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

[Tyr Mereel]

HEART

Tag: Tess Wyn-Tai

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

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

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

A challenger.

He respected that.

The flare went up.

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

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

She still swung.

The strike hit him like a stiff breeze.

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

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

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

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

A real salute.

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

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

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

He tapped his fist against his chestplate in respect.

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


[/color]

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They’re hungry for a show.”

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

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

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

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

The crowd erupted like a detonator charge.

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

Spoiler

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

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

​

 

[Tess Wyn-Tai]

Joust
TAGS: Tyr Mereel​

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

[Tyr Mereel]

HONOR

Tag: Tess Wyn-Tai

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

It didn’t hurt.

It barely even nudged him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tyr merely stared forward through his visor.

A long silence.

A longer exhale.

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

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

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

“TESS! WYN-TAI! TESS! WYN-TAI!”

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

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

His Basilisk groaned.

Tyr sighed.

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

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

“Honor to the victor!” he called.

The cheers surged again.

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

Defeated by the smallest hit of the day.

By the loudest woman in the arena.

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

He chuckled under his breath as he rode out.

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

Fin​

 

[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	???	1,1,1, Total 3
Aiden Porte	1,2,0= total 3	Tyr Mereel	2,3,1 = Total 6 - Winner
Rik Perris	1,	Raylin Fall	3
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	3,2, 3= 8 Winner	Lily Decoria	0, 1,
Tess Wyn-Tai	4,0,0 = 4	Tyr Mereel	1,1,1 = 3

Third Round
​

Champion	Points	Champion	Points
Siv Kryze	3	Bastila Sal-Soren

​

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?!​

 

[Sibylla Abrantes]

​

Jousting Arena Dais
Renn Vizsla

Sibylla took a seat back on the overhead dais as the jousting event continued. With a sigh that turned into a quiet, incredulous laugh, Sibylla took up her wine glass and drank deeply. Truly, the men in her life seemed determined to drive her to an early grave.

As Warden Renn Vizsla approached, she inclined her head in greeting, offering him a small, grateful smile touched with apology.

"Thank you, Warden Vizsla," she said, her tone composed although just a trouch of wry amusement lingered beneath it.

"It seems my brother has reached that age where he insists on testing how many lives he has left, all in the name of youthful bravado."

She paused, giving a helpless shake of her head before glancing back toward the field.

"I imagine Mandalorian youth are made of sterner sense at his age… or at least better aim." Her lips curved slightly as humor softened the exasperation in her voice.

The crowd gave a heavy cheer at Bastila Sal-Soren 's final winning victory, and Sibylla turned to lift her cup once more, pride bright in her tawny eyes.

"To the final round my Champion will go," she declared warmly. Then, glancing sidelong at Renn, her smile deepened in curious inquiry. "Do you cheer for Warden Siv Kryze then? He has proven quite formidable in the lists today."

 

[Renn Vizsla]

Tag: Sibylla Abrantes




Renn returned to the dais with the slow, deliberate stride of a man who’d seen too much chaos for one afternoon, and somehow still found the humor in it. The crowd’s laughter and cheers rippled like a tide behind him, fading just enough for Sibylla’s sigh to reach his ears as she lifted her wine.

The Warden stopped beside her seat, helm tucked under his arm once more. The sunlight caught the faint scar that cut across his right eye as he inclined his head in respect, and just slightly in exasperation.

“Your Majesty,” he greeted evenly, though there was a note of dry amusement beneath the formality. “If your brother’s goal was to give half the crowd heart failure, I’d say he succeeded.”

A pause, the faint twitch of a smirk.

“The good news is, he’s tougher than he looks. The bad news is, I doubt that’ll stop him from trying again.”

When she thanked him, Renn inclined his head once more, tone softening just slightly.

“You owe me no thanks. My medics were glad to move; they needed the practice. Though I’d prefer their drills not involve royalty being launched across a jousting field.”

At her next remark, the faintest hint of laughter ghosted through his chest, the kind that was felt more than heard.

