Private Ark and Omens

[Kael Varr Basteil Skirata]

The Iron Citadel
Tag: Warpriest Prime

Kael was learning so much about the Mandalorian Empire, from accepting Adelle Bastiel's offer to join Clan Skirata, to joining the Iron Wolves, to hearing of his own Verd'goten coming soon. That ceremony loomed large in his mind, and so he had come here, where there were rumors that he could finally trade his false beskar'gam for something proper, something substantial. He let his senses guide his steps, probing deeper into the heart of the city station. The deeper he went, the air seemed charged with potential, tinged with something dark, and poweful.

 

[Warpriest Prime]

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O B J E C T I V E | Chronicle the Battle of Yaga Minor
L O C A T I O N | The Iron Ark - Grand Study Hall
G E A R | Gjallerhorn | Beskar'gam | Glyphscript Anvil

Kael Varr Basteil Skirata ​

The Ark did not sleep.

Its vast ancestral halls thrummed with low, devotional energy, banners hanging heavy between towering columns carved with the names of the long dead. Incense drifted in pale ribbons toward the vaulted ceiling, where dim starlight filtered through armored viewports. The battle over Yaga Minor had ended, but its echoes lingered here, pressed into stone and steel alike.

Dima sat at the heart of it.

Not upon a throne, but something close enough to argue semantics. Her massive frame was folded into a high-backed iron chair etched with scripture, claws dug deep into the armrests as clerics and scribes moved in disciplined currents around her. Datapads chimed softly. Scrolls unfurled. Witness accounts were recited in steady, reverent tones.

Numbers. Losses. Munitions spent. Ships crippled. Names of the fallen spoken with ritual weight.

She listened.

She did not flinch.

Instead of drowning herself in celebration and spoils, she had chosen this. The quieter labor. The sacred one. Chronicling. Ensuring that the noble hearts of iron who had stood unyielding beneath fire were etched into memory with the dignity they deserved.

"There," she muttered, scratching another sweeping line across the parchment before her. " Aether Verd did not simply advance. He cleaved through opposition like a comet given wrathful purpose."

A scribe coughed gently.

Dima paused.

"...With notable tactical aggression," the scribe amended carefully, stylus already correcting.

Dima clicked her tongue but allowed it.

She wrote of Adelle Bastiel next, the ink flowing faster as her enthusiasm mounted. The courage. The grit. The way she had held her ground when retreat would have been easier. Dima's version involved firestorms and impossible odds. The clerics negotiated it back to "overwhelming resistance."

Then Korda Veydran .

Her tone shifted there. Less theatrical. More deliberate. Sacrifice inked heavier than glory. She ensured Korda's name occupied its own illuminated margin, framed in scripture and ironwork motif. Some deeds deserved quiet reverence, not bombast.

Hours passed unnoticed. The creative storm caught her fully, five eyes alight as she narrated sweeping victories and crushing defeats with equal fervor. The scribes worked tirelessly to sand her exaggerations into polished truth without stripping them of spirit.

Eventually, she leaned back with a satisfied sigh, finishing a line mid-thought like a deliberate cliffhanger.

"...and thus the tide turned, not by fate alone, but by the unbreakable will of-"

She stopped.

Perfect.

Scrolls were folded. Datapads gathered. Clergymen moved in to collect the materials, tidying the study with quiet efficiency as Dima stretched, vertebrae popping audibly. From within her cloak she produced a cigar, thick and dark, rolling it between her claws before setting it to her lips. A small spark flared from her fingertip, igniting the tip in a low glow.

She took a long drag, exhaling a plume that curled toward the ceiling like a lazy spirit.

A knock.

Her eyes shifted toward the great doors.

"Enter," she called, smoke trailing from her mouth as the doors swung inward.

A new figure stood there. Fresh faced. Fresh posture. The faint tension of someone who had not yet decided how close was too close.

Dima regarded him for a long, assessing moment before gesturing lazily with the cigar.

"Now then," she said, voice warm with faint amusement, "what brings you to Prime, hmm? As you can see,"

She glanced at the stacks of scrolls, the lingering incense, the scribes still clearing the last of the records.

"I'm a busy woman."

 

[Kael Varr Basteil Skirata]

The Ark
Kael stood there, taking in this very large individual. It took him a few moments for his mind to catch up with the present moment. He was careful to keep his eyes lowered respectfully, as he hadn't been around many others but had learned quickly in recent days when to look powerful individuals in the eye. He had his mask off, letting her see his face and note his youth and inexperience, hoping that it would earn him some grace while in her presence.

He spoke plainly, not trying to flatter with extra words or platitudes. "I was told you made some of the best armor and weapons that the Empire knows. I will also tell you from the outset that I have little in the way of credits. However, if you could make me some armor and weapons. I would do what I could labor-wise to help in their creation, and I would count myself in your debt, Understanding of course, I would need to survive to pay that debt back." He would lay his plastoid armor before this Forge Mistress, and his weapons, a plasma energy bow and two vibromachete. "I am told I am at least moderately adept in the force, though my focuses are more of a talent with heighting my senses and reactions and hiding myself from the senses of others when I hunt."