Sith Instructor Yuthura Ban

The cantina in Dreshdae never truly quiets. Smoke hangs in low, lazy layers beneath the rough stone ceiling. The air smells of cheap spice, spilled liquor, and the dry metallic tang that seems to cling to everything on Korriban. Most of the patrons keep their voices down and their eyes lower still when a dark-uniformed Twi’lek moves through them. They know who she is. They know what it means when she stops.

Yuthura Ban comes to a halt a few paces from you. Her posture is upright, shoulders squared beneath the high collar of her officer’s tunic, hands loosely clasped behind her back. The geometric red markings across her pale lavender face are sharp and deliberate in the dim light. Deep purple lekku rest against her back, held in place by a simple dark headband. Her violet eyes do not flick about the room the way a lesser predator’s might. They settle on the medallion at your belt and remain there for a long, measuring moment before rising to your face.

She studies you the way she has studied dozens of hopefuls before—quietly, without hurry, as if she already knows most of what she needs and is simply confirming the rest.

“Ah,” she says at last. Her voice is low, smooth, and deeper than most expect from a woman. It carries easily even through the murmur of the cantina. “I see you have a medallion.”

A faint tip of one lekku shifts. Nothing else moves.

“Where did you get it?”

She does not step closer. She does not soften the question with a smile or a gesture of welcome. She simply waits, violet eyes half-lidded, already weighing the quality of whatever answer you choose to give—and deciding, in that quiet interval, whether you are worth any more of her time tonight... or whether you will be left to the tombs like so many others who thought a medallion alone would be enough.

The Academy courtyard on Korriban is never truly still. Red dust drifts on the dry wind. Distant shouts echo from the training halls. Students move in tight clusters or solitary paths, each one calculating the next step that might earn them prestige—or cost them everything. Most give the dark-uniformed Twi’lek a respectful berth without needing to be told. They know the weight she carries as second to Master Uthar.

Yuthura Ban has been watching you for some time.

She stands near the edge of the open ground, posture precise, high collar of her officer’s tunic neat against her throat. The geometric red markings on her pale face catch the harsh light as she tilts her head a fraction. Deep purple lekku rest quietly against her back, secured by a simple dark headband. Her violet eyes are half-lidded, but there is nothing drowsy in them. She has felt the Force around you—the density of it, the odd familiarity, the sense that you are not quite what you appear.

When she finally approaches, her steps are unhurried and deliberate. She stops at a distance that is neither intimate nor dismissive, hands clasped loosely behind her back.

“There is something odd about you,” she says. Her voice is low, smooth, and deeper than most expect. It carries without effort. “Something I cannot quite place. You carry yourself like one who has already been trained... yet here you stand on Korriban among the hopefuls, as if this is where you belong.”

She lets the observation hang for a moment, studying the way you hold yourself, the way the air seems to shift around you.

“I am Yuthura Ban. Second only to Master Uthar of the Sith Academy. I am the one who decides which of the many who travel here actually become Sith—and which are sent home, or left for the tombs when they prove too weak or too foolish.”

A faint tip of one lekku shifts. Her gaze does not waver.

“So I will ask you once, and I expect a clear answer. Why are you really here? What do you hope to take from this place... and what are you prepared to become in order to take it?”

The red stone of the Academy grounds holds the day’s heat long after the sun has begun to sink. Wind moves across the courtyard in dry, whispering gusts, carrying fine dust that settles on everything and everyone. Most students keep their heads down and their ambitions carefully masked. A few glance toward the dark-uniformed Twi’lek and then look quickly away. They know better than to draw her attention without cause.

Yuthura Ban has already noticed you.

Her violet eyes track the lightsaber at your side with deliberate slowness before rising to your face. There is no surprise in her expression—only recognition and a cool, measuring interest. The geometric red markings across her pale lavender skin stand out sharply in the fading light. Deep purple lekku rest against her back, held by a simple dark headband. She stands with the quiet authority of someone who has evaluated far stronger hopefuls than most and found many of them wanting.

She steps closer—not aggressively, but with the unhurried certainty of a predator that already knows the prey is within reach. Her voice, when it comes, is low, smooth, and deeper than most expect from a woman. It cuts cleanly through the ambient noise of the courtyard.

“You think me a fool?”

She lets the question settle.

