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: Darth Virelia ​

 

[Darth Virelia]

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: Darth Virelia ​

​

 

[Darth Virelia]

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: Darth Virelia ​

 

[Darth Virelia]

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: Darth Virelia ​

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Try to keep pace, Nefaron."

Tag - Darth Nefaron



Serina approached the sarcophagus slowly.

Her steps echoed through the shadow-drenched tomb—not loud, not forceful, but deliberate, like the ticking of a clock moments before it chimes. For all her usual velvet seduction and acidic flair, she was quiet now, as though the weight of the moment required something else. The air was thick with ancient presence, heavy with that particular stillness that could only belong to the dead—and those who lingered too long beside them.

She did not speak at first. Her eyes roamed the runes, not merely scanning, but feeling. As though each syllable etched into the stone resonated with a long-buried chord inside her. Blood is my price. The phrase was not a warning—it was an invitation.

She stopped beside the sarcophagus, her gaze trailing from the crude wicklight of the lantern up to the face of the Corpse Lord. There was no fear in her eyes—no mockery either. Only stillness. Reflection.

Then, at last, she bowed her head.

It was not submission. Not quite. It was acknowledgment.

"You assume much, Lord Nefaron," she said softly, "but I forgive you that. Again, I understand the lesson behind your words."

Her voice was measured. Not the seductive drawl of the corruptress, nor the snarl of a would-be ruler clawing her way to power. It was something rare—truthful. The version of Serina Calis that spoke now was the woman behind the ambition. Not diminished. Not meek. But honest.

"I do mock the Sith, and often," she said, her lips quirking faintly, wryly. "But not because I fail to see the power in what they've left behind. I mock them because so many of their heirs wear the legacy like borrowed armor, never truly earning it. They inherit tombs. They chant in tongues they do not understand. They spill blood without purpose. They are… echoes."

She turned her eyes back to the sarcophagus, her fingers brushing the stone surface as if it might whisper back.

"But not you," she said after a moment. "You are different. You remember why this matters."

A pause.

"And so do I."

She extended her arm.

Unclasped one of her gauntlets.

And without hesitation, placed her bare palm in his waiting grasp.

Her skin was pale beneath the lights, the faint glow of her armor casting flickering hues of magenta and rose across the surface. Her blood pulsed visibly beneath the skin, corrupted now—tainted by the entity that dwelled within her, the thing that had replaced her heart.

"I've killed to prove a point. I've shed blood for pleasure. I've shattered minds and sewn lies like seeds. But I've never truly given myself to a place like this."

Her tone darkened—not in anger, but gravity.

"And yet… I find no hesitation."

She met Nefaron's gaze. Her expression was calm. Not vacant. Not cold. Just still. Like someone who had finally understood something long overdue.

"Because this," she gestured slightly to the tomb, to the blade, to the silence, "this is what separates the children playing war from those who walk in the steps of gods."

A breath.

"You said I must master the Darkness. That the Light will kneel to me once I do."

Her eyes narrowed—not in defiance, but in resolve.

"I don't want to conquer the Light. I want to possess it. I want to unravel it, thread by thread, until it sings to me in the same voice as the Dark. Until both kneel. Not from fear… but because there is nothing else left to kneel to."

She exhaled, a single curl of air that misted faintly in the cold.

"Blood is the price."

And she did not flinch when the blade cut.

The drop bloomed slowly on her palm—thick and dark, tinged with unnatural hues of violet and crimson. It shimmered faintly, like oil slick over starless water, and it did not fall. It hung there, pulsing, alive.

Serina watched it. Studied it. Not because she feared what it meant.

But because she wanted to understand it fully before she gave it away.

Then, as the ritual demanded, she extended her hand over the lid.

The blood fell.

A single drop.

Perfect.

Willing.

And in the silence that followed, Serina Calis did not look triumphant. She did not smile. She didn't preen, or posture, or revel.

She simply waited.

 

[Darth Nefaron]

I mock them because so many of their heirs wear the legacy like borrowed armor, never truly earning it.
They inherit tombs.
They chant in tongues they do not understand.
They spill blood without purpose.
They are… echoes.
​

An apifany. It was as if the Force had delivered its own judgment of the modern Sith directly to him, from a being so foul and so brilliant. Lady Calis had proven wise, her judgment harsh and yet it rang true. So few remained that could claim any majesty the Sith once held.

Malum? A fool clinging to a dead legacy.

Strosius? Humiliated, a failure.

Carnifex? A heretic consumed by his own grandeur.

Raaf? An old witch who should be put down.

Empyrean? Little more than a mad revenant.
​

All of them were doomed. They would fall, consumed by terror, drowned in the blood of their followers. In the end, the Sith could have but one guiding vision, one destiny that they should pursue. Nefaron sought a final revenge, to drag the galaxy into an eternity of sorrow as he ushered in the era of darkness. In the end, he and Lady Calis sought a different future, but they walked the same path. She would serve him well, a weapon he could unleash that fell outside of the Sith hierarchy. She would one day come for him, seeking to snuff him out, but in the end, they were within his mind, consumed by his memories. She would be taught, Nefaron had promised as much, but there were dark secrets he would hold himself, tools he would wield at the end of all things, when at last his acolyte must also become one with the void.

He would kill her. He would offer her the kindness that was death, rather than an eternity of torment.

The Corpse Lord smiled as a pale hand was exposed, and he took it into his grasp gently, as if he were a holy man offering a blessing.

"You would have been counted amongst the greatest Sith prophets in days long since past. Your name might have been honored like that of Bane or Exar Kun."

The blade met flesh, a quick swipe to draw forth the ichor of life. As it pooled in her palm, Nefaron drew the hand to the sarcophagus lid, placing it flat atop a symbol that had lost all meaning in the modern era.

They slipped once more into shadow.

They traveled together, into a past long forgotten.

They were witnesses to the first schism. To the Hundred Year Darkness.

The Sith were expelled. Groups fleeing across the galaxy.

