Jairus Starvald
Eidoloclast
NAME: JERICHO VIZSLA
FACTION: MANDALORIAN EMPIRE
RANK: N/A
SPECIES: NEAR-HUMAN
AGE: 22
SEX: MALE
HEIGHT: 6'1
EYES: BROWN
HAIR: BLACK
SKIN: FAIR
FORCE SENSITIVE:
His mother's scent as she hugged him, his father's eyes as he was dragged away, those were the things that Jericho could still remember about his family. That... and no more. The rest a blur of feelings, colors and shapes that made no sense. But his family was dead, their village burned to the ground and all that was left was the life of a slave.
As a small child he was made to maintain complicated machinery, heavy gears, tight spaces and corridors, replacing parts and screws and all the other uncomplicated things that a child could do. As Jericho grew, so did his duties, until one day he had become too large for his job. He was promptly sold off once more. Not the first time. Jericho was thrown in the fighting pits of Rattatak, fighting for years in the Cauldron.
The scars added and added, until he - alongside with a handful of Mandalorian slaves - were sold off to a different owner.
It was this that would be his last sale, though he did not know that yet.
One night, as they traveled back from Rattatak to the slave-owner's homeworld, the Mandalorians attacked. Clan Vizsla had come to liberate their own, cutting a bloody path through hired mercenaries, guards and only leaving the owner and his former slaves alive. Ronan Vizsla, the Alor himself, was there leading that very charge.
With anyone else that would have been the end of the story. Saved family, liberated slaves, the adoption of a new soul into the Clan.
But this was Ronan.
They finished their journey to the owner's homeworld. They found his house. They broke in and killed everyone inside, making him watch. Then tied him up and lit the house on fire with him inside.
Is this justice? Jericho asked to the Alor. He remained quiet. Staring, studying the shapes the fire made, listening to the screams in the distance. For a while Jericho assumed there would be no answer returned to him. Until the voice spoke, softly, duracrete slabs grinding together in intensity. Justice? No, this is a message.
When one touches one of mine.
They burn.