NAME: Roach
FACTION: N/A
RANK: N/A
SPECIES: Dathomirian
AGE: 32
SEX: Male
HEIGHT: 188 Centimetres / 6’2 Feet
WEIGHT: 80 kg
EYES: Steel Grey
HAIR: None
SKIN: Flesh Red
FORCE SENSITIVE: Force Dead
STRENGTHS
[ + ] Force Dead: He is disconnected from the Force and cannot be sensed or manipulated by it[ + ] Unyielding Discipline: Roach retains the drilled precision of an Imperial soldier; he moves with calculated, mechanical efficiency.
[ + ] Combat Training: Extensive training in the academy has given him expert skills in both hand-to-hand combat and marksmanship with a variety of ranged weapons.
[ + ] Demolitions Expertise: An extensive background of breaching, clearing, and demolishing has made him a master of controlled chaos.
WEAKNESSES
[ - ] Single-Minded: Once fixated on a target or mission, he ignores reason, risk, and morality.
[ - ] Young Fool: Despite his hardened exterior, Roach's worldview is narrow and absolute, shaped by Imperial propaganda. He believes loyalty and violence can solve anything, leaving him vulnerable to manipulation.
[ - ] The Flames Remain: Constant pain drives his mind into madness; he should always be considered unpredictable.
[ - ] Hatred of Force Users: His obsession clouds reason. He’ll pick fights he can’t win if a Force-user is involved, just to see them burn.
[ - ] Chronic Pain and Fatigue: He can’t fully rest. Sleep is short and shallow. He uses stimulants and pain suppressants to stay combat-effective, but they worsen his aggression and instability.
PERSONALITY
Roach acts less for others’ approval; his world runs on objectives, not feelings.
Despite his isolation, there remains a buried sense of camaraderie; he respects those who stand their ground, despises cowards, and honours soldiers who die with purpose.
He’s a believer in structure, order, and especially consequence, ideals instilled by the Empire’s machine. To him, the Force is a disease that breeds corruption and chaos.
Though scarred, bandaged, and burned beyond recognition, he still moves with the confidence of a man who’s breached a thousand doors. He is haunted, not broken. A soldier without a war, clinging to what little remains of his purpose: kill, preserve order, restore the Empire.
Roach is a soldier trapped in the ruins of his own faith. Beneath the wrappings is a man burned alive by the Empire’s experiments and reborn as something hollow. He moves and fights with mechanical precision, but speaks bluntly, a soldier who never learned how to live without orders.
Haunted but unbroken, Roach believes he still serves the Empire, even if no one remains to command him. He finds meaning in battle and mission completion. There’s joy in killing, but nothing will ever give him as much satisfaction as seeing a Force user's last breath escape their miserable lungs.
APPEARANCE
A tall, wiry Dathomirian, his horns have been filed down to blunt stumps, symbolic of his rejection of both Dathomirian heritage and individuality. What little skin remains visible is blood red and cracked, the burns long since healed into a leathery, uneven texture. His eyes, once bright red, are now a pale, steel-grey, clouded by heat damage and smoke exposure, though in low light they reflect faint silver, an unsettling, ghostly gleam.
Roach cuts a figure that seems carved out of war and ash, a man who should have died long ago, yet refuses to fall.
Every inch of his body is wrapped in charred, sand-colored bandages, layered tightly over burned, cracked skin that occasionally shows through the seams. The wrappings serve both to hide his mutilated flesh and to keep it from tearing anew; underneath, his body is a map of old fires and surgical scars, each one telling the story of the experiment that made him Force-dead.
Over this, he wears the remnants of his Obsidian Court trooper uniform, black and silver, scorched and torn, the colours dulled by years of smoke and dust. Every insignia of rank or allegiance has been scratched off or cut away, leaving faint outlines where they once rested, ghosts of the empire he still clings to. The fabric, once tailored and ceremonial, now hangs heavy like a burden. He wears boots caked with soot and dried mud, and a faint scent of smoke and metal follows him everywhere.
Across his chest sits a tactical vest, fitted with worn explosive satchels, spare magazines, and breaching gear. The plates are dented and scarred, each one clearly repaired by hand, often with mismatched screws or welding scars.
His posture remains rigid and purposeful, the unmistakable bearing of a soldier who still lives by routine. He walks with slow, deliberate steps, ready to explode into motion at any instant. Even when silent, there’s a pressure about him, as though violence is never far from surfacing.
BIOGRAPHY
Classified.
EQUIPMENT & AUGMENTATIONS
Ranged Weapons: Customised slug shotgun with explosive and incendiary shells.
Melee Weapons: Vibro-cleaver for close-quarters execution and a Beskar Forged Sledge Hammer for fights against lightsabers
Explosives: Shaped charges, adhesive breaching packs, anti-gravity and flash detonation devices.
AUGMENTATION SLOTS:
- Anti-Gravity Modulator – Short hover bursts and zero-G control (WIP)
- Environmental Seal – Full vacuum survival; atmospheric filter (WIP)
- Cloak Field – Optical shimmer for infiltration (WIP)
BELIEFS
Roach believes the galaxy must be rebuilt through structure, not faith. The Force is a drug, and those who wield it are addicts. To him, peace is maintained by control, not compassion. He views himself as a necessary weapon, a remnant of a better order. If he must crawl through the filth and fire to restore it, so be it.
SHIP
Fury Class IImperial interceptor (Stolen)KILLS:
N/ABOUNTIES COLLECTED:
N/A
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