Most came to Korriban.

Others sought the call of darkness. They were drawn to the edges of space.

They found monsters. They found blasphemous gods.

They became those gods. They drowned the Unknown Regions in chaos.

They watched these ancients unleash terrible power.​

Power they could learn. Power they could wield.

"Serina. Take hold of your darkness."
​

Nefaron's voice cut in, so kind and gentle, a guiding voice in the dark as the rushing shadows closed in on her. She must search within herself, find that electric power that only a Sith could produce. Not just simple lightning, but bolts of power strong enough to melt stone and flesh alike. Nefaron stood at her side, still holding the hand she offered, but now he lifted it, holding it straight out in front of her as the spirits observed rushed toward the pair, ancient Sith seeking a new host to bring death to the galaxy once more.

"You must drive them away. Unleash the darkness. Send them back to the netherworld."

TAGS: Darth Virelia


​

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Try to keep pace, Nefaron."

Tag - Darth Nefaron



At first, Serina hesitated.

The darkness howled around her—chilling, ancient, raw in a way no modern Sith philosophy had ever truly grasped. The spirits that rushed her were not the convenient poltergeists conjured in the rituals of cowards and liars. These were Primordial Things—beings older than empires, older than memory itself, fueled by a rage that was not emotional but elemental.

Serina felt their hunger rake across her skin, their desire to consume, to reclaim flesh, to use her body as a weapon against the living. For a moment—a sliver of a second—she wavered. Doubt gnawed at her bones like worms feasting on the dead.

I'm not ready, the small voice whispered inside her. I'm still...

But then, like a beacon slicing through the storm, she heard the recent memory of Nefaron's voice. Soft. Reverent.

"You would have been counted amongst the greatest Sith prophets in days long since past. Your name might have been honored like that of Bane or Exar Kun."

Her fingers curled into claws, the blood pooling in her palm shimmering in the vision's unnatural light. Pride—earned, forged, claimed—rose up in her chest like a wildfire.

She was not a mistake.
She was not a child.
She was not a tool.

She was corruption incarnate.

The Force roared within her veins. Dark and pure. No light mingled there. No faltering shades of gray. The Light had no place here—no place in her.

She thrust out her hand, feeling the nexus of anger, of ambition, of need spark at her core and blossom outward like a black sun going nova. Crackling arcs of dark side energy burst from her fingertips, not white-blue as was typical, but a seething crimson, shot through with black and poisoned violet.

But Serina's aim was not to simply banish these spirits as Nefaron had suggested. That would be mercy. No, Serina wanted more. She wanted to corrupt them, to twist them, to consume their eternal rage and make it hers.

The first blast of her corrupted lightning struck one of the rushing specters dead on, and for a moment, she felt it recoil—the ancient being shrieking not in fear, but recognition of her will. It shuddered, its outline flickering, destabilizing under her assault.

A second spirit lunged, its form less coherent—a writhing storm of claws and gaping mouths. Serina turned, another savage burst of energy surging from her hand. She seized it—grappling not with flesh, but with its very essence, trying to force it to kneel to her will.

And for a moment—just a moment—she felt it yield.

Power bloomed behind her teeth like the taste of blood and metal and victory.

But then the others came.

They didn't scatter. They didn't retreat. They converged—a mass of ancient hatred, slamming into her with a pressure that felt like the crushing depths of a black sea.

Serina staggered back, the corrupted lightning in her hand faltering under the sheer weight of their onslaught. Her knees buckled, armor grinding against the stone underfoot as she struggled to keep her hand raised, her will focused.

They're too many, a rational mind would have said. They are too old. Too strong.

But Serina refused to surrender.

Snarling, she poured more of herself into the blast, teeth gritted so hard they might have cracked. Her corrupted heart, the Dark Side engine in her chest, screamed as she overtaxed its unnatural power, violet and pink veins lacing up her neck and jaw as the corruption bloomed under her skin like fever.

The spirits battered against her mind, clawing, whispering—Promising. Lying. Offering.

She roared back, a sound ripped from deep inside her, the war cry of a soul that would never bow.

But they did not stop. They did not falter.

Her lightning flickered, surged—and then began to falter, the searing arcs growing thinner, paler under the weight of the enemy she had dared to claim as prey.

Serina's body trembled, her vision blurred at the edges with red-black haze.

Still she fought.

Still she refused.

The ancient spirits coiled around her now, no longer distant things but within reach—their skeletal hands brushing her armor, their incorporeal teeth snapping at the seams of her will. One whispered a name she hadn't heard since she was a Padawan. Another showed her visions of Polis Massa burning. Another promised her that if she only let go, if she only surrendered, she could be a Queen of the Dead.

Her knees hit the ground with a harsh crack.

Still her hand remained outstretched, still lightning seethed between her trembling fingers.

Serina Calis, the would-be Empress of corruption, refused to yield.

But she was losing.

 

[Darth Nefaron]

The ancient Sith had failed.

Their spirits remained trapped, fixed in a decayed ruin without the strength to escape the endless darkness.

This was a reminder. To die in service of the dark meant an endless wandering, for the Dark Side did not abide weakness.

Nefaron had told his Acyolte. Pride would be her undoing.

Fight as she might, the dead were too much for her.

They had nearly claimed Nefaron as well. But he made the necessary sacrifice to escape their clutches.

He would not force her to endure the same.

"You fight the endless dark, child. Even you, cloaked in terrible power, cannot yet bend the Dark Side to your will. Not Yet."
​

Nefaron did not chastise, nor was he mocking her. Instead, he spoke as a grandfather might, wise and full of a tenderness that seemed entirely unlike the fell Corpse Lord. Even as a stream of fell lightning flowed from her fingers, Nefaron appeared once more from behind, the same lamp carried in his hand as he stood over his fallen Acylote. The light drove the shadows away, the dead forced back into their endless torment as he provided the fallen Jedi with a reprieve.

