to be recommissioned. Surrounding him were the squad he had signed onto for this mission, performing final weapons checks or mentally psyching themselves up with terrible music. He would abandon them after he received his pay, just like all the others - he only signed onto operations with a specific target in mind. The Empire would pay in full for all they had taken from him and his son.
A light went green. Eleven soldiers dropped from a ship howling across the midnight sky. With them fell a ghost, a revenant of misdeeds long since past.
There was killing, and there were screams.
A revenant.
NAME: Mkvenner Nostramo
SPECIES: Human
AGE: 29
GENDER: Male
FORCE SENSITIVITY: Sensitive, but ignorant of this and untrained to boot.
SPECIES: Human
AGE: 29
GENDER: Male
FORCE SENSITIVITY: Sensitive, but ignorant of this and untrained to boot.
Mkvenner is brown haired with dark green eyes. His physique is leanly muscular, without a scrap of waste to him - the build of a survivor. He stands a shade over six feet tall, and walks with a purposeful lope.
As for his day to day appearance, Mkvenner has come far from the filth covered land rat of Metellos he once was, but not so far that the inhabitants of a true core world might think him one of them. His beard remains to this day, though thankfully lice free and clean, even shaped occasionally. Never one to be afraid of dirt, Mkvenner is frequently covered in the stuff when in the field. The better to blend in with one's surroundings according to the man himself, though it could just as easily be a bad habit of not noticing he could do with a wash when there's more important things on his mind.
Also worth noting are the primitive implants he's had installed beneath each eye. While not exactly unsightly, they do at least mark him in a crowd, if someone knows what they're looking for. The devices themselves are of limited use - a combat helmet interface system produced by a company that has since gone bankrupt, meaning they offer increased function but only on clunky helmets the interior software of which is utterly obsolete. Mercifully, he has had them deactivated, though they still itch when it rains.
As for his day to day appearance, Mkvenner has come far from the filth covered land rat of Metellos he once was, but not so far that the inhabitants of a true core world might think him one of them. His beard remains to this day, though thankfully lice free and clean, even shaped occasionally. Never one to be afraid of dirt, Mkvenner is frequently covered in the stuff when in the field. The better to blend in with one's surroundings according to the man himself, though it could just as easily be a bad habit of not noticing he could do with a wash when there's more important things on his mind.
Also worth noting are the primitive implants he's had installed beneath each eye. While not exactly unsightly, they do at least mark him in a crowd, if someone knows what they're looking for. The devices themselves are of limited use - a combat helmet interface system produced by a company that has since gone bankrupt, meaning they offer increased function but only on clunky helmets the interior software of which is utterly obsolete. Mercifully, he has had them deactivated, though they still itch when it rains.
Mkvenner is a complex man. He is a father, mercenary, widower and partisan in equal parts, and splitting himself between these sometimes directly opposed roles takes its toll. In addition he has never truly come to terms with the horrific death of Kaira, the mother of his two year old son. He places the blame for this crime squarely at the feet of the Sith Empire, as though they were not directly responsible for the circumstances of her death, the city dwellers of Metellos only enacted their campaign of destruction (that lead to Kaira's fateful childbirth) thanks to Imperial expansion.
As a result the grudge he holds against the Empire is a deep one, a black fissure running through his psyche oozing with hate and constantly demanding retribution. The only jobs he takes during his walk of life as a mercenary are at the Empire's expense, be it an assassination of some dignitary, a strike against an Imperial installation or even espionage.
This has lead in the past to him turning down jobs, risking destitution as he struggles to provide for his family, and even a blood feud with a pro Imperial faction of mercenaries. Despite the strong hold his anger has over him, Mkvenner is not solely consumed by hate. He loves his family deeply, appreciates postmodern music and maintains the reputation of a decent mercenary despite his grudge with the Empire.
It is Mkvenner's single greatest regret that he cannot raise Mkvaar alongside his adopted mother, Mkvenner's lifelong friend Jenno Chen. He made the choice to take a distant role in the boy’s life a year after the three of them left Metellos, when he realised his chosen profession of mercenary left the pair of them in real danger - especially as he planned to make the Empire pay for Kaira’s death. The two of them were potential leverage, a method the Empire would be sure to use to force him under its heel... Mkvenner knew he wouldn’t cope if that were to happen. The only remaining choice, therefore, was isolation. He sees them when he can, but that is only when he is certain there will be no repercussions. Such windows are rare.
As a result the grudge he holds against the Empire is a deep one, a black fissure running through his psyche oozing with hate and constantly demanding retribution. The only jobs he takes during his walk of life as a mercenary are at the Empire's expense, be it an assassination of some dignitary, a strike against an Imperial installation or even espionage.
