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

[Siv Kryze]

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JOUSTING ARENA ​

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

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PLEASE SEND FAVORS!!!​

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Siv's Basilisk shook out its plating with a grinding snort, settling into a low, predatory stance as the dust thinned. He could still feel the echo of the last clash vibrating through his lance arm—the satisfying weight of a strike that landed clean, the slight drag of her armor under his point before she peeled away.

Across the lists, Bastila steadied her mount. It was subtle, but he caught the pause in her shoulders, the flicker of breath she hadn't meant to show.

He didn't gloat.
He didn't chase it.

He simply let his voice carry across the distance, deep and controlled through the vocoder.

"You took that well," Siv called. "Most don't."

His Basilisk hissed steam, claws gouging shallow lines as it shifted its weight forward, sensing the tightening coil in its rider. Siv's visor remained locked on her—not predatory, but assessing, measuring what she did with pressure.

"If you're shaken," he continued, "steady yourself now. The lists don't forgive hesitation."

Not a warning.
Not kindness.
Truth.

He lowered his lance again, the movement smooth, practiced, unmistakably Mandalorian. The crowd responded instantly—shouts, stomping, drums rolling like incoming artillery—but Siv barely heard it. The noise was a storm outside his armor. Inside, there was only the rhythm of his breath and the line between them.

This was the part he lived for—the poised silence between charges, where a warrior found out who they were.

He guided his Basilisk into alignment, the machine rumbling beneath him like a war-beast eager to be unleashed. The stance wasn't dramatic; it was disciplined, perfect, efficient. The kind of posture born from a lifetime of battlefield blood and sparring pits.

Another beat of quiet.
Another breath between them.

Then Siv spoke again, low and resolute.

"Face me properly this time."
"Come in clean. Come in certain."

The Basilisk's eyes flared in molten gold, reflecting the rising flare of the signal torch waiting to ignite.

Siv tilted his helm just slightly—an acknowledgment, not a taunt.

"Let's see what you do when the hit lands true."

The drums quickened.
The crowd leaned forward like a single living creature.
The signal-man lifted the flare staff.

Siv set his lance, spine straightening into the perfect line of a charging Mandalorian.

He didn't know what she'd roll.
He didn't decide her fate.

He simply prepared for the next run—focused, centered, and ready to deliver a solid, decisive strike the moment the torch burst and the world fell into thunder.

OOC: Result = 7 +1 + 3 = 11 → Solid hit or maneuver

 

[Raylin Fall]

Rik Perris​

With glee, Raylin rodeth his steed towards his foe! His lance raised, he charged forward-eth towards his most honorable foe!

The lancers they did meet, and Raylin, wondered if his opponent would fare against him!

 

[Rik Perris]

FEAST OF CONCORD
GRAND COURTYARD, EVERHOLT KEEP
NESSANTICO

While Rik’s lance only glanced off his adversary, Raylin’s hit him true, and though it did knock the Jedi back some, it did not unhorse un-droid him, for he adjusted in quick-time as only a Jedi could, steeling himself with the Force and maintaining control of his mechanical steed with a minor amount of struggle in the split-second before the blow landed.

The Mandalorian ‘horse’ carried him to the other end of the lane while he lifted his lance to reset and he rounded to face the lane again. The next pass was set to begin. A basilisk droid didn’t handle quite like a snubfighter, but his earlier assessment was right — he’d manage just fine.

Enough hits like that and he’d be a bit sore later, though.

Then they were off to the races once again, and he leveled his lance at the soldier, aiming to do better on this pass than the last one…

Raylin Fall • TAGS​

 

[Pillar of Perseverance]

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Feast of Iron and Honor​

Ongoing Jousting Points
Total of three passes
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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	1,2,	Raylin Fall	3,2,
Lily Decoria	4,1,3= Total of 8 - Winner	Rynar Solde	1,1,1. total 3
Adelle Bastiel	3,0,1 = 4	Tess Wyn-Tai	1,3,1 = total 5 winner
Bastila Sal-Soren	2,4,4= 10 Winner	Elian Abrantes	0,2,0,=2

Second Round
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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 Winner	Tyr Mereel	1,1,1 = 3

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

​

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?!​

 

[Adelle Bastiel]

Concord Feast | Basilisk Jousting
Tags: Itzhal Volkihar | Open

| 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​

"I'm also a bit scarce on creds," Adelle admitted. "But I have enough to do the traditional Mandalorian bet: loser buys drinks." She tilted her head at her clan-sister. "Vod as my witness."

She offered her hand to clasp and make the wager 'official' as the finalists began their first pass.

