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Davir Karst - Solarian, Smuggler, Spacer


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Employee Dossier ICH-133.08A-Beta - Davir Karst

Name: Davir Karst

Ancestry: Human-Borne Borai

Homeworld: Diaspora

Field of Expertise: Solarian

Advanced Training Certificates: Market ResearchTheme: Opportunist

Prior Work Experience: LogisticsGolden Parachute

Piloting Training: No

Managerial Experience: Yes*

Fitness Test Performance: Str 18 Dex 17 Con 18 Int 13 Wis 10 Cha 18







Davir Karst is a sight not easily forgotten. With the tall, wiry frame of a career spacer, ruffled and unkempt sun-coloured hair, and pale skin, pockmarked with the dark tendrils of negative energy pulsing in his veins, it's clear to see that he's not quite an everyday cargo worker. It's rare that anyone staring into his eyes, orbs of dark orange, like that of an alien sun, keeps their gaze locked for too long. Dressed in loose workers clothing, unkempt and untidy, though belts and hoops are kept pristine. A half-grin, threading the needle between malicious and roguish, usually covers his parched lips.


Davir is an unrepentant talker, and his Diasporan spacer dialect is the first thing most notice, with its cosmonautical metaphors and its informal, familiarish tones. The spacer's cant yields itself just as easily negotiating down a seller as inspiring a shipmate or terrifying a station-sider with its guttural tones. He thinks himself more a talker and a doer than a man of violence, but 'a toolbox without a hammer is no toolbox at all', after all.

Perhaps ironically, perhaps not, given his situation, he's prone to enjoy too many of the values of life, be they as mundane as a head-splitting shoreleave or a first glance at a new sun. He's not prone to philosophics or metaphysical insights. While he'd be the first to admit he's no saint, and be more than happy to prove it, he still sticks to a certain code of ethics no sane spacer would dare break.


It was supposed to be easy, but that's what they always say.

First step, convince Sinjin. Was a piece of pie, with the blowback from Akiton and especially after the Triaxus job - it was one favour too many, and two close calls too short. Assurances were given, change name, face, lie low for at least a year. Wasn't a tough sell, not at all.

Second step, finish the Eox run. The rad-hole was bad enough in most places, but Remembrance Rock was surprisingly calm. One place on the fossil that doesn't have the dead try and claw your eyes out. Residents of the crypts won't even try and pawn you a used necrograft. Easy landing, little drillwork, and a lot of backbreaking work. Most unnerving part about the old crypt was that the dead did not start walking. Well - second most. The first was probably the writings on the wall, but chains, skulls and dark suns are probably as Eoxian as they come. Wanting to get out sure made carrying the sarcophagus a lot easier.

Third step was the tricky one - convince the client to accept a stowaway. They didn't look the most talkative, what with the wraps and chains and the whole skull motif, but the chemical-smelling ship had an atmosphere, and the crew looked like it ate and breathed. A little gold star - those are good things to do, and staying in the League cut the potential time of doing those activities pretty short.

Step four was supposed to orbit myself on the ship, drop off at a dwarf mining station, pay double lodging fees for discretion and leave on a resupply ship to anywhere. Find a way to the Rock, sign up with a crew, failing that, get a "sales" job for Apostae - they love their human faces, we can go anywhere - or even, Hells, go learn basket nanoweaving and eat dirt with the lashunta on Castrovel. Free air, real trees, and staying out of the big city states. Pact Worlds are big, and plenty of places for me to go.

Just need to finish this course. Doesn't surprise me that we're flying driftless, the crew don't scan as the civilised types, but console says that they're flying in the Diaspora. They gather twice a cycle to do some chanting in the cantina, words sticking in my head hours after. Bunking in the cargo bay is standard fare for me, but my sight gravitates towards the sarcophagus a lot. Seems ancient. Dark etchings of constellations on the marble. Orange light flickers through the stars every so often. If I sit near the cargo mesh near the doors, between it and the power core, the core seems quieter, like it's dulling the sound.

You'd think that makes it easier to sleep.

