Training Halls

[Galad J. Victus]

Character Name ​

[fancybox4="http://orig10.deviantart.net/f682/f/2012/050/8/7/jax__jaximus__avatar_by_lurker5-d4qb780.png"]NAME: Castien Kaan Batterstar

AGE: 28

SPECIES: Human

HEIGHT: 1.92 M

WEIGHT: 82 Kg

EYE COLOR: Yellow

HAIR COLOR: Grey

SKIN COLOR: Fair

MARKINGS: Gladiator Mark on Left Shoulder & Scar on Left Side of Forehead Running Down His Left Eye

FACTION: -

RANK: -

FORCE CONNECTION: Confirmed

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BIOGRAPHY​

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Early Years-​

Kaan was born in one of the countless alleys of the lower parts of Coruscant, to a streetwalker and a father who he never met. Growing up in the streets here and there, he was abondoned by his mother at an early age, being left to take care of himself. He stole, ran, lied and even murdered at occasions to further his survival. Life was always harsh for him. As a kid he was no stranger to hardship and filth.

Teaming up with the other homeless kids who roamed the streets of Coruscant free, Castien was quick to adopt cruelty and the imposing of fear to make others bend to his will. With his fists and ruthlessness he was fast to assume a position of leadership among his kind. The shining capital of the Galaxy, an example of flawless bureaucracy and quality adminstration, was a false idol and anyone who grew up in the parts where Kaan had spent his early years would know this to be true. No law to be recognized. No light touched the ground for the skyscrapers of the upper folds blocked them. A forgetten cast formed of homeless, thugs and outlaws lived there in darkness. Tough places breed hardy men they say, and Jaden was no exception to this statement.

Time flows. Castien made it alive as a boy and adulted to a young man. By now his reputation as a ruthless gang leader and criminal had proggressed, leading to him expanding his business greedly. Day by day he sank deeper into the criminal life that had brought him there and kept him alive in the streets. By his sheer will and cruelt alone he rose through the ranks, and eventually seated himself atop an empire of drugs, illegal slave trade and black market. The officials mostly did not care for the happenings of the dark parts of Coruscant, which allowed him to keep his operations a secret to the governtment as most other crime lords did. The Alliance was in no shape to go after petty thugs and gangs anyhow, having their own wars to pursue.

"Young Prince of Crime" they called him. They feared him, faked respect and bowed at his presence. Behind his back they plotted and schemed in jealousy. Every single thug and criminal in the dark parts of Coruscant admired this man who carved a way through the filth and desperation with pure strength. They seeked to overthrow him.

Blinded by ambition and intoxicated with the sweetness of victory, Kaan lost his sense of logic as each passing day made him more careless and brutal. He engaged in pointless gang wars, threatened, killed and blackmailed, his amassed wealth and power grew into unparallel amounts but so did his enemies. Even his own ranks had been boiling with treachery when the day of betrayal came. He was backstabed by those who he trusted most.

His oldest friend. His closest ally and right hand in management of his criminal empire. His one and only childhood friend with whom he survived the streets and formed a bond of companionship like none other. The single friend he had known in this life had turned his back on him, overthrowing him from the throne of the kingdom of crime that they built together. Wounded and broken, Castien crawled away defeated, barely avoiding death in the hands of his former henchmen. He would return though. So he pledged. One day he would return to bring down the hammer of judgement upon those who had forsaken him.

Trial in Flames-
​

Having returned to where he had started; Castien wandered the alleys and sewers aimlessly, doing whatever it was necessary to stay alive. Feeding off of garbage, drinking what foul liquids there was in the sewers, consuming insects and other low beings of life. He was back at the bottom again, this time more irrelevant than he had ever been. His primal focus was to stay alive until his wounds healed and closed. He awaited in patience, hiding, waiting for the opportunity to set on his campaign of revenge. He trained his body. Already being no stranger to fighting and brawling, he grabbed whatever tools he could muster and slowly trained himself in their usage. Guns, melee weapons, whatnot. He prepared; healing, learning and planing the moment he would emerge from the shadows to take back what he lost. But the progress was slow. He had to improve further and faster.

He found himself doing underground fightings to empower his skills further and make a new name. He put on a mask to hide his scarred face. A mask that he could not bring himself to remove for the rest of his life. Having a mirror to inspect himself for the first time since his fall from power, Kaan was shocked to find out that his facial features had changed. His hair was graying and his eyes... Yellow. He had changed beyond measure. Only those who were close to him before would be able to recognize him now. Still, he put on the mask and went off the fight for what he craved. As a new man, who had nothing left to lost.

