Private Threads of Susefvi

[Serina Calis]

Location: Abandoned Mining Station
Tag: Trayze Tesar ​

The ruins of the mining station lay sprawled across the barren rock like the bones of a long-dead colossus. Cracked durasteel struts jutted from the earth at jagged angles, remnants of an industry long since abandoned, now corroded by time and neglect. Dust swirled in the dim glow of distant stars, whispering through the hollowed-out corridors and rusted catwalks. The silence here was thick—unbroken but for the occasional creak of shifting metal or the distant sigh of wind filtering through fractured bulkheads.

And then, a new sound.

A blade cut through the stillness, its arc a whisper of steel and death.

Serina moved through the ruins like a specter, her form cloaked in shadows, her presence commanding the space around her. The Ebon Requiem gleamed in her hands, the faint luminescence of its etched blade casting ghostly patterns on the ground. It was a weapon of precision, of artistry, of intent—balanced for her grasp, weighted to be an extension of her will. With each movement, the halberd sang, cleaving through the air with brutal elegance.

She turned sharply, pivoting on the balls of her feet, driving the spear-tip forward in a precise thrust. The motion flowed seamlessly into a wide, sweeping cut that sent dust spiraling into the air. She advanced, twisting the haft in her hands, shifting the weapon's weight as she executed a series of rapid, interwoven strikes—an intricate dance of carnage without an opponent.

Corruption is an art.

The thought wove itself through her mind as naturally as the movements of her body.

A downward stroke, slicing through an imagined enemy's clavicle. A reversed hook, dragging the weapon back up to catch and disarm. A final thrust, impaling the specter of resistance before her.

To break a mind, one must first understand its foundation.

The halberd spun, shifting to the defensive, its haft coming up to deflect an invisible blow. She imagined the weight behind it—raw power meeting calculated defiance. The impact would rattle through her hands, through her arms, through her core. Strength, without control, was meaningless. Strength, without insight, was primitive.

She shifted, pressing forward.

To truly corrupt, one must offer a choice that is no choice at all.

A feint—one hand loosening its grip, allowing the halberd's weight to pull itself downward in a deceptive drop. An opponent would see weakness, an opening. They would lunge. And in that moment, as their own conviction carried them forward, the halberd would rise, driven upward by the unseen coil of her muscles, a death stroke masked as opportunity.

She exhaled, steady.

Most beings believed corruption to be forceful. A twisting, a poisoning, a brute reshaping of will. That was the understanding of fools. To shatter something was easy. But true corruption—true domination—was subtle. It required patience.

Another step, a fluid half-turn, and then a vicious downward strike. The blade cleaved through a rusted support beam, slicing deep into its corroded metal before she wrenched it free in a shower of sparks. The mining station groaned, echoes of the past stirring in the hollow silence.

Corruption did not announce itself with force. It whispered. It suggested. It led its prey to believe that they had always desired what was now being offered. That they had never been anything else.

She shifted her grip, reversing the weapon. The haft struck out, a sudden, sharp blow designed to crack ribs, to steal breath. Corruption did not need to rush. It did not force its way into the soul. It simply waited for the moment they begged for it.

She smiled, a small, knowing thing, as she turned into a final spin, planting her stance. The Ebon Requiem came to a rest against the ground, its tip embedded in the dust and scattered remnants of this forgotten place.

It was all a lesson, in the end. A test of theory, refined by practice. The philosophy of the halberd was the philosophy of control itself: Measured. Inevitable. Absolute.

Serina glanced upward, toward the cracked ceiling of the ruined station. Beyond it, the void stretched endless, a vast nothingness wrapped around countless souls waiting to be shaped.

The dance was far from over.

 

[Trayze Tesar]

CURRENT MISSION - Hangings for Threads
Immediate Goals -
1: Investigate the connections to Susevfi

BLUFOR - Allies Unknown

OPFOR - Enemy Unknown

TARGETING ACTION(S) - Serina Calis || OPEN FREQUENCY

---

Metal silently glided through the silent gaps of space, silent strings pulling the frigate to its inevitable rendezvous with the abandoned mining station. The Conciliator, personal flagship of Trayze Tesar loomed against the station, dispensing the cargo of Detective and his Magnaguard and Commando vanguard. His purpose for this desolate place? To investigate the cold embers of the Rimward Coalition, the shadows of the figures that had (albeit temporarily) murdered the Princess of Jutrand, Quinn Varanin.

