Private Professional Contracting

[Darth Virelia]

"Blast from the past."

Tags - Evangel

The halls of Malachor breathed in silence. Stone corridors, scorched and eroded by centuries of storms, held echoes of wars fought long before her reign. Darth Virelia sat in one of the antechambers that had been restored for her use, the chamber carved into the cliffs overlooking the broken valley. The jagged wound in the planet stretched far beyond her view, violet light spilling upward from fissures in the earth, like veins of a living corpse that refused to stay buried.

She had chosen this place deliberately—an interview hall, a test chamber, a throne against the abyss. The mercenary she had summoned would arrive within minutes, ushered across the shattered causeways by her attendants. Until then, she allowed herself the rare indulgence of memory.

The stillness reminded her of Polis Massa. Not the surface ruins, but the subterranean halls she had claimed when the Sith Order still stood in its greater form. There, she had spent months conducting these very sorts of interviews, bringing in killers, smugglers, and scientists one by one to measure them. She remembered the discipline of it: the steady rhythm of questions, the balancing of candor against deceit, the recognition of those who sought only coin and those who carried fire in their hearts.

And she remembered Rae Cooke .

The name still lingered with a curious fondness. Rae had been a sniper unlike most she had employed—quick, quiet until asked a question, and then lightning with an answer. Too quick, perhaps. As if every possible inquiry had already been rehearsed in the hollow of her mind before the words even left Virelia's lips. That peculiarity had made her dangerous, and endlessly amusing.

How many times had Virelia leaned forward in those interviews, resting her chin on her knuckles, probing deeper just to see if Rae's quicksilver tongue would finally falter? It rarely did. The woman had a strange genius for invention, and though Virelia had never fully trusted her, she had respected the elegance of the performance.

Where had Rae ended up?

The question lingered now, unbidden. After her exile from the Sith Order, the web of people she had once commanded scattered across the galaxy. Some found new masters, others died quiet deaths in forgotten alleys or battlefields that history would never name. Rae Cooke could be anywhere—or nowhere. Yet Virelia felt certain that if she lived, she would still be answering questions too quickly, a restless spark that could not be silenced.

Maybe she wanted her company, just to remember what it felt like.

The thought drew a small, innocent smile across Serina's lips.

Her gaze drifted back to the chamber doors. Soon they would open. The mercenary she awaited was no Rae Cooke—of that she was certain—but the ritual of the moment was the same. Another test. Another weighing of ambition against utility.

Virelia straightened in her seat, violet eyes glimmering in the dim light. Memory had its place, but the present was what demanded mastery.

Malachor V rumbled faintly beneath her, as if in agreement.

 

[Evangel]

Being a mercenary wasn't for everyone. Of course, being your own boss did allow you certain latitude that a PMC wouldn't permit, but that didn't change a great deal. If you weren't flexible, you wouldn't get enough jobs and 'alternative revenue' would be needed. That said, even among mercenaries there could be limits. Hutts. Falleen. Sith. Some didn't like the idea of supporting criminal enterprises. Others found Sith to just be creepy or tire of the endless, arrogant lip.

Evangel had her limits. Most of them were ill-defined or waxed-and-waned. Not for a lack of trying to discern where her tolerance ended.

As the ship set down at the designated landing area on Malachor V, Evangel's hands moved over the controls to shut down while she would go inside. A process that only took a few seconds, but would have felt just as long were there not someone sitting on the console.

I can taste them. Feel them. Hear them. Screw it. Once we're inside let's kill them all. I want to hear them scream. It's so pretty when they scream. When they look into your eyes, full of pain, trembling in your grasp, little breaths catching on every pull.

Her blue eyes focused on the controls before her and not the swaying figure that clutched her own face with both hands. Their words weren't helping. Evangel knew what it was too -- it was this planet. Worse, the Rift that they'd practically landed on top of because where the Sith built their fortification. Because of course they'd build it as close to the Rift as possible so they could be driven mad with power -- power, after all, was its own reward.

Worry? Why would she be worried? Evangel had Evangel to keep her safe. She was pretty certain by normal measures she was already mad.

Mad? Are we? Is it mad to want to hunt down prey? To haul trophies back and parade them before others? Is it mad to enjoy the painstaking stalking, camping, and chase of the hunt? Every sense stressed to their absolute ends. Every fiber of our being devoted to a single, solitary pursuit? That's the sanest thing of all, Eve.

The hallucinated version of herself appeared behind the chair, hands on Evangel's shoulders, as she whispered sweetly, You can't hide from me, Eve. I know you can taste it too. Why shouldn't we? Sith are the best aren't they? Think of it. We could take this entire thing for ourselves. We could live here. Forever. You, me, the darkness, all the Sith trying to take it back.

Evangel stood to her feet and pivoted to descend from the cockpit below deck. Before she left the ship, she acquired her helmet out of secure lockup along with her shortspear, blaster rifle, and pistol. The pistol was more for show, really. Everyone expected to see one so there it was. Never mind the blaster barrel built into the gauntlet of her right arm. Most importantly, and for whatever reason, the 'voice' became a subdued urge to kill, kill, kill once the helmet was on. That little urge constantly pressing on the shoulders and tickling the brain, which was its own form of torture, but a long familiar one.

As if just another Mandalorian, Evangel strode down the ramp. Guards watched warrily. An attendent or acolyte of some kind confirmed Evangel's identity before the escort to the meeitng place began. A Sith Lord (or Knight with dreams of Lordship) wouldn't want to come to Evangel after all; a Lord always had the help come to them. It was the smallest of the powr plays their sort loved. And while that would irk most, Evangel honestly didn't care. From where she stood it was expected -- it was normal. Everyone else being nice and considerate was what unnerved her; what were they plotting behind their warm smiles and grandiose festivals?

