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

[Raylin Fall]

Rik Perris
​

Raylin, the braveth knighteth, mountedeth his steed-eth. A beast of great steel and great legend, and raised his lance, high, nay, higher than everything!

He raised his lance, donned his steed and approachedeth the foe, a great Jedi warrior! But nay, nay he said!

"Nay!"

He said, charging forward, levelingeth his lancer towards the foe. He galloped (the war droid picked up speed) towards his foe- his lancer posed to strike out at the enemy(eth)!

 

[Aurelian Veruna]

Location: Joust
Tags: Elian Abrantes | Bastila Sal-Soren | Sibylla Abrantes | Renn Vizsla

Aurelian groaned, dragging a hand down his face the moment Elian started laughing. Of course, the idiot was fine. He'd just been turned into a decorative crater in front of half the Mandalorian court, and somehow his first instinct was to flirt with the woman who flattened him.

The cheers swelled again, and Aurelian felt the slow, creeping ache of inevitability settle into his bones. This chaos would, without question, end up being his fault.

He rose from his seat with a sigh sharp enough to slice, adjusting his cuffs with deliberate calm. Around him, the stands were alive with laughter, applause, and the buzz of wagers, but none of it touched him. He stepped forward to the railing, boots ringing against the metal as he leaned out over the field.

Below, medics already crowded around Elian, who clearly wasn't in need of saving. Bastila sat her Basilisk with unreadable composure. Sibylla, though, looked seconds away from throttling someone. Her gown was half-dusted from where she'd rushed forward, her hands trembling between fury and relief.

Aurelian caught her eye. He spread his hands in a helpless gesture, his voice carrying across the din.

"I tried to stop him!" he called, loud enough for the words to slice through the cheers. "Told him it was a terrible idea. But no, apparently I'm the unreasonable one!"

That earned a few laughs from nearby onlookers, and Aurelian shot them a flat look before turning back toward the arena. "If he starts jousting the medics next, I'm leaving," he muttered under his breath.

He lingered only long enough to see Elian hauled upright, still smiling like he'd just won a war. Aurelian felt something between exasperation and reluctant affection twist in his chest. The boy was impossible.

He shook his head, stepping back from the railing. "She's going to murder me before he ever learns," he murmured, voice half a sigh, half amusement.

​

 

[Tess Wyn-Tai]

Joust
TAGS: Elian Abrantes​

Tess stomped across the field, her boots crunching on the packed dirt. The wind tugged at her hair and jacket as she muttered, "Force help me," squinting at the chaos ahead. The crowd still roared, and the Basilisks snorted and clanked. Right in the middle of it all was him, Elian Abrantes, laughing like the world was a carnival made just for him.

She and a small group of attendants wove through the pandemonium, dodging banners and cheering nobles. Tess called out, sharp enough for the boy to hear, "Hey! You hear me, dumbass?!" Her hands flew up, fingers waggling like she was trying to pin down his attention. "Quit yer foolin' 'round! You lost, you hear? Ain't no more rounds for ya!"

Elian, of course, didn't immediately obey. He waved one hand, as if she were interrupting some grand finale, a grin plastered across his face. Tess's jaw tightened. She nearly stomped her foot, frustration sparking in her chest.

"Don't make me come down there!" she barked, moving faster. Her voice carried a sharp edge, the kind you only got when someone you cared about was tempting disaster just for kicks. "I swear on the Core Worlds, you better get yer rear off that saddle 'fore somethin' worse happens!"

The crowd didn't matter, the medics didn't matter. All that mattered was keeping him from making a fool of himself, or worse. Tess sidestepped a wayward banner and gestured with both hands, motioning him toward the exit lane.

Elian finally started forward, his grin still wide, clearly not in the least bit contrite. Tess snorted, pinching the bridge of her nose in exasperation. "Mercy me, you are somethin' else," she muttered, with disbelief. "I dunno how yer kin puts up with this. I sure as stars wouldn't."

Dirt kicked up beneath her boots as she matched his stride, keeping pace while muttering under her breath about the foolhardy things he did for fun. "Hurry yer butt along now, or I swear, next time I won't be just yellin'. I'll be throwin' ya off this blasted field myself. I've got some more joustin to do."

Still laughing, still very much alive, Elian finally moved. Tess let out a huff of relief, her shoulders sagging just a fraction, but her eyes never left him. "You better be countin' the bruises," she drawled, shaking her head. "'Cause I swear, you're gonna be sportin' stories of today for the rest of yer blasted life."
​

 

[Lorn Reingard]

Tags: Aether Verd​

Lorn met the Mand'alor's rush without retreat or hesitation. The beskad's downward arc split the air with a crack of power, and Lorn stepped directly into the attack, his vibrosword rising to meet the blow. The impact rang out through the Iron Yard like thunder, steel grinding against the vibrating edge as sparks scattered between them. The force drove through his arms and shoulders, down to his spine. Aether's strength was immense, honed by years of war, the raw power of a man who had learned to turn purpose into a weapon.

For a heartbeat, the two stood close. Lorn could see the fine tremor of muscle along Aether's arm, the unflinching focus in his eyes. Respect hung in that stillness, a silent agreement. Lorn gave a small nod, acknowledging the measure of the man before him. "You don't fight like a ruler," he said quietly, his tone neither challenge nor jest, "you fight like someone who's had to earn it."

He stepped back then, shifting his weight, the vibrosword still silent in his hand. Drawing the weapon across his body in a sweeping low cut meant to test the Mand'alor's defense, probing for weakness. It was a simple, efficient soldier's maneuver, a question asked through the language of motion rather than words.

Lorn's focus narrowed, his breathing steady, his expression composed yet intent. Every scar, every trained reflex was attuned to the man across the floor. Whatever this match proved, it wasn't about victory. It was about understanding the measure of a soul shaped, like his own, by the long, relentless discipline of survival.

