NAME: Irtar Mal’Gro
FACTION: The New Order
RANK: Sith Apprentice
SPECIES: Human
AGE: 20
SEX: Male
HEIGHT: 5’8”
WEIGHT: 160 lbs
EYES: Green
HAIR: Black
SKIN: Light
FORCE SENSITIVE: Yes
----------------------------------------------------------------
STRENGTHS AND WEAKNESSES:
Intelligent
Quick Study
Cunning
Foreigner to the Galaxy
Quick to Anger
Indifferent to Suffering
Physically Weak
APPEARANCE:
A slim and lithe figure with pale skin. He is not unattractive, but no one would describe him as a handsome man. He has piercing green eyes, almost the colour of jade. His hair is long and jet black, usually being left loose unless the situation demands it be tied up. He will normally be found wearing loose, black robes as is the tradition of the Sith. Against modern convention, he wears both a lightsaber and a sword at his side.
BACKGROUND:
SHIP:
No.
KILLS:
No one important.
BOUNTIES:
Beneath him.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
ROLE-PLAYS:
http://starwarsrp.net/topic/93302-atonement-is-a-thorny-path-darth-skygge/
FACTION: The New Order
RANK: Sith Apprentice
SPECIES: Human
AGE: 20
SEX: Male
HEIGHT: 5’8”
WEIGHT: 160 lbs
EYES: Green
HAIR: Black
SKIN: Light
FORCE SENSITIVE: Yes
----------------------------------------------------------------
STRENGTHS AND WEAKNESSES:
Intelligent
Quick Study
Cunning
Foreigner to the Galaxy
Quick to Anger
Indifferent to Suffering
Physically Weak
APPEARANCE:
A slim and lithe figure with pale skin. He is not unattractive, but no one would describe him as a handsome man. He has piercing green eyes, almost the colour of jade. His hair is long and jet black, usually being left loose unless the situation demands it be tied up. He will normally be found wearing loose, black robes as is the tradition of the Sith. Against modern convention, he wears both a lightsaber and a sword at his side.
BACKGROUND:
The Galaxy was an impossibly large and diverse place. Millions of inhabited worlds with millions of cultures and countless thousands of species. Even the species that live for centuries never saw it all, or could ever know it all. There were sprawling cityscapes that draped across entire worlds, and other worlds quiet and forgotten by the rest of the Galaxy. It is on one of these forgotten worlds that our story begins.
In the distant past of the Galaxy, when the Hyperlanes were young and the Core still wild, millions jumped forth to find wealth, fortune, and a new home. Amongst these peoples were the colonists and crew of a ship whose name is lost to time, from a world they have mutually forgotten. Wherever its destination was, none could say. What is known is that something happened on en route, and the ship was knocked far from its course into the uncharted space between the Lanes. It was here, the ship crashed.
Many were killed, but many still lived. Their ship was ruined. Their meagre beacon went silent long before anyone had the chance to hear it. To their fortune, the world was habitable and not all together uncomfortable. As the Galaxy marched inevitably forward, they marched inevitably backwards. Cut off from the knowledge and resources of the galaxy, they slowly began to lose what they were. In the end, the only thing they were left with was their lives and whatever they could scratch from the world they were on.
They named it Lesalia. As time passed, they grew. From a small village hanging to the ruins of their ship, to a city, to a nation. Eventually, they shattered into camps as all great groups of people do. They divided into a series of feuding nations, bickering over minutia. Eventually, what brought them there had been forgotten over the millennia and their little world was all any of them knew. Though there were some who dared to dream as they stared at the stars over what could be out there.
Irtar was the third son of the House of Mal’Gro, a noble house that ruled over a small portion of the planet called a Duchy. His family had ruled the area for centuries by the time he was born. He led as quiet a life as one could lead in his position. As a younger son, not much was expected of him. An advantageous alliance to continue their independence. Respecting the authority of his elder brother when he took the throne. Otherwise, to be quiet and out of the way. And so he was free to pursue his passions.
From a young age he had a craving for knowledge. He studied the scraps that counted as their leading science, the deluded inaccuracy they called maths, and the humorously uninformed thing they thought of as astronomy. He greedily read any book he could, and talked to any soul who knew something he didn’t. He showed remarkable talent in his youth, and many thought he would one day be a leading mind.
