Basic Information:

• Name:  Sara Kenau 

• Alias:  None

• Species:  Human

• Gender:   Female

• Age:  32

Affiliation & Status:

• Affiliation:  Sith Empire, Imperial Military

• Title:  Commanding Officer, 2nd Battalion, Korriban Regiment

• Rank:  Major

• Force Sensitive:  No

Origin & Residence:

• Homeworld:  Balmorra

• Current Residence:  Korriban 

Physical Stats:

• Height:  1.75 meters (5’9”)

• Weight:  68 kg (150 lbs)

• Build/Body Type:  Lean, controlled

• Eye Color: Storm-gray eyes rimmed with cool blue

• Hair Color:  Dark brown, straight, chin length

• Skin Color:  Fair
  
  

Distinctive Features:

• Distinctive Characteristics:  Still posture, penetrating silence, gaze that parses intent

• Scars/Tattoos/Markings:  Scar at jawline; worn shoulderplate from vault collapse rescue

• Other Notable Features:  Datapad always near; armor pristine—save for one intentional flaw

Personality Profile:

• Openness to Experience:  Moderate (guarded, but now reflective)

• Conscientiousness:  Very High (ritualized clarity, refined control)

• Extroversion:  Low (quiet command, minimal speech, deliberate presence)

• Agreeableness:  Moderate (connection earned, empathy hidden in action)

• Neuroticism:  Low (still surface, roiling introspection held in restraint)
  
  

Additional Traits:

• Strengths:  Strategic stillness, emotional discipline, situational insight

• Flaws:  Withholds too long, doubts soft methods, haunted by hesitation

• Likes:  Clean chain of command, doctrine with room for humanity

• Dislikes:  Fractured loyalties, forced sentiment, unchecked improvisation

• Disposition:   Silent, focused, cautiously compassionate

Command Structure:

• Superior:  Colonel Veyra Dren

• Subordinates:  2nd Battalion (direct command)
  
  

Personal Connections:

• Significant Other:  None (holds space for loyalty; avoids emotional entanglement)

• Notable Friends:  Tarika Kenau (twin sister; mirror in mercy, co-anchor in clarity)

• Pets/Companions:  Coda (female loth-cat; found near Korriban crypts, now trusted shadow)
  
  

Family:

• Mother:  Lena Kenau (Imperial auditor; status uncertain, presumed active)

• Father:  Varek Kenau (Imperial logistics; status withheld from recent manifest)

• Siblings:  Tarika Kenau (twin, Major; 3rd Battalion CO, presence-based counterweight)

Skills & Abilities:

• Signature Abilities/Force Powers:  Stability under spiritual pressure, trust-based command

• Combat Specialties:  Breach control, containment neutralization, morale response

• Languages Spoken:  Galactic Basic (fluent), functional Sith (ritual-coded use only)

• Notable Achievements:  Developed adaptive command matrix post-Odessen; cited in 3 summit reports

• Other Skills:  Covert observation, pattern triangulation, silence-based authority modeling
  
  

Equipment & Gear:

• Primary Weapon(s):  Twin regulation pistols (ceremonial use only, symbol of restraint)

• Notable Equipment/Gear:  Secure datapad with tiered logs: regulation, deviation, intuition

• Armor/Outfit:  Korriban crimson armor; right shoulderplate remains unrestored as vow

• Personal Items:  Cadet pin sealed in armor fold; trust-flag notations hidden in silence logs

• Mount/Vehicle:  Assigned Korriban field shuttle; personal transport declined by choice

Roleplay Hooks:

• Quirks & Habits:  Corrects posture with a glance; touches datapad when suppressing instinct

• Rumors & Reputation:  Ends disputes without words; known to command silence like a weapon

• Open Connections:  Field observers, doctrine reformers, former cadets molded by her restraint
  
  

Story Seeds:

• Current Goals:  Encode new doctrine—authority through trust, presence over power

• Hidden Agendas or Secrets:  Tracks “silent victories”—moments when inaction saved more

• Fears/Weaknesses:  That empathy dulls readiness; that mercy misread becomes breach

• Story Arcs:  Refine leadership by omission; teach strength through quiet; protect without control

Background:  

Born under rationed light and measured speech on Balmorra, Sara Kenau internalized the idea that control meant survival. Precision, not passion, won her place in the Imperial officer corps—until moments without command revealed more power than orders ever had. From vault breaches to cross-faction summits, Sara’s journey reshaped her: from enforcer to observer, from silent follower to silent leader. With Tarika beside her—her twin and reflective other—Sara now refines a doctrine where presence is strength, and where silence is not submission, but the clearest command. She leads not through domination, but through what she chooses not to say. 

Timeline/Chronology:

• 3653 BBY | Age 0 — Born on Balmorra during civilian stabilization phase.

• 3643 BBY | Age 10 — Entered Order-Aligned Youth Enclave; early discipline flagged.

• 3636 BBY | Age 17 — Rescued Tarika in blast zone; override triggered for the first time.

• 3635 BBY | Age 18 — Assigned to Korriban following emotional deviation incident.

• 3632 BBY | Age 21 — Adopted presence-based mitigation during vault response.

• 3630 BBY | Age 23 — Stood down escalation on Taris; restraint saved both Jedi and civilians.

• 3629 BBY | Age 24 — Contained Sith relic surge by withholding command override; flagged but not reprimanded.

• 3627 BBY | Age 26 — Redefined breach command during relic surge; restraint marked as doctrinal shift.

• 3624 BBY | Age 29 — Framed leadership style during summit as presence-based model.

• 3621 BBY | Age 32 — Now Major; command style increasingly studied; doctrine shaped by quiet clarity.

