Sronvurc A'Ruzhuq
Wayward Tusken
Wrong Place, Wrong Kind
[youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QzpnsJjY9bs[/youtube]
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Physical Stats
Species - Tusken Raider
Age - 27 (Galactic Standard Years)
Sex - Male
Sexuality - Asexual
Height - 5'10
Weight - 180
Eyes - Mint Green
Hair - NA
Force Sensitive? No
Alignment - Chaotic Neutral / Grey
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Strengths and Weaknesses
Strengths
Hardened, Sronvurc has seen conflict in his days, and ever since he left Tatooine, exploring what the galaxy has had to offer, he has become highly self reliant, able to hold himself to a much higher standard than he would expect by default. Enabling him to be an apt survivalist when it calls for it.
Explorer, the Tusken has gone nearly everywhere one could feasibly lightjump to, of course not in a literal sense, but he has gone out of his way to read up on the customs of worlds, flightpaths, and basic conversational structures of different languages in his travels.
Weaknesses
Lost Soul, Sronvurc's wandering nearly has as much to do with putting emotional distance between him and his homeland as much as it does with putting physical, he's prone to anxiety if spending too long in one spot.
Heriatage, the Tusken is hard set to prove himself to the Galaxy, wishing to set himself up in a way that would be as pleasant as possible to outsiders, stressing himself to keep a nearly peerless consistency with his personality, prone to keeping most stress locked up.
Mixed
Unaligned, Sronvurc has taken many steps to assure that he keeps from falling in the arms of a single faction, causing him to have many friends but many, many more enemies than he would like to admit across the stars.
Tusken Aura, most people, who know of them, hardly expect a Tusken to be able to speak, much less would they expect one to give proper conversation with enlightened opinions on the Galaxy at large, this tends to throw people off in one way or another.
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Equipment [WIP}
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Republic Engineering™ Produced Items
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Merr-Sonn Munitions, Inc.
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Native Tusken Items
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Sketchbook
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Biography
The Galaxy has changed, it was far from the stories of old, far from the stories of the Skywalkers, far from the stories of the Republic and the Empire, the Clone Wars were spoken of only in mythologized whispers by Sages throwing Rosemary into the roaring flame of history, and the Old Republic, that of Revan, Malak, and the Mandalorian Wars were even more antiquated. No, this was a new era, a new life, this was Chaos, embodied fully, the Galaxy was forced to realize that after the Gulag Plague, but some still held to those ancient labels, those archaic ideals, the anachronistic life that the universe led would see itself burn again and again, despite all of that, despite all of the worries and washing hate, there still stood the common rabble, the vernacular of the galaxy. The moisture farmers, the tradesmen, the politicians, the soldiers, and in this case, the humble explorer.
Born to one of the countless tribes that wander the endless dunehills of Tatooine, Sronvurc began his life much as many of his kith and kin did, screaming and raging against the new sun, against the new sensations that the lack of darkness brought, an unfounded confusion before being wrapped and swaddled into layers upon layers of cloth by harshly barking shapes in the dark. This was life, this was simply the way things were. He learned the language, how to walk, and the ways of his people, he found himself following the same footfalls of ancestors upon ancestors before, and when night would fall, and the Shaman would come from his hut and spread the tales of wonder and mystery that his people were built upon, starting from their conflict with the ancient Builders, the tales of those from beyond the great sky, Sronvurc couldn’t help but let his heart fill to the brim with every word, his novice mind wandering the endless halls of his own imagination, conjuring up the beasts that the Shaman spoke of, the evils clad in white armor, the great scars that arched across the sky. With all of this, a spark was placed, inside of the very soul of the child, one that would burn for as long as he would live. What lays beyond the sands?
