Faction Hall of Banners || Mandalorian Empire

[Liorra]

A new Mand'alor, a new song, a new creed...

Maybe Lio should've stayed in the Outer Rim.

She had just entered the Hall, and it felt... wrong. Nothing about it felt like the place she had known when her old mentor, Mia Monroe , had been around. The foundling kept her helmet on, an automatic decision that felt both familiar and distant. This armor wasn't her usual set. It wasn't even close. She had scavenged it during her time in the Outer Rim—patchwork and rough, cobbled together from whatever she could find. She'd been searching for Romi Jade , chasing rumors of Mother Askani , only to come up empty handed each time. The only true ally of her mother's she had encountered had been Coren Starchaser , but the Jedi way hadn't really stuck. Maybe it was because all Lio had ever known was the Way. And even then, her mother, Mishel 's, teachings about the Force still lingered in her heart, tugging at her when she felt lost, reminding her of the path she was meant to walk.

The Hall was different than she remembered, hell it wasn't even the same hall. It was called Mandalmotors Hall which made it sound more like some sponsored Limmie arena than the revered Hall of Mandalore. But here she was, standing in the back, listening to the new Mand'alor rattle off something about the Great Heathen Army. Lio shifted her lips to the side in a faint grimace, glad for the concealment her helmet provided. The new Mand'alor couldn't see the face she was making behind it.

She tried to follow the conversation, to stay engaged, but it was all a little lost on her. Admittedly, it was hard to focus. There was too much noise, too many voices talking past each other. The faces around her—new Mandalorians, unfamiliar allies—were speaking a language she wasn't sure she recognized anymore.

Hell. She missed Ordo and Kurayami Bloodborn ... Memories of Aloy Vizsla popped in her head. Lio was a little sad to be sitting here in this hall without any of the Mandalorians she had become fond of. Her mind kept wandering, replaying the past. She could still hear the words from her training with Mia, still feel the sharp lessons her mother, Mishel had imparted on her about the Force. But it all felt distant now, faded like an echo bouncing off the walls of the Hall. And this? This new Mand'alor? He was just another face in the crowd to her.

What was I even doing here? She wondered. Trying to find my place? Trying to make sense of all this?

She was a Mandalorian. She was supposed to be one of them. Yet the more she listened, the more she felt like an outsider.

A part of her had hoped for something solid, something that would anchor her. Maybe this was it. Maybe the Mandalorians could be the family she had been searching for. But there were too many gaps in the story, too many questions that went unanswered. And the longer she sat there in the back of the Hall, listening to the new Mand'alor speak, the more she realized that she wasn't sure she was ready to embrace this new chapter, whatever it was that was being written in the name of Mandalore.

The murmurs continued around her, people discussing what came next. But to Lio, it was all just static, like a distant song she couldn't quite catch. And despite everything, despite the armor and the creed, she couldn't help but wonder if she was still lost in the middle of it all.

[Open to Interaction]​

 

[Aether Verd]

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

HALL OF BANNERS

The room thundered.

Not with weapons. Not with war cries. But with unity.

Aether Verd rose as the first voices joined his own. The hearthlight caught on crimson plates, turning shadow into flame across his frame. The air, already thick with reverence, began to boil with something else—conviction.

Ze’bast was the first to speak, and the Mand’alor’s fist struck against his chest with force.

“Ori’vor’e, my brother!”

The response echoed like a rallying cry. Energy surged through the Hall like a storm meeting steel.

Then came Jaikell, steadfast and sure. Again, Aether’s fist met his chest, and this time his voice rolled louder.

“Ori’vor’e, Jaikell! Oya, Clan Wyrvhor!”

The Hall roared with him. His warriors added their strength to the chant, their fists joining the symphony of beskar upon beskar. The banners overhead seemed to sway with it all, as if the Hall itself drew breath.

When Adonis stepped forward, the sound fell to a hush. Not in dismissal, but in weight. Aether watched the man speak, letting every word find its place. And when Adonis declared his place not by blood, but by earned legacy, Aether spoke again.

His fist struck true.

“Ori’vor’e, Adonis! You have bled for Mandalore. You have earned your place.”

He raised his voice above the mounting shouts, eyes locking with the young warrior.

“Oya, Clan Adonis! May your children raise your banner high!”