But that all changed one day in his teenage years, and like all great tragedies, it started with a woman.
She was not an overly beautiful woman, or so the rest of the world said. A little plain and portly. Twainy dark hair, and narrow brown eyes. But to him, she was the most beautiful thing to grace that world. She was cunning and bright. He found her in his studies, and in this young woman found a kindred spirit in the hunt for knowledge. They spent hours together looking over lost and arcane tomes that spoke of wonders and the stars, the myths and fairy tales of their youths. They spent their nights together, dreaming that above them teemed a place with wonders and life rather than the empty void of lights some said.
They completed one another. Wholey, completely. His beloved Amara.
His family would never approve of the relationship nor a marriage. She was too low born, and unable to advance the family’s goals. And so they met in secret. A beautiful secret that the pair would keep to themselves until they found a way. But a growing secret to both would unravel their world.
She was with child. There was dread. Neither knew what to do. She wanted to try and find some way to get rid of the child. He hoped to use it as the leverage they needed to convince his family to wed. Their perfect union was shattered as they bickered about the life of their child. But in the end, they took too long. The girl’s father noticed.
He was a man of short fuse and little reason. A drunkard and warrior, who had never appreciated what his daughter was doing. This incident incensed him to a blind rage. It confirmed everything his small mind had projected was wrong with learned people. They had corrupted her and made her foul. And he would straighten her out the way he had always straightened out those he didn’t like.
People gathered on the street to gape as she walked down the street. She limped down the street, her face unrecognizable. A bone protruded from an arm. Blood slowly seeped down her legs. All pretence of secret was gone as she slowly trudged toward the Mal’Gro manor house on the edge of town. And at the door, collapsed.
She still lived. Barely. But their child...
Irtar’s fury was palatable. He flowed from him like a dark aura. No one had felt something like it before. No one dared to stop him. He clenched a sword he wrenched from the wall white knuckled. His eyes darted about wildly. The townsfolk clenched their children to their side as the mad noble screamed from the top of his lungs for the man. He screamed for justice. No, he screamed for vengeance.
Eventually, the man came forward. Irtar demanded, before he struck him down, why he did it. What was left at that time of his rational mind demanded something to give this a point. A purpose for the horror he had inflicted. Something he could grasp to in order to understand the situation. The father’s response was simply that he wouldn’t let HIS daughter become HIS whore.
And with that, what rationality was gone, only replaced with a searing hatred of this man. Swords flashed in the town square. Everyone else watched on as the two men fought fiercely. Irtar had the power of youth on his side, and a strength no one thought the boy could ever muster. But the father had years of experience, and despite being a drunk he hadn’t lived to his ripe old age by being a poor warrior. Irtar had always been a man of learning, and had never gone to the yard. His instincts and forms were entirely wrong. Despite a fierce battle, skill won out in the end, and Irtar’s sword scattered off along the cobblestones.
The man grinned down at the defeated lordling as he smacked him on to his backside. He looked about, and gloated about his bravado and his strength. He mocked Irtar for his indiscretions and the disrespect for his family. And in the moment, the young man reached out. His body was sapped of strength. But all he could was will and dream his hands around that man’s throat. And suddenly, the bravado began to give way to a sputtering cough. He turned his head to the young man, confusion written on his face.
Irtar slowly stood to his feet. Glaring with a face of hatred and menace. The father stared at him in abject terror as he suddenly realized it was the Lordling doing it to him. He tried to gasp something out, a curse or perhaps some attempt at a bargain to save his life. But Irtar would have none of it, he raised his second hand and pulled on this imagery being made manifest at full force. As hard as his mind could envision. And with a sickening crunch his neck collapsed on itself.
The townsfolk looked on in sheer terror as the man fell to the ground lifeless. An expression of sheer terror written upon his face.
Silence. The only sound in the square was the heavy breathing of the lordling. No one dared to speak. No one dared to even whisper.
Irtar stood over the body of the man he’d just killed. Slowly, the rage subsided and reason began to find purchase once again. Was there some creature on the other side that had heard his prayers? Were the priests right and there were angels listening? Did they grant him worldly justice against this man for the evils he had done? His rational mind just couldn’t wrap around what had just happened. It was all too impossible.