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

The flare’s echo was still fading when the silence fell.
Dust rolled across the courtyard in slow, glowing waves, the odd strain of sunlight cutting through the haze casting molten gold ink across the jousting lane. Bastila sat astride her Basilisk, chest heaving, eyes fixed on the still form in the dirt. For one heartbeat she thought, no, she felt; that maybe she’d gone too far. The strike had been perfect, brutally so.

“Elian…” she whispered, the sound almost lost beneath the creak of the war-droid’s cooling joints.

Then Sibylla’s voice cut through the stunned quiet:

“Elian!”

It was raw and terrified, the cry of a sister, not a queen. Bastila swung down before she knew she was moving, boots hitting the earth in a rush of motion. Instinct kicked in to the Jedi, gloves already stripped as the Basilisk crouched behind her like a living shadow, the heat of its engines warm against her back.

She made it halfway across the lists, she was well aware that every eye was on her, a collective stare of judgement or maybe even fear; when suddenly the silence cracked open.

Laughter. Wild, familiar, stupid laughter.

Bastila froze mid-stride as Elian rolled over, coughing dust and grinning like a man reborn. He was alive. Bruised, ridiculous, and absolutely alive.

The wave of relief that hit her was almost dizzying. Her head dropped forward, one gloved hand dragging down her face as the tension broke into something else entirely.

“You idiot!” she breathed, and then like lightning she was striding straight for him.

The crowd roared as she crossed the final stretch, her steps quick, precise, determined. Elian looked up just in time to see her coming, her face was a rage, fists clamped, her jaw tight, and eyes blazing; the young Abrantes’ grin faltered for the first time.

She stopped in front of him, close enough that he could see the smudge of dust across her cheek, close enough that the wild spark still dancing in her eyes would have appeared as fire. Her hand came up so fast he wouldn’t even have the time to flinch and she grabbed him.

Not a slap. Her reputation clearly left behind as she instead grabbed him in a hug.

It was fierce and sudden, armour clashing against armour, the kind of embrace that carried relief, fury, and laughter all tangled into one. Bastila’s shoulders shook as the tension finally gave way and a laugh an honest and breathless laugh that gave no other option but to escape her. Elian’s own own laughter spilling out like sunlight breaking through the dust.

When she pulled back, there was still that rare smile on her lips, soft and defiant all at once.

“You ride like a blind Jawa,” she said, voice low but bright with amusement. ”I advise you don’t ever do that again.”

He opened his mouth, likely to promise nothing of the sort, but she was already moving. With a swift tug, she tore a strip from the hem of her own uniform tunic. The crowd murmured as she looped it neatly around his arm, tying it with practiced precision.

“A favour,” she said simply, meeting his gaze. “From the Queen’s Champion for whatever ridiculous future you plan to charge into next. May it promise to protect you like I her.”

Before he could answer, Bastila reached forward again, this time to tear a ragged piece from the edge of his own torn blue cloak. She twirled the scrap once between her fingers, the faintest tilt of a smile curling her mouth.

“Thank you, Knight of Abrantes” she said lightly, tucking it into the strap of her cuirass. “For your favour. I’ll wear it with pride.”

The words were half-tease, half-promise.

For a long, breathless moment, they just stood there allowing the dust to settle around them, laughter fading into something quieter. Then Bastila stepped back, her expression slipping into its familiar, composed calm.

“Now,” she said, turning slightly toward Sibylla, “before your sister decides I’ve broken a royal heir, I suggest you sit down before she breaks me.”

Elian was stood there, clutching his side. Bastila only shook her head, amusement glinting behind her eyes as the crowd roared approval once more, half for the victor, half for the spectacle, and entirely for the strange, dazzling chaos that had united them for a few unforgettable moments.

The laughter hadn’t yet died when the herald’s voice boomed across the courtyard once more. “And now! In an unprecedented match of Jedi courage and skill we have, the handmaiden; Bastila Sal-Soren facing Lily Decora!”

The cheer that followed hit like a shockwave. Whatever composure the crowd had regained after Elian’s theatrics was obliterated in an instant. Mandalorians slammed their fists to the tables, pounding out a rhythm that echoed against the stone walls of Everholt Keep. Republic envoys shouted and whistled; mercenaries and soldiers chanted her name, their voices colliding with the metallic thunder of beskar gauntlets.

Bastila! Bastila! Bastila!

It spread like wildfire, a chant that became a roar, a storm, a living force that filled the arena until the very air seemed to vibrate with it. Above it all, Basilisk droids screeched in mechanical mimicry, wings flaring in excitement as handlers struggled to hold them steady.

Bastila herself stood motionless in the centre of the chaos, dust still clinging to her armour, the strip of Elian’s blue cloak tucked neatly against her chest. Her pulse was still high from the last bout, but the sudden shift in energy was unmistakable, the crowd no longer wanted laughter. They wanted blood and Bastila could feel her inner soul wanting to give it.

She could feel it; the weight of thousands of eyes, the primal hum of anticipation pressing in on her like heat.

A familiar figure approached from the edge of the rail, a young woman with silver hair glinting in the torchlight. Lily Decora, her posture steady and precise, Bastila knew of Lily; she was Briana’s pupil. Her sister praising the Jedi Lily had become in many of the conversations she had overheard. Her gaze met Bastila’s across the distance, and even through the noise, Bastila could sense the flicker of hesitation in her own gut. Was it Respect?. Maybe, she had to admit it could even be dread.

Of all the matchups; Bastila thought. It had to be hers.

Behind her, a voice rose; the quarter master who had given her the armour. His voice was calm and poised, but touched with warning as he checked over her Basilisk. “Handmaiden. You sure you aren’t Mando’a? Remember though this is a celebration, not a campaign.”

Bastila glanced over her shoulder, lips curving faintly. “Then I’ll celebrate accordingly.”

When she turned back to the arena, the herald had climbed the central platform again. His voice cracked like thunder:

“Decora and the Handmaiden of Naboo, two Jedi vie for the prize! For honor, for unity and the eyes of Everholt!”

The crowd erupted.

