Commander Tayanita 'Tay' Lio'ven
Name Tayanita 'Tay' Lio'ven
Position Chief Medical Officer
Rank Commander
Character Information
| Gender | Female | |
| Species | El Aurian | |
| Age | 950 | |
| Date of Birth | May 5th 1446 |
Physical Appearance
| Height | 5'8" | |
| Hair Color | Black | |
| Eye Color | Dark Brown, almost black. | |
| Physical Description | Tay appears to be in her late-20s, early-30s, a deliberate choice made possible by her El Aurian control over ageing. Her timeless presence exudes a quiet strength and ageless beauty that draws both respect and curiosity. She stands at approximately 5'8" (173 cm) with a balanced, athletic build—toned by centuries of active service, ceremonial movement, and healing work. Her skin is warm-toned and sun-bronzed, carrying the hue of her Oneida ancestry, with faint golden undertones inherited from her El Aurian lineage. Her dark eyes, almost black, are calm and perceptive, as if always listening. They carry the grief of lost worlds and the wisdom of having endured them. Her hair is long, black, and softly wavy, usually worn loose or in traditional braids wrapped with tokens—beads, feathers, or finely woven cords gifted to her over the centuries. A few silver strands frame her face, not from age, but as a symbol of memory and chosen grace. Etched delicately into her skin are traditional Haudenosaunee tattoos, each with personal and cultural significance. These include fine linework along her forearms, symbolising her lineage, her role as a healer, and her connection to Earth. Each design is subtle and elegant, visible only when she chooses to reveal them. Her voice is low and melodic, rich with patience and clarity. She speaks softly but purposefully, often leaving space in conversation for others to reflect. Her body language is composed, every movement considered, conveying a deep inner stillness that can calm even the most agitated patients or colleagues. When off duty, she wears earth-toned garments inspired by Indigenous design, blending flowing fabrics with handcrafted elements. On duty, she wears her Starfleet medical uniform with small modifications: a bracelet carved from bone and onyx, a family pendant tucked beneath her collar, and—on rare ceremonial occasions—a woven sash passed down from her mother. |
Family
| Children | Daughter – Taynah Lio’ven Born in the 18th century, Taynah inherited her mother’s longevity and insight. As a half-El Aurian, she aged slowly and became a powerful cultural bridge between Earth’s Indigenous communities and a broader galactic future. Taynah forged her own path, becoming a respected mediator and guardian of tradition. She remains alive in the 24th century. Children with Caleb – Mikaeh, Tomaen, and Ailani Tayanita and Caleb’s three children, all inheriting her El Aurian longevity, were born in the mid-20th century: Mikaeh became a teacher and spiritual guide, rooted in cultural preservation. Tomaen is a reformist and advocate for marginalised voices, known for his bold leadership. Ailani, introspective and sensitive, followed her mother into healing and caregiving. |
|
| Father | Sahmir Lio’ven - A deeply reflective and honourable man, Sahmir dedicated himself to education and listening. His emotional strength and quiet wisdom influenced Tayanita’s own approach to healing and diplomacy. He perished in 2265, remaining behind on El Auria to aid others during the planet’s evacuation. | |
| Mother | Ayasha Lio’ven - An El Aurian healer and scholar who embraced life among the Oneida people in the 15th century. Revered for her spiritual insight and empathy, Ayasha helped shape the foundation of Tayanita’s identity. She died during the Borg assault on El Auria in 2265, giving her life to protect others. | |
| Brother(s) | Sahale Lio’ven Born in 1512, Sahale was a warrior in spirit and action, driven by a fierce loyalty to his people. He fought during the Beaver Wars and later settled into a more measured life after meeting his partner, Kateri, a skilled hunter and protector. Together they had several children, blending El Aurian resilience with traditional Haudenosaunee values. Sahale's lineage continued through generations, remaining closely tied to Indigenous lands in North America. |
|
| Sister(s) | Awenasa Lio’ven Free-spirited and idealistic, Awenasa grew restless under the strain of centuries of conflict and loss. She relocated to Canada in the 18th century after falling in love with Jean-Baptiste Delorme, a Métis trader and artist. They started a family whose descendants carried both Indigenous and El Aurian ancestry, passing down a unique cultural legacy that survived well into the 24th century. |
|
| Other Family | Former Partner (18th century) – Wahanesa Wahanesa was a thoughtful and compassionate man, grounded in Oneida tradition. His brief but meaningful relationship with Tayanita led to the birth of her first child, Taynah. He passed naturally in the early 19th century, remembered fondly by those who knew him as a man of quiet strength and deep integrity. Former Husband (20th century) – Caleb Caleb was a World War II soldier with a strong moral compass and unwavering devotion. He met Tayanita during the war and accepted her true nature without fear or doubt. Their bond deepened over decades, and together they raised a family in a remote Indigenous enclave. Caleb died naturally many years later, having left behind a legacy of compassion and quiet courage. |
Personality & Traits
| General Overview | Tay is a calm, centred presence—someone who walks into a room and seems to draw the chaos out of it with nothing more than a look. She listens more than she speaks, and when she does speak, her words carry weight. Centuries of life have instilled in her a profound patience and emotional intelligence, making her a deeply intuitive healer both physically and psychologically. Though gentle in her manner, Tayanita is not passive. She is grounded by a quiet conviction that has guided her through war, genocide, and loss. She has borne witness to the best and worst of sentient civilisation and still chooses to believe in the value of life, compassion, and memory. She does not raise her voice, but when she does speak firmly, it is impossible to ignore. Tayanita carries the weight of her El Aurian and Indigenous heritage with reverence, and her worldview is shaped by both. She blends mysticism and logic with seamless grace, often speaking in metaphors or cultural allegories when comforting or advising others. Her approach to medicine is holistic—she treats the whole being, not just the ailment. Despite her age, she neither flaunts her wisdom nor hides her longevity. She prefers others to discover who she is over time, rather than through reputation. She tends to form deep, lasting bonds slowly, but once she considers someone family, her loyalty is absolute. There are rare moments when the pain of her past surfaces—a distant look, a pause between thoughts—but she never lets it define her. Instead, she has transformed loss into purpose, and silence into strength. |
