8) What language(s) does your OC speak?
As a Jedi, Atah was trained to be multilingual from a young age and speaks several languages fluently, including Basic, Huttese and some High Galactic. He’s less fluent in Jawaese and hates Mando’a grammar, but understands both well enough. What he never learned was his race’s language and struggles hard with Binary :D
13) What weapon and/or equipment does your OC use most regularly?
Mr Cat is skilled with dual-bladed lightsabers, but prefers relying on Force powers or unarmed combat. As a Padawan, he nearly cut his legs off while training to dual-wield and remains suspicious around single-bladed sabers. For equipment, he favours lighter fabrics and leather. The rest of his gear is fairly standard for a Jedi, but he carries an additional translator and a field medkit, since he’s terrible at healing even minor wounds with the Force :3
Neve and Verinius are heading home after a meal at the Cobbled Swan. Veryl is rambling, while Neve listens with amused scepticism, already sensing something is off.
V: (gesturing with his hand, voice full of enthusiasm) "You know, uh, apples from the region around Marothius near the Hundred Pillars are excellent for cider! That’s because the acidic old apple varieties thrive best in the loess soil of the local orchards there. They’re a bit—"
N: (side-eyes him, smirking knowingly) "You’re trying to hide something from me."
Verinius hesitates for half a second—just long enough to be noticeable—then immediately doubles down, talking faster, as if speed will save him.
V: (rushed, waving his hand like this is a completely normal conversation) "—more irregular than table apples, but they’re considered pure and contain special nutrients."
Neve, already enjoying this too much, tilts her head slightly, her smirk widening.
N: (mock-curious, voice laced with amusement) "Verinius, what did you do?"
Verinius laughs nervously, a bit too high-pitched, before quickly waving his hand as if dismissing the absurdity of this question.
V: (still grinning, eyes darting away) "What? Me? Nothing. There is absolutely no connection between cider and… uh… that localized atmospheric implosion from yesterday."
Neve raises an eyebrow, her expression practically daring him to keep going. The silence stretches just long enough for Verinius to realize he's in danger.
N: (mock-patiently, waiting for him to dig his own grave) "If there's blood splattered on the walls I'm not helping you clean it up. I'll make sure 'Fred doesn't help you either."
Verinius clears his throat, suddenly very interested in adjusting his belt, before launching back into his apple monologue with desperation.
V: (talking way too fast) "Well, uh—Malcarnis Red, you know, they already start getting sweet early, around Parvulis, right? But then there’s Virdanthe Aurelis, which—um—needs more time to fully, you know, build up the right sugar levels. Which is crucial, obviously, because you can’t just pick them too early, otherwise the flavour profile is—"
Mid-sentence, he notices Neve has stopped walking, arms crossed, weight shifted onto one hip, staring at him with an all-too-knowing smile. His fingers fidget at his collar, resisting the urge to pull at it as his brain scrambles for an escape plan.
N: (slowly, savouring every second of his obvious panic) "I’m going to find out what you did, believe me."
Verinius swallows hard. He knows she will...
Big thank you goes to Jukkari for helping me sort the dialogue, make the text work and reassuring me to not give in to anxiety - finally posting this project
Relah's pair of Betrayer's Starforged Lightsabers :D
Wanting to share these sketch references, since every screenshot I found was either blurry or of poor quality. Tried my best without having access to the game right now (vacation time), tho they should be quite accurate with a few personal tweaks.
Wish we had access to SWTOR’s in-game 3D models like the ones available on wowhead.com for World of Warcraft's stuff.
@frauleiiin tagged me to do an OC Interview 2 weeks ago. I've read through hers and doubted I could make T answer those questions in character. @jukkaricity came up with an idea of how it might be possible to make that man talk about his past. Yeah, well... it became an interrogation instead.
