Basic Information:

• Name:  Raeya Tille

• Alias:  None

• Species:  Human

• Gender:  Female

• Age:  32

Affiliation & Status:

• Affiliation:  Eternal Alliance (formerly Zakuulan Overwatch) 

• Title:  Eternal Alliance Senior Emissary

• Rank:  Strategic Operations Commander

• Force Sensitive:  No

Origin & Residence:

• Homeworld:  Zakuul

• Current Residence:  Odessen

Physical Stats:

• Height:  1.68 meters (5'6")

• Weight:  58 kg (128 lbs)

• Build/Body Type:  Graceful, poised, quietly enduring

• Eye Color: Light brown 

• Hair Color:  Dark black, worn in a neat braid or pinned twist 

• Skin Color:  Fair
  
  

Distinctive Features:

• Distinctive Characteristics:  Composed posture, still attentiveness, an anchoring presence

• Scars/Tattoos/Markings:  Thin scar across right forearm (from early resistance engagement)

• Other Notable Features:  Wears memory tags under her collar; attire emphasizes asymmetry and continuity—visual echoes of civic structure

Personality Profile:

• Openness to Experience:  High (emotionally perceptive, navigates nuance with ease)

• Conscientiousness:  High (anchored by ethics, calibrated by principles)

• Extroversion:  Moderate (quiet until presence is needed, then unmistakable)

• Agreeableness:  High (steady empathy, disinclined toward cruelty or spectacle)

• Neuroticism:  Low (pressure refines her, tension becomes direction)
  
  

Additional Traits:

• Strengths:  Tactical empathy, dignified de-escalation, clarity without imposition

• Flaws:  Internalizes unrest, slow to forgive herself, distrusts praise

• Likes:  Honest presence, silent understanding, respect uncoerced

• Dislikes:  Performative power, systemic coldness, false unity

• Disposition:  Steady, discerning, quietly sovereign

Command Structure:

• Superior:  Lana Beniko

• Subordinates:  None
  
  

Personal Connections:

• Significant Other:  None (intimacy deferred, not denied)

• Notable Friends:  Kylia Tille (cousin, co-strategist, lifelong tether)

• Pets/Companions:  Trellis (female loth-cat, bonded on Dromund Kaas)
  
  

Family:

• Mother:  Alia Tille (Knight-Captain, deceased)

• Father:  Tharin Tille (former judicial ethicist, retired)

• Siblings:  None (Kylia Tille, cousin; mirrored legacy, shared forward)

Skills & Abilities:

• Signature Abilities/Force Powers:  Behavioral triangulation, empathic read-mirroring, tactical de-escalation

• Combat Specialties:  Civic disruption control, high-stakes diplomacy under volatile strain

• Languages Spoken:  Galactic Basic (fluent), Zakuulan formal register (fluent), Mid-Tier Civic Code (archival)

• Notable Achievements:  Authored Alliance Civilian-Patrol Protocols; defused six-tier conflict on Rishi without weapons

• Other Skills:  Bias chain analysis, diplomatic compression mapping, empathy-indexed crisis response
  
  

Equipment & Gear:

• Primary Weapon(s):  Twin A-180 blaster pistols (non-lethal optimized)

• Notable Equipment/Gear:  Comms cuff with emotional override channel; field-adaptive memory tag reader

• Armor/Outfit:  Modular emissary uniform—stormgrey, layered, storm-thread trimmed for fluid command

• Personal Items:  Tribunal token (her mother’s), resilience tag annotated by Kylia, protester’s etched holo-quote

• Mount/Vehicle:  Travels under Eternal Alliance diplomatic transport access; no personal vessel

Roleplay Hooks:

• Quirks & Habits:  Calibrates posture before conflict; wears cadet pin inside collar; starts each morning by reviewing last night’s civic report logs

• Rumors & Reputation:  Rumored to have halted an execution with a glance; some claim droids pause when she enters

• Open Connections:  Past Overwatch officers, protest survivors of silent suppression, displaced civic organizers seeking renewed purpose
  
  

Story Seeds:

• Current Goals:  Shift peace from pause to permanence; embed dignity into governance, not optics

• Hidden Agendas or Secrets:  Maintains a “soul register”—names lost to quiet protocol, preserved in private record

• Fears/Weaknesses:  That her stillness will be mistaken for surrender; that her face will outlive the cause it represents

• Story Arcs:  Build structures that don’t require her presence to endure; elevate Kylia's work into lasting systems; teach power to hold, not crush

Background:  

Raeya Tille grew up in a house defined by thresholds—her mother enforced law with blade and certainty, her father shaped it with logic and restraint. From them, she inherited stillness not as passivity, but as power held in check. Her silence became study; her presence, protest. Where her cousin Kylia dissected systems, Raeya mapped the human cost those systems overlooked. She joined Zakuul’s Overwatch not to uphold control, but to understand where it failed. Her defection came not from rebellion, but from clarity: the machine they served could no longer see the people inside it. In the Alliance, she did not rise through force or command—but through constancy. She does not seek spotlight or saviorhood. She stands—when others falter, when justice hesitates. And in that stillness, she becomes the axis others turn toward. 

Timeline/Chronology:

• 3653 BBY | Age 0 — Born on Zakuul during peak civic stabilization.

• 3643 BBY | Age 10 — First tribunal observation; recorded judicial cadence variance.

• 3636 BBY | Age 17 — Joined Spire Academy; co-developed posture-drift calibration model.

• 3635 BBY | Age 18 — Defused protest simulation via rare civic clause; quietly warned.

• 3632 BBY | Age 21 — Promoted to Overwatch Supervisor; uncovered bias cascade in routing.

• 3630 BBY | Age 23 — Defected during Operation Dragon’s Maw; secured release through presence.

• 3629 BBY | Age 24 — Identified Zakuulan trace in Dust Viper behavior pattern.

