Private Arrogant Potential.

[Serina Calis]

Arrogant Potential.
Location: Sarrish
Objective: Recover old CIS schematics.
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Zephyr Cor

"Arrogance is something I have grown, quite familiar with myself."​

The wind howled across the surface of Sarrish, sweeping over jagged ruins and dust-choked valleys where the bones of forgotten wars lay buried. Once, the planet had been a proud jewel of the Expansion Region—refined, cosmopolitan, and fiercely loyal to the Galactic Alliance. Now it was a world in mourning, a grieving people limping forward through shattered infrastructure and political instability, their resilience tested by the weight of recent losses. Many of Sarrish's sons and daughters had marched proudly to join the fight on Woostri, only to vanish in flame and silence when the Sith descended with brutal finality. The planetary defenses now buzzed with uncertainty, unable to mask the quiet despair threading through every city and town.

It was into this bleak and flickering silence that Serina Calis came.

She arrived without heraldry, without retinue. No warship bore her crest, no ceremony announced her descent. A discreet vessel of unassuming design, forged in the new shipyard of Polis Massa and painted in the dull hues of a refugee skimmer, landed quietly under cover of twilight among the ruins of a derelict landing yard far from the eyes of prying sensors. Her presence was not to be known—not yet.

She stepped into the dimming light like a specter wrapped in silk and steel.

Her silhouette was arresting even in shadow. A deep, dark hood veiled much of her face, yet her golden blonde hair spilled from beneath it in soft, luxurious waves that shimmered faintly in the dying sunlight. Light caught in every strand, giving her the eerie impression of something half-alive, half-divine. Her bodice—sleek and armored—clung to her with dangerous intimacy. The crimson and magenta glow of its angular patterns seemed to pulse in rhythm with her breath, and at its center, over her heart, a lurid violet crest pulsed with slow, deliberate menace. It resembled a heart, yes, but not one meant to love. It was a heart corrupted, distorted, weaponized.

The patterns on her armor slithered subtly like vines etched into the surface of a tomb, each thread of energy whispering secrets of the Force. Her gauntlets shimmered with the same cursed elegance, their runes glowing like forbidden promises. From her shoulders spilled a cape edged in pink and violet, elegant as a queen's regalia, but shaped like a blade drawn in ceremony. Her boots—pointed, sharp, precise—crunched over the fractured stone as she walked with slow, deliberate purpose.

She was not a Sith, not in name. The Jedi would not claim her. She was something in between—a thing carved from shadows and silver tongues, a Dark Jedi, and something worse still: a student of the Force as domination, and of power as art.

And she had come to Sarrish to build an army.

Not of flesh and blood—at least not only of that. No, Serina sought the long-lost schematics of the Confederacy of Independent Systems, entombed in the depths of ruined fortresses scattered across the planet's scarred landscape. The droid foundries, thought destroyed or deactivated at the end of the Clone Wars, were now nothing more than rubble and superstition—but Serina knew better. She had studied the ghosts. She had spoken to the corrupted fragments of ancient AIs, whispering in the circuits of shattered databanks. She had listened, and she had learned.

Now she would take.

But first—information.

She walked alone, her presence cloaked in the Force, draped in veils of influence and disinterest. The weak-minded ignored her, their gazes slipping off her as if she were a figment of imagination, a trick of the evening haze. But those with eyes sharper than most would feel something—not fear, not yet, but the stirring of something wrong, like a fever coming on. Serina wanted them to feel it. She was corruption incarnate, not to be seen, but to be sensed.

A nearby town, nestled on the edge of a broken hill, became her next destination. It had no name anymore. The old name had been stripped from the signs after too many deaths, too many disillusionments. Now it was called simply "the town," and those who lived there did so out of inertia more than hope.

Serina entered without a word, her cape catching the wind behind her like the banner of some forgotten empress. Children played in cracked alleys, their laughter half-hearted, their faces thin. Vendors hawked wares with voices that didn't rise above the sound of broken repulsors or the flickering hum of cheap streetlights.

She paused beside a crumbling mural depicting Alliance soldiers—now smeared with soot and time. A faint smirk tugged at the corners of her lips.

"Martyrs make the best excuses," she thought, eyes narrowing.

These people had sent their youth to die for honor, for ideals, for the safety of a government that now could not even restore their power grid. And when Woostri burned, so did Sarrish's illusion of protection. What remained here was ripe for rot, and Serina was a connoisseur of rot. Not the brutish decay of death, but the elegant disintegration of systems, of ideologies, of beliefs. She loved to watch things fall apart. She would feed them hope, then twist it. She would build her own army in the cracks of their despair.

Already her mind worked behind her eyes, calculating, cataloguing, controlling. Who spoke with whom. Who limped. Who shouted. Who stared too long. Every glance was a thread. Every posture a lever.

She moved toward a local tavern—still open, though barely lit. A gathering place for information, desperation, and drink. As she entered, the mood didn't shift immediately, but a few heads turned despite themselves. The scent of perfumed power had entered the room. Men who had not looked at a woman in weeks stared. Others looked away, ashamed of their interest. One woman, seated near the corner, tensed without knowing why.

Serina's blue eyes scanned the room with idle amusement, and something darker beneath. She took a seat near the center, her gloved hand raising two fingers to signal the barkeep. The movement was lazy, yet imperial. A whisper of the woman beneath the armor: serpentine, calculating, and utterly in control.

She did not ask for attention. It came to her, as it always did. Her mere presence was an invitation to sin, to whisper secrets, to believe that maybe she had the answer. And for some, she would.

She leaned forward slightly, resting her chin upon a hand, the violet heart on her bodice glowing softly as if in quiet delight.

"Now," she murmured beneath her breath, her voice a smooth, honeyed blade, "let's see what's left to ruin."

 

[Zephyr Cor]

Zephyr was washing down what swill the local's thought was an acceptable beverage for their new protector. He didn't bother to hide his disgust.

A month ago, he came to this pitiful little place, did his duty and purpose as a true Jedi. Running out the scum, laying down the law, and punishing anyone who would go against that law with the death that comes to all who sought to snuff out the light of civilization. But what kind of rewards did they give their protector? A rundown apartment above the machine shop, the owner being so useless that he himself had to lend a wrench whenever he was not patrolling.

He thought about building a militia proper. Not like the raiders he drove out, soldiers of peace to not only keep this place safe, but to expand over all of Sarrish. But even as far as Non-Force sensitives went, the locals were a special kind of pathetic. They were a broken people, so much suffering had befallen them that hope had truly left them entirely. It was going to be much more of a chore to rekindle that hope than he thought it would be. His thoughts soon turned to his last conversation with Nadona. How she said that no one can just up and fix the galaxy, not even a Jedi. His heart darkened with despair as he remembered the look on her face as she fell.

Then he felt it, that Darkness, power. He quickly turned in his seat, and saw the woman, and he was stuck. At first by her power, then by her looks, and then by the waves of Dark Side energy coming off her like the light of an evil sun. He stood almost by instinct rather than conscious action.

"You have no place here, scum." Zephyr ignited both ends of his green staff saber, uncaring for the innocents that would be caught in the crossfire of this confrontation. "This world is still a part of the Galactic Alliance, and protected by the Jedi."

Apart of him felt hesitation and regret at his actions, he knew nothing about this foe after all, but his pride snuffed out those thoughts. This is exactly what he needed, to crush a Dark Sider in front of all these fools and finally shake them from their miasma. It will be on this woman's corps that he will finally raise these louts from the muck and into the light. Blind to the fear and dread he truly inspired from the surrounding people cowering around him as he started yet another fight in the only cantina.

 

[Serina Calis]

Arrogant Potential.
Location: Sarrish
Objective: Recover old CIS schematics.
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Zephyr Cor

"Arrogance is something I have grown, quite familiar with myself."​

A hush fell upon the cantina. Not the tense silence of anticipation, but the still, stunned breath before a calamity—like the wind drawing in before a storm. All eyes turned to the Jedi with the blazing green saber, its twin ends crackling like the promise of righteous violence. Some patrons ducked. Others froze. A few whispered prayers beneath their breath. But one did not flinch.

She rose.