Roleplayer Info:

• Contact Preference:  In-game (Sara Kenau - 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 – Before the Storm
3643 BBY | Age 10 | Civilian | Balmorra, Outer Settlements

🪐 Galactic Context:

Though the Treaty of Coruscant (3653 BBY) paused open warfare, Balmorra remains a strategic powder keg. Civilian zones strain under Imperial surveillance, ration laws, and the persistent presence of resistance figures like Fortris Gall. The Order‑Aligned Youth Enclave serves both training and indoctrination—shaping children into instruments of stability.

📘 Narrative:

✧ The thunder of repulsorcraft overhead was background noise to ten‑year‑old Sara Kenau, conditioned to forget the hum of Sobrik’s patrol grid. In her house, the holocomm sometimes flickered with reports of Fortris Gall’s raids, but Lena muted them before the captions scrolled full—another reminder that hope needed bureaucracy to breathe. Schools taught triage patterns and civic cadence alongside drills quoting Darth Marr’s words—“Discipline is clarity, clarity is survival”—phrases Sara absorbed even before they ended. Her world was prefab rows outside the logistics belt, sterilized classrooms, and clockwork dinners enforced by her parents, Varek and Lena. Lateness was weakness; emotion was noise; exceptions were errors. On the surface, she sought precision; beneath, she sought absolutes. Each datapad was stacked by priority, each boot’s toe angle by micrometer. Compliance wasn’t contentment—it was armor. When her teachers spoke of resistance cells in Gorinth Canyon, Sara logged the locations, not the sentiment. She didn’t dream of rebellion. She dreamt of error‑free routines. And still, her fingers trembled when the holocomm flickered.

✧ At the Enclave, simulation drills came on schedule. Breach exercises, blackout triage, civilian suppression—all calibrated. Sara led by example: posture exact, tone neutral, commands punctuated with clarity. She catalogued every variable, isolated each deviation, listed non‑compliant comments in her mental ledger. Other children flinched or joked; she didn’t flinch. Even instructors noted her “predictive regulation affinity,” a bureaucratic phrase meaning she acted before orders were spoken. She didn’t seek praise—it was ephemeral. Precision endured. Silence reigned. Only Tarika, her twin, noticed the toll those routines took: a tremor under control, a pause before speech. But Tarika didn’t remark. Not in public. Not yet. No weakness. Just quiet curiosity. And still, the silence lingered.

✧ Their shared room was a study in contrast. Sara’s side was immaculate—datapads by deadline, boots aligned, sheets tucked. Tarika’s side held sketches of gridlines, minor infractions in supply runs, quiet questions in unshared journals. They never argued. The distance between them was procedural. At night, Tarika whispered mappings of outages near the Okara Droid Factory—other kids slept through data spikes Erica had flagged. Sara listened. She didn’t second‑guess. She didn’t object. Listening wasn’t disobedience; but neither was it belief. Their parents said nothing. Efficiency didn’t reward introspection. Still, Sara felt something shift each time Tarika spoke—like an error entering her careful log, unacknowledged but persistent. And still, the silence lingered.

✧ Then came the day of the containment malfunction in Sector 7. Sirens blared, and hazmat teams deployed AegisSeal foam through red corridor vents. Most children cried, but Sara executed by the book: mapped exits, checked headcounts, filed incident flags for non‑compliance. Tarika stayed behind—she’d spotted an S2‑MC support droid still logged into a comm relay node. Protocol said evacuate; Tarika didn’t. She raced back, pulled the droid free, and emerged coughing, foam‑soaked with soot. The patrol officer barely glanced at her, muttering, “Civilian courage, wasted.” His tone carried distance. Sara’s throat tightened. Rules spoke one language; fear another. When Tarika walked away, chest heaving, something in Sara’s grip loosened—just a little. And still, the silence lingered.

✧ In the following weeks, all surface order resumed: drills, schedules, meals. But under the routines, something shifted in Sara. Precision felt shaky. Doubt crept into margins. She doubled down—checklists more frequent, datapads scrambled by micro‑timestamps, posture stricter. Still, once, she nearly flagged Tarika for smiling during a cadence review. She didn’t. Instead, she corrected the unit’s rhythm, chest tight. Tarika’s laughter rippled elsewhere—others joined. Sara drew the line tighter around herself. She whispered numbers in the dark, tried to steady her form. But each night, her bunk felt colder. The fiction of safety had cracks. They were quieter than alarms—but unmistakable. And still, the silence lingered.

📓 Personal Log: “Order Is Armor” | Balmorra, 3643 BBY

“Order keeps us safe. It separates the strong from the reckless. But today, Tarika broke protocol—she didn’t evacuate, she saved a support droid from comm wipe. The officer called her brave, but I think he meant stupid. I kept to the rules. I checked every headcount and every door. I filed flags for hesitation and deviation. And yet—I don’t know which one of us was right anymore.” 

🟥 Episode II – Ashes of Kaas
3636 BBY | Age 17 | Imperial Recruit | Dromund Kaas, Civilian Enlistment Training Grounds

🪐 Galactic Context:

The Treaty of Coruscant collapsed four years ago, and the Sith Empire consolidates power amid sporadic skirmishes. Dromund Kaas serves as the Empire’s heart of recruitment and indoctrination—echoing Darth Marr’s legacy with drills and doctrine. Rising tensions from the Invasion of Ziost energize drilling and surveillance, turning recruits into living metrics.

📘 Narrative:

✧ Thunder streaked across the black sky of Dromund Kaas, electric veins illuminating recruits lined on the training yard. Sara Kenau stepped from the civilian transport without emotion, her jaw locked in precise alignment. Advanced drills already referenced Marr’s reforms—“Order through purpose, obedience through understanding.” She inhaled the acid-scented air and dismissed everything but routine. Behind her, familial constancy waited in her parents’ postings: Lena in grid audit command, Varek in troop logistics. They were phased into the war effort silently, like the murk around Kaas’s valleys. To Sara, their path was progression—not sacrifice. At approach, the containment field buzzed; an officer barked her designation. Sara straightened silently. This was structure, not threat. Still, her hands trembled as she gripped the datapad tighter.

