Private In Which the Swamp Breathes

[Serina Calis]

In Which the Swamp Breathes.
Location: Dagobah
Objective: Deepen connection to the Dark Side.
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Asaiah Celwik

"How can you just allow for such putrid decay?"​

The planet stank of rot.

Not poetic rot—the kind that clings to empires and ancient tombs and the death of beautiful ideas—but actual rot. Wet moss, stagnant water, the pungent exhale of primordial decay that crept into every thread of her robes and curled itself lovingly beneath her nails.

And Serina Calis, high priestess of desecration and delicate ruin, was trudging through it.

Her boots sank slightly with every step, the thick mire of Dagobah slurping at her heels like a hungry tongue. Somewhere in the murky distance, a bloated creature croaked a warning to its rival—or perhaps to her. The trees dripped lazily around her, hung with vines like the planet had dressed itself in the entrails of its own history.

"Charming," Serina muttered, fanning herself lightly with one hand as if it might banish the scent of centuries of compost. Her other hand held the hem of her robes, lifting them just enough to prevent the swamp from getting more familiar than it already had.

She had arrived here not for aesthetics—Force forbid—but for ambience. For atmosphere. For power.

Dagobah was... repulsive. But it was ancient. Quietly, fiercely ancient. The kind of ancient that whispered beneath the skin and scraped its nails across the soul.

And most importantly—it was soaked in the Force.

Serina paused beneath a twisted tree, its bark warped as if screaming mid-transformation. The humidity clung to her like a jealous lover, fogging the edges of her vision, making her hair—normally so impeccable—cling to her temples in golden strands. Her blue eyes narrowed slightly as she inhaled through her nose.

Mist. Mud. Fungal spores. A hint of something that had once died badly nearby.

"It's a good vintage," she murmured dryly, smirking. "A little earthy on the tongue, but with notes of despair and buried secrets."

Her hand drifted out, gliding across the thick trunk of the tree. Beneath the bark pulsed a quiet thrum, the echo of something old, something hungry. Her touch, even feather-light, was enough to stir it. She could feel the Dark Side vibrating there—feral, raw, unrefined. No temple to shape it. No altar to contain it.

It was perfect.

The Force here was wild and stubborn, a beast chained too long. Jedi had tried to bury it. Sith had feared it. But Serina?

She meant to tame it.

Not with blades. Not with bindings. But with the same wicked, silken whisper with which she had bound Light and Dark alike to her will before.

Serina did not conquer through violence. She seduced the Force itself. Bent it over the altar of her ambition and made it whisper her name with every ripple.

And Dagobah… Dagobah would learn to moan for her too.

But first... she would need to get used to the smell.

"Truly," she said to no one, flicking a beetle off her shoulder with a dramatic flourish, "I have suffered indignities. I have walked through fire and bureaucracy. But this—this mildewed fever dream of a planet—may finally break me."

She waded forward nonetheless, letting the swamp envelop her, inch by inch. It clung to her, adored her, hated her—it didn't matter. The Force was thick here, and her hunger for it was boundless.

Somewhere deeper in the marshes, she could feel it: a nexus, a rupture, a place where the veil between matter and myth was thinnest. She would find it. She would drink from it. And then, perhaps, build something in its place. A shrine? A sanctum? A ruin designed for whispered prayers and soft executions?

Dagobah would be hers. Or it would drown trying to stop her.

With a sigh—half exasperation, half quiet delight—Serina pushed forward into the green gloom, her silhouette vanishing into the mist.

The swamp shuddered.
The Force held its breath.
And corruption took one elegant step closer.

 

[Asaiah Celwik]

Location: Dagobah
Tag: Serina Calis

There was so much work for her to get through. Experimenting with Force Sensitive blood was...harder work than she had expected. The rot of the swamp seemed to be deeply affecting it more than she liked. Maybe she'd have to find a more sterile environment for these experiments in the future. After all, even with her limited knowledge of the Dark Side and Light Side, she knew there was something strange with the swamp. It sang to her and tried to seduce her but her mind was too...ignorant to that. She was far too focused on her work which the swamp had corrupted...At least her little "Pet" seemed to be growing well. It had grown out of it's Petri Dish and now she contained it in a little beaker. She had yet to christen it with a name. That would come in all due time.

"Grow big and strong. Make me a proud little creator."

Asaiah gently rubbed the thumb of her injured hand over the beaker, leading the creature to bump itself up against the glass. That was something she had taken a note of. It seemed to get more active, the closer that "dead" tissue was brought towards it. There had been a few tempting thoughts in the back of her mind to pour the creature onto her arm but she knew better than to take her experiments to that extent. No, no. For now she'd work on feeding it as many bugs and creepy crawlies as she could. There were making good progress with that and if she happened to find anything a bit more...nutritional? Well, she'd feed it to her darling of course. Though now that she thought about it, she was running low on snacks for The Creature.

"Your Creator will be back soon! Be a good little blood creature"

And with that, she hopped her way out of the cave she had been staying in. Something felt strange today however. As she slowly eased herself into sensing through the Force, she felt as if the swamp's attention was...elsewhere. There was someone else in the area that was deserving of it's attention. It's gaze. And Asaiah couldn't help but feel...jealous. She had been here for an extended period of time now, and it felt like whatever the dark essence of swamp was, it didn't care for her. Yes, it whispered in her mind, tried to seduce her to it's goals but ultimately it didn't work. Even with all of that, she was...disappointed that it stopped caring about her.

So it looked like she had a new quest on her hands! A most noble quest! To find out why she was being ignored and for who! It wasn't like she stood much of a fighting chance if it was someone hostile. Her side was crippled, and her sword shattered. The only weapon she had at her control was the Force, and even then she wasn't the most skilled with it. It was something she'd need to practice...Maybe next time she went hunting the Scum of the Galaxy, she could try exclusively using the Force. That thought actually made Asaiah stop for a moment to stare at her hand in bewilderment...She had grown so much compared to the girl who had murdered her parents. Never once would she have thought about using the Force to kill...as a weapon at her disposal...but that's what it was. At that realisation, when she flexed out her hand, she felt a much stronger wave of power wash over her. She was a living weapon in a way.

As she wandered through the swamp, a little bit more of an energetic kick to her step after that realisation, she found who the swamp's focus was on. A bright grin suddenly taking over her face at the sight of Serina Calis . It was...one of the most innocent looks Asaiah had in a way. There was no manic joy in her face, no crazed glee. No. It was pure happiness at the sight of one of the few people Asaiah felt like truly understood her, as she started to break out into a small run towards Serina, making no effort to hide herself.

"Ah! Over here! What are you doing here?!"

Asaiah kept the grin on her face!...Up until she tripped over a tree root hidden in the muck of the swamp, taking a faceplant into the dirty and muck filled water...before throwing her good arm up into the air in a thumbs up to show she was alright. Hopping straight up to her feet afterwards and brushing herself down with her good hand. It was strange, whenever she was with most people, she was a dangerous and alert killer, a murderer. But with Serina? She let her guard down, no matter how dangerous it might be for her​

 

[Serina Calis]

In Which the Swamp Breathes.
Location: Dagobah
Objective: Deepen connection to the Dark Side.
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Asaiah Celwik

"How can you just allow for such putrid decay?"​

The moment Serina felt her presence, the air thickened—like the swamp itself had begun to pulse in anticipation.

It wasn't the raw pressure of the Dark Side that made her pause; that was a constant here, a humming symphony of ancient want beneath the roots and muck. No, this was different. Sharper. More eccentric. More personal.