“Mandalorian youth?” he echoed, glancing toward the field as new riders prepared their mounts. “No, Majesty. They’re every bit as reckless. The difference is, ours usually try to break their necks for something, a title, a clan, a bit of pride they’ll regret in a week. We just build heavier armor to make sure they live long enough to learn from it.”

He shifted his weight slightly, one hand resting along the curve of his belt as Bastila raised her lance in salute below, the crowd roaring her name. Renn followed the motion with a thoughtful gaze, then turned back toward Sibylla when she toasted. Her pride was unmistakable, glowing through the sunlit green in her eyes.

Her next question came like a spark in a calmer moment.

“Siv Kryze?” Renn repeated, a flicker of recognition touching his expression. “Aye. I know him. Clan Kryze breeds strong, quiet, disciplined warriors. I saw him hold his line in the quarterfinals when the mount ahead lost control. Didn’t flinch.”

His tone warmed slightly, the faintest undercurrent of pride threading through it, not personal, but tribal, shared through the same steel vein that connected every Mandalorian to their kind.

“He fights clean. He honors the Code. That’s the kind of rider I’ll stand behind.”

Renn raised his cup, or what passed for one, a heavy carved metal tumbler the Mandalorian attendants had insisted he use instead of crystal, and tilted it slightly toward her.

“So yes, Majesty,” he said, voice deep but measured, “I’ll cheer for Siv Kryze. A worthy champion for any list.”

The faintest pause. Then, with a hint of teasing that cut through the solemnity, he added:

“Though if Bastila wins again, I’ll pretend I was cheering for her all along. I’ve learned enough about Naboo politics to know better than to argue with a Queen’s champion.”

He lifted his cup fully now, the sunlight glinting off its rim as he saluted the field below.

“To Bastila Sal-Soren and Siv Kryze,” Renn declared, the gravel in his voice carrying into something almost ceremonial. “May they both ride hard, strike true, and leave the rest of us something worth remembering.”

As the horns sounded for the next round and the Basilisks thundered into motion, Renn retook his place beside Sibylla, his expression composed, his posture easy but watchful.

“Let’s hope,” he murmured, half to himself, “this round ends with fewer casualties and fewer royal lectures.”

Then, after a beat’s pause, the corner of his mouth lifted faintly.

“Though I doubt we’ll be that lucky.”​

Spoiler: Siv

+1 Cheer for Siv Kryze

 

[Adelle Bastiel]

Concord Feast || Basilisk Jousting
Tags: Itzhal Volkihar


Adelle had made her way back to her seat the moment the medics started to escort the battered Abrantes off the field. The sound of another match in a different lane filled the air with crashes and more cheers from the crowd. The Republic seemed to like a good spectacle and the Mandalorians... Adelle smiled wryly. The Mandalorians, they always liked a show of violence and skill.

"Idiot noble," Adelle said by way of apology to her clan-sister and the Mandalorian she'd been speaking with earlier. "A former life as a Healer has me trained like an akk dog."

The tiny Repulic opponent--the one that had bested her, Tess Wyn-Tai --emerged victorious over Tyr Mereel . Adelle raised her eyebrows. It was no mean feat. Even if the young woman's scores weren't enough to land her in the final bout, she'd still proven herself quite capable. And perhaps a little cocky. And more than a little loud.

The final match pitted Siv Kryze against Bastila Sal-Soren . Adelle frowned--she'd been half-hoping Sal-Soren would've been knocked out so she could avoid having to choose between Mandalorian pride and admiration of a challenge met. Still, she'd made a claim and she wasn't going to waffle out of it now.

"Seems both our champions have made it to the last bout," she said. "Shall we make this interesting? A friendly wager?"

Her clan-sister leaned over. "If her luck from earlier holds, you'll win handily," she told the Mandalorian.

"Thanks for nothing," Adelle said.

 

[Rik Perris]

FEAST OF CONCORD
GRAND COURTYARD, EVERHOLT KEEP
NESSANTICO

Rik had made his way back down to get saddled up, as his passes were about to start, slipping the helm over his head and lifting the lance. Then the gates opened and he could see his foe at the other end of the lane. He grinned underneath the helm, and gripped the reins as the signal went off.

