Draelor Nah`utal

THIS PAGE IS OUT-OF-CHARACTER. Everything below is OOC reference material only. It is not known, accessible, or referenceable by any character in-character, including Darth Chaakat himself, unless separately established through IC means.

Draelor Decessus Nah`utal
Biographical Information
Race	Kiffar
Homeworld	Kiffex
Mother	Aethia Nah`utal (née Nyalah)
Father	Decessus Nah`utal
Marital Status	Married
Spouse	Relena Vercet
Siblings	Anabelle Nah`utal (Estranged)
Born	Year -16, Day 120 17:20 CGT
Languages	Fluent: Kiffu, Galactic Basic, Huttese Limited: Mando`a Understands: Shyriiwook
Religion	Follower of Kochik
Physical Description
Gender	Male
Height	1.8m 6'0"
Weight	86kg 190lbs
Hair Color	Black
Eye Color	Grey
Political Information
Affiliation	Galactic Empire Order of the Sith Clan Nah`utal
Title	Heir to Clan Nah`utal Heir to Kiffar Regency
Rank	Grand Moff
Positions	Regional Governor of the Emerald Region
Prior Affiliation	University of Coruscant, Student Trade Federation, Level 1 Citizenship Nah`utal Capital Group, Owner Ubrikkian Industries, Chief Executive Officer
Awards	Various Imperial Commendations

Draelor Decessus Nah`utal (/'dreɪ:loʊr dɛk:ʌ:sʌs næːoʊ:tɔl/;; born Year -16, Day 120 17:20 CGT) is the current Grand Moff of the Emerald Region in the Galactic Empire under High Moff Kef Drenall, and a Sith Master of the Order of the Sith — known within it as Darth Chaakat — serving the Saarai Enclave under Darth Personathus, and loyal in turn to Dark Lord of the Sith Daelis Stanov and Emperor Jai Meridan. He is additionally the heir to the Regency of the Kiffar Southlands in the Azurbani system, and an incredibly affluent Galactic Bank investor with a net worth of billions. He has been credited with the unification of an entire planet and its resident species, thus ending thousands of years of feuding and tribal warfare, a feat for which he is well renowned. His marriage to Relena Vercet, mediated by former Emperor Guinar Ndengin in Year 17, became known as the wedding that united the Kiffar people.

Biographical Information

The Southland Heir — A Road to the Stars

Kiffex — Before the Stars

Draelor's questions unanswered, Year 0

Draelor Nah`utal was born in the ancestral city of Clan Nah`utal on their homeworld of Kiffex, arriving during the First of the Year — a holiday sacred to Kochik, head of the Kiffar deities, and one that carried added weight that season for a ruling family expecting its first son and heir. To matriarch Aethia Nah`utal and patriarch Decessus Nah`utal, his birth felt like an omen before he had drawn his first full breath. The hunting and harvesting season that followed was among the most bountiful the clan's elders could recall, and for years afterward, some would speak of the boy and the blessing in the same sentence. Draelor himself never put much stock in that. Whatever he became, he would credit to the two people who raised him — not to Kochik, and not to the stars that happened to align the night he was born.

There was no cushioning in how they raised him. Clan Nah`utal did not coddle its heirs, and Draelor grew up doing the same work expected of every Kiffar child — chopping wood alongside other boys, hauling stone for the clan's builders, working alongside farmers, or standing at his mother's side in the kitchen when the day's other labor was done. It was an upbringing built on calluses more than ceremony, and it shaped him accordingly: independent enough to survive alone if it ever came to that, but equally at ease leading a group or falling into step behind someone else's lead. By the time he was old enough for either title to matter, he had learned both.

He was twelve when the household changed around him. Decessus and Aethia had a second child — a daughter, Anabelle — and Draelor took to the role of older brother almost instantly, then more fiercely as the years went on. As Anabelle grew from a child into a striking young woman, his affection sharpened into something closer to vigilance; more than once, he found himself quietly cataloguing anyone who looked at his sister too long, asking questions of his own when the answers didn't come easily. Anabelle, for her part, had been raised with the same independence he had — which meant his protectiveness rarely had cause to become anything more than watchful.

By thirteen, his attention had turned from his sister to the past. He spent whole afternoons at the feet of the Nah`utal historians, pulling at the threads of Clan history, the rival clans of the Southland, the half-mythical grievances of the North, and the deeper story of the Kiffar people as a whole. For a time, the historians had answers for everything he asked. That didn't last. As he grew older, his questions grew with him — reaching further than his teachers' knowledge could follow, past the borders of Kiffex and out toward something none of them had ever seen firsthand. The historians ran out of answers long before Draelor ran out of questions, and it was in that widening gap that his eyes first turned upward, toward a galaxy no one in Basa Oihanak Gortoleku could describe to him.

Yoav Isaija — One Face in a Crowd of Billions

Draelor's first sight of the Galactic Empire's might, Year 5

Draelor's father brought a stranger into their home on the eve of his eighteenth birthday — a man from one of the Nah`utal's ourvir clans, further south than any Draelor had known. Yoav Isaija of Clan Immell was well past his prime by any conventional measure: silver-grey hair combed loosely back, a beard the same shade left to grow scruffy beneath sharp cheekbones. It was his eyes that stayed with Draelor longest — grey, and grown greyer still, eyes that Draelor would later describe as having "seemed to burn holes right through my face." The three of them talked long into the night, Decessus watching his son's face as much as he listened to Yoav's answers.

