Duel Galactic Kaggath Round 1: Serina Calis vs Wymar

[Mauve]

x

The arena floor rumbled and shook, the entire surface sliding open like a missile silo to reveal… an enormous Wroshyr tree rising up from the lower levels. It towered so high that its upper branches crested the arena and stood nearly eye level with the skybox. It sat upon a grassy, fern littered field. Amid the ferns, shapes prowled. Dangerous predators. Vornskrs. Force hunting beasts.

The boughs of the Wroshyr tree criss-crossed, forming limbs as wide as Coruscanti skywalks that the combatants could duel upon.

Droids hovered in the air around the tree, some with cameras, but many projecting interlinking rayshields so that the duelists could not interfere with the duels of the others. Of course… ray shields could always fail.

If any of the combatants fell to the ground far below, they risked being set upon by the vornskrs.

The announcers’ disembodied voice cut through as the combatants took their places on the boughs of the tree. “Honoring those who fell in the Battle of Kashyyyk between the One Sith and Republic, so many years ago, I give you the FIRST ROUND of the GALACTIC Kaggath!”

“Fighting aaaaall the way from beyond the Black Wall, the Six-Eyed Demon herself. The one. The only. SERIIIINAAAAAAAA CALIIIIIS.”

“And her opponent, weighing in at 192 pounds and standing six foot-two, the mysterious masked warrior, the champion of Operation Cinder, WYYYYMAAAAAAAR”

“CHALLENGERS! BEGIN!”

Darth Virelia | Wymar

​

 

[Wymar]

P E N I T E N T
THE CINDER
Battle Armor [MODIFIED] | Lightsaber
Darth Virelia​

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DEATH DEALER​

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The gait of his steps was heavy, meticulous and foreboding. A black cloak guarded closely to his hulking form, concealing the blackened steel armor beneath. An image of the once argent, noble Imperial knight's panoply clad in a crude black coating of which much had worn off to the metallic layer underlaid the vantablack paint. His gaze was hidden wholly beneath a helmet craft of the very same lightsaber resistant materials that persisted in the Imperial Knight plate in the image of a sallet save for its visor being sealed whole.

His cobalt eyes screwed shut as he was still in rigid silhouette, unmoving beneath the ebon cloak as he was drawn to the highest branches of Wroshyr tree. He was hardly in meditation but wracked with an internal war as if his emotions and passions were all locked within ironclad cages and he was sole sentry over each of them. Contempt. Discipline. Control. Rage. All of these singular microcosms of greater feelings were cordoned away to pluck and choose which to employ or neglect in the coming bout. In the last moments of his willful solitude, a wave of the hand motioned them all to him.

All that mattered this day was victory. His eyes opened and his senses returned to the roaring crowds, the enveloping, swaying swarms of droids mounted with holocams who took close eyes to the event. Standing upon the end of his own hefty branch, his left arm grasped at the edge of his cloak before he tossed it away with a full extension of the limb, the black cap flowing down to the base of the tree, revealing the blackened, scratched and dented Imperial Knight steel he wore, the belt at his hip holding a blaster pistol at one hip and a lightsaber hilt on the other of a rather ornate but simplistic make. A uniform design utilized by the vast majority of the old order only with a crimson wrapping secured around it for ease of grip. He unhooked the blade before he powered the ignition of its kyber, the crimson blade hissing to life with a thrum of the superheated light roaring to its full extent. He stared toward the woman opposite of him. His adversary. Sith. She'd die today if that's what it took. He slowly lifted the blade over his right shoulder, his wrist tilting to angle it toward his left shoulder to initiate a duelist's salute before he wrought it to his chest, angled toward the sky to conclude the gesture only to sway it back toward his hip and angled away from his person, his left arm parting from his side with an open palm- his stance signaling all but an open invitation for her to take the initiative.

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Round 1."

Tags - Wymar



The Wroshyr tree groaned beneath the strain of memory and violence as if its roots still remembered the fire and ruin of Kashyyyk's past. It loomed now, resurrected and defiled, reimagined not as a sanctuary of the Wookiees, but as a dueling ground—an altar to the sick religion of spectacle.

