Palak
(#74460011)
an ex-separatist officer turned sort-of bounty hunter.
Familiar
Coastline Sawbeak
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 50/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Plague.
Male Gaoler
This dragon is an ancient breed.
This dragon is hibernating.
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Personal Style
Ancient dragons cannot wear apparel.
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
10.8 m
Wingspan
5.38 m
Weight
11516.84 kg
Genetics
Blue
Phantom (Gaoler)
Phantom (Gaoler)
Obsidian
Basic
Basic
Blue
Gnarlhorns (Gaoler)
Gnarlhorns (Gaoler)
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 1 Gaoler
EXP: 0 / 245
STR
7
AGI
5
DEF
7
QCK
5
INT
5
VIT
9
MND
7
Biography
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T A R N I S H E D
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chiss ∙ calm ∙ trait
───────────────────────Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Donec efficitur semper lacinia. Maecenas non eros id nunc accumsan sagittis eu in neque. Class aptent taciti sociosqu ad litora torquent per conubia nostra, per inceptos himenaeos. ─────────────────────── lyric lyric lyric lyric lyric lyric lyric lyric lyric lyric lyric  ─────── 
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Detriment Its all gone wrong, somehow... __There was something wrong. The air was too stale. The wind had stopped, like the planet of Pallasaed was holding its breath. The 932nds comms had been out of range for a few hours at this point, staticky and nothing getting through; it seemed to just be how this planet worked. But Zu -- Zu looked distressed. Zus face was rapidly growing more tense until his face screwed up into an intensely uncharacteristic grimace. Grey was about to say something, ask through his helmet, General, are you feeling alright, but Zu -- Zu fell to the ground. Grey was on his knees immediately, attempting to bring Zu back up to his feet. "Sir? Are you alright?" Zu looked to him, eyes wide and near tear filled. "Something is wrong," Zu bit out. "Something is incredibly wrong, it-" Greys eyes narrowed, and he glanced around them. The other clones in the 932nd who had been walking behind Grey and Zu had stopped, most averting their eyes from Zus fallen form. Seeing Zu in such a state, panicky and stumbling over his words, sent such a strange feeling through all of them. So they averted their gaze. Greys helmet and scanners showed no droids, no forms besides the 932nd vehicles and men. Which really only left one thing. "In the force, sir?" Zu clawed his way to his feet. "Yes, Commander. We -- we need to get back to the Corvidae, I must contact the council." Grey nodded curtly. "Yessir." Grey turned to his men, barking out a brisk, "Pick up the pace, boys." they responded sir, yes, sir, and he turned back to Zu. He discreetly offered a support, and Zu looked away briefly before taking Greys arm. After another few hours of trekking over the treacherous humid forest planet, they made it back to their gunships. They managed to get back to their ship mainly in tact, and they did what they could to reestablish communication with the council and chancellor. Zu, still in distress, refused to go to the medbay until he'd conversed with the council about whatever was going on. Of course, it was in the force, so none of the clones had any idea what Zu was feeling -- the Kaminoans had made sure that the clones genetic code didn't allow for any midichlorians. The comm channels were slowly coming back online, but nothing had connected yet; they were all still in the dark. Grey succeded in his attempts to convince a panicked Zu to sit outside of the communication room on some crates and rest while Feral and Yvia did what they could to reestablish connection. While the two managed to get the comms semi-working again, the communication channels were simply changing too quickly and were too staticky to understand. Grey hovered and made sure nothing important slipped by while the two men worked, silently standing by, until they hit that one
particular
channel.
