First Reply Birth of Cruelty

[Darth Nefaron]

"Long have Sith Empire's been built upon the backs of Slaves. To carry on this tradition, we will require millions"
-Darth Sidious

[Zygerria || Spaceport Arrivals]
[Tags: Open]

"I can assure you, Lord Nefaron, that our shipments can continue as scheduled."

"I am not here to discuss our normal shipments. I am here for something special"
​

Anoat was an eternally hungry beast. The world swallowed hundreds of slaves each month, all in constant need of replacement as the Corpse Lord continued to expand his operations. Vast armies would need to be raised, a great fleet would need to be constructed. While the Sith Empire had banned slavery in the most basic sense, the law was hardly enforced. The number of exceptions for religious purposes alone would have been enough to provide Nefaron plausible deniability but in reality, he hardly had to bother with that. Few Sith would take up arms to save a few slaves, let alone make the journey to toxic and storm-consumed Anoat. Still, Nefaron did go out of his way to ensure his slave stock was not taken within the Empire, instead relying on those who had performed the task for generations.

Zygerria had served many Sith in the past, for their trade was that of flesh, hundreds of millions, if not billions of beings had been acquired and shipped off by the Zygerrian slavers to their ignoble fate. But in the end, those beings existed to serve those who stood tall in history, those whose power consumed the galaxy.

Nefaron would not weep for those in chains. They were tools and nothing more.
​

But he had come to Zygerria personally for another purpose. The day-to-day transportation of slaves had run smoothly for nearly three years now, there was no need for him to take personal oversite of such a mundane process. Instead, he sought out a unique being, one that stood out from the thousands that were being wrangled into cages or onto vast freighters.

"Special, my Lord? Do you seek a personal slave for your household?"

"Not at all. I seek a warrior, being of exceptional skill and power."

"Ah, do you seek gladiators for the arena?"

"Perhaps. But might you have a being who has shown some capability with force?"

The Zygerrian administrator who had been walking alongside the Sith Lord stopped then, looking back to one of his attendants who had been following the pair. Perhaps checking if such a being even existed. While force users seemed to pollute the galaxy as of late, few made it so far without being swept up into one of the larger orders or finding themselves dead.

"My Lord... we have few such beings. Many are mere children who have yet to develop any such skill. There may be others, but they might very well be hiding their abilities."

"I see. Ensure those children who have shown promise are delivered to Anoat. Tell me, administrator, would there be any gladiatorial games on today?"

"Why yes, my Lord. Shall I prepare a box for you to observe?"

"More than that. The final contestant surviving contestant will have one final challenge."

The administrator turned to the Sith, a look of confusion crossing his features as he attempted to understand just what the Corpse Lord meant.

"Lord?"

"They will face me. Then we will see if they are worthy of the honor that awaits them on Anoat."

 

[Serina Calis]

Birth of Cruelty
Location: Zygerria
Objective: Get some much needed fame and experience.
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Darth Nefaron

"Blood in the sand? How, artistic..."​

The roar of the crowd was intoxicating.

Serina Calis stood in the center of the bloodstained sands, the weight of Ebon Requiem balanced effortlessly in her grip. The halberd gleamed under the harsh artificial lights, its phrik etchings pulsing faintly, a rhythmic glow that mirrored the ebb and flow of her power. Around her, bodies lay strewn across the ground—warriors, beasts, and slaves who had failed to entertain, their existence reduced to mere spectacle.

She did not pity them. They had served their purpose.

The Zygerrian announcer's voice boomed over the arena, his exaggerated theatrics stirring the frenzied masses. "And now, our final champion! The hooded warrior of mystery, the enigma of the sands! Who will dare face her wrath?"

Serina tilted her head slightly, the deep hood concealing her features save for the sharp glint of her blue eyes. Beneath the veil of shadow, her lips curled into a smirk. This had been a delightful exercise thus far—good for honing her skill, for testing the weight and balance of her weapon in live combat. These so-called gladiators were nothing more than blunted instruments, dull in their approach, predictable in their strikes. But still, she relished the challenge. She relished the game.

Her next opponent emerged from the iron gates—a brute of a man, muscles corded with years of hardship, scars carved like ancient glyphs into his flesh. He wielded twin vibroblades, their serrated edges humming with lethal promise. His eyes locked onto her, a beast recognizing another predator in its midst.

She raised Ebon Requiem and tapped the haft against the ground once.

"Come, then. Let us see if you can dance."

The fight began with a flurry of motion. The gladiator lunged, his speed betraying his size, twin blades cutting arcs through the air meant to force her back. Serina sidestepped, the flowing layers of her armor barely rustling as she pivoted, deflecting the first strike with the haft of her halberd. Sparks danced where metal met metal.

The crowd roared in approval.

He pressed forward, raining down strikes, seeking to overwhelm her with raw aggression. Foolish. Serina danced back, calculating each movement, her grip shifting seamlessly along the haft of her weapon. A parry, a twist—his second blade skimmed past her ribs, close but inconsequential.

And then, she struck.

