Character Cuyan'ika Rook - The Galactic Alliance Mando-Jedi [semi-wip]

[Cuyan'ika Rook]

Padawan Cuyan'ika Rook

The Last True Rook

“Be careful hunting monsters, lest you become one yourself."

--- The Jedi Code ---

Meerd, a mirjahaal
Mirdnaas, a mir'tra
Ori'aal, a naak
Jaro, a sha'kajir
Kyr'am, a Jetii'dral

---Resol'nare---

Ba'jur bal beskar'gam,
Ara'nov, aliit,
Mando'a bal Mand'alor
An vencuyan mhi.

---The Justification---

The Force is my teacher, and my armor
I draw my saber only in defense, I am a Mando'ad of the Galaxy
I speak my tongue to honor our lost leaders
May the Force be with Mandalore

[Start of Biography -wip, muse died while writing-]
​

He was known by a different name then, he was known for different reasons by different kith and kin. During the Dark Times, during the Empire, he was known as Jai'galaar. The name gifted to him by his parents, the name that his clan would cheer out during his bare-knuckled bouts in the fighting arena, and the name he was expected to stamp into every last plate of beskar, every last panel for a blaster, and every last blade that he was to construct. Afterall, what else was a Rook’ade worth? If not by the strike of their hammer and their quality of Mando, what else were they worth? Suppress everything that doesn’t preach loyalty to the State, loyalty to the Family, loyalty to the Sith. That was the life that Jai'galaar was taught, that was the life that he had grown into. That was the life under the Sith Empire and the Mandalorian National State. It was far from a proper existence, it was far from what the Mandlorians of old had fought for, and it was far from the best that the Sith had treated his kind.

From his birth, he was far from the “perfect” example of a Mandalorian. When his father would take him on hunts through the jungles and woodlands of the pattering of space they were allowed to hold, the blaster was never the focus for him, neither was the beast they were tracking, his father as well would fade into the background. Instead, something always stood out in the background for him, something had always promised more just beyond the surface. While they would duck underneath low hanging branches in an autumn breeze, while they would stomp over babbling brooks, and while they would watch the white-tailed carrion dance between the bramble and bushes in it’s attempt to avoid them, his thoughts were not on the path they were heading, nor were they on the nature of the hunt. His thoughts were on how the water tumbled over every last pebble and sent them careening with the stream, his thoughts were on the individual snaps of leaves being displaced from their homes, and their slow waltz through the air as they made their way down to their new home along the forest floor, his thoughts were with how the antlers of the creature curved, and how the entire aesthetic of the forest itself seemed to work in tandem. They were not natural to it. This form of hunting was far from natural to the creature they would stalk either. The Mandalorians once had a proper place in this ecosystem, once, eons ago, their presence would have not caused the entire woodlands to heave and whimper under their boots. They were foreigners in the land they had dominated. Even as he would go to sight the blaster rifle as his father demanded, as he would go to line up the shot, his thoughts instead wandered to why the beast's third eye buried itself into his soul. There was intelligence, there was knowledge, and there was an order of things. His blaster ringing out into the morning air never belonged there.

The Rooks, as a clan, had a predetermined role inside of the MNS and the Sith Empire as a whole. They were the smiths, they were the miners, and they were to accept this role. Many did, without question. He would spend his early days, broken against the rocks and dust and choking machinations of mines. Vanishing into the depths with nothing more than a lazily constructed mining blaster and the will to survive, he was to fire that pistol blindly into the rock. Edge and edge, scrape and scrape, pray that you would find the glimmering metal. This was your purpose, afterall, this was your lot in life. You were only a true Rook if this was how you began your life. He would do as he was told, marching to the mines, firing off rounds into the rock as he pushed back nature’s craft. Deeper and deeper, greed consumed the clan.
Galactic standard age of fourteen was when you were supposed to return from those dreadful mines, that was when you were to take your hand at the clan’s craft, when you were intended to become something more than you were. You had a choice, as minor as they were. Your specific focus as a smith, your specific tool or gear you would create in vast quantities in overbearing foundries. These factories consisted of not much more than grand furnaces to smelt the metals that were gathered and lines of the destitute, slaves, and youths that would bring in the raw materials. Anvils, scattered nearly randomly at work stations, is where one would smith. Beskar, durasteel, whatever the needs of the higher ups were. You weren’t a true Rook if you couldn’t swing a hammer, if you couldn’t seduce the metal into what shapes you would wish to see it bend to. You weren’t a true Rook if you couldn’t hammer out vast quantities of your craft within your shifts mandated by Imperial overlords. He was certain that on many worlds of the Rook clan, it was far as difficult as his home. That the Sith truly didn’t have this strong of a hand.