✧ Training split flesh first: flooded yards, grueling posture correction, chanting doctrine through static drills. Instructors calibrated tone, posture, not emotion—remolding will. Sara adapted instantly; a scout’s breath would register, a syllable off cadence. Her early report noted: “Operationally ready without augmentation.” She felt pride—for a breath—then buried it beneath protocol. That night, she closed her eyes and registered the tremor in her palms. She catalogued it mentally: “#Tremor‑Log, 212 secs of dorm lights out—first conscious entry.” She didn’t know why she tracked it. But discipline was a ledger of anomalies, and all data could matter. Beneath the rigidity, something quivered. And still, the silence lingered.

✧ Tarika was in her squad—same bunk, same mess—but she reframed the yard. Sara heard her calming faltering recruits, smoothing formation gaps with a wordless signal. Instructors flagged her for “non‑doctrinally supportive behavior”—a badge of quiet imbalance. Sara bristled. Empathy wasn’t weakness. Cooperation without orders? That was chaos disguised as cohesion. But after Tarika passed through, the squad’s breathing slowed, timing evened, and hurt backs straightened. Sara watched, grudgingly impressed. She logged every infraction, every assist Tarika gave without command. She catalogued it. She didn’t argue. But she didn’t forget. And still, the silence lingered.

✧ Rumors floated post‑lights‑out: a ghost sniper, Jornas, taking no orders. Sara dismissed them—stories were tactical misdirection. Tarika listened and sketched. She marked sabotage grids across training slates, overlaying Balmorran outage maps onto recent incursion logs. Sara noticed the ritual but saw no threat. Intelligence dripped from unobserved places. Tarika aggregated; Sara annotated. They were complementary data streams. But Sara’s lips sealed the moment she thought of feeding it upward. Trust bent under weight. And still, the silence lingered.

✧ Then the ordnance explosion shattered the southern catwalk. White flash, thunder, the world decayed in smoke. Sara froze—protocol: rally point, headcount, status log. Then she remembered Tarika’s absence. Her heartbeat clanged, then triggered action. She sprinted through debris, voice lost in the blast fog. She found Tarika pinned under twisted scaffolding. Her grip locked around metal, lifted with feral precision. When she pulled Tarika free, breathing staggered, soot-coated, she logged the moment—heart over head, protocol overridden. Then the med-drones came. And still, the silence lingered.

📓 Personal Log: “Discipline Isn’t Silence” | Dromund Kaas, 3636 BBY

“I have followed every rule since I could walk. I believed precision would keep us alive. But when that blast hit, I froze—then I moved. I broke formation. I risked a reprimand. I tore steel away to save Tarika. That was choice, not command. And in that clarity, I learned discipline is not silence—it’s action when silence fails.”

🟥 Episode III – The Line Breaks
3635 BBY | Age 18 | Imperial Private | Dromund Kaas, Logistics Sector 12 Training Yard

🪐 Galactic Context:

The Eternal Empire of Zakuul has entered the galactic war with brutal efficiency, bypassing traditional battlefronts to dismantle power grids, fleets, and command structures. The Sith Empire scrambles to reinforce internal sectors like Dromund Kaas, where discipline replaces strategy and doctrine becomes a firewall against collapse. Logistics Sector 12, once routine, now simulates war in real time.

📘 Narrative:

✧ Stormclouds crouched over Logistics Sector 12, the sky heavy with static and reroute surge warnings. Sara Kenau moved through the relay yard like a vector—direct, silent, exact. Her breath matched the hum of cycling energy coils overhead. The day’s drill was live-rated: fleet contingency cascade, power grid instability, simulated sabotage linked to Zakuulan fleet patterns from Dubrillion. Sara’s team topped readiness metrics across the sector. She logged deviation flags mid-march, corrected a technician mishandling a charge pack, and filed a timing drift against B-Squad’s second formation. Her fingers never shook. Above her, Reclamation Service drones blinked red—silent observers with deeper clearance than she was cleared to question. They watched for pattern anomalies, yes, but also for personnel drift. Sara made sure her rhythm never wavered. Still, her jaw clenched tighter with each pass.

✧ That morning, Sector 12 had been reassigned under emergency scramble conditions. No cause stated. Rumors whispered Zakuulan slicer ghosts had wormed through the outer comm nets. Sara dismissed the noise. Her job wasn’t speculation. It was regulation. Still, the reassignment came with a logistical reshuffle—and Tarika’s squad was rerouted into a maintenance scaffold corridor flagged in a two-month-old audit as overdue for reinforcement. Sara logged the anomaly. She almost flagged it. Almost. But to question without evidence would be considered instability. She swallowed protocol like a tranquilizer. And still, the silence lingered.

✧ She spotted her sister briefly before the drill—just a silhouette disappearing into the scaffold zone. Her breath caught. Tarika had paused at the threshold, scanning the overhead grid like she was listening to something unspoken. Sara turned away. Ten seconds later, the grid detonated. White-hot light flared across the yard, followed by a bloom of smoke and the shriek of collapsing durasteel. Her earpiece screamed lockdown commands. Her fingers hovered over her datapad—fallback protocol, status sync, auto-rally. But she didn’t move toward the rally point. Her memory moved first: Tarika under rubble once before, smoke in her lungs. She sprinted into the breach. Her hands trembled with every step.

