Grida is a dark green skinned Rodian standing at around 5'11 (Just above average height for his species). Like most of his species he's thin with not much substance, giving him a weak look compared to other species who tend to show off lots of muscle mass. His eyes are a very dark blue, with light blue speks inhabiting them giving him the starry eyed look that most of his species possesses.

One thing that his dark skin hides is that he's never truly clean. He could have stayed in a five star hotel in Coruscant for a week but still have a layer of dirt on him one way or another, he's used to skulking in dark caverns and through ruins. He's not terribly clean. His body is lean, as mentioned above, but at the same time it isn't frail. It's obvious that he's an active individual, though in group situations his body language conveys someone who is trying not to get bogged down. Someone anxious and worried, even if he shirks it off.

He typically wears the same dark clothes, and even if he does change he never gives up on wearing his hat.

As described in his history, Grida is a thief through and through. He see's what other people have, and wants it for himself. Though it's more than petty greed. While Grida is greedy there's also an element of thrill to it. Anyone can kill to take something that isn't theirs, but it takes skill to take something without violence. Having (previously) earned enough money to live on he began to do it purely for the thrill.

He carries a blaster and a knife, but he's not terribly skilled with them (Though he is a quick draw), but tends to prefer using his wit and charisma to get out of difficult situations. People would class him as a 'coward', though he tends to avoid killing as he realises it brings in itself more complications. The authorities take a killing more seriously than something being stolen, as do the actual victims. They're less willing to spend money on a bounty after having items stolen than if someone is killed.

Though he is quick at his trade that doesn't mean he'll rush a job. Sure he can be a pickpocket, though he tends to case out a job for weeks or even months and planning it to perfection before executing his move. That said, he has a nasty habit that if he is foiled that he will tweak the plan but then return until he gets what he wants.

Grida was a street rat on the industrial shipyards of Kuat. He wasn't quite sure what his parents were, if they had been travellers or workers on the station who couldn't afford a child. He had grown up in an orphanage within the giant rings orbitting the planet that housed millions of workers for the shipyards. From a young age he had a knack for getting into trouble, for as soon as he was old enough to act sneaky he started to steal. He didn't see the problem with it, as far as he saw it if the person truly cared about the item they'd care for it enough that it wouldn't get stolen. This got him into trouble on more than one occasion.

Until eventually, when he was old enough, he was sent away to a juvenille correctional facility on the planets surface in order to set him straight. In defence of the program it worked for a period of time, though while he spent some time working legit as a small time contractor for Kuat Drive Yards, life lacked the excitement of the steal. The casing out of a target, and the acquisition of the item. Why should he work long hard hours for nothing when he could get so much more by taking it? Granted he didn't want to get caught, especially as war now coursed through the Galaxy. Stealing from a shipwright during a time of war was an especially bad idea. So he worked on improving his craft.

He spent time perfecting his art, picking up just enough skill to help him get by. Though he learnt his lesson, and wouldn't stick around after pulling a particularly large job. His first big job was stealing an old ship from the Kuat Drive Yards, finally leaving the ring that had kept him trapped for his whole life behind. He drifted through the war for a while, war time was excellent for rogues of all trades. He lapped up the opportunity during wartime, and the transitional period between the Republic and the Empire.

Obviously with the Empire he struggled more, the Imperials had a more proactive stance on 'security'. They had garrisons on planets, patrols of cruisers and even Star Destroyers. His job became harder unless he went beyond the mid-rim. The issue then was that there wasn't as much to steal. His most recent job took him to Polus where he attempted to steal one of the Pyn'ganis carbonite guns that he had heard so much about, recognising the value of a gun that could literally freeze everything. Though the Pyn'gani saw right through him, and while he managed to steal the gun it was damaged beyond his capabilities to repair it. After this he heard tale of a Hutt on Nar Shadda who had attracted the Empire by a caché of 'Artifacts'. Unable to stop himself from seizing the opportunity Grida journeyed to Nar Shadda.

That said Grida arrived at Nar Shadda and almost immediately got dragged into a barfight. He lost everything to the Hutts after that, including his freedom. Now he's forced to work with a crew till he gets his freedom back.

