Private DAGGERFALL | Black Iron Tyrant.

[Serina Calis]

Black Iron Tyrant.
Location: Jutrand.
Objective: Meet with the Butcher King.
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Darth Carnifex

Power is not given. It is not inherited, nor bestowed by fate. It is taken—seized by those with the will to claim it. And I will claim it.
​

The air was thick with the scent of incense and burning oil, a cloying mixture of power and decay that clung to the cavernous halls of Jutrand's dark citadel. Shadows twisted along the vaulted ceilings, flickering in the torchlight, shifting as if alive with the whispers of a thousand dead voices. Serina Calis walked with measured steps, her boots striking the polished obsidian floor, each step echoing like the toll of a funeral bell.

Beyond the great windows of the citadel, Jutrand loomed in its eternal twilight, its skies choked with the storms of industry and war. The blackened skyline was pierced by towering spires, cruel monuments to the rule of the Sith. Below, the city festered with the unending march of legions—soldiers, warbeasts, and machines of death, all moving with mechanical precision under the banners of the Sith Empire but also the Kainite. Under the banner of the Black Iron Tyrant.

Carnifex.

Serina's breath was steady, but she could feel the weight of the world pressing down on her as she ascended the final stairwell. She had not come here on a whim. No, this was fate calling her forward, as inevitable as the pull of the Dark Side itself. Jutrand was a domain, a throneworld sculpted in the image of war, where the strong reigned and the weak were crushed beneath their heel. It was a place of absolute power, and she had come to see its one of it's masters with her own eyes.

Her reflection stretched across the polished black stone of the walls as she passed, a shifting silhouette of power and purpose. The dim light caught the sharp, angular edges of her armored bodice, the glowing crimson and magenta patterns pulsing faintly as if breathing with her own will. Gone were the humble, formless robes of the Jedi—what she wore now was something else entirely. A statement. A warning.

Her deep hood framed her face in shadow, enhancing the enigmatic allure she wielded like a blade. Beneath it, golden blonde waves spilled forward, catching the light in subtle streaks, a stark contrast to the dark regality of her attire. Her piercing blue eyes, half-hidden beneath the hood's depth, gleamed with an intelligence that dissected the world around her with ruthless precision.

The form-fitting armor over her torso bore a raised, stylized crest, an intricate blend of beauty and menace, its sharp lines mimicking the Sith runes that twisted along her gauntlets and sleeves. The intricate designs ran seamlessly from shoulder to wrist, an unbroken flow of geometric and organic shapes—roots of power entwining, marking her as something greater than the acolytes and warriors who scurried through these halls.

Draped over her shoulders, her long, flowing cape added to the sheer presence she exuded. The inner lining glowed faintly in shades of pink and violet, shifting as she moved, the sharp edges of the fabric carving through the air like a banner of conquest. Below, her attire blended structured armor-like panels with flowing fabrics—discipline and freedom, control and motion, woven together in perfect harmony. The magenta-lit patterns converged to a precise point at her knees, drawing the eye, as if the very design of her clothing was meant to lead others toward submission. To make others submit.

But she was not yet where she needed to be, to make that vision reality.

Two colossal doors of black iron stood at the end of the hall, adorned with crimson engravings of battle and conquest. They pulsed with power, as if the metal itself remembered the blood spilled in the Tyrant's name. Before them stood two sentinels, their armor hulking and monstrous, forged in the image of death itself. Their faces were hidden behind blackened visors, their crimson capes motionless in the still air. They did not move as she approached, did not acknowledge her presence. They did not need to.

They knew why she was here.

Serina slowed her pace, standing before the massive doors that led into the Butcher King's throne room. A single, gloved hand reached out, fingers trailing across the iron, feeling the weight of the moment settle upon her shoulders. This was it. The threshold between everything she had been and everything she was destined to become.

Beyond this door awaited the man whose very name sent tremors through the galaxy.

Carnifex.

The Black Iron Tyrant.

The Butcher King.

The room beyond pulsed with power, a presence so overwhelming it was like staring into the void itself.

Serina took a breath.

And stepped forward.

