Retaliation
MORROW
| Aliases | N/A |
| Title(s) | N/A |
| Birthplace | Dantooine |
| Age | Young |
| Faction(s) | Unaffiliated |
| Home | N/A |
| Species | Human |
| Language(s) | Galactic Basic |
| Occupation | Vagabond |
| Gender | Male |
| Force Sensitive | Yes |
| Force Alignment | Dark Tendency |
| Height | 6" |
| Weight | 160 lbs. |
| Hair Color | Black |
| Eye Color | Blue |
| Skin Color | White |
SKILLS AND CAPABILITIES
PRACTICAL ▲▲▲ Agriculture
▲▲ Animal Husbandry
▲▲ Machine Operation
▲▲ Landspeeder Piloting
COMBAT
▲▲ Melee
▲▲ Grappling
THE FORCE
▲▲ Sense
▲ Control
“Take what makes you weak and turn it into something that makes you strong.”
―Darth Bane
PERSONALITY |
INTJ | 8w7 | Choleric-Sanguine |
Determined | Strategic | Quiet | Perfectionist Impassive | Independent Confident | Analytical | Manipulative |
STRENGTHS & WEAKNESSES |
▲ Force Prodigy ▲ Hidden Potential ▲ Nascent Mastermind | ▼ Inexperienced ▼ Dark Impulses ▼ Traumatic Upbringing ▼ Paranoia ▼ Humourless |
TROPES |
● Enfant Terrible ● Determinator ● The Stoic | ● Freudian Excuse ● Manipulative Bastard ● The Unfettered |
APPEARANCE
Morrow possesses a commanding presence, standing tall with a lean, athletic build that speaks of strength and agility. His narrow features have an almost inhuman elegance, with deep blue eyes and striking physiognomic attributes. Tousled half-curls disarranged by years in the Dantioone wind frame his face with an aura of ruggedness. BACKGROUND
Born somewhere on Dantooine, Morrow was immediately abandoned by his biological mother. She was too young to raise a child, and there wasn't any indication of a father in the picture. That's all Morrow knows about her. It was all anyone he asked would tell him. From a young age, he could sense their deceptions, but he didn't have the luxury of pushing for the truth. The rural farming community he'd been adopted into was comprised of long-retired Imperials. Discipline was the only language they understood, and they didn't take kindly to being questioned.
Cosca was his guardian, a former Major and veteran of the Third Imperial Civil War. Morrow might have taken to calling him Dad had he not insisted on sir, or Major when he had been drinking. The Major's alcoholism was a nightly constant in their household, resulting in Morrow being the victim of routine battering and various other mistreatments. Stories told by the other farmers made the reality of what Cosca had seen apparent to Morrow. Instead of feeling pity, or anger, instead he found disgust in what he perceived as his would-be father figure's weakness.
Morrow's grim and callous outlook despite his young age was unsettling for many in his community. It earned him more content and scorn than he could have fathomed previously. He became an untouchable, adults were filled with disdain, and others his age with fear. His life became a cycle of farm work and endurance against the Major's constant abuse. Under these stressors, he grew strong physically and mentally.
A dispute about tribute would one day see his community crushed beneath a group of Imperial Remnant warlords turning on their own. Morrow had been one of the lucky ones allowed to live. Cosca wasn't among that number, nor was anyone who had shown him even a shred of kindness. Unceremoniously, he buried Cosca in the very fields they'd worked for over a decade. When the last shovelful of dirt fell, the only morsel of affection Morrow had for his guardian went with it.
A sinister notion screamed for revenge. Something deep, something he'd had all along but couldn't identify. A voice, an impulse that had harassed and begged for violence and retribution his whole life. Finally, he listened.
Morrow took the last of the credits the farm had, along with little but the clothes on his back, and set off. One by one, he found the dozen or so men involved with the massacre. Unable to take them on all at once, or even alone, he stalked and bided his time. When the opportunities arose, he strangled them in alleys, carved them up in their sleep, and waited in the backs of their speeders to place condensed tibanna in the back of their skulls. Things he couldn't have achieved without that mysterious dark impulse, guiding his actions, alerting him to danger, telling him things he shouldn't have any way of knowing.
It was intoxicating.
But, when all was said and done, his anger didn't recede. Fear, pain, discontent, they all festered ceaselessly. Not to mention those dark urges, progressing into a power he could hardly control or understand. It yearned for something. Something Morrow couldn't yet describe, and that the urge itself declined to elucidate.
If he wanted answers, he'd have to get off this rock...
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