Darth Proeliator
Member
Walking the ancient gladiatorial arenas of Geonosis, Darth Proeliator drew upon the ancient Sith Code, far older than even he, and he by most standards was ancient, though he certainly did not look it.
Through Passion I Gain Strength.
Passion, he undoubtedly had. He was a walking pillar of controlled fury, hate, and unbridled emotion. His every move spoke in the Force as one of a warrior, reborn in battles he did not remember, though he had the hundreds of scars and grievous injuries to show for them. He was clad only in simple black, form fitting robes that did not reveal these old wounds, nor did they show the tattoos that adorned his body, save those on his face. At his side, the lightsaber that, like he, was ancient. Umbra, he called it, for it's midnight-hued blade.
He was hunting now, that much was evident in his lethal gait, that bespoke of elegance and danger in one. Searching for a challenge, something that could prove the worthiness of this group he had joined with little knowledge of them. In this pursuit, he had called upon one man who's reputation he had heard of through those few people he had interacted with since he return to the Galaxy. Alen Na'Varro, they called him. Well, if he dared to accept, then he would learn why the Sith had once called him the Marauder, long ago.
His eyes, one of them a cybernetic reminder of his battle-ridden past, scanned the sky in search of a ship, the vessel of his would-be foe. Sighting it, his lips pulled back in a feral grin reminiscent of a primal beast. He had found his prey.
Through Passion I Gain Strength.
Passion, he undoubtedly had. He was a walking pillar of controlled fury, hate, and unbridled emotion. His every move spoke in the Force as one of a warrior, reborn in battles he did not remember, though he had the hundreds of scars and grievous injuries to show for them. He was clad only in simple black, form fitting robes that did not reveal these old wounds, nor did they show the tattoos that adorned his body, save those on his face. At his side, the lightsaber that, like he, was ancient. Umbra, he called it, for it's midnight-hued blade.
He was hunting now, that much was evident in his lethal gait, that bespoke of elegance and danger in one. Searching for a challenge, something that could prove the worthiness of this group he had joined with little knowledge of them. In this pursuit, he had called upon one man who's reputation he had heard of through those few people he had interacted with since he return to the Galaxy. Alen Na'Varro, they called him. Well, if he dared to accept, then he would learn why the Sith had once called him the Marauder, long ago.
His eyes, one of them a cybernetic reminder of his battle-ridden past, scanned the sky in search of a ship, the vessel of his would-be foe. Sighting it, his lips pulled back in a feral grin reminiscent of a primal beast. He had found his prey.