Night Wind
ROSTAM KHAVARZAI
| Age | 42 |
| Species | Human |
| Gender | Male |
| Height | 6'3" |
| Weight | 185 lbs |
| Force Sensitive | No |
PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION
Rostam Khavarzai stands at six feet tall, weighing one hundred and eighty-five pounds. Forty-two years old, his presence is sharp and silent, the kind that makes people instinctively step aside. His build is lean and disciplined, shaped by a lifetime of combat and shadowed training. His face is weathered and angular, marked by a faded scar running from his temple to his cheek. His pale blue eyes are deep-set and unreadable, carrying a constant stillness that unsettles those who meet his gaze. His hair is short and black with streaks of grey, cut without vanity, kept neat for practicality alone. He wears a long, black coat with crimson and white trim, tailored but functional. Beneath it lies a cortosis-weave undersuit, light and unobtrusive. His belt and coat interior carry small throwing knives, toxin-loaded and perfectly balanced. A compact disruptor pistol sits hidden at his side, illegal and devastating. From its sheath on his belt is a vibroblade, named Zulm'Khanjar.
INVENTORY
Cortosis-Woven Undersuit
Vambrace Mounted Protected Energy Shield
Vibroblade
Disruptor pistol
Spray Stick
Vibroknives
Blaster Pistol
Plasma Pike
PERSONALITY AND BELIEFS
Rostam Khavarzai is a man of quiet conviction and cold fire, shaped by exile, forged by discipline, and tempered by a lifetime of war in the shadows. He believes in structure over chaos, purpose over sentiment, and mastery over indulgence. He holds no illusions about the galaxy's nature, viewing it as a place governed not by justice or hope, but by power and strength. He is not cruel, but neither is he merciful. Compassion is a luxury he cannot afford, though he is not without honor. He does not kill for pleasure, nor does he revel in fear. He knows the galaxy will never punish the wicked and evil. In his eyes, the galaxy is indifferent and often cruel, a place where the wicked thrive and the virtuous are forgotten. Cold. calculating, he believes mastery of skills are the only true calling, anything else can be taken.
STRENGTHS
1. Tactical Precision
Rostam possesses an extraordinary ability to analyze, plan, and execute operations with methodical precision. Whether studying a target's habits, navigating political webs, or orchestrating layered assassinations, he leaves nothing to chance. Every movement, every word, every delay is intentional. He is not improvisational by nature, he is surgical.
2. Ruthless Discipline
Decades of training at Orsis and service under the Night Wind have forged in him an unshakable core of discipline. He neither hesitates nor breaks under pressure. Pain, temptation, and distraction are obstacles he has learned to override completely. This allows him to function flawlessly in situations that would shatter others.
WEAKNESSES
1. Isolation by Design
Rostam has spent so long hiding his identity and suppressing his emotions that true connection has become alien to him. He distrusts camaraderie, seeing it as a liability. While this makes him difficult to manipulate, it also means he cannot rely on others, and he has few who would willingly risk themselves for him.
2. Obsession with Legacy
Though he claims no throne, Rostam is haunted by the shadow of his bloodline. He often chooses targets, missions, or apprentices based on a deep need to shape the galaxy as a form of compensation. This obsession with legacy can cloud his otherwise flawless judgment, pushing him into decisions that serve his past more than his purpose.
HISTORY
Once on a planet in the Colonies regions, where twin moons cast pale fire across cities of sun-stained stone. This was an Eastern World, a sovereign realm old before the Galactic Alliance was young. Its kings ruled through blood and silence, their courts built on law, order, and the sword. From this fading line was born a child without a title, his name etched in secrecy. Rostam was born beneath an eclipse, the second son of a dying dynasty. His father was the last Shah of the Eastern Court. His mother, a concubine of rare blood and rare silence. Though he bore the lineage of House Zai, his name was never entered into the scrolls of succession. He lived behind latticework, raised by shadows, tutored in the histories of a throne he would never claim.
When his royal house fell to fire and treachery, when the loyalists were buried beneath palace stones, Rostam was taken from the ruins by a servant who had once sworn an oath to the old line. They fled through ash and starlight, vanishing into the Outer Rim. They did not speak of heritage again. Not even in dreams. The child was taken to Orsis, a world of basalt and discipline, where the strong were carved into soldiers and the weak were broken beneath their weight. Rostam never spoke of who he was. There was no one to listen, and nothing to prove. Instead, he learned. Tactics. Blades. Languages. War. He did not rise through charm or brilliance, but through force of will and precision. Every lesson was a stone set upon his foundation. He was not there to survive. He was there to endure. During this time, he became an adept and skilled Teräs Käsi practitioner, an art he would later master.
He was selected for the Assassin Division, a branch of Orsis known for training some of the galaxy's greatest assassins. His instructors noted his patience, his restraint, and his deep memory. When the time came, he was approached by an envoy of the Order of the Night Wind. They offered no promises. Only purpose.
He accepted.
As a Night Wind operative, Rostam took contracts across the galaxy. Crime Lords. Warlords. Politicians. Nobles. He studied their weaknesses, their history, and their fears. His kills were not made with haste or fury, but with care. Every mission was a lesson, his discipline grew each time. Time hardened him. He rewrote old methods, honed tools for new wars, and corrected the flaws left by masters who had grown too comfortable in tradition. Within two decades, the Night Wind began to send assassins to him for judgment. Not every student left his sight alive. Fewer still earned his approval. An unspoken master of their order, he has no banner, no title. A lost Prince forgotten by time.
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