He looked around the square and noticed the people and their fear. He realized he had to get out of there before they came to their senses. He fetched his sword from the ground, and fled from the square back towards the family manor.
As soon as he left, the whispers began. Fears and terrors unspoken and unbidden driven by years of their scripture and religions played at their basest instincts. What horrible force had driven the lordling to this? How can a man’s neck be snapped like this? Was it dark magics at play? Accusations stirred as they attempted to give reason to what they viewed as madness. Soon enough, the townsfolk began to come to a consensus on what had happened. They claimed the lordling was in fact a demon, and that Amara had been carrying a demon child. The father had been a hero, trying to save the realm from the horrible fate that demon spawn would have wrought.
The raised the dead man upon their shoulder, and raised him with the righteousness of a martyr. And once they had interred him, they meant to inter his killer. The Demon Mal’Gro. Soon enough, a mob had been gathered and marched upon the manor house. The doors were barred, and a siege of sorts began to settle in. The demanded nothing less than the demon’s head.
Irtar’s family was lost. His father was by many accounts a good man, no paragon of virtue but not a villain either. The girl was broken, body and soul, by what had happened to her. He had left Amara with his doctor to see what could be done for her body and his priest to try and find what could be done for her soul.
As for his son? Whatever had happened, Irtar was still his son. There was no way to do a trial effectively while under siege. If he let his son off completely free from this, the mob would storm the manor. If he imprisoned him, the mob wouldn’t accept it. And there was no way he would have his son burned at the stake for witchcraft. He refused to just simply hand him over to the mob to whatever in their minds would pass as justice.
He tried to implore the crowd, and convince them to disperse but they refused to listen.
The siege continued, hoping that in time they would depart. But a week in, and the mob was still gathered around the manor awaiting justice for their killed saint. Irtar had shuttered himself away with his books. His other brothers were preparing themselves in case the mob tried to storm the house by force. And Amara was slowly recovering from her ordeal.
The family priest however leaned towards the crowd. Even Irtar hadn’t denied the powers he had used that day. He had helped raise Irtar from boyhood but he had always been more about his learning than their church. Perhaps there was a cause? And as he tried to mend Amara, he put these ideas to her mind as well.
Her grief addled mind tried to put purpose and reason to what had happened to her. And the priest’s comforting words about her father not being a villain and of her lost child not being her fault clung to her mind. Ideas that would never have found purchase before found hold in the cracks and crevasses of her damaged psyche. And so the priest subtly poured more of these ideas into those cracks. And once he was satisfied he had saved her soul, he released her saying her sanity had been restored.
Two weeks into the siege, dark thoughts and paranoia were turned to action. A scheme was plotted. During the night, the priest quietly unbolted a back door into the chapel. A group of the commoners snuck in at the priest’s behest to kill the demon in their midst. At the same time, Irtar had been hauled from his solitude to discuss his fate.
They charged in like a storm, kicking in the door to the study. Irtar and his father quickly stood at the ready. The priest, at their head, offered a simple choice. Hand over the demon, and the house of Mal’Gro would be forgiven of their sins. Otherwise, they would have to take him by force. The guards were beginning to shout, realizing what was going on. A decision would have to be made swiftly before the priests came upon them.
Irtar’s father demanded the priest to stand down.
It was then, Irtar doubled over in pain. A knife in the back, both figurative and literal. He gazed back to see the source of the surprise attack. It was his Amara. And it was this moment of violence that opened all Hell upon the righteous. Irtar couldn’t exactly remember what happened in those few minutes, it was all just a blur of violence and action.
The commoners stormed his father and him. His father died, a commoner’s spear spewing forth his intestines. He had somehow managed to keep alive despite his injury until the guards showed up. A combination of adrenaline and raw emotion keeping him from the grave. He could swear he remembered arcs of lightning but he was unsure if that was him or simply the pain. The guards stormed in. The other commoners outside, hearing the commotion, stormed the gate. There was blood, and screams, and terror.
The next firm memory Irtar had was being on the hills on the outskirts of town covered in blood. Some of it his, some of it belonging to others. The manor burned.
