User:Deimos La'fan/Bismarck

== Physical Appearance: ==

Bismarck's sandy skin is the perfect shade to match the shifting desert sands. The horns atop his ridged head make his face seem to be twisted in a permanent grimace of anger, his eyes slightly narrowed no matter his mood. The flaps of skin along his nose are the same as all others of his species: semi-permeable with the ability to absorb the moisture his breath would expunge and recycle it back into his body. His frame is heavily stocked with muscle, his shoulder span slightly wider than normal while his arms would be considered extremely sinewy by the standards of any species.

== Gear: ==

Twin blades, dull in shade with hilts bound in worn leather, presumably that of a desert wraid. The blades are wider at the top in the neo-classic falchion style. Both edges are sharpened to perfection, coated with a vein of ultrachrome both for durability and lightsaber dueling. On the cross-guard of both blades rests a single decagon shaped ruby. These rubies, barely the size of the fingernail on the pinky finger, hold little to no value and are decoration more than anything. Along with the rubies, runes and other symbols are etched across the blades in obsidian ink, running through like miniature veins in the metal. His right arm is sheathed in a gauntlet of ultrachrome, cybernetic vessels running through whatever fragment of skin remaining on the stub that was once a true arm. On the chest plate of his light leather armor there is a skull of a desert wraid, a vicious hole between its eyes and through where one would assume its brains would be.

== Personality: ==

Sullen could possibly be the best word to describe Bismarck's personality. He is bitter to his very core; vicious like an animal afflicted with rabies. Humanity can burn for all he would care. In fact, he would probably be the one bringing the torch to light the blaze if given a chance. A crusty bastard who seems like the cranky old man in the body of someone half that age, Bismarck is not a very friendly person. When it comes to his beliefs, he enforces them without hesitation and without considering the counter argument. All that matters is his opinion. On the rare occasion that one can find him playing the part of the politician, that person would be completely shocked. Unlike some who grudgingly follow the rules and laws, Bismark twists them to suit his needs and wants.

Experience has taught him that only the strong survive what life throws at them. To him this means that they want to defend their power making them unfit to live. But he would never act on such thoughts. He is a soldier born and raised. Even dishonored and disowned there is still that need for someone to come along and tell him what to do. Tell him how he is supposed to complete the mission and what is expected of him. Without that simple if irrational part of life, he finds that he becomes lost in the tide of the galaxy, allowing himself to fall prey to the machinations of others without his consent.

In the end of the day there can only be one thing to describe him: feral. True, he might be an opinionated person with a need to fight back against a galaxy that he believes is out to get him personally, but he is more akin to a caged animal than anything else.

== Strengths and Weaknesses: ==

Brutally strong and physically powerful, Bismarck is more of a bull than a man. His strength surpasses that of most species though is dwarfed when compared the tremendous physical capabilities of the wookiee or the togorian. With the training of a soldier his agility is honed to the point that most average citizens would have a hard time matching his pace, but not quick enough to best the wiry athletes that train extensively in agility. He makes up for this slight weakness with bovine endurance and an extremely high tolerance for pain. In terms of intelligence, most would assume him to be the thuggish brute type without any need for the literate aspect of society. In a way they would be correct as he does not really care about knowledge, but he was educated as most other children giving him a basic level of intelligence around average for most species. Weeks alone in the desert gave him a leash for his anger. This can be interpreted as 'street smarts' rather than any true wisdom. Yet even with this 'insight' he lacks the ability to lead. Intimidating and fierce in appearance and personality, Bismark is not a very sociable person. When people don't do what he wants he generally reacts violently rather than with greased political words.

== History: ==

"My life begins forty-eight years ago on Kintan, a lowly backwater planet home to a couple of mutant offshoots of the same race. That's right, I'm a Nikto and once upon a time, I was proud of it. My first memory is being shoved into leather battle armor with one simple direction: kill the wraid. Spear in hand I stabbed the creature in the neck twice, snapping my wooden weapon in half before plunging it into the beast's chest. That's what really happens on Kintan. Boys fight beasts until they know nothing and are forced to conform to the man who leads them for more meat. What an insipidly pathetic existence."

