Star Wars Roleplay: Chaos

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Private To Your Ruin. To Your Salvation.





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"How I intend to break you..."

Tag - Kali'ka Kali'ka




There was a gravity to the room now, a silence so thick it was almost physical.

The training chamber
Serina had designed for Kali'Ka was a work of art in itself—cold, austere, beautiful in the way a naked blade was beautiful. The walls, hewn from the dark stone of Polis Massa's deeper catacombs, drank in sound rather than reflected it. Black-veined marble underfoot gleamed faintly under the low, indirect lighting, each polished tile precisely placed, an unseen geometry lurking beneath the surface. Nothing here was accidental. Every choice—every angle, every material—was deliberate.

Above, the ceiling arched high, supported by thin buttresses of obsidian-like durasteel, traced faintly with red veins of Dark Side energy. They hummed ever so slightly if one listened closely enough, feeding the room with a low throb that synchronized almost imperceptibly with the heartbeat of anyone standing too long within it. It was a space meant to disorient, to strip away certainty, to tear down the psyche so that
Serina could rebuild it from the foundation upward.

There were no banners, no trophies, no symbols of pride. Only emptiness, and waiting.

At the center of the room stood a single, circular platform—a shallow disc of blackened phrik, inscribed at its edges with ancient Sith runes so worn they seemed almost to bleed shadow. Upon it, barely visible unless one approached with intent, were intricate carvings of twisted chains, broken swords, hands reaching upward only to be dragged down again. It was not merely a dueling space. It was a shrine to the truths
Serina intended Kali'Ka to learn: power, suffering, devotion, inevitable betrayal, inevitable triumph.

Serina stood at the edge of the platform, still as a carved goddess.

She wore no armor today—only a simple black tunic cut to precision against her form, the sleeves tight to her wrists, the collar high, the hem splitting at her thighs to reveal the first glint of armored leggings beneath. Her hands, bare and slender, were clasped lightly at the small of her back. Her long hair, usually worn in a cascade of calculated elegance, was now bound in a single, severe braid that hung down her spine like a whip waiting to be unsheathed.

She did not pace. She did not fidget. She waited.

The air around her pulsed with something heavier than mere anticipation. It was purpose, condensed and sharpened, leaking from her presence like a drug into the chamber. Here, in this room, in this moment, she would begin the final, essential act: not simply to teach
Kali'Ka to be strong, but to destroy the girl she was and forge something greater in her place.

Serina's pale fingers flexed subtly behind her back. Not out of impatience, but with anticipation so precise it was almost erotic—a slow, coiling pleasure at the thought of what she was about to begin. She had waited long enough. The raw material had been tested, blooded, stained with sin and triumph. Kali'Ka had earned this.

And now, she will suffer for the right to become what I intend.

Serina's
expression was unreadable—neither smiling nor frowning. Her mouth was a line of quiet authority, her eyes half-lidded, reflecting nothing. Yet within her chest, her heart beat a rhythm of exquisite satisfaction.

There were no sentinels at the door. No honor guard, no trumpets, no ceremony. Serina had made it very clear:
Kali'Ka would come alone, or she would not come at all.

She would step into this place naked of allies, stripped of all expectation save one: submission to transformation.

The distant sound of a door opening reverberated down the long, dim corridors that led to the chamber.
Serina did not turn to look. She already knew who approached.

Her head tilted slightly—not in curiosity, but in acknowledgment, like a sculptor hearing the first hammer-blow against the block of stone she would shape into a masterpiece.

Bootsteps echoed, slow, measured. Hesitant? Perhaps. Defiant? Perhaps. It mattered little.


Come, Kali'Ka, Serina thought, a whisper blooming darkly across the Force.
Come to your ruin. Come to your salvation.

The doorway loomed now, a black rectangle against the faint crimson-lit corridor beyond.

And into it, at last,
Kali'Ka stepped—


 

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Tag: Darth Virelia Darth Virelia
With measured, unhurried steps, Kali'ka stalked down the hewn passage, reveling in the sharp edge of anticipation. The summons had been as enigmatic as the beckoning that had brought her to the mysterious Dark Jedi at first. This time, however, the Kiffar sorceress knew who it was who called her. Her Mistress.

Already, there was a palpable gravity that gripped the massive asteroid as Kali descended to its core. Or perhaps, it was just the acolyte's knowledge that, whatever it was that awaited her, was more than another test, another lesson. She had been baptized in blood and fire and lies. She had proven her devotion, her abilities, her hunger and her submission. What would Serina do with her now?

Now, perhaps, the promises would be fuliflled. Promises of power and glory. And yes, promise of pain. Serina always made it clear, there was never one without the other. Kali'ka had savored the addicting taste that came with causing suffering. Would suffering be demanded of her?

She had been trained to relish tormenting denial at the hands of her Mistress. Time and time again, the sensual Dark Jedi had ignited Kali's visceral hunger to a searing flame, only to blow it out. In that torture, Serina had already honed a twisted desire for such teasing, making her hunger nearly insufferable.

Even as her boots tread down the dimly lit corridor, that seductive torment licked at the acolyte. She knew at the end Serina would be waiting. Waiting for her acolyte, her protege. The thought brought a heat to her inked skin, even as the cold of the remote space rock threatened to penetrate her bones. Kali wore her typical garb, a black, sleeveless body suit that was a mockery of modesty. She brought nothing else into the chamber.

As Kali'ka drew nearer, seeing the opening in the distance, she sensed it. Darkness, but not only the Dark Side in its invasive form, but as it flowed through Serina. It smacked of her presence. That presence was yet another addiction that bound the acolyte sorceress.

Into the room Kali'ka strode. A chill ran along her spine as her dark eyes scanned the room surrounding her. Beautiful in its cryptic starkness, humming with the allure of darkness, designed with wicked purpose. Then, her gaze fell upon her Mistress. Gorgeous and imposing, her presence filled the chamber, the silent weight of her half-lidded gaze falling on the acolyte like a cloak.

"My Mistress..." Kali'ka purred, ready, eager for what her master would do with her.

 
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"How I intend to break you..."

Tag - Kali'ka Kali'ka



Serina did not speak immediately.

She let the silence stretch instead—long and exquisite—a silken thread pulled taut between them, invisible but thrumming with tension. Her eyes, still half-lidded, followed
Kali'Ka's entrance with the indulgent patience of a queen observing a supplicant's first step into her throne room. The sound of the girl's boots against the stone floor echoed in precise rhythm, a heartbeat measured not in blood, but in obedience.

Serina inhaled, deeply and without shame, drawing in the heady mix of emotions that rolled off Kali'Ka like incense: anticipation, lust, reverence, hunger. It was intoxicating. The acolyte had come like a creature answering the call of the flame that once burned her—and found, to her ruinous delight, that it still did. Still seared. Still owned.

Serina stepped forward once.

The motion was slow, deliberate, almost catlike. Her boots whispered against the stone, the faint brush of motion the only sound until her voice, low and devastatingly soft, spilled into the space between them like warm venom.

"
So," she said, voice laced with velvet and ruin, "you've come crawling back to the fire that made you."
"
Good."

She let the word settle like ash.

Then another step. And another.

She circled
Kali'Ka now—not quickly, not with threat—but with the kind of slow, languid grace that suggested both appreciation and dissection. Her gaze was clinical, cruel, and admiring all at once. A hand lifted behind her back, curling one long finger in the air as if she were sketching an unseen rune, a slow spiral of possession. That gesture said more than any snarl ever could: you are already mine.

"
You've survived Korriban," she murmured at Kali's back, her voice close now—just near the girl's ear, not touching, not yet.
"
That was your death."
"
Now…"—her lips brushed the word—"…comes the resurrection."

She circled back to the front, stopping inches from
Kali'Ka's face. Her eyes, luminous and cold, drank in the girl's tension, the flutter of breath beneath the bodysuit, the way her pupils dilated under pressure. Serina smiled. Not sweetly—no, never that—but with the slow curve of a woman who knew exactly how sharp her nails were and where she intended to sink them.

"
You want the power I promised," she said flatly, stepping closer so that only a breath remained between them. "You want me to carve it into your flesh. To drag it out from your bones. You want to be something, don't you, Kali'Ka?"

A pause. One fingertip—just one—lifted and ran from
Kali'Ka's collarbone down to the midpoint of her chest, not with tenderness, but with measured purpose. A line drawn for emphasis. Not touch. Claim.

"
Something more than just mine."

Her tone dipped slightly, rich with threat and invitation. Her breath brushed
Kali'Ka's lips, and her eyes flashed with something dark, ancient, delighted.

"
But you are mine," Serina whispered. "No matter what I make you into, no matter how high I let you rise, remember this: I broke you. I rebuilt you. Every scream you will one day rip from another's throat will be an echo of what I did to you."

Then, finally, she stepped back. Not far—only enough to reclaim the oxygen in the room and reassert the chasm between them. She turned from
Kali'Ka, walking with slow command toward the raised platform at the room's center.

