Duel Reclamation By Force.

[Darth Virelia]

"Heir of Malak"

Tag - Tyron Khan


The sea sang below, a deep and endless litany of forgotten gods.

Above it, sprawled across the craggy coastline like a murdered giant, the ruin of the Leviathan lay half-buried in the sands of time. Her hull—once a proud war-cruiser of the old Sith Empire—was shattered by decades of tectonic decay, salt corrosion, and the slow, pitiless grinding of Rakatan weather. But even in her broken state, the Leviathan retained the silhouette of command. The bones of Darth Malak's fury. The iron carcass of a dream never quite vanquished.

And inside her, deep within the silent cathedral of the forward bridge, stood a woman cast in shadow and godsteel.

Serina Calis did not move.

She stood at the apex of the fractured command platform like a high priestess at altar, framed by the skeletal remains of ancient transparisteel windows shattered long ago by orbital bombardment. Moonlight lanced down from above through a gaping wound in the ceiling, casting beams of silvery illumination across her armor—the glistening obsidian shell that cloaked her like a judgment, gleaming with quiet menace. Her violet eyes burned faintly behind her faceless helm, six in total, arranged like the gaze of some all-seeing arachnid god.

Tyrant's Embrace—the name of the armor. Her second skin.

It whispered of dominion with every breath she took.

The Leviathan's bridge was a grave, but it was also a throne room. Or it would be.

"We are alike, Malak…"
Her voice was low and smooth, velvet wrapped around a dagger's edge, shaped more for monologue than conversation.
"History remembers you as Revan's beast. But I have listened to your holocron. I know better."

There, on the cracked remains of what had once been the captain's central console, a gloved hand reached forward and slowly dusted away the detritus of time. Rust, salt, the bones of rodents—all swept aside in the slow, reverent movement of someone exhuming purpose.

"You saw the weakness in ideals. In friendship. In mercy. And yet… they feared Revan, not you. Because you lacked the flair for myth. You did not seduce the galaxy. You demanded it kneel."

"One must do both."

She turned then, slowly, the segmented armor along her spine unfolding with a liquid ripple. The cape of synthweave flared behind her in the sea-breeze leaking through the bridge's fractured ribs, crimson and black like a bleeding veil. Around her, dead consoles flickered sporadically as if stirred by her presence—ancient energy cycling, uncertain. The Leviathan was not truly dead. Not yet. Her bones remembered war.

Serina breathed in deeply.

The air was heavy with mold, rust, and the ozone stink of long-dormant electronics. Yet beneath that, she smelled something else. Possibility. Ruin was opportunity, and this place… this place could be made divine again.

"You will not be reborn as a symbol of wrath, Malak," she whispered. "You will be a vessel for order. My order. And they will learn your name again, not as a shadow of Revan—but as the ancestor of a greater sovereign."

Then—stillness. Sharp. Final.

The breath in her lungs caught mid-cycle.

Her head turned slightly, her helm tilting just a fraction—enough to reveal she had sensed it. A ripple. A tremor. Something threading through the Force like the shadow of a thrown knife.

Not wind. Not memory.
A presence.

Her six violet eyes flared subtly behind the mirror-like faceplate.

The Leviathan had been dead for centuries. No animal would dare venture this far in. No scavenger would survive the coastal terrain without leaving tracks. And she would have sensed them.

This was something else.

Serina stepped forward once, slow and deliberate, each movement graceful in that biomechanical way she had made her signature. Her gauntlets curled as if tasting the air. The talons clicked softly together like the chime of bone.

The Force shifted again—closer this time. Like something brushing up against her perception just long enough to test it. A ripple on a black pool.

A Jedi.

And not a trained master wrapped in clarity, but a rawness… a youth, perhaps. Passionate. Fearful. Temptable.

She didn't need sight to know where they were. She felt them in the ship now—ghosting through one of the access corridors like a moth drawn to a flame. Something had lured them here, and that something was her.

Perhaps the ship itself had sung out across the stars to the sensitives, like a haunted tombstone calling the gravedigger. Or perhaps the holocron's echo had seeped into the Force with enough gravity to draw the light to its opposite.

It didn't matter.

Serina turned, descending from the bridge platform with the elegance of a queen entering a throne room—or a predator descending to feed. Each footfall was soft, yet absolute. The Leviathan's interior echoed around her—creaks of metal, scuttles of age, and the faint thrum of energy bleeding back into long-dead arteries.

She did not draw a weapon.

She did not need one.

Where others slashed and screamed, Serina reached.

A single hand extended into the air—palm outward, fingers slightly splayed.

Through the Force, her awareness spidered outward like black silk: brushing bulkheads, searching corners, tasting the shape of the lifeform approaching. She could feel the heartbeat now. Elevated. Alert. Righteous.

"Come closer," she murmured, voice a whisper that bled from the walls and filled the void. "I want to see your fear before I show you what you truly are."

She moved again, this time down a ruined corridor flanked with shattered holoprojectors and rusted rails. Her reflection caught in the broken glass was that of a wraith—a shadow in sovereign flesh.