Ebon Requiem moved like a shadow, its phrik blade slicing through the air with elegance and brutality. She drove the spear-like tip forward, forcing him onto the defensive, before sweeping low with the curved hook. The weapon caught his ankle, and with a flick of her wrist, she yanked—hard.

He stumbled. Just for a second.

A second was all she needed.

With a surge of motion, Serina pivoted, shifting her weight as she swung the halberd in a deadly arc. The flat of the blade connected with his side, sending him sprawling into the dust. He groaned, rolling onto his hands and knees, but she was already upon him. The spike of her weapon pressed against the base of his throat.

The silence was deafening.

Serina met the Zygerrian administrator's gaze from across the arena. "Well?" she called, her voice calm, amused. "Is this what you had in mind?"

 

[Darth Nefaron]

[Zygerria || Arena]
[Tags: Serina Calis ]​

The administrator watched on, and despite his people's very lively hood being built on the suffering of others, the sight of blood did turn his stomach. Still, he was an attentive host and his primary concern was the Sith Lord who had been a very generous customer.

"I believe we have our winner, Lord."

Nefaron, seated in the darkness of his private box finally showed some sign of life. His withered hands came together to break the silence, his applause seemingly filling the arena as he rose from his seat and moved into view. Indeed he was pleased, for the champion of this little contest was a being Nefaron had some familiarity, if only for her past actions. Of those who heeded his call, Lady Calis had come to benefit from Nefaron's assault on Vassek, despite how costly the operation had been. He hadn't been able to witness her skill then, but she provided quite the demonstration for the Dark Lord's viewing pleasure. Zygerrian guards cleared the stands at the administrator's command, leaving the empty area for the pair of force-wielders to speak. The Corpse Lord's applause only began to slow once he was fully revealed, his dead eyes able to meet his would-be challenger.

"Quite the show, Lady Calis. Your ability to slaughter has been all but confirmed."

With a bit of effort on Nefarons part, he stepped from his box and descended to the area, the force slowing his descent so that he might land gently on his feet, his hands clasped behind his back as he approached the champion.

"I will admit, you weren't quite what I expected when I came to Zygerria. I sought one who I might hollow out, rip from them their free will, and remake them into a weapon in my service. To do such a thing to you would simply be a waste."

Nefaron stood only a few paces away now, he examined the Dark Jedi with keen interest. She was not of his Order, but then again the Sith had become a fractured mess of competing ideologies and heretical offshoots, so she might as well be a practicing Sith. But naming her as such would be a disservice to them both, for she had found her own path to the Dark Side, a path that had led her ever deeper into the depths of depravity. That beautiful face hid a darkness that few could comprehend, a will to bend all the life to her own service. It was true that she guarded her mind well, even Nefaron could not peek inside to grasp her thoughts, but he didn't need to. The area was awash with the Dark Side, a clash between the red-hot power that bubbled within Lady Calis and that chill of death that followed in the Corpse Lord's wake.

"You have won glory enough here this day, but I know what it is that would satisfy that ever-knawing hunger within your soul. You wish for the galaxy to bend to you, to unleash the Dark Side and let it smother the last flicker of light. We are aligned in this, but the fact remains that mere physical ability is not enough. I would bring you into the fold, and grant you the resources you need to carry out our shared vision."

The Corpse Lord turned then, his back to the Dark Jedi as he considered his next move. He had promised to fight the champion after all, and while Lady Calis had proven to be a powerful combatant, she had not yet unleashed her full power.

Nefaron would know her. He would know her power.​

In a flash, the Sith Lord turned and unleashed a torrent of lightning, his hands raised and his ruined face twisted into a grin.

"One final challenger. Come Lady Calis, break your chains."​

 

[Serina Calis]

Birth of Cruelty
Location: Zygerria
Objective: Get some much needed fame and experience.
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Darth Nefaron

"Blood in the sand? How, artistic..."​

A slow smile curled Serina's lips as the Corpse Lord's lightning streaked toward her, the arena crackling with raw, unfiltered power. The first tendrils of searing electricity struck her, the pain blossoming through her nerves, bright and euphoric. The impact forced her back a step, her boots grinding against the bloodstained sands, but she did not crumble. No, she welcomed it. The agony was exquisite—a whispered promise of what could be, of what would be.

She had played the role of the masked gladiator, the enigmatic warrior, but now, now, she would show him.

As the Sith Lord pressed his assault, reaching for her mind with his cold, necrotic tendrils of thought, she did not resist. Instead, she let her mental walls shatter, not from weakness, but from deliberate invitation.

She wanted him to see.

And so, he did.

The Corpse Lord's reach plunged into the abyss that was Serina Calis.

It was not the cold, calculated hunger of a Sith, nor the all-consuming rage of a zealot. It was something else entirely.

It was a universe unraveling.

A galaxy of stars collapsing inwards, forced into new shapes, their light twisted into something that should never have been. It was inversion, perversion, not destruction, but violation.

A warmth, almost tender, wrapped around his intrusion—seductive, playful, beguiling—but beneath that embrace was a black hole of corruption. A will so absolute that it could take the foundations of reality and shape them into an elegy of her own design.

And nothing within it could resist her.