This answer, however, would be far from a kind one. Aged into his teen years, he was destined that next morning to go out with his father, slugthrower in hand, to hunt down the Dragons that stalked the expanse. To claim one, to bring it down with the explosion of a rifle and the jilting of a mace, to finally take the steps into becoming a Tuskan Man. He would come riding back into the village proud, with his head held high, bellowing out a war-cry that would be echoed into his families records for eons to come. That would never come to fruition. Ashen smoke wafted into his hut into the odd hours of the night, flame licking at the edges of his camp once he finally roused from a coughing fit, the cries of his tribe utterly surrounding him as Sronvurc brought himself rushing from bed, holding his Gaderffii loosely in his right hand, it slipping nearly from his grasp as the head of the tool hit the ground as he was forced to take in the horror that was unfolding around him. Fire. All consuming death marched along the outskirts of his entire village like a villain. Occasionally, the women, men, and children, rushing from their homes, rushing to safety, would be struck down mid run by a bolt of red shuttering from the outskirts of the circle. Scoring kills as if the Hell was already not enough.
Scared, confused, the child had little chance to register anything that was happening, trying to call out for help, stop people that were running by to get some sense of what was happening, where to go. He was lost. He was home. He never remembered when his father had found him, scooped him up into his arms and made a rush to the outskirts of the flames, who roared high into the endless night, that begged to be fed, who’s cackling desire wished nothing more than to consume. Muttering a prayer underneath his breath, the father, putting all of his weight into the throw, tossed the child at as high of an arch as he could manage, Sronvurc soaring over the flames, bits of it licking his robe before he passed over the equilibrium and collapsed into the cooled sands below, his Gaderffii clattering next to him moments after.
He ran, as if he never had before, in what direction, he hardly knew, but the child ran. As he ran, he grew tired, more and more, and soon his steps were automated, and sooner than that, he began to daze. As the twin suns began to slowly climb over the edge, the Tusken collapsed. When he would awake, it would be on cold durasteel, it would be to the blaring of a song in lyrics he never would have known, muffled by a door. Soon, bringing himself to a stand, Sronvurc would piece together, slowly, he was in one of the Cityborn buildings. A tavern, glancing into the corner of the room, there would be a Duros, sitting on a simply made plasteel and metal chair, who’s mouth grew into a nearly malicious grin as those demon red eyes stared as the frightened, lost, and lonely child. Sronvurc backed himself against the wall, scooting his way there.
That would be the first meeting that Sronvurc would have with the Duros barkeep that he would later come to know as Ginted, the benefactor to the Tusken. He offered him a home, shelter, and a light into a new world. The Tusken would find himself running about at the bar, serving drinks, and doing what he could for every patron in a broken Basic. He was an attraction, something the people could come and watch, something the people could mock, if not for long until the Duros heard their comments. Despite saving the Tusken, the Credits Ginted offered in exchange for his services were meager at best, but the Duros stood as the Tusken’s only true chance to keep himself alive in a society that otherwise would hate him. So, the Tusken saved, he plotted, and he waited. Years, and years passed by, bringing in more and more money for the cantina. Then, just as suddenly as he came, the Tusken set off in the night, making his way to the nearest public shuttle service off of the planet, pushing a lump sum of chips into the hands of a droid who wouldn’t ask questions. The Wayward Tusken would see himself rise, with dozens of other faceless sentients, nameless no-ones, into the void, before the hyperdrive fired off and sent them all burning into the night.
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Years later, the Tusken stood with his back propped against the now cooled ion engines of his ship, in front of him, staring at it through the HUD of his refurbished armor, was a waterfall. It was emblematic of this garden-world he had found, the water tumbling over itself, catching the light of the three suns of the planet, exploding into a rainbow array of shades and hues, dancing off of the crystalline rocks that formed the base of the beach that the fall emptied out into. Creatures of all shapes and sizes fluttered through the water, dizzying colors all of their own, and occasionally, there would be the distant call of a creature in the woods behind him. He sighed, digging out a leatherbound sketchbook from the back of his pocket, bringing out a writing implement, and putting nub to page. The Galaxy was filled with sights like this, maybe one day he could see them all, every last planet, every last city, field, small town. Maybe someday he could find something worth being himself for.
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Types of RP
Serious to Semi-Serious roleplays intended on treating our characters with respect within the setting they find themselves in.
Trying to keep an okay continuity as well, but that's up for debate.