He won. Time after time, lifeless heads of his foes rolled on the blooded arena as the crowd screamed his name. He tore them apart, Slaughtered brutally and showed not the slightest hint of mercy. The cage was small and the figts were held for credits and deals of crime lords, so there was not much to be had in means of glory. First few times he seemed to be favoured by luck, but then he slowly turned into a vicious beast in the cage, an unbreakable juggernaut. His reflexes were too quick for even the most seasoned duelists and his rage could take down the monstrously muscular brawlers. His undiscovered Force connection brought him victory a countless times. And he made a name.

His ambition, at the end, proved to be his undoing once again. He had drawn too much attention with his victories and lords of crime from all around the nearby systems were racing each other to enslave this mysterious champion of the cage for their name. Just as he was about to sign out of underground fighting he found out that he had set on a path that he could not return from. Caught and enslaved, he was sold out to one of the most powerful cartel lords in the Galaxy. More names for the list. It was indeed a pretty long list now. He would payback each and everyone of them, even if it meant dedicating his whole life to this blood feud.

Upon the Sands-

He was thrown into a true arena this time. Magnificiently built, swarming with thousands of bloodthirsty souls who cheered and screamed for the gladiators upon the sands, and the taste of glory. Under the burning touch of the sun, he fought in sweat and blood. Months chased each other as he was dragged from one arena to one another, planets and the audience were different each time, foes and overlords different. But the sensation was all the same. The thrill of the savage fighting as thousands cheered his name. They screamed and asked for more, and each time he delivered. Slaughter, blood and glory was to be found upon the sands of the arena.

Within time, the work of the gladiator became all his life. Wars of vengeance and oaths of judgement slowly crumbled into dust and his transformation into a living, breathing machine of blood and entartainment was complete. Old wounds healed and the warmth of steel at hand with the greeting of the enemy opposing him captured his mind. Piece by piece, he lost his belief. Soon, his life was reduced to simply getting up at the morning, standing on the arena slicing, hacking and stabbing until he was told to stop and go back to his dark prison in which he would await the next dawn, chained against a wall. This unending process soon became all he knew. After a while he had stopped hearing the screams. Feeling the warmth of blood and hail of pain. Excitement of the challange and the thrill of slaughter. He ceased caring after a certain point and turned into a dog of war.

But things would change. Pretty soon and pretty quickly.

The Retribution-
​

He had forgotten what it felt to be a free man. Chose to abandon his past and embraced his new destiny upon the sands, until the fortunate day that the chilling touch of death would find him. But once again his designs did not come to past for his previous life had caught up with him.

It was a day like every other. Hot, noisy and restless as he stood upon the sands. Gates raised before him and the beast was set free out of his cage. They screamed for him. The sun hailed him and the warmth of sands under his bare feet were all to familiar. Yet another day was set before him, emotionless killing and emptiness... when his eye caught a familiar face.

After all these years. He had forgotten the faces of the slain, his enemies, his owners. He had forgotten his own mother's face. But this face, he would remember until the end of time. For he knew him all to well. The boy he had grown up with in a different past. His only trusted friend and comrade. His brother. Scarred and bruised all around his body, the very man was standing before him. Announcer's voice echoed throughout the arena. A duel among brothers! And the cheers heightened to a point where his ears would almost bleed. Castien looked into his eyes of the man he once called friend. Keeping the eye contact, he reached for his greataxe and slowly closed the distance.

"Have you come to pay for your crimes?" He asked calmly as he walked upon the sands. The man backed away. As he was trapped in a cage with a wild beast, there was pure fear in his eyes. "Nowhere to run now. Just you and me. Like the old days." Kaan uttered. "Listen to me! I did not mean-" The Gladiator simply leaped the distance, bringing the heavy axe down upon the man in a crushing blow as he landed. The strike was blocked by the shield, but the force behind it sent the man back and knocked him off his feet. He crawled away, struggling to get away from his old friend. "I had trusted you. You greedy fuck!" Castien lost control and went on a crazy berserk landing blind hits towards where his enemy was supposed to stand. The man dodged aside, ran and blocked, each time Castien striked again. Screaming in rage and anger as he did. The man attempted to speak from behind the shield as he barely held back the onslaught, his voice trembling with each landing hit. "I didn't... want it... they forced me Castien! I never wanted to betray you! The whole gang was bribed from outside, if not for me holding them back- both of us would be long dead! I couldn't- tell you- our entire ranks were swarming with spies! The Crime Lords were- the-they were having us watched! I had to play along Castien!" He stopped the cat-and-mouse game and paused to hear him out. "I tried to locate you, I searched the entire planet inside out, I dunno where the hell you went! And see where I ended up? Soon after you were gone they took me down as well, the Lords. And crumbled the rest of the castel. I'm sorry Kaan. I never meant for any of this." He fell to his knees, struggling to breath. He could not keep it up. Now he was begging for reason. The cheering of the crowds grew with impatience. They went mad with excitement and thousands began screaming one single word. "Kill!"

