Private Dance with the Devil

[Darth Nefaron]

The flight back from Zygerria had been a long one. They had much time to talk.

Nefaron spoke of great machinations. Promises of power and dominion.

Serina, unsurprisingly, required proof that such things were possible by allying with Nefaron.

He would show her.
​

Anoat was, as it had been since the day Nefaron stepped foot on the surface, in a stormy mood. The atmosphere was alive with toxic rain and bolts of lightning, but this was home to the Corpse Lord, and to at last return to this black spot in the universe made his dark heart warm, or at least that was the only way to describe the feeling. Out of the viewport, Nefaron's fortress came into view, a monolith to suffering towering over a dead land. Much had been accomplished in the time Anoat had been ruled by the Corpse Lord, but the crown jewel of his achievements was the birth of a vergence in the force, a place where the Dark Side was almost overwhelming and terror flowed freely. This was a powerful weapon to have, and Nefaron drank freely of the power it offered as he carried out his schemes. Many of his experiments would not have been possible without the boon of the vergence, and he was eager to see what his newest Acolyte might do with access to such a thing.

"It is from this toxic soil that I will build such great and terrible things. Perhaps one day you will come to respect the power of this world as I do."

The shuttle slowed as it flew over the ramparts, Corpse Legionaries and the formidable ground-to-space weaponry sprawled out before them. Anoat was in the heart of Sith space, so the only enemy that warranted such a response was the many rivals found among the Sith Order. No one had come to assault this place yet, but Nefaron knew that one day the Empire would not be as united as it was and fortress worlds such as Anaot would be prizes for any Dark Lord seeking to form their own realm out of the rubble of the Sith Empire. The shuttle entered into a large hangar in the central spire, touching down with the slightest thud as the Corpse Lord made his way to the descending exit ramp. Several Corpse Legionaries awaited the arrival of their master and his newest ally, but like most who arrived, Serina had yet to prove herself to the monstrous enforcers of Nefaron's regime. Angry eyes followed the Dark Jedi, but they feared their master's wrath should they dare attempt to attack his newest Acolyte.

"Like all who call Anoat home, I do require a test of your skill. Already you have shown great prowess on the battlefield and resilience of mind, but if you are to accomplish your dark destiny, then you will need to call on a power that is beyond the physical realm. You can already sense what waits within, but you must learn to master the profane aspects of the force if you are to achieve all you desire."

Nefaron, arms folded behind his back, proceeded onward from the hangar and to a bank of turbolifts. The pair shared a silent ride, far beneath the surface levels of the citadel. They were going to black pits, a place constructed for the sole purpose of inducing terror and misery. One could almost feel the pained cries of the thousands who had perished in darkness, but when they at last reached their destination and stepped off the lift, there was silence. As the name suggested, a vast pit of many levels had been carved into the rock. Once, thousands of slaves worked away in this place, but they had either perished or been delivered from this place as a result of Nefaron's new "master". Some slaves remained, but their numbers were few and they had been tasked with a special project.

But in place of the thousands of slaves was inky darkness. It seemed unnatural, as if there was a black hole in the center of the pit that threatened to consume this world. Yet there was no sound save for the footsteps of the pair of darksiders.

"Reach out. Allow the Dark Side to consume you utterly. What do you see? What fills your mind?"

TAGS: Serina Calis ​

 

[Serina Calis]

Dance with the Devil
Location: Anoat
Objective: Learn
Allies: Darth Nefaron
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: ???

"Try to keep pace, Nefaron."
​

The descent into the belly of Nefaron's fortress was not merely a journey through rock and ruin. It was a descent into meaning.

Every level of the pit they passed was heavy with anguish—a miasma of old blood, psychic residue, and the rot of forgotten prayers. Serina Calis inhaled it deeply, savoring it the way a sommelier might swirl a glass of rare wine. It clung to her skin, her armor, her very soul, seeping into the spaces between her thoughts where guilt had once resided.

Now there was only appetite.

She stepped out into the heart of the pit behind Nefaron, her boot heels clicking against obsidian stone as the silence swallowed them whole. Before her stretched the abyss. The darkness was so absolute, so deliberate, it was not absence—it was presence. A devouring thing. An invitation.

She stood at the precipice like a bride before a wedding altar.

