Name: Zyrok Drakxis
Aliases: Zyrok the Rejected, Zyrok of Thyrsus, Zyrok the Sun Guard, Zyrok the Executioner, Zyrok the Anvil, The Thyrsian, The Son of Suns
Species: Thyrsian
Home World: Thyrsus
Current Faction: N/A
Force Sensitive: Yes
Sexual Orientation: Pansexual
Known Languages: Galactic Basic, Huttese, Rodese, Hutt Space Pidgin, Shyriiwook, Thykarann
Gender: Male
Age: 34
Height: 2 Meters
Weight: 105 Kilograms
Skin Color: Tan
Hair Color: Raven Black
Eye Color: Neon Yellow (R), Blood Red (L)
Appearance:
With mismatched eyes, of a strange sort---the left a smoldering orange fire, ceaselessly burning, with an iris of intense yellow neon. The right, a sullen black pool, with an orb of deep crimson forever floating it's hopeless sea---Zyrok stood imposingly. A man of height, with a commanding and broad body meant to wage war, with veins thick and ropy, muscles firm and solid as Thyrsian Granite. His tanned flesh spoke in volumes on the battles Zyrok had seen, of victories and defeats he has suffered, with jagged scars that tattooed his impressive hide across back, legs, arms, chest and rugged face that rest menacingly under the curtain of a raven black mane.
Strengths and Weaknesses:
Steel and Fire - Zyrok has intimate knowledge of Melee Weapons, Forging them by his own hand, and dedicating much of his life in to the mastery of the art that goes in to wielding them.
Thyrsian - The Echani penchant for close quarter combat extends also, to the Sons of Thyrsus.
Overconfident - Even though he was humiliated and exiled from his Home World, there remains a part of him that more often than not bites off more than he's capable of chewing.
Frenzy Fiend - In line with his powerful lust for challenging himself beyond believable capacity, quite frequently he finds himself abandoning nuiance and becomes wild and feral. A beast that is not capable of thoughtful, or safe, action in the heat of combat.
History:
Pirate, Outlaw, Thief, Mercenary. . . Adventurer. From an early beginning that saw him valued as a God, to the largely forgotten, seemingly extinct, Sun Guard. To a life of fantastic, bizarre and lurid tales torn from Pulp pages, turned upside down, and inside out. This story began on the Sun scorched flats of the planet Thyrsus, thirty-four years in the past.
Seething heat that glared endlessly across barren wastelands, a horde of Warriors that straggle with no aim. These were shunned guardians of an ancient Cult, worrisome savages that adhered to a way of life and a means of continuance not seen in a boundless bridge of time.
The leader of these fighting men, Tirrihios the Hard-Hearted, held a reputation of storied and mythical proportion. A colossus the likes of which made rough men tremble, and strong women moisten. Tirrihios was a remarkable specimen of the Ancient Sun Guard culture. He kept seventeen wives, fathered twenty-three children, led thousands of powerful and practiced men.
A giant, he stood at a remarkable height of seven feet, nine inches. A freak of strength, where lesser men worried of Wookiee's tearing their limbs from socket, adventuring Wookiee's dreaded Tirrihios pulling them apart piece by piece and bludgeoning the life from their hair sagging hides with the severed limbs.
This man was feral, his reputation of such a chimerical scaffolding, that Spacers and Fringers alike told the magnificant tales of Tirrihios to the children they often left behind, in search of the next influx of credits deep in and far across the Galactic Disc.
From fierce and fiery raids against the Thyrisians that had lost their ways over the long faded Centuries, to ruthless incursions through Space and Foreign Lands on planets the last of the Sun Guards held no interest in. Tirrihios led his Warrior men effortlessly. There had always been a certain type of beauty in the broiling sizzle of War for profit. Something that spoke on a molecular level to the Mercenary blood that coursed the veins and made their limbs rugged and ready for war.
But then, in the waning months of the Long Light, when the burning heat of Thyrsus eased and the daytime hours were cut in half. A small boy fought his way from the womb of a dying mother. A woman he would never know, a being that was left lifeless and rotting after she had served her purpose to the Supreme Sun Commander. A sad fate for all Thyrsian women. A blood vendetta that nearly a thousand years removed, saw the tanned flesh men of the oppressively hot World, still at odds with the Echani women that once had ruled them.
This infant was small, were it not for what rest between bent and shivering legs, Tirrihios and his chosen Physician would have regarded this male, as insultingly feminine. His limbs were short and weak, his blood slathered body soft and timid. He would not open his eyes and gaze upon the Father that gave part of himself in his creation, and his mouth parted, whining and crying.
Tirrihios felt shame.
This could not be a Son of his.
Son, carried by the Father, the newborn was walked far in to the Wastes of Madness. A place of inhospitable heat, a place of scorching dust and oppressive calidity.
Disgust, the scorn of being letdown, humiliation.
Tirrihios gazed upon his failed offspring one final time, then, stretching a blanket over searing sands. The child was left, belly up, to shrivel and wilt under the greedy eyes of the Thyrsus Suns. His flesh reddened quickly, boils and blisters ballooning in great pus-filled spheres that popped and bled milk white and crimson.
His cries slowly began to fade, his body wither to crisped stalk. Legend claims that abandoned infant lay baking for one hundred days and nights. But there is no honest account, nor accurate intimation to the horror this lost boy suffered, and for how long he was left to cook alone there in the Wastes.
But the inescapable, divine Will of the Suns, would not yet see runt rest eyes forever.
Riapraia, Sister of Aextius Drakxis, the Exiled Warrior that had been ejected from the Sun Guard by none other than Tirrihios himself, stumbled upon the dying and stinking bundle of charring flesh and leaking pus. Fate, as it turns out, could be equally kind as it could be cruel.
