158 - 280 ABY: Diary of a 1000 Year Old Sangnir
- Rolled [1d10] - [1d6] = [7] - [6] = [+6]
- Previous position: [1]
- New Position: [1] + [+6] = 7
- Changes to Character Sheet:
- Skill gained: War-Form (Sangnir Highblood)
The First Shedding
Year: 158 ABY
They buried themselves in my home.
Six of them. Looters. Grave-pickers with blasters and spice-glint in their teeth.
They came for scrap, not survivors. when they saw the armor, charred black, and called me a ghost.
I may as well be.
I was bleeding still. I had not eaten since the the attack... and... the rite with Blackvein after...
I had not spoken since I woke. I could barely walk, yet they mocked. Called out for drinks. One promised to wear my helm as a codpiece.
I remember rage, and then I became something that was not me anymore.
I heard it first. My back broke open.
The plates of my ruined jetpack split. It was pain, but also release. Wings. Emerged from confining, charred beskar. Flesh – taut, leathery, veined with blood redder than blood. My jaw cracked and distended, the confining helm peeled off in fury. Claws spilled from my hands.
I remember blaster fire hitting the still-scored Beskar and sizzling my new flesh. I didn't feel it, or didn't care. His arms came off. I plucked them like fruit off a vine.
I remember the scream of the one who begged. He was the last. He said they weren't with the group that attacked, that they didn't shoot the foundlings. He said he was just here scavenging for power cores.
I pulled him apart like a pomegranate.
I drank from what was inside. I felt better.
Afterwards, I hid. Back into the ruins. The claws eventually retracted. The wings receded.
I understand now.
This is why Mavrad spoke in riddles. Not just to confuse a dying man, not because he is some wise, ancient thing. Because it hurts to speak plainly with a mouth like this, fangs like these.
I hid in the ruins of my home for what felt like countless days, wandering the crypts and leaving only when hunger drove me to search for prey. I was more beast than man in those early months.
I was not made immortal.
I was made monstrous.
I was made monstrous.
- Rolled [1d10] - [1d6] = [6] - [2] = [+4]
- Previous position: [7]
- New Position: [7] + [+4] = 11
- Changes to Character Sheet:
- Skill Lost: Rising Phoenix
The Sky is for the Living
Years: 159-160 ABY
I tried not to feed again.
I lasted five days.
The ruins were cold and tasted like carbon and silence. Even the fire-smell had fled.
I buried the bones of the bodies. Or what was left of them, at least. I found my uncle’s forge beneath the scorched stone and slept inside the crucible. I was blood-starved and I thought it might burn me clean.
It didn’t.
The hunger is always there now.
Not a pang. Not a craving. A pull. Like orbit. Even when I do not move, I fall toward it.
The ruins of my home became an omen. Travellers would not pass near, scavengers stopped daring to approach. It was haunted by the skulking, hungry thing I had become.
I had to feed. I ventured out, further and further. When I had some semblance of sanity back in my mind I tried to stick to bounty heads wanted dead, scum, villains, foes who no one would notice were consumed to sate my sanguine thirst.
It was sickening. It was against the Supercommando Codex, against what my clan once stood for.
Worst of all was the Vevut'tal name fading slowly as the months passed.
I made a vow.
I cut the seals from my jetpack.
Tore the ignition harness out with my bare hands. I will not fly again. Not until I can control this hunger. I will not dishonor the legacy of my clan to be a predator that decends from the skies to feed on the helpless in the night.
If I rise, let it be with the wings I did not ask for.
There is no sky in the crypt.
And that is where I belong.
And that is where I belong.
- Rolled [1d10] - [1d6] = [10] - [2] = [+8]
- Previous position: [11]
- New Position: [11] + [+8] = 19
- Changes to Character Sheet:
- Skill checked: Close Combat
- Resource gained: Vibroclaw Gauntlet
☽ H E A R T B L O O D ☾
Location: Keldab Vevut'tal, Ordo's Grave, Moridinae
Years: 160–163 ABY
"Ni skanah cuyir kyr’am, Nando."
He was laughing when he said it. Burn-scarred and swaying in the scrapyard pit, blood in his teeth and pride in his stance. I hadn’t heard my own name in four years.
I found Byrel first. Still loud. Still kicking. Still... warm. He pulled me into a headlock and said I smelled like a poodoo. Said I still looked "tragically like a poet, somehow." Then offered me a drink like we weren’t both supposed to be dead.
Kessari came next.
I tracked her to a ghost station at the edge of Ordo’s Grave, half-listening to old slicer codes and rumors passed like rumors of hauntings.
She didn’t say my name.
She just looked at me. Then wrapped her scarf around my wrist like it was a leash. We didn’t talk about the cube. We didn’t talk about Him. She never asked what I’d become. We let ourselves pretend the last decade never happened.
