Bane — Roleplayer Guild

Two paragraphs of the history allude to mature content, so I put them in another hider (Edit: it's about four paragraphs now)

Name: Devyk Kohl
Age: 25
Species: Human
Class: Sith Inquisitor
Home Planet: Dantooine
_________________

Appearance: Devyk's hair is chestnut brown and kept short, as was standard for many on Dantooine. However, he was always taller than most on his homeworld, standing just over six feet (183 cm) tall, and, at one time, he sported an admirable physique. His muscles have been given to atrophy, however, and after the ravages of recent years, his body would be considered lithe at best. Still, there's a confidence to his posture, an upright defiance that speaks to wrath as much as mobility.

As with most Sith of his stature, Devyk wears the regalia of a Sith adept. A black, hooded robe covers his features, filigreed with silver tracings along the back. Underneath is dark gray tunic tucked into a pair of black trousers, which are, in turn, tucked into a pair of matching boots. A sleeveless black doublet and matching gloves are among his only accessories.

Of course, there is also the mask.

Serving to hide the scarred flesh surrounding his eyes, the mask is made of an off-white plasteel and covers his face from his forehead to just above his lips. While there is an opening for his nose, black ovals mark each side where the eye holes should be. Each one has two gray slashes reaching upward to the forehead, and singular gray lines reaching down toward the chin.

Personality: There was a time when many would've considered him cordial, even friendly, if a bit quiet. He had a calm, relaxed demeanor, and was fairly capable under pressure. But that was a lifetime ago, and recent years have taken their toll. Now, his countenance may be best summarized as calloused.

Still, he does have an eye for detail-- a proverbial one, at least. While blindness has limited this capacity, his ears are quite functional, and he tends to run his hands over different surfaces to reveal textures his ruined eyes cannot. Even after The Force returned some semblance of sight, he places most of his trust in his hearing to navigate and his sense of touch for detail.

To that end, he remains outwardly silent at most times. His speech interferes with his hearing, so he prefers to respond with bodily gestures or short answers, lest something-- or someone-- catch him unaware. While he could, and on rare occasion will, speak at greater length, it requires a particularly relaxed atmosphere, and personal experience has made him particularly cautious, especially around mercenaries. Lengthy responses should be considered a symbol of his trust.

Then there are his scars. While he keeps them hidden, they're a source of anguish and drive, constant reminders of both his failures and his intentions. He was consumed by an inner fury long ago, and one touch of an ungloved hand or an unmasked face are all that's required to rekindle the flame.

Finally, there's his thirst for knowledge. It stabs at him like a guilt-driven hunger, and it cuts deepest when it pertains to The Force. He welcomes any opportunity he can find to further his affinity with it, including using it to perform even the most mundane task, and while he prefers a solitary existence-- solitude holds no surprises-- he begrudgingly accepts company if it promises to further his understanding of The Force. 

History: Devyk's initiation to the force came when the Enclave was established on Dantooine. Under the orders of Master Vodo-Siosk Baas, Jedi began investigating the nearby settlements for potential students. Living near the Enclave itself, it didn't take long for Devyk to be identified as a candidate, and he was ushered through its doors for the first time as a young child.

Of course, being selected at such an age left him with few memories of his parents and even fewer traditional childhood experiences. Rather than running through fields or swimming in streams, his days were spent sweeping stone halls, studying archives, and learning the ways of the Force. Every day was structured, every moment scrutinized. That's when he discovered his love of lightsabers.

Early in his training, he developed an affinity for the Jedi weapon, and while he was far from rivaling the Masters, he dedicated his every waking moment to perfecting their use. Their components, their forms, their history: he scoured every available source, absorbed an assimilated every codex he could find to further his pursuits. It came as no surprise, then, when he elected to purue the path of the Jedi Guardian.
Unfortunately, not every aspect of his character was so synchronized.

Despite being thrust into the role of a padawan, Devyk was but a youth, and all youths have their devious tendecies. For him, that came in the form of a romantic attachment. Specifically, Micaih Seraph, a fellow padawan and former Dantooine resident.