A fresh surge of chants filled the Hall. Voices layered. Fists struck. The name Angelis found its place in the living rhythm of Mandalore.

Then came Red. Aether felt the change. Felt the quiet resistance from pockets in the room. Not all were yet convinced. Some muttered. Some measured. But there would be no place for division here.

His fist rose again.

“Ori’vor’e, Red! You are enough. Your support is sufficient.”

He leaned forward, voice resonant.

“You and yours are part of the fabric of this Empire. The future of Mandalore is not won with strength alone. There is an army behind every blade. Forgemasters. Craftsmen. Healers. Scribes. Every step we take forward, they make possible.”

His voice did not falter.

“Oya, Clan Mobius!”

Another wave of chants. Another roar of approval.

Then Valah Hagan answered. The Hall did not wait this time. Aether’s voice was one among many. His fist one of dozens striking beskar in time.

“Ori’vor’e, Valah! Oya, Clan Hagan!”

Next rose Siv Kryze, hand brushing the ancient sigil. Aether’s reply came swiftly, his tone dipped in respect.

“Ori’vor’e, Siv. I look forward to seeing the future ferried by your clan’s vessels. Oya, Clan Kryze!”

The Hall surged again.

And then...Itzhal.

His voice did not interrupt. It cut through, like iron laid across fire. The warrior spoke not to silence the thunder, but to steady it. A sobering wind in a chamber alight with flame.

Aether nodded, acknowledging the weight of his words.

“Our ancestors, the Crusaders and Neo-Crusaders, worshipped war. It was true. Brutal. Holy. They carved the Outer Rim in their image. They razed cities and worlds without apology. Their actions cemented our reputation as the fiercest warriors in the galaxy.”

He let that truth hang in the air, and then continued.

“We honor them with our strength. We carry their memory in our bones. But their way is not our path.”

His hand gestured outward.

“Recall Ancora. We were bid to execute every soul who raised arms against their liege. We were promised riches for their eradication. But did we?”

The answer came not from Aether, but from the Hall.

“No!” they shouted. “Haar’chak, no!”

Fists pounded. Voices rose. Some howled. Others hooted. The floor itself seemed to vibrate. Aether stood in it. Let it swell. Let it settle. And then his arms opened wide.

“Our Way is one founded upon honor. We are uniting the lands and clans not for vanity, but for survival. For legacy. We build not to conquer, but to endure. Conquest will come, yes. But we do not conquer recklessly. We do not bomb cities that bend the knee. We do not orphan worlds that offer peace.”

His arms lowered now. His voice grew sharp, colder.

“But if Mandalore is struck. If her people are betrayed. If rebellion rises from within, or sedition is whispered in the dark, then we will worship war.”

He stepped closer to the table again.

“Not because we have forgotten who we are. But because honor is the line in the sand. And only the actions of our enemies will wipe that line away. When that line is gone, when justice demands it, then we will strike with the fury of a thousand generations. And once justice is served, once the scales are righted, honor will return.”

His fist slammed once more against his chest, the sound like thunder through stone.

“Ori’vor’e, Itzhal. Your words and your way are honor personified. Oya, Clan Volkihar!”

The Hall erupted once more. Not with chaos, but with conviction. Fists met plates. Chants rang out. Names old and new carried through the rafters. The Hall of Banners had become a living drum. The War Council was just beginning.​

Runi Kuryida | Ze'bast Verd | Jaikell Wyrvhor | Adonis Angelis IV | Red Mobius | Valah Hagen | Siv Kryze | Itzhal Volkihar | Kirae Orade | Athena Faar | Liorra

 

[Rheyla Tann]

Hall of Banners​

She’d been standing in the back the whole time.

Arms crossed. Shoulder against a pillar. Cloak drawn just enough to blur the lines of her silhouette.

Rheyla hadn't come to make an entrance.

She’d slipped in like a shadow—not out of disrespect, but out of instinct. The kind you don’t lose when you’ve spent years with a bounty on your head and your past buried under rubble.

She watched as voices rose and banners were named. One by one, they pledged. Some spoke like legends, others like they were carving new paths through fire. Unity, honour, legacy. Big words for a people who had lost almost everything more than once.

Her armour—what little there was of it—didn’t gleam. It didn’t match. A green chestplate. Scorched gauntlets. Thigh guards too big for her frame. The pieces she had earned before her world fell apart.

