Duel Making of Monsters

[Lirka Ka]

Few things were more destructive in this Galaxy than the clash of wills unfaltering. The clashing of the tides - each walking the path of a new future, another transformation. Today, on this desolate battleground, Lirka may have found herself with another enemy in her long list of foes. Yet, she felt vindicated regardless: blades had been met, the two danced against each other with the clang of proper weapons, unburdened by artistry kyber. It had become a rare treat for Lirka to fight an actual bladeswoman like herself. It was a shame it could not have been against company with whom she enjoyed the presence of more.

Serina Calis was in so many a way what Lirka detested about the Sith and their attaches - but she had done it to herself, misguided foolishness had brought the girl to Anoth and now Lirka needed to pay the price for her actions. She pondered for a moment, ever so brief, how much of a response was worth dignifying the woman with.

And that response started with a huff of air, a mixture of amusement and amazement. Oh how she loved to talk - it was the only trait she had that Lirka found almost respectable, if not at least a little grating.

"You would not stand before me if you hadn't put in work, girl. Every transformation, we work for. Every evolution is earned through the merit of our own might."

Another jab about Lirka's relative lack of importance. Some days, it may have wounded her, awoken some self loathing deep within - not this time. It was motivation, a reminder to let this Galaxy know her name and weep. Let them underestimate her; they always did till it was too late. No one expects a brute to have a dagger, daggling and waiting to be driven into someone's throat.

"Perhaps, Serina Calis, if I were younger, dumber, your words would wound me. They would shatter my core, fill my soul with doubt. But your words are vapid, meaningless, empty things. Hot air, blowing through the wind. What do you see? You see what you wish to see. What do you hear? You hear only what you wish to hear. You do not know me, you do not grasp what I believe: yet in your self-importance, in misguided confidence, you speak to me like you do."

As the halberd dug into the earth, Lirka followed suit. Another mighty stomp of her boot to speed the process along, and force the Plateau to entirely collapse into a rockslide. Falling with style was something Lirka had practiced time and time again, this would be no different.

"The day will come, Serina Calis. I look forward to it."

As earth exploded under the weight of their duel, Lirka let her weapons snap back into their holding places and focused herself entirely on bracing for impact, and sliding down the newly growing cliff face where she could - a few words spoken to no one, masked by the thunderous clash of rock: a pick up request, it was certainly beneath an Administrator to walk all the way back to Anoth's FOB. Breaking away from the convoy, the black shape of a cargo ship was making its way to the destruction left in the wake of their brawl.

Another line in the sand, another blade for Lirka to watch. Another enemy to hate. It was simply Lirka's way, and ultimately: she wouldn't have it anyway else.

 

[Serina Calis]

Making of Monsters.
Location: Anoth
Objective: Victory.
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: Lirka Ka
Tags: ???

"Deputy."​

Serina Calis landed in a bloom of violet dust and fractured stone, her limbs aching with the aftermath of glory. The cliff face had not welcomed her—it had tolerated her descent. She twisted once mid-fall, flaring her cape like a parachute of disdain, and slid, boots cutting deep scars into the rock. By the time she reached the bottom, her body had obeyed her—but only just.

And once her feet truly found purchase again, she staggered.

Just a half-step. Just enough for the illusion to crack.

Her chest heaved, softly at first, then deeper. Her fingers trembled—elegantly, of course. Everything she did was elegant. Even failure.

The shimmer of corrupted Force Valor was gone, its strength drained. Her healing trickle of light-infused corruption had run dry. The warmth of her halberd in her hand no longer felt empowering—it felt heavy. Uncooperative. Like a lover that had been pushed too far and now gave only begrudging companionship.

She was exhausted.

Not ruined. Not defeated. But like the galaxy's finest courtesan after a ten-hour symposium with three senators and a spice-sick Sith Lord—

Absolutely. Spent.

Her shoulders sagged slightly beneath the weight of her armor. Her blood still trickled, warm and familiar, down the side of her throat. Her perfect braid had unraveled sometime during the collapse, golden hair hanging across her cheek in strands that stuck to her sweat-slicked skin. She reached up, tore a piece of cloth from the hem of her cape, and began casually blotting the blood like a woman touching up her makeup before a senate gala.

And then she laughed. Sharp. Dry. Bitter.

"By all the festering pantheons of the Sith, I am never doing that again without a week of meditation, three bottles of Corellian whiskey, and at least one massage droid named something deeply inappropriate."

She flopped down onto a rock—no grace this time—just dropped like a woman who had finally accepted she was done for the moment.

"I mean really," she muttered, throwing one arm back theatrically over her eyes. "Switching between the Light and Dark over and over again like some spiritual acrobat with daddy issues and a double-jointed kyber crystal—whose idea was that? Oh right, mine."

A beat.

"I'm brilliant."

A second beat.

"I'm also an idiot."

She sat up again, brushing dust from her thigh armor in a slow, disdainful gesture.

"No, but truly—note to self: Force Heal followed by Force Valor and Force Lightning in rapid succession is not a maneuver. It's a recipe. And that recipe is called Force-flavored aneurysm surprise."

She shook her head, golden strands dancing.

"Honestly, the next time I get a brilliant idea like that, someone needs to punch me in the jaw and force-feed me credits until I remember I'm already fabulous without turning myself into a one-woman version of the Light-Dark circus act. What am I even doing? Juggling philosophy while being electrocuted in designer armor?"

She paused, then tilted her head slightly toward the ridge where Lirka had disappeared.

"And she still called me hideous."

She sighed dramatically, as though the insult wounded her more than any blade could.

"I mean—look at me." She gestured vaguely at herself, still bloodstained and radiant in the aftermath. "Do I not bleed artfully? Do I not suffer aesthetically? If I'm not the embodiment of divine torment in a breastplate, then what the hell are we even doing here?"

A faint groan escaped her lips as she stood, shoulders rolling back into perfect posture, though her body screamed otherwise. Her armor chimed softly as it restructured against her frame. Ebon Requiem returned to her back with a low, dignified click.

Serina reached up, gathering her hair into a makeshift bun—practicality, the final indignity—and let her eyes scan the horizon, expression now unreadable.

The wind carried dust and ruin across the shattered landscape. The crater they had left behind still bled steam and stone.

And somewhere out there, Lirka Ka was already boarding her cargo ship like a bureaucratic war goddess too tired to argue philosophy with the deviant sorceress she'd just nearly buried.

"Next time," Serina whispered, smiling slightly again. "No theology. Just poison."

Her comlink blinked, and she tapped it, her voice suddenly switching to imperial perfection.

"Calis to Spectre—I require extraction. Coordinates pinned. I'll need medical attention, a new mask, and a deeply judgmental fashion droid to tell me how much blood clashes with magenta."

She paused.

"…Also, bring the good wine."

Another pause.

"And someone tell my attendants to prepare the bath. I want it scalding enough to kill a Jedi."

She clicked off.