Private Procurement.

[Serina Calis]

Location: Chandrila, Open Market
Tag: Rayia Si
​

The marketplace of Chandrila sprawled beneath a shimmering noonday sky, its gilded arches and intricately paved pathways alive with color and motion. Merchants in flowing silks called out their wares, from shimmering fabrics that danced in the breeze to crystalline baubles that refracted the sunlight into fleeting rainbows. Chandrila's air, fragrant with the mingling aromas of exotic spices and blooming flowers, was punctuated by the rhythmic hum of melodic chatter. The grandeur of the market, with its harmonious blend of nature and opulence, reflected the planet's reputation as a hub of culture and refinement.

Through the crowd, a figure moved with an air of quiet authority, a presence both commanding and unassuming. Draped in a robe of deep, rich blue, the figure appeared to glide across the smooth, polished stone of the marketplace. The garment's elaborate floral and geometric patterns seemed to ripple with a life of their own as light danced across its textured surface. The ornate central panel, its delicate patterns of stylized leaves and blossoms, shimmered faintly with subdued tones, catching the eye of curious onlookers while maintaining an enigmatic subtlety.

The hood of the robe extended forward sharply, casting the figure's face into shadow. Beneath it, a sleek, metallic mask concealed every feature. Its angular design, etched with vertical grooves and faintly glowing lines, reflected the sunlight in a way that gave it an almost otherworldly sheen. The mask's symmetry was perfect, its lines sharp and unyielding, hinting at both precision and mystery. Wide, flowing sleeves trailed the figure's movements, the fabric catching the air as though imbued with a will of its own. Slender, gloved hands occasionally emerged from beneath the sleeves, their fingers slightly curved, evoking an almost feline grace.

As the figure wove through the crowd, they carried no weapon or visible tool, yet the marketplace seemed to part around them instinctively, people stepping aside without conscious thought. The figure paused now and then, their masked head tilting slightly as they regarded the wares of the many stalls lining the promenade. Though no words were spoken, their presence alone commanded a hushed respect.

Eventually, the figure approached a section of the market dominated by forges and smithies. Here, the air grew warmer, alive with the tang of molten metal and the rhythmic clang of hammer on steel. Stalls displayed an array of finely wrought weapons and armor, their gleaming surfaces proudly presented under the golden sunlight. But something about the displays seemed to cause the figure to hesitate.

One smithy proudly exhibited a collection of ornamental blades, their hilts encrusted with gemstones and their blades etched with swirling, decorative patterns. Another displayed polearms with hafts made of polished, lacquered wood, their heads shaped into elegant but impractical designs that looked more suited for a museum than a battlefield.

The figure stopped before a stall where a master smith—a broad-shouldered man with calloused hands—stood presenting his wares to an eager buyer. When the buyer departed, the figure stepped forward, their voice emerging soft but clear from behind the mask.

"These blades are works of art," they began, their tone smooth and measured, carrying a warmth that softened the edges of their critique. "But I fear they lack a certain… practicality."

The smith blinked in surprise at the comment, but the figure raised a gloved hand gently, as if to forestall any offense.

"Do not misunderstand me," they continued, the faintest lilt of charm in their voice. "Your craftsmanship is exquisite. The balance of these pieces speaks to your skill, but their purpose—should it not lie in their function before their beauty?"

The smith frowned, glancing at the weapons displayed. "They're meant to be admired and wielded," he said defensively, though his tone lacked conviction.

The figure's head inclined slightly, an almost imperceptible nod. "Admiration is indeed important. But what becomes of admiration when a blade falters in its strike? What becomes of beauty when it cannot withstand the chaos of battle?"

They gestured lightly toward a nearby halberd, its sweeping crescent blade engraved with delicate filigree. "For example, this halberd. It is striking, to be sure, but the blade lacks the reinforcement needed to pierce armor effectively. A single misstep in combat, and it would break. Were you to strengthen its spine and adjust the weight distribution—ah, but I digress."

The smith stared at the masked figure for a long moment, his brow furrowed, before finally nodding. "You've got an eye for detail. What exactly are you looking for, if I might ask?"

The figure's posture shifted slightly, their hands clasping before them. "A halberd, Daes Mar," they said, their voice quieter now, almost introspective. "One that balances elegance with function. A weapon meant not for display, but for purpose. Sturdy enough to endure, sharp enough to cut through chaos, and balanced enough to flow as an extension of its wielder."

The smith rubbed his jaw thoughtfully, but the mixture of surprise at the figure knowing his name couldn’t go away. "How do you? Never mind, I can forge something like that. It'll take time—weeks, perhaps."