And atop one of its boughs—neither the highest nor the lowest, but perfectly chosen—stood a shadow.

A figure in a simple, flowing robe, the color of mourning oil and dried blood, held closed at the waist with a loose sash. Beneath it, the fabric of a bodysuit glimmered only faintly under the lights. Not armor. Not a hint of metal. Not even boots reinforced for impact. Just pliant synthweave and shadow, clinging to her with austere reverence. Functional. Deceitful. Deceptively soft.

Serina Calis.

The moment her name echoed across the arena, she did not respond. She didn't need to.

Where others preened, she remained still.

Where others roared, she breathed.

Where others drew weapons and set themselves into postures of war, Serina did nothing at all.

The Wroshyr canopy rustled with the stir of rot and wind, as though nature itself feared what might unfold. The crowd's roar hit her ears like a distant sea—muted, irrelevant, something for the animals.

She raised her hood.

From beneath it, golden hair was tucked and hidden—woven up into an austere twist at the crown of her skull. Her face, pale and severe, bore no markings, no paint. Just eyes. Blue, ice-lit, patient. Her gaze was unreadable. Not flat, not cold, but distant. The sort of distance one felt in vacuum. Not absence, but pressure.

The Six-Eyed Demon. That's what they called her.

Yet not a single one of her six infamous violet lenses gazed upon the crowd now.

Not yet.

Her eyes turned to Wymar.

A warrior. Useful.

She did not recognize him, nor his name, nor the cause for which he might bleed—but the stance was familiar. His form was deliberate. His blade meant to intimidate, not frighten. She saw no hunger in him. No need to prove himself to the crowd. That made him dangerous.

Still.

They gave her a warrior. She had come as a god.

A nod, ever so slight, was given in return to his salute. Her respect was not performative. It wasn't even truly for him. It was for the game—the understanding between two beings who walked above the screaming masses. She would give him this.

And then she would take everything else.

She inhaled, just once. Let her breath flow down through her core, through the branch beneath her feet, through the tree itself—until she reached what squirmed below.

The vornskrs.

She could feel them—at the edge of her mind like teeth against glass. They prowled the undergrowth in the darkness beneath the canopy, tails lashing. A lesser Sith might have recoiled. A Jedi certainly would have.

But Serina… smiled.

<Hello, beautiful things...> she whispered inside her mind, a whisper laced with velvet and venom.

Vornskrs were wild. Untrainable, most believed. But not unreadable. Their minds were brutal engines—primordial, but not dull. They knew the Force by instinct, not philosophy. That made them dangerous. That made them precious.

From the depths of her Korriban studies, from texts weathered by the breath of millennia and penned in blood, she recalled the methods. Animal Bond not forged with reflection, but with obedience. To hunt a vornskr, you had to become prey. To command one, you had to become a predator.

She reached.

One hand slowly emerged from her robe, bare to the wrist, fingers splayed slightly. She didn't channel aggression. Not yet. Not anger. She sent curiosity down into the den below. A taste of her presence. Just enough to provoke.

Let them sniff her in the air.

Let them grow interested.

She took one step forward, heel brushing bark.

The movement was as smooth as silk drawn over a knife. Her hand curled back to her chest.

Still no weapon. Still no armor.

She did not yet speak to him. Not yet. She would learn him first. Test how brittle his silence was. Let him ask the first question—not with his voice, but his actions.

She tilted her chin forward just slightly, and for the first time, truly saw him. The armor, aged and dented. The hilt. The practiced discipline in the rise of his chest. He burned with conviction—yes, it was palpable and intimidating. But conviction could be turned. Conviction could be used.

Was he here to win?

Or was he here to kill her?

These were not the same thing.

Her bare foot glided forward again—silent, predatory—and she advanced just two steps. No raised hand. No weapon. Her body stayed half-turned, diagonal across the branch, coiled not like a warrior, but like a knife in silk.

And underneath the tree, the vornskrs began to stir.

They did not growl. Not yet. They watched. Their tails began to flick. Their eyes glittered, feral minds brushing faintly against hers. Tension rose not from noise, but from quiet. That dangerous, perfect quiet before a pack strikes.

Serina's lips parted, just enough for her voice to escape.