They were kept separate during their early years. The Masters feared their common roots would only encourage a passionate bond, and they were right. The two didn't interact on any significant level until their teens, but adolescence proved a dangerous time.

Their relationship developed slowly, due in part to their oaths and even more to their duties. They would sneak away at first, stealing private moments between lessons. When they were given more freedom, as all padawan eventually are, they began seeking similar assignments and would accompany their masters on any mission that may lead to a chance encounter. It was an imperfect strategy, but it worked; and for years they managed to keep their activities hidden from the Council.

All good things must end, however, and the more passionate the experience, the more crushing its conclusion.

It happened when Micaiah and her Master were sent to investigate a group of rogue mercenaries. They failed to send a report, and after days of silence, the Council began fearing the worst. However, they deemed it to great a risk to dispatch another team. When news of their absence and the Council's decision reached Devyk, he took their rescue upon himself.

His pursuit led him to the mercenaries' camp. It took him some weeks to find its location, carefully assimilating a multitude of rumors, disappearances, and criminal patterns, but it could hardly be said to have been done in patience. With the encampment spread out before him, he forsook his teachings, his calm, his very nature, and he charged, lightsaber in hand. If only he'd known how much that would cost.

In his rage, he forgot the simplest of combat tactics: always check the corners. He walked into an ambush, and for all his dedication to lightsabers, Devyk was no Master. He was overpowered in short fashion.

The mercenaries took him, shackled, to a makeshift prison, and he was left inside a solitary force cage. It was somewhere underground but well lit, and at the far end was Michaiah.

Micaiah and the mercenaries. And mercenaries weren't known for their humane habits.

For days he watched them exert their brutal interrogation methods, which began with physical tortures. Torture gave way to senseless beatings, and before long, they became something much more vile.

Devyk screamed, pounding against the barrier. Laughter and seared flesh were the only response, but he pounded again, and again. When that failed, he strained to reach The Force. His connection had never been strong, but he'd never known exactly how weak it was until then. 

It floated just beyond his mind's reach, teetering into his grasp, then falling away again. Spurned on by Micaiah's screams, he pushed harder, digging deeper with every mirthless laugh the mercenary's could throw his way. Anger roiled inside, and with it he felt The Force swelling in mockery.

The screams continued and The Force loomed larger, but always just out of reach. When he finally managed to grab hold, it was only the tiniest sliver that left his fingertips, forming a bolt as pathetic as it was desperate.

It collided with the force field, and for a heartbeat, his fingertips were bonded to its current. Heat flooded his hands, charring the skin from the tops of his fingers to the bases of his wrists. He barely managed a scream of his own before collapsing, and the laughter grew exponentially.
 
All the while, the scene continued to unfold. The screaming, the laughter: on and on and on until being punctuated by a single blaster. Then silence.

When the mercenaries left, Micaiah lied still. Her eyes were open, and he waited an eternity to see a blink, a tear. But neither came. Only a lifeless blue glare remained.

Whether through paranoia or guilt, Devyk felt that glare fixed directly on him, even if the angles didn't align. He stared at first, some mixture of desperation and hope urging him to acknowledge the gaze. But he eventually withered, and with none but the earthen walls and Micaiah's corpse to accompany him, he was left to the privacy of anguish and despair.

But no manner of howling or fury changed that glare. It was omnipresent, even when he looked away. Finally, when he could howl no longer, when sorrow led him to the beginnings of depravity, he used to disfigured hands to end the images the only way he could: he clawed out his own eyes.

In the coming weeks, reinforcements finally arrived. Seemingly reversing their decision, the Council dispatched a team of Jedi Knights to disperse the slavers and liberate their captives. Micaiah and her Master, however, weren't among them, and they weren't the only casualities.

Devyk spent months in an infirmary, a period spent revolving through apathy and lament. Weeks passed without him so much as muttering a whisper, and when the doctors left each night, sleep eluded him. His mind was fixed in that underground prison, occupied by a single blue-eyed face and the tragedy that befell it. All else was overriden.