 

[Darth Carnifex]

The chamber was dark, very little light from the corridor beyond the heavy doors pierced the smokey gloom. Only the faint, dismal glow of crystalline ornaments running along the walls and floors gave a faint outline to the room, only highlighting its edges and keeping large swaths completely engulfed in darkness. Not even sight enhanced by the power of the Force could breach such opaque murk. Shapes moved just beyond the periphery of light, emaciated things with long, bony limbs wrapped in funerary silks; words of power meticulously woven through the fabric like a tapestry. Their eyes watched her.

Smoke danced at her feet as she drew further into shadow, their source finally revealing themselves as towering three meter tall pillars that billowed sickly incense in continuous cascades. They were tended to by the same skeletal priests, whose arthritic hands moved glacially slow as they tended to the internal mechanisms with cautious precision. These never once bothered to regard her presence, so enthralled they were by their singular task.

Rather, it what lay beyond the obelisks that would focus its attention upon her.

A throne, raised high upon obsidian and basalt, chiseled right from the stone in which it rested. Relics and other religious artifacts hung from it, more of an amalgamated reliquary than a seat of power. Yet, serve as a seat of power it did, for the being perched upon it watched the young girl with cold, merciless eyes; eyes that saw far more than they should've been allowed. Black raiment hung from a muscular frame, radiating with power and authority. He wore no crown, for He needed no such regalia to convey His superiority over others; it simply was as foundational as the law of gravity.

Every exhalation of His brought with it a tremor of power, as though the Dark Side itself had given breath to His being and animated His action. At a glance, there was no doubt as to why so many revered and despised the Butcher King, for He was every bit as terrible as the legends described. A beast wearing Human skin, a devil so monstrous that there were many who dared not to even utter His name aloud, let alone give it life with a thought, for fear of the Black Iron Tyrant becoming aware of their presence. Perhaps such tales were true, for it was a fact that the Eternal Father often acted in the manner of someone who's perception stretched far beyond mortal means.

The power of prophecy and darksight, His to wield.

There was another presence among them, dark and elusive, slipping through every crack and crevice; distinctly feminine, but almost imperceptible. The young girl might see a shimmer of a smile in the periphery of her vision, a flash of teeth and haunting eyes, gone before she could focus. Something, beyond the Dark Lord and the priests around her, was watching her, stalking her. An unknown predator lurking in the shadows, or perhaps it was the shadows.

"It must please you to dwell on your own guile." The Dark Lord's voice cut not only through the sound around them, but also through thought itself; breaking whatever concentration she might've had at that moment. The smoke around the Dark Lord abated, giving her a greater view of the man she came to see. Beside Him sat a priest wrapped in red, their face obscured; quiet and demure. They watched the girl with unseen eyes, an insidious presence cloying at the frayed edges of her mind, tasting her every thought.

"For you do believe yourself clever, Serina Calis. Clever enough to think that your actions have been obscured from my sight. Your meddling does not come without consequence, the severity of which will be decided by what you've come to accomplish." His eyes seemed to bore into her, stranding her amidst a searing, unforgiving spotlight as though she were naked as the day she had come into this world; shorn of secrets. The magnetism of the Dark Lord drew heavily upon her, and the existence of such a personality cult around the Sith Lord became apparent.

"So speak your words, if you have to power to voice them."

Serina Calis ​

 

[Serina Calis]

Black Iron Tyrant.
Location: Jutrand.
Objective: Meet with the Butcher King.
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Darth Carnifex

Power is not given. It is not inherited, nor bestowed by fate. It is taken—seized by those with the will to claim it. And I will claim it.
​

For a moment, Serina did not answer.

The silence stretched between them like a drawn blade, taut and expectant. The air in the chamber felt thick, heavy with something beyond mere incense—the residue of countless souls who had stood where she stood now, whose fates had been sealed beneath the weight of the Black Iron Tyrant's gaze. She was surrounded by the remnants of their failures, the echoes of a million voices that had begged, bargained, and broken before the throne upon which He sat.

And yet, she did not kneel.

