iScream, uScream
H A R R O W
BASIC INFORMATION
- Age: 40? 50? Who Knows?
- Species: Human
- Gender: Male
- Height: 5'8"
- Weight: 160 lbs
- Force Sensitive: Yes
PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION
They say I’m 5’8”, but I’ve never much cared for numbers—they don’t scream when you twist them. I’m all skin and bone, a living marionette strung together with spite and stagecraft. My face? Oh, it’s a masterpiece—cracked porcelain stretched too tight, a grin painted on so deep it forgot how to fade. The eyes sunk in first, then the cheeks. The makeup? It stopped coming off centuries ago. Red, black, gold—whatever colors I could steal from memory, smeared like war paint on a ghost. My hair’s a tangle of bells and ribbons, brittle and wild, like the laughter that never really stops. My robes? A patchwork of the past. Silks, ashes, banners—I wear history like a joke no one’s laughing at. And when I walk by, the air remembers the chill of the grave.
INVENTORY
- Pending
They call me mad, but I see clearly now. Laughter was the last lie I ever told myself. I was a fool once—believing in peace, in love, in mercy. But the Galaxy doesn't care for clowns or kindness. It feeds on suffering, dresses war in banners, and calls it legacy. So I laugh, because what else is left? I am the mirror held to its face, the punchline to its endless cruelty. I don’t care if you're soldier or slave, noble or nameless. Everyone plays a part in this great, grinding joke. I simply make sure the curtain falls when it’s supposed to—and no one leaves smiling.
Hope is a poison. The Force? A stagehand with no sense of direction. I’ve seen its so-called will from the inside—how it dangles salvation just out of reach, then punishes those who grasp for it. The dead are quieter than the living, and far more honest. I don’t seek to rule or remake the world. I want to unmake the lie. Let every smiling tyrant and grieving widow feel what I felt. Let every empire rot from within. If I must be the harbinger, so be it. I will not save this Galaxy. I will offend it. One scream, one gasp, one final laugh at a time.
Hope is a poison. The Force? A stagehand with no sense of direction. I’ve seen its so-called will from the inside—how it dangles salvation just out of reach, then punishes those who grasp for it. The dead are quieter than the living, and far more honest. I don’t seek to rule or remake the world. I want to unmake the lie. Let every smiling tyrant and grieving widow feel what I felt. Let every empire rot from within. If I must be the harbinger, so be it. I will not save this Galaxy. I will offend it. One scream, one gasp, one final laugh at a time.
STRENGTHS
+ Netherborne Physiology: Harrow no longer ages and can endure far more punishment than most beings, recovering slowly from wounds that would kill others.
+ Reality-Bending Forcecraft: He uses twisted Force powers learned in the Netherworld—illusions, sonic attacks, and mind-breaking manipulations that defy logic.
+ Reality-Bending Forcecraft: He uses twisted Force powers learned in the Netherworld—illusions, sonic attacks, and mind-breaking manipulations that defy logic.
WEAKNESSES
- Dissociative Amnesia: Harrow suffers memory lapses and confusion, especially when triggered by emotional stimuli. This can leave him vulnerable or unpredictable.
- Unstable Tether: His body is only partially anchored in reality. If the Troupe’s rituals or relics are destroyed, he risks being pulled back into the Netherworld.
- Unstable Tether: His body is only partially anchored in reality. If the Troupe’s rituals or relics are destroyed, he risks being pulled back into the Netherworld.
HISTORY
“Do you remember what it meant to laugh?”
I do.
Once upon a time—oh, it was a time—I danced upon gilded stages, juggling joy for paupers and princes alike. They called me Jaelos, the Laughing Light, the Crimson Fool, the Crown’s Favorite Distraction. My people… they knew peace. Real peace. Not the kind born from ash and blood and heavy boots, but the kind that swells in the chest when a child’s giggle echoes off marble walls.
And I was happy.