The Leviathan would be hers again.

 

[Tyron Khan]

Objective: Investigate a Darkness

The Force worked in mysterious ways and possesses many variants that remain untouched. Some good and some bad to anything and everything that is bound through the Force as it ripples throughout the Galaxy.

A warning was felt. Rakata Prime holds a lot of history. Many battles had been fought here. Jedi, Sith, Mandalorians and the Galactic Republic all battled to the end. Was it really over? No it never can be as some claim defeats and victories over one another.

There must be balance and if one side is left unchecked it can spell disaster for many lifeforms and worlds. 'There is no Ignorance, there is Knowledge' a reminder in one's train of thought. A Besalisk had taken a shuttle to arrive on the empty world of Rakata Prime yet there was a presence detected.

Tyron an aspiring Jedi Guardian had utilized his senses in the Force as he managed to follow their instincts to investigate the graveyard of bombarded shuttles. All shapes and sizes. One stood out though and this very ship had called back to the times of Revan and Malak. The Leviathan it can send chills down the spine.

Not for this young Padawan Learner. Possessed rawness and youth as a combination but can be lethal although not fully trained as a Jedi per say Tyron had his nature and sheer willpower of determination and focus. Not forgetting his training from fellow Jedi - Valery Noble , Kaleleon , Kei Raxis and Jonyna Si .

He wasn't doing this to seek out threats. No this wasn't personal either. Tyron didn't have a preference to be couped up inside of four walls, the Jedi Temple. He and many other fellow Jedi are always needed out in the field.

"My nature of seeking challenges may play a part in my reasoning for being here but I will not abandon my Jedi training. The Light will confront the Dark. No care for Defeat or Victory. I am a Jedi to stand against dark influences that can cause chaos unto others."

The Besalisk had entered the ruins of battleship that was rumoured to be the flagship of Darth Malak's when he had turned against the Jedi Order many years ago. There was that tension emitting from the darkness felt. Tyron allowed the Force to heighten his awareness; his senses and prepare for an encounter from someone or something.

Walking down the corridor he could feel the passings of many lives that served on this battle-cruiser from all those years ago. Even the past events still left traces of what impacts had been made within the Galaxy.

Out of nowhere, it was felt and heard through the Force. A voice boomed out within the corridors laying out a challenge against Tyron. His nature as a Besalisk kicked in but unlike majority this was adapted into a fuelled source of control.

He proceeded to continue down a battered and damaged corridor. Filled with skeleton corpses, malfunctioning consoles and computer systems. The presence of Bogan energy got closer and stronger. Was Tyron putting himself into a situation so deep that could put him into high risk? Leave injured or die? No, he believed in the Force - for There is no Death; there is the Force.

"I will not fear you. Whoever you are. There is no Emotion, there is Peace. I am a Jedi a servant to the Light, a beacon of Hope. You will not inflict terror unto others. I'm coming for you no matter what lies ahead."

Outfit: Clothes
Weapons: Double-Bladed Lightsabers
Saber Hilts: Guardian Hilt | Vanquisher Hilt
Master: Kaeleon Seleare | Kei Raxis
TAGS: Darth Virelia
Mentions: Valery Noble | Kaleleon | Kei Raxis | Jonyna Si

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Heir of Malak"

Tag - Tyron Khan


The dark breathed with her.

In the bowels of the Leviathan, past collapsed decks and ragged circuitry, Serina Calis waited like the eye of a storm—still, weightless, suspended in a cradle of rust and power. Her form stood amidst the slanted ribcage of broken durasteel struts that once formed the spinal corridor of the ship, the narrow passage to the main reactor looming behind her like the gullet of a dead god. The soft ambient light from her armor's central node pulsed once, faintly, casting shadows across the rotted corridor like veins of dying stars.

Footsteps echoed.

She tilted her helm, slow and feline.

Not reckless, then. Not quite. The Jedi approached with purpose—broad, confident strides tempered by the creeping tension of instinct. He was strong in the Force, yes, but not refined. Raw. Willful. Young. A creature still clinging to the comfort of his mantras like a blade held edge-inward. Still worshipping the Light as though it would bleed for him.

Serina exhaled, and the sound behind her helm was like the whisper of wind through grave dust.

She didn't need to see him yet.

Her gauntleted hand extended to the side, fingers splayed—not toward him, but toward the void of the corridor itself. With elegant precision, she pulled upon the tendrils of the Force, weaving them into a whispered command. A push of entropy. A sickness unseen. A wither in the air.

Affliction.

The power bloomed soundlessly, like rot spreading through roots below the surface. It carried no scream, no fire, no spectacle—only a quiet, insidious pressure. It would not strike him down. No, that was not its purpose. Its purpose was erosion. It would slow him, tax him. Make him aware of the meat beneath his ideals.

And if he didn't recover in a long enough timespan?

Possible death.