Blind. Weak. Small. Burned.
Riapraia Drakxis, a proud woman, of her shared History with the skilled and deadly female society of the Echani. Took boy with her, the only child she would ever know. Her struggle was long, her Will rugged and passionate. Her closest companions, her most trusted partners. All offered whispers to an ear she turned upon them deafly.
Put this child out to die, he will never make it.
They all told her.
Rather I would die myself, than kill him.
She always reacted.
When finally, the boy opened his eyes, Riapraia was left in awe. Of a blinding neon, and bleeding crimson, both orbs lay silently adrift a smoldering sea and an onyx ocean - respectively. The irregularity of the phenomenon awoke a duty in the Thyrsian woman, an errand of duty that she knew must be consummated.
For she knew, above all, her son. . . was the Son of Suns.
Four years she traveled, her son the only object of her attention, the one thing she desired to see prosper and expand. She knew that loving him, meant to abandon him one more time. He needed a Father, she needed her Brother.
On Dxun, Aextius was finally found. Having been among those hired by Onderon nobility to finally finish off the Mandalorian group known as the Dxun Warband, which had been using the Moon as a base of Operations for thousands of years.
At first, the Reunion was met bitterly, the child regarded poorly by the long Exiled, Aextius.
His name is Drakxis, as our name is Drakxis. . . Spoke Riapraia of her beloved son.
Zyrok the Rejected. Her brother would regard, seeing nothing of substance or strength in the young, odd-eyed, boy. Son of Suns, Aextius laughed.
Aextius, to your hands did I come to deliver my most adored, and beloved Son. She told him seriously, grimly. His name is Zyrok, and I love him, I cherish him, above all others.
Her words, scrutinized silently, did little to impress the brother she'd not known for so many years.
Aextius, he is sharper than any Blade you have ever carried, stronger than any man you have ever known. She spoke as if it were scripture. I want you to teach him Aextius. . I want you to teach him truth, brother. I want you to teach him our values. To instruct him to Hate the Mandalorian and Jedi Gods, as you Hate them, as our Father and his Father Hated them. Teach him of the Sun Guard, Aextius. . . of Battle, War, and Weapons!
With one hand still clutching small fingers of the boy that had been discarded, Riapraia brought the edge of a thin blade to the side of her neck, opening a vast red trench through her tanned flesh that dug so deeply there was a moment of wonder and intrigue, would her head recline backwards, blood misting with thick river-length strands until it fell silently to the floor. . . or would her flesh and spine hold it to her shoulders, bounding forward and back with a sickening teeter.
As it turned out, the latter proved true.
With a hopeless gargle that bubbled red, popping, blimps of viscous, blushing, crimson. She urged Zyrok's hand towards Aextius, the sacrifice of self, the oldest and most unbreakable contract of their people. A tradition that had been steeped in blood, blades and firepower since it's most early inception. Riapraia did not shame herself with cry, nor even a whimper as she wetly inhaled, her blade wielding hand demanding with simple thrust that Aextius take her soul with him forever, to fulfill the wishes she passionately placed upon he, her Brother. Before she collapsed on folding legs, gazing upon Zyrok one final time with dying eyes.
By day, Aextius taught Zyrok the ways of the Sun Guard, the traditions and beliefs of their People. The manner of their combat, the way of Blades and Blunt Weapons. The math of Blasters and Slugthrowers. By night, the boy swung a hammer against red hot steel and forging anvil.
Clink Clink,
Bang,
Clink Clink,
Bang.
It was a primordial, brutish, and fierce cacophony. His body grew. His muscles developed. His mind expanded. You could not wield a weapon, without first knowing the intimate experience of it's forging. It's weight. It's balance. It's purpose. Was it born to stab and thrust, to cut and slice, to pummel and chop?
Zyrok's reputation, too, began to grow. From Gladiatorial Pits in dark and tight places of depravity and hate, to massive arenas where the most dignified and rich of the Galaxy's upper elite. Zyrok, the Anvil, was a Warrior with no equal. Or so the rumors would claim.
With Aextius, Zyrok led a life of thievery, an outlaw on across the entire disc. No job too large, too small, nothing too frightening.
Son of Suns, no longer was it the flattering of a Mother over her beloved Son. It was a murmur that began to rumble wickedly through out the entire Underworld. An insinuation that drew Tirrihios from far across and beyond the Outer-Rim. A trial that Zyrok was not, and could not ever, hope to pass.
Together, Aextius and Zyrok stood. Brothers. Against the monolithic Tirrihios, whom came, brutally. . . fearlessly upon them. His skill was the stuff of nightmare and dread. One man. effortlessly dominating two dogs that had begun to bark too loudly at his ankles. There was only one Sun Guard, and he Commanded it. There was only one Supreme Sun Guardian and he was it.
There was no Son of Suns, there was no unstoppable force, there was no legend that did not sing of his name, and his name only.
Aextius fell, a gruesome death blow that struck atop the cap of his skull, splintering and parting bone in to two equal halves as it severed jaggedly through the face all the way to the chin, spilling brain matter and buckets of blood and gore like some hideous, overflowing gorge, from fumbling stein.
Zyrok was ruined, mindlessly he attacked Tirrihios, each crushing, rapid blow easily avoided in the emotional frenzy. Until finally, the alleged Son of Suns fell, exhausted, utterly defeated. The beating he suffered in the aftermath of this tragic loss is often recited in drunken songs in the seedy city Cantina's of Thyrsus all the way out to the Volcanic Metropolis of Maena.
Shame is a fate worse than death, for any Sun Guard.
Zyrok has been forced to live with his for the last five years.