Decessus explained what he already suspected his son had guessed — that Yoav Isaija was among the most well-traveled Kiffar he had ever known, a man who'd once burned with the same restlessness Draelor now carried. The southern clans had always looked outward more easily than their northern kin, and Yoav had answers for questions the Nah`utal historians had long since exhausted. By the night's end, an offer sat on the table: a furlough, three years, under Yoav's guidance, to see the galaxy Draelor had only ever heard described secondhand. Draelor took it before the sun rose.

Three years passed before he set foot in Basa Oihanak Gortoleku again — arriving just as the Feast of Hastere began, the clan's yearly tribute to the goddess of hunt and harvest. It could not have been better timed. The Sheyf's son had returned, and the feast that year burned brighter for it, filled deep into the night with Draelor's own stories — towering cityscapes, endless plains, forests without end, rivers that circled an entire world. Alderaan, in his telling, sounded like something out of legend.

He'd seen it for himself only months before, the last stop on Yoav's long tour once Kiffex itself had nothing left to teach him. Yoav had chosen Alderaan deliberately — a mirror held up to everything Draelor knew. Both worlds wore their beauty like a birthright; both were built on lines of ancestry that ran centuries deep, houses and clans alike. But where the Kiffar answered every dispute with steel and blood, the Alderaanians answered with words, treaties, patience. Standing among Yoav's well-bred Alderaanian friends, Draelor found himself turning the comparison over for weeks afterward, unable to set it down.

For a year he tried to let that comparison rest. He returned to the rhythms of the Southland — clan duties, old traditions, the quiet expectation that he would one day be Sheyf. But his mind kept drifting past the horizon he'd already crossed once, and by the following fall he knew the year had only postponed the inevitable. He told his parents. Decessus and Aethia had feared this moment since the day he was born beneath Kochik's blessing, and they did not pretend otherwise — but they had also always known a permanent life on Kiffex was not yet his to live. Prayers went up to Kochik and Iotcha in his name. Within a fortnight, Draelor was gone from Deadend, a transport carrying him toward the Coruscant system.

The three-day passage felt almost familiar — the same length as the run to Alderaan, the same rhythm of stars blurring past a viewport. Yoav had described Imperial warships to him once, on that earlier voyage: the Victory-class Star Destroyer, and above it in scale, the Imperial I-class — the largest warship Yoav claimed to have ever laid eyes on himself, though even he'd only seen one from a passing freighter's viewport. Draelor had never seen one at all.

Nothing Yoav said had prepared him for the reality. The transport dropped out of hyperspace into the shadow of an Imperial I-class Star Destroyer, flanked by a screen of smaller Imperial and Victory-class warships and vessels Draelor couldn't begin to name. Their own transport, and every other civilian ship threading past that armada, looked suddenly, absurdly small — inconsequential against the raw power orbiting the perceived center of the galaxy. Hours later, the ship touched down in CoCo Town's industrial sprawl. Draelor walked down the ramp and out into the crowd, and for the first time in his life, no one around him knew his name, his clan, or the weight either was meant to carry. He was, simply, one face among billions.

Coruscant — A Reason to Serve

Draelor learns what the Empire is capable of, Year 6

By the second half of Year 5, Coruscant had stopped feeling like a foreign world to Draelor Nah`utal and started feeling like a second home. He'd walked its levels until they blurred together, traded words with more strangers than he could count, and found that the galaxy's knowledge came cheaper at a diner counter or the far end of a bar than in any classroom. Money was tighter than it had ever been on Kiffex — the 2,500 credits his parents had sent him off with dwindled fast, and he learned the true weight of a credit the way he'd once learned the weight of an axe, through use rather than instruction. He found a bare studio apartment, chosen less for comfort than for proximity — equidistant to every bar, diner, and odd job that had come to know his face — and settled into the rhythm of a life built entirely by his own hands.

Year 6 arrived quietly and left him restless. A freighter pilot, passing through one of Draelor's usual haunts, spoke of a species unlike any he'd encountered since leaving Kiffex — towering, fierce, honorable warriors called Wookiees, native to a green world named Kashyyyk. Something in the description struck close to home, and Draelor spent the following months saving every spare credit and putting his half-trained mechanic's hands to use, repairing what he could aboard a merchant freighter in exchange for passage. He was no master of the trade — speeders, kitchen units, whatever machinery Coruscant had put in front of him over the years — but he was competent enough to buy his way to Kashyyyk.

What he found there reshaped how he understood his own people. The Wookiees were not warriors in the way the Kiffar were warriors — but they bred fighters and hunters all the same, and their reverence for the forest floor of the Shadowlands ran as deep as any Kiffar clan's reverence for its ancestral lands. Draelor gave himself fully to learning them: their history, their customs, their language. Months of patient study in Shyriiwook eventually earned him something few outsiders were offered — a place beside Wookiee hunters on an actual hunt, a mark of respect he understood intimately, warrior to warrior.