And then Nefaron spoke, his words low and grim:

Her lips parted slowly, a smirk forming there—not one of mockery, but something far more dangerous: willingness.

"So eager to see what writhes inside me, my Lord?" she murmured, her voice dark honey, velvet soaked in sin. "And yet, you've brought me to a place where even the Dark itself dares not whisper. How flattering."

Her gauntleted hands lifted gracefully, fingers unfurling like a dancer's. The glow from the etchings on Ebon Requiem—strapped to her back—flickered, reacting to the swell of energy already coiling around her form.

She closed her eyes.

And opened herself.

The Force hit her like a tide of boiling oil, washing over her with ecstasy and agony in equal measure. It crawled into her lungs, into the marrow of her bones, and into the intimate recesses of her thoughts. She felt it penetrate her with all the elegance of a knife, tearing away what little sanctity remained.

She welcomed it.

Her breath hitched, not in fear—but delight.

"What do you see?"

Her body trembled as her mind plunged.

And in the fathomless black beneath her feet, she saw herself—not as she was, but as she was becoming.

A thousand forms—each more voluptuous, more grotesquely magnificent than the last—crawled across the surface of the galaxy like a virus of gold and shadow. Worlds kneeling not in worship, but in lust. Entire Jedi enclaves mutilating their Codes and begging for her kiss. She saw Sith with her name branded into their skin. She saw suns blink out in her name and stars reignited by the mere flex of her will.

Her laughter filled a hundred temples.
Her eyes replaced the statues of saints.
Her touch—sacred and defiled—turned sages into beasts and beasts into saints.

"I see..." she whispered aloud, her voice thick with arousal and awe, "a galaxy naked and trembling beneath me. Not broken... but remade. Tamed. Delighted to serve. Their pain, their love, their obedience—every drop freely given."

She gasped, her spine arching as more visions poured into her—her body glowing faintly with that pulsing rhythm of corruption.

"I see the Jedi kneel, not to die, but to confess—to offer themselves."

One step forward.

"I see the Sith, clawing at each other for my attention, like wolves in heat."

Another step.

"I see the Light bent into lace, wrapped around my throat like a lover's ribbon, begging to be used."

She opened her eyes.

And they were burning.

Twin stars of glacial blue, rimmed with the violet of something ancient and wrong.

"This vergence..." she said, exhaling as if after a kiss, "is a womb. And I—I—am what it has longed to birth."

She turned toward Nefaron then, her presence radiating the scent of scorched roses and old perfume—the kind found on the pillows of queens who had poisoned their kings.

"I am not merely a vessel, Lord Nefaron." She walked toward him, slow, sinuous, as if dancing to a music only the Dark Side could hear. "I am the serpent that coils through the hearts of empires. The plague that whispers to the just. The cure that tastes like poison."

And then she was close. Too close. But not to strike.

To tempt.

"You brought me here to show me the Dark Side… but my sweet corpse-lord…" she purred, her voice a low, lascivious melody, "it already knows me. We are lovers. We are co-conspirators. We finish each other's sentences and share the same bed."

She turned back toward the pit, her arms spreading as if to embrace the abyss itself.

"And soon, very soon, the galaxy will know that what stirs in the dark… is me."

Silence followed. But not emptiness.

The pit had felt her.

And it welcomed her.

 

[Darth Nefaron]

Her enthusiasm was infectious. But she had fallen into a trap.

Nefaron watched on, hands still folded behind him as his new acolyte reveled in visions of gradure.

A galaxy that loved her. A galaxy that was subservient to her alone.

"Perhaps. But tell me, my dear, how often does the Dark Side give out power freely?"
​

Nefaron did not flinch. This seductress had mastered many arts in her short life, but she had failed to see just what this vergence was. It was not a natural thing, it was not here when Nefaron arrived and claimed Anoat as his own.

He had forged it.

He had sacrificed thousands.

Indiscrimentne torment. Endless suffering.

And once it was born, he had done what he did to every other being who came to Anoat.

He placed it in chains. Bound it to his will.

This vergence was his.
​

"It is true, the Dark Side calls to you. It is also true that your connection to it is unique, but do not mistake your visions as concrete manifestations of the future. Do you know how many Dark Lords fell prey to their own faulty foresight? You are not Sith, but you maintain many qualities of the Sith that I must purge."

