Populate High Steaks | ME Populate of Vaal

Mythra · Jan 29, 2026

HIGH STAKES
"On the Eve of Battle, Mandalore Rests."

SUNDARI, MANDALORE

War does not announce itself with fanfare.

It arrives like breath on cold steel, familiar and unwelcome all at once. Mandalorians have lived with it for generations, long enough to understand a simple truth the rest of the galaxy still struggles to learn.

War never changes. Only the faces do.

On the eve of deployment, the Empire gathers beneath the domes of Sundari. Armor gleams beneath forge-light and city glow alike, scarred beskar resting beside freshly polished plates. The streets are alive with motion, with purpose, with that quiet hum that comes before a storm breaks. Warriors pass one another with nods and clasped forearms, foundlings and veterans alike moving through the capital with shared understanding.

Food is prepared in abundance, rich and unapologetic. Meat seared until it sizzles, bread torn by hand, stews that cling to the ribs and remind a body why it must endure what comes next. Decanters of tihaar, ne’tra gal, and stronger things still pass freely between tables. Where drink flows, stories follow, some spoken loudly with laughter, others murmured low between old comrades who have bled together before.

Not all seek the feast. Some make their way to the armories, checking edge and charge with ritual precision. Others descend into the forges, watching sparks leap as adjustments are made that could mean survival tomorrow. Basilisk war droids stand silent in their bays, massive forms awaiting final calibrations and command codes. And there are those who step away from the noise entirely, finding quiet corners of the city to center themselves, to pray, to remember, or simply to breathe.

This is Mandalore as it has always been. A people both eager for battle, and prepared to meet it head-on. .

When the Mand’alor calls, Mandalorians answer.

FEASTING HALLS OF SUNDARI

The galaxy burns beyond Mandalore’s skies.

Coruscant and Corellia smolder in the Core. The Imperial Confederation marches against Sith holy worlds. Alliances strain, betrayals multiply, and the balance of power shifts by the hour. Tonight, those wars are spoken of over full plates and full cups, debated with the same intensity as battlefield tactics and old grudges.

The feasting halls of Sundari are alive with conversation. Warriors from different clans, worlds, and campaigns find themselves seated together, bound by culture even when opinions clash. Some speak with approval of the chaos. Others condemn it outright. Many argue somewhere in between, voices rising and falling with drink and conviction.

This is not idleness. This is the Mandalorian way of taking measure before the blade is drawn.

Your purpose here is simple. Sit. Speak. Listen. Build bonds, test loyalties, and let words fly where blasters do not. What is said tonight may echo long after the feast ends.

Social RP | Character-Driven Interaction.
Debate galactic events, share war stories, form rivalries or alliances, and explore how your character views the coming conflict before the first shot is fired.

ARMORIES, FORGES, AND WAR BAYS OF SUNDARI

Sundari does not sleep before war.

The armories hum with activity as warriors inspect weapons piece by piece, recalibrating systems and replacing worn components. In the forges, beskar sings beneath hammer and flame, sparks leaping as last-minute adjustments are made with reverent care. Basilisk war droids undergo final diagnostics, their pilots and handlers moving through checklists with practiced efficiency.

This is where nerves are steadied through routine. Where confidence is earned through preparation rather than bravado. Where Mandalorians find comfort in the familiar rituals that have carried them through countless battles before.

Your purpose here is to prepare. To refine your tools. To speak with fellow warriors in the moments before departure. To ensure that when the call comes, nothing has been left to chance.

Preparation RP | Military and Technical Focus.
Weapon checks, armor calibration, Basilisk prep, training bouts, and quiet conversations between those about to march into danger together.

BRING YOUR OWN OBJECTIVE

Tonight? The story is yours.

Sundari is vast, a domed fortress-city that reflects every truth of Mandalorian life. There are roaring halls and echoing forges, but there are also training yards, meditation spaces, observation decks, and quiet stretches of stone where one can look out over Mandalore and remember what is being fought for.

Not every warrior prepares the same way.

Some seek combat before combat, testing themselves in the yards against worthy opponents. Others withdraw inward, wrestling with doubt, faith, or the memory of battles survived and comrades lost. Some pursue personal business that must be settled before departure, while others simply walk the city, grounding themselves in the soil of their homeworld.

Your purpose here is entirely your own.

This is your moment to define where your character stands before the galaxy shifts again.

