Emryc
Tooth & Nail
NAME: EMRYC (Ruen Thiir)
Aliases: “Rue,” “Rueni,” “Renni,” “Qosta” to those of his clan.
FACTION: N/A
RANK: Knight
SPECIES: Firrerreo
AGE: Young Adult
SEX: Male
HEIGHT: 6’2’’ (1.87m)
WEIGHT: 210lbs
EYES: Gray-Blue
HAIR: Black with a growing section of white along the forehead.
SKIN: Pale golden
FORCE SENSITIVE: Mebbe.
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STRENGTHS AND WEAKNESSES (Required: 2 Weaknesses Minimum) :
Inherent to the species: highly advanced healing capabilities, nictitating eye membranes, ability to see into the ultraviolet spectrum, highly developed canine teeth, and greater than human strength.
Uh, ...to be continued.
APPEARANCE:
Tall, wiry, and a bit on the unkempt side. Ruen has been described as a lamp post with a jacket and a flock of seagulls haircut. He’d be a handsome fellow if he weren’t so stringy, though many blame it on young-adulthood growth spurts. There’s not a lot of fill to his figure - almost as if his skeleton simply outgrew his body, leaving his skin pulled taught. He’s all bone and rock-solid sinew. Blue eyes might’ve been marvelous were it not for the hardships of his childhood that sunk them in and darkened them. A mouth may have presented a smile if he didn’t hate so much. It’s said the lines of his brow are permanently etched there for all the paranoia he’s rightfully developed. Knuckles are often white with scars from a life spent in a constant state of proving oneself worthy only to get beaten to the bottom of the barrel again.
He’s not without a measured stare or a twitch of emotion from time to time. Despite the husk of a kid that grew up simply in the wrong place, there’s a bit of humanity buried deep down. Though it makes attempts to surface, it’s often hidden behind the smoke of a cigarette or the harsh words of one who can’t afford to appear weak. He’s a young man coming into his prime, the hard edges of his silhouette chiseled and beaten into place through years of debauchery and criminal activities just to stay afloat.
BIOGRAPHY:
Homeworld: Nadir
Parents: Lenda Thiir [mother] and Beirric Arrion [Father]
Siblings: Many unknowns
Clan: Qosta
“Listen kid, you can’t take these things personally. Here? Nothing’s personal, it’s just good business, and right now you’re bad for business. Your mother’s a train wreck of a schutta and I’m just a guy who spends too much time away from his real family to bring in the dough. Sidepieces are trouble kid, keep that in mind. Look at me, you little whelp, I’m doing this for your own good. Don’t flinch this time and don’t ever call me father again.”
It started when he was 8 and it never stopped. A constant diet of hatred and blame fed between fists to the face will turn even the scrawniest of whelps into granite. Emotionally, physically, spiritually. After a few years you don’t really believe in any kind of higher power other than the guy standing over your bloodied, broken form. The problem is every time you get there, wishing it’d be the last blackout, you always wake up. Alleyways never get any warmer to wake up in, but eventually you wind up in the right one.
“I know you’re Arrion’s, but don’t think that name does you any favors. It’s not your name anymore. It’s my name. Arrion is an expensive name, too high-brow for a pleb like you. Plebs get trash. You get leftovers. You get the names nobody gives a shiit about. You … your name is Emryc, now. Hear me? What’s your name?”
Everyone always hates the name they’re given. This one doesn’t mean anything at all, which was better than Ruen could say for some of the other plebs he arrived with. One of the others got a name that was the equivalent to the poodooter in some foreign language. Emryc was nothing. Meant nothing. Maybe he meant it literally because he liked to call Ruen the very same. But everything and everyone starts from nothing. Nothing he could work with. Easier to work with nothing than a fething toilet.
“You’re a Qosta grunt now, and grunts do everything and say nothing. If I tell you to shoot a fether in the foot, you shoot a fether in the foot. If I tell you to punch your grunt brother in the face, you punch him in that fat fething face. If you can manage to do what you’re told long enough without fething it up I might let you start earning in. And then you might actually be somebody. Who are you, Nothing?”
Archon wasn’t actually the guy in charge but he was second in command and that pretty much made him the guy in charge. No one ever saw Qosta, the real Qosta, the guy the entire clan was named for. He was always back in his office or shadowed out to his speeder or off at some meeting or party. Important guy, that Qosta. Really respected around this part of Nadir. Nobody fethed with him, and when somebody did you never heard from them again. The Maw took care of them - that’s what earning in got you, some stupid title with a lot of clout behind it. Oh, and the name Qosta, and a bed to sleep in at night, and food to eat, and security of the clan… fething right, it was tooth and nail between the grunts to earn in.
“This is it, isn’t it? This is what we need to earn in. Archon can’t turn us away this time, this is serious shiit. We’ll be Qostas, real Qostas and won’t nobody mess with us. Daskin Qosta has a nice ring to it, I think I’ll get it engraved on my first blaster. Alright, let’s split it up here before we go….the feth you think you’re doing Emryc? We were supposed to split the shipment - that was the deal. Give me my half! What are you doing…? Emryc….!”
No such thing as friendships within the grunts. Every scrap is life or death. Sure, it’s easier to hunt in the pack, but when earning in is on the line you can bet they’ll swipe every ounce of credit they can get for themselves. Ruen was no different. He’d already been that guy. He’d already been burned. Twice. Six years as a grunt does things to you, makes you desperate, makes you mean. This other grunt had been around for a while, but not as long as Ruen. He still trusted and that was his own damn problem. Maybe running him down with the speeder had been a bit much but Ruen was far too high on adrenaline to really feel that twinge of guilt.
Maybe he would later.