Dead Dove: Do Not Eat
CW: Forced Confinement // CW: Psychological Torture / Interrogation // CW: Emotional Manipulation / Gaslighting // CW: Identity Crisis / Loss of Self // CW: Dissociation / Depersonalization // CW: Past Abuse (Institutional & Interpersonal) // CW: War Themes / Military Trauma // CW: Moral Injury / Betrayal // CW: Self-Loathing / Guilt / Shame // CW: Suicidal Ideation (implied) // CW: Trauma Responses // CW: Touch Aversion / Physical Contact Issues // CW: Abandonment / Relationship Breakdown // CW: Emotional Suppression / Burnout // CW: Mentions of Death / Execution / Killing // and the shitload I forgot to mention // T isn't an easy person.
This became some kind of a weird-ass short story. Not classical fiction and strangely formatted. Hard to read. Hard to follow. As is T :)
18 days and 2,6 words wasted waiting to be released into the void. If you don't feel like reading through, please enjoy my cringy header :D
I'm tagging @dragonfoxstar Fraulein's original post can be found here
Black.
No—not pitch-black.
Just enough to see.
There are no walls. Infinite. Suffocating.
A figure, barely defined.
Tahr’rys. Suspended in the dark.
Upright, though not by choice.
Held in place.
Trapped.
His eyes scan for an exit—or an explanation.
There’s no memory of arriving.
Minutes pass.
The quiet isn’t empty.
He can feel it.
Something is here—with him.
Staying just out of sight.
The air shifts.
Fabric rustles.
Behind him.
Then a voice.
Male. Distorted. Low-volume. Measured.
“Name?”
Tahr’rys stays silent.
He tries to move. Nothing.
It’s not just physical, not entirely.
“Name.”
No shift in tone. Just repeated.
“...Tahr’rys Nelubin.”
No acknowledgement.
“Alias.”
“Sparks. T.”
“Skahvas.”
Tahr’rys doesn’t react.
But internally, he halts.
“Are you single?”
That’s not a question he expected.
Brows creasing.
The voice waits silently.
An exhale—
“Define ‘single.’”
The stall is ignored.
“You wouldn’t call it a relationship. Not in the conventional sense.”
Tahr’rys’ jaw clenches. The answer wasn’t his. But it’s true.
The interrogation is not following protocol.
“Birthplace.”
“Trailing Sectors. Grid L14.”
The correction is instant.
“Xozhixi. Thyferra. Polith System. Jaso Sector. Inner Rim.”
Silence.
There were records.
Imperial. Archived.
Erased when the Empire rebuilt.
“Hair colour?”
A change in his breath.
“…Dark brown.”
A pause.
“Greying out.”
He doesn’t know why he adds that.
A new habit? Maybe.
“Eye colour?”
Closing his eyes before responding.
“Ember orange, formerly dark brown.”
“Birthday?”
A frustrated exhale.
“Eleven. Zero two. Thirty-two seven eighty-seven TYA, thirteen BTC.”
He's opening his eyes again.
“What—”
“Gender.”
Cold. Detached. Waiting for input.
“Male.”
Shorter now. Clipped.
The edge in his voice is showing.
“Mood.”
He doesn’t answer.
Refusing to play along.
But the voice supplies it for him.
“Burnt out.”
And he hates how accurate that sounds.
“Are you happy?”
No answer.
He won’t give it the satisfaction.
“Not quite, you’d say.”
“But you’re content with the present. That’s more than you’ve expected to be at this point, isn’t it?”
Tahr’rys stares straight ahead.
No protest. No denial.
The darkness is drawing closer.
Encroaching.
“Are you angry?”
Silence.
“You get irritated easily. With your frustration sitting close to the surface.”
A pause.
“But you’re rarely truly angry. Not anymore…”
T presses his tongue against the back of his teeth.
The broken incisor digs in—sharp, familiar.
Is this real?
“Summer or winter?”
His jaw twitches.
A test. A probe.
Has to be.
This time, he answers.
“No preferences. Weather’s a condition to endure.”
What is this all about?
“Morning or afternoon?”
“Afternoon.”
A scoff—low and bitter.
“But I can operate 24/7 if required.”
If it was meant as a joke, it doesn’t land.
“Are you in love?”
Tahr’rys’ eyes narrow as he stills.
The shift is immediate—hostile now.
He won’t dignify that question.
Won’t let it go on record.
But the voice doesn’t care.
And its answer hits him like a slap.
“Yes. You are.”
