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

[Tyr Mereel]

SECOND STRIKE

Tag: Siv Kryze

The heat was suffocating, steam, dust, and the scent of burned metal swirling into a single breath before the charge.

Tyr’s gauntlet tightened on the reins, his Basilisk crouched low beneath him, engines growling like a caged beast aching to be loosed. Across the field, Siv Kryze’s mount mirrored the posture, its crimson-tinged armor glinting in the haze, the red ribbon at his pauldron fluttering defiantly against the stormlight.

The crowd’s chant built around them, an anthem, ancient and alive.
“MEREEL! KRYZE! MEREEL! KRYZE!”

Tyr’s voice came low through his modulator, calm and measured, more prayer than boast. “Let the Forge bear witness.”

The bell tolled once more.

His Basilisk launched forward with a thunderous burst, thrusters igniting in white fire. The world blurred into speed and motion, the vibration running through his bones. He kept his lance steady, the weapon’s hum synchronizing with his heartbeat. Each stride brought the distance down, the silhouette of Siv growing sharper, closer, one heartbeat, then none.

They hit at the same time.

The collision was pure violence, two lances striking with identical force, both blows landing in perfect simultaneity. Siv’s lance crashed against Tyr’s chestplate, the impact hammering through beskar and bone alike, rattling his ribs with the kind of pain that came only from a clean hit. At that same instant, Tyr’s own weapon connected, slamming into Siv’s flank with a concussive burst that sent sparks scattering like molten stars.

For a moment, the sky itself seemed to crack.

Tyr’s Basilisk roared in agony, hydraulics screaming as it stumbled sideways under the shock. His arm wrenched hard against the recoil, the lance jarring free from its socket. He nearly went with it, the world tilting, sky and ground trading places. But reflex and fury saved him. His left hand shot out, slamming into the stabilizing grip as he hauled his weight back into the saddle. The Basilisk’s claws tore trenches into the dirt, repulsors flaring as it regained balance by sheer force of will.

Every muscle in his body burned. His chest ached beneath the dented plate, the breath knocked clean out of him. But through the haze, through the pain, he grinned.

Because across the field, through the haze of steam and shattered dust, Siv Kryze was still upright too. Both of them battered. Both of them breathing. Both of them unbroken.

The roar of the crowd swallowed everything else. “MEREEL! KRYZE! MEREEL! KRYZE!” It wasn’t just sound anymore, it was belief, fire, pride. Mandalorian.

Tyr pulled his Basilisk to a halt, smoke venting from its sides. He straightened, chest rising with slow, deliberate breath, and raised his lance in salute. The motion was stiff from the impact, but steady.

“Ha!” he barked over the comm, the laugh rough and genuine. “That’s the kind of strike they’ll tell stories about.”

He looked down at the black scorch running across his chestplate, then back up at his opponent. “You’ve got the Forge’s fire in you, Kryze. Keep it burning.”

His Basilisk shifted beneath him, rumbling low, eager for another go. Tyr adjusted his stance in the saddle, letting the lance rest against his shoulder as he spoke again, voice carrying across the arena.

“One more pass, vod,” he called. “For Mandalore. For the Creed. For every soul that remembers what we are.”

The crowd surged in answer, chanting louder, banners whipping in the wind. The Basilisk’s engines built to a growl again, heat distortion warping the air around its frame.

Tyr’s voice dropped to a near whisper inside his helmet, meant for no one but himself and the Forge that made him.
“Let them see what remains unbroken.”

And with that, he lowered his lance once more, ready, bruised, and smiling behind the visor, as the next signal flare rose above Everholt’s sky.

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

Cassian turned his head just enough to catch the edge of her expression, the almost-smile that never quite committed. It drew his own lips into something close to a grin, tempered but genuine, the kind that lived more in his eyes than on his mouth. The arena's light carved gold along his jaw, the warmth of it at odds with the wry tilt of his tone.

"Ridicule." he echoed, voice low, threading humor through the word. "Force forbid your reputation suffer because of my lack of grace." His gaze lingered on her a heartbeat longer than the jest required. "Though, if I recall, you've survived worse."

He turned back toward the arena just as two riders collided mid-charge, the impact shaking the stands beneath them. He watched them tumble, the choreography of speed and control dissolving into dust and chaos and somewhere in the noise, he found a mirror of the thing she was denying.

"Efficiency" he said after a moment, arms crossing loosely, his tone adopting her precision just enough to make the imitation teasing. "That's what we're calling it now?"

The crowd roared again, and Cassian tilted his head toward her. "Because if efficiency looks anything like that." he murmured, nodding toward the wreckage and sparks. "I'm beginning to suspect it's just another word for concern."

The pause that followed wasn't calculated it simply was. Heavy, real, filled with the charged air between the next lance lowered and the next breath drawn.

