Krass Wyms
Jedi Tech Division
OUT OF CHARACTER INFORMATION
- Intent: To create a high-level political NPC who is a smith of a different kind to contrast with Krass
- Image Credit: Made with AI
- Role: A powerful political contact and a sophisticated representation of the world of diplomacy, high culture, and pacifistic ideals, creating a compelling contrast to Krass's life of grit, industry and physicality.
- Permissions: N/A
- Links:
PHYSICAL INFORMATION
- Age: 27
- Force Sensitivity: Non-Force User
- Species: Human (Alderaanian)
- Appearance: Senator Organa carries the dignified bearing of her house. She is tall, ivory skinned and statuesque, with a grace that speaks of dance training and innate poise. Her features are refined and intelligent, with keen blue eyes that miss little. Her hair is a rich, deep brown, often styled in elegant, complex braids reminiscent of Alderaanian traditions. She dresses exclusively in the height of tasteful, often conservative galactic fashion gowns of exquisite silk and shimmersilk, impeccably tailored suits in muted tones, and heirloom jewelry featuring the distinctive blue gemstones of Alderaan. Her entire presentation is one of serene, unwavering authority.
SOCIAL INFORMATION
- Name: Senator Toria Organa of Alderaan
- Loyalties: The Planet Alderaan and the ideals of the House of Organa
- Wealth: Extremely Wealthy. The Organa family's wealth is ancient, vast, and tied to stewardship, cultural preservation, and philanthropic endeavors across the galaxy.
- Notable Possessions:
- The Star of Alderaan, a luxurious diplomatic corvette
- A vast archive of Alderaanian art, history, and music.
- Skills: Master-Level Diplomacy and Negotiation; Political Strategy and Oratory; Galactic History and Law; Cultural Anthropology; Crisis Management; Skilled Pianist and Dancer.
- Languages: Basic, High Galactic, Alderaanian, Bocce.
- Personality: Toria Organa is the embodiment of her house's values: compassionate, idealistic, and fiercely intelligent. She is a consummate diplomat, always calm, measured, and persuasive. She believes utterly in the power of dialogue and peaceful resolution. However, beneath the serene exterior lies the famous Organa steel a will of absolute beskar and a cunning political mind that can outmaneuver opponents with effortless grace. She is privately intrigued by those who operate outside her world of words, finding Krass's blunt honesty and tangible power a fascinating paradox.
COMBAT INFORMATION
- Weapon of Choice: Diplomacy, public opinion, historical precedent and a top-tier security detail.
- Combat Function: A dedicated non-combatant and pacifist. She will never wield a weapon. In a dangerous situation, she relies entirely on her security, her wits to de-escalate, or finding a secure location. She is a liability in a direct fight but a master at avoiding one.
- Force Abilities: N/A
Strengths:
- The Voice of Reason: Toria is a legendary mediator and consensus-builder. Her name carries immense moral weight, and she can navigate the most complex diplomatic crises with a blend of empathy, intellect, and unshakeable principle.
- Unshakable Composure: Almost nothing can break her serene demeanor. She maintains flawless poise under direct threats, intense pressure, and outright hostility, using her calmness as a tool to disarm and control volatile situations.
Weaknesses:
- Pacifist Idealism: Her commitment to peaceful solutions is absolute and can border on inflexibility. She can be reluctant to acknowledge when a situation requires a martial response, potentially leading to delayed action or missed opportunities to neutralize a threat.
- The Weight of Legacy: The burden of representing the Organa name and the memory of Alderaan is immense. It can make her overly cautious and sometimes prone to prioritizing symbolic victories and political stability over more pragmatic, but riskier, courses of action.