"Time is no obstacle," the figure replied smoothly. "But I would prefer precision over haste."

With a faint inclination of their head, the figure stepped back, their robes trailing like wisps of shadow. Before they turned to leave, they offered a final, gentle word.

"You have a gift. Do not let the market shape your craft. Let your craft shape the market, Daes Mar."

And with that, the figure vanished into the crowd, leaving the smith completely shocked, pondering their words. As they walked, the sunlight danced once more across their ornate robes, their metallic mask gleaming faintly as they disappeared into the heart of the bustling market. Their movements were unhurried, their purpose clear, as they continued their search. In the grand expanse of Chandrila's opulent market, mystery lingered in their wake like a shadow stretching into the distance.

 

[Rayia Si]

Serina Calis

---

Normally, Rayia would avoid such crowded streets. Walking into such a crowd was, to a Felacatian, to submit themselves to a barrage of sights, sounds, smells, and even the vibration of individual movements. Sensations which in tight quarters only served to play off each other and heighten into a sprawling throng of sensory overload that permeated through the vicinity. And yet, there was nothing to be done.

Rayia’s reserves of suitable material for smithing aboard the Reaper had run dry. She wouldn’t be able to forge any new projects resupplying. Asking around had led her to Chandrila, whose noble families seemed to have a penchant for the more archaic practice. She would simply have to brave the storm. ‘Even if it does feel like a siren is shrieking directly into my ear.’

Groaning under her breath, Rayia rubbed two clawed fingers just above her right temple. She could already feel pressure building in her skull, and the prospects of a monstrous headache were already looming in the horizon. ‘Of course they put the steel market in the middle of everything,’ Rayia grumbled as her tail retracted into its sheath at the base of her spine. The movements around her grew fuzzy and eventually faded as her tail was smothered protectively. That was, at least, one sense she could modulate as she picked her way through the crowd.

Rayia passed the shops whose displays contained only finished works. She was unlikely to be able to convince any of those smiths to part with their ores and ingots for a fair price. After all, she would be introducing herself as competition in their eyes. Competition who would be directly designating their ability to put forth more pieces based on the sale. Rayia knew it would be far better if she was to simply find raw materials first.

As she turned down the third row of stalls, Rayia found what she hoped would turn out to be a decent bargain. ‘At the very least, the prices don’t make me want to gouge my eyes out. Well- except for the Phrik, but then again Phrik always does.’ The stall in question was a smaller, red tent with an adjoining repulsor sled hanging off the side. Laid distinctly by material, a series of slightly squat ingots were stacked atop each other on the sled. Probably for display purposes, if she had to guess. A natural draw of the eyes that served to distinguish from the rest of the crowd. Rayia could see that great care was put into the arrangement as the sloping sides of the tower of ingots formed an unbroken surface. Sidling out several ingots from their fellows with her dexterous, clawed fingers, Rayia waited patiently for the merchant to return to their stall.

 

[Serina Calis]

Location: Chandrila, Open Market
Tag: Rayia Si
​

The bustling marketplace seemed to hum with life, each stall a beacon of motion and sound, vying for the attention of the many passersby. Among the throngs of finely dressed patrons and merchants clad in vibrant attire, the dark, flowing figure cut a striking silhouette against the backdrop of Chandrila's gilded arches and marble walkways. The robe, deep blue and adorned with intricate floral and geometric patterns, seemed to ripple as though alive, catching the shifting light with a faint, almost hypnotic shimmer.

The mask beneath the figure's angular hood gleamed faintly, its symmetrical grooves catching the light in sharp, fleeting glints. The overall effect was both captivating and foreboding, drawing gazes while discouraging scrutiny. As the figure moved, the crowd unconsciously parted, a ripple of space opening in their wake.

The subtle warmth of molten metal and the sharp tang of smelted ore grew stronger as they approached the heart of the smithing district. The rhythmic clang of hammers on anvils provided a steady undertone to the chaos of the market's melody. It was a world of artisans and creators, of weapons that bore both beauty and potential, though the figure's earlier search had left them unimpressed.

Pausing near a small red tent marked by a neatly stacked display of ingots on a repulsor sled, the masked figure's head tilted slightly, as though observing something of interest. At the stall stood an unusual sight—a Felacatian woman, her clawed fingers deftly maneuvering several ingots with an ease that suggested familiarity with the craft. Her toned, athletic frame was a contrast to the delicate scarring and tattoos adorning her olive skin, hints of her heritage etched into her form.