“You’d never name it that way, but it’s all over you when you think of the Togruta.”
How do they know that?
Anger flares.
He strains against the ties.
Useless.
“Who ended your last relationship?”
Whoever holds him here—
Knows too much. Cuts too close.
And keeps pushing.
“Relah did.”
He says it before it can.
Just spite.
His truth, not its.
“No—not really.”
“You’re the cause.”
A sharp inhale.
Tahr'rys wants to act. Now.
To silence the intruder.
To watch the life drain from their eyes.
“She wouldn’t have, if I hadn’t—”
He cuts it off. Abrupt.
The voice circles him.
Always just out of reach.
What the fuck is this shitshow?!
He wills his body to move.
Reaches for the Force.
But for the first time in years—Nothing.
It’s ignoring him.
Again.
He’s locked in place.
Teeth clenched.
Trying to make sense.
Thoughts rush in. Intrusive. Loud.
This is no standard handler.
Not Jedi. Not Republic. Not entirely Imperial...
A Sith.
It has to be.
The term lands like a drop of poison.
“You’re from the Empire.”
No confirmation.
But no denial, either.
And that silence is worse.
How? When?
Panic flushes through him.
Ceasing the anger.
Slowing his pulse.
That creeping certainty coils around his spine.
And settles in.
They’ve found me.
He starts to sweat.
Blood rushing in his ears.
Slow. Thrumming. Deafening.
He knows this feeling.
Knows it too well.
Knows what comes next.
His mind begins to slip—
Not now…
Tahr'rys is trying to hold on.
But his thoughts unhook, one by one.
Familiar static hisses beneath them.
The interrogation continues.
“Have you ever broken someone’s heart?”
He tries not to respond.
Yet something in him bypasses the self that resists.
“More than once. Never clean.”
The admission opens a rift behind the words.
“I left my parents when I joined the military. We stayed in touch—for a while.”
“Then the Empire flagged me. Force-sensitive. Listed me KIA.”
“That’s when they sent me to the Sith.”
“After that… I couldn’t reach them out.”
“Now that I can…”
“You haven’t.”
“Relah—that was during my time with the Sphere of Mysteries. I lost myself. Lost control. Hurt her.”
“We met again. Years later. By chance. She came back to me.”
“But the damage stayed.”
“Neo… almost seven years. Bounty Hunters. 313 Bad Company.”
“Until truth was brought to light. He’s Dar’manda. Lied to me the whole time.”
“I walked away. We didn’t speak. I didn’t look back.”
“You… just left.”
The voice says it with him.
“Are you afraid of commitments?”
A shallow exhale—dry. Involuntary.
“To a degree...”
“You’re always halfway gone.”
He’s slipping. Awareness thinning.
Hearing himself talking, but doesn’t remember deciding to.
“Not the bond itself. But what comes with it.”
“Emotional intensity… I don’t process it properly anymore.”
“The closer something gets, the more likely it is to push me past thresholds I can’t regulate.”
“It’s not just relationships. It applies to everything. Professional. Personal…”
The voice takes over where he loses grip.
“Commitments carry weight. More than you can hold.”
“So you don’t make them.”
“Easier to function that way.”
“Isn’t it?”
It laughs.
Or maybe he does.
The sound lands somewhere between pity and contempt.
Eyes like split embers resolve out of the dark.
His perception rejects the image.
“Have you hugged someone within the last week?”
The question drips with irony.
“I avoid physical contact whenever possible.”
His mind’s still catching up.
“Touch isn’t something you initiate.”
“Or accept lightly.”
Hard to tell where the voice ends and he begins anymore.
“...Who’d want to hug someone like me, anyway?”
The admission sits there.
“Have you ever had a secret admirer?”
The question doesn’t land cleanly.
“…Yes.”
“At least twice?”
The thoughts pour out half-aware.
“First time—Ziost. School. A classmate.”
“She used to… watch. From a distance.”
“Didn’t speak.”
“Didn’t know what to do with that kind of attention.”
“Confusing you.”
No defined feeling.
“Second time was the military.”
“Training year. Same unit.”
“Female recruit.”
“We spent a few nights.”
“No promises. Nothing serious.”