Uncle Torik didn’t need finding.
He walked into the ruins one night without sound or greeting. Tossed a field-forged tool kit at my feet. "If you’re alive," he muttered, "the forge needs hands."
That was it. That was all. I’d waited four to see another Vevut'tal. Immediate got a job.
Together, we tried to build something.
Then the cube destroyed it.
Byrel wanted it opened, to rebuild what we could. Torik called it sacred, and wouldn't see the last remnants of our clan lost in our attempt.
They fought. Words first, then blades.
I ended it before one of them bled out. Not in time for trust to survive. The clan was already gone. The cube wouldn't save anything if kin drew Beskad at kin.
I told them I would seal it away.
I didn’t.
I copied the cube. Dug deep into it. Deeper than I should’ve.
Found something down there: a prototype from before the fall. A relic meant for close war, for survival, buried with a past Alor.
I wear it now—a single blackened vibroclaw gauntlet. I still search the Datacube. To fill the time. I no longer work the forge with Uncle. He grows older each time I see him.
I have grown unusually tall, but not older.
As for Kessari, Byrel...
They're still out there.
Somewhere.
Someday, I'll see them again.
Somewhere.
Someday, I'll see them again.
- Rolled [1d10] - [1d6] = [2] - [2] = [+0]
- Previous position: [19]
- New Position: [19] + [+0] = 19
- Changes to Character Sheet:
- Character killed: Blackvein
☽ M O N S T E R ☾
Location: Vhar’tarak Tombship, Deep Ordo Expanse
Years: 163–167 ABY
"Gar kyrayc ibic jate—meh gar rejorhaa'ir gar verd, ni cuyir gar aru'e."
They didn’t flinch when I told them what I was.
Byrel just shrugged and lit a cigarra. Kessari kissed me on the cheek and said she already knew. Uncle didn’t say a word—but the next day he reforged my vambrace. It no longer bore our proverb. Just a singular line, etched shallow but clean:
"Return what was taken."
It was Kessari who found the link. A Jedi report, encrypted. The attackers who broke Keldab Vevut'tal weren’t random raiders. They were drawn to the vaults by Him. Blackvein. Mavrad the Silent. My... sire.
Tirzah died in the fires he lit.
That was all I needed.
The hunt took years.
He’d retreated to a derelict Sith tomb-ship, forgotten in the deep Ordo Expanse. A floating ossuary of bone-white durasteel and broken statues, thick with cursed air. A Sangnir warren. We cut through abominations that wore our faces, starved spawn feeding off false memories. We bled. We nearly turned on each other. Uncle lost an eye. Byrel nearly lost his heart.
And then I found him.
Throne of teeth. Wings of ash. A sword like a single, long fang.
Mavrad Blackvein—Highblood of the outer Sangnir courts—had waited for me. Proud. Patient. Disappointed.
He whispered as we circled, claw on claw.
"I raised you to endure eternity. And you bring witnesses to your failure."
I answered with a scream that cracked hull plating.
We became beasts.
A storm of bone and shrieking wings. I drove him into the walls. He bit through my arm. My blood ate through his flesh. Our claws locked. Teeth shattered. I ripped his sword from his grasp and buried it in his chest—then carved upward through where his heart should have been.
He died slow. Not screaming. Just... watching. As if he knew someth I didn't. Disappointed, almost
When I crawled out of the wreck, I was heavier. Taller. Blood-slick and ash-toothed. Kessari reached for me. I flinched, but she didn’t.
Byrel just said, "Ibic jate ca'nara."
I no longer hear Blackvein in my blood. The silence is worse. I will never truly know what I am without him.
But I know what he was.
And I won't myself become that.
- Rolled [1d10] - [1d6] = [10] - [3] = [+7]
- Previous position: [19]
- New Position: [19] + [+7] = 26
- Changes to Character Sheet:
- Character made immortal: Kessari Faln
- Skill Checked: Relic Appraisal
- Moved Memory 5 to Diary: Holocron of Sangir Saga
☽ S I L V E R T H R E A D ☾
Location: Vevut'tal Ruins, Moridinae
Years: 167–172 ABY
"Tion'jor cuyir olaror, cuyir ni'gaanar."
Uncle’s forge cooled the day he died. I stayed with him until the heat went out of his bones, until his chest stopped rising with that breath that always sounded like scorn. There was no fire in the sky, no funeral pyre. Just silence.
Kessari stayed after.
Byrel had gone offworld months before chasing some bounty or ghost or girl who never gave him her real name. I didn’t ask.
I kept the forge running on memory. Kessari tinkered with the Cube like it might hum a different answer the next time. We were both... tired.
We slept in shifts. Ate what we could stomach. Avoided mirrors. Avoided questions.