• 3627 BBY | Age 26 — Stabilized panic response on Belsavis; cadence anomaly traced to Zakuul.

• 3624 BBY | Age 29 — Authored “Visible Shield Protocols” for civilian engagement.

• 3621 BBY | Age 32 — Senior Emissary; known for a presence that disarms where words fail.

Roleplayer Info:

• Contact Preference:  In-game (Raeya Tille - Imp Side)

• Timezone:  EST (UTC-5)

• Activity & Availability:  Weekdays (afternoon) & weekends (during day)
  
  

Roleplay Preference & Boundaries:

• Roleplay Style:  Prefer 1:1 or small group roleplay, mostly in-game.

• Triggers & Boundaries:  No god mode.

• Plotting & Collaboration:  Open to long-term plots but prefer things to develop more on the fly/spontaneously. 

• Other Notes:  Preferred session length: 1–3 hours.

🟥 Episode I – Presence Matters
3643 BBY | Age 10 | Civilian | Zakuul, Mid-Tier Civic Ward

🪐 Galactic Context:

The Treaty of Coruscant has silenced the galaxy—temporarily. The Republic and Sith Empire posture behind fragile diplomacy, but beyond the stars, Zakuul advances unnoticed, self-contained and untouched. Here, strength isn’t forged in war—it’s shaped by discipline, posture, and presence. And for Raeya Tille, understanding power begins long before it earns a name. 

📘 Narrative:

✧ Raeya Tille lived where expectations hung heavier than words. Her mother, Knight-Captain Alia Tille, radiated precision—her armor always immaculate, her directives never questioned. Her father, Tharin, weighed policy outcomes like equations—an ethicist by title, a jurist by temperament. Their home did not echo with laughter; it resonated with clarity and thresholds. Love came in the form of sharpened insights and meals plated like assessments—measured, correct, never warm. Raeya learned early that silence wasn’t absence—it was authority held still. She watched her mother scan a room without blinking, saw how her father’s pauses spoke more than his verdicts. Emotion was not forbidden—but it was rarely functional. Her voice remained small, but not uncertain. Even as a child, she understood: in a room full of noise, stillness commands. And presence, when held properly, becomes unspoken power.

✧ While Kylia mapped failures in infrastructure, Raeya mapped the fault lines of people. She watched where crowds hesitated, how posture changed near surveillance pylons, how tension lived in hands more than faces. On their civic walks, she’d point out subtleties: a man shifting weight before entering a checkpoint, a child clutching their guardian tighter near guard posts. “They don’t feel safe,” she murmured once. “They look compliant, but their feet are trying to leave.” Kylia logged the time. Raeya logged the fear. The data became dual-entry: numbers and nuance. Their bond didn’t seek dominance. It sought calibration—two minds converging on the truth Zakuul refused to say aloud. Raeya never challenged the system openly. But she followed its absences with unnerving clarity. And some part of her already knew: watching people wasn’t enough. Someone had to be seen.

✧ The first time Raeya entered the Tribunal Hall, her throat went tight and her breath slowed. She wasn’t there to speak—just to observe. Her father presided over a civic inquiry involving a noncompliant citizen: a mother who had bypassed a travel restriction to care for her ill parent. The law was absolute. The consequence, predetermined. But Raeya watched what the panel missed—the crack in the woman’s voice, the way none of the magistrates met her eyes. Tharin paused before delivering judgment—just a breath longer than protocol required. That pause mattered. It was the only thing in the room that felt human. Later that night, she asked him: “Is law about results, or reasons?” He didn’t look up. “Ideally both,” he said. “But under pressure? Only one survives.” His hands trembled when he thought she wasn’t looking.

✧ Her clarity sharpened in the spaces protocol didn’t touch. While Kylia flagged variance across data grids, Raeya traced where policy bled into bias. Patrols moved differently in residential versus merchant zones. Tribunal leniency wavered depending on how well someone spoke. She didn’t accuse—she recorded. She watched how her own instructors shifted tone with different families, how assignments rotated in patterns that felt too convenient to be chance. “Bias is quiet,” she whispered once to Kylia, “but it leaves fingerprints.” Her cousin nodded and entered a new field in her tracker: Perceptual Skew Index. Raeya’s strength wasn’t confrontation—it was endurance. She stood in flawed systems long enough to learn where they cracked. She almost filed a complaint once. Instead, she held it—waiting for a moment that mattered. Not because she feared the cost. But because timing was the only power the powerless could still own.

✧ By ten, Raeya knew that presence was its own form of resistance. She didn’t seek command. She didn’t crave correction. She wanted to bear witness—to be the still point others rotated around when everything else began to break. She tracked who was silenced, who was heard, and who learned to stop asking. Where Kylia logged logic trees, Raeya logged lived consequence. They never competed. They completed. When a civic drone rerouted unexpectedly and delayed a mid-sector ward, Raeya didn’t ask what failed. She asked, “Who paid for that delay?” The silence that followed told her everything. She knew what side of the machine she stood on. Not its voice. Not its blade. Its memory. And that would be enough—until it wasn’t.

📓 Personal Log: “The Quiet Between Words” | Zakuul, 3643 BBY

"I’m learning how decisions land—how the shape of silence changes in a room once justice is done. Mother held the line. Father drew it. I stand where it bends. Kylia says systems are neutral until used. I think they’re always leaning—sometimes gently, sometimes dangerously. Today, I watched a rule hold firm while a person broke under it. No one questioned the rule. Just the result. So I will keep asking questions. Even if no one answers—because silence is an answer too."

🟥 Episode II – Sparks in the Spire
3636 BBY | Age 17 | Spire Sentinel Cadet | Zakuul, The Spire, Academy District

🪐 Galactic Context
In the wake of Ziost’s cataclysm, whispers of annihilation ripple through the Outer Rim—but Zakuul continues in polished stillness. The Spire Sentinel Academy prepares its cadets not for war, but for internal certainty. In a city that believes perfection is self-sustaining, young officers are trained to ensure silence stays unbroken. Raeya Tille enters this academy not to obey—but to understand why obedience became necessary in the first place.