✧ The scaffold spine was split, a crumpled carcass bleeding sparks into the yard. Debris rained across the catwalk. Through the haze, Sara found her: Tarika pinned beneath a twisted girder, blood on her collar, eyes barely open. Her hands moved before her mind did. She screamed as she lifted, spine locking against the beam’s weight. Her shoulder armor cracked—but it shifted. She dragged Tarika out as med-drones blinked to life. Someone shouted across the yard. Sara ignored them. In that moment, there was no doctrine. Only her. And still, the silence lingered.

✧ Reports listed the incident as “intra-field disruption.” No saboteurs found. No enemy traced. But whispers claimed Zakuulan slicers had piggybacked through local comm boosts and buried their signal under training cycles. Sara didn’t care. Her deviation was logged. Her superiors didn’t reprimand her—but they didn’t commend her either. A passive flag appeared in her personnel file: response irregularity—emotional override suspected. Beneath it: Resilience audit requested. Korriban-compatible. Korriban wasn’t a reward. It was scrutiny carved into stone. A test, not of her skills—but of her thresholds. And still, the silence lingered.

📓 Personal Log: “Heart Over Protocol” | Dromund Kaas, 3635 BBY

“I didn’t follow fallback markers. I didn’t wait. I moved—because Tarika was under that beam and doctrine didn’t know her name. I’ve spent my life believing precision protects. But that moment didn’t need precision. It needed presence. If that makes me unstable, then maybe the system doesn’t understand what stability really means. I hope they are still watching.” 

🟥 Episode IV – Doctrine and Dissonance
3632 BBY | Age 21 | Imperial Specialist | Korriban, Sith Academy, Corridor Zone D

🪐 Galactic Context:

With the Eternal Empire’s pressure reshaping the war, the Sith Empire turns inward—fortifying doctrine, locking down strongholds, and studying its own for weaknesses. Korriban, sacred world of the Sith, becomes both fortress and crucible. The Korriban Regiment, its crimson-armored sentries, are stationed across sacred tombs not just to protect—but to be measured.

📘 Narrative:

✧ The stone corridors of the Sith Academy whispered like something half-alive. Specialist Sara Kenau walked Corridor Zone D with regulated posture, red armor gleaming beneath ancient torchlight. She had been reassigned into the Korriban Regiment—an unspoken consequence of her deviation report from Dromund Kaas. It wasn’t commendation. It was assessment. The phrase in her transfer packet had read “resilience suitability—Korriban compatible.” She didn’t argue. She logged vault integrity checks, ran posture drills, executed Force-pressure resistance protocols. The Tomb of Ajunta Pall loomed just off-route, and even through sealed stone, its resonance pulsed faintly against her breath. Her shoulder ached where armor had warped during the last containment test, but she didn’t report it. She almost did—then marked it “tolerable strain.” And still, the silence lingered. 

✧ Force resonance disrupted more than sensors—it skewed instincts. Sara could track biometric shifts in her squad before they noticed them. One recruit flinched every third pass. Another’s pulse spiked in Vault Wing C regardless of rotation. She logged it all. Patterns mattered more than events. She reported nothing—yet. Doctrine required proof, not intuition. Still, she calibrated her movements by more than just protocol now. Even the Reclamation Service drones watched differently here—less as monitors, more like priests. On Korriban, even silence was a form of testing. 

✧ Her own personnel tag still bore a passive flag: emotional override—resilience audit ongoing. She knew what that meant. Every vault she guarded, every inspection she passed, wasn’t just for stability—it was a stress test. What bends. What breaks. What remains operational. The crimson armor was heavy, not from weight—but expectation. Sara performed without deviation. But now she wondered: was stability just the absence of rupture? Or something else—endurance shaped by choice, not compliance? 

✧ She rarely saw Tarika now. Their patrols were staggered intentionally—independent evaluation protocols, separate resilience vectors. But once, in Vault Alcove D‑6, she crossed paths with her. No words, no nods—just presence. Tarika moved like she'd stopped resisting the system and had started negotiating with it. Balanced. Observant. Unthreatened. Sara said nothing. But she felt something she hadn’t in months: not doubt, not pressure. Stillness. That wasn’t in any handbook. 

✧ Then came the breach alarm in Corridor Zone D—artifact pulse spike, unauthorized access logged. Sara moved fast. Protocol etched into reflex. She arrived at D‑6 expecting saboteurs or untrained acolyte panic. Instead, she found Tarika—unarmed, crouched beside a boy no older than thirteen. The holocron pulsed erratically, glowing like a wound. The boy was breathing fast, fingers curled, on the edge of panic. Tarika’s voice was low, even. “You’re safe,” she said. And it worked. Sara didn’t lower her weapon out of policy. She lowered it out of trust. 

📓 Personal Log: “Beneath the Threshold” | Korriban, 3632 BBY

“I followed the breach protocol to the letter—until the moment came when the protocol didn’t fit. Tarika was already there. No weapon. No escalation. Just stillness, and presence, and clarity. I watched. I understood. And I chose not to override. Maybe trust isn’t a deviation. Maybe it’s doctrine, too—just not the kind they measure.” 

🟥 Episode V – Echo Response
3630 BBY | Age 23 | Imperial Corporal | Taris, Southern Containment Zone

🪐 Galactic Context:

Open war between the Sith Empire and Zakuul has reignited across the galaxy. Outer Rim planets like Taris—scarred by past wars and stripped of strategic value—now serve as makeshift containment zones. The Korriban Regiment dispatches red-armored sentries under temporary assignment, including Corporal Sara Kenau, whose orders are to hold the perimeter, restore order, and contain the unpredictable. But doctrine, under pressure, becomes suggestion. 