I had a wife who sang lullabies better than the birds did. A daughter, bright as a twin sun, who painted her dreams on our walls with tiny fingers. They were my whole act, my final bow, my curtain call.
Then the skies darkened. Not with rain. Not with hope.
With machines. With metal. With the hiss of plasma and the crackle of death. I watched color drain from the world in one, long, endless breath. The streets became tombs. My stage became an altar. They burned it all.
I tried to hide them. Deep in the mountain crypts, where laughter dared not go. I begged the Force to spare them, to spare us. But the Force doesn’t listen to fools. When I emerged... there was nothing. No home. No crown. No joy.
Just bones.
I still see her. My daughter. Charred doll in hand. I still hear her say, “Papa, I’m cold.”
So I did what mad men do. I refused the end.
I tore open reality. I clawed my way into the Beyond—the place where spirits weep and memories rot. The Netherworld. If the Force would not return them to me, I would go to them.
I searched. I wandered. Years. Centuries. Epochs. The dead do not keep time. And I? I was neither living nor gone. My skin stretched thin. My soul cracked wide. Hope twisted. Joy decayed. I laughed to keep from screaming, and then I screamed because I couldn’t stop laughing.
And then—oh, then—came the fracture.
Something broke. The veil tore. Time hiccupped, and the Galaxy screamed. I was spat back out into a world I did not know. A stage reborn. The lights had changed, the costumes were different, but the play? Oh, the play was the same.
War. Conquest. Grief.
So I gathered the broken. Those like me—lost artists, mad poets, discarded dancers. My Troupe. My family.
And now? Now, we take the stage once more. But no more juggling joy. No more comedy. This time, I perform tragedy. For every family silenced in the dark. For every smile stolen. For every child who will never laugh again—I will make the Galaxy scream until it weeps blood. And then?
Then, I’ll laugh.
I do.
Once upon a time—oh, it was a time—I danced upon gilded stages, juggling joy for paupers and princes alike. They called me Jaelos, the Laughing Light, the Crimson Fool, the Crown’s Favorite Distraction. My people… they knew peace. Real peace. Not the kind born from ash and blood and heavy boots, but the kind that swells in the chest when a child’s giggle echoes off marble walls.
And I was happy.
I had a wife who sang lullabies better than the birds did. A daughter, bright as a twin sun, who painted her dreams on our walls with tiny fingers. They were my whole act, my final bow, my curtain call.
Then the skies darkened. Not with rain. Not with hope.
With machines. With metal. With the hiss of plasma and the crackle of death. I watched color drain from the world in one, long, endless breath. The streets became tombs. My stage became an altar. They burned it all.
I tried to hide them. Deep in the mountain crypts, where laughter dared not go. I begged the Force to spare them, to spare us. But the Force doesn’t listen to fools. When I emerged... there was nothing. No home. No crown. No joy.
Just bones.
I still see her. My daughter. Charred doll in hand. I still hear her say, “Papa, I’m cold.”
So I did what mad men do. I refused the end.
I tore open reality. I clawed my way into the Beyond—the place where spirits weep and memories rot. The Netherworld. If the Force would not return them to me, I would go to them.
I searched. I wandered. Years. Centuries. Epochs. The dead do not keep time. And I? I was neither living nor gone. My skin stretched thin. My soul cracked wide. Hope twisted. Joy decayed. I laughed to keep from screaming, and then I screamed because I couldn’t stop laughing.
And then—oh, then—came the fracture.
Something broke. The veil tore. Time hiccupped, and the Galaxy screamed. I was spat back out into a world I did not know. A stage reborn. The lights had changed, the costumes were different, but the play? Oh, the play was the same.
War. Conquest. Grief.
So I gathered the broken. Those like me—lost artists, mad poets, discarded dancers. My Troupe. My family.
And now? Now, we take the stage once more. But no more juggling joy. No more comedy. This time, I perform tragedy. For every family silenced in the dark. For every smile stolen. For every child who will never laugh again—I will make the Galaxy scream until it weeps blood. And then?
Then, I’ll laugh.