“Ya!”

Came the sharp statement, as his steely steed took off, charging forward while he lowered his lance into position to meet the soldier with it as squarely as possible...

Raylin Fall • Pillar of Perseverance​

 

[Siv Kryze]

.​

JOUSTING ARENA ​

Will be Jousting Bastila Sal-Soren
Modifiers: +1 Riding + 1 favor + 2 from Cheer

​

PLEASE SEND FAVORS!!!​

​

The roar of the arena still trembled in Siv's chest as he guided his Basilisk back toward the competitor's line. Dust clung to his armor, sparks still fading from the plates where Tyr's final strike had nearly turned the tide before falling short. But the crowd… the crowd still carried his name like a war-chant.


"KRYZE! KRYZE!"


He exhaled once, steady, letting the storm in his blood settle.


Across the stands, two figures rose above the sea of motion— Ariel Korvane and Renn Vizsla . Even through the distance, Siv caught the unmistakable lift of Ariel's hand, the sharp, bright cheer that cut through the thunder. Her favor—the crimson ribbon—fluttered at his shoulder like a living ember, stained with dust and streaked with the smoke of Tyr Mereel's last stand.


He touched the ribbon once, brief, deliberate.


A promise kept.


Then his visor shifted. Renn Vizsla gave him a firm, warrior's nod from the dais, the kind of acknowledgment you didn't earn by chance, but by steel and conduct. Siv returned it in kind—silent, grateful, measured.


He turned his mount toward the opposite end of the field.


The final opponent had taken her place.


The drums began their slow, rising cadence.


Siv rolled his shoulders, lowered his lance, and leaned forward in the saddle.


Siv breathed out and lowered his lance.
The horn cracked through the air.

His Basilisk surged forward, claws throwing dust in wide arcs behind him. Siv held steady, eyes locked on the narrowing lane—until the angle shifted. A subtle misread. A half-second adjustment too late.

His strike skimmed across the opponent's armor, a screech of metal-on-metal and a burst of sparks, but nothing that carried weight. Not a telling blow.

The recoil jarred his grip harder than expected, sending a tremor through his arm. His Basilisk's back leg bucked once before the stabilizers corrected, the machine snorting steam from its vents.

Not a loss.
Not even a serious mistake.
But a reminder: precision or defeat.

Siv drew a slow breath, centering himself.

No glance toward his opponent.
No assumptions.
No reading of their posture.

That came with the next roll, not now.

He reined his Basilisk back into its starting position, muscle by muscle settling his stance. The arena trembled with chants, steel, and rising heat. The ribbon flicked against his cheek as the wind shifted.

Siv steadied his lance.

Ready for the true second pass.

And ready—this time—to correct the mistake.

OOC: Result = 4 +1 + 3 = 8 Minor fail (glancing blow or off balance)

 

[Lily Decoria]

Objective: Basilisk Jousting!
Outfit: Jousting Attire
Equipment: Jousting Lance (+1 piloting skills, +1 favour, +1 cheer, +1 cheer)
Tag: Bastila Sal-Soren | Corazona von Ascania | Pillar of Perseverance

Lily didn't need to look at the points scored to know that she was out of a chance to win now. This final turn was just to make sure that Lily could redeem some honour from how disastrous of how this jousting bout had gone. It was strange how very different the two bouts that she had went, the first one seemed strongly in her favour but now, Lily was very much failing to match the strength that Bastila was demonstrating in her abilities. It seemed that the other Jedi was a natural at jousting and did not fail for a moment.

"Congratulations on the win Bastila. Last turn for the fun of it." Lily stated and started tapping around the controls, wondering what she could have done differently this time around. What there was to take away from this experience since every loss there had to be something for taking away. Lily did feel disappointed that she couldn't have performed better in the second round. If not for the victory, if only represent Corazona and honour the favour that Lily had been granted. It felt poor payback to have underperformed so severely after being granted the favour.

"Well, hopefully you go on to win, since you deserve it and then I can say that I lost to the champion, so that stings less." Lily laughed, then punched the controls. Charging forward towards Bastila's joust. The final turn for Lily and the hopes that she can give one final strike.

