[hider=Vifii][center][h1][color=a40ace]The …Pet.[/color][/h1]
[sub][i]image to follow, as always, once I get off my tail feathers and draw.[/i][/sub][/center]
[color=a40ace][b]|[u] {Full Name} [/u]|[/b][/color]
[indent]Vifii ((Kushiban don't seem to take family names, and Vifii's never had a family, anyway))[/indent]
[color=a40ace][b]|[u] {Age} [/u]|[/b][/color]
[indent]15 ((developmentally comparable to a ~20 year old human))[/indent]
[color=a40ace][b]|[u] {Species} [/u]|[/b][/color]
[indent]Kushiban[/indent]
[color=a40ace][b]|[u] {Gender} [/u]|[/b][/color]
[indent]Female[/indent]
[hr]
[color=a40ace][b]|[u] {Force Sensitive/Alignment} [/u]|[/b][/color]
[indent]Umm…no?[/indent]
[color=a40ace][b]|[u] Role on Ship [/u]|[/b][/color]
[indent]Like it or not, Vifii has styled herself as an ‘infiltrator’ – no one is going to suspect a pet [i]bunny[/i] to be making off with your commander’s dataspheres. The core of her skillset is petty pickpocketing, that and being able to sneak around in plain sight, but she’s donned a number of different identities and professed sets of abilities to carry out a number of jobs.[/indent]
[color=a40ace][b]|[u] {Appearance} [/u]|[/b][/color]
[indent]Vifii is of a smaller size than would be expected of many kushiban, a byproduct of being raised in a crate, always hungry and with minimal space to move around. Standing upright on her hind legs, she’s a mere sixty-six centimeters tall (about half that when on all fours) and bears a thin and knobbly frame that resists every attempt at fattening. Her soft ears and tail dominate her small form – they grew normally, even if the rest of her didn’t - and the result is that she’s often tripping over the ears when walking on all fours, and they nearly skim the ground even when she’s standing upright. For that reason, and matters of pride, she prefers to stand on her hind legs and has taught herself to be able to walk and move with some amount of grace – though in danger she drops back to all fours.

Vifii’s eyes are usually some shade of bright blue, though they change colors slightly as her fur does – her fur, usually a shade of white or beige or grey, is always meticulously brushed and combed. Vifii can’t stand to have even the slightest dust or dinge in her fur. Most of her hair is grown out long, but for a bald, scarred band around her neck and a discolored patch over the slaver’s crest tattooed on the point of her left shoulder.

The only notable accessory she wears is a silver-colored hairpin which holds a particularly long tuft of hair in place behind her ears. It’s set with sparkly blue stones that on closer inspection are paste rhinestones – utterly valueless.[/indent]
[color=a40ace][b]|[u] {Equipment and Personal Belongings} [/u]|[/b][/color]
[indent]When Vifii joined the crew, she had nothing but a small rucksack with a few changes of clothes. She dresses in altered human clothes, whatever she can easily get her paws on, though they’re often child-sized, or else adult human’s shirts worn as dresses.

Since joining the crew, however, she’s collected an alarming assortment of nick-nacks and trinkets, favoring brightly colored and sparkly objects. So far she hasn’t taken anything from the crew, but whenever they stop in a town it seems she gets her paws on something. She has recently started wearing ribbon bands around her neck in an effort to hide the collar scar.[/indent]
[color=a40ace][b]|[u] {Physical Abilities} [/u]|[/b][/color]
[indent][b]Fast ‘lil bugger.[/b] – Bunnies are fast. Bunnies are really fast. Vifii, small and nimble as she is, is remarkably hard to catch or land a hit on if she’s able to get all four feet to the ground. 

[b]Hidden in plain sight[/b] - Vi prides herself on being able to blend in, being passed off as a docile servant or pet. Either class is given a remarkable amount of freedom, especially in wealthy houses.

[b]Quick-Thinking Pickpocket[/b] – Vifii is very good at quickly weaving lies and half-truths – and then remembering the stories that she’s spun. Anything to get herself out of a situation alive.

[b]Seamstress[/b] – During Vi’s early childhood, she was instructed in traditional Kushiban weaving and spinning techniques – and has since taught herself other intricacies of the skill. Kushiban silk is prized for its iridescence and softness, and though it is a niche market, selling the thread spun from her fur earns a nice chunk of pocket change for her.[/indent]
[color=a40ace][b]|[u] {Limitations} [/u]|[/b][/color]
[indent][b]Hydrophobic[/b] – Given the hell that was her adolescence on Aquilaris, Vifii is horrified at the mere [i]thought[/i] of visiting water worlds, and hates any exposure to the liquid beyond what is necessary. A mere ocean breeze can set her to trembling and refusing to leave her quarters.

