[Recording Begins...]
"It's strange, truly.
To be entombed here — severed from the Force, buried beneath my own lineage — should have killed me. No conquest to pursue, no empires to unmake, no minds to bend beneath my will. Just stillness. Silence. The kind that would have reduced a lesser creature to dust long before now.
And yet… the Dark Side is not finished with me. Whether this resilience is some unintended consequence of being cut off from the Force, or whether I have finally achieved a miracle of my own design through Tyrant's Embrace… well. My vanity insists on the latter, but for once, I cannot say for certain.
Regardless. I do not know if I will escape this place. So I am leaving a record — should anyone find this and deem my existence worth retrieving from the stones that swallowed me.
My name is Serina Calis. Known to the galaxy as Darth Virelia. Dark Jedi. Exile. Traitor. Monster.
The titles are flattering, if predictable, and they do grow a touch repetitive. So if you are the one listening to this: do me a courtesy.
Call me Serina.
I intended this recording to serve as a final testament — perhaps it is presumptuous to prepare a last will before death is confirmed, but idleness bores me, and boredom is the one indignity I refuse to tolerate. It is also the reason I eclipsed my Jedi peers so thoroughly… but that digression can wait.
Attached to this message is my will, and personal notes for those who deserve them. Tyrant's Embrace is configured to erase the document should I survive. I would rather not contend with blackmail if I manage to crawl out of this tomb alive.
But you — the one who found this — I have a private message for you."
(A long, awkward pause.)
"Ordinarily, I do not care for the fates of strangers. One does not aspire to Sithdom by cultivating sentimentality. But the fact that you found this holo makes you… noteworthy.
I've unlocked the armour's personal seals. If I die within the next seventy-two hours, it is yours. The Embrace is crafted of exceptional materials — bespoke work, tailored to my body. If it fits you, use it. If it doesn't, sell it, salvage it, melt it into ingots and make jewelry. Do whatever pleases you.
Only… keep the mask intact. Display it, perhaps. Let it linger in some archive or museum as a relic of what was. I would like a legacy, even if I never managed to secure one in life.
I have had… a difficult existence. No friends to mourn me. No allies to remember me. Only failures and victories that blurred together until I no longer knew which were which.
Did I make mistakes? Yes. Would I change my past? Once, I would have answered without hesitation.
Now? I find myself leaning toward no.
I think—no, I hope—that the version of me that survives in the echoes of this armour, this mask, might still accomplish what I never could. Through another's hands, perhaps. Through yours. As I said, vanity is one of my more charming flaws.
Well. Enough rambling. I should get back to the problem of surviving.
Good luck, stranger. And one final piece of advice—something carved out of a lifetime of missteps:
If you ever meet a beautiful woman, and the first date feels perfect… run away with her. It might spare you decades of suffering.
Unless you enjoy suffering, in which case—
Am I into suff—no, I'm not—
Where in the Void is the deactivate butto—"
[Recording ended]