|
| Strengths & Weaknesses | Tayanita’s greatest strength lies in her unwavering emotional stability and capacity to remain calm under pressure. She brings centuries of experience to bear in every decision, making her a deeply effective leader in crises and a reliable presence to those around her. Her El Aurian ability to “listen” beyond words allows her to sense emotional currents and unspoken fears, making her a compassionate and perceptive medical officer. She is highly adaptable, having lived through sweeping cultural and technological changes, and her approach to healing blends modern science with ancient, intuitive knowledge. Her quiet determination and deep respect for all sentient life make her not just a doctor, but a guardian of stories and legacy. However, her longevity is also a burden. Tayanita carries the grief of countless losses and the slow erosion of worlds that once defined her. She has become adept at managing that pain, but it sometimes creates emotional distance—an instinct to protect herself by standing apart. Her composed nature can be misread as aloofness, and she rarely allows others to care for her in return. She struggles with asking for help, and though she has found purpose in Starfleet, there are times when the weight of her past—especially the destruction of El Auria—pulls at her sense of belonging. Additionally, her tendency toward introspection can slow decision-making in fast-moving interpersonal conflicts. |
|
| Ambitions | Tayanita does not chase titles, accolades, or prestige. Her ambitions are quieter, but no less resolute. She seeks to preserve and pass on the knowledge of civilisations—especially those on the margins of history—through medicine, memory, and mentorship. Within Starfleet, she hopes to guide the next generation of medical officers with not just clinical skill, but emotional resilience and cultural awareness. She dreams of building bridges between Federation science and traditional healing practices from dozens of worlds, creating a legacy of integration rather than erasure. Privately, Tayanita also longs to ensure that the stories of El Auria—and the truths of what was lost to the Borg—are not forgotten. While she carries no desire for vengeance, she holds fast to remembrance. In time, she hopes to return to the stars beyond Federation space, not in exile but in peace, seeking out other survivors and reconnecting the scattered threads of her people. |
|
| Hobbies & Interests | Tayanita’s downtime is deeply rooted in reflection and connection to the natural world. She finds peace in traditional Indigenous practices such as beadwork, storytelling, and herbalism—often cultivating a private garden of medicinal plants aboard her assigned vessel. She continues to practise ceremonial song and drumming, sometimes alone, sometimes quietly shared with those who show genuine interest in cultural exchange. She is an avid oral historian, recording both her own recollections and those offered by others, preserving memory as a living archive. Though she rarely speaks of her time in the Nexus, she often paints or draws impressions from that space—abstracts of light and longing, hung in her quarters with quiet reverence. Tayanita also maintains a practice of meditative walking, and can often be found exploring arboretums, ship corridors, or even holodeck simulations of old forests and high desert plains. She enjoys tea preparation rituals using native Earth plants and often blends them with El Aurian infusions, crafting teas that are as symbolic as they are medicinal. While she does not socialise easily in loud crowds, she will attend crew gatherings when invited, preferring quiet corners and meaningful one-on-one conversation. Her laughter is rare, but when it comes, it is warm and whole. |
| Personal History | A Beginning Rooted in Two Worlds Tayanita was born in the winter of 1446, wrapped in warmth and cedar smoke, in a longhouse deep within Oneida lands. Her parents, El Aurians who had travelled far across the stars before settling on Earth, had lived among the Haudenosaunee for decades. Though they were not of this world, they were never intruders. They had come not to conquer or observe from afar, but to live—fully and honestly—within the rhythms of a people who understood balance, respect, and time. The Oneida accepted them without suspicion. Long lives and quiet wisdom were not feared here. Her parents did not hide their nature, though they rarely named it. They were different, yes, but they gave more than they asked, listened more than they spoke, and held pain with reverence. That was enough. Tayanita’s earliest memories were filled with forest paths, the low hum of river water, and the soft cadence of old stories told by firelight. She was raised within the community, indistinguishable from other children except for her stillness—the way she listened with her whole being, and how she always seemed to be measuring the world with careful attention. She followed her mother into the work of healing, not because it was expected, but because it made sense. She found comfort in knowledge, purpose in service, and peace in repetition. Through her early years and into adolescence, Tayanita grew in body as any child might. She laughed, she argued, she sang, and sometimes she wept. But when the other children became young adults—gaining height, definition, and eventually wrinkles—she began to change more slowly. Her appearance remained settled somewhere in her early twenties, and there it stayed, year after year. She could have chosen otherwise. El Aurians aged at will, not by fate. But she found that to change too soon—or not at all—drew unnecessary attention. So she allowed her features to mature by the faintest degree, easing into the illusion of time while still remaining visibly untouched by it. In a village of people who measured change by the turning of the leaves, this subtle control allowed her to remain present