The Corpse Lord brushed past his acolyte, his withered hands reaching out to the vergene as if he was about to pray, but in the end his fingers turned into claws as a torrent of his lightning flowed into the darkness, seemingly disappearing into nothingness. But soon enough it was as if they very world began to groan, the vergence seemingly expanding and contracting almost as if it was breathing.

"Those visions were my creation. I showed you what you desired, and you were lured in. You have given yourself to the Dark Side, but do not forget that there is still much for you to learn. Arrogance is a trait that is to be embraced, yes, but if you could achieve all that you have envisioned at this very moment, then you and I would not be having this conversation."

Nefaron turned his hands then, instead of claws, it appeared as if he had gotten hold of something. In a sudden motion, it was as if the vergence flew toward them and consumed them, bathing them both in darkness until all surroundings had vanished. Now only Nefaron and Serina remained, lights in an endless darkness.

"Humbling you is impossible. But that does not mean I cannot teach you," the Corpse Lord turned to face his acolyte once more. "I must simply take an alternate path."

From the darkness, shapes and colors began to appear. At first, they were little more than blurry objects, but soon they began to solidify. From all appearances, they had jumped into a cesspit, trash and rusted metal surrounded them as they found themselves standing over a man, though one hesitated to call him as such based on his appearance. He was broken, flesh torn, and bones shattered. His breathing was ragged at best, and it seemed likely that he would die.

Nefaron knelt down, his hand hovering over the poor man, but he did not touch him, nor did the dying man seem to acknowledge them.

"You are not the only one who was ripped from Death's clutches by the Dark Side. I will show you what it means to embrace suffering, to remake the galaxy with the power only suffering can grant."

This man was Nefaron.

She would watch his true self be born.

TAGS: Serina Calis ​

​

 

[Serina Calis]

Dance with the Devil
Location: Anoat
Objective: Learn
Allies: Darth Nefaron
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: ???

"Try to keep pace, Nefaron."
​

Darkness.

Not absence. Not void. But presence. A thinking, watching, breathing thing.

The world was gone. The pit, the fortress, the slaves, the galaxy—stripped away in the blink of an eye and replaced by this realm of pure power. This was not some quaint vision granted by the Force. This was a domain, and in it, he was god.

Serina stood in the dark with Nefaron, two torches smoldering in a place where time did not exist. And yet, her bearing did not waver. Not even as the visions of grandeur melted into mockery. Not even as her fantasies were stripped bare and revealed for what they truly were: a lure. A trap. A lesson in the cruelest language the Dark Side offered.

Yet, her smirk did not die. No—it deepened.

He had caught her in his web, yes. But webs went both ways.

As the darkness twisted and rippled like liquid shadow, she listened—intently, almost reverently—to the Corpse Lord's admonishment. She absorbed every syllable with the same precision she'd once applied to ancient tomes in the Jedi archives, before they had been left behind to corrupt in her memory.

He had crafted the vergence. Forged it from torment. Bound it in chains. Made it scream—and then drank of its power as if from a chalice of liquid despair.

How utterly divine.

She admired him more in this moment than ever before.

The world groaned. The vergence breathed. And Nefaron—withered, rotted, immortal—showed her the truth.

And what a delicious truth it was.

Then came the pull.

Not of the Force—but of will.

Reality shredded like silk caught in wind, and in an instant, they were no longer in the black pit but in a place of origin. A cesspit of blood and waste. A tomb for the living.

There he lay.

A broken, bleeding man, ribs exposed like the fingers of a broken cage. Eyes glassy, spirit shattered. Life clinging to him like frost on dead petals.

This was Nefaron.

Before the chains. Before the crown of bone.

Serina looked down upon him—not in pity, but in worship. Not of the man who had suffered, but of the act of suffering itself.

Her tongue darted slowly across her lips, savoring the image, the story, the raw power of it.

And then she spoke.

"So this is where you were reborn…" Her voice was silk soaked in blood and roses, low and licentious, as if she were murmuring to a lover in the dark. She knelt beside him, her presence a sensual contrast to the rot around them—living corruption beside dying flesh.

She leaned close to the broken thing on the ground, her breath brushing against his torn cheek, her voice a whispered hymn of veneration.

"How beautifully ruined you were."

