Name: Keres Dymos
Nicknames/Aliases (optional): N/A
Rank: Apprentice
Class: Assassin
House: Vassago
Age: 29
Sex: Female
Species: Human
Orientation (optional): Demisexual
Homeworld: Cesta, Tapani Sector
Occupation: Nobleman’s wife (widowed)
Height: 5’4
Weight: 125 lbs
Physical Description: Deceptively dainty, Keres has a heart-shaped face and large eyes. With her pitch-black hair always carefully pulled back and her lips painted a sharp, crimson, red, she looks more like the politician’s wife she used to be than a Sith in her own right.
Keres prefers simple clothing, usually in the style of an ao dai, usually in red and black. Given the choice, her clothing is flattering but modest. Her favored ornaments are hairpins, usually in gold.
Weapons: A slim, elegant lightsaber.
and a small blaster bought for her travels to Korriban.
Equipment/Vehicles: N/A
Pets (optional): N/A
Languages: Basic, Huttese. A smattering of ancient Sith.
Description of Abilities: She has been trained in Shii-Cho and Makashi, but has not mastered either form. Her skill with a blaster is mediocre and self-taught. She has some ability in pyrokinesis, enough to use in a fight.
Strengths: Having spent a great deal of her life either observing her parents’ political machinations or assisting her husband’s, she is adept at using words to change the course of things to get what she wants. She mostly wins others over with warmth and affection.
Flaws: Her life on Cesta, while turbulent, was widely sheltered from the wider galactic sphere, and her experience with other cultures, lifeforms, and planets is thin on the ground. While manipulative and crafty, Keres doesn’t have the experience to plan far ahead. She can win the battle, but not the war. Along with that, because her warmth and friendliness is usually feigned, her loyalty is unreliable.
Relationships/Love Interests (optional): Light flirtations with Knight Aaric, though if anything is going to come of it, it’s going to be a long time coming.
Biography: Her story began as others did: with birth. Her mother, laughing, loved to retell the story of the fierce storm that had rattled the windows as she strained in labor. The last push, and a
crack of lightning so close as to raise the hair on their arms. That had brought a last-minute change of names for her babe, from Jokaste, to Keres.
Lightning-struck. Sometimes, it was more apt than it seemed. As a child, she had scorched walls and clothes with her rare tantrums. A burning curiosity had caused more than one jar or plate to wobble off the counter. It was not talked about, and Keres seemed to grow out of it soon enough.
Her parents were merchants, young and ambitious. Her mother owned textile mills, providing rich brocades and fine laces for the nobles of the Cadriaan system, and eagerly taking the chance to mingle with higher society. Her father was an equally ambitious merchant, from a family of freeworld merchants who had been granted titles two or so generations ago. But there was a balance there, ambitious, but not so much as to appear
grasping. Servile, but not so much as to be invisible. Keres watched these interactions, large eyes taking in
everything.
Her life progressed apace, neither exciting nor dull. Neither impoverished nor luxurious. In class, she was similarly suspended. When revolutionary students raised their voice, she turned her eyes away from their fiery gaze. When students spoke holy hymns to the nobles who strutted in front of them, she became deaf.
Her life continued, sedate. In time, she was given charge of a small textile mill, which made the lace trims for noble gowns and other items. She moved out of her parent’s house. It was a quiet, unambitious existence. The business grew slowly under her, exactly at the pace Keres could handle. At twenty-two, she finally allowed herself her heart’s desire: a child. She searched databases extensively, comparing DNA, predispositions, phenotypes, compatibilities.
Nine months later, she had her babe in her arms, warm and alive. It was the happiest she’d ever been. Her mother was thrilled, though her father gave the child a strange, flat look. She ignored it. Her siblings would marry well or inherit the business. Keres’ life would be small, exactly the way she wanted. Everything held in the palm of her hand, exactly as she desired.
“No?
No,” she insisted, months later, eyes darting between her father’s imploring gaze and her mother’s shamed but determined expression. The argument continued, late into the night. In the morning, servants woke Keres and dressed and primped her.
Her guest awaited her in the front parlor, a smile she would almost call a smirk on his face. Her red lips smiled. Her eyes did not.
“My lord, of course I am happy to accept your proposal of marriage.”
Her lord husband, a son of a minor branch of the Cadriaan House, had ambitions, and those ambitions cost money. Keres’ family was wealthy and angling for status.
At best, their marriage was cool. At worst, petty. He would complain about the money he spent to keep her on his social level. Keres would roll her eyes and make pointed comments about
overcompensation. Her only solace was her child, her little flame, living in her parent’s home. Keres never spoke of the child to her husband, though she knew
he knew the child existed. She visited frequently.
Holos spread the news far and wide of the Butcher of Coruscant. A Sith. The videos, the pictures, horrifying. The absolute silence of a thousand dead bodies. It lingered in her mind, looping again and again. What brutality. What savagery.
What power.
Life proceeded again. Cold, empty, but existing. They stayed in separate wings of the house. And then- an illness, her child, her warmth, her flame, extinguished. Her husband was furious that she grieved.
They fought.
They fought again.
Until it came out, one night,
“
That little brat of yours deserved it!” he’d screamed, spittle flying out of his mouth. She’d paused in throwing her sharpest hairpins at him. “
Do you know what it cost to poison him?”
Keres had stilled, and felt something in her snap, very quietly, and she clutched her jewelry box tighter, as if it were a shield against his truth. A poison, to mimic illness, to kill her child. A child of her body, one that she had
chosen, that she had
created.
Her husband had been triumphant, eyes glittering that he had finally crushed her under his heel.
A hate filled her, so great it blocked out everything else, a sort of serenity. A layer of ice atop a boiling lake. She remembered the silent bodies. The power of a single woman.
It seemed that she blinked, and stood outside the manor, eyes watering from the smokey air. The jewelry box was warm in her hand. It was ugly, and she hated it, but it would fetch a good price.
She turned, and kept walking.
STR (Strength): 6
FPR (Force Power): 8
DEX (Dexterity): 7
INT (Intellect): 8
CON (Constitution): 7
MAN (Manipulation): 10
PER (Perception): 8
DES (Destiny): 6
Skills (10 points):
- Shii-Cho - 1
- Makashi - 1
- Force Sense - 1
- Telepathy - 1
- Convection - 1
- Detoxify Poison - 1
- Shadow Armor - 1
- Telekinesis - 1
- Spell of Mimicry - 1
- Force Augmentation - 1
