Private Actually, It's Not A Big Deal

[Niysha]

The Tomb of the Forgotten King, Korriban​

Very few things could eat a few days of Niysha's time quite like a new, interesting dig. The danger of whatever was going on with the entire battalion of quasi-alive mummies and the thrumming obelisk of doom had only heightened the experience. As she guided the hoversled that now carried the large, stone casket from its resting place, down the hallway lined with two dozen collapsed, inanimate mummies, and into the main sepulcher, Niysha had time to reflect on her week. Yes, the first day had been something of a disaster - being caught out by a borderline psychotic Sith Lord in the midst of her best attempts to remain utterly invisible - but after that point things had progressed largely exactly how they normally did.

Niysha emerged into the warmth of the Korriban sun and the mild shelter of her small dig site camp. She tried not to leave too much of an impact in any dig, but on Korriban it was good manners to at least mark a tomb as raided once you were done with it. This one had been untouched, so Niysha's affects - two covered awnings, a small tent, a couple of barrels of digging and dusting supplies, and a weather-resistant computer - were an adequate sign that someone had, at the very least, breached the seal. There was a little covered area set out for any artifacts she recovered, and a much larger, empty one that the hoversled-carrying-an-ancient-prison-cell now occupied. All in all, it wasn't a bad hall.

First things first, now that her dig was over, Niysha had some basic necessities to take care of. The most pressing was lunch; she'd been on nutrient packs for days, and finally took a moment to enjoy a travel meal instead. She was much hungrier than she expected, but even so, it was impossible to take her mind off of documenting her new collection long enough to sit down and enjoy even that mild luxury. Next stop, communication. When she was done sending another update to In, Niysha brought up her datapad and tapped a quick, text-only message to Serina.

[ Package is ready for pickup. ~ N ]​

The Miraluka would have plenty of time to triple-check her winnings while she waited for whatever grand display Serina had planned. She didn't particularly enjoy the prospect of meeting her latest partner while smelling like tomb, sand, and sweat after the majority of a week on this particular dig, but there really wasn't much she could do about that. There were only so many amenities you could ship out into the sand-blasted wastes of Korriban for a single person who you'd just met last week.

While she waited for her ride to arrive, Niysha made a point to review her notes and update them with any new information she'd found during her downtime. A barrier that she'd faced early on was that the king's name seemed to have been intentionally erased, which wasn't uncommon. After a few days of work, though, the young archaeologist had managed to find a plethora of evidence connecting him to several other Vitiate-era entities that did have names. That'd be an easy angle to follow up on, if she returned to this particular project in the future.

Bogan, it was hot today.

Darth Virelia

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Deep, into the waiting dark."

Tag - Niysha



The sun on Korriban was not warm.

It radiated—not like a star but like judgment. Harsh, unwavering, and deeply impersonal. It didn't caress the skin so much as press into it, branding itself into the bones of those who lingered too long. It didn't kiss life into the ground. It dared anything to live at all.

Serina Calis did not sweat.

She had adjusted her environmental cloak before landing. Deep crimson, sleeveless, cut high and loose down her sides to allow for airflow but long enough to trail behind her like an omen. The twin crescents of her shoulder pauldrons glinted once as the shuttle passed overhead, casting its long, distorted shadow over Niysha's modest dig site like some swooping predator from a very high caste.

The shuttle didn't land.

It bowed.

Low hover, no dust plume. The kind of arrival that didn't disturb anything unless Serina wanted it disturbed. Subtle power. Quiet performance. The door opened with a soft hiss.

And out she stepped.

Boots first, gleaming black. Then long legs beneath a split-front battle tabard. Her arms were bare—leather-wrapped to the elbow—but her hands were gloved. She wore a belt with no weapons, but anyone watching would realize, too late, that she was the weapon.

The only thing that betrayed the theater of the scene was her eyes.

Not glowing. Not seething. Not wrapped in tempest.

Soft.

Focused.

And very specifically pointed only at one person.

Niysha.

Serina's expression shifted the moment she caught sight of the Miraluka lounging at the makeshift field table, half-distracted by notes and very clearly attempting not to melt into a puddle of desert sweat and smugness.

The smile came on slow. One corner first, then the other. Not wide. Just precise. Like she had been rehearsing it on the shuttle. Which, in truth, she probably had.

