O M E N
T L A E G E R
Character art from Star Wars Resistance
Profile picture art from srulen
"Darkside Alliance" emblem by Aeruhl
| Name | Tlaeger /tɬeɪɡəɹ/ |
| Callsign | Vulptex |
| Voice | Ripa 'Moramee |
| Theme | Drums of Hyperborea |
| Class | Jedikiller |
| Homeworld | Metellos |
| Personality Traits | Relentless Hedonist Revanchist Syncretic Republican |
| Wargear | SP-B50 blaster rifle A-180 blaster Knuckle plate vibro blades Detpacks Thermal detonator Gen. Three Galactic Republic Armor Armorweave Cape |
| Starship | Space Worthy MAAT |
| Profession | Anti-Jedi Terrorist |
| Faction | Darkside Partisan |
| Species | Elomin Clone |
| Languages | Galactic Basic ur-Kittât |
| Gender Identity | Varies on clone generation. |
| Force Sensitive | No. |
| Character Alignment | True Evil |
| Height | 5’0 |
| Weight | 139lbs |
| Color Code | Candy Apple Red | #FF0800 |
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T A K E _ Y O U R _ T R E N C H _ C O A T
[FIRST DRAFT CONCEPT]
Immortality was a sweet burning drug.
As high as Tlaeger reached, the rays of the sun would always burn his fingers to stubs, and he would break upon the shores of its truth.
There was no such thing as true immortality in this galaxy.
The work that he had begun so long ago demanded this of him. Nothing as fickle as death, something as mundane, could be allowed to stop him. He thought himself grander than the great leveler.
A scrapwrought cloning chamber patched into the back of an antiquated gunship did not make one a God.
Datachips implanted into his head, sending broken streams of memories and lived experiences back to a synth-flesh generator – once there was a man that was being born in the recycled bacta. Whatever crawled out now was just a broken omen.
Skin with a shine like plastic and dead eyes, Tlaeger was dead, and the soulless spawnlings were all that remained.
What had radicalized him, the flashing of a saber in the dark, was forgotten.
All that the misbegotten were born with was rage and shattered dreams. They still haunted the clubs he claimed. They still smiled at the same friends. None of the heart, none of the desire, just a ghost swinging to a beat he long forgot the purpose of.
Each rebirth sending him spiraling once again, less whole, less him.
The bodies give out early, three years at most. Organs fail, flesh necrosed, and every generation shortens this more and more.
They live on dying time.
All that matters is that the Ashlasworn die, every last one of them.
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FREE TROOPER 
BLASTER MAESTRO 
CQC ENJOYER 
MASS GENERATED CLONE 
SITH CULTIST -
T E R R O R _ & _ S T A R V A T I O N
Overview of future stories.
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