At last, the doors to the chamber would part and Evangel would strode through them. Time to discern just what sort of monster she was dealing with, and what they wanted. They attendent could announce her, and then the two figures could begin the staring match.

Evangel might be the product of Sith Alchemy, but she had taken the lesons in how to be a Mandalorian to heart. Idle and needless chatter weren't their way. Flamboyent introductions weren't their way. Being unsettled by complete silence was not their way. That wasn't a deliberate power move on their part, but their focus was on managing their environment and being prepared to kill everyone in the room -- not deciding what pointless remark to say.

Darth Virelia​

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Blast from the past."

Tags - Evangel

The doors parted and silence rolled in with the mercenary. Darth Virelia allowed her violet gaze to linger, unblinking, like a predator content to study a new specimen before deciding whether to feed or to play.

The figure was armored, careful, deliberate. Not the kind to waste motion or words. That amused her. So many mercenaries thought to dazzle with bravado, to swagger before her throne as if coin or courage alone might tilt the balance. This one, though—this one wore silence like armor. Silence was a weapon she respected.

At last, she rose. Slowly, with the languid grace of someone for whom time itself was obedient. The hem of her dark robes whispered across the stone as she descended a single step from her throne. Her lips curved into a smile that promised both indulgence and threat.

"Welcome to Malachor," she purred, voice low and silken. "Most who step through those doors reek of fear, or of hunger poorly disguised. You bring neither. Curious."

She let her eyes wander deliberately, from helm to weapon to stance, and back again. Her attention lingered, intimate in its intensity, as though she might peel the armor away with nothing more than a glance.

"Tell me—what should I call you?" she asked, but the question hung like a snare. It was less about the name and more about the manner in which it was offered. Would they cloak themselves in bravado, or let silence continue to speak for them?

Virelia tilted her head, violet eyes narrowing with sharp delight. "You will find I am not like the Sith you have heard whispered of in cantinas and contracts. I do not posture for the sake of my ego. I do not care for needless theatrics." Her smile widened a fraction, though the softness never reached her eyes. "But I do savor truth, even when it comes dressed in steel, silk or shadows."

She leaned forward, letting the air between them sharpen into tension. "So—mercenary. Let us see which you have brought me today."

She reclined back a step, elegant and poised, waiting.

 

[Evangel]

Overly elaborate shoulder armor, customary cape and cowl, but also a surprising elegance to the Lady's armor and an unnerving appeal to a six-eyed mask. A customary, if unique experience. Just the sort of thing Evangel expected. The woman even sat comfortably on a throne that was above ground level. Ego, then. Domination. Someone used to being obeyed, and expected results. Evangel knew the type well.

A slight nod of the helmet accompanied Darth Virelia's greeting. No further movement was offered as the Lady studied her guest thoroughly in whatever time she desired -- be it but a second, or many. Evangel, after all, studied Virelia in turn and her chamber for the countless ways one might try to kill the other, and escape. Was it uncomfortable? Not really. Better were she denied the chance. Battle, after all, was a struggle between knowns and unknowns; the last Virelia knew of Evangel, the greater the chance for slaughtering her.

Not that Evangel was there for that. Intentionally. She thought about the countless ways anyone before her could die. Why they should die. Often, the reason came down to 'because I can.'

"I am known as Evangel, my Lady." A formal address might have been left off by others, but it was too customary for Evangel to think of it. Even if she was not a slave to this Lord, you had to show deference and respect to those stronger than you in the dark places. By comparison, if Virelia were a mere Hutt then Evangel wouldn't have bothered adding any title at all; what did a Mandalorian care for such things?

And of that it seemed the Lady wished to dispense with pale imitations that might have been heard by just any warrior on their travels. Prudent. Unnecessary, of course, but Evangel wouldn't dare interrupt to say that. As for posturing and theatrics... well, that's where the interpretations of words like "needless" came in. But, again, this twisted sister knew what to expect. Every Lord or Lady was different, but they had a shared heritage or custom to them.

Truth? Evangel stood there for a moment in contemplation of the woman's words. Word games. Emphasis on games. Quite common with the more 'playful' Lords or Ladies. No doubt the Sith Lady could feel the Dark Side churning about the mercenary in her chamber; feel the intense killing intent directed at her spike sharply and then retract.

"I want to kill everyone. Here. Out there," the tip of her spear thrust in the direction of the sky. "What fear is there when all my thoughts are on that?" The short spear lowered back to her side held in her left hand. Hopefully that would be enough to sate her curiosity; and with that Evangel added something more to the point, "I fulfill the jobs I accept, my Lady. What other truth is needed?"

Darth Virelia​

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Blast from the past."

Tags - Evangel

Virelia let the silence fold around the Mandalorian like a cloak, then moved through it with a sound that was almost amusement. Her smile was slow, the kind that arrived last and carried consequences with it. "Ah," she breathed, as if the single syllable tasted like promise. "You speak plainly. Good. Plainness is rare and therefore valuable."

She rose then—not a ceremonious climb but a slide of motion, graceful and dangerous—and stepped down from her throne until she was closer, close enough that the mercenary could see the way the light caressed the angles of her armor. The cape settled with a whisper; the six-eyed mask tilted so the inner violet glint of her pupils caught and held the room. "You want to kill them," she repeated, voice velvet over steel. "Out there, where the force throws its tantrums and mortals chew on their own ambition. How… domestic." Her laugh was tiny, delighted and hungry.