At the same time, with a motion so slight it might've passed for breath, she reached into the wall behind her with the Force. A panel hissed open at her command—an escape route. Pre-calculated. Just in case. She would not be cornered. The Leviathan was hers now, and like all things that belonged to her, it had learned to obey.

The Jedi's voice echoed next—bold and proud, crackling with defiance.

"I will not fear you. Whoever you are. There is no Emotion, there is Peace. I am a Jedi, a servant to the Light..."

Serina turned, slowly.

And stepped into view.

She emerged like a shadow given shape—seven feet of black obsidian motion, ridged and regal. Tyrant's Embrace caught the faintest glint of failing light, its mirrored carapace reflecting the broken walls in jagged, prismatic shards. Her cape billowed behind her like mourning silk, red-veined, almost liquid in the stale air. And from behind her smooth, inhuman helm, six violet eyes gleamed like gemstones set into the face of a forgotten predator.

She said nothing at first.

Only looked at him.

And in that silence, the Force built behind her like a storm held in a vessel. She did not flare her power. She did not posture. She simply was—a black star in the corridor's heart, gravity pulling inward, bending light and thought and conviction toward her inevitable will.

Her right hand curled again, subtly—preparing.

The air around it shifted.

The beginnings of a Force Push gathered like pressure behind a dam, invisible but lethal, ready to answer any sudden lunge. She was calculating, not cautious. He would not dictate the rhythm of this encounter. She would allow him only what space she deemed useful.

Finally—her voice.

A single sentence, quiet and dry and cold as old stone.

"Do you even know why you're afraid?"

She took one step forward.

And the Force tightened.

Not violently, but with focus. Like a hand beginning to close.

There was no rage in her. No screaming Sith hatred. No theatrical cruelty. That was the province of lesser predators. Serina's power was the patience of gravity—inevitable, expressionless, perfect. She did not hate the Jedi.

She understood him.

And that made her far more dangerous.

Another step.

Closer.

And now the details of her form became visible in full: the talons of her gloves curled like bone, the Sith glyphs etched across her breastplate pulsing with faint violet circuitry-light, the long-limbed elegance of her stride unbroken by threat. She looked like something made to outlive civilizations—and perhaps she was.

"You cling to words like armor," she continued, almost kindly. "But they don't fit you."

She tilted her head, just slightly.

"Say them again. Slower. Perhaps you'll believe them this time."

She didn't raise her hands.

She didn't need to.

The Force was already wrapped around her like a serpent coiled beneath the skin.

The air between them thickened.

The dim corridor hummed faintly as malfunctioning lights flickered in protest. And above them—far, far above in the remains of the shattered bridge—something groaned. As if the Leviathan itself recognized what was unfolding and wept in rust.

 

[Tyron Khan]

CONFRONTATION: A SITH?

Footsteps clattered along the metallic flooring of the ship wreck each step taken was with confidence, no fear or hesitation. The objective remained active within the Besalisk's mindset. Equipped with two training lightsaber hilts in the variant of Saberstaff hilts also known to be Double-bladed lightsabers. Tyron equipped his two upper hands with his Lightsaber Hilts being ready for combat engagement.

Continued down the empty, dusty and lifeless corridor of the Leviathan. His lower arms and hands free and at the ready to apply Bakuuni Hand that was common for Jedi to learn especially an aspiring Force Warrior. The Besalisk's body is a weapon, a powerful to that but a calm and focused mind was just as deadly.

A few moments later, a feeling. It came through the Force a deathly, sickly and rotting sensation was felt. It made Tyron halt to progress any further in his tracks. Stood still to join his hands together and began to fall into an application of Meditation. A form of it learned and known as Meditation of Emptiness purging emotions and any distractions from his mind to remain focus.

Applying this form of meditation allowed Tyron to use an branch of the ability Tutaminis where the Besalisk was negating the energy used against him by the Dark-sided Disciple leeching the opposing Force Energy against him. This was to even the field, no trickery or distractions for Tyron. Make his goals clear and simple to continue.

Successfully wading off majority of the Affliction used against him. He is not reckless or foolish. Every moment and each second Tyron was adapting and learning.

"Hmm. Attempted to slow me down. Tactics of a Force oriented combatant, a Sorcerer perhaps? I must close the distance between us and utilize the armed and unarmed combat skillsets I practiced."

There Tyron spotted a shadow, darkened figure coming out toward his sights. The source of this darkness and negative energy he detected a short while ago.

This individual didn't rush nor had any rage pent up within them. This wasn't going to be a test of brute strength physically. No. This was going to be the test of focus, might, patience and willpower. No hatred or pain was felt between the two. There was silence between them both.

Ironic that once the seven-foot armour robed figure made their approach towards Tyron in the corridor in speaking clinging to his words like armour. He bears simple Jedi robes in comparison to Serina. The Padawan Learner watched her make their approach all while his two upper hands were occupied with hilts.

"I don't need to repeat in what I always believe. Funny coming from one dawning a suit of armour."