When he finally looked at her again, it was with that same measured steadiness he carried into battle, eyes warm but unflinching. "If I thought you didn't care." he said quietly. "I might start worrying about you instead."

And then almost imperceptibly, his voice softened, breaking the weight of his own words with the faintest hint of a smile.

 

[Shade]

Shade's eyes tracked the riders as they clashed, dust spiraling in the wake of their collision. The crowd's roar rose and broke like surf against the arena walls, too loud, too human—but she didn't move. Only the faintest curve ghosted across her mouth when he spoke, the almost-smile that never quite committed.

"Grace is overrated," she murmured, voice smooth and low enough to make him lean closer to hear. "Survival tends to make the stronger impression."

Her tone carried that calm, practiced cadence he knew too well—but beneath it now was something lighter, an edge of humor wrapped in precision.

She turned slightly, catching his reflection in the glass of his visor before meeting his eyes directly. "Besides," she added, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of her lips, "you seem to manage fine without grace. Somehow."

When he echoed her word—efficiency—a quiet breath escaped her, almost a laugh. "Efficiency saves time," she countered, eyes glinting with that familiar sharpness. "Concern complicates things."

A pause. The air between them tightened, the din of the arena fading into something quieter, charged.

"Still," she said finally, tilting her head just enough to meet his gaze from beneath her lashes, "if you insist on embarrassing yourself, someone should make sure it looks intentional."

Her expression softened—amusement flickering there, or perhaps something more dangerous than amusement.

"If I didn't care whether you embarrassed yourself," she added, voice dipping into that calm precision again, "I wouldn't have bothered sitting through this spectacle."

The corner of her mouth curved again, faint but unmistakable.

"So consider yourself… marginally fortunate."

It was a taunt, barely—a challenge wrapped in composure—but the warmth in her voice made it clear she didn't mean to win this particular exchange.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Siv Kryze]

.​

JOUSTING ARENA ​

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

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PLEASE SEND FAVORS!!!​

​

The flare burst above the arena — a line of fire splitting the Everholt sky.


Siv's grip tightened around the lance. The crimson ribbon tied to its haft fluttered against the rising heat, catching a glint of sunlight like a burning ember. It was more than a token now; it was a promise. Across the field, Tyr Mereel's Basilisk crouched low, engines pulsing like the heartbeat of a beast ready to strike.


The crowd's chant rose and fell, an anthem of iron and pride.
"MEREEL! KRYZE! MEREEL! KRYZE!"


Then the bell tolled.


The charge began — thunder and fury tearing across the lists. The Basilisks roared, their claws carving deep trenches into the ground as the two warriors lowered their lances. The world narrowed to motion and impact, the sky and dust blurring into one endless rush.


When they met, the sound cracked like lightning.


Siv's strike landed first and true. The tip of his lance drove clean into Tyr's shoulder plate, the shock slamming through the Warden's armor with devastating force. Sparks erupted as beskar shrieked against beskar, and the air filled with the scream of overstrained engines.


Tyr's Basilisk staggered — one heavy, jarring stumble that sent a collective gasp through the crowd. The mighty war mount nearly toppled, its stabilizers flaring red as it fought to remain upright. Dust swallowed both riders in a whirlwind, but when it cleared — only one remained mounted.


He steadied his lance, breathing hard, the hum of his Basilisk echoing the rhythm of his pulse. The crowd erupted into a storm of sound and fury.


"KRYZE! KRYZE! KRYZE!"


Steam hissed from the vents of his mount as he pulled it to a halt, lowering the lance slowly before dismounting. The ground felt heavier beneath his boots, every step deliberate as he walked toward where Tyr's Basilisk smoldered, the scent of ozone and scorched metal hanging thick in the air.


Siv stopped a few paces away. His visor lingered on the downed Warden — not with arrogance, but respect. The kind of respect earned only through pain and defiance.


"You rode like a true son of Mandalore," he said over the comms, voice low, steady. "The kind of fight that makes the Forge proud."


He hesitated only a moment, then took a step closer.


Without a word more, Siv extended his gauntleted hand toward Tyr — a silent offer of respect between warriors. Whether the man chose to take it or not was his decision, and Siv would honor it either way.


The announcer's voice thundered above the roar of the stands:


"SIV KRYZE ADVANCES TO THE NEXT ROUND!"


But Siv barely heard it. He stood firm amid the dust and echoing chants, hand still outstretched — not in triumph, but in solidarity.


The crimson ribbon on his armor caught the wind again, twisting in the sunlight like a flame that refused to die.


OOC: Result = 17+1 + 2 for a total of 19 Strong strike or impressive stunt

 

[Aiden Porte]

Oriana Indupar​

Aiden regarded her hand for a moment before taking it gently, the gesture careful and respectful, as though uncertain whether to meet it as formality or courtesy. Her manner carried the weight of old etiquette, something refined, almost out of time with the more relaxed diplomacy of the modern Republic.

