First Reply Silk and Stilettos

[Viola Valencia]

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Viola Valencia
Chandrila, Hanna City - Grand Estate by the Emerald Ocean
Attending Wedding Reception

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Someone was here to kill her.

Her bodyguard choked out his last breath and slumped back in the pilot's seat. Viola looked away. Her hands were covered in blood, still pressed futilely against the wound in the man's chest. She slowly released the pressure and stood, her legs shaking. She could smell an acrid smoke and saw wisps of it rise from the nearby console. Her shuttle was sabotaged; it wasn't taking her anywhere. And her only ally lay dead before her, killed by an unknown assailant.

She took out her commlink, ready to call security, but hesitated. She knew her safety would cost her. There would be an investigation, they would ask questions. Like why she had architectural details of the estate she was visiting, and why there were details of a plot to steal from a certain Chandrilan aristocrat.

She let out a sigh and put away her commlink. Getting security involved would only cause trouble, and it would scare off her would-be assassin. She had a few enemies in the galaxy, but she had no leads on any of them. If she could out-wit her opponent, then she might finally gain the upper hand.

She closed the eyes of Davos, her loyal bodyguard, and muttered a prayer over the body. She was interrupted by a strange beep from the man's feet. Between the man's legs was a datapad, likely fallen to the floor during the struggle. She squinted at the bright screen that read 'Distress Signal'. She didn't know who the man had tried to contact, but clearly Davos had a friend on Chandrilla. Was someone coming to help?

She shut off the datapad and left it on the counter as she moved to the back of the shuttle. She washed her bloodstained hands in a nearby sink, watching the crimson spiral down the drain. She breathed deeply but couldn't stop her hands from shaking.

The night air outside the ship was chilly. She stepped from the shuttle as the loading ramp slid back into the vehicle. The smell of blood and smoke was finally gone.

*****​

Inside the estate the party continued unbidden. Viola once again joined the crowd, sporting a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. Her socialite training kept her responses polite and her tone warm, but she couldn't help but scrutinise those who came to chat. Who was after her? How many were there? And when would they strike next?

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Crashed in my backyard."

Tags - Viola Valencia



The mist rising off the Chandrilan marshlands clung low to the earth like a dying breath—humid, ghostly, and thick with the scent of rot and rebirth. Amid the swaying reeds and distant ruins of some forgotten estate, a hiss split the silence. A shuttle—black as a raven's wing and silent as a confession—touched down, its engines winding down with mechanical reverence. The ramp descended with the deliberate grace of a guillotine.

A procession of violet eyes blinked into the dark, six of them set in a face that was not a face. The mirror-black helm turned slightly, surveying the low hills and distant domes of Chandrila's countryside—once the cradle of Republic idealism, now reduced to a whisper. Virelia had waited a long time to walk this soil uncovered, to breathe its air without a veil of false identity. She was home, in a way. But it was not nostalgia that brought her here. It was conquest.

Each step she took down the ramp radiated command—armor humming with restrained power, her skirt of segmented synthweave parting with the measured grace of a monarch in mourning. Beneath her hood, within the obsidian helm, her real eyes narrowed as she took in the subtle signs of disruption.

A ship. Not hers.

Not Calis property either. A private craft, scorched and bruised from a struggle. Her ears tuned to the frequency of the Force—not listening for words, but for aftermath. Pain lingered in the ether like perfume. Someone had died here. Recently.

Interesting.

Virelia approached slowly, her talon-tipped gauntlets brushing against the air as if tasting it. The ship's loading ramp had only just begun its ascent when she forced it to reverse with a flick of her will. The machinery moaned as if protesting the violation of its purpose, but the ramp obeyed. And there she was—just outside the threshold. A woman. Pale, shaking, with hands she thought she had cleaned still betraying the stain of panic.

Darth Virelia tilted her head.

"You're not from around here." Her tone was casual. Almost playful. "And you're certainly not invited."

The six glowing lenses of her helm fixed on the woman's eyes. She advanced slowly, not with menace, but with something worse—curiosity.

"I'm trying to determine whether you're a trespasser, a victim, or simply very bad at espionage. But I suppose it doesn't matter, does it?"

She stopped within arm's reach. The armor's breastplate—etched with glowing Sith filigree—pulsed faintly, the crystal at her core emitting a steady violet heartbeat.

There was a pause. Deliberate. Measured.

Then, she reached out—not roughly, not with violence, but with the grace of a priestess bestowing benediction—and brushed her talons down the woman's cheek. A smudge of red came away. Not hers. Not yet.

