Campaign Call to Banners | COV

[Celt Saxon]

Location: Rekav'dral Keep, Tor Valum
Objective: Objective 1
Tag: Romul Saxon Vren Rook Carduul Akahl Brent Warnel
Equipment: In bio

Celt bowed her head at the compliment from her Alor, she prided herself in bringing strength to her clan. And then he asked for Tihar. She snapped her fingers and the small group of punitive neophytes that accompanied her got into action brining the pair and anyone else that wanted some a drink.

She grinned and took her seat. "Acts of service as a punishment, not my worst idea ever.". She joked to the older Alor as the youngsters served them and she politely dismissed them to enjoy the festivities until called upon again.

"The clan is ready. There are a few that have been more reluctant to leave home, but the overall mood is excited." she took a large swig of of drink and then relaxed. "Several of the clan had plans for this stay on Kestri, myself included." it was no secret between them that Celt was feeling the pull of her maternal instinct, keen to continue the next generation of Saxons. "If we survive this you might have to do the job yourself." this was not a romantic proposition, this was about legacy and honor, the tone she used was entirely neutral and serious, as if it was something as mundane as the command of a ship she was asking as her reward for continued loyalty.

Then her tone broke and she returned to the playful and joyous mood of the day as another of their vod joined the table. She leaned back as romul questioned Brent Warnel and Jaikell Wyrvhor about their past. She picked up an apple and bit into it waiting for their answer.

 

[Vara Rasha]

THE FOUNDLING
Kestri | Tor Valum
Equipment: In Bio
Tags: Thyr Kyron | Kjartan Hammer-Hand | Open for More

Myrkr​

"Credits aren't worth much to me," she said flatly.

"Bring back to me an exotic piece of material for Sith space that I might reforge for our vode, and I will consider your debt paid."

Thyr’s words drew a small sound from Vara. Intrigue. An eyebrow quirked up. The once-street rat caught the armorer’s deflection without effort. She couldn’t escape her, and not many could – there wasn’t a galaxy out there in the great beyond where creds didn’t matter.

A smile wrinkled the corners of her eyes before long. Crimsons flickered with a kind of warmth rarely allowed to surface. Barred, save for her closest comrades and her lover.

Then, she spoke.

”Aight! Sure thing!” Her hand snapped forth, this time for a handshake. The Foundling’s grasp caught The Forgemaster’s. Her grasp firm, she squeezed harder than one would for a fleeting moment before drawing away.

Afterwards, the woman leaned back into the chair, legs outstretched. One ankle draped over the other, head bopping to the melodies of a song inside her head. Boredom seized Vara while she watched Thyr toiled away with the chestpiece.

Restlessness crept in. She moved.

Her focus snapped back. Shifting, soles scraped over the stone. ”Man I’m karkin’ parched, sis. Y’thirsty?” a snort huffed from her snout, barely a breath. Without waiting for Thyr’s answer, she reached for a canteen hanging from her hip.

Thud.

Vara set it in front of her on the workstation, its contents sloshing around before settling. ”Tihaar!” she dipped down, digits curled around her empty tankard on the ground by her feet. The wood squeaked as she rose from the chair. ”I’ll drop by again, see ya in a few!” She flashed Thyr a smile. The light of a nearby hearth gleamed from her golden fang before leaving the Forgemaster to her own devices.

Crimson eyes settled on the bar within the great hall. A massive, stone-sculpt structure in the center, surrounded from all sides by her kin. Some exchanged laughter, some exchanged stories, opinions and ideas for their reason to gather here today – all drank heartily.

But a figure sat starkly amongst them. She’d seen him before. Met him. The beskar of his armor glared like silver, ornately composed and machined with remarkable detail of patterning and runes. Dents and scratches adorned it in equal measure. The pelt of a great beast she could not name hung heavy on his shoulders. Its hide weathered through innumerable trials of combat.

Like its bearer.

Kjartan.

A smile peeling back her maw, the young foundling cut towards him. ”Hey, Kjartan!” The Harpy greeted her with a smile. She sat down at the stool right beside the Hammer-hand’s, gesturing to the barkeep for a refill of their drinks. She turned to him after. ”So how’s it goin’ big guy?” a crooked smirk flickered across Vara’s lips. ”An' why the long face? Y’couldn’t find any ugnaught ladies t'mess around with?” a chuckle rolled from her throat, low and rough as she poked him with the quip.

Break the ice. Get the measure of him.

It was unusual to see the giant of a man so somber. Something weighed heavily in his mind and it was clear as day. The leather of the stool crackled softly under her as she leaned closer, allowing a modicum of respect for personal space. ”...Y’wanna talk about it?” her head dipped, voice losing its edge. Crimson eyes held on him.

Waiting.


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