(This isn't meant insultingly, but please, no wall of text. Put spaces between paragraphs, try to format your character sheet for some sort of readability. I consider knowing how to space paragraphs important for us to be able to RP together ;) Most of you won't have this issue.)

Name:
Species:
Age:
Planet of Origin/Birth:
Force Sensitive Y/N: (This will be strongly limited; please don't just throw it in there for kicks. It should be the central thesis of the character if 'yes.')

Appearance:

Skills/Abilities:

Equipment:

Psychological Profile:

History:

Yes, and:

Brown haired, brown-eyed but slightly pale; he's been in asteroid mines since he was sixteen, and never seems to get enough sun. For all that, he's an average sized guy with pretty big forearms and shoulders, used to moving equipment and dealing with long shifts in the tunnels before he became a full time active duty soldier. His typical attire is a brown, Rebel-issue jumpsuit, when he's not kitted up for action. Most notably, he's bearded, because this isn't the Imperial Army or a training camp in a safe part of the Alliance.

- Basic training, Uslam - The Uslam Liberators are a rough and tough organization; they took on the Empire in an open fight on Uslam. For their trouble, they were hit with a rather large task force that dug the Liberators off their planet. Once evacuated, they were put into a ship security/strike force role on the fleet owing to their performance, which some admiral and general types somewhere thought well of.
- Accurate with a blaster - unlike Stormtroopers, Uslam put its troops through marksmanship training and Besk is a pretty good shot by that standard.
- Technician/Armorer - Beskad was a Zero-G miner and an urban guerrilla, both trades that encouraged a man to know how to do repairs to environment suits as well as learn how to rig up explosives and electronics. Given hex keys and a multitool and some other basic equipment, he can generally modify what he's given to work just a little bit better, sit at a more comfortable angle, than what he had before. As the Liberators do not have a lot of support personnel, Beskad is therefore the platoon's armorer. (Like in the Heinlein novel, where all the MI guys jump in a drop, so too the Liberators all drop and fight) Given the appropriate shop equipment, he can fabricate a surprising array of items. He's no slicer or programmer, but he knows how to cut through things and shape metal and plastoid as necessary.
- Zero-G, EVA experience - As a former asteroid miner, Beskad knows how to handle himself in Zero-G situations as they arise.
- Former guerrilla - his labor union fought Security forces and Imperial Army during a strike, employing explosives and blasters.
- Close Quarters - in the same labor dispute, he learned how to fight around corners and in tight corridors.

- Blastech A280 Blaster Rifle.
- Rebel Blast Helmet; the big one that the alliance loves so much -- he's looking to get rid of it in favor of something less cumbersome.
- Uniform; a brown jumpsuit and boots; he also favors synth leather mechanic's gloves. He also has knee and elbow pads made from scrounged cushioning and extra armor bits. You can tell someone's been in the platoon long enough when they acquire these.
- blast vest, cut down and re-stitched for ergonomics.
- Frag grenades
- personal commlink.
- Utility belt.
- When necessary an internal frame pack with appropriate infantry/survival gear.
- Other incidental infantry equipment as applies.

Beskad is a tough, independent-minded miner from Uslam but he has a bit of a loud mouth, which is why he's a corporal and not a sergeant. He has a distrust for authority and sees even the Rebel Army as a large cog full of soft, deluded manager types that think they have a grip on how to get the job done. Beskad tends to feel that they're as clueless as any other bureaucrat, even if they often enough are idealistic Alderaanian types that are, nonetheless, not experienced fighters and shouldn't be in command. He's hard on guys higher up the chain of command, to say the least.

On the other hand, Beskad tends to work well with superiors that are working, especially if they share his background and is nice to the replacements, unlike some of the others, who have attitudes about letting aruetiise (outsiders) into the Uslam units, diluting their strength.