Remembering his Jedi training it was protocol to apply Form Zero where possible. Not to test the power of the Dark-side from this individual. No that'd be futile. Tyron sought it best to always learn as part of past Jedi Grandmaster Luke Skywalker's New Jedi Order code and ethics would encourage. 'A Jedi never stops learning' knowing your enemies before engaging them provides expanded knowledge bases.

The lightsaber hilts were in the grips and palms of his two upper hands at the ready. Tyron felt a build up of the Force had coiled around the Sith follower. His thoughts were proven valid that he reflected on earlier. This individual wields the Force like a tool and weapon against others. Should he make it out of here alive the knowledge gained here can be shared among fellow Jedi as there'd be no doubt others may encounter Serina in the future.

"Who are you? What are you doing here and why?"

Outfit: Clothes
Weapons: Double-Bladed Lightsabers
Saber Hilts: Guardian Hilt | Vanquisher Hilt
Master: Kaeleon Seleare | Kei Raxis
TAGS: Darth Virelia

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Heir of Malak"

Tag - Tyron Khan


The corridor between them hung heavy with silence—pregnant, waiting, devouring.

Serina stood unmoving as the Besalisk stilled himself, each of his massive limbs shifting with practiced readiness—saberstaffs in the high guard, lower arms free and braced. He was not some flailing initiate, she noted with quiet satisfaction. He meditated even now, weaving a barrier through discipline. Tutaminis, yes—crude, but effective. A rare mind in a brute's frame. Adaptable. Resilient.

And yet—so beautifully mortal in his clarity.

Serina tilted her head again, considering him. Studying him.

He had waded through Affliction like it was a poison he could taste, process, and transmute. He had not staggered, not fallen. The Jedi's training ran deeper than she first thought—his mind disciplined, his will intact, his every step chosen. He was here to learn. To fight. To witness. That made him dangerous.

It also made him useful.

She watched him speak. Voice calm. Measured. Still believing that righteousness was enough.

"I don't need to repeat in what I always believe. Funny coming from one dawning a suit of armor."
"Who are you? What are you doing here and why?"

Serina paused.

For a long moment, she simply stared—six violet eyes glinting across her helm like starlight behind obsidian glass. Then, softly, the vox-modulator in her helm activated, her voice low and honeyed with calculated venom:

"You're strong for a learner."
A breath, like silk sliding over steel.
"But strength won't save you here."

She didn't answer his questions.

Not with words.

The Force Push she had prepared detonated without warning.

No flourish. No wind-up. No wasted breath.

A pulse of pure kinetic violence erupted from her outstretched palm—compact, surgical, aimed not at his chest or limbs but at the floor beneath his footing. A tactician's strike. It was not meant to throw him, but to break his stance, to force a shift in his weight, to exploit motion against mass.

In that same instant, Serina moved—with the elegance of a blade unsheathing itself from the void.

Her left hand carved a sharp, spiraling gesture through the air—not to hurl, but to restructure.

Using the Leviathan itself as a weapon, she reached into the corridor walls with the Force and ripped a section of dangling, rusted conduit free—its length coiled like a serpent of blackened durasteel. She did not throw it. She animated it.

Like a lash it sprang to life, snaking around her body in a spiraling whip and darting forward with frightening precision—crackling with static discharge, aimed at the sabers in his upper hands. A test. A probe. A temptation.

Let go of the weapons, the motion said.
Be a creature. Be a brawler. Bleed the same way you were born.

All the while, she advanced—graceful, slow, deadly.

Her cape flowed behind her like black flame. Her armored body sang with power, the crystalline heart on her sternum pulsing with contained potential.

There was no rage in her.

Only choice.

And control.

As she closed the distance between them, her voice returned, barely above a whisper:

"You ask who I am."
"I am the thing the Light failed to save."

And then, she smiled.

Not visible—but palpable, through the Force. A curl of seduction, of superiority, of the inevitability that she would not just defeat him.

She would change him.

If he survived.

 

[Tyron Khan]

CONFRONTATION: THE LEVIATHAN

The wreck and debris within the Leviathan's corridor was bare to the naked eye but through the Force there remain footprints, spiritual ones, the darkness that fell upon troopers and those who served under Darth Malak. The past clung to what lies within this husk of a vessel.

The determination and focus remained present within Tyron in his stance against the Sith disciple. The Dark-side energy was strong coming from the armoured, masked figure he confronted. Spoke his words of righteousness and solitude against the seven-foot, dark figure, Serina.

Noting mentally the features of this individual. Six violet eyes glowing from the mask they wore, a modified tone of voice to hide any clues of revealing their identity. Clever it was. There was no anger detected.

"I do not rely on strength alone. The Force is always my ally through thick and thin."

The build up of the Force coming from Serina where this Force Push did cause Tyron to break into a rolling motion where the floor he once stood was unstable and ripped apart by the kinetic energy aimed to his stance. His body had curled up into a tight ball not exposing a lot of his body. Some debris scraps did lightly cut and scrape at what skin was exposed but nothing major impactful.