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Nessantico, Mid Rim

Observing the clash of the two Jedi, one dressed in a shell of protective armour for the sake of the tournament, and the other wearing what could only be described as the bare minimum, sheltered almost entirely by the Force, it did not take long for Itzhal to identify a clear winner; their victory followed not long after—celebrated in a wave of cheers that acknowledged Bastilla Sal-Soren's surprising skill with a lance, though Itzhal noted that despite her accuracy and power, her fellow Jedi remained relatively unharmed. It was a feat that was both as impressive as it was unnatural, leaving the Mandalorian to question once again where natural skill ended and the hand of the Force interjected for the sake of both wielders.

He could not say. The Force forever held more mysteries than answers.

Beneath the layer of transparisteel, Itzhal's eyebrow raised in an expression of deep unamusement as the losing Jedi requested another round of jousting for the sake of 'fun', or something unspoken. He did not question the reason why further, whether it be genuine joy from their previous clashes or a bitter pride that required untangling, he cared not, only that in the last two Jousts, both of the Queen's Champions' opponents had requested a final lance. The previous bout had been a mockery of the entire system, played for laughs.

This time, he looked away from the field and towards his fellow Mandalorians. Let those who intended to throw themselves at each other without further purpose suffer the consequences.

"Let it not be forgotten that when you saw a fellow injured, you're response was to help. You may not have been the one to deliver aid this day, but you're instincts were pure intentioned, and if he had needed a saviour, you would have been there," He inclined his head, a measure of acknowledgement for Adelle's retreat from their previous conversation. "There is no dishonour in such a matter."

With his words spoken, Itzhal turned his attention back to the courtyard, past the bout of Tess Wyn-Tai and the twice-defeated mountain named Tyr Mereel. Errantly, the Morellian wondered how matters would have gone if the Mandalorian warrior had been fresh, rather than continuing on after their hard-fought clash against Siv Kryze. It mattered not what ifs were nothing more than curious thoughts. He chided himself; it was unfair to demean the lady's victory against such a foe.

Eventually, his gaze settled upon the Queen's booth as the final points were tallied and the Champions decided. In the end, there was no surprise when the final match between Siv Kryze and Bastilla Sal-Soren was announced, only steady certainty as Itzhal turned his head towards Adelle.

"It would appear they have," Itzhal acknowledged, easily with a faint trace of amusement. "I am not disinclined to a friendly wager, though, I admit that I possess little in the way of credits at the moment. I think the conditions for victory are obvious to both of us, but what is it you wish to wager?"

With a slight tilt of his helmet, he glanced towards Adelle's unnamed clan-mate, the markings of Clan Skirata unchanged even after centuries of progress and adaptation elsewhere.

"I shall take you're advice under consideration. I've always preferred a calculated victory."

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	???	1,1,1, Total 3
Aiden Porte	1,2,0= total 3	Tyr Mereel	2,3,1 = Total 6 - Winner
Rik Perris	1,1,	Raylin Fall	3
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	3,2, 3= 8 Winner	Lily Decoria	0, 1, 2 = 3
Tess Wyn-Tai	4,0,0 = 4	Tyr Mereel	1,1,1 = 3

Third Round
​

Champion	Points	Champion	Points
Siv Kryze	1,	Bastila Sal-Soren

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?!​

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

The dust had barely settled from the previous run when Bastila swung down from her saddle, boots hitting the earth with a thud that felt heavier than it should have. The roar of the crowd still vibrated through the air, shaking stone, vibrating armour, and unfurling banners; but none of it blotted out Lily’s presence as Bastila moved out to meet her.
The two women paused only a stride apart.

There was no tension, only breath infused with dust, adrenaline, and something that felt earned.

Bastila placed her hand briefly over Lily’s shoulder plating, the gesture firm and symbolic of the warriors they were.
“Your heart is stronger than any strike,” she said, voice low so stayed between the two Jedi. “That matters more than victory.”

She gave a grin, not quite a smile, but the closest Bastila had been capable of since before all of this.

