Phodrius
Domo arigato Mr. Roboto
Phodrius
"Your hearts... one beats faster while the other lies still... A telling silence, zabrak. Not only are you lying, you are terrified."
NAME: Phodrius
FACTION: Eternal Empire
RANK: Envoy of Unit 404 of the Logistic Corps
SPECIES: Arkanian
AGE: 25
SEX: Male
HEIGHT: 6'2"ft
WEIGHT: 183lbs
EYES: None
HAIR: None
SKIN: Tan
FORCE SENSITIVE: Yes
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- Iron Within (+): Phodrius body has withstood thorough modifications to compensate for an otherwise brittle and infirm physique. His strength, speed and endurance are greater than that of a man of his already impressive size. A panoply of sensors, detectors and scanners have enhanced each his senses to a degree comparable to dedicated droids.
- A Scholar and an Intellectual (+): Early in his life Phodrius revealed an inclination for the arts and academic work, a passion seen by his master as nothing more than a quirk that he allowed to be indulged upon as a reward for good behaviour. Phodrius can talk at length about even the most obscure holobooks, creeds and species, with an enthusiasm that betrays his more often detached and calculating manner of being.
- Verbal Lash (+): Phodrius combined two unlikely halves, Dun Möch and Lightwhip combat, into in a very particular fighting style that keeps opponents at a distance while goading them to close in. Opponents are indeed expected to take the fight to close quarters while being punished for every step they take, after which they had dealt with swift slashing strikes of a lightsaber shoto.
- A Diamond in the Rough (+/-): Even as a clump of matter in a Spaarti cloning cylinder Phodrius was conditioned to act as a conduit of the dark side of the Force, but as his training was cut short very early in his life his control over it has become middling at best. He shows no particular aptitude towards any discipline, but rather a very firm grasp on the very basics of each.
- The Price of Failure (-): Everything is just business until it isn’t. Phodrius abhors failure, especially when it is brought by others and not himself. He is not above striking down those that have failed him repeatedly in fits of rage, nor hounding an enemy for days on end for brutal vindication. He is not quick to anger, but rather blinded by it.
- Iron Without (-): Phodrius’ cyborg physiology came at the cost of his natural one. He has a propensity for disease, which he combats through treatments that only ever manage to placate the symptoms, and a natural tendency to disregard these ailments as nothing more than slight nuisances no matter how dire they become. Replacements for sensors and prosthetics either damaged or worn by use come slow and costly, as many of his cybernetics are custom-made to work as a whole. There is, however, a truly crippling chink in Phordrius’ armor, a software node located to the right of his heart without which his metal body becomes inert and whose destruction would bring the swift collapse of his most essential organic systems.
Extensive augmentations, both cybernetic and organic, have left Phodrius' body a ruin held together by sheer force of will and a perilous inclination towards the dark side, nevertheless giving him the outward appearance of a powerful if grotesquely swollen fighter that is kept for as long as he is not stripped of his armor. He is more machine and vat-grown flesh than man, speckled with blotches of pale artificial skin under which faintly shines through the electricity of thousands of tiny wiry cables. Very little of Phodrius has not been in some way untampered, each and every of his body's own shortcomings was punished severely with enhancements and later outright replacements - for instance, his myopic eyes were replaced with a photoreceptive visor and audio sensors substituted his deafening ears.
Both for his long-term survival and the humiliation the mere sight of his scars and augmentations bring, Phodrius is never seen outside sets of armor that cover him in full, of which he has many. Ranging from fairly typical battle suits draped by flowing dark robes to more ceremonial and dramatic plates, their only constants are the predominance of reds and his helmet, to which he has grown attached to more literally than he would have liked. If one were to remove it, they’d see that Phodriu’s visage resembles more closely the utilitarian inner workings of a droid and not the contemplative and beautiful visage of an Arkanian his age.