Banners of the High Republic and the Mandalorian Empire waved in a wild sea of colour. Drums pounded from the walls. Horns bellowed from the towers. Somewhere, a band struck up a half-martial, half-celebratory tune that dissolved almost immediately into a discordant roar as people began stamping, shouting, hurling petals and streamers into the arena.

The fever of it sank into the very stone itself.

Bastila inhaled through her nose, centring herself, the Force thrumming through the noise, through the crowd, through the chaos. When she opened her eyes again, the calm was gone, replaced by something sharper and dangerous. The mask of the guardian slipped away. What remained was the warrior.

She strode toward her Basilisk, boots crunching in the dirt. The droid’s engines flared as she mounted, the sound swallowed instantly by the roar of thousands. Across the lane, Lily would be doing the same, her own mount responding with a piercing metallic bellow that sent the crowd into fresh hysteria.

The herald raised his hand.

“Riders! Ready!”

The drums built to a single heartbeat rhythm. Bastila leaned forward, one hand resting against the Basilisk’s neckplate, the other gripping the lance tight enough that her knuckles paled beneath her glove.

“Begin!”

The flare shot skyward again; brighter, louder, like the sun tearing itself open, and Everholt Keep answered with a roar.

Spoiler

D20: 14
+1 Riding Skill
+1 Favour (Sibylla)
+1 Favour (Elian)
+2 Cheer

Total: 19

OUTFIT: XoXo | TAG: Lily Decoria | Elian Abrantes | Sibylla Abrantes | Aurelian Veruna | Renn Vizsla EQUIPMENT:

​

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Nessantico, Mid Rim

"Ah, I'm afraid that--"

Whatever words Adelle intended to speak were shoved aside with the thunderous clang of a perfect strike, swifly delivered, and left to ring out in the gasp of surprise that followed, as Elian Abrantes collapsed to the ground with a hollow thud. Horror filled the crowd, their faces frozen in that moment of realisation, the reminder that for every safeguard that protected these valiant contestants, the threat of severe injury still lingered, and in turn, death was never quite far behind.

Itzhal's lips twisted into a grim line, the displeasure hidden under a layer of transparisteel that protected the world from his disdainful expression, aimed at those who deserved it most. Naive in the belief that their brutal bloodsport was anything other than a terrible crash of bodies hurled at speed, their warriors placed upon a pedestal, assaulted with lengths of steel that could produce a force capable of shattering a man in two, presented under a veil of nobility and regality that attempted to turn the barbaric civilised. A single corpse would tear that veil asunder, just as easily as a joke would restore it.

Outrage and relief followed in the wake of the fool's survival, his laughter a balm for those who wished to silence their fears and scramble beneath the veil once again. Others jeered in disdain and disbelief, as if they could disregard the fear that had entered their hearts, if not for the Queen's brother, then for the consequences that followed.

Itzhal, however, remained silent.

Unfazed by the drama that was on full display, the Mandalorian may as well have been one of the ancient suits of armour that decked Everholt's corridors in silent vigil. Impervious to the rush of delerium that infected them all, as jesters trounced across the field with excuses and threats in tow, well aware of the show they provided to an eager crowd that desperately longed for the assurance they provided. He only hoped, for the sake of the Galaxy, that their confidence wasn't feigned, unlikely as it was with the arrival of medics, a promise of duty and safety carried alongside the tools they brought to bear for the sake of their Prince.

Enveloped by the vibrant cheer of his fellow Mandalorians, Itzhal settled his weight upon the balcony in front of him, unbothered by their jostling forms and the excitement that failed to grip him. As the next joust commenced, he remained a source of stillness in a wave of raucous cheers that shook the stands beneath their feet. His thoughts and feelings concealed beneath a layer of beskar, that nonetheless failed to hide the intensity of his focus as it followed the Handmaiden and her Jedi competitor.

Tags: Adelle Bastiel​

 

[Lily Decoria]

Objective: Basilisk Jousting!
Outfit: Jousting Attire
Equipment: Jousting Lance (+1 piloting skills, +1 favour, +1 cheer)
Tag: Bastila Sal-Soren | Corazona von Ascania | Pillar of Perseverance

Hearing the comment that drinks would be on Rynar Solde there was a grin that curled onto Lily's lips. "Oh, well then I shall be definitely taking you up on that. Though be warned, my palette is not the cheapest of tastes." Lily giggled. When the basilisks crashed one final time, Lily could feel the confident strike from her blow and breathed out slowly all of the held breath that she had. Lily had succeed in this round of jousting. Able to get off a solid final strike that secured her position into the semi-finals. "Thanks for the amazing round! I shall definitely be keeping an eye out for you later for the drinks then!" Lily called out on the comms before exiting the basilisk.

There was a break before the next rounds begun and Lily took the time to hydrate and cool her nerves. She had fought well, looking at the scores, there was a clear first place with Bastila running away with it but Lily wasn't doing too bad and she just had to pray to get some good hits in the next round. A couple of turns where she could really strike hard. But this was a new opponent and there was no guarantees that her previous strikes or aimed strikes were going to be anywhere near as effective this time. Lily drank heavily from her water, enjoying the time to think over what went well with the previous round and where she could attempt to improve this time around.

When her name was called for the next rounds, Lily finished her mouthful of water and rose to her feet. "First turn fun." Lily reminded herself, looking back over to where Corazona von Ascania was in the crowd, she gave another wave. A confident smirk still playing on her lips as she shared the thoughts of I still got this, all the way to the finals! Lily then turned around and headed to the basilisk.

Tapping away at the settings of her basilisk, Lily once again flicked on the comms of her basilisk to Bastila's, "hey, let's give them a great show with this one! Make them regret that this isn't the finale." Lily then primed the engines of her basilisk as she giggled to herself. The competitive edge was always there inside her but Lily was just as focus on making sure this was fun. Like with every spar she had, there had to be equal measures of fun and competitiveness.

Since this was the first turn, Lily went for a hard strike to basilisk, going all out in the first strike to see what she could get done with that move. Pushing the controls forward as she charged the basilisk towards Bastila's.

