Symfora Karr'khash
...don't ask, I ain't tellin'...
NAME: Symfora Karr'khash
FACTION:
RANK:
SPECIES: Human/Zeltron hybrid
AGE: 21 standard years
SEX: Female
HEIGHT: 5' 4"
WEIGHT: 115 pounds
EYES: Chestnut
HAIR: Cinnamon streaked with crimson
SKIN: Pale (with a pink sheen in bright light)
FORCE SENSITIVE: Yes
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STRENGTHS
...Zeltron, baby...
My mother was a full blooded, crimson skinned and raven haired Zeltron female. My dad, just a regular human. While I mostly look like my dad save for the crimson streaks in my hair, I did inherit some of my mom's pheromone abilities. They're just alot less powerful than a full blood's would be. But still useful...I can put people at ease, diffuse or even enhance situations, charm much more than drinks out of men...it's good to be me, sugar.
...if you can dish it out, trust me, I can take it...
I've been a slave all my life. I've seen things...done things...that would make a hardened Sith Lord wince in pain. But you'll never get a rise out of me. You keep quiet or you die, as a slave. Learned that lesson real early in life. My pain threshold is pretty high as a result...handy thing.
...gods I wish I could forget...
I have an almost perfect memory...I quite literally cannot forget a face, an encounter, a place if I don't make a concerted effort to do it. Useful trick to stay alive as a slave...amazing the things people will say and do when they think you're little better than part of the furniture.
WEAKNESSES
...don't remind me about my past...
Believe me, I can't forget it, and I really wish I could. If you were born in a mine shaft on Kessel and sold to slavers, you'd hate your past and even yourself as much as I do.
...that bastard of a wizard gave me a heart...
I have one. It's there. It beats and does what it's supposed to do. But I form attachments easily, and I have emotions that tug on my heart that I have trouble controlling. And if I'm in love...then...you'll know which button to push.
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APPEARANCE
Symfora stands at a petite five feet, four inches tall. A lithe almost delicate figure is crowned by a mane of cinnamon locks that are streaked through with crimson thanks to a Zeltron mother. Her skin, though pale, has a pink sheen to it that isn't always obvious, except in bright light. She dresses very casually, and often covers herself completely in an effort to hide the cuts, bruises, and scars her masters have left on her flesh. Her lower back, wrists, and ankles are heavily scarred, with her wrists and ankles bearing the tell-tale signs of heavy manacles.
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BIOGRAPHY
There's really not much to tell, so I'm hoping you don't expect a dramatic retelling of my sordid tale. I was born on Kessel, in one of the mine shafts. My mother was a Zeltron slave there, and my father was likely one of the slavers who abused her for sport. Like everything else on Kessel, I lived in the subterranean levels with her for the first few years of my life, starting to work when I was old enough to follow simple directions.
I've always been petite, so I was used most often to crawl through collapsed tunnels or carry cameras into areas the adults couldn't fit in. When my mother died, though, they had no more reason to keep me, so they sold me to some passing slavers. I was bought and sold more times than I can count in the last fifteen years of my life, most recently to some depraved, wealthy aristocrat living on Coruscant.
Been there for nearly two years...longest I've been anywhere since I was taken off of Kessel. My...Master...is a ruthless, angry man who beats me for every transgression of his wife. He can't touch her since she's well connected politically and socially, so when she pisses him off, he beats the ever-loving kark out of me.
And sometimes...she does it on purpose. Because, make no mistake about it, she knows that's what I'm there for. And she just doesn't care. They might say that men are bastards, but they're nothing to a woman with power in her grasp and the will to use it.
Some day...gods help me, that'll be me.
And then I'll see to rearranging her pretty little face.
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She didn’t make a sound.
Not a single one. There was no whimper. No pained exhalation of breath. There were no pleas for it to stop...Symfora knew better than to ask. It would only make it worse.
Only the sound of his fist meeting her flesh echoed in the cold marble foyer of the grand house, while her blood splattered across the pristine white floor. His enraged voice soon joined the cacophony of her pain, calling her everything he didn’t dare say to his wife’s face. Giving Symfora the beating that his darling Arissa so richly deserved...it was why she’d been purchased at all, of course.
His rage finally spent, he straightened his suit jacket and used the handkerchief from his pocket to meticulously clean the blood from his hands. What little splattered on his clothing was unnoticeable given the dark fabric of his suit and shirt alike. Delicate stiletto heels echoed down the stairs behind Symfora’s battered body, followed by the lithe form of Arissa D’levian-Wolff. Aric Wolff extended his hand, assisting his wife as she stepped over the body that lay in her sparkling foyer.
“Are you feeling better, darling? We don’t wish to be late for the gala at the Arboretum.” She said with a soft, almost deferential tone, gazing up at him with baby blue orbs sparkling beneath long lashes.
“Much better, my dove. The limo is waiting...let us not dally any longer.” He rumbled softly, dipping his head to kiss her hand to her delight. He led her out the door, and neither one of them so much as spared Symfora a backwards glance.
It was amazing, she thought as she lay there, that they could switch facades so very quickly. Of course, the rage was the only one she ever saw. There were servants in the grand home, but she was not one of even them. No, she was not fit to be seen...both because of her status as a slave, and because she was always in some state of healing. Almost constantly covered in bruises and half-healed wounds, and the raw, scarred flesh at her wrists and ankles where the durasteel manacles dwelled. She couldn’t even remember a time when she’d not worn them.
A solid half inch thick, they’d been forged to fit her wrists and ankles, and welded closed. There was no key that would open these.
She stayed there, unmoving, simply listening as the limo pulled away, and then for a few moments longer to be sure they would not quickly return. In spite of the glittering darkness that beckoned at the edges of her vision, Symfora slowly got to her hands and knees. She crawled to the steps first, trying her best to ignore the excruciating pain that every movement sent shooting across her senses. Breathing proved to be a challenge, and she wondered if he’d cracked one of her ribs again.
That was when she smelled the smoke.
Self-preservation kicked in at the sight of flames, driving her up the stairs she’d been leaning against. If the house was burning, then this was her one chance at escaping alive...and if she was going, she was taking a few things with her. Adrenaline fueled her to move in spite of the pain of her injuries, the possibility of freedom spurring her forward. Upstairs in the master bedroom, she dragged a travel bag out of storage and into the mistress’ walk in closet. As fond as the woman was of clothing and shoes, Symfora didn’t pay much attention to what she took, only ensuring that there were long sleeves, slacks, and long skirts that would cover as much of her as possible.
What she took more of was the jewelry that the woman never kept under lock and key. As good as credits and untraceable once she pried the gemstones out of their settings, she took as much of it as she could hide in the deep interior pockets of the travel bag, stuffing scarves on top to keep them hidden. Securing it as best she could, she hastily changed and washed what blood off of herself that she could, enveloping herself in a soft silken cloak that felt like so much armor for the way it hid her from sight.
She merged into the growing crowd that watched the house burn, and eventually slipped away, unnoticed.
