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

[Pillar of Perseverance]

High Republic - Mandalorian Empire
Concord Feast and Joust

This is open to all Mandalorian Empire and High Republic Members
to participate in the joust and sword challenge.

It is OPEN to the Public to watch the events and do your shennigans if you like
We only ask, please do not start fights that will detract from the events.
If you are Sith or Imperials, please join in disguise.
​

Everholt Keep | Tol Forod
Nessantico

A world where the mountains wore crowns of frost and the forests whispered ancient songs, Nessantico was as old as the stories carved into the stones of its keeps. In the northern kingdom of Tol Forod, Everholt Keep was a fortress of obsidian stone and pale spires, rising from a basin of natural hot springs. Built long ago by Clan Galvus under the command of High-King Sangruvious himself, the keep had stood through wars, storms, and dynasties -- and now, for the first time, opened its gates to both Mandalorians and Republic delegates.

Banners hung overhead bearing the sigil of the Mandalorian Empire, the mythosaur skull, flanked by the banner with the gilded crest of the High Republic. Soldiers, nobles, statesmen, and citizens mingled in uneasy harmony; laughter and wary curiosity mingled just as easily as the spice and smoke from the feast tables that lined the open courtyards.

The faint whir of repulsors echoed as Basilisk war droids circled lazily in the arena, their armored riders preparing for the tournament’s grand spectacle -- a joust unlike any seen since the age of Mand’alor the Unbroken.

​

The Arena of Blades
Challenge another in a one-on-one exhibition match!

Set at the southern end of Everholt’s sprawling fortress complex, the Iron Yard serves as an open exhibition arena, where honor is tested not by blasters or machines, but by blade and skill alone.

Here, any warrior, knight, or citizen of the Mandalorian Empire or High Republic may issue or accept a challenge in a one-on-one exhibition match. Weapons are restricted to traditional melee arms -- beskads, vibroswords, electro-staves, knives, or training sabers.

There are no ranks, no politics, and no stakes beyond pride.


Arena of Blade Participants!
Lorn Reingard vs Aether Verd
Domina Prime vs Drystan Creed
@ Nianuke cyt vs Vizion Trozky

​

The Market of Concord
Explore the Market of Concord, a lively bazaar in Everholt’s lower courtyard.

Beneath the towering walls of Everholt, the Lower Courtyard Bazaar thrums with life. Merchants from across the High Republic and the Mandalorian Empire have gathered here to trade goods, crafts, and curiosities from every corner of known space.

Here, trade flows as freely as conversation. Senators, smiths, pilots, and wanderers mingle, striking deals, forging connections, or simply enjoying the color and chaos of the marketplace.

The Feast of Concord | Featuring Basilisk Jousting
Attend the Feast of Concord to forge alliances, trade, and share cultures while watching the Basilisk Joust. Cheer for your champion -- or take up the challenge yourself and challenge another!

The Grand Courtyard of Everholt blazed with firelight as long tables of red stone lined the jousting arena, surrounded by braziers and open pits. Steam curled from roasted nerf and Shaak ribs, and servers carried goblets of Blossom Wine, tihaar, and golden ale through the throng. Beskar horns and viols rose together in a haunting harmony of war and peace.

Nobles, soldiers, and Mandalorians sat side by side, while Jedi and Senate envoys watched in calm repose. For one night, blades were traded for cups, and unity filled the air.
At the courtyard’s heart, the Basilisk Joust began -- riders mounting their war droids in a dazzling contest of precision and courage. Mandalorians rode for glory; Republic knights for honor.

From the high dais, Jarl Kheron Galvus, Interim Queen Sibylla Abrantes , Ambassador to the Mandalorian Empire, and Warden Renn Vizsla , Ambassador to the High Republic, presided over the spectacle, bearing witness to a night meant to unite two great powers in feast and fellowship.

Winning the Joust
The winner earns the title Iron Champion ( a pretty flair bar )
and earns favor with both the Republic and Mandalorians and $50,000 UCS.

​

Jousting Participants
Siv Kryze vs Knight of the Republic
Aiden Porte vs Tyr Mereel
Rik Perris vs Raylin Fall
Lily Decoria vs Rynar Solde
Adelle Bastiel vs Tess Wyn-Tai

Spoiler: Jousting Rules

Jousting Rules
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.

