NAME: Iskra Kael
FACTION: Unaffiliated
RANK: None
SPECIES: Human (Druckenwell native)
AGE: 19
SEX: Female
HEIGHT: 1.68m
WEIGHT: 53kg
EYES: Pale blue
HAIR: Dark brown, nearly black
SKIN: Pale through lack of sunlight
FORCE SENSITIVE: Slightly
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
STRENGTHS AND WEAKNESSES (Required: 2 Weaknesses Minimum) :
++ Mildly Force Senstive - Iskra is a latent talent, untrained and wild. Her natural talents lie in empathy and telepathy, rather than telekinetic or elemental skills.
+ Lip Reading - In recent months, Iskra has developed a rudimentary ability to read lips. Her ability is far from perfect, and relies on her having a clear view of the other person's lips. Of course, in a galaxy full of lipless aliens and helmed Mandalorians, the skill is less useful than it might otherwise be.
-- Deaf and Mute - has lived in a world of silence since the devastation of Druckenwell. It's hard to say if there is a physical cause for this - certainly, she sustained more than a few wounds in the butchery of her homeworld, and any number of them might have been enough to steal away her voice and hearing. Or perhaps the cause is psychological - perhaps, having heard enough evil, she simply closed herself off. Or, to put forward a third option, perhaps so many deaths echoing through the Force was too much for her untrained mind and overloaded it, stilling her tongue and shrouding her in silence. Only an expert would be able to discern the truth, and those are few and far between amongst the refugee convoys.
-- Bacta Intolerant - Iskra is allergic to bacta, with significant and prolonged exposure being sufficient to trigger anaphylactic shock. As a result of this, Iskra is generally required to rely on less effective Kolto treatments. On the plus side, kolto is cheaper than Bacta.
APPEARANCE:
Just a sliver over average height, and slender almost to the edge of emaciation, Iskra would perhaps be an attractive young woman if not for the hardships that have recently ravaged her life and stolen the life from her form. Her skin is pale, a result of the lack of natural light aboard the refugee convoys that have been her home in recent months, and thin trails of silvery scar tissue trace filigree patterns across her forearms in testament to the sorrows of her devastated homeworld.
Her long hair, a shade of brown so dark it could easily be mistaken for black, falls unevenly down her back, reaching to her hips at its longest. Wide eyes, a shade of pale, watery blue that could almost seem grey in some lights, regard the world with trepidation, and a slightly concerned frown seems to linger perpetually upon her lips.
BIOGRAPHY:
The early years of Iskra's life were unremarkable, quiet and peaceful. Her parents had good jobs – her mother as a technical supervisor with a research lap linked to the orbital shipyards, and her father as a xenobotanist for a small business in Il Avali that catered to the truly rich – and while the young Iskra wasn't quite afforded everything she wished for, she had more than many could ever hope for. As she grew older, she attended the finest academies and had excellent tutors, and though she excelled in few subjects beyond music she still emerged with a sound enough education to enter any of the galactic universities without overmuch trouble.
If she had chosen to do so, Iskra's story might have been very different.
Instead, she chose to take a year or so to enjoy life, and to experience the joys of her homeworld. It was a wonderful time; she frittered away a generous allowance on all the legal, dubiously legal and downright illegal pleasures a young woman might care to sample with glee, and whiled away the hours between indulgences filling the air with the music of her Alderaanian flute.
And then hell came to Druckenwell.
The attack seemed to come from nowhere, the politics of it lost on Iskra as they were for so many. Peace transitioned into chaos in an instant, spurred on by the calm voice of a man announcing his intention to invade. Madness engulfed the cities as people panicked and sought refuge or evacuation, for though the man had promised adequate time to evacuate, few indeed were the people who could keep a level head in such circumstances. Iskra, too, was caught up in the panic, and found herself fighting to get half-way across the planet to her home as the public transportation systems floundered and failed in the upheaval.
By the time she got there, the war was beginning. Legions descended from the heavens, and destruction tore through the cities. Against this backdrop, Iskra, her parents, and her younger brother, struggled to make their way to an evacuation point, but the task was beyond them; chaos had engulfed their once peaceful world, and such souls as theirs had no hope of combating it.