A DC-15s Sidearm, DH-17 Blaster Rifle, datapad.

He can slice through most security systems, he's patient and a planner. Through his travels he's broken into many different structures and into several ships. As such while he's not an assassin he can get himself into places just as easily. He knows how to fire his weapons, though he's no good against someone with actual training/practice. He's obviously rather accomplished at sleight of hand, picking physical locks and picking pockets.

Grida has a small network of informants, more or less just people who typically fence his stolen goods and let him know when there is something worth stealing.

At a touch over two meters and hale all the way through Xymone radiates an infectious cheer from the flat of her heels to tip of her hullepi. Plush in all the right places her enviable athleticism detracts little from the fullness of her figure, with the caveat she remains plainly a picture of health rather than beauty; a hand wouldn't sink far before meeting muscle. Though the jawless tendril heavy mouth so emblematic of her ilk might be considered repellent to most sentients this confident Khil is of the intractable opinion it merely adds to her 'exotic charm', given their usually the most animated aspect of her expressions. Her skin is a deep dark grey that offsets the blue of her eyes and voice is as melodious as any of her kind.

With a heritage of soldiering and healthy respect for hard hitting ordinance Xymone favors heavier Belnarian armor. Fashioned from composite plates sewn between sheets of thermal dissipating material it has a deceptively unprotective, padded appearance despite being relatively stab proof, looking most like a winter coat to the untrained eye. Stiff and quite cumbersome its construction necessitates some exposed sections along the arms and spine for sake of mobility. A fondness of trophy hunting is evidenced elsewhere in her attire and amid more trivial keepsakes a belt of Gamorrean clan rings holds a place of prominence, likewise she is keen to adopt a ridiculous Advozse horn hat when merrymaking.

Polite and friendly for a woman capable of pulling your arms off Xymone is the Khilian contradiction made manifest. Dedicated and Ambitious yet somehow carefree, a creature of arrogance and compassion that pursues profession and pleasure with an equal and impressive devotion. Always a bit too willing to put herself out there and experience new things she is no stranger to disastrous misadventures, an optimism and cultural belief that anything can be overcome with enough effort often seeing her through. As a direct result however she often breaks down under prolonged stress if progress isn't forthcoming.

Born an incorrigible xenophile it was only a matter of time before she shirked the trappings of her ancestral homeland and set her sights beyond the stars, that same single-mindedness to see a thing done often urging her to attempt ill-advised or outright impossible feats with consenting (later bruised) adults. Infamously it was during an extended stay as a debt collector she started to be known in certain circles as the hammer of Rodia, though she couldn't say for sure if she'd earned the alias on-duty or off the clock. Prone as she is to prattle and gossip Xymone is unduly paranoid others are attempting to assassinate her character, as few things came before reputation in her line of work.

Though not inherently violent she harbors an impressive capacity for devious, vindictive behavior when her loyalty is called into question and has sometimes waited years to avenge relatively minor slights, as a certain blind Bith can attest to. Not being uncharacteristic of her people she sees such behavior as a retaliation rather than overreaction, though would be just as readily appeased by a heart felt apology. Which would be fine if she wasn't such a sore loser at games of chance, quick to feel cheated despite herself.

To this day she remains good friends with a pair of Aqualish that had attempted to mug her during a delivery to Ando, suggesting during the scuffle that she was in the wrong line of work. Pybba and Tward still attempt to kill her from time to time mind you, but their damned amicable about it all the same. As twins they've an infuriating habit of insisting she can't tell Aqualish apart and an infuriating habit of being exactly right.

Born to a soldier and star trader the career minded nature of her species meant she'd be seeing very little of one or the other, in this case Qitat, her mother. With nothing more than her father's embellished retellings and the rare long distance communique to go on a young Xymone found herself idealizing an absentee mother, her thoughts on how a woman ought to act skewed as a result. Eventually her parents became less and less enamored with each other and having never married drifted out of contact, something that has always been an irrational source of guilt for Xymone. Stubbornly fantasizing about a chance meeting that would never come she set out to become someone worthy of her mother's respect, which was naturally quite impossible with only an exaggerated caricature to compare herself to. As hard as she tried you'd of thought she was waiting for Xamar himself to show up looking for a padawan.