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

Join us at the Feast! Cheer for your Champion! Challenge Another to a Joust!
THE FEAST OF IRON AND HONOR

Who Will You Cheer For?!​

 

[Sibylla Abrantes]

​

The Feast of Concord | Featuring Basilisk Jousting
Everholt Keep | Tol Forod
Nessantico

The sound of horns echoed through the high walls of Everholt, their call rolling across the courtyards like thunder. Beneath the banners of the High Republic and the Mandalorian Empire, Interim Queen Sibylla Abrantes stood beside Jarl Kheron Galvus and Warden Renn Vizsla , her hazel eyes sweeping over the gathered crowd of knights, nobles, and warriors alike.

"Today," she began as she called out with a broad smile over her heart-shaped face, "we honor not what divides us, but what we share. Courage, craft, and the will to rise stronger from every trial. Let this Feast of Iron and Honor be our proof that unity can be forged not in words alone, but in fire, feast, and contest."

With a faint smile, she lifted her goblet toward the arena where the first jousters prepared their mounts.

"May the bravest shine brightest, and may this night bind our peoples in fellowship."

The crowd answered in cheers and the clash of raised cups, as the first of the Basilisk riders thundered forth into the light.

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar adjusted the collar around Cupcake's neck, giving the small creature a soft pat. "All set, little one?" he murmured, the words almost lost beneath the rising roar of the festival. Cupcake chirped in response, tail flicking, as if to reassure him that it was ready—or at least eager enough to keep up.

The jousting field lay ahead, a swirl of banners and dust, hooves stamping in impatience as competitors mounted their steeds. Rynar's eyes scanned the riders, noting posture, armor, and the careful way they gripped their lances. One rider, in particular, drew his attention—a poised figure with a calm, unwavering focus. He didn't know her, had never met her, and yet there was something about her presence that set her apart.

Cupcake tugged slightly at the leash, chirping again. Rynar crouched slightly to meet its gaze. "Patience, Cupcake," he whispered. "We're almost there. Watch, learn, and stay close. Don't get in anyone's way, alright?" The creature chirped again, almost like a huff of agreement, nudging against his hand.

The scents of the festival filled the air—sweat, dust, and roasted meat mingling in a warm haze—but Rynar blocked them out, letting his focus narrow. This wasn't just another ride through the arena; this was the moment before everything started, the brief calm before the clash of lances.


He straightened, feeling Cupcake brush against his leg, and let himself imagine the upcoming ride. "Stay sharp," he said softly, almost to himself, as he guided the small creature closer to the staging area. "And don't worry. I'll keep you safe." Cupcake chirped once more, as if affirming the promise, and Rynar allowed a small smirk to touch his lips. No matter what happened on that field, they'd face it together.

 

[Knight of the Republic]

Jousting Arena
Seeking Favors!!!!
Will be Jousting Siv Kryze
Modifiers: +1 Riding

The name written on the roster read Lord Velarys, though beneath the polished Jal Shey armor and indigo cloak stood no lord at all. The helm concealed the features beneath, and the layers of Force-imbued armor gave a sharper broader shape that could easily pass for a young noble warrior.

Before them towered a Basilisk War Droid, all durasteel and old fury, glowing eyes shifting like molten amber. It was nothing like the living mounts they had trained with before, but perhaps that would be a small advantage. The Lord drew a steady breath and reached for the side plating... and promptly just about made a fool of themselves.

The first attempt to climb up was clumsy. The second nearly sent them sliding back down. But with a firm grip and a push from a helpful handler and a quiet murmur of encouragement, Lord Velarys finally swung a leg over and settled into the saddle.

The War Droid gave a low mechanical rumble beneath them, the sound thrumming through the armor. The Knight straightened with the reins in hand and then nodded once as if the mere act would provide some measure of reassurance for themselves and the machine.

"Alright," they murmured quietly under helm. "Just like a nerf. Only made of metal. And possibly angry."

The signal was given. The Basilisk began a cautious trot toward the jousting field, its steps heavy and sure. The sound of the crowd rose in waves around in a wave of murmurs, laughter, scattered applause. Their pulse quickened beneath the armor.

Maybe, if luck was kind, Lord Velarys might even earn a cheer.

​

OOC: Starting my roll for when we start the next round!
Result= 6+1 for a total of 7 a Minor Fail

 

[Renn Vizsla]

Tag: Sibylla Abrantes




The horns of Everholt rang out beneath a clear midday sky, their echo rolling across the high stone walls and out into the sun-washed fields beyond. Banners of the High Republic and the Mandalorian Empire rippled side by side in the bright wind, casting their sigils in colored shadow upon the crowd below. Renn stood beside Queen Abrantes and Jarl Kheron Galvus upon the grand dais, his armor gleaming like hammered silver in the sunlight, the blue trim of his plates mirroring the sky above. The air was warm, alive, filled with the murmur of voices, the scent of dust, and the raw thrum of anticipation.

