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

[Tess Wyn-Tai]

Jousting
TAGS: Adelle Bastiel
+1 Modifier for piloting/riding​

Tess cinched the last strap of her makeshift armor. It was cobbled together from scraps of durasteel, a flight vest, and what might've been part of a swoop engine cover. It wasn't pretty, but it'd keep her alive long enough to regret her choices. The air around the jousting grounds shimmered with heat from the braziers, and nobles in the stands were cheering like this was all some grand game. Maybe it was. She spat into the dirt, adjusted her gloves, and gave a low whistle.

The Basilisk droid before her rumbled fully awake, red eyes flaring like a beast come alive. "Alright, girl," Tess muttered, patting the cold metal flank, "let's make sure we don't die stupid today." She didn't really know how she'd ended up here. One minute she was passing through the core as a refugee; the next, she was holding a registration token for a tournament meant for Mandalorians and heroes. Maybe it was the credits. Maybe it was the look Ryn had given her last time she'd backed down from a dare. Or maybe, Force help her, it was just the thrill.

The crowd roared as another pair of riders clashed, sparks and metal flying. Tess felt her stomach twist, part nerves, part hunger. The announcer's voice boomed, calling her name. "Tess of Sacorria, riding in the name of the Republic!" She snorted. "More like ridin' for the rent money," she muttered, hauling herself onto the Basilisk's saddle. The controls hummed beneath her fingers, a little too responsive for comfort. The droid shifted, restless, as she steadied herself and pulled her visor down.

Across the arena, her opponent loomed. Tess swallowed hard. "Alright, time to earn the nickname Iron Champion not... Chompy," she whispered to herself, tightening her grip on the lance. "Time to earn that new name."
​

 

[Aurelian Veruna]

Location: Jousting
Tags: Elian Abrantes

Aurelian moved through the crowd with a quiet authority, like a predator surveying its territory. It wasn't a soldier's swagger, but the practiced ease of someone who understood that every gathering was a potential battle. The firelight glinted off the gold embroidery on his collar and the subtle curve of his smile, but his gaze was sharp, constantly assessing. The competitors were lining up, including a Mandalorian foundling who looked as though he'd been carved from solid durasteel, and Aurelian's amusement began to fade.

He found Elian by the gate, his half-cape fluttering in the breeze, his grin far too bright for the dangerous situation he was about to enter.

"Tell me I'm mistaken," Aurelian said, his voice low but laced with an edge as he stood beside the youngest Abrantes brother. "Because if my eyes aren't deceiving me, you're about to go up against warriors that could use you as a toothpick." He glanced at the seven-foot Mandalorian, then back at Elian. "This isn't some polite tournament on Naboo. These people don't hold back for charm or family name."

He folded his arms, letting the roar of the crowd fill the space between them. "You might get lucky," he added, his tone almost casual. "Luck is a wonderful thing, but it's not the same as skill. If you're relying on it to save you from him…" He nodded his head toward the massive warrior again. "I'd start thinking about your victory speech for the infirmary."

The warning might have sounded harsh from anyone else, but there was a noticeable undercurrent of genuine concern in Aurelian's words, a crack in his usual composure. He looked up toward the dais, where Sibylla stood, poised and serene, then back to Elian. "She'll have my head if you die doing something this idiotic," he muttered.

Then, more softly, "You don't need to prove anything here, Elian."

Aurelian's smile returned, slow and a little dangerous, but the worry lingered in his eyes. "Now, if you absolutely insist on this, at least make sure you give them a show worth remembering. I'd hate to waste a toast on a mediocre performance."

​

 

[Lorn Reingard]

Tags: Aether Verd​

Lorn stepped through the gate as it rumbled open. The Iron Yard stretched before him, a stark arena of stone and torchlight, filled with the hushed anticipation of a hundred onlookers. His gaze found the figure already at the center: the Mand'alor himself, unarmored but formidable, the weight of legend made flesh.

He hadn't expected this summons. He'd faced Sith blades and pirate assassins, even Diarchs, but never a direct challenge from the Iron Crown of Mandalore. For a man who'd lived most of his life in the rhythm of battle, even Lorn felt a rare hum of uncertainty. The air seemed to thrum with it, heavy and alive.

He crossed the yard without a word, the soft grit of stone beneath his boots the only sound in the settled silence. When he reached his mark opposite Aether, he stopped, bowing his head once, a simple, respectful gesture. Then he stripped off his tunic and folded it neatly on the rail. The cold bit against old scars, tracing the story of his years across his skin.

He reached for a vibrosword from the rack, feeling its familiar weight hum in his hand. The weapon whirred to life with a low purr. He looked across the ring, meeting Aether's eyes without flinch or bravado. "I'll admit," Lorn said, his voice even, low enough that it carried only to the man who'd called him here, "when they told me the Mand'alor himself had issued the challenge, I thought it a jest." A faint, wry smile ghosted across his features before fading just as quickly. "But I'm honored."

He lifted the blade slightly, testing its weight once more, then let it settle into a loose guard. The torchlight caught the faint silver in his hair, the calm in his stance masking the coiled readiness beneath. "Whenever you're ready, Mand'alor," he said quietly, the words neither boast nor invitation, just fact, spoken by a man who had lived his life one fight at a time.