Azen Kast

Cyran Vaas
@Cabur Nau'ur
@Kotak Vikar'Ranov

Zurak Bruul
@Ajalurk-Chaidth Kryze
@Arden Priest

Inez

Sidonia

Maur

Ferris Skirata

Veyla Krinn

Renn Vizsla

Perseus

Hubert Starhopper
E erida Lok

Colden Renth
@Domina Prime

Elira Verd
@Viera

Nando

Tin
@Serra Toss

Kassandra Beskar'ad

Liorra

Conrad

Reshim

Red Mobius

Suleiman Lok
@Kyrida Verd

Ladante Mamba
R raef Malstadt

CT-312

Nephthys Nardithi-Verd

Hanna

Ren Ashbridge

Vyse de Valorous
@Varuun Rekaal

Serrik Skirata · Jan 29, 2026

"Head up. Back straight. Firmer footing."

Serrik instructed, reaching forward to grab his sparring partner by the shoulder, flicking his heel behind their leg, before slamming them down into the ground with an echoing thud. Whilst his partner raised their hand out for aid in getting up, Serrik brushed the dirt and dust off his armour instead, wandering away without another word. It wasn't his job to help them up. If they couldn't do that themselves, then they weren't worth him wasting his time on them.

Instead he found his own space amidst bay, unsheathing his beskad and flipping it upwards into a hammer grip. Now, one might call what he was doing shadow boxing, slashing and stabbing at an invisible opponent. Though for Serrik, the opponent wasn't invisible. He was imagining himself facing against a living threat. Hopping back and forth, as he continued to jab the blade forward, treating it as if it was like a stinger, before hopping away.

His mind was focused purely on his training. Others may be distracted by their doubts, memories of past battles or even of thoughts towards their own clan. Worries that would threaten to break them. But Serrik did not have any of those distractions. Today's problems were for today. Tomorrow's would be for tomorrows. And when the battle came, he'd be ready for it. It was a task like any other, and Serrik did any task he was set out to.

Adelle Bastiel · Jan 29, 2026

Tags: Open

Adelle flopped down into a chair, further down the table from the main congregation where voices overlapped each other in a cacophony of sound. Everything seemed louder right now; stress seemed to press in on every side. The Mand’alor’s broadcast, Naboo’s official response, the holocall summit with the Imperial Confederation and the simple act of enduring Srina Talon’s presence, Corellia burning, the closest thing she had to a homeworld. The only bittersweet silver lining to that had been Kor Vella being the city that burned, not Coronet City. It did not inspire hope that her parents graves hadn’t been messed with somehow. Clearly the Imperials didn’t care what they destroyed in the name of “order.”

Leaning forward, she poured a pint of ne’tra gal for herself before slumping back against the chair and letting her head rest on it. Phantom—who had outright refused to stay behind at the apartment on Contruum—hopped into her lap, bright orange service vest stark against her black fur. Idly, Adelle stroked her fingers through the silky fur and took a long drink.

A breath before the next crisis, the next mission, the next dive was desperately needed.

Hubert Starhopper · Jan 30, 2026

Objective

Tags:

Adelle Bastiel

Mythra

Serrik Skirata

Gear: Tool-Kit, Custom Blaster Pistol

-----------

A door to the hangar is open, the gaping maw to the guts of this dim workshop- exposing the inner machinations that currently consist of a run-down ship that is way past its prime, and the mechanic attempting to poke and prod it back to life cursing every step of the way. He knew something was wrong on take-off... The Star-Scraper never takes that long to get up off the ground, and it was shakier than normal. Usually it rattles, but this time it felt as if the plates of his ship were rattling free. Not to mention the "Pop," Noise he heard as he landed...

Hours have been spent in this hangar... Blood, sweat and tears have been, and still are being poured into this machine and nothing seems to be working...

Hubert Starhopper crawls through the innards of this ship, checking wires, connections- anything he can think of. Covered in dirt, rust, oil, and grease, he easily slides his way through the tight tunnels on his back, poking his fingers through the grates above him and clasping it like a ladder for assistance. Suddenly he begins to smell something foul.

"Ugh... Don't tell me..."

A little further in, and the problem is (likely) found...

Before coming here, Hubert spent some time in Tatooine to help smuggle desperate souls off-world, and sometime between landing there, and leaving, a Womprat apparently found a bunch of new things to chew on- liking them so much, it stayed long enough to be trapped. Hubert can only guess that it chewed through the wrong wire. A mixture of electrical smoke and burnt hair fumigate the tunnel, turning any appetite he may have had, right around in its tracks.

"Kark..! Kriffin' DAMMIT!"

This is heard from the hangar out into the streets as Hubert realizes he will need to aquire all-new cables in order for his ship to even so much as wheeze at him. Whether or not he will have to buy them is a manner of some... Conjecture...

