Widow. Veteran. Survivor.
SERRA TOSS
Alor of Clan Toss
Widow. Veteran. Survivor.
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OVERVIEW
Serra Toss leads Clan Toss not with pageantry, but with purpose. At 53, she carries the bearing of someone who has seen war in all its slow, grinding forms- and has kept her people alive through it. Her command is quiet, her presence unshakable. She's not the loudest in the room, or the most decorated, but she's the one people follow when things fall apart.
Serra didn't take the mantle of Alor by contest or conquest. She inherited it- eldest of the Toss line, last of her generation, and the anchor to which the clan still ties itself. In a scattered, mobile people, she became the still point: not just a warrior or engineer, but a matriarch. The clan comes to her not because she demands it, but because she's always known what comes next- and what must be done.
Her reputation was built in the field- tracking enemy scouts, pulling wounded out of collapsed bunkers, holding the line while others scrambled. She's a former recon operative and field leader who earned respect not through speeches, but through survival. She's the kind of leader who doesn't need to raise her voice- because her silence says more.
These days, she's the spine of the Toss home-fleet, orchestrating supply routes, emergency deployments, and training rotations from the shadows of her command deck. She speaks little, listens always, and commands not with threats—but with the expectation that everyone around her will do their job, because she always does hers.
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HISTORY
Serra was born into a generation without a homeland- raised aboard aging ships and in modular field stations pieced together after one too many Mandalorian wars. Her childhood was one of movement, grit, and quiet observation. There were no academies or great battles to define her. Just small jobs, bad terrain, and the steady accumulation of skill.
She started as a scout, tracking movement on frontier planets and in derelict wrecks. That led to more dangerous work- recon ahead of advance teams, extraction runs under fire, combat repairs in the middle of nowhere. She survived not because she was the best shot, but because she could think clearly when everything else collapsed.
In the middle of all this, she met Harrek Toss- another quiet operator with calloused hands and a dry sense of humor. They married without ceremony. Had a daughter, Alira. Raised her between assignments and field deployments. For a time, it felt like enough.
Then the galaxy moved on- as it always does. Harrek died saving others in a structural collapse. Alira died years later under circumstances that never sat right with Serra. Sabotage, maybe. She never got proof. Only a body, and a granddaughter,
Kayte Toss
, who reminded her too much of both of them.
Serra helped raise Kayte, for a while. But Kayte was like all Toss: restless, capable, already looking toward the next horizon. Serra let her go. Not because she wanted to- but because she understood.
When her own mother, the last Alor, finally passed, there was no debate. The clan turned to Serra as it always had. She accepted not as a promotion, but as inheritance- steady hands taking the wheel because someone must. She never wanted command. But she has never once failed it.
Now, Serra leads not just as a strategist or survivor, but as the living history of her people- scarred, pragmatic, enduring.
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ATTIRE
Serra Toss wears the years and the battles without excuse. At 53, her body bears the marks of a lifetime lived on the edge of survival- lean muscle, scarred skin, joints that ache but never slow. Her presence isn't grand, but it's felt. She walks like someone used to armor, used to weight, used to moving forward no matter what.
Her face is weathered and unreadable: pale gray eyes that miss nothing, a steady mouth rarely caught smiling. Her hair, streaked in ash and iron, is pulled into a tight braid, with copper wire woven through as both tradition and function. There's no makeup, no vanity, no ceremony- just discipline.
Her beskar is unpainted and scarred, kept functional with precision repairs. Over it she wears a reinforced field coat, frayed at the cuffs but heavy with purpose. Her belt carries tools, medkits, and a single long-knife. At her hip hangs her helmet- plain, utilitarian, marked only by a faded Toss glyph. The only personal item she wears is her late husband's hydrospanner, worn smooth at the grip, strapped across her lower back.
She doesn't look like a hero. She looks like the one who cleans up after them.
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PSYCHE
Serra Toss is built from silence, structure, and unshakable will. She doesn't waste words or energy- what needs saying is said plainly, and what needs doing gets done. She doesn't command with speeches. She commands with stillness, with the quiet pressure of someone who's been through worse and expects you to get through it, too.
She's seen too much to be shocked, lost too much to indulge in sentiment. Grief doesn't stop her- it just sharpens her. She is not cruel, but she is exacting. Mistakes are corrected. Weakness is addressed. Everyone is expected to carry weight, and if they can't, she'll carry it- but she'll remember who couldn't.
Serra believes in systems, in roles, in function. She isn't interested in glory or legacy. Her loyalty is absolute, but unspoken- expressed in preparation, in protection, in passing on what must be known to those who come next. She teaches by doing, trains by example, and leads from the front- even when she's standing in the back.
She loves her clan the way a builder loves a structure: not with flowers or praise, but by keeping it standing.
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