“Not for her. Not for me.”
“…you think.”
Drifting.
The questions fracture—mocking now.
“Love or lust?”
The answer lags.
“Love. If anything.”
“Felt curiosity. Mostly earlier in life.”
“Didn’t stick.”
“Connection matters.”
“It’s the only thing that lasts.”
T’s mind trails behind the words.
“Iced tea or lemonade?”
“Neither.”
“Tea, maybe. Hot. No sugar.”
Strong enough to pass for solvent.
Functional. Bitter. No sweetness. No chill.
“Cats or dogs?”
“Felines”
No demands.
No confusion.
They don’t wait.
Just take. Leave.
That feels…
Something. Right. Maybe.
Gone is fine.
“A few best friends, or many regular friends?”
“…Few.”
“No energy for the rest.”
“Surface… doesn’t… stay.”
“No chasing.”
The rhythm of his breathing still steady, but slightly off.
“Wild night, or romantic night in?”
“Neither.”
“Better alone.”
“Or someone safe.”
He’s not sure why that matters.
Not really. Not anymore.
“Day or night?”
“Space is always dark.”
“Just want… peace.”
“…night. Maybe.”
Orders. Obedience. Doctrine.
Didn’t eat.
Still don’t like to.
Now?
Looks healthier. Still not good.
“...all sizes...”
“Doesn’t change what they… do.”
The voice and his intertwine. Merge.
Become internal.
Intelligence or looks?
Intelligence. Always.
No patience for charm.
The pronouns slip. Shift. Drift.
Hook-up or relationship?
Neither.
He doesn’t seek out either.
Not on purpose. Not anymore.
If it happens at all.
The voice seems sounding familiar.
Do you and your family get along?
They did. Once.
Was close to his parents growing up.
There was a bond. Love. Care. Tahsin. Sahr’ra...
Left the scientific path they hoped for.
Pain?
Twenty years ago.
Sorrow?
Reaching out would mean facing them.
Admitting they were right.
Letting them see what you’ve become.
Resentment?
It’s better this way.
Something deeper.
"Would you say you’ve messed up in life?"
Profoundly.
He's listening to the sound of the voice, as it spills out of his mouth.
"You followed orders that shouldn’t have been followed."
"Believed in systems that dressed atrocity as duty."
"And duty as virtue."
Chose the Empire over values you were raised with.
Thought structure would shield you from chaos.
Buried doubt. Shut people out. Hurt them. Killed under orders.
Leaned on discipline when needed clarity.
"By the time you understood what that made you—"
"It was already too late."
"It cost you your parents."
"Your identity. Your conscience."
"Eventually, your sense of self."
His breath shallows.
Things worsened under the Sith.
When you learned you were Force-sensitive.
You began to hate it.
"Years later, you killed your master."
"To silence him. To make everything stop."
"It didn’t."
Got arrested for killing a Darth. Nertex.
Interrogated. The Sith who isn’t one. They made you one.
Reassigned to internal purging.
"To kill other Sith—Traitors. Defectors. Factional liabilities."
"You slid deeper into fanaticism."
"Obedience was easier than reflection."
"You drove Relah away. With your behaviour. Your delusions."
"But everything you suppressed eventually broke containment."
"The guilt. The violence. The justifications. The anger. The undirected hate."
A body. His.
The mind gave out a final time.
You panicked. Ran.
Panicked. Escaped. Volatile. Dangerous.
"This was the start of your self-refusal. The Force. Everything."
"A dissociative freeze."
"You didn’t invite it, just waited near its edge. Not moving when the ground gave way."
"Shattering your core."
It is quivering.
Neo found you years later, adrift.
Barely functional. Unresponsive. Silent.
Living. Breathing. But not present.
"Parts of yourself resurfaced."
You met Erin.
And Relah…
The spiral slows.
"But trust fractured again—"
Neo… I…
I left him behind.
This time, I wasn’t alone.
Erin holds contact.
Relah came with me. Because of me.
She stayed. Still does.
Confusion.
An exhale.
"You’re not at peace."
"But you accepted who you are."
Messed up?
Something settles.
"Yes."
"Without question."
Tahr’rys is still inside the memory, but no longer drowning.