and then they heard it. Commander Grey. It is time. Execute Order 66. CC-2314 moved on autopilot. So did CT-2344 and CT-2367, the two who had been in the room with him. They exited the room, approached Zus near crumpled form -- Zu was still in pain, unable to properly connect with the force. Zu was compromised. Zu -- Zu was an easy kill. This order was practically being handed to him; in free missions like this Grey would be hopeful for shore leave which would follow a mission, but -- but this was different. This was Zu. Someone he'd fought beside for years. Only now, this was CC-2314. Not Grey. He wasn't Grey anymore, he couldn't be. So he lifted his gun, ignored the insignificant part of his brain screaming at him that this was a superior officer, this was his general, this was his his friend -- and he fired. Three shots. Head, chest, chest, chest. Quick. Painless. He ignored the prickling, the slight nausea. And as CC-2314 stares at Zus still warm corpse, all he can think of was Orpho. Was this what was supposed to happen? Was this really it -- the end of the war? And maybe, maybe- it was also because Zu looked as crooked in death as Orpho did. You get used to seeing people alive, and when you see death so close, on someone like Zu, a Jedi, the Jedi were supposed to be immortal -- he was a soldier, he knew death, but this was someone he - he didn't - Zu wasn't supposed to die like this, was he? -- was this a cruel faux ending? Surely something more sinister was lurking behind the curtains... this kill was too easy. He disregarded the small part of himself that said Zu wouldn't have turned traitor, or became treasonous for no reason -- but that's what Zu was. A traitor. The chancellor himself stated as such. And CC-2314 had no right to question the chancellor. This was the beginning of the end, and none of them knew it yet.
statistic / statistic / statistic
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Awakening The ash falls, the people murmur... __When he wakes suddenly, he doesn't know his name, how he got here, or why his head is ringing and so warm. After a few moments of trying to orient himself, there's a memory that flashes quickly, with voice he doesn't know the name of -- who he probably should know the name of -- telling him Keep safe, vod'ika! and he gasps. He forces his swollen eyes open, and he comes to realize that he's in a ship. Only, it's crashed. It's burning, and he's going to choke on smoke and ash if he doesn't get out of here soon. He paws desperately at the nearly caved in window above him -- he's in the cockpit, he supposes, but why, what was he doing, why is he wearing this armor -- but it wont move. He realizes, belatedly, that its because he's upside down. How had he not realized before? Suddenly, the window he's pawing at shatters on one side and a cloth-covered blue hand reaches towards him. He shouldn't trust it. He doesn't know who this hand belongs to, but he's terrified of dying like this -- dying without knowing why or how or who he is -- so he forces a shiny blackened by burns and ash arm out to grab the blue hand. The blue hand finds and grasps his almost immediately, and he hears a distantly firm, "I'm getting you out of here," and a garbled hiss as the blue hand brushes a searing hot metal pole in he cockpit. The blue-handed mans voice sounds slightly staticky. He must be using a vocal scrambler, the armored man realizes. More glass shatters, spraying over his armored arm which he dumbly realizes is drenched in red. He can see better now, despite the barely-there widow his helmet gave him. He's on the underbelly of some city that he swears he knows the name of, and there's a crowd of people gathered. But no white-clad men like him. He doesn't know why that hurts. The firm voice asks something, and when the man in the crashed ship gives no answer, asks again, "Is all of your armor on, Clone?" and the -- is his name Clone? That seems weird -- clone looks to what he can partially see of his body. "Yes," he rasps back, and he doesn't know how the blue man heard him, but he can feel a small squeeze of reassurance in their clasped hands. "I'm pulling you out now. Something hurts more than usual, tell me!" the blue handed man barks, and the clone can't help but think he would've laughed if he were, well, himself. He doesn't reply, but the blue handed man begins to pull him out of the wreck. There's awful scraping sounds, and a bit of pain as the movement jostles his injuries, but he gets out. The man, whos hands are blue and voice is staticky, is dressed in nearly all black robes. The blue-handed man leans the sitting, armored man against the rubble of his decimated ship. "You alright, all things considered? No shrapnel, impalings, any of that?" the clone sluggishly shakes his head. Things are getting fuzzy. The blue-handed man has a thin, red glowing visor over his face, and he looks, honestly, a bit like a Sith. "Thank you," the clone mutters. He remembers manners, at least. "No problem. When you wake up, don't attack my medical droids, okay?" the blue handed man says, and the clone is already blacking out, the last thing he sees before darkness takes over being a red and black mask staring him down.
