Junction Feast of Iron and Honor | THR & ME Junction of Nessantico & Empty Hex

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Nessantico, Mid Rim

Itzhal extended his hand with quiet patience, a level of composure that could only be carved into place after countless decades of struggle against uncertainty and fears, eventually beaten back with a confidence built over years of hardship. A tilt of his helmet, observant, watched as the seconds slipped by. Adelle's words followed shortly afterwards, hesitant at first, gaining strength with every syllable, until the hesitation melted away under the closing remarks of her greeting and her ally's steady presence.

It had been some time since he'd encountered a foundling, still fresh to the culture and language that bound their people together. Not unlike himself in his earliest days, a time so long ago that sometimes he struggled to fathom that it had been decades, though to most it would be accurate to say centuries.

"A pleasure," He offered with the release of their grip, his gaze shifting from Adelle to her clan-mate as the greeting was repeated and shared.

The last charge consumed all further conversation, a shared breath held in reserve. A thousand eyes lingered upon their two champions, paused in the moment between victory and defeat, offered in sacrifice to the altar of entertainment and glory. Beasts of war, dressed in noble attire, bared their warriors forward in galloping strides that tore the distance to shreds, reckless and graceful in turn, a display of skill that could only be admired, tainted with the promise of impending violence.

Their collision was thunderous, the crack of lances, metal crushed under the impact, and the sound muffled beneath the deafening roar of the ravenous crowd. A relentless horde of sound and ecstatic joy, vibrating in a chaotic mess, determined to rupture eardrums and sunder the stands beneath their feet with their vigour, a wave of energy left the structure creaking and bending, valiant under the assault of a chaotic tide that cheered and groaned.

Yet, the hollow thump of Siv Kryze's landing reverberated outwards, momentous in the wake of victory torn from their grasp.

Itzhal observed, solemn in respect for the slow-rising champion. His offering to the victor, a slight tilt of his helm, an acknowledgement that he did not expect returned, nor even seen amongst the chaos. His regard was no showpiece, to be cheered like the extravagant displays of a bard.

They watched, patient and silent, as their choice proved themselves once again with valour.

"They did well," Itzhal stated, an undercurrent of approval that shone despite how quiet he spoke. "It would appear, however, that I've lost our wager."

Tags: Adelle Bastiel​

 

[Raylin Fall]

Rik Perris missed.​

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

The last quiver of the strike vibrated through her lance arm as her Basilisk came to a skidding stop with a thunderous exhale of steam from its repulsors whining down from the charge. The golden light of its sensors flickered once, then twice as it seemed to completely relax, the droid recognising the match was over.

Bastila however turned so she could look back at where the lance had connected with Siv Kryze , her eyes narrowing to make out his shape among the still settling dust.

He had taken the hit harder than the others she had thrown. She had felt it through the impact, through the line of her shoulders, through the sudden wrench of force that nearly tore her own reins loose. Now, as she watched him stand from where he had been knocked to the floor with, she felt something warm settle in her.

Respect.

Her hand lifted to remove her visor, hooking fingers beneath the edge until the lock disengaged. She raised it slowly, before unfastening the clasps beneath it to allow her to slide it away from her face completely, it all became obvious the flush in her cheeks, the faint tremor of high adrenaline still rippling through her, the quiet, almost reverent steadiness in her gaze.

She swung down from the saddle in one smooth motion. Her boots hit the earth with a muted thud, the shock rattling up her spine, the non-stop jousting having caused several muscle cramps, but she didn’t show it. She stepped toward him, closing the last few meters as the world around them roared like a storm held barely at bay.

The crowd had devolved into an ecstatic frenzy; Mandalorians chanting her name in surprised approval, they intermingled with the Republic delegations cheering as if a single strike rewrote politics, and younglings waving improvised flags made from scraps of banners. Heat rose from the sand, torches whipped in the wind, and somewhere above it all someone was shouting something triumphant and unintelligible through laughter and sheer relief.

Bastila ignored all of it.

Her focus narrowed to the single figure before her; the Mandalorian who had met her strength with strength, will with will, honor with honor.

Siv held his hand out. Steady and offered truly.

Bastila paused in front of him. Her breath slowed. Then she reached out and clasped his forearm with the firm, braced grip of a warrior meeting another in respect.

“Siv Kryze,” she said, voice low enough that the roar around them softened but did not disappear. “You rode with more than honor. You rode with purpose. Each pass was worthy of your creed.”

Her grip tightened once.

“And you have made me look upon the Mandalorians with a new found respect. I will gladly ride into any war alongside you.”

Only then did she release him but she didn’t step back.

Instead, she lifted her free hand and pressed it briefly to the chest plate she had struck—the point where her lance had landed true. It was not a taunt. Not gloating. It was a recognition, a mark, a ritual older than either of their cultures.

“Thank you,” she said simply, without ornament. “For meeting me without hesitation.”

A pulse of energy rolled through the crowd as the announcer repeated her name again;
Bastila Sal-Soren, Champion!
but she stayed grounded in the quiet between her and Siv. Just two warriors, in the centre of the storm, sharing the final breath of a battle well fought.

She stepped back then, giving him space, but her eyes lingered on him with the faintest curve of a smile, warmer than her composure should have allowed.

“Until the next pass,” she added softly. “When we shall meet again.”

She moved then, towards the announcement box with calm relief. Her helmet swinging loosely in her hand as she gave a salute of respect to the crowd before leaping over the stand wall and onto the steps that led up to the royal box.

Each step was met with more cheering and calls of congratulations. She recognised some of the faces but didn’t meet their eyes as she just kept climbing the steps until she reached the dias with Sibylla Abrantes and Renn Vizsla . She bowed to them both in turn. Then with a shrug of her shoulders fell back into position behind Sibylla.

"Well. That was fun."

She maybe the Iron Champion.

She was also the Handmaiden.

She held that title with pride.

OUTFIT: XoXo | TAG: EQUIPMENT:

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