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

[Nianuke cyt]

Nianuke stopped dead in her tracks, a wave of familiar warmth washing over her as the little creature barreled toward her. For a moment, she was afraid the Nexu's enthusiastic dash might trip someone, but Cupcake navigated the jostling crowd with surprising agility.

When the small beast launched herself at Nianuke's leg, the resulting chirp was a sound that instantly cut through the arena's roar, pulling a genuine, unguarded smile to Nianuke's face. The scent of Nexu, of home, was a sharp, comforting counterpoint to the hot metal and sweat of the stadium.

She automatically reached down, her fingers scratching gently behind one of Cupcake's pointed ears. The fur was soft, the skin beneath warm with excitement. "Well hello there, you little menace," Nianuke murmured, her voice just loud enough for the small creature to hear over the din.
Rynar Solde
OOC: Its ok you focus on winning the joust..."This is the way."

 

[Acier Moonbound]

Location: Nessantico

Equipment:
Field Gear | Lightsaber | Tic | Cybernetic Arm

The silence was haunting. After the chanting and the blood, it pressed against his ears like pressure underwater. Every movement in the tent was deliberate. No one looked at him; they simply worked around him, their reverence making his intrusion feel like blasphemy.

He hadn't moved from the threshold, only when he thumbed his lightsaber into silence. Then Jael looked at him. Her voice came low, roughened, steady.

It's not what it looks like she said. He almost laughed. It never is. But no sound left him. He only watched as the attendants crowded closer, their hands careful on her arms, their eyes sliding past him like he wasn't worth paying attention to.

When she reached for him, it startled him enough that he didn't pull back. Her hand was cold and slick. Something small pressed into his palm: a sliver of silver and glass, the crescent of House Amnen etched across it.

Her eyes held his for a breath. She told him to find her when... when furore faded? He didn't know what that meant. Fancy words didn't mix with his Outer Rim upbringing.

And then she was gone, carried out like part of the rite itself. The candlelight dimmed as the curtain fell back into place. Ace stared down at his palm, the device slick with blood. He closed his fist around it until the edges bit into skin.

Through the tent walls came the distant roar of the crowd and the crash of Basilisks meeting in the sky. He turned toward that sound like a man waking from a bad dream. The noise almost felt alien now,

He wiped his palm against his cloak and stepped back out into the festivities. The celebration was still going strong. Only the blood on his boots knew where he'd been.

He should have stayed out of it.

Jael Amnen | Kael Varnok​

 

[Rynar Solde]

Cupcake leaned into the touch immediately, a deep, rumbling purr building in her chest as Nianuke's fingers found the spot just behind her ear. Her tail thumped the dirt in slow, deliberate rhythm — the kind that said yes, right there.


The Nexu's eyes half-closed in contentment before one ear twitched, catching the distant metallic roar of the jousting field. Her head lifted again, and she gave a short chirp toward the arena, as if to announce proudly, He's out there.

With a low chuff, Cupcake nosed at Nianuke's hand, then turned and padded a few steps toward the rail overlooking the aerial joust. The crowd's energy was infectious — she sat back on her haunches, tail curling neatly around her paws, and gave another trill that blended almost seamlessly with the cheers.

Every so often, she'd glance back at Nianuke with that wide-eyed look only Cupcake could manage — an unspoken Come on, you have to see this!


For all the noise and spectacle of the festival, the little Nexu seemed perfectly content — her two favorite people, finally in the same place again.

Nianuke cyt

 

[Kael Varnok]

Concord — Outer Market, Approaching the Tents of Honor

The laughter and bartering of the market began to fade behind him. What replaced it was something else — muted, like the hum that settles over a battlefield after the last shot's been fired. It wasn't silence, exactly. More like the air itself had decided to hold its breath.

Kael stopped mid-stride. Beneath his hood, his eyes lifted toward the row of ceremonial tents strung with crimson cloth and flickering lanterns. He could feel something bleeding out from that direction — not through the Force's grand chorus, but something quieter, more personal. Sorrow. Restraint. The lingering echo of violence tempered by ritual.

He drew in a slow breath, thumb brushing over the edge of his cloak where it hid the hilt of his saber. "You never really get used to it, do you…" he murmured to himself, almost as if speaking to the air. "All that ceremony built on blood."

His boots carried him forward despite himself, each step measured, cautious. A gust tugged the edge of his cloak, carrying the faint scent of iron and incense. Voices murmured ahead, indistinct through the tent walls — reverent, tired, purposeful.

Kael stopped again just short of the threshold, gaze flicking to the candlelight bleeding through the seams of fabric. Something — someone — was moving within.

"Feels wrong to watch," he muttered softly, tone low and uncertain. "Feels worse to turn away."

