Character you wish to play: Admiral Amolia Fairfax
Race: Human
Faction: Imperial Navy
Background: Amolia was raised on ships. Her father was an imperial officer. Her mother was an imperial officer. Her grandparents had served the empire, and her great-grandparents had been at Endor. She was raised imperial, she was taught to think imperial, and she had had the imperial ethos around her from the crib. That is not to say she is a true believer: she had her moments of doubt, and for years she fought against her parents and the counter intelligence division to learn about the Republic, find out who her enemies were and if they were as bad as the imperials preached they were. Amolia learned that they were not: she read diaries and reports, prowled image boards and news outlets, spent most moments of her free time harvesting what information she could, half a galaxy away from Coruscant. She learned that the republic was not the demon it was made to be. It was the wasting carcass of one, a dead weight crushing the lives of quadrillions as it slunk into depredation and failure, rewarding the lucky few who could take advantage of its rotting edifice, their triumphs inevitably hurting the rest.
Amolia dedicated herself to the imperial cause. She enlisted, her female status still making her a rarity even after all these generations of austerity and shortage. She underwent psychological training, physical instruction, and hours upon hours of learning. She clawed her way up from being a 2nd Lieutenant at 14 to a Captain at 18, to a fully-gazetted Admiral at 27. She fought tooth and nail for her position, lied cheated and stole to earn her unusual place on the Admirality, outmaneuvering and out-performing her competitors at every turn, hungry to earn the place she now had: a place at the head of a fleet the likes of which have not been seen in a century, aimed directly at the heart of the dying institution she so hated.
Character Class (choose one): Soldier
Items: The Bridge of a Super Star Destroyer is one of the safest places in the galaxy, and the White Bazaar is no exception, a wizened but fully functioning Executor-class from just before Byss. As such, she carries a blaster pistol at all times, but other than that carries no protective equipment. Planetside, she has stormtroopers much better at protecting her than she would be, and simply wears her uniform.
Character Personality: Amolia hates to waste time. It is the only thing that can never be replaced, after all. She speaks fast. She thinks fast. She does her duties quickly and diligently: mistakes slow her down. She is a very frugal person, and it reflects in her command. She hates to waste anything, especially lives. She values talent and free thought, preferring those who have their own dreams and goals rather than the die-hard imperials so common in the remnant. Innovation is valuable, dogma is deadly, and those who do not adapt to changing times are destroyed by them, in her mind. She thinks like a utilitarian: everything she does, she thinks will make the universe a better place, and she is always willing to change her ideas with new information. At her core, though, she is precocious and determined, the flames of her ambitions fanned by her pride, and she has been known to over-justify her actions when power was at stake.
Character Alignment (Choose one): Light Side
Do you know how to post pictures on the RPG Boards: Yes. Amolia is not a tall woman, and appears slender to the point of delicacy. She is rarely seen out of the Admiral’s uniform she worked so hard to earn. Her hair is long, but is always covered by the traditional naval hat from which she is never parted for long. She has a boyish figure, narrow hips and a flatter chest than would be fashionable, but she does not lack for severity or gravitas with sharp eyes, a sneering mouth and gently up-turning nose. Her voice is high and jagged, the grinding of an axe rather than the ringing of a bell, and a frown of concentration or placid look of contemplation seldom leaves her face when on duty.
Race: Human
Faction: Imperial Navy
Background: Amolia was raised on ships. Her father was an imperial officer. Her mother was an imperial officer. Her grandparents had served the empire, and her great-grandparents had been at Endor. She was raised imperial, she was taught to think imperial, and she had had the imperial ethos around her from the crib. That is not to say she is a true believer: she had her moments of doubt, and for years she fought against her parents and the counter intelligence division to learn about the Republic, find out who her enemies were and if they were as bad as the imperials preached they were. Amolia learned that they were not: she read diaries and reports, prowled image boards and news outlets, spent most moments of her free time harvesting what information she could, half a galaxy away from Coruscant. She learned that the republic was not the demon it was made to be. It was the wasting carcass of one, a dead weight crushing the lives of quadrillions as it slunk into depredation and failure, rewarding the lucky few who could take advantage of its rotting edifice, their triumphs inevitably hurting the rest.