She had been still—so still—her gloved hand trailing along the surface of a black pool, watching it ripple with the lazy elegance of a predator's breath. Dagobah's rot was beginning to sing for her now. Low, guttural notes. Not quite trust. Not quite worship. But recognition. It had taken days. Rituals. Blood. Whispered litanies that blurred the line between praise and seduction. But the swamp was learning to love her.

She had been alone with it... until she wasn't.

The splash of footsteps. The rustle of foliage torn aside. Then—chaos.

Serina turned.

She didn't flinch at the shout—didn't react to the wave of joy—she simply watched. Watched Asaiah's wide grin slice through the gloom like a knife of innocence wrapped in blood. Watched her enthusiasm take physical form in reckless movement. Watched her trip—watched her fall—watched her plunge face-first into the swamp as if it had been staged, as if the Force itself had tugged the root just an inch higher for theatrical timing.

Then came the thumbs up.

And Serina—Serina laughed.

A soft, slow ripple of laughter, low in her throat and deeply amused. Not mocking. Not cruel. Fond. As if witnessing a precious pet perform a new trick—inelegant, messy, utterly unexpected, and somehow entirely right.

"You never disappoint," she purred, stepping forward now, her presence gliding through the humid air like perfume made from venom and silk. "The swamp will be telling legends of that entrance for centuries."

She stopped before Asaiah, head tilting slightly, her golden hair catching what little light filtered through the dense canopy. Her eyes—those cold, glacial blue eyes—dragged across Asaiah's dirtied form with languid appreciation.

"You've made quite the mess of yourself," Serina murmured, voice like honey mixed with ash. "How endearingly human of you."

Her hand lifted, slow and deliberate, fingertips brushing through the muck on Asaiah's cheek—not to clean it, but to paint with it. A dark smear across the girl's jaw, her temple. Not degrading. Ritualistic. Worshipful. She dragged her fingers in slow curves, drawing a crescent across the pale skin.

"There," she whispered, eyes narrowing slightly, as if admiring her own handiwork. "Now you look like something the swamp would love."

A pause.

"No. That I would love."

She stepped back then, slow, letting the moment stretch, the contact lingering in the air like a hand pressed to a flame too long. Her gaze flicked downward to Asaiah's injured side, then to her hand. She felt the power in her now—rising. Coalescing. The girl was beginning to see herself the way Serina had always seen her: not as a vagabond of vengeance, but as a crucible. A forge. A womb for terrible, beautiful creation.

"You've changed," Serina said, voice drifting over the water like incense. "There's a scent to you now. Confidence, yes. But also… hunger. Not for violence. Not quite. For expression." Her eyes gleamed. "For meaning. You've realized what I said was true, haven't you?"

She moved again, not around Asaiah this time—but with her, at her side, their shoulders inches apart.

"You're no longer just dispensing punishment, Asaiah. You're writing scripture with every drop of blood. And tell me…" Her tone dipped, licentious now, every word soaked in corrupt invitation. "Is your little creature thriving? Does it grow when it drinks? Does it purr when you bleed?"

Her voice darkened. Not louder. Just lower. Closer to the bone.

"Have you tasted it yet? Your creation?"

A knowing smile. Not a command. Just suggestion. Just poisoned possibility.

She raised her hand again—not to smear dirt, not to offer a vial—but to gesture forward, into the gloom.

"There's a clearing deeper in," she said, tone suddenly clean and professional, yet no less dripping with power. "The swamp coils there. Old things sleep beneath its soil. I intend to wake them. I thought I'd have to do it alone. But now?"

A look toward Asaiah. Her smile deepened.

"Now I think I'd prefer the company of a kindred soul."

And she turned, beginning to walk—slowly, deliberately, every movement a performance designed for the one pair of eyes she knew was watching.

"Come, little god of blood. Let's go see what stirs when we knock on the bones of the dead."

 

[Asaiah Celwik]

​

Location: Dagobah
Tag: Serina Calis

She kept the grin wide on her face as Serina spoke. For Asaiah, Serina was one of her only true friends! Of course there was The Creature but that didn't count. She had created it. Friends don't count if you make them up! But Asaiah hadn't made up Serina. As Serina's cold eyes dragged their gaze over Asaiah, Asaiah's own bright gold eyes were focused purely on Serina's face. Though she tilted her head at the endearingly human comment. Was that meant to be an insult? Asaiah wasn't meant to just be a simple human...but she still was, for now. She was nothing less than a human yet she was nothing more. There was still plenty of things she had to work on, if she was searching to be seen as a Goddess...

Before Asaiah could speak however, she felt Serina's finger on her face. If it had been anyone else, Asaiah would have snapped. Used the Force to crush them for touching her. For getting this close to her. But Serina wasn't just anyone else. And so Asaiah stood there silently, waiting for Serina to finish her session of painting. It was once again a sign of that trust she had in the woman. Serina had Asaiah's full trust, after all she had helped set Asaiah on the path she was on. If it was not for that, she wouldn't have broaden her horizons, made herself followers and found herself somewhere to settle down. No, instead she'd just be hunting the scum of the Galaxy without any greater goal!​

"There," she whispered, eyes narrowing slightly, as if admiring her own handiwork. "Now you look like something the swamp would love."

A pause.

"No. That I would love."​

A set of rapid confused blinks came from Asaiah, even as the grin stayed on her face. Love was a word she knew. She had used it plenty of times herself. She loved blood. She loved the pain of fighting. She loved inflicting pain on others. But to use it for a person? That was something she had never experienced. Her parents had never used that word for her. She was...unsure how to feel about it. The more innocent part of her that was hidden deep inside of her was shining ever so slightly brighter because of it, though it was mostly hidden under the thick layers of insanity and delusions that made up most of Asaiah's identity
​

"You've changed," Serina said, voice drifting over the water like incense. "There's a scent to you now. Confidence, yes. But also… hunger. Not for violence. Not quite. For expression." Her eyes gleamed. "For meaning. You've realized what I said was true, haven't you?"​

"...I've found myself followers. People to take under my wing. To give them the strength to fight for themselves...and it's my role as their Priestess to reward their belief. Their faith...I've also killed a Jedi. Took his blood. His lightsaber."

Her voice was....eager. Almost childish. Like she was asking for some kind of soothing words from Serina. To be told that she was doing a good job. The things that she had never been told by the people that were important to her. She never thought she'd have the chance to have someone important tell her those words...Though a dark look suddenly came across her gaze at the suggestion of her tasting The Creature.

"No-one harms it. It is going to grow big and strong for me. It will be a member of my...family. It is a personal experiment. I am working on...cocktails. Creations to give power. To reward my followers. To grant them strength, somewhat on the level of my own...Though of course, not to my level."

She wasn't a fool. Asaiah needed to keep herself the strongest, so as to make sure none of her followers believed they could beat their Priestess. And then once she was at the strength of a Goddess, no-one would dare to try and take her place. Though...in this current moment, Asaiah had more than one place in her eyes. Yes, she was meant to be the Priestess for her followers, the Arbiter of Justice...but she also belonged at Serina's side at this moment, to see what she intended to wake.​

 

[Serina Calis]

In Which the Swamp Breathes.
Location: Dagobah
Objective: Deepen connection to the Dark Side.
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Asaiah Celwik

"How can you just allow for such putrid decay?"​

Serina did not look back immediately.

She could feel Asaiah behind her—the girl's steps soft against the wet earth, her presence loud in the Force. Not because of power, not yet, but because of conviction. That same sharp pulse Serina had felt the day they met, like a blade being born in fire, half-wild and half-divine.

Now, though, that fire had taken shape. And Serina smiled to herself, lips curling with something indulgent and darkly satisfied. She had seen the signs—the spread of ambition, the budding hunger for more. But now? Now she heard it in the girl's voice. Saw it in the way Asaiah's gaze lingered a bit too long on the ground where blood might soon be spilled.