"Lady Oriana Indupar." he repeated, inclining his head. "An honor. You carry the tone of someone who's seen more of the galaxy than most of us care to admit."

His hand released hers, the faintest smile at the corner of his mouth softening the edge of his words. Whatever brought her here, it wasn't chance.

"I'll recover well enough." he said, glancing briefly toward the arena where the next riders were taking their marks. "A few bruises, nothing lasting. As for your request…" His gaze returned to her, steady and inquisitive. "I'm happy to hear you out. You mentioned it was sensitive, then perhaps discretion is best kept away from the noise of a celebration."

Aiden nodded towards the small dirt path before them, that would lead away from the joust. "Shall we take a walk?" He would wait until they were clear of any close ears and he looked over to her. "What is on your mind, Lady Oriana?"

 

[Elian Abrantes]

Bastila Sal-Soren
​

The hit came hard and true.

Bastila's lance slammed into his side with the weight of a starship, the force ripping through his armor and sending him crashing from the saddle. He hit the dirt in a blur of motion, metal, dust, the sting of air knocked clean from his lungs. The crowd's gasp rippled across the arena like a wave.

For a moment, he stayed there, staring up at the sun, chest heaving, pain pulsing through his ribs. And then, he laughed. Low at first, then louder, brighter, until it echoed through the chaos.

"Goodness, that hurt." he wheezed, pushing himself up with one arm, still grinning. "But that was magnificent."

"I'm alright!" Elian jumped to his feet, clearing hurting but a smile on his face, and the crowd erupted, probably more pleased that he wasn't dead. Perhaps it was the smile and the joy on his face that was the crowd pleaser.

His Basilisk loomed over him, growling softly as if in reproach. Elian patted its side, breath still uneven but his spirit unbroken. "You and me both, old friend. Let's show her we've got a few tricks left."

He climbed back into the saddle, every movement tight with pain but never hesitation. His hair was plastered with dust, his armor dented, yet his eyes burned with that same roguish light, part challenge, part sheer joy.

He raised his lance again, steady despite the tremor in his arm, and called across the comms with a grin she could almost hear.

"Alright, Sal-Soren, round three. Let's see you do that again!"

With that, the engines ignited once more, the Basilisk snarling as it charged ahead, Elian leaning forward into the wind, laughter still breaking through the ache, alive and utterly unstoppable.

 

[Tyr Mereel]

HONOR AND GLORY

Tag: Siv Kryze

The world tilted in fire and thunder.

Siv’s lance struck true, slamming into Tyr’s shoulder with a force that could have broken lesser men, and for a heartbeat. The shock ran through his frame, rattling bone and armor alike. His Basilisk howled as the stabilizers failed, one final metallic groan before the giant war-droid sank to one knee. The impact sent dust and sparks erupting skyward, swallowing the two warriors in a haze of smoke and light.

When the haze cleared, Tyr was still there, half-kneeling beside his fallen mount, one hand braced against the ground. The beskar at his shoulder was split, a dark scorch cutting across the plate. His breath came heavy and ragged through the vocoder. Pain burned, but pride burned hotter.

He looked up as Siv approached through the haze, the warrior’s silhouette sharp against the firelit air. The crimson ribbon on his armor caught the wind, defiant, alive, the mark of one who had earned his victory.

For a long moment, Tyr said nothing. Then, with effort, he rose. The motion was slow, deliberate, the kind of movement that defied defeat through sheer will. Dust cascaded from his armor as he stood to his full height, towering still, battered but unbowed.

Siv’s hand extended toward him.

Tyr looked at it, then at the crowd. Thousands of Mandalorians and onlookers were on their feet, roaring, chanting, calling both their names. The air trembled with it, “KRYZE! MEREEL! KRYZE! MEREEL!” a sound that felt older than the wars that birthed them.

The Supercommando reached forward and clasped Siv’s gauntlet. Their grips locked, the impact of metal on metal resounding louder than any horn. Tyr’s voice came through the comms, low, gravel-thick, steady despite the exhaustion.

“You’ve got the Forge’s blessing today, Kryze,” he said, nodding once. “You’ve earned it. Ride proud.”

He released the grip, giving the other warrior a firm pat on the shoulder before turning toward his own fallen Basilisk. The great machine stirred weakly, venting steam as Tyr set a hand on its plating. “You did your part, old friend,” he murmured quietly, a moment of kinship shared between iron and blood.

When he faced the crowd again, the Warden straightened his spine. He raised his lance, not in defiance, but in salute.

The crowd roared.

He turned his head toward Siv, visor gleaming faintly through the smoke. “Make it count,” he said simply. “Every strike, every breath. You carry Mandalore with you now.”

Then he stepped back toward the arena’s edge, each stride heavy but sure. The chants followed him, MEREEL! echoing through the lists even as Kryze’s name rose higher. He paused once at the gate, looking back toward the field, the banners, the warriors yet to ride.