When the Queen spoke, her words carried easily across the courtyard. She had the bearing of one who understood both ceremony and the hearts of those who stood before her, nobles, soldiers, and warriors alike. Renn listened in silence, the T-visor of his helm fixed upon the jousting grounds below, but his attention belonged to her. When she lifted her goblet, he mirrored the gesture, his movement deliberate, the motion of a soldier paying respect, not to pomp, but to truth.

“On Roon,” Renn said, his voice carrying like the steady hum of an engine beneath the roar of the crowd, “we teach that the forge shapes more than iron, it tempers the hand that wields it. Today, that forge burns here, between us. Let this Feast of Iron and Honor remind the galaxy that valor is not born of bloodlines, nor loyalty confined to worlds, but in the will to stand unbroken beside one another.”

He stepped forward to the edge of the dais, the sunlight striking the ridges of his armor as the first pair of Basilisk riders thundered into the arena, their mounts gleaming like living flame. He raised his goblet higher, the sun flashing along its rim.

“To the High Republic, who remember that peace must be defended as fiercely as it is dreamed. And to Mandalore, who remind the stars that the heart of the warrior still beats, even in times of peace.”

The crowd roared as the Basilisks collided mid-charge, sparks cascading like molten gold in the midday light. Renn’s gaze followed them, then shifted once more to the Monarch beside him. Beneath the gleam of his visor, a faint expression, something between pride and respect, lingered unseen.

“May this not be the last forge we share, Your Majesty,” he said quietly, just loud enough for her to hear over the cheers.

And though his words were measured, their weight was not lost in the noise of celebration. They carried the tempered promise of a man who had seen too much of division, and who now stood, for once, in the sun.

To the Victor Goes the Spoils.​

 

[Tyr Mereel]

THE TOURNY BEGINS

Tag: Aiden Porte

The sound of steel-shod hooves and repulsor thrusters echoed through the stone vaults of Everholt’s lists. Rows of pennants shimmered in the midday sun, rippling like dueling flames in the wind. The crowd pressed tight against the railings, nobles and warriors alike drawn to the rare spectacle that promised not bloodshed, but glory.

At the far end of the field stood Tyr. The towering Mandalorian looked more like a walking fortress than a man, seven feet of forged muscle and beskar, his armor painted in storm-grey with streaks of deep crimson cutting across the plates like lightning over iron. His helm turned slightly, the T-visor catching the sun, throwing a flash that made those in the front row shield their eyes. Behind him loomed his mount, a massive Basilisk war droid, its armored carapace bristling with cannons and thruster vents, eyes burning like molten amber beneath its curved plating.

Tyr’s voice came through the speakers of his helm, gravel-rough and amplified to reach the farthest stands. “People of Everholt!” he roared, raising his spear high, its haft wrapped in the hide of a Gundark, the blade glinting white-hot. “You came to see honor tested and iron proven! You came to see if the old fires still burn in men and machine alike!” His gauntlet slammed against the droid’s flank, the metallic echo carrying through the courtyard. “Today, we remind the galaxy that Mandalorians do not forget how to fight!”

The crowd erupted. Cries of “Mereel!” and “Haat, ibac ori’vod!” rolled like thunder across the field. Even the nobles from Naboo could not help but cheer at the sheer force of presence the Foundling radiated, half myth, half storm given form.

Tyr twisted his lance once, the servos in his wrist humming, and lowered the weapon in salute toward his opponent. “May the Force keep you steady, Jedi,” he said over the comms, his tone more reverent than mocking. Then, to the crowd again, his voice rose: “And may the Forge keep me standing when the dust settles!”

The Basilisk beneath him bellowed in a guttural roar of metal and fire as its thrusters flared to life, scorching the earth beneath. Tyr swung into the saddle, securing the magnetic clamps across his greaves. The sky trembled with the war-machines’ power, banners snapping in their wake.

At the signal of the trumpets, Tyr Mereel leaned forward, visor narrowing into a single line of focus. The joust was about to begin, Mandalorian honor and Jedi grace poised to collide beneath the banners of peace.

The crowd hushed, breath held.

Two titans awaited the charge.​

Spoiler: Jousting Roll

I am an Idiot and forgot to Roll,

 

[Jael Amnen]

The tent had been raised where the daylight was shadowed and the roar of the festivities fell to a hush. Canvas the color of bruised wine, stitched with crescent sigils, breathed in the light breeze. Within, a runner of black salt traced a perfect ellipse around a low table of carved sycamore. A bowl of obsidian smoked with resin and myrrh. Mothwing charms chimed softly from a crossbar. The air tasted of iron and lilies.