She approached like a storm remembered its name—controlled, slow, full of weight.

"Package," she echoed, voice carrying in that cool alto tone that still managed to taste like cinnamon if it slapped you across the cheek first. "Now, see, when you said that, I thought you meant something boring. A crate. Maybe a crystal. I didn't realize you were offering yourself."

She stopped beside the tent, boots scraping faintly against the sand-packed tarp flooring. She let her eyes roam once—over the neat dig site, the sealed relics, the silence of a well-handled recovery—and nodded with a faint note of approval.

Then she really looked at Niysha.

"You've been busy."

Her gaze lingered for a moment on the barest hints of grime—sand smudges on the back of Niysha's arm, a streak of dust along the curve of her neck, the stubborn crease in her shorts from long hours crouched over inscriptions. And instead of recoiling, Serina's lips twitched in something that was both affectionate and entirely inappropriate for a Sith.

Maybe.

She stepped closer. Into the circle of the tarp's shade, one boot sliding with practiced ease between Niysha's chair and datapad. The air changed slightly—cooler, yes, but also heavier. Like something was about to happen.

It didn't.

Not quite.

Serina crouched instead—deliberately lowering herself into the space, spine straight, not caring that the hem of her cloak dragged through the dust. She didn't reach for Niysha's hand. She reached for the datapad first, flipping through the open notes with gentle flicks of a gloved finger.

"You found name correlations," she murmured, not even surprised. "Tied to Vitiate-era cabals. I thought I recognized the structure of the language on the lower wall glyphs. Probably not the original tongue."

A tap.

She didn't stop smiling.

"You made more progress in five days than half the Order's historians do in five years. With no staff. No supply train. And no air conditioning."

Then finally, she turned her eyes up again.

Something about her expression had changed.

Still poised. Still dominant. Still wicked.

But now laced with something tentative. A question she wasn't quite asking aloud.

"I wasn't sure if you'd contact me again."

The words were quiet. Admitting nothing and everything at once.

Serina sat back on her heels, datapad still in hand. "I thought perhaps I'd been a… well. Distraction. A charming one, obviously." A smirk. "But sometimes, when people are caught up in proximity to fire, they forget they can just leave the room."

She held the datapad loosely in one hand now, resting it against her thigh.

"I'm glad you didn't."

Then, her voice dipped—slightly more intimate, still teasing:

"Even if you didn't bother to clean up before inviting me over. I see how it is. Sweat and sand and ancient evil artifacts. All for me."

Serina leaned forward then, not fast, not abrupt—just enough to brush the very edge of her lips against Niysha's temple. A touch of heat. Nothing more. And it was gone just as quickly.

"You're not the only one who gets to flirt at work."

She rose with a smooth motion and finally turned to look toward the obelisk, now resting in its field bay like some slumbering god.

"I have teams ready to take this thing once we decide on containment. But I'm not rushing it. I trust your read. And I'd rather not trigger a sandstorm of undead just because I was impatient to pry the lid off a cursed coffin."

She looked back.

"Let me know when it's ready. Then we crack it together."

And then, with a ghost of that shy, sideways smirk again:

"I've… missed your voice."

Pause.

"But don't let that go to your head."

 

[Niysha]

Niysha didn't even have to wait two hours. Apparently Serina had been eager, though still melodramatic. Her shuttle... hovered in place, rather than landing, apparently, but the Almighty And Very Darkest Drama Queen stepped out in all of her finery regardless. She made a big show, wandered around like she owned the place, and teased Niysha with a not-quite-kiss on the side of her head.

In response, Niysha held out a hand to brush her thigh as she walked past to see the sights.

Her tone was much more relaxed than it had been when they'd first met. Days of doing what she'd wanted to be doing seemed to have done her nerves wonders. "You're full of compliments today," she replied with an audible smirk. After a couple of moments of tapping and updating notes, she backed up the whole mess to her datapad, her personal drive, and then stood properly.

Unlike Serina, who was radiant, relaxed, and dressed to kill, Niysha was wearing almost the same thing she had been a few days ago. There was a small hygiene kit in her tent, but it wasn't the sort of thing she could make much use of without an enclosed area. So... still shorts, still a tight top - this time tighter, tied up above her belly for ventillation - and still boots. All covered in the accoutrements of her work: sand, dirt, dust, the works. She was quite lucky not to be prone to sunburns.

