Sisk Renelo
New Member
Jensen Gilamar
"The Merc With a Mouth"
NAME:
Jensen Gilamar
FACTION:
FACTION:
Mandalorian
RANK:
RANK:
Unranked-Mercenary
SPECIES:
SPECIES:
Human/Echani
AGE:
AGE:
32
(Born 812 ABY)
SEX:
SEX:
Male
HEIGHT:
HEIGHT:
1.93m (6'4")
WEIGHT:
WEIGHT:
102kg (224.8lb)
EYES:
EYES:
Hazel
HAIR:
HAIR:
Brown
SKIN:
SKIN:
Pale White
FORCE SENSITIVE:
FORCE SENSITIVE:
No
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STRENGTHS AND WEAKNESSES:
Strengths:---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
STRENGTHS AND WEAKNESSES:
- Charismatic- Clan Gilamar prided themselves on their ability to sway crowds with nothing but words, and Jensen took their lessons to heart.
- Athletic- Jensen trains relentlessly, with it being the only way to take his mind off the constant babble of voices that plague him after the death of his Clan and squad.
- Eagle Eye- With 20/5 vision Jensen can see things that most others wouldn't.
- Polyglot- Able to learn new languages with only a few hours listening to them, Jensen is a gifted infiltrator.
- Near Eidetic Memory- Jensen can remember almost anything, with music and visual being the most common. To combat his lack of recall for specific areas he is known to make little jingles to keep them stored.
- Martial Arts- As a half-Echani Jensen was trained from a very young age in Echani Martial Arts, making him a deadly CQB combatant.
- Beskad- Jensen prefers a long, slighly curved variant of the famed Mandalorian blade, and is superlative in the use of it, either dual wielded or single.
- Ori'ramikade- As one of the famed Mandalorian supercommandos, Jensen is among the elite-of-the-elite.
- Bull Headed- When he has an idea after evaluating situations, he holds onto it to the very end.
- Computers- Jensen hates computers outside of their specific uses to him, and avoids them as much as possible.
- Height- Due to his towering stature, Jensen is always an easy target on the battlefield.
- Sharp Tongue- Sarcastic to a fault, Jensen's wit and retorts make him far more enemies than friends.
- Self-Flagellation- Having lost his clan and his squad, Jensen constantly reminds himself of his failures as a son and as a brother through the art of self mutilation.
APPEARANCE:
Tall, with a lean build and handsome features, Jensen would be the toast of society on most civilized planets. But rather than use his looks to move through life he has chosen the harsh life of a mercenary. This has left him with a multitude of scars across his body, standing out in a deep tan from his pale skin. His hair is almost never combed, instead framing his hazel eyes in a dark shock of unkempt brown locks. A well trimmed goatee covers his chin and upper lip.
Jensen is well built, a combination of Mandalorian life and his Echani physiology. At 1.93m out of armor, and towering at 2.1m in, Jensen is quite often the first thing enemy combatants notice.
BIOGRAPHY:
Beginnings
Among those who call themselves verde, you can call yourselves elite. only 1 in 100 make it through the training and of that small number only 1 in 10 passes the final test. Today, you are Ori'ramikade, as far above a normal man as a wolf is above a sheep, and the tread of your boots will make worlds tremble and the stars shake.
Al'verd Prudii Fett- Ori'ramikade Trainer
Born to Mason and Jesenia Gilamar on Concordia, Jensen was born at nearly 5 kg and 0.6m long. His father, a foreman in the Beskar mines, celebrated his only sons birth as only a Mandalorian could. He raised the infant high and declared him to be a warrior in the making, one who would make his Aliit proud.
Jensen grew quickly under the watchful eye of his Mandalorian born father and Echani mother, and the wide eyed infant became an inquisitive toddler, with a penchant for scaring his poor mother senseless with his need to climb and explore. Every time he was rescued from a dangerous perch by his red-faced mother, his father would laugh and shake his head, uttering a phrase that would become synonymous with the young Mando. "It's ok ad'ika. Just the way a warrior does things."
His father started informal training at a younger age than most, placing a mini blaster rifle into his son's hands at the age of 3 and taking the young Mando out hunting for game during frequent trips to Manda'yaim. Every trip without fail ended in Keldabe at the Oyu'baat, where the budding warrior was fascinated by the bubbling of the fish stew and the constant stream of armor and weaponry that paraded through the door as Mandalorians of all cuts and stripes stopped in for a mug of Ne'tra gal or to swap secrets and news from outside the sector. Mason always indulged his son, helping the young one to ask questions and handle the armor and weapons.