She’d never earned the rest.

And after that day—after the crater where her clan used to be—there hadn’t been anyone left to give it to her.

She almost hadn’t come. Told herself this was just nostalgia with better marketing. That showing up would hurt more than staying away.

She was right.

Every word spoken in that hall scraped at something she’d spent years walling off. Every banner overhead felt like a name etched on a headstone. Her clan wouldn’t be up there. Clan Vhett was ash. Just another footnote in someone else's war report.

But she was still here. Still breathing. Still carrying the discipline they taught her. Even if the creed felt like a story someone else told now.

When the silence came—after the last declaration, the last vow—she finally spoke. No step forward. No dramatic motion. Just a voice from the back of the hall, dry like dust in a visor.

“I don’t have a banner to stand under.”

She pushed off the pillar, cloak shifting with the motion. Still didn’t move far. Still didn’t want to be seen more than she had to be.

“Used to. Clan Vhett. Outer Rim types. We weren’t famous. Didn’t care to be. Took work, stayed out of politics, honoured the old ways best we could.”

A dry smirk tugged at her mouth—half memory, half muscle reflex.

“They say loyalty gets you killed. Turns out they were right.”

She rapped her knuckles once against her chestplate. The sound was dull, worn. Like a memory trying to speak through metal.

“This is what’s left. The rest... got buried with the contract.”

She didn’t explain. Didn’t name the planet. Didn’t share the pain. If they knew the kind of burn she meant, they’d get it. If they didn’t, she wasn’t about to hand it to them.

“I came here because I thought maybe—maybe—there was still something left of what we used to be. Something that wasn’t just banners and blood debts.”

Her gaze lifted, finally meeting Aether Verd 's.

“I’m not looking for redemption. Or recognition. I’m not even sure I believe in this whole vision yet.”

She shrugged, cloak shifting over her shoulder.

“But I know what it’s like to have nothing. And I know how to fight so others don’t have to feel that.”

A pause.

“You want me to believe in Mandalore again? Then show me something real. Something that lasts longer than the next banner that gets burned.”

She leaned back against the pillar.

“Until then, I’ll watch. I’ll listen. And if it turns out you're building something stronger than graves—maybe I’ll stand.”

Maybe.

Then she fell quiet again.

Not out of deference. Not out of doubt.

Out of choice.

Runi Kuryida | Ze'bast Verd | Jaikell Wyrvhor | Adonis Angelis IV | Red Mobius | Valah Hagen | Siv Kryze | Itzhal Volkihar | Kirae Orade | Athena Faar | Liorra​

 

[Aether Verd]

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

MANDALORE

The energy changed.

It was not the silence of command or tension. It was the silence of something deeper. When she spoke, the thunder of the Hall quieted. The storm stilled. Calm fell like a shroud over steel.

The room held its breath. Not in fear, but in reverence.

Aether did not speak right away. He let the stillness stand. Let her words settle into the bones of the Hall. Let every warrior feel them.

Then, he moved. Just slightly. Enough for every eye to know he had heard.

"You say you have no banner to stand under."

His voice was calm. Clear. And carried.

"But you walked through those doors. That is enough."

He stepped forward. Not to tower, nor to dominate, but to offer weight to his words.

"There is something left of what your people were. What they believed. It lives in you. In the pieces you carry. In the way you listen when you could have walked away."

He did not ask her name. She had not given it. That, too, was a choice.

"Mandalore is not made by glory alone. It is held together by those who endure. By those who come back even when nothing is left to return to. You are not forgotten. Your family, Clan Vhett, is not forgotten. Not while you still stand."

His fist struck his chest once. Solid. Measured.

"You are welcome here. To stay. To watch. To weigh every word we speak. Mandalore has room for warriors like you: ones who carry memory not for applause, but because no one else will."

He looked to the Hall, then back to her.

"This vision is not held together by banners alone. It is forged in choices like yours. Quiet. Steady. Earned."

Another pause.

"If we succeed, if what we build stands longer than the next war, then there will be a place at this table for you. Not as a shadow. Not as a ghost. But as one of us."

He said no more.