As Lily moved off toward the med lines and cheering squads, Bastila mounted once more. And that’s when it hit her; a strong sensation that was not applause, not pride, nor was it relief.

It was hunger.

A pulse of something primordial thrummed through her, sitting deeper than the adrenaline, just beyond that sharpness of triumph.
It curled in her chest like smoke and embers, voices in her mind flowing easily;

I want to win.
Don’t do it for unity.
Not for the Republic either.
This isn’t for Sibylla’s glory.
Nor is it for the spectacle.
Do this for yourself.

It frightened her, a breath of prideful selfishness before it was swallowed by the heat.


The herald’s voice cracked across the courtyard like an electro-whip, “Bastila Sal-Soren; will now face Siv Kryze!” The atmosphere didn’t rise, it combusted.

Mandalorians roared his name like a battle hymn.
High Republic delegates leaned forward, tense, unsure, aware that this was different.

Because Siv wasn’t reckless like Elian.
He wasn’t a Jedi like Lily.

He was purpose sharpened into steel. He was Mando’a.

Bastila could feel it, the shift of the weight, the arrival of danger; it felt like when a hunter feels the breath of a second hunter behind them.

For a heartbeat, she looked to the stands:

She noted Sibylla, her eyes narrowed, not in doubt she didn’t think, but maybe calculation? Nearby her stood the Mandalorian patron, he seemed to be leaning forward into this fight now, his courtesy replaced with pure interest.

Around them the Mandalorians were watching her, their attention predatory. She had entertained them for as long as she could, now they wanted her blood on the ground and they had sent their Mandalorian to do it.
Her attention suddenly thought of Lorn, she had started searching for him on instinct, but did not find him. She prayed he had not seen whatever had flickered in her eyes, earlier, of her hunger and weakness towards the want of the violence that was coming.

She tightened the two strips tied to her forearm, Elian’s blue cloth shifted beneath it and fastened tightly over Sibylla’s earlier token. Her eyes took them in as everything seemed to slow and go quiet around her focus. They were threads of loyalty and promise bound like warpaint.

She leaned forward, palm pressing to the Basilisk’s neck plate, voice low. “Listen to me,” she whispered, and the machine’s vents hissed back in something very close to breath. “If this is it we show them that we go down fighting. We ride as one. No fear. No hesitation.”

The Basilisk’s eyes flared, amber sharpening to molten gold.

It accepted or perhaps it challenged. Either way she welcomed its response.

Across the field, Siv Kryze had lowered his lance with the precision of a warrior carved from tradition and fire.
His Basilisk stamped once, dust curling around its claws like smoke from artillery.

The drums had started to roll. They were slow at first, then rising, before they were devouring everything around them, the crowd, the wind, the steam of the Basilisks. It all lived in that Thump. Thump. Thump.

Banners whipped like war-torn wings on the air. Bastila lowered her visor and her breath steadied.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The hunger in her chest ignited again.

Second chances are for peace.
Victory is for the worthy.

She gripped the reins.

“Let’s ride,” she breathed to herself, to the Force, to the basilisk and it’s gods of war.

The flare burst skyward and it’s star ignited.

Bastila Sal-Soren charged.
There was no hesitation.
There was no diplomacy.
There was no restraint.

There was only her, the warrior of the Jedi and whatever the Mando’a considered of her at that moment.

Siv's attack came in hard, and Bastila's followed it. Except they didn't. Bastila's lance didn't land where she intended and her Basilisk hadn't carried true. The Mandalorian's attack had hit her, even if only glancing moments before her own, forcing the lance off to the side where it to connected, yet slid far to easily away across the armour panels of her opponent.

The dust kicked, her Basilisk skidded to a stop and for a moment, just one brief moment Bastila felt the tang of fear that she was in too deep creep up her spine.

Spoiler

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

OUTFIT: XoXo | TAG: Siv Kryze | Sibylla Abrantes | Renn Vizsla | Lily Decoria EQUIPMENT:

​

 

[Aether Verd]

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

THE IRON YARD

The clash of their first exchange still hummed along Aether’s arm when the Jedi held his ground. The Mand’alor felt the strength behind that swordhand, the steady resolve that did not bend beneath the descent of his beskad. He respected that. His strike had not faltered, nor had the Jedi’s answer to it. For an instant they stood close, the storm between them held in perfect balance.