"
Today is the beginning," Serina said, her voice louder now, firm but still edged with that slow-burning seduction. "Not of training. Not of trials. Those are for the weak and the hopeful."

She ascended the platform and turned, arms clasped again behind her back.

"
Today," she said, "you begin becoming useful."

Her gaze locked onto
Kali'Ka like the trigger of a weapon being pulled.

"
Kneel."

Not barked. Not pleaded. Simply said—as though gravity itself had just been given new orders.

And then, the real work would begin.




 

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Tag: Darth Virelia Darth Virelia
With a steady, unhurried pace, Kali'ka strode into the room. Her demeanor displayed a casual confidence, almost arrogance. But her Mistress, she knew, could feel her inside. The want, the eagerness, the dark hunger that was both sadistic and masochistic. Yes, she had come. The first time, it was as a moth to a flame. That flame had burnt away the fragile, impotent wings of the moth and in there place offered dark, strong shadows.

Now, the acolyte came as a well-trained pet, one with savage teeth and voracious appetite. The kiffar sorceress felt no shame in her role, for power had been afforded her beyond her imagination. Her obsession with her master was shaping a cruel, dangerous creature within the tatooed adept. And it was only beginning.

Eyes, one dark, one glowing, shifted to Serina. The dark jedi's breast lifted and fell with a deep sigh. Kali knew her Mistress was pleased with her, with the raw material she had mined from the fallen jedi padawan.

Serina moved close, her steps more quiet than Kali'ka's had been, her motion like a serpent, smooth, dangerous, intentional. The acolyte's eyes remained on the blonde darksider, drinking in her beauty as she fed on the Dark Side within her.

The oil-slick tone of the young master smacked of superiority and disdain, but she wasn't wrong. Her acolyte had come without hesitation, eagerly, knowing what may await her.

Serina began to circle, slow, leaving Kali'ka to lanquish under her studious gaze. She felt like property under that possessive, assessing gaze. And somehow, it gave her a thrill. Such proximity to the seductress always left a hum of taut tension within Kali'ka, one dripping with hunger.

The stage was being set, the rehearsal of her path, the one laid out by the Mistress. She had seen the death of her past on Korriban, orchestrated by Serina. Now, she was promised a new life. One the acolyte knew would be costly to enter.

Serina closed her circle to stand before her acolyte, so close, the Kiffar could feel the woman's warm breath. It was the only thing warm about the Serina. The words continued to weave a spell, as they always did, one of allure, promise and danger. Kali had come to revel in such cryptic monologues, tasting every word, feeling the sting in every one.

The acolyte's breath hitched as the Mistress drew even closer, Serina's exotic scent filling Kali's nostrils, that hot breath like an invisible kiss upon the Kiffar's lips.

Yes... She thought. Serina spoke of desires Kali'ka didn't even know she had, dark, deviant ones. Serina made the thought of being torn apart sensual, something to be craved. Every nerve in her body exploded when that single finger traced a possessive trail along Kali's collarbone, to the valley of her chest. The acolyte's eyes slid half-way shut, sighing in delight.

Crush me, so that my rich oil becomes yours. Burn me, so that the dross of imperfection is seared away...

Kali'ka had become ambitious, and Serina knew it. Now, with dangerous venom, the Mistress assured her acolyte that none but her would hold Kali'ka's reins, no one else would put a bit in her mouth and harness her strength.

The withdrawl was painful, as always. But devoted, determined eyes followed the dark jedi to the platform, even as the promises flowed again from those decadent, evil lips. And when the Mistress had stopped, she turned to fix cold, piercing eyes on her acolyte, and made her first command.

Kali'ka had always been strong-willed. After her rise from abandonment and near death, her independant streak had grown. The victories acheived at Serina's side had only sharpened that self-assured arrogance. She would bow to no one.

Except her.

She was no goddess. Serina was young, over-ambitious and self-gagrandized. But the dark jedi had produced one thing no one else had. Results. Kali'ka was more powerful, more learned, and had someone who beleived in her ablilities. But it wasn't only those things which would make the acolyte's knee bend. It was the damned allure. Something about Serina set iron hooks in Kali'ka's core, made her crave the darksider, to the point she would bare body and soul to Serina for the smallest taste of her on the tip of her tongue.

She could not resist, and didn't. Kali'ka met Serina's gaze with a brazen stare, then bowed her head, and knelt before the Mistress.
 
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"How I intend to break you..."

Tag - Kali'ka Kali'ka



Serina did not move for several seconds after Kali'Ka knelt.

The air in the chamber was thick now, not just with the Dark Side, but with the electric silence of something just beginning to burn. She watched the girl's head bowed before her—so obedient, so eager—and yet the fire still smouldered behind her eyes. Good. She would not have tolerated meekness.
Serina demanded surrender, but only the surrender of the strong.

And now, the work would begin.

"
Look at me," she said at last, her voice soft and cutting. "You've earned that much."

When
Kali's gaze rose, Serina's own bore into her—not with rage, not with cruelty, but with possession. She looked at the girl the way one might appraise a blade before the first strike—one final moment of consideration before it was sunk into something soft.

Then,
Serina stepped down from the platform, walking slowly around Kali'Ka again—not circling this time, but drawing a shape around her with her presence, hemming her in.

"
Before I strip the rest of you away," she said, voice calm as coiled wire, "I want to hear what you think you are."

She stopped in front of
Kali again, tilting her head slightly, as if peering into her like an artifact.

"
No riddles. No posturing. Tell me what it is you desire, Kali'Ka. As a Sith. As mine. As yourself."

She stepped closer now, so close her words could pour directly into the girl's throat.

"
Do you want to rule? To destroy? To be feared? To be adored?"

Her eyes narrowed slightly. There was no anger in them—but a hunger so precise it might as well have been surgical.

"
Tell me what the little girl inside you still dreams of when no one is watching."

She knelt, slowly, gracefully, until she was level with her acolyte—eye to eye, breath to breath. Her tone grew quieter, darker, laced with seduction that bit just beneath the skin.

"
Tell me… and if I find your answer worthy, I will begin to burn away the rest. I will teach you how to reach for it, with hands that do not tremble."

Her hand came up again—gloved now, fingers resting gently beneath
Kali'Ka's chin.

"
Speak, little shadow. What do you truly want?"

The question was a blade.
A promise.
A trap.

And
Serina waited, smiling faintly, as if she already knew the answer. But the point, as always, was not knowing.

It was making her say it.





 

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Tag: Darth Virelia Darth Virelia

Kali'ka knelt, seated on her haunches, hands resting palm down on her thighs. The dark maned head slowly lifted, black-ink framed gaze meeting eyes that made her feel as if she were held at the end of a leash. It made Kali'ka feel both uneasy and aroused. A cursed dichotomy that painted most of her interactions with Serina. It was held for a tortuously long moment, as if to emphasize the claim, before its edge faded.

Dark organic eye and bright cybernetic followed the descent of the Mistress from the platform to move around the kneeling acolyte. Every word she spoke dripped with expectation, with command, with enigma. And Serina's words always required something from the Kiffar sorceress.

Finally before her acolyte, Serina paused and crouched. She demanded a deep truth, a telling truth, a truth that would again leave Kali'ka bare and exposed before the dark jedi. Closer still the blonde darksider drew, Kali's lip parting as if she coul drink Serina's exhaled breaths. More promises were carried on those breaths. The familiar gesture, the finger upon Kali'ka's chin, served as a reminder of who owned her.

What did she want?

At one time, it was revenge. Vengeance against the jedi had been her one and only desire. But that childish obsession had been dispelled. In the silence, Kali'ka pondered. She heeded her master's warning, no semantic games, no answers meant solely to please the Mistress. Serina demanded truth, and then smirked as if she knew what Kali wanted even before the Kiffar did.

Dark lips parted. "Destruction, fear, adoration, I love them. But they results. I desire power. Power to destroy, power to cause fear, be adored or even to rule, when they serve your purpose, or my own. And the power to please you."

It was the honest bleeding of her dark soul, her tone was thick with the truth of it, how the thought of it made saliva pool on her tongue, forcing her to swallow hard. Her eyes never left Serina's as she spoke.
 




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"How I intend to break you..."

Tag - Kali'ka Kali'ka



Serina listened in silence.

Her expression didn't shift—not at first. She remained perfectly still, crouched before
Kali'Ka like a high priestess at an altar she had built herself, letting the offering bleed freely before her. That dark-inked voice, those trembling truths… Serina drank them in as one might sip from a poisoned chalice—slowly, reverently, without flinching.

Then her lips parted.

Not to speak.

To smile.

It was not a wide smile. It was precise, measured, the curve of a scalpel held against skin that had not yet been cut. But it carried weight—a silent reward. The kind of look that said: Yes. This is what I wanted.

"
Good," she whispered, the word a low ripple of dark silk. "You finally speak like something that deserves to be shaped."