"You did well. Lesser beings would have given into the whispers of the damned, but you clung to your will until the very last. A Sith you are not, but you walk a path adjacent to my Apprentice. He, too, is powerful, but he had to learn the limits of his abilities before he could begin to dive yet further into the great mystery of the force. This is a lesson I offer you, Lady Calis, one many Sith have failed to internalize to their own peril."

They returned once more to the waking world, cold and alone in the slave pits of Nefaron's Empire of suffering. This had been but an introduction, a gauge of the Dark Jedi's power. Nefaron shifted around his Acyolte, the lamp he had been holding tumbled from his hand as he reached out to offer her aid in rising. To expel that much power in such a short time would be draining, especially for one who could not draw from the endless malice that Nefaron had in seemingly endless supply.

But she would learn. He would forge this woman into a weapon that made entire systems tremble in her presence.
​

"They used past, present, and future against you. They showed you regrets from your youth, failures in your first conquests, and the unraveling of your great plans. This is our way, for the Sith had made room for but one great vision. Ours. But you can alter that course, should you prove strong enough. I ask this of you, to rise and claim strength from weakness and use the ignorance of lesser beings to elevate you to prominence. One day, you may challenge Alliance and Sith alike for dominance, but that day is beyond our sight. I shall walk with you along that road until we at last arrive at a convergence. Only one of us may walk away from that encounter alive, but for the time being, we have a common cause."

Nefaron was a liar. Mistrust and deception were his weapons, but here in the darkness, nothing was hidden.

He offered her the gift of truth. The sort only a Dark Lord could offer, for it went against their nature.

"Do you know what I want, Serina? Behind all the grandiosity and deception?"

Nefaron's dead, pale eyes turned then. The pale white flashed brightly, a fiery orange at last revealed.

"Revenge. A vendetta carried by Dark Lords for thousands of years was at last laid to rest. When every living being knows nothing but anger, fear, and suffering, then I will have achieved my apotheosis. For this galaxy will be mine, the Sith at last triumphant and rightfully so."

Something vile was in his voice then. As if some fell beast sought to claw its way from this corpse of a man. But soon enough, it turned to little more than a cruel whisper.

"And you, my Acyolte, will help me achieve it. Perhaps you will prevent this galactic calamity, perhaps your will will be triumphant over mine. But for the time being, our will is one, for I can show you the path to power beyond anything you can possibly imagine. But you must serve, you must kill, you must do whatever is necessary to survive."

TAGS: Darth Virelia ​

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Try to keep pace, Nefaron."

Tag - Darth Nefaron



Serina Calis did not speak.

She did not look up as Nefaron's voice wove its way through the air like smoke. She did not flinch when he offered her praise or when he whispered of revenge in that low, flickering voice that sounded like fire licking bone. She did not recoil as his hand extended toward her, or when the lamp's eerie glow illuminated her ashen face and trembling form.

She did not answer because she did not need to.

Failure was a word for smaller things. For lesser creatures. For lives that could be measured and discarded.

But not for her.

Her body screamed with exhaustion. Muscles twitched under obsidian-threaded armor, nerves frayed to their limits. Her hands, still laced with residual flickers of violet and crimson lightning, trembled like the last arcs of a dying storm. But her eyes…

Her eyes did not flicker. They burned.

Blue, bright and unnatural, caught the edge of the lamplight—and turned it back. Not in defiance. Not in respect. In certainty. In a promise forged not of words, but will.

The dark side had tested her. It had found her wanting. And that was unacceptable.

She did not accept defeat. She did not accept weakness.

The spirits had overwhelmed her not because she lacked the will—but because she had not yet learned how to shape that will into something the Force would obey. That lesson was clear now. Etched in her skin like the lingering sting of spectral claws. Burned into her lungs with every ragged breath. The dead had shown her what power looked like—and how far she was from wielding it as her own.

Good. Let them show her. Let them mock her. Let them feed her the full bitterness of what she lacked. She would drink it like wine. Let it rot in her blood until she became the poison they feared.

Serina reached out—not for Nefaron's hand, but for the edge of the sarcophagus. Her fingers closed around the cold stone as if it were the hilt of a blade, and with agonizing slowness, she pulled herself upright.

A hiss escaped her teeth. Not in pain. In anger. At herself. At the spirits. At reality.

The dark tendrils of her corrupted heart—a living engine of shadow and Force-made malice—throbbed with irregular pulses as it stabilized, drawing power back into her. Her shoulders squared. Her chin lifted.

Still, she said nothing.

No oath. No vow. No affirmation of loyalty. No declaration of revenge.

She would not speak her hunger into the world.

She would impose it.

Her ambition had no limits. It was not about empires or armies or titles.

Serina wanted everything.

She wanted to rule the Sith. She wanted to corrupt the Jedi. She wanted to bend the Force—all of it—into a cage of her own design. She wanted to break the cycle of Master and Apprentice, of Light and Dark, of Dogma and Destiny, and replace it with her own shape.

She wanted a galaxy where no one would ever look down on her again.

Not even the Force itself.

Nefaron had his revenge. His black cathedral of pain. His great, burning vendetta against a universe that had turned its back on him. Serina… Serina had something worse.

She had a dream.

Her gaze finally rose to meet Nefaron's, and her expression said more than words ever could.

I will surpass you.
I will use you.
And when the time comes, I will destroy you—not in rage, but in triumph.

She gave a single nod. Just once.

Her silence was not submission.

It was a sentence.

A promise.

And a warning.

 

[Darth Nefaron]

She was bitter. She was furious.

Good.

One did not need the force to see what lay behind those pretty eyes.
​

The Dark Side had humiliated her, a humiliation that all Sith and Dark Jedi had to face at one point in their lives. Serina had failed to bend the ghosts of the past to her service. Veradun had been reduced to a slave once more.

Nefaron had been mauled and torn apart, only to be poorly put back together.

The Dark Side and the galaxy were cruel. The Sith learned and embraced these truths long ago, while the Jedi believed the root of all suffering was something to overcome. It wasn’t possible. They would learn that one day.