The sound of the charging basilisks thundered in the arena as both Kryze's and Sal-Soren's lances glanced off the other rider, each riding with skill that made Adelle cringe at her own performance. Phantom insistently pushed herself onto Adelle's lap and curled up, Adelle rubbing behind her ears as she watched the combatants reset for their second pass. Siv Kryze looked perfectly at ease and Adelle had to admit, she was already anticipating the amount of creds she'd be losing.

 

[Raylin Fall]

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Doth the wicked man know no ends! Or something. Raylin pulled his steed forward, the lancer striking true on his foe!

For once more, he rode, set out to defeat his nefarious foe! And win the heart of a maiden! A maiden with a drink! A drinking maiden! A maiden that Raylin wanted a beer. That was the secret. That’s what he was getting at.

Rik Perris

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Nessantico, Mid Rim

Itzhal chuckled softly, the expression rich and smooth like Sunfruit Liquor, unearthed from somewhere buried deep within his chest. His shoulders shuddered, the muscles beneath his skin rippling in an involuntary movement that he barely recognised. The laughter, a rare and welcome visitor, filled him with a warmth that felt almost foreign. He paused, taken aback by his own reaction; the memory of his last genuine laugh lingered like a distant echo, lost in the misty darkness of his brooding thoughts and abandoned dreams, where the last flicker of hope had been easier to conceal and shelter as long as he remembered never to ignite it. He was not quite there, yet, though the possibility was not outright dismissed.

Hope was a fragile thing when broken.

In the meantime, he would deal with the pieces and what existed in the aftermath.

"Usually, I know a person's name before they offer to buy me a drink," He offered his hand, clasping around Adelle's gauntlet as they sealed the deal under their witness's eye. "Ni cuy Itzhal be allit Volkihar."

Then, with a sliver of amusement that settled like an ember of remembered warmth deep within his chest, the Morellian turned back to the field and the source of their wager. Around the courtyard, cries across the field peaked in volume, the excitement a palpable aura of anticipation, not unlike the seconds of blackout as one descended from orbit on blazing wings, surrounded by a halo of ion flares, and yet utterly blind to the spectacle that they made of their descent, not all that unlike the charge of the two champions.

Tags: Adelle Bastiel​

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

The first blow was still ringing through her mind. Strangely playing on her more than any of the others had. Was it the crowd making her feel the pressure, or maybe it felt like more than a competition suddenly.
Bastila drew her Basilisk back into formation, the machine’s plating rattling faintly as it settled. She didn’t let her breath hitch, didn’t let her fingers tremble on the reins, but Siv would have seen it. Of course he saw it. A Mandalorian warrior didn’t miss blood in the water; whether literal or metaphorical.

Across the lists, he lowered his lance with a precision she recognized instantly. A trained warrior who was preparing for the battle. There was no cockiness, no bloodlust, just pure martial honour.

And then his voice carried to her; filtered through his vocoder, steady as a hammer on an anvil.

“You took that well. Most don’t.”

Her jaw tightened. She was expecting words of belittlement from a Mandalorian, their history stained with clashes against the Jedi, not acknowledgement. Her Basilisk shifted beneath her, uneasy but patient, as if sensing the turbulence in its rider. Bastila brushed its neck with her palm; calming herself as much as the machine.

“If you’re shaken, steady yourself now. The lists don’t forgive hesitation.” He continued, and she felt the heat in her face. The words burned because they were true. She had hesitated.

For the first time today, she had met an opponent whose centre of gravity did not falter, one who had completely matched her strike and proved they were on even footing.

Siv Kryze wasn’t here for spectacle. He was here to win.

The crowd roared behind her; some chanting her name, some chanting his, the sound swirling together until it became a frenzy. The Mandalorians hammered their fists against the rails; Republic officers shouted for her to “watch the left flank,” “ride the pivot,” “give him one back,” like this was some warfront skirmish.

Bastila closed her eyes for one breath.

A single, vibrating line of truth cut through her:

She wanted this.
More than she should.
More than she would ever admit.

She snapped her eyes open.

She leaned forward, voice low, speaking only to the war-beast beneath her:

“Steady. This one will not break. We match him. We rise to him.”

The Basilisk’s eyes flared gold in answer.

Another breath.
Another heartbeat.
The entire arena leaning forward like a creature waiting to bite.

The signal man raised the flare staff.

Bastila lowered her lance.

“Face on and with honour.” She responded down the comms.

Her spine aligned with perfect precision, knees tightening against the saddle.
Her Basilisk preparing for the signal.