📘 Narrative

✧ Raeya Tille stepped into the Spire Sentinel Academy without ceremony. Her mother’s legacy loomed over her—Knight-Captain Alia Tille, killed during a containment operation that mistook a protest for a threat. No one spoke of it directly. But every corridor, every look, every expectation reminded Raeya who she was supposed to become. She met those stares with quiet posture and clipped affirmatives, never defensive, always composed. Her instructors noted her command presence—too measured for her age, too controlled for most. She chose electives others avoided: dispute mediation theory, cross-tier empathy mapping, civic friction case reviews. “You should specialize in security enforcement,” one advisor said. “Empathy doesn’t scale.” Raeya nodded and changed nothing. But in the quiet of her dorm, her fingers clenched hard enough around her stylus to crack its shell.

✧ The Academy emphasized rank, not resonance. Raeya understood why. In unstable times, visible control felt safer than actual comprehension. But she watched how fear curdled beneath ceremony—how cadets with high posture scores flinched during simulations, how instructors praised compliance louder than clarity. She memorized every threshold for force authorization but always asked what came before escalation. Most didn’t answer. Some told her not to ask again. Her silence was not surrender—it was study. She cataloged hesitation patterns during drills, identified when enforcement posture veiled anxiety rather than discipline. Her restraint wasn’t a lack of action—it was tactical empathy. One instructor called her “nonreactive.” She almost responded. Instead, she watched how his voice wavered when someone challenged his metrics. And she added his profile to her “unspoken tension” log.

✧ Her link with Kylia became more structured—official now, sanctioned by joint analysis protocols. They weren’t in the same squad, but their field logs synchronized in real time. Kylia flagged variances; Raeya assigned context weights and emotional drift coefficients. During a training exercise in the Lower Ring, a simulation went off-script—an artificial protest turned unexpectedly volatile when a system lag created a false aggression flag. The other cadets froze, unsure whether to wait for command input. Raeya stepped forward. She removed her helmet, approached the lead “agitator,” and issued a de-escalation clause from civic protocol 4.6b—one rarely used, but fully binding. The simulation shut down. Her pulse slowed only after the crowd dispersed. She received no commendation. Only a private note: “You disrupted the exercise’s purpose. Control should never yield to dialogue.” She didn’t reply. She just sent the message to Kylia. Neither spoke of it again—but they both logged the warning.

✧ They met late that night in the public records annex, under the pretext of reviewing incident clearance data. The annex was cold and lit too brightly, a place designed to remind cadets of their position in the hierarchy. Kylia handed her a datapad with policy trends; Raeya handed back annotations on recent suppression justifications. “They’re reinforcing compliance through fear of confusion,” Raeya said. “They’re labeling confusion as disloyalty,” Kylia corrected. The difference mattered. It was the space Raeya lived in—where being thoughtful looked too much like dissent. Her jaw clenched as she read a tribunal case where a citizen was reprimanded for “interference,” even though they’d only asked a question. Raeya didn’t want to dismantle systems. She wanted to make them answer for the gaps they labeled inconvenient. Later that week, a revised clause for escalation review procedures appeared in the simulation archive—more lenient wording, quietly adopted. Raeya recognized the phrasing. It was hers. She never submitted it officially. But the file Kylia had uploaded had included her margin notes.

✧ By the end of her first year, Raeya’s name had surfaced twice in cadet forums—once for quiet commendation, once for “hesitation under duress.” Neither entry matched what actually happened. She didn’t correct the record. She logged the variance. Her strength wasn’t in protest—it was in presence, held calmly when the system twisted under its own weight. She started training junior cadets on pattern recognition—emotional, not procedural. Kylia reviewed their analytics; Raeya translated the behaviors that data couldn’t explain. One joint report—mapping delay response to public voice stress—was quietly embedded into the city’s crowd calibration module. No credits listed. But the cadence was unmistakable. Raeya didn’t crave visibility. But she wanted her calibration of people to shape the system—whether or not it bore her name. And with Kylia beside her, it already had.

📓 Personal Log: “Precision Over Noise” | Zakuul, 3636 BBY

"I’m not here to defy orders. I’m here to understand what they protect—and who they forget. Every time I act too slowly, someone watches. Every time I act too quickly, someone warns. Kylia trusts logic. I trust what people don’t say. Today, a simulation failed because we acted with clarity, not force. They called it interference. I called it precision. I’m not here to provoke change through noise. I’m here to make sure no one forgets what silence costs—and ensure the system no longer forgets who it forgets."

🟥 Episode III – Flames Over the Spire
3635 BBY | Age 18 | Overwatch Junior Officer | Zakuul, The Spire, Academy District

🪐 Galactic Context
Arcann’s Eternal Fleet scorches through Korriban, claiming Sith territory with surgical precision and igniting galactic terror. The Republic reels. The Empire stumbles. But Zakuul keeps its optics polished, its Spire quiet. Inside the academy walls, cadets are taught adjustment, not acknowledgment. For Raeya Tille, the war doesn’t arrive with orders—it arrives with silence stretching too long between them.

📘 Narrative

✧ Raeya Tille notices it first in the eyes of her squadmates—too alert during drills, breaths clipped too short. The exercises haven’t changed. But the stakes have. Her pulse slows as she leads the route, adjusting posture with forced control. She almost halts the run to ask if they’re ready. Instead, she files a report on "emergent hesitancy under duress." Her fingers tremble when she logs it. But later that evening, a new modifier appears in the simulation templates: Response Latency Flag, tiered by posture feedback. No announcement is made. But she recognizes the phrasing. It’s hers—pulled from an observation packet she’d sent Kylia three nights prior. That’s how the system adapts: not through credit, but through quiet absorption.