He lingered there for a few breaths, the noise of the crowd returning like a tide behind him. Then, with a quiet exhale, he began moving again — not directly toward the tent, but into its orbit. Watching. Listening. Following that faint pulse of presence that had tugged at him in the first place.


Whatever was happening inside, it wasn't finished echoing through the air.
Acier Moonbound

 

[Oriana Indupar]

Nose crinkled slightly. Aiden Porte had been dealt a rough hand in the joust. What pleased her despite the loss was the way the man was handling it. A great show of sportsmanship by taking it all in stride and congratulating his opponent. Personally, it relieved her. A mark of a good man. Considering she was about to ask a huge favor of the Jedi Investigator all the better that he took so much in stride. A calm demeanor was what was going to be needed in order to sift through information.

As she stood from the stands, she spotted Isobel Serraris .An odd woman from her personal standpoint. House Serraris had a long history with the Drayen Dynasty - her late husband had utterly despised the entire tree of the Serraris House. Curiously she had wondered if anyone in that dreadful family had anything to do with his death. Something to privately consider. Speaking such a thing out loud with uncouth, this was more investigation to be conducted in the privacy of her chambers.

Focus went back to the jousters and the steps, carefully lifting the hem of her dress and working down in a poised, lady like fashion. If one could navigate these dreadful steps in such a manner.

"Master Porte" Oriana raised her voice ever so slightly. "A word, if you have the time?"

 

[Lily Decoria]

Objective: Basilisk Jousting!
Outfit: Jousting Attire
Equipment: Jousting Lance (+1 piloting skills, +1 favour)
Tag: Rynar Solde | Corazona von Ascania | Pillar of Perseverance

Something went off, perhaps her strike had been too predictable and the Mandalorian had been able to adjust to ensure that her second strike could not hit as effectively as she desired. Either way, the strike bounced off and she felt the basilisk she was piloting take another glancing blow. It wasn't too bad, nothing on her screens were telling Lily that the basilisk had taken too much damage. It was just disappointing to go from an incredible strike to this less than stellar hit. However, Lily breathed in deeply, this was still winnable and Lily was still learning from everything.

Repeating the same strike was not guaranteed to be effective in this jousting. Before the final turn, Lily knew that she needed to do something different.

A different area to attack and trust in her instincts. Flicking switches and adjusting the controls, Lily corrected the aim of the jousting lance for when it would impact Rynar's basilisk. Thinking in her mind over the tactics and such, "don't overthink. Don't over worry. Just have fun." Lily calmly reminded herself, the want to win had developed quickly and leapt to the forefront of her mind after the incredible first attempt. However, now she was realised that there was too much pressure and stress that she placed on winning.

This had been about having fun and having a go at a new form of combat. Something more stylised and unique, a form of fighting that didn't really work in practical senses but she could tell there was a lot of entertainment that would be had in this. Tapping the comms, she looked forward to where her competitor was, "hey! Let's give them the best final turn that we can!" Lily grinned, showing that she didn't mind if this was a win or lose situation. Just as long as they gave it their best on the last go.

Charging everything up, Lily gripped the controls and felt that grin she always had on her lips when she was in a great sparring match. The one born out of joy and the thrill of a fight. Targeting the lance, the basilisk charged forward with it's attack. Ready for the final clash.

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

Her lance had struck square across Elian’s chestplate, from her position on the Basilisk she felt the connection all the way through the haft, up her arm, deep into her shoulder. The Basilisk beneath her bucked with the momentum, its claws gouging deep furrows into the red clay of the courtyard floor as it fought to steady.
Bastila’s breath caught, her pulse thrumming so hard she could feel it in her ears. For a heartbeat, all she could see was the aftermath, the dust caught in the flickers of firelight, and the blur of Elian’s mount careening off course.

Then came the sound.

Laughter.

Not hers. Nor was it the crowd. Her confusion grew as she realised it was his. It rolled through the comms, with such wild and unrestrained joy that she couldn’t help the startled look that crossed her face. The absurdity of it. The sheer, impossible audacity.

“…He’s laughing?” she muttered under her breath, half to herself, half to the droid beneath her. The Basilisk tilted its head slightly, as if in agreement that the man was clearly mad.

And yet the laughter triggered something in her. A flicker of something in her chest, answering that reckless joy. Maybe it was the adrenaline, or the roar of engines, even the charged air. Perhaps the thrill of movement or the feel of the challenge. She hadn’t felt it like this outside of active combat, not since her earliest trials, before discipline had turned instinct into habit.

Her Basilisk shifted restlessly beneath her, claws flexing in the dust, its engines purring low like a beast hungry for the next run. She exhaled, steadying the lance under her arm again.