Amolia dedicated herself to the imperial cause. She enlisted, her female status still making her a rarity even after all these generations of austerity and shortage. She underwent psychological training, physical instruction, and hours upon hours of learning. She clawed her way up from being a 2nd Lieutenant at 14 to a Captain at 18, to a fully-gazetted Admiral at 27. She fought tooth and nail for her position, lied cheated and stole to earn her unusual place on the Admirality, outmaneuvering and out-performing her competitors at every turn, hungry to earn the place she now had: a place at the head of a fleet the likes of which have not been seen in a century, aimed directly at the heart of the dying institution she so hated.
Character Class (choose one): Soldier
Items: The Bridge of a Super Star Destroyer is one of the safest places in the galaxy, and the White Bazaar is no exception, a wizened but fully functioning Executor-class from just before Byss. As such, she carries a blaster pistol at all times, but other than that carries no protective equipment. Planetside, she has stormtroopers much better at protecting her than she would be, and simply wears her uniform.
Character Personality: Amolia hates to waste time. It is the only thing that can never be replaced, after all. She speaks fast. She thinks fast. She does her duties quickly and diligently: mistakes slow her down. She is a very frugal person, and it reflects in her command. She hates to waste anything, especially lives. She values talent and free thought, preferring those who have their own dreams and goals rather than the die-hard imperials so common in the remnant. Innovation is valuable, dogma is deadly, and those who do not adapt to changing times are destroyed by them, in her mind. She thinks like a utilitarian: everything she does, she thinks will make the universe a better place, and she is always willing to change her ideas with new information. At her core, though, she is precocious and determined, the flames of her ambitions fanned by her pride, and she has been known to over-justify her actions when power was at stake.
Character Alignment (Choose one): Light Side
Do you know how to post pictures on the RPG Boards: Yes. Amolia is not a tall woman, and appears slender to the point of delicacy. She is rarely seen out of the Admiral’s uniform she worked so hard to earn. Her hair is long, but is always covered by the traditional naval hat from which she is never parted for long. She has a boyish figure, narrow hips and a flatter chest than would be fashionable, but she does not lack for severity or gravitas with sharp eyes, a sneering mouth and gently up-turning nose. Her voice is high and jagged, the grinding of an axe rather than the ringing of a bell, and a frown of concentration or placid look of contemplation seldom leaves her face when on duty.
“Admiral Fairfax, Eriadu has been seized. The governor and his council have surrendered, and the defense forces have been neutralized completely within the capital. We’re receiving messages of compliance from other population centers now, and I am deploying the rest of my Stormtroopers to ensure cooperation. The Revenue took light damage from the small complement of anti-pirate ships, but its combat functionality is not impaired.”
Commodore Fayet’s young, pale face was displayed in rather poor definition on her personal screen, his voice small and tinny, blaring from the cheap speakers. Amolia noticed a few of her bridge officers listening in: it was the first combat any of them had seen, beyond simulation, and she shared their enthusiasm. She did not stop them, this time.
“Well done, commodore. The fleet will be arriving within the hour: begin procuring food and materiel at high prices, and give ground forces eight hours leave. Remind them we are liberators: rape and pillage will be met with firing squad.”
The commodore nodded along with her, memorizing his duties and no doubt already planning ahead. It was one of few things she liked about the man. Understanding her to be finished, he saluted. “Understood ma’am. Emperor protect.”
She did not respond. His face snapped off her screen, and she looked up, running over what she knew. She looked out of the fore window, the transparisteel almost invisible as she gazed past it and saw the enormous dagger-shaped ship extend in front of her, the point nothing more than a speck against the white streaks of hyperspace. She stood from her command chair with some relish.
“Captain Linser, you have command. Relay to the fleet that orders have changed: the fleet is to enter medium orbit above Eriadu and prepare to repel counterattacks. I have business to attend to.”
The balding man, no more than thirty years old and with chocolate-hued skin, turned from his station directly in front of her now- vacated chair and saluted smartly. “Yes, Admiral.”. He knew better than to wait for a response, and simply began executing her orders efficiently. They had become quite the team over the months.