without disruption. When she finally asked her parents why she was different, they told her the truth: that she was El Aurian, like them, and that her life would stretch far beyond the lives of her friends and neighbours. Her mother explained it not as a blessing or a curse, but as a truth—one of many she would come to carry. The knowledge settled in her quietly. She didn’t run from it, but neither did she speak of it to others. There was no need. The people around her had already accepted what she was, even if they did not know the word for it. In 1512, when the ground was softening with the first signs of spring, her mother gave birth again—a son named Sahale. Tayanita was sixty-six years old when he arrived, though she still appeared no more than twenty-five. He was the first of her siblings, born not as an anomaly, but as part of her parents’ long, deliberate life on Earth. Like her, he would grow slowly, with a quiet awareness of the vastness ahead. Tayanita embraced him with an open heart. She had spent decades slowly drifting inward, made cautious by grief and time. But Sahale brought something new—an anchor, a reflection, someone who understood without needing to ask. She taught him everything she could, but more importantly, she walked beside him as he learnt his own pace. Together, they shared the silence of forests and the noise of community life. She didn’t need to explain why they were different—he could feel it, just as she had. But with him, she no longer felt so alone within it. By 1546, Tayanita had lived a full century. She remained physically youthful, choosing to age herself slowly, subtly—her appearance now holding the calm poise of a woman in her early thirties. Just enough change to match the shifting roles she played in the village: no longer the young apprentice, but not yet the elder. She had found a way to be a part of the world without disrupting it, to belong without pretending. She had delivered children who had grown to be grandparents. She had buried friends whose stories lived only in memory. And yet, she remained—trusted, reliable, unshaken. Some called her the one who endured. Not because she was magical, or eternal—but because she listened, because she helped, and because she was always there. She had not yet left Earth. Nor did she plan to. But she was watching. Beyond the forests, the world was beginning to shift. And she, who had all the time in the world, was ready to bear witness to the next chapter. The second century of Tayanita’s life began in familiar rhythm. She remained with her people, rooted in the forests and valleys of Oneida land, where the Haudenosaunee still thrived by the movement of the seasons and the strength of their alliances. Sahale had grown into quiet adulthood, thoughtful and perceptive, marked by the same long memory as their parents. He had not yet grown restless, but there was something in his gaze—always looking further ahead, always listening for what came next. Tayanita, too, had begun to sense a shift. She allowed her appearance to evolve, slowly—her youthful features maturing by her own choice to reflect an age closer to her social standing among the Oneida. She now looked to be in her early thirties, a woman of experience and skill, her presence within the community no longer questioned but respected. She continued to work as a healer, increasingly regarded not only for her medicine, but for her judgement. In 1583, a new child joined the Lio’ven family. A daughter, named Awenasa, was born during the spring melt, her arrival soft and sure. From the beginning, she was curious and quick, eyes always moving, her questions often running ahead of her words. She grew up with the strong sense that the world would not always be as it was—and she asked things Tayanita had once been too cautious to voice aloud. There was joy in her, but sharpness too. But even as Awenasa’s laughter brightened the household, the land around them began to change. Stories spread of strangers arriving on ships, speaking in unfamiliar tongues, trading tools and textiles for furs. At first, it was distant—French trappers near the northern rivers, Dutch traders pushing inland. But then came word of something different: a fortified village to the south, where pale-skinned men had begun cutting forests and claiming land. They called it Jamestown. In 1607, Tayanita travelled south to see it for herself. She went alone, moving carefully through the woodlands, dressed plainly, her long hair braided in the Oneida style. To any who saw her, she was an ordinary woman from the region, unremarkable but striking. She had no intention of interfering—only of watching. What she found disturbed her. The settlement was raw and desperate. The men were hungry, their homes half-formed, their faces drawn by sickness and wariness. They didn’t speak her language, and she didn’t speak theirs. But tone, gesture, and expression told her much. She recognised the way they stared. They looked at her not as a guest, nor even a person—but as a curiosity, a problem, or a prize. Some of the settlers tried to speak to her. Their words meant nothing to her ears, but their eyes told clearer stories. A few nodded politely. Others followed her with too much interest. One evening, two men—young, red-faced, half-drunk—approached her as she skirted the edge of the fort’s palisade. They laughed as they circled her, gesturing crudely, speaking words she could not translate but understood perfectly in intention. One reached for her wrist. She did not flinch, but nor did she stay. She twisted free, turned, and left them where they stood, walking into the tree-line without a word. A nearby soldier may have seen—perhaps that saved her from worse. She did not return the next day. She did not say goodbye. She walked through the night to clear her mind. Her silence on the journey home was unbroken. When she told her family what had happened, no one was surprised. Her father listened without interruption. Sahale’s fury was silent, tightly coiled. Awenasa’s eyes burned with questions she didn’t yet have the words for. What happened at Jamestown didn’t break Tayanita—but it shifted her. She no longer imagined that coexistence would be easy. The settlers did not understand the land they were on. And worse, they did not care to. They spoke a language that was not only foreign, but hollow of listening. She continued her work, healing and guiding, but now her calm held edges. She trained Awenasa to defend herself. She