Slowly. Gracefully. Serina Calis unfurled from her seat like a blooming, poisonous flower. Her hands remained clasped at her waist, the long black gloves shimmering faintly beneath the glowing threads of her regal, armored ensemble. The violet heart at her breast pulsed brighter now, as if drinking in the Jedi's anger, greedily feeding on his certainty, his posturing. Shadows stretched around her, dancing along the walls in unnatural curves, warping like reflections in broken glass.

Her eyes met Zephyr's—icy blue, pitiless, ancient and mocking all at once.

She tilted her head slightly, her voice as smooth as satin and as sharp as a vibroblade.

"You mistake this for your stage, boy. But you are no actor, and certainly no Jedi."

She took a single step forward, and her cape whispered across the floor with a sound like silk slicing through water. The sigils on her armor glowed with restrained menace, intricate threads of magenta and blood-red weaving across her form like veins of some monstrous, living thing.

Then she spoke again, softer now, as if addressing not him, but the broken room around them.

"Tell me… Protector. Is this your idea of guardianship? Threatening to ignite violence where none yet stands? Ripping sabers from your belt like a drunkard reaching for his bottle? Do you really believe these people look to you as their savior? Look at them."

She swept a hand out, slow and contemptuous.

"Their eyes are not filled with hope. They cower because they know you. Because they have seen this before. The righteous fury, the fanatical speeches, the violence that always follows. No different than the raiders, only with cleaner robes and more self-righteous guilt afterward."

She inhaled, slow and full, as though the very fear in the air nourished her.

"But do not mistake me for one of your little warlords or the pitiful Darksiders you've executed to feed your withering ego."

There was a snap-hiss, and then a thrumming hum that echoed like a funeral dirge.

Ebon Requiem appeared in her hand—not drawn, but willed into it, as if the weapon leapt toward its mistress in obedience. Its massive, black phrik blade shimmered with dark purpose, runes along its edge pulsing faintly with phrik-dust light, like embers in the bones of a dying star. The haft was thick, long, elegant and brutal, its weight impossible for the weak to wield, its craftsmanship utterly alien to these people who had only known plasteel and scrap.

The sight of it alone silenced the last murmurs in the cantina.

"I came here," Serina continued, her tone cool and measured, "to see if there was anything worth salvaging on this broken world. A whisper of industry. A flicker of heritage. A spark of innovation. And instead I find you, Jedi."

She spat the word like a curse.

"A butcher dressed as a shepherd. A man who mistakes intimidation for order, and slaughter for purpose."

Her smile widened just slightly now—dark and deliciously cruel, the kind of smile a lion might wear before it breaks a lamb's spine.

"I will not kill you today, Zephyr. No. That would be… unearned. You came here to drag these people into your delusion. But I intend to free them."

She raised the halberd slightly, its edge catching the light and casting fractured reflections across the floor.

"I want them to see what a true power looks like. I want them to see how your rage crumbles against discipline, how your faith shatters before truth, how your arrogance is nothing against the will to dominate. Not just survive, but thrive. Not just serve, but conquer."

Her eyes gleamed like frozen fire.

"Strike, if you must. Show them what you are."

She spread her arms now, mockingly inviting the blow, her silhouette framed by the darkened cantina and the horrified eyes of the civilians pressed to the walls.

"Make me a martyr in their eyes, and I will become the fire they truly rally behind. Or hesitate—and let them watch as their champion fears a woman with a blade and a name."

Then, quieter, almost intimate:

"But know this. The moment you lit that saber, you lost. Because I am already in their hearts now. Their dread? That's mine. Their doubts? Mine. Their hunger for a better world, however dark and desperate?"

Her voice dropped to a whisper, and the room leaned in without meaning to.

"Mine."

And as Ebon Requiem came to rest at her side once more, held in one hand as easily as another might hold a rose, the air around her seemed to shift—thicker, charged, not merely with the Force but with conviction, and something worse:

Belief.

 

[Zephyr Cor]

Zephyr stood there like a statue, his face as unmoving and relentless as the rest of his body. A perfect symbol of unwavering conviction, a picture-perfect model. That was how he was trained after all, show no fear, show no hesitation. To be the eye in the storm, calm and collected in the face of chaos and terror. Just one problem, one flaw in his stance.

It was a lie.

His body might have been calm, hell, even his heart rate was kept at normal levels by his training. But fear and doubt ran rampant in his mind like a raging Rancor monster. It was clear to him that he was out of his depth, that he rushed in and stepped into a world of hurt. He could practically hear his Master scolding him from the grave that he made the same mistake he always made during sparring matches. But this was no friendly match, and the consequences would be much more severe.

But all these emotions, the fear of this woman, the self-doubt creeping in, the guilt he felt when he reminded himself that Nadona wouldn't save him this time, all had the insurmountable challenge of trying to overwhelm his own self-importance. Pride alone would keep Zephyr set on this path, he just had to find a way to navigate it without dying.

This inner turmoil, however, left his mind as open as a newborn's. A fact that he knew on some level, but his ego was forcing him to ignore. "She's just a witch," he thought to himself. "This is all some kind of trick or illusion, but I will play this game of hers." His mind rationalized to fit around his self-centered worldview.

"A noble speech, for a Sith. But who could trust the words of one whose Order is synonymous with genocide and slavery?" He spoke with more confidence than he could in truth muster.

"I'll tell you what. If your intentions are as selfless as you claim, if you're here to help these people, MY people, then you'd have no hesitation to step into the back room and explain what you're doing here." He justified this deescalation as getting her into a more confined space, where her weapon made of metal would be less effective than his made of light. Up closer so he could study her more closely to make a better plan of attack. And get information out of her.

But even if his body didn't show it at all, he feared this stranger, and just wanted any excuse to keep from actually engaging her. A truth that he only hid from himself, and all the Non-Force Sensitives who could not see into his mind.

 

[Serina Calis]

Arrogant Potential.
Location: Sarrish
Objective: Recover old CIS schematics.
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Zephyr Cor

"Arrogance is something I have grown, quite familiar with myself."​

The cantina held its breath.

The hum of Zephyr's staff-saber crackled against the silence, green light dancing along the smoke-stained walls, illuminating the faces of terrified patrons crouched beneath tables and behind overturned chairs. Outside, the wind howled against the warped duraglass, as though the planet itself was whispering omens through the cracks in its skin.

And yet Serina… laughed.

It was not loud. It was not manic. It was not unhinged. It was soft—almost affectionate—like the purr of a woman who had just heard the first few notes of a favorite song. Her smirk curled further, revealing the faintest glint of teeth beneath her parted lips, not predatory but playful, delighting in the music of uncertainty.

She slowly stepped closer, Ebon Requiem held casually at her side, the weight of the massive halberd deceptively effortless in her grip. The runes along its blade pulsed again, not in rhythm, but in reaction—as if feeding on the confusion, the lies, the unraveling threads of a proud protector's illusion.

"A Sith?" she echoed, her voice as rich as Coruscani silk, laced with amusement, but also something darker—velvet wrapped around iron. "Oh no, dear Zephyr. You wound me."

Another step. The heels of her boots clicked faintly against the floor, echoing like ritual drums.

"I am no Sith." She tilted her head ever so slightly, the cascade of her golden locks shifting like liquid sunlight beneath the shadow of her hood. "They would chain me. Make me kneel to some dead philosophy or mask their rot with dogma. But I bow to no ghosts. Not Jedi. Not Sith. Not anyone."

She stopped just within the reach of her halberd's arc, the tip now brushing the ground beside her, trailing faint glowing sparks as she drew a lazy circle in the dust. Her voice dropped low, honeyed, intimate, like a whisper from just behind his ear.

"I'm something rarer, Zephyr. Something freer."

She leaned in slightly, just enough that he could feel the warmth of her breath ghost across his skin, her presence like the coiling of a serpent around a flame.

"A Dark Jedi."

The words dripped from her tongue like wine—forbidden, rich, irresistible. Her eyes searched his with merciless grace, drinking in every microexpression, every tremor he didn't allow his body to show. But the Force told her everything.

And what she saw made her smile widen.

"You're trembling," she whispered. Not physically. Not overtly. But she saw it—in his aura. His pride, like polished glass, already cracking beneath the pressure of her presence.

"You've trained well. Cloaked your fear in silence, your indecision in protocol. But I can feel it, Zephyr. It clings to you like a dying man's final prayer. That quiet voice telling you this was a mistake. That you're not ready. That she's too much."