"The artifacts are all packed up and ready to be transported off-world. Three different crates fitted with repulsors. I can move them on myself, if you don't want to get your hands dirty and haven't brought servants," the Miraluka assured. "The campsite is entirely disposable. I like to leave anything that didn't cost more than a few credits in front of tombs and ruins when I crack them. It's just good manners, to let people know when a place has been raided."

When she was properly backed up, recorded, and her electronics put away, Niysha stood and stretched her arms high over her head in a positively feline pose. Moments later she approached Serina with intent and leaned in to plant a quick, casual kiss on whatever part of her body she could reach. Probably a hand, but if the much taller Sith cooperated, she'd eagerly take a cheek.

"I missed your vibe," she replied, sticking her tongue out in a little raspberry. "You should absolutely let that go to your head."

Darth Virelia

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Deep, into the waiting dark."

Tag - Niysha



The sun was beginning its slow descent behind Korriban's jagged horizon, painting the dunes in the color of old blood and newer sins. The heat had finally begun to loosen its chokehold on the valley, and the wind had softened to a lazy breeze, dragging rivulets of sand across the tarp in front of the camp like a receding tide revealing the day's ruin and reward.

Serina didn't move when Niysha kissed her hand.

Didn't flinch. Didn't smirk.

She watched.

Because in that small, casual kiss was something far more dangerous than lust. It was ease. It was domestic, almost. And Serina wasn't used to being touched without ceremony, without intent. She had trained herself to expect motive behind every hand that brushed her, every breath close to her ear.

But this?

This was just Niysha being—well, Niysha.

And it short-circuited Serina's brain just enough for her to feel the barest twinge of unfamiliar glee curl at the base of her spine.

She looked down—only to find the Miraluka beaming up at her with all the smug satisfaction of someone who knew exactly the kind of havoc she was wreaking on a very controlled woman's composure.

"You missed my vibe?" Serina echoed, tone flat, brow arching upward as though the very concept were beneath her. "Darling, this isn't a 'vibe.' It's an aura of cultivated dread and seduction honed over years of study, cruelty, and very expensive perfume."

She leaned down—just enough to bring her lips close to where Niysha's blindfold met her skin, voice dipping into that low, dangerous hush again.

"And if you think I'll let you reduce it to vibe, I may have to show you just how thorough my branding can be."

The smirk she gave then was slow, sharp, and entirely unearned for someone who had just nearly tripped over a repulsor crate five minutes earlier. Which she had. Silently. She would take that secret to her grave.

Still, Serina turned toward the equipment, eyes scanning the three neatly sealed crates.

"You packed efficiently. I'm surprised you didn't leave a thank-you note for the tomb spirits and a donation box for future visitors."

She stepped to the nearest container, placing her palm against the lid. The surface hummed faintly—secure, sealed. Each crate bore a discreet glyph, hand-carved with the same elegant severity she'd seen etched into the inner tomb's walls.

It wasn't quite awe. But it was the closest Serina Calis came to it.

She glanced back toward the tent—Niysha's patchwork, dusty, windswept world. The scent of sand and sunburn and smarts clung to her like a second skin, and for a brief, unguarded second, Serina imagined what it might look like to stay. To roll her sleeves up. To help break down a camp for no reason other than wanting to feel useful to someone who didn't need her power.

Then Niysha stretched.

And Serina forgot how to think for an entire three seconds.

She stood frozen—eyes locked on the soft curve of muscle beneath the tight shirt, the casual lift of arms, the teasing glimpse of waistline and skin. It wasn't overt. It wasn't performance.

It was a trap.

A trap designed to fry the circuits of already-distracted Sith Lords.

"…Bogan," Serina muttered under her breath, turning sharply back toward the crates like they were suddenly very interesting.

"You know," she added after a moment, still facing the containers, "for someone who said she didn't want to die in a tomb, you're awfully good at tempting fate."

She turned back.

This time, her expression had softened again—just a touch. A crooked smile that wasn't part of the performance. Her stance was still dominant, still proud, but now touched with something more dangerous.

Affection.

A breath. She took one step closer, then another, until they stood toe-to-toe again, with only the breeze between them.

"I don't usually… do this," she admitted. "Not the kissing."

