Rookwood

"Leave us. We do not need you here. The Empire has broken from the influence of the Sith Lords." Rookwood activated primary thrusters and angled an escape vector, a moment before engaging hyperspeed, leaving the new Empire with one last word projected through The Force, along with an all-devouring hunger <>

Rookwood toggled his comlink after listening to the new voice, one coming from the cruiser he was slowly orbiting. He matched the larger ship's speed and pulled to its starboard side. He was close enough to see the light carbon-scoring on the hull, paint chipping away under the stress of micro-meteors. The Ranger slipped his mind into the force, letting his sphere of control expand from himself, letting it feast on the surrounding microbes that could endure the stress of orbital vacuum. Drawing upon the lifeforce around him, the man settled the sphere of control about himself once more, letting his signature in the Force ebb away to nothing, satisfied. "Matching speed, Adams"

The voice of a young woman crackled into Rookwood’s tired ears. The hints in the voice was mysterious and dark, with a portion of prideful command which made the Imperial Accent something to adore. It was certainly the voice he had heard on the holonet “I appreciate your offer kind sir, but I must ask, who are you?” Kindness, politeness. The opposite of the Imperial curtness he had heard under Denton. A hunger gnawed within his chest. Rookwood keyed his comlink, powering down his weapon systems for the sake of not being blown out of the asteroid field by the other larger ships. His voice was strong, echoing his own hunger “My name is Rookwood Oblivion, former leader of the Bittersteel Rangers. I feel your new Empire might be in need of a Ranger like myself. Do I have permission to come aboard?”

The spirit of this planet was as dark as its atmosphere, a hidden world of The Ancient Sith Order. With a black gloved hand, Rookwood toggled the Fyrebane’s atmospheric scanners, searching for the signal he had received a few days prior. His yellow eyes scanned the computer’s readings for signs of life, settling on a small signal within the equatorial asteroid belt in low orbit. As he made his approach, the Ranger switched to visual scanning to ascertain the location that he had been called to. Great chunks of long corroded garbage hung about the planet, a belt of filth stretching back through the time before recorded history. He settled his ship into low orbit around where the signal had its origin and strapped a breathing mask around his face, sealing for no atmosphere, just in case of a need for jettison “Empress, my name is… Rookwood… and I have come to pledge my services to you.”

Space was truly beautiful, but the refueling station Rookwood had stopped at was certainly not. How homeless degenerates had ended up on a space station he would never understand. As he stretched in his black robes beside his starship, he could just barely hear a whole gaggle of them trying to panhandle a newly arrived passenger-liner. Bending his lithe body into the Halasana pose of Ithorian yoga he lanced past his craft’s landing struts at the new-comers. From the looks of them, there were perhaps a hundred young females of various races all in light green skirts and vests, adorned with a variety of badges and medals. About them lounged an assortment of dirt-caked and disgusting individuals. The homeless, all holding signs and begging for change. It disgusted him. Standing, Rookwood pushed his way through the throng of girls and towards the group of homeless. Raising his voice, he called to them in one “Come you unfortunate bunch, I’m going to treat you all to a buffet. I’m sure they have one on this kriffing station.” With a wave of his hand he commanded them to follow, and like the pied piper leading the children to be enslaved by Italians, he led the group of 50 homeless through the halls, holding his breath as to not be overwhelmed by their stench. Spotting a cargo-freight airlock, he approached it, and with an application of The Force to their drug-addled, and war veteran brains, he changed the sign to say to them not “CAUTION: AIRLOCK” to "CITY-WOK BUFFET" It was too easy. The ensembled mass of dirty bums rushed into the airlock, and Rookwood stood, tapping his foot, waiting for them all to enter. He sighed and glanced at his chronometer as he waited for a disabled Rodian to try to drag his legless body towards the door. He had not the patience. Slapping start cycle, he felt the spike in fear and despair as 49 of the bums were ejected out into the cold void of space. Glancing to the rodian, he decapitated the useless being with one slash of his lightsaber. It was good to have fun on vacation.