 

[Knight of the Republic]

Jousting Arena
Seeking Favors!!!! Maybe a cheer??
Will be Jousting Siv Kryze
Modifiers: +1 Riding | 1st pass total 7 minor fail

Heavy breaths echoed beneath the helm as Lord Velarys struggled to steady the Basilisk War Droid beneath them. The weight of the moment pressed close. It was time.

Their opponent was none other than the Warden of Concordia. That did not bode well, Velarys thought, jaw tightening behind the visor. Around the arena, laughter rippled through the stands as other jousters readied themselves, but they refused to let it shake their focus. First impressions were deceiving.

There was a reason Siv Kryze held the title of Warden, and odds were no doubt he had earned it. Still, perhaps fortune favored the bold.

The flag lifted, then fell. With a sharp hiss of hydraulics, the war droid surged forward. The ground trembled beneath the metal weight, each step thunderous and uneven compared to any living mount. Velarys braced the shield and lowered the lance, the rhythm awkward but determined.

The clash came too soon and Lord Velarys felt where it all went wron. Weight shifted and balance faltered. Sure enough, the strike would very likely only weakly glance off Kryze's shield, little more than a tap.

OOC: ;( My next roll is 4+1 for minor fail. Totally gonna miss in my next pass.

 

[Jael Amnen]

The tent was alive with motion.

Jael moved within the circle of black salt, her gown torn and darkened with blood...hers, the Priestess’s, indistinguishable now. Each inhalation came thin and fast. Each exhalation was laced with fear. Their bare feet left smears on the cloth floor, tracing loops of crimson in the pattern of the Mother’s eye.

The duel had ceased to be graceful long ago. It was now a matter of will.

The High Priestess struck first, again. Her ceremonial dagger flashing in a downward arc meant for Jael’s shoulder. Jael twisted, too slow, and the blade scored along her upper arm. Heat flooded down to her fingertips. She caught the Priestess’s wrist, their faces near enough that their veils brushed.

“End this,” the older woman hissed through teeth pinked with her own blood. “Before the Mother takes pity on neither of us.”

Jael’s answer came as a whisper pressed between heartbeats. “Mercy is not in the nature of this rite. What has begun must be ended.”

They broke apart, circling. A low murmur of prayer filled the tent from the gathered handmaidens. It was a steady, ritualistic rhythm to die to. The scent of resin and sweat had thickened into something close to holy rot.

Jael feinted low. The Priestess parried, cutting a line across Jael’s thigh. Pain bloomed white behind her eyes, but she used it, drove forward, blades clashing in short, vicious bursts. The sound was delicate, like glass breaking underwater.

For a moment they locked, dagger to dagger, eyes to eyes, one pair clouded with age and fury, the other with purpose sharpened to the point of cruelty.

“You think this makes you a vessel of Her will?” the Priestess gasped. “You make yourself only a butcher.”

Jael’s breath trembled. “Perhaps the final lesson you teach is that there is little difference.”

The older woman lunged, but her footing slipped in the blood-slick circle. It was the smallest misstep, the faintest imbalance, but enough. Jael pivoted with the fall of a dancer, one hand striking the High Priestess’s arm aside, the other bringing her blade up and across in a single, reflexive motion.

The sound that followed was not a cry but a sigh, soft as a candle going out.

A thread of red traced the Priestess’s throat, glimmering in the lamplight before spreading into bloom. The dagger fell from her hand, kissing the floor with the gentlest ring. Jael caught her as she folded, lowering her within the ellipse so that her head lay upon the sigil.

For a heartbeat...perhaps two...the tent held nothing but silence.

Then the handmaidens began to chant the words of completion. From darkness we are born, and through darkness we ascend.

Someone took Jael’s weapon. Someone else pressed linen to her bleeding leg, to the cut along her arm. The world had gone slow and unreal. The incense smoke coiled upward like a spirit taking leave.

Outside, the cheers from the jousting fields rose again, laughter, music, the noise of a world that would never know what had transpired here.

Hands guided Jael toward the tent’s rear curtain. She did not resist.

The ascension was complete.

By dusk, she would be dressed in white.

Acier Moonbound​

 

[Corazona von Ascania]

The Feast of Concord | Featuring Basilisk Jousting
Brandyn Sal-Soren | OPEN

Sat at one of the long stretches of red stone, Corazona was dressed in the modest attire of a Ukatian noblewoman rather than the traditional robes of a Jedi.

One hand held the rivet of a folding fan, spreading ornately painted panels that hovered demurely over her mouth. Its floral design, again, was distinctly Ukatian. Blue vines twined artfully with golden blossoms, a nod to her House's colors. It would serve as her favor, should any of the tournament participants seek such a thing from her.

Her other hand rested on the gentle curve of her stomach. It was too early to feel any movement, but it still felt right.

"You'll see such things on Ukatis, too," she murmured. "Jousts are quite common back home. Perhaps you'll get to watch one of your silly uncles be knocked from their horse."

