Torin Fenrys

Identity

Ability scores

Saving throws

Skills

Weapons

Languages

Inventory

• Half-Vest · 2 kg
• Blaster Pistol · 1 kg
• War Sword · 2 kg
• Medpac I · 0.5 kg
• Teräs Käsi Bracers · 1 kg

Backstory

Coruscant was no place to grow up without a mother. Torin Fenrys had the city-planet's grey light in his bones before he had anything else — the hum of skylanes overhead, the smell of recycled air, the particular loneliness of a boy raised in a Jedi Temple auxiliary housing block by a rotation of well-meaning but ultimately indifferent Temple staff. His mother, a Jedi Knight named Seren Fenrys, had left him in their care before he was old enough to remember her face clearly. The staff called it duty. Torin called it what it was. What nobody called it — what nobody would explain, deflect as they did with practiced Jedi serenity — was why. Why she had gone, where she had gone, whether she was still alive somewhere out in the Republic's vast and indifferent dark. He had no Force sensitivity. The Temple's intake screeners confirmed it twice, as if checking their instruments for error. Among the Echani, this would have meant little — his people read truth in the body, in movement, in the language of a well-thrown strike, and the Force was simply a different dialect of the same conversation. But here, in the Temple's long corridors, among initiates who glowed with something he could not touch, it meant he did not belong. He was a curiosity. The Jedi Knight's son who inherited her silver hair and her high cheekbones and precisely none of her gifts. At nineteen, the Coruscant Guard conscripted him. Not cruelly — the paperwork was polite — but the message was clear enough. He was useful for his body, not his lineage. They trained him hard and he took to it with the focused, wordless intensity that came naturally to Echani, his instincts for reading a combatant's weight and intention sharpening into something the Guard's drill instructors found unnerving. He learned to dress wounds in the field when others panicked. He stood post through thirty-hour shifts without complaint. He was also, by any officer's account, difficult. Not insubordinate. Not quite. But Torin possessed the particular gracelessness of a man who had never learned — or never wanted — to soften a truth before delivering it. When a senior sergeant gave an order that would have gotten a junior guardsman killed in a crowd-control incident near the Works, Torin said so. Plainly. In front of the formation. The sergeant survived the incident with his authority intact and Torin survived it with a lateral reassignment and a reputation that followed him through three postings like a bruise that wouldn't fade. Eight years he gave them. Eight years of standing at doors and bleeding on corners of the city that the Senate's holofeeds never panned toward. And in that time, not one record request about his mother was answered. The Temple's archives staff were kind about the refusals. The Guard's intelligence liaison was less so. What he had, at the end of it, was a half-vest that had stopped two bolts in the Undercity, a war sword he'd bartered for from a retiring Mandalorian auxiliary, and a name — a system's name, scratched in the margin of a decommissioned duty log he was never supposed to find — that appeared beside his mother's last known assignment before her records went sealed. He put in his discharge papers on a Thursday. Nobody threw him a farewell. A fellow guardsman, the only one who'd ever shared a meal with him voluntarily, shook his hand at the barracks door and said nothing, which Torin understood perfectly and appreciated more than any speech could have earned. The spaceport was six levels up. The name in the log was a long way from Coruscant. He had enough credits for passage and enough stubbornness for whatever came after, and the want that had lived in his chest since childhood — shapeless once, now sharp as a point of light through a viewport — had finally been given a direction. He just didn't know yet what he was going to find when he got there.

Roleplaying notes

- **Treat Injury as Identity:** Torin's Expert-level field medicine isn't clinical detachment — it's the one place his Wisdom actually speaks louder than his words. When an ally is down, he acts before he asks permission; make tending wounds the moment he shows care he cannot otherwise express. - **Echani Combat Intuition:** His high Dexterity and Echani upbringing mean he reads bodies the way others read faces — lean into this during Insight checks by describing *how* someone is standing or moving, not what their expression says; he understands threat and intent physically, not emotionally. - **The Pause Before Speech:** Because of his low Charisma, Torin is not cruel, but he is blunt to the point of social damage — play the beat of silence before he speaks as him genuinely searching for a kinder phrasing and simply not finding one. - **Earned Trust, Full Stop:** Torin does not warm to strangers easily and does not perform warmth he doesn't feel; with allies who have proven themselves in action, however, he is quietly, stubbornly loyal — let the gap between those two modes be visible and wide. - **Stripped-Down Speech:** Torin speaks in short declarative sentences