Kharz Stonwell is built like a reinforced airlock and just as stubborn. A squat, broad dwarf with soot-darkened braids and a beard bound in copper rings, he moves through the Atmospherics wing like it’s an underground forge. The hiss of vents and the roar of scrubbers are music to him.
Formerly raised in the pressurized tunnels of an asteroid mining colony, Kharz learned early that air is life — and losing it is death. He treats the station’s pipe network like sacred stonework, memorizing pressure lines and gas mixes the way other dwarves remember clan lineages. If a canister is mislabeled or a pipe is poorly welded, he’ll know. And he will complain about it.
His hands are permanently stained with coolant burns and plasma scorch marks. His toolkit is heavy, his boots heavier, and his patience lightest of all when assistants start “just tweaking the mix.”
Gruff and blunt, Kharz believes Atmos is the spine of the station. Engineers patch hulls. Security waves batons. But without proper pressure and clean air? Everyone suffocates the same.
When alarms blare and the station begins to depressurize, Kharz doesn’t run.
He plants his boots, tightens his gloves, and growls:
“Stone holds. And so will this station.”