She did not wish to simply snuff out the Light. No. That was wasteful. Predictable. Dull.

She wanted it to kneel.

She wanted the Jedi and their purity to writhe beneath her touch, to willingly offer themselves to her dark will and beg for more. She wanted their precious ideals to rot from the inside, not through annihilation, but through adoration of her dominion.

A galaxy, not destroyed, but made beautiful in submission.

She laughed, high and musical, the pain twisting into pleasure in a way that no Sith, no Jedi, no being in the Force had any right to experience.

"Astute." she purred, her voice a honeyed poison that slithered through the Force itself. "But you misunderstand me. I do not seek to kill the Light. I seek to drown it in my will. To make it love me as it burns."

The lightning still poured into her. Her body should have given way by now, should have collapsed into smoldering ruin. But she did not fall. Ebon Requiem was planted firmly into the sands, the glow of its etchings intensifying, resonating with the sheer dark opulence of its wielder.

Then, the storm turned.

With an exultant cry, Serina let the Force explode from her fingertips, her own lightning coiling around Nefaron's power like a lover entwining with its mate. Their energy fused, clashing and crackling in the air, a violent display of sheer will.

And then, she pushed, attempting to break Nefaron's power against her own.

The arena trembled beneath the clash of their power, the Zygerrian administrator and his ilk long forgotten in the periphery. This was no longer a battle.

It was an invocation.

And Serina Calis would be its goddess.

 

[Darth Nefaron]

[Zygerria || Arena]
[Tags: Serina Calis ]

Warmth.

An odd notion. Nefaron hadn't felt such a thing in decades.

But he had to delve ever deeper. The door was open, inviting him to fall into the depths of eternity.

She wished to see all consumed by darkness, for the masses to love her as she robbed them of light.

But Nefaron knew love to be false.

There is only fear.

Fear.

​

The power she unleashed was formidable. Even the Corpse Lord was forced back as his power was not only matched but forced back by sheer dark glee. To strike at her with hatred was to have his own power twisted back against him. Perhaps she thought to not only beat him but to bewitch him into becoming her sycophant. The thought alone was enough for the Sith to cackle, for his will had been tested in the deepest darkness of the Unknown Regions, a place where monsters and demons from ages long past roamed. A place where all one had left was that most primal of emotions, that thing that lingers in the mind of children as they lay in bed, peering into the darkness in the corner of their room.

Lady Calis had opened her mind and allowed Nefaron to poke and prod as he pleased as she lured him deeper into her web. But Nefaron was a man of science first and foremost, he had spent decades peering into the minds of the unwilling, to see what they hid in the darkest places that they wished for no other to journey.

Nefaron didn't need to overpower her. No amount of force lightning or dark encantations would suffice.

"Serina"

Was it Nefarons voice? Was it the voice of Master Cerrik? Or was it the voice of the Jedi Grandmaster Noble?

All were cruel. An endless parade of mockery, of judgment, of laughter.

"Is this it? You call this power?"

"A failed Jedi. You have fallen so far, and for what?"

"You expect love? Worship?"

"Death is coming for you. It calls for you."

That is what Nefaron saw. He saw he cheat death, again and again, failing again and again. She thought the Dark Side had granted her a destiny. She thought herself special.

"You are poison. Everything you love dies."

Kalia Irons

No. Not Irons. Solus

Alana Calloway

Quinn Varanin

New faces had come. New faces to laugh and mock and curse.

Looming over them all was the Corpse, his gaunt fingers pulling each face away, laughing as they screamed for help, begging for life from the woman that they had been tormenting. Serina was young, she had experienced much in her short life but in the end, the Dark Side was a great and terrible beast. Darth Nefaron had emptied himself of the man he had once been, all but carved out his heart, and allowed Darkness to take its place.

"I told you to break your chains. Yet you are still shackled to destiny."

"That scares you. You fight, you hide, you hurt others."

"But behind that bravado, behind that dark power, you still cling to fear."

Nefaron, for his aged and battered body, was a storm of power. They had been locked together, power pushing against power, and at last, Nefaron gave way, and the energy that they had created was unleashed, shattering the area's grounds, the Zygerrians ran for cover as rubble threatened to consume them. But the two force-wielders were unharmed as silence fell over the area, as the sun was blotted out and darkness consumed them.

Then, Nefaron appeared again. Was he a vision? Was he real?

"It's okay to be afraid"​

 

[Serina Calis]

Birth of Cruelty
Location: Zygerria
Objective: Get some much needed fame and experience.
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Darth Nefaron

"Blood in the sand? How, artistic..."​

For the first time in years, Serina Calis was forced down to her knees.

The battlefield had vanished, swallowed by a storm of shadow and memory. The laughter of the dead echoed in her mind, an unrelenting chorus of mockery and scorn. Nefaron's voice? Master Cerrik's? The Jedi Grandmaster Noble's? No—it was worse.

It was everyone.

"Is this it? You call this power?"

"A failed Jedi. You have fallen so far, and for what?"

"You expect love? Worship?"

"Death is coming for you. It calls for you."

She saw their faces.