As was expected, the Dark Jedi did not take the Corpse Lord's extended hand, instead choosing to offer defiance and a cold-burning rage. Despite himself, Nefaron could not help but smile his sickly grin as he waved one of his hands, wiping away the illusion of an ancient tomb to bring them back to the present, back in the black dungeons beneath the Corpse Lords' fortress. Though she may not believe it, Serina had passed Nefaron’s test, she’d proven that she could indeed be molded into the weapon Nefaron required for his plans to move forward. Now he needed to pull her further into the dark, and he knew just the place to do it.

“Come with me, Acolyte. We venture to the deepest crevice of this place, a place where even my Apprentice has yet to visit. There I will grant you knowledge, and with knowledge comes strength.”

He did not offer his hand again, instead, he turned on his heel and made his way back to the same platform they had taken to reach the vergence. Indeed, the fortress went deeper then anyone realized as Nefaron continued to poison Anoat yet further, to make it a world that would one day be counted amongst the great worlds of the Sith. The chamber at the bottom was his true inner sanctum, a place where his most closely guarded knowledge was stored and his most profane studies took place.

Serina would get but a glimpse. She would want more.

She would have to prove herself.

The silent trip took a few minutes, but at last they arrived in the darkest pit. Nefaron raised one hand, and a bolt of lightning leaped forth into the darkness to ignite a great fire in the center of the chamber. Shelves containing ancient relics, dusty texts, and all sorts of disturbing memorabilia of past wielders of the Dark Side. Serina was but the second to venture into this place by invitation, for Nefaron had brought another to his place, though she was far different from the Dark Jedi who now accompanied the Dark Lord.

“You ruminate on failure. You plot for the future. Admirable, but allow me to offer you a reward for passing my first test.”

For a time, Nefaron scanned his shelves, dead eyes searching for a specific item. He hummed an unrecognizable tune as he went about his work, before he found his prize waiting on a stone bust that had its face crudely scratched away. It was a necklace, the mental work was ancient and the center of several bronze-colored links was a pendant of sorts, one might think it a heart. Was Nefaron holding a keepsake from a romance long since lost to time?

“The Sith have had many incarnations. The modern Sith are driven by rage and a desire for conquest, while others seek power for its own sake. Cast your mind far enough back, and you will find Sith driven by far different motivations.”

Nefaron retrieved the necklace and presented it to his Acolyte. It thrummed with ancient power, a lingering darkness that refused to die.

“The writings that accompanied this relic were difficult to piece together, but I had gathered that this belonged to a Dark Lady of the Sith from before the days of Darth Bane. It appeared that her desire to destroy the Jedi and the Republic was outweighed by her obsession with another. The fool had fallen for her enemy, a Jedi Knight who refused to succumb to the Dark Side and join this Dark Lady. So she crafted an artifact that would, if one were devoted enough to the Dark, make her allure all but irresistible. Men flocked to her banner if but to get a glance at her, but in the end, she desired only one.”

Nefaron paused, as if he had forgotten the end of his tale before he suddenly spoke again.

“She did not desire them, of course. She wanted but one woman, and unfortunately for her… that woman drove a blade through her heart. She had failed to recognize the power of the relic, and for her failure, she was banished to death.”

Nefaron folded his hands behind his back and found the Dark Jedi’s gaze.

“I see no room for love in your heart. At least, not the sort that would have you pining over another being. You wish the galaxy to love you, and perhaps this might be the first step toward your goal.”

TAGS: Darth Virelia ​

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Try to keep pace, Nefaron."

Tag - Darth Nefaron



Serina Calis stepped forward into the firelight with a slow grace that belied the frayed cords of exhaustion still winding through her limbs. Every movement she made now was quieter, more considered—refined not by humility, but by resolve. The failure she had endured in the tomb was not a chain. It was a furnace.

And she would emerge forged, or not at all.

Her eyes, brilliant and ice-blue, flicked to the pendant in Nefaron's withered hand. She did not snatch it, nor reach for it immediately. She studied it, as she had studied him—with measured detachment and veiled calculation, the gaze of a woman who understood that beauty was often a dagger's kiss.

She tilted her head slightly as he spoke of the long-dead Sith, of a Lady undone by love, undone by obsession.

How terribly familiar.

Not to her, of course. No. Not anymore.

When he finished, when his cracked, dust-ridden voice trailed off into the silence of this unholy sanctum, Serina looked up at him, the firelight casting sharp shadows across her face. It made her features look sculpted—elegant, ancient, almost mythic. Her lips parted, and her voice, when it came, was the whisper of velvet across a scalpel.

"No," she agreed softly, "there is no love in me. Not the kind that weakens. Not the kind that pleads."

Her hands drifted behind her back, mirroring his posture for a moment—not as a challenge, but as a compliment. A reflection.

"What once beat within this chest," she said, tapping lightly at the armor over where a heart should have been, "was stolen from me long ago."

She finally reached forward then, not with hunger or awe, but with the reverence one might show a long-lost sibling. Her fingers brushed the pendant—and for a moment, her breath caught.

It knew her.

It sang to her.

That slow, patient, cruel song that only the Dark Side could whisper. Not as fire. But as perfume. As silk. As disease.

She lifted it from his palm carefully, studying the bronze links, the heart-shaped core of the relic.

"She wanted to be adored," Serina murmured. "And failed to understand that to be adored is to be seen—truly seen. And when you are seen, you can be killed."

She smiled faintly—cool, sharp. "I will not make her mistake."

Turning it slowly in her hand, she let her voice deepen, grow richer, licentious in its cadence, steeped in the same honey that could damn a man before he even reached her lips.

"I do not seek the love of another. I do not crave to be touched. I crave to be craved. To be spoken of in shadows and dreamed of in fever. I want them ruined by me. Unmade by me. The Sith, the Jedi, the nobles and rebels alike—I want them on their knees, loving me because they do not understand what else to do with the ruin I've become."