For a moment, the figure simply watched, their unseen gaze appraising. Then, with a deliberate grace, they stepped closer, the soft sound of their robes brushing against the market stones barely audible over the clamor of the bazaar.

"You handle the material with a smith's touch," the figure said, their voice soft and measured, carrying a tone that was neither confrontational nor overtly familiar. It resonated with an underlying warmth, inviting conversation without demanding it.

They gestured lightly toward the ingots, their gloved hand moving with fluid precision. "Yet your choice of materials is curious. Forgive my presumption, but these are not the sort one selects for mere practice."

Tilting their head slightly, the figure took a step closer, though not enough to invade her space. "I have wandered this market in search of true artistry, yet I find myself disappointed by the focus on ornamentation over purpose. And now, I see a smith who appears to understand the value of substance over style."

The figure's posture remained poised, their presence commanding yet unobtrusive. After a brief pause, they continued, their tone shifting to one of subtle curiosity. "One rarely sees a Felacatian here, much less one with a clear appreciation for the forge. I wonder, what brings you to Chandrila's market? And more importantly, how do you put up with the crowd?"

The masked head inclined slightly, as though offering a gesture of respect or encouragement. Their gloved hands folded before them, the trailing fabric of their sleeves swaying gently with the motion.

"I hope you will forgive my questions. A craftsman's work always fascinates me, particularly when their purpose speaks louder than their polish."

The figure remained silent after that, their presence patient yet unyielding, awaiting the Felacatian's response with a composure that seemed unshakable amidst the clamor of the vibrant market.

 

[Rayia Si]

Serina Calis

---

Rayia blinked as she felt the tide of the crowd part around a solitary individual. Her tail bristled, picking up on the reverberations of motion within her vicinity and painting her a map of nearby silhouettes. ‘People usually give berth like this for only two reasons. Trouble or illness. Which one are you?’ Rayia pondered, thinning her feline grin to a severe line. She kept a wary posture, ears upright and alert and tail bristling as she sensed the individual drawing closer.

Rayia knew not the individual’s interest in the smithing trade, but as she bent forwards to scoop out the ingots she needed she could hardly miss the sensation of eyes upon her. Like a prickle that crawled up her spine and flared her fur, Rayia felt them draw closer. ‘No, there is no reason to worry. They could have hardly figured out who I am yet. Unless, that woman sent them after me.’

Rayia’s golden eyes slid towards the figure standing in her periphery, glinting with a harsh light as the feline slitted pupil narrowed. She studied them for a long moment before responding to their query. “You seem quite experienced with the smithing trade,” Rayia said, fighting to suppress the faintly musical traces of her tribe’s accent. She needed more information. Like who this figure was and who had hired them.

Rayia did not spare a glance towards the materials in her arms. There was little sense in belaboring the point. Clearly, whoever this was knew enough to distinguish high quality steel. More to the point, she was intrigued by the implied meaning behind the figure’s flattery. “You require a smith, I assume?” Rayia asked simply. The less information she traded away and the more the figure offered unprompted, the better Rayia’s position.

The mention of Rayia’s species, and of their discomfort in crowds, caused a series of subtle changes in her body language. Her nostrils flared, her ears twitched back, and her tail retreated into its sheath at the base of her spine. ‘Trouble, then.’ One clawed hand disappeared into the obscurity of her crimson hued cloak. Rayia gave a less than convincing shrug to mask her new wariness. “I’ve had to acclimatize. Material is hardly stockpiled in isolation. You seem rather well informed for a mere traveler, I might add?”

 

[Serina Calis]

Location: Chandrila, Open Market
Tag: Rayia Si
​

The masked figure did not react to Rayia's wariness—not overtly, at least. They merely tilted their head slightly, as if weighing the Felacatian's response, savoring the tension in the air as one might appreciate a fine piece of craftsmanship. Beneath the mask, unseen lips curved in a faint, knowing smile.

"You assume much," they said softly, their voice carrying a measured warmth, a careful blend of intrigue and amusement. "And yet, assumption is the root of both insight and misstep."

The way Rayia's body shifted—the subtle retreat of her tail, the sharpness in her golden eyes, the movement of her hand vanishing into her cloak—was noted with interest. She was not easily lulled by empty words. Cautious. Sharp. Good.

The masked figure did not close the distance further, did not push or provoke. They merely stood, a silent edifice amidst the bustling market, their presence unwavering yet unthreatening. When they spoke again, their tone carried the same measured cadence, carefully chosen words spinning a web of layered meanings.

