I don't have a specific concept in mind right this moment but I'm definitely interested in playing Star Wars. I'll post something more substantive once I'm in front of my computer.
Went with an elf. She a scholar biohacker with the medic archetype. Her background puts her out in the wilds, but that's obviously flexible depending on group needs. I'm admittedly not nearly as familiar or comfortable with Starfinder builds and character sheets as others may be, so I apologize in advance if I've made some mistake here. It also peters off some at the end, which can be amended or added on to if you need me to do so.
Dr. Amalara Vallassar:
Amalara Vallassar Female Elf Scholar Biohacker (Medic) 3 CG Medium Humanoid (Elf) Init +2; Senses Low-light vision, Perception +11 -----------------
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Class Abilities
Racial Abilities
Theme Scholar (Genetics)
Background: Born more than a century and a half after the Gap on Castrovel, Amalara grew up comfortably in the ancient elven homeland of Sovyrian on Castrovel. Early on she showed a fascination and affinity with her homeworld's biology in all its forms, and this interest was fostered for many years by teachers and tutors. Somewhat differently from many other elves, however, Amalara was just as fascinated with the aliens and foreigners that can be found in Cordona. Though her parents were personally affected by the Gap, Amalara was not, and always considered the xenophobic and isolationist approach her people took to the rest of the universe to be self-defeating. Frustrated with her people's self-imposed isolation, Amalara left her home continent to pursue a medical and scientific education among the Lashunta in Qabarat. She was a bright and determined student, earning a medical degree alongside a doctoral degree in genetics. The now-Doctor Vallassar, taking inspiration from the use of biotechnology in her homeland, sought to study the vast diversity of life in the universe, and use that knowledge to develop more effective biotech. Such technology, in her mind, had vast, untapped potential for medicine and healing as well as for augmentation. Seeking new avenues for advancement and access to a wider cross-section of the diversity of the Pact Worlds, she left for Absalom Station; as luck would have it, she arrived and began practicing medicine just in time for the Swarm invasion. She spent time working in hospitals and medical bays during the conflict, seeing and treating the sorts of injuries produced by war. Dr. V., as many of her patients called her, came to have a much greater appreciation of not just the diversity of life under her care, but also the actual people and cultures they represented. After the repulsion of the Swarm, Dr. Vallassar spent a few more years on Absalom Station before moving on to greener pastures. She spent a short time working with the Barathus on and around Bretheda, studying biotech and its development and application. She found the work fascinating, but the profit-driven corporate environment and the intense rivalries that bred grated on her, and soon enough she found herself on a shuttle headed back to Qabarat. Upon her return to Castrovel Dr. V. hoped to focus less on clinical practice more on research. She found a position at one of Qabarat's universities as a researcher soon enough. Amalara's most recent research opportunity finds her at a station on the edge of the jungle, studying the verdant wildlife of Castrovel. To her chagrin, however, Dr. V. finds herself dealing with foot fungus and other medical concerns more than she had hoped. So, while she splits her duties between medicine and research, she continues to bide her time, waiting to seize whatever opportunity may come along.
Florian breathes a silent sigh of relief as the patrol ship captain returns to his ship and sails off. One burning question remains on Florian's mind, however; one which threatens to torment him the rest of the journey north. He meets eyes with Brice, one eyebrow cocked, hints of a concerned expression beginning to show. With a glance around, as if to be sure Kargeld isn't lurking nearby, he speaks. "Is that what you think merchants sound like?" Horror flashes in his eyes for an instant. "Is that what we sound like?"
Florian's first real excursion at sea goes only slightly better than he thought it might: though he managed to avoid any sort of motion sickness, it takes a few days for him to truly get his sea legs under him. Despite this he quite enjoys the idea of sailing and adventure at sea, and hardly takes notice of the smells or sounds that might otherwise disturb him. The young man wakes before even most of the sailors each morning, and in the early hours can be found sitting down in a quiet, out of the way spot. During these times he is hunched over, something clutched close to his chest, a blanket over his shoulders in order to hide exactly what is in his hands. The rest of his time Florian alternates between walking around the ship, reading, and speaking with the others, particularly his "wife". He is constantly assessing not only potential danger to the ship, but also the capabilities and habits of the crew itself.
Welcome to the Zel Zone? :D
"You'd be amazed the kinds of things people enjoy," Zel says. "And how much they pay people like me to bring it to them." The scoundrel kneels down by the vents. He tries simply pulling at it. He sighs when it refuses to budge, then begins to work on undoing the restraints securing it in place. He tries to balance working quickly with working quietly, but it's a difficult balance to strike, particularly when Mermeia is constantly blaring in the background.
"Hold on," Zel says, steadying himself by the console. He attaches his datapad, then begins working on the console in a quick, furious burst of activity. When finished, he detaches the datapad and steps away from the computer, laughing hoarsely. "All right, let's go."