A chuckle—soft, feminine, intoxicating. Her gloved fingers ghosted over the corpse's ruined ribs, never quite touching, her motions slow, reverent.

"You suffered until the stars blinked for you. Until the Force itself begged you to rise. Not because you were chosen… but because you commanded it to choose you."

Her eyes flicked up to the present Nefaron. The real Nefaron. The god he had become.

"You tamed the Dark Side. And you demand I do the same."

She stood slowly, sinuous as coiling silk, and began circling the man beside her—trailing her fingers along the trash, the twisted rebar, the blood-slicked concrete, as though walking through sacred catacombs.

"You think I was lured by the visions? Mmm, perhaps. But only because I wanted to be. What temptress does not enjoy the game? Let me sip the wine before I turn the cup to ash."

She laughed then—not mocking, but rapturous.

"You sought to humble me… but my dear, you've only aroused me."

And she meant it.

Not in body. Not in lust. But in the deepest part of her that thrived on submission, only to twist it into dominion. This was not humiliation. This was revelation.

She was not afraid of being wrong. She was afraid of being limited.

"You think I dream of a galaxy that loves me because I am vain. No—I want them to love me because they shouldn't."

She stopped at Nefaron's side and faced him fully, placing a hand to her chest as if in oath—but her smirk told a darker story.

"You carved power from agony. I will carve adoration from despair. I will give the masses hope—only to chain them with it. The Jedi promise freedom. I will promise ecstasy. The Sith offer strength. I will offer belonging."

She stepped closer, her tone now softer, almost… intimate.

"And that is why your lesson is not lost on me, my Lord. I will not spurn your teachings, nor will I dismiss your warnings. I will learn. I will listen. I will kneel..."

A pause.

A beat.

"Until the day I decide not to."

Her hand rose, offering it not in challenge, but in partnership—as if to say, lead me deeper. Show me more. Her eyes never left his.

"Now then. Shall we continue this communion? Or must I break myself on the altar of suffering next?"

Her voice was an aria, equal parts mockery and reverence, a siren's call that even darkness leaned in to hear.

 

[Darth Nefaron]

The offered hand was taken, Nefaron rising from his crouched position. The gurgling form beneath them continued to cling onto what remained of his life, but he need not wait long. Out of the darkness came a shape, it was ill-defined, but this new arrival wasted little time in dragging the poor man away, deeper into the darkness where the pair could no longer see him.

"Belonging? Ecstacy? You sound increasingly like a holonet start instead of a horrid beast lurking in the dark."

Nefaron laughed. It was a genuine thing, something he rarely did in front of others. He offered the observation with no malice, for this was just a mere observation. In many ways, she had been right; her vision diverged from the path of the Sith, but Nefaron hadn't the heart to explain to her why her desires would only lead to ruin. She wished to be desired, but untouchable. She wished for the galaxy to pursue her with the passion of a lover, yet she would forever deny her sycophants. In truth, Lady Calis could only ever love herself, for all other beings would be little more than playthings for her. The moment she showed genuine care for another being would be the downfall of her quest for power, for but a moment's deviation from that path could prove to be disastrous.

Nefaron loved nothing. He did not offer ecstasy or to elicit the greatest desires of all beings.

He offered fear. Endless and incapable.

He thought that to be far simpler.
​

"If you are so keen to learn, then allow me to offer a bit of advice; It is better to be feared than loved. You may believe what you wish, but one day you will see the truth in that."

He folded his hands behind his back once more, looking off into the darkness as if he was trying to perceive something in the inky nothingness.

"You are not to be broken as I was. The path to the Dark Side is unique for every being who chooses to follow it. But you will find that your current abilities will not be enough if you are to be of service to me, let alone carry out your grand designs. I have seen you fight, Serina Calis, but I have yet to see you unleash the full power of the Dark Side."

The world around them morphed again, and this time they found themselves in a dank tomb of sorts. Various arcane symbols were carved into the rock of the tomb, they appeared to be vaguely related to the lore of the Sith. But the place was old, far older than the various Sith realms that had come and gone in the past thousand years. But sure enough, they were not alone in this place, but they were not standing over another broken corpse.

"For two decades, I vanished into the Unknown Regions, venturing into the Darkness that lingers at the edges of our galaxy. It was here that my true instruction began, for it was in these forgotten realms that I learned true power, but I had to prove that I was worthy of the offering of old. You must do the same."

