Celsior, at first glance there is not much to the heavily scratched corpse of the space raider. She seems to have been well equipped for a variety of scenarios (the obvious exception a surprise kitty strike). A dynamite stick in her boot survived the splash of alchemist fire. A jewel encrusted belly button ring seems like it might be worth something.
On a whim, you light one of your last remaining fart-scented candles that tips your consciousness closer to the realms of the Weave. Scanning the scorched corpse with this additional layer of scrutiny, a magic symbol fires aglow at the raider's wrist...the symbol of Vocath the mercane. If only someone had questioned the raider, or now perhaps had access to a Speak with Dead spell, could some insight into the horribly failed raid come about.
In your trance, and later confirmed by Saerthe and Tarto, the current prevalent theory seems to be that Star Lancers come from the many husks of dead gods litering the Astral Plane. The gith believe the creatures are reincarnations of the god's most zealous supporters, some clawing remnant of a soul that refused to abandon the fallen deity. The Great Vicario (an expert on Astral Sea lore and your mother's uncle's brother's former roommate) posits that the number of star lancers in the universe is a constant. When one dies, it returns to the husk to be born again. One of the sage's writings chronicles an epic journey through a psychedelic mental landscape, the exciting but strange collision of xenomancy and diplomacy used by the telepathic gith that not so long ago befriended the alien species.
As for Saerthe and Tarto, they are similar to the kind of professors that really prefer not to be teaching. Saerthe is ever absorbed in alchemical nonsense, while Tarto leans heavily towards the administrative side of things. Sure, they each have their own certain charm, but clearly the Academy prioritized coaching over academic instruction. Perhaps that isn't a surprise given Mirt's quasi-militaristic goal of Realmspace dominance.
Mistaking your inquiries for interest, Sarthe captures you in a long discourse one evening about his research. Apparently he has been studying the strange gravity altering Void Bulbs that frequently find their way back from deep space missions. He explains how he has developed an extract with a heightened effect compared to the raw psionic bulb alone, and hands you a vial to try.
This can be thrown up to 60 ft, shattering on impact. A 15 ft radius gravitational distortion results, dealing 4d6 force damage as it sucks objects, creatures, and light itself into a single, infinitely small volume with a failed DC 15 strength save.
Lazuli, one Solar cycle just before your shift, just as you are about to complete knitting a clever string thing that holds a glass orb, you hear the clattering clack of bone on bone. Sensing food, you investigate your skull collection and give it a quick inventory. Sure enough, and just like an hour ago, your count has increased by one. Then you see it: *claCk* The skull divides in two like cellular mitosis, replicating itself.
You vaguely remember suspecting something after the bloodstained demonic symbols carved into the bone were translated. Still, you didn't let something as silly as an abyssal promise of a generational curse or the ever-present sound of whimpering children sour your budding collection.
You have a pet Bone Swarm which prefers to live inside your membrane, but that can be unleashed as an Action. The bone swarm can make a Swirling Bone attack where it chooses a melee damage type to deal 4d8 with a +7 to the attack. It hungers for the blood of virgins with a voraciousness you can empathize with. Prof bonus uses per long rest.
Yahs and Lou, your efforts have at least taught a few kittens that your pockets are a good source of nibbly treats. They follow you around, always hiding in the shadows or mewling loudly in your face. Indeed, in times of peril, they just may consider your deaths to be not such a great thing after all.
To attempt to encourage laser antics in combat, you both spend an Action and roll Animal Handling. If both pass a DC 13 Animal Handling check, the laser kitten tidal wave fires its barrage of Death Rays at all enemies within a 30 ft radius. Each roll a d4 for each number you beat 13 by. This is the number of 3d10 necrotic shots that result (and insta-slay if the damage reduces something to 0). For example, if Lou rolls a 15 and Yahs a 14, 3d4 lasers fire. This can only be used once a day before the kittens get distracted by a piece of string.
Yahs searches every crack, crevice, eye-socket, and slime pool of the tyrant ship. She can never seem to shake her suspicions, that eerie feeling of being watched or followed...
It's probably just Mr. Bigglesworth fucking with you.
~~~
At long last, the snow-kissed gem of Toril emerges from the rainbow hypervelocity of the Spelljamming conduit. Saerthe manuevers the tyrant into the Tears of Selune as Tarto prepares a thick, earmarked mission report. The familiar Flighty Foundling soon arrives to blaze through the atmospheric shell and ferry you all back to the Academy.
Air. Air!
You forgot what fresh air smelled like (at least those of you with nostrils). And for all the wonders of Wildspace, something about the colors sunlight made when reflecting off the ocean seemed even more unique.
Tarto unceremoniously orders you to get some rest while she delivers the report to senior staff. Your hearts sink a few notches when she smiles and takes a drag of her cigar, because by now you know such puffs portend painful work "...report to the mooring on the Nexus deck in the morning for maintenence work. Oh, and just forget about Miken...he won't be with us much longer."