✧ A merchant in the mid-tier district speaks of off-world whispers—Korriban fallen, the Sith in retreat. Raeya logs the conversation but keeps her face neutral. Inside, her chest tightens. She almost calls her father for confirmation. Instead, she reviews fleet path data from Kylia, where the timing already told the story. She speaks to no one. But she begins shifting her patrol posture—two steps behind formation now, ready for collapse instead of protest. She logs the pattern to their shared thread under the tag: "Posture Drift – Anticipatory Collapse." Kylia responds with a variance overlay of civilian density clusters. The map updates within the hour. Raeya doesn’t need to speak the fear aloud. Kylia already mapped it.

✧ When the Eternal Fleet clips the outer systems, emergency drills are upgraded to full simulations. Raeya stands before her unit, explaining fallback positions in a voice more composed than she feels. Her hands clench behind her back. She almost tells them the truth: that the enemy isn’t coming—it’s already here. Instead, she drills formation dispersal until the floor patterns etch into her memory. She leads from center. Because it’s the only place where collapse slows. And she knows that if fear takes root, even perfect posture can’t hold the wall. The next morning, a revised fallback guide appears in the junior cadet repository. It mirrors her squad’s structure—distributed, balanced, center-led. No one mentions it. But she sees the change. It holds.

✧ Late at night, she and Kylia overlay two civic evacuation paths—one official, one adaptive. Raeya watches the strain markers pulse red across the mid-sector. She exhales slowly. "These people don’t know what’s coming," she says. Kylia doesn’t answer—just reroutes a corridor node silently. Raeya almost breaks then. Almost says, "We’re not ready." But she swallows it. Instead, she marks the reroute with a timestamp and logs it as: "Discreet resilience, phase one." Two days later, a new corridor designation appears in the Overwatch contingency node—an exact match. The signature is scrubbed. But they both know who wrote it.

✧ The week ends with a warning memo: "Cadet posture must reflect Spire continuity." Raeya reads it once, jaw tight. She almost tears it in half. Instead, she posts it on her dorm wall and underlines the word "continuity." Because for her, the only continuity worth preserving is survival. She begins drafting a resilience metric that combines posture fidelity with ambient stress markers. Kylia offers baseline data drawn from crowd churn overlays. Together, they test it against three archived panic events. The result: a 13% improvement in coordinated civilian flow. They don’t submit it officially. But days later, the Overwatch updates their early-response drills—new parameter tags embedded within. Raeya doesn’t need the Spire’s approval. She needs its fractures mapped. And she’ll keep standing until the system stops pretending there are none.

📓 Personal Log: "What Silence Costs" | Zakuul, 3635 BBY

"There was no explosion. No fire. But today I watched the first citizen flinch at the word ‘Fleet.’ That’s how it begins. Not in blast radius—but in breath patterns. I don’t need to see the war to feel it pressing in. I’ve changed our fallback plans. I’ve updated my squad’s posture. And I’ve prepared for a kind of silence that sounds too much like warning. I won’t panic. But I won’t pretend either. If posture is all I have, then I’ll use it to hold the line—until someone else finally says what we both already know. Kylia and I already have."

🟥 Episode IV – Weight Before the Collapse
3632 BBY | Age 21 | Overwatch Supervisor | Zakuul, The Spire, Community Tier West

🪐 Galactic Context:

Arcann’s Eternal Empire tightens its grip as the Eternal Fleet polices entire sectors without resistance. Zakuul’s citizens still move through polished corridors and automated calm—but beneath the surface, silence has shifted. It no longer protects. It observes. For Raeya Tille, promoted before her age caught up with her record, peace has begun to feel indistinguishable from pressure.

📘 Narrative:

✧ The patrol grid looked clean on paper—but her feet told a different story. The symmetry of the route felt rehearsed, the timing too perfect to trust. Raeya adjusted her stride by half a second, just enough to disrupt the rhythm, watching the Skytrooper patrol pivot at the corner like clockwork. Her second-in-command tracked the shift with a glance but said nothing. “Supervisor.” The word still caught her ear wrong. Not because she doubted her ability, but because no one had ever said why. One day she was analyzing posture lag, and the next, she was signing route authorizations for districts that used to outrank her. No commendation. No ceremony. Just a tighter collar and more eyes waiting to see if she’d break. And still, the silence lingered.

✧ The explosion downtown triggered every sensor—but her pulse didn’t spike. Not like it used to. She watched the playback three times: detonation centered on Skytrooper routing lines, civilian pathways untouched. “Firebrand,” the network declared. Raeya stared at the footage, lips pressed tight. This wasn’t a message—it was a restraint. She almost flagged the distinction in her report. Instead, she stored the raw feed in her private log under: “Strategic empathy—intentional disruption.” Later that day, a child traced a Flamechaser sigil in the frost along a transit railing. Raeya didn’t stop her. She didn’t smile either. She just watched, hands in her coat pockets, heart clenched. And still, the silence lingered.

✧ She found Kylia in the annex passage, both of them pretending it wasn’t a meeting. “They’ve started rerouting without timestamps,” Raeya said quietly, offering her encrypted datapad. “Crowd suppression thresholds are narrowing by sector—one at a time, no announcement.” Kylia handed back a stream of variance overlays, data thrumming with buried tension. “I cross-referenced patrol rotations with escalation justifications,” Raeya murmured. “The justifications aren’t changing. Just disappearing.” Her cousin didn’t respond, but Raeya could see the fatigue behind her stillness. She almost reached for her hand—but restraint was the only thing they were still allowed to share. Instead, they stood shoulder to shoulder, staring at a city that didn’t ask questions anymore. And still, the silence lingered.