Bismarck was born on Kintan to a family of hunters. Their meals were supported by the father and his eldest brother who would bring back wraid skulls every day to sell at town for credits. Normally this would be a nomadic lifestyle, but on Kintan the wraid would constantly migrate to the same three areas each and every year, never straying away from their watering holes. It was not a glamorous existence, but they were able to support themselves and were hardened on the hunter's way of life. They, like many other families, believed in the honor of the hunt, preferring to kill alone and following one simple rule: never steal another hunter's kill. The rule was universal and even Bismark as a child could recite that to any offworlder.

"Never give to the poor. Give them a penny and they steal your credit purse. Give them a piece of bread and they take the entire loaf. There is only one type of person worse than a beggar and that is a traveler. Not only do they brag about where they've been and what they've accomplished, but they flaunt their exotic items before begging for a place to rest for the night. For all of their fancy words and expensive clothes, they are no better than the thieving whoresons and beggars that live on the street with only the rags on their back."

Bitterness runs in his bones of the like that can only be forged by pain and suffering. On his tenth birthday his father gave him a new gift: the gift of strength. He taught Bismarck not just how to hunt but how to kill. There is a distinct difference between the two words. A hunter kills not in excess or for the sake of gluttony, but rather to make a living. A killer not only hunts in excess, but they end up destroying more than a single sentient life at a time.

His first lesson was learning how to hold a blade. For the majority of hi life he had been taught exclusively how to hunt with a spear, making his first experience as a boy soldier quite impossible. Some cultures might have found it odd that he was fighting by age, but for his people that fine line of right and wrong faded into practicality. It was practical to train boys to become soldiers. Practical to have them hunt before they even learned how to multiply complex numbers. Indeed, everyone learned how to fight to survive and support their family in the harsh acrid climate on their little slice of Kintan.

"Paradise. Ha, there is no such place. If you told me that you used to live there before coming here, I would gladly gut you to send you back. Death is the only escape from life. Maybe there is a paradise there and maybe not. I've sent too many people there to care."

When one spends every waking moment of every single day training for the singular goal of becoming a soldier, that person becomes a tool. They do not grow into men like others, but rather they become something to be wielded by others. Their free will is crushed under discipline and turned into a hollow shell of routine. Wake up in the morning, run three miles, eat a mediocre breakfast and train until the last rays of daylight fade from the sky. Occasionally he would go out with his father to hunt for dinner, but that was only on the rare occasion that he was not consumed by his training.

Only fourteen at the time, his body was stocked with muscle that would be more appropriate on a man fully grown. His only goal was the betterment of his skill to become a soldier. He wanted to defend his home and feel like something more than the son of the hunter. He wanted to surpass his father's legacy as a soldier. That was all he wanted to do, but two years later, he never got the chance.

"Screw the military lifestyle. I don't need them to survive. They need me! Why the hell should I bend my back and do what they want only to have everything I wanted crushed all at once?"

Sixteen was the age that most young men enlisted in the military corps of Kintan. Like the rest of the youth around him, it was Bismarck's goal to become a legendary soldier, a hardened warrior unstoppable on the battlefield. His whole life had been one long training exercise leading into another on the basis that he would be able to do something with his life. Childish naivety had him waste his childhood becoming a tool for others to shape however they want. A tool that they could toss aside whenever.

The military of Kintan is the same as that of every other planet. Every day there were routines and evaluations once a week. Sometimes they would even remove those they believed unfit for service. These evaluations taxed both the mind and the body, sometimes focusing on critical thinking skills and others on the physical endurance of the soldier. At the end of the evaluation the instructor would review past evaluations and the soldier's record during his time in the service. These checks usually included checking for any kind of past crime that could possibly make the soldier unfit to serve.

Bismarck was a model soldier. He focused solely on his duties and almost never took the night off for a drink. Almost is the operative word. His nightly routine was simple: check the lists, eat dinner and go to sleep for the next morning, but sometimes he would go to the cantina. Now, try to picture in your mind a young man around the age of eighteen sitting at the bar peacefully with a half empty drink in front of him. Add to that mental image another man walking into the bar, strutting in like a peacock. That man walked in and searched Bismarck out. He was looking for a fight. He wanted to test himself against the instructor's favorite student.

