Post by rogan on Dec 29, 2013 6:03:37 GMT -5
{ Rogan “Never-yield” Dondarrion }
Basic Info
*Age- 31
*Gender- Male
*Species- Human
*Homeworld- Tatooine
Personal Info
*Eye Color- Pale Blue
*Height- 6'3
*Weight- 190 lbs
*Hair Color- Jet black
*Scars- None
*What makes you, you?
Rogan’s character is one forged through events and times of horror and sacrifice, a time that either tempered ones spirit or shattered it entirely. He watched the destruction of his tribe from a-far, powerless to do anything but listen to the screams of his people borne over the wind. It left him without family, without friends, without his way of life and without a home; it of course affected his temperament. A mild mannered curious and joking boy gave way to a serious man with heavy memories. Where in the past he met strangers with openness he now instead holds a certain reserve. To this day he despises being helpless to aid comrades and is plagued with nightmares. He no longer prays to the gods, he does not believe they listen.
Damn stubborn, hard headed, obstinate and persistent. When passionate about something Rogan can be damn well near relentless. Whether attaining a goal, defending an ideal, or following a purpose Rogan has a quiet and resolute determination that enables him to do what few others can't or won't. He is incredibly stubborn; many a time when reason has demanded him to stop or flee he has instead stood his ground on shaking legs and through sheer perseverance prevailed over overwhelming odds. This trait of being unyielding has often landed him in situations where he should have backed down; instead he has in the past gotten himself into tough situations that could have been avoided. It earned him the nickname of “Never-yield” from his people. He knows what is right and what is wrong with a clear moral compass and a resolve that will not let him falter in the face of difficult choices. To him things mostly appear black and white, good and evil. Though he can forgive people of quite a lot since he understands that ultimately people are weak and have failings. The law, he understands is a thing created by man; and so he follows his own morality.
Once any kind of trust is established, Rogan is completely loyal; he places absolute faith in others and is extremely protective of both comrades and friends. This is because he adheres to a rather old-fashioned sense of duty, a trait gotten from living in such a small close knit community. Once gaining someone’s trust he would never betray and would do anything in his power to protect those he befriends or feels obligated to. This unwavering loyalty is a weakness as well as being one of the strengths in Rogan’s personality.
Family
His entire clan was wiped out, including his family.
Likes
* Metallurgy
* Swordsmenship
* Books
Dislikes
* Weakness
* Evil doers
* Sand People
Tech
* Communication Device
* Vibro-halberd
* Medical Supplies
Bio(Long)
At the end of every seasonal pilgrimage the Nadir would settle in a place sacred to their community. A place in the shadow of a great mountain that they called 'The Hand of Taneth'. And once every year a tradition was held. All the new blooded warriors were sent to climb as high as they could, before returning to the settlement as men. This rite of passage was not only a coming of age ritual but to see if the boys in question could cope without the assistance of their tight knit community. It was to see if they were strong enough to survive without the pack. With only their own strength and Arcana to protect them from the elements they would climb as close to the gods as could be achieved for a mortal. It was a brutal ceremony and deaths were common. Those that survived though enjoyed a position within the Nadir people, of recognised warriors and hunters. Something Rogan, due to his lack of spiritual strength, had never been.
It had come the year for Rogan’s rite of passage and he along with five other boys resolved to climb to the highest peak of the 'Hand’. It was a feat that had never been achieved, with good reason. The mountain was breath taking in its simple beauty and deadly in its sheer altitude. It was the highest point known in existence to the Nadir, and one that took days to climb even to its lower ranges. Breathing became laboured and difficult once a certain height was reached, and eventually all breath is snatched away. The gods being jealous of their territory of course made it difficult for mortals who strove to reach it. The going was harder than the bold boys had thought. Indeed by the time they had reached a quarter of the way up, two of the five boys had already been forced to turn back. They would be greeted as men on their return but status went to those who ventured higher up the peek. And so with the three remaining boys Rogan continued to climb.
Day two saw another turn back, and the loss of another. A shrieking wind funnelled through a narrow channel had torn an unlucky child, casting him screaming from the rock face. Rogan and the last remaining Nadir watched as he fell, eyes cold and pitying. They felt the loss as a wolf would feel the loss of a pack member.
On the third day of the climb, about two thirds of the way up Rogan lay resting in a small alcove. He and Vhorn, the only other remaining Nadir boy, had decided to rest up for the night. Sapped of strength, hungry and shaking because of the intense heat, they had agreed to head back by day break. It was night and outside the moon shone down onto the mountain with a pale luminance. Rogan had just shut his eyes and begun to feel the tug of weariness carry him under, when he was shaken violently by the other boy. Rogan was hurriedly taken to the mouth of the alcove and Vhorn stood looking grimly down, pointing to the large plain below the mountain. The Nadir encampment was burning. A great plume of thick black smoke was haloing the site, suspended as there was hardly a breeze that night, all was still and quiet. Rogan half imagined he could hear screaming drifting from below but knew it could only be in his head.
