Name: Galdaart Fel
True Name / Alias: Galdaart Kindell
Faction: Faction? What Faction?
Rank: Only when he's offworld, avoiding the 'fresher for too long...
Species: Human (Taris)
Age: 28, Sex: Male
Height: 5'5”, Eyes: Blue
Physique: Gaunt / a little malnourished / wiry, but don't underestimate him or assume that his slight build denotes weakness.
Hair: tangled / dreadlocked
Skin: pale, needs some vitamin D – common for outlanders / offworlders
Force Sensitive: Not that he's aware of...

NPC: R2P47, aka 'Wrench,' Fel's rugged, battered astromech and conscience.

STRENGTHS AND WEAKNESSES:

Supremely skilled pilot. Whatever else Galdaart may be (and much of it is far less flattering and troubled than he'd care to admit) he is, first and foremost, a Pilot. Capital P. And in this regard, there are few beings in the 'verse that can match him. Whether it's a garbage scow, a speeder bike, or a snubfighter, Fel is the best there is. He served in the military, rose to the rank of wing commander / squadron leader, earned the respect of the pilots under his command, and was a decorated flight officer.

Honourable Man. He doesn't like most people, and certainly doesn't trust many. But if he gives his word, he will keep it. He also lives by his own code of ethics, which are constantly in a state of flux. Sound like a cop-out?

Loner. The first long while of any smugglers' life is not easy, and to that end Galdaart has barely existed for two years, just scraping by. There is never food in the galley or fuel in the tank, but somehow Galdaart and Wrench survive. In the process, Galdaart has gained several important contacts, seen the universe, developed the code by which he lives and further refined his view of the galaxy and those who play powerful roles in it. At the same time, he takes low-key jobs, flying off the radar, avoiding any Imperial / FO business or the watchful eye of the authorities. Currently, he is 'content' to spend weeks on end communicating with nobody other than his droid, eking out an existence that borders on feral.

Disrespect for Authority / Troublemaker. As much of an asset as he may be behind the controls of a ship, Fel never feels at home when he's 'on the ground.' He is often edgy and loud-mouthed, which can (and does) get him into trouble. He dislikes authority, and often goes out of his way to harrass, confound and anger 'the law' around him. Trouble also tends to find him, whether he likes it or not.

APPEARANCE:

Galdaart is an adult human male of non-specific descent, an average-looking man. Galdaart's biggest defining physical feature are two scars: one, the result of a knife-fight gone wrong on Dantooine, which travels across both cheeks from the corners of his mouth, perpetually pulling his mouth into a kind of sneer / smile, and the other a massive burn scar covering most of his left arm and his back, the result of a crash many years ago (he doesn't discuss it.) His eyes perpetually squint, as if he is looking 1000 yards away for the next target. (he is.) Fel has several tattoos, acquired all over the galaxy. The oldest of them all is his Imperial service bar-code on his right forearm. Galdaart suffers from an incurable inner-ear condition which deep-core spacers refer to as 'land-sickness.' The phenomena is attributable to too many hours spent off-world in zero-grav conditions, and is most common amongst long-haul, human cargo crews. The effects are only noticeable in-atmo, and consist mainly of a telltale 'off-kilter' gait, like the subject is slightly dizzy. Nausea is uncommon, but possible.

BIOGRAPHY:

Galdaart Fel is, whether he likes it or not, one of the most infamous smugglers in the known galaxy. He has pulled off seemingly impossible jobs in the Outer Rim, steering clear of the Core. Fel has been a loner, a reticent privateer who never used four syllables, when three would do. Nobody who hired Galdaart could say much about him, except that he got the job done. Galdaart is what acquaintences would call "A no good, lying poodoo... but a cunning warrior, a highly skilled pilot, and a loyal friend." Galdaart has the look of a man who has spent too much time off-world: thin, wiry, and a little malnourished, he walks with the gait of one who is both hunter and hunted.

Galdaart was until recently a solitary adventurer. He is slow to trust, and often prideful without cause. He lives by his own code of smugglers' ethics, and rarely stays in one place for long. He would say "live free or die," if he were prone to speeches (he is not.) Galdaart lives for the thrum of engines in his ears, and open space through the cockpit canopy. Freedom is highly prized and protected. Galdaart would tell you that he "doesn't ever remember calling any world home," and that would be mostly true. Since the age of twelve, he has stowed away, crewed, or captained a vast number of ships, all of which were more home to him than the Taris underworld, where he was born into squalor and poverty, ever was. Right now, home is his ancient YG4210 light freighter, the 'Unfair Advantage.'