She circled him now, not like a predator, but like a dancer measuring a partner. Her every movement was elegant, controlled, decadent—the liquid grace of someone who did not rush because the universe would wait for her.

"And now," she continued, her voice silk over steel, "you offer me... a back room?"

She chuckled again, slower this time, more sensual. Her gaze flicked toward the door behind the bar—a cracked frame leading into some dim, grease-stained storeroom.

"Oh, Zephyr," she breathed. "If you wanted me alone, you need only ask."

She ran a gloved finger across the haft of Ebon Requiem, trailing it slowly, suggestively, the motion imbued with a deliberate, languid reverence that made even the air feel heavier.

"But I'll humor you."

She looked back at him with a gaze that smoldered like cold flame. There was heat there, but no warmth. Only power. Power wrapped in beauty. Control cloaked in seduction.

"Let's play your little game. Let's step into your box, your cage, your corner of safety. I'll play the monster in your fable, the dragon to slay. Let's pretend that the Force will whisper you a plan in time, or that your sabers will carve a legend for the people cowering behind you."

She took one final step, now so close that her armored bodice nearly brushed against the front of his robe. The glowing violet crest at her chest pulsed directly between them, like a second heart—one not meant to pump blood, but poison.

"But know this, my gallant little peacekeeper," she whispered, her lips nearly brushing his ear, her voice now entirely too intimate for the room they still technically shared with an audience. "In that room, you'll be alone with me. And every word you speak, every breath you take, every lie you tell yourself about who you are and what you're doing—I'll know."

Her hand rose—not to strike, but to gently run a single finger down the length of his ignited saber blade, letting the Force act as a bridge between her touch and the hum of plasma.

"And if you raise that blade when the truth no longer serves your pride... I will break you."

And just like that, she stepped past him. Calm. Controlled. Magnificent.

She walked toward the back room, her cape trailing behind her like starlight soaked in sin, leaving the scent of danger, perfume, and inevitable transformation hanging in the air like incense.

Before she vanished through the doorway, she turned one last time, her voice teasing—mischievous and merciless all at once.

"Coming, Zephyr? Or do you need a moment to remind yourself which of us is the villain here?"

And with that, the shadows swallowed her.

 

[Zephyr Cor]

His stone-cold exterior finally broke for only a moment at her playful insinuation. Only temporarily flabbergasted at that turn in the conversation. "Well, I can't fault her for good taste." His ego slightly bolstered, his stony mask returned.

Her previous statement distracted him somewhat. Dark Jedi. That had implications, it was not lost on him what that choice of designation meant. The Jedi were beacons of light and hope in the galaxy, paragons of virtue and might to light the path for the common folk. But setback after setback, defeat after defeat, the power of the Sith and their slave armies made it clear to the galaxy one soul-crushing truth.

The Dark Side was stronger, or the followers of the Light had become weaker. Either way, it was time for the defenders of the galaxy to change.

He envisioned it now, a glorious galaxy-spanning civilization. Shining with more brilliance, more grandeur than even the Republic's of old. Guarded by a merciless Order of ruthless peacekeepers. Living shadows that struck fear into the hearts of rulers and commoners alike, watching from the darkness. Hidden defenders of civilization's light, safeguarding it by dragging all who threatened that light into that darkness to never be seen again. And commanding this army of shadows, himself as judge king, all beings of Darkness bowing to him, praising him for his wisdom and power. Even this Strang-

Nope! Nope! He cleared all those thoughts out of his head as fast as he could. His stone face looking at her as he walked into the backroom with her. He knew she had some access to his mind, how else would she know his name, after all? And he could only hope that if she did see that mental image before he could banish it, her sense of superiority over him might make her see him as not worth smiting.

He only deactivated his Saber the moment he was out of sight of the patrons. Pride would not allow him to submit in front of HIS people. His own self-delusion kept him from internalizing the idea that the stranger had humiliated him either way. The backroom was a rather cramped and foul smelling place. What little supplies the cantina had to serve as food or drugs was kept back there, and none of it was that fresh.

"So, Dark Jedi. If you're not Sith, then what are you doing here? This world is one of the most contested regions in the galaxy. If there was any power here, the Alliance would have used it to defend these people." He asked plainly, crossing his arms and trying not to show, or feel, weakness before this clearly more powerful individual. Only succeeding in the first.

 

[Serina Calis]

Arrogant Potential.
Location: Sarrish
Objective: Recover old CIS schematics.
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Zephyr Cor

"Arrogance is something I have grown, quite familiar with myself."​

The backroom door shut with a reluctant creak, closing them off from the murmurs and frightened hearts outside. The air here was stale, thick with the sour stench of fermented rations and overripe spices long past their prime. Crates were stacked unevenly along the walls, containers of off-brand stims and expired liquor shoved between sacks of dehydrated root mush and chalky protein bricks. A single overhead light buzzed softly, flickering with a dying pulse.

But Serina Calis stepped into it like it was a stage bathed in moonlight.

She didn't wrinkle her nose or step lightly to avoid the filth. No—she claimed the space with her presence alone. The glow of her violet crest painted the walls in corrupted light, softening the grime into shadow, muting the rot beneath a perfume of dominion and mystery. She leaned casually against one of the crates, resting Ebon Requiem beside her, its glowing edge humming low like a predator's purr beneath her hand. Her expression was unreadable—languid, but alert. That same coiled grace she had shown before, now pressed into sharper intimacy.

She watched him with eyes that didn't blink. That didn't need to blink.

And oh, she had seen the fantasy.

Not just the flashes of imagined thrones and silver-clad legions at his back, but the tone of it—the flavor. The hunger beneath the noble shell. That flicker of temptation he tried to scrub away like a child caught with blood on his hands. He had summoned it with such conviction, only to smother it in shame.

How adorable.

How pathetic.

How perfectly, deliciously human.

And so she smiled. A slow, creeping, entirely amused thing, like a master sculptor marveling at the raw shape of an uncut stone that just might be worthy of her chisel.

"Well," she began, her voice rolling like warm silk across cold skin. "That was quite the little dream you had. I must say, I didn't expect the cloak-and-dagger executioners of your fantasy to wear your face."

She stepped closer again, unhurried. Her gloved hand drifted across a dusty crate, tracing idle, elegant lines as she moved—like she was drawing a map with her fingertip, a constellation of corruption only she could read.

"I see now," she said, with a smile like midnight. "You don't just want to save the galaxy, Zephyr. You want to reshape it. Break it. Reinvent it in your image. To build a civilization so ruthless in its defense of the Light, it becomes indistinguishable from the Dark."

She stopped just short of him, her presence now unmistakably close. Her gaze roved over him—not hungrily, but analytically, like a predator assessing the weight and sinew of its prey.

"I could help you do it, you know."

Her voice dipped lower, nearly a purr.

"Build that empire. That order. That legion of shadows you fantasize about. I've built worse. I've ruined better."

She reached up, and with a deliberately languid gesture, tugged her hood back, letting it fall to her shoulders. Her hair spilled more freely now, soft golden waves framing her face with almost angelic beauty—if angels wore armor carved in sin and eyes that could pierce through memory itself.

"But you asked me a question. What am I doing here?"

She circled him slowly now, brushing past him, close enough for him to feel the heat and the scent of her—something sweet, and dark, and floral, like burning orchids and forbidden incense.

"Simple. I'm reclaiming the bones of something greater. The Confederacy of old—the droid legions, the machine minds, the cold logic that bled the Jedi white during the Clone Wars. Their schematics still linger in the ground here, buried beneath Alliance incompetence and Sith indifference. I intend to retrieve them."

She let the words hang in the air like perfume.

"Not for the Sith. Certainly not for the Alliance. For myself."

Then she turned, leaning casually against a crate opposite him, her arms crossing beneath the sharp rise of her armored chest, her posture deliberately relaxed—but every inch of her still dangerous, like a serpent sunbathing with its fangs exposed.

"And I must say… your people? They've made it so easy. You've already done the hard part. Drained them of hope. Reminded them that the Jedi fall, that the Sith rise, and no one comes to help. You've laid the foundation for my arrival beautifully."

She tilted her head, her golden hair cascading like liquid fire.