"I have no need for a smith. Need is such a crude and restrictive thing. Rather, I find myself drawn to those who create—not simply those who produce, but those who understand the weight of their craft."

A gloved hand lifted, gesturing lightly toward the ingots in Rayia's arms. The movement was precise, almost reverent, as though acknowledging not just the materials, but the intention behind them.

"You chose these with care," they continued, voice smooth as silk. "Not as one seeking to profit, nor as one gathering idle pastime. You chose them as one who understands the difference between a blade that sings in battle and one that shatters upon first blood."

The figure's head inclined ever so slightly, a subtle motion that carried the weight of observation rather than mere politeness. "The market is filled with artisans who mistake extravagance for excellence. It is rare to find one who discerns the difference."

A pause. Then, as if an afterthought, they added, "Though your caution speaks even louder than your skill."

They let the words hang between them, like a thread stretched taut between two opposing forces. Not quite an accusation, not quite a compliment—merely an observation left for Rayia to interpret as she willed.

Another beat of silence, then the masked figure's voice softened, weaving curiosity into its quiet resonance. "Tell me, then, Creator—do you always greet strangers with suspicion? Or is it only when you fear you have been found?"

A gloved hand folded into the opposite sleeve, the figure's posture remaining poised, unhurried. The marketplace still churned with movement around them, but in that moment, the noise seemed distant, the world narrowing to the space between masked enigma and wary warrior.

The figure's unseen gaze remained steady on Rayia, the question lingering—not demanding an answer, but offering one path among many.

 

[Rayia Si]

Serina Calis

---

Rayia’s brow rose a minute fraction at the stranger’s original response. ‘Does it say something about me that I expected cryptic mumbo jumbo?’ Rayia wondered as she shifted slightly in place to turn towards the stranger. Golden eyes scanned the stranger over briefly, as Rayia’s laden clawed hand deposited the ingots back on the shelf with grace.

Rayia felt rather confident she could dispel the first piece of the stranger’s layered meanings. Obviously, they understood the purpose behind the metals that Rayia had chosen. But the fact that they had spent their time searching for a smith instead of forging their intended item themselves meant that they did in fact need a smith, no matter what they might claim. ‘Or at the very least, they may wish to have some deniability in the item’s creation.’

Rayia did not deny the next two claims that the stranger made, regarding the difference in ceremonial items versus practical ones and the quality of artisans within the market being skewed towards the former. It was, in her opinion, self evident and she agreed. ‘You could hardly swing or wear any of these items without them shattering like glass,’ Rayia acknowledged.

She instead took the moment to examine the masked figure’s apparel. It was mostly functional, if a little elaborate. Though Rayia did wince at the thought of those pauldrons catching strikes and directing them down upon the collarbone. ‘So if I was to make another leap in logic, this individual would be looking for a war fang. Something practical.’ Rayia took a moment to breathe as she responded to the fact that the most illuminating factor had been her caution. “An instinct. Steeply priced.”

As the stranger injected curiosity into their tone, they were met with a similar tone of questioning. As if they should already know the answer to their own question. “If you are as well informed as yourself, Traveller, you should know why I would be so… reclusive. Now, shall I ask you speak plainly? What is it you want of me?”

 

[Serina Calis]

Location: Chandrila, Open Market
Tag: Rayia Si
​

The masked figure let the silence stretch between them for a moment, as though savoring Rayia's response. There was a patience in their posture, an unshakable presence that suggested they were in no rush to reach a conclusion before it was properly earned.

Then, softly, they spoke.

"What I want is quite simple, Smith."

Their voice carried none of the cryptic detachment Rayia had anticipated. Instead, it was calm, smooth, even pleasant—not pressing, not withholding, but direct in a way that suggested both confidence and a measure of respect.

"I seek a halberd. One not meant for display or decoration, but for function. Balanced, sturdy, and designed with purpose. Something that flows as an extension of its wielder."

The gloved hand gestured lightly, indicating the ingots Rayia had been examining.

"I have walked this market, and I have found artisans who craft beauty for admiration, but not for use. But you…" The masked head tilted ever so slightly, the soft gleam of the mask's polished surface catching the light. "You understand the difference. You do not shape metal to be admired. You shape it to endure."

A pause. Then, with a subtle shift of their stance, the figure allowed the faintest lilt of amusement to enter their tone.

"And I do believe we have both spent enough time speaking in circles, haven't we?"

The words were not mocking, nor chiding. If anything, they were a small concession—a step toward familiarity, toward something more cordial.

"You have your instincts, and I have mine. And mine tell me that you are not a mere smith, but a craftsman who values their work, their skill, and the purpose behind each strike of the hammer."