He returned to Coruscant six months into the year, and for a while, life resumed its old shape — the same odd jobs, carried into Year 7, eventually earning him a proper one-bedroom apartment instead of the bare studio he'd started with. Then, late in Year 6, the news reached him: the Black Forest Massacre. He had spent half a year among the Wookiees. He had hunted beside them, learned their tongue, sat at their fires. And now word came that the Empire — the same superpower whose warships had once left him breathless above Coruscant — had answered Wookiee strength with extermination. He did not share the Empire's xenophobia, had never been able to stomach it fully, but the massacre didn't turn him away from Imperial service. It did something else instead: it convinced him that a galaxy capable of that kind of power needed voices within it who remembered the Wookiees as more than a statistic. If his own people were ever to face a moment like that one, he intended to already be standing somewhere that mattered.

That conviction carried him into the University of Coruscant in Year 7, where he enrolled to study Military Science with a minor in Sociology — the first deliberate step toward the Empire he'd decided to serve. The structured classroom did not come naturally to him at first; years of learning by doing had left him unused to lecture halls and assessment courses. It was Kyran Caelius, a fellow student, who saw him through it — a Thyferran/Hapan whose stories of his homeworld, Thyferran and Thyferra, fascinated Draelor as both an explorer and a budding sociologist. The friendship that grew between them carried Draelor through Introduction to Military Science, Theory and Dynamics I and II, a Leadership Development Assessment Course, and courses in Xenohistory and Galactic Culture alike — until Kyran graduated a year ahead of him in Year 8, and the two lost touch. They would not speak again until Year 14, by which point Draelor had transferred into the Imperial Security Bureau and Kyran had found his own place within the Black Sun and the Imperial Union.

In Year 11, Draelor graduated with his Bachelor of Science in Military Science and his minor in Sociology in hand. He spent the following year training his body as hard as he'd trained his mind, until he was ready to walk through the doors of the Imperial Army and begin in earnest.

The Empire — A Life in Service

Imperial Service — Building a Record

Draelor sets aside wandering, Year 12

Early in Year 12, Draelor walked into the Imperial Recruiting Center on Coruscant and began the enlistment package that would end the life he'd spent building for himself, one odd job at a time. Approval came a few months later. The Imperial Academy took the rest of him — he graduated on Year 12, Day 126, and by that afternoon he was no longer a Kiffar wanderer with a mechanic's hands and a University degree. He was Imperial Army, full stop. Within days he was shipped to Cardia, where a month of Infantry School stripped him down and rebuilt him as a Stormtrooper, then folded him into an Imperial Legion to make good on it. He didn't stay a rank for long. Determination carried him, promotion after promotion, until he wore the stripes of Command Sergeant faster than most men in his Legion managed it.

What he wanted, underneath all of it, was Reconnaissance — the quiet, exacting work of moving unseen. His Assault Battalion assignment gave him none of that by default, so he made his own openings: stealing what hours he could for the Reconnaissance School on Cardia, training on his own time when his duties allowed it. By the middle of Year 13, the effort had paid off in an unexpected direction — promoted to Second Lieutenant and named Executive Officer of the 2nd "Hellhounds" Brigade, on the heels of a short posting to a Reconnaissance Battalion that let him finally serve as the Recon Trooper he'd always wanted to be. The official badge eluded him — a few months short of the required tenure — but the missions themselves he'd already run, badge or none.

Before the Brigade posting, he'd spent time as the Kuat Sector Intelligence Officer within the Department of Military Intelligence — a role that didn't last, cut short when he transferred into the Imperial Security Bureau on Year 13, Day 257, as a Probationary Agent. It was there that his career found its real depth. Years passed in the Bureau, each one adding weight to his record — commendations, promotions, friendships with fellow agents like Zhaff Orikan and Aspharr Montari that would outlast the postings themselves. Imperial Security Agent Certification. A Mention in Dispatches. COMPNOR Service Awards, Imperial Service Medals, rank after rank climbing toward ISB-Brigadier General. He served as liaison to the Coruscant Oversector, the Deep Core Sector, the Corporate Sector, eventually rising to Chief of Surveillance — and alongside it all, found time to train the next generation at the Imperial Academy, reaching Senior Training Officer by Year 15, Day 37.

He retired from that Academy post before the year was through. Shortly after, his tenure with the Bureau ended as well — quietly, without ceremony, and without much explanation left in the official record. What followed is a gap the archive itself declines to fill; the files covering the interval between his departure from the ISB and his reappearance in the Regional Government remain sealed by order of the Sith Council, and the record offers no further comment. When his name resurfaces, it is under Grand Moff Mikel von Bianchi, newly assigned to the Corporate Sector — the first entry in what would become another long climb. By mid-Year 17, he held the post of Sector Adjutant of the Corporate Oversector, a position he kept until the end of Year 18, when he stepped aside to take up the same role in the Coruscant Oversector, this time under Grand Moff Zhaff Orikan.

Through it all — Cardia, the Bureau, the sealed years, the long march back up through Regional Government — Draelor never let Kiffex slip entirely out of reach. He took his leaves when duty allowed it, returning home for a handful of days at a time to sit at traditional meals, sing the old songs, and hunt the old grounds with people who had known him before any of it. Whatever the Empire asked of him, and however far it carried him from the Southland, he came back changed by his service but never emptied by it — loyal to the uniform, but never at the cost of the man underneath it.