She tilted her head.

"But you? You make me want to do stupid things. Like… text. Or leave notes."

A pause. Then, quieter.

"Or stay the night."

Serina's hand found Niysha's again, threading their fingers—not tightly. Just there.

"Which is why I'm leaving."

She squeezed.

"I've got a shuttle with security clearance waiting to take these crates to a blacksite with twenty-seven layers of encryption and a kill switch coded to my pulse."

A small, proud pause.

"It's also got seats, if you want to come along. Not an order. Not a test. Just a ride."

Then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, Serina leaned down again and—without hesitation this time—pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the Miraluka's forehead.

"I'll drop you off wherever you like," she added after a breath, pulling back with a smirk that somehow said I mean it and but I hope you don't all at once.

"You're too valuable to keep. And far too dangerous to lose."

 

[Niysha]

Serina Calis was possibly the most tightly-wound person Niysha had ever met. This was an impressive standard to meet - she'd worked with multiple Sith Lords in the past, and they tended to be much more uptight and full of themselves than their Jedi counterparts - but it made perfect sense when Niysha took into account her age. Niysha guessed Serina was several years younger than her, which meant that she was a tiny fraction of the ancient evil that tended to populate high-tier Sith politics. However strong she was in the Force, there was a vulnerability there that she seemed to be trying - very deliberately and energetically trying - to cover up.

Her one weakness was that Niysha could literally see through her. At rest, Serina's aura was a looming stormcloud, dark and foreboding and infinitely deep. Very typical of a Sith, really, which made it all the more obvious every time she cracked. Lightning sparks of sudden emotional response broke that perfect dark matte when the Miraluka just treated her like a person. Distraction, affection, lust... shame, once or twice, though Niysha would take that to her grave one way or another. Every time she saw that swirling storm abruptly pause and crackle with surprise or nervous glee, it just reinforced to Niysha that she was on the right path.

Theatrics and big shows couldn't hide her literal soul from someone who could barely even make out the eight layers of cloth and leather and how it hugged tight to her hips.

It was nice to know that she was getting through, too. Niysha fell into Serina's gentle, hand-holdy, forehead-kissy embrace with the gradual inevitability of the first snowball that would eventually become an avalanche. She had to make an earnest, conscious effort not to cuddle, and content herself with soft little kisses and hand-holding for now. Her demeanor remained as rock-solid as ever. As it turned out, when her life wasn't in danger, Niysha entire primordial essence was "city pop Coruscant traffic on a rainy day."

"I'd love a ride," she confirmed with an easy grin in a low, conspiratorial tone. "I've let my partner know I'll be busy for a few more days, so no one's going to be sending out search parties for at least a week. Whenever you're done with me, you can drop me off on any starport that an civilian-tier smuggler could get into."

Mugh. It was getting a bit sweaty here. Niysha backed off a bit, making sure to let her fingers trail briefly across Serina's thighs as she did. "But I think the first place I'm going is a shower. Whether or not I smell awful is no longer relevant with the sudden and acute understanding that I think my hair's getting crusty from all of the desert sweat."

Contrary to Serina's gut-wrenching primal fears, Niysha wasn't hand-constructing every single action and word to predate upon her carefully-constructed house of cards. Even so, she did arch her back a bit more as she pushed the sleds up towards the shuttle's ramp. That was absolutely intentional and she was entirely culpable for whatever came of it.

When everything was properly assembled - her more expensive electronics on top of one of the crates, pointedly not on top of the sarcophagus emitting an ominous hum - Niysha stood and ruffled out her hair, then turned back to face Serina and cocked her head to one side with an easy grin. "Ready to go?"

Darth Virelia

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Deep, into the waiting dark."

Tag - Niysha



Serina Calis stood at the edge of the loading ramp like a monarch inspecting a battlefield—or a very reluctant voyeur pretending she wasn't watching her new favorite problem actively make loading repulsor crates look like an performance art piece that excited her in all the wrong places.

Not that Serina would ever say such a thing aloud. No, she was dignified.

Composed.

Statuesque, even.

And completely internally melting down.

She watched Niysha stretch with all the nonchalance of a cat that knew exactly how flexible it looked while doing so. Her eyes lingered—briefly, of course—on the way dust clung to the tight hem of her shorts, how the sun turned sweat along her spine into a sheen of gold. But it was the laugh that got her. The grin. That cocked head, that conspiratorial tone. That was what undid her.

