Thraxis
The Damn-Forged
"There’s gotta be a hundred reasons why I don’t blow you away. Right now I can’t think of one."
— The Rookie
Name: Thraxis
Faction: Jackals, Cartel, Justice Shipping, Ancient Eye. GenoHaradan
Rank: Grand Sentinel of the Jackals. The Inquisitor of the Cartel.
Species: Zeltron
Age: 29
Sex: Eunuch
Height: 5'9
Weight: 110 Kgs
Eyes: Black
Hair: Black, Natural
Skin: Pink
Force Sensitive: No
Strengths and Weaknesses:+ Master Fist Fighter. Growing up where all he felt was rage he found few ways to express his rage, one such way was assaulting anything he could, getting in close and cracking skulls was a... less than a healthy way to do so. Though over the years he got better and better. Then when he got into proper combat, it only became more and more refined.
+ Nigh Ungodly tolerance for Alcohol. There are few ways to suppress emotions without resorting to pills, and considering that drugs are expensive and harder to acquire than booze, he took to booze at a young age, some say before the age of three, though seemingly Thraxis can't remember before then.
+ Mind Over Matter. Thraxis mind became chaotic in nature, making it more difficult for people to read his thoughts or anything similar in nature, not unreadable but a bit of a headache.
+ Poison Conniseur. Torture, it is but an art and to perfect it one needs to practice. His body may be a canvas for physical wounds, but his body has delved through drugs both heard of and run. Spice is a little different, never really touching the stuff so that is something that can affect him. But Poison? Where one may fall down for days on end while their body fights of the toxins, Thraxis would spend a couple minutes sluggish and tired before breaking its grip and coming back that little bit better.
+ My body a Canvas. As a Connoisseur of Torturing arts, it is his job to both develop new methods of torture as well as make sure they are effective. And he needed a method to test that, so now he himself is the test dummy. It comes with pain, his physical features have become garish to the eye, each mark not a wound of war but a masterpiece carefully sculpted around his body for maximum effect. He takes each mark with pride and no matter how grossly ghoulish he may become, he will never stop practising the only art form he knows how.
+ Reflexive like a cat, as tough as a Rancor. Like it sounds, his years of solitude of perceived time on Graveyard left him forced to evolve as a Zeltron. Whether being tossed around by Monsters larger than Rancors, being blown up by the force any myriad of death-defying tricks Thraxis body has become like steel ran the along the rock, but his cunning speed never dulled and every time he was juped by a Sith Inbreed he managed through sheer tenacity to keep up with them. A thousand years can do a lot. And for him, he became superior to most.
+/- Ambidextrous. Considering he dual wields, it came by nature to be so.
+/- Second Liver/Emotional Projection. Just a normal Zeltron's stuff.
- Pheromone. The pheromones that Zeltrons emit have an opposite effect on Thraxis, instead of enhancing one's likeness and attractiveness, it only serves to infuriate him. This often plays to his detriment, he has only learnt to handle his own Pheremones so being exposed to another is a rather alarming prospect. He relies on skill and a level of finesse to handle most of his fights and when blinded by the anger he becomes exposed, and overall compromising his capacity for a fight in the name of simply bloodlust.
- Erratic. You only have so long to live, might as well jump on everything that passes your way, a line he lives every day by. It comes to his detriment overall, not thinking before reacting, quickly jumping onto a ship that is heading to Zeltros or a plethora of other problems before even thinking it through, making him far too ill-suited for the political intrigue or anything of the sort.
-Loveless. Due to the ways, the Zeltrons acted when he was growing up he cannot find love in any sort. Friendship sure. But love will never happen, whether romantic or Sexual.