The walk to her quarters was a short one. A flight of stairs and a trip down a drab grey corridor deposited her in her spacious quarters. Two rooms and a personal lavatory, well appreciated. She used very little of it, of course, and today was no exception. She dropped herself in her far more comfortable personal chair, and turned to her desk, turning her various computers and communicators on as she did so. Her desk was immaculate, of course: there was no using heavy, wasteful and expensive paper on a Star Destroyer. Her computer, however, was highly cluttered. She still managed to navigate it smoothly, and keyed open a new communication channel. She trusted her staff, as any officer must, but some matters are best kept out of the minds of the fragile.
“Pardalis. I trust the Jedi were no problem, even without the bomb.”
The rough voice of her agent came across in terrible quality, the price paid for portable communicators. “They weren’t, boss. I managed to take the padawan alive, like you asked. I couldn’t get the knight, too dangerous.”
“Indeed. Is she fit for transport?”
“Absolutely.” Even through the bad connection she could hear a note of relish. “She’ll be no danger on the ship, though I’d recommend you let me handle her while she’s aboard. Jedi are slippery, even when you can resist their tricks.”
“Understood. The Bazaar will be entering orbit in an hour. I expect you here as soon as possible.”
“Got it, boss.”
His face disappeared, and Amolia sat back calmly. She couldn’t wait to interrogate the jedi: there were just too many things she wanted to know. A rare smirk played on her face, just for a few seconds.
Commodore Fayet’s young, pale face was displayed in rather poor definition on her personal screen, his voice small and tinny, blaring from the cheap speakers. Amolia noticed a few of her bridge officers listening in: it was the first combat any of them had seen, beyond simulation, and she shared their enthusiasm. She did not stop them, this time.
“Well done, commodore. The fleet will be arriving within the hour: begin procuring food and materiel at high prices, and give ground forces eight hours leave. Remind them we are liberators: rape and pillage will be met with firing squad.”
The commodore nodded along with her, memorizing his duties and no doubt already planning ahead. It was one of few things she liked about the man. Understanding her to be finished, he saluted. “Understood ma’am. Emperor protect.”
She did not respond. His face snapped off her screen, and she looked up, running over what she knew. She looked out of the fore window, the transparisteel almost invisible as she gazed past it and saw the enormous dagger-shaped ship extend in front of her, the point nothing more than a speck against the white streaks of hyperspace. She stood from her command chair with some relish.
“Captain Linser, you have command. Relay to the fleet that orders have changed: the fleet is to enter medium orbit above Eriadu and prepare to repel counterattacks. I have business to attend to.”
The balding man, no more than thirty years old and with chocolate-hued skin, turned from his station directly in front of her now- vacated chair and saluted smartly. “Yes, Admiral.”. He knew better than to wait for a response, and simply began executing her orders efficiently. They had become quite the team over the months.
The walk to her quarters was a short one. A flight of stairs and a trip down a drab grey corridor deposited her in her spacious quarters. Two rooms and a personal lavatory, well appreciated. She used very little of it, of course, and today was no exception. She dropped herself in her far more comfortable personal chair, and turned to her desk, turning her various computers and communicators on as she did so. Her desk was immaculate, of course: there was no using heavy, wasteful and expensive paper on a Star Destroyer. Her computer, however, was highly cluttered. She still managed to navigate it smoothly, and keyed open a new communication channel. She trusted her staff, as any officer must, but some matters are best kept out of the minds of the fragile.
“Pardalis. I trust the Jedi were no problem, even without the bomb.”
The rough voice of her agent came across in terrible quality, the price paid for portable communicators. “They weren’t, boss. I managed to take the padawan alive, like you asked. I couldn’t get the knight, too dangerous.”
“Indeed. Is she fit for transport?”
“Absolutely.” Even through the bad connection she could hear a note of relish. “She’ll be no danger on the ship, though I’d recommend you let me handle her while she’s aboard. Jedi are slippery, even when you can resist their tricks.”
“Understood. The Bazaar will be entering orbit in an hour. I expect you here as soon as possible.”
“Got it, boss.”
His face disappeared, and Amolia sat back calmly. She couldn’t wait to interrogate the jedi: there were just too many things she wanted to know. A rare smirk played on her face, just for a few seconds.