Chaakat — Known to Few

Draelor stops hiding the cloak he's worn all along, Year 14

The unsealing came without warning, sometime in mid-Year 14 — a single order from the Sith Council, and a record that had been kept quiet for years suddenly wasn't. Draelor Nah`utal, decorated soldier, rising officer of the Imperial Security Bureau, was named a public member of the Order of the Sith. The commendations attached to the record left little room to dismiss it as rumor: the Order of the Sith Member Medal, and a Sith Service Award marking a fourth year of standing — which meant, to anyone who did the arithmetic, that whatever had happened to Draelor had happened well before he ever set foot in an Imperial Legion. The Sith Medal of Progress rounded out the record. Whatever he had been doing in the years no one had asked him about, the Council itself had apparently been watching for some time.

What the record didn't say — what no official document would ever quite manage to explain — was how it had started. There had been no petition, no formal sponsorship, none of the careful vetting the Order typically reserved for those it chose to awaken. Draelor's path into the Force had begun with an accident of timing: a chance encounter, somewhere in the ordinary churn of his early service, with a Sith named Daisuke Haines. Haines had not been looking for an apprentice that day. He had simply crossed paths with a young Kiffar officer and recognized something in him that no one else, up to that point, had thought to look for — and acted on it without troubling the Council for permission first. By the time anyone with the authority to object might have learned of it, the thing was already done. Draelor had been awakened, quietly and unofficially, years before the rest of the galaxy had any reason to suspect it.

The proof, when it finally came in mid-Year 14, was not administrative — it was visible. Not long after the record broke, Draelor began appearing in the traditional black cape so many Sith wore over their Imperial uniforms, draped across one shoulder and fastened at the throat with a clasp of gold. He offered no statement to accompany it. He didn't need to. The cape said what the unsealed record had already confirmed, and those who noticed it understood there was no longer any use pretending otherwise.

Past that single, undeniable image, the truth of what he actually was within the Order remained carefully out of reach. Outside the inner circles of the Imperial Union, no one could say with certainty how far his standing went, or whether the Force answered to him at all — only that it was assumed, the way such things were always assumed about men who wore the cape and said nothing to confirm or deny it. The rumors filled the silence he left behind: that Haines's unsanctioned awakening had eventually led him under the wing of former Dark Lord of the Sith Mikel von Bianchi, known in Sith circles as Darth Virsunas, learning at the feet of a master few dared question. Newer whispers went further still — that Draelor had since surpassed even that apprenticeship, elevated to Sith Master, and had taken for himself a name of his own choosing.

Darth Chaakat.

No one outside those circles could confirm it. No one who might have been able to seemed inclined to.

The Wedding to Unite Kiffex

Draelor binds his blood to hers before all of Kiffex, Year 17

Years of on-and-off courtship had worn Draelor down to something rarer than patience — certainty. He and Relena Vercet had circled each other for longer than either would likely admit outright, drifting close and apart and close again, until Draelor finally found the nerve to do what his father had done before him: propose the old way, the Kiffar way, the only way that had ever meant anything to Clan Nah`utal. He took his leave from the Empire and went to find her.

The tradition itself unsettled outsiders more often than not. A Kiffar proposal was not spoken — it was fought. Mediated by a third-party Elder, challenger and challenged met in combat, and the winner alone decided what came next: to bond, or to walk away. It sounded barbaric to those who'd never lived it, but the Kiffar understood what it actually measured. A fighting style laid a person bare in ways words never could — patience, temper, honor, restraint — and more than one proposal had been won or lost not by the outcome of the match, but by what the match revealed.

Relena did not go down easily. The fight ran long, longer than Draelor had expected from a woman who gave up nothing without making him work for it, and when she finally relented, it wasn't defeat that Draelor felt looking at her — it was something closer to certainty confirmed. She had stood against a man who outweighed her, who held every physical advantage the match allowed, and she had made him earn every inch of that victory. If anything, the fight only deepened what he already felt for her. He chose to bond with her without hesitation.

The timing carried weight beyond the two of them. By late Year 16, Artemis de Chatillion had passed the Regency of the Kiffar Southlands to his old friend Decessus Nah`utal, while Relena had already held the Regency of the North for years in her own right. A courtship between the two of them had always drawn a particular kind of scrutiny — "Northie" and "Southie," two halves of Kiffex that had spent generations finding reasons to stay apart — but whatever murmurs that pairing had once stirred were swept aside entirely once word of their engagement spread. It wasn't gossip anymore. It was history, quietly announcing itself before anyone had fully realized what was happening. Long before the wedding itself, Draelor's bond with the Regent of the South had already begun closing a divide older than either of their families.

The ceremony came later in Year 17, mediated personally by then-Emperor Guinar Ndengin, a Kiffar bonding older than memory, built around the Gr`hwlan Blade and the Bowl of Yak. Each of them cut their palm and let the blood fall into the bowl, mingling together before both drank from it, vows spoken over a mixture that was, by then, no longer entirely his or entirely hers. It was a bond meant to hold for life, sealed in the oldest language the Kiffar had.

Few weddings in living memory drew a guest list like it. Sheyfs came from clans across Kiffex, joined by dignitaries from governments spanning the galaxy and figures whose names carried weight far beyond the Southland — Seele, Jeor Knight, Kyran Caelius, Darin Byrch, Spree Razzix, Dante Erinith, Tnsumi Shine, all gathered to watch the son and heir of Clan Nah`utal bond with the Regent of the North. History would remember it simply as the Wedding to Unite Kiffex — and in the years that followed, the planet made good on the name. For the first time in longer than the Elders could reliably recount, the Kiffar people knew peace across the whole of their world.