Fighting between soldiers was strictly prohibited and the punishment was quite severe. Bismarck, the teacher's pet that he was, refused to fight, saying that there was no need and that they could easily request a duel the next day in the lists. But the man refused. He leaned over closely to Bismarck, his eyes glazed over with an insane tint. When his mouth was an inch away from Bismarck's ears he whispered four fateful words: 'I raped your sister.'

That alone wouldn't have been so bad had the man refused to back down. Not only that but he attempted to escalate it even further. 'She moaned like a whore before I killed her. She begged for more!'

Had Bismarck not been slightly buzzed by the alcohol he would have given some thought to the situation. He would have merely called for the guards to arrest the man and look into the truth of his words before killing him. As it happened though, Bismarck threw the first punch. His knuckle collided with the man's facial horns, cutting a deep ridge into his flesh. The returning punch threw him off of his seat, but Bismarck didn't back down. He threw the man to the ground, slamming his head against the foot of the bar. He kicked the man's ribs again and again, rage filling his vision. His attacks were those of a soldier trained to kill. Ever since his sixth birthday he had been taught how to kill and kill he did. His foot crashed into the man's head one more time before he drew his gun, splattering the man's brain against the floor with a volley of bullets.

The guards arrived on the scene shortly later, throwing him into a cell for three crimes: assault and battery, assault, and murder. There was no trial for him, but instead he was dismissed from his service in the military and given into his parent's custody. If that wasn't bad enough, his father disowned him and left him to his own devices. He would have lived on the streets had his mother not stepped in on his behalf and given him permission to sleep in their house. But that wasn't enough for him.

"That's right, I left. What else was there for me to do? I could have stayed as the laughing stock of the entire planet and even received the sneers of everyone as they judged me for my actions. Instead I went into the desert in self imposed exile to train. You could say that it enlightened me. In a way you would be correct."

In the desert he lived as something more than a simple hunter. More than a warrior. By day he would hunt with his blades, killing anything he could find. He would string together the skulls of the desert wraid he killed, skinning them to slowly turn into a set of leather armor both intimidating and comfortable at the same time. It took dozens of wraid skins for him to get it right (though the skill of a weaver he used to create those died with him in the desert), but it became his signature outfit. He would wear it as he hunted and as he trained. At one point in time he even took to wearing the skull plate of one of the beasts as a helmet of sorts, but he gave that up when the bone began to stink of decay, instead washing it out and mounting it on his chest as a trophy.

As an embittered warrior he lived in the desert for years, surviving on what he could kill and the water from the watering holes. Eventually he began to see other hunters and stopped to talk with them once in a while as they ventured into the sea of sands. But that ended each time when the hunters realized who he was and started laughing or backing away in terror. If they attacked him or mocked him he would kill them. Otherwise he left them alone if they left him alone. Perhaps not the most glamorous of lifestyles, but it was the one he adopted for himself.

"And then the captain came calling. He was an arrogant son of a bitch with nothing on his mind besides his own power. I'm actually quite glad that I killed him."

The captain from his old military squadron came out with a small team of soldiers to kill him. Sadly enough, they didn't know the desert as well as he had. Living solely on the desert for ten years had turned him into one of the beasts there. Not one of the wraids that were considered prey, but something far more terrible. His skills sharpened with every day and his survival abilities were as good as they came. So when the soldiers picked up his trail, he was ready. More than that he was expecting them.

Their first attack came as no surprise, the men rushing in with battle cries, trying to catch him unaware. Unfortunately for them, Bismarck had dug conspicuous pits around the perimeter of his humble camp, using the natural devices of the desert to hide them. The soldiers tripped and fell over one another, giving him the advantage. He attacked without mercy, easily dispatching the closest two men before hesitating on the killing blow. Even though they were hunting him he couldn't bring himself to kill them in what he viewed as cold blood. Instead he kicked sand into their eyes and fled into the dwindling daylight, a silhouette in the night.

