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Kalmah Sidhe Gender:
YesBody InformationClothing Outline:
Ghastly and primitive, while ornate, Kalmah’s attire reflects her flair for the theatrical. Eschewing pragmatic armor, Kalmah prefers strange and frightening aesthetics. Her standard attire is composed mostly of hides and feathers woven into dark robes, the trappings of death dangling ominously from her figure. Face Outline:
Obscured by gaunt tattoos and a massive, horned headpiece, Kalmah’s natural Umbaran features are all but intangible. Symmetry, however, is apparent – one might even call Kalmah attractive, in another life. Her eyes are simultaneously sullen and frozen, fixed in a perpetual gaze piercing to any veil.Body Outline:
Hidden by a peculiar, while frightening, fashion sense, Kalmah’s body is slender and fragile, owing to her devoted mental, mystical, and scholarly regimens. Not exceptionally toned nor ponderous, Kalmah’s natural figure is mostly unremarkable. Physical Build:
Cult of SadowRank:
Vibrostave (adorned with skulls & trinkets), vibrodagger (concealed on her person)Spaceship: MRX-BR Pacifier WhisperSkills:
Lightsaber InformationHandle Design:
- Possessing an eidetic memory and natural curiosity, Kalmah learns new things well. She has received extensive (and expensive) private education and is not less intelligent than most.
- Having once been a promising performer, Kalmah has a knack for the dramatic. This is reflected in her behavior, and some within the Cult consider her to be somewhat of a charlatan.
- Shrewd and cunning, Kalmah is an effective liar, wordsmith, and diplomat (having been born into competitive Umbaran nobility), savoring the arts of deception and persuasion. Her species inherent empathy and talent for manipulation serves her well - especially when augmented by the Force.
- Though she has woefully neglected proficiency in most other areas, Kalmah is host to dark and powerful abilities. Plunging deeper into the mysteries of the Force is an obsession, more than the mere pursuit it might be for other members of the Cult. She is particularly adept in the use of Force Lightning, as well as Illusionary effects and Mind Control. Her combined and creative manifestations of these techniques mark Kalmah as quite imaginative and cruel.
- As a result of the attempt on her life, Kalmah's vocal chords barely function. Her voice manifests in croaks and eerie whispers, a haunting characteristic that is somewhat embarrassing to the otherwise ruthless Sorcerer. Consequently, she is unable to utilize the power of Force Scream.
- A native of the Ghost Nebula, Kalmah possesses superb low light vision, even able to see in ultraviolet frequencies. However, she is quite sensitive to sudden exposure to bright lights, and thus is known for dimming illumination to comfortable levels.
- Over the eleven years she has spent within the Cult, Kalmah has trained the lightsaber discipline, Makashi, to impressive proficiency. Blending the style with Dun Moch techniques and bolstered by the Force, she is no slouch in a duel. However, she is hardly a match for more war-focused individuals, and those with a more devoted understanding of combat could surely overwhelm her.
TBDLearnt Lightsaber Techniques:
MakashiMastered Lightsaber Techniques:
-Lightsaber components (does not count against inventory)Additional InformationPersonality: Work in Progress.History: Work in Progress.RP Sample:
My boot heels click against the blinding linoleum of the Panic Room, a rhythmic march creating a fertile setting for contemplation. I have been informed by Ethnarc Rend that one of the Komturei have been murdered. They believe the culprit was not acting alone. He is a terrorist.
Anguish saturates my palate as I enter the interrogation chamber. The man restrained against the far wall of the room is clearly the guest of honor, his emotions ample and raw. He tries to restrain them. He can’t. I savor even that small amount of suffering. I can taste his lack of control.
Several of the others present offer their reverence, silently. With an inward sigh, I set my glass upon the table in the center of the room. The edge of my palm grazes it. Even in the humidity of the room, it’s marble surface is cool. Secretly, I hope this will be quick. I don’t wish to waste the remaining minutes to last call with such unpleasant company.
I look once more at my drink, promising myself not to do so again until I am finished here. It won’t be so bad, I figure. The others are hungry to learn. Their eagerness is nearly as pungent as the prisoner’s fear.
My unwilling guest’s skin is pallid, his flesh peppered with pink undertones that would be more visible were he not so intimidated. His eyes and hair are a typical shade of brown. He is unremarkable in every way.
“Who are you?” I ask the trembling stranger. It’s a formality, this time. I don’t expect him to answer. He doesn’t.