Nefaron slipped away into the blackness of the tomb, leaving Serina alone and unarmed. From the shadows approached truly horrid things, Sithspawn from the ancient days when the first schism occurred in the Jedi Order, leading to the creation of the Order of the Sith Lords. These beasts had been left behind to protect the tombs of the long-dead Lords that had not fled to Korriban.

"The Dark Side has always existed. Since the first living being began to feel, the Dark Side was there to guide them along the path to power. I was a novice in combat when I encountered these beasts, and I had no lightsaber to call to my hand. You must allow yourself to open fully, to let anger flow through you like a raging river."

The beasts approached, some armed with crude blades and clubs while others relied on slashing claws and nashing teeth. They had not tasted the flesh of one so pristine before, and they were so very hungry.

"This battle cannot be won with arms or guile. Only your wrath, pure and unfiltered, will save you."

TAGS: Serina Calis ​

 

[Serina Calis]

Dance with the Devil
Location: Anoat
Objective: Learn
Allies: Darth Nefaron
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: ???

"Try to keep pace, Nefaron."
​

The shadows swallowed him.

Nefaron, for all his decrepit elegance, disappeared with the grace of a funeral shroud caught in the wind, leaving only the echo of his lessons and the stench of ancient decay. Serina Calis stood alone—unarmed, unarmored, and unforgiven—in a tomb older than the empires etched into galactic memory. The air here was wet with age, thick with wrath, and sacred with suffering.

And they were coming.

Their approach wasn't silent—it was ravenous. The scratch of claws over stone, the thrum of atavistic hunger, the wet snarling of mouths bred not to speak but to consume. Sithspawn, twisted mockeries of evolution and cruelty, guardians of a grave no mortal was meant to trespass.

Serina did not move. She did not scream.

She welcomed them.

The Dark Side roared in her blood—except it was not blood that coursed through her veins, not anymore. There was no heart in her chest. No thudding, fleshy organ that gave rhythm to life.

In its place dwelled a thing.

A construct, not of flesh, but of will—of dark purpose. A living shard of her own corrupted future-self, seeded in her chest like a parasitic star, pulsing with malice and unnatural beauty. It did not beat, it burned—a molten core of predestination, alive with blackened Force energy.

Her corrupted blood moved not through veins but through conduits of purpose, alive with lust and venom and power. And now, as the beasts came into view, it responded.

The first lunged.

A hound-like thing with a half-melted face and bone protrusions in place of eyes. Its blade scraped stone, raised for the kill.

Serina's hand came up—not fast, but with commanding grace. The Force detonated outward in a cone of searing lightning, dancing across the beast's malformed hide in a chorus of cracking bones and ruptured flesh. The electricity took on a strange hue—not merely violet, but threaded with pink and crimson light, like sin made manifest. The hound spasmed, screamed, and died in a blossom of steam and liquefied tissue.

More followed.

She stepped into them. No hesitation.

Her eyes had gone luminescent, twin beacons of cold fire rimmed in shadow. She did not speak. She did not sneer. The seductress within her did not coo or tempt.

She fought.

One creature—a loping, armored brute with a mace-sized jaw—rushed her. It swung a rusted cleaver. She ducked and drove her hand into its belly, not with a weapon, but with will. The Force compacted its organs inward with a sickening crunch. It collapsed, drooling ichor, twitching as its innards pulped themselves into nonexistence.

But one caught her.

A lithe thing, scaled like a serpent, its claws flayed her side, dragging a gout of corrupted blood from her ribs. Her body jolted—not from pain, but from reverence. The wound was intimate, personal. The Dark Side rejoiced.

And then something… strange stirred.

Serina dropped to one knee, blood spilling in dark, oily rivulets. Her hand pressed to the wound—not in desperation, but with calculated purpose.

The Dark Side howled.

But the Light—oh, the Light—wept.

And from her hand came not white, not golden, not holy brilliance—

But a sickly radiance, hued in lilac and bleeding rose, light that had once healed and now corrupted, a perverted radiance that shimmered with sensual warmth and whispered sacrilege.

It loved her.

The Light, broken and bent, had been made her servant.

The wound closed—not cleanly. The flesh twisted, changed, improved, the scar burning with pink-purple sigils in elegant spirals. Her corrupted Force Heal had not simply repaired—it had transformed.