[b]Just a Dumb Bunny[/b] – The boon of her unconventional appearance is also a major flaw - the fact that no one will take her seriously. When she tries to engage directly in conversation, she is often as not laughed off. Even the crew of the Noreaster might treat her as little more than a pet.

[b]Heart of Gold[/b] - Vifii is very young and naïve, and follows her heart over her head. Her strong moral compass has accomplished some major good in the world, but has also landed her in trouble and earned her more than her fair share of close calls.

[b]Fragile[/b] – Vi has little way of protecting herself or fighting- sure, teeth and claws, but they do nothing against proper weapons - and her body is too fragile to withstand much force at all. Everything she does banks on her not getting caught.[/indent]
[hr]
[color=a40ace][b]|[u] {Personality} [/u]|[/b][/color]
[indent]Vifii is a delightful mess of contradictions. Her upbringing as a slave gave her a worldview that few possess, but also sheltered her from the more subtle cruelties of the galaxy. She is naïve, ill-informed of the way things work in the middle echelons of society, and still has a notion that she’ll be able to set the galaxy to being a better place – while being dreadfully fatalistic about the whole endeavor and her worth in the world. She tries to be optimistic, seeing some amount of good in everything and everyone – except slavers – and does her best to help people. With that being said, she is massively distrustful of any organization or group who claims to have a benevolent motive. Perhaps she is too cynical, or perhaps not enough. 

Outwardly, Vi is a shy, reserved creature that is immensely distrustful of others. She could be mistaken for mute at first meeting her, mute save for squeaks and purrs and growls as one would expect from an animal. She has a very, very select few on the crew that she trusts, and to their perception she is a bubbly and inexperienced young woman, downright childish at times, who has an awful lot to say in an awfully soft voice that seems incapable of speaking emphatically. It’s hard to win her trust, but once you do you have a lifelong friend.[/indent]
[color=a40ace][b]|[u] {Place of Origin} [/u]|[/b][/color]
[indent]“Some backwater hellhole, wherever it was.” There aren’t any records detailing Vifii’s birth or upbringing, but she was born of an escaped Kushiban fur slave in hiding in the slums of the city-world Nar Shaddaa.[/indent]
[color=a40ace][b]|[u] {Background} [/u]|[/b][/color]
[indent]There was softness, and warmth. Gentle voices around her. Soft paws guiding her own, a lilting melody in her ears, the twisting of downy fur in her paws. Soft ears draped over her; the wriggling of other small downy bundles against her side, twitching noses and blinking eyelashes. Harsh lantern lights eased by sheets of sheer cloth.

A crack that shattered every moment of peace. Screaming. Blood splattered on the mildewed green tiles.

Her earliest distinct memory is that of a market. A feeling of emptiness. Something lost. An overwhelming cloud of the stink of fear and pain and sickness and waste and ruin.

Loneliness. 

Laughter. A flash of blinding white-hot pain.

Darkness.

When she awoke, she was overcome with the sweetest scent she’d ever smelled – the salty, bitter tang of ocean air and sunshine. There was a dull stinging in her shoulder, the only sign that whatever horrible thing had happened before wasn’t just a dream.

She was on the water world of Aquilaris, in residence on an island resort of some sort. The owner of the place, a seedy-looking grey-skinned fellow, was quick to put her in her place. She was not a slave, not at all, but rather an employee, and her job was simple. There was a buzzer in her collar-

At the mention of a collar she panicked, pawing at it and tugging, but the light pressure that had been on her throat only seemed to grow more intense as she did. A bolt of pain seared through her head and chest, and she collapsed to the floor again.

The collar would tighten if she tried to remove it, and could be remotely activated to electrocute her. It would explode, and her head with it, if she wandered past the bounds of the man’s resort. The man smiled lightly, politely, as he explained it, speaking quickly as though she understood perfectly. When the buzzer sounded, her crate would open, and there would be a magnetic tugging on the collar. She was to follow the tugging, and it would lead her to a resort guest who required some service or another. 

Any requested service was to be delivered promptly, professionally, and without question.

She had no idea what all could be asked of her, but she soon learned. She was spared much that was inflicted on others, the other “employees” that she only saw in passing – it seemed that even as heartless as these cruel businessmen were, they were under instruction to not kill or cause serious injury to the - employees. 