Once he got some space and time to gather his focus; thoughts. The four blades from his two Saberstaff lightsaber hilts came to life. Two blue beams emerged in his upper right hand the hilt gripped. Two green beams appeared within the handgrip of the hilt in his upper left hand. Passively the instincts and Force guided him. Stood back into the Jedi ready stance although a variant due to having Saberstaff hilts and multiple arms, hands.

The ability of Precognition alerted Tyron of the incoming animated rusty conduit that was made to form like a serpent around Serina's figure. Used one blade he spun the blue beam to defend the conduit jabbing out to probe his defences. SMACK! THWAPP! A defensive parry or few were made by Tyron's first blue blade of his Saberstaff hilt.

Both the instincts and Jedi training that Tyron had in his arsenal advised him to not fall into habits of being a brute. Use the equipment, the Force and his mind to stand against Serina. The Besalisk heard and saw her closing the distance between them. Close quarters combat is where his conditions can become interesting.

Dangerous to attempt and probe his abilities. Especially four beams at bay.

Not only is there the Light-side of the Force with him. His mind too but Tyron has two extra arms and hands available to calculate counters and defensive motions through practice of Bakuuni Hand.

"The Light doesn't abandon individuals. We make choices and those decisions are our responsibility."

A hint was dropped vaguely by Serina whether intentionally or not. It was something. The individual was perhaps a Jedi in the past. Unfortunate events, decisions and choices unfolded that have led to this moment for Serina. Compassion fell upon Tyron briefly but didn't falter from his focus he did attempt one thing.

"It is never too late to seek redemption. Abandon the Darkness and embrace the Light."

The Besalisk spoke out with a voice of showing a path, an option, like majority of Jedi should do before fully committing in the possibilities of defusing threats; either injuring or taking a life to defuse situations.

Change can be down to how one individual applies it. How they can adapt and learn from it.

Being stagnant is foolish but... Not to be manipulated by ill intentions.

There is always change in the wind. Adapting appropriately was the key.

Tyron is selfless...

Outfit: Clothes
Weapons: Double-Bladed Lightsabers
Saber Hilts: Guardian Hilt | Vanquisher Hilt
Master: Kaeleon Seleare | Kei Raxis
TAGS: Darth Virelia

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Heir of Malak"

Tag - Tyron Khan


The corridor had become a crucible.

Sparks hissed across rusted bulkheads. The stench of ozone mingled with ancient oil and forgotten blood. In that broken artery of the Leviathan, the Light made its stand. Blades of sapphire and emerald flared into life, hissing like righteous serpents. Four of them, spinning and dancing in a cross-pattern storm around the armored Besalisk—a fortress of limbs and discipline.

And yet Serina Calis stood untouched.

The serpent-whip of twisted conduit struck, parried, recoiled—and coiled once more around her, reabsorbed like a tail returning to its master. It hissed with static but obeyed, the broken steel animate in her wake.

Her violet eyes narrowed within the mask.

The Jedi thought this a duel of equals.
He thought himself disciplined.
He thought—he could save her.

"It is never too late to seek redemption," he said.
"Abandon the Darkness and embrace the Light."

And Serina… laughed.

Low. Smooth. Sultry. Not mirthful—but amused. A sound like warm silk dragged across glass, like something that should've come from a lover's mouth, not a warlord's.

Then, she spoke, her voice a sensuous razor laced with venom and finality:

"You mistake ruin for weakness.
You mistake my fall… for a stumble."

She took a step forward.

And then she moved.

Not as a brawler. Not even as a warrior.

As judgment incarnate.

The Force howled around her like a collapsing star. Her right hand flared outward, palm toward Tyron—and from her fingertips erupted not a single stream of lightning but a chorus of them. Arcs of crimson-violet Force Lightning writhed like vipers, dancing along the ceiling and floor, designed not only to strike but to herd—to push him backward, to limit his footing, to cage the body with pain and unpredictability.

Each bolt forked with razor-fine control—one racing toward the saber in his right hand, another snapping low near his lower legs, a third curling wide to threaten an escape vector. Not random destruction.

Orchestration.

And even as the lightning danced—she pivoted.

Her left arm slashed upward, and with a violent crack, she launched a concentrated Force Push behind the arcs. But not aimed directly at the Besalisk. She targeted a collapsed overhead bulkhead behind him—an explosive kinetic burst designed to send shrapnel and dust raining down in a wave. A screen. A distraction. A trap.

And then—the true attack.

Her eyes flared.

She stopped. Still. And reached into his mind.

Force Horror.

Not a scream, not a shove—an invasion. A flicker of nightmare folded into the edges of awareness. It would not overwhelm a mind like his—not entirely—but that was never the point.

It would make him see.

A mirror. A reflection.

In the span of seconds, he might see visions not his own: dozens of robed figures kneeling in red-lit chambers, their faces all his; his lightsabers turned against children; Serina's voice—his voice—whispering compliance. Rakata Prime burning. Coruscant in chains. His friends watching, unmoving. The light doing nothing.

And always—always her.

At the center of it.