Sensing the growing distance between them Ysget did his best to indulge his daughter through what he thought to be the rebellious throes of youth, seeing as if nothing else she had demonstrated a solid work ethic. Giving a little incentive here and there for the least unsavory folk with whom he dealt to show his daughter a few 'moves' here and there; he'd never expected her to run off with one of them. As a shiftless sixteen year old greener behind the ears than a sea-sick Nautolan she was more the ship mascot than anything, the crew having planned to ransom her back to her father at a very reasonable rate. They hadn't however counted on her being so head-over-heels enamored with the prospect of freebooting. The common area was cleaned for the first time in years, chores got done for a change and even the least accomplished of scallywags suddenly found someone hanging on every word of exploits past. She'd made them feel like real pirates and--unknowingly at first--they'd began to live up to expectations.

By the time Xymone had grown enough to see the thick of any fighting that may come (and my how she had grown) the already old assemblage of scofflaws were positively aged. Coming to the conclusion that a life of violence and thievery was no life for the now not so wee Khil they'd become attached to a plan was hatched to have Xymone be the first through the door as they raided a lone vessel. No sooner was she on the modest cargo ship than they'd sealed the doors behind her and flown off, leaving her at the mercy of a relieved but understandably irate Ysget. Chewing her out like an enraged rancor for making such a brash and hurtful decision her father managed to wring a tearful apology from her as the two hugged and made amends.

Then she robbed him because damn it if she wasn't a grown woman and he'd have to accept her decisions sooner or later

Not really knowing where to go from there she bought passage from one world to the next committing the petty criminal equivalent of odd jobs; delivering suspicious passages, standing around and looking tough, etc. It wasn't until a brush with danger on Ando that a pair of muggers succinctly stated she could 'beat the stink off a jawa' and between the three of them agreed she was in the wrong line of work. Technically she'd only agreed to deliver the package safely, so in exchange for just telling them where it was going the Aqualish would put in a good word with their mercenary company. They lied of course, but apparently fighting Pybba and Tward to a standstill was just as good of an ice breaker. Unfortunately a certain Hutt on Nar Shaddaa would have preferred that parcel been handled with more care, so slowly but surely they tracked down the courier responsible.

Completely unawares to the deathly shadow now falling over her from half a galaxy away Xymone just thought Gamorreans liked picking fights with her for the better part of a decade and foolishly felt as if wearing enough of their fallen clan rings would be enough to disuade further attacks. It wasn't until a particularly suave sapient sweet talked her into a night of whirlwind drinking and she awoke next to similarly confused strangers that the situation began to dawn on her.

This Khil combatant's arms and armor make a decisive statement: bigger is better. Armed with a Gamorrean vibro-axe acquired off one of her many porcine assailants and preferring to lob explosives over aim a blaster she is anything but subtle in a firefight. Her well worn and carbon scored armor weathered from forgotten frays yet not in disrepair; a Belnarian holdover from the republic era. Between points A and B she usually relies on a beat up old repulsorlift that has seen better days. Bought used and then some the Arrow-23 seats five (if it wasn't missing a seat), boasts military grade plating (that should have been replaced years ago) and a spacious cargo hold (that doesn't quite lock anymore). Aside from these and a few sundries Xymone is usually nosing about with her personal secretary.

One doesn't exactly earn the namesake 'of Gamorr' lightly when they've never set foot on the planet itself. Able to routinely outfight and overpower Gamorreans at spitting distance Xynome is capable of some uncanny feats of strength. Paired with the preconceived notion that effort is paramount she is an unpolished combatant that places little stock in the fancy moves and mystic 'mumbojumbo' of many martial arts, having never been impressed by tactful fighters that lacked the staying power to throw hands with her. Moreover she has a knack for throwing grenades that is a sight to behold, born from a prolonged and continued habit of playing catch with herself as she thinks. Xymone is a pretty bad driver all things considered, but doesn't think twice about turning a chase or game of chicken into a destruction derby. She can navigate wetlands with ease, carry a tune for a mile and makes very good smoothies.

