Private What We Cling to and What Keeps us Alive.

[Taiden Keth]

The Scrolls of Taiden Keth
#Entry 1 PKF
When the trees fell to flames. Post Kashyyyk's Fall
A long thread from many personal perspectives; expect fluid time snapshots, if you ever want to add yours if it fits and its on theme, feel free.

Bathed in bright white light, a lone figure sat, pristine and motionless. Silver hair, silver eyes—an embodiment of Echani purity. The walls around him, so immaculate, reflected endlessly, a chamber of mirrored infinity, as within so without. Deep in meditation, he existed only within contemplation, recording his thoughts upon the waiting scrolls.

I do not grieve as my friends do. I mourn for the world, for its suffering, but not for the illusion of control over the uncontrollable. I do not rage against the tide or curse the turning of the stars. That is the path my ancestor walked—the path that made him a monster. And so many before him.

Our lives do not belong to us. They belong to the current. To the Force.

Yet knowing this, why did he sit here, day after day, alone? Why did guilt weigh upon his breath, slow and measured, when he knew—knew—he could not have stopped what had come to pass? His every effort had been a whisper against the inevitable. His subtlest maneuvers, his quiet resistance, had done nothing.

Was he simply a blind, hypocritical fool?

Taiden exhaled, controlled, and precise. His breath, his posture, his existence—stillness, refinement. Yet there was little left of his life now. When the Order departed, he remained, bound by duty to the shattered worlds they once called home. Now nothing remained but ashen dust. So many dead. So many driven away.

And yet, he was still here.

 

[Amelia Amadis]

In an isolated infirmary, young Amelia sat hunched over a screen, scrolling. Scrolling. Scrolling. Desperate for news. Something. Anything but fire and pain. But that's all there was—static-ridden glimpses of battle, the defense crumbling, the world she loved being torn apart. And they wouldn't let her go back.

The bruise on her cheek throbbed—a reminder of her failed attempt to steal a ship. Where was Mum? Dad? Her brother? Patches? Zacka? Her aunt? Anyone? She didn't even know where she was. Just a room. Just orders—Stay put. Stay safe.

Her jaw clenched, sharp canine teeth pressing into her lip as frustration bubbled into something closer to rage. She wanted to move. To fight. To be there. Slumping back, she lashed out, kicking hard—sending a chair skidding across the room, crashing into the wall.

Why did they have to be the ones out there? Why couldn't she be with them? She just wanted to be home. Back in their cabin. Back before this nightmare took everything. Tears blurred her vision as she bolted for the door—only to be caught, arms wrapping around her in a firm but careful hold.

She thrashed, fought, tried to twist free. Words—soft, soothing—tried to calm her. But she didn't care.

Her heart wasn't here. It was back there, shattered, lost with them.

Where were they?

 

[Werucoss Nertivor]

In the quiet embrace of the garden, a single tree stood—its roots a journey of their own. Once from Voss, then Kashyyyk, now here, nurtured with patient hands. Weru tended it as he always did, the faint tremor in his fingers noticeable only when he paused.

Here, among the leaves and soil, he could lose himself in the rhythm of life. The world beyond was distant, softened by the rustle of foliage. Only hurried footsteps or urgent voices broke the serenity, waves of distant turmoil casting worry upon his gentle bearing.

He stilled. The tremor in his fingers worsened, his tool slipping from his grasp. His long fingers flexed unsteadily until another's hand steadied them. A Master knelt beside him, silent understanding passing between them, sharing the healing of their spirit. She picked up his tool and placed it back in his palm. He nodded, exhaling a huff softly, and returned to his work—clipping, watering, giving life where he could.

She remained, kneeling beside him, hands in the earth, pulling weeds.

Weru's twin mouths released a slow, rolling bellow—a breath of solace. He thought of his friends, of those still out there.

May they have made it to safety and not be alone.

 

[Taresa Kae]

A Reaping of Suffering, the multitude of dead illuminating her path.​

Draped in Echani white, shaped as a stolen face plucked from a hundred lifeless identities, she moved unseen. Yet she felt them. The Kethborn. Their agony. Their suffering. It sang to her. No faction had satisfied her. No cause had ever been enough. Nothing but the Sith Code, wound into the marrow of her being, a driving force playing as the forests outside burned.

A slow, cruel delight curled through her. She drank deep of their pain, savoring it. They were all part of him. Shaped and cursed by her Master as all sentients were. They just didn't know it yet.

Delusions of grandeur? Perhaps. But to her, they were no delusions—only coded truth. Twisting the knife in the gut of creation, she carved his will into the galaxy, claws like blades in their souls, reaping. In reality? Nothing lasted. Nothing they had built endured. It all crumbled, just like the decaying tombs she called home. That was the way of all things that she would never see.

How many spirits would join them before the end? Locked away with him, entombed on Byss. How much suffering could she carve into the bones of this galaxy before it, too, was dust? A figure passed. The wicked gleam in her eyes smoothed away, her expression vanishing into empty indifference. Another nameless face in another nameless place. Nothing. No one.

But judgment moved where it was least expected. Within what they held most dear.

Tonight, the ashes burning within their heartlands.

 

[Khia Varad]

Crusaders strapped on their armor, checked their weapons, and made their final preparations. No words were needed. Everyone knew what lay ahead.

Dar'manda. Twice in one lifetime. That took doing. Not even following a Mand'alor this time—just their own honor, their own promises. And when this was over, Varad would be stricken from the records again. Cast out. Forgotten.

The Wall-Woman, they called her. Never to her face. Stoic as ever, she gave them nothing. No need to say the obvious, no need to hear it either. But she felt it—the weight of it, pressing down like a blade already fallen.

Would've been good to have some of the old allies here. Could use them now. Magazines locked into place. Comms checked. One by one, her Crusaders filed out, wordless, leaving only her and her battlesister behind. A moment passed between them—unspoken, unbreakable. No kill counters this time. No enjoyment in turning weapons on their own. Just duty and vows they couldn't break.

A slow breath. A final glance.

Then out, into the thick of it. The battle for Kashyyyk was starting. And they weren't going to miss it.