- Alcoholic. If you knew the man, you might know he is the largest alcoholic in the galaxy. Doesn't do the fancy deathsticks. Doesn't fly or writhe in pools of blood. No, this man has a crippling problem with alcohol, which only becomes more apparent when you realize he has been offered in the tens of thousands of credits in goods and in just plain cash and turned it all down for a bottle of Space Jack Daniel. He knows how money works. He simply cares more for the immediate buzz of the high than anything else and if not for his inhumane tolerance for the stuff, would most assuredly be dead.- But not Superman. There is one thing he never managed in those thousand years. To become Superman, sure he can keep up with a Jedi in Reflexive Movement, and his body can stomach more pain than a certain Wrestler, his body couldn't evolve the muscle tissue needed to become unreasonably strong. Where he has Endurance and Dexterity his only martial failure is a strength, no different to an ordinary Zeltron in that regard. He is mortal.
Languages: Galactic Basic, Gammorean and Huttese
Appearance: Withered skin from strenuous tasks carried out by his crew, cuts and bruises are accustomed to being adorned on his skin. The only thing to note is his eyes, they show how far gone he is, all colour has been stripped bare, other than the white it would appear his entire eyes have been swallowed by his pupils. Beneath the guise of armour that he dons like a religious artefact, stands his skin, torn and battered, his body is more similar to a planet. His chest looks as if craters and canyons have formed, his chest, arms, and legs, every part of him with the exception of his face, is similar to that, long stretches of river tearing through his skin, while craters plummet deep into his chest, an inch deeper then the rest, while in other small hills are placed all along his body. When he wears clothing that grips his muscles it becomes apparent, it can even be noted that in places constantly battered by his work that a callus has begun to form. Though the most chilling of marks is a single twisting line stretched across his neck. Not a slice to bleed out, not a tattoo. No, it is clear as day what that mark means, a single swift cut and his own head rolled. He has been decapitated, frozen, stitched together and brought back from death.
Biography: Thraxis, grew up with his mother and father, along with others of his kin on the planet Zeltros, however, his life was the opposite of his kin. They were disgusting in his eyes. Their scent was revolting and infuriating to him, and made Thraxis constantly aggressive, being drugged up was commonplace for him, though even with it pumping through his bloodstream he still remembered the disgusting scent of his kin.
Due to this extreme anger, his family would try and project joy onto him through telepathy, though it was nullified near-immediately by their scent, and soon the Zeltrons started to hate him, he always remained alone at home, fighting with himself to not kill everything he could, though he still found it commonplace to get into fights.
Over the course of time, he started to hate his kin, to the point of violent ideas and twisted dreams of torturing and brutalizing his kin. Over the course of his life, he saw all the joys his kin were constantly enveloped in, material possessions, emotional connections, these were things he never wanted or desired due to those he despised constantly exposed to them. Slowly he grew to detest them in all their joyous activities, he had grown cold to the concept of love, a false emotion in his eyes by the way his compatriots so freely loved all that they came in contact with.
Once he was old enough he left, abandoning his own personal hell and joined up with the Jackals and this is where his journey began. His own disgusting scent, was one of the final reminders he had to make him remember the horrors that Zeltron was filled with, though happily accepted it to constantly fuel his rage and hatred for what he deems the scum of the universe.
The Jackals, Pack O' Thugs:
In what felt like the best years of his life. Though when compared to the hell he had lived through it was not hard to consider this new life heaven. He engaged in violent actions on a daily basis and drank when he felt. Though no good Pirate life was without its troubles. The first came when an auction went poorly on Tatooine. He remembers brisks of it, it was a shocking turn of events. There were Jedi's on the planet. Though not one or two. What seemed like four-five as if they had infested the planet and in the end. It left the Captain Flannigan a burnt mess.
Then came the last of the issues. Someone died. Fiarr was murdered by a cowardly Sith. This act shattered his mind, the toll it had taken beforehand finally snapping him over the edge driving him into the first stages of madness. He looked to the same group that caused him suffering and in turn vowed a solemn swear. He would grow more furious, more diabolical than even the Sith. He would ascend past the Sith to his own tier.