✧ A permit rejection sat on her desk—routine, unmarked, too fast. Deyla Sorne. Once part of Zakuul’s civic outreach, now denied reassignment with no stated cause. Raeya scanned the chain twice. No appeal log. No denial rationale. Just a hole. Her clearance could have fixed it. She almost did. Instead, she flagged the case in her encrypted records: “Discretionary exclusion—erosion by omission.” That night, she spotted Sorne’s daughter at the edge of the transit platform, drawing boot prints through slush with tight shoulders and a lifted chin. Raeya stepped just close enough to be seen. Not close enough to be questioned. And still, the silence lingered.

✧ The week ended with a memo—unsigned. Drone enforcement expanding into mixed-density corridors. No justification. Just authority by inertia. Raeya read the directive twice, then a third time, each repetition making her jaw ache. She almost filed a concern under routing imbalance. Instead, she issued an internal directive: “Maintain human presence in all visible patrols. Log hesitation patterns. Do not rely on automated reads.” Her officers complied without question—though she saw one glance linger too long on the back of her coat. That night, she walked the patrol perimeter alone, the cold biting deeper than usual. “If no one’s watching,” she whispered aloud, “how do we know what breaks?” And still, the silence lingered.

📓 Personal Log: “Holding the Line” | Zakuul, 3632 BBY

"They say Firebrand is a threat—but what if she’s just a mirror? What if every explosion is a reminder of where the system stopped listening? I used to think presence was enough. Stand tall. Stay aware. Set the tone. But lately it feels like I’m holding a perimeter no one believes in anymore—not even the people we protect. Kylia tracks collapse in code. I see it in posture and eyes. The worst part isn’t the sabotage. It’s the resignation. And I’m not sure silence is something we can calibrate out of this anymore." 

🟥 Episode V – Polished Glass
3630 BBY | Age 23 | Overwatch Captain | Zakuul, Palace of the Eternal Dragon

🪐 Galactic Context:

The Eternal Empire celebrates itself with dangerous brilliance. Empress Vaylin’s Grand Festival floods the Spire with parades, music, and manipulation. Rebels are paraded as trophies; prisoners as cautionary tales. Yet behind the spectacle, Operation Dragon’s Maw unspools: a covert Alliance-led sabotage timed with Indo Zal’s betrayal. Raeya Tille was promoted to Overwatch Captain just yesterday—an honor earned through balance, diplomacy, and relentless clarity. But the title comes too late. It cannot quiet the truth she’s known too long: something in Zakuul has already broken, and it is not her.

📘 Narrative:

✧ The air inside the Palace of the Eternal Dragon shimmered with incense and pretense. Raeya moved through it like a ghost wearing borrowed skin. Her ceremonial Captain insignia still clung to her uniform from the day before—polished, pristine, hollow. One day of rank. One breath of recognition. That was all they gave her before the mission. Her hands trembled slightly as she adjusted the data coil in her sleeve. Indo Zal’s codes pulsed faintly against her skin—timed to align with Kylia’s relay. Raeya paused near the eastern corridor. The light fractured over the marble floor like glass under pressure. Every breath felt like borrowed time. She didn’t want to run. But staying had already become a kind of surrender. And still, the silence lingered.

✧ She didn’t expect Brina. Didn’t expect the corridor to curve into memory—into judgment, into mercy. Raeya’s breath caught the moment she saw her: Horizon Guard, black-plated, gold-trimmed and unreadable, saber drawn but still. Recognition burned between them. They hadn’t spoken in years, not really. Not beyond protocols and briefings. But something old and essential lived in Brina’s silence. Raeya didn’t move. Didn’t beg. She only met her eyes and held her ground. The Force tensed between them—waiting. “You always knew we wouldn’t stay,” Raeya said quietly. She saw the flicker in Brina’s expression. It wasn’t anger. It was grief. Then Brina stepped aside. Raeya walked past. And still, the silence lingered.

✧ Above, the dome erupted in color—fireworks masking the alarms. Raeya felt the rebellion stir through the floor: explosions, magnetic surges, systems blinking out like stars dying in sequence. Her comm crackled: <Signal confirmed. Proceed.> She did. Moving through hidden passages, her boots scuffed over marble no one was supposed to run on. The skytrooper patrols were disoriented. Her credentials still passed—Overwatch hadn’t yet flagged her as gone. She reached the prisoner wing. Saw the collars short out. Saw the confusion, the hope, the first footstep toward freedom. A child stumbled into her arms. She steadied him with one hand, guided him toward the lift with the other. “You’re going to be okay,” she whispered. She didn’t believe it fully. But sometimes, the lie had to come first. And still, the silence lingered.

✧ Kylia found her just beyond the collapse point—eyes sharp, steps efficient, carrying no visible fear. Raeya exhaled. The world hadn’t stopped. It had just cracked. They moved without speaking, two halves of the same fracture. The lift override worked on the first try. Raeya watched her cousin’s jaw tighten as the system accepted her code without hesitation. Captain, still, even now. The irony burned. But she didn’t smile. Didn’t mourn it. They were already beyond grief. They stepped into the chaos together, not as saboteurs—but as survivors. And still, the silence lingered.

✧ The escape route twisted through the Spire’s underlayer—utility corridors and memory. Raeya paused only once, catching her breath near a power conduit she’d once reviewed during a civilian audit. It hadn’t been rerouted. It still pulsed with the same quiet arrogance: function over fairness. She wondered if her name was still in the system, still listed under “exemplary conduct.” She almost cared. Almost. But then Kylia nudged her forward. “We’re not done yet,” she said, her voice low, certain. Raeya nodded, throat tight. She didn’t need titles to know who she was. And still, the silence lingered.