The Hall did not erupt. It respected the quiet she had shaped. And in that quiet, Mandalore answered.​

Rheyla Tann + Open

 

[Athena Faar]

A few more warriors entered, before Aether Verd stood. He cut an impressive image in the firelight of the hearth. With a tempered passion the Mandalore unfolded before the vod a vision. It was, perhaps, the first such address, the first declaration of vision, that Athena had heard since earning her right among the Mandalorians. She understood the truth behind Aether Verd's description of past practices. Athena had served in the Aruetii forces of the Enclave, a soldier trained by and under the command of Mandalorians, a pawn in the larger politics and policies of her masters.

If anything, Athena was practical. Not one swayed easily by fiery dissertations or caught up in waves of zealous emotion, she thought the Mandalore made sense. Though revealed with subtle dramatics that lent to his charisma, Verd's lofty goals were admirable and worthy of pursuit. And, at first, it seemed to ignite the passions of the warriors around him.

Athena's emerald gaze began to watch the responses. Z'bast Verd and Jaikell Wyrvhor had began the affirmations of loyalty.

Red Mobius, the Smith, spoke. Athena knew the Mobius Clan from the Enclave. She was saddened to hear that this one alone remained of her family. Athena had no clan, but to have one and watch it decimated, was an unimaginable burden. Yet, the Korun warrior could not help but find intrigue in the material and arms Red offered the Mandalor. Athena would desire to meet her when it was opportune.

Valah Hagen, standing next to Athena, voiced her support, as did Siv Kryze. Then Itzhal Volkihar spoke. She knew the old Morellian from the New Mandalorians. While he had sworn an oath to them, she had not. Her time under their hospitality was a welcomed respite, a time of growth for which she was quite grateful. She respected Itzhal, and the honesty with which he voiced his opinon.

With the emotional momentum tempered by Volkihar's question, the Shaman, the one-who-councils, voiced her guidance. Athena did not know her, but by reputation alone she earned the Korun's respect and awe.

Athena had not yet voiced her allegiance. But the Mandalore knew he had it. The mood had changed, sobered, and in light of that shift, the dragonmaiden held her peace, listening instead as Aether Verd addressed the matters voiced.

All the while, Athena read the room. Not only the boistrous cries of allegience or the measured voices of wisdom. But the pockets of more somber sentiment. the ones who hadn't or wouldn't speak. The shield maiden, the hukling Paladin, the late arrival who wore patchwork armor. That one's face was hidden by her helmet, but her posture suggested a distance from the proceedings, and from the place itself. Hesitant, tentative. Athena would keep an eye on her.

And finally, the Twi'lek. That one had swagger, a cavalier attitude that didn't defy the Mandalore, or hold him in contempt, but put him on her own probation. Athena could not hold the unnamed former Vhett at fault for her measured skepticism. She admired it. It was a voice that should be heard, there should be skeptical eyes watching, to ensure the new movement did not sweep into something akin to its predecessors.

Finally, for his part, the Mandalore seemed unfazed by the probation upon which the Twi'lek placed his reign. Athena too found his response admirable.

The dragonrider felt she had made the right decision to answer the call of the Mandalore.

Tag: Aether Verd Jaikell Wyrvhor Runi Kuryida Adonis Angelis IV Valah Hagen Itzhal Volkihar Runi Kuryida Kirae Orade Ze'bast Verd Red Mobius Liorra Rheyla Tann Kalðr Ísbjørn

 

[Suleiman Lok]

HALL OF BANNERS​

TAG: Aether Verd / Runi Kuryida / Ze'bast Verd / Jaikell Wyrvhor / Adonis Angelis IV / Red Mobius / Valah Hagen / Siv Kryze / Itzhal Volkihar / Kirae Orade / Athena Faar / Liorra / Rheyla Tann

Suleiman arrived just moments after the gathering had begun, the faint echo of armored boots following behind him as a cadre of warriors from Clan Lok flanked his sides. Though late, he caught the heart of Mand’alor’s words. Words that were strong, deliberate, and brimming with purpose. They were not just statements; they were declarations of unity, visions forged from fire and discipline. And around him, those gathered answered in kind. Each voice steeped in fierce patriotism, a chorus of resolve that stirred something primal within him.