Breathe... A world of corrupted rust, and feted rot. The air itself was alive with decay. The rushing wind wound itself between corroded towers, alight with neon, carrying the odor of a thousand bloated corpses, decomposing in the sewers where they had been strewn by murderers and thugs. A smile alight the pale face of Rookwood, passing across ancient features etched with true evil. Teeth as white as Alusian marble were stained brown with the passing of years devoted to dark workings. In one Black-gloved hand, the man gripped the cologne stained hair of a decapitated human, young in years, face pockmarked with syphilis, and with the other, Rookwood brushed back his long, white hair as the wind swept up in flurry. A small elder rodian wandered out of an alley-way, perhaps out on an evening stroll, or to head to a nearby liquor store to prepare for a visit from his normal prostitute, but either way, his footsteps faltered. ...Thrum... Rookwood glanced down at the violet blade jutting from the Rodian's chest, held by his own hand. With a mocking laugh, he pulled it loose from the lifeless corpse, cutting it in two with a flourish. Reaching down, Rookwood slid a bottle of champagne from the Rodian's vest pocket, along with a small envelope. Opening it, Rookwood read its contents Dear Grandfather I wanted to send you a letter telling you this before you left Nar Shadda... I'm pregnant. The baby shower is tonight... I know we've been estranged, but I'd love if you could put our differences aside for long enough to meet my husband, and wish our new child the best of luck in these coming years. We changed addresses, to 3423 Admiral Ackbar Blvd. I hope to see you there... Paige. A slow and evil laugh began to build in the darkness, like the rolling of thunder after a lightning strike has torn the life from a hapless farmer's daughter. He could hear the party in the distance, the joyous celebration of impending new life. It made him sick. ******** The champagne was flowing like a river, the joyous shouts and laughter befitting such a party. Pleasantries such as these were few and far between on such a planet as Nar Shadda, especially for a family so poor as these Rodians. From the sounds of laughter, there were plenty of children present, most likely making the party unbearable. The apartment was gaudily decorated, in the Rodian style for impending birth. The Huttese language grated on Rookwood's ears as he stood on the opposite side of the door, watching the party through the door's peephole. Rookwood slowly pulled the black leather glove from his hand, feeling the warm air streaming from the heater above. He placed his palm against the wooden door, opened his mind, and pushed. The entire door splintered before him, sending shrapnel of wood like stakes and nails through the joyous crowd like it was a marathon in Boston. As his hand passed forward through the smoking air, to grasp onto the screeching face of the family matron, like a bird to its prey, he pressed his left boot-heel into the eyesocket of one of the wounded, driving down with his full power. The head beneath him split open, spilling brain-matter onto the polished, child-worn hardwood flooring. From the looks of the furniture and the floors, the apartment had seen several generations of this Rodian family raised and grown up. That would naturally stop. Using simply the strength of his arm, Rookwood drove the head of the Rodian into the stimcaf-table, cutting short the muffled screeching with a sharp crack of fracturing bone and condensed brain matter. Dropping the convulsing corpse, he looked up at the rest of the party, his purple eyes glittering with an aura of dark flame. All that remained was the two newlyweds, one a lithe pregnant teenager, and the other a punkish Rodian gangster. The fork he was eating cake with dropped to the floor, the Rodian's hand shaking with fear. More noble than Rookwood expected, the gangster stepped in front of his wife, shielding her from the menace before them. With a shattering cry, the Rodian glanced to his chest to see his wife's hand jutting from the reptilian hide, grasping the arteries bound to his heart. Within a second, the Rodian's entire body-volume of blood gushed forth onto the ground. As the Rodian's body fell to the blood-soaked wood, the girl looked in horror at her arm. Her mind was weak, and easy to mold. Pressing forth into the deepest pit of her mind, Rookwood elaborated her darkest thoughts, driving her further into despair. With a small gesture, Rookwood extended one of his revolvers to her hand, which grasped it willingly. As she pressed it to the side of her scaled skull, she muttered forth thanks for the ability to end her suffering -CRACK- Rookwood's smile broadened as he fed upon her ebbing despair, ravishing the corpse's fleeting soul with dark power. It was good to eat again. Retrieving his pistol, he looked to the face of the last member of the party, a toddler who stood in shock, clinging to a small stuffed Han Solo doll. Rookwood leveled the muzzle to the child's face “Never leave a survivor... They always grow up to take revenge...” -CRACK- As a small thud sounded hollow on the worn hardwood, Rookwood painted a message into the wall of the apartment before he left out a window in the toddler's room. ...Come to the Slaughter... ...Eat... ...Drink... Below it, pinned to the wall with fragments of bone, hung the stuffed Han Solo doll, stained with its beloved owner's lifeblood.