"Brother." Kaan stopped in his tracks. Confused and exhausted, he stood upon the sands. Memories. Past. Images invaded his mind, thoughts he held back for so long came back. His humanity returned. He dropped the axe. Fell to his knees like the man before him. He could not simply take it anymore. It was just too much. "It's too late pal. It's just too late for everything. I dunno what to-" A knife whistled and steel glowed under the sand, barely missing his left eye and leaving an upright mark on his skin streching from his cheek up into his forehead. He held the arm that grabbed the knife and simply twisted it, breaking the bone. His brother screamed. Kaan got up, kicking the man in the face, teeth and blood spilled out. The audience went mad with bloodlust.

Grabbed him, threw him back down, slammed his head against the handle of the greataxe. Blood stained the steel. He broke his right leg and other arm. Then let him loose upon the sands. Screaming in agony and spitting blood the man desperatly tried to crawl away, dragging his broken limps along with great hardship. The predator closed in, once again grabbing the axe.

And the head flew off. It was done.
​

The Crime Lord who had arranged the confrontation called for him that night. A wreck of emotions and memories, Castien went. The man mocked him before setting him free. Arguing that Kaan had already earned him enough and payed for his blind ambition back in Coruscant in years past. He then went on to explain to a shocked Castien that he always knew from the very beginning; the true identity of this mysterious champion. He had him thrown out like a wild dog. At last, after years of enslavement and torture, he was free. Free of his debts and his past.

He soon found out that freedom was not the sweet taste he had remembered. Lifeless and without aim, he was set loose upon the Galaxy. And there his story truly begun.

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ATTRIBUTES & SKILLS​

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Attributes: Castien is a strong fighter. A seasoned gladiator and street survivor, his body is in top shape and is raw strength is extremly high. His dexterity is excellent. A duelist of years, his reflexes and eye-hand coordination is flawless. His constitution is solid, having endured years of hardship in life. He is surprsingly intelligent given that he portraits a brute so well. He is cunning and smart street-wise. His wisedom is lacking. He had to grow up as a practical man and often saw psychology as a waste of time. He is not necessarily charismatic, but his overly develop body and muscles coupled with an attractive face may prove to be useful in this regard.

Skills:

Martial Artist- 8/10
Melee Fighter- 9/10
Swords & Blades- 10/10
Axes- 9/10
Polearms- 9/10
Throwing- 6/10
Dagger- 7/10
Mace & Blunt 8/10
Ranged- 8/10
Survival- 8/10
Small Arms 7/10
Street Wits 10/10

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STRENGTHS & WEAKNESSES​

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Kaan is strong in the sense that he is a lone wolf. He never backs down, knows no fear nor hesitation. He is strong willed and unyielding. Endurant. Castien often comes across as harsh, he is brutal and doesn't usually think twice before diving into danger. He is an extremely proficient fighter, undefeated in the arena and a skilled hand-to-hand combatant. He is also a good shot, although not an excellent one as he spent most of his time up close carving his foes to pieces. He has perfect understanding of survival concept. He can stay alive in enviroments where most others would starve to death or could not simply do it. He is a cunning and ruthless leader of men, easily working fear into the hearts of others. He knows little of what mercy is.

His weaknesses include immense trust issues, lack of emphaty and sheer ambition. The way he was forced to grow up and the ungratefullness he suffered from others turned him into a self-centered man with little care for the feelings of others. He may be an untouchable juggernaut in a battle of warriors, but outside of the arena his life experiences are often found to be lacking. [/fancybox2]

POWERS, GEAR, POSSESSION & ASSOCIATES​

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Possessions: His holding is poor. Other than his personal battle armor, a stolen starfighter and a number of hideouts scattered around the planet of Coruscant, he has not much else to speak of. In these safe houses he stores a few pieces of weapons, some explosives and a low amount of cash with some emergency food and supplies. And most of these lairs are not confirmed to be still functional due to the unfortunate fate that was brought upon the city-world by the Sith.