She prefers chipper tunes like Figrin D'an and the Modal Nodes break out single "Mad About Me", can't eat solids and finds herself supporting most of the empire's policies while still being nonplussed with how human-centric things have become.

Relloc is your average human by most standards, normal height, decent build, brown hair and eyes. What makes him stand out is how he presents himself. A true grease monkey, Relloc is never found without a layer of grime coating him and everything he owns. His body is covered in scars and burns from mishaps while working with machines, and his head and beard hair is singed at the ends from catching on fire in the past. He often has a hint of alcohol on his breath, though most people don't actually see him drinking, so its assumed he does it during his work. His eyes are usually covered by thick, flash-resistant goggles(the spots covered by the goggles are actually grime-free, showing how much he wears them), his hands garbed in thick synthleather work gloves covered in scorch marks, and his body cloaked in a dirty red jumpsuit, thick with tool and part-filled pouches, several utility belts wrapped around the waist and chest, patched burn and cut holes, and a small blaster in a holster at his hip.

Practically born in the spaceports of Corellia, Relloc has been fixing things since before he could read. Greatly enjoying this work, Relloc grew up a mechanic doing what he loved, fixing ships, speeders, droids, blasters, you name it. His happy life has given him a more optimistic outlook on life, with him seeing most problems as some sort of mechanical issue, saying "You can fix any problem with the right tool, and a bit of elbow grease." No matter how bad the situation gets for him, he swears that there's nowhere to go but up. Always at home in the bowels of a ship, or in a droid workshop, Relloc isn't much of a people person, and this shows. He has issues dealing with real people, often wishing they could be more like his machines. This leads to him treating machines more like people, giving them names, talking to them while fixing them, and yelling at them when they frustrate him.

In combat, Relloc is somewhat of a coward. Hiding behind the biggest, thickest things he can, he wildly fires from around corners or over the tops of things, not caring what he hits. He hates fighting, wishing more people were focused on fixing the problems of the world, instead of adding to them with violence and hatred.

In terms of the criminal underworld, Relloc has no qualms about helping those who commit crimes, as long as he doesn't have to do it himself. He's worked with hutts and crime bosses before, and they generally leave him to his work, so he doesn't have much issue with them.

He doesn't really have much of an opinion on the Empire. They've never restricted his work, and they were often decent paying customers in the spaceports he's worked for. Overall, he just sees them as just another government, one to pass through on his way to the next spaceport.

Born and raised on Corellia, Relloc is the latest in a long family line of mechanics and engineers. Learning to take apart and put back together a mouse droid before he could read, and his first book being the droid's instruction manual, Relloc was destined to fix things. Starting work in his father's workshop in his teens, he was soon the co-owner of the business, helping his father with whatever jobs needed doing, and even fixing stuff on his own.

By the time Relloc came to be an adult, he sought a bit more adventure in his life than just whatever came through the door of his father's shop. Taking up a mechanic position on board a cargo freighter, he began a journey of his own, seeing planets across the galaxy, though he never strayed too far from the spaceport the ship was docked at.

Relloc got along well with the crew of the freighter. The captain, a Rodian named Gorth, treated him like family, always checking on him, asking how things were going, and offering to play a game of Sabacc when neither of them were busy. The security of the ship was overseen by a Rattataki named Hutox. The two would often practice physical sparring, though Relloc always came away with far more bruises than Hutox. Lastly, there was Tof, a Mirialan. Tof was the pilot, and often gave Relloc instructions on better ways to maneuver the ship, while talking about their favorite starship modifications. Relloc still keeps in contact with Hutox and Tof, but misfortune had befallen Gorth, leading to him falling out of contact with Relloc.