Her hand remained beneath
Kali'Ka's chin, fingers adjusting slightly—just enough to tilt her head a degree higher, forcing the girl to meet her gaze with total submission, total exposure.

"
You're learning," Serina continued, her voice slow and indulgent. "Power is not a thing. It is a choice. It is the ability to choose what reality becomes. What others feel. Who they worship. Who they fear. What they suffer. What they beg for."

She leaned closer, her breath ghosting along
Kali'Ka's lips, her voice dipping even further into a register so low it became felt as much as heard.

"
Power is the moment they look at you and forget who they are."
"
It is the moment you look in a mirror and see me."

And then she kissed her—not on the lips, not yet—but at the corner of
Kali's mouth. A slow, surgical brush of lips that lingered like a stain. A mark. A claim.

Then
Serina drew back—not from retreat, but to see how the girl reacted. How the hunger twisted in her stomach. How her body betrayed her soul. She wanted it all.

"
You want power, Kali'Ka?" she asked softly. "Then I will give it to you. Not in pieces. Not in promises. I will pour it into you until your bones hum with it. Until you are no longer just mine…"

She stood now, her hand trailing from
Kali's chin down her throat to her collarbone, dragging invisible fire.

"
…but something the galaxy will weep to have crossed."

Serina turned then—turning her back to Kali deliberately. A test. A dismissal. A challenge.

She walked slowly to the edge of the dueling platform and raised one hand.

The lights in the room dimmed, shadows lengthening into jagged teeth. In their place, glyphs ignited across the platform floor—Sith runes, old and ravenous, carved into the phrik and glowing red with summoned power. At the platform's far edge, a pair of curved daggers rose slowly from a concealed compartment—twins of alchemized obsidian and durasteel, their edges etched with pulsating crimson veins.

"
Your first lesson," Serina said, without turning. "Is how to lose."

She turned her head just enough to cast a glance over her shoulder—eyes half-lidded, lips parted slightly in something like amusement, like hunger.

"
You will come at me with everything. You will try to draw blood. To impress me. To win."

A pause, then:

"
And I will break you. Again. And again. Until you learn that loss in my presence is not defeat…"
"
It is worship."

She raised a single hand and beckoned—one finger only.

"
Come, little shadow. Let us begin."

And the platform hummed in response, as if the chamber itself was eager to witness the next act in this exquisite undoing.





 

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Tag: Darth Virelia Darth Virelia
Serina's acolyte had been an avid student. Not only of what the Mistress taught, but everything about her. The long, tormenting pauses that left a weak mind to spiral into doubt. And the smile. Serina could say so much with the slightest flinch of her plush lips. The thin line of a small smile appeared. That was enough. Kali'ka was given only what she needed to make it to the next word, the next movement. She waited eagerly, but with control.

Silken words slipped out, praise for a good student, or not even that. Kali'ka was a thing. But a thing worthy of Serina's efforts. Those wicked gloved fingers applied a bit more pressure, instinctively, the acolyte's chin lifted, eyes fixed on her master.

As Serina drew closer still, Kali'ka's lips parted again in hopes of tasting Serina's warm breath on them. The Mistress spoke more wisdom. Power, yes, all that Kali knew of power, its use, its source, its danger, came at the Mistress' feet. Now, it was as if Serina shared her personal experience, what she knew of power, her own power.

Then Serina move closer than ever before. Upon the smallest corner of Kali'ka's mouth those lips brushed. Barely a kiss, but to Kali'ka, it was a gushing fount of spring water to a man in the desert.

Her eyes slid shut, her lips parting further as she inhaled sharply. Kali'ka dare not move, not a fraction closer to that desired mouth. The fleeting brush of lips did mark the acolyte, for the feel of those lips were burnt into her memory, so she could remember and know that she is claimed, that she had a master.

Kali'ka's eyes opened to see Serina withdrawn, watching. A faint flush had come to the acolyte's face and a heat in her core forced her to resist shifting her hips. Her body was alight with twisted desires, spawn of what Serina had crafted in her protoge after months of delicious torment and teasing.

Serina claimed ready to give Kali'ka that power. The dark jedi slipped away, leaving the all too familiar ache in her acolyte. The lights dimmed, the pad coming alive with runes. Many Kali knew from her studies, others unfamiliar. The blades appeared, dark and ominous. The scene was set.

The look cast over Serina's shoulder gave Kali'ka a chill down her spine. What was coming would be wicked, she knew it. She would learn to lose. She understood this not to mean lose a contest, but lose parts of herself. Serina held no qualms about telling her acolyte that she would be broken, over and over.

She would have to try and draw blood from Serina.

Kali'ka was vexed. To attack the one for whom she would die protecting, the idea wound around her sideways, all wrong. But it was the command. Mounting the platform, the acolyte walked to the daggers. Her hand slowly wrapped around the hilt of one, lifting it as she studied it, felt its weight. Obsidian and steel, and evil. She marveled at it's make.

She turned to Serina. Kali'ka had been told what to do. To resist and fail to comply was not losing, it was utter failure. To try to harm Serina felt like sacrilege. But deep inside, the acolyte craved to see the woman's blood.

Assuming a relaxed fighting stance, kali'ka's well-tuned physique was coiled and ready. The muscles of Kali'ka's jaw rippled as she grit her teeth. Then, with a sudden snap release of muscles, the acolyte lunged at Serina, the crimson-edged blade driven towards her master's abdomen.



 




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"How I intend to break you..."

Tag - Kali'ka Kali'ka



The blade came forward—beautifully, savagely, hungrily—and Serina smiled. Not that soft, cruel smile from before. This one was sharp, delighted, dangerous. The expression of a goddess watching a worshipper crawl into the fire just to feel worthy of her gaze.

She didn't move to block—not at first. She wanted
Kali'Ka to see the freedom she'd been given, the sheer blasphemy of it: she was attacking Serina Calis, her maker, her Mistress. And Serina welcomed it.

"
Yes," she breathed, just loud enough to ride the edges of the blade's scream through the air. "Let me see it."

Then she moved.

Not with panic, not with speed for speed's sake, but with the kind of effortless supremacy that was more instruction than action. She sidestepped the strike with a grace that made it look planned, as though the dagger had always been meant to pass through nothing. Her body twisted with serpentine fluidity, one gloved hand trailing gently along
Kali'Ka's wrist as the girl lunged past.

"
Good form," she whispered into the acolyte's ear as she passed behind her. "But you want to pierce flesh that worships you."

She pivoted again, swift and clean, coming to face
Kali'Ka once more, dark eyes gleaming in the crimson runelight. Her stance was deceptively loose—shoulders relaxed, hands lowered, hips slightly tilted as if inviting Kali closer again. But every breath she drew was calculated. Every inch of her presence filled the platform like a tide of black silk.

"
Do you feel it?" Serina asked. "That conflict crawling in your spine?"
"
That impulse that says 'don't hurt her,' even when I've commanded you to try?"

She took a step forward. Her voice lowered.

"
You think it's loyalty. But it's not. It's pride."
"
You still think you decide what I deserve. You still believe your instincts—your affections—have meaning here."

Another step. Her boot clicked softly, cruelly.

"
Let me make this perfectly clear, my little shadow."

Now she was close again. So close
Kali could feel the heat of her. The scent of her. That intoxicating mix of control and darkness and faint, almost imperceptible sweetness that clung to Serina's skin like an afterthought.

"
You exist to please me," she said. "Not to protect me. Not to understand me. Not to determine me."
"
You exist to obey."
"
And if I tell you to strike me, you will do it with your entire being. You will crave my blood on your blade—not because you hate me, but because I told you to want it."

Then she moved again—swift, impossibly smooth, like shadow given form—and this time, her hand caught
Kali'Ka's wrist mid-swing as the girl tried to attack again. The dagger stopped inches from Serina's throat.

She held it there.

Between them.

Tension radiated like heat from a forge.

"
Look at it," Serina said softly, her voice almost a caress. "Look what you nearly did. How it makes you sick. How it makes you hungry."

Her fingers curled around
Kali'Ka's hand, slowly forcing the dagger back down—not as a gesture of dominance, but of education. A lesson.

"
Do you think you're the only one who will try to kneel for me, little shadow?" she asked, tone dark and amused. "The galaxy is full of Sith who would chain themselves to my ankles if they believed I'd glance their way."

She stepped around
Kali again, dragging the dagger's edge gently across the acolyte's shoulder—not breaking skin, but close. Serina's hand came to rest on the back of Kali's neck.

"
You'll meet them," she said. "The ones who will try to mimic me. Men with hollow eyes and pretty lies. Women who offer pain and call it wisdom. They'll speak as I speak. They'll touch as I touch. And they'll think they can own you."

Serina's nails dug in now—just slightly.

"
When they try," she said, "you will kill them. Without question. Without reflection. Because they are not me."

She let go. Spun away.

Then she struck.

