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Völva Thorite
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NAME: Völva Thorite
AGE: 26
SPECIES: Human
HOMEWORLD: Hoth
FACTION: Jedi Exiles
RANK: Apprentice
HEIGHT: 5'5''
WEIGHT: 155 lbs
SKIN COLOR: White
EYE COLOR: Brown
CHARACTER SUMMARY:
“I prayed for the screaming to stop and it did. Then I heard the voices and now I'm the one screaming.”
Völva Thorite
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NAME: Völva Thorite
AGE: 26
SPECIES: Human
HOMEWORLD: Hoth
FACTION: Jedi Exiles
RANK: Apprentice
HEIGHT: 5'5''
WEIGHT: 155 lbs
SKIN COLOR: White
EYE COLOR: Brown
CHARACTER SUMMARY:
“I prayed for the screaming to stop and it did. Then I heard the voices and now I'm the one screaming.”
Character Information
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Born under no stars in the austere and enduring encampment of the Thorites, Völva was marked in soot by the Hyllebær with a single mark, a mark of doom. While her parents took the young girl into their home on their honor they were shunned by their community as the cursed girl grew among them. Growing up friendless on the cold planet made her world colder, but Völva endured as any Thorite would.
Under the Thorite name she was a child of tradition and law. Instructed in her family line, Völva could recite her lineage back six generations. This would be impressive if any of her clan would stop to listen. Children ran from the girl taunting her in Deucalic. They called her norn and skrímsli and much worse in basic. She was called a witch so many times it began to stick in the girl's head and the voices agreed it was an astute label.
The voices had always been with Völva. They had been quiet at first and few in number, but they grew as she did never overpowering, but always close. They whispered in her ear the words of lovers, murderers, saints, and sinners. Their's was a language of hate without virtue. They could not be reasoned with, bargained with, prayed away, they feared nothing that the girl did not fear more and so they stayed locked within the cage that was Völva's mind tormenting her and yet forcing her forward along the march of time. She grew to hate them as much as they loved her and those feelings would only grow in kind.
It became clear to the elders of the clan that the girl was afflicted and as no treatment, no chanting, and no ritual helped Völva found herself at last receiving the attention of her clan and kin. Gathering around her she tried to tell them that she could fight the voices, that she was strong, that she just needed a little help, just one person to care about her, to believe in her, to care about her. They heard none of it. Only the voices heard her and all they did was laugh.
Taken to the barren ice the howl of wind ripping across the unblemished white and gray that stretched into the infinite horizon, Völva was given the rites of bones. Still living, still breathing, still pleading, they spoke to her as something past. She tried to follow them as they left but they soon vanished into the white leaving her cold and alone. As a final cruel twist of fate, as the girl was utterly alone in the near silence she heard not a single voice.
Trudging for what felt like days, but were mere hours, Völva looked to the horizon in fear and resignation. At least in death no one could hurt her anymore and the voices would never return. Fate seemed ironically generous to the afflicted woman as the empty sky filled with a single small hope. A ship sailed precariously across the shifting clouds in and out of her sight. It was far and too think she could hail it was madness. Lucky for her, Völva had that in spades. Voices had begun to return to their whispering and for once the woman listened, truly listened. They told her to reach out, to touch what was untouched, to find the bending and breaking in the land around her.
Reaching out her shivering hands as her weakening breath billowed out of her dying frame, she found strength enough to stand then strength greater than she could possibly imagine. Cracking and ripping the ice around her burst and tore filling the sky with billows of white powder freed after thousands of years. This was enough to turn the ship. Landing before the wreckage of cold and shiver a man emerged in a strange robe wielding an odd glowing sword. He asked her what she did, Völva said she listened. For the first time in the woman's life she had a conversation that didn't end in her screaming for it to stop. Allowed upon the mans ship she was taken to a temple to be trained in the ways of this new power. The Force they called it. She had another name for it.
Doom.
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Völva is paranoid and ever fearful. She speaks little and trusts less and is often found to be speaking most of all to herself and that is the person she trusts the least. She listens well with dogmatic devotion to those who can teach her the ways of The Force. Every word of knowledge is power dripped into the empty shell that still found reason to move on. Nihilistic, pessimistic, and plain in her speech she isn't exactly an excellent conversationalist.
Schizophrenia augmented by the force gives her unwanted and uncontrolled visions of things that almost never make sense. Voices of the past, present, future, and those that never were and never would be intermix into a cacophony of lies and painful truth. Through meditation and intense focus the woman can sometimes put the voices to rest but so used to the white noise silence is almost just as bad to her.
Völva has never had a friend, in truth she doesn't know if she would be capable. It's something learned while young, that two people can meet and begin kicking a ball between each other and wordlessly forge a bond that will build a bridge of memories and happiness. All the Thorite learned in that precious time were all the horrible things other children called her were true. So Völva is left seeing every person as a tool, every conversation as a utility to move forward her power with The Force, it gives a cold impression that isn't necessarily wrong.
Ultimately Völva is either feeling the loneliness of isolation or the cramped nature of hearing a million conversations at once and just knowing one was about her and how horrible she was. It is this see saw of mental state that keeps her emotionally stunted yet physically powerful. For the Thorites were right about one thing. Suffering in the end, makes one strong.
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- Exile Inquisition Armor
- A Lightsaber
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Stinger Stun Blaster
- One Reload for weapon
- PUT
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