"And now here you are. Standing before me, still clinging to the idea that the title 'Jedi' gives your voice weight. Still pretending your light can shine in a room where you're afraid to even ask the questions you want answered."

Her tone softened, silkier than before. Almost teasing. Almost tender.

"Would you like to ask them, Zephyr? Those real questions? The ones you've buried under protocol and piety?"

She stepped toward him again, slow and smooth, until they were nearly chest to chest—until he could feel her heartbeat, slow and confident, vibrating through the glowing crest of her armor like a dark star at the center of a galaxy he couldn't escape.

"Would you like to know how it feels," she whispered, her voice wrapping around him like a vice made of velvet, "to command absolute loyalty without ever asking for it? To stand in a room and make them obey—not because of the Code, but because they want to? Because you've become what they need, even if they hate you for it?"

A pause. Her hand, without permission but without resistance, brushed along the front of his robe. Deliberate. Calculated. Seductive not for lust's sake, but for dominion.

"Would you like to know how to make an empire fall on its knees and whisper your name like a prayer… and mean it?"

She pulled back then, slowly, giving him the space to breathe—if he remembered how. Her lips curled into a smirk that was part invitation, part prophecy.

"That's what I'm doing here, Zephyr."

She turned, her cape flowing like ink behind her, fingers lightly gripping Ebon Requiem once more. Her back still to him, she let her voice drift out like incense smoke.

"You wanted to speak with me in private because you feared what I might do in front of them."

A pause. The barest turn of her head. A single eye, glinting with wicked mirth and total control.

"Be careful, Jedi."

Another step. Another breath.

"Because you may find that what I do to you here…"

Another step.

"…will be far more dangerous than anything I could have done out there."

She smiled again—slow, dark, enthralling.

 

[Zephyr Cor]

Zephyr was not at all used to this, and with no one to pump his chest up around, it was more noticeable in his expressions.

"What is this woman's deal?" He thought to himself as she got into his personal space multiple times. This was clearly a strategy of some kind, flaring up his emotions, but never letting one stay long enough for him to get a grip on the situation.

The greed he masked as noble purpose fed by her promises, fear and shame that came from that fear, and rage at her disrespect of the Order he also criticized but still held in some regard. Not to mention a more primal desire that her proximity, touch, warmth, and even smell inspired. He was warned against such tactics by his Master, how even Jedi Masters with almost one hundred years of experience have been made unbalanced and slain by such warriors like this Dark Jedi.

He used that to internally justify his own inability to keep his emotions under control, and didn't even bother hiding his struggle from the beast of Darkness that could see his mind as clear as a still pond.

"I cannot trust you." He finally said it out loud, his frustration and embarrassment allowed to be heard in his voice. "And even if you're lying about wanting to make this galaxy a better place..." He then got down on one knee, and looked up at the Stranger with hate in his blazing red eyes. Eyes that marked him as someone who channeled the Dark Side, even if he didn't know he did, but has not truly embraced it.

"But it is clear that I cannot fight you either. And if I manage to learn a thing or two while helping you dig up rusty junk. Then at least I get something from this humiliation."

He hated every word out of his mouth, he hated the feeling of being on his knees before anyone. And he particularly despised how nice he thought she looked from this subservient position he found himself in. He was already blushing from the brazen way she spoke to him, so thankfully this feeling didn't show more than it had already.

"And the only question I have that needs answering, is the name of the woman I'm serving as tour guide to." His pride demanded her death, but his self-preservation had a surprise win and kept him snarling on his knees. No one was immortal after all, traveling with her would lead him to discovering her weaknesses. And if there was a hidden army on this world, as she said, maybe he could get to it first.

Either way, the Stranger was to be placated. Until she could be destroyed

 

[Serina Calis]

Arrogant Potential.
Location: Sarrish
Objective: Recover old CIS schematics.
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Zephyr Cor

"Arrogance is something I have grown, quite familiar with myself."​

The moment he knelt, the room changed.

Not in temperature. Not in noise. But in atmosphere—like gravity itself had shifted around Serina Calis, as though the planet had just quietly, invisibly rearranged its center of mass to orbit her. The flickering overhead light steadied. The air grew still. Even the buzzing of the cracked wall panel quieted.

And Serina… exhaled, not in relief or amusement, but with something far more dangerous:

Satisfaction.

She turned slowly, deliberately, as though allowing the universe time to adjust to this new alignment of power. Her boots clicked once, twice, and then stilled in front of him. She looked down at Zephyr not with mockery, but with a solemnity that made the moment feel ritualistic—a kind of dark coronation. He had not been broken; not yet. But he had bent, and that was more delicious.

Her gaze lingered on his crimson eyes, the trembling pride, the tremor of defiance barely held in check. That color… that burning hue of the Dark Side already claimed him, even if he refused to name it. He stood at the edge of an abyss and mistook himself a tethered soul. She saw it all.

And she would never let him forget that she saw it first.

"Well, well," she murmured, her tone a sultry lull, dripping with velvet and venom. "What a pretty picture you make."

She reached forward—not swiftly, but slowly, so he could choose to move away and prove what kind of man he was. But he didn't. She cupped his chin between two gloved fingers and tilted his head just slightly upward, until his gaze was fixed on hers—those glacier blue eyes filled with warm cruelty and ancient hunger.

"There it is," she whispered, almost reverently. "The truth beneath the mask. You're angry. Embarrassed. Disarmed. And yet… still clever enough to kneel before the lioness rather than test her teeth."

She smiled now—slow, intoxicating, the kind of smile that started wars in the histories of empires. Not because it promised love, but because it promised everything else.

"I admire that. Most boys with sabers and titles cling to their delusions until their spines are fed to the dirt. You, on the other hand, choose the smarter sin: subtlety."

Her hand trailed from his chin to his cheek, then down the side of his face, gliding over the tense edge of his jaw before withdrawing completely—leaving the warmth of her touch behind like a phantom brand.

"Fear not, Zephyr. You are not the first to kneel before me in hatred… and you shall not be the last."

She turned then, letting him breathe, if only to keep him aware of how little of his control remained. Ebon Requiem shimmered beside her, still untouched, still unneeded. That was the lesson: she had defeated him without a single strike. Her weapons were older than blades, older than fire—they were words, will, and wickedness.

Her voice, when it came again, had shifted in tone. No longer a dagger to the throat, but a velvet shackle slipping gently into place.

"You asked me for a name."

She stepped away from him, her profile caught in the dying light of the flickering lamp, her golden hair glowing like an eclipse ringed in starlight, her armored silhouette etched in shadows and sin.

"I've had many."

She let the moment linger.

"In the cradle, they called me Serina. In the Temple, they whispered it like a warning. And now… those who fear me call me many things—Shadow Queen, Temptress of the Fold, The Black Bloom, depending on the system and how long they lived after speaking it."

She turned toward him fully, serene, yet suffused with a presence so all-encompassing it left no space for anything else.

"But you, little Zephyr…"

She took a step forward, her voice lowering again, curling like smoke.

"You may call me by my name. Serina. Spoken plainly. As you will when you wake from uneasy dreams, as you will when your people chant it in fear or hope or both, as you will when your hands are bloodied by my enemies, and your heart is blackened with truths you once called heresies."

She let her arms fall to her sides, unthreatening, but somehow more dangerous that way.

"You are not yet mine," she said. "Not completely. But you've tasted it. That bitter humiliation of submission, yes… but also the thrill that came with it. You knelt because you had to. But you stayed because a part of you wanted to see what happened next."

A smile like broken commandments.

"That's how it always begins."

She stepped around him once more, letting her presence swirl like a storm on the edge of his senses. The scent of her, heady and floral, filled the room, undercut by the faintest note of ozone and starship metal—evidence of places she had been that he would never imagine, and crimes he could not yet comprehend.

"So here is what will happen."

Her words were now clipped, precise—commanding.

"You will serve as my eyes on this world. My tongue when I choose not to speak. My blade when I choose not to draw. You will dig with me, bleed with me, learn with me. And when the time comes, when this place yields its treasures, and the weak have shown themselves… you will be asked to choose."

She looked over her shoulder then, eyes alight with glacial fire, glowing faintly in the half-dark.

"Will you be the man who guided a queen to her throne—or the one who tried to bury her in the rubble she rose from?"

A final smile. Part judgment, part promise.