...To the very edge of the galaxy the darkness reaches, unquenchable in hunger, insatiable in its hunger. Avarice unrivalled. Only within the stars does the light walk unhindered by the dark, and yet, when the stars burn out, explode into bitter nothingness, the darkness is there to retake everything. Entropy, the inescapable end of beauty, will in itself be the end of us all... A breath Pungent... Another Disgusting... With a calm hand, the ranger brushed a small arachnid from the wall of an ancient starship, half buried within the garbage that made up most of Raxus Prime. A corroding hulk, long since disembowelled by scavengers, the ship lay like a decaying skeleton, left to bleach in the harsh sunlight and acidic air by the progressing ages of discovery. The old and obsolete were left to rot upon the ground, while the young took to the stars. Another analogy for the state of the Republic. The ranger stood for another moment by the cadaverous form of a starship, before turning back to the precipice upon which he stood, overlooking a great chasm, about three standard kilometres across, and more than two deep. Within it, a group of droids, about a hundred strong had begun to work upon the construction of a hidden structure. It was upon his orders the droids toiled, outlining a safehouse. His kind were hunted, and many believed them to have gone from the galaxy. Fools. Darkness always devours the light...

A bastion of sin... Hate, Pride, and Greed... Evil always flocks to such pestilence. The ranger smiled beneath his mask, feeling the weight of darkness upon his shoulders. The presence of several Force Users was nearby, several of which he had felt many times before. Each was strong in their own manner, the Sith were strong, but far too overconfident to be of any use. The Jedi in their midst, was a different manner entirely. He was of great use. With violet eyes, the ranger surveyed the walkway about him, swarmed with shoppers and criminals, their minds preoccupied with the daily monotony of life. For every one citizen, running to get groceries for his or her happy family, there was another, stalking his next victim. Reaching out into the void, the ranger grasped upon the threads of sentient consciousness, letting his soul flow to find true evil about him. One thread upon the tapestry stood out crimson upon a sea of white, a soul stained with the blood of innocents. The ranger’s smile widened. With the sound of his armoured boots like a whisper among the surge of the crowd, he narrowed in upon his target. With each step, he passed by another soul, narrowing the search, flowing through the mass of citizens, until he caught a glimpse of that which was evil. All he saw was a grey cloak and the uniform of the Black Sun’s Wing Guard, a man with the appearance of law, but with a soul as hollow as a demon. All too often, those who citizens are supposed to trust, the visage of law, turns out to be nothing more than a scorpion, poised to strike. The ranger’s eyes narrowed, and his pace quickened, to match that of the Wing Guard, and so he could observe the crimes for which this man would soon die. The Wing Guard paused a moment to observe a landing shuttlecraft, emblazoned with the symbol of the local university, and then began to move swiftly to the landing platform. In his hand, his datapad began to bring up names and information upon each of the students. He scrolled through the pictures until he landed upon one face he took a liking to, and selected it. It was a girl, perhaps in her mid-teens, with hair a fiery red, with streaks of deep blue. The ranger sighed, following the scheme to its inevitable end within his mind. He had seen it before, and it never ended well. He watched from a distance as the officer singled the girl out from amongst the crowd, and confronted her with a troublesome lie. Reading