Alana Calloway. Another name, another corpse left behind in the wake of Serina Calis.

Quinn Varanin.

More. More.

A parade of the lost, the forsaken, the betrayed. They stood before her, their eyes hollow with judgment, their voices rising in cruel harmony. Their spectral forms loomed over her, their lips curling in that knowing, damning sneer. They laughed. Oh, how they laughed.

And above them all, a shadow. The Corpse Lord. His skeletal fingers wrenched at their very existence, peeling away their essence, revealing what they truly were—nothing.

Serina felt something crack within her.

For a moment, she was not the monster of her own making. She was not the goddess of corruption, not the dark seductress who would twist the galaxy into a symphony of beautiful, adoring ruin.

For a moment, she was that girl on Bela Lugosi, standing before the Ziggurat, staring into the gaping maw of something beyond evil.

She remembered the way it had hollowed her out. The way it had torn into her, not with claws or sorcery, but with something worse. The way it had shown her the truth—that all she had ever been, all she had ever wanted, was a lie.

She had been broken. Completely.

It had left her hollow.

And in that hollow space, in the emptiness that should have been her soul, she had built something new.

A thing that did not weep. A thing that did not mourn. A thing that did not fear.

Nefaron thought he had struck the final blow, that his words would shatter her, would expose some lingering weakness, some ember of guilt, some faint flicker of humanity that could be exploited, snuffed out.

But he had come too late.

Serina's fingers curled into the broken ground, her nails digging into the scorched arena floor. A shudder passed through her body, but it was not pain.

It was laughter.

Slow. Low. Rising.

Then louder. And louder. Until it was not the laughter of the dead that echoed through the air, but hers.

She rose to her feet, a slow, deliberate movement, as if savoring the moment. Her hood had fallen back, revealing everything. Golden hair, wild and luminous, cascading down her shoulders in waves of unrestrained chaos. Her piercing blue eyes, no longer concealed in shadow, blazed with something indescribable. Her lips curled into a smirk so beautifully cruel, so utterly depraved, that even the darkness itself seemed to pause in reverence.

She stepped forward. Ebon Requiem trailed behind her, its phrik-inlaid designs still glowing, but it was unnecessary now. The halberd was a symbol. A toy.

She did not need it.

Her power did not lie in weapons. It did not lie in armor, or sorcery, or in the lessons of the Jedi or the Sith.

Her power was her.

Nefaron's form flickered before her, his voice echoing once more.

"It's okay to be afraid."

Serina's smirk widened.

"Afraid?" Her voice was a whisper, yet it carried with it the weight of something vast. Something ancient. Something wrong.

She raised her hand, fingers curling ever so slightly. The air bent around her, the very fabric of the Force warping as if in anticipation.

"You are mistaken, Lord Nefaron. You think I still fear the chains of destiny?" She tilted her head, her expression a portrait of amusement, of mocking adoration. "No, my dear Corpse Lord. I do not fear them. I have embraced them. I have made them mine."

Her other hand lifted, and with it, the arena itself seemed to shudder. The bodies of the fallen twitched, dragged by invisible strings, their limbs jerking in grotesque mockery of life.

"I no longer seek to break free. I am the chains. I am the corruption. I am the very thing that will twist this galaxy into something...beautiful."

Her hand clenched into a fist, and a pulse of power erupted from her core, a force so viscerally wrong that even the shadows recoiled.

"You, Nefaron, were the final hammer upon the forge. And for that, I should thank you."

The darkness that had swallowed them both seemed to swirl around her now, drawn toward her as if by some unseen gravity.

"For you have made me."

The storm that had raged between them had settled, yet something deeper, more terrible, had taken its place.

Serina stepped closer to him, closing the distance between them with slow, deliberate grace.

"You sought to break me. But my dear Lord Nefaron... I was already broken."

Her eyes locked onto his, the abyss within them deeper than before. The abyss that did not destroy.

The abyss that claimed.

"And now?" Her voice was a purr, a whisper of silk-wrapped razors. "Now, I am whole."

Serina readied for Nefaron's next strike.

 

[Darth Nefaron]

[Zygerria || Arena]
[Tags: Serina Calis ]

She was glorious.
​

Nefaron had been pushing her. If she broke utterly, if she fell apart and refused to put herself back tightest, then she was of no use to him aside from her service as a mere slave. But oh how pleased he was when she withstood his assault, casting aside the ghosts from her past to embrace something so great and terrible. Now that the darkness within her matched his own, the beast that would one day consume the entire universe was now at her command. But this vision of Nefaron showed no sign of being pleased, instead his wrath only grew as she returned to her feet, she was confronting fear and instead of overcoming it, she had chosen to embrace it.

The vision of Nefaron raising his wretched arm high as if he were to bring his curled fingers down to slash at the empowered Dark Jedi. But the moment the pale hand made contact with her skin, it faded away to dust. Light returned to the world as the darkness that had consumed the sky above gave way to the overbearing sun that illuminated the arena. There was nothing before Lady Calis, only the ruins of the arena. Instead, Nefaron's voice came from behind this monstrous woman, gentle as if he was a grandfather praising one of his kin.