A breath. Quiet. Then the question, inevitable.

"Name."

 

[Viola Valencia]

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Viola Valencia
Chandrila, Hanna City - Grand Estate by the Emerald Ocean
Outside Wedding Reception - Landing Pad
Darth Virelia

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The loud clanking of the loading ramp shook her from her musings. She had been planning her approach for when she returned inside. She had imagined herself mingling with the crowd, blending in with the sycophants and layabouts. She pictured herself untangling the web of deceit and uncovering the conspirator with ease. Yet as she turned around, she realized that this was a naïve dream. Her reality was more akin to a nightmare.

In her fretting she hadn't noticed another ship setting down on the landing pad, nor had she noticed the tall shadowy figure stalking out of it. As she had grown older, she had realized that the Sith were much like her, albeit more violent. Yet the thing that stalked toward her was straight out of her childhood bedtime stories. The creature's black carapace would have been nearly invisible in the dark of the night were it not alight with strange runes. Six glowing eyes peered out from a from the shadow of the hood, thin and angular.

Every instinct in her was screaming for her to run, yet she was frozen in place. Part of her didn't believe what was happening, all the while the figure stalked closer. And then it spoke. "You're not from around here" the woman said, and indeed it was a woman not some shadowy beast. With the figure closer now, she could see that it wasn't some horrific sithspawn that approached, but an armoured humanoid. What she thought was carapace was actually darkened armour plates, and the 6 eyes were set within a metal mask. "And you're certainly not invited" the woman continued. Her tone was a contradiction to her appearance, light and casual. It made Viola all the more wary.

And yet, a person was something she could understand and deal with. She felt her panic ease, but it didn't complete subside. Steeling her resolve, she relaxed her shoulders and unclenched her jaw. She held her head high as the Sith came even closer.

"I'm trying to determine whether you're a trespasser, a victim, or simply very bad at espionage" said the masked woman. "But I suppose it doesn't matter, does it?" She was close enough to touch now. Viola wondered if the woman could hear how loud her heart was beating. Viola opened her mouth to speak but closed it quickly as a clawed hand reached out to her.

The metal of the claw was cold as ice, and Viola felt a shiver crawl up her spine as the Sith wiped away a drop of blood from the noble's cheek. "Name" the woman said, a command not a request. Viola felt a small knot of anger and frustration build within her, threatening to overwhelm all of her survival instincts. "Viola Valencia, Coruscanti noble" she said curtly. "If you must know". She firmly pushed the hand away from her face and took a step back. "And I am invited, as a guest of the wedding" she continued, matter-of-factly. Technically she was a plus-one of an invitee who didn't exist, but she was on the guest list. She didn't know what to make of the woman suspecting her motives, so she fell back on court etiquette.

"And to whom might I be addressing?"

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Crashed in my backyard."

Tags - Viola Valencia



Virelia watched Viola's posture shift—shoulders no longer hunched with fear but stiff with haughty pride, chin tipped just enough to remind the world of her breeding. It was the reflex of aristocracy: when cornered, one defaulted to etiquette. As if courtesy could serve as armor. As if names and bloodlines could stop what was already circling.

"Viola Valencia," Virelia echoed, drawing out the syllables with the savor of wine on the tongue. "A Coruscanti noble." The repetition was not mockery, though it was close. It was the prelude to classification.

She made no move when the woman shoved her hand away. Virelia allowed the gesture, absorbing the audacity with interest rather than indignation. Her taloned hand remained in the air for a moment longer, as though debating whether to resume contact—then lowered slowly, fingers curling with the sensual grace of a creature returning its claws to sheath.

The Sith Lord stepped to the side—not retreating, but circling, her armored boots silent even on metal and stone. Her helm never broke its gaze, the six violet eyes glimmering with a predatory calm.

"I do admire confidence," she said smoothly. "Especially in women who have just crawled out of a bloodied shuttle after losing their only ally, soaked in panic and prayer."

Her voice was silk spun over wire. "It takes effort to remain composed while you're still tasting death in the back of your throat."

She moved behind Viola now, her presence like the heat of a forge pressed close to bare skin. The wind stirred the crimson-tinted folds of her cape, brushing Viola's dress like a breath that lingered far too long.

"You're well-trained. Poised. I imagine you practiced your lines on the flight over. Prepared your smile. Studied your mark. Perhaps even indulged the fantasy of slipping out unnoticed with some priceless trinket in your bag and a new enemy none the wiser."

