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Taure Khalon
Name
Taure Khalon
Affiliation
Alias
Taure
Age
21
Species
Human
Height
6'0"
Weight
195 lbs
Eye Colour
Green
Hair Color
Brown
Home Planet
Nar Shaddaa
Spouse
Mother
Father
Siblings
Children
Mentor
Trainee

Information: Edit

Name: Edit

Taure Khalon

Species: Edit

Human


Homeworld:
Edit

Chandrila


Gender:
Edit

Male


Age:
Edit

42


Height:
Edit

6'0"

Weight: Edit

195 lbs.


Eye colour:
Edit

Green


Hair colour:
Edit

Brown


Appearance:
Edit

  1. Tall and well built, he appears both strong and agile, quickened reflexes with power behind them. His hair is brown and normally worn short, but is currently a Military buzz cut.

Weapons: Edit

  • Modified Krail 210 Personal Armor (w/ Integral Tensor Line Slinger and Mitrinomon Z-6 Jet Pack)
  • BlasTech EE-3 Blaster Rifle (Fixed stock, shoulder strap, underbarrel braces for grenade launcher)
  • Malaxan Firepower Incorporated FWG-5 Flechette Pistol
  • 3x Merr-Sonn G-20 Glop Grenades.

Ship: Edit

  • 'Huntsman' -Corellia StarDrive Coruscant-Class Heavy Courier,

Rank: Edit

  • Bounty Hunter

Bio: Edit

Born of two different worlds, he walked his path along both, parallel causeways twisting through slum and refuse. His mother was a mercenary, ruthless and cunning, trailing an air of greed that begets bloody violence; violence that only ends with the sharp crack of a blaster and the stinging hiss of those who see eternity no more. She was a drifter, never staying in one place for too long for profit required new endeavors, and new people to kill.

        His father was an artisan, setting up shop in a dirty hovel along the streets of Nar Shaddaa, offering his services to a less than savory crowd. He was in the business of repairing weapons, something that should have been a lucrative venture in the dregs of society, the almighty blaster serving as the brandished tool for intimidation and death, but actually separating a creature from their credits was a whole different matter. No one wanted to pay up for the work that was done.

        Taure did not remember his mother; she had abandoned him with his father at a young age, her untamed spirit catching up with her, it was always her nature to move. There were no hard feelings to be exchanged about all of that, he was far too young to comprehend any of it, and while growing up he realized the Universe was a cold and harsh place.

        He learned the art of weaponsmithing from his father, working in his shop as an apprentice repairing battered equipment and corroded blasters; and practiced the not-so-legal means of modifying them. However, the teachings stopped when a grotesquely overweight Rodian by the name of Reebdug waddled in, smelling of Nar Shaddaa spirits and alley waste.

        There was one unrelenting problem when it came to business, especially business with a violent crowd, everyone wanted something, but no one wanted to dish out the cold hard credits for it. That was the problem with Reebdug, who had wanted costly modifications done, but decided in his drunken stupor that he wasn’t going to pay. An argument broke out, as did the Rodian’s blaster, the muzzle aimed at Taure’s father and the trigger pulled with alcohol induced courage. Arguments were normal in that dive of a shop, but not blaster fire, the darkness quelled by the miniature sun erupting in that room, the sound pierced by the cacophonous discord of a whizzing blaster bolt and a dead man’s scream. On instinct alone, something ingrained deep down inside of him through blood of his mother and hardcoded genetics, Taure’s hand struck out, coiling around a deadly instrument and raising it level with the thug’s chest. His finger squeezed and the darkness once more was evaporated into mere shadows and dazzling crimson. Time slowed down as he watched the fiery star streak across the room and envelope his target in burning, life-blinding light.

        There was nothing left of the place after the debt collectors came, the various thugs and agencies that kept track of every penny you owed them, or for the insurance paid out to them to protect you from “accidents.” With no family to turn to, the dim light of Nar Shaddaa flickered out completely for Taure, pushing him to join the Empire, a disposition less bleak than wandering the friendless streets. The rebels could never win; their idealism was too unfounded.

        His training began on the planet of Carida, a planet touched with a freezing arctic, sweltering jungles, heat-baked deserts, and foam-engulfed oceans, the perfect training ground for loyal soldiers of the Emperor. Taure was stripped of his name, issued a number instead, marking him as nothing more but a tool to be hammered into submission. 3026 started his training in a stormtrooper unit, but his skills aided him enough to land a spot with the commandos. The training he went through was vigorous, testing will and body, enduring the freezing cold, the burning heat, the dangerous wildlife itself. His marksmanship was tested until his weapon became an extension of himself; his body strengthened and put through intensive martial arts, learning hand-to-hand combat and ways of neutralizing his foes. He picked up on survival instincts, working on action without thought, a durasteel grip moving on impulse to turn exposed rebar in blasted ferrocrete into a deadly weapon. When his training was done, his will beaten by his instructors, something snapped.

        It was not a psychotic breakdown experienced by so many before him, but something else lurking deep inside his mind. His will was not shattered, his name still remained, and he realized the unthinking devotion he was supposed to feel could never completely take him. Zealous discipline was something he could not give to anyone but himself. He knew what he wanted, but when could he take it?

        He found it. Taure was issued orders to remain onboard a Lambda-Class shuttle as it ferried cargo from Carida to the Imperial held moon of Gall, orbiting a gas giant. His duty was to protect it and the cargo from a boarding party. It was a bureaucratic assignment, the actual chance of the cargo being compromised was low, and as such there were only three other Naval commandos onboard with him. The small ship jumped into hyperspace, and he waited.

        He was ready, his blaster rifle’s stock was extended, the thought to kill was on his mind, not to kill for the sake of violence, but for the sake of necessity, for need. His rifle was still slung down at his hip, but that would change soon, the barrel pointed ahead, the moment neared very close. It was perfect for him, all four of the soldiers had congregated in one spaces not occupied by crates, passing the time with the fictional war stories told by those fresh out of training. Taure made a comment to the man closest to him, the man turning to face him, his white plastoid armor creaking with his movement. And Taure fired.

        The man was dead before him, his armor cracked and blackened, the shot having pierced his stomach. With a swift movement, Taure gyrated his body and landed a kick against the armored corpse’s stomach, pushing him against the two startled guards that were standing behind him, pinning their arms and their weapons. His arms snapped upward, resting the stock of his rifle against his shoulder and fired again. Two coruscating beams struck one of the struggling commandos, shattering his helmet as they pierced his armor, releasing a steaming hiss of red mist. In his mind he calculated, cold and meticulous, there was only one more threat. Taure swiveled back to his right, his finger squeezing the trigger, a bolt of fiery light piercing the last man to stand in his way. On the ground were three corpses, comrades of old, felled before their weapons could be used.

        The cockpit was easier, he had surprised the lightly armed pilots and dispatched with them quickly, the small shuttle was already on its way to Atzerri, a free-trading planet who would deal business with anyone. He discretely met with buyers and sellers, pawning the crates of equipment, and the valuable pieces of the shuttle itself, into credits. Taure used what he had to equip himself, a suit of battered power armor and jet pack, the homing missile missing from the jet pack’s upper booster, corroded and rusted from the chemicals of leaking ordinance. He bought a new rifle and slung it over his shoulder, boarding a newly bought, but very old antique of a space courier, dating back 4000 years. It wasn’t long before he was in hyperspace once more, heading to the remote planet of Tatooine, preparing himself for a new source of living. Bounty hunting.

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