A Sith could handle a dozen daggers in the dark. They were trained for betrayal, fire, fear.
But affection?
That was a saboteur with no face and the softest hands imaginable.

Serina's voice—when it came—carried with it the practiced neutrality of someone very, very aware that her brain had just short-circuited trying to calculate whether it was acceptable to swoon.

"Well," she began, letting her fingers trail up the inside panel of the shuttle frame, "if I'd known all it would take to recruit you was offering a ride, I could have saved us both a great deal of theatrics in the tomb."

A pause.

Then she added, entirely deadpan:

"…Though, to be fair, the tomb was an excellent metaphor."

Her eyes flicked to the repulsor crates—neatly arranged, electronics stacked like they were stage props and not very cursed hardware—and back to Niysha.

"I don't usually bring civilians aboard the Aspidochelone," Serina said, stepping closer as the Miraluka finished her impromptu loading ritual. "She's technically unlisted. Officially a long-range courier, but no one in their right mind uses a long-range courier with dual-class stealth drives and three onboard holocrons chained to a command AI."

She reached out then—casually, as if brushing imaginary sand off Niysha's shoulder—but the touch lingered.

"Of course, you've already proven you're not in your right mind. You flirted with a Sith in a tomb."

A slow step around her, deliberate but smooth, like a panther circling a campfire it secretly liked.

"You came out alive."

Another step, now behind her. A soft whisper near her ear.

"Twice."

Serina circled to face her again, hands behind her back, clearly not looking at the curve of Niysha's lower back with the sort of polite disinterest that could only be described as the opposite of polite.

"The shower's in the upper cabin," she said, voice returning to its cool, elegant cadence. "Two stalls. Private, sound-sealed, and fully automated. You'll need to reconfigure the pressure manually—the ship thinks I'm taller than you. Also a war criminal."

Her smirk curled slowly again.

"And don't worry. There's only one surveillance node in the bathroom, and I promise I don't watch it unless I suspect treason."

A beat. One hand lifted to her chin, as if in mock-consideration.

"…Though I do suspect you of treasonous intent against the state of my self-control."

With the kind of aristocratic drama only Serina could pull off, she turned toward the inner cabin, voice tossed over her shoulder like a silk ribbon.

"Once we're aboard, you're free to do as you like. My schedule's light today—just two encrypted comms to the Assembly, a report to falsify, and a ghost to interrogate, assuming the coffin doesn't explode."

She tapped a finger once on the crate containing the obelisk as she passed.

"If it does explode, you'll be safely behind two decks of blast shielding while I make out with danger directly."

She winked.

"Don't be jealous."

She stopped at the top of the ramp, framed against the interior glow of the shuttle. Then glanced down at Niysha with that dangerous little half-lidded look that meant she was—despite all composure—feeling something.

"After your shower, feel free to join me on the bridge. There's wine. Or—whatever we can synthesize that passes for wine when you're twelve systems outside the civilized parts of the galaxy."

Another beat.

"And, of course, you can join me anywhere else, if you're feeling brave."

Now she did reach out. Just a touch of knuckles under the Miraluka's chin, tilting her face up gently.

"You're going to have a terrible effect on my reputation," Serina whispered, not unkindly.

She leaned close—far too close.

A final brush of her lips against Niysha's cheek—still not a kiss. But a claim.

"I'm very glad you said yes, obediently." she added, quieter now.

Then, with a flare of her coat and a flick of her fingers toward the ramp's interior:

"Come aboard, little tomb robber."

And beneath the humor, beneath the heat, there was that same note again.

Not command.

Not request.

But the invitation to something very, very rare in Serina's world.

Trust.

 

[Niysha]

This was hardly a "shuttle." Niysha had seen smaller, less comfortable freighters. It was always very clear when the galactic elite misnamed something because they were used to dealing with a version of it so opulently luxurious as to be totally unrecognizable. It didn't take Niysha long to acquaint herself with her surroundings the only way she could: all at once and from every angle. Interior walls did a pretty good job of shutting down her perfect scan this time, though, as there were no other living beings on the ship.

Plenty of horrible, amalgamated masses of dark energy, though. Those shone like beacons.