She was becoming.

When Serina finally turned, it was with the poise of something ritualistic, as if even her movement bore significance. The mist coiled around her like silk, and her cloak fell in perfect lines down her back. Her blue eyes—glacial, intelligent, endlessly consuming—met Asaiah's with a gaze that didn't pierce but invited, like the opening of a forbidden door.

"You have changed," she said again, this time with more weight. "You're shedding your skin, little serpent. And what slithers forth from underneath is... beautiful."

She stepped forward, once again closing the distance with that same leisurely grace. There was never urgency in Serina—only intention. Her hand rose, just briefly, brushing against the place where Asaiah kept her journal, as though she could feel the inked words radiating with dark scripture.

"You've killed a Jedi," she said softly, her tone laced with sweet sin, "You've taken his blood, his weapon, his worth. You have devoured a symbol of light... and made it serve your darkness. I'm proud of you."

The words weren't flattery. They were gospel. Spoken with the authority of a queen in her temple, whispered as though they might become truth simply through repetition.

"And followers..." Her lips parted in a small, knowing smile. "So they believe in you now. They bow when you pass. They whisper your name. Good. That is power, Asaiah. Not the Force. Not blades. Belief. The willing surrender of another's soul to yours."

Serina leaned in now, her voice dropping to a whisper made for shadows and secrets.

"You must feed that faith. Not just with miracles, but with mystique. Let them crave your blood but never taste it. Let them see your pain, but only when you choose. Love them, lead them, bless them—but never let them own you."

A pause. Her gaze flicked toward Asaiah's side—where the creature's beaker likely still rested, pulsing faintly.

"And your darling child… Your sweet, writhing little family member." Her voice oozed with fascination, the tone one might use when admiring a masterpiece stitched together in secret. "How precious it is. How utterly correct that you made it not to kill… but to belong."

Then came the pivot. The voice shifted, just slightly. Slower now. Slicker. Not the manipulator—but the corrupter. The lover of madness.

"You're building more than an army, Asaiah. You're creating a cult. A system. A faith. One day they will write songs of your blood. Paint walls with it. Offer it to one another in holy ritual. And you—" Her fingers ghosted near Asaiah's cheek again, as if drawing something sacred in the air between them. "—will sit above it all, whispering truths that only you can define."

Serina stepped past her then, hand drifting away like smoke, as if reluctant to leave contact. Her boots barely made a sound in the damp underbrush. Her voice, still soft, carried easily behind her.

"We're close now," she said, eyes fixed ahead. "To something ancient. Something that died before time and still refuses to lie still. The swamp is its grave. Or its womb. I haven't decided yet."

She paused, just at the edge of a rise where the trees parted into an eerie clearing choked in mist. The air was denser here—heavier with promise. The very soil felt like it breathed beneath their feet.

Without turning, Serina extended her hand back behind her, palm up, as if offering Asaiah a place—not at her feet, not behind her, but beside her.

"When it stirs," she said, "when it wakes... I want it to see you first."

A heartbeat passed.

"Because between the two of us, Asaiah..." Her voice curled like smoke around her name. "You're the dangerous one."

 

[Asaiah Celwik]

Location: Dagobah
Tag: Serina Calis

Asaiah still skipped back and forth as she walked. Boundless amounts of energy was contained in her shell of a body. Her conviction, her beliefs, they were all larger than life. Larger than her, and she was forced to keep it inside. She had been managing to spread her beliefs slowly but surely though it wasn't spreading the weight. If anything it was adding more weight to her shoulders yet they didn't seem to slow her down. All that slowed her down right now was her arm. Whilst her right arm was swinging up and down through the air, her left arm covered in bandages was just clutched to her waist. To keep the useless limb out of the way, she could have gotten rid of the arm and replaced it but...the pain. It kept her alert. Kept her heart racing and kept her senses so much more finely tuned.

"...Beautiful?"

Another series of blinks. Once again, beautiful was a word she had used before. She used to think her interrogation tactics were beautiful, the way that blood sprayed through the air was beautiful, the sight of the light leaving a person's eyes as they died was down right gorgeous for her...but to call a person themselves beautiful? It was once again a concept that was strange to her. If she tried to think of it logically, it made sense. She found blood beautiful, and most beings had blood...but part of her felt like Serina didn't mean it in that aspect. It was more of a metaphysical thing that Asaiah couldn't quite wrap her head around, not yet at least.

Though as Serina brought her hand to where Asaiah kept her journal, the woman's ey es snapped wide for a moment. That reminded her of the gift she had for Serina. One that Asaiah did not have on her person but she could show it later perhaps. Depending on how the events of their adventure went, Asaiah was willing to show Serina her lair. The nest. The place where Asaiah laid her head and was at her most vulnerable.

"...I have one for you. A book that is."
Serina wasn't someone Asaiah needed to give strength to. Not like her followers, who she'd have make their first entry of their own book out of their prey's blood. No. Instead Serina was someone that Asaiah wanted to...educate was the wrong word...and so was teach...Perhaps the term she was looking for was to help enlighten Serina. Serina was a kindred spirit of course, and so it was only logical that she'd want to give the woman a token of whatever twisted bond they may have.

"I did not kill the Jedi alone. It was with a group of Bounty Hunters. I just wanted his blood. The lightsaber was a...benefit. Similarly to the people I managed to "rescue" from the carbonite prison...That was a...substantial benefit."

Their faces when she had rescued them. When she had flown them off Hoth and gave them their lives back, it had brought pure glee to the woman. Their lives were connected to her's, wrapped around her finger. She was slowly but surely making her cult. Her religion. They worshipped her and the mystery she'd spread was going to be...so precious. So valuable to her. She had to work on using them to get information eventually but for now...she was happy to let them settle back down.

Asaiah hesitated for a moment once more. The thought of the Creature being her child and her a Mother...It was a strange one to say the least. The idea that she could give life to something even when it was clear that she had already done so...But if it was her Child, she would need to work harder on giving it a name. On giving it a life. It also meant she had to get it more nutrition. Look after it like an actual child...

"My blood will be for me and my most faithful followers. Though...perhaps...I can make arrangements for others to have access to it."

Her eyes darted over towards Serina for a moment. The woman had offered her a vial of some blood in their first meeting. It was only fair that Asaiah would offer to return the favour eventually. But perhaps not yet. No. She needed to get stronger. There wasn't enough power inside of her. Not in her eyes. She had to be stronger.

After a small debate, Asaiah reached her hand out towards Serina's to step by her side. She had debated whether or not to hold out her injured hand but had stuck with her good hand. The strong one. Placing the palm of her hand down atop of Serina's as her eyes scanned ahead of her.

"...I find it hard to believe that someone who is crippled could be more dangerous than you...but I like the sound of it."​

 

[Serina Calis]

In Which the Swamp Breathes.
Location: Dagobah
Objective: Deepen connection to the Dark Side.
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Asaiah Celwik

"How can you just allow for such putrid decay?"​

Serina stilled the moment she felt Asaiah's palm atop her own.

It wasn't a hesitant touch. It wasn't desperate or trembling. It was deliberate. Earned. And for all of Serina's silken performances—for all her games of poisoned words and whispered provocations—this was the moment she cherished most: not the seduction, but the surrender. Not of power. Not of will. But of understanding.

Asaiah had chosen her hand.

Serina turned just slightly, enough to look at her, to study the face still marked with ritualistic dirt and the feral gleam of a thousand contradictions. The broken killer. The mother of monsters. The messiah of blood and pain who still blinked with the wonder of a child when praised.