📘 Narrative:

✧ The wind over Taris carried the stench of old war—charred durasteel, collapsed permacrete, rot beneath new ash. Sara Kenau moved through the remains of a perimeter checkpoint like an instrument: scarlet-armored, quiet, calibrated. Her shoulderplate still bore the crimson sigil of the Korriban Regiment, even as her command routes now funneled through the overstretched 75th Containment Legion. The war here was not clean—containment breaches blurred into sabotage drills, and scanners flickered from proximity static. They said Zakuulan slicers used mirrored comm spikes from the Outer Rim to disrupt formation cohesion. Sara didn’t speculate. She observed. Taris wasn’t a warfront. It was a proving ground for clarity under pressure. And clarity, here, had teeth. 

✧ Her squad's objective was to sweep the ruins of a collapsed med-station flagged for unauthorized Force-user presence. Interference bursts had knocked out short-range comms. Sara reviewed the scan—clustered lifesigns, stationary, faint. "Standard breach protocol," she ordered. Her tone flat, steady. Then came the override: “Hold position. Civilians present. Jedi confirmed—no aggression.” Tarika’s voice, calm over comms. Sara stopped cold. Her jaw locked. The med-station loomed ahead—half-collapsed, lit by failing emergency strips. Her pulse ticked like a relay trigger. 

✧ At the breach point, Sara saw the tableau through her visor: two Jedi Knights, hands open, guarding civilians too weak to stand without leaning. Behind them, a child stared—face hollow, eyes wide. Tarika stood at the center, weapon holstered, spine straight. Presence—not command. Sara’s boots clicked to the threshold. Her squad behind her waited for the word—engage or detain. Doctrine demanded force. But what she saw didn’t match the field manual. It matched something older. Something truer. She exhaled. “Maintain perimeter,” she said. 

✧ The room shifted. Not physically—but emotionally. The civilians moved slowly. One woman wept quietly. No one resisted. No one ran. The Jedi passed last, offering nothing but a glance. Tarika didn’t look back. She remained in the threshold, like silence was the shield she carried. Back at camp, Sara filed her report: Civilian contact. Jedi non-aggressive. Incident resolved without detainment. Then she paused. Cursor blinking. She typed: Discretion exercised under duress. No tactical losses. She let the line sit—then submitted. 

✧ She passed Tarika in the mess corridor later—no salute, no formalities, just a glance held a second longer than needed. Their armor still bore ash. Their boots still echoed with smoke. For one breath, they stood in a silence too fragile to break. Sara didn’t speak. But she saw it now—the same conviction Tarika had always held, not as rebellion, but as mercy. And mercy wasn’t weakness. It was control—exercised, not relinquished. She walked away before the feeling surfaced. But inside, something recalibrated. Maybe silence wasn’t absence. Maybe it was trust—and she just hadn’t seen it until now.

📓 Personal Log: “Clarity Without Command” | Taris, 3630 BBY 

“I was sent to enforce control. The scan flagged Force-users. Protocol said engage. But Tarika was already there. No weapon. No threat. Just conviction. I didn’t override her. I didn’t escalate. I held the perimeter—and somehow, that was the clearest command I’ve ever given.” 

🟥 Episode VI – Faultlines in Red
3629 BBY | Age 24 | Imperial Sergeant | Korriban, Vault Annex B, Eastern Containment Sector

🪐 Galactic Context:

The war escalates with renewed fronts on Iokath and fresh betrayals on Umbara and Copero. The Sith Empire doubles down on internal audits and cohesion protocols, fearing infiltration and ideological drift. Korriban becomes both crucible and mirror—where the red-armored Korriban Regiment, including Sergeant Sara Kenau, now balances between enforcement and erosion. 

📘 Narrative:

✧ The breach alarm flared across Vault Annex B, red light spinning in jagged pulses that made every breath feel like a countdown. Sergeant Sara Kenau moved fast, crisp in formation, fingers already parsing the vault’s atmospheric feed for deviations. She wasn’t thinking about the relic—she was thinking about the audit. Her squad had been marked for surprise inspection, and she’d reviewed the auditor profiles just this morning. But Sith Lord Zera Vashara, newly elevated under the Sphere of Galactic Influence, had arrived two hours ago with full observational clearance. It was whispered she’d been promoted by Darth Vaela, who now served under Darth Xarion of the Dark Council. That made Zera a test she couldn’t afford to fail. Worse, her sister—Sith Lord Zylia Vashara, now serving under Darth Xalara within Darth Krovo’s Sphere of Military Command—had been observed in the vault sector earlier that week, as if measuring faultlines before they cracked. Still, that wasn’t what stopped her. What stopped her was Tarika—already inside.

✧ Tarika stood near the acolyte, unarmed, her presence soft but unwavering. The relic pulsed erratically in the boy’s hands, its glow dancing along the edges of the stone walls like a warning no one could decode. “He’s not dangerous,” Tarika said, without turning. Her voice was low, like wind threading through sandstone. Sara’s jaw locked. Tarika had broken formation, entered alone. She considered ordering her out, restoring control. But the boy’s shoulders had started to loosen, and his breath no longer hitched. Still, her hands hovered near her blaster. She didn’t trust the calm—but something in Tarika’s stance made her wait. And still, the silence lingered.

✧ The vault’s door hissed again—this time slower, colder. Zera Vashara entered like the temperature had dropped. Her boots didn’t echo, but her authority did. Cloak sharp, gaze sharper, she didn’t ask for status—she gave direction. “I’ll take command of this response,” Zera said flatly. “Step aside.” Sara’s spine stiffened. Her team shifted behind her. This was it—the moment Zera would carve out of the audit, and either respect or eviscerate her. “The situation is stabilizing,” Sara replied, quietly. Zera’s eyes narrowed. “That remains to be seen.” And still, the silence lingered.