Pilot says we'll be there in a couple cycles, so that's a relief. I take my head down to sleep - despite everything, this is great for me catching up on that.

And, of course, alarms sound up, and I hear the sounds of shields hum up. Heart skips a beat, but if it's the League they'd at least let the captain turn me in first. Relaxing for a moment, before the ship shakes under a barrage. I grip the cargo mesh, as the piddly ship tries to evade. Judging by the shots, badly. The ship shakes and the gravity disappears as we spin. There's a crash of torn metal as I duck down, a chunk of asteroid tearing through the cargo bay from the front of the ship at murderous speeds, the whooshing sounds of the atmosphere leaving the hush fading away to nothingness. My helmet flies past and at the last second, I manage to grab it. Lucky break. I strap in, unable to take my eyes off the tear in the bulkhead.

Four vessels. Three fighters, one corvette. Blazing orange - as are their lasers. The lightshow has stopped, and they seem to be closing in. My heart starts slowing down - Sarenites believe in redemption, right? Just someone who fell on the wrong path, trying to get out. Burn some sublight at them, about being a sympathetic guy in a bad situation. Not even entirely lying.

The ships close faster and move away from the impromptu viewing port. Not the escape I was planning. I reach to put my laser pistol on the mesh - won't do me much good right now - and I see a body floating through the port, outside. One of the clients, except without her mask on. Vacuum-shot eyes, frozen in surprise. A lashunta, but her face is covered in tattoos under the thin layer of ice as the corpse drifts out into the nothingness - constellations etched in black.

A light turns on in the depowered bay and I turn to look at it. The sarcophagus. Its own constellations have turned blinding blue-white. My rad-scanner sends a warning. A small cloud of dust breaks away from it as I bite my teeth, then the door cracks open.

A bony claw grips the side of the sarcophagus. Black metal covers the fingers. Black holes dance on the armour, bound together by black chains, the coronas' contrast filling in the gaps and sucking in my sight. A tattered, wispy ceremonial robe the colour of starless sky covers the spacesuit. The head, a black metal skull turns slowly, its eyes four all-consuming orbs, not paying me any consideration.

The lights of the engines coming through the holes in the bulkhead shine inside and I feel a coldness radiate. The being's right hand stretches down. Chains unfurl, topped in a black hole each, the light on the accretion disks seemingly sharp enough to cleave an atom. It stares at the cargo bay door, and the black hole flailheads begin to orbit around each other. It braces, and then launches itself through the door. The velocity is such that I feel my mesh straps break, and my orbit joins its - for a brief moment before mine leads into the bulkhead, and darkness follows.

I wake up to a lightshow of alarms. The oxygen is depleting. Heating dangerously low. My leg informs me that it's broken. The quietness is overbearing as I make my way down from the upturned floor. A glance through the completely gone cargo door paints a picture in my head - the debris of roughly three ships. Streams of frozen blood drift aimlessly from bodies that look like they've suffered explosive decompression. Panic sets in. I leave the dead be, for once, and get to the cantina. Torn by lasers. The ship didn't have escape pods, of course. Bulkheads were sheared. The bridge is no better, a laser barrage has torn through the viewing port and melted the pilot into his chair.

The distress beacon, however, is unharmed. A nervous ping begins echoing in my comms, and I take a breather - just in time for the alarm to remind me there's a quarter hour remaining. Prying open the shot-up door of life support confirms that the system is gone - hard for it to work with half the room torn by an asteroid - but the oxygen recycler has sputtered out a pair of bottles before dying. If only there was someone to help me swap. Don't even know why I came here in the first place. I plug my heater into the emergency power supply, and some warmth graces my bones. Another deep sigh. Born in the Diaspora, died in the Diaspora. Sinjin is a man of his word - he says someone went out an airlock, he went out an airlock. At least I didn't make him a liar. I chuckle at that, the Sun shining bright through the belt. Suns and stars, stars and suns, they all die in the end. Stars die. An idea crawls in my head, as I grab the two bottles. I can't swap them, and there's nowhere on the ship that can sustain an atmosphere.

