Name: Donall Cratos
Alias: Darth Furoran, “The Rage Lord”, Donall Raenck
Homeworld: Firrerre
Species: Firrerreon
Age: 30
Height: 6 ft
Weight: 165 lbs
Hair: Brown/White, dyed completely brown. Slightly curly
Family: Sister (Ezra Cratos, unknown, unknown)
Martial Status: Single
Children: None
Medical: Extreme Embitterment, history of lack of anger management, abnormal flexibility
Occupation: Sith Master
Weapons: Double-bladed Lightsaber, purple lightsaber color
Special Skills/Training: Hand to hand combat, lightsaber combat (Forms Makashi, Juyo, Djem So), blaster training, double-lightsaber combat training, and understand and manipulation of the Force.
History:
When Sith and Jedi clashed openly, thousands of years before the Skywalker dynasty had begun on Tatooine, Donall Cratos was born. Unlike his sister, Donall did not care to be interested in his father’s medical profession, but he loved his parents and his sister like any doting brother and son should. With his father in high standing as a non-Force Sensitive, and his mother being as affluent in the force as she was, he was happy in his easy childhood with his sister. When he was old enough, his mother began to train him with limited force powers, understanding how to lift small rocks. But what really helped the child was his mother’s insistence on understanding physical combat, and began to run him, train his body, help him learn physical fitness. When he was old enough to run more than a few miles a day, she taught him how to stretch the muscles out as far as he could. This helped him more in his future than it did when he was little, because his muscles learned how to bend more efficiently, how to twist and aid his spine in any sort of muscle movement. This flexibility proved to only help him in combat against any foe; his sister, his mother, his enemies were not prepared for this, and he usually had surprise from his feints and ripostes.
When he was eight, he was training hard, and he loved it. He loved his mother’s affection when he did more than she thought he could do, he loved how his father smiled as he tended to his wounds, congratulating him on his tenacity…and he adored his sister, who taught him where to strike a man and hurt him. In return, as they grew up, he sparred with her, occasionally letting her win.
He was talented, and he was happy, but that evaporated in a single moment when their parents were killed by a team of Jedi in the midst of battle, having been there himself to see his mother struck down trying to save his father. He watched that with an open-mouth, next to his sister, and the boy did not take it well. He did not cry, he did not show tears like his mother had taught him. He turned further to the dark side, to let his anger consume him completely. He let out a roar when his mother was struck and killed, and he was saved only by his sister, who stopped him from charging down and trying to extract vengeance. The little boy who loved his parents died with them, and instead the man who would become Darth Furoran was born.
The Sith took in the force sensitive siblings quickly, fearing to lose them to the Jedi, and their training began yet again under a new Master. The new Master, a rough and cruel man, was nowhere near kind and caring like his mother was, but it didn’t matter; every single session of torture or pain solidified the rage in his heart, it was the reason why his heart pumped blood, it was how he breathed, it was his very life-force. Every crack of the whip forced the teachings into his head; how to hide one’s self into the Force itself, how to strike fear with the aid of the Force…and he grew even closer to his sister, the only thing from his past. His rage was something she could control, and he never truly realized, even to his day, that his sister manipulated him into doing things. But she was far smarter than he, more cunning and intelligent; he was just the tip of the spear, the weapon she could wield with merely her words.
Together, they were invincible, and they both knew this. Soon, his sister learned of their Master’s fondess for the flesh of some of the more lovely slaves, the slaves willing to lay with him in the dark places of his palace. Using their Master’s teachings against him, they hid, stalked him even, as he took another slave in his bed. He struck first, charging from the dark after unable to wait any longer. What happened blurred into a rage-induced haze, and he only truly awoke over the body of the slave he brutally murdered, with his sister holding the severed head of their Master in her hand.
He didn’t take much from his sister to convince him to help her prepare to take revenge on the Jedi and their families for striking down their parents, loving how she said they were truly better than the other Sith, the ones who told their Master that he was worthy enough to train them. They were wrong, his sister was more than right in fighting them. He was happy to follow her, like a puppy, a puppy with talent in the art of double-lightsaber combat.
He left her to her devices in the reliquary of their Master, and instead he sought to find his Master’s lightsaber collection. There was an ornate double lightsaber, covered in ancient Sith runes, along with a face mask that belonged to the same owner of the lightsaber. He took them, and saw in the inset that it belonged to an old and dead Darth, named Furoran…he loved the name, he understood the significance of it as well. “The Rage Lord”. How fitting of a title. He placed the mask on his person, and he felt the penetrating energies of the Force force their way into his scalp.
The Sith Lord himself communicated with Donall, and told him how he could control his anger, like a scythe, and bring complete and utter destruction with his weapon. This need to destroy, however, was immediately tempered when he looked at his sister, who was utterly consumed by the holocron she found, power surging around her. She was powerful, she was smarter…she was his sister. The Sith Lord in the mask, communicating to him through the Force, was angered, and screamed at Donall.
A battle of wills began between the two, but for Ezra Cratos, all she could perceive was her brother, watching with a mask on his face. In reality, the two Sith were dueling from the mask, locked in a battle of wills, whose angers could drown out the others in an intense battle. For Erza, it was completely silent, but for Donall and Lord Furoran, it was an incredible force battle, and he perceived it much differently.
Seconds for the real world, and hours in his heightened perception of reality, Donall won. His anger was not fueled by war and hate, but vengeanace and retribution for the family he lost. The Rage Lord perished, screaming in Donall’s mind before he winked out of existence completely, even in the Force…and it made Donall smile. He knelt in front of his sister, completely in control of his body, and looked up at her as she spoke to him. As he did, he scoffed at the Rage Lord. His anger was not strong enough, he was weak. He proved that he was the true Lord of Rage. At that exact moment, Donall swore to become the new Darth Furoran, the new Rage Lord.
The Galaxy needed to burn. The new Lord of Rage needed to assist. The brother needed to help his sister.
He left the planet with her, and together they achieved many kills against the Jedi, a few in particular very memorable and vivid to Donall; the butchering of the Jedi who killed their parents, and the murdering of the close friends and relatives of the Jedis as well. It filled Donall up, it re-fueled his rage; he was hungry for more, all the more to help his sister. Removing of the holocron, however, garnered the attention of the Sith who they once worshipped, and although they were clever enough to avoid them for most of the time (and when they did, they promptly defeated them), the advent of numbers proved to be their un-doing, and they were finally captured and brought before the Dark Council.
In the interrogation that followed, Donall did not speak or utter a single word. His sister did that for him, and he was fine with that. But, when the sentence was cast, he screamed. His rage rumbled throughout the entire room, through the palace itself, and his force power blossomed like a beacon. It was silenced by the application of tranquilizers, immediate and powerful ones, and as such he was not awake when he was pressed into carbonite, unaware of his sister’s faith, or aware even in general.
Decades have passed, but all hope was not lost. As there is a certain individual who was an interest in Sith artifacts who had made an purchase of a certain container. And when the Lord of Rage peels himself from his slumber, so again shall the Galaxy tremble from his mighty bellows, and his deep and unending terror will fill the hearts of his enemies with fear…
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