At 6 years old Jensen was inducted formally into Mandalorian training, being presented with a miniature suit of beskar'gam by his beaming father and clearly worried mother. His days now began to consist of working with his father in the fields during the day, and lessons with his mother at night. Jesenia would not let any son of hers grow up without an education or a firm grasp of how the galaxy worked outside of their protected and isolated system. Having married into the culture instead of being born to it she was much more suited to teaching the knowledge-hungry ge'verd than his rustic father. Theirs had been a strange union, with the dashing warrior sweeping the young socialite off of her ft, but they complimented each other and for the most part they had been happy.
The young Gilamar devoured everything he could get his hands on, taking equally as easily to galactic economics as he did to the range. By the age of 8 he could pick off a bird at 100 m as easily as he could recite the history of the Republic and the Mandalorians. His body, although young, was hard and powerful, tempered in the forge of combat alongside his father and through daily training in the ancient arts of Echani with his mother.
At the age of 13, Jensen underwent his verd'goten in the ancient way, his father dropping him off in the desolate landscape of Manda'yaim with nothing but an environmental suit, a beskad, and a smuggled flint set.
18/10/825ABY: Every inch of me hurts. I don't think there's a muscle I have that isn't bruised, torn, or sprained. By the time the rest of the Aliit picked me up, I could barely hold my beskad, the snow had chilled me so badly. They dropped me in the forest in the northern wastes of Manda'yaim two weeks ago, and told me that when they got back, I would either be a Mandalorian, or dead.
The only equipment they allowed me to take was my beskad, and a thin, full body jumpsuit. I smuggled along a small flint kit, though, so jokes on you, buir. Dead winter outside, and we're taught that anything we need to do to survive, we do. You steal, you cheat, you lie, you fight, and you survive to live and fight another day. So I waited until the shuttle was out of sight, watched it disappear over the horizon, and then made my way to a small stand of trees, huddled close together with a spot just large enough for me to lay down and build a small fire in the middle.
Firewood was easy enough to gather, as was kindling, but getting them started was not. The snow had soaked into everything, rendering it almost useless, but with determination, I got the flames going, and made my temporary home among the trees.
The first few days were uneventful, but hunger eventually made itself known to my belly. I had to find food. With hesitant steps, I made my way from my shelter, the bitter cold and harsh wind biting through my jumpsuit, in search of something to eat. I found some decent berries, a small grove, hidden from the worst of the elements, no more than a klick from my shelter, and ate my fill, stripping several of the bushes bare in my hunger. They were sweet, and helped to take the edge off the hunger, but I needed something more filling. Meat. The lack of protein was making my weak, and for the life of me, I can't figure out how the vegetarian species survive.
It took me several hours to find a decent game trail, the tracks of several hoofed animals and predators meandering through a small gap in between a grove of trees and a small lake, and it was here I waited. Hidden in the trees, I waited for my prey, rubbing my hands together to keep the blood flowing, a futile attempt to keep them warm. The wind was still, the air quiet, giving me no warning of any animal that might be coming. During my vigil, I fervently hoped that the coals of my small fire, which I had buried under a thin layer of dirt, were still burning when I returned.
And then, the snap of a twig, a sharp report in the stillness, caused my head to snap around, every sense I have focusing on the sound. What I saw made my blood run cold. A Mandalorian Wolf, large and terrifying, moved down the path, nose low to the ground, great heaving sniffs feeding the wolf scent. I cursed myself for my stupidity, my drive to find food causing me to make mistakes. I hadn't covered my tracks, hadn't masked my scent, and the wolf was moving slowly towards me.
My hands were shaking, and my fingers closed slowly over the hilt of my beskad, drawing it slowly from its leather sheath. I flipped the blade upside down, and prepared myself to leap upon the wolf. I couldn't let him get my scent, because if he couldn't reach me, he would bring the rest of his pack. He drew closer, and his long fur rippled as the wind began to blow across the lake.