The routine was simple. After whatever …service had been completed, and to the customer’s satisfaction, she was to return to her cage, and wait until she was called again. Failure to do so fast enough, as she found, resulted in her collar tightening until she couldn’t breathe, electric shocks dancing down her spine. Sometimes it seemed even daring to think improperly would leave her fallen to her knees, fire dancing behind her eyes.

It was hard to keep track of time, beyond the blur of hunger and mistreatment - it was almost easier not to think, not to worry about the infeasible. She got older and with her age grew; her accommodations did not. She could not bring herself to care. An animal, only there to wait hand and foot on the seedy business lords, fetch and carry, “provide comfort”, a thing, an object for them – it was hard to keep herself above such basal lines of thought. It was hard to remember that she was a person in her own right. Everything faded into a sick kind of rhythm. As she matured, the market brand pressed into her shoulder faded and stretched. Fearing that it might eventually disappear, the master had his own insignia tattooed on over it. Her duties redoubled, now more personal and …intimate to the master himself, and any of his favored guests.

Every summer, the sea creatures encroached on the edges of the resort’s white beaches, but one year they were more brazen than they ever had been before. Vi desperately yearned to wade out into the water and let them take her – but her resolve quickly weakened, memories of the time she had tried to let the oceans take her- memories of the punishment she had endured from it. Whenever she could spare a moment, though, the diminutive creature found herself on the edge of the beach, hoping that a freak accident might let one of the creatures pick her off.

The resort found itself a peculiar guest soon after – a man who never removed his helm, a peculiar construction that hid his eyes and all his features, a man who carried more than his weight in weapons, in such a way that it looked like he might know how to use them. Vi had the privilege of waiting on him the first day he was there, feeling his gaze sharply on her collar and the tattoo. He didn’t seek out her other services, either, though not for lack of her offering. And he spoke to her as an equal would, and was not content with the animal grunts that she had been reduced to for years – he would wait until she spoke, haltingly and scarcely whispering, terror rising with every word. There were some things he asked that she could not bring herself to speak of. But it seemed he understood.

The sea monsters were soon dealt with, and the mysterious guest vanished once more. Vi was devastated to see him go, devastated to be left again tending the whims of the sadistic men and women who frequented their establishment.

Such return to the mundane was short-lived. Within weeks, a group of others – wearing the same peculiar helms and armor – descended on the resort.

Blood splattered on tiles. Cages were sprung, collars torn from necks, slaves – now freed – herded into the relative safety of a starship’s underbelly.

Freedom. 

Vifii had no idea what that word meant.

These strange folk called each other mando’ade, showing a kind of affection that was outright alien to Vi, and invited them all to join their clan. Their family. At the mention of family, there was a tug in her heart.

She might be able to be happy there. In a large group. Of large, intimidating people who showed no mercy. But she was weak and frail, and oh, God- what if they decided she wasn’t worth it? What if they were just to trap her here again?

She could not bear the thought. So she took their other offer – that of a respectable new identity, and a ride to a safe part of the galaxy. Having no idea just how big the galaxy was, she dumbly agreed to follow one of the older slaves, a Twi’lek woman who said she had friends in Coruscant.

Wherever that was.

They arrived in Coruscant without much ado, the Twi’lek woman scooped up by her family as soon as they landed, paying no heed to the quiet Kushiban shadow that she’d had the last few weeks of travel. Vifii was left alone, again.

She was hired on as a maid in a mid-level tavern – safe, if rather seedy – but was let go as soon as her slave marks became obvious. She bounced back and forth between several establishments, being hired on and fired for various reasons, most involving her appearance and the mark on her shoulder. 

It was an adjustment to be wearing human clothing – they had all been kept nude on the island, and it was apparently sufficiently socially acceptable for her species – but things tended to go better when her tattoo was concealed. Still, work was hard to come by, and she was often fired for her stature and bearing, and her inability to confront rowdier customers.

Without money or options, she grew to be desperate. Though she had tried selling her fur – Kushiban fur thread, as light and soft and warm as their fur was, had grown to be a luxury good – her prices were consistently undercut by people she [i]knew[/i] were sourcing it from slaves. There had been talk on the island, as she’d grown, that she might earn the boss more money if he sold her to a fur trader. But whatever the case, she wasn’t able to earn enough money for the exorbitant accommodation rentals even in the mid-levels of the city, and she refused to move any lower.