📓 Personal Log: “Polished Glass, Pressured Core” | Zakuul, 3630 BBY

"Yesterday, they gave me a title—Overwatch Captain. One day later, I gave it back. Not with protest. With presence. I walked away because I saw what they wouldn’t: the cracks beneath the polish. Brina didn’t stop me. She saw too. And Kylia—she’s always known when systems turn to ash. We didn’t destroy the Spire. We just stopped pretending it wasn’t already crumbling. If peace means silence at the cost of truth… I’ll take the noise. I’ll take the risk. I’ll take the step. And I won’t stop walking."

🟥 Episode VI – Stillness Beneath Sand
3629 BBY | Age 24 | Eternal Alliance Operative | Tatooine, Dust Viper Den

🪐 Galactic Context:

The Eternal Alliance—formed from shattered pieces of the Republic, Empire, and Zakuul’s own dissidents—struggles to root out remnants of instability. Though the Dust Vipers were reportedly dismantled after their failed assault on Alliance patrols, recent data theft and echo traces near Anchorhead prompt concern. Lieutenant An’dral leads a covert strike team to verify full elimination. Among those deployed: Raeya Tille, now an Alliance field operative, and a witness to systems that never fully forget what they build. 

📘 Narrative:

✧ The sand masked posture better than armor. Raeya watched from a ridge above the Dust Viper Den, her visor filtering heat shimmer from breath movement. The sentry’s stance was off—not defensive, but rehearsed, like someone mimicking training they didn’t own. Her jaw tensed. “That one’s not a pirate,” she murmured. “He’s ex-something.” She didn’t say what. Didn’t need to. Kylia’s confirmation ping arrived seconds later—code echo match, Zakuulan military structure. Raeya lowered into a crouch, heartbeat steady but cold. She almost requested verbal protocol. Instead, she flicked her fingers once to the squad beside her. Silent advance. Just like Zakuul taught her. And still, the silence lingered.

✧ Inside the den, the heat broke—but the pressure built. Raeya swept corridors while her squad mapped the walls—each scorch mark, each misplaced footstep. Her hand trembled as she pressed it to a bulkhead still warm from repurposed circuitry. "They were living here," she whispered. "Or hiding in plain sight." One of An’dral’s men scoffed. “Doesn’t matter now. We flush them, we tag the cache, we burn the rest.” Raeya didn’t argue. But she traced the profile of a meal kit left untouched—standard rations, packed like Zakuulan field kits. Not pirate make. She checked the timestamp and froze. Three days old. Whoever they were—they weren’t ghosts. Not yet. And still, the silence lingered.

✧ A child’s drawing—etched in soot on the back of a supply crate—stopped her cold. A skytrooper, with no head, and hands holding the sun. Her chest tightened, fingers hovering above the mark. She almost wiped it away. Instead, she called Kylia. “You were right,” Raeya said softly. “This wasn’t a raid. It was preservation.” Kylia didn’t respond at first. Then: “One of our old traces is in the power loop. I didn’t put it there.” Raeya blinked. She almost asked if that scared her. But she already knew the answer. “This isn’t their den,” she said, voice low. “It’s ours. We just abandoned it before they did.” And still, the silence lingered.

✧ In the central archive chamber, the air smelled of overheated glass and recycled fear. Raeya tracked movement with her peripheral HUD—ghost signatures, flickering like hesitation. One of the rebels tried to flee. She didn’t shoot. She stepped forward, palms raised, and spoke: “You think the Alliance will burn this place. But I remember the blueprints. I helped draw them.” The woman froze. Barely older than Raeya. Her eyes held questions no training manual covered. Raeya almost offered a name. Instead, she handed over a stun cuff and said, “You know how this works. Use it on yourself. It’s cleaner.” The woman complied. No defiance. Just understanding. Raeya watched her sit down—posture perfect. Like she'd been trained. And still, the silence lingered.

✧ The operation wrapped with precision. No injuries. All targets accounted for. But Raeya stayed behind a moment longer, standing at the edge of the den’s data vault. She didn’t look at Kylia. Didn’t have to. “We never unlearned this place,” she said. Her cousin’s nod was barely visible. “They kept our silence alive. Repurposed it.” Raeya considered sending a supplementary report to An’dral—flagging not insurgents, but legacy contamination. She didn’t. Some truths required stillness first. As they climbed into the shuttle, she looked back once. The desert would reclaim the den. But not the memory. And still, the silence lingered.

📓 Personal Log: “Hollow Architecture” | Tatooine, 3629 BBY

"They weren’t pirates. Not really. They were mimicry—shaped in the shadow of the silence we left behind. Every move they made came from a page we wrote years ago. I saw a child’s drawing today. A skytrooper without a head. I think that’s what we became to them—faceless, instructive, dangerous. I wanted to tell her we’d left that behind. But then I saw how perfectly she moved—how easily she complied. And I realized: we didn’t leave it behind. We just left it behind us. And someone else picked it up."

🟥 Episode VII – False Echoes
3627 BBY | Age 26 | Eternal Alliance Emissary | Belsavis, Northern Glacial Fault Line

🪐 Galactic Context:

Belsavis has always held more than it admits—buried war machines, ancient threats, and now, a flicker from the past. Once a calibration node for Eternal Fleet logistics, Sigma-47 lay dormant under a collapsing glacial plate. But when the faultline trembled, it awakened. Its signal mimics Eternal Fleet command tones—tones that should be impossible. Jedi and Eternal Alliance emissaries converge, not to battle, but to contain. Because buried beneath the outpost’s silence lies something worse than war: evidence. And it's trying to speak. 

📘 Narrative:

✧ The wind clawed at her collar as she stepped onto the fractured deck, the hum of power pulsing beneath the frost-streaked metal. Raeya Tille tightened her grip on the portable relay kit, jaw set, heart syncing with the cadence beneath her boots. The cold was real, but the signal was colder—structured, rehearsed, deliberate. Kylia worked ahead without a word, fingers already buried in the mainframe’s diagnostic shell. Raeya hung back, listening—not to the static, but to the silence between the echoes. She knew that rhythm. Not from reports. From memory. From the whispered legacy of what the Eternal Empire did with silence. Her hand hovered over the access port, reluctant. A part of her wanted to hear it all. The other part already knew. And still, she couldn’t pull her hand away.