A throne, and on it: Serina, faceless, flawless, holding his sabers like ceremonial blades. Not in challenge.

In offering.

The illusion would only last a heartbeat.

But it didn't need more.

She stepped through the chaos with eerie calm, the lightning fading, the debris settling. She stood once more, unhurried, in the eye of her own storm.

Her voice returned, quieter now. Deadlier.

"You are brave. I'll remember that. But the Light does not forgive. It forgets. It leaves you when it's done with you."

A pause. The mask tilted ever so slightly.

"I don't forget."

Her body shimmered with restrained power. The Force still coiled around her like smoke around a blade, ready to strike again—creative, merciless, beautiful.

Tyron would realise now that he was dealing with someone above his level.

"What will you do now, Jedi?"

 

[Tyron Khan]

Encounter: The Leviathan

Tyron heard and watched Serina laugh at his words spoken prior. In reaching out as per Jedi protocols when encountering any Dark-sider it was the least he could offer. Now evaluated the situation that offer was declined in a mockingly fashion. Readied himself for further violent actions from the armoured and masked Sith.

Her words were said.

He watched her.

His sights saw sparks coming from her fingertips - Force Lightning not faltering out of fear but he pressed forwards. Spinning all four of his Lightsaber beams in rather rapid, swift circular motions. The top blade of his Saberstaff that was coloured blue held in his upper right hand.

It absorbed one streak of the lightning cast out by Serina's fingers while the lower blade was low and guarded his legs, feet. Took on the other streak of lightning aimed towards his lower legs. He wasn't letting Serina trap him. Instead he was going to close the distance between them and kept pressing forwards. The third bolt of lightning being wide not directed toward harming Tyron yet.

To his rear, he heard cracks, strains and a sector of the corridor being ripped apart by the Force Push debris and dust hurtling towards him. Tyron finished dealing with the lightning bolts and used his second Saberstaff blades to block, deflect incoming shrapnel to the best of his abilities. Some shrapnel did cut a few areas on his body.

"Trust in all your training Tyron. Embrace the Light. It never forgets. It is your ally be one with it."

Suddenly, his mind was invaded briefly by the Force Horror a first encounter of Sith Magic being used against him mentally. Glimpses of the dark, robed figures did appear but Tyron called to the Light-side of the Force.

Enacting an application of the ability known as Force Resistance in order to null major effects of the Sith Magic technique used against him. The Besalisk possesses an immense amount of Willpower and won't go down without a fight. Though he is now feeling the strain within his Force presence.

Time to utilize the physical skills in letting his Saberstaff Lightsaber hilts do the talking for a Sith Sorcerer may not be equipped in dealing with a Jedi Guardian directly. He turned to face Serina; a determined look of focus on Tyron's face can be seen.

"I won't use the Force like a weapon to attack, harm others. Only to defend and heal. I have my body, my Lightsabers and my mind. I will not underestimate you but don't underestimate me."

Outfit: Clothes
Weapons: Double-Bladed Lightsabers
Saber Hilts: Guardian Hilt | Vanquisher Hilt
Master: Kaeleon Seleare | Kei Raxis
TAGS: Darth Virelia

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Heir of Malak"

Tag - Tyron Khan


He endured.

Even now, under the weight of her lightning, the smothering echo of Force Horror, and the falling debris of a collapsing corridor, the Besalisk pressed forward like a storm given flesh. She watched, violet eyes narrowing behind her mask, as he spun his blades in defiant deflection—his sabers singing as they carved light through ruin, shielding his massive form in a cyclone of resolve.

How noble.

How exhausting.

Serina remained still, poised at the end of the corridor like a shadow given purpose, the Leviathan moaning faintly behind her. Her breath was calm. The heartbeat within her crystalline core was even. She allowed herself a long moment to observe him—every twitch of muscle, every readjustment of grip, every ragged inhalation that betrayed how much it cost him to keep pace.

Then, he spoke.

"I will not underestimate you… but don't underestimate me."

There was a moment of silence.

And then her reply came—soft, low, edged with a predator's smile.

"I never did."

In one movement, everything changed.

She lifted both hands, and the Force surged outward in a storm that did not scream—it whispered. It did not burst—it wove. A deadly sequence designed not merely to overwhelm, but to ensnare. To punish resistance with consequence.

First, she ripped the environment apart.

The shattered corridor's walls bent and curled inward—twisting metal groaning like the death-throes of a great beast. Serina didn't aim for him. She aimed for options. Steel warped to block side paths. Pipes exploded with jets of scalding steam, forcing a funnel between them. A single narrow vector. No flanking. No retreat.

He would either move toward her.

Or burn.

Second, she anchored herself in the Force.

A subtle grounding—drawing power through her armor into the deck beneath her boots. The glyphs across her torso flared, violet and ancient, circuits of predatory intent. This was not the flexible grace she had shown before. This was foundation. Immovable. If he struck her now, he would strike a mountain.

Third, she baited him.