"Pray, Zephyr… that when that moment comes…"

She opened the door, casting light from the cantina back into the room.

"…you have the good taste to kneel again."

And with that, Serina Calis stepped back into the world—her cape swirling, her halberd humming faintly, and every eye in the cantina snapping to her with a mixture of fear, fascination, and something far worse.

Hope.

She did not wait for Zephyr.

She knew he would follow.

 

[Zephyr Cor]

"This Schutta loved to hear herself wax on poetically." Zephyr thought to himself, his glare of barely contained rage simmering down now that he was certain that she would not just kill him for the fun of it.

"The most up-to-date maps of this region are in my apartment. We can cross-compare whatever data you have with those and work our way from there." I say as I took the lead, now that we were out in front of others, I did my best to keep the subservient nature of my new partnership with Serina Calis out of public knowledge. It took effort for me to position myself as the head of this scrap pile, I was not going to lose it all due to the first Dark Sider to walk into town.

I used to take more pride in my walks through the town, my patrols being all that kept order in this ruined husk of a settlement. But after my ambitions were kindled by my new... Well, what was Serina to him, actually? She was not his new Master, at least she had yet to show that as her intention. And just calling her his boss felt demeaning, laborers had bosses, housecleaners had bosses, he was a Knight of a new age. Leader wasn't right either, he was serving her out of biter reluctance, grim acceptance of their difference in power, and curiosity.

Zephyr didn't have an opportunity to think about the dynamic of this mess he was in, distracted by the loud noises of a brand-new mess coming from the first floor of his apartment building.

"ARE YOU KIDDING ME!?" Zephyr then charged into the machine shop that his apartment was built haphazardly on top of, and used the Force to lift the exploded remains of what looked like Speeder components off an insectoid mechanic. "Can I leave you alone for even an hour!?"

The bug-alien, who looked like a Killik, but with obvious mutations that made it almost unrecognizable, started going through a bag, and pulled out a scrap of Durasteel with a rather offensive word in Hutties written on it.

"You know, this is why I stick around, your warmth and gratitude. I could just let you blow yourself u-" Zephyr then remembered his company, and with a wave of embarrassment building up inside of him, he turned to Serina.

"Forgive the delay, my landlord is a burden I must tend to now and then." The maybe a Killik started reaching into its bag again, only for Zephyr to cut him off "Whatever you think is worth saying, I don't care. I'll be down to help you clean up after yourself when I'm done entertaining guests."

Heading up into the apartment, it was only in marginally better conditions than anywhere else on the planet. With clear evidence that most of the higher standards of living were recent editions, Zephyr had to add himself. On the wall were various maps of the local region, dozens of semi-nomadic settlements, bandit migration patterns, locations of some of the more dangerous animals, and the sights of battlefields where the Alliance and Sith fought.

 

[Serina Calis]

Arrogant Potential.
Location: Sarrish
Objective: Recover old CIS schematics.
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Zephyr Cor

"Arrogance is something I have grown, quite familiar with myself."​

Serina ascended the creaking stairwell with the grace of a queen parading through a palace, utterly unfazed by the grime, the acrid scent of scorched lubricant, or the shouted obscenities of what she could only describe as a walking cautionary tale against interspecies experimentation. The mutant Killik had elicited only a faint quirk of one arched brow and the sort of detached amusement one might afford an exotic pet performing a crude imitation of sentience.

She had made no comment when Zephyr snapped at it. Nor had she interfered. No—she was far more interested in watching him. Watching how he bristled when reality chipped at his self-image. How quickly he tried to reestablish control the moment eyes returned to him. His irritation was revealing—not because it was unbecoming, but because it was so human, so deeply, deliciously relatable. The Jedi tried so hard to erase their imperfections, and here he was, cracked open like a vessel already spilling its secrets.

He walked ahead now, posturing with his usual rigid purpose, speaking of maps and regions and tactics in a tone meant to imply detachment. Leadership. Logic. He carried himself as if he were in control again, because he needed to believe that.

Serina let him.

She followed in silence, her heavy halberd tapping faintly against the wall as they entered his quarters, the motion echoing like a clock counting down to something inevitable. Every step she took seemed to mock the space around her—her immaculate form violently incompatible with its slanted walls and jury-rigged power cables, her beauty a quiet invasion of a room that had clearly never housed anything resembling elegance.

But then she stopped in the doorway, her hands folding calmly before her, her expression one of gentle curiosity—and subtle judgment.

"This is…" she trailed off, slowly stepping further inside, her voice a purring hum of inspection. "Charming."

She looked over the room with languid ease. Not with the eye of a general seeking logistics, but a connoisseur observing a man's soul laid bare in cartography and rust. The patched walls. The bed pushed awkwardly into a corner. The maps—so many of them, cluttered with pins, threads, and notes. He lived inside his ambitions. Not just physically, but psychologically. These walls were not shelter—they were scaffolding for a dream too heavy to hold.

Her finger traced the edge of one of the map boards, drawing a slow circle around a pinned note. She didn't read it—she didn't need to. She could feel the obsession in the ink. The quiet desperation of a man who wanted order in a galaxy born of chaos.

"Do you always decorate with failure?" she asked, not cruelly, but softly, as though she were noting a poetic tragedy. "Or is this your shrine to lost causes?"

She turned to face him, finally, eyes glimmering in the low light. And that smirk again—playful, piercing, and just this side of pitying.

"Still, I'll admit… for a moment, I doubted you were a man of vision. You bend, but not like a servant. You break, but not into pieces. You rage, but not without purpose. And now… I see your shrine. Your sacred little world of threads and routes and intentions."

She walked across the room now, the layers of her armor whispering like silk over stone, her glowing violet crest casting dancing light against the maps as she passed them. Every movement was a performance, one she knew he couldn't ignore.

"You're not protecting these people," she said, finally standing just behind him. "You're cataloguing them. Measuring their usefulness. Weighing their limits. You already think like a conqueror, Zephyr. You just haven't learned how to call it that without shame."

Her hand reached up, slowly, deliberately, and rested on his shoulder—not heavy, not threatening, but familiar. The way someone might touch a favored apprentice. Or a lover in the quiet after a battle.

"You call me Schutta in your mind. I heard it." Her voice was a breath of silk against his neck. "So crass. So raw. But I forgive you. You're lashing out. It's adorable."

She leaned closer, speaking near the shell of his ear now.

"But let's be clear… I'm not your boss, or your master. Not yet. You still have room to convince yourself otherwise. Still enough pride to dress obedience as cooperation. That's fine. That's useful."

Her hand slid away, trailing gently down his arm before withdrawing completely.

"I'm here for what lies buried beneath this world's skin. But I have found something equally curious in its ruins." She turned back toward the map wall, studying the threads and the pins. "A warrior… with a poet's frustration. A judge with a tyrant's heart. You don't need the Dark Side to rule, Zephyr. But it would make it so much sweeter."

Then she gestured, lazily, at the maps.

"Well then, my reluctant guide. Let's chart our heresies."

She moved to sit at the edge of his table, careful not to disturb his maps—a guest, not an invader. Yet her very presence was an invasion. She didn't need to touch the pages to lay claim to the direction they would now take. The air between them pulsed with something unspoken—not sexual, not spiritual, but inevitable.

"So tell me…" she said, voice softer now, almost gentle, her expression briefly devoid of cruelty.

"Where shall we dig up the bones of empires, Zephyr?"

And she waited—not for permission, but for participation.

 

[Zephyr Cor]

Zephyr did his best to try and ignore the antagonizing statements and backhanded compliments. He was the one actually trying to bring order and sanity back to this ravaged world. If his methods were untidy, then so be it.

But his brow did raise at her, seeming to take insult at his thoughts on her in particular. And gave a dismissive huff.

"If the deepest pits of my mind are offensive to you, then by all means, vacate it." Zephyr said with more than a hint of annoyance. This woman was starting to genuinely press him closer and closer to the breaking point, and he just tried to focus on getting the mission started.

"The best bet would probably be here." He then pointed at the part of the map with the largest raider presence marked on it. "Before the war reached this world, there was an archaeological expedition uncovering an ancient city that was abandoned at some point during the plage. But it was abandoned again when the Sith invaded, and when they gave up on securing a foothold, deserters from both sides used the ruins as a base."