Once, long ago, Uslam was a Mandalorian planet, though it had long since been assimilated into the Republic and lost track of its heritage. Nonetheless, Uslami culture always retained some loan-words from the language and a hard, independent streak among its people. Beskad was part of the labor union that wound up becoming the Liberators; in the early days, at the age of 16 or so, he went to work in the asteroid mines to bring home the money to his struggling family, as his father was disabled in a mining accident. The original union drew brutality from the Rim Mining Conglomerate's management and security forces, which in turn drew armed response from the Miners themselves. Even in those early days, the Uslam resistance used the skills of the miners to fabricate the equipment they needed and Beskad was one of the go-to guys for jury-rigged blasters and explosives.

When things came to a head, during a brutal strike where Imperial forces were called in to assist Rim Mining security in making the strikers work, the Uslam Resistance fought them with blaster pistols and explosives and wound up, over the course of a couple months, pushing them off planet. By this time, three regiments of troops had been raised from the planet's various industrial concerns and they prepared to raise more units to actually fight the Empire.

The Empire hit back hard -- the Uslam regiments, including the Liberators, put up a hell of a fight but were massively outgunned by AT-AT's and other armor, a large number of stormtroopers and orbital turbolaser fire. The best the Alliance could do was evacuate some of the fighters and their families, but there was no way to really win the fight with the resources on hand.

After that there was only one Uslam regiment left, the 2nd, the Liberators, who fought the hardest of all of them and had the best record in battle. Fragmented survivors of other units were merged into the Liberators, who were nonetheless split up into smaller units on a variety of Rebel Alliance fleet ships, to serve as a mobile infantry strike force.

The Intruder used to be a pirate vessel working for a Hutt cartel. Despite the scumminess of the 'Navy' crew aboard it and the disdain the platoon holds for the crew, who seem to still be engaged in black market operations (not necessarily a problem as far as the Alliance is concerned so long as they do their day job of harrying the enemy and disrupting their operations) and reluctance about being roped into working as security for a bunch of pirates (because it's their ride) Beskad has started up a casual friends with benefits arrangement with one of the pirates, a woman named Sola Keranian who serves as the ship's gunnery officer. To say she has a shady background is an understatement; there aren't skeletons in her closet, it's a mass grave.

- Intelligence and Reconnaissance: Some in the galactic community believe that spying and dishonesty comes naturally to the average Bothan. True or not, Rurran definitely lives up to this stereotype and is a capable scout and operative.
- Basic Training: Alliance- The Rebel Alliance trains its soldiers to the best of it's abilities. While this training can be short and sub par compared to many other military training in the galaxy, Alliance soldiers are prepared to do their best to win galactic freedom.
- Sweet Talker: Rurran has, or thinks he has, the ability to talk his way out of various tough situations. This has saved not only his life, but also his credit account on multiple occasions.
- Sharp: Rurran has an intelligent mind which many find to be extremely annoying. He also has a keen strategic mind and can solve most problems quickly.

- Blastech A280 Blaster Rifle.
- DL-44 heavy blaster pistol
- Basic Alliance uniform
- Frag Grenades
- Standard Issue Commlink
- Other various military survival gear and provisions carried in a military backpack

WIP

WIP

- Overly High Body Mass Midi-Chlorian Index: Jubali has the hoodoo, the voodoo, things she ain't even tried. A force-sensitive since puberty, Jubali has started to come to the creeping, existentially dreadful conclusion that any thing of worth that she has ever done might be because of a surplus of cosmic parasites in her bloodstream.
- Quick twitch - Jubali has always been a physical creature of great innervation. Swift and spry, her education at Tanis Central Continental Academy was predicated upon her athletic prowess at Holoball. Since joining the rebellion this trait has been earmarked for making Jubali suitable for the frenetic, quick strike tactics of the reconstituted 2nd and Only. When something needs to be done quick more than it needs to be done right, Jubali is who the corporals call.
- Greater Invisibility - Jubali has always had an almost preternatural knack for going unnoticed. In spite of having no real grace to speak of and little training in stealth techniques, Jubali has proven herself to be able to go undetected in battlefield contingencies and otherwise, seemingly through force of will, or maybe just the will of the Force.
- Alternative Medicine - Jubali never really wanted to be a healer. She never much cared for alien ichor and diseases. She did like the security and prestige that supposedly came with being a doctor. Unfortunately, whatever her personal givings, Jubali is a terrible healer. She never would have made it through the two standard years of medical school she did pass without the benefit of her minor force sensitivity. Able to intuit a basic form of a kind of 'force healing' Jubali can treat moderate tissue damage in herself and others, albeit at a rate that is nominally inferior to proper, modern medical attention in all aspects except for the resources necessary.