Jael slipped through the flap as one might enter a chapel, her head inclined, veil lowered, gloves of dusk-blue folded at her wrist. A handmaid unpinned the slender Amnen crescent from her shoulder and laid it beside the obsidian bowl. Another offered the basin. Jael rinsed her fingers, then set them upon the black salt line and did not cross.

“Daughter.” The High Priestess’s voice came before her figure, a braided current of incense and displeasure. She stood opposite the ellipse, white hair coiled beneath a net of jet, night-garden silk falling from her shoulders like a shadow with embroidery. Her eyes were not cruel, merely certain. “You asked for a private rite apart from the Mother’s table, on a day of concord.” The smallest tilt of her head, not quite a scoff. “And came armed with witnesses you pretend are attendants.”

“They are trainees,” Jael answered, soft as a lullaby. “Nothing more.”

“Everything more,” the Priestess said, moving to the sycamore. She touched two taper candles together and drew a thread of flame from one to the other. “You come wearing your grandmother’s scent and your uncle’s ambition. House Amnen has learned to wrap its politics in religion. Do not insult me by pretending you are here for piety. You are here for the stage.”

Jael let the words settle. She had learned long ago that silence was a blade of its own. Tonight, she let it gleam. When she spoke, it was with the gentled poise that always made courtiers lean closer.

“I am here,” she said, “because you taught me the to heed the call in its time.”

The High Priestess’s nostrils flared, whether at the memory or the impertinence was difficult to say. She circled the black salt and stopped when it set her opposite Jael again, a mirror kept honest by distance.

“Then hear me,” the Priestess said, palm hovering over the bowl. “The Mother is not a banner to be carried into court. She is not a ladder for cousins to climb. You have allowed yourself to be used as a political instrument. Those men would set the altars of our groves against each other and call it...Mother's will.”

A simple gesture, and a handmaid slid the vellum of Nocturnist cant from its leather sheath. The Priestess did not look at it. Her gaze did not leave Jael’s face.

“You are a child of this House,” she continued, “and it will devour you as it devoured the last woman who mistook fervor for favor. Do you think I cannot smell it? The counsel in your ears? The promises tied to your wrists with golden threads? They will make you their saint until they need their martyr.”

Jael’s lashes lowered, piety ever present. When she lifted them again the tent’s lamplight caught in the silver of her eyes and steadied there. She removed one glove, then the other, and laid them, perfectly parallel, on the sycamore surface. A maid presented a sealing-wax stick stamped with the crescent. Jael warmed it over the taper, pressed the crest to a small scroll, and placed the scroll within the salt ellipse.

“Ritual,” she murmured, the smile at her mouth’s corner polite, incurious. “Not stage.”

The High Priestess’s composure cracked by a hair. “You intend to bring our Mother to witness a farce.”

“I intend to bring Her to witness a truth.”

From the foot of the table, a small bell was lifted, its tone silver and thin as frost. The handmaid who rang it drew back as the Priestess reached for the vellum at last and began the opening couplet, the old one...

No moon, no mercy... ​

Only the Mother’s open eye in the dark.​

“Speak your petition,” she said, the liturgy making each word colder.

Jael moved one step closer to the salt line, and no further. “Recognition,” she said. “Sanction.”

“For what?”

“For the old way.”

Silence folded over them again, heavier this time. The incense smoke writhed as though deciding where to settle.

When the Priestess spoke, anger had finally found her tone. “I will not put sanctity to the service of family theater. You would make yourself a knife to weilded by fools. You were a better student than this.”

Jael considered the accusation with the mildness of a woman appraising the stitchwork on a hem. “I learned that offerings must be costly,” she said.

The Priestess’s hands trembled once, barely, then stilled. “You dare to summon me to cover your…challenge.” The last word curdled, and at last the mask slipped enough to show what lay beneath — fear braided to love, to duty, to a lifetime of keeping a cult from being consumed by a house with a talent for consuming.

Her voice lowered. “You are being used to take control of House Amnen.”

Jael’s answer was a very slow breath. She reached into her sleeve and drew out a narrow ribbon of midnight silk. She bound it around her right wrist, none of the drama of a vow, all of the finality. When she was done, she looked up and let the gentility fall away from her voice until only the clarity remained.

“High Priestess,” she said, “I am no one’s tool.”

Jael lifted her chin, a fraction. The tent seemed to tilt around the black ellipse, as if the daylight within the tent dimmed further.

“The Mother’s will,” she said, “shall be decided in who is left alive by the day’s end.”

The bell’s tone did not so much ring as hang, a last bright thread between them. On the sycamore, the small sealed scroll gleamed with the Amnen crescent. The old way had been spoken aloud at last.