Across the lane, Siv Kryze was stone and fire his poise unmoving, unflinching, waiting.

And Bastila let the truth settle, low and fierce:

I will not yield.
I will not break.

The flare ignited with a thunderous crack.
molten gold splitting the sky.

Siv launched.

Bastila launched.

Two storms colliding on the rails.

And this time—
she did not intend to dodge, flinch, or hesitate.

This time…
she meant to hit him back and show him that she was a force to be feared.

Spoiler

Dice: 14
Crowd + 2
Riding + 1
Favours + 2 (Sibylla and Elian)
Total: 19

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

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[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	1,2,	Raylin Fall	3,2,1 = 6
Lily Decoria	4,1,3= Total of 8 - Winner	Rynar Solde	1,1,1. total 3
Adelle Bastiel	3,0,1 = 4	Tess Wyn-Tai	1,3,1 = total 5 winner
Bastila Sal-Soren	2,4,4= 10 Winner	Elian Abrantes	0,2,0,=2

Second Round
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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 Winner	Tyr Mereel	1,1,1 = 3

Third Round
​

Champion	Points	Champion	Points
Siv Kryze	1,1	Bastila Sal-Soren	1,3

​

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?!​

 

[Adelle Bastiel]

Concord Feast | Basilisk Jousting
Tags: Itzhal Volkihar | Open

| Location | Nessantico, Mid Rim

Itzhal chuckled softly, the expression rich and smooth like Sunfruit Liquor, unearthed from somewhere buried deep within his chest. His shoulders shuddered, the muscles beneath his skin rippling in an involuntary movement that he barely recognised. The laughter, a rare and welcome visitor, filled him with a warmth that felt almost foreign. He paused, taken aback by his own reaction; the memory of his last genuine laugh lingered like a distant echo, lost in the misty darkness of his brooding thoughts and abandoned dreams, where the last flicker of hope had been easier to conceal and shelter as long as he remembered never to ignite it. He was not quite there, yet, though the possibility was not outright dismissed.

Hope was a fragile thing when broken.

In the meantime, he would deal with the pieces and what existed in the aftermath.

"Usually, I know a person's name before they offer to buy me a drink," He offered his hand, clasping around Adelle's gauntlet as they sealed the deal under their witness's eye. "Ni cuy Itzhal be allit Volkihar."

Then, with a sliver of amusement that settled like an ember of remembered warmth deep within his chest, the Morellian turned back to the field and the source of their wager. Around the courtyard, cries across the field peaked in volume, the excitement a palpable aura of anticipation, not unlike the seconds of blackout as one descended from orbit on blazing wings, surrounded by a halo of ion flares, and yet utterly blind to the spectacle that they made of their descent, not all that unlike the charge of the two champions.

Tags: Adelle Bastiel​

The chuckle was unexpected but not unwelcome. Adelle waited patiently to be let in on whatever humored the Mandalorian.

Ah. She had forgotten that important part of normal conversation. Adelle smiled at their shared faux pas and struggled to parse out the Mando'a spoken. Ni cuy had been part of a lesson on introductions, aliit had been part of her first taste of Mando'a...

"Su'cuy. Adelle be aliit Skirata," she said, the language getting more familiar by the day.

The flare for the second pass blazed in the sky and Adelle hoped against hope that her luck would turn around.

 

[Sibylla Abrantes]

​

Jousting Area
Renn Vizsla

Sibylla let the cheers flow over her but her attention stayed fixed on the Warden beside her. There was something reassuring in the steadiness of his voice, in the way he spoke of scars as though they were not just marks but lessons. It made a certain sense, she supposed. Naboo raised its young to avoid hurt; Mandalorians raised theirs to endure it.

"Perhaps you are right," she said softly, watching the riders wheel their Basaliks into formation once more. "Some truths cannot be taught from the safety of a lecture hall or a well-meaning scolding. And Elian has never been one to listen unless he learns by stumbling headfirst into the consequence."

Soft full rosy lips curved with a mixture of fondness and long-suffering resolve the young woman earned through the many years at court.

"Kot," Sibylla repeated the word translated as 'strength,' tasting it like something both foreign and familiar. "The will to rise again... I suppose my family has that in abundance. Though I suspect my brother would prefer to call it bravery rather than stubbornness."

A hint of wry humor touched her expression as she added with a perk of delicate brown brows, "And if training under Siv Kryze is the cure for his recklessness, then I may hold you to that. The boy listens better to men he looks up to than he ever has to me."

The next clash struck like a hammer on an anvil, sending a swirl of dust bursting upward in a hazy halo. Sibylla straightened unconsciously, her breath catching at the pristine precision of it. Renn's commentary drew her gaze, and she nodded in agreement.