statistic / statistic / statistic
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Revivial His head hurts, everything is cold... __Physox wakes up blearily, in a sanitized, cold room. There are -- things, in his arm. Things on him. Confusion sweeps through him, and then a spurt of panic. He can't remember how he got here. The man who was probably sitting next to him the whole time, who was wearing a nametag that said Kachx, opened his sunken eyes. Kachx straightened when he saw that Physox was awake, but did not smile. His mouth kept the same thin, cool frown. Kachx then stood up, and before Physox knew it he had grabbed the mans arm. Please stay, Physox didn't say. Later, he would be told that the man -- Kachx -- was a commander. Physox would apologize, but the orange-emblazoned commander would simply shake his head. Back in the present, Kachx would near flinch in the grasp, but instead of wrenching his arm free he called out, "Hoth," and the fiery mans voice was splitting, Physox whining lightly to which the man quieted. "Hoth, the kid Grey said to look over is up. I'm sorry, vod, but I need to go back to my general." The man who Physox presumed was Hoth hustled from around the corner with a large datapad, saying, "You are dismissed, Kachx. Stay safe on those front lines Ufyrs been sent to." The firey man would nod curtly, actually offering Hoth a pat on the arm and both of them a last glance, before he swiftly left. "Are you twins?" Physox asks, and Hoth -- ironic to his name -- freezes. Only for a moment, eyebrows creased. "That ought to be some of Cosmodias force-awful humor rubbing off onto you," he sighs, "With that idea were all twins, Phy. We're clones. Havok would slap you for that." the last part was a mutter as Hoth fiddled with a couple of medical tools. Physoxs eyebrows furrowed, and he looked intently to the side. After a while of Hoth patiently waiting, Physox finally seems to land on what he's trying to think of, and blurts, "I'm CT-4527, right?" and ignores how the numbers feel oddly bitter on his tongue. Hoths mouth gains tension. Physox always hated being called by his number. "... yeah, vod'ika. Do you know who you are?" Physox, somehow, remembers the language -- vod'ika. He cracks a miniscule smile at it. "Physox." Physox answers. "Good. How much do you remember?" The masked look of concern on Hoths face doesn't comfort Physox. After a little while of Physox trying to wrack what groggy memory he has at the moment, Physox mutters, "None of it." to which Hoth nods, "That's okay. It's normal for people to not remember traumatic incidents." But Physox had so little, it felt like there was a fog around him. He couldn't tap names or faces, but he could remmeber a couple of brief words and fragments of names. Physox feels his heart beating a little faster, it slowly picking up as he searches around the room for anything to spark his memory. Nothing does. Sh*t. "Look, sir, I'm sorry, but where are we?" he asks. Hoth just hums a little bit, and Physox feels strangely comforted by it. Hoths tapping a few things on his datapad when he responds, "Not a sir. Not right now, at least. And the medical bay in our venator. The Doomspeaker. We're orbiting Opheida right now for a campaign, it's 21:03 and year wise close to 20 BBY." A small few chunks of memory came into Physoxs' head -- you're a good man, Phsox, thank you ; a warm voice, firm and gruff - the name Havok races into his mind saying Tion'ad hukaat'kama?. Then there's a flash of a few more people, a few more memories of battles and planets, and then a purple Nautolan appears. The Nautolan memory seems to bring him out of his funk, and he impulsively blurts, "Yeah that -- f*ck, we're with the -- the Nautolan man, right?" Hoth becomes less tense. "Yeah, good; that's Zu you're probably thinking about, he's our general. You'll likely start remembering more things soon, don't worry." Physox feels a chunk of tension dissipate, but the fear is still there. "Okay. Maybe you -- or someone you want, I know you're probably busy -- can fill me in? Just while I remember things. I mean, it might jog my memory too, right?" Hoth nods. "I'll grab Cosmodia, then. He's one of your batchmates. He's been all angsty with Havok since your accident. Havoks a friend of yours, but he's... more complicated. While an emotionally constipated di'kut, he still cares about you. Don't be upset if he doesn't talk to you for a while. He's just nervous."