They inclined their head, the motion deliberate but not forced.

"I will compensate you fairly, of course. Time is no obstacle. What matters is the craft. What matters is that the weapon is made well."

A pause.

"Does that interest you, Rayia Si?"

The name was spoken with the same ease as everything else, but there was a weight to it—a subtle indication that the figure knew more than they had initially let on. But there was no threat in it. No challenge.

Only curiosity.

 

[Rayia Si]

Serina Calis

---

Rayia waited to hear what the stranger had to say. Then she would be able to begin untangling this whole mess. Rayia tried to hide a smile as she heard the stranger admit that they wanted something simple. ‘Good. Honestly, the mystery and posing is something I never understood. Seems like a pain in the ass,’ Rayia thought, before her ear flicked as she processed the stranger’s request.

They wanted a halberd. A weapon that would hold up to the stress of combat. Which, in turn, suggested that the figure planned to use it for that purpose. ‘So, not simple at all then.’ Rayia was no stranger to forging weapons for other people. Back home, it was practically her livelihood to maintain the armory of Vossport’s defense force. But she had been relatively certain of those people and their character. That would not be the case here.

The driving impulse presented here was the temptation of recompense. But if the weapon she forged was used for foul purposes, Rayia was quite sure that the stain of that deed would mottle and muck her fur just as surely as if she had shed the blood herself. And so, Rayia mirrored the stranger’s actions. She inclined her head in recognition of the traveller’s sharp instincts, narrowing her brows at the implication of the stranger’s use of her name. She winced, golden, feline eyes sliding left and right warily as she checked her surroundings. Rayia had to get out of here before someone else recognized her. She simply never knew who could be one of that woman’s spies…

“I would not be able to forge such a weapon. To forge an extension of the wielder, the smith must understand the wielder. And I do not,” Rayia replied. There was a brief moment of silence as Rayia contemplated the stranger’s proffered curiosity. Perhaps it was her feline nature, but some part of her was curious too. “I… maintain a small camp in an old smithery where city walls meet rolling hills. I like to take tea there. It’s quite pretty at sunset. The sun dapples the sky in honey. Should you still wish me to forge your blade, you should find me there, Traveller.”

 

[Serina Calis]

Location: Chandrila, Open Market
Tag: Rayia Si
​

The masked figure remained still for a moment, as if considering Rayia's words—not with hesitation, but with a quiet, deliberate patience.

Then, with a smooth and measured grace, they inclined their head, mirroring the gesture Rayia had given them. A mutual understanding, an acknowledgment of the terms unspoken between them.

"That is a fair answer."

No protest. No insistence. No push to convince her otherwise. Just acceptance—a rare thing from one who clearly carried an air of knowing more than they let on.

"A weapon cannot be forged without understanding. That is a truth I respect."

The words were neither flattery nor manipulation—merely fact. A statement given with the same weight as the inevitability of the sun setting.

The figure took a single step back, gloved hands folding before her in a gesture of quiet ease, as though already retreating into the crowd's shifting currents.

"Then I shall find you there, Smith." A pause. "When the sky turns to honey."

There was something about the way she repeated the words—not mocking, not amused, but… pleased. As though the poetry of them had struck some hidden note within her.

Then, her masked head tilted ever so slightly.

"I look forward to our understanding."

And with that, she turned, robes flowing behind her like ink poured across the marketplace stones. No further words. No lingering presence.

Just a quiet, steady retreat, as if the conversation had ended the moment Rayia had decided it should.

Serina Calis left no trail of sound, no disruption of space—only the faintest ripple of something intangible in her wake. Something that could have been intrigue. Or inevitability.

Perhaps they were one and the same.

 

[Rayia Si]

Serina Calis

---

Rayia suppressed a shiver at the quiet of the stranger’s departure. She could of course, still feel them moving away for quite some time thanks to her tail’s ability to sense motion And yet that forlorn solitude seemed to bleed into the vibrations themselves as other eddies of motion crashed and broke away in the stranger’s path, parting around them. Rayia would have to be content to leave it at that for now though. ‘Best get out of here before this causes more of a scene.’ Pinching a few credits from her purse, Rayia paid the steel merchant for the materials she had selected and scooped them up into a bundle. Securing it in a leather pouch that hung from her pack, Rayia too disappeared into the crowd in a flurry of motion.

