Biography: Cyclouros Clyon

Doctor Rhono Trast drew his cloak tighter around him against the cold and damp Corellian night, as the rain poured down upon him, chilling him to the bone. It was at times like this that he cursed living in one of the worst parts of Coronet City. Shootings were not uncommon, and what with the rain blowing almost horizontally into his eyes, it was almost certain he’d never even see it coming. His continued advance through the downfall would have been considered reckless courage…if he had known what lay ahead of him. Trast saw his apartment building ahead through the torrential rainfall, and resolved himself to keep pushing, his last reserves of strength bubbling to the surface to get him to his nice warm apartment.

Trast was squeaking down the hallway, nearer and nearer to his apartment, when he laid eyes on a huddled figure, coughing almost aggressively, prostrate in front of his door. His conscience kicking on, Trast couldn’t help but kneel next to the being and put a hand on its shoulder “Hey, hey, are you okay? What’s the m—“

Trast was cut off as a vibroblade was inserted between his ribs, and a bony human hand clamped over his mouth, silencing his scream of mixed pain and terror. The human beneath him bowled him over, got atop him, and shoved the vibroblade in deeper, finally ending his life.

Cyclouros Clyon unsheathed the vibroblade from the unfortunate Doctor’s ribcage and shook the gore from its business end, a small grin of satisfaction crawling across his thin lips. Clyon patted down the good Doctor’s pockets, removing a few credit chits, a commlink, a speeder license, and his apartment keycard. With a grin Clyon stood up and opened the door.

Hours later, the body of Doctor Trast hung like a blanket over the railing of his apartment’s balcony, and Clyon had stolen everything of value within. Another ruthless murder chalked up to the imposing Corellian, and the authorities remained clueless.

Cyclouros laughed to himself, sitting on his haunches in his humble abode beneath the streets of Coronet. At 15, he had already killed more sentients than he had seen winters, and it was certainly…lucrative. The authorities had no idea who was behind the killings, so his nose was clean as far as they were concerned. Besides, it kept him fed, even if not particularly well.

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Present Day:

The lanky figure of a gaunt, almost demonic humanoid stood at the center of a rapidly expanding island amidst a sea of sentience, the bleeding corpse of a Coronet vagrant writhing at his feet. “Next time, kid, pick your marks a bit more wisely.” Clyon laughed aloud and snapped his wrist downward, flicking the young Rodian’s blood onto his own green face from the vibroblade Clyon had used to end so many lives.

He licked a drop of blood from his lips and spat it onto his victim’s jacket before putting the vibroblade back in his belt and strolling through the crowd as if nothing had happened. Since he’d been employed with Storm Securities, the weapons had gotten better, and the training had even honed his razor-sharp fighting edge. Jesfa, that flipperheaded pitiful excuse for a commanding officer, had handed him a blaster. He just laughed and tossed the thing aside, listening to it skitter across the duracrete floor of the Storm Securities compound.

Blades were where it was at, as far as Clyon was concerned. A “thing” was what one might say the gaunt human had for blades. A love affair was what he had termed it, and aptly so.