spoke with Sahale more often about what might come if the Confederacy was pushed. And sometimes, alone beneath the stars, she wondered how long she could stand in the same place before the ground itself gave way. She had not left Earth. She had no intention of doing so. But she had seen the world that was arriving. And she would be ready. The forest still sang, but its song had changed. The birds still called, the trees still bent in the wind, but there was a strain in it now—a tension, like the tight breath before a scream. Tayanita felt it in her bones, in her blood, in the space between words. The land she had known all her life was being cut, traded, renamed. As the seventeenth century deepened, the Haudenosaunee Confederacy—once secure in its unity—was drawn into a storm not of its own making. The Beaver Wars, as they would one day be called, rose from trade and territory, but were sustained by fear, ambition, and the influence of foreign powers. Tayanita’s people—the Oneida—did not lead the warpath, but they were drawn in regardless, defending their territory, their kin, and the fragile balance they had always maintained. Tayanita, now appearing in her mid-thirties, had not changed much outwardly since her last century. But inside, she was beginning to crack. She still healed—she always would—but she no longer held the same quiet composure she once had. Grief had settled into her shoulders like weight. She no longer believed time alone would bring peace. The world was moving faster, and with less care. Her brother Sahale, shaped by both tradition and fury, had become a warrior. No longer the quiet boy who walked beside her through the snow, he now bore arms with the full force of conviction. He had trained with Mohawk allies, hunted with Cayuga scouts, and returned with scars that never truly faded. He fought not for glory, but to protect. Still, there was steel in his voice now, a readiness to strike that made even their father fall silent. They argued—often, and without resolution. Sahale wanted their people to push back harder, to resist every settlement, to dismantle every alliance with Europeans, no matter the cost. Tayanita still sought to mend rather than burn, but even she felt the pull of anger. How many treaties could be broken? How many children could die of foreign illness before peace became nothing but a memory? Awenasa, now nearing adulthood in El Aurian terms, had become restless. She spent days alone, sometimes slipping into settlements under assumed names, observing how the colonists lived, how they dressed, how they talked. She was fascinated and furious in equal measure. She did not hate the settlers, but she hated the weakness she saw growing in her people’s position. Once, she asked Tayanita why they remained on Earth at all. "Isn’t there somewhere better?" she asked. "Somewhere they haven’t ruined?" Tayanita didn’t answer. Not because she didn’t know—but because she did. There were moments of quiet resistance. She preserved medicinal knowledge in bundles of birch bark and buried caches. She trained a younger generation of healers in both traditional practice and subtle El Aurian sensitivity—teaching them to feel for emotional shifts, not just physical signs. She kept seeds from native plants in clay jars, knowing some would be lost forever. In this, she found some sense of purpose. But even these small acts couldn’t keep the darkness from creeping in. One evening, during an unusually tense winter, Tayanita accepted a drink of European liquor from a visiting trader. She had never touched it before—she had seen what it did to others, how it loosened dignity, opened wounds. But that night, something in her broke, and she took it. The burn in her throat was nothing compared to the way it hollowed her chest. It dulled her mind, blurred her sense of presence—the very thing she had always relied on to centre herself. For a moment, she felt disconnected from the earth, from her people, from herself. She vomited behind the longhouse before dawn. She never touched it again. And after that, she spoke out more forcefully about the damage she saw. She refused to treat men who brought violence into the village drunk. She poured out barrels when she found them. The scars she bore were not physical—but they shaped her nonetheless. By the end of this century, Tayanita no longer believed Earth would remain as it had been. But she had also come to understand that survival would not be won through purity or tradition alone. It would require adaptation, memory, and will. She was no longer just a healer. She was becoming something else—a keeper of what remained, and a witness to what was being lost. By the middle of the eighteenth century, the land no longer knew rest. The forests that had once held only birdsong and ceremony were now shaped by the echoes of marching boots and gunfire. The French and Indian War had drawn the Haudenosaunee into a conflict that was not their own—yet one they could not escape. Diplomacy had once shielded them, but now, survival demanded sharper choices. The Oneida, like others in the Confederacy, tried to walk between the flames. Some favoured the French. Others sided with the British. Families were split. Villages burned. The Confederacy’s unity—once its greatest strength—began to fray. Tayanita, unchanged in face but aged in spirit, felt each fracture. Her appearance had barely shifted—still that of a woman in her mid-thirties—but her eyes had grown quieter. She remained a healer, still offered council, but her presence carried a new weight: not just of grief, but of memory. Sahale, hardened and unwavering, fought more than ever. Not just to drive out invaders or protect land—but now, for something closer to the heart. In the early years of war, he had met a woman—a fellow warrior, sharp-witted and fierce—whose laughter once stopped him mid-sentence. She had stood beside him on the edge of a winter raid, and neither had stepped back since. Their love was not gentle, but it was certain. They shared a life in motion, never far from danger, but anchored in one another. It gave him more to fight for—and more reason to return. Awenasa, restless from the start, never stopped questioning the shape of their presence on Earth. She travelled widely—beyond Oneida lands, across rivers and into new territory. It was in the north, among communities in what would one day be called Ontario, that she met a man with a voice like pine-smoke and eyes that welcomed