HISTORICAL INFORMATION
The path of Toria Organa was not chosen; it was a mantle laid upon her shoulders centuries before her birth, woven from the threads of sacrifice, leadership, and unwavering principle that defined her name. From her earliest memories within the serene, purpose-built halls of the Organa house, her existence was a curated lesson in duty. The somber gazes of Bail and Breha Organa, forever captured in portraiture, were not distant historical figures but beloved, tragic ancestors, their story the family's foundational trauma and its greatest source of strength. The legend of Leia Organa was the impossible standard against which she was measured: the diplomat who could wield a blaster, the rebel who architecteda government, the woman whose moral compass never faltered, even when it cost her everything. The achievements of later scions of House Organa the senators, chancellors, and vice-chancellors who served the Republic, the Galactic Alliance and potentially the High Republic with a clarity of purpose that often served as the galaxy's conscience were not abstract history. They were the family trade, and her birthright was the immense responsibility to uphold it.This weight of legacy was both her guiding star and her gilded cage. Her education was a relentless, meticulous preparation for a destiny she never questioned. She mastered galactic constitutional law at the University of Coruscant, delved into xenocultural studies in the salons of Chandrila, and honed her oratory skills on the stages of New Alderaan. She could deconstruct complex trade treaties by fourteen and recite the complete Alderaanian Codes of Conduct by sixteen. Her unique futanari biology was, within the discreet and hyper-cultured circles of the Alderaanian elite, a simple, private fact of her existence. It was acknowledged without stigma or celebration, a neutral aspect of her being that demanded no special attention and thus never became a source of internal conflict. All of her formidable focus was channeled outward, toward the colossal, all-consuming task of being worthy of the name Organa.
The abstract concept of duty became terrifyingly concrete during the war with the One Sith. As a young teenager on Alderaan, she experienced the visceral horror of planetary invasion: the scream of sirens, the frantic, ordered rush to deep-mountain shelters, the gut-wrenching shudder of the planetary shield absorbing orbital bombardment. Huddled in the reinforced darkness, she saw the mask of fear on the faces of the adults who were supposed to be her unshakable protectors. She witnessed the sky, the symbol of her world's fragile new hope, transform into a fire-streaked battlefield. This attack did not instill a paralyzing fear; instead, it forged a diamond-hard resolve. It crystallized the Organa philosophy into a personal, unshakable creed. She saw the Sith as the ultimate failure of dialogue, the embodiment of a galaxy's destructive id. But she also witnessed the courage of the Republic pilots and Jedi defenders like Boolon Murr who risked everything to push the darkness back. She understood then that her family's pacifism was not passive weakness but a proactive, relentless, and often dangerous effort to build a galaxy so robust in its unity, justice, and compassion that the darkness would simply have nowhere to root. She would become a shield, not a sword. Her life's work became the ultimate expression of this ideal: the monumental Terraforming of worlds. It was more than the galaxy's greatest engineering project; it was an act of profound healing, a defiant declaration that creation would always, ultimately, triumph over destruction.
It was with this fervent, almost sacred sense of purpose that she entered the Galactic Senate senate problem meeting
Ayumi Pallopides
, a young woman with the gravity of a much older soul, ready to wield her words as her ancestors had wielded their influence: to rebuild, to protect, and to inspire a weary galaxy.Toria's introduction to Krass Wyms was less a meeting and more an observation of a fundamental force of nature. As a junior senatorial aide on a high-level delegation to the Ancilla, her purpose was to lend political support to the Jedi's most ambitious undertaking: the creation of the Celestial Forge. From the safety of a viewing gantry, she looked down into the main forge chamber, a cavernous space that served as a brutal assault on the senses. The air roared with the scream of power saws, the deafening percussion of immense hammers, and the contained fury of plasma jets. The heat was a physical wall, and the air tasted of ozone and scorched metal.
At the epicenter of this controlled chaos was Krass. She was a vision of feral, utterly consumed focus. Encased in heavy leather and minimal gear, she was sheened in sweat and grime, her powerful muscles coiling and releasing with mechanical precision as she wielded a massive hammer against a glowing ingot of white-hot alloy. This was not the serene, meditative Jedi of holodramas; this was a raw technician of immense power, channeling the Force not through gentle waves but through the brutal, concussive violence of her craft.