Rage flared up inside of Zephyr. He might as well be just as much a traitor as the scum who squatted in the bones of the Ancient Republic and CIS, but he had deluded himself into believing himself to be at the very least still loyal to the ideals of the Alliance and Jedi. But these deserters did not even hold to that, making filthy little dens in ruins side by side with their former enemies. Forsaking all oaths and loyalties in the name of preserving their own little lives was anathema to everything Zephyr used to define his existence. His hate for them was only matched by his inability to crush them like the vermin he saw them as.

"The City of Bones is a Shadow Port used by smugglers to move contraband from Alliance and Sith Space. Spice, outlawed weapons, freed slaves and abducted innocents from the Alliance and Naboo's third Mock Republic to replace them, rubbing shoulders as they unknowingly passed one another. A pipeline for the desperate of this world to get sucked into the Cartels and Syndicates, a stain upon this world that I have been working towards eradicating."

Zephyr snarled as he looked at the location on the map, it was not the only Shadow Port on the planet, not even one of the prominent ones. Yes, there were far more diseased blisters on Sarrish. But its existence was interpreted as an insult to Zephyr personally, and he would take great satisfaction in using the hidden power Serina promised was hidden somewhere on the planet to purge it of all life.

"It has not been fully explored or exploited by the Deserters. If your hidden factory is not there, buried under the centuries of rubble, then maybe there is some information on it that can be dug up. The main problem will be the inhabitants. Though not what you'd call feral, they are opportunistic and craven beasts. It will be dangerous to walk among them, the capture and sale of Force Sensitives is a market fueled by the disillusionment of these scavengers. Blaming their former Sith Masters and Jedi guardians for their own failures."

 

[Serina Calis]

Arrogant Potential.
Location: Sarrish
Objective: Recover old CIS schematics.
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Zephyr Cor

"Arrogance is something I have grown, quite familiar with myself."​

Serina listened.

Not passively—not like one politely humoring the ramblings of a frustrated man clinging to structure in a lawless world. No. She listened like a surgeon watches a wound bleeding open, with clinical fascination and predatory patience. Every word that left Zephyr's mouth painted his true nature—a man torn between the noble veneer of order and the seething cauldron of hate and shame he kept bubbling beneath.

She did not interrupt. Not when he snapped. Not when his voice cracked under the weight of his revulsion. Not even when he tried—so adorably—to hurl her out of his thoughts as if she hadn't already carved herself into the foundation of his psyche like a parasite made of silk and shadows.

And yet, as he finished, her smile was not triumphant. It was… contemplative. Faint. Almost amused.

"I will vacate your mind," she said at last, her voice low, lush, and filled with an insidious calm. "When you stop leaving the doors unlocked."

She stepped away from the table slowly, her movements fluid, almost feline, pacing with the quiet leisure of someone who'd just been handed exactly what she wanted. Not just a lead to a buried prize—but an entire theatre of corruption, already stinking with the rot of despair, greed, and betrayal.

"The City of Bones," she said, letting the name roll over her tongue like a vintage wine. "How quaint. And such a beautiful name for a necropolis of broken dreams."

She turned toward the wall where Zephyr had pointed and reached out, gently touching the marked location with the tip of her black-gloved finger.

"This is perfect."

She didn't mean it in the tactical sense. She meant it spiritually.

Serina walked to the nearest window, cracked and yellowed with age, and stared out across the horizon. Even here, amid the wreckage of civilization, the sun still cast its dying gold across the bones of the world, catching in the jagged silhouettes of collapsed towers and weather-beaten antennae.

"A den of deserters, criminals, cowards… smugglers without allegiance, drunk on the ashes of old empires. How poetic." Her voice was almost wistful now, layered with lust and loathing, like an artist admiring a ruined masterpiece and plotting to paint her own name across its remains.

"And you," she added, turning back to him, "hate it so very much, don't you?"

Her gaze bore down on him—not as a flame, but as gravity itself. Crushing. Unrelenting. Beautiful in its inevitability.

"It's written in your posture. Your clenched jaw. Your blood. You can't destroy them, so instead you catalogue them. You define them. You judge them. But deep down… they terrify you. Not because they are powerful. But because they remind you of what you could become."

She stepped closer now, her armored bodice glinting in the dying light, the glowing violet crest at her chest pulsing with a soft heartbeat of wicked radiance.

"You think you're better. That your grudging alliance with me still keeps you on the side of light. But you're already playing my game."

She was close again, too close—intimately close, her voice dipping to a slow whisper, like temptation brushing against his soul.

"You loathe them… because they gave up. Because they threw down their sabers and found freedom in shame. But you're not afraid of their corruption…"

Her finger tapped against his chest, just above where his heart beat faster than he'd want to admit.

"…You're afraid of how easy it would be to join them."

She circled him now, slowly, each step deliberate, each glance lingering. The room shrank around them as her presence expanded like ink in water, wrapping around his thoughts like silk ribbons soaked in venom.

"They don't believe in anything anymore. No creeds. No codes. Just profit. And that makes them dangerous, Zephyr. Because in a galaxy as broken as this, belief is a liability."

Her hands came to rest on the back of his chair, and she leaned forward slightly—just enough that her voice again was near his ear, her breath soft, her tone molten and unyielding.

"You still believe, don't you? That's what makes you predictable. That's what makes you mine."

She pulled away with a final whisper of motion, returning to the table and tracing her finger slowly over the region again.

"I will need to go there. Soon. And I'll need you with me."

She looked at him now—directly, no longer playful, but commanding. Her voice turned steely, her seduction sharpened into imperial resolve.

"I want to walk among them. Smell their fear. See what they guard. And when the time comes, I will burn their world down. Their sins will be currency, their corpses mortar. I will build something upon their ashes that the galaxy will not forget."

She rested both hands on the table now, leaning over the map like a monarch surveying a battlefield, the light casting sharp shadows across the intricate lines of her armor, her golden hair falling like silk cords around her face.

"And you…"

Her eyes flicked up to him, not cruel—but expectant.

"You will see it through. Because you want what I offer. You want it so badly, you'd kneel in filth and call it strategy. You want power. Revenge. Glory. Control. And you know you'll never find it waiting for you in some Jedi temple, half-burned and weeping for the sins of its own cowardice."

A pause. A breath.

"I will not make you kneel again, Zephyr."

She smiled—slow and devastating.

"Next time… you'll do it on your own."

And then she straightened, the halberd at her side flaring faintly with life, the runes responding to her words like a chorus echoing its queen.

"Now. Gather what you need. We move at dawn. And when the sun rises over the City of Bones…"

She turned, her cape flowing like ink behind her.

"…we begin the symphony of reclamation."

 

[Zephyr Cor]

"My landlord is working on the only speeder in town. I can hurry him along with repairs and confiscate it when it's in usable condition." Zephyr said as he looked over the map with hateful eyes.

He was starting to tune out the more provocative language Serina used. This quieted his mind somewhat, but not closing the doors entirely. He was becoming more used to his new acquaintance, and that was going to make him harder to read in the future.

"I would humbly request that you don't do anything particularly awful to these people while my back is turned." Zephyr said as he started to make his way to the exit. "We both know I can't stop you, but I would have to try. And my untimely demise would hinder our preparations." He dreaded every moment of this entire arrangement, but he was at least starting to see the humor in his predicament. Not the best sign for a cornered Wamp-Rat to start chuckling to itself.

He then made his way to the machine shop, and gave the mutant bug-man a light shove.

"Out of the way, you ugly freak." He then picked up some tools and started working on the speeder. "I really don't know how you've managed not to die of radiation exposure without me to remind you to not chew on the coils."

The bug started going through his cards to look for the proper comeback.

"No one wants to know the contents of your vile little mind, Zeet." He just kept working on the speeder, but looked up when the mutant gave him a hard tap on the shoulder. "What, freak?"

It was probably impossible to both have a blush and have all the blood run from your face at the same time. But if it was, Zephyr would be experiencing just that as he read the rather provocative writings on the three cards Zeet held up.

"Put those away before she sees what sewage makes up your thought processes! You vile, malformed, rotted, blight-infested, roach!" He smacked the cards from the malformed things hand, earning a rude hand gesture in return. "Do you want to die? Are you as blind as you are inbred? What kind of cantina rats do you know who dress like she does?"