But I could feel it—the dread.
She was aging. And I wasn’t.
And that was the shape of it, wasn’t it? Not love, not exactly. Just fear. Just hunger. Just... time.
The night it happened we didn’t speak.
We hadn’t spoken for weeks.
But I fed, and she bled, and in the stillness she kissed me like it wasn’t the last thing she’d ever feel.
It wasn’t supposed to happen. I knew what not to do. She knew what to ask for.
But instincts are cruel things.
She didn’t scream. Didn’t beg.
She thanked me.
Kessari Faln died a slicer with tired eyes and a blaster under her pillow.
She rose... something else. Too fast. Too soon. The blood hadn’t even dried on her collar. I tried to hold her. I tried to help her through it.
But I could feel her skin cooling beneath mine.
She wasn’t my Kessari anymore.
She was mine.
She asked for a name. I told her, “You keep yours.”
She smiled. But her fangs were already longer than mine had ever been.
Now, she reads the cube in silence, and I can’t tell if it speaks back.
- Rolled [1d10] - [1d6] = [5] - [3] = [+2]
- Previous position: [26]
- New Position: [26] + [+2] = 28
- Changes to Character Sheet:
- Character no longer dead: Tirzah Dey'Kar
- Skill Checked: War-Form
☽ A BURNING MEMORY ☾
Location: Ruins of D’kar Station, Outer Rim Wastes
Years: 173–179 ABY
"Ni copaanir bic at cuyir olaror."
He stood where I thought I saw a ghost.
Tirzah Dey’Kar. Older. Worn thin from years alone. But still with that half-smirk like the galaxy never quite earned their full grin.
They didn’t flinch when I said their name.
They flinched when I didn’t recall my own. Nando, I had called myself. Veral of clan Vevut'tal seemed so long past. So too was the pet name Tirzah had given me.
It took three days of painful half-hidden reunion before Tirzah told me the truth. They cut the deal.
They begged Mavrad to spare me.
He did, in a way. He made me eternal.
Tirzah wept when I said nothing.
My silence must have hurt worse than blades.
Kessari heard us.
She always hears me when I whisper.
She stood in the dark behind the vault door, listening.
Then she moved.
The scream came before the strike.
Fangs bared. Armor half-buckled.
She came at Tirzah like a revenant possessed — no hesitation, no thought, ready to kill.
I stopped her mid-lunge.
My War-Form took over like instinct.
Claws out. Wings scraping ceiling. My jaw locked just inches from her throat.
Tirzah saw it all.
Me.
The monster.
The thing they indirectly created.
I never got the chance to say goodbye.
They fled, with a look of terror on their face. A look I wish I could forget.
I didn't want that to be the last sight I saw of him. I didn't want this to be the last thing he saw of me.
Tirzah was gone.
They took nothing except whatever was still left of me that hadn't already died.
Kessari wept after.
Not for him.
For me.
Because she saw the truth too.
Not for him.
For me.
Because she saw the truth too.
- Rolled [1d10] - [1d6] = [7] - [4] = [+3]
- Previous position: [28]
- New Position: [28] + [+3] = 31
- Changes to Character Sheet:
- Characters now died of old age:
- Tirzah Dey'Kar
- Byrel Saun
- Characters now died of old age:
☽ I N T E R R E D ☾
Location: Keldab Vevut'tal, Moridinae
Years: 180–280 ABY
"Meg cuyir buir? Meg cuyir vod? Meg cuyir ni?"
Byrel is gone.
His voice, his grin, the way he’d kick my knee when I brooded too long... all gone. Dust and echoes. I never saw the body. Just the word of it, passed through Kessari’s half-hearted letters before she left for good.
Tirzah—Tirzah came back only to be taken again. I let them walk away, knowing I’d never follow.
And now? Now they’ve died somewhere I can’t find, and the stars won’t even whisper a direction.
I don’t know what year it is.
I only know the ache doesn’t change.
Kessari...
I think she knew I couldn’t bear it. I think that’s why she left when she did. Before I asked her to stay. Before I cursed her again.
She asked me once, if I remembered what it was like to breathe. I think she saw that I didn’t.
The forge is cold.
The datacube is quiet.
The last flicker of my clan's sigil fades with each decade.
And I?
I am just a thing now. A story with too many pages torn out.
So I make my own end.
I descend into the lowest vault. Where Mavrad once slept, where the ceiling weeps blood and time forgets. I seal the door behind me.
Slivers of beskar, welded in place. Runes to fool the Force.
Salt. Bone. Fireglass.
I will not rise again.
Not for this world.
Not unless the stars remember my name.
This is the last breath of Veral Vevut’tal,
and the still heart of Nando the Mando.
and the still heart of Nando the Mando.