Relloc and the freighter crew got in all sorts of adventures, both of the legal and irreputable kinds. One that Relloc frequently tells to anyone who is willing to listen, is of their time delivering spice to a Hutt on Tatooine. The job started out simple, pick the shipment up on Nar Shaddaa, get it straight to Tatooine. However, a rival Hutt had different ideas. Relloc and the others found themselves holding off fighter attacks, rushing to get to Tatooine in one piece. Relloc was rushing through the bowels of the ship, trying to keep it to hold together just long enough to make the jump to lightspeed. The hyperdrive was damaged in the attack, and Relloc had to try and fix it while half the ship was on fire around him. Frustrated, Relloc ended up throwing a hydrospanner at the drive, which by a miracle got it working again, allowing Tof to make the jump in time. For the next half a month, Relloc was spending all his time fixing the damage done to the ship. To this day he swears it was a miracle that the thing didn't fall apart during the jump.

When the Clone Wars ended, and the Galactic Republic became the Galactic Empire, Relloc didn't really notice the difference, for the most part. The increased patrols in the mid and inner rim sectors didn't detract from his profession, and when docked at the same time as the Imperials, he often found work fixing up blasters and droids for those stationed aboard their ships.

However, the captain of Relloc's freighter felt otherwise. Signing him and his ship on to a rebellion recruitment list, Relloc soon found himself fixing ships and gear for rebel forces. This brought Relloc to worlds he never would have seen otherwise, and he actually enjoyed the lifestyle of a military mechanic. Eventually the Empire would capture Gorth, causing Relloc to realize just how dangerous working for the rebellion was.

Boarding the first shuttle he could away from the rebellion, Relloc found himself on Nar Shaddaa, running a small repair shop outside one of the spaceports. This was the life Relloc lived up until that faithful day at the bar. Walking in for a drink, Relloc soon found himself in the middle of an intense barfight. Between a mix of his training with Hutox and some cowardice, Relloc managed to stay conscious and relatively unscathed in the fight. Unfortunately, the owner had him included on the list of instigators, and Relloc found himself as a mandatory crewman aboard some freighter, with a Hutt explosive implant jammed into his neck.

Most of Relloc's equipment consists of tools for fixing things. He has the tools necessary to fix most any mechanical device, and if he doesn't have the tool, he can usually jury-rig one to take its place. He does have a small holdout blaster for if things get rough, but he is by no means a combatant.

He's a brilliant mechanic, with a track record well-known in the spaceports of the galaxy. He can fly a ship, but he's by no means a skilled pilot. He has some sparring experience in fistfights, thanks to some practice he did with an old shipmate.

Relloc maintains friendly contact with both Hutox and Tof, though recent events may change that.

Alright, I have returned from grading papers.

Mo, as he is known by his closest associates has a dark peach complexion and black eyes with silver irises. Mokra's nose falls short of becoming a beak with a gaping hole that descends into his mouth, a toothless chasm with drooping fleshy strands. In place of teeth, Mokra has an upper and lower hard palate. Framing his head are extrasensory organs, which terminate in small black tusks next to his chin. As a Kel Dorian, Mokra wears an antiox breath mask and protective goggles. He cannot breathe oxygen, carbon dioxide or nitrogen, which are all fatal to him. He must breathe Helium and a gas unique to Dorin, his home planet. The mask also amplifies his voice when out of Dorin atmosphere. Due to the extrasensory organs in his head, Mokra has heightened reflexes. As a racial trait, Mokra is considered quick and wise, but of a weaker constitution. Mokra can communicate with other Kel Dorians by using his mind in a form of telepathy.

Mo wears molded body armor of a grayish blue hue with gray shoulder spaulders and ornate light gray gauntlets with fingerless black gloves, attached. He wears dark gray canvas britches with high black leather boots. Around his waist, is a black pistol belt and holster for his sidearm. The holster is hung low on his left hip to accommodate his dominant left hand. He has a coarse brown hooded cloak he occasionally wears. It is not always present, left on his hammock or in a closet.

Mokra Tem is a polite, respectful and positive Kal Doran. He genuinely cares for others and works well in a team atmosphere. He may become enraged when he perceives harm done to others especially those who are closest to him, but he is generally calm, and cool. He works well with positive encouragement and fumbles when he feels he is overly criticized. The probability he will get something wrong increases when he makes mistakes. He is overly critical of his own actions; detrimentally affected more so than when others criticize him. Although, the words of others do have an effect on his behavior, he is actually quite confident. But even the most confident of people have doubts. Encouragement promotes good deeds.