"Courage without craft is only chaos," she said. "And craft without courage has no fire at all. They balance one another just as our peoples must."

When he lifted his cup in salute, Sibylla mirrored the gesture even as she shined him with a soft grateful smile.

"To endurance," she echoed, "and to the stubborn souls who refuse to fall. May they find wisdom in their scars and strength in the rising."

Another pause and then the young High Republic Ambassador added with a subtle understanding.

"And may those who guide them," she added gently, "be patient enough to let them learn, yet strong enough to catch them when they do not."

 

[Renn Vizsla]

Tag: Sibylla Abrantes



Renn listened as she spoke, his attention never straying despite the roar of the crowd or the grinding thunder of Basilisk claws below. The Queen’s voice carried that rare mixture of grace and weight, words chosen not to charm but to mean something. As she said Kot, his head inclined slightly, the faintest flicker of approval touching the scarred line over his eye.

“You’ve a sharp ear for our tongue,” he said, his tone low, steady, the kind of voice that seemed to ground rather than intrude. “But more than that, you understand the heart of it. Kot isn’t just strength. It’s the moment you’re broken, and rise anyway. It’s not about victory. It’s about refusal.”

His gaze shifted toward the field where the two riders wheeled their Basilisks into the sun, the banners of Naboo and Mandalore both rippling in the wind. Dust rolled like smoke at their feet.

“And I’d say your family knows plenty about that. Bravery, stubbornness, they’re the same thing seen from opposite ends of the day.”

There was something like quiet humor in the words, but beneath it, respect ran deep, the kind reserved for those who carried more than they let on.

At her teasing about Elian and training under Siv Kryze, Renn gave a soft huff of amusement, the ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Careful, Majesty,” he said dryly, “if I take that promise seriously, your brother might come back taller, louder, and twice as fond of armor polish. Siv trains his students hard. He’d sooner make them wrestle a Basilisk than let them walk away without learning something worth the bruises.”

The horns blared again, and both riders charged, Basilisks tearing across the earth like living thunder. The impact met with a crash that shook the ground, light scattering off the polished plates of beskar and shining armor. Both riders held the line; no one fell, but Siv’s strike hit true enough to drive Bastila’s lance wide.

Renn straightened, the light flashing along the edge of his pauldron.

“Clean,” he murmured, satisfaction lacing the word. “Measured. That’s not just instinct, that’s control forged from repetition. Siv Kryze rides with the patience of someone who’s failed before and learned from it.”

He lifted his cup again, the motion fluid and unhurried, the sunlight catching the Mandalorian crest etched along its rim.

“Once more,” he declared, his voice deep and resonant even beneath the cheers, “I stand for Siv Kryze of Clan Kryze, a warrior who wields his strength as craft, not chaos. That’s how victory honors the Code.”

As the noise swelled and the banners snapped in the wind, Renn turned back toward Sibylla. Her smile met his, her words carrying that quiet understanding that bridged more than politics.

“You speak truth, Majesty,” he said, his tone softening. “Those who guide must be patient… and unflinching when it’s time to steady the fall. The hard part is knowing which moment calls for which.”

For a time, he watched the field below, his voice lowering again to something more reflective.

“We forge our youth in flame, and they think us cruel for it. But when the fire dies, they’re the ones left standing. That’s the purpose of it all.”

He paused, then turned his gaze toward her once more, the scar along his eye catching the light like a thin silver thread.

“You carry that same fire, Sibylla Abrantes,” Renn said quietly, not as flattery but as recognition. “The kind that tempers rather than burns.”

He raised his cup again, a half-smile flickering as he echoed her earlier words.

“To endurance, and to the guides who keep the forge burning.”

Then he looked back to the arena where Siv Kryze rode beneath the streaming banners of Mandalore and Naboo, sunlight glinting from his armor like promise.

 

[Rik Perris]

FEAST OF CONCORD
GRAND COURTYARD, EVERHOLT KEEP
NESSANTICO

The second pass, their lances both landed solidly and ultimately skimmed off of each other's armour — a tie if there ever was one, that left him ultimately set to lose this jousting match if he didn't land a successful enough hit in the final pass. He reached the end of the lane, pointing the lance skyward as he turned his mechanical steed around to reset.

It was this, a tie, or he'd be spending the rest of his time on Nessantico as an observer or... well, there were other options to while away the time.

Then the final pass began, the basilisk sped forward, and he lowered his lance back into position....