She could feel Asaiah's uncertainty pressing against her words like bruises that had not yet turned purple. Beautiful. Loved. Dangerous. Words the girl wore awkwardly, like silk on a blade.

But she would learn.
Serina would teach her.

She laced her fingers slowly through Asaiah's, turning her hand so that their palms pressed flush. Her skin was cold—not with lifelessness, but the chill of control. Of calculation. Of the kind of woman who had not simply walked into darkness but carved herself a throne within it.

"Crippled?" she repeated, her voice low and smooth, the sound of oil slicking across silk. "Darling, you are not crippled. You are wounded. There is a difference."

She stepped in closer—not to lead, but to close the space. To make Asaiah feel the gravity of her presence, the quiet heat that radiated from a creature who had long since replaced her heart with something darker. Her face was inches away now, eyes boring into gold.

"Cripples are chained by their pain. You wear yours like a crown. You could have replaced the limb, removed the inconvenience. But you didn't." Her lips curled slightly. "You kept the wound... because it keeps you hungry. That is not weakness, Asaiah."

Her voice dipped lower, velvet edged with smoke.

"That is devotion."

She leaned in even closer, and when she spoke again, it was with the voice of sin dressed in divinity.

"Do you want to know why I said you're more dangerous than me?"

She didn't wait for the answer.

"Because I chose this. My path, my power, my chains. I constructed myself—every part, every sin. But you?" She reached up with her free hand, brushing a strand of wet hair from Asaiah's brow. "You were born into it. You became this... organically. Without structure. Without guidance. And yet you still found the altar. You still found me."

She stepped back, finally, letting the moment breathe. Her hand didn't release Asaiah's.

"There is something terrifying about purity, Asaiah. Even when it's twisted. Especially when it's twisted. Because you don't wear a mask. You've never had to." Her smile deepened, corrupted and reverent. "You are not pretending to be a god. You are simply becoming one."

Serina's voice smoothed again into a coo, warm and wicked.

"And I... I will help you build your temple. I will walk beside you as you raise your congregation from ash and madness. I will whisper your name to the stars when they forget to fear you."

She let go of Asaiah's hand only to trail her fingers down her arm in one long, fluid movement, ending at the frayed edge of the bandages wrapped around her side. She didn't touch the wound—she didn't have to. The contact was already intimate in the way only Serina could make it: delicate, invasive, reverent.

"And when your child speaks... when your blood sings... I want to hear its first words."

Her gaze drifted forward again, toward the clearing where the ground seemed to breathe, the fog trembling above it as if something buried deep was about to remember itself.

"But first," Serina said, her tone now rich with anticipation, "let's wake the dead."

And with that, she stepped forward, not leading Asaiah—but walking with her, shoulder to shoulder, priestess and prophet, elegance and madness bound together in a quiet, heretical procession.

The swamp fell silent around them.
Because something was listening.
And it was hungry.

 

[Asaiah Celwik]

Location: Dagobah
Tag: Serina Calis

Asaiah had chosen to follow the path Serina was walking...No. She hadn't chosen to follow. She had chose to stand by side by side with her. It wasn't because she saw herself as Serina's equal, far from it. Whilst perhaps they were similar, they were far too different to compare in that way. Serina had ways to use her words to snake her way into people's minds, whereas Asaiah was more likely to create something to snake into someone's mind. Use the Force, or her own experiments, rather than using her own words. It was hard to manipulate someone, when you were struggling with your own mind in a way.

Another contrast between the pairing was how whilst Serina's palm was cold, Asaiah's was burning. Filled with energy and warmth. Not pure warmth, but artificial. Less like the soft glow of the sun and more like the harsh waves of heat that a sauna would radiate. Asaiah's body burned with passion, with conviction and was always rearing to go. Serina had carved herself a throne in the darkness, but Asaiah had indirectly set ablaze to her own darkness. To most, she appeared to be a star of artificial creation, to the some that get closer, they can see the darkness and insanity that was below the surface and then for the very few such as Serina, they could see the fire burning inside of her, beneath all of those layers.

"...Every scar is a lesson for me. Every injury is something new for me to learn. Something to grow and flourish from."

The main lesson she had learned for her arm was that she needed to figure out how to control Flames. Manipulate them against their wielder and make their weapon a shield of her own. It wasn't something that she was going to work on anytime soon however, it was hard for her to practice with flames in the swamp.

Her eyes settled on the blue eyes that were boring into her. The pair of blue eyes that were staring through all of Asaiah's layers and straight to her core. A core that Asaiah hadn't even thought about. She never thought about how she was born into this. It was true. It explained why she struggled to make friends. Why her parents could understand her. Because she was special compared to them. Destined for greater things than to just work away as a wage slave on Coruscant. Instead, she was becoming a Goddess. Something far and above more important than who she had thought she was...

"....My congregation will know of you. They deserve to know of the Prophet who brought rise to their Goddess. Without your intervention, they'd have no-one to put their faith into."

In Asaiah's eyes, her worshipers, her followers were all family in a sense. Siblings that she was gaining the Faith of, ready to guide. It made it...easier for her to pass on her beliefs. As much as her original goal had to be rescue the innocent, that goal had been corrupted. Twisted and manipulated into only wanting to rescue those who would believe in her. Those who would stand by her side. Those she could see as her own family.

Yet something Serina said caused Asaiah to reach an epiphany. When her child spoke...Now that Asaiah thought about it, the Child was gaining the effects of what she fed to it. The creepy crawlies and the bugs. Does that mean if she fed it a person, it would get closer to being able to speak? Hm...It might be time for the hunt to begin again. The hunt for larger prey for her Child.

"...Even the Dead will soon sing my gospel. The Silence of Death will be broken."

As the swamp fell silent, Asaiah...prepared herself. Flexing her fingers out as she felt the familiar strength of the Force coursing through her. She even reached her hand out towards her injured arm and squeezed, letting a rush of pain surge through her body. Making all of her nerves and senses far more aware. And with that action, Asaiah started to walk ahead of Serina. After all, the woman had said she wanted whatever it was to see Asaiah first.​

 

[Serina Calis]

In Which the Swamp Breathes.
Location: Dagobah
Objective: Deepen connection to the Dark Side.
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Asaiah Celwik

"How can you just allow for such putrid decay?"​

The moment Asaiah stepped forward, Serina's lips parted in the softest soundless breath—something between reverence and satisfaction.

Not lust. Not affection. Something rarer. Something sacred.

It wasn't Asaiah's power that stirred Serina's blood like that. It was her transformation. The girl who once spoke of punishment was now dreaming of doctrine. The lost knife dancing through alleys was now a flame-wreathed blade walking ahead, daring the dead to take notice.

And Serina loved nothing more than a flame that hadn't yet realized it was devouring the world.

She followed Asaiah with the grace of water flowing around stone—elegant, unhurried, her cloak brushing the swamp's surface like the train of a funeral veil. The air grew denser around them, the scent of damp earth and fungal life thick with decay and promise. The clearing ahead was not just a space—it was alive. The Force curled here, twisted and saturated. Not in balance, but in violation.

Perfect.

Serina's voice came low, sliding across Asaiah's shoulders like a shawl made of velvet and teeth.

"Even the dead will sing your gospel," she echoed, with that decadent purr of hers. "What a beautiful heresy. But that's what divinity truly is, isn't it? A well-dressed blasphemy... with excellent posture."

She let her fingers trail over a nearby root as they passed, and where her touch lingered, the bark blackened ever so slightly. The swamp remembered her now. It had tasted her rites in the mist and murmured her name in the rustling leaves. But this was more than worship. This was courtship.

Serina's blue eyes flicked forward again—locking on Asaiah's back, on her burn of motion, on the bandaged arm still held with quiet defiance.