Mo has an adventurous spirit, willing to take risks to overcome an obstacle or secure an objective. He can act impulsively if his confidence is up and he truly believes he is physically capable and mentally prepared to burst into action. His adventurous spirit has gotten him and accomplices into trouble from time to time, but his victories outweigh his failures.

His Kal Doran warrior spirit, tactically evaluates each scenario he encounters. He is constantly thinking of how he would attack or defend any structure. In the vastness of space, he imagines the potential outcomes of various scenarios based on all available information. He is constantly aware of his surroundings, ready to react if needed.

Mo is motivated by desire, both for his team and for his personal needs. If he is committed to a group, he is all in and prepared to help the group in any way possible. In his mind, if the group succeeds, Mokra Tem succeeds. He is not greedy, requiring excess, just enough to improve or be slightly comfortable.

39 BBY - Born on Dorin during a time of peace, Mokra's parents welcomed the young Force Sensitive infant into their lives. They knew as a toddler, he was strong with the force and would join the Baran Do Masters at the Kel Dor Enclave shortly after his fifth birthday as a Youngling student. His parents knew they would lose their son to the Jedi Order, but were confident he would serve Dorin and the Republic well, bringing great pride upon their family and people.

Mokra Tem never made it to the Baran Do Masters. Soon after he turned five years old, his parents died in an off-world accident. Mokra Tem was by their side to witness their tragic demise. He was taken in by an elderly couple and raised as their son with no intention of ever turning the youngling over to the Jedi Masters of the Kel Dor Enclave. Jun and Ro Tem named their adopted son Mokra, meaning "gift from the heavens" and raised them as a Tem. He slowly lost all memory of his biological parents while adapting to his new living conditions.

The Tems cared for their new son as their own, cherishing their time with him. They taught him how to survive in a dangerous universe. He was instructed in the ways of the martial art form of the Dorin people. He even studied the use of bladed weapons as well as how to use a blaster. He found the blaster amusing, but preferred training and fighting with fists or with a blade than with the crudeness of a blaster.

When Mokra Tem was seven years old he knocked over a vase in his parent's house. It was a cherished artifact of some sentimental value. His mother, Ro Tem heard the vase break and yelled Mokra's name. Out of fear for being caught doing something wrong, Mokra wished himself invisible. The panic of the desperate moment coupled with a desire to be invisible, and his back to a wall, he successfully photo-kinetically bent light and sound waves around him, making himself invisible to his mother. She stood over him looking left and right; everywhere but at him. Mokra did not realize at first, she could not see him. He was simply frightened, saying nothing for several seconds. As Ro Tem gave up looking for him, Mokra revealed himself to her. The boy did not know she could not see him. He relaxed and his cloak disappeared. She then learned he was standing in front of her the whole time. Both parent and child were shocked. They stood, staring at one another for at least a full minute.

"How did you do that, Mokra!?" Ro exclaimed as she dropped to one knee grabbing him by both shoulders.

The boy shook his head in anxious fear. He sobbed and shuddered, "I do not know, mother." He was frightened by both what happened to him and the unknown punishment his mother would certainly dole out.

Ro Tem observed the boy was frightened and honestly did not know what happened. Forgetting about the broken vase, she pulled Mokra close and gave him a warm loving embrace. She reassured her young son, that his well-being was more important than her husband's vase.

It is a racial trait of the Kel Dorians to communicate telepathically. Often, communication in the Tem household was silent. Mokra grew up accustomed to the silent communication of the Kel Doran people in his own home. Often when out in public, they would use voice communications. Mokra is quite comfortable and accustomed to telepathy amongst his own kind.

Once when he was 19 years of age, he was with a human friend on the planet, Coruscant. The pair of young men were imbibing alcohol at a local establishment and got into a fight with a pair of seedy Balosars. The local constabulary pursued Mokra and his friend across several city blocks. During a high stress moment, Mokra shouted to his friend telepathically. The human did not realize it was telepathic communication, but responded appropriately to Mokra's instruction. It wasn't until after they lost their pursuers they realized what happened. Mokra has not been able to repeat this ability since that rare moment. He has never forgotten that event.

