The Black Devil
Ajalurk-Chaidth Kryze
| Species | Human |
| Birthplace | Mandalore |
| Age | 20 |
| Gender | Male |
| Height | 5'10" |
| Weight | 185 lbs |
| Hair Color | Long Jet Black Hair w/ Red Highlight Streaks |
| Eye Color | Amber |
| Skin Color | White |
| Dis. Marks | Trifecta of Vertical Scars Over His Left Eye |
| Build | Muscular |
| Faction | Mandalorian Empire |
| Faction Rank / Affiliation | ? |
| Force Sensitive | No |
| Voice | ? |
| Writer |
Extinct
|
B I O G R A P H Y
Mandalore. The very word feels like grit on my tongue, iron, ash, and the ghosts of warriors who thought dying for banners would make them eternal. I was born there. Born into Clan Kryze, that proud, fractured name that once meant something when the wars still raged and honor still had teeth. My earliest memories are of the forge halls, the sound of hammers echoing like thunder under beskar domes, and the smell of burning oil that clung to everything, even the skin. My father, Varan Kryze, was a traditionalist, a hard man who believed the Creed was salvation. My mother, Seren, was softer in her manner but sharper in mind, an engineer who designed armor patterns that whispered of old artistry, not war.
They expected me to be a soldier, of course. Every Kryze child was. My training began before I could walk properly, stripped of hesitation, fear, and mercy. By the age of seven, I could assemble and fieldstrip a blaster faster than most adults. By twelve, I could duel and win. By fifteen, I had taken life, though not by choice. When I reached sixteen, my Verd'goten, the coming-of-age trial, was supposed to define me as a true Mandalorian. Instead, it shattered what little faith I had left. I was to duel my closest friend, Ralik, in ritual combat, to the death. He hesitated. I didn't. I killed him. My father praised me. My mother couldn't look at me. That night, I buried my armor plates in the red sands outside Sundari and left Mandalore behind.
The galaxy beyond was no kinder. I drifted from one world to another, Nar Shaddaa, Ord Mantell, Cantonica, learning to fight not for glory but for coin. I became muscle for smugglers, a gun for hire, a shadow with no clan sigil. I took a new name: Ajalurk-Chaidth Kryze. Ajalurk: the one who devours destiny. Chaidth: in the old tongue, "those who burn but do not die."
Now, I wander the galaxy not as a warrior of creed, but as a revenant of purpose. I walk the edges of the galaxy and beyond, through derelict moons and forgotten temples, through the smog-choked veins of Coruscant's underworld. Some call me bounty hunter. Some, mercenary. Some whisper murderer.
But truth is simpler, I am none of them. I am what remains when faith, tradition, and fear are burned away. I am the forge's echo made flesh. I am the Devil.
P E R S O N A L I T Y
Ah, to speak of myself is to unearth a grave, and I am the corpse within it, still whispering. You wish to know my nature? Very well. Let us peel back the layers of armor and shadow.
My temper is not the fire of youth nor the foolish rage of pride, it is volcanic stillness before eruption. Those who see me quiet mistake it for calm; they do not see the tremor beneath, the molten wrath coiled like a serpent around my heart. Anger to me is not emotion, it is memory. Every betrayal, every command barked in the name of tradition, every ghost I left behind on Mandalore's surface, all of it simmers there, a black sun I cannot extinguish. When it bursts, it is not shouting nor wildness, it is precision, it is annihilation. I do not rage. I erase.
As for trust…I have none to spare. It was torn from me long ago, piece by piece, until I learned that every hand extended in friendship was only measuring the best place to cut. I study faces as one studies traps, searching for the wire, the pressure point. Even with allies, my eyes never soften; I calculate, I weigh, I prepare for betrayal long before it breathes my name. I do not believe in loyalty, only usefulness. When that usefulness fades, so too does mercy.
Violence…ah, violence is my native tongue. It was the first language my father taught me, and the only one the galaxy ever truly understood. Yet mine is not the crude savagery of beasts; it is artistry. Every strike, every kill, every fracture of bone or burst of plasma is deliberate, symmetrical, elegant. There is a beauty in destruction when one commits to it fully. I have found serenity in carnage, as a sculptor finds divinity in marble.