This was what it meant to live by the creed, not the victory, but the fight.

He saluted the crowd once more, voice carrying through the modulator, rich with the weight of tradition.

“For the Forge,” he called. “For Mandalore. For the ones who will come after us.”

The stands erupted again, not in triumph, but in respect.

Tyr Mereel, bloodied, bruised, and unbroken, gave one final nod to the crowd before stepping from the field, his silhouette fading into the light beyond the gates as the next names were called to ride.

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

When her lance connected, it was done so with the intent to make sure a third pass would not be needed, the shock from the strike was enough to make the Basilisk shudder beneath her; a hit so clean and decisive, that the crowd went wild with knowledge that it was the kind that ended most jousts. She felt the impact travel up her arm and through her ribs, saw the spray of dust as Elian went down hard, his armor flashing in the light before vanishing into the chaos.
For just a second, the entire courtyard went silent.

Bastila reined the Basilisk back, the creature’s claws gouging trenches into the earth as it came to a halt. Her heart was hammering and she could feel the strange artificial heartbeat of the beasts matching hers beneath her. She was already unclipping the magnetic seal on her harness, getting herself ready to dismount, to go check that she hadn’t just killed the brother of her charge; she however paused once the laughter reached her.

That same impossible, reckless sound that had paused her before.

Elian Abrantes. Laughing.

She let out a breath that was half a sigh, half a disbelieving laugh of her own, shaking her head. “Unbelievable,” she muttered, eyes narrowing against the dust. “He’s invincible.”

Across the field, he was already on his feet, waving, brushing off the dirt as though he’d merely tripped on a staircase. The crowd was roaring again, not because she’d struck clean, but because he refused to stay down.

Her Basilisk huffed beside her, mechanical head tilting in something like approval. She reached down to pat its plating, lips twitching into a faint smile.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “He’s ridiculous. But I respect that.”

Then his voice came through the comms, light and defiant, carrying that grin she could somehow hear; “Alright, Sal-Soren, round three! Let’s see you do that again!”

Bastila’s brows rose. “You’ve got to be kidding me?”

But he wasn’t. The blue flame of his Basilisk’s engines flared again, the sound rolling like thunder down the lane. The man was battered, bruised, and entirely unstoppable.

Her pulse quickened; a reaction that wasn’t fear, nor was it irritation, but something more like excitement. A Challenge.

“Very well,” she breathed, settling her grip on the lance once more. “They say I'm stubborn but you are something else Abrantes.”

The Basilisk stirred, its wings flexing outward in a shimmer of heat and power. Through the Force, she could feel it respond to her focus, the link between rider and mount filled with confidence flowing from one to the other like a shared current.

The crowd’s roar swelled to fever pitch. Somewhere in the distance she thought she heard a voice shout something that sounded suspiciously like, Kill him!

She felt her heart swell, a strange heat filling her concentration as the Basilisk surged underneath her with unrestrained want to charge.

The signal flare streaked into the air.

Both Basilisks lunged forward, claws tearing into the earth, engines screaming in unison. Bastila lowered her lance, body moving as one with the machine beneath her, the world narrowing to a tunnel of wind and fire and motion.

Elian came straight for her, reckless and radiant, he was a blue comet streaking down the lane, but he had fallen into a pattern and Bastila, the Jedi who was trained to fight for the Order was apt at discovering patterns on the fly.

At the last heartbeat before impact, Bastila moved.

Her body shifted on her Basilisk, she snapped left, then right, it was a perfect feint, she shifted her body just enough to slip past the line of his lance. The tip screamed by her shoulder in a flash of light and sparks.

The crowd gasped.

Then she struck out herself. With a strike aimed to rattle the air but not destroy, the kind of blow that said I could have, but I didn’t.

As she passed, Bastila twisted in the saddle, looking back through the haze as the dust erupted around them once more, banners whipping in the hot updraft, the echo of the crowd’s roar like a living storm.

Spoiler

+1 Riding Skill
+3 Crowd (2 Max)
+1 Favour

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

​

 

[Adelle Bastiel]

Concord Feast || Basilisk Jousting
Tags: Itzhal Volkihar | Open

"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."

Ah, Siv Kryze . Adelle turned her eyes to their lanes, watching the Mandalorian in question hammer home a precision strike on the mountain of a man Mereel. For a Champion to win the whole tournament, he was the obvious pick. A consummate warrior, an exemplary Mandalorian . . . Had the Handmaiden not been volunteered into the lists, Kryze had been her choice to win the whole shebang.

"A wise choice," Adelle conceded. "I admit he's the obvious choice for a winner. And as a Mandalorian perhaps I should be rooting for him. But I'm a sucker for a good underdog story in games like these."

Next to her, her clan-sister snickered but wisely stayed silent.