She looked up, and for a heartbeat, she looked almost amused. As though she knew how this might sound. And yet she meant it—every word.

"You speak of yourself as death," she said, stepping closer now, her voice curling like smoke through his sanctum. "You will bring the end. The apocalypse. The grand extinction of all things, and I believe you."

She let that hang in the air.

"But if you are Death, my lord…" Her hand rose, placing the relic carefully against her throat, not fastening it just yet, but trying it on—like a queen fitting the crown of an empire she had yet to conquer.

"Then I am Pestilence."

The word dripped from her lips like sin made manifest.

"Not the old kind. Not rotted flesh or seeping wounds. I am the new plague. The one you beg to catch. The one you let in with a kiss. The one you invite through your door."

She turned, trailing her fingers along one of the dusty tomes as if sampling it like wine. "You'll see me in the eyes of your lover. In the voice of your closest confidant. You'll think me salvation. And by the time you realize you were wrong... I'll have rewritten you."

She stopped then, facing him again, the pendant still dangling from her hand.

"You speak of revenge. Of suffering eternal. You want to end all light. I do not disagree."

Her expression was solemn now, the weight of what she said carried in full.

"But I want to corrupt the Light. To twist it. Not to snuff it out—but to make it mine. I want the Jedi to whisper my name as prophecy. I want the Sith to kneel and not know why."

She took a breath, just one, and fastened the necklace around her throat.

A subtle shimmer passed through her.

Something shifted.

Serina Calis didn't glow. But she drew attention. Like an open flame in a room of choking gas.

She looked to Nefaron, and her voice dropped—low, elegant, laced with that dangerous intimacy that always made it unclear whether she was praising him or seducing him.

"You will make the galaxy suffer, Nefaron. And I…"

She smiled.

"I will make it beg for more."

And so they would ride forth.

 

[Darth Nefaron]

Despite himself, Nefaron smiled.

Seduction was not effective on one such as the Corpse Lord.

Though his heart still beat, there was no space for something so simple as lust.

But he did admire ambition. Serina Calis had that in abundance.
​

Gently, Nefaron took the hand of the Dark Jedi in his own in a respectful manner, as if he were a suitor and she were a fair lady from the tales of chivalry that so disgusted the Dark Lord. He offered her a polite bow, as if respecting one who carried in them a fire like that which burned within Nefaron, though of course they were ignited with different kindling.

"Lady Calis, we will accomplish terrible things together. Through our union of wills, we will reshape reality to our liking."

Nefaron released Serina's hand, gesturing to the lift they had arrived on now that Nefaron's first gift had been accepted. He would teach her more in the coming months, offer more powerful artifacts to aid her in her coming campaigns. But they had what they needed for the time being, there were more mundane plans to be made now that their alliance had been formalized. Neither had sufficient forces to challenge any of the major Sith factions, but together they could put plans into motion to undermine enemies within the Empire and those who opposed them in Alliance space.

Together, they returned once more to the lift and finally left he black pits that lay beneath the fortress of the Corpse Lord. Instead, they rose to the central tower of the fortress, arriving within the control room that monitored all of Nefaron's operations both on the world and in the wider galaxy. Droids busied themselves with several different consoles and data stations as the pair of darksiders approached a massive holoprojection of the galaxy. The red projection identified the borders of the Sith Empire and Galactic Alliance, as well as several smaller galactic powers that posed a potential threat to the Corpse Lord's power.

"Now that we are aligned, our enemies have become one. Perhaps we both should understand who now opposes us, for we ensure that our continued rise is not hindered."

Nefaron keyed in a few commands, and the galactic map changed into several images of those enemies within the Empire that Serina was now to share with him.

"The Emperor, or what remains of him, is our primary concern. He has busied himself with his own projects, but if he were to turn his gaze toward either of us, then our plans are ruined. It's best we avoid his attention for the time being."

Another command, a new image, came to prominence.

"Darth Arcanix, better known as Taeli Raaf. She has shifted her ire toward my operations on Anoat. The Lady of Secrets will need to be dealt with permanently, death is the only answer to the threat she poses."

Once more, the image changed.

"Darth Malum. He is our... ally for the time being. He thinks me cowed after he took my slave horde away, but little does he know his precious honor will soon be put to the test. He desires my help in his efforts against the Alliance, but he will have to sacrifice more than he could ever imagine if he wants to win the throne."

Nefaron deactivates the projections, turning his gaze back to the Dark Jedi.

"These are our main threats, at least those who have attracted my ire. As my enemies are now yours, perhaps you should enlighten me to those whom you wish to see dead?"

TAGS: Darth Virelia ​

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Try to keep pace, Nefaron."

Tag - Darth Nefaron



Serina did not flinch as the Corpse Lord took her hand in that strange, twisted gesture of knightly decorum. There was something theatrical in it, something archaic, but she didn't mock it. She understood the performance—power wasn't just taken, it was presented. Framed. Nefaron offered the moment like a scene from a darker age, a parody of nobility, and she met it with a faint curtsy that was more shadow than motion. A queen, accepting her crown of ash.

When he released her, she stepped away with the fluid grace of a woman who knew how to own a stage.

By the time they reached the lift, her composure was absolute again. The fire still roared within her chest—ambition, pride, unrelenting will—but it was now tempered. Sharpened. She had tasted ancient power and survived its scorn. That alone elevated her beyond half the pretenders who called themselves Lords.

As the lift hummed upward and the dark pressure of the underworld gave way to the cold clinical precision of Nefaron's command chamber, Serina's expression returned to that of the strategist—the architect. The galaxy bloomed before her in crimson outlines and sullen shadows, each flickering image another heartbeat in a sickly, dying galaxy that begged to be ruled.

Nefaron laid the names bare.

The Emperor.

Arcanix.

Malum.

She remained still as each was spoken, watching, studying—not just the image but the tone in Nefaron's voice, the emphasis of each name. It was a briefing wrapped in theater, but the stakes were real.