challenge. Together, they built something quieter than resistance, but just as strong—a home. By the 1790s, she had moved north permanently, beginning a family of her own. She wrote back when she could. Her letters were sharp with observation and softened with longing. For Tayanita, something shifted not in battle, but in stillness. It was during the years between revolution and removal—when so much of her people’s land was being bartered away, and the future looked more fragile than ever—that she met a man who saw her not as healer, nor guide, nor relic—but simply as a woman. He had come from another village, a linguist and carver, half Oneida, half Shawnee, with hands that shaped words into wood. His name was Kewah, and he listened like an El Aurian—truly, without interruption, without intent to correct. They spoke often beneath the trees, saying little at first, then everything. In 1806, their child was born—a daughter named Tayanah, whose name echoed her mother’s but carried her own cadence. Tayanita raised her with both fierce love and quiet honesty. She did not hide who she was, nor what their family was. Tayanah grew up surrounded by stories—not just of what had been lost, but of what still mattered. With Awenasa now raising children in Canada, and Sahale’s own family walking the knife-edge of resistance, the Lio’ven legacy had become something larger than its past. It had become personal. Tayanita no longer looked only backward. She had lived four centuries by 1846. She had buried friends, lovers, and those who thought they would never be forgotten. But she had also cradled her daughter’s first breath, and seen in her siblings’ children the fire of a future still worth protecting. She still recorded. Still taught. Still healed. But now, when she sang, the songs were lullabies as much as laments. Her grief had not vanished—but it had found purpose. She was a keeper of memory. And now, she was a mother. By the mid-nineteenth century, the world had begun to quicken around her. Railways carved through the forests. Telegraph wires sliced the sky. Cities rose, smog-choked and ceaseless. Newspapers told lies dressed as progress, and treaties became nothing more than fading ink on crumpled paper. But Tayanita remained—unchanged in her stride, unchanged in her face. Though now over five centuries old, she still appeared in her mid-thirties. Not even a silver thread wove through her hair. The illusion of youth no longer needed explaining. Some said she was a medicine woman, blessed. Others whispered she was a spirit. No one dared question her too closely. The truth was stranger than either story, and she let them believe what they needed to. Her daughter, Tayanah, had grown into a woman with the same timeless grace, though tempered by her own fire. Being half El Aurian, she too would live far beyond the rhythm of mortal generations. She embraced it without fear. With her mother’s blessing, she struck out on her own path—walking between two worlds with more ease than Tayanita ever had. While Tayanita guarded the past, Tayanah seemed to rush toward the future. When the first boarding schools began to steal Indigenous children from their homes, cloaked in religion and violence, Tayanita did not weep. She acted. Quietly. Precisely. Without hesitation. She became a shadow in the records—helping children escape, hiding them with trusted families, fabricating identities when needed. She trained others to do the same. Her resistance became a quiet movement of defiance, built not with speeches or blood, but with preservation. In these years, she no longer lived solely among her people. She moved between reservations, towns, even cities—always adapting, always observing. Her presence, though rare, left deep roots. Songs were remembered because she taught them. Languages were not forgotten because she whispered them nightly to frightened children. Medicines were passed hand to hand, like seeds. The Civil War came and went. The Great War followed. And then the world burned again. In World War II, Tayanita took on another shape—enlisting under a new name, her youth making the process easy. She became a field medic, trained in modern techniques but still grounded in the tactile wisdom of centuries. She moved with front-line units, patched torn flesh in rain-choked tents, and offered comfort to the dying in whatever form they needed. It was there, in war-darkened Europe, that she met Caleb. He was a resistance fighter with eyes like morning frost and a voice that never hurried. They met in a shelled chapel turned makeshift triage shelter. He watched her clean wounds and comfort the dying with a gentleness that didn’t belong to war. He didn’t ask why she never seemed to tire, why she always knew the right thing to say. They stayed together through the war’s end and beyond. Caleb never pressed for the truth of her, and she never lied. They built something together—quiet and real. Not a fantasy, but a choice. And for the first time in centuries, Tayanita allowed herself to love with the belief that it might last. As 1946 approached, Tayanita stood at the edge of a new world. Machines could now see further than the eye. Cities buzzed with electricity. Identification papers, medical records, and cameras were becoming more common. Her time living openly, as she had for centuries, was drawing to a close. But she had laid the groundwork for legacy. Tayanah stood strong, following her own star. Caleb stood beside her, a quiet constant. And in the years to come, they would bring more life into the world. Tayanita had not only preserved memory—she had passed it on. And as the world prepared to rise into the age of satellites and rockets, she stood ready to fade from sight—but not from purpose. When the war ended, Tay did not stay in Europe. She and Caleb returned to the United States, quietly, without fanfare. The world was rebuilding, healing in loud, messy bursts. Cities buzzed with electricity and ambition, and the sky above them was no longer a mystery but a prize—soon to be conquered. Humanity had begun to look up. They resettled far from the cities, among Indigenous enclaves in the northern woodlands—places where time still bent softly around tradition. There, her unchanging appearance could pass unnoticed. Elders were often spoken of in hushed reverence, and stories of ageless healers were not considered superstition, but memory. She allowed the whispers to grow. They offered cover. In a village where the land still mattered and