A quiet warmth spread through Suleiman's chest, as if a long-dormant ember had been reignited. He said nothing, for words were not needed. This moment was not about showmanship, it was about solidarity. With a solemn look in his eye, he brought a closed fist to his chest in salute. Clan Lok stood with The Iron.

From that moment on, he remained observant, listening to the convictions of others. There was a rare unity in the air, one that transcended clan lines and past grievances. It ran deeper than pride—it was purpose. It was a vision they could all fight for, a cause to which even the most fractured vod could rally. In all his years, through the cold void of deep space and the blood-soaked battlefields of the Outer Rim, Suleiman had not seen a moment of unity so profound. This was the kind of gathering that would echo in his memory until his final breath.

His thoughts turned to Aether, the young Mand’alor who had drawn the scattered clans into a singular vision. Suleiman had seen many leaders, some feared, some respected, others followed out of obligation. But Aether? He possessed the rare charisma of a true Alor of Alors. One who understood the needs of his people, one who bore the burdens of leadership not for glory, but out of duty. It was not power that made Aether worthy, but the ability to wield it with humility and insight.

In that instant, Suleiman knew that his loyalty was not just to a man or a title—but to an ideal. Aether was shaping the Mandalorian Empire into more than a militaristic machine. He was forging a culture, a legacy, a future. And for that, Clan Lok’s support would remain resolute and unflinching. Wherever Mand’alor marched, they would follow with beskar, blood, and banner alike.
​

 

[Adonis Angelis IV]

Hall of Banners
​

TAG: Aether Verd Runi Kuryida Ze'bast Verd Jaikell Wyrvhor Suleiman Lok Red Mobius Valah Hagen Siv Kryze Itzhal Volkihar Kirae Orade Athena Faar Liorra Rheyla Tann

The sound of his name still lingered like a flare behind his ribs.

Oya, Clan Adonis.

Adonis had known combat. Known what it felt like to be praised by commanders or thanked by civilians. But this, this was different. The call of his name in the Hall of Banners wasn't about glory. It was about belonging.

He didn't speak. Didn't move. He just stood there for a moment and let it wash over him- the fist against beskar, the chants, the voices repeating a name that had, until now, belonged only to him.

The rhythm of it all took hold. He found himself caught in it, not as a leader, not as an outlier, but as part of something living. Something rising.

He looked to Red, her steel and fire laid bare before the table. She had the heart of a forgemaster and the pain of someone still searching. Then to Siv Kryze, standing with legacy on his shoulders and still offering it forward. Valah's cry had echoed like a spear thrown through the rafters, and Itzhal's words, measured, hard, and earned, cut deeper than any blade.

Even the ones who hadn't spoken carried weight. The hall wasn't just full of warriors- it was full of meaning.

Adonis felt it stir in his chest, something like pride, but steadier. Quieter. The kind that didn't need fanfare to feel real.

He adjusted his stance, helmet still tucked under his arm, and turned his gaze back toward Aether Verd at the head of the table.

The room had changed. The mood had shifted. But the fire was still burning.

And Adonis wanted to hear what came next.

 

[Runi Kuryida]

Runi bidded her time and listened to the rallying cry of the Mand'alor, and the responses enthusiastic and somber that followed. Many had questions about the future of the Empire. Its direction. Its leadership. The were right to do so. Times of transition could be fraught with peril for a people. Uncertainty clouded the future. Doubt was cast over one's place in the grand scheme. Fear that once was was lost and would never come again.

"The Mand'alor has spoken of unity, and prosperity for all Mandalorians," the Shaman spoke up at last. "Not only those on the battlefield that keep our enemies at bay, but those that toil here on the homefront to ensure those that fight they have a place to call their own in the end. To the laborer, to the warrior; those of bloodline, those found on or that had traveled along the many roads of the galaxy; and to those of different heritages and worlds, but of similar heart that yearns for the same things as each of us here today."

"And to those given abilities by the Manda." Runi slowly turned to regard all those in attendance as she spoke. "Wherever we come from, whatever we have done, we are Mandalorian and by our unyielding bonds we shall survive any trial put before us. Together."

Some hid what they considered shameful events of the past. Others worried the Empire was little more than an idealistic dream destined to fall. Together they would find ways to overcome. "We will forge a new destiny for our people. Day by day. Deed by deed."