The thought was amusing enough for her tone to curl with good humor. Who would be victorious in this tournament, she wondered? An agent of the Republic, or a Mandalorian? She counted it fortunate that this particular breed of Mandalorian seemed to be more measured than their warmongering brethren. Even if her first meeting with them had been under the pretense of a misunderstanding, Aether Verd seemed to be capable leader.

She just hoped that it would be to the galaxy's benefit, rather than to their ruin.

 

[Acier Moonbound]

Location: Nessantico

Equipment:
Field Gear | Lightsaber | Tic | Cybernetic Arm

The roar of the crowd had become background noise. Ace was laser focused on the impending duel between Aether Verd and Lorn Reingard - anxiously anticipating to see its outcome.

But then, the Force tightened around him like a drawn breath, cold and electric, crawling over his skin. His head lifted before he realized why. Jael?

Her presence bloomed in his senses, sharp, trembling, threaded with pain. It felt like fire fighting to stay lit under water. For a heartbeat, he stood still, jaw tight, telling himself it wasn't his problem. He wasn't here for this. Not tonight.

Then the feeling twisted, violence blooming in the Force. Tic chirped at his heel, curious.

"Just follow me." Ace said, already moving.

He cut through the bustling crowd. The closer he got, the stronger the scent of myrrh and iron became. Incense. Blood. The air trembled with whispered prayer. He shoved the curtain aside, igniting his lightsaber.

The world inside was red and gold and smoke. Jael stood in the black-salt circle, veil torn, one arm streaked with blood. Before her, the High Priestess was already falling. A fine thread of crimson traced her throat as she sank, soundless, into Jael's waiting hands.

The chanting began at once, rhythmic, hollow. The words hit him like a drumbeat in his chest, and the tent dissolved around him.

He was on Dathomir again. His lightsaber had howled through that night too, cutting through red mist and fire. Witches shouting hymns even as they fell, calling him prophecy, salvation. Every stroke had been rage given form, every kill another refusal to stop. He'd cut through their spells, their pleas, their faith. And when it was done, the world had gone still. And throughout it all, Clan Vethrisa's own chanting rang through his ears.

Final Weave.

The sound of the handmaidens' chant snapped him back. He stood frozen at the edge of the circle, the blue blade trembling in his grip. Ace exhaled through his nose and killed the lightsaber.

"What did you do?" He asked, though his voice barely rose above the whisper of the candles.

Jael Amnen​

 

[Adelle Bastiel]

Concord Feast || Basilisk Jousting
Modifiers: +1 Riding skill
Tags: Tess Wyn-Tai

Jousting
TAGS: Adelle Bastiel
+1 Modifier for piloting/riding​

Tess cinched the last strap of her makeshift armor. It was cobbled together from scraps of durasteel, a flight vest, and what might've been part of a swoop engine cover. It wasn't pretty, but it'd keep her alive long enough to regret her choices. The air around the jousting grounds shimmered with heat from the braziers, and nobles in the stands were cheering like this was all some grand game. Maybe it was. She spat into the dirt, adjusted her gloves, and gave a low whistle.

The Basilisk droid before her rumbled fully awake, red eyes flaring like a beast come alive. "Alright, girl," Tess muttered, patting the cold metal flank, "let's make sure we don't die stupid today." She didn't really know how she'd ended up here. One minute she was passing through the core as a refugee; the next, she was holding a registration token for a tournament meant for Mandalorians and heroes. Maybe it was the credits. Maybe it was the look Ryn had given her last time she'd backed down from a dare. Or maybe, Force help her, it was just the thrill.

The crowd roared as another pair of riders clashed, sparks and metal flying. Tess felt her stomach twist, part nerves, part hunger. The announcer's voice boomed, calling her name. "Tess of Sacorria, riding in the name of the Republic!" She snorted. "More like ridin' for the rent money," she muttered, hauling herself onto the Basilisk's saddle. The controls hummed beneath her fingers, a little too responsive for comfort. The droid shifted, restless, as she steadied herself and pulled her visor down.

Across the arena, her opponent loomed. Tess swallowed hard. "Alright, time to earn the nickname Iron Champion not... Chompy," she whispered to herself, tightening her grip on the lance. "Time to earn that new name."
​

The roar of the crowds lessened as Adelle slipped on her helm. Phantom perched on a railing post, watching her through half-lidded eyes, as she checked and double checked the attachment points of her armor. Adelle pulled herself up onto the Basilisk droid, body aching in familiar ways from days of training with the droids. She took a deep breath to steady herself; this was going to be just like the drills with her clan. Just way more people watching.

Adelle smiled wryly. There'd also be way fewer insults.

"Tess of Sacorria, riding in the name of the Republic!" Adelle guided her mount to her starting position, forcing herself to take deep, even breaths, trying to drown out the crowd.

"Adelle Steel of Skirata, riding for the Mandalorian Empire!"

Adelle sputtered then quickly scanned the crowd. The use of her old nickname had to be the idea of one of the idiot chuckleheads she called clan. She pressed a button on her helm, broadcasting to the clan frequency. "Whoever had that brilliant idea is dead when I'm done!"

She shifted in the saddle, taking the lance someone offered, trying to get her breathing back under control. Jousting was about timing: you had to hold the lance upright until there was just enough time to lower it into position and aim. She tipped the point in a pseudo-salute to her opponent across the field and waited for the flag to drop. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. She just had to breathe.