Serina, as per usual, had her song and dance routine to go through. Theatrics, though never frivolity. Being melodramatic was extremely serious and personal to Serina, of the highest priority at all times. Every once in a while a normal, very young, dangerously overextended person managed to sneak a peek through that industrial-grade facade, but those glimpses were fleeting. It was legitimately shocking how the act didn't seem to drain her. Niysha knew for a fact that she'd be absolutely exhausted if she put in even half the effort-

Hm. As she stood amidst the loading bay of the swankiest personal craft she'd ever been in, Niysha realized that she did actually, perfectly understand. She didn't put half as much effort into her appearance and general presentation as Serina did. Less for sure, but far more than "half." She was constantly muting her presence, doing her best to emit an aura of insignificance if she had one at all. Her language was carefully chosen for maximum deferrence and minimum offense, and every obstacle she encountered was a new puzzle to solve without going loud. As much effort as Serina Calis put into conveying her importance and dominion, Niysha spent a similar amount finding ways to not achieve her goals by lightsaber or lightning.

And she certainly wasn't exhausted all of the time, so maybe she could understand better than she'd initially thought.

When Serina invaded her personal space, Niysha returned her attention with a grin and rested her chin on the taller woman's fingers. She practically perched, obviously proud of what she'd accomplished. And when Serina once again tried her absolute hardest to avoid kissing her (on the cheek, this time), Niysha once again felt the inadequate jealousy of being unable to roll her eyes. "I'm rarely brave, Serina... though you've certainly made that a far more common occurrence."

Niysha took only a moment to arrange her things when the human left her to her devices. Her bag or two of digsite gear was professional, though a bit dusty. Her personal bag would normally hold her lightsaber, but now all it had were her personal affects, a change of clothes, and the cryptex. With dedicated attention, Niysha wandered her way to the refresher and tossed both sets of clothes into the wash before stepping in for one of her own. As Serina had promised, the pressure was assertive, so it took her a minute or two to recalibrate that particular... attack.

When she was done, Niysha joined her hostess in the cockpit on the bridge; the ship was more and more of a yacht every time she tried to take its measure. Her hair was still a bit of a mess, but she certainly smelled less like sweat, dirt, and corpses. As it had been a dig, not a party, Niysha hadn't exactly packed for aesthetics, but she did find the more appealing of her outfits to wear, sporting a generous leotard hiding under a very short-cropped jacket and shorts. If Serina took notice of the smaller details, her blindfold was quite different from the simple cloth one she'd been wearing to this point: a much more sheer black nylon, with the back hidden somewhere in her mop of hair.

She took a moment to knock on the entryway of of the bridge before letting herself in. "Sorry for the wait. Your shower tried to kill me, so I had to fight back."

Darth Virelia

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Deep, into the waiting dark."

Tag - Niysha



Serina Calis sat alone in the command throne of the Aspidochelone, legs crossed, coat draped like a war banner over the side of her seat. One arm rested on the polished armrest, fingers idly turning a crystalline data spike with an absent grace that belied the million thoughts swirling behind her eyes. The stars were streaking past in realspace—just fast enough to impress, just slow enough to savor.

The bridge was sleek, silent, and lit by a moody wash of crimson and violet, casting Serina in hues that clung to her like silk. Her eyes, however, remained fixed on the readouts in front of her—though it was clear from the faint tilt of her head and the twitch at the corner of her mouth that she'd heard Niysha the moment she stepped within ten paces.

Then came the knock. The voice. That voice.

Serina let the silence stretch for just a moment too long—artificial, calculated, and absolutely indulgent—before she turned, slowly, in her chair.

And then she saw her.

Saw her.

Serina's gaze moved from head to toe with utter theatricality. The new blindfold. The cling of the leotard. The criminally short jacket. The shorts. The bare legs that had no right being that smug about their own geometry. Serina blinked once and mentally filed a note: Niysha doesn't pack for survival. She packs to assassinate restraint.

A slow, magnetic smile spread across her lips, slashing the cool veneer she'd tried to maintain like sunlight cutting through temple dust.

"Oh no," Serina finally said, voice low and playful. "Did the shower disobey you? How dreadful. I've executed field officers for less."

She rose from the command throne like a serpent uncoiling—fluid, slow, and just a little too aware of the effect it might have. Her boots clicked softly as she crossed the polished black deck, her eyes never leaving Niysha.