He clumsily made his way through the woods. His body covered in wounds from the battle, though the worst one was the first. He couldn’t think. His mind was foggy from the pain and the blood loss. Instinct alone was driving him to survive. But he could feel his life beginning to ebb from him. All this pain and suffering would be for naught.
Suddenly he was blinded. Lights glared in his face in the middle of the night. A horrible whine filled his ears. He was convinced, this would be the end. He fell to his knees, prepared to meet oblivion. It did not come, instead a dark figure stepped forward and gave him an appraising look.
“Have you come for me?” Irtar yelled at the figure, the only question he could think of.
“Yes.” A female voice replied. “I have come to break your chains, and set you free.”
She was Lady Skygge. A Sith from the stars. And it was here that Irtar in all his life had his first taste of the truth.
He learned of the Galaxy. He learned of hyperdrives and turbolasers and HoloNets. He learned of Bothans and Calamari and Twi’leks. He learned of Empries and Republics and Alliances. And most of all, he learned of the Force.
He threw himself to his lessons with a passion he had never done before. His rage granted him resolve. He could trust no one, and had to become dependent on only himself.
He had an entire Galaxy before him, and a whole part of himself he had never known existed. He had a great deal of work to do.
In the distant past of the Galaxy, when the Hyperlanes were young and the Core still wild, millions jumped forth to find wealth, fortune, and a new home. Amongst these peoples were the colonists and crew of a ship whose name is lost to time, from a world they have mutually forgotten. Wherever its destination was, none could say. What is known is that something happened on en route, and the ship was knocked far from its course into the uncharted space between the Lanes. It was here, the ship crashed.
Many were killed, but many still lived. Their ship was ruined. Their meagre beacon went silent long before anyone had the chance to hear it. To their fortune, the world was habitable and not all together uncomfortable. As the Galaxy marched inevitably forward, they marched inevitably backwards. Cut off from the knowledge and resources of the galaxy, they slowly began to lose what they were. In the end, the only thing they were left with was their lives and whatever they could scratch from the world they were on.
They named it Lesalia. As time passed, they grew. From a small village hanging to the ruins of their ship, to a city, to a nation. Eventually, they shattered into camps as all great groups of people do. They divided into a series of feuding nations, bickering over minutia. Eventually, what brought them there had been forgotten over the millennia and their little world was all any of them knew. Though there were some who dared to dream as they stared at the stars over what could be out there.
Irtar was the third son of the House of Mal’Gro, a noble house that ruled over a small portion of the planet called a Duchy. His family had ruled the area for centuries by the time he was born. He led as quiet a life as one could lead in his position. As a younger son, not much was expected of him. An advantageous alliance to continue their independence. Respecting the authority of his elder brother when he took the throne. Otherwise, to be quiet and out of the way. And so he was free to pursue his passions.
From a young age he had a craving for knowledge. He studied the scraps that counted as their leading science, the deluded inaccuracy they called maths, and the humorously uninformed thing they thought of as astronomy. He greedily read any book he could, and talked to any soul who knew something he didn’t. He showed remarkable talent in his youth, and many thought he would one day be a leading mind.
But that all changed one day in his teenage years, and like all great tragedies, it started with a woman.
She was not an overly beautiful woman, or so the rest of the world said. A little plain and portly. Twainy dark hair, and narrow brown eyes. But to him, she was the most beautiful thing to grace that world. She was cunning and bright. He found her in his studies, and in this young woman found a kindred spirit in the hunt for knowledge. They spent hours together looking over lost and arcane tomes that spoke of wonders and the stars, the myths and fairy tales of their youths. They spent their nights together, dreaming that above them teemed a place with wonders and life rather than the empty void of lights some said.
They completed one another. Wholey, completely. His beloved Amara.
His family would never approve of the relationship nor a marriage. She was too low born, and unable to advance the family’s goals. And so they met in secret. A beautiful secret that the pair would keep to themselves until they found a way. But a growing secret to both would unravel their world.
She was with child. There was dread. Neither knew what to do. She wanted to try and find some way to get rid of the child. He hoped to use it as the leverage they needed to convince his family to wed. Their perfect union was shattered as they bickered about the life of their child. But in the end, they took too long. The girl’s father noticed.
He was a man of short fuse and little reason. A drunkard and warrior, who had never appreciated what his daughter was doing. This incident incensed him to a blind rage. It confirmed everything his small mind had projected was wrong with learned people. They had corrupted her and made her foul. And he would straighten her out the way he had always straightened out those he didn’t like.