Gear:
Gladiator Armor
Common Traveller Robes
1x Vibrosword
2x Hidden Daggers
1x Blaster Pistol
1x Datapad

Force Powers:
-Core Powers- 1/10
-Force Rage- 4/10 (Uncontrolled)

Associates:
Castien wishes to be clear of his underworld past. He contacted a few of his former henchmen and illegal trade partners, but keeps his distant. He has plans to remove these persons from the face of the Galaxy for they could always blackmail him with their valuable information about the former Prince of Crime. After he does that, he would be free to go after the man who held him as a slave for so many years. Without doubt, he will need help in this pursuit.

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PERSONALITY​

[fancybox4="http://i61.tinypic.com/1q2y3q.jpg"] Kaan is what life made out of him. Cruel, brutal, rational and merciless. He is not necessarily a cold murderer, but when the conditions demand it he would not hesitate to take life, not by bit. He loves the adrenaline and thrill of battle. He has a strong sense of honor which he gained during his years in the arena, in contrast to his previous life as an outlaw. He is on a long path to overcome his vicious nature, normalize his persona after years of torture and blood.

He is steadfast and firm. Once he sets on a path it is near-impossible to make him return from it. Currently at a loss in life, he seeks to make his existance purposeful again. [/fancybox4]

ᴘʀᴏғɪʟᴇ ᴄᴏᴅᴇ ʙʏ: ʙᴇᴇ​

 

[Galad J. Victus]

The character is completed, any feedback is appreciated as always. I'm considering posting him up to do a test run before the next timeline.

Spoiler: Miscallenous

-Mandalorian
-Indie
-Jedi
WIP
WIP
WIP

 

[Galad J. Victus]

(WIP)
The Legion of Dawn

"We are the bearers of light.
We are those who hold the torch.

We are the guardians of civilization.
We are those who keep watch.

For countless milenniums to come,
We shall, like we always have,

Stand ready at the edge of dawn,
Staring into the heart of the night."


-Description

The Legion of Dawn is known and related by many names around the Galaxy. The Drifters, Brotherhood of Titanium, Order of the Thunder being some of the more popular ones. Despite the strong reputation they hold with the majority of the civilized systems, the organization itself and it's motives are largely surrounded by myths and legends. Some say they are a crusading collection of knights, dedicated to enforcing peace and order to all living beings; without exception. Some claim they are a guild of fearless adventurers who find thrill in wandering and discovering the dark edges of the galaxy. Others believe they are the vigilant watchers who men the borders of civilization, constantly fighting-off the many wild dangers and unspoken horros of the Outer Rim. Some even go as far as to speculate they are a band of outcast Force-wielding warriors whose motives aren't clear. They may be many things, but one thing is certain. Their secrecy is only matched by their fierce dedication to their freedom, and their vows to guard the helpless peoples of the Galaxy are indeed known by all.

Albeit being formed as one in countless years past, the Legion is not a Force-user Order. Rather, they welcome anyone to their ranks as long as they are willing to take up the blade and the rifle. Force connection means next to nothing within the ranks. The soldiers are expected to respect, and treat each other equally.

-Purpose

The Order has numerious branches that serve parallel, yet seperate purposes. Thus the Legion counts the exploration and securing of deeper, dark parts of the outer Galaxy and the defence of establishment and harmony within the known systems among their primary purposes. They aid the weak and the poor wherever they can, employing their Legionnaries in many types of missions, ranging from spearheading the enlightening of wild, unknown planets to shielding the innocent and helpless settlements from all sorts of dangers, may it be a bandit raid or an invading mighty beast. Their purpose of existance is the keeping the darkness at bay and the enlightment of shadows. The Order's sacred vows dictate that they guard the helpless, fight for those who cannot, and offer aid to those who have been cast out of the society. They are a brotherhood who have come together to guard and preserve the tomorrows for the generations to come, either through the blade or the word.

Their secondary purposes include exploration, guarding the outer colonies, bringing technology and civilization to unknown planets. Altough they have their differences with the Jedi and the Republic, in times of great distress and chaos, they would be willing to serve as temporary allies, or mercenaries, for the sake of greater good and preservation, which is their main focus. The well-being and safety of the outcast, defenceless peoples of the Galaxy comes above all else, however, and they would oppose any who would threaten them without hesitation.


" Ec pinnis belli."
"On Wings of War."