Not to Wymar. Not to the audience.

To herself.

"Let's see if you bleed like the rest."

She stood, a coiled silence atop a swaying bough, the wind tugging at her robe and the shadows pooling beneath her eyes. One hand drifted down to her side, fingers curling and uncurling once.

Time would be her ally today.

 

[Wymar]

P E N I T E N T
THE CINDER
Battle Armor [MODIFIED] | Lightsaber
Darth Virelia​

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REPULSIVE IN ITS SPLENDID BEAUTY​

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The writhing pack of Vornskyrs, the crowd, the cameras all faded into blackness. It was the pair of them suspended upon this ancient tree. There was naught the sensory overload that would've existed otherwise. Isolated and centered in where his mortal coil stood within the material realm. It was silent save for the low hum of the pair's crimson sabers. Two souls clouded by darkness with one aim between them. Victory, death...whichever came first. The voice was silent now. That ever persistent trusted and companion spirit nullified as he steeled his thoughts away in the force, that ethereal presence kept at the end of a proverbial corridor, sealed until absolutely needed. And in recent days, until it was more convenient.

It was as much a battle externally as it was a war within. The Vornskyrs de-materialized into writhing appendages of dark shadows sifting beneath water, not breaking the surface tension, more akin to an inky oil suspended within the ethereal. In his stillness, arms open like a wanting embrace, the traditional starting stance of the form akin to the very same slavering felines that lingered beneath them he then eased his arms closer before he began a sprint from his end of the branch, twisting his hips mid stride before he'd fling his saber out in a cataclysmic whirr of the blade toward the Sith that'd track her with any sudden movements as he lurched unto the trunk, digging his crush gaunts into the bark before he rounded it and pounced off of it, a spray of shards of cobalt lightning toward her form before his saber snapped to his grasp once more, his feet planting firmly into her branch and finding balance, lifting the lightsaber over his right shoulder before he lunged forward with a practiced and meticulous motion only to follow it up with a wide sweeping and fencer-like combination of cuts and jabs of the blade, reminiscent of the teachings of Makashi heavy in his attacks.

All the while, silent as a tomb, his cortosis laden sallet serving to conceal his emotion.

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Round 1."

Tags - Wymar



The branch trembled beneath the impact of his landing. Bark splintered. The air cracked.

Lightning flared from the skyborne trunk like divine retribution, and then came the saber—a flash of red-hot hunger spiraling through the space she had just occupied. The scent of ozone bit into her lungs as the ground—no, not ground, branch, remember—rattled beneath her bare feet.

She moved—not away, but through.

Serina slid sideways with all the grace of a falling shadow, the motion fluid, liquid, calculated. His saber cut the air beside her cheek, too close—far too close—and she felt the heat of it not as pain, not yet, but as promise.

Her balance faltered. A single misstep. Just a fraction of a second too late.

He had timed the attacks perfectly.

She felt the impact hit home—deep, searing—and for the first time in years, Serina bled.

There was no cry. No gasp. But her body snapped taut like a string drawn to its limit, breath caught in her throat. The slash bit through cloth and skin alike. A thin arc across her abdomen. Not deep, not fatal. But it was hers.

The pain was hot, exquisite, real. A singular sensation that snapped her into the moment. And for Serina Calis, pain was not the enemy. It was clarity.

Her stance shifted, a quarter step back, and the motion pulled her robe from her shoulders, letting it fall like shed skin to the branch beneath. The simple garment whispered to the wood as it slipped free—revealing her sleek form beneath, the matte synthweave now torn across the stomach, black and purple ichor melding into fellow black.

Her eyes lifted.

Blue fire.

No more distance now. No more pretense. He had earned this.

"Good," she whispered, her voice low, not for him, not for the cameras—but for them.

The vornskrs.

The creatures stirred beneath the boughs, more agitated now. They had tasted her scent. Had smelled her pain. It called to them like a dying sun calls comets home.

The bond between them had been delicate—threaded like silk between minds. But silk was a thread of beauty. Serina had no use for beauty now.

She clenched her wounded side with one hand, crimson seeping between her fingers. With the other, she reached.