People gathered on the street to gape as she walked down the street. She limped down the street, her face unrecognizable. A bone protruded from an arm. Blood slowly seeped down her legs. All pretence of secret was gone as she slowly trudged toward the Mal’Gro manor house on the edge of town. And at the door, collapsed.
She still lived. Barely. But their child...
Irtar’s fury was palatable. He flowed from him like a dark aura. No one had felt something like it before. No one dared to stop him. He clenched a sword he wrenched from the wall white knuckled. His eyes darted about wildly. The townsfolk clenched their children to their side as the mad noble screamed from the top of his lungs for the man. He screamed for justice. No, he screamed for vengeance.
Eventually, the man came forward. Irtar demanded, before he struck him down, why he did it. What was left at that time of his rational mind demanded something to give this a point. A purpose for the horror he had inflicted. Something he could grasp to in order to understand the situation. The father’s response was simply that he wouldn’t let HIS daughter become HIS whore.
And with that, what rationality was gone, only replaced with a searing hatred of this man. Swords flashed in the town square. Everyone else watched on as the two men fought fiercely. Irtar had the power of youth on his side, and a strength no one thought the boy could ever muster. But the father had years of experience, and despite being a drunk he hadn’t lived to his ripe old age by being a poor warrior. Irtar had always been a man of learning, and had never gone to the yard. His instincts and forms were entirely wrong. Despite a fierce battle, skill won out in the end, and Irtar’s sword scattered off along the cobblestones.
The man grinned down at the defeated lordling as he smacked him on to his backside. He looked about, and gloated about his bravado and his strength. He mocked Irtar for his indiscretions and the disrespect for his family. And in the moment, the young man reached out. His body was sapped of strength. But all he could was will and dream his hands around that man’s throat. And suddenly, the bravado began to give way to a sputtering cough. He turned his head to the young man, confusion written on his face.
Irtar slowly stood to his feet. Glaring with a face of hatred and menace. The father stared at him in abject terror as he suddenly realized it was the Lordling doing it to him. He tried to gasp something out, a curse or perhaps some attempt at a bargain to save his life. But Irtar would have none of it, he raised his second hand and pulled on this imagery being made manifest at full force. As hard as his mind could envision. And with a sickening crunch his neck collapsed on itself.
The townsfolk looked on in sheer terror as the man fell to the ground lifeless. An expression of sheer terror written upon his face.
Silence. The only sound in the square was the heavy breathing of the lordling. No one dared to speak. No one dared to even whisper.
Irtar stood over the body of the man he’d just killed. Slowly, the rage subsided and reason began to find purchase once again. Was there some creature on the other side that had heard his prayers? Were the priests right and there were angels listening? Did they grant him worldly justice against this man for the evils he had done? His rational mind just couldn’t wrap around what had just happened. It was all too impossible.
He looked around the square and noticed the people and their fear. He realized he had to get out of there before they came to their senses. He fetched his sword from the ground, and fled from the square back towards the family manor.
As soon as he left, the whispers began. Fears and terrors unspoken and unbidden driven by years of their scripture and religions played at their basest instincts. What horrible force had driven the lordling to this? How can a man’s neck be snapped like this? Was it dark magics at play? Accusations stirred as they attempted to give reason to what they viewed as madness. Soon enough, the townsfolk began to come to a consensus on what had happened. They claimed the lordling was in fact a demon, and that Amara had been carrying a demon child. The father had been a hero, trying to save the realm from the horrible fate that demon spawn would have wrought.
The raised the dead man upon their shoulder, and raised him with the righteousness of a martyr. And once they had interred him, they meant to inter his killer. The Demon Mal’Gro. Soon enough, a mob had been gathered and marched upon the manor house. The doors were barred, and a siege of sorts began to settle in. The demanded nothing less than the demon’s head.
Irtar’s family was lost. His father was by many accounts a good man, no paragon of virtue but not a villain either. The girl was broken, body and soul, by what had happened to her. He had left Amara with his doctor to see what could be done for her body and his priest to try and find what could be done for her soul.