She leaned close. Not touching, but close enough that Viola would feel the shape of her breath even through the mask, like phantom fingers teasing the edge of a thought.

"But the game ended when your bodyguard started choking on his own blood."

Virelia's voice was a murmur now, laced with something darker. Not menace. Not cruelty. Appetite.

"And now you're improvising."

She moved around again, coming full circle, back to face the noblewoman. The helm tilted—just slightly—to the side. Studying.

"To whom," Viola had asked, "might I be addressing?"

The question hung between them like a string pulled taut. Virelia let the silence stretch. She had always found the moment before unveiling her name to be delicious—the anticipation, the flicker of uncertainty in the other's eyes, the subtle shifting of posture when they realized they had misjudged the scale of the game they were in.

At last, the reply came, low and intimate:

"You may address me," she said, "as Serina Calis."

She let it settle. There was power in being named, yes—but there was far greater power in owning the name, in making it a weight others carried the moment they heard it.

"I'm sure you've heard of my brother—Dominic Calis. Good man, military and practical. "But he lacks… how shall we say… vision."

Her tone shifted, not mocking but indulgent. As though speaking of a favourite sibling.

"I, on the other hand, have no such limitations. I did not return to Chandrila for diplomacy. I returned for ownership."

The six eyes narrowed slightly.

"And you, Viola Valencia, have stumbled into my path at a most curious moment."

She reached up, slowly, and drew back the hood of her armor. The motion was smooth, almost reverent. Beneath it, the helm glimmered like a polished tombstone, and as the folds of synthcloth fell away, the silhouette of her form became more defined: the inhuman grace, the ridged elegance, the sovereign curve of the breastplate pulsing faintly with violet energy like a heart in mourning.

"You said you were invited," Virelia continued, voice warm, honeyed. "But whose arm were you meant to cling to, I wonder? What name on the guest list did you forge or exploit, and for what prize?"

She stepped closer again, slow as a tide returning to claim what was owed.

"Or was it something more personal? A vendetta? An affair soured? Or perhaps," her voice dipped lower, "you were hoping to find someone who might notice you."

There was no cruelty in her tone. If anything, there was kinship. Understanding.

"I've watched enough scorned heirs and fallen daughters try to seize control of their own stories. I admire the ones who are willing to get blood on their hands. But what I admire more…" Her head tilted again. "...is when they stop pretending to be anything else."

Her fingers lifted again—this time not to touch, but to present. She held them out, palm up, like an offering.

"I could hand you over to local security. Have you charged with trespassing, interference, espionage. I could let your enemies finish what they started. Or…" she whispered the last word like an invitation layered in smoke, "...you could tell me who sent you, what you were really after, and what your talents are worth."

She turned her hand slightly, the fingers splaying like a flower in bloom.

"Tell me the truth, Viola. Not the noble version. The one with the fangs. The one you buried beneath charm and courtly lies. I'll know if you lie. I always do."

 

[Viola Valencia]

Viola Valencia
Chandrila, Hanna City - Grand Estate by the Emerald Ocean
Outside Wedding Reception - Landing Pad
Darth Virelia

The fear was starting to creep back in. How did she know? It was said that Sith and force users alike could crawl inside your head and pull out your deepest, most private thoughts. Is that how she knew of Davos death? Or was it a lucky guess from the blood on her cheek? Viola stared to feel her heart thud in her chest, a bead of sweat rolled down her spine.

The Sith had identified herself as Serina Calis and had mentioned her brother. Neither sounded familiar, but that was unsurprising. It was a big galaxy, and Viola had been withdrawn for some time. Yet it was strange to hear such a normal sounding name associated with such a menacing sight. Yet is contrasted her tone perfectly. It was sweet and syrupy; it brought forth memories of a pleasant summer's day. Her eyes and her ears were at war with one another. Another wave of fear twisted her gut. If she was right and the woman could read her thoughts, what else had she intuited? Could she see that beneath her warm flesh and blood, was the cold metal? That her heart was nothing more than a cleverly disguised artificial pump? That the neurons in her brain were nothing more than sophisticated wires? It had taken her a long time to come to terms with the fact that she wasn't human. She wasn't even sure she was alive. Her head dipped a little, her posture loosened. Her eyes started to glaze over as her certainty started to drain away. The Sith spoke.

"I could hand you over to local security. Have you charged with trespassing, interference, espionage. I could let your enemies finish what they started. Or…" she whispered the last word like an invitation layered in smoke, "...you could tell me who sent you, what you were really after, and what your talents are worth.