✧ The Jedi didn’t announce themselves. They didn’t have to. Amara walked in first, purposeful, posture like a blade; Kleya followed—observant, alert, unreadable. Raeya didn’t speak right away. She recognized both—not from dossiers, but from the war’s margins. Jedi assigned to fracture zones. The kind who didn’t wait for permission to act. The kind who left things standing, but not untouched. When the signal peaked—a sharp, rising tone braided with sub-harmonics—she felt her stomach drop. “That’s not calibration,” she murmured. “It’s cadence. Judicial tempo. Zakuulan pattern.” She considered calling it misfire. Static. Anything safer. But she didn’t lie. “It’s testimony,” she said quietly. And still, no one said a word in return.

✧ She stayed behind while the others repositioned to the secondary relay, encrypting a copy of the signal’s core logic behind layered command masks. She didn’t trust central servers. Not with this. The pattern wasn’t arbitrary—it matched archived cadence from the Eternal Empire’s war tribunals. Those hearings had been erased. Records shredded. But here they were, echoing through a glacier’s faultline. Raeya's hands trembled as she traced the data splices—each phrase looped like a cry buried in code. It wasn’t sabotage. It was confession. Her breath caught. Her eyes burned. Kylia glanced over but said nothing. And still, Raeya couldn’t name what scared her more: that the signal had survived, or that it wanted to.

✧ They met again by the main exterior hatch, cloaks snapping in the wind, the glacial skyline cracking beneath the stress of buried things surfacing. Raeya stood still, arms crossed, trying not to shiver. Amara’s gaze cut through her. “You could’ve shut it down,” the Jedi said, voice flat but burning underneath. Raeya nodded. “I could’ve,” she answered, not defensive—just certain. “But what if we’re not supposed to?” The words landed like ice. Kleya tilted her head, intrigued but guarded. Raeya took a slow breath. “I think someone wanted it found.” She nearly said I think someone’s trying to confess. But she didn’t. Because once said, that truth couldn’t be unsaid. And still, the weight of it pressed behind her ribs.

✧ She lingered after the others left, beneath the frost-lit dome where the signal still looped—quieter now, tucked into encrypted folds. She activated her personal data vault, hands steady this time, cataloging the anomaly under a dead channel header. Not hidden. Waiting. The Eternal Empire taught them to forget. She wouldn’t. Not again. Not after Voss. Not after the trials they never got to attend. She touched the last timestamp: recursive, final, unyielding. A system designed not to punish—but to warn. The signal hadn’t asked to be found. It had endured until someone was willing to listen. And still, she didn’t know what it was trying to say. Not fully. Not yet.

📓 Personal Log: “Resonant Silence” | Belsavis, 3627 BBY

"I’ve learned to listen between broadcasts. Silence can say more than words—especially when someone’s afraid of what the words will reveal. The signal at Sigma-47 isn’t hostile. It’s haunted. A fragment of justice that never saw light. I didn’t erase it. I archived it. Not for Intelligence. For me. Because someday, someone will need proof that we weren’t imagining it—that the Empire’s worst crimes tried to confess themselves. And when that happens, I want to be ready." 

🟥 Episode VIII – Built by Balance
3624 BBY | Age 29 | Eternal Alliance Emissary | Odessen, Civilian Coordination Terrace

🪐 Galactic Context:

The Odessen summit gathers remnants of Empire, Republic, and Alliance—not to unify, but to survive proximity. Formal peace is still an illusion. But shared exhaustion gives shape to temporary stability. Raeya Tille, now an Emissary of the Eternal Alliance, leads not by command but by presence. While others negotiate over doctrine and deterrents, she focuses on the people holding it all together—those most likely to be erased if tensions rise. In a world of sharp silence and cold posture, she chooses something softer. Not weaker. Just harder to fake.  

📘 Narrative:

✧ The summit gardens were too manicured to be real, but the people moving through them weren’t. Raeya kept to the outer edge of the courtyard path, boots soft on polished stone, cloak catching the mist left by evening rainfall. She didn’t walk with security. She didn’t need to. Her authority was quiet—earned through systems she’d refused to abandon and people she’d refused to ignore. She didn’t draft policies. She translated them. When a Republic liaison tripped over his own transcript code, she helped him breathe again. When an aide cried from pressure, she didn’t scold. She waited. And the waiting held. Her cousin worked the internal systems—Kylia’s calibration made the summit function. But Raeya’s job was simpler: remind people they mattered even when the structure didn’t say so. Today, that felt harder than usual.

✧ A manifest flag rippled across the northern channel—Zakuulan thread, inert cargo, Imperial tension spiking by reflex. Raeya moved before the systems did. Found the aide, steadied his hands, diffused the panic before protocol arrived. She didn’t even raise her voice. And when the two Imperial officers arrived—full crimson armor, Korriban-cut posture—she was already standing down. The taller one observed but didn’t question. The other—a few meters off—watched her like a glitch that hadn't resolved yet. Raeya didn’t move. She didn’t retreat. She let them see her. Not as defiance. As clarity. Not every presence had to be loud. Some just needed to be undeniable.

✧ Later, she passed the western corridor while Kylia rerouted a timing loop. That’s when she saw them again—those same two Imperials, twin statues carved in discipline. She could tell they were sisters. No two people stood that close in sync unless they had been forged by the same history. Their silence wasn’t empty. It was protective. Defensive. Earnest. Raeya didn’t flinch under their gaze. But she didn’t mirror it either. She softened her stance—not as surrender, but invitation. Her job wasn’t to match their presence. It was to show them another kind existed.