She took to petty thievery, hitchhiking to the higher levels of the city-world and sneaking things from the transports and purses of insanely wealthy people as they went about their day. When she was caught, and it was often at first, she would play dumb and cute and soft – and they fell for it nearly every time. A woman took her in for a time, and treated her kindly, giving her food and a soft place to sleep- Vi felt horrible about taking some of the woman’s jewelry before she left, but when someone has an entire room devoted to rows and rows of sparkly objects, there’s no way she needs all of that. The three valuable necklaces that she took gave her enough credits, when re-sold, to pay her rent for almost a year. And the paste-rhinestone hairpin continues to be Vi’s favorite accessory, with pretty blue crystals that match her eyes.

Karma got her back for that, though, and left her with no successful heists and several near-misses, including nearly being gutted by an exceptionally un-amused battle droid and its equally un-amused owner, who stared at her impassively with his eyebrows halfway up his bulbous, enormous head. She barely managed to talk her way out of that, and is rather convinced the man only let her go out of amusement. (It’s certainly terrified her of all the people she now knows are called Muun – including the one in the Noreaster’s crew.  But it can’t be the same guy, right? That would be too much of a coincidence.)

She slowly fell back into debt, and as she did, a swoop gang took pity on her. By which it’s meant that she was cornered on her midnight commute home from the tavern (she’d found work at one, for pennies, but it was work) and offered a deal – she drop everything and work for them, or else she be forcibly overpowered and sold into slavery. Their leader had noticed the inked-over brand on her shoulder while she worked, and put together that a former slave of a presumed-dead master would be in for a mighty rough life if ever returned to the markets.

They wanted her to infiltrate the estate of a wealthy fur merchant, one who consistently undercut their prices on all exotic fabrics, and they wanted to know how and why. Vifii thought she knew the answer – Slaves. Low prices are always a sign of free labor. But when she said as much, their comment was simple. Sabotage it, any way she could, and bring the profits back to them. They’d be watching and waiting, and they’d help the extraction effort.

She played her part, turning up on the lady’s doorstep beaten (that had been the gang’s idea) and shaking, and a great show was made of taking her in with kindness. Kindness which evaporated as soon as they were through the door.

When she explained the situation to the other Kushiban captives, their fur shorn short and eyes dull, they laughed in her face. Said she was naïve and a fool and had doomed herself and all of them – the swoop she was working for [i]kills[/i] slaves, and calls itself merciful. She’d practically signed their death warrant.

That was just an unacceptable betrayal. If you asked Vi now what had come over her, she wouldn’t be able to tell you. The others, scattered now in all corners of the galaxy, would likely have similar answers. Rage blinded her, and her fury was infectious. The slaves revolted.

The merchant - who was foolish enough to not expect such violence from such soft, pacifistic creatures, and so no longer retained any guard or other brute force - was summarily murdered next feeding-time, her eyes clawed out and body left to bleed out on the floor. Her estate was left on fire, and her fifty-five now-free Kushiban fur slaves were smuggled onto various ships heading off-world. The commotion of it caused all eyes to turn to the fur trade running rampant just below Coruscant’s surface, seeing market restrictions cracked down everywhere, and a tiny Kushiban with enormous ears became the primary target of several of the city’s exotic good smugglers. 

She had made it back to her tiny apartment and gathered up her few belongings, barely getting free of the complex before flames shot out of every window, shouts and screams echoing down the street. Suddenly confronted with the very real possibility of dying and blinded by terror, she booked it to one of the smaller nearby spaceports. That was when she’d found the Noreaster. Though she hadn’t known the ship, nor the crew, she had seen that it was a small craft – big enough to not be an obvious choice of escape, small enough that it wasn’t too un-obvious. She’d scampered aboard, blending her fur in with the various crates of provisions in the hold and praying she wouldn’t be found until they’d lifted off from the surface.

A droid found her, of course, when checking the cargo for biological trace, and had dragged her abovedecks to face a motley crew. Having scanned the crowd, her gaze settled on a fragile-looking young woman she would eventually grow to know as Requiem. Maybe it was the small creature on her shoulder, or the softness in her face, but she seemed the most reasonable to speak to in this situation. 

Letting oily tears well up in her eyes for the first time in a very, very long time, she fell to her knees and begged the woman for protection. She left out the part of the smuggling rings having it out for her head, naturally, but explained some of the cruelty she’d endured and begged for refuge, promising she’d do whatever menial work was thrown at her and that she’d earn her keep. 