Liorra | Aether Verd | Rheyla Tann | Athena Faar | Suleiman Lok | Adonis Angelis IV
Ze'bast Verd | Jaikell Wyrvhor | Red Mobius | Valah Hagen | Siv Kryze | Itzhal Volkihar | Kirae Orade​

 

[Liorra]

Liorra lingered at the back of the hall, her presence barely noticeable among the crowd. She kept her helmet on, the weight of it grounding her thoughts as she listened to the words filling the air. A Twi'lek had stood up to speak, and their voice rang out, strong and clear, declaring themselves as part of Clan Vhett. They spoke of anger, frustration, and a deep dissatisfaction with how the Mandalorians had failed to unite.

As the Twi'lek's words hung in the air, Liorra felt a spark of recognition in them. But not for the reasons the speaker likely intended. No, she thought, it's not that the Mandalorians don't try. It's that we can't seem to hold ourselves together long enough to do anything more than fight amongst each other. The weight of those words, of that truth, sat heavy in her chest, like a stone she couldn't shake loose.

Liorra's thoughts turned inward, her gaze drifting to the edges of the hall, where faces both familiar and foreign blurred into one. She had no banner to call her own. No clan to truly belong to. Clan Kryze was a fractured remnant of what her mother had built, shattered by time, politics, and loss. She had never really felt like she belonged to them, not since her mother had died. She wasn't sure where to go, what to stand for, or even if anyone would take her in as their own. Clan Kryze had splintered, its identity fractured, and with it, so had her sense of place. She was, for all intents and purposes, still a foundling.

The energy in the room shifted as another voice rose, this one deeper, more commanding. The man with gilded armor spoke next, his words measured but stern. Liorra narrowed her gaze, recognition stirring inside her. I've seen him before, she thought. His presence was one of authority, the kind that demanded attention, and in this moment, it was impossible for Liorra to ignore him.

In response to the Twi'lek's anger, the gilded Mandalorian said something that caught Liorra off guard. "Merely the act of showing up here in this hall is enough," he said, as though the very act of being present was a sign of commitment, a step toward unity.

His words stirred something within her. She chewed on the inside of her cheek, contemplating them. Maybe he's right, Liorra mused. The Mandalorians didn't need perfection. They didn't need to have it all together. What they needed was a willingness to show up. And I'm here, aren't I?

There was something in the way the man spoke that reminded her of others she'd known, of Mia, of Ordo , even of her own mother, Shia Kryze . Their influence still lived within her, even if she was lost, even if she didn't always understand where she fit in. The very fact that she had walked into this hall, stood there, helmet on, ready to listen, that proved something. Maybe not to anyone else, but to herself. She wasn't completely lost. Not yet.

Liorra's gaze shifted as she took in the faces of those gathered. There were so many she didn't recognize, so many unfamiliar expressions, all of them waiting for something, for anything. And for the first time in a long while, Liorra felt a flicker of hope. Maybe this was where she needed to be. Maybe, just maybe, it was time for her to stop wandering.

Another figure stepped forward, their voice rising above the murmurs in the room. Liorra didn't know their name, but she listened intently as they spoke, words filled with promise and vision. It was a nice addition, she supposed. The idea that this place was meant for all Mandalorians, laborers, warriors, all those touched by the Manda, and those seeking to forge something new together. It was a grand vision, one that Liorra had seen and felt in fleeting moments, a life she had once imagined as a child.

The sentiment was nice. The idea of forging a new destiny, of finding a place to belong, was a good one. But that's all it was—a sentiment. A lovely thought, but one that would require action, commitment, and faith. And for Liorra, that was the real decision she had to make. Would she stay and see if this vision could become something real? Could she join these people, build something new, or would she continue to eke out her existence in the Outer Rim, isolated and lost, forever searching for meaning in the shadows?

Her fingers brushed the hilt of her beskad as she considered her next move. The armor on her shoulders felt heavy, but in a way, it was a weight that steadied her. There were choices to be made, paths to walk. And, for the first time in a long while, Liorra felt like she was standing on the edge of something bigger than herself. Would she take that first step into the unknown? Or would she walk away, as she had so many times before?

In the end, it was her decision. And as the voices of the Mandalorians around her continued to swell, Liorra made her choice.

She would stand. She would fight. She would find her place among them, whatever that looked like.