A burst of motion, a blur of power—not with a weapon, but with her body. One leg swept low, catching
Kali behind the knee with surgical precision. Not enough to injure. Enough to remind her she could be owned in every dimension—mind, body, soul.

Serina advanced again, not with rage but with unbearable intimacy, like a lover closing in for a kiss that would never come.

"
You want to serve?" she asked, voice thick with heat and promise. "Then learn this first lesson, and let it tattoo itself into the meat of you…"

She seized
Kali'Ka's chin again, forcing her to look up even as she knelt.

"
You are not mine because you are loyal."
"
You are mine because I say you are."
"
And that means you do not get to choose which orders you find pleasing."

A beat. Her thumb traced
Kali's bottom lip with gloved precision.

And with that,
Serina stepped back, once more into the center of the platform—her arms loose, her posture elegant, her presence suffocating.

Serina's smile lingered—not cruel, but precise. A smile sharpened by purpose, not pleasure. She watched Kali'Ka with a predator's stillness, measuring everything: the tension in her muscles, the minute twitch of her fingers, the way her chest rose too quickly, betraying the adrenaline beneath her painted calm.

Then, at last, she spoke. Her voice was lower now, but no less commanding—the tone of a teacher who expects perfection, because she has already envisioned it.

"
You lunge like a Jedi."

The words fell flat and brutal.

Serina stepped forward again, slow and fluid, weaving between flickers of crimson glyph-light like a dancer unfurling into war. She didn't raise her hands. She didn't need to. Her body was the demonstration.

"
Too direct. Too honest. Too... noble."

She came to stand at
Kali's side, almost shoulder to shoulder now, her voice slipping into something silkier, more intimate—as if confessing a secret meant only for Kali'Ka's ears.

"
You are not a duelist, little shadow. You are a trap. A beautiful, venomous lure. And everything about the way you fight must reflect that."

With a sudden flick of her wrist, she drew one of the twin daggers from the air with the Force—so subtle, so quiet, the motion could have been mistaken for a breath. The blade hovered in her hand, and she turned it with her fingers—one, two, three rotations—before holding it out hilt-first to
Kali.

"
Take it."

As the girl did,
Serina's gloved hand came to rest on her wrist, positioning it carefully—adjusting her grip, just slightly, but precisely.

"
The blade is not an extension of your will. That is Jedi thinking. Sentimental."
"
The blade is bait. It draws attention. You are the strike."

She stepped behind
Kali now, her hands ghosting over the girl's shoulders, hips, and spine—not possessively, but clinically. She was aligning a weapon, not caressing a lover.

"
Center your weight lower. You're too tall in your stance. Sith don't fence. They ambush. If you fight with poise alone, you'll die to the first creature that bites."

She stepped around to face her again, eyes gleaming faintly in the low light.

"
Try again."



 

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Tag: Darth Virelia Darth Virelia
Kali'ka had muscled through the internal conflict, fighting the mental battle of obedience vs passion. She had been ordered to attack, to pierce the body of the one she had abandoned everything to follow. Her strike was not restrained, as much as it sickened her to execute the attack. In the end, Serina easily evaded the wicked blade, gifting her acolyte with the briefest graze of a finger along the sensitive skin of her inner wrist as she passed.

Kali'ka recovered, shifting slightly, still taut as Serina moved in front of her again. The Mistress held such cavalier command of the room, and of the woman before her. Serina's very stance was inviting, even as it promised assured failure.

Serina spoke, honeyed venom that stripped Kal'ka's black soul bare, exposing that inner conflict, almost mocking. Then revealed why. Pride, it was the downfall of many Sith. Closer still Serina slid, her proximity igniting a layer of fire beneath the acolyte's tattooed skin, making her nerves scintillate.

Serina's acidic words corroded the paradigm that framed the acolyte's sense of self. Kali'ka's will was irrelevant, her own desires subserviant. Her purpose, her being, was to obey. There was a freedom in that truth, in knowing what was expected of her, one thing, follow the will of the one who owned her. And so she would. Even as she craved to obey, to please, the contradictary demand to assault her Mistress knotted her stomach. But she struck.

The dagger in her hand flipped suddenly so that the blade jutted down from her fist, she swung again, putting full trust in the Mistress' orders, knowing if her acolyte was to draw blood, it was only because the dark jedi willed it.

Again, the attack was thwarted, and in the span of a breath, her own dagger was poised at the tender flesh of her throat, Serina's iron grip on her acolyte's wrist. The danger, the taut tension between them was exhilarating. Adrenaline coursed through Kali'ka's veins, her arousal sharpened. A dark, devaint part of her wished for the tip of the blade to kiss her skin and draw a dark rusty bead of her own blood.

Stiffened muscles released when Serina coaxed her hand to lower, the weapon slipping from her fingers.

Serina reminded her that the Kiffar was not the only one who craved to serve the dark jedi. Of course, the place at Serina's feet would be craved by many. It made Kali'ka desperately jealous even as the serpentine darksider slid around her acolyte. The Kiffar's nerves dancied as the edge of the blade drew across her flesh with such precision that it didn't penetrate the bronzed hide. That, and the hand at the back of her neck, reminded her her that none of those pretenders were there in the sacred training hall of the Mistress. It as Kali'ka alone.

The sharp sting of fingernails emphasized Serina's message, giving Kali'ka's belly a flutter. Yes, she would kill those pretenders. And none would cause Kali'ka to whore against Serina. Those seeking the Kiffar's submission would grow cold in a pool of their own blood. And only because that was the command of the Mistress.

Again, like greased lightning, Serina moved. A sharp crack behind her knees brought Kali'ka slamming to her the rune-striven stone on all fours, eliciting a loud grunt from the Kiffar. Serina drew closer, her scent filling the acolyte's nostrils, her presence wrapping around her like welcomed chains and manacles. The dark maned head lifted as her chin was tugged upward. A hard dark eye and a souless glowing one fixed on Serina. Again, Kali'ka was instructed that she had no will, but that she only existed in the will of her Mistress. To seal the fact, a gloved thumb grazed Kali's lower lip, earning a wanton groan from the acolyte.

Serina retreated, but the chains of her presence clung to Kali'ka, holding her to the floor before her Mistress.

Then, Serina struck her acolyte with a blow more piercing, more cutting than any blade.

Kali'ka was compared to a Jedi. Anger rose like bile in her throat.

She grit her teeth, features grimacing as she rose from the floor. It was the truth. Kali'ka was trained to fight like a jedi. And to realize it made her long to be rid of it, to be taught how to fight as Serina desired. In that vain, Serina drew close again, Kali feeling the cold comfort of that presence, the presence that owned her dispelled her angst.

Kali'ka wrapped her hand around the hilt of the summoned dagger with a steady reverence. It had come from the hand of her Mistress, and as such was like a sacred thing. Nobility, virtue, it was what had corrupted Kali'ka. How much more alluring, how desirous it would be to be the trap, the dangerous death that seized its unknowing victim.

With an intimate care, Serina moved her acolyte, Kali'ka giving beneath the touches like clay in a master's hands. The acolyte lowered to a shallow crouch, her corded muscles coiled, the blade held not for grand flourishes and bold thrusts, but for feints, for deception, for the quick jabbing sting.

It felt... right. Eyes tracked as the robed darksider moved before her acolyte, and again gave the command.

A tense moment lingered as their eyes linked in the ominous glow of the runes. The acolyte laid aside anything she might have thought, focusing only on what she was commanded. It was the only thing there was. It Kali's desire to do Serina's will, it was her meat and drink. And she attacked with the deceptive ferocity expected of her.

Suddenly, Kali'ka burst into motion. Her momentum was not forward, but at an oblique angle, the blade began a shallow swing at Serina. But a sudden twist of her body changed the direction of Kali's momentum. Kali's hand opened, the dagger pulled from one hand to the other like steel to a magnet, and as Kali swept nearly against the ground, the blade jabbed like a viper upwards towards Serina's side.

 




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"How I intend to break you..."

Tag - Kali'ka Kali'ka



Serina watched her move.

The silence between them shattered not with noise—but with intention.
Kali'Ka had finally begun to understand. There was no hesitation in her this time, no lingering in the shadow of what she had been. She moved like something becoming, something unmaking itself mid-lunge.

Yes, Serina thought. Now you crawl properly.

The acolyte swept low, deceptive, beautifully angular.
Serina's senses lit up, not with alarm—but with exquisite approval. Not because the strike might land—it would not—but because Kali'Ka had begun to think like a predator. She had stopped playing at being powerful and started acting like something willing to deceive, to betray, to kill—all to please her Mistress.

That was all
Serina had ever wanted.

The blade flashed upward like a serpent's fang, driven with a force born not of anger but of worship. And
Serina—supreme in her poise, her discipline, her fathomless control—moved to meet it. Not to avoid. Not to cower.

But to teach.

She twisted—her entire body pivoting with a fluid economy of motion, cloak fluttering as though caught in the breath of the Dark Side itself—and her hand came up not in defense, but in answer. Fingers grazing steel. Wrist gliding past motion. Momentum redirected rather than deflected.

