D O M I N U S
ApeX Commander.
NAME: Malok
FACTIONS: Aka'liit, Sith
RANK: Knight
SPECIES: Ma'alkerrite
AGE: 34
SEX: Male
HEIGHT: 7'2"
WEIGHT: 462 lbs
EYES: Amber
HAIR: Charcoal Black
SKIN: Ash Grey
FORCE SENSITIVE: Yes
In terms of raw power, Malok's strength is easily on par with that of a Wookie.
Prince-in-Exile.
As leader of ApeX, Malok possesses the mind of an experienced tactician.
As a noble-in-exile, Malok boasts a thorough educational background.
In close-quarters scenarios, Malok's speed is below average.
Due to his pronounced stature, combat in tight/small spaces is excessively difficult.
Malok's confidence or anger can, at times, supercede his tactical mind - prompting terrible decisions.
The Noble Simian.
At a glance, Malok is a behemoth.
Standing at over seven feet in height, his presence looms over most in his company. As Ma'alkerrite, his appearance is very simian - but is simultaneously humanoid. Thick, charcoal colored fur characterizes the overwhelming majority of his person. However, his palms, underside of his feet, chest, stomach, and the top of his head are the sole areas devoid of hair. In those places, his ash grey skin is fully exposed to the elements - prompting the continual wearing of "suitable" attire. When compared to the average human, Malok's physical condition is athletic. His body is well toned and muscled: which in of itself is a reflection of the life he leads.
Further reflections manifest upon his face.
The numerous factors of constant warfare manifest in the form of Malok's baldness. The top of his head is completely devoid of fur; which is a stark contrast to the braided mass of fur making up his beard. Veiled from view, underneath said facial hair, is a thick band of pink flesh consistent with a significant burn. This is the very scar Malok incurred before finally claiming his freedom from the Bounty Hunter. A number of minor scars span the totality of his body, with most hidden under fur.
At all times, Malok can be seen with warpaint emblazoned upon his face and head. This paint is always of a white hue and manifests, primarily, as a skull. Combined with a his amber eyes, Malok's warpaint is easily wielded intimidation tool that has served well over the years.
Finally, the ApeX Commander can be see wearing a rather standard attire. An unremarkable, yet breathable, bodyglove occupies the fur-less area of his torso. Immediately on top of this is a crudely cobbled together mass of durasteel pieces that form his armor. Given his stature, it has been difficult to assemble a unified set; and as such pieces from fallen foes and other sources have been combined to offer Malok his typical look.
The Insurgent.
The burden of the Crown did not fall upon my shoulders, and yet I lived as a King. I wanted for nothing - amusement, flesh, possessions: all were mine at the snap of a finger. Such was the blessing of entering the world behind a sibling. Such were the benefits of being a Prince. For years, I squandered the gift of life by dabbling into trivial pursuits. Between floating from feast to feast, I considered myself an artist of all things! I wasted hours slathering paint upon canvas or molding dirt into mundane pottery. But. Fate would soon intervene. You see, while I wasted every second of every day, my brother reigned with an iron fist.
He did not tolerate anything but total submission. He did not stand for mercy - especially not towards kin. On one seemingly unremarkable evening, he and I met for dinner. We talked. We drank. We laughed - and in my stupor I made the error of disagreeing with the King. I told him No. There weren't enough excuses in the Galaxy to save my hide then.
He cast me out. Had chains clasped upon my hands and feet. For the first time in my adult life, I knew pain. Terror. I do not know how long...but I was thrown into darkness. The cell was far too cramped for any of our kind. It was damp. Cold. And the guards were just as callous as their liege! I was subjected to humilation - given rats and rot to eat...Then, one day, the bastards dragged me out. They hosed the muck off of me, draped me in "fresh" rags, and paraded me out to my elder sibling.
I tried to apologize. I tried to make excuses - to blame to alcohol. I tried to appeal to him as one brother to another.
But he just laughed and had me dragged outside.
A man was waiting, armored with a jetpack on his back. My brother greeted him as a friend before personally shoving me forward. The man looked me over...and shoved a cold ring around my neck: a collar. I had been sold. I had become a slave by my brother's hand. Before that day...before that very moment...I still loved my brother. I could forgive time behind bars, I could forget the humiliation. But when that collar closed around my neck, I hated him. I hate him.
I was torn from my home - from my life - and began to Fight. You see, the armored man was a Bounty Hunter, and he saw immense value in our kind. We are, simply put, far bigger than Humans. Stronger. He felt purchasing an "ape" would be a sound investment. So, he brought me along for his Hunts - had me be the brute force of the operation. And any time I spoke out of turn...any time I failed or disobeyed...he ran a nasty shock through that damn collar. I fought for that man. Bled for him. Damn near died for him on many occassions. Over time, he began to see me as an acquaintance I suppose: more than a slave, but less than an equal. But I saw it as true friendship...in my ignorance.
He hadn't the need to deliver electric punishment in quite some time, and thus did I believe that we have become comrades. But, I made the mistake of seeking a portion of the latest bounty's proceeds. He laughed...and shocked me within an inch of my life. The delusion of friendship came crashing down around me - he was no comrade! He was never a friend! Without that delusion, there was only Anger. Hatred. It boiled within me and, subconsiously, I directed it all at the collar. The Force lashed out and shattered it into pieces before his very eyes.
I took my time. I enjoyed this.
I ignored his pleas and excuses. I turned a deaf ear - just like my brother. I seized his helm between my hands and squeezed. He screamed...he flailed...he stopped. And I was alone. Any other slave might have recognized the freedon that was no theirs - but my anger had an appetite. Killing the Bounty Hunter was but a taste...I needed the main course. And so, with the Hunter's own ship did I venture back home. The deceased had taught me enough not to be a fool in proceededing - to slay a high value target always required help. Potential help, fortunately, was in high supply. Potential help resided within the very cells that had been my prison.
It took some doing, but I managed to infiltrate the palace dungeon. There, I found the allies I required. The hatred Empowered me, allowing me to rip open the cells. Once free, we ambushed the guards and made off with their arms. A mad dash for my brother was made - and victory was almost within reach...but the guards came like a swarm. There were too many and we too few! The goal quickly transitioned from assassination to survival. Many of my newfound allies fell that day, but those who remained led the escape. We breached the palace exterior and quickly braved the surrounding jungles.
In the days that followed, word spread like wildfire.
I, the Tyrant's own brother, had returned and staged an attempt on his life. I, the Playboy Prince, had become a hero overnight. Yet how the people viewed me was irrelevant: I wanted Blood. I wanted Revenge. And the downtrodden paved the way forward. Many found themselves emboldened by my attempt and rallied to the jungles to join our midst. Our numbers swelled, and soon we believed ourselves ready to face the King. We played it smart - sticking to guerilla tactics to pick off Hunters and Patrols. And with each victory, my confidence soared. After weeks, I led the assault on the Palace...I would have my vengeance, once and for all.
But then there was Fire.
It reigned down from above, shattering my ambition with every blast. Capital Support. Literal rays of destruction decimated my forces, vaporizing them in an instance. I had to retreat...I had to live to fight another day. My hatred grew all the more. In the end, I had but a shattered battalion left; and I had a tough call to make. There was no return for those who fought with me, for my sibling would not rest until the insurrection was fully put down. So, I gave an alternative. We would leave our homeworld...we would go into exile until we were strong enough to destroy him. Until I was strong enough. Thus had my journey begun anew. Thus had my life evolved into battle followed by battle. In order to grow - in order to survive - I sell my services to the highest bidder. And with each victory, I step closer to finally removing His head.
TEMPLATE CREDIT: [member="Ra Vizsla"]