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Warrior, Kutar Zema, apprenticed to Darth Embrus

@Jorick




Korriban always invoked an odd sense of familiarity in Kutar Zema’s heart, like a home returned to after many years apart. The Sith warrior hated this commonality with the red planet, the sense was almost a confusing annoyance in his mind, like an implant stitched to his soul. The force attached him to this world, an inseparable bond unwillingly or perhaps willingly forged by his own connection to the force. He did not know for certain. Unlike the new Sith that so populated the Empire, Kutar did not think of the ancient sith homeworld with the same ‘fond’ memories. The new sith recognized it as the origin of their powers. He however was trained and raised on the near aquatic world of Dromund Kaas, utterly forgien to the cold drylands of Korriban. Kutar could not recall a time when the planet ever gave him a sense of comfort, yet in his mind’s eye the world embraced him like a long lost son, welcoming him back at last. Seated where he was, cross legged on the floor of his Imperial Shuttle’s bridge, unease filled his heart. Not from the planet’s climate or the innate force connection, but from his reasons for entering Korriban’s atmosphere in the first place. Had it been his choice, he would have taken his orders and left straight for the rendezvous point, avoiding the capital and his master all together. However the Empire and his master had never functioned in accordance to his personal wishes and never would. He was summoned directly, and the reasoning behind the summons was what filled Kutar with dread.

How long had it been? Years now seperated their last meeting, and after months of self imposed isolation Kutar found himself called before Darth Embrus for reasons unknown. After Savvory’s evaluation Kutar hoped to be back into his master’s graces again, a favored and loyal apprentice, yet it took months for orders to arrive, and they only to call him to Embrus’ dark tower. The implications Kutar thought, were not good. To many defeats, to many wounds and men lost to be ignored and forgotten by time. Embrus did not care to associate himself with such failures. Kutar had hoped that those mistakes be forgotten, so that he could collect himself from his slump. Apparently in vain.

“Sir, we have been cleared for landing and are entering Korriban’s atmosphere now. It should be roughly ten minutes before our final approach.” Opening his eyes Kutar found the two pilots had swiveled in their chairs and were watching him, concern in their gaze. The one who had spoken was a balding man in his forties, the flight officer in command of the shuttle. His executive officer was a younger man, more curious but just as reserved in his questions. They had spent the last fourteen hours watching him, wondering if he’d died in transit, so silent and still had Kutar been in meditation. They had been ever so careful not to disturb him, gingerly stepping around his bulk to relieve themselves or refill their canteens. Kutar had ungraciously planted himself on the bridge, all but blocking the door with his long legs and broad shoulders making such a trip to the vessel’s small latrine difficult to say the least. The upcoming landing must have given the flight officer the excuse he needed to finally say something that might stir their quiet passenger. Giving only a silent nod to humor the man Kutar closed his eyes once again, dreading the their inevitable arrival all the more.

The last stages of the flight were in essence as uneventful as the last fourteen hours. The Imperial shuttle made good time over the wastelands, dropping faster and faster until it was hovering over a venerable city. Ancient buildings of stone dominated the cityscape, irregularly marred by the occasional oddity structures that conformed to the whims of the Sith lords who resided within. A large glass dome here, a silvered spiral there and at last an intimidating tower of blackened steel. Orbiting the monolith twice Kutar’s ship swiveled on an invisible access before descending the final two hundred feet. The pilot was skilled in his craft, and the ship touched down gentler than Kutar ever could have managed. Pipes hissed and a spray of cool air wafted over the vessel’s inhabitants as the internal mechanisms adjusted the shuttle to Korriban’s atmospheric pressure.

In standing Kutar nearly fell over. His legs were dead, having been tucked under his weight for so long. Grabbing ahold of the pilot’s chair to steady himself Kutar waited a moment, letting the blood flow back into his lower limbs.

“Refuel and restock the ship, and then rest if you must.” He ordered once he felt he could walk again without stumbling. The younger pilot jumped at Kutar’s rumbling voice, he must have thought him a mute. “You may not leave the shuttle, I want it ready to depart the moment I return.” Leaving them to their ship-keeping the warrior crossed the platform, eating up the remaining distance with his long legged stride. Every step brought him closer to a confrontation, and Kutar did not know what to expect. Would he be praised, admonished, or simply given orders face to face? Praise was not likely, orders could be beamed across lightyears… Kutar’s hands curled into fists and he kept walking. Two guardsmen spotted him approaching, and made to intercept him before they recognized who he was, stepping smartly aside to allow the hulking apprentice to pass.