When he turned to her, voice low and demanding, Serina did not answer right away. She let the silence linger—not out of hesitation, but control. Her answer would not be impulsive. It would be perfect.

Her hand lifted, fingers flicking lazily to the controls on the console before them. The image of the galaxy flickered. A new star lit up in soft amber, just on the edge of Sith space, nestled along a long-forgotten trade corridor.

Polis Massa.

She turned to Nefaron, voice smooth and professional—but no less licentious for it. If anything, her tone made even dry strategy sound seductive, like velvet wrapped around blades.

"You already know my enemies," she said. "The ones who matter. They do not wear titles. They wear faces."

Her fingers slid to another control, and three holograms flickered to life.

The first.

Darth Fury.

"A Tsis'Kaar loyalist. He governs Saijo, though not for long. He suspects me of treachery, and he is correct. His influence is a blade pointed directly at my throat. I will remove him. Violently."

The image flickered. Another face.

Madelyn Lowe.

"She is not my enemy by blood. She is... a wound. She forced me to bleed, and I cannot forget that. But killing her would be wasteful. She commands a mythos that binds thousands to her. One day, she will be mine—mind and banner alike. Until then, I watch."

The image changed again.

Allyson Locke.

Serina's expression did not change, but her voice dipped subtly—more personal now.

"She was once mine to mold. A former Jedi. But the Light runs through her like marrow, and that... offends me."

She paused, finally turning back to Nefaron, expression placid, tone edged with something hungry.

"I want to break her—not kill. That's easy. But corrupt her. Seduce her soul. She will not die screaming. She will live praising me."

Serina let her hands rest lightly on the console's edge, her armor catching the red light of the galaxy as it shimmered across her curves and shoulders. She was poised, elegant—and entirely without pity.

"These three," she said. "Fury for survival. Lowe for power. Locke... for satisfaction."

She let the images flicker away, her eyes never leaving Nefaron's.

"We will burn their icons. We will hollow out their legacies and replace them with ours. And when the time comes to divide the galaxy..."

She tilted her head, smile widening just slightly.

"You may have its corpse, Nefaron."

Her eyes gleamed.

"I will take its desire."

 

[Darth Nefaron]

And so they began, their schemes laid bare
​

Nefaron admired the woman's focus and determination. Already, she had made plans to carve out her own chunk of space to rule as her own, and it eliminated one who served Darth Malum. This served The Corpse Lord's purpose well, for the weakening of the Tsis'Kaar would only drive the Heir further into Nefaron's grasp, further into madness and sadism. Still, in this regard, Nefaron could offer some protections to his Acyolte.

"I vaguely know the man. If Malum raised a fuss, I will ensure he is assured that you are just some upstart who we can manipulate."

Madelyn Lowe was next, and Nefaron had to admit that the way Serina described her was fascinating. In any other connotation, it seemed as if they had been lovers who had turned on each other, but Nefaron knew better than to suggest that. Still, he did provide guidance, wanted or otherwise.

"Take care, Lady Calis, that you do not become consumed by obsession. I will leave Lowe to you should she fall into my grasp, but if she poses a threat to either of us, I expect you to deal with her."

Nefaron had made no demands of the Dark Jedi up to that point, but this was one he would not budge on. If he demanded she kill, she would obey, especially if their plans became threatened. The Sith had learn to dispose of nuisances when they arose, perhaps Lady Calis had yet to learn such a lesson. Still, he was willing to allow her this pet if she could properly break her and make her a loyal servant.

Lastly, and most surprisingly, was Allyson Locke. Here, it seemed the force had brought them together.

"Locke. It seems we both have a vested interest in her descent into darkness, but we desire her to take different paths. I have my own plans for the little spy, but we will just have to see which of us is more convincing."

The Corpse Lord chuckled, but at the very least, the contest should entertain them while they carried out their grand schemes.

"So, an Empire of Terror and another of Desire. Two incompatible visions, yet we will make it so through the strength of will. Our enemies will fall, one by one, until they are little more than ash or bow before our dark glory."

Nefaron approached, removing a communicator from his belt in order to offer it to his new ally.

"We are the heralds of a new age. No doubt others will come into our fold, those who would see our vision for the future made a reality. But until then, only you and I are to know of our association."

The Corpse Lord turned then, beckoning for a droid to approach the pair.

"Lady Calis is welcome on Anaot. Ensure the Legionaries are made aware that she speaks with my voice. Should they fail to obey, I am certain she will correct that mistake."

"Yes, Master."

The Droid shuffled away, back to its terminal, while Nefaron returned to the Dark Jedi.

"There is a reckoning coming. I have laid plans for a strike at the heart of the Alliance, a pathetic world known as Ukatis. The King has grown corrupt and fat off his tyranny. Already, I have prepared a new candidate to take the throne. I have no intentions of actually letting the fool rule, but he will be a marvelous distraction so that I may bring death to the heart of Alliance space. I have already contacted others who may provide their aid, and now I offer you the same. An excuse to slaughter, an excuse to test yourself against the foolish Jedi who would seek to save Ukatis from the coming Darkness."

In truth, Ukatis held many treasures, but Nefaron would keep those for himself. Should Lady Calis come to his aid, she would be permitted to rain death upon the enemies of the Sith while proving to Nefaron she was indeed a valuable asset for the coming struggles.

"We will begin moving against our enemies soon. But first, we must ensure our power base is strong. Anoat must be strengthened with slaves to fuel the vast engines of war. You must have your own domain, for we shall crush all who lie between our bastions and bring them under our rule."

TAG: Darth Virelia ​

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Try to keep pace, Nefaron."

Tag - Darth Nefaron
Mentions: Allyson Locke Madelyn Lowe



Serina stood still for a moment, framed in the blood-red light of the holo-display, her eyes drifting down toward the flickering remnants of the galactic map as though peering not at coordinates, but at the veins of a beast she intended to dissect. Nefaron's words lingered in the air—commands, insights, promises—and she listened without interrupting, allowing the echo of his voice to swirl in the hollow spaces of her ambition.