statistic / statistic / statistic
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Quote:
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S P I T F I R E
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clone trooper ∙ systematic ∙ dogmatic
───────────────────────CT-6616 is standing painfully rigidly near the front of the venator, the Slipstrike. He's next to his general, Ghyrr, while his general is drawing up a battle plan; there are a couple of other clones scattered about, clicking buttons to keep them in hyperspace and on course. But he still feels completely cold and alone. It's a feeling he had to get used to a long time ago, since the Kaminoans began their tests. It's a ..."miracle" they didn't terminate him for his heterochromia. The years have embittered CT-6616, made him an empty, cold husk of a man, and while CT-6616 can feel the concern radiating from Thrash, his nearly last batchmate, he coldly ignores him. As CT-6616 always does. And maybe CT-6616 knows that somewhere, in a part of him he pretends is dead and gone -- and maybe is -- that Thrash would let him run to him for help or comfort any time, even after all the death and pain. But CT-6616 doesn't need help. He doesn't need comfort or morality. He's a good soldier. And good soldiers follow orders. ─────────────────────── I was fightin' in the trenches With no one ever around So f*ck everybody If you want it come and get it I won't hurt nobody I'm a motherfuckin' menace ───────
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unfinished, unedited wrote:
“You need to get out of here,” Chedara says, voice rough. “It’s not safe, you could die if this thing goes off.”
Spitfires mouth twitches.
“That’s fine.” He says, voice harsh and gravelly. And yet it’s soft somehow. Like he doesn't talk much; like he doesn’t have anyone to talk to.
Chedara feels like she’s going to lose her lunch on both things.
“What? No, no, buddy— It’s not,” she says, desperately, and she’s just a kid, barely over fourteen. She shouldn’t have to deal with him. Something twists in his gut.
Really, he’s kind of sorry she’s stuck with him in the rubble.
Bracer was always better with kids- but Bracer- it was just like this- slipping through his fingers- please come back open your-
concentrate on the task at hand, soldier
Yes, sir.
She’s looking at him. Concerned. He doesn’t like it.
The only people that look at him like that are people who say they care. He doesn’t want those around.
Not anymore.
People who care are people who die. And maybe death is unavoidable; this is war.
But this is his choice.
“Okay.” He says. It's better to agree with... everyone. They leave him alone if he agrees, be a good soldier, keep-
He needs to keep his head in the game. Chedara is okay, it seems, for now, but she still needs help. He needs- ******* damnit he needs to radio [the ** from the flight rising bio, falc maybe it is?].
He tries his radio again.
Nothing.
He ignores his screaming ribs as he leans back to hunch his thighs and butt onto his feet and shins. The pressure and resulting sting behind and in his eyes due to the movement are hidden well by his helmet. Still unmarked, aside the company sand-grey emblem on the chest.
His eyes fall back to the hybrid teenager in front of him.
Blood is starting to leak from one of her broken horns. At least she has two, he supposes bitterly. They’re thick, and he’s honestly kind of surprised it snapped like it did.
Her head tails, though — montrails, lekku, whatever these are called for her species — one was already missing. Well - mostly missing. But, no new loss of head tails, luckily. They seem majorly unscathed, aside maybe a few scratches and bruises.
“I’m gong to ask again.” He says.
“Okay,” she says, smiling slightly in confusion despite her situation. “Ask what?”
“Does anything hurt?”
“No, I’m a little thirsty though. I didn’t get to grab any rationed water before it was taken. Howler can usually save me some, but he isn’t, ah.”
Her rambling paused.
“He’s still gone.” She finishes awkwardly.
Howler was still missing; disappeared on a routine check on Musari. Sounds a lot like misery, which fit the bill of the disturbed planet.