That memory played and replayed: his hands shackled, hers tied, and the mercenaries' haunting laughter. He heard those laughs with every breath, between each hearbeat. They pounded between his ears, devouring the vacancies vision had left behind, and before long, they drowned out trivial matters such as surgically repaired limbs or daily sustenance.

The doctors offered to fix his hands with mechanical alternatives, but he refused. Nurses brought him food, but he couldn't eat. Both warned of the dangers of neglect, but who were they to speak of it? Was it not the Council's neglect that doomed Micaiah? What greater neglect could he show? Theirs had ended in death, his in injury. What consequence were scarred hands and a wasting body?

Something snapped in him then, some cord he never realized existed. And for the first time, he saw the hypocrisy of the Jedi's teachings.

They advocated peace yet titled themselves “Knights”. They spoke of pacifism yet trained in combat. They praised tranquility yet spent their days ruminating over feuds and territorial pacts. Worst of all, Devyk had been training to become a Jedi himself, and in that prison, when it mattered most, their teachings couldn't even save his body, much less Micaiah's life.

But it wasn't just their teachings that failed him. That day, the force field only stopped his hands. It was his inability with The Force that had cost him, that had cost Micaiah. If he could've just wielded it properly, if he could've kept fueling the connection, she would still be alive.

That was a dangerous thought, one that stuck with him throughout his recovery. In fact, one might say that, as it evolved, it became the reason for his recovery. His mind never left that underground prison, but as he learned to strengthen his Force connection, it became less of a nightmare and more of a bitter truth. Once he began analyzing and dissecting its every facet, he realized how brutally, beautifully honest that truth was.

The Council had caused the situation by sending Micaiah and the first place, and they exacerbated it by refusing to send aid. But it was his own lack of ability that caused the damage. It was his ignorance that got him captured, his inability to turn his emotions to fuel that got Micaiah killed.

When the time came for him to leave the infirmary, his mind had been reborn. For much of his life, he'd dedicated himself to a particular craft, and it was overcome by a simple shackle. He needed something stronger, something far more primal and altogether beyond the teachings of the Jedi. He needed the true power of The Force.

Shortly after his recovery, Devyk was cast out of the Order. His transgressions were deemed beyond redemption, and had they known of his change of heart, their punishment may have been much more severe. Alas, they only saw the padawn they'd taken on years ago, the young boy that gave in to basic human emotions and suffered in the process. They couldn't see the hatred building within, the contempt for the hypocrisy they so cherished. But that hatred has had years to build. One day, it would come to light.

And when it did, it wouldn't need a lightsaber.

_________________

Equipment: Lightsaber – a simple red lightsaber with a gray hilt. He keeps it stored at his right hip, just underneath his robe.

Short Lightsaber – another lightsaber with a red blade, though it's shorter than its counterpart. And while its hilt is also gray, it has a slight curve. This one is stored at his left hip, also just underneath his robe. Given the injuries to his eyes, Devyk refrains from using this in his off-hand-- indeed, he refrains from melee combat entirely when possible. Instead, he often opts to employ this weapon as a projectile.

Skills: Force Adept – Devyk was awoken to the Force at an early age, and initially aspired to follow the path of the Jedi Guardian. Once his eyes were lost, however, it became clear that path was closed to him, to say nothing of his change in “alignment”. Since his injuries, he's dedicated himself to mastery of the Force.

Force Sight – Over time, Devyk's Force affinity birthed a sense of sight. While not fully developed and rudimentary at times, it does allow him to “see” and navigate his surroundings, and for this reason he's often confused for a miraluka.

Heightened Senses – As with most with such afflictions, losing one of his senses has served to heighten others. His sense of hearing, smell, and even touch are more acute than average.

Tactician – Between his analytical personality and heightened senses, Devyk has become skilled in exploiting minute details. While he lacks any significant combat experience, his abilities and intuitive nature are well suited to diagnosing a situation and developing an appropriate course of action.
Bane Member

Status

Bio

Most Recent Posts