Quietly, quickly, the sole occupant of the station danced through the halls, shadowed by the footfalls of a few fireteams of droid compatriots. The Kiffar Detective, front and center, his slugthrower pistol itching to get out of his holster and train in on the strange Force Sensitive woman. This was no Lady Velvet setup, he was no star-struck sullen officer bewitched by the grace and poise of the figure before him. This was duty, duty fueled by the validation of victory in saving of a life - and a duty that will be seen to its conclusion.

He would at least grant her the opportunity to come to a conclusion, before giving a slow clap that echoed through the halls. "This yer place? Very nice." Trayze congratulated the woman before him. "Very nice..." Force recognized Force, and unseen weaving and prodding - both at the blademistress before him and what could linger in the shadows that he did not permit.

 

[Serina Calis]

Location: Abandoned Mining Station
Tag: Trayze Tesar ​

The final echo of the halberd's impact had barely faded when the slow, deliberate clapping rang through the hollowed-out corridors. The sound was an intrusion, foreign against the backdrop of rust and dust, of forgotten industry and the whispers of the past. Serina did not turn immediately. Instead, she stood poised, her grip still firm on the Ebon Requiem, its blade faintly shimmering in the dim light.

Ah. An audience.

The halberd shifted in her grasp, not as a reaction to threat, but as an acknowledgment of presence. The movement was fluid, effortless—part of her, an extension of will rather than mere steel. Her breathing was controlled, measured, unhurried. The moment stretched, and then, slowly, she pivoted, turning to face the voice that had shattered her solitude.

A man, flanked by the cold precision of machines. Their presence filled the corridor behind him, a wall of tactical efficiency, droids crafted for war, unwavering in their purpose. A lesser being might have flinched at the sight, but Serina merely took it in, absorbing the details with quiet calculation. The man himself—no—the Detective, stood at the center of it all, a sharp contrast against the unfeeling forms that accompanied him. A slugthrower rested at his side, not yet raised but ever-present, a silent promise of consequence.

His presence was not unexpected.

His words, though, drew the faintest trace of amusement to her lips.

She let the silence stretch between them for a heartbeat longer before finally responding. When she spoke, her voice was smooth, poised, edged with the quiet confidence of one who dictated terms rather than followed them.

"Do you find it to your liking, then?" she asked, tilting her head slightly, blue eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "I assure you, the décor is a work in progress."

A slow, deliberate step forward. Not an advance. Not a retreat. A movement of control, of shifting pieces into place. The Ebon Requiem remained at her side, its etched blade catching the dim light in intricate patterns, but there was no tension in her stance. No outward aggression. Only presence.

"Tell me, Detective." Her gaze flickered, tracing the lines of his expression, the subtle tension in his shoulders, the way his finger itched toward his holster. "Is this a professional visit, or merely a social courtesy?"

She could feel the Force here—like an unseen current, weaving its way through the silence between them. He was not some dull-minded brute, not one of those creatures who stumbled blindly through the galaxy unaware of the greater tides around them. No. He felt the threads, just as she did. And in that recognition, there was something unspoken. A game yet to be defined.

Her fingers drummed lightly against the haft of the halberd—casual, indifferent. A calculated display of patience.

"Your machines are impressive," she added, her voice smooth, but there was an undercurrent to it, something probing, testing. "Efficient. Purposeful. Tell me, Detective... do they act upon their own accord, or are they merely extensions of your will?"

A quiet hum in the air. An unsaid challenge, wrapped in an innocent question.

Would he see it? Would he recognize the parallel?

She allowed herself a slow smile.

"I do wonder," she mused softly, gaze unwavering, "if you see the difference."

 

[Trayze Tesar]

CURRENT MISSION - Hangings for Threads
Immediate Goals -
1: Investigate the connections to Susevfi

BLUFOR - Allies Unknown

OPFOR - Enemy Unknown

TARGETING ACTION(S) - Serina Calis || OPEN FREQUENCY

---

Of course she moved with purpose, and Trayze knew that he was walking into someone else's home turf - a fatal disadvantage he hoped to negate through the overt threat of firepower from his frigate... and the more subtle forms that he himself wielded.

The Force flowed, seeking, calling, slithering above one another like foxes chasing prey - an almost playful game of tag were the circumstances less formal. "We're of our own wills." He stated, "but we are united in our goal." A blunt honesty that did not back down despite this circumstance being one where most other officers would reach for their firearm. This isn't to say that Trayze was relaxed, by no means, it's just the tension hissed through the metal halls, allowing the Kiffar to maintain an equally relaxed stance.