Amelia Kolczynski — A Mark Undone

A choice Draelor never wanted, Year 19

Amelia Kolczynski had never been simple family to Draelor. Cousin by blood, daughter of his father's sister, she was Clan Nah`utal all the way through — but her path had taken her somewhere Draelor's never had, into the ranks of Black Sun during the years the organization stood allied with the Empire. He had never fully approved of it. He had also never once stopped watching over her for it, the same instinct that had once kept him cataloguing every boy who looked twice at his sister Anabelle, now turned toward a cousin who had chosen a rougher road than most of the family ever had. Protection, with Draelor, had never required approval. It only required blood.

That was what made Year 19 unforgivable to him.

Black Sun's alliance with the Empire did not hold for everyone within it, and Amelia was among those who broke from it — not quietly, not with the organization's blessing, but in a manner that cost the Empire assets, intelligence, and trust that had taken years to build. She turned pirate. Whatever loyalty she still owed Clan Nah`utal, whatever she still meant to the cousin who had spent years shielding her from a distance, she set it beside the door on her way out. Draelor did not learn of it secondhand, softened by rumor or filtered through official channels. He learned of it directly, and completely, and something in him that had always stayed carefully leashed came off entirely.

He went looking for her himself.

What passed between them when he found her, the record does not preserve in detail, and Draelor has never offered one. What is known is this: every Kiffar of Clan Nah`utal carries the qukuuf, a single reddish marking traced above the left eye, worn from adolescence onward as a mark of clan and blood that does not come off by choice. Amelia's had been hers since she was young enough not to remember receiving it. When Draelor found her, he removed it — not with a blade meant for the purpose, but with his lightsaber, drawn and used against his own cousin in an act that took the marking, the skin beneath it, and the eye below it in the same motion.

He did not speak of it afterward. Those closest to him understood, without being told directly, that the subject was closed and would remain so. Amelia Kolczynski did not return to the family, and Draelor did not go looking for her again. What remained between them — if anything did — was never recorded, and no one who might know has been willing to say.

It was, by any measure, the first time the galaxy beyond Imperial Union circles saw the truth the Personality Profile had always hinted at from a careful distance: beneath the composed administrator, beneath the man who spoke rarely and was listened to when he did, there was something that did not forgive, and did not need permission to act.

Within the year, the Empire gave him one of its highest offices. It did not ask him what he had done to earn its trust, and Draelor did not offer to explain.

Imperial High Command — A Seat Well Earned

Draelor delivers Ubrikkian into Imperial hands, Year 21

By the close of Year 19, Draelor Nah`utal had spent the better part of a decade proving himself useful to the machinery of Empire — first as a soldier, then as an intelligence officer, then as an administrator who understood that real power in the Imperial system was rarely won on a battlefield. It was won in the rooms where the battlefield's needs were funded, staffed, and made possible. Then-Grand Vizier Jai Meridan recognized as much when he named Draelor Minister of the Interior late that year, an appointment that carried with it a seat on the Select Committee of the Commission for the Preservation of the New Order — the pinnacle of COMPNOR's civilian government, and no small company to be counted among. Draelor walked into it a Kiffar from the southern hemisphere of a world most of his colleagues could not have located on a star chart, and within it he did not merely hold his seat — he made himself indispensable.

His signature achievement was, on its surface, unglamorous. As Imperial Treasurer, Draelor took the Empire's monthly financial reporting process — sprawling, redundant, choked by the accumulated habits of a hundred different offices — and streamlined it into something that functioned. No campaigns were won by it, no headlines followed it, but the credits moved where they needed to move, and the officers who depended on that machinery working noticed. It would prove, in time, the longest shadow he cast over the Interior.

Recognition came early in Year 21. Then-Emperor Seele conferred upon him the Order of the Imperial Seal, citing resolute fidelity and sacrifice over the course of an exceptional career — language rarely spent lightly, and rarer still for a man not yet forty standard years old. Draelor accepted it with the same composed economy he brought to everything else, and within days he was gone from Coruscant on an assignment few in the Select Committee were permitted to know existed.

Imperial Intelligence had spent years cultivating a sleeper agent inside the highest levels of the New Republic's government — a patient, quiet asset finally ready to bear fruit. OPERATION CORE called for a coordinated hostile seizure that reached into the New Republic's government itself and swept up its subsidiary factions in the same stroke. Draelor's part in that larger operation was the takeover of Ubrikkian Industries, one piece of a much wider collapse — and for one hundred days he was not a Minister of the Empire but the President of a captured Republic manufacturing concern, wearing a name and a title that belonged to someone unsuspecting hours prior. When the operation concluded and the seizure held, he stepped back into his Imperial uniform and returned to the Ministry of the Interior as though he had never left it — though the Operational Success Award that followed made clear that no one who mattered had forgotten where he had actually been, or how much larger the operation was than his own part in it.

The Treasury work continued in the background of all of it, patient and unglamorous, and early in Year 22 then-Grand Vizier Jai Meridan formally recognized it with the COMPNOR Medal of Progress — the same efficiencies, still paying dividends, now bearing his name in the official record.