the man’s lips, the ranger was disgusted at the depravity of the evil “Ms. Allanite? Michelle Allanite?” The girl’s eyes flashed and she stuttered a bit, surprised at the officer’s approach. “That’s me... Sir. W-what is it, officer?” Upon the officer’s face, the ranger could perceive a small tinge of a wicked smile as he responded, his voice tinged with sorrow “Ms... I’m terribly sorry... I... Well... Your parents, Jeff and Emily... They... They... Were murdered. I’ve been ordered to take you to the scene to identify them, along with the murderer... Tears immediately sprang to the girl’s eyes, and the two of them rushed off on foot, towards the heart of the city. With one jump, the ranger leapt from the causeway, his tattered cowl flowing through the wind, and landed in the shadows, to follow and prevent. For the officer, he had already secured a place, he was sure to be secure and silent, a vacant ally behind the Black Sun Headquarters. Several other officers were already there, lounging about, waiting for their prey, and toy, to arrive. The shock on the girl’s face, to witness what now she figuring to be her fate, was truly saddening. The first blow upon her back came from a lead pipe, breaking her fourth rib, and she fell to her knees. The second blow came from a police baton, across her throat, to keep her quiet. The baton crushed her larynx, silencing forever her voice. Her hands grasped at her throat, and she struggled to breathe, but could not force any air into her lungs. A loud voice, spoke from the shadows, and the officer’s laughter died in their throats, torn away by a deep, gnawing fear... “So... To serve and protect isn’t what it used to be... Is it?” The officers laughed away their fear, but still it persisted within their minds. One of them shone his flashlight into the shadows, illuminating the ranger, who leaned against the cobbled wall, unarmed, with his arms crossed. The leading officer laughed, slapping the choking girl across the back of the head with his palm, sending her sprawling. “Oh? A masked man? How scary... What’re you? Some form of a superhero with a secret identity? The ranger smiled, and removed his mask with one gloved hand, and stepped forward. His long white hair streaming behind him. The officer paused, as the ranger disappeared, and then screamed as he reappeared before him, faster than the eye could trace. The rest of the officers jumped back, and a flash of blood flowed upon the ground, appearing from a hole in their leader’s chest. In the ranger’s hand, lay the tattered remains of a heart. Before the body had a chance to drop, the ranger landed behind the next officer, and grasped the man’s jaw with a firm grip. He looked into the eyes of the remaining two officers, watching fear’s black hands grasp their very souls, before he ripped the jaw from the screaming officer, and slammed his face into the wall, with enough strength to shatter every bone from in his head and spine. Letting the energy of the world flow about him, he watched each officer decide upon a series of moves to deal with their opponent, tracing their patterns, and anticipating each action before they performed it. As each of them drew forth their blasters, he was already on top of them, smashing their heads together, and causing major haemorrhage to their brains, killing them instantly. Stepping over to the girl, he held a hand over her body, and jerked it upwards, realigning her larynx and snapping the ribcage into place once more. She gurgled out a cry of pain, and then lay still, as the ranger pulled a veil of sleep across her mind. “We must not shed tears... It admits our defeat...” He turned to the wall, and looked across the bodies and the pooling blood. An object glimmered, and he looked quickly upon it. A security camera, from Black Sun Headquarters. His smile grew larger.