He neglected to tell her the way he denoted the difference, choosing instead to almost disappointedly sigh and present his badge. He wasn't here for philosophy, he was here to prevent an injury against the Empire from festering. "Alas, this is more formal. Trayze Tesar, Fleet Captain Under Marque, Badge Six-Five-Six-Three Three-two-niner-six eighty-six-oh-three." he announced, revealing his badge in full. "Jus' doin' my rounds - this is a nice place. Lots of potential, put a throw pillow here, some potted plants there... maybe a Leth-Enth oh-oh-one point three over that'away."

Despite the lackadaisical glances, the Force lurched and pulled, and his side-eye upon the figure never truly was gone - even when he turned away from her. The prattling of letters wasn't mere conjecture - the Detective knew about the proper "writ of plunder" that most Sith Lords had, especially in the divvying of the spoils of Susefvi. Trayze intended to utilize his authority both as a Detective and as an Acquisitions Officer under the Sith Imperial Banking Clan.

Mere blunt force was one thing, but the Kiffar had dared to delve into the weirding ways of bureaucracy to sniff her out.

 

[Serina Calis]

Location: Abandoned Mining Station
Tag: Trayze Tesar ​

Serina watched him with that same quiet amusement, blue eyes shimmering with a knowing, mocking light as he presented his badge, rattling off his designation with the same air one might list the ingredients of a particularly dull ration pack. His voice carried the weight of duty, of the inevitable bureaucratic entanglements he so clearly wielded as both shield and blade.

Oh, but how utterly delicious.

A man of structure, of forms, of numbered identifications and official channels—and yet, he knew how to play. She could feel it in the way his presence slithered through the Force, not unlike hers, weaving and searching, probing for gaps, for leverage. For control.

But control was such a delicate thing, wasn't it? It could be wielded, it could be measured, but it could also be… taken. Stolen. Disrupted. Turned inside out.

Serina let a slow, sultry smile curl across her lips as she exhaled, stepping forward with measured ease, just enough to let her presence slide into his space like a whisper, just enough to test the boundary of his careful stance. The Ebon Requiem remained in her grasp, tilted slightly in an almost lazy grip, its blade still gleaming, still humming with the promise of something inevitable.

"Mmm, paperwork, is it?" Her voice softened just slightly, like silk brushing against steel. "I must say, Captain, you're certainly the most charming bureaucrat I've ever had the pleasure of entertaining in my domain."

Her free hand lifted, slow and deliberate, the gloved fingers tapping thoughtfully against her chin before drifting lower, tracing the elegant curve of her throat. A calculated, languid motion. An invitation wrapped in indifference.

"I do so appreciate a man who understands the finer points of acquisition." She tilted her head, letting her eyes linger on him, as though she were assessing not a detective, not a soldier, but… something else entirely. "But let's be honest with each other, hmm?"

Another step. Close enough now that the faintest trace of her scent—something rich, something decadent, like exotic spice and forbidden indulgence—might slip past his composure, might linger in the air between them.

Her gaze never wavered.

"You're not here for the decor."

A breath. A pause. A smirk.

"Though I do adore the idea of a Leth-Enth unit. Would it be before or after we install the mood lighting?"

She let the words dance between them, waiting, watching. Her voice carried the weight of suggestion, of something just outside the realm of professional discourse. A play of tone, of body, of the unseen tendrils of the Force that coiled between them, whispering in their own language.

This was no mere interrogation.

This was the beginning of something far more interesting.

 

[Trayze Tesar]

CURRENT MISSION - Hangings for Threads
Immediate Goals -
1: Investigate the connections to Susevfi

BLUFOR - Allies Unknown

OPFOR - Enemy Unknown

TARGETING ACTION(S) - Serina Calis || OPEN FREQUENCY

---

"Ideally b'fore." he answered, a sense of animation returning to the relaxed Kiffar with a sigh, the Force Unseen no longer being cast wide but instead wisping and waving around the two of them. It was a dance, a lazy whirlpool, where at last the senses could register what was before him.

For most spacers, she was a tempting glass of water after the sparkling shadows of deep beyond - and that's what made her all the more dangerous. So, the reach would shortened for now - it was something both intimate and horrifying, this interplay of inner self and the vast expanses of possibility. A game the woman before him was very much aware of - and the two knew the other were moving in subtle ways.

