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Devorah Khaladan

Devorah Khaladan


NAME: Devorah Verd Khaladan
RANK: Force Master
SPECIES: Half-Human, Half-Umbaran
AGE: 28
SEX: Female
HEIGHT: 5' 3"
WEIGHT: 110 pounds
EYES: Chestnut
HAIR: Cinnamon
SKIN: Pale


...not just a pretty face...
I'm so much smarter than people give me credit for. They take one look at my face and my figure and assume I'm only good for one thing. Which is true, if you ask my husband. But even he doesn't know about the flimsis and datapads I hoard in a secret stash, reading to my heart's content when he's not at home.
...I'm still standing...
I'm not dead yet. Apparently I've been gifted with an excellent constitution and great resiliency. Much like that holo-commercial, I take a licking and keep on ticking.
...pain means nothing...
I have an incredibly high pain threshhold. It far surpasses most sentients', as far as I know. But you learn to keep your mouth shut and simply deal with it when your life depends on it. Amazing what you can endure when you want to live.
...don't remind me about my past...
Please don't remind me about where I come from...it hurts too much and has a tendency to mire me in some very bad memories. You would have nightmares too, if you had lived my life.
...everyone's out to get you...
Just because you don't see the enemy, doesn't mean they aren't there. I trust no one, I never have. It's no way to live, trust me.
Devorah stands a petite five feet, three inches tall, with a cascade of cinnamon colored hair that falls to her waist in gentle waves. She has a simple black line tattoo on the back of her neck, a single piercing in each earlobe, and dresses in tightly-fitted, well-tailored clothing.​
I was born...well, I'm not sure to whom, but I know I'm twenty one years old. I have only the vaguest impressions of memories left by my father, and only marginally better ones of my mother. Both of them abandoned me before I turned four years old. As such, I was left to the mercies of the streets on Coruscant. I use the term mercies loosely...gods know they showed me none.
I was a street rat, scrounging for a few credits or a bite to eat. Never had any help or any handouts. Things like that were like the sun on Coruscant...they didn't reach the real street level. Not going to torture you with too many details. Suffice it to say my life was poodoo up until I turned sixteen. Then it got worse.
By then I was working as a dealer in a grubby little casino called the Spicer's Loft. I was good...and I kept the house on the winning side when I was at the tables. That's because I could count cards and do sleight-of-hand tricks like it was nobody's business. Bosses loved me, patrons hated me, and life was at least tolerable for a time. But that's when I met Rhys Sains'Cyr. My gods, I'd never seen a man like that on the street before, but there he was standing at the end of my pazaak table. All six feet four inches of a lean, muscled physique. It was love at first sight, and he was the perfect gentleman at first. Made me feel amazing for the first time in my life. I was hooked...and I didn't see the warning signs until it was way too late.
We were married after only a few months of dating, because I ended up pregnant. He claimed he wanted to do the right thing...give the baby what neither one of us had had in our own childhoods. I thought it was the most amazing thing he could have said. The first time he hit me was the morning after our wedding. Huddled on the bathroom floor after throwing up for hours, I was being too loud and disturbing his rest. It was my first black eye and bloody nose.
He always told me he loved me. Always sighed and said he wished he didn't have to hit me. That if I'd only learn, he wouldn't have to. He was just trying to make me better. I wasn't very good at being a wife. Or a lover. You want to know about the baby? I miscarried the day he threw me down the stairs. His stimcaf wasn't hot enough, and even though I apologized and made him another one, it didn't help. It would have been a son.
Been that way for five years now. I'm still trying to be better, for him, but it doesn't work very well. I don't even work anymore because he can't trust me to behave myself. It's okay, though. I'll get it some day.
Amazing how many changes can be wrought in a life in the span of a few short months. I have a family, such as it is. Apparently, my father couldn't keep it in his pants. Isley tells me there are a number of Verd siblings scattered throughout the galaxy, some few of us have gathered together within the Confederacy at Isley's side as he is the eldest of us. I have nieces and nephews and cousins and siblings...its so difficult to think that six months ago I was alone and almost dead. Had Isley not found me that night on Coruscant, I would be dead by now.
But I am still alive. That is what matters.
Now we come to Isley, though...my brother...my teacher...my...well. He is nearly the entirety of my world right now. It's not right...I know it isn't. But the whispers be damned, I can't help myself. Neither one of us can. Blame the darkness, blame the Force, blame whatever you wish. There is no excuse.
I have amidst everything, discovered an affinity for alchemy, an art I knew nothing of before I arrived within the Confederacy. It is...it feels as if my soul has finally shaken itself free of its shackles when I am within the Forge. It is the one place I can take comfort and solace, and be truly alone, for no one but Isley ventures there, and even he does not do so often. It is my refuge.
I could not have been more wrong about him. About everything.
I have left the Confederacy. Left Isley. Left the family I had found. And for what?
The Force. It guided me. To Manaan. To the Republic. To a Jedi Knight named Michael, who has taken me under his wing.
More soon...I cannot yet wrap my mind on all that has transpired.

Michael has gone missing. In the very nascent stage of my training with him, he has disappeared. It is possible, I think, that he was sent away on a mission that I was simply not aware of. It is ever the Council's way, to do as the Force and the situation bids them to do. It is not my place to need to know, it is only my place to obey.
A difficult thought in these troubled times, but a necessary one. I have no doubt that Michael will return. But the Force moves in strange ways I can not yet comprehend, and the more I search for him through its' ether, the more I am concerned with what I will eventually find.
In the midst of the chaos, the near-constant skirmishes and war on fronts too numerous to count, the Force has seen fit to grant me a bit of happiness. A visit to Kuat, in order that I may pick out a ship of my own as I learn to pilot craft of all manner of construction, proved to be more than a simple journey. Something guided me through that bustling structure, drew me through the crowds, and bid me to stop in front of a table with a lone occupant. A Mandalorian. Who reminded me in the span of a meal that I, too, was of Mandalore, with a heart still beating in my chest and a spirit only just beginning to awaken.
My first journey to Yaim was not for the reasons I would have wished. I went, simply to be at Azrael's side for Gilamar's funeral. The grief at his passing was palpable and almost painful to my senses, but I bore it quietly...what was a little mental discomfort compared to the losses endure on Teta and the events that had led up to that monumental event?
My second journey was to stand witness in the Great Hall as the new Mand'alor was chosen. I watched as our fractured people laid down the challenges to choose our next leader, and saw those in the crowd that saw fit to squabble amongst themselves. On such an august occasion, some form of decorum should have prevailed, but for a culture like ours, I suppose any decorum is far too boring to endure for very long.
Azrael and I meet on Lianna, when our schedules and duties permit us to. Where we can briefly set aside the mantles of Mand'alor and Jetii, and simply be ourselves.
Devorah carries a simple lightsaber, comprised of a utilitarian hilt with a pale blue blade, given to her by Michael at the beginning of her training. She has yet to construct her own personal blade.​
None yet beyond the basics.​

Devorah's personal ship is a Dynamic-class freighter she calls Jate'kara. Made with modern parts according to the original specs, it was originally meant to be a collector's item, but it's creator was forced to sell the craft to pay a debt. Devorah purchased it at the Kuat Drive Yards shortly before it was due to be scrapped.​

Devorah Khaladan

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Evasion Studios
Another Verd. You people are taking over the Galaxy. Well done though, if I had to pick a family to run it, this family has my respect. I'd be interested in threading with you. I've got a friend of the family in the mix.