Aether’s grin returned, carved sharp beneath the torchlight. “Mandalorians are not handed anything.” he said, his voice a low current beneath the crackle of the arena fires. “Not by birth, nor by blood. We earn everything.” He leaned forward as steel pressed against steel, driving the blades a fraction closer. “And you live up to the monstrous reputation of your Order. I see why the Sith fall to your kind each generation.”

Lorn shifted, and Aether’s blade moved with him. The beskad swept down in a smooth arc, becoming a solid wall of iron will that caught the vibrosword’s probing stroke. Sparks scattered from the clash, dancing across the stone at their feet. Aether stepped into the pressure rather than away from it, pushing the vibrosword aside as if forcing open a sealed door.

He chuckled softly, a sound both amused and eager. “Are we finished warming up?”

Without waiting for an answer, Aether pressed forward again, the beskad returning to meet Lorn’s weapon with decisive force. He attempted to drive the Jedi back a single step. His voice rose, steady and commanding, spoken in challenge rather than mockery. “Use everything at your disposal. Your talents, your instincts, the Force itself. Fight me as you would if I stood intent on burning Naboo to the ground.”

The beskad angled forward, the Mand’alor’s stance widening as he welcomed what was to come.

“Show me the true measure of a Jedi.”​

Lorn Reingard

 

[Sibylla Abrantes]

​

Jousting Area
Renn Vizsla

Sibylla couldn't help the quiet laugh that escaped her, soft and wry as she lifted her cup once more.

"You're not wrong, Warden. My brother seems determined to test how much stress one heart can endure in a day."

She tipped her wine toward him in amused salute and gratitude.

"And I'll take comfort in knowing your medics are at least well-practiced should he ever try something equally foolish again... which again, knowing him, he will."

A small pause and then a wry twist of her lips.

"Your people are right to build heavier armor. I fear the youth of Naboo rely too much on charm and not enough on sense."

When Renn lifted his cup and spoke of Siv Kryze, Sibylla's gaze followed his toward the field. The crowd hushed as the two riders took their places, and then the horns blared. Within seconds, the Basalisks clawed the ground, and the two riders' lances clashed.

Siv's strike was clean but glancing and barely more successful than Bastila's last. The impact drew cheers nonetheless from the crowd as shouts were called out for both Bastila and Siv for the second pass.

"Tell me, Warden Vizsla. If my brother were your kin, how would you approach his desire to prove himself? He has been attempting to show he is capable of becoming a Kingsguard in a few years."

 

[Renn Vizsla]

Tag: Sibylla Abrantes




Renn allowed himself a quiet, knowing exhale that might have passed for a laugh if not for the gravel in his tone.

“One heart, perhaps, Majesty, but I’d wager yours endures more than most. He’s lucky you’ve still got patience left to spare.”

He tipped his cup slightly toward her, the metal glinting under the afternoon light, before glancing back to the arena as the horns sounded again. The Basilisks roared to life, claws digging into the churned earth, and the crowd’s noise rose with them, that restless, hungry kind of excitement that only came before impact.

When the riders clashed, the shockwave rippled through the ground beneath their feet. Renn didn’t flinch. His head tracked the motion with a soldier’s stillness, the faintest nod given as Siv Kryze’s lance caught Bastila’s shoulder guard in a clean, glancing blow. Not enough to unseat her, but enough to show control, the kind of strike that spoke of restraint, not recklessness.

“Good line,” Renn murmured, half to himself. “He’s keeping his center low. Doesn’t overcommit. Kryze knows how to make a clean recovery, even when the strike’s off-angle. That’s a rider who’s learned discipline the hard way.”

He raised his cup again, this time fully, voice carrying easily through the swell of cheers.

“My call stands,” he said firmly, turning slightly toward her. “I declare for Siv Kryze of Clan Kryze. Clean hands, steady aim, and the patience to wait for his moment, that’s the kind of warrior worth a Mandalorian’s respect.”