 

[Sibylla Abrantes]

​

Jousting Arena
Renn Vizsla Elian Abrantes

For a moment, Sibylla could only stare at the blasted fool giving her the silliest grin and calling her his hero before that familiar flare of fury came roaring back. Her eyes narrowed, jaw tightening as she straightened to her full height.

"Elian Thal Abrantes," she hissed under her breath, "I swear by Shiraya's light -- "

But before she could finish, he was laughing, clutching his ribs, then springing to his feet like a fool reborn. His triumphant 'Woohoo!' rang through the arena, and the crowd erupted again in laughter and cheers.

Sibylla pressed a hand over her heart in relief and disbelief, even more so when the idiot turned toward Bastila to shout his ridiculous declaration of love; her glare could have leveled a battalion.

By the time he turned back to her with that grin -- that infuriating grin -- she was already fighting the urge to deck him then and there.

"You reckless, impossible child," she muttered, lips pursed so tightly it was a miracle she didn't start scolding him on the spot.

Only the sudden rush of medics, one of them a blonde already hauling him off, saved him.

Catching sight of Aurelian across the chaos, she met his gaze briefly, hearing his quick explanation that he had tried to stop Elian. The look she leveled back promised they would be revisiting that conversation later.

Drawing in a breath, Sibylla turned back to Warden Vizsla trying her best to gather what remained of her composure.

"Thank you, Warden Vizsla," she said evenly, though the corners of her mouth twitched with lingering disbelief. "I fear my brother has once again proven that the Abrantes spirit comes with little regard for self-preservation."

Her attention shifted, offering thanks to those nearby such as Adelle Bastiel , and at last to Bastila Sal-Soren . Despite everything, pride glimmered in her eyes as she inclined her head.

"Lady Bastila Sal-Soren," she called clearly as her voice once again carried through the renewed cheer of the crowd, "Champion of the Queen! We salute you!"

The applause swelled again though her gaze lingered pointedly on her brother being dragged away.

"Let the jousting continue," she declared, "and may the next champion prove half as determined...and perhaps a touch more sensible."

With that, she nodded to Warden Vizsla, accepting his escort back to the dais.

 

[Pillar of Perseverance]

​

Feast of Iron and Honor​

Ongoing Jousting Points
Total of three passes

​

Champion	Points	Champion	Points
Siv Kryze	1,2,3= Total 6 - Winner	Knight of the Republic	1,1,1, Total 3
Aiden Porte	1,2,0= total 3	Tyr Mereel	2,3,1 = Total 6 - Winner
Rik Perris	3,	Raylin Fall	Pending Start
Lily Decoria	3,1,3= Total of 7 - Winner	Rynar Solde	1,1,1. total 3
Adelle Bastiel	3,0,	Tess Wyn-Tai	1,3,1 = total 5
Bastila Sal-Soren	2,4,3= 9 Winner	Elian Abrantes	0,2,0,= 2

Second Round
​

Champion	Points	Champion	Points
Siv Kryze	3,3,3 = Total 9 Winner	Tyr Mereel	1,3,0 = 4
Bastila Sal-Soren	3,	Lily Decoria	0,
Tess Wyn-Tai		Pending Contesting Champion

Third Round
​

Champion	Points	Champion	Points
Siv Kryze	3	Pending Contesting Champion

​

For those watching, remember that giving a favor ( a ribbon, a handkerchief, or whatever you want) and cheering for the Champion gives them a higher modifier!

Optional Modifiers
Add or subtract from rolls based on roleplay flavor or declared strategy

• +1 if your character has piloting, riding, or mounted combat skill.
• +1 if your character collects a favor or token from the crowd as a symbol of support and affection (Max of 2, but get all the favors, Champions!)
• +1 for strong crowd morale (roleplayed crowds loudly cheering for you) ( Max of 2. One +1 modifier per writer who roleplays cheering for your champion)
• −2 if your Basilisk takes prior damage or you’re suffering disorientation.

Spoiler: Jousting Rules

Jousting Rules
Setup

• Each jouster rides a Basilisk War Droid.
• Both start on opposite ends of the aerial arena.
• The match has 3 passes total. (Each pass is one post)

How to Play (per pass)
Each rider rolls 1d20 for their action in their post ( or copy paste rolls from discord for proof) and then add/subtract your modifier
Use this result for both your control and strike for simplicity.

1–4 → Major fail (loss of control or miss)
5–10 → Minor fail (glancing blow or off balance)
11–15 → Solid hit or maneuver
16–19 → Strong strike or impressive stunt
20 → Critical hit or spectacular display (crowd goes wild)

Result	Points After 3 passes, the player with the most points wins. If tied, roll one final sudden pass.
Major fail	0
Minor fail	1
Solid hit	2
Strong strike	3
Critical hit	4

Cheer for your Champion! Challenge Another to a Joust!
THE FEAST OF IRON AND HONOR

Who Will You Cheer For?!​

 

[Aiden Porte]

Oriana Indupar​

Aiden glanced sidelong at her as they walked, his expression thoughtful but not unkind. The faint hum of repulsors and the lingering cheers of the joust faded, replaced by the softer murmur of the wind.

He said nothing at first. Instead, he let the silence breathe, allowing the gravity of her words to settle between them.

When he finally spoke, his tone was even, quiet. "Well, more a Guardian than anything, my work typically concerns matters that touch both civil and galactic justice, crimes with potential political entanglements, or where the Republic's reach falters."

He slowed as they got further along the road. His eyes shifted to her, not cold, but intent. "If you're seeking truth, not convenience, then I'll hear you out. However, please note that I don't accept payment for this. That's not why I do this, I certainly didn't become a Jedi because of the pay." Of course, Jedi didn't get paid, but it was all the same. He didn't help others in the hope of receiving something in return; he did it because it was the right thing to do.

He folded his hands lightly behind his back, a posture of calm control. He said, "That said, if your husband's death was ruled an accident and you believe otherwise, I can request access to the sealed investigation logs. But doing so will draw attention. Once an inquiry begins, it cannot be quietly undone."