Rheyla Tann | Runi Kuryida | Aether Verd | Siv Kryze | Adonis Angelis IV | Jaikell Wyrvhor | Ze'bast Verd | Suleiman Lok | Kirae Orade | Itzhal Volkihar | Red Mobius | Athena Faar | Valah Hagen ​

 

[Aether Verd]

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

HALL OF BANNERS

The silence said more than any speech ever could. Aether could feel it. In the shift of posture. In the eyes that met his, and the ones that didn’t, but lingered anyway. No cheers. No shouts. Just a room full of warriors who chose to remain. That was enough.

He did not need their voices to know he had their answer. His gaze turned, steady and deliberate, to Runi.

“The Shaman speaks truth.”

His voice cut through the stillness like the ring of a hammer on beskar. Not loud, but sure.

“We forge not just weapons or warriors. We forge a future. One where laborers, orphans, warriors, witches, and outcasts all have a place. The Manda does not measure worth by birthright or banners, but by the strength of our bonds. And by that measure...”

His gaze swept the Hall once more.

“...we are already rich.”

A pause. Then the weight returned to his shoulders, and with it, the reason they had gathered.

“But this is not only a night of welcome. This is the first call to arms.”

He took a step forward, closer to the firelight of the hearth. Shadows cast by mythosaur banners danced behind him.

“The Great Heathen Army has risen. But it needs more than bodies. It needs direction. It needs command. And Mandalore has chosen.”

He looked into the embers. Not lost, but remembering.

“This is not the first Mandalorian Empire. Nor the second.”

His tone shifted. Less proclamation. More remembrance.

“The first was founded by my father. In the wake of great Arasuum, when the Clans refused to name a Mand’alor. They chose self-rule. They turned inward. They forgot what unity could bring. My father took the mantle, not for himself, but for Mandalore. He lit a flame in the dark.”

He looked up, meeting their eyes again.

“But the Clans responded. They named Ra Vizsla. War seemed certain. Two thrones. Two visions.”

Aether’s voice didn’t soften, but it deepened. Honed by reverence.

“But both men wanted the same thing: stability. Prosperity. A return to strength. So the Empire became one with the Clans once more. And Ra Vizsla gave my father the highest honor: Warmaster.”

He let that name settle.

“Where the Mand’alor is the head, the Warmaster is the neck. The first to move. The last to break.”

He turned fully now, standing in full view of the Hall.

“I now confer that same honor.”

Not to applause. Not to spectacle.

“But not for lineage. For belief. If I fall, if I falter, these four would hold the line. If Mandalore bleeds, they would bleed with her until the very end.”

His voice rang out again.

“Mandalore has chosen...
Runi Kuryida : Warmaster of the Mandalorian Knights.
Aselia Verd : Warmaster of the Warhost.
Ze'bast Verd : Warmaster of the Supercommandos.
Jonah : Warmaster of the Nite Owls.”​

He gave no time for protest. No space for modesty.

“These are not figureheads. These are not relics. These are leaders chosen because they do not seek their own glory. They seek Mandalore’s.”

Then, his voice lowered just slightly.

“And now I ask you: will you follow them?”

He looked to the warriors.

“To the battle line. To the forge. To the stars.”

Another step forward.

“Will you bleed beside them, for Mandalore?”

He did not shout. But the Hall did not need volume to hear the storm.​

Rheyla Tann | Runi Kuryida | Siv Kryze | Adonis Angelis IV | Jaikell Wyrvhor | Ze'bast Verd | Suleiman Lok | Kirae Orade | Itzhal Volkihar | Red Mobius | Athena Faar | Valah Hagen | Liorra

 

[Adonis Angelis IV]

Hall of Banners
TAG: Aether Verd Runi Kuryida Ze'bast Verd Jaikell Wyrvhor Suleiman Lok Red Mobius Valah Hagen Siv Kryze Itzhal Volkihar Kirae Orade Athena Faar Liorra Rheyla Tann

The fire cracked, and Adonis stood still.

There was no echo of his name now. No chant. Just the hush that follows revelation, when even warriors feel the need to be quiet. Around him, armor shifted and shoulders squared, but the stillness between words held its own kind of gravity. Four Warmasters named. Not to applause. Not to spectacle. But to purpose.

He listened with reverence. With the kind of understanding that only came to those who had stood in the breach and chosen not to run.