-History

Roots of the Order are not known publicly. The Archives contain absolutely no information, and even the most seasoned of the Elders cannot recall the founding of this collection of knights. There are many different stories wandering within the ranks of the Legion, legends and tales of all sorts. The truth is known by two men alone throughout the entire Galaxy. Grandmaster of the Order and the Master of Archives, both being under sacred vows to guard the treasure that is their history, until someone of worth rises from amongs the ranks to replace them. It is the Order's custom that annals are to be transferred through the generations by these two seats, predecessors passing on the knowledge to sucessor. As such, the past of the organization is firmly held secret, every single soldier in the Broterhood knows this fact and respects it. Their minds set on noble duty, the Brotherhood ranks are dedicated serves of the defenceless, caring not for such trivial matters.

The Legion was founded by a Jedi outcast, parting ways with his Order for reasons known to him alone. Stories tell that the Outcast, as he is referred by those who came after, was a relentless guardian of justice, an idealistic man from head to toe. His aggressive means of emposing equality, and philosophy of constant action was not well received by the Order. Frustrated by their differences, he set out in his own path to create the perfect Brotherhood, the Legion of Dawn, in his exile. Founded in the edge of Galaxy where it is still housed to this day, through sheer dedication and strong will of one man alone, the Order was preserved and strengthened after many long years of misery and hardship. Eventually finding respect with the lower castes of all races for their ideals and purposes, from whom they draw the most of their manpower.

The Outcast was at first determined to keep his Order as a a Force-user faction. But as he witnessed and shared the lifes of other outcasts from all walks of lifes in his exile throughout the Wild Regions, his vision changed, and eventually evolved into a quest to bring justice and equality to all. A band of vigilantes soon became a company of ex-soldiers and mercenaries, which was then disciplined to a proper Order of steel and comradeship. The Outcast had succeded in making his dreams a reality; an ubreakable Brotherhood of justice and dawn.

The Brotherhood is largely scarred by the recents Galactic wars. Fighting furiously throught the Outer Rims, against all sorts of evil and twisted Dark forces, they have suffered horrific casuilties, mostly from the hands of the Sith and their thralls. Relentless defence of the outer colonies and settlements have caused them dearly.

"Praesidium infirmus."
"Custodio inermis."

"Guard the weak."
"Shield the defenceless."

-Current State

They may be fierce, loyal and noble, but even they the Legion of Dawn cannot hope to challange the cruelty of time. Their selfless acts and determination during the bloodly wars of the near past has brought them to the point of extinction; their ranks thin, cohorts scattered and outposts left in ruins. The Brotherhood of Titanium is but a former shadow of it's former glory. Barely avoiding total destruction, countless legionarries and knights have perished fighting for their noble cause, and those survived... were forever marked. Scarred beyond healing, with dark plagues and physical scars left to them by their old foe. They went to campaign singing songs of victory and swearing oaths of bravery; those who did, returned in utter silence. War had changed them.

Now with the ranks of the Order more thin than ever, facing annhilation in the wild edges of the Galaxy, their outposts and cohorts scattered and broken, a new Gransmaster rises after a long period of regency and decay, the previous one perishing in the war.

Time of laments has passed. Mournings and silence is over. As a new age dawns upon the Galaxy, the shattered Legion slowly struggles to get up, covering their wounds and burying their fallen. The new Gransmaster; an idealistic young man, must look to turn the tide of events and restore the remnants of the Legion to their former glory. Countless dangers await in their path of redemption and repair. But the Legion is not one to give up in the face of hardship.

"Nostri victoria invictus."
As the ancient saying goes.
"Our victory stands invincible."
​

(WIP)



​

 

[Galad J. Victus]

Theme(tbd)​

The Dark Fist​

[fancybox4="http://i.imgur.com/wt4AXbI.jpg"]NAME: Galahdrim Agenor

AGE: 32

SPECIES: Human

HOMEWORLD: Unknown

HEIGHT: 2.02 M

WEIGHT: 95 KG

EYE COLOR: Gold

HAIR COLOR: Dark

SKIN COLOR: Death Pale

MARKINGS: -

FACTION: The Sith Order

RANK: -

CLASS: Warrior

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
​

It was all he wished for. A band of loyal, fierce warriors at his back, ready to die at his will. A freedom to do whatever he wished. And most of all; respect. Recognation that he sought for so long. They feared him, awed before his cruelty and passion for war. None dared challange his will; he had siezed the power he had craved. Tribe was his.

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, both 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. ​

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ᴘʀᴏғɪʟᴇ ᴄᴏᴅᴇ ʙʏ: ʙᴇᴇ

First part of an extremly long biography to come. Got it done thanks to having watched Episode VII today which helped me flow my creativity juice.

Boy, I'm gonna be attached to this character.