Zeet waved away the young man's questions and just got to work on the speeder right beside him. Zephyr huffed and continued to insult the malformed degenerate under his breath as he did.

Despite himself, or ironically because of his nature, Zephyr seemed to genuinely care about the wellbeing of the creature Zeet. The Force knows why. The insectoid was ill-tempered, foul in language and mind, and challenged the proud apostates pride by mere association. But there was that soft spot their, nothing so strong as love, no far from that. More like, the fondness one might find themselves developing for a favored shop owner, or the begrudging affection formed with the pet of an associate that you have to interact with by association.

Either way, the young Exile had unintentionally shown yet another crack in his armor. The root of his continued fall down the Dark Path was not just forged by pride, but because he genuinely thought he could, no, should help those he considered lesser beings who needed him. That the wretches like the stinking mechanic were his by obligation to drag kicking and screaming into a brighter future. No matter how much they suffered along the way, the ends justify the means of uplifting the unwashed masses.

How far he would go for this clearly underdeveloped creature is hard to say. But it was just another weapon to use against him if he ever got bold or desperate enough to betray his new associate.

 

[Serina Calis]

"Arrogance is something I have grown, quite familiar with myself."

Tag - Zephyr Cor



The moment Zephyr descended the stairs and vanished into the machine shop, Serina Calis did not immediately move. She stood amidst the cluttered sanctuary of his ambitions, letting the silence settle once more in the air. Her fingertips rested lightly on the edge of the table, beside a pin marking the "City of Bones." She didn't stare at the map this time.

She stared at the place where he had stood.

There had been a shift in him—small, but not insignificant. The kind of change that could be missed by the untrained eye, but not by her. Not by someone who could hear the heartbeat of doubt and taste the faintest trace of self-deception on a man's breath. He was adapting. Resisting less. Learning to tolerate her presence like a wounded animal learning the scent of its captor. And in that tolerance… came vulnerability.

And opportunity.

A small, amused breath left her lips—not a laugh, but something more intimate. Almost fond.

"If the deepest pits of my mind are offensive to you, then by all means, vacate it."

The words echoed in her mind, and her smile sharpened.

Oh no, Zephyr…
Your mind is far too precious to abandon. I'm only just redecorating.

She finally moved.

Her footsteps were soundless, a flowing cascade of cape and armor, the edges of her garments brushing against stone and scrap like the trailing silk of a dark goddess inspecting a mortal's altar. She did not go down to the shop—not yet. She simply approached the window overlooking the street below, where she could observe the scene unfolding like a dramatist watching an actor flounder in Act Two.

There he was.

Zephyr.

Back to the world. Posture stiff. Movements efficient. Expression pinched with equal parts embarrassment and habitual rage. And beside him, like a squat, mutated manifestation of the galaxy's indifference, the grotesque insectoid, this "Zeet," bumbled and bantered in his unintelligible way. Serina watched their exchange with narrowed eyes and parted lips, letting the interaction wash over her like an aria.

Crude. Filthy. Chaotic.

And sincere.

Serina saw the blush. The sputtering reaction. The utterly adolescent panic of a boy worried that his new mistress might read his housemate's vulgar postcards. She saw every crack in Zephyr's composure flare open again—and not from her touch this time, but from Zeet's stupidity. How utterly precious.

But what caught her attention most of all was what came after. That muted affection, buried beneath a volcano of insults. The protective instinct dressed in cruelty. It wasn't a performance. It was habit. And it told Serina something she hadn't yet confirmed until now.

He loves broken things.

He needed them. He saw himself as their shepherd, even as he cursed them. They were the weight that justified his war, the foundation of his self-image as a savior wrapped in steel and wrath. The moment he started caring, even subconsciously, he couldn't let them go.

Which made them perfect leverage.

When she finally descended the steps, it was not with fanfare. She did not announce herself, nor attempt to startle. She merely arrived—a whisper behind them, a ripple in the Force, a perfume that did not belong in this slag heap of grease and rust. Even the reek of chemical coolant and scorched wire could not drown her scent—a mixture of spice, floral oils, and something faintly metallic, like freshly drawn blood from a noble's wrist.

She stepped into the doorway, Ebon Requiem slung elegantly across her back, her hands folded neatly at her waist. She did not interrupt them.

She watched.

And then, with the soft cruelty of silk drawn across skin, she spoke.

"Such loyalty," Serina murmured, her voice coiling through the shop like a serpent in heat. "To your… cherished infestation."

She stepped further into the room, the grime recoiling in her presence, or so it seemed. Her armor glinted in the muted, flickering shop lights—black with strokes of glowing magenta and violet, like a shadow woven from passion and menace. She approached the speeder slowly, gaze lazily passing over Zeet and then back to Zephyr.

"I almost interrupted," she said, feigning remorse. "But I couldn't bring myself to ruin the poetry of it. You, all coiled in righteous disdain, barking insults… yet still making sure he lives another day. Still repairing his toys. Still calling him 'freak'—but feeding him like a stray that bit your hand and earned your affection."

She leaned on a rusted workbench, arms crossed beneath her chest, pushing the violet heart-shaped crest of her bodice forward with unconscious confidence.

"It's endearing, really."

She let that hang there just long enough to be uncomfortable.

Then, slowly, she tilted her head toward Zeet.

"You know… I could improve him. Not just intellectually—that's a lost cause, obviously—but physically. There are augmentations, conditioning regimens… perhaps a new vocal processor. A little elegance, maybe even a spine. He might even learn to form sentences not made entirely of filth."

Zeet froze. He tilted his head. Something in his bug-eyed stare shifted—fear? Curiosity? Lust? Impossible to say.

Serina smirked, eyes flicking back to Zephyr.

"Of course, I wouldn't dare do anything without your permission. He's yours, after all. And I do find pet ownership rather intimate."

She walked forward then, circling the speeder, trailing a finger lightly along its frame. Her glove left no mark, but the implication remained—Serina Calis had just inserted herself into yet another corner of Zephyr's life. Not his mind this time. Not his pride. But his home. His ritual. His strange, foul little companion.

And she was already claiming them.

Her voice turned soft again, private, as she came to stand across from him over the engine block, her tone now that measured mix of professionalism and promise that always seemed to be wrapped in perfume and poison.

"This speeder will do," she said. "And so will you. For now."

Her eyes held his. Blue, glacial, ancient.

"But remember something, Zephyr. You may choose to turn your thoughts away. You may adjust. Harden. Resist."

She leaned just slightly forward, her voice dropping to a murmur meant only for him.

"But I don't need your thoughts to control you."

A pause.

"I only need to know what you care about."

Then, smiling sweetly as a viper in a vineyard, she turned to Zeet and gave him the smallest, most unsettling wink.

And with that, she stepped back, letting the tension linger, letting Zephyr feel the echo of her words press against his spine.

She didn't need to touch him. Not now.

She already had a finger wrapped around the last part of him he still tried to protect.

 

[Zephyr Cor]

"I expect nothing less from you, seeing the burden of responsibility as a weakness." Zephyr said dismissively as he worked on the speeder with Zeet's assistance. "But there is meaning in stewardship. Power, real power, has always come from purpose."

His thoughts are not as clear to read as they were before, but they were clear enough for anyone experienced with deciphering surface emotions. These words are not his own, the emotions connected to them are dissociated from his overwhelming ego.

No, the emotions connected to these words are more, familial. These words are cherished like a gift from mother to child, more likely Master to Padawan, the emotions are the same.

"I do not need you to accomplish my goals on this planet." Zephyr said with a bit of spite in his voice. It was only a matter of time for that pride of his to try and reassert itself. "When I first came to this town, it was ruled by bandits who horded food, water, and medicean. Only giving scraps to those who sold them salvaged, or each other into slavery."

An immense satisfaction began to wash over the man. The sadistic glee he took in butchering the former rulers of the settlement was so potent, their death screams could be heard echoing through his mind.

They offered him credits, material goods, women, anything for their lives. The scum's pathetic pleas for mercy were like a favorite song in the back of his mind, a well-trodden memory. As was the feeling of effortlessly cutting them down.

"If I only served myself, it would just be more of the same. But I have purpose. And under my blade, those resources that were once horded are now divided equally. All under my protection know that they will have their fair share." His words were proud, he looked upon the dilapidated ruins that these wretches called a community with a sense of accomplishment.