Virelia circled once, deliberately, like a blade testing a seam. She moved with the confidence of one used to having dozens of bodies answer at the echo of her whim. "Tell me," she murmured, stopping so near that the mercenary could count the tiny, almost heavy pauses in Virelia's breathing, "do you hunt for the pleasure of unmaking, or for the architecture of it? Do you want to watch them break and learn the shape of their fear, or do you want the feast itself?" The question was not a test of vocabulary but of appetite.

Her fingers — gloved, jeweled, practiced — toyed with a ribbon at her hip. "There are many ways to keep the world honest," she said, and the licentious draw of the words turned them into something more: an invitation. "There are games where one slits throats for coin, and there are games where one slits throats for art. Which do you prefer, mercenary? Which makes your hands remember their sweetest work?"

She leaned forward, lowering her voice until it scraped against the mercenary's armor like silk. "I collect useful things. Talents. Promises. Men and women who can be refined into instruments." Her smile sharpened. "Perhaps you are one of those things. Perhaps you are a blunt hammer, useful for breaking, or perhaps you are a fine scalpel, precise and elegant." Her eyes glittered with a private hunger. "Prove which. Tell me of a hunt that taught you something you could not unlearn. Tell me what trophy you keep when the job is done."

There was no threat in the words—only the promise that refusal would be interesting. "If your answers are clever and true," she purred, "you may find that Malachor pays more than credits." She stepped back, offering space like a predator offering a lead into a trap. "If they are not—then I can be a harsh mistress, and the dark is so patient."

 

[Evangel]

The faceless helmet of the Mandalorian moved neither forward nor backward as the Lady of the Sith drew precariously near. Intruding in someone's personal space was the least of a Dark Sider's crimes they could commit to a person. There were boundaries, however. Custom and familiarity were well and good, which left Evangel tolerant of the probing, but shackles were a different story. Pride? No, survival. Evangel wouldn't let Virelia put a leash around her neck and parade her about like a puppy found on the side of the street.

So near, the Lady might discern the even, meticulous, and cyclical breathing of her guest. Perhaps it was just the way Mandalorians breathed? It often was. In this instance, however, it was a deliberate act to keep the instinctual drive restrained.

What was the answer to the question? "Pleasure." That wasn't entirely accurate, but caught between an emotional versus an intellectual choice it was obvious were instinct lay. "It isn't enough they die. I need to be the one that ends them." Bombs? Unsatisfying. Biological weapons? Waste of time. Killing people wasn't what Evangel needed -- mass-destruction was pointless. She needed to see it first hand. To feel it drain from their body.

She knew it was... wrong according to many, but no amount of couch-therapy had so far talked the darkness out of her. Perhaps a Jedi with one of their Light spells? As though Evangel would ever let them try. At least she'd managed to form a convincing mask for the Others so the madness wasn't openly on display.

Then the second question. So, Virelia wanted to know more about the person before them. How they could be useful. If they were interesting enough to spend their time in their presence, or simply something to be kept in the dark and occasionally thrown a bone. Lords and Ladies always wanted to find something amusing to pass the time between machinations. "Art. But even an artist requires coin." If Virelia thought she was going to get Evangel's service on the cheap because she fed the ravenous hunger for blood and torment, she'd be disappointed. A Mandalorian got paid. Whether that was the agreed upon transaction, or in pounds of flesh from their employer, they got paid.

And the Lady seemed intent in reinforcing what Evangel already knew. You were useful, or you were discarded. Whether Evangel was a hammer or a scalpel, however, she wasn't entirely certain.

Darth Virelia couldn't help herself, of course. She toyed with her guest, teased great rewards for someone worthy of her; but then she threatened her guest in promising torment if they were not. And in the instant she stopped talking the killing instinct that flared and spiked suddenly solidified -- not visibly, but noticeably in the Force -- into a blade suspended in the air before Virelia's throat. It vanished almost as soon as it sprang into existence. Evangel's control was not nearly as unyielding as the beskar carved in gylphs.

"Truth." Evangel regarded the woman that was no longer deliberately violating her personal space. "I am as strong as you in the Force." A moment's silence followed suit. "I am not as strong as you in the Force." She made no effort to ellaborate on the contradiction. Instead, the warrior continued, "It was in my first hunt of... Jedi," the word was hissed between clenched teeth as her fingers jerked at her sides before they settled, "that we learned my truth. I knew little of Force Abilities. Unremarkable, it was said. Until the prey thought to pulverize me with the Force. When they failed to snuff out my life, I found I had the ability to erase theirs using the same crushing Force they'd used. I succeeded where they failed."

"There was nothing left to keep as a trophy." Unfortunate. It had been quite the invigorating moment to learn that while not useless, she was... interesting to her Master and Creator. Well, the memory of the sea of blood was enough. After a moment, Evangel added, "I like to keep their kyber crystals. They don't speak me to me like a holocron does, but there is a memory to them." Force Users were normally the ones worthy of a trophy. Though there had been exceptions to the rule, it always had to be something or someone remarkable.

Darth Virelia​

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Blast from the past."

Tags - Evangel

Virelia did not recoil when that blade of intent, sharp as obsidian, rose in the Force before her throat. She inhaled it, tasted it, her lips parting in the faintest flicker of pleasure as though the mercenary's killing urge were perfume, intoxicating and rare.

When Evangel spoke—plain, guttural, stripped of all artifice—Virelia's smile returned, sharper now, violet eyes gleaming like amethysts held against a flame. "Ah… pleasure. So honest. So ravenous." She drew closer once more, not caring for boundaries, as though the earlier warning had only whetted her appetite. "Coin is a language, Evangel. One I am fluent in. But blood, breath, the rapture of dominance—those are currencies too. Do not pretend you do not feel their weight more sweetly than any stack of credits."