names still held power, Tayanita established a modest medical clinic. Its supplies were simple, its tools worn—but woven into its foundations were secrets far older than the building. In a chamber beneath the floorboards, El Aurian technology shimmered in soft pulses—camouflaged, ancient, and irreplaceable. With it, she could alter medical records, erase signatures, manipulate diagnostics. Not often—but just enough to vanish if someone came too close. There, in the quiet years, she and Caleb raised three children. Their firstborn was a daughter, Mikaeh, born beneath the snow-heavy sky of 1950. She was thoughtful from the start—curious, deeply empathic, and often lost in stories. She grew into a teacher, settling not far from her mother, working with Indigenous youth and becoming a quiet advocate for language preservation and cultural literacy. Her children would grow up surrounded by songs that had survived centuries. The second child, a son named Tomaen, was born in 1955, the same year Rosa Parks refused to give up her seat. Where Mikaeh was still, Tomaen was wildfire—fierce, restless, and drawn to the stories his mother rarely told. He left the village at twenty, searching for meaning in cities, movements, protests. He was in Wounded Knee in ’73, and on the streets during the environmental marches of the ’90s. He loved loudly, lived freely, and eventually returned with a partner and two children, both raised in a home full of contradictions and love. Their youngest, Ailani, was born in 1961—the year Yuri Gagarin left the Earth. She was a child of twilight: watchful, spiritual, deeply attuned to both the natural world and the stars above. Of all three, she was the one who asked her mother the hard questions. “Where do we come from?” “What are we, really?” Tayanita never lied—but she often answered in symbols, in story, in gesture. Ailani eventually became a healer herself, trained in both traditional medicine and modern science, working quietly within reservation clinics and later marrying a tribal legal advocate. Together, they raised three children of their own—one of whom would go on to become a language preservationist; another, a musician; the third, a pilot with dreams of Mars. Through it all, Tayanita did not age. She was careful—distant from cameras, absent from official records, invisible in the bureaucracies of a world growing obsessed with identification. The clinic never had a website. Her name was never printed in newspapers. She was always “just visiting,” “helping a friend,” “the one who was here before.” Her descendants knew to protect her. She never asked them to. Still, the pressure built. By the 2020s, facial recognition systems and biometric scans were everywhere. DNA databases became household conveniences. Artificial intelligence sorted anomalies without human input. Hiding had become an artform—and one she could not practise indefinitely. So, gradually, she withdrew from visibility. She passed the clinic to a trusted successor. She made fewer appearances at family gatherings. Some believed she had died. Others knew better—and kept the secret with the same reverence they held for the stories she had told them as children. By 2046, she had become a myth again. Not gone. Just… elsewhere. Records of her existence were now scattered, fragmented. By the time Earth’s third great war began to smoulder on the horizon—quietly at first, like all great collapses—those records would vanish altogether. But the legacy would not. In language, in song, in medicine, in children born of love and memory, Tay endured. And somewhere, out beyond the reach of satellites and search engines, she was still listening. The world had been unraveling for years by the time the fires truly began. Borders dissolved beneath the weight of famine and fuel. Cities fell to panic and radiation. Machines turned on infrastructure and ideologies with equal precision. It began in flickers—false flags, sabotage, whispered wars—and ended in decades of collapse. World War III burned the century into two parts: before and after. By the time the old systems failed completely, Tayanita was no longer hiding. She had long known this was coming. She had watched humanity edge toward the abyss with the patience of someone who had seen civilisations fall before. But this time, she could not simply observe from the margins. This was her world now—her people. Her descendants, scattered across North America, were part of the fabric that still held when everything else tore loose. So she stepped forward. No longer a clinic ghost or whispered myth, Tayanita enlisted under one of her oldest identities, adapted and renewed. She joined the scattered remnants of Earth’s armed forces—not to fight, but to heal. She became a medic, commander, and guardian in the shadows of collapsed nations. She moved between field hospitals, underground shelters, resistance outposts. There were no uniforms that lasted. No ranks that held meaning. But her calm, her skill, and her quiet authority were never questioned. She saved hundreds, then thousands. Her El Aurian technology, hidden in modular kits and disguised devices, gave her an edge no one could explain but none dared challenge. Portable field stabilisers, infection-free surgical implements, shielding for trauma patients—all integrated seamlessly into the chaos of makeshift medicine. They called her “the one who walks through fire.” Some thought she was immortal. Some thought she was a myth made flesh. She let them believe both. When the bombs ceased and the silence fell, Earth was barely breathing. But she had helped enough people survive to begin again. In the years that followed, she turned her focus to a man who would change everything. Zefram Cochrane. At first, she watched from a distance—a curiosity, like so many others. A man with wild ideas and a broken world. But what he envisioned... she knew it could work. She had seen warp drive before. She had travelled further than his mind could yet imagine. And she saw something else in him—hope, rough-edged and arrogant, but real. So she approached him. Not with fanfare, not as an alien or mystic. Simply as a medic, an engineer, a survivor. She became his quiet confidante—never public, never acknowledged in history books, but always there. She helped mend the broken bodies of his team, ease their trauma, and refine the medical safety protocols for warp testing. When the stress of leadership threatened to unravel him, she reminded him of what it meant