B o g a n s B o o n
Adilya Solveig | Lady Miramei ~ The Dark Flame
| Age | 18 |
| Species | Echani |
| Gender | Female |
| Height | 5'8" |
| Weight | 150 LBS |
| Force Sensitive | Yes | Dark Side |
PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION
"The Jedi saw a wounded child and chose to walk away. Bogan saw a storm in the making… and taught it how to burn."
I. When She Is Still – The Vessel of Silence
She walks like smoke through the ruin of who she used to be.
There is a terrible grace to Adilya Solveig in stillness, as if the universe itself has to strain to hear what lies beneath her silence. Her steps are measured. Her breaths shallow, but intentional. She gives the impression of someone who does not move, but endures. Someone who does not exist to be seen—but to witness.
Her skin is pale, untouched by sun or softness, marred by healed-over ridges of past agony—battle wounds, burns, slicing lacerations down her side from the siege that left her blind. A twisted gift from a galaxy that turned its face when she cried for help. Her eyes, once bright, are long gone. In their place: a black silk blindfold etched with spiraling crimson runes. It is both a ward and a wound—a reminder of how she was failed… and what she has become since.
Her hair—ashen white like a field of frost after fire—spills over her shoulders, whispering against the long, ceremonial wrappings she wears instead of armor. The color makes her seem ghostly, more myth than woman. But there is nothing frail about her. Her posture is immaculate. Her voice, when she chooses to speak, is quiet, unwavering, liturgical. As though everything she says is recited from ancient scripture.
And in many ways, it is.
She believes now only in Bogan—the Dark. She worships not chaos, but vengeance, not power, but cleansing purpose. She kneels in darkened temples, made from her own exile and agony, and speaks her prayers like poems cut from ash and bone.
When she prays, her lips barely move.
But the shadows always listen.
II. When She Burns – The Living Wrath of Bogan
But stillness does not last.
When Adilya invokes the Dark Flame, she does not transform—she reveals.
What dwells beneath the vessel is not fury without control. It is liturgy sharpened into violence. The Dark answers her not with whispers, but with fire—drawn not from hate, but clarity. She is no longer blind when the Flame awakens. She sees through it, in ways the Jedi never could.
Cracks blaze across her skin like glowing veins—arcane fissures forged through rites of devotion. From her throat to her fingers, molten light pulses like a forge mid-hammerstrike. The glow is not comforting. It is condemning. Her body is a reliquary of divine fury. Her bones hum with raw invocation, each step leaving behind heat-scorched sigils.
Her voice is no longer quiet. It booms, yet never shouts—like a sermon echoing from the depths of a volcano.
The blindfold ignites with her. Ancient Sith script illuminates in cursed reds and orange-gold, forming the mark of Typhogem—the Left-Handed God, embodiment of divine wrath. To gaze upon her in this state is to behold something that should not be… and know that it has judged you.
Her hair dances like trailing embers caught in windless flame. Her hands stretch outward, and from her palms bloom gouts of blackened fire tinged violet—cleansing and consuming. The fire of the Dark Flame is not wild; it is ceremonial. It marks heretics. It punishes false lights. It spares no one unworthy of her gods.
In this state, she becomes the answer the Jedi failed to give her.
Not peace. Not healing.
But reckoning.
"They said I was too far gone. They let me bleed in silence. But darkness does not flinch at broken things. It does not ask who you were. It simply becomes what you need. I prayed for a savior. And Bogan made me one."
PERSONALITY AND BELIEFS
"I am not angry because I was broken. I am angry because they called it mercy."
Adilya does not burn all the time.
She is not fury incarnate, not some raving zealot lost to madness. Her wrath, like her faith, is disciplined. She is cold before she is hot, still before she is storm. To look at her is to feel something unsettling—a stillness too perfect, too measured, as though she has already rehearsed every moment of the conversation you haven't yet started.
She speaks in slow, deliberate cadence. Not out of arrogance—but because every word is intentional. She listens more than she speaks. And when she listens, she dissects. She memorizes. There's no such thing as a casual exchange with Adilya. There is always purpose behind the quiet.
Her faith defines her. But it is not fanaticism—it is structure, discipline, and cleansing fire. She believes in Bogan the way a monk believes in balance, a swordsmith in the furnace. Bogan is not chaos to her—it is order born from destruction, the only thing in a galaxy of lies that has never abandoned her.
Her loyalty to that belief is absolute.
She has no tolerance for false compassion or half-measures. Mercy, to her, is what cowards offer when they lack conviction. She does not kill out of bloodlust—she kills as a priestess purifies an altar. Calmly. Cleanly. She does not delight in pain, but she believes in it—because pain is honest, and honesty is holy.
Adilya hates the Jedi—but not in a childish, angry way. Her hatred is surgical. She was left to die by their so-called mercy. They looked at her and saw someone not worth saving. And that—that—is what seeded the forest fire in her chest. Not just the act, but the judgment behind it.