At that moment, the Handmaiden and Abrantes clashed in their second pass, Sal-Soren unseating the young nobleman. Adelle winced as he crashed to the ground. She knew that pain all too well. It was a hard hit and a harder fall. And yet in spite of that, he got back to his feet, still laughing. Adelle found herself begrudgingly admiring his resilience in spite of herself. Getting back up from a bit like that and laughing instead of swearing was no mean task.

The jousters readied again for the final pass, the Basilisks charging with mechanical roars. Kryze and Mereel also prepared for their final charge, the crowd alive with chants and cheers for their chosen champions. Both Kryze and Sal-Soren charged with perfect poise, riders and mounts in sync. Their respective clashes were thunderous, Kryze striking Mereel so perfectly it nearly unseated the mountain of a man again. The Basilisk beneath gave out and slammed into the field, skidding to a stop. The display of Mandalorian sportsmanship and camaraderie sent the crowd into a fervor once more.

The Handmaiden struck the noble Abrantes hard, turning in her seat after her blow landed. Checking on the young lord, maybe? He had taken a serious fall prior to this bout. It spoke volumes to the Republic woman's character.

"Well," Adelle said, taking another healthy drink. "Both our chosen advance."

She idly scratched the base of Phantom's ear, fingers occasionally moving to her jaw as the spukami purred nearly as loud as the crowd, curled up in her lap.

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Nessantico, Mid Rim

"I imagine there are few other places that one would consider the Handmaiden an underdog," Itzhal commented idly, his vocalizer tinted with the soft tremble of amusement. His prowling gaze tore apart the weakness exposed to his discerning sight and, in the same flicker of attention, acknowledged the strength of arms that were on full display. Eventually, Itzhal's focus settled once again upon the Handmaiden and her adversary, the sparkling presence of a man who surely lived for the adoration of the crowd. It would cost him. On another field, it would be something more valuable than the price of his stained silks. "Truly, a compliment to those who stand in her way."

Their final clash tore through the noble child's defence in an instant, a crack not unlike thunder and twice as loud for the sudden silence that followed the collective gasp and Abrantes' harsh fall to the hard-packed ground beneath them. Across the crowd, a hushed quiet settled like a spectre of death as they held their breath in the moment between the reaper's call, unaware whether they'd watched a tragedy commence, until a rattled laugh echoed across the field, slowly gathering strength with each chuckle that tore from an aching chest.

In seconds, the sound registered, and the crowd followed with desperate cheers of overflowing relief. Itzhal clapped to a measured beat, impressed by the fortitude and even temper, if not the weakness in the contestant's guard that had led to their position amongst the rising cloud of dirt. Failure was inevitable; how one comported themselves afterwards was often as telling as how they celebrated victory. He cared not for the call of a third tilt; the victor was already decided. To ask for another round was nothing more than empty theatrics.

There were other contestants to watch, and he would not offer his opinion only to then disregard the very competitor he had declared the potential champion of victory.

The cheers of Kryze and Mereel were deafening, roared by dozens of voices trembling with eager excitement for the clash between titans. Stood watching from the sidelines, Itzhal's hands settled on the balcony of the stands, his attention a steady, solemn thing, utterly quiet despite its intensity that never wavered, even as spirit and steel smashed together. He watched as the mountain staggered once again, and even as they stood defiant, that which carried the burden faltered in a grind of sparks and tortured pistons, a monument to Kryze's victory.

"They did well," His buy'ce tilted away from the remaining contests, instead turning towards Adelle and her vod sat as they were. "Drinks will flow wherever they celebrate tonight. I wonder, however, how quickly they'll grow tired of the tales that follow them, fickle as they may be. We have bet upon our champions, but perhaps, we should bet upon who will receive the most embarrassing accolade by the end of this contest?"

Tags: Adelle Bastiel​

 

[Pillar of Perseverance]

​

Feast of Iron and Honor​

Ongoing Jousting Points
Total of three passes
​

Champion	Points	Champion	Points
Siv Kryze	1,2,3= Total 6 - Winner	Knight of the Republic	1,1,1, Total 3
Aiden Porte	1,2,0= total 3	Tyr Mereel	2,3,1 = Total 6 - Winner
Rik Perris	Pending start	Raylin Fall	Pending Start
Lily Decoria	4,1,3= Total of 8 - Winner	Rynar Solde	1,1,1. total 3
Adelle Bastiel	3,0,	Tess Wyn-Tai	1,3,1 = total 5
Bastila Sal-Soren	2,4,4= 10 Winner	Elian Abrantes	0,2,0,=2

Second Round
​

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

Third Round
​

Champion	Points	Champion	Points
Siv Kryze		Pending Contesting Champion

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

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

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

Spoiler: Jousting Rules

Jousting Rules
Setup

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

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

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

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

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

Who Will You Cheer For?!​

 

[Oriana Indupar]

Right, he was going to talk to her dusty, sweaty, and covered in minor injuries. A bit uncouth but as far as she knew Jedi did not follow such rules and regulations of etiquette. Oriana was aware they were guided by various rules and principles, which wasn't too far off from being a noble in her eyes. Everyone had their own part to play, just as she did.