"How-ev-er..." Trayze accentuated, as if to swoon under her perfume and presence ever so slightly, but in reality his formless aura phalanxed itself in mind and spirit, taut and testing the blue eyed woman before him. A Jedi Shadow? Someone from the Empire of the Lost? The Diarchy? She was grey, saddened, worn, but too damn resolute to quit. That resolve would beguile him far worse than any carnal display... and he needed to keep himself controlled - for from that mastery of self, the Galaxy would be mastered.

"How-ever Ah could be persuaded ta'... overlook things." he offered, almost coyly, with a shy tickle in his throat. "Seein' as how things get lost in th' mail. Perhaps Ah could even see what the abode of..." he snapped his finger, as if to try and recall the name. "...Mind if Ah ask ya yer name? Jus' fer paperwork."

It was a play in two parts, the hum and hiss of the Force off of one another, moving their respective pieces of metallic assistance in areas to keep in check, and the interplay between a flatfooted gumshoe and the femme fatale.

 

[Serina Calis]

Location: Abandoned Mining Station
Tag: Trayze Tesar ​

Serina's smirk deepened, her blue eyes gleaming like twin stars drowning in the dark expanse of the cosmos. Oh, he was delightful. A detective who danced, who sidestepped with wit rather than blundered with brute force. A man who could feel the tension, the unspoken pulse of the Force, and move with it rather than against it.

And he thought he was in control. Oh, how sweet. How utterly delicious.

She tilted her head, letting a slow exhale slip past her lips, something between a purr and a sigh, her body shifting—not closer, not farther, but simply adjusting in a way that made the air between them feel tighter, denser. The way a storm thickened the sky just before the first crack of thunder.

"Overlook things, you say?"

Her voice dripped with something darkly syrupy, like honey stirred into spiced wine, coating every word in the promise of something just beyond reach. Her fingers slid along the haft of her halberd, almost absently, the motion languid, suggestive—not as a warrior gripping a weapon, but as a woman running her nails along the edge of something dangerous, something that could cut if she willed it so.

"Mmm… a tempting offer, Detective."

Her eyes flickered downward for the briefest moment, just enough to acknowledge the man before her, as if she were letting herself consider it. The way his stance shifted, the way his voice teased, the way his aura pulled taut against hers, resisting the undercurrent she poured into the space between them.

And then, slowly, she lifted a single, gloved hand and tapped a single finger to her lips, lingering there just a moment too long.

"But then…" she continued, voice lowering just enough to make the space between them feel smaller, more intimate. "It depends, doesn't it?"

A pause. A calculated breath.

She took a step forward—just one, just enough to brush the edge of his space now, the barest inch from his body, her scent washing over him in full. Exotic spice, deep musk, something heady, something that crawled into the lungs and stayed there. Something sinful.

Her free hand lifted, her fingers—slender, graceful—coming up to hover just a hair's breadth from his chestplate. Not touching. Almost. Just enough for the air to feel heavier, for the space between flesh and fabric to feel… suggestive.

"Are you the sort of man who likes to… bargain, Captain?"

Another breath. Another smile.

"Because I do so love a good… negotiation."

She dragged out the last word, wrapping it in velvet, letting it coil between them like a lazy serpent, teasing, tasting, waiting.

And then, as if she hadn't just pressed herself into the very fabric of the moment, she leaned back—just a fraction—just enough to deny him the satisfaction of reciprocation. A game, and she was playing it at her own pace.

"As for my name…"

She tapped her chin again, tilting her head like a cat considering whether or not to play with its meal.

"Oh, Captain," she sighed, feigning a mock pout, lips curling in something almost indulgent. "I'd hate to ruin the mystery so soon."

Her hand drifted away, just a flicker of motion, a brush of absence, leaving behind the ghost of a touch that had never actually landed.

"But since you insist on paperwork…"

Another slow, wicked smile.

"You may call me Velvet."

A lie. A promise. A challenge.

Now let's see what he does with it.

 

[Trayze Tesar]

CURRENT MISSION - Hangings for Threads
Immediate Goals -
1: Investigate the connections to Susevfi

BLUFOR - Allies Unknown

OPFOR - Enemy Unknown

TARGETING ACTION(S) - Serina Calis || OPEN FREQUENCY

---

She was good, not that Trayze had hidden his Kiffar heritage. Psychometry, his inborn ace in the hole, would be useless without actual tactile contact - that is, if he hadn't incorporated it with his own Force-Sense.