It was, by any reasonable measure, the record of a man positioned for the Empire's very highest offices. In the middle of Year 22, Draelor tested that position directly, putting himself forward for consideration as both Grand Moff and Grand Vizier. Neither seat was offered to him. There was no scandal in it, no falling-out recorded anywhere in the archive — only the quiet arithmetic of an Empire with more capable men than chairs to seat them in. On Year 22, Day 121, Draelor Nah`utal resigned his commission and stepped down from every office he held.

He did not leave angry, and he did not leave the Empire behind him. Whatever came next — and something would, eventually, come next — he never stopped calling it home.

Darth Chaakat — Service Off the Record

Draelor hunts in silence, Year 23

Resignation from Imperial office did not mean retirement from Imperial purpose. On Year 22, Day 121, Draelor Nah`utal walked out of the Ministry of the Interior a Citizen of the Empire and nothing more on paper — no rank, no portfolio, no seat on any committee that convened in the light. What he carried out with him instead was a name he had worn quietly for years and now had reason to wear openly: Darth Chaakat.

The offer came from Imperial Intelligence, and it came through Director Elaine von Veritrax, who understood better than most that the Empire's cleanest work was rarely done by anyone still listed on an organizational chart. A Sith Lord with no active government post, a service record the Republic's analysts would have flagged and then quietly buried under sealed files, and a face that meant nothing to anyone outside COMPNOR circles — Draelor was, in the coldest and most useful sense, deniable. Von Veritrax gave him targets. He gave her results.

The work took him across systems the official record does not name and to outcomes it does not fully explain. Where Imperial Intelligence identified threats too entangled or too well-protected for conventional channels to touch, Chaakat was sent to untangle them by other means. Where Imperial assets found themselves stranded, compromised, or marked for elimination in hostile territory, he was sent to bring them home. Neither kind of work left much of a paper trail, and neither was meant to. It was not the life of a Minister. It suited him regardless — closer, in its way, to the years he had spent as a young man learning to survive alone on worlds that owed him nothing, and closer still to the quieter, more enigmatic instincts that had always sat beneath the composed administrator the Empire had come to know.

Early in Year 23, less than a year into that shadow work, Draelor formalized what had already become true in practice: full-time standing within the Sith Order itself, a return to structured Imperial service that answered to Dark Lord Daelis Stanov rather than to any Regional Government ledger. It changed little about the nature of his assignments and everything about his footing within them. He was no longer a resigned Citizen doing favors for Intelligence. He was a Sith Lord about the Empire's business, and the distinction, however invisible to outside observers, mattered.

For nearly three more years the arrangement held. Targets were hunted. Assets were recovered. Von Veritrax's confidence in him never wavered, and his own reasons for the work — never fully explained even to those closest to him — never seemed to require explaining. It was Year 25, Day 337, before Draelor Nah`utal's name reappeared in any record meant for wider eyes, stepping back into a formal Imperial post as a Line Officer. The years between were his alone, spent under a name that had always belonged to him more completely than any title the government had ever given him.

Imperial Service — Structure Regained

Empress Teta — A Reason to Return

Draelor hears a quiet word from an old friend, Year 26

For nearly three years, Darth Chaakat answered to no one but Elaine von Veritrax and the quiet arithmetic of whatever mission sat in front of him. But the Saarai Enclave had never stopped being his, not truly, and its head — Darin Byrch, known within the Order as Darth Emersus — had watched from a distance as one of his own drifted further from the structure that gave the Order its shape. Emersus said nothing of it for a long while. Men who did Chaakat's kind of work were not easily summoned back by a superior's impatience, and Emersus understood that better than most.

The conversation, when it finally came, wasn't staged as an intervention. Draelor had returned briefly to Empress Teta — one stop among many in a life spent moving between systems that rarely appeared on the same itinerary twice — and Emersus found him there, unhurried, in no apparent rush to raise the subject at all. What passed between them was not a command. It was closer to an old friend taking stock of another, and finding the answer wanting. Emersus spoke plainly about the state of the Empire — the gaps left by capable men who'd chosen to work in shadow rather than in structure, the cost of talent spent invisibly instead of institutionally. He did not ask Draelor to abandon the work he'd been doing. He asked him to consider what more he could do with a title attached to his name again.

Draelor did not answer him that day. It wasn't the kind of question that deserved a quick response, and he had spent enough years now weighing consequence before action to know better than to give Emersus one. He carried the conversation with him for months afterward, turning it over the way he'd once turned over Yoav Isaija's descriptions of Imperial warships, or the sight of the Black Forest Massacre's aftermath — not urgent, but persistent, the kind of thought that eventually settles a matter simply by refusing to leave.

Late in Year 25, on Day 337, it settled. Draelor Nah`utal returned to active service in the Imperial Military, assigned as a Line Officer to the Amber Taskforce — a modest posting, by the standard of what he'd once held, and by the standard of what Emersus surely knew he was capable of. He did not seem to mind the modesty of it. Whatever he had spent three years doing under Von Veritrax's direction, off the books and unremarked upon, he stepped back into structured service without complaint, willing to rebuild a record from wherever the Empire chose to place him.