She circled the Mandalorian with predatory languor, fingertips trailing across her own gauntlet as if restraining the desire to touch the other's armor. "Art," she repeated, savoring the word. "You are an artist who kills not for necessity, but to drink the end, to taste the final shudder." Virelia's tone grew hushed, licentious, every syllable sliding into the silence like silk soaked in venom. "I have always adored artists. Especially those who do not ask permission of their canvas."

When Evangel confessed her first truth—their contradiction, the discovery of strength only in the face of death—Virelia exhaled softly, as though aroused by the tale itself. "You found yourself in that moment. Not through creed, not through duty, but through survival sharpened into ecstasy. That is not contradiction, my dear mercenary. That is purity." She leaned close, her breath warm against the side of the helmet. "You tasted power because you were worthy of it. Worthy enough to take what another tried to deny you."

Her hands lifted, hovering just above Evangel's pauldrons, never quite touching but close enough that the Mandalorian might feel the promise of it. "You collect crystals, fragments of their light, because part of you understands that memory is more delicious when it is stolen. But I see something else in you, Evangel. You want more than trophies. You want to belong to the memory itself. To own it. To be the one others whisper of when their courage falters."

She moved at last, slow and deliberate, stepping back toward her throne yet never breaking the thread of her gaze. "You think yourself a hunter alone. But what if I told you that every hunter longs for a master who sees them? What if I told you I could make your pleasure sharper, your art endless?"

Virelia reclined into her seat, legs crossing with calculated ease, voice dripping with velvet command. "Serve me, Evangel. Accept my leash, as an instrument in my hand. I will give you blood, coin, pleasure, power, prey worthy of your appetite. And in return…" Her smile curled, decadent and cruel. "You will follow my every commandment."

Her fingers tapped once against the throne's armrest, inviting, daring. "I could make you so beautiful."

 

[Evangel]

Evangel bit her tongue as Darth Virelia replied. Was the woman deliberately provoking her? Did Virelia know just how hard it was for Evangel to maintain her self-control? Don't pretend it wasn't sweet? More than credits? To all the hells with credits. They meant nothing except as a means of keeping her ship in the air, and her weapons loaded. How much Evangel would like nothing more than to tear the throats out of everyone she saw. To choke or crush or electrifying... fry, strip, or slice into a thousand pieces every living creature that prowled through the stars. Credits? Dining on ashes. The lamentation of the still living was divine. And every word Virelia said goaded Evangel to bask in that depravity; only it wouldn't be a leer, or someone begging to be her willing pet that'd come from such effort.

Drink. Taste. Final shudder. A soft giggle from afar tickled Evangel's ear.

Ecstasy! Evangel's eyes closed within her helmet as she fought to remain perfectly still as the Dark Sider prowled about. Focus on her breathing. They were just words. Now was not the time nor the place to hunt. There would be time soon. Even Darth Virelia herself leaned in closer to whisper sweetly to the Mandalorian that sought to maintain her decorum. It was the Dark Side in this place. It was the constant reinforcement that indulging was precisely what Evangel should do. It was growing increasingly difficult... to not want... Such pain...

Her eyes fluttered open and some of the words managed to reach her ears; at last the helmet turned slightly to bring the woman back into view. The memory? Was that...? For the still living to howl and gnash their teeth in her passing. Yes, Evangel suppose, on a certain level, that was what she wanted. One of several things. That was what she'd been created for, wasn't it?

Virelia slowly drew back toward her throne while never breaking eye contact. Wise considering how Evangel had very nearly been enveloped in her madness -- the nature instilled into her from the start.

"I had a Master, once," Evangel replied. They had been some of the worst days of her life. And the best. A hunter needed a master? Evangel wasn't sure about that, but it was lonely. Always the outsider. Always the faceless presence that completed a job and then fly off into the night. There were so many memories with her former Master that Evangel missed no matter how much of a 'monster' others considered them. They'd been Evangel's monster.

Jedi were the enemy she'd been made to slay. Sith were an acceptable alternative, of course; every Sith Lord had rivals that needed slaughtered. There weren't a lot of jobs that involved murdering champions of Justice, or threatened champions of Ruthless Slaughter. And the jobs to kill the weak that failed to deliver some cargo just... weren't nearly as satisfying. It'd been a living. Evangel sought to make it a living because what else was there for a broken, twisted thing like her?

Darth Virelia said she could give her everything she'd lost. Evangel wanted to accept it. She wanted to belong again and do what she'd been made to do. But could the Dark Lady be trusted? Obviously not. Was the risk worth it? That was the question. Was the risk of betrayal and being abandoned worth it?

"Perhaps, my Lady, you should give me the job. I may only disappoint you in grand things. I am," Evangel's jaw worked for a moment, "not entirely in control of myself, and may be mistaken for more than I am." Part of her wanted Darth Virelia to dismiss the concerns and tell her she was a fool for even uttering such doubts. Part wanted to be punished for disobedience. Another part had grown comfortable on its own, however, and wondered if listen to this Lady's command was in their best interests. The allure was strong, but Evangel wasn't as certain of her use to someone of Darth Virelia's power and authority.

Darth Virelia​

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Blast from the past."

Tags - Evangel

Virelia's smile lingered, violet eyes drinking in the storm of conflict beneath Evangel's voice. The mercenary wanted, needed, but trembled at the edges of her own restraint. That hesitation was sweeter than any vow. It was the thin crack in stone where she could press until the whole wall gave way.