"That arm of yours," she said, letting her voice lap at the edges of Asaiah's awareness, "isn't just wounded. It's an altar. You bleed there, and from that pain, new things are born. Power. Resolve. And your... darling child."

Her tone curled downward—low, velvet-dark, as if speaking not to Asaiah, but through her.

"You say it will speak. That it will grow teeth. That it will be a family member." A soft exhale, amused and enchanted. "But the truth is, it's a mirror. A reflection of you, Asaiah. Fed by what you kill. Shaped by what you love. A writhing, hungry extension of your will. And when it speaks? It won't just echo your gospel..."

She stepped closer again—close enough to speak into the air just behind Asaiah's ear.

"It will recite your name."

A beat of silence passed. Not emptiness—but anticipation.

Then, with slow, deliberate sensuality, Serina moved ahead, not to take the lead, but to stand beside her once more. The two of them, shoulder to shoulder now, staring into the fog-choked heart of the clearing.

And there—it pulsed. Something old. Something buried. Something bound.

The soil twitched beneath the moss. The water trembled in its basin. The Force screamed, silently, like a mouth that had never known speech.

Serina inhaled sharply and smiled like a woman taking communion.

"This place," she whispered, eyes gleaming, "is the grave of forgotten gods. Jedi who tried to bury temptation. Sith who failed to tame it. What lingers here is neither Light nor Dark. It is pure will, unclaimed."

Her hand slid out, slowly turning palm up.

"Shall we take it together?"

A question wrapped in silk and shadow. Not an offer of alliance. An invitation to corruption. The final step in a ritual already begun.

"The dead may sing your name, Asaiah. But when this opens—when the swamp splits itself wide for us—I want it to scream it."

Her lips quirked, predatory and divine.

"Let's make it remember who its goddess truly is."

 

[Asaiah Celwik]

Location: Dagobah
Tag: Serina Calis

She was evolving. Asaiah didn't realise it, but she was growing. Changing. She was transforming into something bigger. Something better than who she was. She didn't even realise it was happening either. Just going through the transformation blissfully ignorant to it all, ignorant to how her beliefs have grown and morphed into something more twisted.

The Force was far more twisted the deeper into the Swamp they ventured. It tried to Sing to her. Whispered sweet promises in her ears that once ignored turned into violent screams, protests. The Swamp wanted to control Asaiah, wanted to defeat her without confrontation by giving sly promises of strength and power that it would grant her if she just gave it...but she denied the promises. Not because she didn't want the strength and the power, no, no. Because she would Take it. It was her's to Take. Not to be given up on some kind of silver plater.

"My gospel will transcend life and death itself. Vengeance lasts through even death. It can grow and fester. Imagine how much it can grow after centuries of ungranted vengeance. Imagine how much...anger must be festering in a land like this. A land neither truly corrupted by the Dark...nor purified by the Light."

Asaiah still didn't purely understand the Dark Side nor the Light Side. She had never had a proper education on it, but she could feel the differences. The Light that had in been in Jo'Han as they fought, and the anger that grew from that hopeless situation had been so blissful. The Darkness she felt when she was in Sith Space. The despair and hopeless the regular people had...but also the acceptance. That was why most in Sith Space weren't good enough to join her belief. They had accepted their place. And then for those in Space graced by the Light...They were far too content. They had also accepted their place for different reasons. What Asaiah needed was those who couldn't accept their Fate in life. Those who needed the strength and vengeance to claim their lives. Only to have their minds and hearts claimed by Asaiah.

"...It is not a mirror."

For the first time, Asaiah had spoken against what Serina said, her eyes turning to face Serina's for a moment with a steady gaze. That childish wonderment faded. It would be back, later. When Asaiah was playing with her toys in her lab once again but she was professional right now. Instead her gaze stayed on Serina as Asaiah spoke once more.

"My Child is not a Goddess. It is not a mirror of me. A true mirror wouldn't be able to contain me. My Child shall be a Demi-God, yes. But not a God. I will not abide any of my followers being near my power."

With exceptions. Serina was not a follower, but when it came to power? They were one of the few Asaiah was willing to be stronger than her. Asaiah was becoming a Goddess herself, but not one that was hungry on being powerful. No. Instead she wanted to give Power to those who needed it. To see them receive their vengeance and feel the blissful sensation as her followers took life for their first time.

And with that, they walked side by side once more. Though there was something more...notably different with Asaiah now. She still had that boundless energy contained in her body but it was far better controlled. She was no longer skipping through the Swamp. No, instead she was walking with purpose. Firm in every single one of her steps as she held her head up high. She had purpose.

Yet even with that, Asaiah was willing to share her purpose. Placing her hand atop of Serina's palm once more, but whereas earlier she had just left her hand atop of Serina's, this time Asaiah wrapped her fingers around Serina's. Not possessively, or in an attempt to claim Serina. If anything, it was more Asaiah's subconscious fully accepting the invitation to corruption. She was not a passive bystander. No, Asaiah was taking grip of the invitation.

"Yes. We shall take it. Together."​

 

[Serina Calis]

In Which the Swamp Breathes.
Location: Dagobah
Objective: Deepen connection to the Dark Side.
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Asaiah Celwik

"How can you just allow for such putrid decay?"​

Serina felt the change the moment Asaiah's fingers closed around hers.

Not a shy brush. Not a deferent offering. But contact—intentional, intimate, equal. It was not submission. It was not rebellion. It was something infinitely rarer.

It was acceptance.

Serina's blue eyes turned slowly, locking onto Asaiah with a gaze that smoldered colder than fire—the kind of gaze that made galaxies forget to spin. She didn't smile. Not yet. Instead, she drank her in: the posture, the clarity, the way Asaiah no longer twitched like a live wire barely containing madness, but now walked like a blade finally sharpened.

And when Asaiah corrected her—It is not a mirror—Serina felt a thrill ripple down her spine like silk dipped in sin.

She loved being wrong. On rare occasions. With the right people.

And Asaiah was rapidly becoming the only right person.

"How precious," she murmured, voice low and lazy, like dark wine sliding down the inside of a throat. "You are learning."

She turned her hand just slightly in Asaiah's grasp, not to pull away, but to interlace their fingers more fully. The gesture was smooth, serpentine—perfectly unhurried. Her voice followed, curling like smoke in a dim cathedral.

"Your child is not a mirror," she echoed softly, "because mirrors reflect. But what you're building… that thing in the beaker? That's not reflection. That's legacy. That's projection. That is your will… externalized."

She stepped closer, their clasped hands held lightly between them, not a tether but a thread—and with Serina, threads could become rituals if you weren't careful.

"You won't abide any of your followers becoming your equal," she mused, her tone a lilt of indulgent approval. "Good. Equality is for democracies and delusions. But hierarchies—ahh, hierarchies are divine. They require shape. Form. And at the top of yours, Asaiah…" She finally smiled, the expression slow, wide, corrupted by reverence.

"You will stand alone. Gilded in blood and truth. Worshiped not for what you protect, but for what you allow."

Her free hand rose and drifted to Asaiah's chin again, tilting her gaze just slightly upward. She didn't need to see into the girl anymore. She saw it all already. She only needed Asaiah to see herself now.

"Do you feel it?" she asked, her voice now velveted with something deeper. Heavier. "The way the air thickens around you? That's not just the swamp. That's the Force... wrapping itself around your will. You denied its seduction, and now it kneels. That is what gods do, Asaiah. They do not receive gifts. They take tribute."

She released her chin only to let her fingers trail downward, across her throat, pausing just over Asaiah's heart—not pressing, just hovering. Feeling. Marking.