Her expression did not shift until he brought up Allyson Locke again, and then—there, just subtly—her lip curled. Not with disdain. Not with hunger.

But with curiosity.

And beneath that, something older.

Regret, perhaps.

When at last she spoke, it was with a strange softness, as if she were turning over something fragile in her hand, unsure whether to crush it or cradle it.

"They're in love," she said, voice velvet and ice. "Allyson and Madelyn. They don't say it. I don't even know if they've admitted it to themselves yet. But it's there. I've seen it."

She turned then, facing Nefaron not as a subordinate, not as a tool, but as something much stranger.

A witness.

"It's not the kind of love I understand. It's not hunger. It's not dominance. It's not obsession. It doesn't corrode. It doesn't want to consume. It builds."

Her head tilted, just slightly, as if marveling at something she could never hope to create. The way an alchemist might stare at fire and be amazed that water exists.

"It's weak," Serina continued. "Utterly and fatally weak. But it's beautiful. There's something about it I can't quite grasp… the restraint of it. The hope in it. It burns so quietly, so... stubbornly."

A pause, and now her eyes flicked to Nefaron's.

"I don't envy it. It's the kind of bond that only ever dooms you. But for people like them?" She smiled, wry and tired. "Maybe they want to be doomed together."

She turned her back to the display, crossing the chamber slowly, each step deliberate.

"I've spent so long trying to own people, Nefaron. To sculpt them into weapons, into mirrors, into monuments to my will. I never understood what it meant to let someone choose you without force."

Her fingers brushed the communicator he had given her, feeling its edges, the weight of it in her palm.

"I could rip them apart. I could poison that bond, twist it until they hate each other for what they almost were. I've done worse to stronger souls."

She looked over her shoulder then, the light catching her eyes like coals beneath crystal.

"But that would be wasteful."

A beat.

"I want to see what happens when something so pure tries to survive a galaxy this wretched. I want to watch their love rot. Not by my hand, but by the very nature of the game they've chosen to play. If it dies, it dies honestly. No corruption. No trap."

Her smile faded now, not into anger, but into something resembling serenity. A cold kind of peace.

"I'll kill them, if I have to," she said. "But I would rather watch them fall."

She stepped forward again, eyes locking with Nefaron's.

"And when they do, I will be there, ready to perfect them."

A moment passed in silence. Then:

"I will come to Ukatis. I will burn it with you. And I will raise my domain in the smoke. But leave the lovers to me."

Her hand fell gently to her side, the communicator now fastened to her belt like a blade.

"There are truths only I can teach them."

Serina lingered in the glow of the holodisplay, letting her words settle like ash across the chamber. The moment stretched—not with silence, but with thought. Her mind moved quickly now, the same way a predator's might once it scented weakness. Nefaron had offered her war, and she would return it with empire.

"I've already begun on Polis Massa," she said, her voice lower now, thoughtful, but laced with that familiar, velvety confidence that returned like smoke curling around a flame. "My predecessor built the shipyards with Tsis'Kaar credits and oversight, but I've corrupted that legacy—slowly, carefully. The local PDF answers to me now, not the Sith Assembly. I've installed loyalists in every level of the hydroponics grid. Half the staff don't even realize who they truly work for."

She folded her arms across her chest, pacing slightly as the burning holomap flickered with movement. Her shadow swept across the planets like a banner.

"But it's not enough to rule a rock in the void. I need atmosphere. Industry. Flesh and heat and blood. I need a world where people pray that I never learn their name."

Her eyes lifted to Nefaron's once again.

"That's why I've begun sending mercenaries to Askaji. You may recall it—an irrelevant desert, where nomads chase storms. But beneath it? There's something older. Something left behind by the Republic during the New Sith Wars. A buried army, cryogenically preserved—forgotten. Hundreds of thousands of soldiers and engineers still sleeping in the sand. I believe I can revive them, program them with loyalty, chain them to me like dogs with new teeth, Orax instead has a power source of crystalised energy I can harness when the time is right."

She allowed the gravity of that plan to settle.

"I'll use them to dig, to build. Askaji will become an outpost world first, then a citadel, then a staging ground. The locals are fractured and desperate. They'll take credits and protection. They'll give me their sons in return. Orax will be a mine, a power plant on a planetary scale, we will be able to fuel our war machine from there, but only if we remove the Tsis'Kaar from the equation."

Her gaze swept the galaxy again, now with open contempt.

"The Empire is too slow. The Assembly still squabbles over titles. And the Jedi?" A laugh escaped her, bitter and amused. "They'll waste five cycles debating whether it's right to intervene. That gives us time to deal with Malum's pets."

She reached into her cloak now, retrieving a small silver device—an encrypted datachip—and offered it to Nefaron.

"This is the plan, organised with Odrin Rath and his Kainite forces. Saijo will burn."

She allowed herself a little smirk.

"Anoat will become terror. Askaji will become labor. Orax will be the crucible, Polis Massa will remain the lie. Saijo will be a reminder. And somewhere, hidden in between, we will build a machine of war and propaganda so devastating that even victory will terrify our enemies."

She stepped closer now, the space between them humming with shared malice and design.

"You may have your slaughter. I will have my dominion. And one day—when they look up at a burning sky—they will not know whether to curse your name… or worship mine."

 

[Darth Nefaron]

"Then we have our terms. The board is set."
​

Nefaron's gaze flicked away from his newfound ally back toward the holoprojector, keying in commands to bring up the galactic projection, but now there was a black heart in the Sith Empire as the worlds that had fallen or were destined to fall under their rule. While the worlds they possessed were not a match for the great fortress worlds of other Dark Lords, they were already spreading like a cancer that had no cure. They would fuel old rivalries, oppose each other in public, all the while plotting the downfall of the current ruling class. It was clear that the current balance of power could not hold; soon enough, the Sith would fracture into warring factions, unless the Worm Emperor put down the rabid hounds that worked every day to tear down everything that he had built.

