Darth Il

[Ras'kala'han]

"To build is an invitation to burn. To make is an invitation to break. To live is an invitation to murder. Such is the beauty of the One Law."

SOCIAL TRAITS

Name: ███ █████

Alias: Darth Il

Titles: Lord of the Sith; Jisjontû Mus Qorritatul - "Through Him We Must End"

Faction: The Sith Order; ███ ████

Living Situation: In Hiding

Languages Spoken: Galatic Basic; Sith / High Sith; High Coruscanti

[ + ] Allegiance: A small, yet not insignificant group of allies, including a few potent Sith peers - notably [member="Vulthoom"] and ██████, support Darth Il in his endeavors.

[ - ] Isolated: Having been separated from the Galaxy at large for his entire life, Darth Il does not have the same intuitive understanding of current culture and geopolitics that others might.

PHYSICAL TRAITS

Species: Givin

Hair: None

Eyes: Vacant

Skin: Gray

Sex: Male

Age: 37

[ + ] Sealed Body: As a Givin, Darth Il possesses the ability to survive in a vacuum for up to a day, and an incredibly durable exoskeleton that is not unlike armor.

[ - ] Hideous: Skeletal and weathered in his own strange way by the Dark Side, and bearing resemblance to a calcified corpse, Lord Il is unattractive by prevailing standards of beauty to the point where normal social interaction becomes difficult.

MENTAL / SPIRITUAL TRAITS

Alignment: Lawful Evil / Dark Side

Openness: Cautious

Conscientiousness: Organized

Extraversion: Solitary

Agreeableness: Detached

Neuroticism: Nervous

Force Sensitive: Yes; Master

[ + ] Calculating: Darth Il has his species' talent for logic and calculations, and applies them proficiently. He unconventionally applies this geometric and critical skill to formulate cunning battle plans based on precise, objective factors, and possesses a special mastery of the Instinctive Astrogation power.

[ + ] Sith Training: Il is a classically trained Sith Lord, and as such is versed in traditional applications of the Force and the fundamentals of lightsaber combat, as well as Sith culture, language, and history.

[ - ] Vindictive: Il is slow to forget, and slower to forgive.

[ - ] Ideologue: A true believer in the One Law, Darth Il will not compromise on the one ironclad dogma he applies to himself - even if it is to his advantage.

SKILLS

Lightsaber Combat
[***] Shii-Cho
[**] Makashi; Shien
[*] Juyo

Force Abilities
[***] Instinctive Astrogation; Battle Meditation; Telekinesis
[**] Affect Mind; Farseeing; Afflict; Telekinesis
[*] Dissipate Energy

 

[Ras'kala'han]

EARLY LIFE

The first memories of ███ █████ was looking at a painting his father had made, adoptive father, that was - his true father was dead, though he does not truly miss the man, his parents, the squadron of exploratory Sith who departed the isolated planet of Uribin to try and plot an escape from the blasted hell in which they dwelt. None, of course, returned after the fourth exploratory voyage, the tunnels were sealed shut to prevent discovery, and the outposts on the surface - cursory though they were - were abandoned. It was a short while before he took his first steps that the people of Uribin made the voluntary decision to cut themselves off from all of space, so all this young child would ever see of the sky was a painting made by the man who gave him life.

What struck ███ was how ugly it was. It was a rift of monotonous gray, punctuated by what appeared to be fissures into infinite blackness. From there, the warriors that the proud clans and covenants of the Sith so feared would emerge whenever life stirred on the surface of the world, each successive genocide worse than the last.

The pride of the Sith is tempered by one thing - the cowardice of self-preservation. In this case, with their numbers limited, with reinforcements never to come, it was such that the decision was made, long ago, to abandon hope and society. To abandon designs of Galactic Conquest, to abandon even the ambition that made them great, for there were no subjects to rule. No people to go out and destroy. They were in an empty universe, stranded, and an infinite army of hostile beings scoured the surface of their home anew each time a living being was found.

For, you see, Uribin was sent, just on the cusp of the 400 Year Darkness, to Otherspace. Hundreds of years, of course, before the Givin who would come to be known as Darth Il was born. Some say it was a great storm of cosmic coincidence, others that it was the invocation of a terrible and furious power of the Force that would open the doors to another universe to escape annihilation by Galactic epidemic - whatever it was, it was not worth the cost.

Yet, like his father, like his mother, those two people for whom ███ had no feelings, and would never know, he was truly a Givin, called to by the tide and the motion of the stars, by the void, by these strange repulsive things that lurked outside the familiarity of his underground society for so many years - he had the void in his blood. This would lead to the birth of a madman of rare callousness, sworn to a fanatic belief with no higher meaning.

Yet, first, to conquer the stars that haunted his dreams, not these fissures of night and storm but rather a different vision, alien, a tapestry of velvet black covered in wondrous candleflame werelights and infested with life, he would first need to travel through the underworld of his home, and prepare for its return through the infinite abyss of dimensions to Realspace - then, an uncertain hope.

ADOLESCENCE

The appearance of the spark of the Force was expected within X, for the blood of the Sith was strong in his family, and he was the sire of Sith, though he was not raised by Sith and as such had been exposed to dotage and the tender and pleasurable weakness known as love by his foster parents, who had a slim prayer within their hearts that he would not share in the gifts of his bloodline, for to do so would surely doom them - such were the barbaric rites of Uribin.

They were, by virtue of the omnipresent Force's predestination, so doomed. Recognizing how they could be used against him, for he was one to feel deeply the stirrings of his heart when they looked at him with pride, and knowing that to love is death for the Sith, he celebrated his graduation from an Acolyte, who were but beast-fodder, to the status of Tyro by killing both of them.

He had hoped to do so in their sleep, to offer no pain or panic, but the first thrust of the knife was misjudged, not fatal, and as such his mother's screams, choked by a gush of blood, woke his father, who could not speak but rather was sickened by fear and sorrow - he fumbled, fled, and his death came only after the blade, thrown, severed a tendon.

This was not, of course, to any sadistic glee of ███'s, but rather out of necessity and the pressure of his most respected peers, and though his physiology could not produce tears, he shrieked terribly, and bashed at his own skull with his fists. Even the Pyre of Remembrance, normally a joyous occasion of drinking and dancing, was lonely and fraught - spending saved wages serving a Lord as a ceremonial aide at one of the inverted ziggurats of the society's subterranean clergy, he bought enough bottles of wine to mingle all the ashes of both in such that he could drink it, and feel the jagged particles of carbon rake his throat raw, and cough and sputter as he kept it within himself.

Many times over in his pursuit of Sith Apprenticeship, and along the path to mastery, he would repeat this process of intimacy and slaughter, to the point where now his voice is a harsh whisper, and he can make no music on the Day of Lamentation nor join the hymns that welcome the newest of the apprentices, but rather just rasp prayers to Typhojem and Saint Jadus that the hour of true becoming arrives soon. He hopes that one day, the pain of what he does, the disgust he feels at the core of his being towards his moral freefall will be extinguished. Yet the pain continues, and to his discontent, he grows stronger yet.


R̛i͟se̵ t̀҉o͟͝ P̴̕͠҉͟r̢̢͘͘͏o̢̨͝҉̵m̴͏̶̶͘į͢n͏e̸͞n͘͜͡c̴͜͏͟e̡̕


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