Except for one of them. Biting my lips, I rush to the cargo bay. The sarcophagus, its metallic sheen and open door sits open. The constellations are black and void once more, as I throw the two bottles inside. Inside, trails of black comets, chains and solar winds are visible. It still feels quieter than the absolute quiet outside. Despite that, it is the most inviting place in here. I bite my lip and jump in. I fumble for a moment as I find a bulbous button on the lid and it begins closing. It's just like an escape pod, I whisper to myself, opening one of the bottles as the lid slams shut. A welcome hiss begins filling the void mere minutes later, as I feel adrenaline recede and pain flood my body back once again. Stars, pale and white, fill the inside of the sarcophagus, the warmth of the heater slowly receding to an unnatural cold. The stars dull and blur.

I wake up as the lid hisses open. It's cold, and the pleasant white of the stars fades open to unnatural halogen lamps, the hum of an engine, and the smell of starfarers. Two men, a dwarf and a vesk, dressed in cargo coveralls are staring down at me, one holding an electric prod. "Welcome back to the land of the living!"


Edited by Zaathun (see edit history)
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Dice rolls come here,


Damn, array 2 is fire.


I'll steal someone's posting template if need be and put it here.

Edited by Zaathun (see edit history)
Array 1
repeat(drop(4d6,lowest),8) 1,5,5,6,1,1,2,3,1,2,3,5,3,4,4,6,2,2,5,5,2,2,4,4,1,2,5,6,2,4,5,6
Array 2
repeat(drop(4d6,lowest),8) 2,4,4,4,3,5,6,6,1,3,4,6,2,2,3,4,1,4,5,6,2,5,5,6,2,2,2,2,4,6,6,6
Array 3
repeat(drop(4d6,lowest),8) 1,3,5,6,2,2,3,5,1,2,3,5,2,3,3,5,2,3,4,5,3,5,5,6,2,3,3,6,3,3,4,6
Array 4
repeat(drop(4d6,lowest),8) 3,4,5,6,2,3,5,6,1,1,2,6,1,3,4,5,1,2,6,6,1,4,4,5,1,4,5,5,2,2,3,5
Array 5
repeat(drop(4d6,lowest),8) 2,4,5,5,3,3,3,5,1,1,2,4,2,2,6,6,1,4,5,6,1,3,5,5,3,4,5,5,2,2,4,5
Array 6
repeat(drop(4d6,lowest),8) 1,2,5,6,1,1,2,2,2,3,4,6,4,4,5,6,1,4,5,6,2,2,4,5,1,2,4,5,4,5,5,6
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Davir's stats look good. Only thing I noticed was that you've spent 1,542 credits total on gear. Cutting back on the Intoxicants seems the easiest way to balance the books there.

Backstory's a great read. I gather the sarcophagus was the cause of Davir becoming a Borai?

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I was aiming at something like that - be it it kept him alive due to its magic/tech with his half assed survival plan, it could've infused him with negative energy (as something a star lich would definitely pack in his coffin), or anything similar - some mysteries are more than fine remaining mysteries! Or surprise appearances appearing later. Who knows - enjoying a second chance at living means looking back is optional!

One of my favourite things about starfinder is the fact that there's magical weirdness, starstuff, and everything in between. I've had fun mechanically technobabbling as a mechanic, now it's time to take a turn for the weird.

Noted on the intoxicants, I will ditch one bottle of Admiral Hr'shavess Triple Distilled in the void.


edit: it was giving me 1500 credits in total, I just resaved the page, and put in loose credits as remaining gear and I'll bump it up to 1500 if need be.

Edited by Zaathun (see edit history)
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Oh, just checking something - I noticed when someone mentioned it in the OOC discussions - CRB says you can't start with more than an 18! Noticed that this said reviewed, and I won't mind swapping things around - probably end up with 17 Dex, 18 Con and 18 Cha - I don't mind that at the least. I'd put more in Int and Wis, but I like having low Wis!

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