​

 

[Lily Decoria]

Objective: Basilisk Jousting!
Outfit: Jousting Attire
Equipment: Jousting Lance
Tag: Rynar Solde | Pillar of Perseverance

Lily stretched her limbs, she had not really been jousting before. The concept was something she had a grasp on, charging at an opponent and attempting to knock them over in a battle for points. However, she usually went for more traditional Echani displays of combat prowess. Today, while she did spot the sword fighting, albeit too late. Lily had been signed up for the jousting. Her outfit was something more akin to what her aunt would wear but it felt more appropriate as jousting attire than her Jedi clothing did. The corset was tight and exaggerated her figure even more than usual. It was no wonder why some women felt the need or desire to wear them often.

Even though it would give others a complex about their own bodies.

She started tying her hair into a loose bun, it was the first time operating a Mandalorian Basilisk but she had learned how to pilot ships and combat vehicles over the years since joining the Jedi Order so Lily held some confidence in her ability to operate this war machine. Looking around the crowds, Lily gave a wide smile and waved her hand, showing the optimism and positivity that she felt in her chances for today. "Win or lose, just here to have some fun." Lily reminded herself as she wanted to avoid feeling that competitive edge that her Master had nurtured in her.

"Hope everyone is having a fabulous day! Looking forward to putting on a brilliant joust for you all!" Lily called out to the crowd, figuring it would do her good standing to show them that she was here for their entertainment and determined to give them a good performance as much as she could. Jumping into the basilisk, Lily gave a few spinning twirls to just add some dramatic flair to her movements before landing on the seat. Looking over the controls, Lily started to quickly familiarise herself with everything.

Giving a small confident grin to herself, "I got this. Yeah, this is going to be fun!" Lily murmured to herself as she started up the war droid.

 

[Isobel Serraris]

FEAST OF IRON AND HONOUR​

Location — Nessantico
Objective — Attend the Feast of Concord . . .
Tags — Elian Abrantes whenever you have time
Paraphernalia — Lightsabers

After a tumultuous dance--with a partner or with a blade--it was time for an event of a lighter tone, if one could even call a joust that. A Joust. They were not unheard of in the galaxy, or in the countless books she had fantasised of living in. With knights begging a lady for a favor as they might face their opponent in a clash of steel or lance, each tilt a matter of skill and mostly luck. Part of her longed to compete in the lists as well, with her experience riding guarlaras, a basilisk must not be too difficult in comparison, right? Still, it would be a dishonour upon her house should she fall to a joust--the type to make the handful of descendants mock her death in song. Although... that thought held a certain humour within it.

The young noble had dressed in a floral, yet practical, gown, while her hair was akin to a waterfall of dark brown curls cascading down her back. And even while she wore a gown of sorts, she refused to part with her lightsabers. The Twin Roses tied to each side of her makeshift belt, within reach should the event turn awry. Though, it would hardly happen in the stands surrounding the lists. Her favor was hanging loosely around her wrist, a flower wreath made of dark-pink roses from her family garden, its thorns mostly removed, though some still regularly pricked her skin. House Serraris' motif at its finest--a comfort among strangers and the like and a curse coming to haunt her once more. For there was no escaping who she was, and who she shall choose to be.

Isobel had gathered at one of the stands surrounding the lists, her hand plucking a goblet of blossom wine from a passing server's tray. Whoever stood beside her was foreign--as was much of the feast and the competition--with no familiar faces to be found. Yet it did little to sour her fun, for here were people jousting, after all! Even if some fared better at it than others. Their stumblings would be as amusing as hers were during the previous festivities. . .

​

 

[Elian Abrantes]

​

Location: I'm in trouble again, aren't I?
Tags: Aurelian Veruna Sibylla Abrantes Isobel Serraris

​

Elian let Aurelian's words wash over him like sunlight off a blade warm, bright, and impossible to ignore but the grin never left his face. He pushed off the rail and stepped closer, boots crunching in the ochre dust so only the two of them could hear.

"You paint a lovely picture, Aurelian." he said, voice low and teasing, fingers idly tracing the rim of his gauntlet. "Toothpick, infirmary, very poetic." He tipped his head toward the towering Mandalorian with exaggerated reverence. "But I prefer dramatic entrances to poetry. Besides, if I get splintered, it'll be the best story for the next dinner. Sibylla will swoon at the anecdote." The smile softened for a breath, genuine where it mattered. "And Cass? He'll find a way to lecture me about bravery and idiocy in exactly the same sentence. I can live with that."

He straightened, shoulders squared, not cocky now, only steady. The humor was his shield, the steadiness beneath it was choice. "Look." he said, quieter, meeting Aurelian's eyes. "I'm not trying to prove anything to anyone. I just...." his grin returned, bright and dangerous as a flare, "I like the way the ground looks when I run across it. I like the feeling of surprising the crowd. If I make you and Sibylla breathe easier afterward, I'll call that a win."