Every obstacle, every barrier moved aside, nothing coming between him and his objective, an almost amusing situation for a man so used to overcoming hurdles, having them non-forthcoming in the one time he would appreciate something slowing his advance. It brought a grim and ironic smile to his lips. Across the stone plaza he could hear Tishombra’s mocking voice and the sound of whirring lightsabers nearby. Kutar did not sense his master’s presence there amongst the training apprentices. In private then, he thought turning for Darth Embrus’ study.

Up and up he went, up the winding black stair his pace steady and resolved. Coward he called himself in his head. Coward who feared no man or thing but the stinging rebuke of his master. He needed no courage to face Darth Embrus, his master trusted him like no other. Kutar was his loyal servant, his strength and sword. Yet he feared the worst.

At last he stopped before the study doors, a silent behemoth in emotional turmoil, a seemingly unmoveable boulder but crumbling inside. His master was within, Kutar could tell, alongside another whose presence he did not recognize. Taking a well needed moment to calm the storm, Kutar took a deep breath exhaling his worries and fears and doubts as he would before a battle, concentrating only on the meeting before him. Raising one large hand he knocked, announcing his arrival at long last.
@Sini

Hahaha thanks. That's definitely going to be his Darth name.

@Ellri

Since the meat of this is on the force section, I'll just post the revised version here.



The key addition, one I admittedly overlooked was a greater explanation of his lack on innate talent. I think it was briefly mentioned in his 'interview' but I made it clearer here. I also added a basic abilities section to the list as asked, to flesh out his force abilities a bit more, just added a few random ones from the provided list. Lastly I changed his final tab to well-trained talent and added Force Rage as requested.

  • Why does he have a faulty cybernetic arm? has Darth Embrus refused him to acquire anything more reliable?


Yes actually, Darth Embrus is very displeased with his student at the moment. On a writing level I want his arm to be something of a character development award later on. So when he overcomes his failure its something he earns, and getting a 'better' cybernetic arm will represent this growth.

  • Out of curiosity... Is there a reason you chose such great height? Anything you intend to play on/explore ICly with that?


Yes actually, there should be a number of things that come up. One writing point for example is his preference towards larger bombers with plenty of room for activities over compact fighters that are meant to house six feet of leg room at most. He's gonna have trouble like that constantly, little Padawans hiding in little hidey-holes he can't follow, getting sniped from hundreds of meters away because he stands out like a sore thumb, a considerable lack of stealth capabilities. Moreover I wanted a character that would be physically intimidating on the simple merits of being way to large.


Kutar Zema





I'm planning on fashioning more POV characters, but its just Orion for now.



Sorry that took so long, I'm back now and can post regularly.
They were pulled from the front, those two brothers, despite their eager willingness to fight in that crucial spot. The tall hook nosed Tyroshi man Byden had come to despise, grabbed them by their ears and dragged them back into the middle of the growing formation, five or six ranks deep. It was hard to tell in the poorly organized press of bodies. He left them in the care of a older Westerosi, who claimed he was some bastard or another of a Ironborn king, Byden could not care less and only glared daggers at the back of the retreating Tyroshi. He did not know the man’s name, no one seemed to. All anyone was sure of was that he had a very hooked nose, and he was big and tough and was more or less in charge of this particular mercenary cohort. Byden scuffed the dirt with his sandals, thinking of all the things he would do or say to the big Tyroshi if they weren’t surrounded by ‘comrades’ and on the verge of a battle. The best of which ended in Byden knocking the man down, calling him a whoreson, and stomping his face until his teeth came free. He did not have much time to fantasize his dark thoughts. The lines were coming together, and men pressed in tight all around, heel to toe, shoulder to shoulder until Byden felt he could barely breathe. The stench caught in his throat, and it took everything he had not to retch on the man in front of him. After weeks of marching with every little bathing water the men had taken on a very sour smell, one that reminded Byden of old cheese stuffed within a rotting fish.