He did not stay a Line Officer for long. On Year 26, Day 54, Draelor Nah`utal was appointed Grand Moff of the Emerald Region — a title he has held ever since, and the first true command of his second career within the Empire's formal ranks. Whether Emersus ever learned just how quickly his quiet conversation on Empress Teta had borne fruit, the record does not say. But the timing left little room for coincidence, and fewer people who knew Draelor well would have called it one.

Personal Information

Bearing

Draelor while offduty, Year 27

This Kiffar male wears his years like a man who has spent them somewhere far worse than a desk — hardened, weathered, and unmistakably marked by the weight of command. What was once a full head of lustrous black hair has thinned and greyed at the temples, swept back in a severe, no-nonsense style that reads more military than roguish; whatever time he spent away clearly left him little patience for vanity. His face carries the toll openly: deep-set lines carved into a permanently furrowed brow, skin weathered and creased from exposure rather than age alone, and a heavy salt-and-pepper beard grown thick and untamed in place of the clean-shaven charm he once wore — less an aesthetic choice now than the simple absence of anyone or anything requiring him to bother. His eyes have lost their easy grey warmth, settling into a hard, shadowed hazel-brown beneath a heavier brow, the kind of stare that's grown used to giving orders rather than charming a room. Whatever softness remained in his features has been ground down by stress and isolation in equal measure — the corners of his mouth sit tighter now, quicker to a flat line than a smile, and when he does allow himself one, it's brief, controlled, more acknowledgment than warmth. Still, for all the wear, there's no mistaking the authority in his bearing; he carries himself with the rigid, settled confidence of a man who commanded through the worst of it and came back sharper for having survived it. His build remains that of a Kiffar forged for hard labor and harder fights — 113kg of solid muscle, carried now with a stiffness that speaks to old injuries rather than any loss of strength. He stands at the same imposing 1.85m, and if anything, time has only made him loom larger, not smaller. His tattoos remain unchanged beneath the collar — tribal markings from an unknown Kiffar clan across his chest, and a bicep tattoo on either arm — old ink from a man who was someone else before the years and the absence remade him into this.

Temperament

Draelor weighing decisions that will effect billions, Year 27

At first meeting, Draelor is disarmingly easy to talk to — laid-back, approachable, the kind of man who can pull a stranger into a genuinely engaging conversation without any apparent effort. It doesn't take long, though, before a sharper undercurrent starts to show through the warmth: a thick, deliberate professionalism that some read as simple discipline and others read as something colder — calculated, distant, a man weighing every word before he lets it leave his mouth. Both readings are true in their own way, and neither tells the whole story.

Born into the ruling family of Clan Nah'utal — a Kiffex clan that rose from minor standing to major power under his family's stewardship — Draelor was shaped from birth to lead, and it shows in everything about him. He doesn't need volume to command a room; he's just as often the quiet one, watching, measuring, saying nothing until the moment calls for it — and when he finally does speak, people listen, not because he demands it, but because experience has taught them it's worth their while. He is calm by nature, deliberate, thoughtful to a fault, and fiercely loyal — to the Empire he's sworn himself to, and just as completely to the ideals and mandate of his own clan. That loyalty runs both directions: toward his family and the rest of Nah'utal, he is protective and caring in a way that softens every hard edge he shows the wider galaxy, though he shares enough of the Empire's humanocentric leanings that he's rarely mistaken for someone soft on aliens in general — even if he's never been the type to let that harden into blind discrimination.

Beneath all of it, though — beneath the professionalism, the warmth toward those he loves, the discipline he wears like armor — there is something else. Something enigmatic. Eerie, even, in the way it surfaces without warning: a predatory edge that most people never see on a first meeting, and that those who provoke his temper rarely forget once they have. He has spent years learning to leash it, and mostly succeeds. Mostly.

Whatever kept him away for as long as it did has only deepened all of this. The calm has calcified into something harder to read; the loyalty has sharpened into something closer to conviction than duty; and the thing beneath the surface, the part he used to keep on a short leash, seems to sit a little closer to the surface these days — as if the years alone taught him to stop bothering to fully bury it. He came back more composed, more commanding, and unmistakably more dangerous than the man who left.

Family — What Blood Costs and Keeps

Draelor chooses her, again and always, Year 16

Family, among the Kiffar, was never treated as instinct alone — it was taught, deliberately, the way a trade or a language is taught, and no one absorbed the lesson more thoroughly than Draelor Nah`utal. He couldn't recall an age young enough that his parents hadn't already been drilling it into him: that blood ran deep in the clans, yes, but that family also came in forms blood didn't always account for. It was a lesson meant for both children in the house, once his sister was old enough to understand it too, and it took root in Draelor in a way that would outlast nearly everything else he was taught as a boy. In the Nah`utal home, no meal arrived at the table without everyone's hands somewhere in its making — the cooking, the cleaning, the quiet unglamorous work of feeding a household — and no one was excused from their share of it, heir or otherwise.

His parents shaped him in different seasons of his life, and he knew it even as it was happening. As a boy, it was his mother he reached for — Aethia's affection, given freely but never as coddling, the kind of love that still expected a child to earn his keep even while it held him close. As he grew older and the world around him grew more complicated, it was his father's steadier hand he leaned on instead — Decessus's particular brand of tough love, the kind that toughened rather than softened, arriving exactly when Draelor needed it to. He took what was best from each of them, the way most children eventually do, without ever quite realizing he was doing it.