Elian gave him a two-fingered salute that was half apology, half promise. "I promise this is going to be great. and if something happens to me." Elian took a step forward and, lower lip trembling as if he was about to cry. "Take care of Sibylla and Cassian for me okay....." He leaned in and gave Aurelian a hug, as if he was lightly crying, but then at last he busted out laughing. He leaned back placing a hand on Aurelian's shoulders before catching the look on Aurelian's face. "I'm just kidding...." He said lightly with another laugh.

Elian’s gaze swept across the stands as he prepared for his next match, searching for nothing in particular until he saw her.

“Stars above…” he murmured, breath catching for a beat before he turned toward Aurelian, his grin slow and incredulous. “Tell me, have you ever seen anything so beautiful in your life?”

Aurelian gave him a look somewhere between warning and amusement.

“Don't say Sibylla, because you'll be lying.” Elian said with a teasing tone and smirk, he gave Aurelian a pat on the shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”

Elian then was already moving, charmed by impulse, guided by that roguish confidence that so often got him into trouble.

He crossed the stretch of dust and shadow with easy grace, his cape flicking behind him, armor glinting beneath the suns. As he neared her, the roar of the crowd dimmed, replaced by the soft hum of wine and laughter and the faint scent of roses from her favor.

Elian stopped a respectful distance away, offering a half-bow, the kind that carried more warmth than formality.

“Forgive the intrusion, my lady,” he said, voice rich with that effortless blend of sincerity and warmth. “But it seems the galaxy decided to gather all its beauty in one place, and forgot to warn me about it.”

His grin deepened as his eyes flicked briefly to the wreath at her wrist.

“I’m Elian Abrantes.” he continued, with the ease of someone who could make an introduction feel like a challenge. “And I’d be honored, truly, if I might carry your favor into the jousts today. For luck, of course. Though I suspect I’ve already found mine.”

 

[Tess Wyn-Tai]

Jousting
TAGS: Adelle Bastiel​

Tess slammed her helmet down and sealed it with a hiss, her breath echoing in the confined space. The world narrowed instantly to the dusty strip between her and the Mandalorian. Her pulse hammered, loud enough to overwhelm the distant roar of the cheering crowd.

"Alright, girl," she muttered to the Basilisk beneath her. "Nice 'n steady. Don't go tossin' me like a rag doll, yeah?"

The flag dropped. The droid roared to life, metal claws digging into the packed earth, and Tess shot forward like a cannonball. Wind screamed against her armor, the lance wobbling in her grip as the ground trembled beneath them. She tried to keep it steady, focusing on the handlers' instructions about timing and leverage, but all that escaped her was a choked, "Oh f-ck."

The Mandalorian hit first. The opponent's lance clipped her left shoulder, a glancing blow that still felt like pain detonating down her arm. The world spun. Tess's vision went white for a second as she barely held on. Her shoulder screamed in protest, and the only thing that kept her mounted was the death grip she had on the reins, knuckles white beneath her gloves.

She gasped, sucking air through clenched teeth. "That hurt like hell." Tess blinked hard, shaking the blur from her eyes, and yanked the controls around. The droid responded with a mechanical snarl, pivoting in a sharp arc to face her opponent again.

The crowd was still roaring, the air thick with dust and heat. Somewhere deep inside, the crushing pain sharpened into something like focus. Tess rolled her sore shoulder, feeling the bruises bloom beneath the armor. "Alright," she muttered, jaw set. "You wanna dance again, beskar queen? Let's go." She lowered her lance, legs braced, breath coming in short bursts. The Basilisk pawed the dirt, engines thrumming low and hungry. Tess spat the blood from her lip, her eyes locked tight on the Mandalorian.

Spoiler

First Roll - 4/20 +1 Mod = 1 Point
Total Points: 1

​

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

The air shimmered with firelight and frost. Placing an almost mystical feeling upon the scene, like it had been pulled from bedtime stories and placed neatly around them all.
From her station, which was at the rear of the dais, Bastila Sal-Soren stood like carved obsidian. She was still, poised, and quietly dangerous. The polished plates of her decorative Republic crested cuirass caught the reflection of the great pyres that burned in the courtyard below, each flicker of gold and scarlet dancing across her face. Beneath the glimmer, her eyes however did not stray, they stayed fixed on the crowd.

The Feast of Concord was chaos dressed in ceremony. Mandalorians with plaited hair and engraved armor drank beside High Republic envoys wrapped in silks and insignia. Steam rose from the feasting tables, blending with the crisp breath of the mountains. Beskar horns hummed low from the far end of the yard, and every few moments the crowd erupted as another pair of riders thundered across the jousting line, lances sparking against energy shields and Basilisk plating.

Bastila’s gaze shifted, both deliberate and economical in movement, from the jousting field to the feast tables, then to Sibylla Abrantes at her side. The Interim Queen and Ambassador had that unflappable composure of someone born to command the eyes of a hundred strangers. Bastila, in contrast, was the quiet line between them, she was the warhawk among songbirds, measuring every motion, every raised cup and swaggering step in the crowd.

A faint smile tugged at her mouth when she caught the sound of the next name called to the fighting ring.
“Lorn Reingard,” the herald had cried, causing several yells of support to come from the Republic based crowd along with jeers from the Mandalorians.

Lorn.