Outside, the feast cheered for a triumphant pass. Inside, the incense finished its spiral and went out.

@Open to viewers Acier Moonbound​

 

[Aether Verd]

Assets: Beskar'gam | Basilisk
Darksaber | Resolute Dawn​

THE ARENA OF BLADES

The Mand’alor arrived not in fanfare but in focus. The revelry of the feast drifted behind him like the echo of a storm already passed, its laughter and song lingering in the halls of Everholt while his purpose drew him elsewhere. Above, the mountains gleamed in crowns of frost, and below, the steam rising from the hot springs shrouded the Iron Yard in veils of silver. It was here that steel met soul, where the truest language of Mandalorians was spoken through the edge of a blade rather than the turn of a tongue.

Aether Verd paused upon the threshold and surveyed the grounds. His eyes caught the firelight glancing off the polished banners of the High Republic and his own Empire entwined above. Pride stirred within him, quiet and tempered, at what Warden Renn Vizsla and Queen Sibylla Abrantes had built. This feast, this joust, this mingling of warriors and senators beneath one sky, it was more than a celebration. It was the proof of a bridge forged not from words but from conviction.

He had considered, for a fleeting moment, taking the saddle of a Basilisk himself. The thought of feeling its engines thunder beneath him, of meeting another in midair with nothing but honor to separate survival from defeat, tempted him deeply. Yet he knew this night belonged to his champions. Let them claim the glory. Let their deeds echo beyond the stars.

Still, the hunger lingered.

The Mand’alor had not come to spectate.

His challenge had already been sent to one of the Republic’s most renowned warriors, the Jedi Lorn Reingard . They had not met before this day, but Aether had heard the name whispered in diplomatic circles and battle reports alike. A disciplined fighter, a man of principle, perhaps even of purpose. That would suffice.

He strode forward through the crowd with the unhurried confidence of one who needed no introduction. His armor caught the light in dull tones of charcoal, and a crimson cloak flowed behind him like living flame. He stepped into the Iron Yard without ceremony, the sound of his boots steady against the stone. When he reached the edge of the ring, he stopped, and silence followed.

With deliberate care, Aether removed his helm. The polished visage of the Sole Ruler lifted free, revealing the man beneath, his features carved from quiet resolve and scarred history. He placed it upon the railing beside him, then unclasped his cloak and cuirass. Each layer of beskar fell away until the Mand’alor stood bare from the waist up, his body a map of battle’s truth and endurance. The cold air met his skin, but he felt only the rising thrill of challenge.

He moved with calm precision, stepping over the railing and into the arena proper. The earth felt solid beneath his boots, grounding him in the present moment. He reached for one of the beskads resting upon the weapon stand, testing its balance before resting it across his shoulder. The blade’s edge caught the light, and for an instant, the courtyard’s hum quieted as though the air itself recognized the gravity of what was to come.

Mand’alor the Iron turned his gaze toward the gate through which his opponent would arrive. His expression was neither prideful nor grim, but something in between, a calm forged by trial, sharpened by belief.

He waited, every breath steady, every muscle poised, not as a ruler seated upon a throne but as a warrior standing in the light of his people’s promise.​

Lorn Reingard

 

[Acier Moonbound]

Location: Nessantico

Equipment:
Field Gear | Lightsaber | Tic | Cybernetic Arm

The air outside the feast was cold enough to bite. Ace hadn't meant to stray this far. He'd come to stand for Aether, nothing more, to show his face, if only from the shadows. But the Force had a way of tugging him off the path, and tonight it led him here: a tent the color of bruised wine, stitched with crescent sigils that whispered of old gods.

He felt her before he saw anything.

Jael. Her presence was faint but distinct, familiar enough to still his breath. Their one meeting had been brief, but she'd left a mark: the strange calm of someone who spoke in riddles that turned out to be truths. Now, that same calm was burning hotter, threaded with something sharp enough to cut.

Inside, voices clashed in ritual cadence. Her voice among them, and another, older, colder. He didn't need to understand the language to hear the weight behind it.

Recognition.
Sanction.
The old way.

Ace frowned. He knew that tone. It was the sound of someone fanaticism disguised as faith. Tic shifted beside his boot, photoreceptor dimming in unease.

"I know." He murmured. "Not our problem."

The tent fell silent behind him, and Ace turned back toward the feast. The warmth of torchlight and noise reached him again, but it felt a world away. He tugged his hood lower and pulled his cloak tight. He shouldn't even be here, especially not with her somewhere among them.

