Nightmare
Vexorion
| Species | Felacatian |
| Birthplace | Dagobah |
| Age | 25 |
| Gender | Male |
| Height | 6'3" |
| Weight | 195lbs. |
| Hair Color | White |
| Eye Color | Orange (Cat Eyes) |
| Skin Color | Caucasian |
| Dis. Marks | Scarred Face |
| Build | Slim / Toned |
| Faction | Sith Covenant |
| Force Rank / Genre | Sith Knight - Assassin |
| Force Sensitive | Yes - Dark Side |
| Voice | X |
| Writer | Extinct |
B I O G R A P H Y
Vexorion was born beneath Dagobah's eternal shroud, where the sky rotted into mist and the swamps breathed like diseased lungs. His first cries were swallowed by fog and insect-song, unanswered by stars that could not pierce the canopy. The Force coiled thickly there, ancient and stagnant, and it pressed against his infant mind long before language or morality could take shape. Even as a child, he felt watched, not by gods or guardians, but by something vast and uncaring, a presence that did not love or hate, only endured. In that suffocating cradle of mud and decay, something in him learned that existence was not sacred, merely persistent.
His upbringing in the deadly swamps taught him lessons no parent could soften. Survival demanded cruelty, and hesitation meant being dragged beneath black water by unseen mouths. Predators stalked openly, and the land itself punished weakness with venom, disease, and slow drowning. Right and wrong dissolved into irrelevance; there was only what lived another day and what did not. Over time, his mind fractured along those lines, empathy sloughed away like dead skin, and thought became purely functional. The swamp did not reward mercy, and so Vexorion learned to excise it from himself.
That lesson was sealed the night his village died. Fire tore through reed-huts and bone charms alike, and screams vanished into the fog as if the swamp had finally grown tired of listening. His parents were among the dead, whether by blade, beast, or betrayal, he never learned. He emerged from the aftermath an orphan not just of family, but of meaning, left to wander Dagobah alone. Hunger hollowed him, fear sharpened him, and solitude finished the work the swamp had begun. He became feral in thought, methodical in movement, a ghost-child haunting the ruins of something that had once pretended to be civilization.
In his teen years, the universe revealed a deeper cruelty. Slavers came to Dagobah seeking the desperate and the broken, and they found Vexorion. Shackled and dragged from the only hell he understood, he was sold and resold, forced to serve master's whose voices dripped with ownership. He obeyed because survival required it, but in silence, he planned. Every order, every insult, every lash was cataloged, each master marked for death in elaborate mental rehearsals. Hatred became his private sustenance, richer than food, sharper than hope.
It was in chains that the Dark Side fully claimed him. Pain tore open pathways in the Force, and rage flooded through them, intoxicating and vast. The Dark Side did not comfort him; it clarified him, whispering that the universe had always been hostile, and that he was simply learning its language. Enslavement stripped away the last remnants of restraint, forging him into something deliberate and monstrous. When he finally broke free, he did not seek justice or freedom: only continuation. His purpose crystallized with horrifying simplicity: to eradicate the living, not merely for profit, but for entertainment, as both tribute and mockery to a cosmos that had taught him one immutable truth, existence was a mistake, and he would be its correction.
P E R S O N A L I T Y
Vexorion's personality is not merely cruel; it is cosmological in its contempt. He regards all living things as a clerical error in the universe, a swarm of breathing static polluting the silence that should have reigned after creation's first mistake. To him, flesh is an insult: warm, fragile, and obscenely hopeful. His hatred was not loud at first; it was ancient, tidal, and patient, the way a dying star despises the planets that dare orbit it. When he looks upon life, he did not see individuals or even species, only motion where there should have been stillness, noise where there should have been silence.
Murder, for Vexorion, is neither impulse nor necessity but devotion. He pursues it with the reverence of a priest and the precision of an astronomer charting an eclipse centuries in advance. Each death is a small correction to the universe, a note of harmony restored to a discordant cosmos. He savors the act not for its immediacy, but for the lingering awareness it leaves behind; the knowledge that something once was and now would never be again. In those moments, he feels closest to truth, as if the universe itself leaned nearer to watch through his eyes, approving in its infinite silence.
Yet beneath this cold, deliberate annihilation burns a volatile fury, unstable as a collapsing reality. Vexorion's anger flares when life resists, when it screams, flees, or dares to believe it matters. Such defiance enrages him, and from that rage blossoms his most sadistic thoughts. He does not simply destroy; he orchestrates despair, stretching moments until sanity frays and hope curdles into terror. He delights in the slow realization of the doomed, the dawning horror that the universe was not indifferent after all: it was hostile, and it had sent him as proof.
S K I L L S--&--A B I L I T I E S
Vexorion moves through space as though reality itself had forgotten to acknowledge him, his presence thinning until even the Force seemed uncertain he was there. Shadows bend to accommodate his passage, sound dies before reaching him, and living minds slide past his existence without registering the absence he carves into the world. His stealth is not mere technique but a philosophical rejection of notice, a practiced erasure that leaves prey uneasy without knowing why. By the time he is perceived at all, it is only as an afterimage of terror; proof that something had been watching from the dark long before it chose to end the watching.
In close combat, Vexorion wields melee weapons as extensions of a deranged cosmology rather than tools of war, his hands translating nihilistic intent into motion with terrifying fluency. A lightsaber in his grasp becomes a screaming axis of annihilation, its glow carving impossible geometries through flesh and metal alike, while crude weapons; bones sharpened into hooks, rusted scrap bound with sinew, stones weighted for shattering are elevated into instruments of intimate extinction. He fights with no regard for form or honor, only outcome, adapting mid-strike with a predator's inventiveness, turning the environment itself into an accomplice. To face him in melee is to witness purpose stripped of restraint, a ritualized dismantling in which every swing, thrust, and improvised blow affirms his belief that anything could be transformed into a weapon, just as anything living could be reduced to the grave.
Vexorion's talent for manipulation is a quiet horror, unfolding not through domination but through corrosion, as he seeps into minds the way rot infiltrates bone. Through the Force, he applies pressure so subtle it feels like one's own thought turning inward; nudging fears, amplifying doubts, rearranging certainties until victims could no longer tell where their will ends and his begins. Verbally, he speaks with surgical restraint, offering half-truths and carefully chosen silences that invite others to damn themselves with their own conclusions. He does not command; he curates, guiding people toward betrayal, despair, or violence while remaining unseen, an architect of collapse who understands that the most perfect control is achieved when the controlled believe they are free.
Vexorion treats locks and security systems not as obstacles but as fragile superstitions, comforting lies told by the living to convince themselves they are safe. His fingers move with an almost devotional patience, coaxing tumblers and mechanisms into confession, while his slicing bleeds silently into networks like a contagion, unraveling safeguards from the inside out. Doors open not with resistance but with reluctant acceptance, and encrypted systems collapse as though they were waiting for him to arrive. To watch him work was to realize that barriers were merely expressions of fear, and fear, once understood, is something he could always unmake.
Vexorion practices mental and physical torture as a slow unthreading of identity rather than an act of brute cruelty, understanding that the mind breaks long before the body admits defeat. He applies pain sparingly, almost academically, using it as punctuation while allowing anticipation, isolation, and doubt to do the greater work. Through the Force, he magnifies memories, regrets, and fears until they echo endlessly within the victim, while their flesh endures only enough suffering to anchor those horrors in reality. What he seeks is not screams, but the moment comprehension collapses, the quiet instant when a person realizes they are no longer a self, merely a vessel for fear: at which point the universe, through him, has finished its lesson.
T H R E A D S
F A C T O R Y
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C O D E X
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