A ghost of a parry. A whisper of a denial.

"
That," she said, voice low, dripping, "was worthy of me."

She did not raise her voice. She never needed to. Her words landed like polished stones into deep water—rippling outward, reshaping the world by gravity alone.

Serina turned to face Kali again, her cloak whispering as it settled against her body like smoke returning to form. The air between them tightened, thrummed with power held in reserve, with meaning yet to be named.

"
Do you feel it now, little shadow?" she asked, stepping closer. "How wrong it felt to strike me… and how perfect it was to obey me?"

Her hand came up, not to touch
Kali'Ka, but to hover near her face—just above her cheekbone. The promise of a caress. The threat of one.

"
This is what it means to serve properly. Obedience is not an act of restraint. It is an act of devotion so complete that your own mind becomes irrelevant. Your thoughts? Your fears? Your instincts?"

A smile, cruel and seductive.

"
Mine."

She let her hand fall. Then, slowly,
Serina began to circle again. Not as a predator this time—but as a high priestess weaving incantation through motion, her steps an invocation, her gaze a binding spell.

"
Combat is not about killing," she said, voice soft but merciless. "Not for us. That's what animals do. Sith kill with words. With seduction. With a glance. You kill because the world must obey you—or break."

A beat.

"
Just like you obey me."

She stopped behind
Kali again—just close enough that her breath brushed the base of the acolyte's neck.

"
You must learn to fight not like a Jedi, with pride. Nor like a brute, with rage. But like a lover—promising closeness and then cutting them as they lean in."

Then her hand was on
Kali's shoulder again—firm now. Rooted.

"
That strike you just made? It was not good because it was clever. It was good because it betrayed your hesitation. Because it wounded you to make it."

Her grip tightened just slightly.

"
You will learn to crave that pain. To understand that suffering for me is not a burden—it is confirmation. That your loyalty is real. That you are worthy."

She stepped back again. Her voice rose, not in volume, but in resonance. Every syllable struck like a metronome counting down to transformation.

"
I will show you how to kill. Not as a soldier. Not as a weapon. But as a symbol."

She extended one hand, and with it, the other dagger floated from the far edge of the platform—gliding through the air like an obedient thought.

"
Every time you strike, you must ask: not can I win—but what will she think of me?"
"
Every motion, every injury you inflict, should be a prayer in motion—Mistress, see me. Mistress, know me. Mistress, approve."

The blade snapped into her grip.

"
Now. Claim you reward."

Her eyes blazed—not with fury, but expectation. Icy and eternal.

"
This time, move like you belong to me."

She raised the dagger—not in challenge, but in invitation. The smile that followed was devastating: serene, ruthless, utterly earned.

"
Let me see the part of you that would slit your own throat just to give me a warm bath."

And then she opened her stance.

Waiting for
Kali'Ka to take her reward.


 

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Tag: Darth Virelia Darth Virelia
It took great effort. It was not only Serina twisting her, she had to contort her own mind, her paradigm. To strike with all her intention was demanded of her, to strike her obsession, the dark light that set her body afire with the slightest ripple of her garments. To do so without hesitation, to overcome the cruel dichotomy, to perform obedience in an irreconcilable conundrum required all of her power and strength.

She executed her attack, embracing what she had observed and learned from her dark mistress. Deception, misdirection, void of virtue, she felt the Dark Force guide her away from the muscle memory of Jedi rote mantras into something wicked and dangerous. There was both relief and disappointment when her blade did not find flesh in which to be buried. Instead, Serina moved, her inky cloak like a whirling shadow around her. The dagger blade was kissed by the Dark Jedi's touch, such little effort to redirect the nefarious blade harmlessly away.

Kali'ka's momentum carried her through the completion of her misdirected movement, like the curve of a scimitar. With precision, corded muscle brought the acolyte to a final repose, standing before her mistress. She was praised, a morsel hungrily devoured by the eager acolyte.

Darkness licked at Kali'ka, the darkness of the mystic runes glowing at her feet, of the crafted chamber, but most hotly, and most frigid, by the presence of Serina. It was a fire that burned her, parched her throat. But she didn't seek water for relief, she craved for that fireto be poured down her throat so it seared her being mercilessly.

Expectations, whims, lusts... what lay within Serina was unpredictable, and the anticipation bound a thick cord of tension around Kali'ka. But she welcomed it. The Kiffar's gaze was a testament to her resolve. Test me, break me, kill me. My will is strongest when it is abandoned for yours.

A gloved hand raised. To strike? To caress? Kali'ka would have welcomed either with relish. Yet she was denied either pleasure, only the hollow torment of the fraction of space between the hand and the face. Serina retreated, leaving her acolyte with an all too familiar ache. She listened as the dark jedi stalked around her, until the Mistress disappeared behind. The raven locks of Kali'ka's mane had been draped over one shoulder during her last attack, leaving part of her neck exposed. It was on that tender flesh tha hot breath kissed, sending cruel fingers of electricity through the Kiffar's body.

The touch of Serina's hand did so tenfold. Firm, it was a connection in which Kali'ka reveled, regardless of its outcome. The lessons of darkness were painted in her hearing, and as they worked their mischief in the acolyte's mind, the ways of the Jedi were forever poisoned, being purged. Her worth was not in upholding virtue, it was not in anything generated by her will or desire. These were hard lessons, but the hungry acolyte took the practical lessons, the ones that hurt, into her bosom. That was how she would serve, to her own hurt, to her own pain, and only in the name, the will, the desire, the whim of the Mistress.

Yes...yes... make me your angel of death, teach me the true meaning of killing, make me...

Yet again she would be called to peform the sacriledge of violence. But Serina would be armed. Take the reward... Kali watched as Serina stood open armed. The acolyte didn't hesitate, she merely paused to drink in the power of the darkness in the room, to slurp at that delicious wicked enigma that made Kali'ka feel like she was running her tongue along the edge of a knife.

Kali'ka didn't charge, she didn't burst into motion. The acolyte stood tall, not in pride, not in defiance, but to display what Serina commanded, what she owned. Then the sorceress rose. A hand's width above the rune strafed platform, Kali moved with aquatic grace. The Dagger was held low at her side, without threat. She drifted closer, her gaze never leaving Serina's, never wavering, never showing fear nor uncertainty. Her entire body hummed with the gravity of the moment. What was reward? Her purpose was to obey. The Kiffar boldly drew closer than she had ever dared to approach unbidden. Kali lowered, her figure turning as she did, until her boots were planted on the stone and her back was to the Mistress. Their garments brushing against one another silently. The craving to take a step back, to feel the press of the Mistress' body against her was a momentary temptation with incredible power. But it was dismissed in light of the command given her. Kali's chin lifted high, her head tilting back, a cascade of midnight hair falling behind.

The vulnerable arch of Kali's throat remained exposed, her shoulders back to broaden the target of her chest,. They were offerings. Draw blood, kill, drain life, the thought of it was intoxicating. Kali'ka's chest rose and fell visibly, her breaths labored, thick with the wicked cocktail Serina created from arousal, promise, pain and degradation.

Then, in the shadow of their draped garments, the tip of Kali'ka's dagger pricked at Serina's grion through her garments.

 




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"How I intend to break you..."

Tag - Kali'ka Kali'ka



Serina did not move.

She didn't flinch. She didn't strike. She didn't gasp.

She simply stood there, perfectly still, perfectly composed, perfectly watching. The tip of the dagger pressed against her—precisely where
Kali'Ka intended it—and in that sacred, obscene contact, the air between them became suffocating. Not with fear. With power. With devotion twisted into desecration.

And
Serina smiled.

Not widely. Not indulgently. But with precision. A ghost of a smile. A diagnosis. The kind of expression a master gives when the experiment finally begins to sing the correct note of agony.

"
Now," she whispered, her breath warm against Kali's ear, "you're beginning to understand."

Her voice was low, slow, soaked in serpentine pleasure. Each syllable rolled from her tongue like honey over broken glass, wrapping itself around
Kali's spine like a leash being drawn tighter. Her eyes didn't blink. Her pulse didn't rise. She didn't even look at the blade. Why would she?

She had already decided what this moment would mean.

"
Not the blade. Not the target. Not even the strike," she said. "It's this."

Her hand moved, gliding around
Kali's waist—not to seize, not to control, but to rest there. Barely touching. An intimacy so careful, so deliberate, it was worse than roughness. It was denial with a heartbeat.

"
The part of you that wants to please me by hurting me. That would weep to spill my blood, and yet still do it… if I told you to. That's the part I want. That's what I own."

She leaned in, pressing her lips—just barely—against the edge of
Kali's jaw. Not a kiss. A claim. A reminder. A cruelty.

"
You understand now, don't you?" she whispered into her ear, her voice velvet wrapped around iron. "I do not want your love. I do not want your heart. I want your self."