Across the field, through the drifting haze, Elian was already back in the saddle, cape torn, grinning like a man who’d been kissed by the storm and wanted another taste. She could feel his energy from here; it was a burning, irrepressible spark that refused to yield.

And she found herself smiling.

“Round two, then,” she said softly, and gave her mount a slight nudge with her heel.

The Basilisk crouched low, engines spooling up with a deep, bone-shaking hum. Sparks rippled along its wing joints, light refracting off the mirrored plates of its armour. The connection between them flared and it was obvious it was much clearer now, a synchronized heartbeat to her own heartbeat, thought to motion.

From the dais, she could hear the crowd swelling again, Mandalorian cheers mingling with Republic cries, the air thick with noise and heat and expectation.

Elian’s voice came through the comms, bright and taunting:

“Give me your best, Bastila!”

Her smirk turned razor-sharp.

“Are you sure, I’d hate to actually hurt you.”

The signal flare streaked into the sky, trailing a comet’s tail of fire.

Her Basilisk leapt forward, the shock of acceleration slamming her back in the saddle, the wind tearing past her face. The two machines thundered toward one another once more, engines screaming, repulsors igniting the air into bands of light.

She didn’t think. She moved on pure instinct, guided by the Force and that strange electric connection to the creature beneath her. The lance lowered. The distance vanished.

When they met in the center again, the collision cracked through the Keep like an earthquake. Elian’s lance hit her solid on the shoulder, right where they were told to aim and she very nearly came off, but she knew she had hit him too.

It was her turn to laugh. Here among the dust and the taste of ozone and iron. Bastila stood among all this grinning like a child at a candy shop and for the first time in a long time, she didn’t care who saw.

Spoiler

+1 Riding Skill
+1 Crowd
+1 Favour

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

​

 

[Renn Vizsla]

Tag: Sibylla Abrantes



For a heartbeat, the roar of the crowd swallowed everything. The thundering Basilisks, the laughter, the shock that rippled through the stands, all of it swelled into one living sound that seemed to shake the very stones of Everholt’s courtyard. Renn’s eyes tracked the source of the commotion with slow, deliberate calm, even as the Queen’s startled whisper reached him.

Elian Abrantes .

Renn’s brow lifted slightly. He followed her gaze, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as the young man nearly toppled from the saddle under Bastila’s strike.

“Well,” Renn murmured dryly, the edge of amusement threading through his tone, “I suppose that answers your earlier question. It seems your House already has a champion, or at least someone very determined to look the part.”

The Warden folded his arms loosely across his chest, helm still tucked beneath one elbow, the sunlight glinting along the scar that crossed his eye. His expression was measured, but there was a glint of humor there now, the kind a soldier wore when watching the chaos that inevitably followed pride and youth.

He leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice so that only Sibylla could hear over the din of cheers.

“If it’s any comfort, Majesty, he’s got heart. Terrible form, but heart.”

The corner of his mouth curved just enough to betray his amusement as Elian waved up toward the dais like a triumphant fool.

“He’ll learn, though. Pain’s a fine teacher, one the Basilisks never forget.”

Renn’s gaze lingered a moment longer on the boy, then returned to Sibylla. Despite the teasing in his words, there was a note of reassurance beneath them, a steady warmth, quiet but deliberate.

“You said Naboo could stand to be forged like beskar,” he said, tone lighter now. “Seems you’ve already got a forge started. Courage, recklessness, same alloy, just needs tempering.”

He inclined his head toward her, his smile thinning into something wry.

“Besides… if every royal family had someone willing to get knocked flat in front of half the galaxy, the rest of us would have fewer meetings and far better stories.”

The crowd erupted again as Bastila circled back for another pass, her lance angled clean and precise. Renn watched for a moment, then exhaled softly, his voice low enough to blend with the thunder of the arena.

“Don’t worry, Your Majesty. She’ll bruise his pride, not his bones. And if she doesn’t…” he adjusted his grip on his helm, “I’ll have my healers on standby. For whichever of them survives the other’s ego.”

It was teasing, yes, but there was a steadiness in his tone, the kind that came from experience, not jest. The kind of man who could find humor even in the chaos, and still make it clear that no harm would come on his watch.

He straightened, the sunlight catching the pale line of his scar once more, and gave her a brief, knowing look, half camaraderie, half quiet respect.

“You have a fine family, Majesty,” he said, with the faintest edge of a grin. “And apparently… no shortage of volunteers to test their mettle.”

Forged In Beskar.​

 

[Aurelian Veruna]

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

Aurelian sat back on the edge of the stand, one boot hooked over the rail. He watched the chaos like a man who knew the play by heart. The feast's firelight sharpened everything: the glint of armor, the flash of lances, Elian's little theatrical bows to anyone who looked his way. Elian would flirt, perform, then throw himself at whatever bright thing caught his eye, tongue and grin leading the way.

