Dominus Kaelor
Character
Dominus Kaelor
| Age | Unknown - Looks 40-50. |
| Species | Human - Clone. |
| Gender | Male |
| Height | 1.98 meters |
| Weight | 115 kilograms |
| Force Sensitive | Yes. |
PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION
Dominus Kaelor is the embodiment of austere authority, his presence commanding even in stillness. His head is clean-shaven, revealing the hard, imperious lines of a skull seemingly carved from stone, every angle speaking of severity and discipline. His gaze is piercing and unflinching, eyes like polished steel, as though weighing the worth of all who dare to stand before him. His mouth is set in a perpetual grim line, expressionless yet never passive—radiating the cold calculation of a man who sees destiny not as prophecy, but as something forged by force and will. Clad in ornate black armor trimmed in gold, his cuirass bears the sigil of a stylized avian, wings outstretched as if proclaiming dominion over all beneath them. A deep crimson cloak drapes from his pauldrons, adding a martial gravitas to his otherwise utilitarian bearing. Upon one shoulder rests a sculpted golden skull, a silent reminder of mortality—and of what happens to those who fail him. Even standing still, Dominus Kaelor is a figure who looks as though he has never known defeat.
INVENTORY
In Progress
PERSONALITY AND BELIEFS
Dominus Kaelor is a figure of absolute conviction, a man who speaks rarely but with authority that silences all doubt. Cold and composed, he views the galaxy through the lens of order and necessity, believing that only through unyielding discipline and centralized control can true peace be achieved. He does not indulge in cruelty, but he is merciless when it comes to disloyalty or inefficiency. To Kaelor, sentiment is weakness, freedom without structure is chaos, and unity under a single will is the only path to salvation. He does not seek power for vanity or pleasure, but because he believes with unwavering certainty that he alone possesses the vision and strength to remake the galaxy into something enduring.
STRENGTHS
[ + ] Master of War - Dominus Kaelor possesses an instinctive, almost preternatural grasp of strategy and tactics. Whether leading legions or fighting alone, he understands the rhythms of battle as if they were encoded in his blood. His presence on the field galvanizes his warriors, and his campaigns are swift, brutal, and decisive.
[ + ] Genetically Perfect Physique - Kaelor possesses strength, speed, and endurance beyond baseline humans. He can fight for hours without tiring and shrug off injuries that would cripple others.
WEAKNESSES
[ - ] Unstable Force Powers - Kaelor's connection to the Force is raw and dangerous. When he loses control—especially in rage—it can devastate enemies and allies alike.
[ - ] Isolationist Mindset - He trusts no one. He sees relationships as weaknesses. This makes diplomacy and alliances difficult, if not impossible.
HISTORY
No one remembers the name of the vessel. Its registry had long since degraded in the databanks, wiped by time, ion storms, and the slow corrosion of silence. The ship drifted through the Outer Rim like a tomb, a derelict leviathan swallowed by the void. Its halls were dark, coated in frost and dust, and the lights of the galaxy had not touched it in centuries. The only sounds aboard were the distant creaks of ancient hull plating and the gentle hum of a reactor operating far beyond its expected lifetime. Along one corridor, beneath flickering stasis lights, rows upon rows of identical pods slumbered in a perfect line. And in the first of them, a single man slept, dreaming of nothing, waiting for the galaxy to remember him.
It was salvagers who found it. A motley crew of fortune seekers, hardened by years of combing dead systems for broken droids, military wrecks, and rare metals. They called it a miracle, or perhaps a curse. The ship was a fortress-class dreadnought, the kind of vessel lost to records and conspiracy. Its construction bore Imperial design philosophies, but older, more baroque, more severe. They marveled at the cloning chambers, the military databanks, the half-intact forgeworks designed for the mass production of battle gear. But above all, they were stunned by the pod that opened the moment their boots hit the floor.
Dominus Kaelor stepped into the galaxy barefoot and calm. Clad in a simple black body-glove, eyes like polished obsidian, his presence silenced the salvagers before he even spoke. They said his voice was low and without echo, as though sound itself bent around him. The terminals near his pod sparked when he touched them. Data scrolled, warnings flared, entire systems shorted out. They could not determine how long he had been there. The records were corrupted, melted by corrupted code and intentional sabotage. A failsafe, perhaps. Or maybe time itself had bent to protect the secret.
He killed them all with brutal efficiency. One by one, without remorse or hesitation. There was no malice in it, no fury. Only purpose. The first died by his bare hands, neck snapped in a blink. The others tried to flee, to hide, to beg. It did not matter. None could leave. None would speak of what they found. By the time he was done, the walls of the ship were painted in arterial red, a final silence restored to the crypt. He was not rage incarnate, but judgment. In his eyes burned a quiet, imperial certainty that what he did was necessary.
After the corpses were cleared from his path, he moved methodically. He made his way to the central stasis control, bypassing corrupted interfaces and deciphering ancient protocols that even modern slicers would struggle to parse. The other clones, the hundreds of them, were still asleep. Still breathing. Still waiting for a future that would never come. He stared at them in silence for a long time, and then he destroyed them all. He vented the corridors, overrode the life support, and watched them die with the same calm detachment that had marked his birth. They were imperfect. They were not him. The galaxy would have one Kaelor, and one alone. There would be no copies, no rivals, no heirs.
He scuttled the ship afterward, initiating a core destabilization process that would render the vessel little more than debris scattered through the starless reaches of deep space. Before the explosion came, he left in the salvagers' shuttle, its hull battered but functional. He plotted a course to nowhere, deep into uncharted systems, where hyperspace lanes bent into chaos and forgotten stars cast long shadows. There, hidden from the Republic, the Empire, the Jedi, the Sith, and every corrupt pretender in between, he would begin again.
Kaelor did not believe in divinity. But he believed in destiny. His body was flawless, sculpted by some lost science to be the pinnacle of human form. His mind was sharp, cold, and unyielding. He remembered nothing of his creators, but he felt their intentions in his bones. He was made for command, for conquest, for the unification of mankind under a single, eternal rule. The galaxy was fractured. The Empire had crumbled into fiefdoms and warlords. The Jedi were dead myths, the Sith self-devouring parasites. What remained was a galaxy ripe for reclamation.
He would found his own empire, born not from bloodlines or cults, but from design. His warriors would not be conscripts or slaves, but perfected clones, remade in his image, refined with every generation. Each would be forged for loyalty, discipline, and martial excellence. They would wear armor like holy vestments and wield blasters as relics of sacred war. He would call them his Aurelian Guard, the eternal storm clad in thunder and fire.
And so, Dominus Kaelor vanished into the dark. The salvagers' ship disappeared from the shipping lanes. The derelict dreadnought was never found again...