"Not in control…" Virelia repeated softly, the words curling from her lips like smoke. "Then you are exactly where I want you. I have no use for pets who pant on command, Evangel. I have use for storms. For blades that tremble at the edge of release."

Her gloved fingers flexed, and the weapon answered. The claws whispered out from her digits, elegant arcs of synthetic edge that glinted wickedly in the chamber light. They caught and held Evangel's gaze, their motion as sensual as it was lethal. Virelia raised one hand, admiring the way the claws extended like extensions of her desire. "Do you see these?" she murmured. "They drank Mandalorian blood on Brosi. Brent Warnel —your brother in iron—fell beneath them. Beskar split, armor gutted, flesh undone. Tell me, Evangel… would you survive what he could not?"

She took a single step forward, claws poised, not striking but inviting. "You want proof of your worth? Then give me blood, breath, movement. Show me if you are art or only accident."

Her voice sank low, licentious, every word pressing against Evangel's self-control like a lover's hand. "A test of how much of yourself you will surrender before you even realize it." She circled again, claws glinting, the sound of her boots echoing sharp against the stone. "I will not leash you, Evangel. I will break you open and make you beg for the leash yourself."

She tilted her head, mask gleaming, every line of her posture radiating command. "Fight me. Do not hold back your hunger. Let me taste it. If you impress me, I will give you more than coin. I will give you everything."

 

[Evangel]

Evangel should have anticipated Virelia's response. Perhaps she had, but chose to thoughtlessly ignore it. Perhaps this was exactly what she wanted. To be challenged. For the Dark Lady to claim her. Only, Evangel could not consciously bring herself to accept that. She'd had only one Master, and they were gone now.

Slender blades emerged from the woman's fingers, and the Mandalorian's feet slowly adjusted themselves on the floor. There was only one interpretation valid for that gesture. The haft in her hand suddenly elongated to its full length with a twist of her wrist even as the Dark lady spoke of using her instruments of pain and death against vode. Honor demanded retribution. A paradoxical belief seeing how her Master had once captured and forced a Mandalorian to teach her Sith Spawn how to behave like a civilized creature. But it was a tenant of the culture no matter how hypocritical it might be for her to abide by it.

With Virelia's approach, Evangel realigned her feet and took hold of the spear in both hands. "As you command, Mistress," Evangel replied before she thrust the beskar spear at the Dark Lady's torso to test her response. The length of the weapon should help keep the woman at a distance unless she was prepared to be stabbed.

Her movements with the weapon would be well-practiced. Evangel preferred melee combat, and the spear was what she carried on her person nearly everywhere. It was especially effective against lightsaber-wielding prey. Unlike most others, she could deflect and manipulate those with plasma blades until they were left open for a sudden and lethal thrust. In. Out. A swirled feint. A feinted thrust. Every motion was as sudden as it was quick. An exchange of thrusts combined with pregnant pauses of inaction, all while carefully maneuvering the battlefield with her feet. If Darth Virelia thought the beast would emerged and leave her vulnerable, Evangel would be pleased to demonstrate just how effective in battle she could be.

Darth Virelia​

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Blast from the past."

Tags - Evangel

Virelia's laughter rippled out, low and sultry, even as the spear came for her chest. She did not sidestep. She let the haft slam into her armor, the impact ringing against the reinforced plates, jarring her body with a dull ache that blossomed into something she wore like a secret pleasure. She staggered only half a step, violet eyes gleaming from behind the mask.

"Mmm… spirited," she purred, fingertips flexing as her claws glinted like hungry fangs. "Good. It would have bored me if you bent too easily."

The Dark Lady shifted, every motion sleek and precise, the way only someone schooled in the dance of polearms could move. She knew the length, the advantage Evangel carried—she had wielded such weapons herself in wars long buried. And she knew the truth of them: they demanded distance, demanded control of space. Which meant her task was simple—close, and the Mandalorian's art would falter.

Virelia slid along the haft as it drew back, claws flashing in a feigned strike toward Evangel's grip, then retracted as she pivoted to the side. Her body pressed close to the shaft, intimate, as though she would embrace the weapon itself just to rob it of breath. "Do you feel it?" she hissed, violet eyes blazing. "How your art longs for me to step deeper, closer, until you cannot tell if you are striking or surrendering?"

The claws raked across the spear's length in a deliberate kiss of metal to metal, a whisper of what they could do to beskar if given purchase. She was testing, teasing, deliberately pressing the edge of danger rather than simply crushing it with the Force. Her movements were a seduction, as much in combat as in conversation—every strike a caress, every dodge a lure.

Another thrust came; she twisted into it, letting the point skid across her side-plate, sparks flashing. The sting thrilled her. "Yes…" she moaned softly, almost obscene in her delight, "draw it out. Make me feel it." Her claws lashed in a short arc, not aiming for the kill but for the tension—the brush of danger against Evangel's guard, the testing of rhythm.

"Impress me, mercenary," Virelia crooned, her voice velvet over steel as she stepped deeper into the Mandalorian's range. "Show me you are more than another spear in the dark. Make me want to keep you."

Her laughter came again, dark and hungry, as she pressed forward. "Bleed me, Evangel. Or I will break you open and drink first."

 

[Evangel]

Evangel grunted with the impact. It withstood the impact straight-on? A beskar spear was no lightweight weapon. So the armor wasn't only theatrical in its imposing and mysterious appearance, but functional. She would have to discern whether the joints were as strong. The shoulders were obviously out as a target given the pauldrons and plating.