He let out an appreciative, half-mocking boo as Elian overplayed his charm. Someone had to give the crowd something besides applause, after all. The younger Abrantes had a knack for embarrassing himself in artful ways; it was almost a talent. Aurelian watched him vault into the saddle, capes and dust and all. When the Basilisks lunged, Aurelian leaned forward, his interest piqued despite himself.

Then Bastila hit. The handmaiden's lance sang true, sending Elian lopsided, his cape shredding. This was exactly the sort of humiliation that made the crowd roar and Sibylla's cheeks go two shades paler. He chuckled low, thinking of the look Sibylla would give when she realized her youngest had volunteered for this miniature ruin. He knew she'd hate it, and blame him. He pictured her voice, steady and incandescent, and smiled at the guilty certainty that, despite his warnings, this would land squarely on his head.

He eased back, pretending interest in a passing vendor's wares. He found himself deliberately hidden behind a bulkier spectator, a cloak acting as a convenient shield. From here the field looked smaller, the danger far enough away to be amusing. Elian waved toward the dais, a wild, foolish, triumphant gesture. Aurelian let the chuckle split into something warmer than ridicule. The boy was indestructible in ways that had nothing to do with armor.

Then, for sport, and because the world needed a little more theater, Aurelian cupped his hands. Muffled by the crowd, he whispered into the noise with a grin that had no charity in it:

"Kill him!" (+1 Bastila Cheer)

​

 

[Tyr Mereel]

STUMBLE BUT NEVER FALTER

Tag: Siv Kryze

The impact came like thunder.

Tyr felt it before he saw it, an instant of pressure, a blinding flash, then the full force of Siv Kryze’s strike slamming into his chestplate with bone-rattling power. The world lurched sideways. The Basilisk beneath him roared in protest, hydraulics screaming as its footing broke against the churned earth. Dust exploded into the air.

For half a heartbeat, the Supercommando was airborne, his lance wrenched half a meter off-course, balance gone, the sky tilting. Only instinct and fury kept him from being thrown clear. He drove a gauntleted hand into the saddle’s locking brace, muscles coiling as the thrusters of his Basilisk screamed to compensate. The beast heaved forward on burning engines, its claws tearing molten grooves into the ground as it fought to right itself.

The crowd’s gasp rolled through the arena like a storm. For the first time, the unshakable Mereel had staggered.

But he did not fall.

With a guttural snarl that echoed through his modulator, Tyr wrenched the reins back, forcing the Basilisk into a grinding stop. Steam burst from its vents as it stabilized, its metal hide glowing faintly from the strain. The Mandalorian’s chest rose and fell with the rhythm of a man who had just wrestled the storm itself and refused to yield.

“Strong hit,” he rumbled through his helm, voice calm but laced with something that almost sounded like pride. “You’ve got Mandalore’s fire in you, Kryze.”

He turned his Basilisk in a tight, roaring circle, lance rising in salute. The crowd erupted, Mandalorians chanting both their names now, the sound a wave of iron pride and unity. The air smelled of ozone, dust, and glory.

Tyr rolled his shoulders once, the dull ache spreading through his ribs a reminder that even legends bled. He checked the calibration of his lance with a flick of his wrist, the servos whining faintly in the hilt as the magnetic coils reset. Across the field, Siv was already poised for another run.
The Warden smiled behind his visor.

He tapped a sequence into his Basilisk’s console, the engines spooling up into a low growl that rippled through the ground. The war droid’s head dipped, eyes glowing brighter, eager for another pass.

“Let’s give them one more,” Tyr said quietly, lowering his lance until the tip gleamed in the sun. “Forge willing, one worthy of the both of us.”

He slammed his boot into the stirrup, raising his arm high before swinging it forward in signal. The Basilisk screamed to life again, a storm of fire and dust at its heels.

The next charge was already coming.

And though his ribs ached and his armor smoked, Tyr Mereel leaned into the rush with a warrior’s grin, the kind carved by pain, pride, and the unbreakable will of Mandalore.

 

[Adelle Bastiel]

Concord Feast || Basilisk Jousting
Tags: Open



Adelle sat gratefully among the crowds surrounding the fields, nursing her particular take on the Skirata cure-all remedy: a good pint of ne'tra gal, since Corellian ale didn't seem to be on the menu. Not that it was going to help anything but make her feel better and soothe her nerves over the episode she'd had. Her mismatched eyes tracked the jousters. A young Jedi ( Lily Decoria ) was doing admirably against her Mandalorian opponent ( Rynar Solde ). Siv Kryze was doing the impossible and hammering the mountainous Tyr Mereel with precision strikes in their lanes. Adelle shuddered and thanked the Force she didn't have to face either of them in the lists.