The boys made it down the mountain in little over a day, fear and desperation pushing them on. Though in the hurry Rogan fell from an outcrop; breaking his arm in the haste. Eventually though they reached the camp. Rogan and Vhorn looked over the yurts and picked through the remains. What they saw there was a picture of destruction, the very epitome of ruin. Everything they had ever known was gone, their pack, their people, entire families murdered. Not only that, the bodies had been defiled and abused. The two men (for had they not climbed the Hand?) picked their way through the wreckage. Rogan matted with dirt, blood crusting his finger nails and tears leaving dirty marks across his cheeks saw what had become of his home. And in the midst of strewn bodies and mutilated remains they found a mark of the Sand People.
“The odors of burning flesh and spilled blood assaulted me when I crested the entrance to the camp. There had not been a square yard untouched by blood, which did not have a body lying there. Or if not a body, then parts of one. Death for my people had not been quick; the victims had not merely been slain. That was only the beginning. The murdered the maimed, the mutilated and massacred. Bodies hung from posts, were nailed to walls and were pinned to the ground by stakes. People lay flayed torn and burned, there was the sliced and gouged and half eaten. My people; my family. Limbs had been hacked off, heads removed, eyes gouged out, the list of barbarities were endless. Men women and children, no one had been spared. I found them in such an array of horrific tortures that it took some time to steel myself against its atrocities and search for any left living. Part of me had hoped not, anyone left alive would have been tortured into insanity, merely fit for mercy killing. As it was, none were left alive anyway.
I found a mark here and there burned into skin, cut into flesh and smeared upon the walls in viscera. A mark of the Sand People; it had seared itself into my mind. As I walked through the ruin as I had picked my way through the remains, from the corpses and scrawled in blood. It was a single blazing emblem that was everywhere, ever watching.”
“I was taught many things by my people, but chief among them was the value of life. We scraped a living from the deserts of Tatooine. The Nadir were a people forever fighting the elements, surviving harsh conditions and the relentless heat. We forged strong bonds; had to if we wished to survive. Each person had worth and each person was responsible not only for their own safety but the safety of those around them. The responsibility of life to those lower in the clan than yourself was absolutely paramount...
I found out later in life that it was not the same outside of our isolated community. The responsibility that comes with power... The Republic does not understand it, they sees things backward. The Republic has a duty to the people; it is not the other way around. After witnessing the kind of rule they can impose I will not put myself in a position where the government can control my actions... I will not stay in the Republic with such a man in charge.”
Rogan struck out on his own to make a life as a mercenary, becoming a sell sword. He’d served in the scouting attachments for the Republic in Tatooine for some time and enjoyed high standing among the soldiers and even officer class. But he would never compromise himself, never be put in a position where he could be ordered by those he did not respect. He had still seen little at that point of the Galaxy, had never seen the capital of the Republic Coruscant; and so it was the planet of Hoth he struck out for. Hoth was larger than Rogan first imagined, it took time to make his way through the snow and it was much different than the deserts of Tatooine; that he was so familiar with. He picked up jobs along his route and for the first time was able to choose what contracts he would fulfil. It was the start of the days when Rogan would take control of his own life and destiny, a time when the man grew and found worthy causes to fight and worthy men and women to stand beside. The first of note being the blockade of Hoakes which was a small village in the Hillsides. It was in this Village of Tragedy that Rogan fought his first fell and cut down his first nethermancer.
Rogan embraced his lost people’s ways, becoming the Nadir he was raised to be. Living as a nomad sell-sword he met with other adventurers and fell into the spirit of mercenary work. He trained with some of the best privateers available before hearing about work in the south lands. The people of the Great Galavari Lake were being decimated, picked off slowly by unseen enemies. Entire families were being butchered and dragged screaming into the night. They needed a tracker of unparalleled skill to hunt their menace, and so Rogan answered the call. It was on this quest that Rogan would first encounter Jedi and Sith. The hunt was difficult, an event that proved to Rogan how much more he needed to learn when he saw a Jedi at work. She fought on another level with a skill that was hypnotic, and it was a desire to match her fury in combat that saw an increase in his training. After the group had slaughtered the Sith Commandos that had plagued the Galavari people.
After a hard battle in the snow where neither warrior would back down, the true enemy emerged. The Sith attacked the pair, emerging from the blizzard in dark cloaks and wrapped in black magics. Putting aside their feud they killed and drove off the attack, finally agreeing to work together to unmask the real foe. Rogan and the female Jedi tracked the Sith Warlord back to a cave where the two warriors would come to a clash during the investigation more than once. Eventually they cut the heart out of the Sith Warlord. The female Jedi consoled him in his victory, and though the pair had strayed perilously close to hating each other and had crossed blades many times during the contract, they parted in respect.
My people are gone now, and I am the last. But I feel it is my duty to be the voice of my lost tribe. To recount our ways and achievements so that not all is forgotten. There was much that was worthy in us and I would not see my people lost to the fog of time.
A people strong in the arcane and powerful in spirit. Potent elementalist’s and strong in evocation, magic flowed with some force in our blood. It was the basis of respect within the community; those strongest with it able to challenge for leadership.
Of character, there had been a feral quality to my tribe. A roughness, an untamed barbarity that would not allow for notions of civility. The deserts of Tatooine are treacherous, they are hot and unforgiving, and they were our home. We were survivor’s first, hunters second and climbers last. Tough, dangerous and vicious when need be. But it had been offset with a surprising amount of reserve and restrained self awareness. It created a controlled and detached people struck through with moments of intense violence and animalistic brutality. Violent lives, ending violently. Noble Savages, one and all.