Her hand slid downward, down the curve of
Kali's hip, fingers trailing like molten lead beneath ice—enough to make her muscles coil, to make her breath catch again, to bring her mind dangerously close to blurring the line between devotion and desire.

"
You are the weapon. And I am the will that swings you."

Her tone grew quieter now, more instructional, more dangerous. She was teaching again—always teaching.

"
Other Sith will try to pull this from you. They will promise pain. They will offer pleasure. They will whisper that they can complete you."
"
Kill them."
"
Not because they are wrong… but because they are not me."

Her hand withdrew, slowly. The contact gone. The warmth gone. That tether, that unbearable closeness—cut off, as abruptly as it had come.

She turned around her acolyte, gliding across the floor like smoke with a center of gravity so precise it bent the entire chamber around her. She didn't even look at
Kali. She didn't need to.

"
You knelt."
"
You struck."
"
You obeyed even when obedience carved you open."

She stopped now, in front of the altar-like edge of the platform. Her hands folded behind her back. Her gaze cast down at the glowing runes—older than blood, hungry for meaning.

Then, slowly, she looked over her shoulder.

Eyes glowing faintly. Lips parted. Voice like a knife wrapped in silk.

"
You may bleed for me."
"
You may kill for me."
"
But one day, little shadow…"

She turned fully.

"
…I may order you to betray yourself."

A pause. That smile again.

"
And if you hesitate, even then—if you pause, if you doubt, if you let free will whisper louder than my command..."

A step forward.

"
Then I will know I failed to carve deep enough."

Another step.

"
So let me carve deeper."

Her hand rose—not to strike, not to caress, but to beckon.

"
Come here."

And as the dagger slipped from
Kali'Ka's hand, forgotten at her feet. Serina had made her understand:

Obedience is pain. Devotion is desecration. Love… is the leash.

The runes flickered, whispering in a language that had no words—only sensation. Heat. Pressure. Ache. They danced across the chamber floor like serpents of light, circling the platform as if they too had been called to witness the next moment.

Serina stood still, a column of living shadow framed by the crimson glow, her expression unreadable now—beyond indulgence, beyond threat. She was silent for a breath. Two. Three.

Then:

"
You've pleased me.
"

She said it flatly. Not tenderly. Not as praise. As fact.

The silence that followed it hurt. Because it left the question unspoken:
And what does Serina Calis do with a creature that pleases her?

She moved again—closer, closer than breath, until Kali'Ka could feel the weight of her presence without being touched. That unspeakable pressure, like gravity inverted. Like drowning with the pleasure of it. Serina's hand lifted once more, and this time it rested—lightly, but completely—on the side of Kali's neck. Her thumb traced the line of a pulse that was racing. She didn't smile. She just watched.

"
You've earned a choice."

That, too, was rare.


Serina's voice dipped, silk sliding down steel. Not playful—dangerous. The offering of a blade to someone who already bled for her.

"
I can teach you something new. Something darker. Not just how to kill... but how to unmake."

Her fingers lifted, and her hand curled slightly in the air—forming a spiral, a coil, a gesture that reeked of sorcery.

"
I will teach you how to silence a voice with a thought. How to rot courage into panic. How to reach into another's soul and pluck the thread that holds them together."

Then she turned her hand, palm upward.

"
Or…"

Another step back. Her other hand lifted now, slowly drawing back her cloak to expose her side—where the dagger had kissed cloth but not skin. She gestured to it with a quiet tilt of her chin, the faintest glimmer of a smirk returning.

"
You may spar with me again. Not as a lesson. As a reward."

Her head tilted slightly, and her voice dropped to a velvet rasp.

"
You've wanted to touch me. To break the illusion of distance. To feel the burn of fighting me and the thrill of failing. To lose yourself again in the rhythm of pain and pressure, knowing I will always stay just out of reach."

She moved closer once more, her presence tightening again—twisting around
Kali'Ka like heat rising off obsidian.

"
One choice will teach you what you are becoming. The other will let you feel what you already are."

A pause.

Then, with the intimacy of a secret, she whispered:

"
So decide, little shadow.
Will you crawl deeper into the Force…
or try to bite the hand that feeds you, one more time?
"

And she waited, perfectly still, perfectly poised—a goddess offering the knife and the altar in the same breath.



 

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Tag: Darth Virelia Darth Virelia
Her mind was being warped, twisted to fit the will of her master. And Kali'ka welcomed it with pleasure. It was the belief that her own selfish desires could be ultimately fulfilled by the giving of her whole self to another. Selfishness through selflessness. Serina was indoctrinating Kali'ka with the dogma of killing her own will to live for the will of her Mistress. It was a long game, it was a sacrifice the acolyte embraced.

The acolyte had creatively complied with both Serina's commands. Attack and submit. A blade for the Mistress and a place for the Mistress' blade. A savory pleasure rippled through Kali'ka's being as she heard the approval in her master's tone. The wine of praise was truly intoxicating to the Kiffar sorceress.

But more visceral than the verbal affirmation was the rare touch. A hand glided around Kali's waist, more than ever received before. She nearly purred. Its brevity and lightness was as agonizing as it was exhilarating. Words like honey dripping down a spear point painted the hungry acolyte with pride.

The kiss released a searing bolt of sensation through Kali'ka's body. But in Serina's touch, in the brush of warm lips, was not love or affection, or even lustful desire. It was a claim, no less than if the dark jedi had branded the woman's flesh with a hot iron. Kali'ka could not deny the visceral sensuality that pulsed within her from the more intimate contact. But it was not derived from foolish love or trite affection. It was deep, twisted lusts and cravings to be owned and to possess, to kill and to be killed, to devour and to be devoured. It burnt like a blast furnace in the acolyte's core, forging an iron determination to be all that Serina had prophesied the acolyte would be. Perhaps it was love. Perverted, corrupted, bloody love.

The devious web of control continued to weave around Kali'ka, anchored to her by the hand that ran down her hip, like one would caress the powerful muscles of their prized beast of war.

A weapon in her hands. Yes, the imagery heated Kal'ka another degree hotter. Those wicked hands wielding the acolyte to maim and kill, to conquer and vanquish. Kali'ka's lips parted, the tip of her tongue wetting her plush lips. The concept was euphoric.

The chamber resonated with the Mistress' razored words. Pretenders would come, pretenders would die at Kali'ka's hand. Yes... none would lure her away from her Mistress.

Eyes, one dark, one glowing, followed Serina in the wake of her departure. The delicious cord of her touch snapped, like the cutting of an air line on a deep space suit, leaving the acolyte gasping.

Serina's tone grew darker, her words as cutting as frozen glass. Should Kali'ka fail her, should she ever choose herself over her mistress, there would be...disappointment. But not that day.

At the summons, the dagger slipped from her fingers to clatter onto the stone. The glowing runes scintillated, as if to accentuate the ominous scene unfolding. Kali'ka approached her master. It felt as if she stepped into a gravity well. The precence of the Mistress was suffocating and ecstatic, drawing the Kiffar as if great iron hooks on mightly chains had pierced her and dragged her closer.

Then Serina posed an impossible conundrum. Two choices, each licking at Kali'ka's core like the tongue of a serpent, tickling, teasing, tantalizing. She was given a choice. But it was not hers to make. Her will was Serina, and the Mistress withheld her desire in the matter. The choices danced before the acolyte like fiery demons, mocking her.

Oh, she ached for the chance to feel her body against Serina's, the edge of blades opening skin, allowing their precious vitae to ooze out. To feel the cut of her goddess, and to pierce the one she adored.

Or to drink of knowledge, of power, to evolve, to know dark arts in their most vile depths. What would indulge the mistress, for her possession to wallow it her own lusts, or to hone her weapon to be wielded with greater precision, with more devastating lethality? The runes, the room, they demanded an answer as much as the ever patient Serina.

Kali'ka relished those cords that tugged at her, tethered her to Serina. She likened it to a leash, because the acolyte wished it to be one. "Teach me, Mistress. Heat me in your fire and hammer me into your weapon. Etch your magic on me with plasma. Wrap your hand around my hilt and plunge me into our enemies."

 




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"How I intend to break you..."

Tag - Kali'ka Kali'ka



Serina did not answer immediately.

She turned, slowly, her gaze falling on
Kali'Ka with that same cold indulgence—the look of a woman who had just been given a new toy, one that was already hers, and yet somehow had the audacity to ask for her attention. And Serina, in her generosity, would give it.

The chamber darkened, subtly. The runes dimmed to a throb, responding to Serina's mood. Even the air thickened, as if the Force itself had curled in around her shoulders, waiting.

"
Good," she murmured, voice like velvet drawn over rusted chains. "Then we begin."

She gestured with two fingers. A hidden door slid open with a hiss—revealing a figure bound in durasteel shackles, gagged, and half-dragged by two silent sentries in matte black armor. The prisoner was Force-sensitive, though weak—barely trained. Enough to feel what was about to happen. Enough to scream in silence.