Serina had been busy in that regard. Several worlds, ruled by weak Lords in service of the Tsis'Kaar, had already fallen under her shadow. What interested the Corpse Lord more was the rumored army in waiting that she spoke up, sleeping beneath the surface of Askaji. This vast legion could be a great asset, but would it not tip the balance of power between Nefaron and his new ally? Perhaps he would have to take his own interest in this legion, if only to deny it to a future enemy. Still, there was much to be done before they came to that point, and there was no reason to doubt Serina's commitment just yet, not when the Corpse Lord still had so much to offer her.

"You have your schemes and I have mine. We must appear on the surface to be little more than acquaintances, and at times, we must clash for the sake of appearances. But together we shall pool resources, provide each other with warning of potential threats, and so much more. Since you seem so certain of your capabilities, I will not interfere with the plot you have regarding the lovers. But I trust that if the pair becomes a threat to us, you will deal with them permanently. Otherwise, I will be forced to introduce them to the many wonders of Anoat."

Oh, and he would take great pleasure in such a thing. Serina had her methods, and Nefaron had his own, but Nefaron's tended to be a bit more invasive.

"We have much to do. I will call upon you again soon to offer a further exploration of the dark power contained within you. But before we part, I must offer a warning."

Nefaron deactivated the galactic display and turned his full attention toward Lady Calis, his visage grim and his dead eyes seemingly locked with her own.

"Malum has drawn me into his fold. He seeks to use the abominations I have crafted to his own end without compromising his own moral code. I will twist his beliefs against him, force him down a path so dark that he can never hope to escape it. But until then, you must take great care not to further antagonize him. When I next meet with him, I will seek to force his hand and send an emissary to you. Though distasteful, you must accept his terms to avoid the full might of the Tsis'Kaar before we are ready. I will ensure your gains are recognized, but he will no doubt ask something of you. As I have accepted my terms, you will likely have to do the same."

Nefaron reached out, placing a withered hand on his ally's shoulder.

"Take heart. One day, we will drive a dagger into his heart together. What fun that will be."​

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Try to keep pace, Nefaron."

Tag - Darth Nefaron
Mentions: Darth Malum of House Marr



Serina said nothing for a moment, allowing Nefaron's words to hang in the space between them like a suspended blade. Her posture was composed, but behind those carved cheekbones and half-lidded eyes lay a ferocity so refined it became elegance. When she finally stepped forward into the projection's dim halo, the galaxy once more coiling like a serpent beneath her gaze, she spoke as if reciting an unshakable truth.

"You mistake the Tsis'Kaar for a force still in motion," she said, tone almost regretful, like a physician diagnosing a terminal patient. "But they are not. They are a pantomime of structure. The Empire's 'secret hand,' yes—but the hand is old, and the fingers arthritic."

Her lips curved, not into a smile, but something colder. Knowing. Disdain, with poise.

"I've been inside their inner councils, Nefaron. I sat beside their leaders and watched their precious programs stall in committee, buried in bureaucratic rot. They have no engines left—only memories of when they once did."

She turned toward him slightly, her profile half-cast in the red glow of the dormant holomap.

"Darth Malum failed to raise his vaunted Third Legion. Did you know that?" she asked, arching a brow as though recalling a particularly dull conversation. "He begged favors, signed compromises. Not a single deployable force materialized. Why?"

She looked back to Nefaron, eyes narrowing, a predator drawing breath.

"Because he's lazy. Because he's weak. Because he thinks himself clever when in truth, the only thing he's ever built is a reputation for being an obnoxious and incredibly bad flirt."

Her voice darkened, low and unshakably calm.

"I will not call off the attack on Saijo."

There it was. Absolute. Inevitable.

"Darth Fury is already dead. His soldiers just don't know it yet. Saijo will burn, Nefaron. Not because it is vital. Not because it is symbolic. But because I can. Because someone must remind the galaxy that strength is not a title or a seat on a council—it is action."

She took a breath—measured, luxurious—and paced slowly, tracing the circumference of the galaxy map with one gloved finger, like a conductor preparing to orchestrate calamity.

"Darth Fury is a man," she repeated, with a silk-soft sneer. "Which is to say, he is limited. He cannot imagine the scale of what's coming. I am no man, Corpse Lord. I am Pestilence with a pulse. I do not simply kill—I infect. I do not wage war—I convert. I do not conquer—I own."

Her hand fell to her hip now, fingers brushing the outline of the ancient necklace beneath her cloak. That relic pulsed quietly with her presence, already beginning to adapt.

"And Malum?" Her tone dropped to a velvet whisper, lips barely parting. "He is a pustule on the skin of our Empire. A spoiled little princeling who never bled for his name. A fool, an idiot, a coward and most importantly? So extremely lazy."

Her voice rose now, sharp and crystal clear.

"I will never kneel. Not to Malum. Not to his proxies. Not even in pretend. You may speak for me, delay him, misdirect him—but you will not ask me to bend. That will not happen. Not even for you, Nefaron."

The declaration did not come with fire or heat. It came like a knife to the heart—quiet, cold, and fatal.

"Let him send his emissary. Let him believe I will play nice while I sharpen the blade behind my back. But when the moment comes—when the Assembly's eyes are on me, when the right provocations have been made."

She stopped directly in front of the Corpse Lord now, chin raised slightly, voice smooth as silk and heavy with promise.

"I will end him. Publicly. Bloodily. Permanently."

Her next words were spoken not in anger, but in something far more terrifying—certainty.

"For he is not a Dark Lord. He is not a conqueror. He is a foolish young man so consumed with his own ego and vanity that he threatens the Sith only with his sheer stupidity. And I will bury him in the ashes of his own forgotten paperwork."

She stepped back, giving the Corpse Lord his space again. But the look in her eye was unmistakable. She would not be stopped. Not for diplomacy. Not for strategy. Not even for their alliance.

She would see Malum dead. And the galaxy would cheer.