Maybe he will get lucky and find what he needs lying around the shop, and pay it back when he can. If not, he may need to hitch a ride into battle...

Dreidi Xeraic · Jan 30, 2026

Location: Sundari
Outfit: Dathomiri robes
Companion: Grisial
Equipment: Lightsaber, Ichor sword and Dathomiri Energy Bow
Tag:

Adelle Bastiel

Dreidi had allowed herself to get lost in the enclave that she was living in on Dathomir. Ignoring the plights and ongoing activities of the galaxy around her. She had also been focusing on what her son was doing and how he was growing. It was both heart breaking and heart warming to see her son become his own person, seeing the type of person that he wanted to be. Seeing the light and the darkness in him and how he desired to handle everything that he faced. As well as seeing the types of people that Aileni wished to surround himself with.

It was strange realising how far he had come and how much time had passed but Dreidi was also realising that she couldn't keep hiding away. Letting herself remain isolated.

When word spread of the Mandalorians mobilising and gathering for war, Dreidi was intrigued. It had been something that she was not sure that needed her skills or was something that she could offer help with. But Dreidi was concerned on seeing what was going on. Understanding why there was a call for war. There were still concerns she had that this aggressive mindset could hold negative consequences for Dathomir. She also wanted to wish those charging into war good fortunes. While Dreidi held her own concerns, there was never going to be stopping a Mandalorian from charging into battle.

Breathing in deeply, she made her way to Mandalore, it was a world that she knew from reputation and history but not one she had travelled to. Dreidi came as a witch, that was the life she led most of all but it was also the way she desired the Mandalorians to see her as. While she did also see herself as a Jedi, this was not the time to be one and it was not the identity that she had come to most strongly connect with. With Grisial tailing behind her, Dreidi wandered down from her ship and headed towards where everyone was gathering to talk and discuss the upcoming battles.

Approaching one Mandalorian, Dreidi looked over to them with a somewhat expressionless appearance on her face. "Seems you have a lot weighing on your mind, Mandalorian. I'm Dreidi of Clan Xeraic from Dathomir." The witch introduced herself, offering a hand to shake. It was strange to see herself as the only one so far not in the heavy beskar armour.

Itzhal Volkihar · Jan 30, 2026

| Location | Mandalore, Outer Rim Territories

Sundari had not always been domed.

In a time that faded further and further into the memoirs of myth, Sundari had sat, a glittering jewel surrounded by verdant fields and flowing rivers that shimmered in the dying embers of ethereal sunsets. There had been no need for a dome back then, though; all of Mandalore had known of the 'bleak cities' reduced to cragged wastelands and ruins buried beneath the sands, a black mark upon their people's ways. Back then, the people of Sundari thought themselves better, illustrious and elegant, distributing their woes and lust for glory to other planets, while the streets of Mandalore's favoured city remained untarnished. In the end, Sundari had found its place amongst those 'bleak cities' pummeled into the earth under the relentless downpour of turbolasers.

Shrieking blades of scorching wind billowed across the weathered balcony, coated in a layer of bone-white sand that skinned the painted surface of dull grey metal. Itzhal Volkihar stepped forward, his steps muffled by the roaring wind, armoured boots kicked aside puffs of sand that twirled over the edge, where some grains lifted back into the wind, while others drifted to the base of Sundari's wall.

Arms crossed over the support rail of the balcony, Itzhal leaned forward, his weight pressed down into the padded interior of his gauntlets and vambraces. Behind his back, the second layer of airlocks sealed shut with a drawn-out hiss.

Memories flickered across the stretch of rolling dunes, a tower of startling white spiralled upwards in a dazzling dance towards the stars, skycars frolliced between picturesque skyscrapers—works of art framed in twinkling glass—that gleamed in the sunlight, and freshly watered plants dripping with mildew, blanketed the land below—a beautiful mirage.

Blue eyes drenched in painful memories, shuttered shut, their struggles concealed beneath a layer of transparisteel.

War did not care for mortal desires; it was a blade without a hilt, cutting all those who fell in its path. There was no loyalty to those who had served it longest. There was no mercy to those who wished to avoid it. It did not care who threw the first swing, only that it swung, again and again, until the bloody work was finished.

Itzhal's heart did not hammer with the righteous call of the war drums, his bones did not rumble with the march of countless warriors, ice-cold logic cared not for these fickle desires, only that when the time came, he would do his duty. Mandalore demanded nothing less.