The Light had not resisted. It had surrendered.

More beasts closed in.

Now she moved with abandon—unshackled, euphoric. Telekinetic bursts sent bodies careening into stone, breaking against the ancient symbols like offerings at an altar. One creature locked eyes with her—if it had eyes—and in that instant, her gaze poured into its mind.

Force Fear.

It shattered. The beast let out a gurgling whine, its legs giving out beneath it as it fell into a fatal spasm, howling at hallucinations only it could see. Serina walked past it, never looking down as her hand shot backward and obliterated its skull with a final, contemptuous flick of the Force.

The tomb stank of death, of ozone and scorched gore. It was a symphony of horror—a space not desecrated, but exalted by what she had done.

And still she did not gloat. This was not performance. This was revelation.

One final beast charged. Larger than the others, plated in something like ancient armor, a weapon fused into one arm, the other a jagged claw. It bellowed, enraged by the desecration of its sacred charge.

Serina's breath slowed.

She raised both hands, eyes narrowing. The Force gathered, coiled around her like a lover's embrace. Her own body shimmered with threads of shadow and light, dark tendrils dancing with the pink glow of corrupted mercy.

The beast swung—

And she caught it.

Mid-air. Mid-swing. Held it in the air like a child dangling a puppet.

And then, without a word, she crushed it.

Every plate, every bone, every inch of the abomination imploded, until it was no more than ruin at her feet.

Only then did she exhale.

She stood amid the carnage, blood—hers and theirs—painting her skin in elegant streaks. Her hair was wild, glowing faintly with threads of residual power. Her lips were parted, breath shallow, her entire body thrumming with transcendent corruption.

Her vision had shifted.

This was not ecstasy.

This was divinity.

She looked up into the shadows where Nefaron watched.

Her voice, when it came, was soft. Steady. And infinitely dangerous.

"I have opened myself. And the Dark has claimed me. But now…"

She lifted her hand, where corrupted Light still glowed like the breath of a dying star.

"The Light kneels, too."

 

[Darth Nefaron]

She spoke to the darkness.

It answered.​

"Dear child, your ego knows no bounds."

From the inky blackness, the Corpse Lord appeared once more, though now one arm was raised holding an ancient lantern, the sort that used primitive liquid fuel to provide light. The flickering wick inside just barely revealed the face beneath the hood, but Nefaron remained ever ghoulish no matter the lighting.

"These events are but visions. You walk in my memories, though I have taken certain liberties."

He was rather conveniently leaving out the three days he had spent descending into the tomb, fighting off hordes of the same creatures that the Dark Jedi had so efficiently dispatched with her newfound power. Nefaron did not linger at his Acolyte's side, instead, he moved on past her toward the center of the vast tomb, though details of the surroundings became blurry the further from Nefaron one looked.

"Mock the Sith all you will, but there is power in what they have left behind."

In the center of the tomb lay a sarcophagus, carved into the stone were the runes of those ancients who had first split from the ancient Jedi. Most were jibberish to the modern galaxy, but a few phrases stuck out to one versed in the ancient script of the Sith.

"Woe to those who seek me. Woe to those who embrace the weak. Blood is my price."

Nefaron read the decipherable text for his companion, before looking to her with his hand held out

"Blood is indeed the price to be paid. You have shed the blood of those who defend this place, but it is only the blood of one who the Dark Side has touched that will allow this tomb to open. This is a price I paid long ago."

Again, he gestured, expecting her outstretched palm. He set the lantern down on the lid of the sarcophagus so that he might produce a blade from his many tools on his belt. He had become quite the scholar in his decades in the unknown regions, hunting for the darkest secrets of the ancient days of the galaxy. He had found quickly that spilling of blood was a price asked of many ancient Lords, for to offer one's own life-blood was a submission to one that was long dead, a final victory over the living for those who had long since faded away into nothingness. More than once, Nefaron had contended with a spirit of an ancient Sith, either by bargaining or by complex ritual to banish the spirit forever.

Serina should consider herself lucky that she needed to spill a drop of her own blood.

"The Light will kneel to you. But first, you must master the Darkness to bring about your vision for the galaxy. Sith or not, the price of such power remains the same for all."

TAG: Serina Calis ​