When the work reached a natural pause, their eyes met across the gantry. Krass's expression, visible even at a distance, flashed with immediate, undisguised irritation at the sight of another polished bureaucrat come to gawk at the spectacle. Toria, however, felt a compelling need to bridge the gap. She approached as Krass was wiping her brow, her greeting lost in the residual din. The Jedi Smith's dismissive turn was halted mid-motion when Toria, instead of offering political platitudes, posed a sharply insightful, technical question about the harmonic resonance of the forge's energy regulators, comparing their modulation to the tectonic stabilizers used in the Alderaan project. Krass stopped, her posture shifting from dismissal to reassessment as she truly looked at the woman before her. A brief, intensely focused discussion on metallurgical stress tolerances and geo-engineering ensued. They parted with a curt but meaningful nod, a spark of intellectual curiosity lit between them. The simplistic categories of 'politician' and 'Jedi' had begun to dissolve.
Their second meeting was submerged in the looming threat of violence and the bitter taste of failed diplomacy. A notoriously vicious Pirate Lord, Gorrok, had brazenly seized a Galactic Alliance freighter. Its cargo was not weapons or wealth, but something infinitely more precious to Toria: a collection of meticulously recovered Alderaanian cultural artifacts, including the original score for the "Symphony of a Thousand Winds," a piece of music thought lost forever with its homeworld.
Now a full Senator, Toria was dispatched to negotiate their return. The meeting took place in the pirate's grotesque throne room aboard his modified Marauder-class cruiser, a den of avarice and brutality where her poised diplomacy was a lone candle guttering in a vast darkness. She employed the full spectrum of her skills, offering legitimate pardons, lucrative trade incentives, and a substantial finder's fee. Gorrok, a hulking brute reveling in his power, merely laughed, intoxicated by the prospect of even greater ransoms and openly leering at the prospect of adding an Alderaanian Senator to his collection of treasures.
Unbeknownst to Toria, the freighter's captain had managed a desperate distress call to the Jedi. Krass arrived not as a diplomat but as a resolver. While Toria parried verbal threats in the throne room, Krass and a small team were a silent knife in the ship's lower decks, locating the vault.
As Gorrok's patience evaporated and his guards moved to seize her, the ship's alarms blared in a deafening chorus. The main lights died, plunging the room into an eerie darkness punctuated by red emergency strobes. From the corridor outside came the distinctive, terrifying snap-hiss of a lightsaber, the cacophony of blaster fire, and the shouts of panicked pirates. The reinforced doors to the throne room were blown inwards. There stood Krass, illuminated by the cool blue glow of her weapon, her expression one of cold, righteous fury. The hallway behind her was a tableau of stunned and disarmed bodies. She declared the artifacts secured and the pirate's ship dead in space, issuing a blunt, non-negotiable ultimatum that shattered Gorrok's bravado and ended the confrontation instantly.
In the tense aftermath aboard a Galactic Alliance shuttle, a thick silence hung between the two women. Toria's initial fury at the reckless, aggressive solution that had risked a galactic incident warred with a profound, humbling, and reluctant gratitude. She had been playing a complex game of Dejarik by a set of rules her opponent had already torn up, and it was the blunt Jedi with her hammer who had, with brutal efficiency, saved both the priceless artifacts and Toria herself. Krass, for her part, had seen the Senator's unflinching courage in the face of direct and vile threat. It was a vital lesson for Toria on the limits of her philosophy and a grudging acknowledgment from Krass that the diplomat's world required a fortitude starkly different from, but no less real than, her own.
Their third meeting was an accident of fate, a quiet interlude devoid of immediate crisis or conflict. Both found themselves attending the biennial Galactic Expo on Empress Teta—Toria to advocate for cultural preservation grants before the Senate sub-committee present, and Krass to source rare and stable crystalline components for the ongoing work at the Forge.
They spotted each other across the sprawling pavilion showcasing new hyperdrive technologies, a moment of mutual recognition passing between them, laden with the memory of their last heated encounter on the pirate ship. It was a wary, acknowledging nod.
Hours later, exhausted by the relentless crowds, political schmoozing, and commercial clamor, they each independently sought refuge on a quiet, open-air balcony bar overlooking the glittering expanse of Teta's capital. Krass was already there, alone at the bar, nursing a large glass of Corellian whiskey when Toria arrived. A palpable moment of hesitation hung in the air before Toria moved to take the vacant stool beside her. They sat in a shared, comfortable silence, a mutual exhaustion from the demands of their respective worlds that needed no words.