What he hadn't accounted for was the cost of leaving. Since the day he'd departed Kiffex in Year 5, Draelor had felt the relationship with his parents thin at the edges — not broken, never that, but changed by distance in a way nothing else could quite explain. His leaves home were exactly as warm as they'd always been, his love for them undimmed by years or systems between visits. But he understood, with the same clear-eyed honesty he brought to most things, that the deep, easy closeness of his childhood couldn't survive on leave time alone. Exploration had given him more than he could measure. It had also, quietly and without asking permission, cost him something in return.

Some bonds, though, seemed built to outlast even that kind of distance — and none more than the one he shared with his wife, Relena. Two explorers who had found each other despite spending as much time apart as together, their courtship stretched on and off for years before either of them found the nerve to make it permanent. None of that distance ever touched what he felt for her. There was no one else in the galaxy he would have considered sharing a Kiffar bond with, sacred or otherwise, and nothing in the years since had given him reason to imagine there ever could have been.

Not every bond survived long enough to be tested by distance. His cousin Amelia Kolczynski — daughter of his father's sister, Anna Nah`utal, and as close to a second sister as blood outside his own household ever came — had been under his watch for most of her adult life, in the same instinctive, unasked-for way his sister Anabelle once was. He had never fully approved of the path she'd chosen, service within Black Sun during the years it stood allied with the Empire, but approval had never been the price of his protection. It only ever cost blood, and Amelia had that in full.

It was a debt he paid in full himself, in Year 19, when Amelia broke from Black Sun in a manner that cost the Empire trust it had spent years building, and turned to piracy in the process. What passed between them afterward is not something Draelor has ever spoken of, and the details he has never offered stay his alone to carry. What is known is only the shape of it: that something in him that had always stayed carefully leashed came off entirely, and that Amelia did not walk away from that reckoning unmarked. She did not have long to carry it. Black Sun settled its own grievances with her only months later, in a killing that had nothing to do with Draelor, or with Clan Nah`utal, or with anything he'd already taken from her.

He does not speak of Amelia now. What remains of that love — and it was love, whatever else it became — he keeps the way he keeps most things that cost him something: quietly, and without explanation to anyone who wasn't there.

Notable Posessions

Mtoni Kurokas

Draelor's flagship, claimed from the Republic orbiting Coruscant

An MC-60 Star Cruiser, and the largest vessel to ever bear his name as owner. The Mtoni Kurokas came to Draelor as recognition for his role in OPERATION CORE — a New Republic capital ship turned over to Imperial hands in the same operation that saw him serve, briefly and under another name, as President of Ubrikkian Industries. It has served as his primary ship ever since, captained in his stead by Lavant Zvarrik of House Csapla's lesser Zvarrik branch, a lineage that has traditionally supplied officers to fleet operations of that kind. That the ship carrying his name answers day to day to someone else's hand is, to those who know him, entirely in keeping with how Draelor has always run things — command given fully, trust extended completely, and results expected in return.

Dwomutsiqsa

In the ancient Sith dialect, the name is akin to the words "summon demon." A gift bestowed upon Darth Chaakat by his former Sith Master, Darth Virsunas, and later reforged by Draelor's own hand — the emitter and switch sections rebuilt in Imperial-forged durasteel, the body reshaped from the hollowed spine of a Dewback, the hilt completed by the tip of a Krayt Dragon's tooth serving as pommel. As is traditional among the Sith, the blade it emits is a menacing scarlet, shimmering with a hum few who have faced it forget.

Imperator

Draelor's lightsabers, Dwomutsiqsa and Imperator

Where Dwomutsiqsa was inherited and remade, Draelor's Imperator was built entirely by his own hand, forged through the trials the Order demands of those who craft their own weapon rather than receive one. Where his first blade speaks in the old, private language of the Sith, the second is something newer — a weapon Draelor has deliberately shaped to read as Imperial before it reads as Sith, a design choice as pointed as anything in his career. Few outside his closest circles have seen it activated, and fewer still have asked him directly why he built it the way he did. Those who know him well enough to guess don't need to ask.

Estates

Draelor holds private estates on three worlds, each sitting under a different banner entirely — Lonatro, held by Black Sun; Boonta IV, under the Tresario Star Kingdom; and Isht, safely within Imperial territory. That he keeps a residence within Black Sun-controlled space at all has not gone without notice among those aware of his history with the organization, though Draelor has never offered an explanation for the choice, and no one close enough to ask has pressed the matter.

Collections

Beyond his working fleet, Draelor has built one of the more complete private collections of vintage racing craft in Imperial circles — an especially thorough run of YT-series freighters, alongside a growing collection of podracers and swoop bikes assembled piece by piece over years, each acquisition chased down individually rather than bought in bulk. It is, by most accounts, the closest thing he has to an idle hobby, and one of the few pursuits in his life that serves no purpose beyond his own enjoyment of speed and craftsmanship for their own sake.

RA-7-ST02

A protocol droid of RA-7 configuration, won at auction through the Gilded Rose Auction House. Unremarkable in function, but a small reminder that not everything Draelor has acquired came to him through Imperial reward or Sith inheritance — some of it, like most collectors, he simply wanted.