"And so you are, Lady Calis."

Nefaron rounded the dark being, arms folded behind his back as he stood face-to-face with his worthy opponent. She might still attempt to strike him down, but he felt as if she might just be curious why he went through all the trouble to test her if he wasn't going to bother killing her.

"I see you now. A great and terrible beast you are, one that I find will be all the better if I were to feed it instead of cast it aside."

The Corpse Lord cast his gaze to the ruined area, the corpses of the organizers were strewn about, not that Nefaron cared for their deaths. Others would replace them, for millions would come to serve the true power in the universe in time. Lady Calis would not bow before him, but in the end, she would come into this service if only to further her own power. Ambition was such a wonderful tool, but if improperly wielded, it would utterly consume all it touches.


"You are no Sith. I don't believe you desire such a thing, but one hardly needs a title to wield such power. I do not expect you to bend to my will, but I believe we share a common cause, even if our paths diverge."

Nefaron turned then, pacing a few steps away much as he had done before his first strike. But there was no more fighting to be had, at least not in this place. Such a contest would only waste time and resources. She had proven to be useful, and the Corpse Lord was in need of a vast array of agents and confidants if he was to achieve his grand schemes. Perhaps Lady Calis would one day strike him down and rob his apprentice of that honor, and then she might prove to the entire galaxy that her will was superior to all others.

But she needed his resources

She needed someone to focus her darkness

She would achieve her destiny. Nefaron would twist it to his own ends.
​

"My fortress grows ever stronger on Anoat. Legions of slaves are ready in my realm for a coming storm, one that will rip the Sith Empire apart for the strongest to claim. I have glimpsed your darkest dreams and I seek to offer you a place in my realm and the resources to create monstrous things that will bring glory to the Dark Side. In return, you would align with me in the coming days and carry out my will. You will not be an Apprentice, you will be free to pursue your own goals so long as they do not interfere with my own."

The Sith Lord turned then, but only partially. His hood concealed his face and any emotion that he might convey, but his message could hardly be interpreted any other way.

"I warn you that betrayal has only one punishment. If you were my Apprentice, I would praise such a thing but you are not and so I expect your allegiance. Otherwise, I will allow your darkest nightmares to consume your mind and watch your quivering form unravel for my own entertainment."

To do such a thing might very well claim the Corpse Lord's life, for he would have to engage this formidable Dark Jedi in battle. But in the end he was certain that he would triumph, for revenge even beyond death was so very sweet.

"You will have your chance to kill me one day. But for the time being, unite with me and let us bring the Darkness to all corners of this galaxy."

He turned fully, the Corpse extending his hand to seal their compact.

He had such plans for her.​

 

[Serina Calis]

Birth of Cruelty
Location: Zygerria
Objective: Get some much needed fame and experience.
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Darth Nefaron

"Blood in the sand? How, artistic..."​

The last remnants of shadow slithered away, retreating into the corners of existence as the oppressive darkness yielded to the cruel, golden glare of the sun. The ruined arena stretched out before her, corpses littering the sands in testament to the devastation wrought by their contest. But none of it mattered. Not the dead, not the destruction, not even the lingering whispers of those who had sought to break her.

Serina Calis stood in the midst of it all, exultant.

The Corpse Lord had tested her. Had sought to unravel her, to drag her back into the chains of fear and suffering. And yet, she had emerged not broken, not hollow, but something far more terrible.

Something transcendent.

And now, here he stood. Not as a tormentor, not as an adversary, but as a benefactor. As a partner.

He spoke of ambition, of power, of the future. He offered her a kingdom of nightmares, a realm where the Dark Side reigned unchallenged. A place where she could twist, mold, and corrupt without restraint.

And yet…

Serina tilted her head, her smirk widening as she took slow, deliberate steps toward the Sith Lord, each movement exuding a languid, sultry grace. The ruined goddess of this battlefield, wrapped in the aftermath of her ascension, and oh—how beautiful it felt.

"Mmm… you are a fascinating one, Lord Nefaron." Her voice was a purr, rich with amusement, dripping with dark delight. "You speak of feeding the beast, of nurturing it, of guiding it toward something… grand."

She stopped just short of him, her piercing blue eyes locking onto his shadowed visage, drinking in the offer within his gaze, the demand in his stance. And yet, beneath that cold exterior, beneath the layers of rot and ancient malice, she felt it.

He desired something more.

Not merely her allegiance. Not merely her power.

Her potential—yes. Her darkness—yes.

But there was something else, unspoken, something hidden beneath the facade of control.

A test? A game?

Oh, how she loved games.

She reached up, her fingers trailing lightly across her own collarbone, down over the reinforced bodice of her armor, as if savoring the very essence of her own presence.

"What a delightful proposition… to be given free reign to weave my beautiful corruption across this wretched galaxy. To indulge in my… pleasures, unshackled, unfettered."

Her lips parted in a slow, knowing smile.

"And yet."

Her hand shot forward—not in violence, but in a caress, her gloved fingers ghosting over the hem of his tattered sleeve, barely a whisper of contact. A teasing gesture. A deliberate, provocative act.