Not likely.
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ROLE-PLAYS:
Aliases: “Rue,” “Rueni,” “Renni,” “Qosta” to those of his clan.
FACTION: N/A
RANK: Knight
SPECIES: Firrerreo
AGE: Young Adult
SEX: Male
HEIGHT: 6’2’’ (1.87m)
WEIGHT: 210lbs
EYES: Gray-Blue
HAIR: Black with a growing section of white along the forehead.
SKIN: Pale golden
FORCE SENSITIVE: Mebbe.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
STRENGTHS AND WEAKNESSES (Required: 2 Weaknesses Minimum) :
Inherent to the species: highly advanced healing capabilities, nictitating eye membranes, ability to see into the ultraviolet spectrum, highly developed canine teeth, and greater than human strength.
Uh, ...to be continued.
APPEARANCE:
Tall, wiry, and a bit on the unkempt side. Ruen has been described as a lamp post with a jacket and a flock of seagulls haircut. He’d be a handsome fellow if he weren’t so stringy, though many blame it on young-adulthood growth spurts. There’s not a lot of fill to his figure - almost as if his skeleton simply outgrew his body, leaving his skin pulled taught. He’s all bone and rock-solid sinew. Blue eyes might’ve been marvelous were it not for the hardships of his childhood that sunk them in and darkened them. A mouth may have presented a smile if he didn’t hate so much. It’s said the lines of his brow are permanently etched there for all the paranoia he’s rightfully developed. Knuckles are often white with scars from a life spent in a constant state of proving oneself worthy only to get beaten to the bottom of the barrel again.
He’s not without a measured stare or a twitch of emotion from time to time. Despite the husk of a kid that grew up simply in the wrong place, there’s a bit of humanity buried deep down. Though it makes attempts to surface, it’s often hidden behind the smoke of a cigarette or the harsh words of one who can’t afford to appear weak. He’s a young man coming into his prime, the hard edges of his silhouette chiseled and beaten into place through years of debauchery and criminal activities just to stay afloat.
BIOGRAPHY:
Homeworld: Nadir
Parents: Lenda Thiir [mother] and Beirric Arrion [Father]
Siblings: Many unknowns
Clan: Qosta
“Listen kid, you can’t take these things personally. Here? Nothing’s personal, it’s just good business, and right now you’re bad for business. Your mother’s a train wreck of a schutta and I’m just a guy who spends too much time away from his real family to bring in the dough. Sidepieces are trouble kid, keep that in mind. Look at me, you little whelp, I’m doing this for your own good. Don’t flinch this time and don’t ever call me father again.”
It started when he was 8 and it never stopped. A constant diet of hatred and blame fed between fists to the face will turn even the scrawniest of whelps into granite. Emotionally, physically, spiritually. After a few years you don’t really believe in any kind of higher power other than the guy standing over your bloodied, broken form. The problem is every time you get there, wishing it’d be the last blackout, you always wake up. Alleyways never get any warmer to wake up in, but eventually you wind up in the right one.
“I know you’re Arrion’s, but don’t think that name does you any favors. It’s not your name anymore. It’s my name. Arrion is an expensive name, too high-brow for a pleb like you. Plebs get trash. You get leftovers. You get the names nobody gives a shiit about. You … your name is Emryc, now. Hear me? What’s your name?”
Everyone always hates the name they’re given. This one doesn’t mean anything at all, which was better than Ruen could say for some of the other plebs he arrived with. One of the others got a name that was the equivalent to the poodooter in some foreign language. Emryc was nothing. Meant nothing. Maybe he meant it literally because he liked to call Ruen the very same. But everything and everyone starts from nothing. Nothing he could work with. Easier to work with nothing than a fething toilet.
“You’re a Qosta grunt now, and grunts do everything and say nothing. If I tell you to shoot a fether in the foot, you shoot a fether in the foot. If I tell you to punch your grunt brother in the face, you punch him in that fat fething face. If you can manage to do what you’re told long enough without fething it up I might let you start earning in. And then you might actually be somebody. Who are you, Nothing?”
Archon wasn’t actually the guy in charge but he was second in command and that pretty much made him the guy in charge. No one ever saw Qosta, the real Qosta, the guy the entire clan was named for. He was always back in his office or shadowed out to his speeder or off at some meeting or party. Important guy, that Qosta. Really respected around this part of Nadir. Nobody fethed with him, and when somebody did you never heard from them again. The Maw took care of them - that’s what earning in got you, some stupid title with a lot of clout behind it. Oh, and the name Qosta, and a bed to sleep in at night, and food to eat, and security of the clan… fething right, it was tooth and nail between the grunts to earn in.
“This is it, isn’t it? This is what we need to earn in. Archon can’t turn us away this time, this is serious shiit. We’ll be Qostas, real Qostas and won’t nobody mess with us. Daskin Qosta has a nice ring to it, I think I’ll get it engraved on my first blaster. Alright, let’s split it up here before we go….the feth you think you’re doing Emryc? We were supposed to split the shipment - that was the deal. Give me my half! What are you doing…? Emryc….!”
No such thing as friendships within the grunts. Every scrap is life or death. Sure, it’s easier to hunt in the pack, but when earning in is on the line you can bet they’ll swipe every ounce of credit they can get for themselves. Ruen was no different. He’d already been that guy. He’d already been burned. Twice. Six years as a grunt does things to you, makes you desperate, makes you mean. This other grunt had been around for a while, but not as long as Ruen. He still trusted and that was his own damn problem. Maybe running him down with the speeder had been a bit much but Ruen was far too high on adrenaline to really feel that twinge of guilt.
Maybe he would later.
Not likely.
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ROLE-PLAYS:
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