Ristor
Togruta · Force Adept · Level 1
Identity
Ability scores
Saving throws
Skills
Weapons
| Name | Attack | Damage | Range |
|---|---|---|---|
| ●Short Sword | +4 | 1d6 +1 Slashing, Piercing | 5 ft |
| ●Unarmed Strike | +3 | 1 +1 bludgeoning | — |
Force powers
- Move Object
- Force Healing
- Mind Trick
- Force Speed
Languages
Inventory
- Short Sword · 1.5 kg
- Medpac I · 0.5 kg
Backstory
Shili was burning. Ristor had been sixteen when he first saw smoke rising above the terracotta canyons of his homeworld — a distant, ugly smear against the banded orange sky that should have meant nothing more than a brush fire in the dry season. But the smell was wrong. It carried something chemical, something manufactured, something that had no place on Shili's wind-swept plains. By the time he understood what it meant, the 501st Legion's dropships were already descending over the communal village his clan had called home for three generations. The massacre was clinical. That was the word Ristor would turn over in his mind for years afterward, unable to shake it loose. Not savage. Not frenzied. Clinical. Imperial records — he would learn this later, pieced together from a sympathetic Sullustan archivist on Nar Shaddaa — had classified the operation as a "Force Sensitivity Suppression Initiative," one of dozens of quiet exterminations carried out across the Outer Rim in the chaotic months following Order 66 and the formal reorganization of the Republic into Palpatine's Galactic Empire. Togrutas, with their instinctive connection to the living Force and their species-wide tradition of Force-attuned hunters, had drawn the attention of Imperial Intelligence almost immediately. A people that sensitive, left unchecked in the Outer Rim, was considered an unacceptable variable. Ristor survived because he was away from the village when the dropships came — tracking a pack of akul alone through the deep grasslands, a rite of passage his father had set him to complete before the week's end. He returned to find ash, silence, and the geometric boot-prints of stormtrooper detachments pressed into the red earth. He found scraps of his mother's woven cloak. He found nothing else that mattered. He was not a Jedi. He had never been trained, never sat before a Master, never held a lightsaber. What he carried in him was something rawer and quieter — a passive sensitivity to the world around him, the same instinctive spatial awareness that let Togruta hunters feel the movement of prey beyond their line of sight. His montrals pulled in the world like antennae, filling in the dark, whispering the positions of living things. He had always taken it for granted. After Shili, it became the only thing keeping him alive. In the four years since, Ristor had developed the disciplined habits of a survivor. He moved through backwater systems — Ryloth's uninhabited badlands, the dust-choked moons of Anoat, the lawless mining settlements scattered across the Kessel Run's outer edge — staying off Imperial registration grids, never sleeping in the same shelter twice. The short sword at his hip had been traded for in a Mos Eisley back-alley, a plain and unremarkable blade that drew no Imperial attention the way a lightsaber would have. The medpac he kept sealed until he had no other choice; medical supplies left purchase records. He had learned to be careful about everything that left records. Occasionally, work found him. A nervous moisture farmer needing a dangerous animal driven off. A smuggler with a cargo problem and no questions asked. The credits were modest, the company worse, but Ristor had stopped measuring his life in comfort. He measured it now in distance from the Empire — and in the slow, cold patience of a man who had not yet decided what he intended to do with his survival, but who suspected, in the quieter moments between sleeping and waking, that it would eventually cost someone a great deal.
Roleplaying notes
Passive Awareness Over Active Power: Ristor's Force senses are perceptual rather than offensive — lean into his Expert proficiency in Use the Force for detecting hidden presences, ambushes, and emotional states rather than dramatic telekinetic displays; Move Object and Force Speed are tools of survival and escape, not combat intimidation. Montrals as a Character Cue: Togruta hollow montrals grant spatial echolocation, so Ristor frequently orients toward sounds before he looks; play this as a subtle behavioral tick — his head tilting slightly, pausing mid-sentence when something at the edge of the room moves. The Inventory Ritual: Each time Ristor makes camp or enters a new location, he mentally notes the two fastest exits and keeps the short sword within arm's reach before anything else is set down; this is not paranoia he acknowledges — it is simply the order in which things are done. Controlled Distance with Allies: With his Charisma of 8 and a history defined by collective loss, Ristor does not form attachments quickly or openly; he expresses trust through logistics — covering a companion's exit, sharing his medpac without being asked — rather than through words or warmth. Sparse, Deliberate Speech: Ristor speaks in short, declarative sentences with long pauses between thoughts, mixing Togruti idioms of the hunt — *"the wind already knows," "the akul does not announce itself"* — into otherwise plain Galactic Basic, never raising his voice when a quieter tone will carry further.