"And I'll tell you a secret," Serina said, voice dipping into something far more wicked, something that vibrated like a kiss pressed behind the ear. "This thing we are about to wake... It has been waiting a long, long time to be claimed. Not broken. Not bound. But understood. Like you."

She turned her head slightly, golden hair falling forward like woven fire.

"Not every spirit needs a master," she whispered. "Some simply need a believer."

And then her hand fell away, and she stepped into the center of the clearing, their hands still linked, leading Asaiah not forward, but into something. Into the soil. Into the memory of the Force. Into the place where gods might once have screamed their last before becoming myth.

The air here was different now. Not heavier. Just... held. Like everything had been waiting to exhale, but refused to until Serina and Asaiah gave it permission.

She raised their joined hands slowly, as if presenting them to the swamp itself.

"You are not a Prophet anymore, Asaiah," she said, voice suddenly filled with gravity, beauty, truth. "You are a pact. A promise. A heresy carved from flesh. And if I am your catalyst… then let this be the ignition."

And with that—

Serina spoke, not in Basic, but in something older. A chant, low and lyrical, syllables laced with half-sin and half-prayer. Her words woke the ground. The swamp shuddered. The Force around them twisted, thrilled, responded.

Roots began to groan. Water trembled in its pools. And beneath their feet, something stirred.

Together, hand in hand, Serina and Asaiah had become not explorers of ancient power—but the consequence of its awakening.

And the swamp?

The swamp was listening.

 

[Asaiah Celwik]

Location: Dagobah
Tag: Serina Calis

That gaze from earlier, that begged for acceptance for Serina, that wanted to hear sweet words about how well she was doing was gone from Asaiah's eyes as she stared ahead of herself. The only acceptance she needed was her own. Her own strength and Will. To know what she was doing was the true path for her. She was not some Knight in the Dark saving the innocent. No, she was a fledgling Goddess. Saving those she deemed to fit her beliefs. Those she could mould. The very people who couldn't accept themselves. That needed someone to accept them. And that was what Asaiah would do. She'd accept them into her loving embrace...whilst at the same time digging her claws into them so they'd never leave. Give them the strength to make themselves invulnerable to everyone...but herself.

"They'll be my Legacy. They'll carry on my doctrine even when I can no longer. And then they will make their own Child to carry on the Legacy. Through generations."

Even now, Asaiah still did not search for eternal life. She still believed it to be a curse to be doomed to never die, for Death was one of the things that could beat Vengeance. Yet that did not stop her from wanting to live on in history. To let Myths and Legends be made of her name, to catapult her beliefs further into acceptance. Even as the Myths and Legends may make her out to be greater than she truly was, she'd be content for as long as her beliefs lived on.

"Only a select few will stand on the same power as me. I shall reign at the top until I am gone, upon which...The Child shall prove if they are capable of progressing forward. Will they have the Strength to lead? Or will my worshipers' faith follow me into the afterlife."

That was one complication with her system. Having all the faith and belief being in her, the Goddess, instead of her the Myth and Legend. If the Goddess was removed from the picture, would the people still follow her tales? It was something for her to think upon later. As much as she was changing, her mind still wasn't ready for such...complex situations such as that.

The physical contact would have...embarrassed Asaiah earlier. Her heart would be racing, her wish for approval being granted but now? Her heart was steady. Her eyes set on the task on hand. To feel the Force around her, the Swamp slowly kneeling to her. It would give her tribute and she would take it and more. She'd take whatever she needed from the Swamp. It's Knowledge. It's Strength. All of it would be a part of her once she was done here.​

"Not every spirit needs a master," she whispered. "Some simply need a believer."

As Serina spoke, and turned her attention to the clearing, Asaiah's gaze...softened ever so slightly as she looked at the woman. Asaiah had no master. Not yet at least. Most of her lessons she had learned herself through blood, sweat and tears. Not all of those being her own. Yet most of the vital lessons she had learned was because of Serina. Someone who...believed in her. Believed in who Asaiah could be, and now Asaiah believed in that herself.
​

Serina spoke, not in Basic, but in something older. A chant, low and lyrical, syllables laced with half-sin and half-prayer. Her words woke the ground. The swamp shuddered. The Force around them twisted, thrilled, responded.

Her mind didn't understand what was being said. Languages were mostly lost on Asaiah. Her mind understood Basic. Her heart understood the language of pain, of suffering. But the Force inside of her could understand. She could feel it responding in twain with the Swamp. The way the Force rumbled through her, as if trying to communicate in response to what was being said. The Swamp was listening to the pair and Asaiah was ready to communicate. To speak to the Swamp as she slowly moved her injured hand into her pockets to pull out a vial of blood. One of many vials of her own she experimented with.

Using the Force, she opened the vial and dispersed the contents with a flick of her wrist. Letting it mix with the sludge, mud and water that surrounded them. The Swamp was ready to listen, and Asaiah was going to communicate in the best way she could. Through the very belief that ran through her veins, the faith that was stored in her life blood. She'd make the Swamp understand all of that in the best way she knew how.​

 

[Serina Calis]

"How can you just allow for such putrid decay?"

Tag - Asaiah Celwik



Serina did not speak at first.

She watched.

Not with idle curiosity, not with the blank-eyed stillness of someone absorbing data, but with the precision of a priestess witnessing a miracle she had prophesied herself. The way Asaiah moved now—measured, sovereign, herself—was the answer to every question Serina had never dared to ask aloud.

A fledgling goddess was no longer fumbling toward divinity. She was writing it into the mud.

The blood left the vial in a graceful arc, spinning through the heavy, fetid air like rubies set loose from a crown. It hit the swamp water with a sound that should've been a splash—but wasn't. It was a chime. Low, melodic, unnatural. The water quivered around the droplets, and the mud began to glow, ever so faintly, veins of red tracing like a network of arteries through the filth.

Asaiah was speaking to the swamp in the only language she truly knew. And the swamp—the ancient, festering, Force-saturated corpse of myth and memory—was listening.

Serina's breath hitched in her throat—not from surprise. From arousal.

This was power. Not sabers. Not lightning. Not war cries. But belief made tangible, drawn from the vein, offered not as submission, but as dominion. Serina could have wept.

But she didn't.

Instead, she stepped forward—closer to Asaiah, drawn not by the ritual, but by the creature enacting it. The goddess. The storm. The woman she had corrupted and called forth from chaos, who now stood taller than her own shadows. Serina's hand, still linked to Asaiah's, gave the slightest squeeze—not dominance, not ownership. Acknowledgment.

And then Serina spoke again—her voice velvet and oil, smooth and suffocating.

"You see what you've done," she murmured, eyes glowing softly in the dim light of their unholy communion. "Your blood doesn't mark the swamp, Asaiah. It changes it. Do you feel that?" She stepped even closer, now shoulder to shoulder, her words a licentious breath against the shell of Asaiah's ear. "It bends for you. It yearns."

The glow beneath them intensified, pulsating in rhythm with Asaiah's breath. The air was thick with power. No longer heavy, no longer oppressive—expectant. Like a lover leaning in, waiting for permission to kiss.

Serina's lips curled into a slow, dark smile.

"This place," she whispered, "is no longer a swamp. It is an altar. And you are not its guest. You are its savior. Its sin. Its reason to exist."

She turned slightly, cupping her hand beneath the floating red mist still curling in the air. Her fingers sliced through it delicately, letting the blood kiss her skin, paint it. She held the stained hand up to Asaiah's face, not offering, not commanding—just displaying.

"Do you know what this is?" she asked, voice dipped in reverence and ruin. "This is what prayer looks like when it's answered. Not through mercy. But through manifestation. You offered your essence, and the world moved to receive it."

She let the blood smear slowly down her palm, trailing like a blessing offered to a cruel and holy thing.