Walking along with him, she wondered what the others would think. Walking unescorted with a man. Perhaps this was a different type of planet, a different type of time. Either way, she couldn't worry about the whispers and gossip such a thing may cause. She needed answers and Oriana was willing to sacrifice reputation in order to get those answers.

"A favor. I'm aware you don't know who I am. However I have been directed to speak to you. Someone has informed me you are the Jedi Investigator for this region? If that is the case I would like your insights into a case concerning my late husband, Cyrus Drayen IV. I was informed it was an accident but it all seemed rushed."

A small pause.

"Is it in your scope to pull investigation records and review them? Credits will not be a concern, I am willing to pay for your expert eye to review the reports. I can only trust an independent voice in this situation."

Aiden Porte​

 

[Ariel Korvane]

​

Jousting Arena

Ariel smiled beneath the ache of her armor as the corners of her mouth curved into a tired but genuine smile. The roar of the crowd still echoed around her, the smell of dust and ozone hanging thick in the air. When Warden Kryze's voice reached her across the field, promising to see her favor into the next bout and not let it fail a spark of pride warmed through the bruises.

She believed him.

And to her joy, he kept that word.

When the flag dropped again and the Basilisks thundered forward, Ariel stood from her seat despite the stiffness in her limbs. Especially once she saw the tall giant of a man Siv Kryze was to compete against. Yet, time and time again, the skill of the Warden of Concordia showed as the crowd erupted and the Warden drew up victorious.

Ariel's cheer joined theirs, and while her palms stung from clapping, she didn't care.

Even with the ache in her ribs and the heaviness settling into her muscles, she stayed where she was, determined to see the rest of the joust through.

And when Siv lifted his lance in salute, the red favor fluttering against the smoke, Ariel smiled again. For while she was weary, sweating, and covered in grime, she was utterly certain she'd given her favor to the right warrior.

​

 

[Sibylla Abrantes]

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Jousting Area
Interacting with: Renn Vizsla
Items: x x x x x

Sibylla's breath caught as Bastila's lance struck true not once, but three times, the sound of impact echoing through the arena. For a moment, her heart leapt into her throat as she watched Elian go crashing onto the dirt.

And then the crazy fool had the gall to laugh again! Well, that served to show that he was okay. Or so knocked about in the head that he didn't realize he was and was just clinging to adrenaline to make him feel okay.

"Shiraya help him," she muttered under her breath as she exhaled a quiet sigh that carried both worry and resignation. No doubt he would be sporting bruises, perhaps worse. But knowing Elian, he'd wear them like medals just like after the Theed sport fights.

Turning to Warden Vizsla, Sibylla managed a composed smile, though concern still lingered in her eyes.

"You have my gratitude, Warden Vizsla, for that offer. I fear my brother will most certainly need healers on standby, given the recklessness he's shown today."

Her tone softened, a wry humor slipping in as she shook her head.

"I thank you for your kind words, though I assure you, my family is as capable of testing my patience as they are my heart. Stubbornness runs deep in the Abrantes bloodline." She paused, her gaze flicking back toward the arena where Bastila's precision shone with every pass. "But I suppose that same stubbornness is what keeps us standing."

Sibylla rose then, the sunlight catching the deep white and maroon embroidery of her gown as she lifted her goblet high, her smile bright though her eyes lingered sharply on Elian.

"To Bastila Sal-Soren , Champion of the Queen," she declared, her voice carrying clear above the crowd. "We of Naboo salute you!"

The courtyard erupted in cheers, and though Sibylla joined in, her expression briefly turned toward her brother once more with that unmistakable sisterly look -- the one that promised they'd be having a very pointed conversation later.

 

[Aether Verd]

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

THE IRON YARD

The Mand’alor rolled his shoulders as the gate rumbled and the famed Jedi stepped into the light. The air itself seemed to tighten, pulled taut between two lives that had been shaped by the same relentless rhythm of conflict. Aether regarded the man across the arena with a single nod of respect, silent acknowledgment between warriors who both understood what waited beneath ceremony. He did not move nor speak as Lorn chose his weapon, merely watching the measured grace of the act, the calm steadiness of a man long acquainted with battle.

When Lorn’s words reached him, Aether’s lips curved into a faint grin. The sound that followed was low, unhurried, and genuine, a soft rumble of laughter that broke the tension like the first crack of a storm. “A jest?” he said, the amusement clear in his tone. “No jest, Jedi. I simply have never had the pleasure of testing one of your kind in person. So I reserved this dance for the High Republic’s finest.” He let the words settle for a moment before adding, “An honor shared, I assure you.”