As a young man, Mokra Tem learned everything there is to know about computers. He studied them daily and became quite proficient in several programming languages as well as how to bypass encryption codes and hack into secure servers. This skill has served him quite well in his adult life. He received formal training in computers as a teenager in school on the planet, Dorin.

After Mokra became an adult, he pursued a career as a pilot. He traveled to Coruscant to learn to fly. He trained on several different aircraft and space traveling vessels. He was eventually certified in most light and medium sized freighters as well as lighter single-seat aircraft. Although, he prefers to the smaller more agile vessel, he plies his skills as a pilot aboard freighters as a means to earn a living.

For the past decade, Mokra Tem has been travelling the known universe working for ship captains serving either as pilot, navigator or deck hand aboard various ships. He is currently serving Captain Mus Rosh, a Zabrak who owns an old Explorer-Class Armed Long-Range Scout Vessel. Occasionally, he serves as pilot, or as navigator, or helping to move cargo from point A to point B. As a result of some bad decisions, Mokra and his comrades are in trouble. Like the rest, he has a massive quantity of debt over his head. The Hutt overlord on Nar Shaddaa has inserted an explosive chip into Mo's head. If Mokra Tem and his mates do not pay off their debt, do not listen to the words of their Captain, Mus Rosh or step out of line in anyway, the chip can be command detonated. Mokra Tem has some concerns that the detonation device might be accidentally discharged.

Mokra Tem does wear armor, tailor fitted to him and paid for by his family. His father Jun Tem also gave his son a DL-18 Blaster Pistol as well as four replacement power packs. The boy acquired a curved finely folded steel sword with wood/leather scabbard while training in his teen years. The distinctive curved, slender, single-edged blade is 26" in length with a circular or squared guard and long grip to accommodate two hands. A few pouches are fastened along his gun belt to hold the power packs and other trinkets he has picked up along the way. His coarse brown hooded cloak he wears on planets with cold climates.

- Computers. Mokra understands several programming languages and coding. He can hack into servers protected by encryption codes. He has formal training in a school of computers on Dorin.
- Martial Arts. Mokra is proficient in the use of the Dorin unarmed combat style as well as the use of bladed weapons in personal combat.
- Force Cloak. Mo has an innate ability to use Force Cloak, but does not fully understand how to use it. With training from a Jedi, he might be able to put this ability to good use. For now, it is a nuisance that comes and goes, but is never available when he needs it.
- Telepathy. This is a racial trait to communicate with other Kal Dorians. He once spoke unintentionally to a human friend telepathically. This ability is another that could be refined with time and training with the help of an experienced Jedi Master.
- Pilot. Mokra can fly most medium and smaller space travelling vessels, but prefers smaller more agile craft to large cumbersome vessels.
- Blaster use. He has some experience with the use of a blaster. He can hit the broad side of a barn at a hundred paces, but has never fired one in anger nor has one been discharged in his general direction.
- Heightened reflexes. As a racial trait, Mokra is considered quick and wise, but of a weaker constitution. He may appear muscular, but is slightly weaker than a comparable human counterpart.

Due to his genetic disposition for breathing Helium and a gas indigenous to his homeplanet, Mokra must wear a breathing apparatus when existing with other creatures who breath Oxygen and Nitrogen. This limitation only becomes hazardous/fatal when the mask is removed in an Oxygen/Nitrogen environment. If Mokra Tem's mask is knocked off and he is unable to retrieve it in several minutes, he will pass out. If someone else does not fit it to his face within several additional minutes, he will die.

Mokra has an additional racial/genetic disposition; over sensitivity to light and the harmful effects produced by stars and suns. Mokra wears dark goggles in order to shield these harmful effects. Without the goggles, Mokra would need to keep his eyes closed until the goggles can be returned to their proper position, during which time he would be completely blind. If his force sensitivity could be harnessed and trained properly, he might be able to use Force sense. But that is an ability for another place and time.