Star Wars: Lost Tales
Captain Ren Dekker
Captain of the smuggling vessel "Honest Mistake". His rules are easy: He does the job, and then he gets paid.
Medium Human Scoundrel Level 2, Male, 6’0”, 160 lbs; Light-brown hair, green eyes, wears a dark oilskin duster and olive drab canvas slacks over heavy, rubber-soled boots.
Force Points 6
Defenses Ref 16, Fort 12, Will 12
HP 26 Threshold 12
Speed 6 squares
Base Atk +1
Atk Options Point-blank Shot
Abilities Str 15, Dex 15, Con 12, Int 15, Wis 11, Cha 13
Feats Point Blank Shot, Armour Proficiency (Light), Weapon Proficiency (pistols, simple weapons), Weapon Focus (Pistols)
Skills Acrobatics +4, Climb +4, Deception +8, Endurance +3, Gather Info +8, Initiative +9, Jump +4, Knowledge +4, Mechanics +9, Perception +7, Persuasion +3, Pilot +9, Ride +4, Stealth +4, Survival +2, Swim +4, Treat injury +2, Use Computer +9
Guys like Dekker don’t reveal much of their past to anyone. It’s a vague tale hidden a fog of long-forgotten tobacco smoke and engine exhaust. As far as I’ve been able to discern, he grew up somewhere safe and not too exciting, but he always did want to go on adventures. His parents kept him sin a proverbial bubble, sheltered and whatnot, so he’d tinker in his basement bedroom and daydream of dogfights and hidden treasure. Developed quite a knack for mechanics, actually. When his parents sent him off to boarding school he escaped the first chance he got, snuck into the nearest spaceport, and joined up with a smuggling crew, the “Honest Mistake”.
He was just a kid, looking for adventure. He spent the next many years as grease monkey, helping the ship’s mechanic on a grungy little L4000 transport, and getting to know the many sides of the smuggling business. No one pays any attention to the lanky 16 year old covered in oil, and he had a way of picking up information just by being around and remaining unnoticed. Thus he learned a lot of things about a lot of people. Years passed, and when the mechanic died in a particularly ugly bit of crossfire Ren took over his duties among the gyros and fusion cylinders.
It was during this time that he started to get to know the ship’s skipper, Captain “Doc” Murdokk, a giant, red-bearded old spacer whose oilskin jacket must have been older than he himself. Next to Doc, Ren was the longest standing member of the crew; smuggling crews have a transient way about them, coming and going as the pay allows, and gun-running during time of galactic war doesn’t exactly encourage folks to stick around. Ren, on the other hand, was, is, and will always be of the opinion that good times are found wherever life is the most dangerous. He thrived. Doc recognized Ren’s aptitude for the business; offered him a position as First Mate and gave him full run of the ship. The next years were heaven. Doc’s experience and honed wit drove the enterprise, while Ren’s deep philosophical conversations with the engine and skill at the flight controls kept them in the air.
They were unbeatable, unsinkable, flying high. And then the day came when a deal went south, and though they cleared atmo with enough hands left to fly the ship Doc was left bleeding out on the cargo bay floor grating with a bullet through his spine. They gave him a spacer’s burial. He left Ren the ship’s command with a skeleton crew, none of whom really wanted to stay on with some kid in charge. Didn’t think he could pull it off. When they touched ground again everyone left. Ren holed up inside the Honest Mistake for weeks, fixing everything he could find, poring over the manuals, obsessively re-wiring controls. And then he left for…somewhere. Anywhere. Any planet with a spaceport where he could pick up a decent crew and paying work. That was how it had always worked, and that was how it would work from here on out. No matter the danger, he would do the job. And then he’d get paid.