The rolling hills outside the city walls soon swallowed her up, as Rayia disappeared into the tall grasses. With a sigh, she ducked into the blissfully quiet smithery where she had set up camp. Though, perhaps homely ruins would have been a better description. The smithery stood abandoned, well earned soot plastered deep into the walls. Chunks of the walls were missing where the stone had eroded, letting fingers of crisp, cool air claw their way inside.

Rayia had been fortunate as the three walls surrounding the forge’s chimney had been the best kept. Handles speckled with rust lay neatly organized as if awaiting some being to use them again. Rayia wouldn’t discount the simple blessing of a roof overhead either. It had saved her many a sopping, frigid night. After having spent several days on maintenance, Rayia was confident that she could get it to temperature. The only matter left was to discover if she should.

As the sun delved below the horizon and the sky turned to honey, Rayia lit a small fire. She pulled a small pot from her pack, in which she intended to boil tea, and a small grill to use in cooking several strips of meat. ‘Eh, may as well,’ Rayia thought before throwing several pieces of cheese and Ambusher fruit in as well from her pack. All the while, Rayia remained attentive to the vibrations of motion in her vicinity. When the stranger turned up, Rayia would be waiting expectantly as she extended a cup of tea to them.

 

[Serina Calis]

Location: Chandrila, Open Market
Tag: Rayia Si
​

Serina Calis arrived without fanfare, her approach marked not by the usual weight of footsteps, but by the subtle shift of space itself. The gentle rustle of grass, the faint parting of the evening air—it was not silence, but rather a presence so effortlessly woven into the fabric of the world that it made no disruption.

The smithy's aged stones bore witness to her arrival, their soot-stained surfaces absorbing the soft glow of the dying light. The fire's flickering dance cast elongated shadows against the crumbling walls, stretching across the uneven ground like shifting specters. The scent of smoldering wood mingled with the sharper tang of steel and the earthy warmth of tea, forming an ambiance that was at once both welcoming and timeless.

She did not speak immediately. Instead, she paused just beyond the threshold, gloved hands resting loosely at her sides. Her masked gaze swept the space—not as one appraising its worth, but as one memorizing, committing its details to something deeper than mere observation.

Then, finally, she stepped forward, the rich blue of her robes rippling like ink through water as she moved closer to the fire's glow.

And there was Rayia, waiting. Expectant. A cup of tea extended toward her.

A simple offering. A simple gesture.

And yet, simplicity had always held its own kind of power.

Serina inclined her head slightly, a movement that, though subtle, carried the weight of acknowledgment—perhaps even appreciation. She did not hesitate. There was no calculated pause, no attempt to turn this into something greater than what it was.

She reached out, took the cup.

"Tea, then."

The words carried a quiet amusement, so faint it barely touched the surface, like the last ripple upon a still pond.

She lowered herself to sit, her movements fluid, controlled, yet lacking the rigid detachment of ceremony. The firelight cast a warm sheen across her mask, illuminating its smooth, unyielding symmetry as she lifted the cup to where her lips would be—an unseen moment behind the polished metal.

A pause. Then, after the first sip, her voice came again, smooth as ever.

"I prefer wine, but you chose well."

Not just the tea.

Not just the place.

Everything.

Her unseen gaze remained steady upon Rayia as she lowered the cup, the warmth of it still lingering between her gloved fingers.

"Tell me, then—do we begin as smith and client? Or as something else?"

The fire crackled. The wind hummed its distant song against the stones. And Serina waited—not with expectation, but with something far more dangerous.

Patience.

 

[Rayia Si]

Serina Calis

---

Rayia’s ear twitched. She had not felt a presence woven into its surroundings such as this for a very long time. Rather than feeling the movements of an individual as a silhouette against the darkness, her tail was picking up on the stirrings surrounding a space where movement should be originating from. It was slightly off putting. Perhaps equally as off putting as the fact that she seemed to be memorizing this space as one might a location of significance. Once again, Rayia was left to wonder who this stranger was. And why she seemed to know so much about her.

Still, she had accepted the tea. And thus come under Rayia’s hospitality. Rayia’s golden eyes followed her guest as she sat and raised her cup to her lips. Rayia couldn’t help but feel a similar flicker of mirth at the words the stranger spoke. They certainly made for an odd pair, sitting quietly within the ruins of a smithery and drinking tea.

Where once Rayia might have asked her guest to remove her mask, circumstances had now changed. She had become family to Jenn Kryze and Varys Amun . She was learning to appreciate the symbolism of a mask or armor. So instead, Rayia took a sip of her tea and clicked her tongue. “Wine would not do for our purposes,” she said. “Though perhaps, when we are done, you may show me what I am missing out on.”