Each name struck like a flare against the dark.

Runi Kuryida- rooted as stone, her presence carried the weight of myth and moonlight. She spoke to the soul of Mandalore, the part that remembered how to breathe even after the battle had ended. Her words weren't just incantations. They were iron-bound truths, reforged for the next generation.

Aselia Verd- Adonis hadn't fought beside her often, but he knew the type. He'd seen her kind from afar. A warrior who didn't posture or proclaim. She simply acted. And that, more than ceremony, made her dangerous in the best possible way.

Ze'bast Verd- his brother-in-arms on Taris. The man had watched him leap into hell without flinching, and returned the favor with fire and steel. There was no pretender in him. Ze'bast moved like a storm held in check, and now that the chain of command had placed him at its heart? Mandalore would never lack for teeth.

And then- Jonah.

The name struck deeper than the rest.

To others, Jonah was Nite Owl and tactician. A veteran with command in his blood and clarity in his strikes. But to Adonis, Jonah was more than a title. He was the first to look past the crest on his armor and see something more than just another outsider trying to wear a borrowed identity. Jonah had helped make him Mandalorian. Quietly. Without praise. Without needing credit.

When his name was spoken, Adonis felt something tighten in his chest. Gratitude, maybe. Or something older. Something sacred.

Then came the charge."Will you bleed beside them, for Mandalore?"

The Mand'alor's voice cut through it all, firm, direct, unwavering. This wasn't a rallying cry. It was a binding oath laid bare for anyone with breath left in their lungs.

Adonis didn't speak.

He didn't need to.

The flicker of the hearth caught the golden compass star on his chestplate, that old Angelis sigil, burned into blackened beskar like a family name rewritten in fire. House Angelis- no longer a line of bureaucrats. No longer beholden to a flag that never bled for them.

His gaze moved slowly across the Hall. To the banners. To the warriors. To the lone figure at the edge, the one who hadn't spoken, hadn't stepped forward, but had stayed. He didn't know her name, but he knew her kind. The armor heavy not from weight, but from questions. She was still deciding if she belonged here.

He offered her nothing more than a glance. Just enough to say I see you. I was you.

Then, without words, he moved.

His hand rose, gloved, steady, and curled into a fist. He struck it over his chestplate, right above the mark of his bloodline.

Boom.

The sound echoed in his bones. A vow made manifest.

"Oya," he breathed.

Not shouted. Not thrown into the fire.

Just spoken. Like a truth that had waited its whole life to be named.

He would follow the Warmasters. He would bleed beside them. For Mandalore. For the Creed. For a future that wouldn't be stolen, fractured, or forgotten.

And if the stars demanded war, he would be ready.

 

[Siv Kryze]

.​

HALL OF BANNERS
Tag: Aether Verd Runi Kuryida Ze'bast Verd Jaikell Wyrvhor Suleiman Lok Red Mobius Valah Hagen Itzhal Volkihar Kirae Orade Athena Faar Liorra Rheyla Tann Adonis Angelis IV ​

​

Siv stood at the edge of the firelight, his helmeted gaze fixed on Aether as the names of the new Warmasters echoed through the hall. Runi. Aselia. Ze'bast. Jonah. Good warriors. Strong leaders. But as the weight of the moment settled, something in his posture shifted - barely perceptible, but there for those who knew how to read it.

The corner of his mouth tightened slightly behind his visor. Not in disapproval, exactly. More like... expectation unfulfilled.

He'd fought alongside Verd and Kuryida warriors before. Respected them. Would follow them into hell without question. But part of him - the part that remembered clan histories whispered in the dark, the part that still carried the weight of Kryze legacy - had expected to hear at least one of the old names. Vizsla. Ordo. Even another Kryze.

Not that it mattered in the end. Bloodlines didn't win wars. But still...

When Aether's challenge came - "Will you follow them?" - Siv's response was immediate. He stepped forward, the firelight glinting off his armor's unadorned surfaces.

"Clan names make for good songs," he said, his modulated voice carrying just enough edge to cut through the silence. "But it's the warrior underneath that holds the line."

A pause. Just long enough to let the implication settle - that he'd seen too many "noble" clans falter when the beskar met bone.

"So yes. I'll follow. As long as they're the first through the breach and last to retreat."