Some part of her ached fiercely at the admission, at her sudden willingness to give herself over to another party’s mercy, but she bowed her head and vowed that she would take whatever was dealt. She was out of options, and out of time.
 [/indent][/hider]

[hider=Loril Kaalun][center][h1][color=c0ffee]The Geneti--Secretary.[/color][/h1]
[sub][i]Image to follow when Aria either swallows her pride and finds art or else draws.[/i][/sub][/center]
[color=c0ffee][b]|[u] {Full Name} [/u]|[/b][/color]
[indent]Loril Kaalun (Formerly Lomi Prolu)[/indent]
[color=c0ffee][b]|[u] {Age} [/u]|[/b][/color]
[indent]Twenty-Four (born in 27BBY) [/indent]
[color=c0ffee][b]|[u] {Species} [/u]|[/b][/color]
[indent]Kaminoan[/indent]
[color=c0ffee][b]|[u] {Gender} [/u]|[/b][/color]
[indent]Female[/indent]
[hr]
[color=c0ffee][b]|[u] {Force Sensitive/Alignment} [/u]|[/b][/color]
[indent]Decidedly Not. (True Neutral leaning Lawful)[/indent]
[color=c0ffee][b]|[u] Role on Ship [/u]|[/b][/color]
[indent]A… Secretary. Yes. Loril is an [i]exceptional[/i] secretary. She prides herself on her meticulous note-keeping and record organization, attending to the matters of her… business partner Clu’s work. She knows more than she ought to about the intricacies of cloning and genetic sequencing, and will not hesitate to blow everyone else out of the water with her knowledge if given the slightest opportunity. It’s a poorly kept secret that she’s a geneticist by trade, still on the run from the Empire nine years after the Kamino Uprising. It’s a slightly-better-kept one that she’s only alive for having been taken under Clu’s protection for her service in the future.[/indent]
[color=c0ffee][b]|[u] {Appearance} [/u]|[/b][/color]
[indent]Loril is a proud and elegant creature, standing at the above-average height of 2.35 meters and bearing a graceful, slender form. Her pale skin is mostly unblemished – her pride allows nothing less – and her pale gray irises bright in her black sclera. She dresses impeccably and simply, her clothing close-fit and tailored, in shades of gray and cyan and white. She has a bit of her clothing left from Kamino – the one bit of sentiment she still carries – and a wide range of styles of other worlds that she’s journeyed to in the last few years. Her vanity seems to be anything that could be considered a head or neck adornment – she has many (simple, but elegant) necklaces and headpieces that she can be seen sporting.[/indent]
[color=c0ffee][b]|[u] {Equipment and Personal Belongings} [/u]|[/b][/color]
[indent]Six: [url=https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/starwars/images/9/93/AZ-345211896246498721347.png/revision/latest?cb=20160906050712]An AZI biomedical unit[/url] fresh from Kamino’s labs. It has a numerical-soup designator, the last digit of which is ostensibly six (or it’s just Loril’s sixth droid. Hard to tell.) A little bit scrambled, roughed up around the edges, with a cracked visor screen and several dents on its hull. Often speaks in a technobabble, and often says things that don’t make sense. Its movements are jerky, suggesting sensors might be out of alignment. Loril has neither the money nor expertise to have it repaired, though it’s a high priority – she cannot [i]bear[/i] to have a piece of technology not functioning to its fullest. She has no attachment to the droid, or so she insists, putting its utility first - she will need a competent lab assistant wherever she sets up, and this particular unit has had a processor built in for her personal encryption codes. There is often argument between them; the droid’s very presence, and eternal lack of order, absolutely vexes her. But, its future utility outweighs the current inconveniences.
A large suitcase, battered and especially heavy. Always locked. If opened, revealed to be packed full of journals and notebooks that are written in a mix of Kaminoan and what appears to be a Kaminoan-derived cipher of some form or another. Chemical diagrams and data tables are scattered throughout them. 
A second briefcase that’s smaller, and though the cover of it is apparently battered and worn canvas, beneath lies solid metal that’s intricately locked. The inside of the case is thoroughly insulated, with a small cryo box set into the center of it, which contains many small vials in a holding box – all labeled in the Kaminoan cipher. Outside of the cryo box are some of the various tools and harder to come by reagents a geneticist would need, carefully fit into high-density foam cutouts especially designed to carry them, and one singular data sphere. 
A duffel bag of clothing. 
Holopad, wrist computer, and beaten up data sphere, usually on her person.

Other than the cases, Loril maintains an insanely sterile living quarters. Her bed is made with precision the moment she wakes up, laundry stored out of sight. There are no sentimental objects to be found whatsoever. 	
[/indent]
[color=c0ffee][b]|[u] {Physical Abilities} [/u]|[/b][/color]
[indent][b]Eugeneticist[/b] – For all of her (rather short, to this point) life, Loril has been trained and educated for the highly specialized cloning laboratories that dot Kamino’s surface. She was among the top innovators of Tipoca City’s laboratories, and her scientific knowledge is second to none.