And then a rakish noble with a brash grin rode by, bowing to the crowd with dramatic flair before throwing an enthusiastic wave at the dais. The announcers had called him Elian Abrantes . Adelle lifted her eyes from the boy on the field to the woman standing on the dais. They were related? She sought out his opponent, a Republic woman in borrowed armor that had all the poise and stillness of a warrior honed. The Handmaiden, the announcer had said. Bastila Sal-Soren . Adelle snorted. An inaccurate title. She was pretty sure that woman could keep up with the best of her clan's warriors.

They charged again for a second pass, the Handmaiden's lance precise and devastating. Adelle winced in sympathy; she could practically feel the hit. She leaned over to her clan-sister.

"I'd make a bet but I think this joust is already in the bag," Adelle said.

There was a smirk in her vod's voice. "So you favor the Handmaiden?"

"I favor skill and humility," Adelle said, ignoring the implication. She stood and roared at the field "Knock him down!"

+1 cheer for Bastila Sal-Soren

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar steadied the lance across his mount's arm as the Basilisk circled back to its starting mark, the roar of the crowd fading to a dull hum beneath the pulse of his own focus. Circuits thrummed beneath him — steady, powerful, like the deep breath before a storm.

Lily's voice cracked through the comms, bright and alive even through the static.

"Hey! Let's give them the best final turn that we can!"
Rynar smiled faintly beneath his helmet. There was no arrogance in her tone — just that earnest spark of someone fighting for the joy of it. The kind of spirit that made the galaxy worth defending.

He flicked the comms open with a thumb.

"Aye, we'll give them a show worth cheering for," he said, his voice calm but warm. "Win or lose, I've already got someone waiting for me at the rail. Can't beat Cupcake's approval."
A brief pause — the faintest chuckle.

"But if you do win, I'll buy the first round. Festival rules, right?"
The Basilisk beneath him adjusted, servos locking and wings flaring as Rynar braced for the last charge. His gaze swept once toward the stands — and there she was. Cupcake, perched proudly beside Nianuke, tail flicking like a banner of its own. The sight tugged a quiet laugh from him.

"Guess I've got witnesses now," he murmured.

He leaned forward, settling into the rhythm of the droid's stride as it powered up for the final run. Dust rose beneath the field as both war machines began their last charge — two iron beasts thundering toward each other in mirrored arcs of glory and flame.

Rynar's lance dipped slightly, angled not for destruction but for precision — the mark of a true joust, not a battle. Whatever the outcome, the crowd would remember the moment: two warriors giving their all, not out of rivalry, but respect.

And as the gap between them closed, he smiled beneath his visor, the words quiet but sincere as he lowered the comm one last time.


"For the honor of the tilt, Lily. Let's make it count."

Nianuke cyt Lily Decoria Pillar of Perseverance

 

[Rik Perris]

FEAST OF CONCORD - THE JOUST
GRAND COURTYARD, EVERHOLT KEEP
NESSANTICO

Rik had been to many places in the decade or so that he spent as a wayseeker, but he’d only heard of places so archaic that they still used equine mounts for their jousting. Much more familiar was the idea of besalisk war droids; though he’d never rode one, and he only understood the idea of jousting in theory. It was straightforward enough.

As a Jedi who hardly ever shied away from a new weapon or adjacent experience, it was easy to sign up. As a more than competent pilot, who was used to picking up unfamilar controls and handling, well, there was very little doubt he wouldn’t be able to manage.

And to top it all off, he was accustomed to full armour of various weights, having worn a handful of different suits over the years, as being dropped into volatile zones was not a rare occurrence — occupational hazards of a Jedi Guardian, that.

Some people called all that noble. He didn’t.

But this? It should be easy, right? Yet after he was suited up and marked with a surcoat that clearly showed him as a member of the Jedi Order, and after checking out the the besalisk droid he would be riding and lifting the lance to test its weight and balance, as a gruff Mando explained the deal to him, he went to have a gander at other jousts in process ahead of him… only to find it all looked too easy, for some.

“Well,” he uttered to himself, chuckling low under his breath, “maybe the ol’ droid’ll decide it doesn’t like me and I end up on my ass.”

That’d be a thing to laugh about later. It’d give Raylin Fall something to gloat about, anyway, if the soldier was the kind, and the Corellian would take the lumps for such a worthy cause if that came to pass.

Rik turned and looked across the stands, filled with spectators from here, there (what was now home), and everywhere, but few familiar faces, and adjusted the helm in the crook of his armoured arm; he smiled, feeling a faint breeze, brows lifting and gently creasing his forehead as he raked back the hair atop his head that’d grown out some in the over half a year that his time with his now-former padawan had come and gone.