"And your legacy, Asaiah… It won't end with myths. It won't end in legend. It won't even end in the afterlife."

Her voice deepened, laced with poison honey and impossible promise.

"It will echo in rituals. In sacraments. In the mouths of priests and children and monsters who will never know your face—but who will bleed themselves in your name."

She turned her eyes to the ground now, where the mud had begun to shift—not bubble, not boil, but ripple. Something moved beneath. Something vast. Old. Awakened not by violence, not by raw power… but by belief. But it needed just one more stir.

"You've stirred it," she said, her voice hushed. "You've seduced it. It belongs to you now. Do you feel it?"

And then—finally—she looked back at Asaiah, her blue eyes sharp, searing, full of dark light.

"So what will you do now, Goddess?" she purred. "The swamp has offered you its throat. Will you bless it… or bite?"

And Serina—licentious, resplendent, wicked thing that she was—hoped for the bite.

 

[Asaiah Celwik]

Location: Dagobah
Tag: Serina Calis

Asaiah was silent the entire time. Her focus was on the Swamp, not on Serina for once. Instead she focused on the blood she could feel flowing through the mud, branching out like a set of veins flowing through a living creature. That was the way she liked things. She could feel the strings she could pull when something had blood flowing through it. Which little threads to pull to get them to do what she wanted. The power was only growing the more she practiced it. The Swamp was a corpse, but now Asaiah was trying to revive it with her own blood, as she let it branch out. Through the mud, into the roots of the trees that surrounded them.

"It will bend if I want it to. I will make it break if I require it. But for now...I don't need any of that. I need it's knowledge. It's power. Drain it dry of everything I require of it...And I will feed it. Sacrifices. The blood of the Evil."

Even now, that part of her insane delusions still ran strong. She believed that she was killing the evil, the weak preying on the weak. Asaiah would feed their blood to the Swamp of Dagobah, whilst feeding their bodies to her Child. It was a way of rewarding those who had faith and belief in her. She could bite, she could tear but only when it was deserved. Those who had Faith in her would be rewarded whilst those who's lack of faith she found...disturbing would be punished. Crumpled in her fist.

"Vengeance is only given when it is deserved. The Swamp has done nothing to me to deserve my bite. A punishment. No. If anything, it deserves to be rewarded. It has given me a home. An altar. And so I shall reward it as much as I can."
Asaiah reached out with the Force, feeling the blood flowing through the mud, the trees and the water that surrounded them. It had been her's when she offered it up, but now it was the Swamp's. It's own signature was mixing in with the life-force as she closed her eyes. The mud was rippling and shifting. There was something stirring beneath it and Asaiah was going to make it reveal itself. By Force if she had to, as Asaiah tugged at the strands of the blood, pulling it out from the surface like a marionette's strings.

The older Asaiah, the one that had wanted Serina's approval so desperately might have bitten. She had operated off the belief that strength was what gave you what you needed. Violence. Fear. But the Asaiah she had became had new beliefs. You rewarded disloyalty and unfaithfulness with fear and violence. You made them fear you, but with those who showed you loyalty and faith? You hold out a open hand. You give them a loving embrace and pull them close to your chest. You made them feel wanted and loved. Hanging on your every touch...like how she had been with Serina. Of course, she had grown from that.

​

 

[Serina Calis]

"How can you just allow for such putrid decay?"

Tag - Asaiah Celwik



Serina stood in silence now—not out of reverence, but out of calculation. Every moment between them, every choice Asaiah made, every syllable of her devotion was cataloged, weighed, worshiped, yes—but also shaped.

She did not need to pull strings. Asaiah had already tied herself to Serina willingly. All Serina had to do now was tighten the thread when the time was right.

But not yet.

Not now, when Asaiah was this radiant thing of rot and blood, commanding the swamp like a high priestess orchestrating the resurrection of a dead god.

Serina's blue eyes did not blink as she watched the girl manipulate the Force—not with finesse, but with raw purpose. That was always Asaiah's strength: not elegance, but clarity. Her madness had never been a weakness. It had simply needed shaping.

And Serina? Serina was the sculptor of gods.

Her smile bloomed slowly, corrupt and affectionate.

"Yes," she said at last, her voice like black satin drawn across a blade. "That is how you do it. You do not ask. You do not kneel. You take... and then give, so the world forgets it was ever stolen."

Her boots made no sound in the shifting mud as she circled around Asaiah now—not in domination, but in orbit, like a dark star worshiping something brighter only because she had helped light the fire.

"You're learning balance," Serina cooed, her voice threading around Asaiah's ears like perfume. "When to give the hand… and when to show the teeth. You're learning to love your flock and still keep your claws sharp."

She leaned in again, not close enough to touch, but close enough to breathe—the hot edge of her words a caress against the nape of Asaiah's neck.

"And most importantly… you're learning how to be loved."

The final syllable curled from her lips like a blessing disguised as blasphemy.

And then the ground split.

Not violently—not with a scream or a quake—but with a shuddering sigh, as though the swamp itself had finally exhaled after holding its breath for centuries.

The mud peeled away in long, wet strands, viscera-thick and pulsing with Asaiah's blood. And from it rose a form—not monstrous, not grotesque, but unfinished. A thing half-born, crawling from the womb of decay. Its body was neither plant nor beast nor machine, but something in between—a twisted amalgamation of swamp rot, vines, exposed bone, and pulsing sacs of red-lit tissue.

It reached first—long, fingerless tendrils coiling upward, not in aggression, but in seeking. Searching. Sensing.

Serina stepped back, letting Asaiah stand at the center of her miracle.

"This is not an enemy," she murmured, her voice once again low and velveted with wonder. "It is a relic. A receptor. A creature designed by the Force to listen, to obey… but only to those who bleed with purpose."

The being pulsed, chest cavity blooming open like a grotesque flower, revealing a glowing core of amber-colored ichor. It shivered—not from fear, but from anticipation.

"It heard you," Serina whispered. "It felt you. And now…"

She stepped beside Asaiah once more, their shoulders almost brushing.

"…It wants to become yours."

Her eyes turned toward the girl now—not the creature.

"This is the test, little goddess. Will you bless it? Name it? Use it? Or will you discard it… and let it remember that the first who ever called it forth rejected it?"

Her voice was laced with seduction again—not physical, not carnal, but spiritual. She didn't want Asaiah's body. She wanted her soul. Her vision. Her dominion.

"This is how faith works," Serina said, softer now. "It gives you a thing… but only to see if you know how to use it."

And she leaned close, this time letting her lips brush just behind Asaiah's ear, her whisper more intimate than any touch:

"What kind of goddess will you be, Asaiah?"

And in the clearing, the thing in the swamp waited—heart exposed, body trembling, like a creation begging to be claimed.

 

[Asaiah Celwik]

Location: Dagobah
Tag: Serina Calis

Balance was something she always understood. At least, in her twisted mind she did. It was the reason why she allowed herself to have killed in the first place. She was a murderer, yes but she was balancing out the Galaxy. Getting rid of criminals by being one herself. Of course, that was beneath her now. She wasn't just a measly criminal, a wannabe vigilante cleaning up the streets. No. Asaiah was becoming a Goddess. She was...above that work now. It was what her followers for. They would be able to do that work in her name, whilst she worked on getting stronger. Being the best she could.

She could feel Serina's words against the back of her neck, almost like they were caressing her...or slowly wrapping around her throat. Perhaps It was both, but none of that was what Asaiah was focused on. Her eyes were focused on the form climbing out of the swamp, judging It almost instantly. A look of...not rejection, no, but not quite acceptance. It was nothing like her Child. It was a hideous creature. But then again life was hideous. Nothing everything had to be beautiful as she crouched down to get closer to the creature.