“Ye’d best put your fancy weapons away lads, you’re too far back in the line for them to be of much use to anyone.” The greybeard Ironborn was saying, in a melancholy way. “Spears will be the way forward, aye, and shields, keep them high. Archers will be loosing more than one volley our way ye can be sure of that. Typical for men back here to only die cause they didn’t keep their shields up. A good friend O’ mine died that way, we were near Maidenpool as I recall, and I told him, keep your shield up, I told him. But did he listen ye might be wondering?”

“Why did he put us here?” Byden groused, cutting across the greybeard’s boring tale. “We wanted to fight, not watch the glory-making from all the way back here.” Byden might have been new to proper warfare, but even he could see they were far to deep in the line for even their long spears to be employed. At least four ranks would have to fall before they could even consider fighting, and Byden had been told they numbered near ten thousand in total, while the enemy was some half of that. How anyone could count that high, or how they had accomplished such an impressive feat with the constant movement of the men he could not say. He had enough trouble just counting to a hundred, and that was when he had a ledger to make marks on, and every remained still and in neat orderly lines. Anyway, ten thousand shoulder surely smash half that, Byden reasoned, and his brother Tebyn had come to the same conclusion. Which meant, if they wished to wet their sword and club they would need to be in the front and middle where the fighting would be heaviest.

They risen earlier than normal, on the day some unknown force had determined the battle would take place, and found a good spot, right next to the bannerman and trumpeter. From that vantage they could even watch the enemy, in the shadowy morning light form up, and Tebyn who had the better eyes was calling out the different banners and colors he could see dancing above the heads of their foemen. Until the Tyroshi hook nose arrived, marching down the line and leering at the men in his stupid iron helm and red gambeson. He spotted them in a hurry, and with the strength no man should be afforded placed them so far back and behind so many tightly packed men even Tebyn couldn’t see the enemy lines, let alone their colors and insignia.

Their ironborn guardian did not mind being cut off from his tale, and he explained the Tyroshi's reasoning in simple terms, as if he was speaking to a pair of children. “Best count yourselves lucky he spotted ye lads. The Hook did you a service putting you back here. He wants skilled and blooded men up front, folk he’s seen killing and slaying and fighting before. He knows his men that one, and his battles.”

“I can fight, aye, and kill.” Tebyn insisted, and Byden chorused in righteous umbrage.

“Fight and kill with the best of them. You’ll see, he’s making a mistake pulling us away, and leaving those ancients. They look as if a strong breeze will blow them away!”

“In this army,” the greybeard countered. “They are like to be the only ones not blown away. You’re in a good spot, far enough away to run if things go bad, and close enough forward to chase and loot if they enemy breaks. Aye, the best spot.”

“More like the cowards spot.” Byden muttered.

Tebyn was more diplomatic however. “Will we be able to find some enemy to slay in battle? There is no glory in chasing down a man and shoving a dagger in his back…”

The greybeard shrugged. “Who can say, ye might find a few who will fight you, whom you can slay if that be your wish.”

“Wish!” Byden snorted incredulously. “Why in the name of the Seven would anyone be here if not to kill someone?”

The greybeard shrugged again, he did that a lot Byden noticed. Perhaps because the raising and lowering one's shoulders was the most expressive gesture one could hope for in the tight formation. “Pay is good I suppose, never killed a man myself, and never wanted to.”

Byden could feel his temper flaring and he began spewing forth a stream of curses and oaths in three different languages he had learned on the way there. He was a sailor after all, and had the mouth to prove it. They had marched, and stood watches in uncomfortable conditions for weeks, only, on the precipice of a great battle be forced into the care of a coward, far from any fighting behind a force of men who would be wetting their swords, and hoarding all the glory. Even Tebyn, who normally had twice the patience looked frustrated, and rightly so Byden thought. They were being cheated, and it was all the fault of the big Tyroshi man who fancied himself an officer. The few marks and coins they would make would never justify this shit he reasoned. Byden resolved to shove his spear through the back of the big Tyroshi’s throat should he happen to see him and get the chance, that at least would be justice in part.

@Jbcool I’m currently unable to post due to being in the field and away from the computer for another two weeks but I can get a post up after that.



You don't seem to be getting lots of interest, but here is my entry in case you want to continue anyway


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