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

[Tyr Mereel]

HEART

Tag: Tess Wyn-Tai

She had heart, he’d give her that. Heart enough to scream at the sky, to taunt a man twice her size, and to throw herself back into the lists with reckless abandon.

Tyr’s Basilisk pawed at the ground, vents spitting steam as the arena quieted for the final pass. He rolled his shoulder once, testing the battered joint where her first strike had landed. A dull ache. Manageable. But enough to remind him that even mountains could be shaken by the right force of will, or stubbornness.

Across the field, Tess Wyn-Tai lowered her visor. And for the first time today, she looked like a rider. Not a gremlin on a war droid. Not a half-drunk swaggering chaos engine.

A challenger.

He respected that.

The flare went up.

The Basilisks launched. Thunder across steel, fire across dirt. The wind tore at Tyr’s cape as he leveled his lance, letting the charge settle into the same quiet rhythm he’d known since his first youth bout. One breath. Two. The distance falling away.

Tess held her form for nearly three whole seconds, eyes open, posture good, focus tightening like a bowstring. Then the shock set in. He saw it in the last heartbeat: the nerves, the fear, the thrill. Her lance dipped. Her mount jolted at the wrong moment.

She still swung.

The strike hit him like a stiff breeze.

Her lance smacked the side of his thigh plate at a terrible angle, more clang than impact, more enthusiasm than actual force. It wasn’t enough to bruise, but it did sting his pride in a way that made him choke back a laugh.

His own strike he pulled at the last instant, letting it slide off her pauldron in a harmless graze, a gesture of mercy masked as poor timing. The last thing he wanted was to send her flying after she’d actually tried.

Tyr slowed first, guiding his Basilisk into a steady halt. He turned back toward her with a low, warm huff through the modulator.

When she finally got her mount under control, he lifted his lance in salute.

A real salute.

“Well struck,” Tyr called out, voice carrying easily across the field. “Takes more grit than most to charge a foe twice your size. You held the line, Wyn-Tai. And that counts.”

As the stands erupted in cheers for both riders, some laughing, some genuinely celebrating her spirit, he nudged his Basilisk forward until he was close enough that she could hear him without the comms.

“Next time,” he said, tone low, “keep your eyes open. Trust your mount. And maybe, maybe, don’t scream at the sky mid-charge.”

He tapped his fist against his chestplate in respect.

“You’ve got the heart. The skill will follow.”


[/color]

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

When the Basilisks collided, it was like two violent storm’s colliding. Spark shot through the dust, and the metallic shriek of two great machines tore at the same space. When Bastila’s strike landed clean, it was aimed to send energy rippling through it. She felt the connection and then again the hit from Lily came at her, this time impacting with her shoulder armour where it glanced off the metal with a scraping noise.
Lily’s Basilisk parted away from the strike, its repulsors splitting the two Jedi. It veered hard and went wide, carving deep furrows in the red clay before coming to a hard halt in a cloud of steam and dust. The crowd gasped; even the drums faltered.

Bastila reined her mount in sharply, turning back at once. Her Basilisk snorted, claws sinking deep to anchor its weight as she leaned forward, scanning through the haze.

“Lily? Status?” she called into the comms, voice clipped with focus, the tone of worry ever so slightly through her voice.

Static. Then Lily’s form appeared through the dust, already preparing for the next charge. Bastila’s tight grip eased just slightly. Relief broke through, tempered by the faint curve of a smile.

“Good. Regain your bearings,” she said over the comms. “Let’s make this final one count.”

The response to the pair was immediate: the audience roared approval, Mandalorians pounding the railings, Republic officers whistling and shouting their names. The tide of noise was dizzying; and Bastila couldn’t help but feel her chest warm with admiration. No matter what happened they had entertained the crowd.

She tapped her comm again, amusement threading through her words.

“They’re hungry for a show.”

The drums started again, faster now, feeding the storm. The smell of oil and heat filled the air.

Across the lane, Lily’s Basilisk lifted its head, eyes burning gold through the dust. Bastila lowered her own visor, exhaled, and pressed her palm briefly against the neck plating of her mount.

“Just keep doing what you’ve been doing,” she murmured.

The signal flare went up once more, a streak of molten gold cutting through the smoke-choked air.

The crowd erupted like a detonator charge.

Both Basilisks launched forward, the impact of their engines shaking the ground. Bastila let the momentum take her; the world narrowing to the rhythm of the charge, the drumbeat syncing to the pounding of her pulse.