Little is known about Galdaart Fel's early life: it is known that he was born in the slums of the Tarisian underworld to a young woman named Irella. Fel never knew his father, and never knew his lineage. Irella left him to fend for himself at the age of seven. Her whereabouts are unknown. Though he is notoriously close-lipped about his past, it is known that the young Galdaart fell in with a teenage swoop gang in order to scratch out an existence in the underworld, where he became a feared pilot and capable (if lazy) mechanic. What is known beyond any doubt is the date Galdaart entered Imperial military service: the 362nd day of the year 12 BBY. Galdaart (now going by the name Fel) was fifteen years old.

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Name: Jet Korrin
True Name / Alias: Tech, Ratchet, Junker, tinker.. the list goes on.
Faction: Ex-republic Mechanic
Rank: Master Technician
Species: Human (Coruscanti)
Age: 54
Sex: Male
Height: 6'4ft
Eyes: brown
Physique: Sturdy and robust physique // combines strength with practicality // His frame reflects the weariness of a seasoned mechanic who has spent countless hours hunched over starship consoles, yet his movements remain agile.
Hair: brown, graying hair // low bun
Skin: Originally Fair skin tone // bears the wear and tear of life spent tinkering // Bronzed from years under harsh suns
Force Sensitive: Unlikely.

NPC:
Alright, listen up. Rexa Voss—codename “Whisper.” She was more than just a partner; we danced through the stars together. Brave as a comet dodging asteroids, she earned a Republic Commendation for her gutsy moves during Operation Nebula Serpent. But the galaxy’s a cruel place, and it took her away. Deceased. Damn shame.

Now, Lena Talon—she preferred “Nova.” My apprentice, my right hand. We tinkered with hyperdrives, patched hull breaches, and shared stories over greasy caf. But fate’s a twisted navigator. Lena’s gone too, marked as deceased. She was family, and the void feels colder without her.

STRENGTHS AND WEAKNESSES:

Mechanical genius. Got this knack for machinery—can disassemble and diagnose complex systems like it’s a walk in the asteroid field. Ain’t just about fixin’ isolated problems, though. I take a whole-damn-ship approach. When scarcity hits, my creativity kicks in—I rig solutions with whatever’s lyin’ around. Starship schematics? Manuals? They etch themselves into my brain, like a tattoo on a spacefaring outlaw. I can visualize intricate designs, recall wiring diagrams, and dance with system interplay. It’s like I’m plugged into the cosmic mainframe. So whether it’s a Corellian freighter or an Imperial TIE fighter, I’m the mechanic who ain’t just fixin’ engines—I’m rewiring fate itself.

Resilience, kid. It’s the only currency that matters out in the outer rim. Lost my share of folks. But you don’t survive this underworld by wearin’ your heart on your sleeve. Danger? Hell, it’s my workshop soundtrack—the hum of fusion cutters, the sizzle of repulsorlifts. See that flickering neon sign? It’s where I’m fixin’ up a stolen landspeeder, no questions asked. No roots, no sentimental attachments. Just me and the junkyard vibes. People? They’re like malfunctioning droids—wired wrong, glitchin’ at the seams. Nah, I ain’t a loner; I’m a grease monkey with a knack for jury-riggin’. The stars? They’re the neon signs reflected in oily puddles. Stoicism ain’t cold; it’s survival. Each scar’s a story—blaster burns, electroshock mishaps. Lost love, lost credits. But I keep wrenchin’, keep tweakin’. So, kid, remember: Resilience ain’t about fixin’ shiny starships. It’s about cobblin’ together rusty speeders and stayin’ one step ahead of the Hutts.

Stubborn? Well, kid, let me tell ya. Yeah, I ain’t one to back down, even when the stars themselves seem to be conspirin’ against me. You see, life’s dealt me a hand full of busted hyperdrive coils and malfunctionin’ blasters. But I keep flyin’, keep fixin’. It’s like this: when the galaxy throws a curveball, I swing harder. Maybe it’s pride, maybe it’s just the way I’m wired. But that refusal to yield? It’s both my strength and my curse. So, kid, remember this—sometimes, the toughest battles ain’t in the stars; they’re right here, in your gut. And that stubbornness? It’ll either save your hide or send you spiralin’ into a black hole. Choose wisely.

APPEARANCE:

Jet’s face bears the marks of countless orbits around suns and moons. His skin, bronzed by space’s unforgiving rays, holds the memory of star maps traced with fingertips. Crow’s feet fan from the corners of his eyes—constellations of laughter, worry, and the weight of unspoken burdens. His eyes—deep and unyielding. They’ve witnessed hyperspace jumps and smuggler’s deals, betrayal and fleeting alliances. When Jet gazes at you, it’s like staring into the heart of a black hole—an event horizon where secrets collide. His jawline—square and resolute—speaks of resolve. It’s the anchor that keeps him grounded amidst the chaos of starports and cantinas. Scars, like asteroid impacts, trace the contours of his chin—a testament to battles fought and debts unpaid. Jet’s mouth—often a thin line—holds the echoes of lost comrades and unanswered questions. It’s the gateway to stories told over glasses of Corellian whiskey. When he smiles, it’s like a distant nebula flickering—a rare burst of warmth against the cosmic chill.