A voice, often repeated throughout history, uttered forth from the mouths of millions of identical soldiers crackled across the comlink, carrying an air of disdain. “You are cleared to land at AA24, next to the Sith ship...” As the voice gave mention of a Sith Ship, the skin of the ranger began to crawl. There were very few Sith that made the galaxy a better place, and wherever they went, they wrought havoc, giving homage to the seven cardinal vices. Every Sith he had met in his journey was bound to at least one of the Sins. Olden verse harkened to his mind as he guided his olive drab shuttle through the darkening sky, like a bird soaring to its nest. No Sith are without a proud gaze and a lying tongue... Their Hands shed the blood of innocents, and their hearts devise malevolent plots... With their dark power, and harshest facade, they pull down the sun... Their feet run always to mischief and the wise are deceived their merciless lies... They sow discord amongst brethren and drag them to darkness... Hades is their fate, and in endless torture their demise! As the shuttle descended to the platform below, the ranger walked stiffly to the landing ramp, his dark duster flowing about him, concealing his revolvers and sword in shifting shadows. His presence within The Force was concealed, masked under the facade of the mind of a simple ranger, one that could not be broken but by the very masters of the Jedi or Sith Orders. To any other, his mind exuded a calm confidence, cynical and brooding, the very nature of a ranger. Beneath the crimson glow that emanated from the mask’s eyepieces, the man’s eyes took in the full view of the landing platform below. The Sith ship was beside them, and before him, stood several Black Sun cronies. As he stepped from the shuttlecraft, he threw a small bag of credit chits to the lead security guard, along with his clearance code. His armour would identify him as a Bittersteel Ranger, to any who had run afoul with the law far beyond the outer rim, in Wild Space. There, wolves hounded the flock daily and the only defence was the occasional ranger, the crimson glow the last thing raiders or pirates ever saw before they arrived at the River Styx. Bespin was not far from Wild Space, but it was doubtful any would recognize the armour and mask. Soon enough, all would know it, and criminals would fear it more than any. Without a second glance, the ranger passed through the doorway, and into the great city amongst the clouds. Once through the door, the man took sub-passages and backroutes towards the city’s centre, and where the greatest cluster of scum and villainy lay; The Red Light District. ******************************************************************************* Long bereft of its famous Wing Guard, Cloud City’s criminal underworld had expanded far beyond the simple days of gambling fraud, prostitution, and card counting. The farther and farther the ranger moved into the bowels of Cloud City, the darker it became. Every vice was on display, every carnal appetite advertised to be fulfilled. It was disgusting. Armoured footsteps were concealed by the ambient noise of the district, and in shadows the man walked, contemplating where to begin on such a grand canvas. It would be a masterpiece, to paint a new picture of Cloud City, in the blood of criminals and prostitutes, but it was not his work to complete. That would be left until later. His was only to form the foundations of resistance. The next generation would have no more patience for such waste. The vermin would drown in their own blood. The neon glow of a shanty bar attracted his gaze. Destiny was calling to him. The sign’s glow was dimmer than the rest, a few of the letters shattered or long gone dull, but the sign could still be read: “The Rat’s Respite”. Perfect... With a black-gloved hand, the ranger pushed aside the moth-chewed blanket that served as a door, and strode slowly into the smoke-choked room, unnoticed. Few in the room saw through eyes that were not dull, and thought with minds not addled by long addiction to chems. Those that were alert cared only for the whores around them, and the drinks before them. A small girl, perhaps just into her teens washed away her sorrows with a glass of blue milk, using a tattered sleeve to smear the dirt on her face, mixing it with tears. Her brownish hair was clumped and tangled, but not nearly as warped as the men that clustered about her, insulting her with callous remarks and crass statements. Another object of attention was a twi’lek girl, having passed similarly into the age of desire, her skin a pallor amethyst. The whole bar was set against them, drugs and alcohol having devolved the minds of men to simple bestial instincts. It was a good place to start. Almost on cue with his arrival, a bottle broke over the head of the unlucky human girl, sending shards of glass everywhere, and stained the girl’s head a bright shade of crimson. She screamed in pain and terror, and to the ranger’s surprise, she shoved a screwdriver into the chest of the attacking Gran. The Twi’lek spun in her chair and dragged a serrated blade across the exposed throat of one of the junkies, dropping him like a stone. Once a man, even one who has long been corrupted, has truly seen the darkness the galaxy is capable of producing, civilization’s diseased and festering underbelly, he can never turn his back upon it... With unnatural speed, the ranger flipped his revolvers from his duel holsters and with his first step, discharged two rounds. One bullet slammed into the baslar skull of the Gran, splattering brain matter across the bar before the struggling pair, the bullet passing through to strike the bartender in the chest, the force of the bullet sending his lifeless corpse into the case of expensive alcohols. The other bullet took a good portion of a Trandoshan’s face past the Twi’lek girl, twisting the reptile where he stood, sending him sprawling into a gambling table, sending cards and chips flying like flocks of birds. His duster trailing behind him, the ranger continued his stride towards the two girls, and in another two steps he’d emptied his revolvers. The girls were the only ones left alive, standing shocked amongst the carnage, eyes wide in horror, bodies trembling in fear. As his armoured foot stepped upon the caved-in chest of a dead human, the man reloaded his revolvers, and the human girl finally spit out a feeble question. “W-what... W-who... Are y-you?” The ranger smiled, his face concealed behind the mask. He slowly reholstered his pistols and gazed upon the massacre about him. Thirteen lay dead, mixed species, all hostiles. None were important enough for the Black Sun Authorities to complain about, or come hunting for their killer. His voice was filtered through the mask’s breathing and respiration system, and carried with it a mysterious anonymity. “I am but a ranger... What... Are your names?” The Twi’lek flipped the blood and flesh from her blade and tucked it back into her tunic. She was first to speak, her voice far less troubled than the other’s. “My name is Rose...” Comprehension of the ranger’s words dawning in the human’s eyes, the girl spoke as well, tears welling in her eyes. “Uh, mine is Simone. Simone Helwesy...” The ranger extended a hand to each girl, an offering of peace and brotherhood. "You will find my shuttlecraft at platform AA24. There, you will find armour and weapons... Use them well, I will call on you when you are needed." With that, his duster flowing about him, the ranger made his leave. He had felt a disturbance, and with Force Users around, he was glad that his aura was well concealed, masked behind the mind of the ranger.