She hadn’t actually seen him since the Moonlight Gala. The rising tensions of a war in the core and the Republic’s ever expanding borders had meant they had yet to act upon the agreement made that night, yet she knew that Lorn being a soldier’s soldier, one of the few who fought with a kind of honest grace that wasn’t born of ego was worth the momentary break from her duties. Her pulse quickened just slightly. This, she would watch.

As the clash began, the world seemed to narrow, the crowd’s roar echoing off the keep’s obsidian walls. Even the air felt alive with it, and for a rare moment, Bastila let herself forget that she was here to guard, to watch.

Then, the music faltered.

A ripple passed through the announcer’s box, whispers carried down the length of the grand courtyard. The jousts were being prepared and due to begin, but there was some hesitation, a delay. Bastila’s brow furrowed slightly beneath and her hand instinctively moved to rest on her saber at her belt. She saw the attendant hurrying toward the dais, a slip of parchment in his hands and panic in his eyes.

A murmur rose.

“A rider has taken to be unable to ride,” the announcer declared, voice carrying over the crowd. “The next round may be postponed unless a volunteer rides in their place!”

The crowd buzzed with anticipation, nobles started whispering wagers, Mandalorian#s grinning behind their helmets, hands bashing into chests. Then a voice rang out, clear and teasing from the lower tables:

“What about the Handmaiden with the stern face?”

Laughter rippled through the crowd. Dozens of heads turned toward the dais, toward Bastila, who stood motionless for half a heartbeat before she blinked, startled, and very nearly stepped back.

“The what?” she breathed under her breath, eyes darting toward Sibylla like she would save her.

“Go on then,” someone else called. “Let’s see if the young Jedi has a fighter’s heart behind that poise!”

Even the Basilisks seemed to hum with anticipation.

Bastila’s throat went dry. She turned slowly to Sibylla, the iron mask of professionalism threatening to crack into mortified disbelief.

“Sib,” she murmured, her voice low enough for only Sibylla to hear, feeling as though she was blaming the entire moment on the Queen. “If I am to be humiliated in front of an entire Mandalorian court, I will require a token of favour. Please. For dignity’s sake.”

She grabbed her hair and pulled it back into a tight bun before pinning it. Her expression had started to soften, a flash of very real human panic beneath all that discipline, her sleeves were rolled up. “Where is Aurelian. He owes me one too.” To them all she must had been a sight for humour, the stone cold bodyguard who was now wearing the look of someone who’d stared down pirates, inquisitors, and Sith, but was somehow finding this far worse.

OUTFIT: XoXo | TAG: Sibylla Abrantes | Aurelian Veruna | Elian Abrantes EQUIPMENT:

​

 

[Aiden Porte]

Objective: Jousting
Tyr Mereel
​

The war basilisk growled beneath his touch, a low, thrumming vibration that rattled through his palms and into the bones of his arms. Aiden Porte had felt the hum of starfighters, the gentle drift of a Naboo skiff, the controlled breath of a living creature beneath the Force, but nothing like this. The Basilisk wasn’t just a machine. It was a living echo of Mandalorian will, stubborn, primal, magnificent.

He ran a hand along its armored flank, feeling the plates shift slightly as the droid adjusted to his presence. “Easy.” he murmured, voice low and steady. Its optical sensors flickered once in acknowledgment, a faint red pulse that glowed against the torchlight.

Around him, the staging ground brimmed with energy, Mandalorians fastening their armor, engineers shouting calibration codes, Republic aides carrying banners of their respective worlds. Steam rose from the beasts as repulsor coils came online, painting the air with the tang of ozone and oil. It reminded him of battlefields past, but here the intent was different. There was no death in the air today, only pride, tradition, and the delicate hope that unity could be forged through spectacle.

Aiden adjusted the fastening of his harness and drew in a slow breath. His robes were traded for armor trimmed in bronze and white, etched with Naboo script and Jedi iconography a rare concession from the Order, and a statement that peace could be defended with courage, not distance.

He could sense the others through the Force: anticipation like sparks in the dark. The Mandalorian beside him, radiating fierce joy; the Republic knight across the line, steady and resolute. Somewhere in the stands, he could even feel the curious awe of the crowd a hundred minds turned upward, expectant, hearts thrumming in time with the drums.

He placed his hand on the Basilisk’s neck once more, eyes tracing the sigil carved into its chassis.

“Show me what your strength is."

The Basilisk roared to life, flaring with light as the trumpet sounded and both sides charged. The sound swallowed everything, the music, the voices, the world and Aiden smiled faintly beneath his helm.

Whatever the outcome, tonight he rode not as a Jedi, nor a soldier, nor a diplomat.

Tonight, he rode as a bridge between worlds.

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

Cassian stood beside her, his arms loosely folded as the thunder of repulsors and the grind of durasteel echoed across the arena. The air shimmered with heat and dust, the scent of oil and smoke mingling with the faint sweetness of blossom wine and ale somewhere behind them. He watched the riders sweep past in blurs of motion metal gleaming, banners snapping in the wind as the lances crashed in sparks and impact.

"Instructional, she says." he murmured, his tone wry but quiet enough that only she could hear. His gaze tracked one rider narrowly dodge a strike before being slammed from the saddle in a spray of sparks and debris. "I'd say it's more of a lesson in pain."