This has lead in the past to him turning down jobs, risking destitution as he struggles to provide for his family, and even a blood feud with a pro Imperial faction of mercenaries. Despite the strong hold his anger has over him, Mkvenner is not solely consumed by hate. He loves his family deeply, appreciates postmodern music and maintains the reputation of a decent mercenary despite his grudge with the Empire.
It is Mkvenner's single greatest regret that he cannot raise Mkvaar alongside his adopted mother, Mkvenner's lifelong friend Jenno Chen. He made the choice to take a distant role in the boy’s life a year after the three of them left Metellos, when he realised his chosen profession of mercenary left the pair of them in real danger - especially as he planned to make the Empire pay for Kaira’s death. The two of them were potential leverage, a method the Empire would be sure to use to force him under its heel... Mkvenner knew he wouldn’t cope if that were to happen. The only remaining choice, therefore, was isolation. He sees them when he can, but that is only when he is certain there will be no repercussions. Such windows are rare.
Mkvenner has always been a survivor, it was impossible not to be when you grew up in the surface slums of Metellos. Crime was rife, gangs were rampant, and resources were always scarce - even before the Empire took the world. He is decent in a fight, having no formal training but being lethal nonetheless in close quarters - his resourcefulness and willingness to do literally anything to win making him a dangerous man to face with knife or sword. He is a decent shot with blaster pistols and rifles both, but only at short to medium range - a sniper Mkvenner most certainly is not.
Combat prowess aside, Mkvenner could best be described as street smart. His formal education is woeful, and though he can read and write and perform a standard level of maths the finer points of life are often lost on him. He relies heavily on his intuition and experiences as opposed to learning, which means genuinely new situations have the potential to throw him - but only briefly. It’s a rare situation that Mkvenner cannot adapt to, given a little time.
He can fly, but badly. Were there any qualifications required to operate any sort of craft, be it atmospheric or space worthy, Mkvenner would most certainly be a learner. But learning he is. It only takes a handful of flights in any given model of vehicle to get the basics down, and he’s a safe pair of hands not long after - though he’ll never be an ace pilot.
The reason Mkvenner learns relatively quickly, fights like a demon and can rely on his intuition so heavily and frequently is an untapped force sensitivity that Mkvenner has no knowledge of, manifesting in minor ways to aid him in times of stress or danger. He however scorns the force and those that hold it in high esteem, believing an obsession with the power the force offers to be the root of almost every conflict in galactic history... not that Mkvenner is basing this opinion on -any- amount of scholarly learning. He wouldn’t ever presume to take a Jedi Knight for granted in a fight, but respect would come much harder than it would from anyone else - and even if a force user did merit Mkvenner’s deference, it would only come grudgingly.
Combat prowess aside, Mkvenner could best be described as street smart. His formal education is woeful, and though he can read and write and perform a standard level of maths the finer points of life are often lost on him. He relies heavily on his intuition and experiences as opposed to learning, which means genuinely new situations have the potential to throw him - but only briefly. It’s a rare situation that Mkvenner cannot adapt to, given a little time.
He can fly, but badly. Were there any qualifications required to operate any sort of craft, be it atmospheric or space worthy, Mkvenner would most certainly be a learner. But learning he is. It only takes a handful of flights in any given model of vehicle to get the basics down, and he’s a safe pair of hands not long after - though he’ll never be an ace pilot.
The reason Mkvenner learns relatively quickly, fights like a demon and can rely on his intuition so heavily and frequently is an untapped force sensitivity that Mkvenner has no knowledge of, manifesting in minor ways to aid him in times of stress or danger. He however scorns the force and those that hold it in high esteem, believing an obsession with the power the force offers to be the root of almost every conflict in galactic history... not that Mkvenner is basing this opinion on -any- amount of scholarly learning. He wouldn’t ever presume to take a Jedi Knight for granted in a fight, but respect would come much harder than it would from anyone else - and even if a force user did merit Mkvenner’s deference, it would only come grudgingly.
Phrik Heavy Vibrosword (backplate sheath).
Phrik Vibroknife (chestplate sheath)
CZ-BP01 Blaster Pistol (hip holster)
STRYKER-55 Model Bowcaster (backplate/sling holster)
CZ-34 “Dewback” Armour (Helmet worn only when unavoidable).
Grapple Launcher (belt pack)
Phrik Vibroknife (chestplate sheath)
CZ-BP01 Blaster Pistol (hip holster)
STRYKER-55 Model Bowcaster (backplate/sling holster)
CZ-34 “Dewback” Armour (Helmet worn only when unavoidable).
Grapple Launcher (belt pack)
THREADS:
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