Callomas Savoc
Aug 1st, 2006, 09:29:21 PM
<center>A warrior believes in the art of delivering violence to other men.</center>
The flight from Bespin had been a long one, and Callomas had enough time to read a book on hydroponics before he arrived on Naboo. He carried nothing with him, save for the book and a stylus for scribbling notes. His baggage would be waiting for him planetside.
His trip was business, but Callomas was one of the lucky few people in the galaxy who loved his work. His years of gainful employment in the Empire's service had left him a rich man, without a monetary need to be filled. He could have retired decades ago, if it suited him. But his life was dedicated to his trade. Without his work, he wouldn't be himself.
He was Caridan. The planet, once the pillar upon which the Republic rested, was now the anvil that supported the Imperial hammer. The people were not war mongers, but there was a martial history on the lips of every Caridan that transcended political motive or dynasty of rule. The single ingredient that transposed will from individual to individual in the history of the galaxy was violent force, or its vigilant presence. This was a philosophy that Callomas was raised with, and understood. The nature of this violence was taught as a birthright of being Caridan. In past times, Caridans served as standard-bearers shoulder-side with Jedi Knights. In current times, the greatest military men of the Empire were all of Caridan stock.
The dichotomy that Callomas lived with was that he was alive for both eras. To an outsider, it seemed strange that one could transition easily between Republic and Empire, but Callomas was a fighter. It was his place to kill efficiently. If someone more skilled or more powerful were to kill him, that person's violence would assert itself over his own. And in turn, their will would dominate his. When the Empire turned their war against the Jedi, Callomas was grateful. In some part of his heart, he hoped one day to find the one that would best him, though their numbers had dwindled so that they were rumored extinct these days.
It was a Jedi Knight, after all, that had affirmed his faith in his trade. When he was very young, a Jedi Seer served in the Senator's palace as an Oracle, where she would hold open court to offer insight into the future through the force. Callomas was brought by his parents, and the Oracle had given him a vision of the future in which he would become a fighter with scarce equal in the galaxy. From that day, Callomas was content only to make this vision true.
Today, the long-dead Oracle's prophesy was indeed true. It would take nothing short of a Jedi Knight, or perhaps Mandalore, or another being as powerful to match his power on the battlefield. Violence was the crystal through which the light of his mind was focused.
Callomas exited the craft as it touched down in Theed City. He'd come to this beautiful place to practice his trade. He had come to kill someone.
The flight from Bespin had been a long one, and Callomas had enough time to read a book on hydroponics before he arrived on Naboo. He carried nothing with him, save for the book and a stylus for scribbling notes. His baggage would be waiting for him planetside.
His trip was business, but Callomas was one of the lucky few people in the galaxy who loved his work. His years of gainful employment in the Empire's service had left him a rich man, without a monetary need to be filled. He could have retired decades ago, if it suited him. But his life was dedicated to his trade. Without his work, he wouldn't be himself.
He was Caridan. The planet, once the pillar upon which the Republic rested, was now the anvil that supported the Imperial hammer. The people were not war mongers, but there was a martial history on the lips of every Caridan that transcended political motive or dynasty of rule. The single ingredient that transposed will from individual to individual in the history of the galaxy was violent force, or its vigilant presence. This was a philosophy that Callomas was raised with, and understood. The nature of this violence was taught as a birthright of being Caridan. In past times, Caridans served as standard-bearers shoulder-side with Jedi Knights. In current times, the greatest military men of the Empire were all of Caridan stock.
The dichotomy that Callomas lived with was that he was alive for both eras. To an outsider, it seemed strange that one could transition easily between Republic and Empire, but Callomas was a fighter. It was his place to kill efficiently. If someone more skilled or more powerful were to kill him, that person's violence would assert itself over his own. And in turn, their will would dominate his. When the Empire turned their war against the Jedi, Callomas was grateful. In some part of his heart, he hoped one day to find the one that would best him, though their numbers had dwindled so that they were rumored extinct these days.
It was a Jedi Knight, after all, that had affirmed his faith in his trade. When he was very young, a Jedi Seer served in the Senator's palace as an Oracle, where she would hold open court to offer insight into the future through the force. Callomas was brought by his parents, and the Oracle had given him a vision of the future in which he would become a fighter with scarce equal in the galaxy. From that day, Callomas was content only to make this vision true.
Today, the long-dead Oracle's prophesy was indeed true. It would take nothing short of a Jedi Knight, or perhaps Mandalore, or another being as powerful to match his power on the battlefield. Violence was the crystal through which the light of his mind was focused.
Callomas exited the craft as it touched down in Theed City. He'd come to this beautiful place to practice his trade. He had come to kill someone.