One corner of his mouth tugged upward, the hint of a grin ghosting through the dust. He didn't flinch as another basilisk roared overhead, the shockwave rippling through the stands. Instead, he tilted his head slightly toward her, eyes still on the arena. "Style's never been an issue." he said, dry amusement lacing his voice. "The surviving parts isn't an issue either, so I'm sure everything will work out just fine.."

He shifted his weight, the light catching on the edge of his vambrace, a subtle echo of readiness in his posture despite the casual stance. The crowd's energy pulsed through the air, and for a fleeting second, his gaze softened drawn not to the spectacle, but to the edge of her smirk, the quiet calm she wore amid the chaos.

"Don't worry." Cassian added, his voice low and measured, a touch of warmth threading through the grit. "If I do go down, it won't be without a bit of flair. Wouldn't want to disappoint you."

 

[Tyr Mereel]

BOUT ONE

Tag: Aiden Porte

The horns of Everholt rang like the call of war.

Tyr's Basilisk war droid surged forward, its engines roaring with the sound of a thousand thunderclaps. Dust and fire tore in its wake as the massive machine accelerated down the field, its armored claws gouging deep ruts through the packed earth. The Mandalorian himself, seven feet of iron, muscle, and will, leaned low in the saddle, his cape snapping behind him like a storm flag.

Across the line, Aiden Porte and his gleaming Basilisk met the charge head-on, bronze and white shining against the sun, a living image of Jedi discipline. For a heartbeat, the world held still. Then both riders were in motion, the distance between them collapsing beneath the scream of repulsors and the roar of the crowd.

Tyr’s visor flared red as range markers and predictive lines danced across his HUD. He didn’t need them. His instincts did the work, the years of training, the muscle memory of a thousand drills. His gauntlet tightened on the reins; his other hand brought the lance into position, the weapon’s haft vibrating with restrained power.

“Let’s give them something to remember,” he growled beneath his breath.

He pulled the Basilisk slightly to the right, angling its charge just enough to throw off a straight intercept. Then, in the final seconds before impact, Tyr twisted his grip and drove the lance forward, aiming a sweeping strike across the upper line of Aiden’s armor, a maneuver meant to test his opponent’s reaction, not merely his defense. The motion was powerful, deliberate, a hammer blow in motion, its precision honed through countless battles and drills.

Whether it landed or not, the effect was immediate. The crowd exploded into cheers, rising to their feet as the two Basilisks thundered past one another, the very air between them igniting with sparks and kicked dust. The vibration of their passing rattled the stands, and for a moment, all that could be heard was the echo of thrusters and the distant clamor of banners snapping in the wind.

Tyr pulled his mount into a tight, skidding turn, the Basilisk’s claws carving molten arcs into the dirt. He raised his lance skyward in a salute, not one of arrogance, but of challenge.

His voice carried through the comms and the loudspeakers alike, deep and unyielding:
“Come on, Jedi! Let’s see if the Forge made you as steady as the stories say!”

The Mandalorian re-angled his lance, lowering it once more. Steam hissed from the Basilisk’s flanks as its repulsors flared, glowing brighter in anticipation.

Around him, the crowd chanted his name, “Mereel! Mereel! MEREEL!” their voices swelling like the heartbeat of the arena itself. Tyr gave a short nod toward Aiden’s end of the field, the gesture almost reverent.

He muttered one word, the old way, before signaling his droid to charge again.

“Oya.” He muttered to himself, his feet finding hold in the stirrups.

The Basilisk reared, fire in its breath and dust in its wake, charging once more toward destiny.

Time for Round Two.​

 

[Shade]

Shade didn't look at him first. She watched the arena—the violence-as-pageantry, the heat-haze rising off plate and jetwash, the crowd roaring for impact as though the crash of metal somehow meant unity. It was chaos dressed in banners. She tolerated chaos well in small, necessary doses.

Only when the latest collision sent sparks skipping across the sands did she speak, voice cooled to match the steel at her hip.

"If you insist on getting trampled," she said, "at least pick a rider worth losing to." The faintest tilt of her head, just enough that he would catch the dry note beneath the precision.

"And for the record," she added, eyes flicking to him now—sharply, briefly, with intent—"I am not responsible for whatever decisions you make in armor today."

Another basilisk thundered past overhead—the gust of air drawing loose strands of her dark hair across her cheek. She didn't move them. Instead, she let the silence breathe for a moment, just long enough for honesty to almost surface. Her gaze lingered on him a second too long.

"You are inconveniently difficult to flatten."

It could have been humor. It could have been something else entirely. But before either could take shape in the space between them, she turned away again, studying the arena like a battlefield she intended to survive—and refusing to admit she cared if he did too.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Oriana Indupar]

With a small sigh, Oriana straightened her posture in the stands. Shoulders back, spine straight, appearing to be interested in the spectacle before her. It was, after all, the proper thing to do.

Proper or not, the entire event was already deemed a waste of her time. Watching grown sentients hurl pointed sticks at one another on mount was not her idea of premier entertainment. Fathier competitions, sun jammer racing, null-gee polo. These were all acceptable forms of spectator sport that those of a certain noble class enjoyed.