BIOGRAPHY:
Too proud to let his mantle be taken by a lesser warrior, Darth Dollus followed in the footsteps of his Arkanian ancestors and from a scrap of his own flesh cultivated his true successor, Phodrius. Whether from the Darth's inexperience with cloning or his zealous use of Sith alchemy, the cell culture matured into a seemingly normal embryo, and then a fetus ripe with mutations unseen in Dollus or even the Arkanian people as a whole. A man of science, rather than a setback, Dollus saw in this a challenge, a call for his brilliance to again see through failure a success beyond what any would expect. Perhaps he was simply too proud to admit defeat. He bombarded Phodrius with radiation, conducted strange rituals upon his flourishing soul, saw to return the clone's genetic code to its original form. Dollus' failure was one marred with success, Phodrius came to be, but only barely, in nothing resembling his father-template.
Such a thorough corruption of the body was interpreted by Dollus a sign of favour by the dark side, although one he saw himself retooling more and more so Phodrius could accompany the growing demands of his training. The clone, now a boy, was gradually relegated to the position of 'prototype'. A mistake, perhaps, but one from which the Darth had learnt much, and would keep around as an ultimate challenge for his next, truer successor. He made sure to let Phodrius know this along with the implications that came with only being useful in death. Fearing for his life, perhaps even seeking approval, the boy conditioned himself to purge the weakness from his body through machinery, never relishing in the process but rather seeing it as his one true shot at life. His eyes became a visor and his ears sensors, new bones were cast from metal and processors were carved into his brain. Dollus took notice of this growing fear, manipulating his novice to see faults in himself that weren't there, to work on bettering them and eventually, hopeless, have them replaced with strange and innovative technology.
Victory became everything to Phodrius, as loss entailed a need for change, revolution. Epiphany only came when he was no longer a child - this change that was required of him need not come from within necessarily, other variables seemingly outside his control were not necessarily always so - Dollus had his death for certain, but what about his own? As the Darth meditated on the mysteries of the Force he felt a slight disturbance as a red tendril of energy cut through his neck, the silence of his chamber broken by the hissing of a lightwhip, his own. Phodrius took his master's weapon as a trophy, a reminder of the hardships he had gone through, of how he prevailed over adversity and grown stronger from it.
Phodrius had inherited Dollus' thirst for knowledge, but lacked any real grasp on the ways of the Galaxy. For a time he simply roamed the streets of Arkania, until his apparent brawn earned him the attention of a passing security contractor commander, who happened to be in need of entrepreneuring, capable, honest men. Being one of those three, Phodrius admitted that he did not rightly know just what a 'security contractor' was, and why would one be in the slums of Arkania's capital city. The jig was up, Captain Kyrlis did not lead a band of security contractors, or even mercenaries, but a pirate crew now decimated from a recent bar fight which could use someone as intimidating as the droid. Phodrius explained that he was no droid. A borg? He supposed so. The details of the contract were ironed out later, when the vagabond Sith's towering presence and lightwhip quieted down a second bar fight.
Life as pirate was different from that of a wanderer in the sense that there were more people out to get you. Police forces on the ground, fighter squads in the air and void, crewmates on the inside, and even the odd jedi or two before things even had the chance to quiet down. It was a life of risk, of scraps, and far too few credits for Phodrius to keep his cybernetics updated, much less stable. His growing need for spares went ignored by Krylis, who figured the growing malfunctions would make Phodrius fight that much harder. He was not wrong, as they docked on Kalidan and made their way to the nearest cantina the cyborg turned on his captain and the crew that accompanied them, murdering them while shouting accusations of torture, slavery and corrupting his inhibitor chip. All of them baseless, of course, but believable in court. Rather than facing execution for the slaughter of a dozen offworlders and disturbance of the peace, Phodrius was sent to jail, to live out the rest of his days until he breathed his last or snow froze his circuitry.
Neither happened, yet. Instead, the Sith was offered a very interesting proposition three months into his sentence. His midichlorian count was well beyond average, and the weapons taken from him were of clear Sith design, his cybernetics kept failing him, and the Empire had the means to keep them ticking. The pay was good and retirement was not impossible, and from what he could gather his duties would not be too demanding. Delivering caches? Gathering information? The work of an envoy sounded right up his alley. Still, Phodrius' loyalty was only ensured by one thing only, a kill switch welded just under his software node. Unsure what to think of the Empire's regimented way of being, where might makes right and mere survival proves strength, Phodrius nevertheless seeks freedom, or a promotion.
SHIP:
IST-210 “Dispatch” Light Freighter
KILLS:
None
BOUNTIES COLLECTED:
None
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