He lifted the beskad from his shoulder, turning it once in his hand before lowering into stance. The shift came fluidly, without hesitation, the posture of a man who had studied far beyond the customs of his own kind. Deliberately, the Mand’alor assumed the opening form of Shii-Cho, the simplest and oldest of the Jedi arts, its lines broad and disciplined. The choice was not mockery, but a statement. Aether met his opponent not as a mimic, but as a student who understood enough to speak the same language, if only to turn it against its teacher.

Then, without warning, he moved.

The beskad came alive in his grip, a flash of steel cutting through the air as Aether closed the distance with startling speed. Freed of his beskar, he moved like a creature unchained, every motion sharp and fluid, every step driving forward with unstoppable precision. The beskad rose high, his body twisting with the momentum of his advance before he brought it down in a powerful overhead strike, the kind meant to test the true strength that hid beneath calm composure.

Mand'alor the Iron fought as he ruled: directly, fearlessly, and with purpose.​

Lorn Reingard

 

[Elian Abrantes]

Bastila Sal-Soren Sibylla Abrantes Renn Vizsla Aurelian Veruna
​

The flare tore through the air again, painting the sky in molten gold.

Elian leaned forward in the saddle, every muscle tight, his knuckles white around the lance. His Basilisk roared beneath him,loyal, furious, and alive. As it hurtled down the lane toward Bastila once more. Dust swirled in their wake, banners whipped, and the crowd rose to their feet in anticipation.

He could see her now, calm, centered, the perfect counterpoint to his reckless energy. They closed the distance in a breath, the sound of repulsors and war-cries blending into one long, electric roar.

Then the world split apart.

Bastila's lance struck dead center across his chestplate with the sound of shattering thunder. The impact tore him clean from the saddle, armor scraping against metal, cape twisting in the wind, and for an instant, he was airborne.

He hit the ground hard. Face-first. The breath went out of him in a sharp, brutal exhale, and dust exploded around his still form. The Basilisk skidded to a halt several meters ahead, claws digging into the earth, its low, mechanical growl echoing across the arena like a wounded beast.

The crowd fell silent.

Elian didn't move. The laughter that had carried him through every charge, every hit, every ounce of danger, was gone. Only the wind moved now, carrying the faint scent of scorched ozone and the memory of the clash.

And for one suspended heartbeat, all seemingly held their breaths, waiting to see if the youngest Abrantes would rise again.

 

[Sibylla Abrantes]

​

Jousting Area
Elian Abrantes Renn Vizsla Bastila Sal-Soren
Somewhere nearby is gonna get yelled at probably Aurelian Veruna

"Elian!"

The cry tore from Sibylla before she even realized it, cutting through the roaring cheers of the crowd in the wake of Bastila's outstanding strike. Her hands flew to her mouth as she stumbled to her feet, the color draining from her face.

For a heartbeat, she could only stare at the swirl of dust and Elian's very still, prone form on the ground, and then the awful silence that followed in the wake of his lack of movement. A dull sound began to whine in her ears even as her heart began to painfully hammer in her chest, her breath struggling to catch up.

"Shiraya, no…" she whispered in utter horror, the words trembling against her fingers.

Gone was the Queen of Naboo, no sign of a regal composure as much as dawning horror and that sinking sensation of dread in the pit of her stomach. What stood in her place was only a terrified sister. Without hesitation, Sibylla gathered her skirts and turned, moving down the parapet with urgent steps, ignoring the startled attendants who called after her.

She had to reach him.

 

[Renn Vizsla]

P U L S E

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




Renn’s gaze followed the motion of her goblet as she raised it to the sunlight, the maroon and white silk of her gown rippling in the breeze. The cheers of the crowd washed over the dais, but for a moment his attention was only on Sibylla Abrantes , on the strength that lived in her voice even when worry cracked beneath it.

Her words about her family had drawn the faintest ghost of a smile behind his visor.

“Patience and stubbornness,” he began, tone steady but edged with quiet amusement. “Those are rare virtues in the same bloodline, Majesty. You’d fit right in among the clans of Roon, half the time we’re too proud to admit we’re stubborn, and the rest of the time we’re too stubborn to admit we’re proud.”

There was something wry in his voice, not flattery, but familiarity, the easy honesty of someone who’d seen the same strain of willfulness in his own kin. He turned slightly toward her, watching as she stood beneath the glow of banners and sunlight, her every motion carefully composed, every word shaped for her people’s eyes.

“Still,” Renn added, more softly, “if stubbornness is what keeps you standing, it’s served you better than most armor. I’ve seen warriors crumble under less.”

The faintest hint of a smile flickered across his face, visible even through the glare of the sun. “And besides—”

Then came the sound.

A sound that silenced every voice in the stands.

It wasn’t the clean clash of metal on armor, but the dull, sickening thud that followed when the body yields to momentum. Renn’s words broke mid-sentence as his gaze snapped toward the arena. Dust exploded where Elian had fallen, a violent cloud that swallowed the bright field whole.