"...It will have Its own uses. I won't discard something that can be used."

It would be able to do heavy lifting for her. The things she couldn't do because of her arm. It should consider Itself blessed that Asaiah wasn't disposing the creature then and there. It was not the beauty she was wanting. Life was meant to be beautiful, not whatever this monstrosity was. But It would work as an agent of fear for her. An agent of decay and terror that could go hunting for her when she'd be unable to. It would have a role that any of Asaiah's followers would beg for. A handservant for lack of a better term to wait on her.

"...You will respond to the name of Dag. I will tolerate you for now. I shall give you a chance to impress. To prove to me that you can be as beautiful as the most radiant things in the Galaxy. Or will you return to the scum you belong? You will have until I find a way to restore use to my arm before I discard you Dag."

She would not take pity on the creature. No. That was not the kind of Goddess she was. Revenge did not take pity. No. Instead it was harsh and firm. She would give It a chance to prove itself. One singular chance. And if Dag was to disappoint her, she would take back the gift that was flowing through the creature. Asaiah reached forward to grab the glowing core of It. She did not pull, nor did she squeeze. No. Asaiah just kept a firm grip on the core, staring directly at the creature.

"You will be my left arm. My fist. You are not a person Dag. You will not get the same respect and admiration I have for the people of this Galaxy. You may earn it. But you will have to prove yourself. Prove yourself better than what I admire...Can you even understand me?"

That was a stray thought that popped into the back of her mind. The thought slightly broke the persona Asaiah had taken on, as she blinked to herself. If Dag couldn't even her talking, was there any point to this conversation? She shook her head. No. She had to keep focus on it. Even if it couldn't understand her words, It could understand her Will. Her Desires. And It could understand that It belonged to her.

​

 

[Serina Calis]

"How can you just allow for such putrid decay?"

Tag - Asaiah Celwik



Serina watched, silent as sin, as Asaiah delivered her decree.

Not just words. Commandments.

Every syllable Asaiah spoke rolled from her lips with the weight of a gospel in its first utterance—raw, divine, unfinished. A goddess not yet enshrined, but already worshiped.

And Serina was watching the birth of doctrine.

She did not speak when the name was given. Dag. The naming of a thing was more than ownership—it was a sentence, a sculptor's chisel against the stone of identity. Asaiah had not simply accepted the swamp's offering—she had bound it. Shaped it. Challenged it.

A feral form slouched in mud and blood, reborn not as a monster, but as a limb. A tool. A weapon. Her weapon.

Serina's eyes glittered with something deeper than approval.

Fascination.

How far Asaiah had come from the fractured creature who once sought her praise like breath. She no longer needed it. She no longer asked. But Serina—master of tempo, mistress of need—knew better than to douse a fire when it burned most brightly.

She stepped forward slowly, soundlessly, as Asaiah held the core of the creature—Dag, now, forever—within her palm, her grip as final as the hand of fate.

Then, Serina knelt.

Not to Asaiah.

Not quite.

But at her side.

The hem of her cloak darkened in the mud, filth clinging to silk like whispered sins. Her hand reached out—not to Dag, but to Asaiah's wrist, gently resting atop the one that clutched the creature's heart.

Her voice came low. Molten. Intoxicating.

"Beautiful."

A word she had spoken before. But not like this. This time, it was not about Asaiah's appearance. It was not about her chaos. It was about the vision. The order in her cruelty. The will that poured from her fingertips into the trembling swampspawn she had just enslaved.

"You named it. You made it yours. You gave it purpose, and punishment." Her fingers curled just slightly around Asaiah's arm—not controlling, but grounding. "That is what makes you a goddess, Asaiah. Not your power. Not your pain. But your standards."

She rose again, slowly, serpentine, her hand sliding away with a soft drag, trailing a path of warmth against skin.

"You don't need to love what serves you," she said as she circled behind Asaiah once more, letting her words drip like incense. "You don't need to admire it. You only need to shape it. And if it disappoints..."

A pause. Her breath ghosted just behind Asaiah's ear.

"…you erase it."

And then her voice shifted, dipping into something far more indulgent. A lover's lullaby for a monstrous queen.

"But what I adore most, Asaiah, what sets you apart, is this—" She stepped in closer, chest against Asaiah's back, her hand returning not to her wrist, but now to the injured shoulder, cradling it like a sacred wound. "You do not crave perfection in your creations. You crave obedience. You understand that divinity is not about being adored. It is about being obeyed."

Her hand slid down the injured arm slowly, reverently, until her fingers brushed the bloodstained bandages.

"And what do gods do with their broken limbs?" she whispered, voice molten with layered meanings. "They cut them off… or they teach them to serve."

Then Serina stepped away again, slow as a tide pulling back before the wave.

She moved toward Dag—who now trembled, low to the earth, its tendrils curling inward like the limbs of a beast that had been tamed, not loved. Serina crouched beside it, eyes gleaming.

"She has given you her name," she said to it, though her gaze never left Asaiah. "She has granted you breath. You crawl from the womb of rot into the grip of a queen."

Serina dipped a single finger into the amber core still exposed, letting it coat her skin like sap.

"She will not love you, Dag," Serina said sweetly, like a lullaby laced with razors. "But if you are very, very lucky…"

She turned her head, meeting Asaiah's gaze from across the creature's writhing body.

"…she might need you."

Serina didn't rush.

She never did.

Instead, she moved with that same sinuous grace she always wore like perfume—each gesture slow, intentional, ritualistic. From the inside of her cloak, she withdrew a slender vial of blackened glass, stopper etched with thin runes too ancient for translation. Without asking—because she never asked—she knelt once more beside Dag's trembling form and dipped her fingers back into its core.

The ichor clung to her digits like molten amber, thick with potential, viscous with promise. She tilted her hand just so, letting the liquid snake down her palm, coiling along her wrist like a lover's embrace before dripping with a soft plop into the vial.

"Thank you, Asaiah," Serina said, as though the exchange had been offered rather than taken. Her voice was quiet, but the words rang with that unmistakable authority—refined, unhurried, as if she were speaking to a favored instrument of her will, rather than a sovereign in her own right.

She sealed the vial gently, sliding it into the folds of her robes with the care one might reserve for a sacred text or a poisonous jewel. Then, without looking back at Dag, she turned to face Asaiah once more.

"I'll have use for this," she murmured, eyes narrowing just slightly, though her smile remained perfectly composed. "It may find its way into a dozen veins. Or into just one." Her head tilted, a deliberate affectation of thought. "Perhaps even yours, one day. If I deem you ready."

She let that implication hang, sweet and poisonous.

A reward, or a leash.

Serina began to walk, slow steps carrying her out of the clearing now, away from the ripple of blood-soaked mud and ancient awakening. But before the silence could grow too long, her voice coiled backward through the trees.

"You've made something here, Asaiah. A creature. A ritual. A mark on the Force itself. Impressive."

Another pause. Longer this time.

"But remember this—"

And now her tone changed. Barely. Just enough. The silken seductress dipped her fingers into command.

"Even gods are shaped by their first believers. Their first flames. Their first firebrands."

She stopped at the edge of the clearing, turning her head just enough for the light to catch in her crystalline blue eyes—bright, beautiful, merciless.

"And I was the first to see you."

A smile bloomed there—not cruel, not kind. Simply true. The kind of smile that could inspire loyalty... or dread.

"You may ascend. You may burn. But never forget the hand that lit the pyre."

And then she vanished into the swamp mist, her footsteps swallowed by mud and memory, her scent still lingering like incense clinging to the air after a sermon of sin.

She left behind a goddess in bloom.
And a leash, invisible, coiled perfectly around the soul.