He took on the craft of creating blasters, with a minor production in beskar helmets. He hardly was given the time to create the works he dreamed of. He was never alloted the ability to design ornate hunter’s pistols, crafted for long range and balance. He was never able to figure out how to power two barrels at once for a proper holdout that could make someone second guess a problem. He was never allowed to see how much gas he could cycle through a single shot. He plotted these ideas, however, nightly. In a sketchbook held close in the night, ink and pen kept secret, elaborate designs of unique weaponry that could be more considered art than a tool of war. Taking in different feelings from different facets of the world. Forestry, desert stands, utilitarianism, and lofty baroque styles all dotted the pages. He was never allowed to express this, proper. No, he was destined to send out the same westar-model blasters, over and over, to fulfill the endless war efforts of their Sith masters. What else should he expect? The credits he earned, however minor, were coveted. Save what he needed to spend.

His mother, for all that she was worth to the clan as a masterful armorsmith, never seemed to give in as gently into the ways of the materialistic corruption as the rest of her kin. She always seemed to wear a smile, fully intending to help those that she met, fully intending to keep those that she knew above water. She was passionate in her care for her child, commonly applying the nickname "Cuyan'ika", little survivor. Credits were commonly left for those that were falling behind for whatever cause. She had taken her son to the local towns dotting around their area of settlement, even the spaceport. She wished for him to know what life was like outside of the clan, outside of production, and even within the realm of the Sith Empire, the citizenry were just that. People. They were rough, they were kind, they were heinous, they were pious, every life under the sun could be found. Within the madness, some form of harmony, some form of peace. She took the extra steps to teach him the foundations of charity, of kindness, during these visits. He would volunteer his spare time, outside of hunts, work, and clan activities, to assist at a shipwrights side. He sold junkers and uglies, either stripping them for parts or selling them to people that hardly knew better. Most of his customers knew this going in, and would send their vessels to a much more expensive mechanic not soon after purchase.

Through all of this, he pressed on, he did everything he could to survive and keep his head above water. This was life afterall. This was what it was like to live. This is what it meant to be a Rook.

The day everything changed could have never been predicted. It started as many days had, early rise to train, early rise to challenge yourself. A sound of blaring turbolasers and screaming ion engines would bring him, and many others of his clan, from their homes. A vessel, the durasteel peeling from it as it entered the atmosphere, screeched through the air in the far distance from the settlement. It was wreathed in flame, rolling in it’s descend. An explosion rocked and shuddered through the middle before sending the ship splitting in two, cracking and breaking apart as if down a seam. The sections of ship appeared to be going down in the woods not far from town. Jai'galaar was part of the squad that would be deployed to crash through the forest to hunt down the wreckage.

None of them would have expected to find a Devastator II-class Gunship amongst the broken trees and disturbed dirt, the front portion of one of these vessels at least. It mainly consisted of the cockpit, having snapped off not soon after the wings. The transparisteel had shattered, and the pilot was leered out of the vessel. He was moving, if only slightly.

One of the Mandalorians that had come with the lot marched up, unannounced, without clearing it nor the care to, and leveled his rifle with the pilot. There was a low groan of registration, and the pilot weakly reached an arm up, his hand merely tapping at the barrel of the rifle in an attempt to move it. His best take at deflecting it, coming off as a child beating on a grown man’s chest. Jai'galaar suggested taking the man as a prisoner, to question him, figure out why he was in the system. This wasn’t given an answer, and again, the blaster was leveled, and again it was weakly batted away. The Mandalorian took a step back, raising the weapon again.

It was far from intentional, a yell of anger and refusal and a hand held out in the direction of the gunman was simply intended to distract him. For a moment, it seemed to earn the man’s attention, as he paused his action and let the pilot’s arm loosely fall back down to hang out of the cockpit. He expected the Mandalorian to lower his blaster, or acknowledge what had been said, neither came. There was a sound in the background, something akin to white noise, and the outline of the Mandalorian shimmered with static. He wasn’t moving. The rest of the squad was quick to turn on Jai'galaar, bringing fists and rifle butts in an attempt to get him to undo what he had done by accident, accusations and slurs were thrown like nothing in his direction. Somewhere in between a stumble from a strike and a willing thought to turn and run, Jai'galaar tumbleded through the thistle and bushes, off a hill, and down and incline. His beskar clashed with the ground for what felt like hours, until eventually he ended up on his feet. The incline was steep, steep enough that he was lucky he rolled instead of fallen. The call of a bolt next to him sent him running.

And he ran. He ran to a friend that wouldn’t ask questions, he ran to someone that he could trust. Someone not from the clan. He ran to the shipwright, pressed credit chip into the man’s hand, and attempted to make off with one of the few hyperdrive equipped vessels he had available. The StarViper just managed to break the atmosphere and reach the outer reaches of the planet’s bounds before his escape was reported. The hyperdrive was warming up by the time that the planetary defense system was loaded with his vessels ID. The engine fired at the same time as a point-defense turret. The ship went screaming with flame into hyperspace.