As he came under my hiding spot, I coiled my legs, and leapt. My aim was true, and my blade slid in between the 4th and 5th vertebrae, severing the connections between the wolf's brain and its body. It was textbook, quick, clean, and quiet. The wolf died without even a whimper, and I drew my blade from its body, and wiped the beskar clean on its fur. Take care of your weapons, and they'll take care of you. My first lesson from buir, and it would always be the one I held closest.
I drug the wolf back to my shelter, and then spent several hours cleansing the trail. I couldn't afford to be tracked by the rest of the pack. One wolf that I had the drop on was one thing, the rest of a pack was a different matter entirely. The next two days I spent on lookout, trying to spot any sign of possible danger. After the sun rose on the third day, I was able to relax my guard slightly. By the time the shuttle arrived, I had decided that I could have spent the rest of my life in this wilderness. Strong hands pulled me into the troop bay, and as the shuttle lifted away, I looked out on the snow beneath me, my shelter a rapidly receding dot in the distance. It was sad to leave, but it was also hopeful. Aay'han. The only true word for it.
The only equipment they allowed me to take was my beskad, and a thin, full body jumpsuit. I smuggled along a small flint kit, though, so jokes on you, buir. Dead winter outside, and we're taught that anything we need to do to survive, we do. You steal, you cheat, you lie, you fight, and you survive to live and fight another day. So I waited until the shuttle was out of sight, watched it disappear over the horizon, and then made my way to a small stand of trees, huddled close together with a spot just large enough for me to lay down and build a small fire in the middle.
Firewood was easy enough to gather, as was kindling, but getting them started was not. The snow had soaked into everything, rendering it almost useless, but with determination, I got the flames going, and made my temporary home among the trees.
The first few days were uneventful, but hunger eventually made itself known to my belly. I had to find food. With hesitant steps, I made my way from my shelter, the bitter cold and harsh wind biting through my jumpsuit, in search of something to eat. I found some decent berries, a small grove, hidden from the worst of the elements, no more than a klick from my shelter, and ate my fill, stripping several of the bushes bare in my hunger. They were sweet, and helped to take the edge off the hunger, but I needed something more filling. Meat. The lack of protein was making my weak, and for the life of me, I can't figure out how the vegetarian species survive.
It took me several hours to find a decent game trail, the tracks of several hoofed animals and predators meandering through a small gap in between a grove of trees and a small lake, and it was here I waited. Hidden in the trees, I waited for my prey, rubbing my hands together to keep the blood flowing, a futile attempt to keep them warm. The wind was still, the air quiet, giving me no warning of any animal that might be coming. During my vigil, I fervently hoped that the coals of my small fire, which I had buried under a thin layer of dirt, were still burning when I returned.
And then, the snap of a twig, a sharp report in the stillness, caused my head to snap around, every sense I have focusing on the sound. What I saw made my blood run cold. A Mandalorian Wolf, large and terrifying, moved down the path, nose low to the ground, great heaving sniffs feeding the wolf scent. I cursed myself for my stupidity, my drive to find food causing me to make mistakes. I hadn't covered my tracks, hadn't masked my scent, and the wolf was moving slowly towards me.
My hands were shaking, and my fingers closed slowly over the hilt of my beskad, drawing it slowly from its leather sheath. I flipped the blade upside down, and prepared myself to leap upon the wolf. I couldn't let him get my scent, because if he couldn't reach me, he would bring the rest of his pack. He drew closer, and his long fur rippled as the wind began to blow across the lake.
As he came under my hiding spot, I coiled my legs, and leapt. My aim was true, and my blade slid in between the 4th and 5th vertebrae, severing the connections between the wolf's brain and its body. It was textbook, quick, clean, and quiet. The wolf died without even a whimper, and I drew my blade from its body, and wiped the beskar clean on its fur. Take care of your weapons, and they'll take care of you. My first lesson from buir, and it would always be the one I held closest.
I drug the wolf back to my shelter, and then spent several hours cleansing the trail. I couldn't afford to be tracked by the rest of the pack. One wolf that I had the drop on was one thing, the rest of a pack was a different matter entirely. The next two days I spent on lookout, trying to spot any sign of possible danger. After the sun rose on the third day, I was able to relax my guard slightly. By the time the shuttle arrived, I had decided that I could have spent the rest of my life in this wilderness. Strong hands pulled me into the troop bay, and as the shuttle lifted away, I looked out on the snow beneath me, my shelter a rapidly receding dot in the distance. It was sad to leave, but it was also hopeful. Aay'han. The only true word for it.