Sibylla Abrantes. The thought alone tightened his chest. He'd seen her face in enough memories to know how easily it could undo him. If fate was merciful tonight, she'd never notice him at all.

"Let's stay low, Tic." He muttered. "Just watch the fight, then we go."

The droid chirped once in quiet agreement. By the time Ace reached the Iron Yard, the torches had been lit, their flames painting the banners of the Mandalorian Empire and the Republic in bands of gold and crimson. Steam drifted across the stone, ghosting over armor and faces.

And there he was. Aether Verd. Mand'alor. His brother.

The Mand'alor stood bare from the waist up, a blade balanced on his shoulder, the air around him thick with expectation. He looked every inch the myth he'd become... calm, unyielding, built from the same steel as the people who followed him.

The sight caught Ace in the gut. Pride came first. Then guilt. Then the old ache of distance, knowing that this, too, was a world he no longer fit into.

He stayed near the back of the crowd, half-hidden in the line of torchlight, watching his brother take the field. Only then did he realize that he was facing none other than Lorn. The Jedi who helped him find his Kyber crystal on Naboo.

Shit. This was awkward. Well, not really, you don't bet against family. He folded his arms, eyes steady on the ring, and hoped that the woman on the dais never turned her hazel eyes his way.

Jael Amnen​

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Location: Nessantico
The Feast of Concord | Featuring Basilisk Jousting
Shade ​

The sound of the crowd, laughter, cheers, the hum of repulsors overhead, rolled through the air like a living tide. He’d dressed not as a Noble today but in his republic armor as if he was getting ready for a battle. He always did trust steel more than silk.

He glanced to his right and gave Shade a small smirk, as he nudged her arm gently. Yet, he could still see the picture of restrained disapproval, when he advised her they would be attending this event. She’d protested a bit, but then she was here. That was a start.

“You’re frowning already.” Cassian said. “We haven’t even seen anyone get trampled yet.”

The Basilisk droids circled before them, their riders poised like armored comets. The sight made something old stir in his blood, pride, memory, the restless ache of history repeating itself in new armor. Mandalorians and Republic alike, gathered under the same suns. It still didn’t feel real. Sibylla had done a great job, as had Aurelian in tying these affairs together. He was very impressed.

He stopped near the edge of the arena, crossing his arms as a gust of red dust rolled over the stone. “You know.” he said, lowering his voice just enough for her to hear, “If I end up signing up for that joust, you’re the one I’m blaming when I get flattened.”

The crowd roared as two riders crashed together in the dust, metal screaming against metal. Cassian looked out over it all, banners of Mandalorian and Republic crests side by side, and thought that maybe, for once, the galaxy could afford to laugh.

And if he had to drag Shade kicking and scowling through every arena and feast table in Nessantico to make that happen, then so be it.

 

[Reina Daival]

​

Tag: Open
Location: Naboo Marketplace

To think it hadn't been so long ago that Reina would have happily thrown her hat into the ring to take part in one of the activities on this day. Be it amongst the Arena as a duellist or out amongst the numbers of those partaking in the Joust. The days when she wanted to prove herself like a Knight from the tales of her childhood. Tales that she had discarded at the wayside, as instead she wandered amongst the market. Perhaps she'd make her way off towards the Arena to watch what was going on, but for now, she was a woman on a mission. She needed to find things to add to her robes as protection. And well, Reina was no stranger to the marketplace, as she tapped her pouch of credits, hiding amongst her robes.

Her gaze flickered amongst the various artisans, trying to figure out who would be the best to discuss her wishes with. Of course, the Mandalorian Smiths would be an expert on adding protection considering how capable beskar was, but would they have the skills to work with fabric? That was something that the Naboo artisans would much more capable with. It was such a difficult choice for her to decide, as she leaned against a wall, her gaze flickering between the various stalls.

Her dislike of the Mandalorians and their culture had fortunately lowered. She still wasn't entirely a fan of them, but there wasn't amount of hatred in her heart towards them. At least not unjustified hatred. She could admire their craftmanship...Reina's gaze flickered towards Whisperwind on her hip, giving it a few taps. Nothing stood up to Ancient Jedi craftmanship in Reina's eyes...but she wasn't going to find any ancient Jedi stuff here. It would just need to more additions to her robes.

​

 

[Shade]

Shade fell into step beside him, the sway of her movements deliberate, almost imperceptibly controlled. The dust rolled across the arena floor, catching the light along the edges of her armor, but her eyes were fixed on the riders, tracking the chaos with quiet precision.

"You said it yourself," she murmured, voice low, calm, and just edged with dry humor. "We haven't even seen the worst yet. I imagine the joust will be…instructive."