Toria was the one to finally break the silence, offering a formal, measured thanks for the recovery of the musical score, acknowledging its profound importance to her people. Krass responded not with a boast, but with a rare, quiet admission, revealing she had read the manifest afterwards and apologizing for dismissing the other woman's work as 'just words.' This unexpected humility opened a door. The conversation that followed was refreshingly devoid of politics or Jedi dogma. They spoke of the mundane absurdities of the Expo, the frustrating intricacies of their work the challenges of guiding the formation of a new ocean on Alderaan, the maddening difficulty of bonding a volatile Mephite crystal to a Cortosis weave without catastrophic energy feedback. They spoke for hours not as a Senator and a Jedi, but as equals, as two masters of vastly different crafts, each offering the other a rare glimpse into their singular world. The tension between them remained, but it had transformed from friction into a magnetic, electric charge of attraction and intellectual kinship. When they finally parted ways, the exchange was qualitatively different. It was not a nod of respect between adversaries, but a soft, knowing smile of recognition between two people who had finally, truly, seen each other.
A year later, their paths crossed in the most formal of settings: the Galactic Senate rotunda. A fierce debate was raging over the future of the Kessel sector, with strong arguments for either a militarized quarantine to finally crush the remnant spice lords and slave rings, or a massive investment in aid and infrastructure to lift the system out of the despair that fed those evils. Toria was the primary architect and most eloquent voice for the humanitarian approach, arguing with passionate intensity that building schools, hospitals, and legitimate trade routes was the only way to achieve lasting peace.
Krass was present as part of a Jedi delegation invited to offer counsel. When called upon, her testimony was characteristically blunt. She spoke from firsthand experience of liberating spice mines, describing the brutalized slaves and the fanatical, well-armed guards. While not explicitly contradicting Toria, she argued that aid workers would be massacred without a simultaneous, robust security force to first clear and then hold the territory. It was a pragmatic, cold splash of reality on Toria's idealistic plan.
From her podium, Toria listened, her serene composure never slipping, but internally she wrestled with the truth in Krass's words. She couldn't argue with the Jedi's facts, only her conclusion. In her rebuttal, Toria masterfully incorporated Krass's testimony, acknowledging the security concerns but arguing that a purely martial solution would only repeat the cycles of oppression that created the problem in the first place. She proposed a hybrid model: a tightly coordinated, time-limited military action specifically to create a secure perimeter for aid and development, with the ultimate goal of a full military withdrawal.
After the session, they met in a quiet antechamber. The exchange was tense but professional. Krass acknowledged the wisdom of the amended plan, a tacit admission that pure force was not the answer. Toria, in turn, thanked her for the crucial reality check, acknowledging that pure idealism could be blind. They had effectively co-authored a solution, their opposing strengths forcing a compromise that was wiser and more effective than either of their original positions. It was a powerful demonstration of how their contrasting worldviews could actually synergize, a fact not lost on either of them.
The most recent encounter was on Toria's home ground, under the light of a new sun. After decades of work, the terraforming of Alderaan had reached its zenith with the dedication of the Planet's first new sea. The ceremony was a galactic event, attended by dignitaries from a thousand worlds. Toria, the public face of the miracle, was radiant, her poise infused with a genuine, profound joy she had never before displayed in public.
Krass attended not as an official Jedi representative, but as a personal guest. She stood apart from the main diplomatic corps, watching as Toria spoke not just as a politician, but as a woman seeing the dream of generations finally made tangible. Her speech was less a political address and more a poetic ode to renewal, bringing tears to the eyes of hardened Alderaanian survivors.
After the crowds had dispersed, Toria found Krass standing at the edge of a cliff, looking out over the vast, placid expanse of blue water that had not existed a year before. The setting sun glinted off its surface. They stood in silence for a long time, the only sounds the wind and the gentle lap of waves against the new shore.