Jet’s frame is solid, built for the gritty underbelly of the galaxy. His shoulders—broad as a smuggler’s cargo hold—carry the weight of starship repairs and underworld secrets. Each muscle, honed by countless hours wrenching hyperdrive cores and recalibrating blasters, tells a story of survival. His arms—sinewy and scarred—are tools in themselves. The left, cybernetic and matte black, is a relic from his days in the replublic. It’s not just for show; it’s a fusion of strength and utility. When he grips a blaster, it’s like a wookiee’s embrace—firm but not crushing. His spine, slightly curved from years hunched over starship consoles, echoes the curvature of hyperspace routes. It’s a weariness etched into bone—the weight of lost comrades, unpaid debts, and unanswered questions. Despite weariness, Jet’s movements remain agile. He sidesteps danger like a nimble astromech evading blaster fire. When he pivots, it’s like a starfighter banking into a tight turn—graceful yet ready to unleash firepower. His boots—scuffed from countless cantina brawls—keep rhythm with the seedy undercurrents of the galaxy.

BIOGRAPHY:

Jet Korrin, a man of his years, a culmination of firefights, fist fights, spark lights, and long nights. A well-respected mechanic during his time with the republic turned back-alley tech for the many criminals, syndicates, and cartels. He's not to be messed with, and the common suspects in Nar Shaddaar know it. He wouldn't say he was "under their protection" more that everyone relies on him being there, in some way or another.

He generally keeps to himself, he shares a laugh in the cantina after a long day, sure, but making long-lasting relationships isn't for him, not anymore. He keeps his head down, day in, day out, working on whatever work seems to come his way. His resilience has managed to keep him going in a galaxy that seems to only ever to have the worst planned. His name known throughout both the shady underbelly of civilisation as well as spoken in high-regard through republic channels, whether it's getting a job done perfectly or done cheap and quiet-like, he's the man for the job.

His history before his republic days was nothing special, raised to a middle class family on Coruscant, he went to good schools and got himself a good education, he shined with mechanics much to the distain of his family, it being a working class job and all, but he liked it. He signed to the military at 16, getting himself off world and his parents off his back for good. He liked the military, a steady work style, known expectations and access to all the starships he could get his grubby hands on. He started out as any recruit does, with a blaster strapped and armour-clad but soon showed his worth to the engineers, getting a quick shift into the mechanic core by the time he was 17.

Still, Jet misses the adventure that his life used to possess, stalling out in his workshop getting tiresome, he was soon looking for his next stage, him being unaware of just how hectic that would be wasn't a problem, it wouldn't have stopped him regardless.

.

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Name: Zane Corvus

Alias: "Skid" (A negative moniker); usually just goes by "Zane" to the people he calls friends.

Faction: Junkers (Estranged)

Rank: Scab

Species: Human

Age: 18

Sex: Male

Eyes: Dark Brown

Hair: Black

Height: 188cm (~6')

Physique: Wiry/Malnourished

Skin: Pale

Force Sensitive: Negative

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Strengths and Weaknesses

Observant. Zane has spent a good portion of his life having to always keep his eyes open, keenly-aware of whatever was going on. Life on Lotho Minor only exacerbated this characteristic, since ignorance could literally cost someone their life on that hell of a junk planet. Between the torrential winds and acid rain of the planet itself, along with the unsavory inhabitants like rabid Junkers and massive fire-breathing droids that consumed heaps and mountains of refuse (often confusing anything and everything for its prey, including living beings), this place had Zane in a near-constant state of anxiety. And yet, through that anxiety rose a state of awareness and an attention for detail that allowed him to keep his edge.

Scavenger. For most of his childhood, Zane has had to live in an environment that even the most seasoned survivalists wouldn't dare to encroach upon. This meant that every day was a race to see what -if anything - he could find that would help he and his family live to see the next cycle. His ability to scavenge materials and tools from the junk heaps has often worked in his favor, if only barely.

Survivor. Zane has had to give away a lot of his humanity in the pursuit of survival, for both himself and his brother. He has had to make a lot of incredibly terrible choices that a boy of his age should not have had to make, steeping his hands in filth and - in the worst cases - blood just to keep his sibling's hands clean. He is - at his heart - a good-natured person, but he isn't above using less-savory methods to achieve his goals if the situation calls for it.