Her gaze flicked to him briefly, catching the small smirk he threw her way. She allowed herself the tiniest lift of an eyebrow, a silent acknowledgment, though her expression otherwise remained carefully neutral.

"If you're planning to get flattened," Shade continued, her tone almost conspiratorial despite the crowd, "I expect you to go down with style. Not like a clumsy cadet."

She paused, letting the sounds of the crowd wash over them—the cheers, the clang of metal, the roar of engines. Her attention lingered on the skill of the riders, the precision and timing, before returning to Cassian with the faintest hint of a challenge in her eyes.

"Try not to make it too easy for them," she said softly, a smirk ghosting at the corner of her mouth. "Or I might start worrying about you."

Her hand brushed briefly against her belt, fingers resting near her knife hilt, the subtle tension in her stance a quiet echo of their familiar rhythm together—alert, measured, and slightly…competitive.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Elian Abrantes]

Location: Nessantico
The Feast of Concord | Featuring Basilisk Jousting
Tags: Sibylla Abrantes Aurelian Veruna @Open
​

Elian leaned back against the fence that ringed the jousting grounds, one boot hooked on the lower rail, the other scuffing lazy arcs in the ochre dust. The world around him was all thunder and color, banners snapping, crowds roaring, the deep sound of Basilisk engines circling around, but he carried it lightly, like it all existed for his amusement alone.

The armor he wore was a mix of Republic armor., the sort of ensemble that made purists from both sides twitch. A half-cape of blue cloth fluttered behind him, and a grin tugged at his mouth as he adjusted the gauntlet on his left wrist. He could already taste the adrenaline, the dance of it, the spectacle and he loved every second.

He noted Cassian from the crowd and gave a small wave to his older brother, who met his gaze with a laugh and shook his head. Pointing his finger at him, a way of saying 'be careful' Elian gave a slight tilt of his head in Cassian's direction before his gaze found Sibylla. She stood, poised and composed as ever, a picture of Nobility that made Elian's grin turn sly. He gave her a small, irreverent salute with two fingers to his temple

Elian turned back toward the gate where his Basilisk mount waited sleek, predatory, eyes glowing with patient malice. He patted the machine's flank affectionately.

"Let's give them something to remember, hm?" he said under his breath. "A little show of Abrantes charm."

He swung into the saddle with practiced ease, his grin bright as twin suns. As he awaited a challenger. He wasn't here to win glory or to prove bloodlines. He was here for the rush, the laughter, the living pulse of it all, and, maybe, to make his siblings lose a few years of their lives if he got knocked around pretty good. They loved to worry about him, so he would make a game out of it.

It was his charm after all.

 

[Raylin Fall]

​

Raylin's time in the Alliance military had made him reasonable wary of Mandalorians. In his service Mandalorians had been both friend and foe. He did not understand them, they were a foreign entity, a mystery of a culture that thrived on things that he better thought to avoid. Perhaps that made them strong, or perhaps that just made them mad.

The Republic saw fit to have a festival of sorts, a celebration of... he fell asleep during the briefing. But he was supposed to make nice with them, smile, be a happy little soldier, wave, shake babies and kiss hands or whatever they said. Raylin had no real interest in furthering geopolitical relations with nation-states that underwent regime changes every few months. That, and-

Well, apparently Raylin's name had somehow been entered into a fucking jousting tournament, of all things. No, not a booth showing people how to patch up boo-boos or a drinking contest. No, the weary man had been told to joust. Jousting who? He had no idea until he was being suited up. Suited up by Mandalorians- who attempted to be kind and informative to him, how to ride the war droid, how to best use the lance.

But all Raylin could think of was when the same T-shaped faces ransacked Alliance worlds. He was told these were different, not the same, a different entity and not the same sect. Something similar to how Jedi operated. Sure, there was the Republic's Jedi, but also the Hidden Path, other Enclaves strewn about the galaxy. Apparently, the same with Mandalorians. This group here, this group there. Perhaps it was not beyond his understanding, he just lacked perspective.

But presently, he didn't lack anything but a desire to smack Rik Perris off his stupid war droid with his big stupid lance. And for some reason, the Republic thought it necessary to don him in some silly durasteel outfit. Blue and maroon, with a signet of the Republic Grand Army on the front of it. He felt like a noble Knight, sure. The armor was clean and freshly made, and appropriate given the situation. However, he also felt like a dork. Because he was jousting as a knight, like some tale his father would tell him of old heroes and villains, battling in ancient history before bed. Noble armored Jedi Knights battling the vile wizards and warriors of the Sith, swords cast from the metals of stars, ancient prophecies, the encyclopedia of trauma-based medicine and the application of proper anti-hemorrhaging bandages and medicines.... the good things, right before bed.