Raylin Fall • Pillar of Perseverance​

 

[Siv Kryze]

.​

JOUSTING ARENA ​

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

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PLEASE SEND FAVORS!!!​

​

The strike Bastila landed rang through Siv's cuirass like a hammer blow against beskar. His Basilisk lurched sideways, claws carving gouges into the packed dirt before catching purchase again. The impact wasn't one he could shrug off—it demanded respect.


He straightened in the saddle, rolling his shoulder once to settle the bruise building beneath the plates. The dust drifting between them cleared just enough for him to see her silhouette leveling out across the lane.


She'd hit him hard.
Harder than anyone else today.


He let the vocoder carry his voice, even and unforced.


"That was well-delivered."


No praise—just a warrior's acknowledgment of a blow that deserved to be named.


Around the arena, shapes shifted.
Mandalorians in the viewing stands adjusted their footing along the rails.
Clan colors gathered in tight clusters.
Renn Vizsla stood with arms crossed high above the lists, helm angled toward the field.
Across from them, the Republic delegation leaned forward as one, their attention fixed squarely on the two riders.


No cheers.
No shouts.
Just the weight of eyes gathering, as if the entire arena were holding a breath.


Siv returned his Basilisk to alignment. The machine's internal servos hummed with restrained power, but his grip on the lance felt slightly off—a reminder that her strike had unsettled more than just his armor.


Still, he lowered it all the same.


"Form up," he said—not as a command, but as a simple declaration that he was ready for the next pass.


The signal staff lifted.


Siv felt the rhythm snap cleanly back into place this time—the rails blurring, the weight of the lance steady, the Basilisk's stride lining up true. His point found its mark, driving a firm strike across Bastila's flank. Not enough to unseat her, but enough to show the earlier stumble wasn't the whole of his measure.


He rode through the dust cloud and came out the far side, breath low and controlled.
The arena shifted again—bodies turning, hands tightening along the barriers—but Siv didn't look to them.


He only turned his helm back to the center of the field.


One more pass.


The flare snapped.


Siv surged forward—


—but the Basilisk dipped half a stride too early. A hitch in the joint, slight but ill-timed. His lance line wavered as he compensated, and though he kept the charge upright, the point crossed Bastila's armor at an awkward angle, scraping off with a thin metallic hiss.


No real force behind it.
No decisive weight.
Just a glancing attempt that never found its center.


Siv hauled the Basilisk into a clean stop, drawing the machine back from the rails with practiced calm. He lifted his lance out of scoring posture and set it across his thigh, signaling completion of his run.


He didn't speak immediately.


He simply steadied his breath, ready to hear the call—
and ready to face whatever Bastila's last strike had earned her.

OOC: Result = 2 +1 + 3 = 5 -> Minor fail (glancing blow or off balance)

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

The second pass had rattled her more than she wanted to admit. Siv’s lance had connected with the efficiency of a trained warrior, striking across her flank in a heavy, precise arc that Bastila felt through every layer of armor. It didn’t unseat her, but the blow reverberated through her ribs long after she straightened in the saddle. As she gave a grunt and stretched herself, her Basilisk gave a mirroring snort, repulsors whining as it recalibrated its footing, causing Bastila to place a steadying hand on its neck. The gesture was meant to calm the mount, yet she felt her own pulse hitch beneath her gloves.
Through the thinning dust cloud she could just make out Siv’s silhouette as he guided his Basilisk back into alignment. He carried no triumph in his posture, no swagger, no gloating tilt of the helm. He met her with the same stillness he had at the start; a warrior calm and unshaken, the vocoder carried his voice in an unforced, even tone.

“That was well-delivered.”

There was no mockery in the acknowledgement, no embellishment. It was simply the truth, spoken by someone who knew the weight of an honest blow. And somehow, that quiet recognition cut deeper than any taunt would have.

Around them, the arena shifted. Mandalorians leaned forward against the railings, their attention sharpening. Clusters of clan warriors gathered like tightening knots of steel and color. On the opposite platform, the Republic delegates had all risen, collective breath held without realizing it.

Yet no cheers came. No chants. No laughter. The noise that had defined these matches all afternoon seemed to fold inward, collapsing into a focused, expectant tension that set the hairs on the back of Bastila’s neck on edge. The entire arena felt as though it had taken a single, suspended breath.

Bastila turned her Basilisk toward the lane marker and inhaled slowly through her nose. She tightened her grip on the reins, adjusting her hold until the tremor in her fingers steadied. Her heart was racing, not with fear, but with something hot and sharp that she wished she didn’t recognize; it was excitement.