He needed a trim, but after so many short cuts over the years, maybe only a little. Maybe he’d keep it like this. Naboo was cool enough that it wasn’t a bother. His armour took it just fine. Zeri… Zeri had never seen it all shaved off in the scant months he’d known the little girl. Scant months since he’d started to get to know her mother better than those two wildly different days, so far apart. He didn’t see them here.

Maybe he’d tell them about it.

Raylin Fall • Pillar of Perseverance​

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Nessantico, Mid Rim

With one final push away from the wall and his view of the lively city below, Itzhal turned back towards the stands, his shoulders braced for impact as he neared the cacophony of noise that rattled off the walls and shot far into the clear blue sky above, where birds fluttered away, shaken by the sheer volume of the celebrations. He couldn't blame them. Every clash was telegraphed with the roar of a hundred voices, their words stolen by an amalgamation of indescribable sounds that he could only equate to a chaotic racket, not all that unalike the shouting and screams of a battlefield, if only with more cheers.

Surely, by this point, he figured some contestants must have been eliminated, if only through a mixture of bad luck and excellent aim.

His steps were quiet, though the care he took was utterly unnecessary, a habit more than an intentional decision, as he strode through the crowd on his way to something akin to proper seating. One hand raised, the Mandalorian continued forward, knocking aside an unsteady body before he settled them back beside their fellow, the apology on their drunk man's lips discarded with a simple nod. He would not begrudge someone their festivities, though his eyes lingered on their state for a moment longer through the camera of his HUD.

It was not his job today to oversee security, rare as such occasions were. For all that Itzhal was a Mandalorian and a member of the Empire, he could not claim a reputation amongst the majority, meagre as his accolades were and with his history turned to dust. He would not expect others to request that he watch their back when others of greater prestige lingered close, nor could he pretend his opinion of the High Republic was entirely unbiased, for all that they were not the shadow of his memory.

He walked straight past a group of Mandalorians and Republic soldiers intermingled, drinks and comfort passing freely as they cheered for their favourites and booed whoever ended up on the opposite side of the lance. Their amusing chants followed, bringing a slight smirk to his lips, before he reached a larger concentration of Mandalorians, not quite apart from the rest of the crowd, but far enough apart that Itzhal felt a strain in his shoulders loosen as he leaned over the balcony of the stands.

His ears caught the last part of a conversation before it turned into another boisterous scream of support that left Itzhal more amused than anything else. "You sound enthusiastic, and I can't disagree with your reasons. I do wonder, however, shall that favour linger for the tournament, or is it the declaration of a single bout?"

Tags: Adelle Bastiel​

 

[Aiden Porte]

Oriana Indupar​

Aiden turned at the sound of his name, the murmur of the crowd softening into the background hum of distant applause and clattering armor. His gaze found the source of the voice, a woman descending from the stands with careful poise, each step measured and deliberate. He didn’t recognize her, though her confidence suggested she was no stranger to courtly gatherings.

He inclined his head politely, posture composed, one gloved hand resting lightly against the flank of his Basilisk. “You have me at a disadvantage.” he said, his tone even but courteous. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

He watched as she approached the final step, her gown brushing faintly against the stone as she came to a stop before him.

Aiden gestured lightly toward the quieter edge of the courtyard, where the sound of the joust dulled beneath the weight of the crowd’s renewed cheers. “If you wished for a word.” he offered. “You have it, I fear you’ll have to forgive me if I’m still brushing off dust from the armor.”

His tone held the faintest trace of humor, but his eyes remained steady, searching. Whoever she was, her timing was deliberate and her request, he suspected, would not be idle conversation

 

[Oriana Indupar]

"My apologies."

What did people do here? She had an encounter with a Lord Jak Meridian and he offered his hand to shake. A very odd way to greet, did no one bow or curtsy anymore? Here she was, sounding like an old maid lamenting the loss of society and how the youth didn't respect the proper ways. No matter, one must adapt with the times.

Manicured hand was held out for him to shake. Such a masculine notion. If those on Dubrillion could see her now, the scandal.

"Lady Oriana Indupar, of the Indupar Crown Worlds. I've only just returned from my time on Dubrillion with House Drayen. Once you have time and have properly recovered from your bout of jousting, I would like to speak to you. It is a sensitive matter but I have been informed you may be able to assist. Do pardon my intrusion on your day of revelry."

If Master Aiden Porte took the offer to speak or not, Oriana would continue her quest. Having assistance to files she was not privy to would make it easier, but such obstacles had never stopped her before. Moving in silence and behind the scenes was always her style.