Thoughts form.
"Have you ever run away from home?"
No.
It would’ve been seen as defiance.
Your family lived under Scrutiny.
"Have you ever been kicked out?"
Transferred. Reassigned. Redirected.
No.
The systems always found use for you.
"Do you secretly hate one of your friends?"
People don’t get close enough for that.
Hate takes Energy. You’re long past wasting any.
"Do you consider all your friends as good?"
No. But honest.
People are capable of damage and decency at once.
If they’re still with me… it’s because they don’t lie about who they are.
"Who’s your best friend?"
That question lands.
Awareness cuts in. Sudden. Sharp.
"Kitan."
Military. Trenches. Sniping.
We fought together.
Bled. Comrades-in-arms.
Then I hated him.
For the report. For what it came after.
For branding me as Force-sensitive.
For the betrayal.
That wasn’t.
He didn’t know.
Neither did I.
He did his duty.
I rewrote it as treason.
Because hating him was easier than hating the system.
A feeling. Not hate. Guilt? No. Regret...
"Neo."
He captured me.
Couldn’t sell me. Kept me.
Zakuul. The war. System collapse.
We partnered.
I owe him much.
He knew who I was. What I was.
Didn’t trash me. Even if he could.
Spent years together—hunting bounties. Off-grid.
Sparse words. No questions.
He’s what makes a true friend, but I reduced him to the thing he couldn’t face.
Another feeling breaks through. Betrayal. Not fresh. Beneath it lies grief. And mourning.
"Then Erin."
We met through Neo.
She saw me. Didn’t pretend I wasn’t dangerous.
Didn’t flinch, doesn’t shy away.
More feelings. Fear. Respect. Amusement? He scoffs. Brief but real.
We share the same kind of humour. Mostly.
She’s a menace. Pure lucid insanity. Mocks me.
But never demanded change.
A slow, deliberate inhale.
Reclaiming. Remembering. Returning.
A shiver works through his frame.
"Relah…"
A feeling. Not one but a storm of many. Shame. Anger. Guilt. Self-Loathing. Gratitude… Safety.
We met again by chance.
She should’ve walked away.
Was angry. Had every right to be.
But she saw what I’d become—
And stayed. Chose me.
Over the Jedi.
Over reason.
Over everything I did.
She reached me.
When I didn’t think I was still reachable.
She never asked for more than truth.
I wish her to see it...
And I want her to stay anyway.
To what’s left.
To who I am.
I’m tired of hiding.
He lifts his hands, staring at his barely visible palms.
Small sparks ignite. Blue-violet. Crackling faintly. A Light against the dark.
The Force came back.
With him.
How long have I been here? Was I alone the whole time?
A final question arises in his mind.
"Who knows everything about you?"
Relah… probably comes closest.
She heard enough to piece together the parts I still can’t say.
For the Sith-Empire?
I’m a dead man. Just another casualty of war. The Spheres folded. It’s not even the same Empire anymore.
So, no one holds the full picture.
But I do.
I, myself.
“Tahr'rys Nelubin.”
As he speaks his name aloud, the man jolts upright in bed, sheets soaked, skin clammy with sweat. For a moment, Tahr’rys doesn’t know where he is. Panic flickers—brief, sharp—then it's gone.
The Ship. His Ship. Alone in hyperspace. He repeats it, anchoring himself.
They’d shut the cockpit’s blast shields earlier, to keep the pulsing light of the simu-tunnel from bleeding in. The night cycle is active. Everything is dim.
We went to sleep. Right…
Tahr’rys sits up slowly and settles on the edge of the bunk, his feet meeting the cold, familiar floor plates. Across the narrow walkway, Relah sleeps inside her own recessed berth—peaceful. Undisturbed.
He thinks about reaching for her. But doesn’t. He’d talk to her. Not now. Just… later.
Quietly, he rises and walks to their small galley unit. He fills a glass with water. Drinks. Pauses. Then moves to the bathroom to shower. The light flickers bright before the door closes behind him.
Author's note: I lost track of the tenses. Plus, this is a first time for writing things from T's perspective - I never tried. Never dared. Please have mercy.