Both arms swept outward in a sudden flourish—not to attack, but to draw all four of his blades into action. She reached with the Force, lightning-quick, and telekinetically tore loose two long, jagged lengths of rebar from the ceiling. Like lances, they came down in staggered, crisscrossing angles—not aimed to kill.

Aimed to make him move.

To pivot. To step where she wanted him.

She was programming his instincts.

Fourth, she delivered the killing sequence.

While the rebar descended, Serina twisted her hand through the air, and suddenly—

All the oxygen between them vanished.

A vacuum. Instant, localized. A technique few had ever seen. Not an explosion, not fire—the absence of air. The sound dropped out like the galaxy had exhaled. Pressure collapsed. Breathing became agony. Sabers flared erratic for the span of a heartbeat as the ambient particles twisted.

And then—

She filled the vacuum.

A shockwave detonated from her body—a compressed Force Repulse, laced with jagged arcs of raw power. Not the casual flick of a wrist—this was full-body. Designed to slam into anything in its radius with the violence of an ocean cresting. Its timing followed the rebar, the funneling steam, the vacuum—sequenced to exploit any mistake. Any late parry. Any stumble. Any gasp for breath.

And through it all, she walked.

Through falling metal and flickering lights, through violence and ruin—Serina advanced like a sovereign descending from the throne. Her helm was unreadable, her six violet eyes glowing brighter now, unmerciful.

"I will not teach you.
I will not redeem you.
I will end you."

The ground trembled beneath her.

Above them, somewhere in the collapsing corridors, ancient systems screamed to life and failed in the same breath. The Leviathan was awake. It remembered pain.

So did she.

 

[Tyron Khan]

ENCOUNTER: RATIONAL RETREAT

Tyron heard Darth Virelia respond to his words earlier said by him. This confrontation was reaching perhaps a peaking point between both individuals. The environment around them was already a mess. The Force energy used by Darth Virelia was further damaging the remaining systems her focus shifted from Tyron briefly.

Movement was a vital option to avoid further harm for Tyron. The Padawan Learner had to be careful.

Feeling and seeing the powerful usage of the Dark-side energy of the Force causing so much destruction within the Leviathan raised concerns. Tyron is not ready though his intentions were good in theory.

The Besalisk was cautiously advancing forward but this wasn't ideal. The Lightsaber beams of his Saberstaff hilts were absorbing, deflecting Lightning streaks that were still active alongside any loose debris in the ship.

Hearing the rebar coming down from the ceiling and sensing there was a build-up of the Force surrounding Darth Virelia but there were no signs of offensive activities just yet. Until that build up was released.

Tyron braced himself as the Force Repulse utilized by Darth Virelia against the Padawan Learner. The energy gathered had thrown the Besalisk backwards from where Darth Virelia was stood.

The body of Tyron's was hurled through a damaged wall within the Leviathan where this changed the scenario for him. He was blasted through the ruined panels whether this was intentional or not. It created other opportunities for the Besalisk now in a different environment.

Once through the damaged wall that was left further ruined after his body had been hurled through it. There were deeper cuts, grazes, bruises and other injuries upon Tyron's body. Turned his Lightsaber hilts off the beams disappeared into their hilts.

Getting back up to his feet but enduring pain and struggled eventually standing up. He saw Darth Virelia approaching him from the former location. A last ditch effort came to his mind in now fleeing from the scene.

"N-not today... You're not ending anyone or anything."

The last tactic within Tyron's mind had to unravel now. No time to hesitate or waste. He was pouring what remained through the Force to gather around his person. Pulsing within his core to channel towards his arms, hands and fingers where he raised them up to his forehead.

The gathered energy from the Force emerged out to allow the ability known as Force Flash. A blinding light was coming from Tyron's hands as the Force energy had coursed through his body. This was only to temporary blind Darth Virelia to buy time.

A distraction where Tyron limped off to a hole and entrance he had taken to get inside of Leviathan. Now it was time to take leave, live to fight another day and he will be stronger, trained and ready. He was battered, beaten, bruised, cut-up and fatigued as he quickly departed from the Leviathan's wreckage as best as his body could allow him to.

Once Tyron got to a safe distance after leaving behind the ship wreck and having taken a speeder bike to head for a clearing to get back inside of his Jedi shuttle. He made an emergency comm call to nearby Galactic Alliance and New Jedi Order forces available.

"T-this is Padawan Learner Tyron Khan. Requesting medical aid. I repeat. Requesting medical aid. My location is Rakata Prime. Jedi shuttle departing the planet. Heading to the nearest Medical Station require coordinates ASAP."

Once Tyron got aboard and inside of his Jedi shuttle the droids available took him inside to lay him down in his chambers to let him rest after making that comm call. The droids got the Besalisk settled in and took charge of flying him off planet to find the nearest Medical Station that can see to his wounded body.

The Padawan Learner laid in his bed resting for now until Healers and Medics can see to him. He'd have a report ready for his masters Kaleleon and commune with Kei Raxis about this encounter. Alongside reporting to the Jedi Grandmaster Valery Noble about what he confronted on Rakata Prime.