✧ Another presence moved through the threshold, softer—almost unnoticed. Zylia Vashara. She carried no weapons and asked no permission. She didn’t project like Zera did; she absorbed. Now a Sith Lord in her own right, serving under Darth Xalara within Darth Krovo’s Sphere of Military Command, she stood without threat but not without weight. Her gaze skimmed the boy, the relic, the vault, and the emotions braided through all three. “He’s not breaking the vault,” Zylia said. “He’s reflecting it.” Sara’s heart thumped once, loud in her chest. “The mask doesn’t show what is. It shows what’s feared.” Zera scoffed—barely audible. Sara’s hand shifted toward her sidearm again. She almost gave the override. Almost. And still, the silence lingered.

✧ Zera took a single step toward the boy, fingers poised like she might extract the artifact by will alone. Sara raised a hand—not to stop her, but to hold her squad. Tarika didn’t move. She stayed with the boy, murmuring something no one else heard. Zylia shifted just enough to change the room’s balance—her presence slipping between Zera’s precision and Tarika’s calm. The boy looked up. Then down. Then let go. Tarika caught the mask in a null-cloth wrap. “This is sentiment disguised as control,” Zera muttered. “No,” Tarika replied, finally looking over. “It’s clarity disguised as silence.” Sara didn’t speak. But she stepped forward to stand beside her sister. And still, the silence lingered.

📓 Personal Log: “Measured in Breath, Not Blades” | Korriban, 3629 BBY

"I’ve always believed leadership meant motion—giving the order, holding the line, acting first. Today, I stood still. Sith Lord Zera Vashara could’ve overridden me, but didn’t. Sith Lord Zylia named the problem before I even saw it. And Tarika—she stayed present, not powerful, and that was what saved the boy. I didn’t command this room. I listened to it. And maybe that’s what real command is: not what you say, but what you don’t say when everyone’s watching. The breach was sealed. But I’m still holding my breath." 

🟥 Episode VII – Victory Without Eyes
3627 BBY | Age 26 | Imperial Lieutenant | Korriban, Regiment Headquarters, Summit Coordination Wing

🪐 Galactic Context:

The Onslaught campaign fractures Imperial ranks as mounting losses and internal distrust erode cohesion. Korriban, both sacred ground and strategic nerve center, hosts the High Command Summit—an internal Imperial coordination council meant to reinforce discipline and unity amid war. Attendance is strictly limited to vetted personnel. In this charged atmosphere, field commissions are both opportunity and scrutiny. Among those rising to fill the void are field-commissioned Lieutenants Sara Kenau and her twin sister, Tarika.

📘 Narrative:

✧ The summit halls of Korriban pulsed with restrained tension. Vaulted ceilings loomed over red-lit corridors where strategy officers moved with clipped precision. Sara Kenau's boots struck the stone in flawless cadence, armor polished to reflect not pride, but expectation. Her jaw tightened each time her datapad buzzed with a new directive. The field commission had changed everything and nothing: same silence, more weight. She reviewed protocols even when she knew them cold, reread her command logs until her eyes blurred. Once, she almost reported her shoulder injury from the Mek-Sha breach—but erased the entry. Weakness, even honest, wasn’t allowed. Beneath her composure, a question pressed at her ribs: did command mean correctness, or connection? And still, the silence lingered.

✧ Her hours blurred under summit protocols: logistics flowcharts, perimeter recalibrations, readiness briefings. Her team hit every metric, but Reclamation drones still hovered, recording breath patterns and blink rates. A subcommander praised her for doctrinal rigidity; she didn't feel proud. Her hands shook once beneath her gloves during a morale sync review. She nearly flagged herself for deviation—but didn’t. She adjusted her stance instead, jaw locked. Each report she submitted was technically flawless, but she could feel something under the surface—a tightness precision couldn't reach. She reread the phrase from her last eval: "Leadership stable, adaptability limited." It stung more than she expected. Her posture didn’t falter—but her certainty did. And still, the silence lingered.

✧ Vault Sector C-3 triggered unexpectedly during a live containment drill. Alarms blared as an artifact pulsed with uncontrolled resonance, scattering the detachment. Sara's squad reacted instantly, weapons raised, formation snapped into place. Her breath was steady—but something in her chest coiled. Inside the chamber, she glimpsed Tarika crouched beside the trembling acolyte, no weapon drawn, voice low and even. Sara hesitated. Her orders said intervene; her instincts said wait. Her fingers hovered near the trigger, but her feet stayed planted. She watched instead—and the artifact dimmed. The boy began to breathe normally. Her muscles unclenched, but her heart thudded louder. And still, the silence lingered.

✧ After the incident, the debrief room felt colder than the vault. Sara stood at attention while Major Dren reviewed the report with unreadable eyes. "No escalation," he read. "Alternate mitigation effective." His pause on that line pierced deeper than reprimand. Her hands itched to explain, to claim ownership—but she didn’t. She nodded once and accepted the standard pass. That night, she rewrote her squad's containment script three times before deleting it. She tried to convince herself she was refining—not doubting. But when she looked at her reflection, she didn’t see control. She saw a question she didn’t have a doctrine for. And still, the silence lingered.

✧ Later, she crossed paths with Tarika at the far end of the coordination wing. Neither spoke. Tarika's armor was scuffed, informal—not out of defiance, but contact. Lived-in. Sara's posture stayed sharp, but her throat tightened. She considered asking her sister how she'd known the artifact would calm—how she'd trusted silence over orders. She didn’t. The words clung to the edge of her teeth but never passed. They stood in parallel for a breath, mirrors out of phase. Then Tarika nodded once—no permission, no challenge, just presence. And still, the silence lingered.

📓 Personal Log: “More Than Form” | Korriban, 3627 BBY 

"I followed protocol. My squad executed perfectly. But she walked in alone and said nothing—and it worked. I don't know what she read in that boy's face, but she moved like she trusted the space, not the rules. I almost stepped in. I almost took over. But I didn’t. Maybe that’s what command is too—not just enforcing order, but knowing when it isn’t needed. I'm starting to think presence isn’t silence. It's choice. And I don't know if I'm ready to make the right one."