Spoiler

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

OUTFIT: XoXo | TAG: Lily Decoria | Sibylla Abrantes | Lorn Reingard | Renn Vizsla EQUIPMENT:

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[Tess Wyn-Tai]

Joust
TAGS: Tyr Mereel​

Tess barely held her ground. Her lance bounced off Tyr's thigh like a flung spoon against a tank. As she jolted past him, miraculously still in the saddle, she let out a tiny, breathless squeak of triumph. Not a shout, not a whoop, just a squeak.

She spun her Basilisk around, aiming for composed, definitely not like her soul had just taken a brief vacation. The crowd roared and dust billowed. Her heart hammered in her throat. The announcer's voice boomed, "VICTORY TO TESS WYN-TAI!" Tess froze. "...huh?"

Tess blinked, processing the impossible. She, by some fluke of physics and sheer Mandalorian luck, had defeated the mountain himself. Her mouth automatically opened, ready to unleash the most obnoxious victory speech known to any sentient being, when she saw him approaching. Tyr Mereel, astride his massive, steaming Basilisk, moved like the wrath of three gods. His shadow alone could have crushed her. Tess clamped her mouth shut so fast she bit her tongue.

He stopped right beside her. Tess stared straight ahead, respectful and silent, absolutely not about to tempt fate twice in one day. "Uh," she managed, her voice cracking over the comms, "th-thank ya, sir. Real kind o' ya." She gave a tiny chest tap of respect, then pivoted her Basilisk so fast its claws scraped the dirt. "Okay bye!" she squeaked, and fled.

She was as dignified as she could manage, which wasn't very. Reaching the tents, she slid off her Basilisk, legs like jelly, armor rattling, breathing like she'd run a marathon through a sandstorm. Staggering behind a stack of crates where no Mandalorians could witness her unravelling, she exploded. "WHOOO!" She kicked her heels, breaking into a jig that was half victory dance, half adrenaline seizure.

"I DID IT! I WON! I DIDN'T DIE! MOUNTAIN MAN AIN'T GOT NOTHIN' ON ME!" She spun, nearly fell, caught herself, and pumped her fists skyward. "IRON CHAMPION CONTENDER, BABY!" Her Basilisk just groaned, as if regretting its entire existence.
​

 

[Tyr Mereel]

HONOR

Tag: Tess Wyn-Tai

Tyr felt her lance before he registered it,
A tiny, awkward CLANG against his thigh plate, like someone had thrown a cheap mess-hall spoon at a starship hull.

It didn’t hurt.

It barely even nudged him.

But it was, beyond all belief, technically a hit.

And in the official rules of the Iron Champion lists… that was enough.

When he thundered past her, Tyr caught the faintest sound over the wind,

a high-pitched squeak of triumph that absolutely could not have come from a Mandalorian warrior.

He would’ve laughed if he hadn’t been so busy trying not to crush her Basilisk under his.

He slowed his mount at the far end of the arena. Dust rolled across the field. The crowd went quiet, waiting, breath held in suspense.

Then the announcer’s voice boomed like a verdict across the stone walls:
“VICTORY TO TESS WYN-TAI!”

Tyr merely stared forward through his visor.

A long silence.

A longer exhale.

“Well,” he muttered dryly into the interior of his helmet,
“…that just happened.”

He nudged his Basilisk into a turn, the massive droid snorting plumes of steam as it lumbered back toward the center of the lists. Across the field, Tess Wyn-Tai had gone completely rigid, helmet snapping forward like she was afraid eye contact alone might smite her where she sat.

The crowd ate it up, laughter, cheers, chants.

“TESS! WYN-TAI! TESS! WYN-TAI!”

Tyr brought his Basilisk to a halt where she had stood moments before. He sat tall, lifted his lance, and saluted the stands with the unshaken dignity of someone who had fought ten matches today… and been defeated by a woman who squeaked.

“Well struck, Wyn-Tai,” he said over the comms after she vanished into the tents. “A hit is a hit. Earned or lucky… it counts the same.”

His Basilisk groaned.

Tyr sighed.

He patted the droid’s flank. “Let her have it,” he murmured. “Creed knows she’ll never let anyone forget it.”

Then, raising his voice toward the crowd, he saluted once more, stoic, unbothered, proud of the chaos that Mandalore still managed to produce in its people.

“Honor to the victor!” he called.

The cheers surged again.

As he turned his mount toward the exit, Tyr shook his head behind the visor, not in frustration, but in quiet amusement.

Defeated by the smallest hit of the day.

By the loudest woman in the arena.

And somehow, the Forge felt no less proud of him for it.

He chuckled under his breath as he rode out.

“Mountain Man… beaten by a spoon,” he muttered. “That’ll be a good one for the record books.”

Fin​