As for his son? Whatever had happened, Irtar was still his son. There was no way to do a trial effectively while under siege. If he let his son off completely free from this, the mob would storm the manor. If he imprisoned him, the mob wouldn’t accept it. And there was no way he would have his son burned at the stake for witchcraft. He refused to just simply hand him over to the mob to whatever in their minds would pass as justice.
He tried to implore the crowd, and convince them to disperse but they refused to listen.
The siege continued, hoping that in time they would depart. But a week in, and the mob was still gathered around the manor awaiting justice for their killed saint. Irtar had shuttered himself away with his books. His other brothers were preparing themselves in case the mob tried to storm the house by force. And Amara was slowly recovering from her ordeal.
The family priest however leaned towards the crowd. Even Irtar hadn’t denied the powers he had used that day. He had helped raise Irtar from boyhood but he had always been more about his learning than their church. Perhaps there was a cause? And as he tried to mend Amara, he put these ideas to her mind as well.
Her grief addled mind tried to put purpose and reason to what had happened to her. And the priest’s comforting words about her father not being a villain and of her lost child not being her fault clung to her mind. Ideas that would never have found purchase before found hold in the cracks and crevasses of her damaged psyche. And so the priest subtly poured more of these ideas into those cracks. And once he was satisfied he had saved her soul, he released her saying her sanity had been restored.
Two weeks into the siege, dark thoughts and paranoia were turned to action. A scheme was plotted. During the night, the priest quietly unbolted a back door into the chapel. A group of the commoners snuck in at the priest’s behest to kill the demon in their midst. At the same time, Irtar had been hauled from his solitude to discuss his fate.
They charged in like a storm, kicking in the door to the study. Irtar and his father quickly stood at the ready. The priest, at their head, offered a simple choice. Hand over the demon, and the house of Mal’Gro would be forgiven of their sins. Otherwise, they would have to take him by force. The guards were beginning to shout, realizing what was going on. A decision would have to be made swiftly before the priests came upon them.
Irtar’s father demanded the priest to stand down.
It was then, Irtar doubled over in pain. A knife in the back, both figurative and literal. He gazed back to see the source of the surprise attack. It was his Amara. And it was this moment of violence that opened all Hell upon the righteous. Irtar couldn’t exactly remember what happened in those few minutes, it was all just a blur of violence and action.
The commoners stormed his father and him. His father died, a commoner’s spear spewing forth his intestines. He had somehow managed to keep alive despite his injury until the guards showed up. A combination of adrenaline and raw emotion keeping him from the grave. He could swear he remembered arcs of lightning but he was unsure if that was him or simply the pain. The guards stormed in. The other commoners outside, hearing the commotion, stormed the gate. There was blood, and screams, and terror.
The next firm memory Irtar had was being on the hills on the outskirts of town covered in blood. Some of it his, some of it belonging to others. The manor burned.
He clumsily made his way through the woods. His body covered in wounds from the battle, though the worst one was the first. He couldn’t think. His mind was foggy from the pain and the blood loss. Instinct alone was driving him to survive. But he could feel his life beginning to ebb from him. All this pain and suffering would be for naught.
Suddenly he was blinded. Lights glared in his face in the middle of the night. A horrible whine filled his ears. He was convinced, this would be the end. He fell to his knees, prepared to meet oblivion. It did not come, instead a dark figure stepped forward and gave him an appraising look.
“Have you come for me?” Irtar yelled at the figure, the only question he could think of.
“Yes.” A female voice replied. “I have come to break your chains, and set you free.”
She was Lady Skygge. A Sith from the stars. And it was here that Irtar in all his life had his first taste of the truth.
He learned of the Galaxy. He learned of hyperdrives and turbolasers and HoloNets. He learned of Bothans and Calamari and Twi’leks. He learned of Empries and Republics and Alliances. And most of all, he learned of the Force.
He threw himself to his lessons with a passion he had never done before. His rage granted him resolve. He could trust no one, and had to become dependent on only himself.
He had an entire Galaxy before him, and a whole part of himself he had never known existed. He had a great deal of work to do.
SHIP:
No.
KILLS:
No one important.
BOUNTIES:
Beneath him.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
ROLE-PLAYS:
http://starwarsrp.net/topic/93302-atonement-is-a-thorny-path-darth-skygge/