As she drew close, her voice dipped.

"I did program that shower for maximum pressure. I like a bit of force in my mornings. Wakes up the spine, keeps one from becoming complacent."

Now within arm's reach, Serina paused. Her hand lifted, poised as if to tuck a stray hair behind Niysha's ear—but stopped just short, instead letting her fingertips ghost along the edge of her jaw.

"…but then," she added softly, "you've never struck me as someone who's prone to complacency."

She lingered there for a beat, drinking her in again. Niysha's presence was—by comparison to the overwhelming storm of her own—subtle. Like warm wind threading through cracks in ancient stone. But it was that subtlety, that intentional quiet, that fascinated Serina most. She'd never met someone so self-contained. So carefully unobvious.

Serina stepped back—not retreating, exactly, but reasserting her own center of gravity. The atmosphere on the bridge remained soft, intimate, like the tension in a string drawn tight between two points.

She turned her back to Niysha for the moment and walked to the side cabinet, opening a sealed black compartment and producing two crystalline flutes and a bottle that had no label—only a red wax seal pressed with a circular sigil that shimmered with faint power. She poured slowly, deliberately.

"The coordinates are locked," she said, casual now. "We're heading to a planetoid called Polis Massa. Dead system. No native life. Just oxygen domes, research stations, and a whole lot of asteroids."

She offered the second glass with a tilt of her wrist, her eyes glittering in the dim light.

"I am the Governor."

She smiled again, this time smaller. Quieter.

"But it's quiet. Private. Ideal for dissecting ancient horrors."

And then, leaning in, she added—just barely audible:

"Or… for letting someone else see the real shape of your thoughts."

With both glasses in hand, she stepped to the broad transparisteel viewport at the helm and sat on the edge, looking out into the stars. She patted the space beside her with all the subtlety of a half-daring teenager in a school auditorium seat.

"If you'd prefer something more theatrical, I can monologue about legacy and purpose for twenty minutes while staring into a slow zoom on my face. But you did just survive a tomb, and that earns you options."

She raised her glass in a quiet toast.

"To inconvenient timing. And the unexpected gravity of bad decisions."

Her voice, when it dropped again, turned warm and heady.

"…Also to that leotard. That was a very good decision."

 

[Niysha]

Serina seemed to absolutely adore almost touching Niysha. She probably thought she was teasing. It didn't really offend Niysha, of course; it was very hard to offend Niysha. Basically "trying to hurt In Rhan " and that was the end of the list. A poor, kissless virgin of a barely-not-a-teenager Sith Lord fumbling at seduction with someone who saw through her nonsense wasn't even the slightest bit objectionable.

In fact, it was pretty cute.

Niysha did allow herself a moment to humor Serina by leaning her head into the taller woman's hand, but she didn't whimper when the human pulled away. Instead, she just followed her to the wine cabinet and took a glass when offered. "I'm vaguely familiar with Polis Massa. It was a pretty decent Port Nowhere a few decades ago." Niysha didn't feel like trying to explain the vagaries of hyperspace travel and how it had affected her personal time stream right this very moment.

When Serina visibly tried to offer Niysha some time alone for the two of them to get to know each other, the Miraluka replied with a silent grin and a nod, taking several seconds of quietude to enjoy focusing her sight intensely on Serina instead of just staring out at the hundred meters or so of Absolute Nothing that awaited her sight beyond the hauntingly thin hull of the ship. When she finally broke the silence, her voice remained stable, like someone who had spent the better part of her life on starships with X-ray vision.

"I'm fine with this. Quiet time in an empty ship with you is probably in my top five things I'd like to be doing right now." She turned her face towards her partner, giving a sly smirk and wryly raising one eyebrow. With this thinner, sleeker blindfold, it was a bit easier to make out a couple of her expressions. "In case you're worried about competition, two of the other four things are less than ten meters away from us right now, and one of the others is back on Korriban. Your competition is harmless."

Hmm. A toast. Niysha raised her glass and touched it gently to Serina's. "To a frankly unwise and more than slightly uncharacteristic amount of bravery," she replied with a much less impish, more gentle smile. "And those boots. I could listen to you saunter imperiously around all night long and never get tired of it."

Darth Virelia