Shakhad Shahmo
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Shakhad Shahmo
SPECIES: Sandperson/Tuskan
AGE: 23
SEX: Male
HEIGHT: 5'11
WEIGHT: 125lbs
EYES: Dull-yellow [Rarely, if ever, seen]
HAIR: N/A
FORCE SENSITIVE: YES [UNAWAKENED]
STRENGTHS: - BRAVE
- DETERMINED
- LOYAL
- ASSERTIVE
WEAKNESSES:
- ARROGANT
- VENGEFUL
- SADISTIC
- GREEDY
APPEARANCE:
Ever-swaddled beneath the rugged traditional wrappings of his Clan, Shakhad is never seen without his dune-raider attire, wearing it proudly for all to see so that they might know of his warrior heritage. This consists of thick bantha garments including a layered headwrap, wool tunic, hooded poncho, a pair of criss-crossing bandoliers, gauntlets, trousers and fur-lined boots as well as of course a pair of tinted goggles and a face grille to retain moisture. The textile of these articles has been carefully woven with stylised imagrey telling of his Clan's history: the beasts they have slain, the raids they fought and their ancestral ties to the desert all laid bare for onlookers to marvel at. In some areas these designs have been mixed with the scavenged teeth, claws and trims of hide to show, rather then tell, of his proficenes as a hunter.
BIOGRAPHY:
Shakhad knew naught but dust and blood from the day of his birth. Born amidst the harsh, searing dunes of Tatooine to the prestigious Shahmo Clan, an enclave of around 30 native Tuskans renowned amongst the tribes of the blasted wastes for their proficency as warriors & hired muscle for whatever cause they deemed noble, and lucrative enough, to recive their aid he was destined, chained, to a life of bloodshed. Spared the harsh reality for of battle for but a few fleeting years of his life to aid his mother in gathering Black Melon & weaving textile, it was not long before his father and the other men of the Clan deemed it time to prepare him for the rituals of manhood. Attaining such status only came the slaughter of land's greatest beasts, the abominable Kyrat. To ensure his son would not fall victim to the beast's jaws he set him to sparring daily, assigned to him only the roughest of labour and bode him to accompany the men on each hunt and raid he could. The great ceremony was a matter of not only tradition, life and death, but honour-- perhaps this above all else. Should Shakhad have failed the trail, either the beast would slaughter him or his own father would. Suffering such a disgrace to live would have only bought taint and weakness to the Shahmo, forever sullying their name. He did well to remind his son of this each day, both by word and fist whenever he failed his training.
Thus it was that by the time of the ceremony Shakhad had been moulded by both the cruelty of the land and his patriarch into a steely fighter well-attuned to not only the ways of battle and the hunt, but more importantly the land. Though even with such knowledge and skill the task that laid ahead was one of utter peril. The exact creature he sought to kill, a Kyrat of the Canyons, had already taken many over-zealous Tusken seeking to prove their worth and though he knew how to track, trap and slaughter most any beast (or wayward traveller) that graced the dunes these beasts were of another breed. Well-gorged on the flesh of his people, they had developed a taste, even a craving according to legend, for their kind. And so when he entered those bone-strewn crags the beast was already on him, prepared to leap from the shadows and tear him asunder... But something, warned him. Some unkown sixth sense flared into action, it spoke to him of the death lurking in the dark. Then just like that he turned, as the creature was about to pounce, that same sense guided his trigger finger to dispacth the beast with but a shot from his cycle rifle-- in one well-placed shot through one eye but still it fought. It knocked him to the earth and ragged him across the rugged ground, throwing the rifle from his grasp.
Then the otherworldly sensation grew stronger still. It boiled up inside of him like magma-- a type of anger he did not know he even possed --and it errupted fourth in an enraged, primal shriek. Just like that he saw the great beast crumple before him, its bones somehow spontaneously splintering in on themselves and bringing it to its knees. Crippled, in the throws of shock and leaking torrents of blood across the stony sand, all it took to finish the monster then was a series of vicious strikes to from his gaderffii. When the strange feeling subsided and the mangled kill along with its sacred pearl laid before him he found himself disturbed by what he had seen, by what he belived he had done. Even after many nights of contemplation he could only assume such a divine victory had been ferried to him with the assistence of the Spirits his elders had spoken of. Though weather they were valiant or vengeful in nature, he could not know.
It was years later, long after his acension to manhood, that the spirits spoke to him again. It was when they had came, those who called themselves the 'slavers'. An unnatural breed of creature who desired to see his entire clan broken, along with all others in his homeland, and have them bound or put to the slaughter. When taken, they sought to break the wills and dreams of their victims and leave them naught but deprived machines bound to the desires of a so-called 'master'. The notion disgusted him, that any intended to inflict such a dishonour among his kind was sheer anathema. So when the Shahmo banner had been mustered in the face of such an insult, he carried it into battle alongside his father and fellow fighters as they set out to slay them all. Yet the result of such ignoble courage yeilded naught but massacre. Their opponents, far more numerous and far better-armed-- even possesing some form of winged metal beast that vomited killing-light --killed almost all their number in a brutally fast skirmish.
There, as he saw his brothers in battle and eventually even his own father killed, he had launched into a state of sheer, berserk fury like he had all those years ago. Only this time more violently, moving with pace unmatched as he weaved his way through the opposition, using nigh-impossible speed to club his adversaries to death. The butchery felt all too natural, too smooth. The way he glided from corpse to corpse, losing his gaderffii in the mix only to seemlessly switch to the weapon of another. The Shahmo survivors that remained looked on with shock, beliving in that instant the land itself was compelling Shakhad to strike down their foes. But just when the battle seemed over and done, he found himself overwhelmed and outnumbered. After sustaining several blaster wounds he fell, able to fight no longer, and awoke next bound in bandages alongside what remained of his kin.
The slavers ferried them off to some world beyond his, where the Shahmo clan was forever fragmented-- its members sold off to new buyers in far-off regions of the cosmos, until he himself arrived on a distant rock. Its name unknown to him, its ways unknown to him, its cruel people unknown to him. Left with nothing but a burning desire for vengence against his so-called masters, the Tuskan shall see to it that they will know the fate of his people. Mercilessly dissoluted, until none remain.
KILLS:
- Various species of Tatooine wildlife
- A few nameless nobodies in his homeland, their forgotten carcasses long scraped clean by carrion-feeders.
BOUNTIES COLLECTED:
Post the names of any bounties you have delivered and the amount of money you gained for it. If possible, include a link to the thread in which it happened.
PILLAGE:
- None. They took it from him, all of it.
TROPHIES:
- A talisman wrought of ship cabling adorned with the teeth & pearl of a Kyrat dragon. A treasure from his youth, belived to bestow strength and mark one's transition to manhood, hidden from his captors.
ROLE-PLAYS:
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