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Captain Lira Droz - Details

STR

13 (1)

DEX

17 (3)

CON

14 (2)

INT

16 (3)

WIS

15 (2)

CHA

18 (4)

Administer

1

Connect

0

Exert

1

Fix

-2

Heal

3

Know

3

Lead

-1

Notice

-2

Perform

6

Pilot

-3

Program

2

Punch

0

Shoot

-3

Sneak

2

Stab

-1

Survive

2

Talk

0

Trade

0

Work

-2

MAX HP

95

Speed

30ft

Occupation

Covert Operative / Stranded Pilot

Archetype (i.e. Class)

Pilot

AC

14

Age

50

Species

Human

Gender

Male


Backstory

Born into the neon-choked canyons of the Solo Star-System, Lira Droz was once a rising star within the logistical arm of the Trade Constellation. Officially, he was a transport captain moving luxury goods between Glintus and Shador; unofficially, he was a 'fixer'—a Covert Operative moving sensitive data and black-market tech under the nose of the Red Sun Dominion.

His career ended abruptly during a routine run near the derelict Gilded Sovereign. Droz intercepted a transmission he wasn't meant to hear—prophetic coordinates related to the Constellation's cryptic leadership. Paranoid that he had been compromised, and suffering a catastrophic navigation failure that he believes was sabotage (resulting in a traumatic crash that shook his nerve behind the yoke), Droz fled the system.

He went to ground on the one planet he knew the technocratic Trade Constellation loathed to monitor: Obscura Prime. Stranded in a society that bans the very technology he relies on, Droz now masquerades as a charming, down-on-his-luck traveler at The Amber Oasis. He tells tall tales of the stars to pay for his ale, using his immense charisma to distract the locals while he desperately tries to decrypt the stolen data on a contraband datapad he keeps hidden in his boot. He is a man trapped between a primitive paradise he doesn't understand and a high-tech hell that wants him dead.


Description

Lira Droz possesses a rugged, wind-swept charm that seems out of place among the agrarian locals of Obscura Prime. He stands at average height but carries himself with a coiled tension, his posture always oriented toward the nearest exit. He has a mess of sandy-brown hair that he constantly brushes out of his eyes and a scar running through his left eyebrow—a souvenir from a crash landing. He wears a battered, grease-stained flight jacket stripped of its electronic patches to blend in, over rough-spun local tunics. His eyes are a piercing hazel, constantly darting, assessing threats even while he smiles. Despite the rustic setting, he smells faintly of ozone and synthetic lubricant, a scent he tries to mask with local pipe tobacco.