Ori'ramikad
Move your shebs, di'kut! You think the enemy is going to give you time to gather your thoughts? This is instinct! You fight or you die!
Al'verd Prudii Fett- Ori'ramikade Trainer
The next 5 years moved quickly for Jensen, and the new adult threw himself into all aspects of his clan. When a mission needed volunteers he was the first to step forward. When a field needed plowed his back was always the one willing to be bent. And when the Alor sought after a warrior who would be worthy of his daughter Jensen fought as hard as any to win her hand. On his 18th birthday he married, and for a time he was happy.
But then the call came.
The Mand'alor called for warriors to replenish the ranks of the Ori'ramikad, and Jensen left the hold with 4 of his brothers to answer the call. Taken to the planet of Mandallia for the training they found themselves just 1 among a 1000 being barked at by drill instructors and herded into old barracks placed among the thick jungle growth. Stripped of their armor and weapons the recruits were forced to change into nondescript jumpsuits and hurried into a clearing where there stood more yelling drill instructors and practice weapons. As they were handed the weapons they were told that they were to pair off and fight. The losers would be going home. And to add a new twist, they would not be fighting those from other clans, but their own vode. Jensen found himself across from Galaar, a man no more than a year or two younger than him. He and Galaar had spent long hours down by the stream practicing their beskad technique. Galaar was very good, but Jensen was better. The duel was not a long one as it only took Jensen two blocks and a riposte to send Galaar's blade flying to the dirt, and a spinning back kick knock to knock him senseless.
Only 500 of them were left, and Jensen found himself pushed to his limits like he never had before. Every morning the recruits were awoken by screaming instructors and given 2 minutes to grab their gear before they were run to whatever exercise they had that day. There was not an aspect of combat that was missed. Sniping, zero-g, piloting, infiltration, underwater, urban combat, guerrilla tactics, heavy weapons, CQB, demolitions, melee combat, jetpacks, vehicle combat, black ops, and force user combat were all given precedence. When he fell into his bunk at night surrounded by less and less of the original group, Jensen never fought sleep, instead embracing the 4 hours a night they were given.
When the final test came the original 1000 had been whittled down to just 150. They had been given back their armor and deployed into an abandoned mining city on the moon of Concordia. The objective was simple. Capture the flag placed precariously on top of the old city meeting hall that had been turned to rubble. Between them and their objective was 6 klicks of urban terrain, to the southern flank lay a swamp, and to the north lay a dusty plain, constantly whipped into a sandstorm by the convergence of wind from the cool swamp and the sun baked plains. Even in armor that storm would scour the flesh from a man, and the swamp was only a misstep away from sucking an armored warrior to a suffocating death. Jensen gathered a small squad to him and set off through their only available path; right through the center of the city.
As they set off into the cold stone and deepening shadows the hopeful Ori'ramikad kept their eyes and ears open for any of the surprise threats the instructors had left out for them.
31/4/841ABY: Looking back at that day on Concordia it strikes me as almost poetic in its perfection. 150 recruits vs 20 fully blooded commandos. Just 20. and by the end of the day it was only me and 16 others. 17 new Ori'ramikad out of a 1000 of the best we as a society could put forth. I'm still not sure if that speaks to the skill that we exhibited, or a general decline in the rest of us. Truth is its not my place to question, because the old adage remains. Mishuk gotal'u meshuroke, pako kyore. For the sake of posterity, I'll translate. Pressure makes gems, ease makes decay. We will either come through the flame stronger than before or we will burn to ash. We're Mando. There's no middle ground.
Anyway, the sun was setting as we moved into the grave of Concordia Prime, and to a bunch of recruits every shadow seemed to cloak a threat. I couldn't move quick enough from cover to cover. I'd grabbed a squad of 15 and we'd taken point as the other 9 squads fanned out behind us, moving leapfrog style to keep good fields of overlapping fire against the ghosts of our mind. We'd been training for this for two years but the men we faced were still legends in our minds, larger than life heroes of the Mandalorian people and who were we to even think that we could take them down. But if there was one thing that we had been taught it was the commando state of mind. I could do anything, beat any enemy, overcome any odds... But there was still that sliver of doubt in the back of my mind.