I raise an eyebrow at the other Reckoners. They’re watching anxiously. They have their own ideas about how to make this man talk. I will show them.
I consider the most unique instances I can muster, in my head. I almost grin. I try to imagine yanking every hair from the man’s body – from the inside. I discard the thought. It would take too long, I presume. I remind myself that my objective is intelligence. There will be time for recreation later.
Concentrating momentarily, I drag blackness around my figure. I say nothing as I am wrapped in shadows, and I watch the prisoner’s eyes widen. His pupils shrink. The theatrics are effective.
Now, prolonged silence is perturbing the detainee even further. His terror is robust, likely expanded by the terrible fancies of his own mind. He is fearing many fates, trying to prepare his mind and body for impending torment. I let him dream for another moment. His cowering shudders are pleasant ripples in the Force. An esoteric euphoria overwhelms me.
“Of course, you understand that your cooperation is not optional, hm?” I ask him, politely. There is something menacing about sophistication in the face of approaching doom. He responds with a gulp, swallowing the lump in his throat. I want to rip it out.
I stare at him, waiting for a response. It is my final warning. After a few seconds, he shakes his head in defiance. I am not disappointed.
I admire the shapely wrinkles in my glove as I remove a small controller from my pocket. Within a few moments, I open the door to the presence of a shimmering black globe, humming with a modulated whir. It’s presence alerts the sweating prisoner, who begins breathing with exaggerated heaves. The droid’s attachments adjust and engage, performing a vital scan of it’s subject. I make a formal introduction.
“Eyeteeoh, welcome! This is – well, we don’t know who he is. In fact, we don’t know much about him at all. Discerning this information will be your solemn undertaking for this evening. Are you prepared?”
The torture droid responds with a monotonous affirmation. I nod and give the go ahead. The prisoner starts screaming before the first needle pierces his skin, begging for mercy. I assure him that now is not the time for groveling. The chemical being injected is a mere truth serum and mild toxin. The droid’s long arm retracts, the syringe completely emptied.
I make inquiries that he struggles to answer. I smile as he begins writhing, spitting as a painful rash begins to sear his flesh. It is a painful itch that, due to his restraints, the prisoner is unable to scratch. Hives begin to cluster and burst through the surface.
“Ah, are you getting it? Your body wants you to tell the truth.”
The man peers at me as if I am a lunatic. He begins thrashing, desperately trying to escape his predicament. It is of no use.
“Eyeteeoh,” I call out, “Can’t you see this man is in pain? That rash is uncomfortable. Please remove it.”
The horrible black globule rotates and approaches the prisoner, two of the droid’s arms unfurling by several joints. I watch in wonder as tiny pincers at the end of the mechanical limbs dig into his bare chest, slowly peeling the blistered skin from the shrieking prisoner’s body. Blood begins to seep through openings in flayed flesh.
As an originally provincial wound begins to expand beneath the droid’s passionless surgical expertise, I ask my questions. There is no urgency in my voice. I am serene. It is the prisoner who must race the clock.
My countenance becomes more grim, and the detainee breaks. A tattered corporation is behind the attacks. ESO. I try to remember where I’ve heard that. I demand more from the prisoner. He is screaming, and some of his words are barely audible. Answers become as profuse as the sustenance leaking from fresh wounds. I am thankful that the droid is recording the session. We will analyze it later.
“That’s enough, Eyeteeoh.”
The droid halts and saunters over beside me. I pet him, as if the praise makes any difference. The prisoner exhales with desperate breaths as tears pour down his face. He is relieved as he can be, considering the flaps of mangled flesh dangling from just below his pectorals.
With a nod, I smile at my victory. The other Reckoners crave my resolution. Words of wisdom. I sate their yearning.
“Time is of the essence,” I tell them, “and cannot be wasted playing games.”
My grin expands.
“However, now that I have concluded my investigation, you are free to experiment. Train. Practice makes perfect.”
A look of sheer horror rises in the prisoner’s features as the bulbous droid begins to do something. My team exchange joyous glances, as anxious children on the day of some gift-giving celebration. They are free to test the droid – and the murderer’s threshold.
“Excuse me.” I insist, politely.
I almost forget my drink as I leave the chamber. Retrieving it gratefully, I step out into the Panic Room. I won’t miss Piotr, as he told me his name was. As my footsteps sound against the linoleum, I can barely hear him screaming.