Lucan Drevaris

Lucan Drevaris stands at just over six feet, lean but unmistakably powerful, a body honed not by brute strength, but by calculated precision. His posture is immaculate, as if he were carved from stone, and every movement carries the same restrained grace as a well-practiced duelist. He walks like someone who knows the floor beneath him will give way before he ever does.

His face is sharp and symmetrical, with high cheekbones and a strong, angular jaw that rarely betrays emotion. His skin is pale, not sickly, but almost marble-like, untainted by sunlight thanks to years spent within shadowed temples, tombs, and starships. A prominent scar runs vertically through his right eye, beginning at the brow and cleaving through the lower lid, healed but not hidden. It is a relic of his past, displayed without shame, and it serves as both warning and testament.

His eyes are his most striking feature: a piercing ice blue, shot through with faint yellow veins that catch the light in unsettling ways. They seem to see too much, analytical, unblinking, and haunted by what they’ve witnessed. To meet his gaze is to feel momentarily transparent, as if every weakness in your soul has already been catalogued. His hair is dark blond, thick and swept back with deliberate neatness, never loose, never wild. Not a strand seems out of place, which suits the man it crowns. He keeps it trimmed just long enough to give him a regal silhouette, echoing the composed nobility of ancient Sith Lords.

Lucan’s armor is both beautiful and menacing, a refined set of Sith warrior plating forged from black durasteel layered with dark crimson inlays. Subtle arcane etchings pulse faintly along the gauntlets and breastplate, echoing ancient rituals and Sith script. The armor hugs close to his frame without sacrificing movement, and a long, dark cloak, weighted and layered for formal presence, falls from one shoulder like the shroud of a monarch in mourning.

At his side, he carries a crimson-bladed lightsaber, distinct in its harsh, shrieking hum. The blade itself is jagged and unstable, not by design, but due to an old battle scar in the focusing crystal, a flaw Lucan has never repaired. To him, the imperfection is meaningful. It screams not only when ignited, but of what was lost, and what was endured. The overall effect is unshakable: Lucan Drevaris looks less like a warlord and more like a ghost prince, the last heir of a dying empire, calm as winter, and twice as merciless.