"Tell me." he murmured at last, "Why does it feel rushed to you? What detail does not sit right in your memory?"

Whatever pain her question stirred, he wanted her to know it would be treated with care, but never dismissed.

 

[Renn Vizsla]

Tag: Sibylla Abrantes | Adelle Bastiel | Elian Abrantes | Bastila Sal-Soren




Renn’s relief was brief, fleeting, really. Relief was what came before anger, and anger, in this case, came on the heels of sheer disbelief.

The boy, the Queen’s brother, the one who had hit the dirt hard enough to make the Basilisk cry out, was laughing. Renn blinked once behind the T-shaped visor, the scar at his brow tightening as he watched Elian spring upright as if he hadn’t nearly been turned into a crater. The cheers of the crowd rose again, laughter rippling through the stands, but the Warden’s hand came up sharply, signaling the medics to stand down.

“Kaysh mirsh solus, kid…” he muttered under his breath, the old Mando’a curse rolling low in his throat.

He crossed the dirt in three strides.

Elian had just finished shouting about another round when a gauntleted hand caught the front of his armor, right at the breastplate seam. The sound of beskar on durasteel clinked as Renn lifted the younger man by the hem of his chestplate, hauling him half a foot off the ground before setting him solidly back on his feet, not a violent gesture, but one meant to plant him, like a soldier at attention.

The cheers wavered. The air between them stilled.

“You think this is a game?” Renn’s voice came low and hard, carrying through the sudden hush. It wasn’t a shout; it didn’t need to be. It had that weight only field commanders and older brothers used, the kind that made grown men remember their training. “You pull stunts like that again, you won’t need medics. You’ll need a body bag. This isn’t Theed’s tourney square, boy. That’s a Basilisk war mount. It doesn’t care how charming you are.”

Renn let go of his armor, giving him a light shove back to steady his footing.

“You’ve got courage, I’ll give you that,” Renn continued, visor glinting in the afternoon light. “But courage without discipline? That’s how you get buried. You want to impress your sister, do it by surviving long enough to learn from people who know what they’re doing.”

For a long moment, only the wind and the mechanical hum of the Basilisk filled the air. Then, in a tone that almost, almost, carried humor, Renn added dryly:

“And if you ever call me your ‘friend’ again right after faking your own death, I’ll make you carry the Basilisk back to the keep yourself. On foot.”

The corner of his mouth twitched beneath the helmet, whether it was irritation or amusement, no one could quite tell.

He turned his head toward Sibylla, giving a small nod. “He’s fine, Majesty,” he said, though the emphasis on the word fine suggested that it was very temporary. “But you might want to keep an eye on him before he tries to joust the palace gates next.”

Then, back to Elian, his voice dropping to a gruff rumble meant only for him:

“You’ve got spirit, kid. Don’t waste it on trying to look invincible. The galaxy already has enough fools with good hearts buried under the dirt.”

With that, Renn released a short exhale, straightened, and gave the boy’s shoulder a firm pat, just hard enough to make him wince.

Then he started back toward the Queen, the crowd’s laughter swelling again behind him.

Let The Games Go On.​

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

The air in Everholt was thick with the sound of joy. The crowd had stopped being a crowd and had become a creature, one that roared and heaved, very much alive; its collective voice echoing off the obsidian spires and pouring down into the dust and light of the jousting runs.
“Hey, let’s give them a great show with this one! Make them regret that this isn’t the finale.” Lily had said to Bastila moments before they had began the first run.

She had answered simply with; “Let them see what we are made of.” She had risen her lance in salute and beneath her the Basilisk rumbled impatiently with a deep growling vibration that rolled through her. It wanted release, it was after the taste of victory once more.

The flare had gone up, and both Basilisks surged forward, their engines howling, mechanical wings flaring wide as claws bit into the packed red clay. Dust spiralled into the air, banners whipped against the sky, and the sound of the crowd became one continuous scream of exhilaration.

Lily had come fast. Her Basilisk’s acceleration was brutal, the angle of her lance was perfect, a bold, confident charge meant to end the match early, but Bastila saw it coming, measured it, and acted on it all in the same breath.

Her body shifted in perfect sync with her mount, the Force whispering through the chaos. At the last possible instant, Bastila pulled hard on the one side of her mount making it bank hard left, engines flaring as she rose out of the saddle and pivoted her body into the strike with her lance arm fully stretched outwards. Dust boiled up around them. Bastila felt the weight of Lily’s strike glance off her pauldron, powerful, precise but misplaced; then countered with a clean, upward sweep of her lance that struck across Lily’s armour and sent blue energy arcing between the mounts.

Both riders tore past each other in a blur of motion.

The Basilisks came to a stop on opposite ends of the lists, mechanical breaths hissing loudly as they turned and came back into position.

The cheers that had followed were something feral. Mandalorians hammered their fists against tables and shields; Republic envoys stamped their boots in rhythm; pilots and soldiers from a dozen worlds leaned over the railings, shouting her name like it was a battle cry.

Bastila’s chest rose and fell. She turned her mount with slow, deliberate precision, her eyes never leaving Lily across the arena. Then, she lifted her lance, not in taunt, but salute.

“You good?” she said over the comms, her voice low but carrying. “Ready to go again?”

The crowd answered for them both; chanting their names, drums pounding like war thunder.

The air thrummed with tension as Mandalorian horns blared from the parapets, deep and resonant, echoing across the valley like a call to battle. The crowd’s noise had changed again, it was less laughter now, more like the hunger of that beast again.

Bastila rolled her shoulders once, centring herself in the saddle. Her Basilisk again stamping the ground impatiently, it’s attention purely on it’s opposite number. She heard those words in her mind again as she looked across the stands, noting that there was still some dramas with Elian happening at the side of the lists.

“It’s not a conquest Bastila.”

The flare shot skyward, ripping her out of her thoughts as she watched the streaking gold.

The Basilisks took the charge with claws that ripped apart the clay at their feet, the ground trembling in their wake.