 

[Adelle Bastiel]

Concord Feast || Basilisk Jousting
Tags: Itzhal Volkihar

His ears caught the last part of a conversation before it turned into another boisterous scream of support that left Itzhal more amused than anything else. "You sound enthusiastic, and I can't disagree with your reasons. I do wonder, however, shall that favour linger for the tournament, or is it the declaration of a single bout?"

Another Mandalorian joined in, his demeanor quiet but sure. This was someone who had seen the hells and lived. Adelle sat back in her seat, leaning back in a stretch. She didn't know how into sports this Mandalorian was and should probably give a diplomatic answer. However, that wouldn't be true and perhaps Clan Skirata was getting to her, but she'd rather say something true and controversial than avoid an argument.

"The whole tourney," she said with a shrug. "A last minute addition, put in someone else's armor, then told to joust in front of a horde of people? And not only that, but doing it well with all the bearing of a battlefield commander? Hells, if she hadn't been introduced as the Handmaiden, I'd have said she was more Mandalorian than I am. Hells yes, I will be rooting for her the whole damn thing."

She took a long, satisfying drink of the ne'tra gal then turned her attention fully to the newcomer. "You have a better champion?"

 

[Siv Kryze]

.​

JOUSTING ARENA ​

Will be Jousting Tyr Mereel
Modifiers: +1 Riding + 2 from Cheer

​

PLEASE SEND FAVORS!!!​

​

The ribbon still clung to his pauldron, fluttering in the heat — crimson against the dull steel of his beskar. It wasn't just decoration; it was weight. Memory. Promise. Every time the wind caught it, he remembered the look in Lady Ariel Korvane 's eyes when she handed it to him — fire and poise behind the exhaustion, silver gleaming through dust. It had been a gesture of respect, of honor between warriors… and now, it burned like a mark of expectation.


The crowd's chant rolled over the arena, names crashing together in a rhythm older than blood itself — "Kryze! Mereel! Kryze! Mereel!"


Across the field, Tyr loomed astride his Basilisk, a tower of iron and will. Siv could feel the pressure of that presence, the kind of strength that had weathered wars and legends. There weren't many who could unseat a man like Tyr Mereel. Fewer still who could make him stumble.


But that was exactly what Siv intended.


He flexed his grip on the lance, feeling the hum of the magnetic coils through the haft. The Basilisk beneath him growled low, engines thrumming in sync with his heartbeat. The ribbon at his shoulder flickered once in the updraft of its venting thrusters — as if daring him to make good on the honor it represented.


Then came the signal.


Engines roared. Claws tore at the earth.


Siv leaned forward, weight balanced and eyes locked on the shimmer of Tyr's charging form. The world funneled into that one perfect instant — no sound, no doubt, only motion and instinct. He felt the power build beneath him, the charge of raw energy and momentum reaching its crest.


Impact.


It came like thunder — a single, earth-shattering crack that split the air and drew gasps from thousands. The moment the lance connected, Siv felt it run through him — that perfect alignment of timing, precision, and will. His strike hit Tyr dead center, the power rippling through armor and frame alike.


Dust and flame exploded in a wave. Tyr's Basilisk stumbled, hydraulics screaming as molten dirt flared beneath its claws. For the first time, the giant faltered.


But he didn't fall.


Siv reined his Basilisk back in a sliding arc, steam hissing from the machine's sides as it skidded across the churned field. The ribbon whipped violently in the wake of the maneuver, streaking the air like a flash of red lightning.


The arena erupted — a single roar that drowned even the engines. Armor struck armor. Names thundered from every corner. Siv sat tall through it, breathing hard but steady, his visor fixed on Tyr's recovering form. The Mereel was still standing — and that, more than the strike itself, was proof enough of the man's legend.


Siv raised his lance slowly, saluting the other warrior. The red ribbon fluttered at his side — now part of the story, a symbol carried into battle and burned into the memory of the crowd.


Through the static of the comms, his voice came low but resolute:
"Not many could stay mounted after that, Mereel. You stand like the Forge itself." ( +1 Cheer for Challenging roll)


Then, softer, almost to himself, as the crowd still chanted both their names —
"And that's exactly how it should be."


OOC: I will also start my roll for when we start the next round!
Result = 17+1 + 2 for a total of 20 Solid hit or maneuver

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

Objective: The Market of Concord
Attire: Black leggings, pale pink top, combat boots, nondescript burgundy cloak
Blades: Omg, none.
Tags: Open

---

The second bite was better than the first.

Flaky, buttery pastry gave way to a filling that reminded her faintly of nerf but richer, almost sweet. Scherezade hummed under her breath, leaning against the edge of the stall as she watched the vendor drizzle something golden over a fresh batch. The scent was heavy with honey, citrus, and a trace of smoke. If she closed her eyes, she might almost have called it homey. Almost.