The explosion sent him off course, and it knocked the Mandalorian himself unconscious. The vessel’s life support systems were slowly failing as the ship began to drift. He had no idea how long the hyperdrive had went for, he had no idea of what coordinates were loaded into the vessel, or if he was alive.

The vessel slowly had drifted into Galactic Alliance space, picked up by perimeter guard...

[End of Biography]

Factions - The Galactic Alliance | The Jedi Order

Rank - Padawan

Species - Human

Age - 19

Sex - Male

Sexuality - Bisexual

Height - ~5'7~

Weight - ~140~

Force Sensitive? Yes.

[Tropes and Themes]

24-Hour Armor

Against My Religion

It Began with a Twist of Fate

Reconstruction

Stereotype Flip

What You Are in the Dark

[Known Languages]

Rook Mando'a (Native)

Galactic Basic [Sith Imperial Dialect] (Fluent)

[Start of Physical Description -also wip-]

Cuyan body is steel forged in the very fires he worked in, though youthful, he still carried with him a build that a battlesmith should rightfully hold. Muscled, toned, though a layer of fat settling over it. He's built in a more traditional, healthy, hunter-gatherer form of musculature rather than the overstated oiled up holoshow bound muscle freaks that many imagine and expect. Scars litter his body from mistakes at the forge, and his face is harded from the flame. A hardjawline, brown eyes, a flock of blond hair, and a unnerving hollowed face are signs of someone who has carried their little time in the galaxy.

[End of Physical Description]

Equipment

Sith-Imperial Super Commando Mandalorian Helmet

Silver Bladed Lightsaber

Traditional Jedi Robes (Silver/Purple)

Miscellaneous Personal Effects

Ship
StarViper-class attack platform

[Saber Styles]

Form "Zero"

Form I (Novice)

Form II (Novice)

Form III (Intermediate)

Tràkata (Neophyte - Preferred Style - Natural)

[Force Powers]

Core Powers (Novice)

Force Stasis (Early Manifestation)

[Strengths]

The Smiths of Rook

Despite how much he despises the period of his life, it would be folly to say that he did not learn anything from his time with the Rook Clan. He is one of the finer blaster smiths in whatever room he tends to occupy, however, more in the sense of style versus form. He can mend and fix most issues that a blaster will find in it's lifespan, but his true talent is creating showpieces that would be more at home framed on a wall than anything else.

Diplomatically Minded

In sharp contrast to traditional Mando doctrine, Cuyan'ika keeps himself more guided on the paths of diplomacy, even to his enemies. He would prefer to stay his blade and attempt to seek a non-violent solution to whatever situation he finds himself in than end lives. However, despite that, he is still a trained Jedi, capable of defending himself.

Positive Masculinity

Ever since his escape, Cuyan'ika has gone the extra mile in an attempt to reclaim the traditional morals of his people, blending those with the ideas of the Jedi Order. All of this goes a long way in helping him form a healthy mindset of what it means to be a proper human being, despite this, it can cause issues with more traditionally minded individuals.


Rough and Tumble Brawl

Growing from a Mandalorian upbringing, Cuyan'ika learned how to fight with his fists, with kicks and punches, with knees and elbows. Martial combat was their life, and though his style may be more akin to something you would see in a drunken tavern brawl, it plays into his unique style of lightsaber combat. While most professional duelists would shudder at the idea of throwing a haymaker mid bout, Cuyan'ika has no fault with it. Whatever wins the day.

[Mixed]

Non-Lethal Arts

One of the things that he took to heart from his Jedi training was the hallowed state of life, careful never to take unless he was required to. This leads to a much more traditional, Old Republic style of lightsaber combat. Aimed more at disarming, both literally and figuratively, your opponent than striking a killing blow. If someone could be rendered unconscious versus dead, whether it be a Legionary or a Sith Lord, he would prefer the nonlethal route.

Dual-Identity

Living as a Jedi and a Mandalorian puts strain on how Cuyan'ika expects himself to enter situations and how he expects himself to deal with what's put in front of him. There is always the possibility that a step in either direction too far could weaken the bonds between one of the cultures. It stands as a careful balancing act as he attempts to be representative of both people groups.

[Weaknesses]

Traitor

Leaving his clan, betraying his people and his birthnation, it hardly does him any favors when it comes to situations involving the Sith or even other Mandalorians. There's hardly a way he would be met with anything other than a raised blaster at even the mere mention of his name within certain groups.

Weak in the Force

While he is Force Sensitive, and can manifest these powers, he has always been much stronger with his saber than his mind. In a match of wills and the Force against other practitioners, odds are he would be at a major disadvantage.

[List of Current RPs]

//major wip//
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