By no means was it as detailed or precise as what he would learn through Psychometry, but the sharpened senses could still be useful - tasting her perfume, her presence in the Force. The almost cartoonish, loopy grin on his face as his eyes looked distantly into the past - his mind rattling around possibilities of sensations and when they could have been applied, contesting the woman's own countermeasures.

It was a game of Play, but one Trayze played for keeps - the smouldering memories of Susefvi still lingering in his mind.

"Miz Velvet..." he repeated, a slight giggle in the voice - but perhaps it was a bit too much, he knew a nomme de guerre when he heard it. "Fittin'. Very fittin'." Awkward insinuation of innuendos, before bashfully remembering your presence, carefully act, let the synapses of the Force help pilot your limbs to something resembling clumsiness. "W-well, Ah'd hope ta' be of suitable conversation fer ya..." Scratch your head, soften your irises Trayze, you can't afford to look strong now. "C-cuz, if ya don't mind me showin' round the place..."

Invisibly tap the shoulders of your hidden droids, keep them present but unseen, have her think you think she's a threat - overconfidence will cause her to divulge more than she'd think.

"Ah'd... like ta' believe you'd mean well." That was the first lie he'd tell her. Hopefully she wouldn't detect that, or any subsequent ones.

 

[Serina Calis]

Location: Abandoned Mining Station
Tag: Trayze Tesar ​

Serina knew what he was doing.

Oh, the bashful act was delicious—the stammer, the hesitance, the feigned clumsiness. The way his eyes widened just a fraction too much, the slight scratch at his head, the forced stumble in his tone. He thought he was playing her. Thought he could tug at the strings of perception, lower himself just enough to let her believe he was disarmed.

Oh, my dear Detective…

Serina's smirk deepened into something almost languid, her weight shifting slightly as she let herself soak in the moment, drinking him in like a fine, heady wine. She didn't need psychometry or subtle droid formations to read him—she could feel the pull of his calculation, the way his aura curled and twisted just beneath the act. He was sharp. Intelligent. Dangerous.

Perfect.

Slowly, she closed the distance, her movement unrushed, deliberate, like a predator enjoying the space between the hunt and the kill. The air grew thicker—not through the Force, not through power, but through something far worse.

Presence.

Her perfume was stronger now, her body so agonizingly close that the mere suggestion of touch was more potent than the act itself. She let one gloved hand drift upward, so slow, so careful, her fingers hovering—just barely—over the fabric of his coat. Never touching. Never needing to.

A game of inches. A game of anticipation.

"Oh, Captain…" she exhaled his title with something between a sigh and a purr, her voice a velvet-wrapped dagger. "You are such a…"

Another pause. Another lingering moment of unbearable waiting.

"Gentleman."

Her lips curved in mock appreciation, her breath barely ghosting against his skin as she tilted her head, considering him, devouring the nuances of his expression—the flicker of his pupils, the way his breath hitched just slightly, the tension in his jaw.

"Wanting to believe I mean well…" she repeated, her tone dripping with syrupy indulgence, her voice a decadent caress. "That's terribly sweet of you."

A lie. A tease. A test.

And then, she moved in closer—closer than she should—until her lips were almost at his ear, a breath away, so near that he would feel the warmth against his skin, the sheer, agonizing nearness of her.

"But tell me, Detective…"

Her voice dropped to something so soft, so low, that it wasn't meant to be heard—it was meant to be felt.

"Do you always lie to pretty women?"

Her lips curved, her satisfaction almost palpable, knowing she had caught him. Knowing he would have to decide, in this moment, whether to flinch, whether to double down, whether to change the game entirely.

Because that's what this was. A game.

A game of temptation. A game of control.

 

[Trayze Tesar]

CURRENT MISSION - Hangings for Threads
Immediate Goals -
1: Investigate the connections to Susevfi

BLUFOR - Allies Unknown

OPFOR - Enemy Unknown

TARGETING ACTION(S) - Serina Calis || OPEN FREQUENCY

---

There came the secret, fourth option. To blink, almost be taken aback by what she's said - after all, all of the best lies were the ones nearest to the truth. "Miz Velvet~" came the almost pathetic, mewling complaint. "As much as Ah may tell a joke, as much as Ah may not know the whole truth, I do not lie."