🟥 Episode VIII – The Pause That Held
3624 BBY | Age 29 | Imperial Captain | Odessen, Alliance Summit Grounds

🪐 Galactic Context:

Three years after the Onslaught campaign fractured the galaxy, the Sith Empire, Galactic Republic, and surviving Alliance forces converge on Odessen for a tenuous diplomatic summit. While formal peace remains elusive, all sides understand the cost of renewed total war—and the need for leverage through appearances. Stationed on Korriban with the Korriban Regiment, Captains Sara and Tarika Kenau are reassigned offworld—tasked with securing a high-value Sith Lord during direct transport from the tomb world to the summit table.  

📘 Narrative:

✧ The summit halls of Odessen were wider than any corridor Sara Kenau had patrolled—too open, too vulnerable. Her stride stayed exact, datapad clutched in one gauntleted hand as she swept through the north corridor at 0600. Weather reports flickered past the edge of her HUD—light mist, no wind, static exposure minimal. She filed it away like a checklist item. Her route traced between staging zones and diplomatic prep stations, each bootfall quietly logged by the pressure-sensitive plates beneath her. They had landed hours earlier—she and Tarika, red-armored twins of the Korriban Regiment flanking a Sith Lord whose presence cleared air without command. This wasn’t a battlefield, but it moved like one: too still, too sharp, a silence that chose its witnesses. A lieutenant missed a posture cue. Sara corrected it with a nod. The datapad logged the correction automatically. And still, the silence lingered.

✧ The banners lining the chamber stretched higher than they needed—Republic blue, Sith red, Alliance green—all equidistant, all unreadable. Sara’s armor drew attention everywhere she went, but none of it warm. As she rounded the west checkpoint, motion flickered across her HUD: two individuals exiting the diplomatic wing. Green and brown uniforms, cut sharply—Alliance issue. No weapons, no guards, just deliberate presence. One moved with analytical precision, the other with a softer kind of focus—observing without posturing. Emissaries. Sara didn’t know their names. Didn’t need to. She logged the sighting under “non-escalatory.” But her breath caught. They didn’t look like threat vectors. They looked like resolution given form. And still, the silence lingered.

✧ The manifest breach came without warning—Zakuulan-coded metadata embedded in a Republic crate. Inert. But implications were enough to fracture protocol. Sara’s pulse spiked. Her hand hovered near her sidearm. She was halfway to the containment zone when she realized Tarika was already there—voice low, posture relaxed, diffusing the aide’s panic before it ignited. By the time Sara arrived, the incident was neutralized. The crate held archival lenses—ancient, harmless. Still, it would flag in the record. As Sara reset the corridor sweep, she noticed them again—the two Alliance delegates standing at the far end of the hall. Watching. Silent. Not with judgment. Just awareness. Her datapad blinked. She didn’t log a second entry. Just the moment. And still, the silence lingered.

✧ That evening, Odessen's rain left glinting residue across the guardrails. Sara stood beneath one of the courtyard spires, eyes tracking treelines and horizon lines. Tarika passed behind her—armor damp, expression unreadable. Sara didn’t speak. Her gaze drifted east. There—moving across the reflective stone—those same two figures in green and brown, slipping into the main hall without hesitation, without fanfare. They didn’t radiate control. They didn’t need to. Sara felt something hollow shift in her ribs. Not fear. Not awe. Just dissonance. She had spent years enforcing silence like doctrine. But theirs felt like conviction. And still, the silence lingered.

✧ She submitted her incident report: breach contained, no engagement required, zero casualties. Every metric marked green. But her cursor hovered at the optional field. The Alliance delegates had passed through twice. Never spoke. Never interfered. Still—they altered the air around them. She typed: “Presence observed. Resolution unspoken.” The system flagged it as nonessential. She let it sit anyway. Then submitted. Doctrine didn’t ask her to notice. But something else did. And still, the silence lingered.

📓 Personal Log: “Balance, Unflagged” | Odessen, 3624 BBY

"I saw Alliance Emissaries today—green and brown, unarmed, deliberate. They didn’t challenge us. They didn’t retreat. They just stood. And I saw myself in their posture—but without the armor. I didn’t flag them. Didn’t speak. But I wonder if they saw us too—red-trimmed ghosts from Korriban, still shaped by tombs. Maybe power isn’t always loud. Maybe some presence doesn’t need to command. It just holds. And I don’t know if that should comfort me… or warn me."

🟥 Episode IX – Eyes Beneath the Stone
3621 BBY | Age 32 | Imperial Major | Korriban, Memorial Plateau Overlook

🪐 Galactic Context:

In the deep, scarlet corridors of Korriban, the Sith Empire tightens its grip amid whispers of ancient power. Orders have shifted: two operatives from Czerka Recovery—unbeknownst to Sara and Tarika by name—have been dispatched to retrieve a mysterious relic from the abyss. Now, as Major Sara Kenau commands the 2nd Battalion of the Korriban Regiment and her twin, Major Tarika, leads the 3rd Battalion, both answer directly to Colonel Veyra Dren. Their new directive is dual—observe the recovery team and secure the perimeter in this cursed land where stone and legacy conspire. Yet even as imperial oversight weighs heavy, unexpected tenderness emerges in the form of stray souls—the silent purr of loth-cats calling from the darkness.