The first few heartbeats were nothing but noise; engines howling, banners cracking, the crowd chanting both names at once. Bastila’s breath slowed despite the chaos. She saw Lily shift in the saddle.

Bastila adjusted a heartbeat later, the Force whispering through instinct. She leaned forward, every muscle attuned to the rhythm of the Basilisk beneath her.

The lances lowered. The distance vanished.

And the crowd rose as one, the roar of Everholt Keep rolling over the mountains like thunder.

Spoiler

+1 Riding Skill
+1 Favour (Sibylla)
+1 Favour (Elian)
+2 Cheer

OUTFIT: XoXo | TAG: Lily Decoria | Sibylla Abrantes | Elian Abrantes | Aurelian Veruna | Renn Vizsla EQUIPMENT:

​

 

[Elian Abrantes]

Sibylla Abrantes Aurelian Veruna Renn Vizsla Tess Wyn-Tai Bastila Sal-Soren
​

Elian stood, catching his breath, laughter echoing faintly as Bastila's words settled over him like calm after a storm. His grin softened, unguarded and real. For a moment, the arena shrank to just the two of them, the crowd's roar fading beneath his heartbeat.

He looked down at the fabric tied around his arm, white stark against his blue, battered cloak. A favor from the Queen's Champion. He didn't know if he'd earned it, but knew he'd remember this moment for life.

"Guess that makes us even." he said, his voice still rough from dust and laughter. "Though I'm not sure anything sounds half as noble as the Queen's Champion."

He rose from the saddle with a groan that was equal parts show and truth, rubbing a palm theatrically over his ribs. "I promise I'm fine. Mostly. Think of this as extreme character development." He winked, then added, quieter and sincere, "But if it helps, yes, I'll get off. Before I give you more grey hairs than what I see already."


Elian rubbed his ribs where Renn's hand had shoved him back into balance, the grin already tugging at his face despite the dull ache running through his side. Dust still clung to his hair and armor, and his chestplate bore a proud new dent that would make for an excellent story later.

He looked up at the armored veteran, that smirk sharpening into something unmistakably Abrantes, equal parts charm, irreverence, and mischief.

"Ah, your concern touches me." he said with mock solemnity, brushing a bit of dirt from his sleeve. "Truly, I'll treasure this moment of tenderness forever. Just promise me you'll at least put flowers on my grave if I try to joust the gates next."

Elian could feel the weight of that stare. Most men would've backed down. Elian only brightened.

"Besides." he continued, gesturing toward his battered Basilisk, "You've got to admit, I made it entertaining. You can't buy crowd reactions like that. Think of it as morale-building."

He glanced toward Sibylla, still catching her breath not far off, and gave her a quick, reassuring wink before chuckling again under his breath.

Typical Abrantes luck, bruised, scolded, and still standing. And, as ever, grinning at the chaos he left in his wake.

When Sibylla's final words rang out 'May the next champion prove half as determined... and perhaps a touch more sensible.' Elian laughed aloud, wincing through the motion but refusing to let go of the sound.

"Sensible?" he said with mock offense as the medics hauled him off the field. "That sounds boring."

And as the cheers faded behind him, he threw a hand in the air, triumphant, foolish, and unmistakably himself, before being pulled into the shade of the medic's tent, still laughing all the way.

Thread Exit​

 

[Lily Decoria]

Objective: Basilisk Jousting!
Outfit: Jousting Attire
Equipment: Jousting Lance (+1 piloting skills, +1 favour, +1 cheer, +1 cheer)
Tag: Bastila Sal-Soren | Corazona von Ascania | Pillar of Perseverance

As the basilisks clashed, Lily knew something was off. Something had gone wrong when she went through the controls and her basilisk skidded out of control, missing its mark massively and allowing Bastila to easily get in a first strong hit. Lily was not devastated but she was shook by the experience. This was the first time that she was dealing with something going massive wrong while she was working on her tactics. Taking a moment to right the basilisk after it crashed and just check all the systems. Lily let out a slow released breath. Hearing Bastila on the comms from the other machine, Lily grinned, it was good to know that her opponent was checking in.

That was good sportsmanship and it was a strong reminder that she did not truly care whether she was winning this or losing it. Flipping the comms back on, "I'm all good, this machine definitely did not like that turn. Good job on your end by the way. Seems you are a natural with this!" Lily then looked over to the crowd and stood up out of the machine. Deciding that she needed to pump up morale for the crowd after what had been a disastrous turn for herself.

"Hey everyone! That was a fantastic first turn but it isn't over yet and I promise, it just makes this whole competition spicier!" Lily exclaimed with a joy to her voice, trying to pump up the support and make people excited. It was going to be tough to try clawing back the points but she could hear the crowd roaring their support and a little chanting of her name. "That's right, get those bets in for Lily! We got this!" Lily closed the basilisk back down to lock in for the next turn.

It was time to focus on the controls. Adjusting things once again since she was dreading another turn where she had a horrific accident like that. Especially since it could take her out of the competition. Lily wanted to make sure that while she might not win, she kept things competitive and exciting, since the whole point of this tournament was to have fun so that was exactly what she was trying to do. Lily took a slower starting speed, allowing her to make more adjustments and position things more as she felt the controls rumbling in her hands. Tapping at the controls, the lance moved its position and Lily aimed her next strike more precisely this time around. Punching forward as hard as she could.

 

[Oriana Indupar]

Oriana listened to what the Jedi described as a 'Guardian'. Nearly the same as she expected an investigator to be just with a different name - someone to serve out justice in various sectors of the galaxy. At least now she knew she wasn't barking up the wrong tree and had been told the correct information by her sources. It was difficult at times to know who to trust and where to turn ; especially since she was handling this on her own.

"Thank you." A small pause, an incline of her head. "I am aware once this opened the lid cannot be replaced, so to speak. I am ready for any consequences that may befall my path."