Rayia tilted her head to one side then the next as Serina asked where to begin. Her ears flicked forwards curious, when she had settled upon an answer. “We start where most things start. Why.”

Rayia turned to look at Serina and said, “It’s clear you want to fight. I want to know who and what for.”

 

[Serina Calis]

Location: Chandrila, Open Market
Tag: Rayia Si
​

The question hung in the air like smoke—soft, slow to dissipate, and impossible to ignore. The fire crackled, and for a long moment, that was the only sound between them.

Serina did not move. Not immediately. She remained seated, gloved hands cradling the ceramic cup with a stillness that felt almost sculptural, save for the slow, deliberate lift as she took another sip of the tea.

Then she lowered it again, settling it gently beside her with the reverence one might give to something ancient, fragile, or sacred.

And finally—
She answered.

"You ask the question most smiths are too afraid to voice."

Her voice was calm, devoid of defensiveness or pretense. There was no guardedness to her tone—only clarity. A strange sort of transparency wrapped in measured control.

"Who I fight..."

A pause, deliberate. Then a tilt of the masked head.

"That answer shifts with the needs of the moment. Names change. Faces blur. Empires fall. Causes evolve."

She leaned back slightly, not in retreat, but as though the weight of her words demanded more room.

"But what I fight for?"

The firelight danced across the grooves of her mask as she turned her face slightly toward the flames, the polished surface flickering like blackened glass.

"Control."

The word dropped like iron into water—sharp, clean, heavy with consequence.

"Not the petty control of battlefield victories or political influence. I speak of fundamental control. Over chaos. Over history. Over the currents that shape thought, culture, will."

She looked back to Rayia.

"I have seen what happens when power is wielded without vision. I have watched civilizations eat themselves out of fear. I have watched the Jedi preach restraint and allow rot to spread beneath their temples. I have watched warlords burn cities to the ground for banners they barely remember."

Another pause, then—

"I do not wish to fight because I enjoy violence. I do not romanticize bloodshed. But I have come to accept that peace is not born from restraint. It is forged—deliberately, and often... violently."

Her voice, while still calm, carried something else now. Not fervor. Not passion. Something deeper. More grounded.

Conviction.

"I seek to build something that cannot be undone by weakness. I seek to correct what has been left to rot. And for that..."

She gestured faintly with one hand, the motion fluid, almost graceful.

"I need a halberd."

And then, for the first time, a hint of mirth returned to her voice. Subtle. Dry.

"Tea first. Revolution second."

She reached for her cup again, and lifted it once more to her lips.

"Is that an answer worthy of your forge, Rayia Si?"

 

[Rayia Si]

Serina Calis
Location: Chandrilla

---

Rayia perked a brow at Serina’s comment. She supposed that assessment was fair. Most smiths would be interested merely in the payment. In completing the job and moving on to the next. They needed to sustain themselves and their families. What business was it of theirs what happened afterwards? Rayia didn’t begrudge them the mindset. She had been in that position once. Except that Rayia was no longer in that position. Now, she needed to think about the larger picture.

Only the slight slurp from Rayia’s cup betrayed her thoughts as she listened quietly to Serina’s explanation. She was simultaneously marveling at Serina’s honesty, and more than a little perturbed by her reasoning. After all, she demonstrated some knowledge of Rayia’s true identity. So proclaiming to her that the organization she served was rotten took some grit.

More than anything however, her answer set a prickle along Rayia’s spine. A sudden spike of discomfort that confirmed Rayia’s earlier feeling about Serina. Dangerous. The grasping for control felt familiar somehow and not in a good way. There were plenty of records of individuals trying to exert control over the galaxy. Invariably, it always ended poorly when someone had managed it. Why even Felacat had felt the encroaching sting before the Felacatians had scared away the galaxy into leaving them alone.

Rayia couldn’t help the slight lopsided grin that spread across her face at the jive about tea first. “Perhaps. Though I feel inclined to point out that just as many of the galaxy’s woes throughout history came from individuals trying to exert more control than they should have.”

 

[Serina Calis]

"Forge me an instrument of control."

Tag - Rayia Si



Serina did not bristle at the rebuke—did not flinch, did not defend. Instead, she remained still, fingers loosely curled around the tea cup, her head gently angled toward Rayia as though genuinely listening.

Then: a quiet chuckle.
Not mocking.
Not bitter.
Just soft, restrained amusement, like a chord struck low and clean.

"A fair point."

She let the words sit, unguarded. No attempt to deflect, no maneuver to twist them back. She had expected Rayia's pushback—welcomed it, even.