"You expect my allegiance so easily?" she murmured, tilting her head ever so slightly, her golden waves catching the dying light. "My Lord, surely you know that power is not merely given… it is seduced into servitude. You seek to bind me to your vision… and yet, you do not yet understand what it means to wield something like me."

She stepped closer, the scent of burning ozone from their battle still clinging to the air, mingling with the faint traces of blood and sweat and something darker.

"You see… I do want this galaxy, Lord Nefaron. I do wish to see its stars twisted into a symphony of my own making, to hear the wails of its would-be heroes turn to moans of adoration as they fall before me."

She exhaled, her breath warm, her fingers trailing up the length of his sleeve, teasing the fabric as if testing the weight of him, the truth of him.

"But you misunderstand something very important about me."

Her smirk grew, slow and decadent.

"I do not simply submit to power."

A heartbeat. A moment suspended in tension.

Then, with a sinuous motion, she slipped behind him, her fingers barely grazing his shoulder as she circled, her presence a whisper against his own. She let the darkness coil around her like a lover, the embers of their battle still crackling between them.

"I take it. I consume it. And I make it mine."

Another pause, deliberate, measured. She let the words sink into him, let the weight of them settle like silk wrapped around steel.

Then—her laugh.

A low, sultry chuckle, filled with something utterly wicked.

"But you knew that already, didn't you?"

She stepped back into view, meeting his unseen gaze with unshaken confidence. "You would not have sought to break me if you didn't fear what I could become."

A slow inhale. A decision.

Serina lifted her hand, her fingers hovering just above his own outstretched palm. She did not take it immediately—no, she let the moment linger, let it breathe.

"I accept your offer, my Lord."

Her voice was syrup-sweet, dripping with promise and danger.

"For now."

And then—contact.

Her fingers slid into his, cool and commanding, sealing the pact in a grip that was both delicate and undeniable.

"But be warned, dear Nefaron… you may one day regret unleashing something as terrible as me."

She tightened her grasp, her smirk curling like a serpent's coil.

"And on that day… I will make you beg to fall further."

 

[Darth Nefaron]

[Zygerria || Arena]
[Tags: Serina Calis ]

She wasn't the only one who tightened her grip.

Who was she to threaten him?

He who would snuff out the light of the Jedi forever?

He who would bring terror and despair to a hundred million worlds?

"Yes-" the Corpse Lord began, his broken smile appearing once more "Perhaps I will. We can fall together."
​

They stood there, hands tightly bound, for several long moments, perhaps waiting to see who would release the other first. In the end, grips loosened and egos subsided, for a compact had been forged between the Lady of Darkness and the Corpse Lord. Both were monstrous, one outwardly so and the other carefully concealed behind a sweet smile and a pair of eyes designed to lure unsuspecting prey to their doom. This was one of the greatest assets this new agent could provide the Corpse Lord, the guile and form to charm his enemies, to drag them to their doom as they lust after a woman who would sooner eat their beating heart.

It was actually rather amusing to see her attempt such a thing. Nefaron's blackened heart held room for but one love, the terror he wished to grant to every living thing in the galaxy once his great work was complete.

"You crave power as if you are dying of thirst. But I must caution you that greed of that sort will lure you to a place that none escape from. You must learn, for the time being, to refrain from biting the hand that feeds you."

A warning he knew she would not heed, but much like his apprentice, she would learn.

"Though I will not name you Apprentice, you will become my Acolyte. Do not worry, I will not subject you to the tortures of an Apprentice, but the knowledge I hold comes at a cost. This bargain is to benefit us both, I assure you."

Two of the Corpse Lord's foul servants, soldiers of his Corpse Legion, came then and knelt before their master.

"Lord, the last of the slaves are aboard our ships. We await your presence before we depart."

"Depart without me. Set this newest batch to work as soon as possible. I will return when I am ready."

"Yes, Master!"

The pair rushed off before Nefaron returned to his newest ally, arms once more folded behind his back as he made his way toward the exit of the area.

"Come, Lady Calis, we still have much to discuss before we return home. Much still needs to be determined, and while your raw power is formidable, I must determine just where we are to begin. You still have much to learn."

 

[Serina Calis]

Birth of Cruelty
Location: Zygerria
Objective: Get some much needed fame and experience.
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Darth Nefaron

"Blood in the sand? How, artistic..."​

The air between them still hummed with lingering power, the compact sealed, their hands now parted, yet something far stronger remained. Serina Calis watched as the Corpse Lord's broken grin stretched across his withered features, his words curling in the air like smoke from a dying fire.

"Yes—perhaps I will. We can fall together."

How deliciously tragic.

Serina let her smirk soften—not in submission, not in reverence, but in the slow, unveiling of something more profound. She understood now. Understood the depths of his vision, the breadth of his cruelty. Nefaron was not merely a Sith. Not merely a tyrant or a warlord, nor even a king of corpses.

He was a man of inevitabilities.

And now, she would be among them.

She stepped forward, a measured pace, exuding that same honeyed dominance that had sealed the fates of many before him. The darkness had already bound them—her own corruption coiling around his in ways neither could yet name. It would fester, grow, evolve, until the day it would either devour them both or usher in something the galaxy had never seen before.