All sand and bones and those awful kind of dry trees with barely any brush on them.
Should be easy to check; isn’t.
Awful ******* terrain.
Spitfire doesn’t want him to be dead. But he knows that wanting has nothing to do with it.
He wanted a lot of things as a cadet.
A place to exist.
Food.
Sleep.
Fairness, naively.
He wasn’t given much of any of those.
The kaminoans took and took. And he has nothing left to give anymore. No fight left.
He’s as empty as all good soldiers should be.
Spitfires mouth twitches.
“That’s fine.” He says, voice harsh and gravelly. And yet it’s soft somehow. Like he doesn't talk much; like he doesn’t have anyone to talk to.
Chedara feels like she’s going to lose her lunch on both things.
“What? No, no, buddy— It’s not,” she says, desperately, and she’s just a kid, barely over fourteen. She shouldn’t have to deal with him. Something twists in his gut.
Really, he’s kind of sorry she’s stuck with him in the rubble.
Bracer was always better with kids- but Bracer- it was just like this- slipping through his fingers- please come back open your-
concentrate on the task at hand, soldier
Yes, sir.
She’s looking at him. Concerned. He doesn’t like it.
The only people that look at him like that are people who say they care. He doesn’t want those around.
Not anymore.
People who care are people who die. And maybe death is unavoidable; this is war.
But this is his choice.
“Okay.” He says. It's better to agree with... everyone. They leave him alone if he agrees, be a good soldier, keep-
He needs to keep his head in the game. Chedara is okay, it seems, for now, but she still needs help. He needs- ******* damnit he needs to radio [the ** from the flight rising bio, falc maybe it is?].
He tries his radio again.
Nothing.
He ignores his screaming ribs as he leans back to hunch his thighs and butt onto his feet and shins. The pressure and resulting sting behind and in his eyes due to the movement are hidden well by his helmet. Still unmarked, aside the company sand-grey emblem on the chest.
His eyes fall back to the hybrid teenager in front of him.
Blood is starting to leak from one of her broken horns. At least she has two, he supposes bitterly. They’re thick, and he’s honestly kind of surprised it snapped like it did.
Her head tails, though — montrails, lekku, whatever these are called for her species — one was already missing. Well - mostly missing. But, no new loss of head tails, luckily. They seem majorly unscathed, aside maybe a few scratches and bruises.
“I’m gong to ask again.” He says.
“Okay,” she says, smiling slightly in confusion despite her situation. “Ask what?”
“Does anything hurt?”
“No, I’m a little thirsty though. I didn’t get to grab any rationed water before it was taken. Howler can usually save me some, but he isn’t, ah.”
Her rambling paused.
“He’s still gone.” She finishes awkwardly.
Howler was still missing; disappeared on a routine check on Musari. Sounds a lot like misery, which fit the bill of the disturbed planet.
All sand and bones and those awful kind of dry trees with barely any brush on them.
Should be easy to check; isn’t.
Awful ******* terrain.
Spitfire doesn’t want him to be dead. But he knows that wanting has nothing to do with it.
He wanted a lot of things as a cadet.
A place to exist.
Food.
Sleep.
Fairness, naively.
He wasn’t given much of any of those.
The kaminoans took and took. And he has nothing left to give anymore. No fight left.
He’s as empty as all good soldiers should be.
"No name, clone? I could've sworn I heard ...Thrash, is his name? Refer to you as Spitfire." His general, Ghyrr, questioned with something akin to contempt. The clone stood rigid and at attention, eager to please. "No, sir, General, sir. Names are just a distraction from our duty. I am CT-6616, sir." His general nodded. "Good. I have always agreed with the... Numbered sentiment. Easier to keep track of you lot." CT-6616 nods rigidly, and salutes sharply when dismissed. He hopes he's done well.
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Exalting Palak to the service of the Plaguebringer will remove them from your lair forever. They will leave behind a small sum of riches that they have accumulated. This action is irreversible.
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