Hey all, I'll be joining you eventually. Until then, well, I hope the rats don't eat you. :D
Zel sighs loudly before stepping forward. Best he can figure, he can either stay awake during the run and probably die, sleep through it and probably die, or run alone the long way around and probably die. At least this way he gets to take a nap. "All right, let's get this over with. If this gets me killed though, I'm gonna be real mad."
"They're wearing prisoner jumpsuits," Zel says, his voice still low. "And they already know we're here. Not Imperials, but still, you can't easily trust the kind of people who end up in prison on star destroyers, especially when they're armed like those guys." He lets that thought linger in the air for a moment, blaster still in hand. "Uhh, well, anyway, there might be one of those kits in the rooms those two are ducking in and out of."
Interrogation:
Zel blinks in surprise as the door to his cell suddenly slides open and a squad of stormtroopers come to retrieve him. "What, six of you? I would have expected at least eight. Should I feel insulted? he croaks at the troopers as they bind his hands and remove him from the cell. He continues talking as he's ushered down the hall. "Seriously guys, you should cut loose some time. I know this cantina on Socorro, great atmosphere, pretty girls, a little dangerous, but that's what I'm there for. It'll be a great time." For this Zel receives a jab to the gut, to which he responds with a sound that is half-cough and half-laugh. "More dancing girls for me then," he manages to choke out. Finally the group arrives at its destination. "Corellian whiskey, if you've got it," he replies to the alien officer, flashing a wide smile. "And some ormachek. Might help me remember something." Zel listens to the officer speak, amused at first. If this was what being lucky looked like, he'd hate to see what being unlucky entailed. The smuggler sighs in exasperation at the officer's initial questions. He must have read previous reports. He waves an arm dismissively. "Some human, I think. You see, in my line of work, sometimes it's good not to know too much about my employers. Besides, discretion is usually part of what's paid for. It wouldn't do much for my reputation if I just told you, would it? I'm certain I've said all this before." He leans back in his chair and looks around the room, his bulbous eyes moving about to take in every detail. "As for my 'egress plan', I figured I'd fly out." Zel straightens up a bit as the intelligence officer continues on about his home planet and the wanted fugitives suspected to be hiding on its surface. He knows how this game works. Any suggestion that he knew such information would be taken as further evidence of connections with the Rebellion. After all, how else would he even know that information? The alien imperial was prompting Zel to incriminate himself while ostensibly offering some kind of mercy. Fortunately for Zel, he doesn't know a blasted thing. "You already know I haven't been back here since I was a child," Zel retorts. He suddenly leans forward, a conspiratorial glint in his eyes. "I can tell you what I know, but I'll need my things back first. And my ship. Then right before I jump to hyperspace, I'll shout it into the comms. Deal?" He gives the officer a cheeky grin.
Zel finds himself rather roughly pushed into the new cell. He straightens his clothes before looking around at his fellow inmates. "Death row? Nope, I'll be out of here in no time." He nods with certainty at this declaration. He moves over to one side of the cell as Rod is accosted by a greasy-looking young woman. "Hey there, I'm Zel. Nice to meet ya," he says to Flan. For a moment he considers turning on the charm, but a more burning question must take precedence. He looks over at Rod. "Hey, how'd you get a clone of yourself made? Might be a good future investment for me. Oh, and how'd your clone end up being her dad?"
As evening falls, Theron finds himself sitting on one of the piers on Sandpoint's docks, his feet dangling over the edge, looking out west over the harbor and ocean beyond. He sits quietly and lets the sounds around him wash over him: the gentle murmuring of the water beneath him; the creaking of the docks; the sound of people milling about, finalizing preparations or otherwise enjoying themselves the night before the Swallowtail festival. The autumn air would likely be pleasantly crisp, or so Theron thinks as he takes another drink of cheap rum from his flask. The liquor brought a warm numbness that made it hard to really tell. The young Varisian man was sitting out of the way, so no one on the docks seemed to be paying him much attention. Pretty typical, really. Theron had been in Sandpoint for only a couple months, and so far he felt like people in town weren't quite sure what to think of him. His particular rural accent was unusual for this part of Varisia, his well-worn clothing could often be charitably described as "very functional", and his stated purpose for coming to the area -- preparing for a giant attack -- made some look at him a bit funny. People were still nice enough, even if he still felt as much an outsider as the day he arrived. Theron shakes himself from his reverie. Enough feeling sorry for yourself. It's a celebration, so go celebrate. He takes another swig from his flask before standing up. He takes a few steps back up the pier, stumbling slightly as he goes. "Guess I drank more than I thought," he mutters. Doing his best to walk steady, he makes his way up Salmon Street, looking for somewhere to entertain himself for the evening. The closest place would be Fatman's Feedbag, but he decides to pass. A little too seedy. He makes his way toward The Rusty Dragon, though he imagines he won't be able to even get inside, let alone drink or sleep there. If that didn't work out, there were still plenty of places to choose from. |