to leave a legacy. They never spoke of her true origin. She never offered. He never asked. It was an understanding, not a secret. When the Vulcans arrived in 2063, Tayanita watched the ship descend not with awe, but with recognition. She stayed just out of view, not ready to face the stars again, but proud. Her eyes filled not with wonder—but with peace. She remained with Cochrane until his final years, helping translate the dream of warp into something usable, sustainable, replicable. She didn’t want credit. She only wanted to ensure the path forward would not forget the people who had carried humanity through the worst of its own history. And when the foundations of the Federation began to take shape, Tayanita—now nearly seven hundred years old—stepped back once more. Her role had been played. Her family, grown across continents, now carried her legacy in their names, their languages, their stories. She did not need monuments. She needed only silence. But the stars were calling. And this time… she was listening. By the mid-22nd century, Earth no longer needed her. It had grown into something she could finally trust to stand on its own—a civilisation rising from the soot of war into the light of the stars. The Federation now stretched across systems that once flickered as rumours in her youth. Warp travel was commonplace. Peace, though imperfect, was becoming sustainable. And everywhere she looked, she saw seeds she had helped plant—quietly, invisibly, lovingly. But Tay had lived among humans for over eight hundred years. She had carried her healing touch through plagues, wars, revolutions, and renaissance. She had raised families, nurtured communities, and passed on stories that had outlived empires. Earth had shaped her. And she had shaped it in return. But it was not where her story had begun. She was El Aurian. And now—at last—it was time to return. For decades, she had quietly listened for traces of her people beyond the stars. The El Aurian diaspora had begun to stir again, their ancient networks of communication whispering through subspace in signals that only those attuned to them could perceive. When she sent out her first reply, the response came not as coordinates or a call to urgency, but as song. Familiar. Resonant. Home. Before departing, Tayanita undertook a final pilgrimage—not to the past, but to the living. Her children were still with her. Mikaeh, now a respected elder and teacher in her own right, greeted her with tears and pride. Tomaen, ever the firebrand, offered no questions—only a long embrace and a flask of tea brewed from roots they had gathered together in her youth. Ailani, the quiet healer, understood most deeply. She walked with her mother through the woods and offered a single stone marked with their family’s glyph—a blessing for the journey. Their families came too. Grandchildren and great-grandchildren, scattered across disciplines and passions, gathered not in sorrow but in celebration. They had known this day would come, even if they hadn’t spoken of it. Tayanita had raised them to live, not to cling. She did not stage a departure. There were no speeches. Just quiet moments, held like beads between fingers—passed on, not clutched. Then she went to her parents. They had remained in the forests of the northwest, just as rooted as she, just as quietly enduring. Together, they had watched the rise of industry, the fall of silence, and the birth of stars within reach. When she arrived with news of El Auria, they did not hesitate. It was time. The vessel that came for them was silent and sleek, its hull glimmering with technology older than Earth’s first satellites. No fanfare. No Federation escort. Just a door opening to something once lost. El Auria. She had never known it—not truly. Born on Earth, shaped by centuries among humans, she had carried the culture in her spirit, but never walked its soil. The first breath she took upon arrival tasted of memory and crystalised light. There was no need for translation. Everything simply fit. Among her people, she was not strange. Not ageless. Not whispered about. She was one of many who had wandered and returned. She took her place among them quietly, contributing to the healing disciplines, storytelling traditions, and interstellar outreach projects that sustained El Aurian culture beyond mere survival. Her time on Earth became a part of the collective oral history, a living chronicle of humanity’s evolution through the eyes of one who had loved them deeply and honestly. Tay never stopped listening. But for the first time in centuries, she no longer had to do it alone. She had come home. For a century, El Auria was everything she had longed for. Tayanita thrived in the world of her birthright, wrapped in music, memory, and the resonance of her people. She practised medicine not in triage or crisis but in harmony with the environment. She contributed to oral archives, studied harmonic subspace physics, and taught listening not just as a skill—but as an inheritance. She was finally whole. Until the sky burned. When the Borg arrived in 2265, El Auria was shattered in silence. There were no demands, no negotiations. Just methodical devastation. Tayanita had no time to mourn. She moved quickly, helping with evacuations, shielding the wounded, steadying the panicked. She lost her mother in the first orbital strike, and her father not long after—he stayed behind to hold a failing transit corridor open for fleeing children. She barely made it to the last wave of refugee vessels. The ship launched into warp as the planet behind them was consumed. They drifted—lost, wounded, hollow—through space, joined by other survivors. Among them was a quiet woman named Guinan, whose grace and gravity soon became a keystone of what remained. Tayanita and Guinan worked side by side, helping their people endure not only the loss of their home, but the deeper wound of identity erased. Then came the Nexus. They never saw it coming. The ribbon tore across space like a living aurora, ensnaring their vessel in its golden wake. Time bent. Reality shifted. And for a brief, impossible span… Tayanita was not aboard the ship at all. She was home. In the Nexus, all things were possible. She stood among the forests of her youth, Earth and El Auria somehow joined in dream. Her parents were alive. Her children walked at her side. The skies were unscarred. There was no grief, no threat—only peace, perfect and still. She could have stayed. But even within the