[b]Meticulous[/b] – Loril’s dedication and attention to detail becomes apparent in more than just academic work. Everything about her is done with a purpose, her mind highly analytical and pragmatic, and it carries over into all aspects of daily life. There is nothing frivolous or unnecessary about her- this includes in her speech patterns, which are direct and to the point.

[b]Vengeful[/b] – Traditionally, Kaminoan services were open to the highest bidder. …Then the empire invaded, massacred countless scientists, and destroyed millennia of research. Loril would like nothing more than to see them brought to their knees and made to answer for the wanton destruction of so much knowledge, and will do anything in her power to make it happen.

[b]There's a Droid for That[/b] - Loril's expertise is highly specialized and not directly applicable, but her droid Six has a somewhat wider field of programming. If only it were in full repair, it would be Loril's surgical orderly and all-around laboratory assistant, with some knowledge of chemistry and basic lab techniques. It has protocols of anatomy with enough detail for surgeries to be performed on a fair range of humanoid species. ...of course, it's out of calibration now, so you might well get a scalpel stuck into your liver if you let it operate on you.
Beyond her own droid, Loril is passingly familiar with a number of other systems, from a variety of other planets - she can't program them herself, but working with a team of mostly-droids for three years has left her more than able to efficiently delegate tasks to droids of all sorts.[/indent]
[color=c0ffee][b]|[u] {Limitations} [/u]|[/b][/color]
[indent] 
[b]Traumatized[/b] – The uprising on Kamino was the day that her entire world inverted itself. She watched her loved ones die, watched her life’s work – save for what she managed to rescue – go up in smoke. It was a freak accident that she made it offworld, even. A lesser individual would be grief-stricken, rendered nonfunctional by such a horrific experience. Loril is not traumatized. Of course she couldn’t be; that is a silly emotional response for lesser individuals. She just avoids any such stimulus that might remind her of that day, isolating herself whenever the training decks are in use- when the decks of the ship are rife with the echoes of blaster fire. When she’s confronted by such, or if – heaven forbid – a combat situation forms in her vicinity - her gaze turns vacant and empty, her muscles locking and brain ceasing to function.

[b]Not Designed to Fight[/b] – Kaminoans are especially not known for their mobility, flexibility, or strength. Loril in particular is exemplary in her stiffness and slowness. Every movement she makes is graceful and assured, but that is only because it has to be – her long limbs seem as though they would give out if she had to run, and her shoulders and hips are so stiff that fighting or evasion would be out of the question.

[b]Unarmed, Untrained[/b] – She’s never had to fight. Of course she’s never had to fight, the galaxy forgot that Kamino existed until they needed the services offered there. She doesn’t know how to hold a blaster, nor does she much care to know. Such work is outside of her expertise and thus a waste of time, effort, and energetic resources.

[b]Stubborn as A Mule[/b] – Loril is exceptionally blunt. Many other Kaminoans are known in the galaxy as being placid, levelheaded and analytical – Loril bearn one, and only one, of those three traits. Painfully proud, and brutishly stubborn even when she’s proven wrong, it’s a wonder she hasn’t had anyone try to knock some sense into her. She has no common sense whatsoever.[/indent]
[hr]
[color=c0ffee][b]|[u] {Personality} [/u]|[/b][/color]
[indent][i]“A personality, you say? A dreadfully primitive waste of energy and thought.”[/i]

Loril is the master of her own emotions and thoughts. A control freak to the highest; everything must be in its place and functioning to its absolute best. Not one thing can be out of place, in her environment or in her mind. While many Kaminoans profess an understanding of the human psyche and nature, Loril scorns such work, insisting that one’s merit is determined solely by their genetic makeup, and any shortcomings in their character are the fault of their biology. (She will not admit to herself that anything is wrong. She will not admit that she is a flawed and hurt individual.)

She is a cruel and analytical young woman, nearly expressionless – at least, outwardly appearing as such – and holds a xenophobic and downright condescending view of many. It is hard to earn her respect, short of being an outstanding member of ones species- and even then her respect is mostly a scientific one. Her haughtiness is especially realized with species that still reproduce biologically and leave to random chance what science could guarantee. Thirsting for results above everything else, she has grown dismissive of even other Kanimoans in their haughtiness and refusal to enhance themselves with science. 