A lone shuttlecraft of olive drab descended through the cherry-hued clouds of Bespin, a world bathed in sunset. At the ship’s helm, sat a brooding man, deep in thought, dressed as a simple ranger, but simple he was not. In one black-gloved hand, he held a partially disassembled revolver, while with the other, he cleaned it with a mixture of solvent and oil, stained upon a dirty cloth. Finishing his work, the man re-holstered the weapon and looked though his mask upon the approaching city amongst the clouds. It glimmered black, nestled in a sea of pink fluff, catching the last rays of a fading twilight. Its appearance was symbolic to the very soul of the galaxy: Beautiful serenity poisoned by imperialist ambitions and rank criminality. The Black Sun Syndicate had disillusioned yet another elegant world with their filth. With every world they touched, they grew in influence, recruiting more of the galaxy’s denizens to their side, like a cancer metastasizing to the vital organs, to kill the host. With his voice filtered through the mask, the man opened up his comlink, hailing Black Sun’s Bespin Cloud City, on a widecast. “Fyrebane requesting docking clearance... Clearance Code... 86 Charlie.”

The man’s face shows no expression at the mention of the Supreme Commander of the Galactic Alliance, but inside his mind is set further to ease. With a solemn nod of his head, the man motions the Senator towards his own ship, a simple, armoured shuttlecraft, decked in polished black. With a small nod, the man spoke “Then I will follow your lead, my lady.”

A smile passes sardonically across the man’s features at the girl’s words. Naivety came in many forms, including feigned wisdom, and even in the words of ancient languages, long passed out of memory, and buried with the bones and carrion of the Infinite Empire. She thought of ancient Chaos, Khorne, Slaanesh, or even Nurgle, who had imparted knowledge upon the ancient Sith Orders, but long ago, their power had gone out of the universe. The only thing that remained was the shattered worlds, and their language. The man walked slowly forward, listening as he heard her comlink buzz. He answered in kind, to humour her. <>

Streaking burgundy glow alit the duracrete platform, highlighting bedims and augmenting shadows, a cacophony of stains and saturation, undertoned with creeping tendrils of crimson light. The man, hands recessing upon blackened belt, glanced up at the ebon craft that emanated the scarlet luminosity, eyes heavy-lidded, accentuated by a small argentite gleam hidden far within their reaches. Examining the edges and shape of the shuttle, like one who had long expected its arrival, the man stood within obscurity, content to scrutinize the terminus of the Rosenrot’s arduous journey. The shade of The Force, true in spirit, full of life and vigour spun about the occupants of the vessel, and from one being, The Force was truly strong. It was to her, the fallen bird, half-trained, crested in rage and hate, he had overtaken within the dreams of a forgotten sleep. Visions to her had beckoned, and she had answered the call. She had come at last to the world of storms and water. With silent step, the man advanced to her vision, and in the ephemeral brilliance of thunderous stroke of lightning, he saw her haloed in light. Heliotrope in eye and lock, her personage was unmistakable, but to the man her celebrity was of little importance. With gentle words, he spoke, bittersteel in voice, kind in essence “Iron and will, sister... Whom do you seek?”