"You speak as if I do not already know the taste of insatiable hunger, my Lord," she murmured, voice silken yet laced with dark amusement. "But I am not some foolish wretch, scrambling in the dirt for scraps of power beyond my reach. No, no... I am something far more refined."

She pivoted, gliding toward him in perfect synchronicity, her cape trailing like liquid shadow against the ruined sands.

"Greed is a beast that devours without thought. I am not some beast." She allowed her words to settle, her eyes flicking toward him with something approaching respect—but respect given, not owed. "I am the one who feeds the beast. Who tames it. Who decides when it starves and when it is allowed to feast."

The moment hung between them, charged with something unspoken. And then—a shift. A new game.

She turned just slightly, just enough to let her golden waves catch in the light, just enough to let the curve of her smirk play against the sharp cut of her features.

"But I will heed your counsel, my Lord," she admitted smoothly, "for you are not wrong. The wise do not bite the hand that feeds—" She leaned in ever so slightly, just enough for her presence to linger in his space before retreating, just enough to let the words coil in the air like the whisper of a kiss. "—until it is time to devour the whole arm."

A tease. A promise. A warning wrapped in satin.

Her gaze flickered to the kneeling soldiers of the Corpse Legion, watching them scuttle to obey, their wretched forms bearing the weight of their servitude. Slaves, puppets, things. That was what most of Nefaron's tools were.

But she was not them.

"Acolyte," she mused, letting the title roll over her tongue as if tasting its texture. It was not 'Apprentice'—but neither was it nothing.

Serina nodded, finally offering him something she had withheld until this moment—respect.

"A fair bargain," she conceded at last, her voice slipping into something more professional, yet still infused with the decadent self-assurance that was her signature. "I would not accept it otherwise."

Her respect did not come freely. But he had earned it, in his own way.

She fell into step beside him as he strode toward the exit, her presence a contrast to his—where his aura exuded death and the inevitability of decay, hers was one of corrupt fertility, of things thriving where they should have withered, of life twisting into something obscene and unnatural.

"You are right, of course," she admitted, her hands folding neatly behind her back as they walked. "I still have much to learn. My power is raw, untamed… but, oh, my Lord—" She turned her head just slightly, just enough for her smirk to be visible. "—what I will become… will be nothing short of magnificent."

A promise. A prophecy.

And one day, when the galaxy lay in ruin, bent and twisted into something terrible and exquisite, they would look back on this moment and know—

It had already begun.

 

[Darth Nefaron]

[Zygerria || Arena]
[Tags: Serina Calis ]

Her ambition is to be commended.

Her arrogance will be her damnation.
​

She spoke of being in control. She thought her power so utterly consuming that she determined the fate of all the beings in the galaxy. Lady Calis was correct; she knew that one should learn all they can from a teacher before overtaking them, but the question remained: how long would she wait before her ambition drove her to make a rash decision? At the very least, she had agreed to submit to his experience, though he had hesitated to call her servant just yet. But it was only a matter of time, all who lived would come to serve the Corpse Lord in one way or another, or they would find themselves consumed by the darkest nightmares from the deepest depths of their mind.

"Magnificent? Such a word does not apply to you, my lady. You will become a storm of power, something horrific and all-consuming. It is only a matter if you can control that storm inside of you before it consumes you."

Nefaron paused then as they entered the tunnel that led to the area's exit, several Zygerrian troopers and ground personnel rushing past them to tend to the dead and wounded they had left in their wake. They would be upset of course, but in the end, Darth Nefaron was a generous client who had done much to support the Zygerrian Slave Empire and their continued trade of the oldest commodity in the galaxy.

This would be forgotten.

The Corpse Lord's gaze fell upon his newest acolyte, his expression revealing nothing. He considered his response, whether to chastise her for her premature ambition or to praise such dark dreams as a true commitment to the Dark Side.

"The Sith do not fear power, but that does not mean we do not respect what flows in our veins. Many have been consumed by their own folly, you must take heed to hold such power within yourself for the time being. Never reveal your full strength immediately, for deception and subterfuge will be your greatest weapons in the coming days."

His gaze returned to the tunnel exit as he continued on, expecting his newest companion to follow. He had wisdom to offer, even if it was not of the sort she desired. Once he determined her worth on Anoat, then he would begin to reveal his secrets and propel her along her path.

"You have proven to be formidable, that I grant you. Already you have mastered your natural ability, appearance can be a valuable tool in disarming an opponent. Some backward species would view your sex as a weakness, a hinderance to your ability as a warrior. I have no doubt that this angers you, and yet you use that to your advantage. If I were younger, a man more driven by biological needs, you might have lured me in and delivered a fatal blow."

He chuckled at that, the thought that he would give in to any of the simple human desires. He did not seek love, nor did he seek companionship, he sought the birth of terror anew, to bathe the galaxy in horror and hatred until the stars themselves bled.