The ritual came not from technique, but will. A cruel inversion of the ancient practices—not empathy, not peace, but invasion. She didn't soothe the vornskrs. She infiltrated them. Shoved her presence into their skulls like a blade into a throat.

<No more curiosity. No more questions. Look at me. Look what I become when I bleed. You are not my equals. You are my teeth. You are my hands.>

The air shifted. Something in the undergrowth twisted.

A sound like rattling breath trembled through the canopy.

And then: submission.

Not one vornskr. Not a single mind. But the pack.

A dozen of them stilled. Turned. Eyes glowing faintly. They had become hers.

Not tame. Not broken. But redefined.

Their loyalty was not earned. It was extracted. The way pain exacts obedience from flesh. They felt her wound. And in that agony, they found identity.

Above, her eyes never left Wymar.

He moved like a blade given purpose. Clean, efficient, devout. The way a soldier is meant to be, but not a warrior. His silence wasn't emptiness—it was control. She could feel it now. The rigid containment of storm after storm after storm, held behind walls of iron.

But Serina was the thing behind the storm.

She let her hand fall from her wound, black and purple ichor tracing fingers like warpaint now.

Still unarmed. Still without saber.

But she stepped forward.

Just one step. Slow. Measured. Each toe placed perfectly upon the bark.

The vornskrs began to climb.

They did not bark. Did not growl. They emerged like spirits from the depths—crawling up the roots, the sides, the very veins of the Wroshyr tree. Fangs glinting. Tails lashing. They did not charge him.

Not yet.

They surrounded.

A noose of fur and fangs and muscle, unseen by the arena's upper lights, too far below the droids' focus to register. But Serina could feel them—their breath hot in the Force. Their hunger sharpened like knives.

The field was shifting.

This was no longer a duel.

Serina breathed once more. Slow. Deep. Letting the ichor drip freely now.

"I wonder," she murmured, low enough that only he might hear. "If that mask protects you… or hides you from what you fear."

Then she surged.

No weapon.

Just force.

A blast of kinetic power rippled from her palm—not a push, but a disruption, a shuddering wave of momentum designed to stagger, to break rhythm, to throw off form. She didn't need to defeat his blade—she needed to beat his footwork.

And as she moved in—coiling low, pivoting to his flank, letting the flow of the Force move her like a riptide toward his center—the vornskrs surrounded them.

 

[Wymar]

P E N I T E N T
THE CINDER
Battle Armor [MODIFIED] | Lightsaber
Darth Virelia​

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DRY HITTER​

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Wymar was at heart the duelist. A blademaster much akin to his father. A man who had made Sith far greater than she had ever known bleed and it reflected well in his fighting. His booted feet clung to the branches, stance and steps unmarred by the awkward, coiling and warped surface of the branch beneath as he sought to cut down this witch. She then stilled herself and soon the coiling tendrils beneath the ichorous pools beneath him manifested in the emboldened reality of what they were. He felt the claws of the beasts clamoring up the trunk of the tree in feverish hunger.

She willed the force into a disruptive jolt, dampened only by a swing of his blade upward, parallel to his torso as he held himself tall, still and rigid, the crimson light reflecting off of the battered ebon of his cortosis laid Imperial steel. His eyes mapped the clammor of the climbing shadow skinned canines as they scaled the tree in slavering hunger as if she'd just rung the dinner bell. For him.

His eyes pried open again as she cut closer, his free hand drawing the blaster pistol at his hip for a quick draw of the weapon, aiming a golden bolt of the superheated gas toward her abdomen before he swung the blade toward her less with the aim to wound and more to create space and distance between them as he slid the pistol back into its holster, a boot pressing into the trunk to throw him unto another branch, lower as a vornskr scaled the tree, its canine skull severed from its spine with a swipe of the blade before another pounced toward him. He grasped at its throat and thrust the blade through its chest before he tossed the carcass down, the weight thumping into a climbing pair of the beasts, sending them back to the bottom.

He turned to her with a snap of his eyes beneath his sallet- her words and sentiment glancing off of him like a dull arrow against polished steel. He willed his free hand up with an open palm before closing his fist with the aim to slamming her form against the tree before he lurched up with a diagonal cut from his right shoulder down to her abdomen.