As Master Aiden Porte asked what she suspected happened to her husband, she looked around. Oriana didn't trust the location. Far too many Houses and nobility in attendance. If one of them happened to be involved then speaking freely could cause them to overhear and make plans accordingly. It was a working theory of hers another noble was involved. If she was correct then it was best to keep any ideas under lock and key for as long as humanly possible.

"Not here. I fear the matter is much too delicate. Once you are able to unseal the records, please contact me. I will welcome you as a guest to Indupar and the Estate. It will be easier to speak freely there."

Oriana stopped and offered a small curtsy.

"Until next time Master Porte, fare well."

E X I T P O S T​

 

[Tess Wyn-Tai]

Joust
+1 Riding
TAGS: Tyr Mereel​

Tess had spent the last hour swaggering around like she owned the arena. She sipped something that might've been tihaar, basking in her "almost-victory." Her helmet was tucked under one arm as she half-listened to the announcements, telling anyone who'd listen how she unseated a Mandalorian.

When the heralds called her name again, she nearly choked on her drink.

"Wait, what? I ain't up yet. Y'all said losers gotta..." she started, but attendants were already ushering her toward the gate.

"Someone quit. Best loser gets another shot," one of them said dryly, shoving her lance into her hands.

"Best loser," Tess muttered under her breath, squinting toward the opposite end of the field. "That's... that's not even a compliment."

She climbed back onto her Basilisk, rolling her sore shoulder and settling the lance across her knees. "Alright, girl, we just do this nice and easy. Ain't like they're sendin' out another juggernaut, right?"

Then she saw him.

They called him a "foundling."

He looked like he'd been carved out of mountain rock. He was broad, armored from head to toe, the kind of man whose shadow probably had muscles. His Basilisk looked meaner and bigger than hers, plated like a fortress. He turned his head just enough that she could see the T-shaped visor glinting her way, and even through her own helmet, Tess felt her stomach drop.

"Oh, hell no," she whispered. "They said foundling. This looks like a walking mountain."

She tried to flag someone down. "Hey, uh, maybe he's too tall for regulation? Maybe I should, y'know, take a rain check?"

Too late. The signal flare shot into the air. The Basilisk beneath her surged forward on instinct.

"Aw, kriff me sideways," Tess yelped, fumbling to lower her visor and get her lance upright. The ground thundered beneath her as they charged, wind tearing at her armor. Her breath came fast, her heart pounding so hard she thought it'd knock her out cold.

The mountain of a man bore down on her like an avalanche. Tess braced, eyes wide, half-praying and half-cursing as the distance vanished.

"Stars help me," she shouted, gripping the lance with both hands. "This is gonna hurt!"
​

 

[Tyr Mereel]

ONE LAST BOUT

Tag: Tess Wyn-Tai

He hadn’t expected to hear his name again.

The noise of the crowd was still a dull, living hum somewhere behind the gates when the herald called across the arena floor,

“By decree of the lists! Tyr Mereel returns to the field!”

Tyr had just been sitting with his gauntlets off, the ache in his shoulder radiating through the cracked beskar where Siv Kryze’s strike had landed. His Basilisk loomed behind him, scarred and steaming from the earlier bouts. It had fought its way through glory and defeat alike, but it still lived, and that, to him, was enough.

The Supercommando rolled his shoulder once, testing the weight of pain. It burned, but it held.


So did he.

He pulled his helmet back on and rose to his full height, the massive silhouette of beskar and iron shifting like a mountain come awake. When he stepped back into the light, the stands erupted. “MEREEL! MEREEL!” The chant came again, louder, relentless.

He climbed into the saddle, the Basilisk rumbling beneath him like an ancient god of war dragged back to the field.

Across the lists, his next opponent waited.

She was smaller, barely half his size, wiry where he was built like siegecraft. Her Basilisk shifted restlessly under her, a little wild around the edges. Her visor dipped, almost sheepishly, and Tyr could swear he heard her curse through the external mics.

He almost laughed.

When the announcer’s voice rang out again, naming Tess Wyn-Tai, he tilted his head slightly. “Wyn-Tai,” he muttered under his breath, letting the name settle in his mind. “Brave to ride.”

He lowered his lance.

The flare went up.​

 

[Tess Wyn-Tai]

Joust
+1 Riding
TAGS: Tyr Mereel​

Tess squeezed her eyes shut the last few feet, teeth grit, praying her Basilisk's momentum alone would keep her in the saddle. The world became wind, thunder, and one long, rising ohhh-no.

Impact hit like a meteor. Her lance shuddered, screamed, then exploded in her hands. Splinters of durasteel whipped past her helmet, and the shock went straight through her ribs. She yelped, a high, indignant sound, but somehow she didn't fly off like a rag in a turbine. Her Basilisk skidded, kicking up dirt, and Tess clung to the saddle by muscle memory and pure stubbornness.

She cracked one eye open. Her lance was gone. Obliterated. What remained was a sad, jagged nub of metal clutched in her gauntlet.

"…well butter my backside and call me a biscuit," she breathed. She'd hit him. Hard. Hard enough to ruin good metal. Hard enough to unseat anyone. But the mountain? She didn't know yet. Her brain, unbothered by logic or survival instinct, defaulted immediately to swagger.

Tess shot both arms up, one hand still holding the pathetic remains of her lance, and whooped so loudly her external mic crackled.

"DID YA SEE THAT?!" she hollered to the stands. "YA'LL! I HIT 'IM SO HARD I KILLED THE LANCE! I'M INVINCIBLE!"

Her Basilisk stomped anxiously beneath her, but she twisted in the saddle, waving like some drunk parade queen. "WOO! WOO! THAT'S RIGHT! UNSTOPPABLE! PUT IT ON A POSTER!" She pointed dramatically at some random cluster of spectators. "YA HEARD ME! I AIN'T EVEN TRYIN' YET!"

Tess turned her Basilisk around in a messy, overconfident arc, nearly clipping a stablehand who dove out of the way. "Round two!" she barked, thumping her chestplate. "C'MON, GIRL, LET'S GO AGAIN! WE'RE HOT! WE'RE FEELIN' IT! WE'RE..." Her mount huffed mechanically like it disagreed with all of this. Tess ignored it entirely.