Siv lowered his lance again, the fluidity of the motion making it clear that her earlier strike had done nothing to break his composure. “Form up,” a calm declaration that he was ready. Truly ready.

She mirrored the motion, lowering her own lance. Her Basilisk responded immediately, dipping its stance, claws raking shallow lines through the red clay in anticipation. The heat rising from the arena floor mingled with the metallic tang of dust and ozone. Bastila felt the pressure settle across her shoulders, it was a mixture of warrior expectation, Mandalorian scrutiny, and Republic hope she didn’t want but could not escape.

Her gaze drifted across the stands in a quick sweep.

She took note of Sibylla stood at the very edge of the royal platform, Vizla watched with unnerving stillness. The Mandalorians looking no more utterly alive, as though the tasted that the coming clash was nearly at it’s end, like the promise of a feast when you can smell the food yet can’t get to it.

Leaning forward, she pressed her palm against the Basilisk’s plating. “You and I,” she murmured, voice audible beneath the crowd’s new found silence, “finish this together. No hesitation.”

The beast rumbled in response, its internal lights blazing a deeper gold.

The signal staff lifted.

A ripple moved through the arena. Mandalorians braced. Those in Republic red and gold leaned forward. Every spectator, whether noble, soldier, merchant, or youngling, sensed the shift. The air thickened, vibrating with anticipation. Even the banners seemed to freeze mid-motion.

Bastila lowered her lance. Her spine aligned. Her grip tightened. Every thought, every doubt, every flicker of fear burned away until there was only the line before her and the warrior at the end of it.

The flare ignited with a deafening blast of gold, and both Basilisks surged forward; two living engines of war exploding into motion. Dust rose behind them in a red plume, torches bent in the shockwave of their charge, and the world collapsed into a tunnel of speed, sound, and instinct.

For several heartbeats, Bastila heard nothing but the roar of her mount. Felt nothing but the pounding rhythm of its strides. Saw nothing but Siv Kryze’s silhouette barrelling toward her on a line as inevitable as a comet strike.

It was chaos. Chaos full of heat. Chaos full of movement. Chaos with the taste of iron on the wind between them.

But then; almost as quickly as she had released a breath, it slowed.

The slowing wasn’t her Basilisk, nor was it the crowd, it also most certainly wasn’t Siv Kryze barrelling down at her like an avalanche.
No it was Her.

Something in her breath had eased. It had allowed her heartbeat to settle into a steady, almost controlled rhythm. She felt the passing of the wild hunger of the earlier runs yet it was focused, refreshing even.

An almost pure clarity washed through her, sharp as the edge of any vibroblade.

The realisation stuck as if it had been Siv’s lance itself; this would be the last strike.

There wouldn’t be another pass. Not between them, not at this speed. Not with the way the crowd held its breath like a living thing waiting for its own heart to beat.

She knew that she didn’t need spectacle. She didn’t even need power or it to be dramatic. All she needed to do was to just hit true.

That was all.

One clean line with a clean angle. Make her choice and narrow it down to between her and Siv. Just them, no one else. This was how honour was made, this was how warriors of the Mando’a settled things. She was not a Mandalorian, but Siv was and he deserved her stepping up to that plate.
One perfect choice made without fear.

Her Basilisk felt the shift in her, the stillness settling into her posture. Its repulsors steadied as well, its stride leveled, its wings angled to hold a truer course. For the first time all match, the mount moved with her not by command, but by pure understanding.

Across the lane, Siv lowered his lance with the same finality. His posture was flawless, the line of his charge exact. His Basilisk thundered like a beast born for this single instant.

Dust spiraled in slow coils. Around them the arena dimmed at the edges. Bastila took it all in with one single breath.
Her grip tightened.

Hit true.

The world around her grew silent; there was no crowd, there were no banners and even the drums of war had faded. All of it swallowed by a single breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

The distance between them narrowed;

Fifteen meters.
Ten.
Five.

The lances had been lowered into perfect alignment.

Her Basilisk surged beneath her, rising into the strike like a star seeking its orbit. She followed its momentum, leaning into it, calm, certain and decisive.

Whatever came after this, be it victory, injury, glory or collapse it would be earned on this one, final blow.

She drew in one last look at Siv and drove her lance forward to strike true.

Spoiler

+2 Crowd

+2 Favour

+1 Riding

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

​

 

[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	1,2,0 = 3	Raylin Fall	3,2,1 = 6 winner
Lily Decoria	4,1,3= Total of 8 - Winner	Rynar Solde	1,1,1. total 3
Adelle Bastiel	3,0,1 = 4	Tess Wyn-Tai	1,3,1 = total 5 winner
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 Winner	Tyr Mereel	1,1,1 = 3

Third Round
​

Champion	Points	Champion	Points
Siv Kryze	1,1,1 = 3	Bastila Sal-Soren	1,3,3 =7 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

THE FEAST OF IRON AND HONOR

Cheer for the New Iron Champion
Bastila Sal-Soren

Thank you so much to everyone for participating in the Joust!