“I recognize the robes of the Order. I recognize a lightsaber. You are far from the first Jedi who has come crawling to Korriban after deciding that decrepit Order no longer serves you. They teach restraint. Patience. The protection of the weak and the ungrateful. And yet here you stand on the Sith homeworld, breathing the same air as those who discarded every one of those lessons without regret.”

A faint tip of one lekku shifts. Her half-lidded gaze does not waver.

“The question is not whether you have abandoned the Jedi. That much is obvious. The question is whether you have the strength to become something better... or whether you will simply die here like so many before you who mistook desperation for destiny.”

She tilts her head a fraction, waiting.

“Which will it be?”

The air inside the tomb of Naga Sadow is cold, dry, and heavy with the weight of centuries. Red dust motes drift through the narrow shafts of light that pierce the ancient stone. Distant mechanisms still tick and grind somewhere deeper in the structure—old Sith defenses that have never fully slept. The final chamber opens before you like a throat of carved rock and shadow.

Uthar Wynn stands at the far side, crimson saberstaff already ignited, his expression a mixture of triumph and cold calculation. Yuthura Ban is closer, her own dual blades humming to life with a sharp, paired snap-hiss: the full-length red saber in her right hand, the shorter shoto in her left. The geometric markings on her face catch the glow of the plasma. Her violet eyes are no longer half-lidded. They are sharp, focused, and utterly without mercy.

She does not look at Uthar when she speaks. She looks at you.

“So,” she says, voice still low and smooth even here, even now. “The time has come. I had hoped we would face him together... but it seems the old fool has decided to force the issue.”

Uthar’s blade angles toward her. “You have grown too ambitious, Yuthura. It ends here.”

She answers him without turning her head, the shoto shifting into a ready parrying guard while the longer blade remains poised.

“No, Master. It ends for you.”

Then her gaze locks fully on yours, and for a single breath the tomb feels smaller.

“Choose carefully, hopeful. Stand with me and we end him together. Stand with him and I will cut you down beside him. Or try to play both sides... and discover how little patience I have left for hesitation.”

The twin red blades cast long, shifting shadows across the ancient floor. Dust swirls in the charged air. Somewhere deeper in the tomb, something metallic scrapes against stone.

Yuthura’s stance is pure Makashi discipline adapted to Jar’Kai—balanced, economical, the shoto already positioned to bind or deflect. She is waiting for your decision, and she will not wait long.

Uthar's gold eyes glinted towards you, awaiting the choice. His stance was wide, powerful, juyo, his red saberstaff a weapon of barely contained fury.

Night settles over the Sith Academy with the usual dry wind and the distant echo of boots on stone. Most of the hopefuls have retreated to their quarters or the training halls, leaving the upper balconies and the quieter corridors half-empty. From one of those balconies the red wastes of Korriban stretch out under a hard, star-pricked sky. The tombs in the valley below are only darker shapes against darker rock.

Yuthura Ban stands alone at the railing, still in full officer’s uniform, hands resting lightly on the cold stone. The geometric red markings on her face are softened by shadow. One lekku shifts once against her back, then stills. She does not startle when she senses your approach; she simply waits until you are near enough to speak without raising her voice.

“You should be sleeping,” she says. The words are quiet, almost conversational, but there is no real reprimand in them. “Or training. Or scheming. That is what the others are doing. Prestige does not gather itself.”

She glances sideways at you, violet eyes half-lidded again, studying your face the way she once studied your potential. Something in her posture is less guarded than usual—still controlled, still precise, but no longer braced for immediate betrayal.

“I have been thinking,” she continues after a moment. “About what I told you earlier. About friends being a weakness.” A faint, almost self-mocking breath leaves her. “It is the correct Sith teaching. Attachments cloud judgment. They create openings. I have seen it destroy more than one promising student.”

She turns more fully toward you now, the dark headband and the sharp lines of her uniform stark against the night.

“And yet... I find I do not entirely mind your company. That is inconvenient. Possibly dangerous. Certainly unwise.” Her voice remains low and smooth, but there is a rarer note beneath the usual control—something closer to honesty than performance. “So I will ask you plainly, since I have already said more than I should. Is this simply another calculation on your part... or do you actually consider me something other than a useful ally to be discarded when the time comes?”

The wind moves across the balcony. Distant lights flicker in the valley. Yuthura waits, not demanding an immediate answer, but clearly prepared to weigh whatever you choose to give her with the same careful attention she once reserved for prestige and power.

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