But anyone with eyes not blinded by ego could see the flaws.

There was not enough to go around, not enough to stretch to the entire community. There was probably enough for most, but these poor fools new self-proclaimed guardian and protector either didn't see that the population either needed to conduct raids of their own to keep up with demand, or thin the herd to lessen the burden. But then, this Jedi sense of fairness was getting in the way. Or was he ignorant of the necessary evils of governance? That few worlds have enough for everyone, and some must starve and suffer for the majority to be healthy and fed.

The way he's running things now, the people will survive, but nothing more. To save these people, Zephyr needed to stop thinking like a Jedi.

"Do you even have a purpose, Serina? Are you here to fulfill some grand plan, or are you just grabbing at even the rumor of power so that a rival doesn't get it on the off chance it might actually exist?" That might have been too bold of him to say. But the young man was filled with a zeal that made him feel like a hundred-man army crammed into one vessel.

He then called upon the Force. Using his connection to that great cosmic power to levitate parts into place, all for his possibly inbred companion to scurry about and weld or otherwise meld into place. Some bits and pieces he seemed to graft on using a waxy substance slobbered from his inhuman and revolting maw.

If anyone was even paying attention to the only possibly sentient bug man, Zephyr sure wasn't, it could be seen that he let that little wink Serina gave him go right to his head. Zeet would occasionally flex or lift a heavy object when he thought the Dark Sider was deeming his general direction worthy of attention. The clear and obvious threat that her words were meant to convey clearly went so far over the mutant's head that it might as well have been in orbit. The emotions coming off the creature's mind were as repulsive as he looked.

"I mean no disrespect." Zephyr said in a disingenuously apologetic tone. "But it is important to understand what we both are seeking out of this arrangement, and I feel you already understand my goals, while yours allude me."

He then sat the Speeder back down, almost too quick for Zeet to get out of the way. The vile thing gave his tenant an equally vulgar hand gesture before activating the Speeder. It jolted into the air only about a half-foot off the ground, and began to quiver like even this was a burden it could barely handle.

"That is about as good as it will get without new parts." Zephyr then hopped into the driver's seat.

"Someone already paid for that!" Zeet held up a card with those words on it while gurgling at Zephyr

"Add it to my rent." The Fallen Jedi said with a hand wave as the pathetic creature just wandered off, taking a swig of something that smelled like radiator fluid, and probably tasted about the same.

 

[Serina Calis]

"Arrogance is something I have grown, quite familiar with myself."

Tag - Zephyr Cor



Serina stood with her arms crossed beneath her armored chest, her silhouette perfectly framed in the cracked doorway like a painting too vivid to belong in such a place. The light from outside filtered across her form, catching in the crimson and violet threads of her armor, giving her the appearance of something divine—not in holiness, but in the sense of an ancient goddess, both feared and worshipped, spoken of only in whispers by those who survived her touch.

She said nothing for a while. Her gaze didn't follow the speeder. Nor did it linger on the grotesque little insect who had spent the better part of the hour parading for her attention like a bloated mating ritual in slow motion. She didn't even flinch at the stench wafting from the grease and coolant-soaked shop.

Her gaze was fixed squarely on Zephyr, and there was something new in her eyes.

Not amusement.

Not condescension.

Not even hunger.

But curiosity, edged with something almost—almost—like respect.

"You know," she said, finally, voice smooth and low, like silk unfurling over a coffin, "I rather enjoy watching you delude yourself."

She stepped forward, one hand tracing the side of the speeder as she passed it, not with interest in the machine, but as if claiming something by touch alone. Every motion was languid, deliberate, sensual without being performative. She did not seduce with dramatics. She simply was.

"But I'll admit," she continued, circling now to the front of the speeder to meet his eyes from where he sat in the driver's seat, "your little sermon on stewardship… almost moved me."

She leaned against the front of the vehicle, arms crossing once more, her hips settling into the curve of the frame with the ease of someone who had never been denied space or gravity.

"'Real power comes from purpose,'" she repeated, her tone laced with the barest hint of mocking reverence. "Was that from a Jedi text? A master's parting wisdom before death? Or a bedtime story whispered to you between patrols, before the fires of war burned away whatever innocence you had left?"

Her voice was velvet and venom, but the edges were sharper now, like a blade that had been dipped in wine.

"Don't insult either of us by parroting borrowed purpose. I can taste how much of that isn't yours."

She took a slow step around the side of the speeder, dragging her gloved fingers along the edge as she passed.

"You don't help these people because of your 'higher calling.' You help them because you own them. Because they remind you that your failures weren't complete. Because as long as they survive—under you—then you still matter."

She stopped at his side, leaned down slightly, and peered into his face. Her tone shifted again, dipping into something wicked and indulgent, like a secret whispered in a confessional.

"And gods help me… I adore that."

A pause.

"You talk about slaughtering slavers like it was a rite. You speak of mercy like it's a gift you bestow upon the undeserving. But I hear it—the song behind your words. You loved killing them. You loved the way they screamed. And it had nothing to do with justice. Don't lie to me, Zephyr. You're better at lying to yourself than I am."

Her glacial eyes narrowed.

"You ruled this place by the sword. You earned the awe of starving peasants and the hatred of outlaws. You think that's governance?" She scoffed, smiling faintly. "Darling. That's the first page in the playbook. You've only just crawled into the foyer of tyranny. You've got entire mansions of cruelty left to explore."

She stood upright again and began to slowly circle behind the speeder, her voice drifting over her shoulder like a veil trailing on wind.

"You asked if I have a purpose." Her tone flattened into something colder. Heavier. Truer.

"I do."

She stopped once she was behind him, and her voice came from directly over his shoulder.

"My purpose is to reshape the galaxy. Not with empty slogans or borrowed mantras, but with steel, shadows, and systems that do not fail when tested. I am done watching weak men wear crowns and burn entire sectors because they've confused loyalty with obedience."

She leaned in, her lips near his ear again.

"And yes, I pursue forgotten relics. Lost power. Things buried by time and failure. Not because I fear rivals taking them. But because power should not sleep. And those who leave it to rot do not deserve to hold anything else."

Her voice dropped lower still, intimate now.

"And if a place like the City of Bones hides a factory… if that factory can build me soldiers that do not hesitate, ships that do not retreat, systems that do not lie… then I will unearth it, awaken it, and burn the galaxy clean with its resurrection."

She withdrew, stepping around to the side again, her smirk returning—but now tempered with conviction. Something deeper than seduction. Something almost sacred.

"So no," she said. "I'm not just here to chase rumors. I am here to claim what is owed—by history, by blood, by ambition. And you, little firebrand…"

She reached out and tapped the front of the speeder, her armored knuckle making a tink that sounded strangely like a countdown.

"…you just might have a place in the new order. But not like this."

She gestured broadly to the town, the people, the filth. Her disdain was not hidden.

"You've built a shrine to mediocrity. Fed them just enough to make them loyal, not enough to make them strong. That is not salvation. That is stagnation."

She stepped forward again, this time resting one hand lightly on the edge of the driver's seat, leaning slightly in, her armor brushing faintly against his leg.

"But I see you. Buried beneath the sermons and the savior complex. You're more than this."

Her eyes met his. They glowed in the dimness of the shop, like the eyes of a goddess carved from obsidian and starlight.

"You're a man who wants to be worshipped—but would settle for being needed. A man who would set himself on fire just to make the darkness look like sunrise."

She leaned in further, her breath brushing his jaw.

"I can help you burn brighter, Zephyr. Brighter than any temple's beacon. Brighter than any Jedi who ever died whispering about peace. But first…"

She pulled away, her tone teasing now.

"…we really must do something about that attitude."

Then, without waiting for his response, she turned and gracefully seated herself behind him on the speeder's second saddle, the metal groaning slightly under her armored form. The scent of her—power, danger, desire—settled over him like a second skin.

She gave a single, idle tap to the back of his neck with one finger.

"Drive, my reluctant knight. Let's see what kind of heresies the City of Bones has left to offer."

And as her laughter—low, sultry, and so very pleased with itself—echoed in the cramped workshop, Zephyr could feel, with agonizing clarity, that her presence wasn't just beside him now.

It was already inside him.

And it would never leave.