The two's presences were far different - though similar in intent, to be everything to everyone. Where "Miss Velvet" relished in the perfumy, the airy, the spiced seduction, Trayze's scent was of mountain grass, of deep roots, of stubborn passion that could not be easily doused. Dimmed, dulled, redirected, but never fully vanquished. This game, between controller and controlled, had one fatal flaw to the woman in front of him - he wasn't averse to being controlled. After all, a captain considers both his juniors and his superiors; a son considers his father, his grandfather, and his kinsmen; a pupil considers the advice of a teacher.

Even now, she was teaching him so much about her...

"Ah do hope that ya mean well." he added, reiterating a lie - not by intent, but by the evidence and caution that needed to be borne in his profession. Prepare for the worst, hope for the best and all. "As a Captain and as a Gentlemen, this is what Ah truly hope..."

They moved, almost circuitously, like an unseen dance with unseen photoreceptors acting as candlel-it backdrop. Yet Trayze would not so easily be shooed away, even if he was to be denied his duty. A loss he could withdraw and learn from would be just as valuable as a resounding victory.

"Though would ya prefer me as Captain, Detective, or Gentleman for these... negotiations?" he gave the heavy-handed charm expected from a country bumpkin who should have had far more liquid courage than sense to court a woman of "Velvet's" power.

None of whom I had disclosed to you before this moment, Forceling.

 

[Serina Calis]

Location: Abandoned Mining Station
Tag: Trayze Tesar ​

Serina's smirk was slow, a lazy, indulgent thing, curling at the edges of her lips like smoke from a dying candle. He was clever—so clever. The way he wove truth and lie together until one was indistinguishable from the other, the way he leaned into the game rather than retreating, the way he let himself be led while subtly pulling the reins.

A man who understood power.

And more importantly, a man who wasn't afraid to cede it.

That was dangerous. That was exhilarating.

Her blue eyes gleamed with something rich, something hungry, something that would have swallowed lesser men whole.

"Oh, Captain," she murmured, savoring the title like fine liquor on her tongue, rolling it over, tasting it.

She let the silence stretch, just long enough to watch him wait. Just long enough for the space between them to feel like a breath suspended in time, a heartbeat drawn out just a little too long.

And then, her lips parted slightly, a slow, exaggerated inhale, her lashes lowering just enough to make her gaze half-lidded, sultry, knowing.

"Detective… now, that is a title that comes with such… promise."

Her fingers twitched at her side—not a flinch, no, never a flinch—but a motion meant to be seen, meant to be felt. She let them drift across her hip, a subtle shift of weight, a deliberate motion that accentuated the delicate curve of her waist, the way her body moved beneath the fabric that clung to her like a whispered secret.

"But Gentleman…"

The way she said it, the way she let it linger, was like a needle sliding just beneath the skin, delicate and piercing all at once.

"Now, that one…"

Her free hand lifted just barely, her gloved fingers hovering so close to his chest that he might have imagined the phantom touch, the way heat transferred between them, the way her presence wrapped around his like silk wound tight enough to leave an imprint.

"That one is so very… negotiable."

A slow, deliberate smirk.

"Wouldn't you agree?"

She let the words drip between them, knowing full well what she was doing, what she was building.

And yet… wasn't that the fun of it?

A game played best when both believed themselves the winner.

 

[Trayze Tesar]

CURRENT MISSION - Hangings for Threads
Immediate Goals -
1: Investigate the connections to Susevfi

BLUFOR - Allies Unknown

OPFOR - Enemy Unknown

TARGETING ACTION(S) - Serina Calis || OPEN FREQUENCY

---

There was a moment where the "yes-and" so endemic to improv could no longer be endured - whether it was ignoble to the person's own beliefs, or because it would no longer be believable, or amusing.

"Ah would disagree..." Trayze exhaled. "In terms of bein' who Ah am, Ah'd rather not compromise." He cocked his head, placed a finger on his chin as if to decide something that hadn't been for several minutes. "But... as a gentleman, and a detective." He enunciated this last part, allowing a twinge of sobriety to disrupt the almost intoxicating spiral the two danced into. After all, wasn't the absence of something what made it all the more desirable?

"Ah am more than happy ta' negotiate... if you'd indulge me in bein' a hostess, Miz Velvet."