- E5 Blaster Carbine - The stock locking pin broke.
- Ill-fitting Blast Armor - Helmet not included.
- Cliff Flax Kiffar Kanga - It's a dress.
- Vibro-Knife - Kitchen Grade, much better than military.
- Medpacks - Which she mostly pretends to use.

Jubali isn't in this for your damned rebellion. She doesn't really expect to be paid, either. She just wants to burn holes into Imperials before they burn holes into her. Some of that is vengeance, mostly it's self-preservation. Combat scares her shitless. Sometimes she wishes she was dead. Mostly she wishes everyone else was dead. She's certain we'll all get there eventually.

Jummali Tusk was killed in front of Jubali when she was 7 standard years old. Jubali did not realize the fact until a couple hours later. She doesn't remember the colorful shot that killed her mother. There were so many, reflecting in beautiful shades off of the crystalline dunes of Quen, breathable moon of the gas giant, Joob. Mostly Jubali only remembers how cold it was. How difficult it was for her to breath. To this day she cannot fathom how her sister managed to run across the freezing desert, carrying Jubali in her arms for nearly 2 hours, all with the flesh of her back burnt to the bone, exposed to the thin atmosphere of that moon. Jubali just remembers reaching the refugee shuttle moments before it took off. She remembers the alien who gave up it's crash seat so that Jubali's sister could strap her in. The look of numb horror on the faces of the other passengers as they stared at the ruins of Jummali's back. Jubali's memories turn to the auditory here, her eyes filled with tears and squeezed tight. Just the deathly rattle of the shuttle, her sister singing to her from her place on the shuttles grated floor. The feeling of her sister's hands folded over her own. A thumb rubbing soothingly over her knuckles. At some point Jubali fell asleep, exhausted. Jummali must have as well. The next time Jubali saw her sister, she was ashen and still under an opaque, plastic sheet.

Jubali never met her parents. She was born of the void on a little tramp freighter the name of which she never knew. From the moment she was born she could see the stars. She used to think they watched over her. Now they always seem like cold, distant gods, judging from on high. Her sister, 10 years older than herself, raised her in spaceports and stations, busking, grifting, mulling, fleeing port authorities and the occasional Hutt enforcer. Jubali remembers the smells and sounds of a thousand different aliens, crushing all around her in little boxes of metal, spinning in the gravity of one planetary mass or another. She remembers landing on Quen, how beautiful the starlight looked on it's surface, how Jummali had seemed to relax for the first time, exulting on the breeze that drifted across the sands. How she had told Jubali that they might have finally found a place to stay, for good. How comfortable the five by eight room they shared at the mining complex had been. How warm it was nestled between drilling drivers. How the blood had drained from Jummali's face when she entered the clinics office, shouting for Jubali pushed towards the door by the stern lunar authority officers that had surrounded Jubali when she woke up.

Jubali did not remember the fall. She had been playing near one of the old pit mines. In hindsight it was a foolish thing to do. The pit must have been a hundred meters deep, at least. Jubali should not have survived. She did not know what tests they performed on her while she was unconscious, but the nurse that was in the room with the officers had looked at Jubali like she wasn't human, or alien either, she clutched a native charm in a white knuckled grip on her chest, like it would protect her from whatever Jubali was. Jubali was taken from that place. She did not see her sister for a time. She was taken to a place that was cold, and clean, and full of light. She lost track of days. The only ones she saw were other people dressed in the same gray cloths as she was given to wear. The only one who spoke to her was the garrison commander who was in her cell on the first day. He looked scared of something on the other side of the cell door. He spoke to her of things she did not understand. He seemed mad at her, or worried about her, she still wasn't sure. He spoke of what needed to be done, of the Empire, of superstition, of sedition. He didn't seem to be speaking to Jubali at all. She worried he would hurt her. She wanted to ask about her sister. She didn't. Many days later there was an explosion.