As Virelia sought to follow the spear as it drew back in a flash, Evangel pivoted and adjusted the angle of the haft to break from the pattern. Evangel wasn't concerned about the effort to get in closer. There were ways to hold a spear in close-quarters. Unlike a lightsaber staff, she wasn't forced to hold the weapon in a specific spot; she could choke up on the head if necessary and use it as a dagger. If the Dark Lady was worried about anticipating Evangel's every movements, she'd be pleasantly disappointed.

Many Jedi and Sith alike looked down on things that weren't ignite kyber energy. They were too steeped in traditions of the past and pride to see the truth -- simple weapons were surprisingly effective in close-quarters combat.

The haft was kept between their bodies as Virelia feigned an intimate proximity to her opponent. A firm shove was meant to force them apart once more; the metal length spun off to the side to bring the point between them were it was meant to be.

Surrender? Evangel's left hand opened into a palm for the haft to rest on while her right retained its hold. The tip launched forth, twisted so its prongs wouldn't catch on the Dark Lady's armor even as she twisted to avoid the strike. With a step forward, the length of the weapon was whipped around so it would arched down from overhead toward Darth Virelia's head.

Evangel quickly stepped back at the swipe of her claws.

Another thrust this time at the leg. Withdrawn. Evangel stepped back as Virelia stepped forward.

Evangel's right hand was held up to block strikes, while her left drew back with the spear. The Mandalorian spread her feet apart and lowered her center of gravity. "As you command." Another flick of the wrist and the spear shortened. Darth Virelia would feel the Dark Side channeled from the warrior that stood before her a moment before Evangel step into the next strike. The blow would come with enough force to split a boulder.

If that still wasn't enough, Evangel would begin to assail the Dark Lady with the spear over and over and over again. It wouldn't be as strong, but it would rain down on her rapidly. Thrust, withdraw, thrust, withdraw. A pattern scattered over her torso and arms; if her armor wasn't pierced, Evangel sought to inflict as much blunt force trauma as possible. It was a frantic pace, but the blows were delivered with surgical precision.

Darth Virelia​

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Blast from the past."

Tags - Evangel

The spear slammed against her armor again, this time with bone-shaking force. Virelia hissed, the sound half-pain, half-pleasure, her body shuddering with the impact. She did not shy from it—she welcomed it, savoring the sensation of raw strength pressed against her frame. Her mask tilted, violet eyes flashing bright as lightning. "Yesss…" she purred, voice thick with hunger, "make me feel it, Mandalorian… drown me in your strength."

The flurry came fast, each thrust measured, surgical, Evangel's rhythm like a storm beating against stone. Virelia gave ground only enough to flow with the pattern, letting the spear buffet her chestplate, shoulders, and gauntlets. Sparks danced, claws flashing to redirect, parry, or scrape along the haft in vicious kisses. She could feel the Dark Side in the Mandalorian's fury, could taste it on her tongue, sharp as copper and wine.

But brute strength alone would not end this dance. Virelia's movements slowed, deliberate, her body rolling with each strike rather than fighting its force head-on. She slipped inside the pattern, every twist of her hips a sinuous counterpoint to Evangel's fury, every breath a goad. "You are exquisite," she crooned between clashes, "but even the fiercest storm can be bent, redirected."

Her claws slid suddenly, not for flesh but for leverage. With predatory precision she raked along the haft, trapping it against her gauntlet while her other hand snapped upward to hook near the base. Instead of resisting the spear's momentum, she guided it—drawing it off-line, twisting her body to make the weapon overextend, every ounce of Evangel's power becoming fuel for her own gambit.

She pressed in close, mask nearly brushing the Mandalorian's helm, her breath ragged but sultry. "You are not stronger than me, Evangel," she whispered, claws tightening on the shaft, "you are hungrier. And hunger can be turned." Her thighs shifted, pinning the lower length of the weapon, while her torso arched with obscene intimacy against the haft.

Every motion was a lesson and a taunt. "What will you do," Virelia murmured, voice dripping with licentious promise, "when your weapon is no longer yours? Will you still fight me with such passion… or will you break beautifully when I peel it from your hands?"

Her laughter was low, intoxicating, as she pressed her advantage, not overpowering Evangel but twisting her precision into peril. "Show me, mercenary. Show me how much you crave to keep hold of what you think is yours."

 

[Evangel]

"I was made to kill you." Evangel's feet moved in an effort to catch Virelia off balance. "Everything I am is for that purpose. Every thought. Every act." Slight shifts and tugs on the haft tested the woman's grasp. "This spear means nothing," the last word was a mixture of a growl and a shout as power flooded Evangel's body. Her fingers uncurled from the haft only for both hands to snap up and inward toward Darth Virelia's head.

If there was a weakness it would be Darth Virelia's desire to remain unseen. If there was a weakness it would be in the prey's anatomy -- the head was a vulnerable target given proximity and a relatively stationary target. The Dark Lady wanted to be close. She wanted to taunt. To tease. To dominate Evangel. Would that desire leave her open to being caught between her hands?

And what would Evangel do if she caught the woman? She didn't know. If Virelia's helmet wasn't sturdy enough she'd be crushed instantly. Even if it was there'd no doubt be considerable pressure. Would Evangel manage to restrain herself and simply go for wounding her pride by revealing her face...? Probably not. Because Virelia was right. Her guest wanted blood. She hungered for carnage, and everything Virelia did only stoked that desire even if it hadn't shaken Evangel's resolve or control until that moment when life or death might be decided.