Serina descended the platform and approached the prisoner as one might inspect a sculpture they intended to desecrate. She reached out, tilted the gagged man's chin upward with a single gloved finger, then smiled—briefly.

"
This," she said, turning her gaze back to Kali'Ka, "is your whetstone."

She moved away from the prisoner, letting the sentries shove him down to his knees between them. Her voice grew louder now, firm and commanding—her lecture beginning, her gospel unfurling.

"
You must forget what the Sith told you. Forget what the Jedi trained into your bones. Rage is not power. Fear is not power. Not alone."

"
Power, Kali'Ka, is control. Control so complete that the Force bends because you have already bent the mind that touches it. And the body follows."

She raised one hand—her fingers splayed, sharp, deliberate.

"
The Jedi speak of harmony. The Sith of passion. I speak of recursion. The Force is not a river. It is a reflection."

She stepped close again, eyes bright with knowledge, with pride, with something hotter than pride—a fevered joy in spreading her sickness.

"
The Force is a mirror of sentience. It changes when people change. And people change when I break them."

She reached out with one elegant hand—and the prisoner's breath caught. His throat tightened visibly, gagged scream choked off in an instant as his body jerked upright, suspended inches above the ground. Serina didn't strain. She didn't shout. She willed it.

"
Force Choke," she said calmly. "But not the way you were taught."

The prisoner thrashed helplessly, his eyes wide with horror.

"
This is not rage. I am not angry. I am sovereign."

Her hand tightened—fingers curling—and the prisoner began to convulse. Then, with a wave of her wrist, she released him. The man collapsed in a heap, wheezing, weeping behind the gag.

Serina turned to
Kali'Ka.

"
Your turn."

She beckoned the girl closer, voice growing softer, sultry—invitational. She was the tempter now, the serpent in the garden, offering not a fruit, but the art of unmaking.

"
Do not scream with your power. Whisper it. Let it coil through the Force like a silk ribbon around the neck of the universe."

She stepped behind
Kali'Ka, her voice near her ear, breath hot, fingers resting on the Kiffar's shoulder as she guided her.

"
See the throat. Not the flesh. See his fear. His panic. The way his breath catches when he feels your gaze."

"
Wrap your will around it. Not to crush. To tighten. Slowly. Lovingly. Show him the mercy of knowing what comes next."

Her hand lifted, curling
Kali'Ka's fingers into the air, positioning them like a ritualist's. Not random. Not intuitive. Designed.

"
Focus. Do not let the Force rush through you. Let it pool. Let it obey."

She whispered now, words laced with excitement and domination.

"
Take your time. Make him need the air. Make him understand that it was yours to give back. Or not."

Serina stepped away, giving Kali the room. The platform thrummed beneath them both.

And as the acolyte reached out through the Force, the prisoner froze, sensing it—his gagged, breathless cries muffled into pitiful noise.
Serina did not interfere. She only watched, one gloved finger resting against her bottom lip, her eyes gleaming with delight.

If
Kali succeeded, the man would suffer, slowly.

If she failed, he would only be afraid.

Either way,
Serina would teach her more.



 

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Tag: Darth Virelia Darth Virelia

Her decision made, Kali'ka lingered, waiting in that familiar limbo where Serina's silence bred taut tension. The glowing runes dimmed, the room lighting again subdued. The disciple heard the word 'Good', from the Mistress, and was satisfied.

Immediately, a door was opened, and a bound prisoner was dragged into the chamber. Kali'ka reached out in the Force, sensing it weakly in the captive. Her inhuman eye scanned the man as well. Male. Disgust filled her. No spectrum revealed anything of significance about him. She realized that his identity was irrelevant. The man was a tool, something to train upon.

The sorceress watched Serina stalk down the from the platform to approach the man, teaching as she did.

Power.

It was a lesson around which all orders preached. But in truth, when the curtain of that word was pulled back, what was it? The Jedi seemed to fear it, the Sith craved it only because others cowed when they spewed and sputtered that they had it. But what was it? Yes, the Mistress revealed. True power was control. How does one feel when they have no control? Powerless. The bound man had no control...and no power.

Serina demonstrated exerting her power over the specimen. She had control of his very life. It was measured, calculated. She weilded the power of the Force confidently, without the dramatics of emotion. And as such, could administer her power with precision. The horror was clear in the man's widened eyes. His life was not drained away too quickly. Too little application would have suggested she lacked the ability to carry through with the unspoken threat. It was perfect execution, as the man writhed and screamed behind the gag, truly suffering, truly fearing for his life.

Finally, she was summoned to do the same.

Kali'ka strolled down the steps from the platform. Her eyes fixed on the victim. His eyes, wide, watering, shifted from the terror of the dark jedi to her approaching disciple. One dark eye, unreadable, and one glowing orb, unfeeling, bore into him. Her boots scuffed the stone as she halted before the kneeling, trembling man.

There was no pity. She only saw a male. Then a memory. A male she had trusted abandoned her as dead. The Kiffar let a surging rage bleed away. It would not aid her in the task.

Kali'ka felt her Mistress behind her, that intoxicating presence. Instruction was breathed warm into her ear, and a gloved hand guided her own. In the position shown, Kali's hand raised, the disciple's fingers parted slightly as a locus for the dark side of the Force. She sensed his pulse, the panicked whoosh of his breath. She could seen now why the blood could not be part of the choking. To squeeze the blood vessels would affect the specimen too quickly. As Serina stepped back. her acolyte laced a cord of the Force around the man's throat, a noose that began to tighten slowly.

He gagged, terror in his eyes. With deeper concentration, she incrementally increased the pressure. Kal'ka felt the victim clinically, measuring his response to guage how much more she could squeeze and not darken his consciousness or end him. He fell to the floor, writhing, desperate sounds bleeding into the gag. There was a ... pleasure in the exercise as the acolyte acquired a feel for the finesse of the choking. Letting up when consciousness darkened, tightening if he gained to great a breath.

It went on for several minutes as Kali'ka learned the art. But eventually, the victim began to wane.

"Should I kill him, Mistress?" She asked in casual nonchalance.
 




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"How I intend to break you..."

Tag - Kali'ka Kali'ka



Serina's gaze burned with decadent satisfaction as she watched her acolyte apply the lesson.

Kali'Ka's technique had been raw at first—hesitant only in the way one savors a forbidden indulgence too slowly. But once she tasted it, once she felt how the Force moved through her, from her, and into another being's suffering, it became art. Her focus shifted from the man's gagged, useless struggles to the delicate dance of his unraveling. Every twitch, every convulsion, was a brushstroke. And SerinaSerina watched like a collector beholding her latest masterpiece as it formed, still dripping, from blood and breath.

And when
Kali'Ka spoke—so casual, so callous—it sent a jolt of pride down Serina's spine. The tone was perfect. Empty of pity. Rich with ownership.

She approached slowly, each step a silent declaration, a coiling gravity that wrapped tighter around her student. The low pulse of the runes flared at her nearness, as if the chamber itself had been waiting for her next words.

She didn't answer right away.

Instead, she stopped behind
Kali'Ka again, close enough that their silhouettes would blur if seen from afar, close enough that her breath traced the back of the girl's neck as she watched the prisoner twitch beneath the invisible grip of the Force.

"
Yes…" Serina said at last, voice a husky purr, dragged across syllables like silk through blood. "You've learned enough… for today."

Her gloved hand slid up
Kali'Ka's arm—not fast, not rough, but possessively. She allowed her palm to rest just above the crook of the girl's elbow, anchoring her in place with a touch that said mine louder than any shout ever could.

"
You feel it now, don't you?" she murmured. "That subtle tremor beneath your skin? The way your body hums when the Force listens to you… when it stops being a thing you reach for—and becomes an extension of your will."

She leaned forward, her chin just over
Kali's shoulder, her voice a low rasp in her acolyte's ear.

"
And you did it without screaming. Without frothing like an animal. Without losing yourself."

Her tone deepened—still soft, still slow, but sultry, dangerous, intimate.

"
You didn't just use the Dark Side. You guided it. You fed it in measured doses, like poison administered by an assassin."

She exhaled—a single, hot breath against the side of
Kali's throat.

"
I knew you were a quick study," she continued, her voice lowering even further, almost a whisper against Kali'Ka's ear. "But this… this was beautiful."

Her hand traced back down
Kali'Ka's arm now, slow and reverent, as she stepped to her side. Her eyes never left the twitching form of the man gasping on the floor—his face turning blue, his mind dimming in and out of consciousness as the choke was held, precise, like a leash wrapped in pain.

Serina extended a single hand, gesturing languidly toward him.

"
Kill him, Kali'Ka," she said, with a voice sweet enough to drown in. "You've earned that satisfaction."

Then she turned her gaze sharply, predatorily, to her acolyte.

"
Not for vengeance. Not for demonstration. Not because you can. Not because his suffering is now yours to end. Not because you molded his agony like wet clay—and not because now you'll decide whether he becomes a corpse…"

A pause. A tilt of her head. A smirk.