Then came the lasers flashing in the night. Her sister had come for her. Other people had come too. They had made huge holes in the walls of the clean, cold place. Many people ran out of them dressed just like her. A man with a beard made out of skin and wearing a brown bathrobe told them to run and pointed across the desert. He looked at Jubali and smiled sadly. He turned on a little stick that made a sword of light.

Jubali was taken with the rest of the refugees to a place she did not know. She does not remember much of it. She was taken in by an elderly pair of humans who living in the asteroids around Uslam. She does not remember much of the rest of her childhood. Some men occasionally came to check up on her. They spoke in hushed tones on the other sides of doors. They gave Jubali a holochit. They said it would get her into the best imperial-sponsored academy on Ulsam. Turned out to be the only one. Jubali did well enough in her studies, well enough to be recruited into the primary medical program. It seemed like a good idea. Jubali just wanted to never live the life that had gotten to this point again. She just wanted to avoid trouble. To never see uniformed men paying her any mind. To have the money to never live in a five by eight again. To stay warm, to breath clean air. It did not seem like a lot to ask. The stars are not kind. The PMP was much harder than her primary courses. She didn't know there were so many sapient species, or how different their biology was. The imperial-sponsored course only focused on humans and their near relations, even then, Jubali was barely passing. The only saving grace Jubali ever had was her practicals. In spite of her ostensible incompetence, her hours at the mining clinic always finished with clean reports. She treated her patients quickly and efficiently. She never wasted clinical supplies. Jubali knew it had nothing to do with what she knew about medicine. She searched the holonet for spontaneous healing. Species with healing powers. Some oblique references to spiritual mysticism were all she found. A number of sites turned up empty space, with nothing but the Imperial emblem and boilerplate condemnation notices citing illegal misinformation and other offenses. Jubali started to get scared. She was sure her professors stared at her in class. Her foster parents called after her, asking why they had a notice saying she had authorized the academy access to her adoption records. Jubali tried to quietly pack her room. Then revolution came to Ulsam.

The Imperial administration building at the academy was set on fire in the night. The rebel-sympathizing students responsible were caught and publicly executed. A thousand simultaneous incidents occurred across the system. In an instant, the planet and it's holdings were carved into battling lines. Tanis Academy was put into lockdown. Stormtroopers poured into the campus. Jubali ran. She has no idea how she managed to get away without being spotted and shoot by the white deathmask wearing soldiers. She has her suspicions. She did no know how she managed to find a bulk speeder pilot willing to take her to her home hab, but she does now. The captain saluted the strange men at the front gate, the ones wearing defaced garrison uniforms. She was brought to a new crush of people, miners, engineers, all listening to another uniformed man decrying the brutal Imperial regime. At some point, a blaster was forced into Jubali's hands.

The war is a blur. Jubali isn't sure how she managed to survive. Mostly it was probably how well she hid whenever fighting started. Or maybe how quick she was to shoot when a blaster was pointed at her. Or maybe it was her fellow soldiers who were responsible. How grateful her squad was when she managed to patch them up. How amazed they were that they had a medic. They never questioned how she managed to get them back into fighting shape without adequate medical supplies. Someone must have told the rebel command because she was given her own medipacs at some point. War continued. She didn't save everyone. Most of her squad died in their final engagement. She was extracted from a place filled with mud and blood. The war ended while she was in triage.

Now a new war is being fought on far flung worlds. They need veteran soldiers. Ulsam has those. Jubali just wanted to live a quiet life of comfort. She is sick of the sound of blaster fire. Tired of watching a rainbow of flickering light reflect off the glassy eyes of the dead. But the stars are not kind. They never were.

Jubali isn't sure whether she loves or hates Norana. In many ways, the Togruta represents everything that Jubali wishes was better about herself. She thinks Norana is fast, confidant, and possessive of a certainty that Jubali believes she lacks. She thinks they could be fast friends, or bitter foes. She thinks Norana is an arrogant, reckless, self-serving nerf herder. She thinks Norana might be a worse version of herself. She thinks Norana probably doesn't think much about her at all.