Toria finally spoke, her voice soft, devoid of its senatorial cadence. "We did it." The "we" was expansive meaning her people, the engineers, the galaxy that supported them, and, implicitly, the Jedi who had helped secure the peace that made it possible.
Krass simply nodded, her usual gruffness absent. She reached down, picked up a smooth, water-worn stone from the new beach, and held it out to Toria. It was a simple, solid, real thing, formed by the interaction of the planet's new geology and its new sea. A creator offering a piece of her creation to another creator. Toria took it, her fingers brushing against Krass's, and closed her hand around it. No words were needed. The gesture said everything: recognition, respect, and a shared understanding of what it meant to make something lasting and beautiful in a galaxy that so often dealt in destruction. The fuse, lit years before, was now a steady, bright flame.
The fall of Coruscant sent seismic shockwaves through the very fabric of the galaxy, an event that instantly rendered the old political order obsolete. For Toria Organa, the destruction of the Senate was not just a professional catastrophe; it was the annihilation of the very instrument through which she had vowed to shape a peaceful future. The core of her identity—the diplomat, the negotiator, the builder of consensus—was suddenly adrift in a new and terrifying reality defined by raw survival. Witnessing the endless streams of refugee ships flooding the hyperlanes from the conquered Core Worlds, her purpose underwent a fundamental and brutal shift. The grand ambitions of legislative progress and cultural renewal evaporated, replaced by a primal, tripartite mission: to transform Alderaan into a fortified sanctuary for the displaced, to forge a new alliance of survival from the galaxy's scattered remnants, and to herself become a living symbol of the rule of law in a galaxy descending into anarchy.
This new pragmatism culminated in the most critical decision of her life: to seek out Krass Wyms. The Jedi, she knew, had retreated to the Outer Rim, using their remote enclaves as bastions for the defenseless. The Star of Alderaan, its diplomatic livery obscured and its systems tuned for stealth, became her vessel into the galaxy's broken heart. The journey was a harrowing passage through a graveyard of civilizations, navigating Imperial remnant blockades, pirate flotillas, and systems plunged into warlord-led chaos. The polished Senator was replaced by a grim-faced survivor, the weight of her people's future etched into her features.
Her search ended at a clandestine Jedi outpost on the mineral-rich moon of Sapphire Point. The base was a stark, functional complex carved into crimson rock, a far cry from the gleaming spires of Coruscant or the serene halls of Alderaan. The air thrummed with the strained energy of a refugee camp and the constant, urgent sounds of repair and defense preparation.
She found Krass not in a forge crafting elegant artifacts, but in a dusty hangar serving as a emergency workshop. The Jedi Smith was a portrait of focused exertion, her form sheened in sweat and grime as she directed efforts to patch the scarred hull of a battered GR-75 transport. She moved with a veteran's efficiency, her every action dedicated to the immediate, tangible need of keeping people alive and moving.
Toria's approach through the hangar's chaotic activity was a study in stark contrasts. Her travel-worn clothing and tired eyes mirrored the pervasive atmosphere of struggle, yet her posture retained its innate, unwavering poise. Krass turned, her hands stilling as she registered the impossible presence of the Alderaanian Senator in the midst of the Outer Rim's desperation. Her expression shifted from focused concentration to stunned recognition, then to a wary, questioning alertness.
There were no words. In the space between them hung the shared understanding of a galaxy undone. Toria's gaze was direct, stripping away all pretense of diplomacy. She looked from Krass to the wounded transport, to the faces of the refugees, and then back to the Jedi, her eyes conveying a history of loss and a terrifying burden of responsibility. The serene diplomat was gone; in her place stood a leader who had reached the absolute limit of what words and ideals could accomplish.
Her silent plea was communicated in the set of her shoulders, in the intensity of her gaze. It was the look of someone who had navigated the abyss and arrived at a single, necessary conclusion. She needed the strength she could not provide herself. She needed the protector her world lacked. She needed the smith, not to forge artifacts, but to help her forge a shield for the last light of civilization. In that silent hangar, amidst the sounds of struggle, Toria Organa, the woman of words, offered a silent, desperate request to Krass Wyms, the woman of action, and waited for her answer.