A few credits lighter and one curiosity heavier, she moved on.

The Market of Concord sprawled in every direction, a riot of colour and sound. Stalls spilled into walkways, banners fluttered in soft hues of green and copper, and the air shimmered with a thousand competing aromas. One table gleamed with jewel toned candied fruits from the Core Worlds and another offered skewers of something still wriggling, guaranteed fresh. There were vats of simmering broth, trays of spiced flatbread, even a man selling translucent cubes that promised "instant clarity of mind."

Scherezade stopped at nearly every third stall, half out of hunger, half out of curiosity. A Mandalorian vendor offered her a skewer of fire-roasted meat so hot it made her eyes water, which she then ignored, because eww, Mandoes. A Twi'lek woman handed her a tiny cup of violet liquid that fizzed on her tongue and left her fingertips faintly glowing for a few seconds. Another stand sold sea grapes that popped between her teeth, releasing bursts of brine and sweetness that made her laugh despite herself.

It was strange, to move through a place like this without a weapon drawn or an ulterior motive to sharpen her focus. Stranger still to feel safe enough to simply be here this way.

She caught her reflection in a merchant's polished dishware: a plain traveller, brown eyes half-hidden beneath her hood, a faint smile lingering on her lips. No one who looked twice would see the truth. And that was exactly the point, wasn't it?

By the time she reached the far end of the bazaar, her fingers were sticky with sugar and spice, and her cloak smelled faintly of smoke and fruit. Somewhere behind her, a musician had begun playing a slow, lilting tune on a wind instrument she didn't recognize.

Scherezade paused, listening, the tip of her toes twitching ever so slightly as her body almost begged her to dance.

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Nessantico, Mid Rim

The speeding blurs of charging figures reflected across the gleaming surface of Itzhal's visor, pulling away in preparation for the next clash of spirit and steel. His gaze flickered across the different tilts, lingering upon each competitor for a moment, before it settled upon the woman that his fellow Mandalorian had placed their faith in.

Bastila Sal-Soren's laughter soared like the first light of dawn, radiating warmth and joy that enraptured the crowd in its glorious awakening, a delirious reminder of cherished moments and the vibrant life. Her radiant figure, adorned in flowing layers of deep crimson and shimmering gold, resembled the fading form of sunset, each swooping movement of machine and warrior echoing the beauty of twilight's fading light.

With a slight tilt of his buy'ce, Itzhal acknowledged the other Mandalorian's declaration, and the hint of steel that layered that confidence. He had little reason to argue otherwise, not when to do so would be to dismiss the bravery of the handmaiden. His gaze lingered for only a moment longer, the maine of a critique piercing her form and the adjustments that were ever so off as Bastila adapted to the unusual weight and restriction of her jousting armour. When it came to the actual riding of the Basilisk, he had no opinion, rare as the legendary war droids were in his time. It had not been till the event of Taris that Itzhal had ever encountered such a droid in its prime.

Whether she would win, he could not say.

For the first time in many years, the Morellian found himself in a situation where he possessed no particular skill or experience. This competition was no crime scene, where grizzly clues were splattered across the floor like a woven map, nor was it the comforting familiarity of a battlefield, where blaster bolts and artillery rained supreme.

Underneath the visor, his eyes trailed across the field in search of something that sparked familiarity. Cutting across the field, he watched as the Republic's champions bore down upon their targets, a makeshift mix of regality and normality that left his mind to stall when he spotted the girl strapped in scraps of durasteel and what might have been a flight-vest, unlikely as such a sight should have been. He clicked his tongue in dissatisfaction with such an attire, muffled as his expression was by the cheers around him.

The crease around his eyes tightened as they landed upon the form of a Jedi, riding in the barest slivers of armour, as though the Force they herald would carry them unharmed. Perhaps it even would. He had seen unlikelier situations, for all that the sight rattled his sensibilities. Blunted as their weapons were, he imagined a shattered lance would still rain down enough splinters to pierce an exposed throat. Not quite the celebrations that he imagined everyone would enjoy.

Armoured figures cloaked in plates of beskar were easier to assess and felt a little safer to choose, for all that it was undoubtedly a bias of his to lean towards his own people. Their skills and equipment were familiar in a way that most of this event was not.

"I believe so," Itzhal responded, never tearing his eyes from the field, even as he saw Adelle gesture in the peripheral of his visor. "The Warden of Cordellia has shown his skill already with the removal of one opponent, and certainly, it takes determination and grit to carry on against the blows of such a figure as Tyr Mereel. I imagine, if our contestant from Clan Kryze continues with such displays, he shall be our victorious champion before the day is finished, though I wonder what this particular one fights for."

Tags: Adelle Bastiel​