The Hutt Cartel, Pain In A Bottle:
Next Came the Hutts. Forced to work with them by Flannigan he followed his orders without care. He aided them as well as he could, dominating whatever planets they needed with whatever it was they wished. He didn't ask for much. In fact, all he was done was drink their booze dry. Then came the day, when he was invited by Sempra himself to join his more trusted group of the Cartel. The enforcers, he made quite the impression, becoming their Chief Torturer and in turn gaining the respect of the Gammoreans that had littered his new home beneath the White Palace. The Pitt. Though as he achieved it, the Cartel started to die, the Bustling palace started to vanish from sight as he simply lazed in the Cartel, not getting nary a job. Though if anything good came of it. He made friends with his greatest drinking buddy. Ka-Aver.For a while he tried to hold to the crumbling ashes, his hands seeped with blood in their name, though in truth it had become more a figment of his imagination than a tangible force. He done all the work, led the charge even tried his hand at holding out defences only to be crushed beneath the boot of armies and waves upon waves. Its time had come to a close, and a new age was brewing, though as for how long he wouldn't even bother to surmise.
Graveyard, A Peasant's Playground
The Hutt's had fallen, their story had come to an end and no longer could Thraxis glide along on their success though meagre it ended up being. He found himself in the bittersweet employment of Jamesy-boy. Not a bad deal, the man asked for what he supplied. Violence, torture drinking him dry and indiscriminate removal of the unwanted. It was a good life, a hard one since his damnable Zeltron Blood ever reminded Thraxis of his ultimate goal, the very destruction of Zeltros itself.Though one small job, one he wasn't even contracted to be a part of. In truth, fewer and fewer jobs existed in his records and a confrontation with James led to a dangerous engagement. They crashed. Not from any fault of his own, Graveyard took who it wanted and it just so happened James was its chosen target. Taken down to the planet the plague struck, as if the signs of the apocalypse manifested themselves. The first was the Lugubraa, an amazing spectacle of a race, darting through with vicious fury. Though with hard work they were fended off, only for in its place to come to an even greater monstrosity, though its sight was short-lived as without ammo Thraxis was quickly brushed aside, tossed over the line and into the distance.
From there a fevered dream of wonders and nightmares flourished before being rescued. With his body crippled from the pain, he dived straight back in, in the process finding himself an underground city, a long since abandoned throne he brashly titled, Dar'Manda and colonized quickly with remnants of the Cartel, asserting himself as ruler of the planet. The zombies that walked it, the Lugubraa who danced upon it and the Sith tribes that survived had met civilization at long last. Thraxis Civilization.
Loneliness, A Paradoy of Friendship
What had happened in that short spill he left the universe behind to live his ending days with his sole friends. And it lasted. He watched his empire get built, crumble to dust and rebuilds itself from there. For a thousand years he watched, time flashed by, the stars in the sky a still image as the sun itself always hovered in that same place, barely inching across the horizon. He had become trapped in his own playpen, and like a child wishing freedom was grounded evermore. His vaults were locked up, himself kicked from Dar'Manda and left to wander the vagabond peasant he was.And at that time. Dar'Manda fell. The warping touch of the Dark Side had warped many of the Gammoreans mad, and those who didn't be soon found trodden beneath the sea of green that left only red in its wake. It wasn't until a fateful day when a ship crashed on Graveyard that Thraxis made his leave, his figure and visage unchanged in what for him was a thousand years. The Dark Side did strange things to him, time, ironically for a time, became a nigh impossibility to perceive, his body stronger by either hard work or the malignant wishes of the force. But none-the-less, after his long reprieve, he returns, far wiser, far smarter and by far. More confused than ever.
Ship: Whatever is at his disposal
Kills: Still no names to cross off on the grocery list of life.
Bounties Collected: None
Primary Equipment:
Twin Heavy Blaster Pistol | Cruciatus Blades
Auction Items? Miscellaneous Goods:Darth Bane's Robes - Purchased here
Purple Rejects - Purchased Here
Goods he has Acquired over his years that he never uses.
Inconspicuous Link
Purple Rejects - Purchased Here
Goods he has Acquired over his years that he never uses.
Inconspicuous Link
List of Achievements in his long career. Be warned. He hasn't done much.