A beat passed, the sound of the crowd, the drums, the bellow of the mounts circling back into formation. Then Sibylla’s question drew his attention fully back to her.

Her words were thoughtful, edged with concern beneath the humor. Renn studied her for a moment before answering, helm tucked beneath one arm, the scar across his right eye catching a flash of gold from the sun.

“If your brother were my kin,” he began, his voice lower now, tempered with that quiet gravity that came when he spoke of duty, “I wouldn’t stop him from trying to prove himself. A warrior’s spirit can’t be caged without breaking it.”

He paused, eyes flicking briefly toward the arena where the next pass was being set.

“But I’d make him earn it the right way, through scars, not stunts. Every Mandalorian earns their armor plate by plate. Every mistake teaches them where not to stand. The youth who rush to prove themselves usually learn that lesson early, if they’re lucky enough to survive it.”

His gaze softened slightly, the edge of his voice easing though his words still carried weight.

“So I’d give him what he’s asking for, the chance to prove it. But I’d make damn sure he understood what it costs to stand in that armor and call yourself protector of another’s life. It’s not about glory, Majesty. It’s about endurance. You don’t get to fall when others are counting on you.”

For a moment, his eyes followed Bastila and Siv as they aligned for the next charge, lances raised once more beneath the sun.

“If he learns that,” Renn said finally, “he’ll make a fine Kingsguard, or a fine warrior, wherever he stands.”

The crowd roared again as the Basilisks thundered forward, dust spiraling upward in a halo of gold. Renn’s lips twitched faintly beneath the edge of his breath, his tone regaining its dry humor as he leaned slightly toward her.

“Though if he keeps trying to get himself killed in front of you, I might start offering to train him myself. My armor’s thicker, I can handle a few concussions.”

He lifted his cup once more, voice firm as the Basilisks struck again and the banners rippled in the wake of their passing.

“To Siv Kryze,” he declared, the old battlefield cadence in his tone unmistakable. “For honor, for control, and for teaching the rest of them that victory doesn’t always come from the loudest charge.”

Spoiler: Siv

+1 Cheer for Siv Kryze

 

[Sibylla Abrantes]

​

Location: Jousting Area
Interacting with: Renn Vizsla
+ One Cheer and Favor to Bastila Sal-Soren

Sibylla couldn't help the small smile that tugged at her lips as the Warden spoke, resulting in a faint chuckle before she took another sip of her wine.

"Patience is a virtue I'm learning out of necessity, Warden," she replied lightly, her gaze drifting back toward the arena.

"Though I suspect my brother's determined to test just how much of it I actually possess."

Nonetheless her expression softened as she listened to him speak of endurance and of earning one's strength the right way. The words resonated more deeply than she expected. It made her think back to what Aurelian had told her -- that Elian needed to feel as if he were making an impact for himself on his own terms, especially after finding out he had a degenerative illness with his eyes that affected his future as a pilot within the Republic Naval Fleet.

"You're right," she said after a moment in a quiet musing tone, "It's not glory that defines us, but what we're willing to carry for others."

Hazel eyes followed the riders as they reset for another pass, watching the sunlight glinting off their lances.

"Perhaps he needs to learn that the hard way, too. But I'd prefer it not be here in front of half the galaxy... then again, that itself is a lesson as well."

A small laugh slipped through despite herself.

"I believe that one is constantly at the mercy of always seeking to improve oneself, especially with training. Though I warn you, the Abrantes are stubborn.... I am sure he will test even Mandalorian patience."

 

[Renn Vizsla]

Tag: Sibylla Abrantes




Renn stood beside the Queen’s seat, the sunlight gleaming across the silver-blue plates of his armor. The crowd’s roar swelled again as the Basilisks circled below, dust curling in ribbons through the golden air. He said nothing for a time, watching the arena while Sibylla spoke, the weight of her words settling between them like something shared, quiet and understood.

When she laughed, the sound softened the steel in the moment. He inclined his head slightly, the faintest trace of a smile ghosting across his features.