Uneducated. This isn't necessarily saying that Zane has a low IQ; rather, that he hasn't been able to prioritize learning over other previously-stated concerns. He has a very basic knowledge of the galaxy around him; he can read Galactic Basic and can comprehend several languages, knows how to write (although spelling is a bit of an issue), and can carry his weight with basic mathematics and such. However, without access to the proper knowledge, he remains ignorant of some of the larger concepts in the galaxy as a whole. Etiquette and things of that nature will often elude him. You shouldn't expect him to be the one carrying out high-profile negotiations, at least not for the time being.

Brow-beaten. To say that Zane has "had it rough" would barely scratch the surface; and surely, there are others out there who have been through the wringer as much as he has, if not more. But the losses in his life have certainly taken their toll on him. Although he's only 18, he has the look of a man several years his senior. His luck and his circumstances have all been rather poor, and none of that has been uplifting. This has lead to him second-guessing a lot of his choices, and that says nothing of the effect it has had on his self-esteem and determination. It may take him some time to overcome such a disadvantage.

Unskilled. Zane hasn't had a lot of opportunities to take on or practice a range of skills like others around him. His default mode has been set to "survival" for the better part of his life. The few things he has managed to pick up over the years are limited to things like scrapping and ingenuity (building useful tools with the junk he has had on hand, etc.). For the most part, he's a dry sponge - primed to soak up as much as possible, yet currently devoid of "water".

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Appearance: Stands just barely over six feet tall, with a wiry frame and pale skin due to being malnourished and generally unable to maintain a proper, healthy body due to his circumstances and lack of access to proper housing and sanitation. His lack of resources has led to poor hygiene as well, and he is often covered in the grime and soot of Lotho Minor's harsh environment. He is most often found wearing the same clothes from day to day, and owns some protective gear that helps him survive the planet's many hazards. That, itself, is worth its weight in aurodium.

The few possessions that he does have are some basic tools for salvaging and tinkering, and some improvised weapons that he has both made and found that he uses for defense: a makeshift short club, a vibro-knife, a miniature plasma torch, and a electro-stunner that he has pieced together from various scraps of salvage.

Biography: Zane was born on a tramp freighter somewhere in the Mid-Rim to parents of low means. As much as they tried to do right by him, the galaxy was a poor provider in terms of opportunity and circumstances. The small Corvus family drifted from planet to planet for most of Zane's childhood, his father and mother both working odd jobs to keep their family fed. Once Zane's younger brother, Marcus, was born, the family had reached Lotho Minor (as well as the "bottom of their barrel"). His parents tried desperately to eke out a living for them all, and it ended up costing them their lives. A salvaging accident claimed both mother and father in one fell swoop, leaving Zane to care for his younger brother at the staggering age of fifteen. He had a small sliver of grace in the form of a family friend that helped Zane take care of Marcus - who was just barely six years old when their parents died. For the past three years, Zane has done whatever he could to help provide for himself and his brother. But, time and again, Zane's inexperience and youth had shone through. He continually failed in just about every job he attempted. He either wasn't skilled enough, or wasn't strong enough to truly make a difference. Over time, the small amount of latitude that his parents' death had afforded him had all but evaporated, like ice in the midday sun.

Add to that the accident that befell his younger brother, and it made his life prospects start to look terribly-bleak.

The harsh and unforgiving climate of Lotho Minor was never something to sneer at. You didn't have time to sneer - if you did, then you'd soon regret it. Torrential winds, acidic rain, acrid air, toxic chemical pools and tainted water were only some of the hazards that the planet provided. Zane's younger brother was out playing with a few of the other children. The group had gone out a little far from the settlement, and Marcus had forgotten to wear some of his protective gear that he would have normally worn. A sudden northern wind carried down an acrid storm of acid rain on that fateful day, and Marcus was forced to run home in the downpour. He covered himself as best he could, but it wasn't nearly enough to keep him from suffering several severe burns to his body. His face was also scarred from the accident, but he was able to keep his eyes shielded, and most of his head covered. Zane spent several days by his brother's bedside, taking care of him, changing his bandages and helping him apply what little medicine he and the community could scrape together. It was barely enough to make a difference, but Marcus survived, and that was all that mattered.

Fast-forwarding a couple of years (to the present), Zane has managed to lose yet another salvaging job. Accidents have continued to occur (as only they can on Lotho Minor) with Zane at the center of them. If the galaxy could just stop spiraling out of control for one simple moment, if only something could finally give...maybe then, he could gain some sort of foothold to start climbing back up from rock-bottom.