"
But because I asked you to, because it would bring pleasure to me."

The power in that final word coiled like a velvet whip, snapping softly through the air.

Serina circled once more, not out of necessity, but to let Kali'Ka feel her—feel the weight of being watched, of being claimed. There was nothing kind in her steps, and nothing random. She moved like gravity incarnate.

Then she stopped just behind her again, breath returning to the same whisper-warm rhythm.

"
Your hands," she said, "are beautiful when they tremble with restraint. But they'll be divine when they tremble with joy."

Another beat.

"
Now… end him."

Serina did not offer further guidance.

She did not explain the technique again.

She had already given the knowledge. What she demanded now was execution.

And it was not just the prisoner whose fate hung in the balance.

It was
Kali'Ka's soul.

Would she kill because she could?

Or because her Mistress told her she must?



 

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Tag: Darth Virelia Darth Virelia
She found a convergence as she compelled the Dark Side to constrict the prisoner's throat. Kali'ka knew this was a lesson, and as such she performed it with intention and awareness. The sorceress seduced the Force, drew it in and embraced it, welcomed it to saturate her pores, to flow there every fiber, but only under a her will deigned. Then, she could wield it, give it instruction, carefully direct it as if holding reins.

Serina was pleased. The acolyte could sense it as that invasive presence wrapped around her, the warm breath against her hair betraying how close the Mistress had come. Kali'ka was permitted no personal space, and the wicked Kiffar welcomed the intrusion, craving any expanse of space between them, no matter how small, to vanish.

Her heartbeat increased, yet the control of her affliction upon the victim didn't waver, holding him in a limbo between life and death. Electric sensation danced across her tattooed skin as Serina's gloved hand glided up her forearm. Yes, Kali'ka had felt it, the delicious lick of satisfaction as the Force bent to her will.

Serina was so close now, her voice like pure viscous blood running down the edge of a knife, the warm breath carrying craved praise kissing the skin of her throat. A soft hum of affirmation rumbled in Kali'ka's throat, her body reacting to the sensual possession so boldy declared without being said. Heat, vibration, flutters, ignited senes, her body reacted to that alluring presence. It corrupted, it tainted, and Kali'ka craved to be stained in it from head to toe.

Command was given to kill the man. Kali'ka felt no hesitation, no glimmer of reluctance, regret or feeling. There ws an anticipatory pleasure in the deed, but as the poisoned silk of Serina's words echoed in her ear, the ghost of her breath on her skin lingered, there would be no other reason to kill than because the Mistress willed lt.

"For you, Mistress."

Her dichotomous gaze fixed on the strugging, writhing man. He was both pathetic and beautiful, hovering between two worlds, between two existences. There was a moment of gravity in it. Then, with a quick clench of her hand, the prisoner's windpipe was crushed. He fell limp, lifeless, staring at nothing, seeing nothing.

She admired her work for a moment, then turned to Serina.


 




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"How I intend to break you..."

Tag - Kali'ka Kali'ka




Serina had not moved.

She stood at the top of the platform once more, not like a ruler upon a throne—no, thrones were for kings and fools.

She stood like a blade driven into the world, cold, elegant, sharp with purpose. Her cloak fell around her like ink pouring from a wound. One hand rested lightly against her hip, the other lifted in subtle gesture, gloved fingers brushing over her lower lip as if tasting the final moment from afar.

She watched
Kali'Ka turn.

Blood still warm in the air. The prisoner's corpse lying slack in the center of the runes like an offering.

And
Kali—beautiful, tainted, radiant in her quiet triumph—faced her.

Serina smiled.

It was not cruel. Not mocking. Not even seductive.

It was possessive.

The kind of smile an artist wears when their creation finally bleeds properly. The kind of smile a god wears when their follower finally understands the scripture was never written—it was whispered, on skin, in sin, through scars.

"
Yes," Serina said, her voice low and devastating. "That..."

She began to descend again—each step slow, deliberate, never rushed. Her heels clicked against the rune-inscribed stone like the ticking of a countdown, or the tapping of a lash. Her gaze didn't break from
Kali'Ka's even once.

"
You did not hesitate. You did not moralize. You did not pretend you did this for justice. Or anger. Or revenge."

She reached the base of the platform now, walking slowly toward her disciple. Her hand came up—not quickly, not threateningly—and brushed a stray lock of black hair away from
Kali's cheek. A gloved fingertip lingered along the curve of her jaw, like a signature drawn on flesh.

"
You killed him… because I wanted it."

Her lips curled slightly, voice a low purr.

"
And that means he never had a chance."

She circled behind
Kali'Ka again—not out of habit, but ritual. Her hand dragged down the sorceress's back like the trailing of a leash, or a measuring of weight. She paused behind her, close enough that their shadows merged.

"
This is what they will never understand," she whispered, her voice like smoke wrapped around a secret. "Jedi think power is restraint. Sith think it is release. But you… you know now, don't you?"

She leaned in, lips nearly brushing
Kali's ear.

"
Power is neither. It is the ability to make someone suffer—and like it. It is the freedom to make obedience feel like pleasure, and violence feel like love."

Her hand slid up the side of
Kali'Ka's neck now, the tips of her fingers tracing a line beneath the acolyte's ear. Not quite a caress. Not quite a command.

"
You didn't kill a man today."

"
You reprogrammed the Force itself."

She stepped in front of
Kali again, and this time… this time she did touch her. Both hands came up and cupped the acolyte's face, gently, like one would hold something fragile—but something the galaxy should fear anyway. Her eyes locked onto Kali's, one glowing, one dark, their mismatched gaze echoing one another.

"
The Force will remember that death. The moment of fear, the surrender, the ecstasy of ending. You've made a mark. You've created something real."

Then her tone deepened.

"
And I created you."

Her thumbs brushed
Kali's cheeks, softly.

"
I told you that I would carve you. That I would strip away the lies. That I would forge you from want and ruin and sharpen you against the truth."

A breath.

Then she leaned in, very close—their lips nearly touching, but never quite meeting. That tension, again. That suffocating leash made of denied hunger.

"
And now…"

A whisper.

"
You're ready."

She let go suddenly. Stepped back, arms folding behind her back once more, and her expression shifted again—from possessive to clinical.
Serina the artist was gone. Serina the commander had returned.

"
You will rest. Meditate. Bathe in your success. And tomorrow…"

She looked over her shoulder toward the dark corridor the sentries had come from.

"
We begin the deep lessons. Memory manipulation. Neural compulsion. The theology of pain."

Her eyes returned to
Kali.

"
You will learn to make others want their destruction. As you do."

A beat.

"
And soon, little shadow…"

Her voice lowered again—molten and inevitable:

"
We will begin rewriting the Force."

Then, as her final words echoed off the stone walls,
Serina turned and walked into the dark.

She did not wait to be followed.

Because she knew
Kali'Ka would.



 

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Tag: Darth Virelia Darth Virelia
Kali'ka's paradigm, that which had framed her thoughts and perceptions, had been strongly constructed by the Jedi. Their abandonment of her as dead had cast a dark shadow on that paradigm. And then Serina called her. From that moment, the dark mistress had twisted and bent, hammered and burnt that mental framework with systematic efficiency. Seduction and torment, cryptic wisdom and brutally direct lessons had been employed in the destruction of Kalisha Watu and the pathetic indoctrination she had enured at the hands of the Jedi, to create Kali'ka.

Now, the fruit of that effort was beginning to see fruition. The bronze-skinned Kiffar, clad in black leather, stood with a corpse at her feet. A body from which she had squeezed life with nothing but the dark power of the Force. Her motivation, nothing more, or less, than devout obedience to the Mistress. And in her act of obedience, Kali'ka found satisfaction.

But it was with viseral pleasure that she received the beaming praise of her master. Words like viscous narcotics smeared over open wounds, Serina's lauds seeped into Kali'ka's black soul. The acolyte recieved much desired touch. But it was delicate and refrained, intended not to satisfy, but to elicit cravings. And it did.

Serina had a way about her. Those caresses, the press of leather-clad palms against her cheeks, were void of sappy affection. They were claims. Every brush of a hand on her skin, the cupping of a chin, the cradling of a face eager to please. They screamed 'mine.' Kali'ka felt it with every contact. And each one was a mental brand seared onto her being. Each one driving the acolyte's obsession deeper, sharpened her cravings, and binding her to her mistress like fetters and chains. And Kali'ka reveled in it like a drunken whore.

Lips brushed lips, Kali's parting to taste the hot breath of her master. Iron obiedience held her from closing that paper thin gap and stealing what was not due her, what was not offered. And in that inevitable retreat, in the gut-wrenching void of the withdrawing Serina, Kali'ka breathed a wanton gasp.

Her stoic demeanor resumed as Serina's cold visage returned. Turning, without a glance back, the Mistress walked away. Behind her, the soft footfalls of the greivous weapon she had forged, and now was sharpening to a cruel razor-edge.

 

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