She despises hypocrisy. The Jedi who preach serenity but act out of fear. The Sith who wear darkness like ornament rather than sacrament. She is unimpressed by cruelty for cruelty's sake. She would flay a heretic with holy fire, but would consider it wasteful to gloat.
To those who serve her gods in kind, she is a figure of terrible respect. She will not comfort you with softness, but she will walk through hell beside you if you prove worthy. Her affection is not warm—it is earnest, unyielding, and impossibly rare. And when she gives it, it is forever.
But beneath all of this—beneath the discipline, the fire, the ceremonial wrath—there is a wound that never healed.
She was that child, once. Bleeding out in the ruins of her world, crying for someone to come. She remembers what it was to believe in the Light. To believe in the mercy of heroes. And she remembers, too, the moment that mercy looked at her, and turned away.
Her entire being was born in that silence.
And so she made a vow:
Never again would she beg to be seen.
She would become the answer she never received.
She exists as fury sculpted into purpose.
She lives as proof that the dark does not forsake its own.
She burns—because someone must.
STRENGTHS AND WEAKNESSES
STRENGTHS
Each of her strengths is not merely skill—it is a doctrine. A truth forged in pain and ritual.
1. Fervent Willpower
2. Dark Communion / Mysticism
3. Pyrokinetic Mastery – The Black Flame
4. Pain Tolerance / Endurance
5. Fearless Presence / Charisma of Belief
6. Anti-Hypocrisy Doctrine
WEAKNESSES
Her strengths are absolute—but that very absoluteness leaves her exposed.
️ 1. Unyielding Fanaticism
️ 2. Emotional Isolation
️ 3. Blindness (Physical)
️ 4. Holy Arrogance
️ 5. Unchecked Wrath
️ 6. Vulnerability to True Light
COMBAT STYLE
Primary Combat Form – A Hybrid of Ataru & Tràkata (Enhanced by Pyrokinesis)
⟢ Ataru (Form IV):
⟢ Tràkata (The Way of the Hidden Blade):
Pyrokinetic Integration – The Black Flame
Her unique power lies in her command of Dark Flame—not raw pyrokinesis, but a Force-born flame that clings, judges, and reveals.
- Ignition of Ash: She can coat her blade or hands in black fire that consumes Force energy or illusions.
- Rites of Burning: She may chant or whisper invocations mid-battle, bolstering her fire or causing it to flare with emotional resonance.
- Scorchfield Pulse: When pressed or surrounded, she may erupt in a violent burst of heat and pressure, burning through weapons and searing skin.
The longer the fight, the hotter her presence becomes. Prolonged combat risks setting the very ground around her alight—turning battlefields into infernos.
Tactical Traits – Strengths in Combat
- Spiritual Immunity: Mental attacks often fail. Her religious conviction gives her near-impervious mental fortitude.
- Fearless Advance: She walks into danger as though she is being summoned by it.
- Unseen Sight: Though blind, her Force perception is hyper-focused. She does not fight like someone with eyes—she fights like someone with clarity.
Combat Weaknesses
- Overextension: Her style is aggressive. If you weather the flame or force her into long attrition, she tires slowly but surely.
- Vulnerability to Cold/Disruption: Opponents who suppress the Force or use ice/frost abilities can blunt her fire and break her rhythm.
- Devotional Blindness: If her opponent quotes scripture or genuinely challenges her dogma mid-combat, it may trigger hesitation—brief, but exploitable.
The Rite of the Living Pyre
"There is no victory in the pyre. Only truth. Only flame."
Origin & Doctrine
The Rite is a sacramental act in Adilya's dark faith—invoked only in moments of ultimate desecration, profound betrayal, or divine ecstasy through suffering. She does not perform it casually, and it is not strategic. It is devotional. Fanatical. An offering of self.
It represents total communion with Bogan and Typhogem—the Dark and the Left-Handed God. Her pain becomes prayer. Her body becomes a candle. And her fury becomes anointed fire.
Activation & Signs
The transformation is both ritualistic and psychological:
- Whispers begin—subtle murmurs only the Force-sensitive can detect, as though ancient tongues are speaking through her skin.
- Her body heats unnaturally—steam rising off flesh, metal warping near her, lights dimming around her as the Dark gathers.
- Her lightsaber extinguishes—and reignites as black flame. No longer plasma, but Force-born fire shaped by devotion.
- Ash falls around her—even where none existed, conjured from air, memory, and bone.
- Her blindfold may be removed—revealing her scorched, milk-white eyes. She doesn't need them. The gods see through her now.
Physical & Force Effects
- Temperature Field: The space around her becomes oppressive, suffocating. Electronics flicker. Air is hard to breathe. Enemies feel as if their skin is drying, cracking.
- Pain Transmutation: She becomes immune to most pain. The more wounded she is, the hotter and faster she moves. Suffering strengthens the rite. Blood becomes fuel.
- Dark Flame Manifestation:
- Fleshfire: Her fire does not simply burn—it clings, whispers, judges. It devours Force shields and metaphysical barriers.