They had barely managed to get halfway across the city when the heavens fell.
The destruction of the shipyards, and the orbital barrage that followed, extinguished countless souls and sent shockwaves through the Force. Adepts in the fleets that waged war across the system felt them, and even masters staggered beneath the hammerblows they dealt. To an untrained girl, oblivious to her own talents and caught almost at ground zero, they were devastating; screams and cries seemed to resonate through her entire being, engulfing her, drowning her until, thankfully, darkness rose up to claim her.
That was the last she knew of Druckenwell.
It was almost two days later when she awoke, strapped to a bunk in one of the many refugee ships that had departed her homeworld in the days that followed the massacre. A young soldier, a combat medic, was watching over her, having discovered her amidst the wreckage and the rubble, her form broken and battered. Yet she had been lucky, in a sense; the shockwaves in the Force had frozen her even as her family continued on, and though they had stopped mere moments later those moments had carried them into the shadow of a towering stratoscraper, which had crumbled beneath the force of the bombardment. None had survived.
It was a terrible realisation, yet almost eclipsed by another that became apparent almost as soon as she awoke; something, the force of the bomardment, perhaps, or the echoes of anguish in the force, had stripped the sound from her world. She was deaf, and, more than that, could not summon a sound of her own.
The days that followed were hard. Harder than she could bear, in fact, and more than once Iskra considered joining her parents beyond the shadowed veil. Yet somehow, impossibly, she continued on, striving to overcome the curse that had been bestowed upon her, or at least to mitigate its effects. Fortunately, time was one thing she had in abundance aboard the refugee ship, and more than one of the dozens of refugees crammed into the holds volunteered to help as she struggled to grasp the basics of lip reading and sign. She was grateful for that. For their generosity. But, at the same time, she hated them. Hated the pity she saw in their eyes.
And, when the chance came, she left, packing her few supplies into a borrowed kit bag and stepping off the ship into the lonely, isolated worlds of the Corporate Sector.
SHIP:
None
FACTION: Unaffiliated
RANK: None
SPECIES: Human (Druckenwell native)
AGE: 19
SEX: Female
HEIGHT: 1.68m
WEIGHT: 53kg
EYES: Pale blue
HAIR: Dark brown, nearly black
SKIN: Pale through lack of sunlight
FORCE SENSITIVE: Slightly
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
STRENGTHS AND WEAKNESSES (Required: 2 Weaknesses Minimum) :
++ Mildly Force Senstive - Iskra is a latent talent, untrained and wild. Her natural talents lie in empathy and telepathy, rather than telekinetic or elemental skills.
+ Lip Reading - In recent months, Iskra has developed a rudimentary ability to read lips. Her ability is far from perfect, and relies on her having a clear view of the other person's lips. Of course, in a galaxy full of lipless aliens and helmed Mandalorians, the skill is less useful than it might otherwise be.
-- Deaf and Mute - has lived in a world of silence since the devastation of Druckenwell. It's hard to say if there is a physical cause for this - certainly, she sustained more than a few wounds in the butchery of her homeworld, and any number of them might have been enough to steal away her voice and hearing. Or perhaps the cause is psychological - perhaps, having heard enough evil, she simply closed herself off. Or, to put forward a third option, perhaps so many deaths echoing through the Force was too much for her untrained mind and overloaded it, stilling her tongue and shrouding her in silence. Only an expert would be able to discern the truth, and those are few and far between amongst the refugee convoys.
-- Bacta Intolerant - Iskra is allergic to bacta, with significant and prolonged exposure being sufficient to trigger anaphylactic shock. As a result of this, Iskra is generally required to rely on less effective Kolto treatments. On the plus side, kolto is cheaper than Bacta.
APPEARANCE:
Just a sliver over average height, and slender almost to the edge of emaciation, Iskra would perhaps be an attractive young woman if not for the hardships that have recently ravaged her life and stolen the life from her form. Her skin is pale, a result of the lack of natural light aboard the refugee convoys that have been her home in recent months, and thin trails of silvery scar tissue trace filigree patterns across her forearms in testament to the sorrows of her devastated homeworld.