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Round 1."

Tags - Wymar



There was grace in his violence.

His form—disciplined, relentless—moved like the ghost of a war long passed, a war she had studied but never bled for. Each swing of his blade was poetry, yes—but not the kind that Serina Calis read. His was a soldier's verse: staccato rhythm, brutal meter, built on absolutes and conviction.

But conviction could be bent.

And poetry, even the beautiful kind, burned just like anything else.

His blaster came up with mechanical precision, the practiced movement of a killer trained for wartime. He fired—not from desperation, but from opportunity. His footwork flawless. His calculation sound.

But Serina had already seen it.

Already felt it.

The gap—that infinitesimal sliver of time between the draw and the fire—was enough.

Her left arm snapped up, palm spread wide.

From her fingers erupted lightning—not clean, not pure, not blue. This storm was violet-veined rot, tendrils of death given sound, flickering like serpents uncoiling from her soul. The arc of power flared forward, crackling and crawling with corrupted purpose.

The bolt screamed past her shoulder even as her own body snapped back under the recoil of her own unleashed hatred, her muscles seizing. The hiss of burned flesh sang against the inside of her rib as the bolt grazed her flank.

Pain. Again.

Her lip curled back from her teeth in something that might have once been a grin, but now looked more like a warning.

The recoil of the blaster, his sidestep—the slash that followed, downward and brutal, timed perfectly as he lunged from above with his boot springing off the Wroshyr bark—she let him come.

Because he wasn't alone.

The vornskrs surged.

She had called them, not like beasts, but like limbs.

Ten in all. Still ten. Only two had fallen. She had plenty.

They were already moving.

The nearest three leapt—not at him, but into his path. Their bodies colliding not for blood, but for disruption. One from above, one from the side, the third aiming for the place he would land, jaws wide and tails arcing with venom-tipped precision. Their goal wasn't to maim.

It was to feast.

The other seven circled the lower branches, watching with eyes burning like coals, their minds still linked to hers through the storm of pain and willpower.

And Serina—

Serina stepped back.

Not to flee. Not to retreat.

To focus.

She drew in a breath. Not fast, not desperate. A slow, deliberate inhalation that seemed to pulse the very air around her.

Her fingers curled into a mudra, a sacred gesture twisted by profane intent.

"You're strong," she murmured to him—not mockery, not praise, just observation.

"Let's see what strength means… when your body turns against you."

Her mind reached out—not toward the Vornskrs now, not toward the crowd, not toward the endless branches beneath them.

Toward him.

She entered him through the Force—not like a blade, but like disease.

Force Diminish.

The spell began as pressure. Not visible. Not immediate. But felt.

A creeping sickness in the bones. A slow grind of willpower and vitality against a wheel of suffering. Not enough to kill. Not yet. But enough to erode. To chip away at the why behind every motion. To make every flex of muscle, every breath of air, just a little heavier.

She didn't look triumphant. There was no laughter in her eyes. Only certainty.

This was not a game. This was not spectacle.

This was how gods made mortals kneel.

But she wasn't untouchable. Her side burned. Her ichor was sticky now where the bolt had grazed. And her body ached from the whip-crack of her own lightning, echoing back into her nerves like backlash. She staggered half a step, then planted herself firm again on the branch, bare feet gripping bark, wind howling through the boughs like the scream of something ancient and watching.

 

[Wymar]

P E N I T E N T
THE CINDER
Battle Armor [MODIFIED] | Lightsaber
Darth Virelia​

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SUFFERING BRINGS WISDOM​

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A spectacle surely. What had been intended to be an entity drawn to the background as a looming threat lingering over the possibility of defeat to they would tremble and stiffen in rigor mortis to the base of the trunk only to be a cadaver feasted upon with contempt and bestial hunger. The shot veered from her shoulder, his form lapsed with a clutch of electric fury. Teeth bore down unto one another treading close enough to enough force to crack the enamel of his teeth beneath the mask. But conviction was more akin to iron than anything else. It would break before it would bend. A harsh blow to the surface with a clang echoing through the dark, but he held strong.