📘 Narrative:

✧ Under the unyielding red light of Korriban’s ancient vaults, I marched with measured steps across the battle-worn stone corridors. The echo of my boots reverberated through the void, a constant counterpoint to the distant hum of the relic’s unknown energy.  Colonel Dren’s orders rang in my mind: remain vigilant, catalog every anomaly, and—quietly—observe the Czerka operatives dispatched on a mission so classified that even most Sith Lords were kept in the dark. As I scanned the horizon with cold precision, my gloved hand brushed against the rough-hewn wall, feeling the ancient scars of time and warfare. An internal pulse of anticipation tugged at my resolve—a part of me asked if each step was the prelude to discovery or the calm before a storm. The sterile order of our battalion clashed with the wild whispers of a hidden history beneath the stone. I could not let my mind wander, though every shadow seemed to hide a secret plea from the past. The silence of Korriban was not empty—it was heavy with expectation. And still, the silence lingered.

✧ In the midst of our patrol, Tarika and I were startled by a soft, yet insistent, mewing echoing from a narrow recess carved into the ruin. Drawn toward the sound as much by duty as by a newfound tenderness, I discovered a graceful, tawny loth-cat with eyes like molten amber. Its presence, unannounced and undemanding, awakened an old longing for a semblance of home amidst relentless orders and duty. Tarika’s gaze caught mine from across the corridor—her own encounter with a stray feline, delicate and defiant, sent ripples of silent understanding between us. At that moment, the stark austerity of our mission softened into warmth: amidst the relic’s mystery and the empire’s watchful eye, the small creatures offered solace. I knelt slowly, careful not to breach protocol while extending a gentle hand to the creature, my pulse unexpectedly light with the prospect of companionship. The loth-cat’s quiet purr became a soft counterpoint to the rigid structure of our command. I decided then that her gentle spirit—whom I would later name Coda—deserved protection, if not affection. And still, the silence lingered, now a soothing refrain in the twilight of duty.

✧ Later, as dusk deepened and the ancient stone absorbed the faint glow of failing thrusters overhead, Tarika and I moved to a discreet observation post overlooking the designated recovery zone. Here, under the indifferent scrutiny of the Sith relics, we were to watch over the sensor operatives deployed by Czerka Recovery. Though the orders demanded only our quiet surveillance, the air crackled with unspoken tension; each measured beat of our hearts seemed to mirror the uncertainty in the distance. I watched an unmarked drop ship land in the shadow of towering bone-like spires, its engines whispering as they cut through the heavy dusk. Even as our datapads recorded every minutia of movement, the true story was hidden in the silent spaces between orders—the gap where loyalty and doubt intermingled. I could feel Tarika’s gaze upon me, steady and questioning, though she never broke the facade of disciplined vigilance. In the background, the operatives moved without fanfare, their identities kept hidden by imperial protocol. We did not exchange names or commentary; our roles were clear, our observation unspoken. Each second deepened my introspection on the cost of duty, a duty that now encompassed protecting secrets both large and small. And still, the silence lingered.

✧ The night wore on, thick with the unyielding gravity of ancient ruins and covert directives. A soft vibration through my armor signaled that time was shifting—a reminder of a mission not yet complete. In a quiet moment away from the main patrol, I encountered another stray companion, a sleek, silver-furred loth-cat whose luminous eyes betrayed cautious curiosity. Tarika, returning from a brief stand-by, found her own soft moment with a similar creature—a delicate, almost ethereal presence she would later call Nova. In that shared instance, both of us—commanders hardened by duty—felt an inexplicable call to nurture, to add a touch of unexpected tenderness to our regimented lives. Yet duty reasserted itself as our comms crackled with a discreet update: the recovery operatives were proceeding with their task, unaware of our ever-watchful eyes.  We resumed our designated positions with a silent nod exchanged between us—a silent acknowledgment that we were the only ones on Korriban with authority to clear this ridge, our soldiers reassigned so a relic could surface without question. My new companions, Coda and Nova, wove themselves into the fabric of our evening, symbols of hope that even strict orders could yield room for empathy. And still, the silence lingered as we watched over both operative and creature alike.

✧ As the first tendrils of predawn light crept through Korriban’s broken corridors, the covert operation drew toward its secretive phase. Our monitors confirmed that the Czerka operatives—unbeknownst to us by name—had successfully extracted the relic, its enigmatic energy pulsing softly as it was secured. I filed a silent report to Colonel Dren, careful to note only the observed data points and deviations, never once revealing our growing empathy in the midst of our strategic watch. Yet beneath the clinical recitals of duty, my mind pulsed with a conflicted warmth: had we become guardians not only of empire secrets but also of fragile life forms craving a home?  The magnetic pull of the relic—and the knowledge that its extraction was being handled by two Force-sensitive employees of Czerka, once Knights of Zakuul, now woven quietly into the corporation’s deepest vaults—stirred in me a recollection of a simpler, unburdened time when compassion was not a liability but an unexpected strength. In that liminal moment, every monitored beep and silent observation wove together the intricate tapestry of duty and quiet rebellion—a juxtaposition of cold precision with the warmth of genuine care. I stood there, sensing both the imminent ramifications of our orders and the possibility for something kinder amidst the stone. And still, the silence lingered, a promise of uncertainty and hope intertwined.

📓 Personal Log: “Quiet Vigil, Warm Heart” | Korriban, 3621 BBY

"I recorded this moment in the stillness before the next order. Today, duty and tenderness entwined in ways I had not expected. I observed from afar a secret mission—sensor operatives retrieving an artifact, guided by imperceptible hands. Yet, even as I kept watch, a stray loth-cat approached, and I found solace in its quiet purr. Tarika, my twin in command, too discovered a kindred spirit in the darkness—a creature whose eyes spoke of resilience. We adopted these small companions without ceremony, names whispered in private moments: Coda and Nova now share our path. I wonder if this blending of order and tenderness might redefine what it means to lead. Even in the rigid frameworks of military command, hope and care can seep through the cracks. I write this in silent acknowledgment of the unexpected warmth that now steadies my hand."