The oppressive darkness coiled around her, thick as oil, suffocating in its sheer density. The crystalline glow that lined the chamber's edges cast just enough light to fracture the murk, illuminating only glimpses of the towering throne and the colossal figure that occupied it. The smoke curled at her feet in twisting, serpentine patterns, as though alive, slithering toward her with the hunger of something unseen. From the shadows, the skeletal priests moved with the slow inevitability of time itself, their bony fingers caressing the mechanisms of their towering incense obelisks, releasing endless streams of thick, cloying perfume.

And in the periphery—just beyond the realm of sight—something else lurked.

A whisper of motion. A shimmer of a smile. Teeth flashing in the dark before vanishing like a half-forgotten dream.

She was surrounded.

Judged.

Measured.

Carnifex's presence was only akin to one other she had bore witness to before. The Dark Side did not merely radiate from Him; it bent to His will, existed because He allowed it to. His breath carried a weight that sent tremors through the Force, rippling through the very marrow of existence. He was not just a Sith Lord. He was something greater. Something fundamental.

His voice cut through the silence like the shattering of a great edifice, splintering through sound and thought alike.

"It must please you to dwell on your own guile."

The very sound of it sent a ripple through the Force, pressing against her like the crushing depths of an ocean trench. The smoke that curled around Him abated, revealing Him more fully—a great, immovable monolith of power, enthroned upon obsidian and basalt, adorned with relics of conquest and sacrifice. The Butcher King. The Twice Emperor. The Black Iron Tyrant.

Beside Him, a priest in red sat motionless, their face veiled, their presence wrong in a way Serina could not immediately define. But she felt it. A quiet pressure at the edges of her mind, an insidious touch slithering through the cracks, tasting her thoughts, probing for something deeper.

"For you do believe yourself clever, Serina Calis. Clever enough to think that your actions have been obscured from my sight. Your meddling does not come without consequence, the severity of which will be decided by what you've come to accomplish."

His gaze bore into her, an unrelenting force that stripped away all pretense, all illusion. The sensation was visceral—like standing beneath an unyielding sun, laid bare and shorn of secrets. There was no place to hide here. No veil of wit or charm would protect her. This was what it meant to stand before a force of nature.

And yet, Serina did not look away.

She did not falter, nor did she cower beneath the weight of His scrutiny. Instead, she allowed the silence to stretch once more, allowed the moment to settle like dust in the wake of a storm. She was aware of every force acting upon her—His power, the lurking presence in the dark, the unseen hands grasping at the edges of her mind. She felt all of it, absorbed all of it, let it sink into the very marrow of her bones.

Then, she smiled.

It was not an act of defiance, nor was it arrogance. It was something more measured, more deliberate—a knowing smile, the slightest upward tilt of her lips, like the suggestion of a blade hidden beneath silk.

And when she finally spoke, her voice was smooth, confident, its cadence carefully controlled.

"I imagine it must be exhausting."

The words were not a challenge, nor a dismissal. They were an observation, one spoken not with pity but with understanding. Her voice carried through the chamber, cutting through the murk like a slow-moving ember, glowing against the abyss.

"Endless supplicants. Kneeling. Pleading. Professing their worth. A chorus of hollow voices, all claiming they are different from the last."

She took another step forward, unhurried, her presence moving through the darkness with the quiet grace of a shadow. Her golden hair caught the faint light as it spilled from beneath her hood, framing her face in a contrast of warmth against the cold, unfeeling black.

"And yet, you entertain them all the same."

Her hands unfurled from where they had been clasped before her, palms open, movements fluid.

"Not out of charity. Not out of obligation. But because even the smallest ripple in the current can be useful—until it isn't."

She let the words settle, her blue eyes never once leaving His.

"I will not waste your time pretending I am unique in my ambition. We both know what I seek, power. But you did not summon me here because I am merely another voice in the choir."

A pause. A heartbeat of silence.

Then, the smirk sharpened, like the edge of a blade sliding from its sheath.

"You see something, don't you?"

Another step forward. The light shifted. The lurking presence in the dark watched.

"Something worth watching."

Her voice softened, the edge of her words tempered not with submission, but with something deeper—an invitation. A challenge wrapped in deference, a display of understanding wrapped in intrigue.

"So I wonder—what is it that you see, Black Iron Tyrant?"