...Your fate, will be that of Oblivion. Rubies will fall into The Trident, blood from the chest of a dying prince, and in your last breath, you will whisper the name of a woman. Storms shall consume you, and you shall be buried where you fall by the flowing of the river... A slow draw upon the strings of a harp lets off an eerie character, weeping from the man standing atop the bow of a rotting ship, pure white hair blown back by the rage of the storm. Within his own heart, another storm was calming, settling like the ocean’s waves as they beat upon the primeval vessel beneath his blackened boots of burned leather. To the eyes of deep lilac, the repeated patterns of the never-ending stormstruck emerald sea went unseen, as they looked not upon the corporeal realm, but upon that of The Force. What he saw troubled him wholly. The visage of his own death concerned him little, for his death would be by another’s hand, and would be the will of The Force. What grieved the man were those whose deaths were by the hands of others, caused by a great malevolence. He had watched the galaxy burn for too long without action. Those who had been forgotten would steal away that which would be used to destroy. The long-played notes mixed with the spattering cry of the rain to reason a melody from nature itself. So was the nature of The Force. It took the effort of sentience and varied it with entropy, to form the very threads of the universe. A silvered gleam, mirrored upon the murky sea, told of the rise of a city close at hand, and towards it the man turned the effete ark. As the corpse of the vessel splintered upon the ringing reef, the man hauled himself to the top of the pier. Within his visage, lay the city of Tipoca. His conscience beguiled him to linger there, gloved hands reposed upon blackscale holsters, brandishing duel slugthrowing pistols. Their names were etched into time itself, for with them, The Old Masters had defeated the Blackfyre bastards on Drukenwell. Upon his left hip, lay Ninepenny, and upon his right, lay holstered Summerhall, a gift from those more ancient than himself. Change was coming, and he was its preceptor.

____'S CHARACTER SHEET Identity] [!ident] Real Name: Rookwood Oblivion A.K.A: Valor Oblivion Homeworld: Myrkr Species: Arkanian Offshoot Physical Description [!dscrp] Age: 22 standard years of age Height: 6'3" Weight: 200lbs. Hair: Pure White Eyes: Deep Yellow Sex: Male Equipment [!equip] Clothing or Armor: Black Duster, emblazoned with a crimson sigil. The blackened duster covers armoured plating made from quadranium steel, in the style of riot-gear, also of matte-black. Blackened Steel greaves and vambraces are also present. Black leather gloves. Helmet in style of a gas-mask, useful for filtering air and protection from shrapnel, the eye-pieces glow a deep red, giving off an ominous aura. The armour style is that of the backworld vigilantes, known as The Bittersteel Rangers. Weapon: Vibrosword, Two slugthrowing Revolver Pistols (.45-70 govt.), containing a capacity of six shots each. Upon his belt, he carriers a small black cylinder, a lightsaber, of a deep violet. Common Inventory: Golden coin, emblazoned with the symbol of the Bittersteel Rangers, weapons, several large denomination credit-chits. Vibrosword: Although Alchemically made, with a mold of metallurgy and alchemy, the nearly four foot blade, is neutral within the veil of The Force, having been imbued with only enough Force Power to bond it to the user, Rookwood. This blade is not Rookwood's first choice in battle, rather relying upon the will of The Force, and his pistols, to take down enemies, but when he chooses to use it, it can strike down the largest of enemies, and send their souls to commune with the Force. It's name, is Judgement. Fate controls the blade, and wielding it is one of the most skilled users of The Force within the galaxy. Faction Information [!factn] Force User, Force Sensitive or Non-Force User Experienced Force User Alignment: Unknown Current Faction Affiliation: Unknown, Leader of the Rangers of Bittersteel Current Faction Rank: History: [!hstry] Force Side: Trained by: It's a secret, as he is trained to master-like abilities in The Force (This has been mod-approved, discussed, etc.) Trained who:- Known Skills: Let's leave it at a Masterhood of The Force. Background: Outcast from his home on Myrkr, after the death of his family at the hands of the royal family's thugs, Rookwood followed the guidance of The Force, only to be taken down by the thugs himself, when he came to Coruscant. Oblivion, true and simple, was the ways of The Force. To appear on Kamino, would be the will of The Force. Renewed. Strengthened. Reborn. Total Oblivion. Ship Registration [!ship] Name: Fyrebane Class: Shuttlecraft Model: Myrkr Standard-LC40 Escort Shuttlecraft Manufacturer:Cygnus Spaceworks Length:30 meters Armaments: Taim & Bak KX5 laser cannons (3; forward)[1] Taim & Bak H9 dual laser cannon (1; aft turret)[1] Projectile launchers (2) with 8 concussion missiles each Armor: Imperial Standard Anti-Personnel Defenses: Auto-locking, personalized identification system Appearance: Black, with the Sigil of his house upon its sides. Modifications: Removed the turbolasers, replaced with laser cannons