"HEY MOUNTAIN MAN!" she shouted across the field, cupping a hand to her visor. "HOPE YA BROUGHT A SPARE SPINE 'CAUSE I AM COMIN' BACK!"

Unprepared. Shock-drunk on her own ego. And absolutely ready to die about it.
​

 

[Tyr Mereel]

GROUNDED

Tag: Tess Wyn-Tai

The hit came cleaner than he’d expected.

Tyr barely saw the lance before it struck, a blur of metal and momentum, guided more by audacity than precision. The impact slammed into his chestplate with a sharp, ringing crack that echoed through the entire arena. His Basilisk let out a guttural, mechanical bellow, stumbling a full pace backward as the shock tore through its frame.

The Supercommando himself felt it, through armor, through bone, through pride.

His gauntlet snapped down on the reins, steadying the beast as it bucked against the recoil. The world swam for a heartbeat, HUD flickering from the kinetic backlash. A long breath hissed through the modulator as he righted himself in the saddle. His visor tilted toward the field, toward her.

And what he saw nearly made him laugh.

Tess Wyn-Tai was waving both arms in the air, one hand still clutching the jagged ruin of her lance, shouting to the crowd like she’d just brought down a rancor with a toothpick. Her Basilisk stomped beneath her, half-annoyed, half-proud, as she whooped and hollered to the stands.

Tyr exhaled once, the sound a low, amused rumble through the helmet. “Well,” he muttered to himself, “I’ll be damned. She actually hit me.”

He flexed his shoulder, testing the armor. The plate was scorched and dented, but intact. The bruise beneath it would sing later, he was sure. For now, he could only shake his head, the faintest grin ghosting across his face unseen behind the visor.

When her voice carried across the field again,

“HEY MOUNTAIN MAN! HOPE YA BROUGHT A SPARE SPINE 'CAUSE I AM COMIN' BACK!”

He couldn’t help but chuckle aloud.

He raised his lance, giving it a small twirl before resting it against his shoulder. Then his voice boomed through the comms, magnified for all to hear, the gravel in it edged with humor.

“Aye! You’ve got a swing that’d make a Wampa flinch, Wyn-Tai!”

He leaned forward in the saddle, letting his Basilisk snort twin plumes of steam into the air. “But I’m still standing,” he said, voice dropping to something steadier, more serious now. “And if you’re comin’ back for round two…”

The Basilisk crouched low, engines rumbling like the deep growl of a storm. Tyr angled his lance downward, the tip glinting faintly in the sunlight as he gave her a brief, sharp nod.

“…then I’ll meet you proper this time.”

The crowd’s laughter and cheers rose to a fever pitch. Tess’s taunting had stirred them; Tyr’s calm, deliberate answer only fueled it. The arena thrummed with the sound of anticipation, Mandalorians chanting both their names again, “WYN-TAI! MEREEL! WYN-TAI! MEREEL!” the rhythm of battle turned into sport, creed turned into celebration.

The Mandalorian rolled his shoulders once more, pain flaring where her lance had struck. He welcomed it; it was proof of a hit well-earned.

Inside the helmet, he smiled faintly.

“Let’s dance again,” he murmured, his voice low and sure, barely audible beneath the roar of the engines. “Let’s see if lightning strikes twice.”

The Basilisk roared, claws biting into the dirt as it surged forward into position.

Tyr Mereel, the mountain himself, readied his lance once more, honor-bound, bruised, and grinning behind the visor as the signal flare climbed the sky for their second charge.

 

[Tess Wyn-Tai]

Joust
+1 Riding
TAGS: Tyr Mereel​

Tess heard Tyr's voice roll across the arena. It was deep, steady, and amused, and her chest puffed up like she'd been hand-picked by the Force itself.

"A Wampa flinch?" she hollered back, slamming her fist to her chestplate. "Honey, I make Wampas run home cryin' to their mamas!" Her Basilisk churned, ready to go again. "C'mon girl, we goin' again! Mountain Man wants a dance!"

The signal cracked the sky. Both mounts surged forward, engines roaring like beasts uncaged. Tess lowered the replacement lance someone had shoved into her hand. She tried to copy Tyr's form: lance tucked, shoulders squared, eyes open this time. For about two seconds. Then she squeezed them shut again.

They passed each other in a rush of wind and dirt. Her lance skimmed air, his hissed past her shoulderplate, and Tess felt nothing but the roaring wake of near-disaster. They both missed. Of course, she acted like she'd planned it. She threw both arms up again, still charging and barely controlling her mount, as she whooped loud enough for half the arena to wince.

"LOOK AT THAT! YOU SEE ME?! YOU SEE ME?! CAN'T TOUCH THIS, BABY! INVINCIBLE!"

Her Basilisk nearly tripped over its own claws at her celebration, skidding into a wide, ugly turn that almost flung her into the barrier. She clung by her knees, laughing like a gremlin hopped up on starship fumes, hair sticking to her visor. She pointed her lance, waving it vaguely toward Tyr as the mounts circled back.

"HEY! MOUNTAIN MAN! ONE MORE!" she yelled, voice cracking on the last word from pure excitement. "JUST ONE! YOU HEAR? I GOT YOU THIS TIME!"

But as she pulled her Basilisk into position for what the crowd clearly recognized as the final pass, her whole posture shifted. The grin faded. The whooping stopped. The adrenaline laughter tapered into a sharp inhale. Her visor lowered. Her back straightened. The girl who'd flailed her way through the field suddenly looked, just for a moment, like someone who understood what winning could mean. Iron Champion. Her name in legendary halls. This was a story she'd brag about until the galaxy went cold.

"Alright, girl," she whispered to her Basilisk, voice low and steady. "We stick the seat. That's all. Just hold. Just hold."

The signal flare rose. Both lances angled. The dust settled. Tess Wyn-Tai braced herself as the mountain thundered toward her, heartsick thrilled and deadly serious at last. They were five breaths, then four, then three from collision, and she did not blink.
​