I hope you all had fun and please provide feedback on what would
make another thread like this better!?

​

 

[Siv Kryze]

.​

JOUSTING ARENA ​

Will be Jousting Bastila Sal-Soren

​

The strike landed before Siv could fully correct his angle—clean, perfectly timed, and carrying the kind of force that didn't just knock a warrior off-course, but tore the entire world sideways.

His Basilisk bucked under the impact.
His lance jolted.
And then gravity ripped him loose.

Siv hit the dirt hard enough that the breath blasted out of him in a rough, choking grunt. His shoulder skidded through red clay, his armor throwing sparks as he rolled before coming to a jarring stop. For a moment he stayed where he was, vision fogged with dust and the ringing throb of a blow he absolutely felt.

"Haar'chak…" he muttered under his breath, half-laugh, half-groan.

He forced himself upright—not gracefully, not immediately. He got one knee under him, paused while his ribs protested, then pushed the rest of the way to his feet. His Basilisk clattered to a halt beside him, shaking dust from its plating in clear irritation.

Siv braced a hand on its flank, catching his breath. Not hiding the pain. Not pretending the hit didn't rattle him.

When he finally looked across the lane, he found Bastila still mounted and steady, her posture iron-straight, her Basilisk poised beneath her like a creature carved from gold fire.

It drew a short exhale out of him—rough, but tinged with something like admiration.

"That was a hell of a hit, Sal-Soren."

Not flattery.
Not bravado.
Just the truth, spoken without any shield.

Before he could say anything else, the arena erupted. A shockwave of shouts and cheers rolled across the stands. Clan banners lifted. Republic officers leaned over the railing, shouting in disbelief. Even the younglings in the upper tiers were on their feet.

The announcer's voice boomed through the roar, ringing across every stone of the coliseum:

"The point and the victory go to Bastila Sal-Soren!
Champion of the final pass!"

The declaration crashed over the crowd like thunder. Mandalorians slammed fists against their armor. Republic supporters cheered back. And for just a moment, all of it blurred into a pulse of collective awe.

Siv let it settle.
Let himself feel it.
Losing didn't bruise him—getting bested by a warrior who hit true never had.

He stepped forward slowly, ribs still complaining, and closed most of the distance between them. No grand gestures. No speech. Just a man who had been knocked flat and stood back up anyway.

He lifted his hand toward her—gloved, steady, offered without expectation.

"You rode with honor and intent."
A faint breath, almost a laugh.
"Couldn't ask for better in a final pass."

He didn't assume she'd take his hand.
He didn't push the gesture closer.

He simply held it there, in the space between them—
a quiet acknowledgement of skill, effort, and the kind of clash where both riders walked away sharper than they entered.


[/div]

 

[Zaiya Ceti]

.

 

[Sibylla Abrantes]

​

Jousting
Renn Vizsla

"It is a powerful truth," Sibylla said softly. "Naboo teaches grace and diplomacy, but not always the courage to rise after a fall. That, I think, your people understand far better than we." A small smile touched her lips. "And thank you for your acknowledgement on my attempts to learn."

Elian's face came to mind, drawing a sigh and a reluctant flicker of amusement.

"If he returns louder and newly devoted to armor polish, I shall know whom to hold accountable. Although," she added with a hint of fondness, "a measure of Mandalorian discipline might do him good."

Renn's steady praise of Siv Kryze earned a thoughtful nod from her.

"Discipline is its own form of bravery. Warden Kryze carries both with admirable balance."

But when Renn spoke of fire Sibylla turned her head to look at him, struck by the sincerity behind the words.

"Then I can only hope mine tempers rather than scorches," she murmured. "A ruler who burns too brightly leaves little future behind."

She lifted her cup, sunlight catching on its rim.

"To endurance," she echoed gently. "And to those who tend the forge with patience and strength."

The announcer's call rose from the arena, the crowd leaping to its feet in a single rushing wave. Sibylla's eyes widened as Bastila Sal-Soren broke through the dust and sunlight victorious.

"She has done it," Sibylla breathed, pride brightening her hazel eyes. "By Shiraya's light, she has done it."

As Bastila circled triumphantly, Sibylla's smile softened, her gaze drifting toward Siv Kryze .