If she dodged or evaded, Evangel would pursue her wherever she went or however she moved. Each blow with her hands or feet intended to kill. Virelia had already pressed the Mandalorian to put aside whether Darth Vileria lived or died in that chamber. If she died the rest of the fort wouldn't much appreciate that, but none of that mattered. Escape didn't matter. Prey needed annihilated. All other thoughts had long since faded just as she'd wanted.

Darth Virelia​

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Blast from the past."

Tags - Evangel

Virelia's laugh rang sharp as the hands came for her head—hungry, lethal, meant to crush. She did not recoil. Instead she bent into the fury, a predator turning into the strike rather than fleeing from it. In that instant she shifted her weight, rolling her body low, and drove herself against Evangel with the force of deliberate collision. Armor scraped against armor, a hiss of sparks between them, before momentum toppled them both.

The chamber's stone floor greeted them in a thunderous impact, Virelia atop her prey. Her claws snapped forward, the curved tips grazing dangerously along the Mandalorian's gorget. One wrong twitch, and they would pierce flesh beneath. The Dark Lady's voice came low, rich, lewd—hot against the helmet inches from her lips.

"Mmm… is this what you were made for?" she whispered, hips pinning Evangel to the ground with obscene intimacy, claws pressing ever so slightly harder against her neck. "To be beneath me, to thrash like an animal while I decide whether you bleed or beg?"

Her laughter rippled, half-moan, half-threat. "You strike like a storm, Evangel… but storms are meant to break upon rock. And I—" her breath hitched, deliberate, as if savoring the closeness "—I am the rock that delights in feeling your waves shatter."

The claws shifted, dragging lightly along the collar of the armor, the whisper of metal promising ruin if she chose to sink them deeper. Her free hand pressed flat against Evangel's helm, pinning it against the cold stone, the gesture both dominating and intimate.

"You hunger for carnage. I can feel it," she purred, violet eyes glowing bright above her mask. "But tell me… when that hunger meets my claws, will it devour me… or will it devour you?" Her voice grew lower still, licentious and coaxing. "Perhaps you want this. Perhaps you wanted me to push you to the floor, to make you fight for every breath, to feel death so close you can taste it."

Her hips shifted, grinding the position home, claws poised like fangs against a vein. "Yield, and I will make you more than what you were made to be. Resist, and I will carve you open until there is nothing left but the truth you fear."

Virelia's laughter spilled again, dark and enticing, her claws biting just slightly deeper in emphasis. "So, Mandalorian… do you kill me? Or do you let me own the hunger inside you?"

 

[Evangel]

Evangel was not so pinned as Virelia might believe. Several maneuvers were known to her. Whether they would be successful or not was unclear, but when consumed by the desire to destroy the thing before her and paint the throne with its owner's blood nothing else mattered. Perhaps they would die together. Fear didn't stay her hand.

Strain suggested the Mandalorian was going to throw the other woman off. The Dark Side churned about the figure pressed to the floor. Her desire -- her hunger as Virelia called it -- howled in madness with the insatiable need to kill. In an instant any number of scenarios played out in her mind about how best to get the upper hand to end Darth Virelia.

It wasn't the words themselves that Evangel heard. If words could deter her will then many of her prey would still be alive, and Evangel would likely be dead -- betrayed by a silver tongued devil. Words had sought to help her deal with her 'mental' condition. Well, they had helped her cope with society at least, but the need to hunt never waned. It was part of her. There were.... options, but each with side effects she couldn't bring herself to accept. No, it wasn't what was said, or even the licentious way it was delivered.

The Rift screamed into the void nearby. Its darkness crept through the walls, through flesh. Darth Virelia held Evangel down on that stone floor with words of promise wrapped in threats. An offer to become more extended to the ravenous one they held captive, consumed with the need to annihilate and destroy. Yes, it was the familiarity of the moment that Evangel felt.

It reminded her of when her Master had the Mandalorian overwhelm and pin a crazed and untrained younger version of herself. They spoke of becoming more. A better killer. A hunter. It had likely been the defining moment whether she was considered trash and discarded, or kept as a Sith Spawn worthy of investment.

Laying there, pinned only by threat of pain and death, the tension slowly began to fade. Her heart began to slow. Yes, it felt familiar. It felt... like coming home. "What do you command of me, Mistress?"

Darth Virelia​

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Blast from the past."

Tags - Evangel

Virelia did not speak at once. Silence was the first chain she ever forged, and she wound it around Evangel's throat with exquisite patience. Her claws rested against the Mandalorian's gorget, not piercing, but tracing small, deliberate circles that whispered of the ruin they could so easily bring.

She leaned down until the six-eyed mask nearly brushed the faceless helm, her breath warm against the cold metal. A low, throaty hum escaped her, part purr, part laughter, vibrating between them as her hips pressed harder into Evangel's body. She moved slowly, deliberately, as if savoring the fact that every heartbeat belonged to her now, stolen and measured.

Violet eyes blazed like molten jewels behind the mask as she tilted her head. Her hand slid from the Mandalorian's helm to cup the side of it, her thumb dragging across the visor in a touch that was obscene in its gentleness. Still, she did not speak.

Only after long, punishing moments did a word finally leave her lips—soft, sultry, and merciless.

"Breathe."

The command was simple, but it dripped with promise. Her claws shifted lower, dragging against the joint of Evangel's armor at the throat, the scrape slow enough to make the anticipation unbearable. Her other hand pressed the helm more firmly against the stone floor, claiming complete possession of the space between thought and movement.

Her voice was barely more than a whisper now, yet every syllable coiled tight with dominance. "You will breathe when I allow it. You will kill when I tell you. You will feed when I place prey before you. And in return…" her claws paused, pressing just enough to remind Evangel how fragile even beskar could become in her grip, "you will never again wonder if you belong."