Her long hair, a shade of brown so dark it could easily be mistaken for black, falls unevenly down her back, reaching to her hips at its longest. Wide eyes, a shade of pale, watery blue that could almost seem grey in some lights, regard the world with trepidation, and a slightly concerned frown seems to linger perpetually upon her lips.
BIOGRAPHY:
The early years of Iskra's life were unremarkable, quiet and peaceful. Her parents had good jobs – her mother as a technical supervisor with a research lap linked to the orbital shipyards, and her father as a xenobotanist for a small business in Il Avali that catered to the truly rich – and while the young Iskra wasn't quite afforded everything she wished for, she had more than many could ever hope for. As she grew older, she attended the finest academies and had excellent tutors, and though she excelled in few subjects beyond music she still emerged with a sound enough education to enter any of the galactic universities without overmuch trouble.
If she had chosen to do so, Iskra's story might have been very different.
Instead, she chose to take a year or so to enjoy life, and to experience the joys of her homeworld. It was a wonderful time; she frittered away a generous allowance on all the legal, dubiously legal and downright illegal pleasures a young woman might care to sample with glee, and whiled away the hours between indulgences filling the air with the music of her Alderaanian flute.
And then hell came to Druckenwell.
The attack seemed to come from nowhere, the politics of it lost on Iskra as they were for so many. Peace transitioned into chaos in an instant, spurred on by the calm voice of a man announcing his intention to invade. Madness engulfed the cities as people panicked and sought refuge or evacuation, for though the man had promised adequate time to evacuate, few indeed were the people who could keep a level head in such circumstances. Iskra, too, was caught up in the panic, and found herself fighting to get half-way across the planet to her home as the public transportation systems floundered and failed in the upheaval.
By the time she got there, the war was beginning. Legions descended from the heavens, and destruction tore through the cities. Against this backdrop, Iskra, her parents, and her younger brother, struggled to make their way to an evacuation point, but the task was beyond them; chaos had engulfed their once peaceful world, and such souls as theirs had no hope of combating it.
They had barely managed to get halfway across the city when the heavens fell.
The destruction of the shipyards, and the orbital barrage that followed, extinguished countless souls and sent shockwaves through the Force. Adepts in the fleets that waged war across the system felt them, and even masters staggered beneath the hammerblows they dealt. To an untrained girl, oblivious to her own talents and caught almost at ground zero, they were devastating; screams and cries seemed to resonate through her entire being, engulfing her, drowning her until, thankfully, darkness rose up to claim her.
That was the last she knew of Druckenwell.
It was almost two days later when she awoke, strapped to a bunk in one of the many refugee ships that had departed her homeworld in the days that followed the massacre. A young soldier, a combat medic, was watching over her, having discovered her amidst the wreckage and the rubble, her form broken and battered. Yet she had been lucky, in a sense; the shockwaves in the Force had frozen her even as her family continued on, and though they had stopped mere moments later those moments had carried them into the shadow of a towering stratoscraper, which had crumbled beneath the force of the bombardment. None had survived.
It was a terrible realisation, yet almost eclipsed by another that became apparent almost as soon as she awoke; something, the force of the bomardment, perhaps, or the echoes of anguish in the force, had stripped the sound from her world. She was deaf, and, more than that, could not summon a sound of her own.
The days that followed were hard. Harder than she could bear, in fact, and more than once Iskra considered joining her parents beyond the shadowed veil. Yet somehow, impossibly, she continued on, striving to overcome the curse that had been bestowed upon her, or at least to mitigate its effects. Fortunately, time was one thing she had in abundance aboard the refugee ship, and more than one of the dozens of refugees crammed into the holds volunteered to help as she struggled to grasp the basics of lip reading and sign. She was grateful for that. For their generosity. But, at the same time, she hated them. Hated the pity she saw in their eyes.
And, when the chance came, she left, packing her few supplies into a borrowed kit bag and stepping off the ship into the lonely, isolated worlds of the Corporate Sector.
SHIP:
None