- Voice of Ash: Her words carry unnatural gravity, disrupting concentration. When she speaks, it echoes with multiple voices.
- Hellpulse: A Force-powered eruption that surges outward in a ring of black fire and kinetic pressure. Once per Rite.
- Relentless Advance: She does not dodge. She walks. Her strikes are simple, elegant, unyielding. Precision born from prophecy.
Mindset & Behavior
In this state, Adilya is not entirely herself. She becomes something akin to a dark messiah—her speech elevated to sermon, her fury controlled, almost tender. She does not scream. She weeps flame. She whispers the names of the unworthy as she purifies them.
Enemies often feel like she's already seen their death. That it's already written.
Aftermath
The Rite always leaves a scar—physically, spiritually, emotionally. It drains her utterly. Her skin may blister. Her body may seize. She will collapse after prolonged use, often requiring hours—if not days—of meditation and isolation to recover. Her voice may fail. Her eyes may weep blood.
The gods demand payment for their fire.
HISTORY
The Gospel of the Flame
Chapter I — The Child Who Wasn't Saved
"He named me a weapon to be used. I became a fire that could not be held."
Before she was Adilya Solveig, she had another name. One too soft for the world she was born into. A world of broken towers and blackened fields. A world ravaged by war—not for glory, but for survival. Her people had no empire. No cause. Only ashes left by other people's crusades.
When the orbital bombardments came, they did not discriminate. Cities collapsed like bone under boot. Her family was lost in fire. She was pulled from the ruins days later, blinded, small hands scraped raw from digging toward voices that had already gone silent.
And when the ships landed—they were not saviors. The Jedi came too late. Too late to save her home. Too late to save her sight. But not too late to look at her… and turn away.
"She will not survive," they said.
"She cannot be trained," they said.
"She is too far gone."
But one stayed behind.
A man cloaked in silence and discipline. His name was Master Seryth Vano—a Jedi who had once strayed from the Temple, following whispers of balance found not in denial, but in embrace. He called her "child," but never once told her she would be safe. He offered her not comfort, but control. It was not kindness that made him stay—it was curiosity. He saw her fury. Her pain. Her still-burning pulse.
And he took her.
Training Under the Shadow of Vano
Master Vano did not train her like a Jedi, nor like a Sith. His was a school of restraint as weapon. The lessons were brutal. With no sight, Adilya was forced to hear every shift in his stance, to feel the room, to fight through sweat and weakness and screams. He withheld food. Withheld warmth. The pain was her tutor. The blade her prayer.
He called her a vessel. "You are to be emptied," he said. "Then filled. Then emptied again." He taught her Bogan like a discipline—not indulgence. "Fury is not fire until you give it shape." She learned to burn without losing control. To strike without screaming. She could sense lies in breath, shame in heartbeat, anger in stillness. Vano carved the Jedi Code in her flesh—and then taught her how to kill it.
But even then, she knew something was wrong. His sermons grew uncertain. His guidance hollow. He claimed serenity—but she could feel fear in his hands. He feared her. Not because she was failing—but because she was becoming more than he could control.
He preached harmony… and flinched when her fire burned brighter than his.
He was a heretic.
The Murder of Vano
She did not murder him in rage. No—she waited. Listened. Watched him flinch one too many times when she prayed to Bogan with devotion. Watched him recoil when she called the flame to her palms without pain. Watched him whisper doubts when she spoke of the Left-Handed God, Typhogem, whose dreams she saw behind closed eyes.
He told her she was falling. She told him, "You never stood."
The final lesson came in the silence of the temple ruins where he tried to unmake her again. He drew his blade—not out of justice, but fear. He struck with desperation, calling on a Code he no longer believed.
She did not scream. She let him come.
And she set him ablaze.
No gloating. No insult. Only prayer. She whispered his name to Bogan, offered his body in cleansing flame.
Her voice did not tremble. Her eyes, still sightless, wept black tears.
Not for the man. But for the lie he embodied.
Chapter II — The Wandering Flame
"I was never lost. I was being drawn—like fire to a wick, like blood to an altar."
After the death of Seryth Vano, Adilya did not flee. She walked. Slowly.
She moved across worlds like smoke through cracks—silent, uninvited, impossible to contain. She did not declare herself. She did not seek armies or acclaim. Where she was needed, the flame would rise.
Her wanderings were not aimless. They were pilgrimage.
On ruined moons and forgotten battlefields, she knelt in the ashes of the slain and listened. Beneath old temples, deep in tombs where the Force whispered like breath against skin, she gave blood and voice to the Left-Handed God, Typhogem. She carved her rites into the stones. She offered her fire to Bogan. And when she was finished—something always happened.
A warlord would vanish in the night.
A Sith acolyte found burned in his sleep—body intact, mind turned to charred glass.
Jedi strongholds razed not by legions, but something unseen, something precise.
Wherever the Dark Flame passed, no banner remained untested. No oath unburned.
Chapter II — Darkness Calls to Darkness
In process.
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