Name: Trelvik Noss
Species: Sullustan
Age: 43
Appearance:Trelvik is built like a scatter gun - short, stocky, but packing a lot of power. His face is marked and scarred by shrapnel burns and old blunt trauma. He is normally seen wearing his now out of date reinforced rebel cap and goggles, but if he ever has it off one would notice one ear ridge that is partially collapsed and re-hardened, the result of a close detonator blast.
He wears layered Rebel surplus reinforced with scavenged plasteel, crudely welded and repainted more than once. A thick scarf is wrapped tight around his neck and lower face. His gear is about one or two generations back from the current Rebel outfit, and he's taken care to scratch off any visible Rebel markings on the outside of his gear. He's yet to come across any who've noticed his allegience through his clothing - at least, not any who could beat him in a fist fight.
Equipment:- A280 Blaster Rifle
- DL-18 Blaster Pistol
- Machete
- Field Survival Kit
- Datapad
Skills:- Close-Quarters Combat: Exceptionally dangerous at intimate ranges. Frightening when forced into melee.
- Navigation and Spatial Memory: Innate Sullustan sense of direction, even underground or indoors.
- Jungle and Wreck Fighting: Excels in dense terrain, low visibility, and broken structures.
- Improviser: Extremelly good at improvising with weapons and environment
Weaknesses:- Reckless Aggression: Pushes too far, stays too long, hits harder than necessary.
- Authority Issues: Resents distant command decisions, especially after being sidelined for so long.
- Out of His Prime: He's older than he was when he was in the thick of it, and a bit out of practice.
- Haunted Reputation: Some Rebels remember why he was sidelined and haven't forgiven him.
History:Trelvik Noss was born beneath the surface of Sullust, in the deep industrial districts where the cities never saw open sky. His family weren't rich by any means, and made their way in life as miners working for the ever present SoroSuub corporation.
He grew into physical work quickly. Of course, he started off with a miner alongside his father, but this quickly grew to bore him. Instead he career hopped for a bit in his younger years, trying everything from
fFreight routing to emergency response. All were jobs where spatial awareness mattered more than speed. His natural Sullustan sense of direction made him reliable, and reliability made him valuable. He wasn't brilliant or ambitious, by any means, but he was reliable.
During the Clone Wars, Trelvik was in his mid-twenties. Sullust changed hands more than once, and neutrality became a polite fiction. He saw armies pass through, supplies seized, and civilians caught between banners that all claimed to be temporary. By the time the Republic fell and the Empire rose, Trelvik had learned a hard truth: governments changed, but the people doing the bleeding rarely did.
The early years of Imperial rule were quiet for him. Shipping lanes were nationalised. Local authority disappeared. Workers were conscripted or replaced. Suddenly the foremen and managers were singing Empire songs and hanging propaganda on any free wall. Trelvik avoided open resistance at first, focusing on survival, moving off-world when he could, taking contract work as escort and security on marginal routes.
He joined a Rebel aligned cell in his late 20s. The Empire had closed too many doors, taken too many people and changed too much. To say he was radicalised was an understatement. The clone wars and ensuing rise of the empire had taken too much from him, taken too many people.
For years, Trelvik became known as a dependable frontline fighter. He held evacuation corridors, secured crash sites, and held off waves of storm troopers that bought others time to escape. He wasn't flashy and he definitely wasn't subtle. But when things went wrong, and they often did, Trelvik stayed upright when others broke. His reputation grew not as a hero, but as someone you could trust when plans collapsed.
That trust fractured during an extraction operation several years before Yavin. The mission was meant to stay controlled and precise. An Imperial logistics node sat on the edge of a civilian block. Too close for comfort to any unneeded casualties, but still workable if discipline held. Trelvik's unit was assigned to apply pressure at a distance while another team extracted a Rebel asset elsewhere in the settlement. The rules were clear: keep the Imperials pinned, do not engage within the block.
However, the pressure wasn't enough. Stormtroopers began advancing instead of pulling back, tightening their perimeter rather than breaking for the diversion. The extraction was stalling, time was bleeding away. Trelvik pushed forward to force a reaction - closing ground he wasn't meant to close, compressing the fight into tighter streets.
That was when the Imperials threw a thermal detonator. It wouldn't have landed anywhere near civilians if Trelvik hadn't advanced. It would have detonated in open ground, between combatants. Instead, it bounced along the ground oand skidded back toward his squad.
Instinctively he swatted it away, his natural sense for self preservation taking over. He didn't even look where he'd batted it towards, he just continued firing. It was only as he heard the detonator about to go off that he stole a glance.
He'll never forget what he saw. An open doorway into a family home, the look of terror on their collective face as the detonator rolled to a stop at the daughters feet.
The fight ended seconds later. The extraction succeeded. His people survived. A little girl did not.
There was no ambiguity in the reports. No shared responsibility. The detonator throw was logged. The deflection was logged. The impact point was logged.
Noss, T. - unauthorised advance.
Noss, T. - device deflected.
Civilian casualty.
Command didn't dress it up as a tragedy of war. They didn't excuse it as unavoidable. They called it what it was - a lapse in judgment by someone trusted to know better. They didn't court-martial him. They didn't strip his gear or his pay. They simply took his authority away.
Frontline assignments stopped. Assault rosters vanished. He was reassigned to work where reactions didn't matter and instincts couldn't kill anyone.
Trelvik didn't argue. He was already in a prison of his own conscience, as far as he was concerned he was better off away from the frontline.
By the time of Yavin, Trelvik was 42 and sidelined. Living in the arse end of the galaxy on Exaron, wasting away his days doing busy work for the Rebel Alliance and drinking his life away in the local bars. It's been sometime since his mistake, and the empire has only gotten stronger and more oppresive. He's made multiple attempts to request transfer back to where the fighting is happening - to no avail. If anyone remembers him at all they just remember his failure and his brutality.
When word reached him that Tyrell Omi-Ren had been shot down with crucial information, Trelvik recognised the stakes immediately. If he ever had a chance to get back to the frontlines, to get back to where his fighting mattered - this was it.
He doesn't expect absolution.
He expects one more chance to be necessary.
RPM,
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