Private Brutal Hunger.

[Serina Calis]

Brutal Hunger.
Location: Korriban.
Objective: Survive a drab meeting.
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Domina Prime

The Sith revel in their hunger, their rage, their mindless pursuit of power—yet they are blind to the chains they forge for themselves. They mistake brutality for strength, arrogance for wisdom, and treachery for cunning. In the end, they are nothing more than rabid beasts, too consumed by their own desires to see that they are being led by the leash of their own ignorance.
​

The room reeked of excess. It was a wretched blend of sweat, spice, and old leather, mingling with the acrid tang of ozone from the sparking wires along the room's edges. A dim red glow pulsed from above, the overhead sconces flickering with irregular intervals, casting the space in an eerie half-light. The chamber, once a control room of some forgotten outpost, had been repurposed into a den of indulgence—reeking of debauchery, arrogance, and self-congratulation.

Serina Calis lay sprawled across a makeshift throne of cushions and draped fabrics, one leg hooked over the arm of the seat, the other bent at the knee, the toe of her boot idly tapping against the stone floor. She had claimed the finest spot in the room, not because it was the most comfortable, but because it was the only place where she could look down on the others without actually having to stand. Her golden hair spilled over her shoulders in loose waves, catching the faint light like strands of woven starlight. The rich embroidery of her robe shimmered in the gloom, an elegant contrast to the filth that surrounded her.

And what filth it was.

The Sith Lord opposite her was particularly odious. A bulbous, porcine creature of a man, with a thick, misshapen neck and sagging jowls that quivered when he spoke, his yellowed teeth perpetually bared in a grin that dripped with self-satisfaction. The others weren't much better. A collection of would-be Sith Lords and acolytes, all draped in heavy, ill-fitting robes that stank of dust and sweat. Their fingers were encrusted with gaudy rings, their faces lined with scars that had long since ceased to impress.

And the way they gloated—oh, how they preened.

"We pried open those graves with our own hands," he bellowed, slamming a meaty fist against the stone table. "The Mandalorians thought their dead were safe beneath beskad and iron, but we shattered their crypts like rotted wood." He laughed, a deep, throaty guffaw that rattled his considerable gut.

"Yes, yes," another Sith added, his voice oily with smugness. "A fine victory over corpses, truly." He sneered, his sharp-toothed grin made all the more grotesque by the unnatural way his lips curled.

Serina exhaled through her nose, tilting her head against the cushions, half-lidded eyes staring up at the crumbling ceiling. The arrogance in their voices was insufferable, but worse was their ignorance. They were gloating over what? Defiling the tombs of warriors long dead? Disturbing the remains of those who could no longer fight back? It was a petty theft, a child's tantrum disguised as conquest.

They were no different from grave robbers, rifling through the past with stubby fingers, searching for trinkets they were too unworthy to wield.

"And what of the artifacts you took?" she asked lazily, her voice honeyed with boredom. "Did they whisper their secrets to you? Did you awaken some hidden power?"

The room went quiet for half a second. The Sith Lord's face twitched with irritation, but another Sith leaned forward, eager to feed his own ego.

"Some," he admitted, grinning, "were disappointments. Mere blades, rusted and dulled, unfit even for ritual sacrifice." He gestured toward a long, blackened knife resting atop the table, its hilt wrapped in decayed leather. "But others… ahh, others held true power. Holocrons that spoke of wars long past, of Mandalorian wars with the Jedi. Of Sith sorcery long forgotten."

Serina let out a small sigh, her fingers tapping idly against the fabric of her throne. "Mm. Fascinating."

It wasn't.

She had heard this same song before—had listened to these same men prattle on about ancient conquests as if they were the ones who had fought them. They had no vision beyond their own grotesque desires. No understanding beyond what could be measured in broken bones and spilled blood. Even now, they were planning another venture—an expedition into the Unknown Regions, in search of lost temples, long-buried caches of dark power.

Another fruitless chase.

More old ruins to plunder.

More trinkets they would fail to comprehend.

Serina turned her head slightly, surveying the room with an air of detached amusement. Some of them were drunk, others were reveling in their own supposed brilliance. And some… some were leering.

She could feel their eyes crawling over her like insects, could sense their wretched thoughts slithering through the Force. It wasn't admiration. It was ownership.

Disgust curled in her gut.

Pathetic.

If they weren't so hideously unworthy, it might have even been amusing.

Instead, it was simply dull.

"Tell me, Lords of the Sith," she purred, stretching her arms above her head in a lazy display of indifference. "Which of you actually understands the power you seek?"

A few chuckled, mistaking her words for flattery. Others stiffened, sensing the challenge hidden beneath her velvety tone.

She smirked.

Not one of them knew.