Renn didn’t think. Instinct moved faster than speech.

“Stay here, Majesty.”

The command was firm but not unkind. His boots hit the stone of the dais steps, then the dirt below, each impact sharp as a drumbeat. He crossed the arena in seconds, the gleam of his beskar flashing under the afternoon light.

“Medics!”

The shout cracked like a whip, carrying across the field. The Mandalorian medics stationed along the perimeter were already sprinting before he dropped to one knee beside the Queen’s brother.

Elian lay motionless, the dust settling around him in a pale halo. Renn reached down immediately, fingers finding the groove of the neck between collar and armor. For a moment, there was only the sound of the wind and the faint hiss of the Basilisk’s cooling repulsors.

Then....

A pulse.

 

[Elian Abrantes]

Sibylla Abrantes Aurelian Veruna Renn Vizsla Bastila Sal-Soren
​

Elian lay there for a long, still moment, face pressed into the dirt, the world muffled by the ringing in his ears. The ground was warm beneath him, the scent of ozone and dust heavy in the air. He could hear the distant roar of the crowd fading into something quieter, something almost reverent.

And then, like a tide breaking, the absurdity of it all hit him.

He was fine. Bruised, sure. Battered, absolutely. Pride? In shambles. But alive. Entirely, wonderfully, hilariously alive.

The thought made him grin before he even opened his eyes. He could feel the pounding footsteps before he saw her, Sibylla, skirts gathered, panic in every movement, her voice cutting through the noise like a blade. Of course she was the second one to reach him. Sibylla would turn him over and then reality would hit. But seeing her there, her face pale and eyes wide, made the moment that much sweeter.

He blinked up at her through the haze of dust, lips curling into a slow, ridiculous smile. "My hero." he croaked dramatically.

The look on her face was priceless. He couldn't help it, he started laughing, wheezing, clutching his side, and then sprang up to his feet with a triumphant, "Woohoo!" that echoed across the lists.

The crowd erupted again, this time with laughter and cheers.

He turned toward Bastila, still astride her Basilisk, her posture equal parts composed and amused. "You are strong, dangerous, and....I think I love you!" he called, grinning like a madman. Then he threw up his hands. "Nah, I'm just kidding. I'll get you next time."

When he turned back to Sibylla, the look on her face, and he knew he was in big trouble. Yet he couldn't help it. He pressed his palms together in mock apology, still grinning. "Okay, okay, I know. That was a terrible joke. But the look on your face, oh stars, Sibylla, you should've seen your face!"

He glanced over to where Renn stood next to Sibylla, Elian pointed at him with a laugh. "And you, my friend I'm buying you a bottle of whiskey! Thanks for playing an unknowing part in my act!"

His laughter carried again, bright and reckless, a perfect reflection of the chaos he lived for. Bruised, battered, and blissfully alive. Elian Abrantes was already ready for the next round.

"Let's go for the next round!" He shouted!

 

[Adelle Bastiel]

Concord Feast || Basilisk Jousting
Tags: Itzhal Volkihar | Sibylla Abrantes | Elian Abrantes | Renn Vizsla | Bastila Sal-Soren

"They did well," His buy'ce tilted away from the remaining contests, instead turning towards Adelle and her vod sat as they were. "Drinks will flow wherever they celebrate tonight. I wonder, however, how quickly they'll grow tired of the tales that follow them, fickle as they may be. We have bet upon our champions, but perhaps, we should bet upon who will receive the most embarrassing accolade by the end of this contest?"

"Ah, I'm afraid that--"

Elian Abrantes had been unseated.

And did not rise.

Instinct had taken over before the dust had settled around the noble's body and Adelle had sprinted from her seat. A hit like that, a fall like that--for a second time--absolutely required medical attention. She'd had softer falls and her ribs had still been fractured. Armor could only do so much against that much blunt force trauma. To have been unseated viciously twice? That was risking worse injuries.

She'd only made it to the fence around the jousting fields, Warden Vizsla calling for medics and the Queen rushing up on her brother, when the damn fool leapt up.

With a "Whoohoo" of all things.

It had been a joke.

Of all things, he had made it a joke.

Adelle felt her blood boil as a Healer. She hardly heard the rest of his words through the roar of blood in her ears. While he had played a joke--seriously, what the kriff--about being seriously injured, there was a large chance he actually was seriously injured. Fractures often felt like bruises and concussions were just as subtle. Her hands gripped the rail, a thousand curses about the sheer stupidity and recklessness of it all on her tongue. But she was a no one here. Just a Mandalorian Healer among a crowd of Mandalorians. The Queen probably had her own Jedi Healer among her retinue.

"Let's go for the next round!" He shouted!

Adelle couldn't help herself, even if no one could hear her over the crowd cheering with relief and for the prank. "Oh absolutely the kriff not."