"Warden Kryze rode magnificently," she said to Renn with quiet sincerity. "Had the match gone in his favor, I would have been just as proud to see him crowned."

Lifting her cup high, Sibylla stepped forward to the edge of the dais as her voice began to echo throughout the courtyard.

"People of Nessantico, Mandalorian Empire, and High Republic. Honor your riders. Warden Siv Kryze of Clan Kryze and Lady Bastila Sal Soren of Naboo. You have shown mastery worthy of song."

The courtyard erupted in cheers their banners snapping in vibrant waves overhead.

"And now," she continued with a bright gracious smile, "we celebrate our champion. Lady Bastila Sal Soren, Jousting Iron Champion."

She lowered her cup only to raise it once more.

"My thanks to all who joined us in this contest of skill and courage. Please continue to enjoy the revelries, the feast, and the market stalls. May this day remind us of what unity can create."

​

 

[Renn Vizsla]

Tag: Sibylla Abrantes




Renn stood beside her as the cheers thundered across Everholt’s courtyard, the afternoon sun blazing gold along the edge of his armor. Below, the Basilisks circled in slow, triumphant arcs, their heavy claws carving proud furrows into the dust. Bastila Sal-Soren rode foremost among them, the victor’s standard streaming from her lance, her armor gleaming with the color of Naboo’s sunlit lakes.

At Sibylla’s proclamation, Renn inclined his head, once, firm, deliberate, the gesture of a soldier honoring a warrior, not merely a ceremony.

“She earned it,” he said, his voice deep, carrying through the noise with the kind of gravity that silenced those nearest. “That strike wasn’t luck. It was patience, precision, and the strength to hold her ground when others would’ve flinched. The mark of a true champion.”

He turned his gaze toward the field, where Siv Kryze dismounted and offered a bow of respect to his opponent. The Warden’s scarred features softened slightly with pride, his words more measured now.

“And Warden Kryze… held the line to the end. He fought with honor, never yielding to pride or fury. That’s the way of our people, to lose without dishonor, to fight without hate.”

He took a slow breath, then raised his cup high, stepping forward beside Sibylla at the edge of the dais. The sunlight caught the etched sigil of Vizsla on the metal, casting its reflection across the stones.

“People of the Empire, the Republic, and all who’ve gathered under this sky!” Renn’s voice rang clear and resonant, carrying across the banners and the roar of the crowd. “Today, we’ve seen warriors of two worlds stand shoulder to shoulder, not as rivals, but as mirrors of one another’s strength. The Iron Champion, Lady Bastila Sal-Soren of Naboo, has earned her victory through skill and courage. And to her fallen opponent, Warden Siv Kryze of Clan Kryze, I give honor for the valor of his stand.”

He paused, letting the applause swell again, before his tone shifted, heavier now, not in weight, but in meaning.

“Let it be known, this field bore no enemies today. Only brothers and sisters in the forge. Naboo showed grace. Mandalore showed endurance. Together, they’ve proven that unity is not forged in silence, but in the sound of steel meeting steel.”

He turned briefly toward Sibylla, the faintest trace of wryness tugging at his expression as the crowd continued to roar.

“Seems your Champion’s given my people something to talk about on the flight home,” he murmured, half aside. “And that’s saying something.”

Then, raising his cup once more, this time toward the crowd, his voice taking on the old Mandalorian cadence, the rhythm of the forge, the oath, and the field,

“To Bastila Sal-Soren, Iron Champion of Everholt!” he called, his voice a rolling thunder over the noise. “To Siv Kryze, whose courage stands unbroken! And to the hands that built this day, the Queen who forged peace, and the people who gave it breath.”

The crowd erupted, cups raised, horns echoing, drums breaking into the steady rhythm of celebration. Renn lowered his cup, gaze sweeping across the sea of banners, warriors, and nobles, Mandalorian, Republic, and otherwise, mingling now without boundary.

“May this feast remind us all,” he said more quietly, almost to Sibylla, though the words still carried, “that honor shared is stronger than any wall, and unity struck in fire endures long after the steel cools.”

He bowed his head to her then, not as an envoy, nor as the Warden of Roon, but as one warrior to another leader who had earned her place by the same will that drove his own.

“You’ve done well today, Majesty,” Renn said, his tone quieter, sincere beneath its usual iron. “You gave the galaxy something worth remembering.”

And as Bastila and Siv clasped forearms below, the crowd chanting their names, the Warden of Roon lifted his gaze toward the banners overhead, the sigils of Naboo and Mandalore, side by side, their colors braided together in the light of the setting sun.