This corner of the mining facility could only tell him so much, in conjunction with deep scans - and he would have to take as much time as the "hostess" would give him. But he would of course intend not to overburden his conversation partner much, by providing her a way to maintain her discretion without appearing indecent.

"If yer hopin' fer me ta' change status, we don't know one another too well to make that happen."

 

[Serina Calis]

Location: Abandoned Mining Station
Tag: Trayze Tesar ​

Serina's smirk shifted, just slightly. A flicker of something different, something less indulgent, something more… intrigued.

Oh.

So that's how he wanted to play.

He wasn't rejecting the game—no, no, he was redirecting it. Turning the dial just enough to break the momentum, to halt the intoxicating spiral they'd begun. A lesser man would have been swallowed whole, tangled in the velvet and the heat, drowning in the suggestion of what might be.

But not Trayze Tesar.

He pulled away.

Not physically, no. That would have been too simple.

He pulled away with presence, with a cooling of the air, a shifting of the rhythm between them.

And that was far more interesting.

Serina's hand—so near to his chest, so dangerously close—instead redirected itself, a fluid motion, a subtle pivot that made it look like she had never been reaching for him at all.

Her fingers ghosted to the Ebon Requiem, resting lightly against the elegant, deadly haft of the halberd, her weight shifting with the movement. It was a small thing, but deliberate—an acknowledgment that she, too, could change the game at a whim.

"A hostess, is it?"

She exhaled the words like laughter, but softer, more… entertained.

"Oh, Detective. You do have a way with words."

There was no disappointment in her tone, no frustration. If anything, there was approval.

Respect.

A man who could resist.

A man who could redirect.

That was a man worth toying with.

Her gaze drifted briefly, scanning his face—not just for tells, not just for cracks in the mask, but for the sheer pleasure of studying him.

What a fascinating specimen.

What an utterly fascinating challenge.

"Then I suppose it would be terribly rude of me to decline such a request."

She took a step back, not in retreat, but in something else entirely—a shift in dynamic, a shift in energy. The distance was calculated, enough to give the illusion of respect, of space.

But the game was still being played.

She was still in control.

And now… so was he.

Her smirk deepened.

"Very well, then, Captain-Detective-Gentleman."

A slow, indulgent tilt of her head, her eyes still gleaming with the remnants of their earlier dance, but now there was something more.

A challenge accepted.

"Shall we?"

And with that, she turned, leading the way deeper into the station—an invitation, an offering, a promise that the night was far from over.

 

[Trayze Tesar]

CURRENT MISSION - Hangings for Threads
Immediate Goals -
1: Investigate the connections to Susevfi

BLUFOR - Allies Unknown

OPFOR - Enemy Unknown

TARGETING ACTION(S) - Serina Calis || OPEN FREQUENCY

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"Only on one condition." He paused, before adding a chuckle. " "Captain-Detective-Gentleman"?" he would shake his head, and give a genuine smile. "As much as yer voice is lovely, it'd be a shame ta' wear it out. Just Tesar will do now, Miz Velvet."

The line between truth and lies was often nonexistent among Sith - for Trayze Tesar, the lies often fell upon things unfulfilled rather than intent. Trayze did think her voice was lovely, he did hope she meant well - but his experience and cynicism to think that a woman wouldn't or couldn't act dangerously was foolish, foolish and bordering on willful ignorance.

Even now, as he followed suit, making idle remarks to fill the air with the "banal chatter" expected of a dull yokel who hoped to hear that voice, to pluck away at the shroud of her mind, the unseen tendrils of the Force were still at play. On the exterior, he played the hapless fool, if nothing else but for the camera's sake and to remind himself that over-focusing on one aspect of the case may lead to blind spots - but the tendrils lurched once more.

Oh sure, much of the bulk of his presence was in glancing distance of "Miss Velvet", giving the illusion of her having him by the collar - or was it to act as cautious reserve for when the shoe dropped? Those tendrils that he tapped at the commando droids to gradually filter off to investigate the rest of the structure - was it because he hoped to merely distract his newfound "hostess", or did he truly believe he could contest her in open combat, and break her in a decisive move that forbade any further schemes or activation of contingencies?

Both knew they were playing a game. Both knew the other was playing each other. Both knew that they themselves were being played.

But now came the agonizing contest of attrition - who's mask would slip most unfavorably first? When will they deploy what they knew, or didn't know, about the others in a winning hand of Sabacc?

Footfalls were felt within the ancient mining structure, leading to paths of possibilities.