It took us 3 hours to cover those 6 klicks, checking every corner, every window, every stairwell. And the whole time the back of my neck was prickling like someone had a scope trained on me. They probably did. I never went back and watched the video to confirm. With all the adrenaline running those three hours only felt like minutes to me and before I knew it we were crouched behind cover in front of the parade ground that separated us from the hall. It was wide and cleared of debris. A perfect killing ground. It surrounded the hall on all 4 sides which made me happy that we hadn't risked the swamp or the wastes. They would have done nothing but cost us time and energy and lives. We devised a quick attack plan and sent a third of the force to the eastern side and a third to the north. The northern group would launch a diversionary attack against the front door, and the eastern group would move in for an air attack. Hopefully with the defenders occupied against the rest my group would be able to move in quick and secure the objective.
We gave them 20 minutes to get in position and then launched the flair to signal the attack. And that was exactly as long as the plan lasted. The Eastern group never even made it off the ground. Stun mines and sniper fire put down the 50 recruits within 7 seconds. The north group lasted a little longer, but not by much. They were taken down by 2 disguised heavy machine guns nests while they were still within 30 meters of the cover wall they had left. But the groans and shouts of pain and anger that drifted over the comm channel were pushed to the back of my mind as my legs pumped and drove me over the wall and my boots planted into the overgrown grass on the ground. I used the momentum to throw myself into a combat roll and heard the harsh hiss of a stun round as it whizzed through the air where my head would have been. The smack of rounds hitting armor was loud in the still air as other members of the squad who weren't as quick on their feet went down with the clatter of armor and weapons.
I kept my head as low as I could for a man standing over 2 meters and pushed as hard as I could. The sounds of boots and stun rounds surrounded me as the faded facade of the hall grew closer. 40 meters. 30. 15. 10. And then I slammed into the wall so hard the thin stone veneer cracked. Similar cracks sounded as the only remaining members of the recruits slammed into the wall beside me. A quick scan showed that only 21 of us remained. 21. How could I take the building with only 21? We were covered from above by a ledge so at least we had a moment to think. The inside would be a slaughterhouse, with perfectly laid killzones and dug in commandos. We'd never make it.
But the stone cracking underneath us gave me an idea. I blink clicked at a small icon in my HUD and climbing blades popped out of my gauntlets. Along the wall the others followed my lead and dug the claws through the veneer and into the side of the building. After all the training hauling ourselves up the side of the building was easy and we ascended like spiders. As we passed each floor we slid fiber optic cables around the window corners to make sure the coast was clear, and if we saw a lone commando inside we dispatched them quietly and quickly through small holes in the glass. As we passed the 5th floor the largest concentration we had seen was hurrying towards the roof. 12 Ori'ramikad moved with purpose through the abandoned corridors of the hall. At my side one of the other recruits caught my hesitation and motioned to the rest of his small fireteam. His visor locked on mine and his voice came through the comm, tinny and distorted. //We'll keep em busy. Get the flag.// As he and his men pushed off the wall and ignited their jetpacks to throw them through the windows an old battle cry rang proud. "OYA MANDO!"
Gunshots echoed from inside and those of us outside doubled our efforts. Any hope of stealth was gone and we pushed forwards to cover the last story in record time. We hauled ourselves over the last parapet and found ourselves face to face with 4 very angry commandos. The one closest to me already had his pistol raised and it barked loudly but the snap shot went underneath my arm and smacked into the stone behind me. I acted on instinct, lashing out and smashing into the forearm of the commando, my other hand raising to catch the grip of the pistol and yank it roughly away. I fired twice for center mass, catching the man and pitching him backwards. His muscles seized and he went down in a convulsing mass. It was as if time slowed down for a moment and then the rooftop erupted into a brutal melee. I barked orders and sent 3 men for the flag. I ducked a blow from another commando and drew my beskad from its sheath across my back, drawing the stun-tipped edge across the unarmored middle of another commando. The other two had been borne to the ground with multiple recruits piling on top of them. 4 of our men had gone to barricade the door against the remaining commandos downstairs, and as the door shook from strong blows against the other side our flag team grabbed the smooth wooden pole and yanked it from its place, waving it victoriously above their heads.
The door broke inwards as the rest of the commandos put their weight behind it, to find us standing together as one. In that moment there was no anger, no shame of defeat. They embraced us as brothers.
SHIP:
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