"I could hand you over to local security. Have you charged with trespassing, interference, espionage. I could let your enemies finish what they started. Or…" she whispered the last word like an invitation layered in smoke, "...you could tell me who sent you, what you were really after, and what your talents are worth." She could barely hear her. Panic of the situation and a strange desire to obey the woman were fighting over her limbic system. And beneath it all was the fatigue. The late nights researching her condition, the efforts made to hide her true nature, the subtle inquiries into the conspiracy. But after years she was no closer to finding out who had killed Viola Valencia, who had replaced the woman with her.

"Tell me the truth, Viola. Not the noble version. The one with the fangs. The one you buried beneath charm and courtly lies. I'll know if you lie. I always do."

The woman's voice was like a promise. A promise to fix her problems, to right the wrong committed against her. All she would have to do was serve. "One of the nobles inside has information about me" Viola said slowly, dreamily. It felt she was suspended in molasses; she felt disconnected to herself. "They know about my… my…" Something twisted and writhed within her. The animal part of her brain, the part that would never forget its organic roots, squirmed and screamed at her. She clutched her head as a severe headache threatened to overwhelm her. Blood ran from her right nostril. Then, something snapped.

Her vision swam back into focus, a black-clad figure loomed over her with six piercing eyes. The woman was gone; she could see the monster again. Viola recoiled from the sight of the woman. "No…" she croaked, taking several steps back. She took a deep breath, though her voice was still a little shakey when she spoke again. "Call the guards, if you must. I would much rather deal with them than with you".

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Crashed in my backyard."

Tags - Viola Valencia



Virelia watched Viola stagger back, blood running from her nose, eyes glassy, as though caught between fugue and fracture. And then came the retreat—not of body, but of spirit. A quiet, defiant plea for the ordinary: Call the guards. Let me vanish into the expected.

How quaint.

She folded her hands behind her back and inclined her head slightly, her six violet eyes pulsing once in the dark. The monster spoke again, in a voice so soft and rich it draped itself over the nerves like velvet laced with static.

"Ah," Virelia murmured, "there she is."

Her words were not sharp. Not cruel. They were admiring, as if Viola's collapse had finally revealed something worthy of interest. She took a step forward—but slowly, reverently, the way one might approach a shrine with hairline cracks already blooming through its marble.

"You wear your silence well, Viola. It suits you. But it was never going to protect you."

She circled again, but this time with the grace of a woman inspecting a jewel whose facets had only just caught the right light.

"You said someone inside knows. Knows something about you. About what you are, I wonder?" Her tone turned musing, like a scholar with a rare text. "Something you fear being named. Something you haven't told even yourself in full."

Virelia paused beside her now, gazing out toward the distant spires of the estate where chandeliers flickered, music played, and secrets whispered behind fluted glasses of spice wine.

"And yet," she said, "you came here anyway. You risked your life for a clue. A name. A sliver of truth."

She turned her gaze back toward Viola—not pitying, never that—but knowing. Deeply, disturbingly knowing.

"I respect that."

She stepped closer again, slowly, giving her every opportunity to flee. But there was no menace in her movement—just gravity. As if the world would tilt, softly, in her direction whether Viola liked it or not.

"Because I, too, once knew what it meant to claw my way through fog. To question my own shape. To stare into the mirror and wonder if the thing looking back was truly mine."

She lifted a hand again, letting it hover inches from Viola's shoulder, fingers poised with eerie gentleness.

"You don't want guards, Viola. Not really. They will lock you in a cell, not to interrogate you, but because they won't know what else to do with you. You are not a puzzle they're equipped to solve. You are an anomaly. A disruption. And men with guns hate disruptions."

Her voice softened, and deepened.

"But I, on the other hand… specialize in them."

She let that linger, like incense curling around a confession booth.

"You want answers? So do I. So let's trade. You tell me who inside this estate has what you need… and I will make sure you get to them. Uninterrupted. Unwatched. And when you're finished—if they still draw breath—I will make sure they never trouble you again."

Her mask tilted.

"And if it turns out you were wrong? If they have nothing?" A pause, and her voice dipped into something darkly exquisite. "Then you will belong to me. For a time. Just until you find the next thread. Just until you learn how to become something more than what they tried to break."

Her hand finally dropped. Not with disappointment, but with restraint.

"The choice is yours. Run, and lose yourself in shallow waters. Or stay… and let me teach you how deep the tide truly goes."

She leaned forward slightly, voice low, intimate.

"Whisper their name to me, Viola. Let me help."