Darth Eversor
Burning Forever
-Court of the Faceless-
"...Long live the king on this day..."
"...The day of death; a miasma, a thorn under my skin..."
"...Long live the mothers and children that laughed and shared moments of love..."
"..Long live what you've taken from me, shadow."
"...Long live retribution..."
From forefather to son, we are made to not cry. A man that weeps is the man that buries his heart in uncertainty and a loss of hope; a heathen to thine own flesh and spirit. Look upon the incandescent sun they tell us, forge your destiny before your very eyes. The beaming warmth of the distant purity of light holds us close, and the heart, abundant with life. Take up arms we must, for they are the extensions of a people's cause, their ambitions, their rage, their will. To cut through even the most resistant of substance is the truth of embracing one's strength. To arm one's self for thine own glutton of crimson is sure to fall. To make personal what is for the many is not true passion, but rather a hatred of the heart. While it weeps for the continuity of terror and destruction, one must always harbor this. To mold hatred, to guide it.
Do not fight of the heart's lust; wield thine blade steadfast and true.
Name: Manus Regis (Vladkione is no longer the name, please disregard.)Alignment: N/A
Planet of Origin: Unknown
Rank: Unknown Light-Aligned.
Species: Human
Age: 40
Sex: Male
Height: 6'2"
Weight: 205lbs (without armor) 325lbs (with armor)
Eyes: Blue
Hair: Brown
Skin: Pale white
Force Sensitive: To a degree
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Strengths & Weaknesses:
[+] Way of the Blade - Since childhood, Vladkione was groomed to one day be of service to his king. Through years of labor and training, he has developed a talent for exemplary swordsmanship. A trait few of the elite among the hierarchy possessed. To properly wield and become one with a blade was regarded as a very personal intimacy that served as a rite of passage to not only becoming a man, but a peacekeeper over the kingdom.
[+] Philosopher - Knowledge and study was mandatory among Vladkione's people, to go great lengths into history and the cultures of others. Algorithms and mathematics were applied as a needed skill for the scholars, the methods of war and the practice of understanding all accounts of both the rise and fall of numerous other civilizations. To question and ponder was widely reviewed as a necessary routine for the mind; a healthy outlook and flow of thoughts that helped one overcome stresses from within and without. An open mind is one that can admire adversity, change.
[+] Thickened Flesh - Rigorus training and harsh exposure to natural elements has hardened Vladkione through most of his life. As a child, he was sent off to fend for himself as a trial. Confrontations with wildlife and the bone-chilling nights of no comfort from family helped the lad understand quite quickly that the galaxy - the world before him was not forgiving nor was it a magical journey. It was kill or be killed, honor before action. Survival of the fittest.
[-] Foreigner - Vladkione hasn't much knowledge beyond his own planet and parts of the outer rim, leading a totally different lifestyle than traditional Republic or Imperial commonality. This leaves him somewhat clueless and aggressive, rejecting much of what he sees with utter distaste but still upholding a sense of respect albeit in a no tolerance manner.
[-] Last Man Standing - Alone and without his people and friends and even loved ones, Vladkione has nothing to look back on. His homeland ravaged by disease and horrors, a mere mockery of what was once a beautiful and thriving kingdom. A land worth defending, a home desperately missed. He is the last of a culture most may never see again.
[-] Honor-bound - Stubborn, aggressive, and non-hesitant to strike down any in his path, Vladkione is forever sworn to the throne of his unknown homeland. Even through its death, he is determined to carry on and fight in the name of an order that is non-existent. He has hope that he can at least attempt to restore some of what was lost by giving teachings and adapting to the unknown. But even that is uncertain.
Appearance: Standing tall at six feet, Vladkione is a man of a very heavy-set demeanor. Having very rugged, distinct features, one look upon his face would be able to tell someone of his past and role in what fate decided for him. Scarred, bearded, and a man of few words. Rarely seen outside of his suit of intricately designed armor, Vladkione will occasionally be without a helmet, showing his shoulder-length mane of hair and weather-beaten face. A rather lengthy blade is sheathed at his back, followed by another shorter one on his waist. A large cloak is wrapped around him at all times, tattered and bloodied from the previous encounter on his home realm.
- Armor -
Woe; a day of woe, streets become a cacophony of wondrous, strange noise. Thundering footfalls, wailing not of nature's early morning wild life, that is all my ears could perceive. The death of a king, the soil beneath my feet soiled with that of my own people and brethren...
My home.
The screams and struggles of myself as I witnessed my own being defend and carve away the cancerous infestation that grew rapidly. Each one fallen, another to take its rank and position. My blade hath not enough fury, my heart, breaking. The stench of rot polluted our air, our homes. The people with mouths full of crimson, their bile littering the stone streets and even each other. A disgusting spectacle of the most vile and ill-intended design; the Empire. A beast - no, a machine so hungry for more corpses to be raked into is metallic maw. Multitudes of cadavers purposed with a curse to be a statistic under Imperial file.
These tears I shed are a betrayal to an oath sworn since awareness. To not allow the heart to run too freely, to guide and grasp hatred and retribution as tools only capable of being wielded by the stalwart and headstrong. I feel like I have failed in this regard; however, I will carry on this tradition and cultural honor. I will strive to make the name of my kingdom known and echoed throughout the halls of time and among every realm and home.
Revenge is a petty crime made by millions, promises are not made enough. Never crystal clear, always deluded by emotion or interference.
This is a promise.
To the Empire, the ones that feed from anguish and shadow, I will make my peace with your neck being severed by my blade. Such a primitive response to be expected, no? I think you underestimate me. For this your crimes will be met with a proper hearing, a judge, and a sentence.
I shall carry both staff and rod, and unto you there will be a solution most final.
I will hunt for you until my very last breath, by my hand shall you see your very own heart devoured by my people's wrath; ruptured and torn shall be your throne, just as you left mine.
Death to your Empire.
(Will be continued through RP.)