Without daylight to guide them, the soldiers set up camp, unwilling to try and find their way back through the desert for their homes. They rested for the night before continuing onward, hunting Bismarck like an animal. And so it went for days as Bismarck ran ever further into the desert, circling back around so that he was within an hour's walk from his watering hole. The soldiers could not catch up to him and they soon lost their will to continue the hunt. Even the captain, that vain and arrogant man, started to lose the initial excitement he felt when he started out. But Bismarck was not satisfied with such an end. He did not want them to get away.

So he solidified his resolve to kill them. It wasn't an immediate thing, but rather a mix of exhaustion and anger. He was weary of running. He wanted to go back to his routine of hunting during the day. The soldiers were in his way and he knew that they stood no chance against him. During the night when they had set up camp he headed towards them, a shadow in the night. With his blades he slit the throat of the sentry, thrusting his second one into the man's throat. Before the soldiers could begin to react, he kicked sand into their fire, dousing it and throwing them into absolute darkness.

Chaos followed with the soldier struggling to find something to hit and ending up hurting each other. Bismarck was not able to see either, but he did not let that daunt him. In the darkness he used sound to pinpoint his enemies, attacking them with ferocity and never letting up until the man he was attacking was dead. Or at least until inertia took the corpse. In a few short minutes he slaughtered them all. Every single one of them lie dead at his feet, blood staining the sand, turning it into crimson mud. With a belt knife he cut off their heads and strung them together. Gruesome trophies of his deeds. The next day he headed back into town for the first time in years.

"My dream was to join the military and finally after a decade of training they let me in out of fear that I would go against them. Laughable, but I became a captain and was given quite a bit of leeway. It didn't turn out so badly after all."

Perhaps his people did fear him, but he was once more enlisted in the military. This time, instead of being a mere recruit he was bumped straight up to the brass as a captain. After years of training and becoming something more than a soldier but less than a man he had achieved his goal. The satisfaction of it was glorious, but it quickly wore away after he realized that being a soldier wasn't all it was cracked up to be. As a captain he was sent on mission with a squad under his command. He couldn't go off on his own to scout and he couldn't fight by himself. Everything he had wanted turned out to be boring. He would much rather have been a meager soldier in a regular war than a captain in a string of them.

"Boring is the only word I can use to describe what it's like as a captain. I never got to fight or hunt. I was told a mission and given orders to relay to others who would then get the job done. Sure I was an important officer, but still I did next to nothing. Why someone would want to be anything besides a simple soldier is beside me. At least my life was spiced up when someone attacked my planet."

Four years after becoming a captain, Kintan was attacked. There was a shortage of actual soldiers to fight on the front lines which forced Bismarck to become more of an infantry soldier than anything else. His superiors thought it would be a punishment for him and maybe even a way to get rid of them. What they didn't understand was why he fought. He didn't care about his home planet anymore. All he wanted to do was fight. The cause was no longer important to him. He wanted blood on his hands and the best way to do that was to kill for a cause.

He was a mercenary in the military, an ironic concept that led many to the false assumption that he was patriotic. But that was not the case. The war waged on for another year or so, giving him the perfect opportunity to kill. He was more than a tool. More than a weapon. He was war. As with most wars, there were two sides, both struggling for victory. The point of the war at first appeared to be territorial, but was later revealed to be something else. Not that Bismarck cared. He wanted to kill and slaughter was brought to his platter like a beggar at a feasting hall.

Like that starving beggar, he tore into his food, leaving nothing for anyone else to scrape up after him. He killed indiscriminately, not caring if the people on the other side were his cousins or some random aliens with guns. It was this that led him into the hands of the opposing side. They were fighting a losing battle and Bismarck knew that defeat would mean capture which would mean that he would no longer get to kill. He couldn't let that happen.

So he proved himself a turncoat, joining the other side for a hefty price: blood and money. The perfect combination.

"Once the war ended I was left on my own with a bunch of money and quite the reputation. There was nothing left for me but to leave. I packed up my things and bought my way off of the planet. My people were destroyed, my home burned back to the basics. Fighting is all I need. I hitched myself a ride and went out to see the wide galaxy around me. But I'm not an explorer. You could call me a murderer. Or you could call me a mercenary. I don't really care. Give me what I want and I'll give you what you want."