Loril’s proud and arrogant demeanor hides an inferiority complex, a constant, burning thirst for power and the realization that nothing she does is ever enough. Her greatest failings weigh heavily on her mind. She is obsessive, worrying over projects for hours and hours and ultimately reducing their efficacy for her incessant meddling. Her mind is often distracted in thoughts of impractical and even infeasible future projects, especially now that circumstance has rendered her unable to carry on her work for nearly a decade. She’s fidgety and irritable, especially when work is mentioned.

Outwardly, she is exceptionally secretive and endeavors to be clinical in demeanor, preferring to hide everything she thinks and feels behind her “professional” expressionless mask.[/indent]
[color=c0ffee][b]|[u] {Place of Origin} [/u]|[/b][/color]
[indent]Kamino, in one of the satellites of Tipoca City.[/indent]
[color=c0ffee][b]|[u] {Background} [/u]|[/b][/color]
[indent]Loril- or as she was named upon her spawning, Lomi Prolu – was born of the egg and sperm of a pair of Kaminoan geneticists (and birthed from an incubation chamber in Tipoca.) In her early years, it became clear that she had a special knack for the biological sciences, and was fast-tracked through Tipoca’s medical and scientific schools, and earned her place among the rank and file of Kamino’s genetic sequencing units a whole year earlier than most of her peers, by the age of 10.

Lomi was fiercely driven to innovate, to question the traditional work of the Kaminoans – It was a belief of many of the elder scientists that their process had become so efficient, perfect and wasteless, that it was unable to be improved upon. Lomi challenged that notion and sought to do better. Though many of her early attempts at such innovation turned out to be drastic failure, she earned the grudging respect (and ill-veiled enmity) of many other scientists. As she grew in expertise and confidence, her projects turned into successes, and after that the promotions soon followed.

Within three years of her employment, she became the head scientist of a regional laboratory under the republic clone project, overseeing the work of others more than twice her experience. By this point, the process was flowing as a well-oiled machine would, every lab a piece fitting into the greater production machine.

She was under strict instructions not to tamper with the genome being used. 

Lomi was never good at following orders. Her laboratory started turning out batches of clones that were rather more specialized – some skills better than the average, some far worse. When she settled on the force as her next target of modifications – if one could simply instill midichlorians into a body and force the microbes to form a titer within the being, there would be no logical reason why one [i]couldn’t[/i] have an army of force-wielding clones – she was promptly removed from the project, told she would only be reinstated when she learned the discipline of scientific process.

Really, the demotion was serendipitous. Her lab was one of the few no longer monopolized by the republic project – one of the few permitted to take outside commissions. Though she would have liked to work on her personal projects, visions of force-using warriors and the perfect, genetically altered Kaminoan, she had neither the resources nor bearing to direct her laboratory onto such tasks. 

She had a few deals here and there over the next couple of years, simple, easy projects that were fast cash enough for her to amass a modest fortune. But the imperial presence was growing on Kamino – deals that she had formally been able to conduct in the open and with the assistance of many soon became hushed affairs conducted with only the knowledge of her few most trusted laboratory assistants. She grew to rely very heavily on droids – they could be trusted not to be whispering to the soldiers that now openly patrolled the research district.

She was approached at the end of the year 13 BBY with a particularly unique business proposition.

The man who brought it was a Duros, a humble “traveler”, he insisted, bearing a contract to be signed. A wealthy Muun businessman by the name of Clu Zanith was in the market for a new heart to be grown for him, and was willing to pay exceptionally handsomely for it to be done. The caveat? He wanted it to be an individual project, kept highly secret. Only the single scientist involved could be trusted with the information of his identity, and of what he needed. Secrecy and delicacy was key.

With the help of Halan Sil – as she had learned the Duros’s name to be – she set about organizing her laboratory for such a project, urging her handful of underlings to take on their own projects and do their own innovating, to be a bit secretive and inspire competition among themselves. They set themselves up with another imperial-sanctioned project, to draw suspicion away, and finally she decided they had as many measures in place as they could to begin the businessman’s work.

She never got to see how that panned out. It was a night shift, not the first time she had been working round-the-clock – she would work on her imperial project by day, and at night would “stay to finish some work” and begin the sequencing and splicing of the Muun businessman’s genome – that was disrupted  by screaming and blaster fire.

Her lab assistants fled into the corridor, and she watched them gunned down. Medic droids, programming overridden at the detection of silver-blue blood splattered on the walls, rushed out into the corridor- to be gunned down as well, and with them countless amounts of data and work. 

The blast doors slammed shut, and despite herself Lomi panicked, fearing herself trapped. But her terror was short-lived as Halan Sil himself stepped out of the utility door set into the side of the wall, throwing a large suitcase down onto the floor. “Hurry, pack what you can. I don’t know how long the doors will hold them.”