Still, do not mistake me for brute. I am not mere fury; I am reason sharpened to a knife's edge. Intelligence has been my second weapon; colder, quieter. I read minds not through the Force, but through subtlety, the twitch of a hand, the rhythm of a lie. I understand systems, hierarchies, empires, and how to break them. My mind is a forge and thought itself is the hammer that never ceases its work.
And yet, the galaxy shifts, and so do I. Adaptability, it is the marrow of survival. I have been a soldier, mercenary, infiltrator, in this I find no shame; adaptability is not betrayal, but evolution. The weak call it deceit, the strong call it wisdom.
So what am I? A storm, perhaps, intelligent enough to know it brings ruin, yet unable to stop its own becoming. A construct of fury, discipline, and thought bound in human shape. A man who trusts no one, yet still yearns, foolishly, to be.
S K I L L S--&--A B I L I T I E S
Ranged Weapons
- Ah, the whisper of a rifle and snap of a pistol, my most faithful hymns. The first blaster I held was heavier than I, its barrel blackened with the ghosts of battles past. I learned early that distance kills more cleanly than closeness ever could. The art lies not in pulling the trigger, but in understanding the wind, the pulse, the hesitation before death. I have mastered rifles and pistols that sing in plasma and those that whisper in slugs; each one tuned to my breath, as if the weapon itself had learned to anticipate my hate. My aim is an act of worship, the silence after the shot, the falling of the body, the serenity in its stillness.
Hunting and Tracking
- To hunt is to listen to absence. I move through wastelands, through forests whose light never touches the ground, through cities where prey wears faces and titles. I follow trails not of footprints, but of intent, a broken twig, a shift in the dust, the faint tang of fear on the air. My Mandalorian blood taught me to stalk beasts for survival; the galaxy taught me to stalk men for purpose. There is poetry in pursuit, the rhythm of breath against shadow. When I track, the world narrows into a single line, me, the quarry, and the distance between us growing ever smaller.
Smithing Beskar Armor
- Ah, the forge. My truest cathedral. I have stood before the fires of Mandalore's deep halls where beskar bleeds white, its glow casting long ghosts upon the walls. Each plate I shape is a sermon in silence. I remember the old ways, the hammer's cadence, the cooling quench, the whispers etched into molten metal to bind spirit and steel. I craft not armor for protection, but for remembrance, every dent, every scar upon the surface a scripture of what it has endured. My armor breathes with me, hums with power, it is my second skin, my cage, my confession.
Smithing Ranged Weapons
- Weapons are not mere tools, they are extensions of thought. I forge rifles and pistols the way poets compose elegies. Each piece, the receiver, the trigger, the sight, is balanced with intention, each barrel tempered with both science and superstition. To wield my weapons is to bear something alive, something that remembers every shot it has ever fired.
Piloting
- In the cockpit, I find a strange kind of peace. The galaxy opens before me, endless, cold, and quiet. Ships obey me as beasts once obeyed their riders. I feel the hum of the thrusters as a heartbeat beneath my hands, the shiver of hyperspace as though the stars themselves draw breath. My reflexes are disciplined, my instincts old. I do not fly to escape; I fly to hunt, to stalk worlds the way predators stalk prey. And when battle comes, I dance through fire and debris with an almost meditative calm, a creature born of storm and silence.
Agriculture
- Strange, you might think, that one such as I would know the patience of soil. My mother taught me the cultivation of stubborn life, plants that refused to die no matter the poison in the air. There is a quiet nobility in tending life amid ruin, a reflection of the same stubbornness that drives me. When I bury seeds, I feel as though I bury pieces of myself, to test whether anything of me can grow again.
T H R E A D S
COMMUNITY
- Rogue Protocol
- A heist in a technology institute on the planet Echelon Prime.
- Children of the Same Fire
- Met a fellow Clan member.
- Tiny Umbrellas
- Gambling!
F A C T O R Y
- Moonshadow
- Personalized Slugthrower Scatter Gun
- Baradium-Phospha Slugs
- Personalized Slugs
- The Black Devil's Beskar'gam
- Personalized Beskar'gam
- Veritas et Ilustitia
- Personalized Dual Revolvers
- Widowmaker
- Personalized Sniper Rifle
- CORIUS
- Personal Mechanical & Engineering Droid
- TERA
- Personal Protocol Droid
- The Black Revenant
- Personal Ship
- Lullabies
- Personal Grenades
C O D E X
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