Age 734.

Asomei, an unpolished-and-tumble warrior of golden-furred fox descent, helmed the stars with a coalescence of shrewd and bare vehemence that made him a formidable figure to all who crossed his fated footpath; the visage of his being had the cicatrices of countless battles if his rowdy, curt voice wasn't adequate—two jagged lines traverse the bridge of his snout, while a third ran diagonally from his right cheek to his chin, his ki gold and red in coated hues.

Halation clear and clad in stolen traditional galactic armor, the foxish rogue's sleek contours were designed to withstand the harshest of interstellar engagements; he was ever-prepared for combat, yet, it was the ring on his right ear that set him asunder. Now, the pirate saw himself on a backwater planet. It wasn't much more than a desolate sphere far removed from the iron grip of any galactic despot. A wild card in a deck stacked with unknowns...that was what he was and only was!

Explaining its visual aspect, this planet’s landscape was but a hasty, rugged expanse of rocky outcroppings alongside untamed forestry; the populace was wary settlers and hidden enclaves...

Resistance was put up, but the pirate surprisingly wanted no problems, only taking down the ones who saw him as a problem with a good brawl, going on to a village where he could stay for a night after crashing his pod on the run from headstrong space-raiders.

He was left injured with bruises and cuts all over, but would have been bandaged; the fact that none of them were much beyond superficial also helped. However, amid this traversal of the unfair terrain around the village, Asomei’s senses were keenly attuned to his surroundings; this air was thick. With the scent of damp earth and the distant rumble of thunder, he realized and eventually saw a brewing tempest on the horizon; his eyes were steadfasted under great spatial computation.

Every rustle in the underbrush, and just as he was clung to a deluge of muted sentiment, he realized that he lost his scouter.