Phrax Raldos

Name
Phrax Raldos
Alias
'Beserker'
Age
Twenty-Eight
Race
Human
Gender
Male

Appearance
Phrax is quite an intimidating figure to look upon. His eyes are set back within his skull a fair amount, shadowed by the now 'extended' brow of his head. His face is narrow, the bone structure quite clear and solid due to the lack of flesh upon his face. The hair upon his head is a wild mess of jet black spikes and twists, hidden by a hood. Phrax's body is that of a trained athelete, extremely muscular, yet it bares such slender muscles, it doesn't make him stand out too much. Standing at five foot and twelve inches, he is around the best height for what he does: murder.
Personality
Much like a well trained dog, Phrax is loyal to his dark lord, following him where-ever his dark will leads him. He completes orders without a second's thought and without an ounce of guilt nor sorrow, but with a fair degree of enjoyment and pure bliss. Combat is his one love in life, nothing can tear him away from it, nor stop him from indulging himself in it. A very unstable person, is Phrax, often known to talk to himself about the most obscure of things and has been known to lash out at people without notice.

Inventory
- Concealed Belt;
-- A Single Bladed Phrik Hilt, Black Crystal
-- Vibroblade
- On His Back, Under Robing;
-- Sith Tremor Sword

Background
Alone he ran, the young boy's feet pounding against the blood-sodden layer of bodies, with ever step, a new coat of blood painted his feet. The sound of blaster fire, explosions and innocent screams echoed within Phrax's undeveloped mind, imprinting themselves in the deepest part of his mind, to only be recalled everytime he would sleep. He skidded to a halt. Infront of him, two gargantuan figures stood, their dark armour shining in the solemn moonlight. The first of the two grabbed Phrax, the large hand swallowing him up.

The three arrived at what appeared to be a crudely made prison camp for the survives of the massacare, and it would soon be their graves as well. Phrax was released, his little body smashing against the floor. Tears leaked from his eyes as he gazed up the many hundreds of dishearted prisoners. What clothing they had was cut, torn, like the skin that hid beneath. The cries of children rung out, cries of hunger and pain, too young to understand the true horror of what was around them. Next to Phrax fell a metal implement, an order followed; "Kill all the survivors and you can live...".

In his small, frail hands, Phrax picked up the hilt, the mud-dulled Phrik still shone in the light; a shine of hope. His finger planted itself onto the button, the black blade that would the bane, but also the release for these poor individuals zoomed forth. The boy killed a first. Then a second. As time passed, he began to kill at a faster rate; limbs and innards flying as he savagely tore through each and everyone of the defenceless beings. At first it was a chore, then it became a task...Finally, to Phrax, it was a game. And a much enjoyed one at it. He more he killed, the more he laughed. When all were dead, he turned on his capturers. They had underestimated the pure skill that Phrax posssessed at this young age...He left this place, in search of more killing, and power.