She snapped away with another waft of distance between them to which he furrowed his brow beneath the visor of his sallet and lurched upon the tree only for Vornskr to pounce in pursuit of him in league with another. He reignited the crimson blade, digging his crush-gaunt digits into the bark before he jabbed the saber into the skull of one of them only for the other to latch its strong jaws into the arm clutching the tree. He planted a stiff kick against its abdomen before he reached over to slice its chest open with the saber.

He pounced from the tree, the immense weight of his form slamming into the wood as he stood before her, saber held out to one side as he continued with a slow and foreboding gait toward her, his silhouette dancing ahead of him in a shade of blackness as he calculated every move he could make and her suspected response, shifting through them before his vision blackened and then snapped into the full, sensory overload of an unfettered reality as he felt the essence of the Force sapped from him, crimson tendrils prodding into his senses.

He nearly collapsed, his saber snuffing out once more before he heard...the voice.

"Stand. Up." ​

It spoke with a stern, patronly tone. His eyes snapped open and he willed himself to his feet, surging toward her with a slam of the pommel of his hilt against her skull before he reeled it back, igniting the blade once more to thrust it through her abdomen.

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Round 1."

Tags - Wymar



The world swayed.

He should have fallen.

She had felt it—his resistance fracture, the pulse of Force energy bleed away under her touch. The crimson lines of his strength cracking as her will seeped through his veins like poison.

And then—

A phantom will. Some thing nested within him, dragging his soul upright by sheer defiance. It snapped him back into form like a marionette yanked upright, body shuddering with unnatural will.

Her eyes narrowed beneath the hood. Not rage. Not fear. But curiosity sharpened into a scalpel.

What are you hiding inside you, knight? What power whispers when even your limbs beg to stop? Who taught you to stand when gods command you kneel?

She saw the stagger in his gait. Saw the saber flicker, die, and then reignite.

And still, he surged.

A titan reborn from ash and agony.

Serina turned to face him fully now, shoulders square, her fingers twitching once at her side, sweat misting her collarbone and brow. She was still bleeding—if you could call it that. The wound across her flank wept not crimson, but a thick, gleaming ichor, black with veins of deep, pulsing violet, as though her blood remembered the Dark Side.

He came in with the weight of finality.

The pommel cracked against her skull with brutal precision.

Her world tilted.

Light died for an instant.

The bark swam beneath her feet.

Her legs faltered. Stars—or perhaps fireflies—danced at the edge of her vision, white-hot motes searing through the dark.

But Serina did not fall.

The moment she felt herself begin to collapse, she gave in to gravity—twisting with it like a falling serpent. Her knees dipped, her torso swayed backward, and as the blade ignited in his hand and thrust toward where her heart had been—

She struck back.

"Burn."

It wasn't a whisper.

It wasn't a scream.

It was command.

From her outstretched hand, Force Lightning erupted—not a stream, not a bolt, but a storm.

A deluge of violet and black energy tore from her fingers and palm, the sheer magnitude of it igniting the very air between them. The tendrils forked and writhed like serpents struck by thunder, twisting toward him with hungry precision.

It was not simply a defence, it was punishment.

His charge had earned this.

And she wasn't done.

As the lightning slammed into the space between them, crackling and echoing like a star detonating inside the arena, Serina reached once more for the pack.

Not individually. Not one by one.

But as a hive.

<Feast.>

They moved.

Like a black tide, the remaining vornskrs surged up the tree, eyes glowing, tails whipping. They leapt not from the ground but from the trunk itself, bounding across bark and branch with bloodlust in their bones.

And she fed them.

The power she had taken from Wymar—his strength, his clarity—she bled it into them. The Force Diminish still channeled through her mind, a pulsing link of decay and ruin. The strength sapped from him now gave them speed. Agility. Ferocity.

They did not merely attack.

They hunted.

From every angle they swarmed—some for his back, others for his flanks, one even launching from above, aiming not to kill, but to restrain. To slow. To distract. To buy her seconds.

And seconds were all she needed.

Serina's feet slid across the bark in a backward spiral, the robe fully abandoned now, her form limned in sweat and smoke. The black synthweave of her bodysuit clung to her with the weight of damp silk, now torn and soaked with corrupted ichor.