“What are you doing?” She couldn’t help but gawp at him.

“Getting you out, clone master. You’re no use to our benefactor if you’re dead, and he’d rather his genetic information not be in a third party’s hands.” The Duros reached for her bookshelf, an obsolete feature with Kamino’s technology level, but one that Lomi had insisted on – the better to keep hard copy records of the work she’d done. A skilled hacker could tamper with databases, but it was considerably harder to tamper with paper books in an age where they were obsolete. 

The Duros started chucking the notebooks into the suitcase, with little regard for how gently he threw them – Lomi resisted the urge to chastise him, leaping for her sample briefcase. She gathered as many samples as she could fit into it. Most important were the working genomes of the Muun, as she was determined not to lose the month’s progress she’d made, a few that she’d had left over from the republic project (she hoped they were still viable, but wasn’t certain), and several from the various imperial projects she’d been commissioned on. Her meager handful of data spheres, and several vials of reagents that she wasn’t certain could be acquired elsewhere.

She got the case closed just as the blast doors were shoved open, tumbling into the maintenance door seconds before the room was bathed in laser light. Halan Sil was panting, body hunched over underneath the enormous suitcase. “Clone master,” he panted, “Why can’t you have a box of data spheres like literally every other cloner on this planet?”

“Would you have hired me if I was?”

He didn’t respond, grumbling and pushing onwards through the tunnel. It was a dreadfully uncomfortable journey, Lomi needing to hunch nearly in half to fit through the tunnel.

It would spit them out on the underside of one of the stilt towers. A speeder would take them back to the residential city. 

Halfway to their destination, give or take, a beeping began to emanate from the tunnels behind them. Fearing the worst, Halan Sil dropped the case, drawing his blaster. As the sound grew closer and louder, it began to sound remarkably unlike anything that might have been hostile. The beeping almost sounded like a repeating of Lomi’s name, over and over.

A mighty shadow grew on the wall.

A small, jerky robot rounded the corner, beeping excitedly upon the sight of Lomi.

Six.

Damn that little droid.

It seemed a lot worse for wear, pearly colors on its hull as though it had a few near misses with the laser weapons, eye screen shattered, body scratched and dented, and missing an arm. But here it was, mostly functional. With a sigh, she gestured for it to come along.

….
They made it back to the residential block, to find that the ship was all but swarmed with imperial officers. Lomi still doesn’t know how Halan Sil managed to get them out of his way- the only explanation he offered was that he [i]“has connections”[/i] and that was left to be that. 

However it happened, it worked. They got offworld. 

The vast majority of scientists and clones did not. 
….
She was taken to a nondescript business center on some mid rim world, without any real explanation of what was going on. Halan Sil told her only who she was to become. 

“Records will show that Lomi Prolu was shot down on Kamino. You are Loril Kaalun, a young administrative assistant utterly unconnected to anything to do with the cloning operation. You are a refugee hired off the streets as a secretary and office assistant. Your records will check out, I assure you. Unfortunately, you don’t have as many credits at your disposal as you once did, though my people will be seeing if they can’t recover your assets.”

Several years passed in a blur, the newly-renamed Loril being shuffled around from planet to planet every few months, doing menial organizational and paperwork tasks (intergalactic businessmen have an [i]obscene[/i] amount of paperwork to be processed) wherever she could. It seemed nowhere was safe enough for her to continue her research – occasional meetings with Zanith, when he happened to be in the area, confirmed that point, though he repeatedly referenced their contract for her services, implying that he was doing all he could to find a laboratory for her to continue her practice. 

Three-odd years ago, Zanith paid a visit once more- he seemed different then, muscles tense and eyes too bright, though it was not her place to comment on it - and told her that she was to bring all of her supplies (which had been kept safe in a temperature-controlled vault for the duration of her time working for him) and accompany him on one of the most lucrative business offers he’s been afforded.

The Kaminoan does not much care for the ragtag crew of the ‘Noreaster, taking much of her time alone save for when she absolutely [i]must[/i] interact with the crew, and despite instructions lording her intellectual superiority over them. Clu’s had to unstick them from several situations over these last three years, when Loril’s arrogant complex has had her reveal more than she should. He’s promised her that Anchorage will be what it takes to get her equipment, staff, and a place to continue her work.

She doesn’t know if any of her samples are viable - she hopes they are, but they were not packaged to be stored for a decade.  She might have to start over. Her work might be lost forever.

That thought is more terrifying than any other.
[/indent][/hider]