Virelia lingered there, savoring the surrender she felt rising like heat through the stone. Her silence stretched again, long enough that Evangel would feel the weight of waiting, of wanting the next command. Only when she was certain the Mandalorian's hunger had shifted—directed, chained—did she lean closer, lips almost brushing the edge of the helm.

"Good," she murmured finally, voice velvet and venom both. "Very good."

And then she said nothing more, letting the silence claim the chamber once again.

 

[Evangel]

Evangel's brow furrowed as the woman was silent for the longest time. Her Master hadn't been half this playful. They'd used silence to punish Evangel before; they'd found it more effective than actual corporal punishment at times. But the little touches. The way Virelia lay atop her and pressed down against her was not like her Master.

She could be our new Master, a long forgotten, softer voice cooed.

Kill. Kill. Kill! Stop holding back and destroy her. Destroy this room. This planet! Wait until she's so occupied with us we can grab her throat and squeeeeeze. Tell her to choke on her damn throne. Let her rot in this broken land.

Her lips peeled back inside the helmet in a silent sneer. Evangel had a discordant chorus of voices hissing, shouting, gnawing at her with every second that passed. The woman refused to speak. Sought to convey dominance. Much of her would-be toy wanted to tear Virelia apart in response. But there was another part -- an obedient part -- that found new voice with a prospective new master. Other voices like theirs might swell as well in time. Was that what Evangel wanted? A new Master to replace the other they'd lost? Was it?

Do something. Say something. Evangel wanted to throw the woman aside for her endless games. To leave her to the silence that consume Malachor. It was maddening.

And then the woman spoke.

Evangel's blue eyes narrowed. Breathe? That was it? What sort of response was that? Of course she would breathe! That was hardly satisfying and yet it had at least, briefly, broken the tension. The chorus resumed its howling and incessant demand to end Darth Virelia, and once again Evangel came close to indulging them.

Darth Virelia then issued her command for Evangel to do as she was told in all things. In return? She would offer Evangel a place to belong.

I want to belong. Manipulative witch. We were happy to serve under Master. This is not the Master! Let's see what she will do for us. Use us! Teach us. Make us stronger.

Why? Why? Why? Evangel grit her teeth. She felt trapped by the woman that lay on top of her. She wanted to escape. Or kill? Something. Anything. Motionless. Captive. It rake at her mind. The urges and desires and thoughts tore at her in the silence. All she had to do was cast Virelia aside. With Evangel's enhanced strength with the Dark Side it would be easy to accomplish; but she didn't... couldn't... Why wasn't Virelia doing something? Saying something? Something.

Darth Virelia​

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Blast from the past."

Tags - Evangel

Virelia did not flinch at the Mandalorian's writhing tension, nor the storm she could feel clawing beneath the beskar shell. She could sense the hunger, the pressure of power straining against restraint—but she heard no words, no voices, no fractured chorus that battled inside Evangel. To her, there was only silence. Silence thick enough to drink, silence that tasted of violence caged.

Her claws lingered at the joint of Evangel's gorget, stroking slowly, rhythmically, each movement deliberate. She did not speak; she allowed the silence to weigh down further, pressing against Evangel's chest heavier than any plate of armor could. She leaned in, mask near brushing the T-visor, violet eyes glimmering with predatory light.

And then, very softly, she allowed the Dark Side to coil outward from her like smoke. Force Dominate. It slid into the cracks of willpower and muscle tension, not with a brute shove, but with a subtle, inexorable pressure. The tendrils of her power wrapped Evangel's senses, tightening until every thought had to pass through her voice only.

Only one word left her lips, quiet as a lover's sigh:

"Obey."

The syllable dripped from her tongue like venom dipped in honey. It was not shouted, not barked as an order. It was intimate, whispered as though into Evangel's bones. The Dark Side carried it deep, making the command feel less like suggestion and more like inevitability.

Virelia did not elaborate. She did not explain. Her silence returned after the word was spoken, as though the chamber itself had been bound by her will. Her claws pressed just a fraction harder against Evangel's throat, not piercing, but promising they could with nothing more than a thought.

Her hips shifted, slow and obscene in their certainty, holding down to remind Evangel who held her, who had stolen every breath of the moment.

She said nothing more. Only the echo of that single word remained, constantly reverberating in the dark like the toll of a bell.

 

[Evangel]

Even as Virelia pressed down atop Evangel, she found it slowly easier to breathe. Belonging? Maybe. But more importantly, there was a structure to command. On her own, she could do anything, but at the same time it felt like a prison of limitless possibility. What was she to do? Where was she to go? What did any of it matter? There was no Master to crow about her victories. No Master to punish her for failure. Just the empty laughter of employers and the clink of coin -- neither of which truly understood what she did, or how far she'd go.

Was Darth Virelia worthy of her loyalty? Her obedience? Evangel couldn't say, but the allure of surrender, and the temptation of subservience caressed Evangel's thoughts. It would bring order to chaos. It would still the endless turbulence within, as it expected to be given quality over quantity in kills. Everything she'd had before, Evangel wanted again. Bring it back. Back to where it began.

"Mistress," Evangel hissed with a shudder. The claws pressed against her throat as a reminder. Such an exquisite sensation to surrender to the Dark Lady's will.

But how far did domination by Force extend to someone whose psyche was already fractured? Of something torn between pure instinct driven to kill, and the higher reasoning of a sentient being? Of a creature that appeared human-like, but whose nature was something different? Whatever the answers to the questions might be, Evangel lay on the floor beneath Darth Virelia; even as the woman obscenely savored every moment.

Darth Virelia​