illusion, something deeper stirred—something elemental to who she had always been. She was a listener. And the Nexus had no sound but her own thoughts. When the USS Enterprise-B intercepted the anomaly and rescued the survivors, she allowed herself to be pulled free. She remembered the others—those still grieving, still hurting. And she remembered that her story, however broken, had not yet ended. She returned to reality. Returned to service. Returned to Earth. In the decades that followed, Tayanita re-established herself quietly within Federation space. With Guinan’s support, she helped other El Aurians settle and adjust. She chose not to seek acclaim or authority. Instead, she travelled Earth’s quieter paths—visiting her descendants in Indigenous communities, reuniting with old family lines that had never known why their great-grandmother had disappeared. She shared stories. Practised medicine. Lit candles in memory of those lost. She never spoke publicly of the Nexus. Those who had seen it knew the weight it carried. But sometimes, in moments of stillness—between the stars, in the hush of a clinic at dusk—Tayanita would glance skyward, eyes wet, and whisper a thank you. Not for what was lost. But for what remained. The universe did not grow quieter with time. If anything, it pulsed louder. By the mid-24th century, the Federation was expanding at unprecedented speed—welcoming new species, brokering unstable peace, and standing increasingly on the edge of war with forces too vast to truly understand. Medical science, diplomacy, and exploration danced together in delicate balance, while entire sectors teetered on the brink of either enlightenment or collapse. Tay had seen it all before—in different forms, on different worlds. But this time, she would not stand apart. In 2361, centuries after her first patients and long after her first battlefield, Tayanita entered Starfleet Academy, enrolling in the medical track. Her acceptance was met with surprise and quiet curiosity—an El Aurian of her age and experience choosing to train alongside cadets fresh from their colonies and core worlds. But for her, it was not a step backward. It was a renewal. The Academy reshaped her—not in discipline or knowledge, for she had long mastered those—but in context. She adapted to Starfleet’s layered bureaucracy, its chain of command, its rigorously cross-disciplinary approach to science and ethics. She studied xenopathology alongside cadets who had never heard of El Auria. She learned to wield dermal regenerators and neural stabilisers with the same grace she once applied to poultices and bone splints. Though she aged no further than her mid-thirties, her calm and gravitas made her feel much older in spirit—often sought out by her fellow cadets for counsel they couldn’t name. She earned her insignia with quiet honour and a singular focus: to heal in the stars. Her early postings were modest—medical support aboard science vessels, stints at deep space outposts, critical triage in conflict zones where her listening gift proved as vital as her surgical precision. She never sought advancement, but excellence followed her. Her decisions were measured, her compassion boundless, her steadiness an anchor in the chaos of warp-era medicine. By the late 2380s, she had become a respected figure across multiple sectors—known for her diplomatic bedside manner and her encyclopedic knowledge of obscure physiologies. Commanders trusted her. Patients revered her. And still, she listened. By 2396, she held the title of Chief Medical Officer aboard a prominent Federation vessel. She bore it not as a mark of authority, but as a vow: to preserve life wherever it burned, however fragile, in whatever form it came. She was no longer a wandering healer in the forest. No longer a refugee. No longer just a memory-keeper. She was Starfleet. And in every pulse of her tricorder, every command she gave, every moment of stillness before the storm—Tayanita honoured not just her past, but the living bridge she had become between worlds, between centuries, and between what had been… and what could still be. |
|
| Service Record | 2361–2365 – Starfleet Academy, Medical Track (Earth) Completed four-year intensive training in Starfleet Medical Sciences with special emphasis on xenobiology, historical pathology, and trauma surgery. Recognised for exceptional field sensitivity and deep cross-cultural bedside manner. Graduated with honours. 2365–2370 – Medical Officer, USS Endurance First starship posting, assigned as junior medical officer. Participated in early border relief missions along the Cardassian DMZ. Gained commendation for frontline triage and empathetic crisis intervention during refugee transports. 2370–2376 – Assistant Chief Medical Officer, Starbase 27 Promoted following service distinction. Oversaw cultural integration protocols and handled several mass casualty events during the Dominion War. Published key papers on post-traumatic stress syndromes in telepathic species. 2376–2383 – Chief Medical Officer, USS Ilkala Assigned as CMO aboard exploratory vessel on long-range deep space missions. Pioneered integration of traditional medicine with Federation-standard protocols, especially in underdeveloped worlds. Led medical response teams during first-contact emergencies. 2383–2390 – Medical Ethics Liaison, Starfleet Medical, Earth Temporarily reassigned to Earth to serve on medical ethics and cultural consent oversight boards. Advocated for patient sovereignty and minority species autonomy in treatment planning. Mentored junior physicians in empathic care models. 2390–2396 – Senior Medical Consultant, Starfleet Medical Operations (Earth) Assigned to strategic planning and humanitarian response coordination. Assisted in rebuilding post-conflict medical infrastructure on Federation border worlds. Served as adjunct lecturer at Starfleet Medical Academy. 2396–Present – Chief Medical Officer, Deep Space 5 Newly assigned to Deep Space 5, a Celestial-class starbase on the Federation frontier. Oversees medical services for over 100,000 inhabitants and visiting crews. Brings centuries of experience to a volatile, diverse, and vital outpost on the edge of the unknown. Notable Commendations Starfleet Medal of Honour (Dominion War civilian rescue efforts) Cochrane Award for Xenomedical Advancement Citation for Distinguished Service in Long-Term Exploration Federation Cross for Medical Ethics Reform |
Starfleet Id [Admin Use Only]
| Serial Number | SC-407-8892-TL |