So maybe, Raylin would lean into it. He picked up the lance, examining his war droid.

---

And lo, he beheld Sir Rik Perris yonder, likewise girding himself for battle and making due ready with knightly care. He knew naught of the man's deeds nor his lineage — only that both served beneath the proud banner of the Republic and the houses of Naboo that so proudly stood as a vanguard against all their sworn foes!


"Have at thee, knave!" quoth he, his voice ringing with mirth and valor alike. With flourish and fire he raised his blade (his lance), as though some troubadour might sing of it in antiquity. For he came not merely to duel, but to seize glory, to do his kingdom (*the Republic) honor—aye, and perhaps to make sport of it besides!

And hopefully, get a kiss on the cheek from a fair maiden!

​

 

[Adelle Bastiel]

Tags: Opponent: Tess Wyn-Tai | Open​

The Feast of Concord | Basilisk Jousting

Adelle listened to the opening speeches with mild interest. Warden Renn Vizsla she knew by reputation but the royal next to him--the interim queen of Naboo--and the Jarl were unknown. The queen had a way with words, calling for the listeners to remember common causes and to celebrate them. Thus began the jousting. She tapped her fingers against her helm, her buy'ce, resting on the railing of the jousting grounds. Phantom stood on her shoulders, bright orange vest standing out against her black fur. As this wasn't a true combat zone, Adelle had brought along her therapy spukami--just in case something happened.

Force knew she didn't need an episode happening here and causing an incident.

She held out her arm for Phantom to walk on and let the spukami hop onto the railing. Members of her clan, Skirata, had goaded--bullied, really--her into joining the lists, especially since she'd been training with the Basilisk droids at Kyrimorut recently. They'd given her a crash course, literally, in the few days leading up to her departure for Nessantico. The concept was simple enough but the technique... that was much harder to pull off. Adelle watched the riders ahead of her joust each other, trying to learn through observation.

 

[Jorryn Fordyce]

// Lady Jorryn Fordyce //
// Objective I // The Moonlight Waltz //
// Focus // // Corazona von Ascania //
// Attire //

---

---

The rowdiness of the celebration was a cacophonous experience, whining against the ears of the Echani as she simply sought a place to watch the spectacle about to unfold. She wore a black dress for the event, once again bearing the disguise of nobility. The same lace white mask she had worn to the masquerade once again hid the amber eyes that marked her as Sith.

To be recognised here was tantamount to suicide, and yet the event called out to her. A desire to witness the strength of those that would seek to become champion of a unified High Republic and Mandalorian Empire.

A grave alliance for the Sith Order, she thought, but nothing they couldn't manage. Jedi and Mandalorian had ever been the prey of the Sith for as long as their ilk drew breath and followed creeds, a simple alliance wouldn't be enough to save them

So she was here to simply observe the examples they put forward, a curiosity about just what she would match up with in the future. But entertainment called, and the Dark Lady would answer.

She waved through the crowds of poor and unwashed alike, those the Jedi would call equals, and pressed a handkerchief to her nose to avoid the smell. Perhaps she should have used her ladies' name to provide herself with better sitting, but it was probably too late.

All the private venues and seating had been purchased by those with similar disinterest in the common folk as herself, and she was stuck down in the pits with them.

It wasn't long before the girls decided she had enough of the scent of poverty; a few minutes at best, a few seconds at worst. She had begun to worry the stench might rub off on her.

Before she could call the day a failure and go home to sit in a hot bath for hours, a man approached her. He was a Zeltron carrying an easy smile, and an easier air about him. The smile didn't quite reach it's way to his green orbs, however.

"Greetings, Lady Fordyce, I come bearing a message."

A letter was held aloft from him, a black envelope with gold lettering finely engraving the name of the former Lord Inquisitor across it. A thumb dragged across the lettering, feeling the raised lettering. It was penned by the same hand that invited her to the fashion show on Nar Shadaa.

In the envelope was a ticket and an invitation, calling her to one of the private booths that sat above the jousting grounds. Whoever had invited her carried deep pockets indeed, but Jorryn already knew well enough who it may be.

"Take me to your mistress then."

The pair moved quickly through the crowds of passerbys and children, excitedly shouting that they would be late as the Echani attempted to drown the noise out. It wouldn't take long before they arrived to their quarry, a secluded part of the tournament grounds that allowed for private viewing.

And as the Zeltron opened the door with a small bow, a more feminine pink figure would be awaiting her inside.

"Mistress Du Vain," The Echani called out as she entered, already curious as to what this social call could be about. "You called for me?"