Outfit: Clothes
Weapons: Double-Bladed Lightsabers
Saber Hilts: Guardian Hilt | Vanquisher Hilt
Master: Kaeleon Seleare | Kei Raxis
TAGS: Darth Virelia
Mentions: Kaleleon | Kei Raxis | Valery Noble

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Heir of Malak"

Tag - Tyron Khan


The flash detonated between them.

It burst like a star imploding—a scream of light in the darkened heart of a dying warship. The fractured corridor lit for a moment like day, burning white and absolute. But Serina Calis did not flinch. Her six violet eyes, slanted and gleaming within the mirror-sheen of her helm, dimmed in perfect synchrony. The mirrored alloy adapted instantly, polarizing. The light passed harmlessly across her, like wind over a blade.

She stood still as the Jedi stumbled away—bleeding, broken, fleeing into the shadows.

The reek of ozone and burnt cloth lingered behind him. She could hear the crash of his uneven footfalls echoing deeper into the ship's underbelly, heard the rasp of his breath, the stuttered hum of fading courage made flesh. He was clever. Stronger than he looked. But his strength had limits—and he had finally found them.

And still, she did not give chase.

Serina remained perfectly still for several long seconds, her figure wreathed in smoke and darkness and fractured starlight. Tyrant's Embrace whispered across her skin as her cape settled back against the curve of her legs. Sparks danced lazily from the walls. The Leviathan groaned again, somewhere deep in her ravaged stomach, as though she too were sighing in disappointment.

"You were never meant to win," Serina murmured, though there was no one left to hear her. "But you lasted longer than I expected."

A single step forward. The deck groaned beneath her boots.

The Jedi's presence flickered—receding rapidly, like blood rushing from a wound. He was hurt, but not broken. Rattled, but not unmade. A lesser Sith might have pursued. Might have sought to finish it. But Serina Calis was not lesser.

She turned away.

Not out of mercy.

Out of vision.

Her boots clicked softly as she walked, the echoes of battle fading behind her like smoke on a sea breeze. The Force settled around her in slow spirals, coiling back into her armored shell. She breathed it in. Let the power drip through her veins like ink. There would be time to hunt the Jedi later. Time to show him what a sovereign looked like at full strength.

For now, she had a ship to raise from the grave.

Serina returned to the Leviathan's bridge, retracing her path through ruined corridors and decomposing steel, stepping over shattered bulkheads and corroded trooper helmets like bones buried in silt. The air here was heavier now—tainted not just by salt and mold, but by memory. Her battle with the Jedi had awakened something. This place had tasted power again.

It was ready.

She climbed the shattered steps of the central platform, her silhouette framed once more in the gaping wounds of transparisteel windows long since blasted to ruin. The sea still churned beneath her. The stars above watched in silence.

At the center of the command throne, she stopped.

Kneeling slowly, Serina placed one armored palm against the ancient deckplate.

Closed her eyes.

And listened.

The ship groaned faintly, the Force thick with echoes. Battle plans. Screams. Malak's fury. The fury of others. There was a vibration still here, a rhythm like the beat of a dying heart. But it had not stopped. Not truly. It remembered how to command. The circuitry was gutted, but not dead. The alloy was scarred, but salvageable. The architecture was broken, yes—but the bones…

The bones were still strong.

"You survived worse," she whispered to the ship. "So did I."

Her fingers traced the broken seams of the console, feeling the arcane patterns hidden beneath layers of rust. Her memory flickered back to the holocron of Malak in her governor's vault on Polis Massa—the crude angular brutality of his design, his contempt for weakness, his vision for unity through power. They had called him mad.

And yet, even madness leaves a blueprint.

He had taught her something the Jedi never would: The galaxy does not crave peace. It craves hierarchy. It craves order. And if that order must be enforced by monsters, then so be it.

She rose.

And spoke aloud—to the ghosts. To the ship. To the Force itself.

"You were Malak's wrath. You will be my will."

"I will remake you. I will carve your name into the stars again. And they will tremble when they hear it."

She turned her head, gazing out over the ruined command chamber.

Already, her mind was drawing the blueprints. Phrik-fused hull replacements. Reinforced bridge supports. A new reactor coil. Cloaking augmentation. Self-healing alloy for the armor plating. She would keep the skeletal remains of the Leviathan's identity—just enough to be recognized. Just enough for fear to root itself in memory.

She would not paint over the history.

She would weaponize it.

And beneath the hull, she would implant something else.

A machine-mind. An obedient echo of her will. The ship would not be a vessel.

It would be a voice.

From a distant ridge above the coast, the smoke from the confrontation still trailed upward into the night.

Serina watched it for a moment, then turned her gaze to the dark sea. Somewhere, beyond the clouds, that Jedi Padawan was limping through hyperspace, broken but alive. He had seen her. Fought her. Endured her. He would speak of her.

He would try to warn them.

Good.

Let them prepare.

Let them believe she is nothing more than a force of destruction.

They had no idea what was coming.