However, she was stuck here. One, she had to get off the cottage and her face around the High Republic more. Father demanded it. The Drayen Dynasty demanded it. Like it or not, duty bound her. Second, she needed to speak to one Aiden Porte , currently down on the field pitting his masculinity against another man.

It was making her question if he was even the right person to assist her with her question regarding her husbands death. All signs pointed to yes - from the bit of poking around she had done, this Aiden was the one to ask for assistance in this Sector. Even with this potential lead she had no hope. It had been too long. The investigation surrounding the passing of her late husband far too rushed and completely sealed. Security concerns she had been told.

Oriana didn't quite believe that. Which is why she kept her son far away from any public life. She suspected someone on the lower branch of the Drayen Dynasty was a little too jealous. Jealous enough to commit murder? Possibly.

Plastering a small, fake smile on her face, her dark eyes tracked the action on the field.

Cheering for : Aiden Porte ​

 

[Aurelian Veruna]

Location: Just me then?
Tags: OPEN

Aurelian watched the youngest Abrantes brother's grin sharpen, that maddening mixture of charm and recklessness flashing like a blade in the sunlight.

"Of course," Aurelian muttered as Elian launched into his performance, all wit and mock tears and overplayed dramatics. "Theatrical to the last." When Elian pulled him into that ridiculous mock embrace, Aurelian didn't even bother hiding his exasperation. "You're insufferable, just like Cassian," he said dryly, though a reluctant flicker of fondness slipped through before the younger man burst into laughter and bounded away.

Aurelian opened his mouth to fire back some cutting remark, something about dignity or the lack thereof, only to realize Elian was no longer listening. His attention had already veered, locked onto a figure in the distance as if gravity itself had shifted. Aurelian followed his gaze just in time to catch the awestruck look on Elian's face.

"Oh, for Shiraya's sake," he groaned under his breath.

He started to say, "Elian, we are not..." but the kid was already walking away, cloak flaring behind him, all reckless charm and zero self-preservation. Aurelian blinked after him, thoroughly incredulous.

"Okay. F-ck me then," he said aloud, throwing up a hand in mock surrender.

Left standing at the rail, Aurelian looked around, suddenly and strangely alone in the chaos. For a man who usually couldn't walk through a room without being pulled into a conversation or proposition, the silence was unnerving. No one approached him; there were no whispers, no sidelong glances of intrigue.

He sighed, hands sliding into his pockets, and made his way toward the stands. The cheers of the crowd rolled over him, a wall of sound and heat. He found a seat on the edge of the platform, away from the worst of the noise, just close enough to see the arena.

Then he heard it, the ripple of laughter, the announcer's voice carrying: "A handmaiden with the stern face will be taking the field!"

Aurelian's head snapped up. Bastila Sal-Soren.

For a beat, surprise cracked his composure. Then amusement bloomed slow and rich across his face. He laughed, low and genuine, shaking his head.

"Oh, Elian," he murmured, leaning back in his seat, grin widening. "You have no idea what kind of punishment you've just signed up for."

​

 

[Siv Kryze]

.​

JOUSTING ARENA ​

Will be Jousting Knight of the Republic
Modifiers: +1 Riding

​

PLEASE SEND FAVORS!!!​

​

The flag dropped.

The Basilisk exploded forward, all roaring engines and molten fury, claws tearing furrows into the packed stone of the arena. Siv leaned with the surge, armor locked tight to the saddle's ridged plating, the lance held firm and steady. Across the field, Lord Velarys thundered forward — a noble silhouette against the firelight, their form steady but their mount uncertain.

Wind screamed past as the gap between them vanished in seconds.

Siv caught the angle of their lance a moment before impact — slightly high, off-center — and adjusted with a practiced flick of his wrist. The Basilisk dipped low in perfect sync, thrusters flaring to one side as he brought his own weapon around in a hard, fluid line.

The strike connected with a resounding crack of durasteel on composite. Sparks flared across Velarys's shield, the blow solid enough to jolt the younger rider back in the saddle. The crowd roared, a rush of cheers and laughter rising over the din of engines.

The Warden's Basilisk pulled through cleanly, banking wide before settling back into a controlled hover. Siv's breath steadied, his pulse sharp but calm — the rhythm finally his again.

He turned his helm slightly, visor glinting crimson in the sun as he called across the field, voice carrying clear through the modulator:

"Good form, Lord — but you're riding the Basilisk like it owes you obedience. It doesn't. It listens to confidence, not command."

He leveled his lance in salute, not mockery. "Find your rhythm, or it'll throw you before I have to."

The Basilisk beneath him gave a low, rumbling growl — engines cooling, but hungry for another charge. Siv eased a hand along its neck plating, murmuring quietly enough that only the droid would hear.

"Not bad for an old war mount, hmm? Let's make the next one count."

He straightened in the saddle, sunlight catching along the crimson edge of his visor, and gave the signal for readiness. The first exchange had gone to him — a clean, solid strike. Now came the real test: whether Velarys could rise from it.

OOC: I will also start my roll for when we start the next round!
Result = 14+1 for a total of 15 Solid hit or maneuver