Her fingers curled as she maintained the Diminish, her body trembling under the combined strain of the spell, the lightning, and her own pain.

And yet—

"You should be dead," she rasped, head tilted, blood trickling down the side of her scalp like ink. Her eyes gleamed like nova-stars behind the matted strands of golden hair.

"But you still stand."

A pause. Her breath ragged.

"I approve."

And then—

She raised her left hand.

The lightning stopped.

But the Force did not.

She launched a concussive burst aimed not at his body—but at the branch beneath his feet. The wood cracked, groaned—threatened to splinter.

She didn't care if he fell.

She just wanted him moving.

Because movement, for all its beauty, carried consequence.

 

[Wymar]

P E N I T E N T
THE CINDER
Battle Armor [MODIFIED] | Lightsaber
Darth Virelia​

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MARCH TO THE SEA​

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He struck with all determination and tenacity to rip her soul from this material plane by the will of his saber before the lightning surged in sprawling spikes of electric fury. His form locked still for a moment, the Knight seizing in place as his skeleton ruptured alight with the electric charge, his teeth locked against one another as he shook with a feverish pain. It was then, a phantom memory seeped into his thoughts. A knight clad in argent all the same as he once was forced to kneel in the crushing grasp of death before a more powerful foe. He who would seek to name themselves a god...or in that once case, devil.

"You are not so bound to this physical, crude matter..." The voice spoke, its ethereal inflection thrumming with patronal guidance. Even as its presence was seemingly sporradic, its watching eyes seemed to remain solely fixed on him. An unseen companion, a guiding hand in a realm beyond the material, a gnostic entity. One well known to Wymar.

"These vile parasites would posture themselves as gods before you. That you are unworthy to be in their presence. But gods...gods can bleed all the same." The voice spoke in guidance.

"To be struck down...here...NOW...to have tread so little of the path before you..." The voice paused for a moment before it willed to speak again as that sharp and horrid pain would dull and numb his form. His body felt less like the musclebound skeleton of sinew, veins and arteries. No. It felt more fluid now, a formless liquid.

"Pain is an illusion. A tool used by them to bend others to their will...but you are not so feeble to be claimed by it. They have no power to the strength of the defiant. Rise. Rise and slay this abhorrent soul, damn her to a restless existence. Now. Execute!" The voice said, rising from its cold, firm and placid tone for the first time in a guttural inflection before Wymar's eyes would open again just as the lightning ceased. He snapped back as she reeled once more to draw the force from his form in time with a Vornskr pouncing toward him. Its jaws parted and Wymar would thrust his arm into its throat with violent precision, his crush gaunt grasping at a mess of internal organs before he'd twist his hips and heave its carcass toward her. In that moment, a shade of possibilities played out in ghostly forms taking to her adaptations.

None of them were it so easy that the weight of the beast's corpse would fling her from the branch. No.

Forward. Only forward.

He surged forward and for a moment, the dark knight's form in her eyes warped into something of similar stature but notably...different. And to the eyes of any Sith, immensely foreboding. His saber snapped to white, the ebon now a blinding argent and the black sallet now the iron visage of a long fallen Emperor with piercing white eyes grasping at her very soul from beneath the metallic visage which resembled something of a man's face stilled in iron.

He swung the blade with one hand to cut and cleave her form in twain- striking with the form of the very Vornskr that lingered about the pair as wolves would a bantha desperately clammoring from its bleeding wound. Each swing and cut of the blade was accompanied by a jolt of her senses from his other hand, a concussive blast to jar her nerves and ability to react.

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Round 1."

Tags - Wymar



The vornskr corpse hit her like a battering ram.

It was not the claws or the weight or the stench that undid her—it was the audacity. The raw, unrelenting forward momentum of this thing that refused to die, that refused to be commanded, that fought not for glory but for execution.

She staggered beneath the thrown beast, body folding backward with the impact as it slammed against her ribs and shoulder, and the two went tumbling across the branch. Bark ripped. Splinters flew. Her body slid, twisted—and she screamed.

But not like a woman.

Like a wound.