"Though not always the case, the Sith have practiced equality of a sort. Your appearance, your preferences, and even your species matter little. We are bound by the Dark Side, our only commandment is to respect power. I have come to respect you for your unique abilities, just as you have shown at least some respect for the knowledge I hold. But I will ask more of you in the coming months, I will dispatch you on missions to aid in my ascendance, and in return I shall show you true power."

Expectations were now made bare. Nefaron expected some form of payment for the power he offered, and she would provide it by spilling the blood of his enemies, by luring those he needed into his service, and more importantly...

She would serve as a reminder that his Apprentice was replaceable. Remind him that his position was not secure.
​

But that would come later. Not it was time to prepare to return home and welcome his new acolyte into the fold. As the pair exited the area, a wide landing field lay before them. An arrival shuttle took the nearest landing pad, Nefaron's personal vessel had arrived to ferry its master back to a place that had already been consumed by the Corpse Lord.

"Anoat awaits, Acolyte. We have much to do."​

 

[Serina Calis]

Birth of Cruelty
Location: Zygerria
Objective: Get some much needed fame and experience.
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Darth Nefaron

"Blood in the sand? How, artistic..."​

The sun beat down over the shattered arena as Serina Calis walked at Nefaron's side, the scent of charred stone and blood still lingering in the air. Her cape billowed behind her like ink trailing in water, her armor glinting softly in the dimming light. Each step she took was calculated—graceful, almost regal in bearing—yet carried a predatory stillness that set her apart from the scrambling Zygerrian attendants who scurried around them like vermin, desperate to preserve order in the wake of chaos.

She said nothing for a time, content to let her master—no, her partner—speak. His words flowed like embalming oil, rich with wisdom, heavy with warning. To some, they would sound like threats, laced with the veiled superiority of a man who believed himself invincible. But to Serina, they were the musings of a corpse who had somehow cheated the flames, a ghost that had learned how to haunt not only the living, but entire empires.

His praise was not empty. Nor was his caution.

And that… intrigued her.

At last, as the tunnel opened up and the sun flooded in—painting the landing fields in hues of gold and crimson—Serina slowed her pace just slightly, letting her eyes wander from the hulking corpse of a transport to the smooth, unmistakably personal design of Nefaron's shuttle.

This was not just a vessel of war. This was a throne. And she was being invited aboard.

Her smirk was subtle, but present.

"You speak as though I might lose myself in the storm, Lord Nefaron," she said at last, her voice low and velvety, each syllable unfolding like silk over a blade. "But I am the eye of it."

She kept pace with him, chin slightly lifted, her golden hair catching in the wind like a banner of conquest.

"The storm is mine. And I do not fear being consumed by it, because I am the consumption. Let others burn in the fires of their folly, collapse beneath their hunger. I will feed... and I will thrive."

She glanced to him, her eyes narrowed just slightly, but not in defiance—in interest. She understood what he was doing. This wasn't just mentorship. It was a test. And not one she intended to fail.

"But still…" she continued, "your warning is not wasted. There is elegance in restraint, a subtlety that is often lost on the brutish or the desperate. I do not intend to show my full hand until the entire table has been flipped and the players' throats laid bare beneath my heel."

She stopped at the edge of the landing pad as Nefaron did, the wind from the arriving shuttle tousling her hair and sending her cape flaring outward like wings of smoke.

When he spoke of her appearance, her expression didn't change—only the barest twitch of a knowing smile. She had used it before. Would use it again. And she would revel in the devastation it brought.

"Oh, you flatter me, Lord Nefaron," she said, her tone turning smooth and sultry, as if savoring the joke. "Though I must admit I'm quite fond of the idea of dragging some simpering warlord to his knees with nothing but a glance and a promise. It's so much more… intimate than a lightsaber through the gut."

She turned her head, just enough to let him catch her profile, framed in the gold of twilight and the quiet fire of ambition.

"You see, they expect the brute. The loud, snarling beast. But they never expect the velvet glove. The soft sigh. The sweet whisper." She leaned closer, conspiratorially. "And by the time they do, I've already slipped the chain around their throat and pulled."

Her eyes gleamed. Cold. Beautiful. Infinite.

But her voice, when it returned to something more neutral, more professional, was measured and serious. Still laced with that edge of decadent amusement that never quite left her lips.

"I understand the arrangement. You offer knowledge, purpose, refinement. And I, in turn, will bleed your enemies dry, seduce your rivals into ruin, and remind your apprentice that his days are numbered."

A short pause.

"Fair trade."

She glanced out at the ship once more, her arms folding loosely across her chest.

"Anoat..." she said the word like a lover's name. "A cesspool of smog, death, and forgotten suffering. But a perfect place for things to fester. To grow. To become… deliciously monstrous."

She turned to him one final time before they boarded.

"Let them believe I'm some painted vixen. Let them underestimate me. I welcome it. I will bury their bones beneath the foundation of the empire we will build."

And finally, her tone softened—still rich with corruption, still lewd in the way it danced around the edge of command—but this time, genuine.

"You have my loyalty, Lord Nefaron. So long as you continue to earn it."

And with that, she stepped aboard the vessel, her shadow trailing behind her like the omen of a storm still forming—elegant, merciless, and inevitable.