✧ By dusk, she lingered on the south observation rail, watching moisture curl around the railings. Kylia stood behind her, hands still, eyes watching power load diagnostics in the mid-tier towers. “They’re from Korriban,” Raeya said quietly. “Escorting a Sith Lord, probably. But they’re not just guards.” Kylia didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. Raeya’s eyes stayed on the red figures in the eastern walkway. They weren’t staring. But they were remembering. Raeya recognized the look. She’d worn it once—when she stopped being afraid of standing alone. And started wondering who else was trying not to break.

✧ That night, Raeya filed her civilian stability brief. Minimal distress. No public escalations. One note remained unsent: “Imperial presence acknowledged. Tension held. No detonation.” She didn’t submit it. But she didn’t delete it either. Sometimes, you just had to keep the record—even when no one asked for it. Especially then. Presence wasn’t performance. It was what you gave when no one asked. And she gave it fully. Even to those who couldn’t yet return it.

📓 Personal Log: “Held, Not Matched” | Odessen, 3624 BBY

"Two Imperials crossed my path today. Red armor, sharp edges, silent like doctrine carved them into shape. But their silence wasn’t meant to dominate. It was holding something in—fear, maybe. History. I didn’t challenge them. I didn’t perform. I just stood there. I don’t think they expected to be seen. And maybe that’s why they noticed. Not everyone who stays quiet is neutral. Some are just waiting for a space that won’t punish presence. I hope they find it. I hope I helped hold it—just for a moment."

🟥 Episode IX – The Center That Holds
3621 BBY | Age 32 | Eternal Alliance Senior Emissary | Dromund Kaas, Imperial Diplomatic Annex

🪐 Galactic Context:

The Eternal Alliance no longer commands through awe. It endures—through those who hold the line when peace feels temporary. Emissaries like Raeya Tille aren’t weapons or architects. They are proof. Proof that power can move gently. That diplomacy, when grounded in presence, holds more than words ever could. On Dromund Kaas, a world that does not welcome softness, she walks into the storm anyway.  

📘 Narrative:

✧ Kaas rain was a constant, like grief that never drained away. Raeya stepped off the shuttle without flinching, cloak weighted with wet fabric and memory. Kylia moved ahead of her, all clean angles and intent silence. Raeya followed—not behind, but beside. That was their rhythm. It had always been. The Sith annex loomed ahead, black stone and menace etched into its bones. This was no neutral ground. But neutrality had never been her goal. She came to see them. Truly. And what she saw inside made her breath slow. Two Sith Lords. One like frost given form. The other like tension held just past breaking. They did not offer names. Only roles. She did not mind. Some truths are too personal for protocol.

✧ The first Sith—Voice of Alignment—spoke with control that felt almost detached. Her words were sharpened into policy, not opinion. She said certainty mattered more than compassion. That the Empire would rather be feared than questioned. Kylia responded with elegance and statistics. Raeya watched the room. Watched what wasn’t said. Watched how the second Sith—Executor of Stability—never raised her voice, but shifted the weight of every conversation. “We intercept fractures before they spread,” she said. Raeya stepped forward, uninvited. “But sometimes the break is the only way something new can grow.” No one flinched. But something in the air tightened. The Voice of Alignment turned her head sharply. The Executor did not. Her eyes only softened, barely. And still, no one contradicted her.

✧ The dialogue swirled without escalation—measured, sharp, incomplete. Raeya wasn’t there for resolution. She was there for presence. To remind the Sith that their power did not silence everyone. That survival wasn’t the only legacy worth carrying. She met the Executor’s gaze again. “You speak like someone who once hesitated,” Raeya said, quietly. The Sith didn’t respond with anger. She simply looked away. Not in shame. In memory. Raeya understood. Because some choices never stop echoing. And some silences are just wounds healing at their own pace. When the meeting ended, she bowed—not in deference, but in recognition. The Executor inclined her head in return. The Voice of Alignment did not. But her hand flexed once at her side. Raeya noticed. And still, she offered no judgment.

✧ Outside, the storm hadn’t weakened—but something in her heart had steadied. Raeya walked with Kylia back toward the shuttle. They said nothing. They didn’t need to. The mission hadn’t failed. It had simply planted something slow. Halfway to the landing pad, Raeya stopped. A sound. A shadow. Then—movement. Two small forms crouched beneath the shuttle strut. Wet, shivering, and watching. One—bright-eyed, cautious—approached Kylia with mathematical wariness. The other, more hesitant, blinked up at Raeya and made no move to flee. Raeya knelt, hands open. “I see you,” she said softly. The loth-cat padded forward and touched her knee. Raeya felt something old stir in her chest. Not pity. Recognition. “Trellis,” she whispered. The name came like breath. It stayed.

✧ Kylia said nothing. Only picked up her own with practiced calm. “Cipher,” she said. No debate. No hesitation. The shuttle ramp lowered with a hiss. Two emissaries. Two loth-cats. No battle won. No treaty signed. But something had been seen. Something had changed. Raeya sat beside her sister on the transport as the storm faded from view. Trellis curled in her lap, purring quietly. Cipher pressed close to Kylia’s leg. In that moment, Raeya didn’t feel like a negotiator. Or a representative. She felt like a presence. And for the first time in weeks, she let that be enough. And still, the bond held.

📓 Personal Log: “What Doesn’t Break” | Dromund Kaas, 3621 BBY

"They wore masks and titles instead of names. But underneath it, I saw them. Two Sith—each holding back something sharp. Not out of mercy. But out of control. I think that’s harder. I saw no kindness. But I saw no cruelty either. Just choices. Fractures sealed too early. Or not at all. Today, we didn’t argue for peace. We showed it. Quietly. We left with more than data. We left with two lives that chose us—Cipher and Trellis. Not because we saved them. But because we were still enough to be trusted. That’s what doesn’t break. That’s what holds."