The ichor from her previous gashes now flowed freely, seeping from the fresh rents across her side and back where bone met the bark. Black and violet. Oil and rot. The blood of something long since severed from the natural order. It poured from her like a truth the world wasn't supposed to see.

And he came again.

The knight, or something that wore a knight's skin.

Not Wymar anymore.

Not only Wymar.

His silhouette warped—terribly so—and for a heartbeat, her vision twisted, and she saw not the battered, defiant duelist but a reflection of something older. A tyrant cast in iron. A phantom emperor with a white blade and a face locked in hollow immortality, staring out from behind that death-mask helm with eyes like the surface of a dying sun.

He descended.

A whirlwind of slashes and jarring bursts, each one more brutal than the last.

He moved like the vornskr—relentless, animalistic—but wielded the blade like a god. And she—Serina Calis, monster of a hundred shadows—felt herself break.

The first blow landed on her shoulder, spinning her half-around. Another across her thigh, splitting flesh to ichor. The next—too fast—hit her side, reopening the wound the blaster had started, sending a gout of dark fluid arcing into the air like a scream made manifest. Her body convulsed with each concussive burst from his free hand, nerves howling in protest. Every strike wasn't just pain—it was disruption. Not just body—will.

She dropped to her knees.

Her hair spilled from its bindings, matted with blackened blood.

The world blurred.

The great bough swayed beneath her, too slow to be real. Too distant to hold.

Her breath hitched. Shallow. Ragged.

Something—deep in her—wanted to sleep.

To let it end.

And why not? She had bled. She had fallen. The audience—those leering, drooling beasts up in the skybox—had seen it now. The god brought low. The demon humbled.

The vornskrs faltered in their charge, confused, without the howl of her command.

The lightning had died.

The ichor pooled.

But he had made a mistake.

He had looked into her eyes.

And there, through the veil of pain and blood and surrender—he saw it:

The truth of Serina Calis.

She had already died.

Her body had perished in the archives of the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, years ago, when Valery Noble—that pristine, shining heretic of the Jedi—drove her blade into Serina's chest.

Many said she didn't have to do this.

But Serina did.

She had always been this.

Even then. Even before.

Her soul had not gone to rest. It had screamed. It had crawled from the abyss. The light had rejected her. The void had tried to claim her. And she had said no.

She had returned not for love. Not for belonging.

But for power.

To devour the Force itself. To shatter the Order. To redesign the meaning of fate.

She could not die.

Because her ambition had no end. Because her lust was stronger than the grave. And suddenly—

That grave couldn't hold her.

She rose.

Not quickly. Not cleanly.

She staggered first. One foot. Then another.

Her hands clenched into claws. Her breath came in gasps, her limbs trembling, her side a leaking cascade of ichor and corruption.

But something was growing in her.

Not healing.

HATE

It started as a pulse—low and deep—in the marrow of her bones.

Then a sound. A tremor.

Her teeth bared. Her vision darkened.

And the Force around her twisted.

It recoiled. Warped. Trembled.

Because Hatred had come.

Not just rage. Not fury.

Hatred.

The true expression of the Bogan. Not explosive, not feral—inevitable. Controlled. Refined. Pure.

And it poured from her skin like radiation.

The wind went still. The branches stopped swaying.

The vornskrs looked up—and knelt.

She took a step forward. Then another.

Eyes locked on him.

On the thing behind him.

"Do you know why I cannot die, Wymar?" she said, voice low, shaking with terrible calm.

"Because I am the rot that festers in this galaxy, the darkness that pervades every soul, the primordial end of all things."

She raised her hands—empty, still bare, black fluid streaking down her arms like warpaint.

"I don't need the Dark Side."

"I am the Dark Side."

And as her words lanced through the air, her hatred became tangible.

It crushed the space between them.

Like pressure from the deep ocean, like the scream of something ancient. It radiated from her in waves—hot, suffocating, absolute. The Force responded, howled, became wrong.

She did not leap.

She did not sprint.

She simply advanced.

Every inch of her broken body moved not from muscle or discipline—but from the truth:

She could not fall.

Not while the galaxy still resisted her.

Not while there were thrones left to claim.

Not while he still fought.