"History is heavy with tyrants draped in the language of order. Empires raised on promises of stability, only to collapse beneath the weight of their own certainty."

She turned her gaze slightly, watching the fire now—not for its warmth, but for its symbolism. The rise and fall of flame, the illusion of control over something that could never truly be tamed.

"Control without clarity becomes dogma. Control without empathy becomes cruelty. That, I understand. I do not seek to rule through fear or flame."

A pause, the fire crackling as if punctuating her thought.

"But neither do I believe in the lie of freedom without consequence. I have seen what happens when no one holds the line. When vision is replaced with compromise. When power is left to the 'natural order' and corruption grows in silence."

Serina turned back to Rayia now, the mask catching the firelight like a veil of molten gold.

"You are right to be wary. You should be. I would be disappointed if you weren't."

Then, more quietly, but no less firmly:

"But you mistake me for someone who seeks to conquer."

A beat.

"I seek to define."

The distinction was precise. Surgical. Spoken like someone who had dissected the line between tyrant and architect more times than most would dare.

"And if I fail—" she continued, her tone still measured, still unwavering, "—then let the weapon you forge be turned against me. Let it be used to correct me, as I seek to correct the galaxy."

There was no grandeur in it. No delusion of invincibility. Just an iron promise stated as easily as one might recite a recipe.

Serina raised the cup once more, her voice just above the whisper of steam.

"All I ask is that you do not confuse caution with fear."

She sipped.

"And do not confuse intention with fate."

The tea was cooling. But the conversation had only begun to burn.

 

[Rayia Si]

Serina Calis
Location:Chandrila

---

Rayia perked an eyebrow at the chuckle she was met with. It seemed a tad out of place, though Rayia couldn’t sense any ill meaning in it. She let it pass, waiting quietly for Serina’s response. And if she were to admit it, Rayia breathed a slight sigh of relief as Serina acknowledged the potential of harm from her vision.

Rayia found herself similarly turning towards the flame as her counterpoint did, inclined to settle into the same contemplative mood. Rayia wondered what the flames represented to the individual across from her. Her own memories lingering in the dance of flickering tongues could hardly be described as good. Perhaps most predominantly they represented her greatest shame and a hurried haste from her home in the middle of the night.

Rayia came back to herself as Serena turned the weight of her attention upon her. Rayia could hear the distinction that the traveler across from her was trying to imply. At the very least, their little exchange had loosened the knots of tension twisting in Rayia’s shoulders.

Then, a beat.

A blink.

Rayia felt a slight surge of confidence. ‘Yes, of course. The weapon will judge,’ she thought. It would be unlike any of the works she had made prior. But Rayia would try. It was not such a novel concept. The weapon at Rayia’s side had judged her a defender of the light. Why not this one? Eager fingers rummaged through her pack as Rayia pulled out a measuring cord.

 

[Serina Calis]

"Forge me an instrument of control."

Tag - Rayia Si



Serina watched the subtle shift in Rayia with the precision of a seasoned observer—measured, silent, not imposing. There was no need to speak when something so genuine began to take root. She could feel it—not through the Force, but through the weight of movement, the angle of Rayia's brow, the fluid confidence in her hands as they reached for the cord. The doubt had not vanished… but it had shifted.

Progress.

The fire crackled between them, a low murmur beneath the hush of twilight wind brushing through the ruined stone. Serina made no move to stop Rayia's preparations. Instead, she lifted her cup once more and drank slowly, the steam curling faintly across the grooves of her mask like incense drifting over obsidian.

"You see it now," she said quietly, but not softly. Her tone was steady, like the tone of a blacksmith testing the edge of a blade. "Not my purpose. Not my path. But the truth of the work itself."

She set the cup down beside her once more, this time with finality.

"A weapon cannot lie, Rayia Si. A sword does not care for the name of the one who forged it, nor the oaths spoken by its bearer. It reveals only truth. Its balance reveals intent. Its reach reveals design. Its edge reveals purpose."

Her hands unfolded from her lap, slowly lifting one arm out toward Rayia—not aggressively, not ceremoniously, but openly. A gesture of trust.

"So measure."

The blue sleeve of her robe parted as her arm extended, revealing the soft gleam of a bracer beneath. It was ceremonial in pattern, but practical in make. Her posture did not change—composed, unmoving—but her voice softened slightly, touched by something that might have been sincerity.

"Let the weapon you forge reveal me."

Then, after a breath's pause:

"And if it judges me false… then I will know."

She held her arm still, unflinching.

Serina Calis was not a woman who feared being known.