“Then you’re already learning faster than most rulers I’ve met,” he said, tone steady but low. “Patience isn’t taught, it’s beaten into you by life, or by younger siblings with too much spirit and not enough sense.”

He lifted his helm under one arm, eyes following the lances below as the riders reset. “You’re right about him,” Renn continued, voice quieter now. “He needs to feel the weight himself, not to prove he’s strong, but to learn what strength actually costs. Some lessons can’t be handed down, even from family. They have to scar their own way in.”

There was no judgment in his tone, only understanding, the voice of a man who’d seen too many young warriors chasing legacy before learning the endurance that followed it.

A faint wind tugged at the banners as the horns blared again. The next pass thundered through the field, Siv Kryze and Bastila Sal-Soren meeting in a clash that sent dust and light scattering into the sky. The impact was cleaner this time, Kryze’s lance catching Bastila at just the right angle, a strike precise enough to tilt her Basilisk’s balance without unseating her.

The crowd erupted. Renn’s head inclined in approval, a quiet nod given.

“There,” he said simply. “That’s the difference between courage and craft. He read the line, adjusted mid-charge, that takes discipline.”

He raised his metal tumbler once more, voice carrying over the cheers without needing to rise to them.

“Once more, I declare for Siv Kryze of Clan Kryze,” Renn said, tone strong, clear, resonant, the kind that carried command by habit, not force. “For the rider who tempers strength with control, and honors every strike by making it count.”

The cheers rolled again, some for Bastila, some for Kryze, but his voice cut through them like a steady drumbeat before fading back into quiet.

Turning slightly toward Sibylla, he added, lower now, enough that only she could hear:

“You said your family’s stubborn. Good. It’s what keeps people alive when patience runs out. Mandalorians have another word for it: Kot. The will to stand back up, again and again, no matter who’s watching.”

He glanced sidelong at her then, his tone softening just a shade.

“If he carries even half your steadiness, he’ll find his way. But if he tests Mandalorian patience...” a faint glimmer of humor broke through, “then I’ll simply make sure he trains under Siv Kryze himself. That should cure him of recklessness fast enough.”

He turned his gaze back toward the arena, the sunlight glinting off the crest of his pauldron as the Basilisks wheeled for their final charge.

“To endurance, Majesty,” he said finally, lifting his cup in quiet salute. “And to those stubborn enough to keep proving it.”

Spoiler: Siv

+1 Cheer for Siv Kryze

 

[Lorn Reingard]

Tags: Aether Verd​

Lorn met the Mand'alor's renewed attack with steadiness born from years on the front lines. The beskad crashed into his guard with enough force to make his boots skid half an inch across the stone, but Lorn held firm. He anchored himself, shoulders tightening as he redirected the angle of the strike, guiding the blade past his flank rather than taking it head-on. Aether pressed like a relentless hammer, and Lorn met him the way he'd met every unstoppable force in his life: with quiet, disciplined resistance.

Aether's words, "Use everything," hung in the air between them. Lorn felt the expectation, the invitation to bare something truer than technique. He exhaled slowly, breath misting in the cold, and shook his head once.

"I won't insult you with restraint," he said, tone calm, respectful. "But this is an exhibition, not a battlefield. The Force stays sheathed unless you decide otherwise."

Lorn slid a half step to the side, breaking the direct line of pressure. The beskad scraped off his blade with a shower of sparks as he pivoted, loosening the constriction of Aether's momentum. There was skill in the Mand'alor's movements; a brutal efficiency combined with learned precision and Lorn could feel the edge of genuine danger beneath each exchange. It stirred something long dormant in him, something that felt almost like the old days before the war had carved hollows through his life.

Then he moved. He didn't move with the predictable elegance of a duelist; he moved with a soldier's clarity. Lorn stepped inside Aether's guard, close enough to feel the heat of the man's breath, and snapped his blade upward in a sharp, rising cut, meant to test more than muscle. It wasn't reckless, but it carried far more intent than his earlier probing strike. He pushed harder, fulfilling the Mand'alor's request without crossing the line into lethal. His scarred hands tightened around the hilt, posture coiled and ready to pivot in any direction, eyes fixed on Aether with focused intensity.