Tags: Open

Raum Varad · Jan 30, 2026

HEIGH-HO HEIGH-HO, OFF TO WAR WE GO

Raum planted himself at a long table already sagging under the weight of food and bodies. He tore into roasted meat with his hands, grease slicking his fingers, bread ripped and dunked into stew thick enough to slow a blade. He drank deep and often, tihaar burning down his throat. War was finally here. Real war. Against the Diarchy dogs, no less. The thought made his chest feel light, almost giddy.

So this is it, he thought, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. No more waiting. No more rumors. Just blood and answers.

He lifted his cup high. "To the Mand'alor," he called, voice rough and bright. "For feeding us like kings before we go make corpses." Laughter rolled back at him, cups clashed, someone shouted approval. Raum drank again, savoring it. If tomorrow ended him, tonight would still be worth it.

The talk turned, as it always did, to past fights. Raum leaned back, grin sharpening, and launched in before anyone could stop him. He told them about a skirmish on some dustball moon, outnumbered five to one, blasters jammed, jetpack fried. He described ripping a vibroblade out of his own side and using it to pin a Diarchy commander to a bulkhead. He swore he held the line alone while the rest of his unit regrouped, blood in his eyes, laughing the whole time.

Inside, he felt the familiar itch. Maybe it happened exactly like that. Maybe it didn't. The truth was flexible, and Raum liked it that way.

The table erupted. Groans. Booing. A woman across from him tossed a bone at his chest. "Five to one my ass," someone said. The man beside him, thick-necked and already deep in his cups, leaned in close.

"You're lying," the man said, loud and pleased with himself. "Every time you open your mouth, Varad, it gets worse."

Raum turned slowly, very clearly not sober. He smiled. "What did you call me?"

The headbutt landed clean. Bone cracked against bone, the sound sharp even under the noise of the hall. The man reeled back, roaring, and Raum was on him, fists swinging, both of them laughing and cursing as benches scraped and plates shattered. Someone caught Raum around the shoulders, someone else dragged the other man away. Boots thudded. Beskar'gam clanged.

A heartbeat later, Raum broke free, breath heaving. The other man did too. They stared at each other, blood running from matching cuts, then both started laughing. Raum pulled him in, crushing him in a drunken embrace.

"Good hit," the man slurred.

They scrambled up onto the table, arms around each other's shoulders, and bellowed an old Mandalorian shanty, off-key and loud enough to shake the hall. Raum sang until his voice cracked, heart pounding, eyes bright.

Tomorrow, they would kill. Tonight, they were alive.

Siv Kryze · Jan 30, 2026

.

SUNDARI

The feasting halls were alive in a way that felt almost defiant.

Firelight rolled across stone and beskar, catching on raised cups and scarred armor. The air was thick with smoke and spice, with laughter crashing into arguments and back again. Someone nearby sang off-key. Further down, a story grew more exaggerated with every retelling. Plates were full, decanters passed freely, and the sound of life pressed in from all sides.

Siv stood at the edge of it, helm under his arm, letting the noise wash over him.

He watched

Raum Varad hold court in the loudest way possible, saw

Serrik Skirata already half elsewhere, sharpening himself instead of his weapons. He noticed

Adelle Bastiel sitting heavier than the chair beneath her,

Dreidi Xeraic calm and out of place in a way that somehow fit anyway. Everyone was preparing in their own way, even when it looked like indulgence or distraction.

And still...

Something felt wrong.

Not panic. Not fear. Just that familiar prickle at the base of his spine, the sense that the galaxy was holding its breath. Diarchy movements. Imperial "assurances." Too many clean words wrapped around ugly truths. He'd heard them all today, spoken in rooms that smelled of polish and restraint while worlds burned off-screen.

Here, at least, no one pretended.

Siv closed his eyes for a moment and breathed, grounding himself in the noise, the heat, the weight of Mandalore beneath his boots. This was why the break mattered. Why the feast existed. You couldn't march straight from negotiation into war without shedding something first.

Tomorrow would be orders. Blood. Consequences.

Tonight was about rest—about remembering what it felt like to be surrounded by his people, alive and unbroken, before the real shit began.

Siv opened his eyes again, gaze steady, and stayed where he was—watching, listening, letting the unease settle into something he could carry.

For now, that would have to be enough.

Tag: Open

Amelia von Sorenn · Jan 30, 2026

ARMORIES, FORGES, AND WAR BAYS OF SUNDARI

Sundari's forges spoke in a language that the woman understood.

She stood within the war bays beneath one of the great domes, where heat rolled in waves, and the air tasted of metal and fuel. Her Mandalorian armor bore the marks of long use - repairs layered atop older repairs, beskar reforged rather than replaced. No sigils marked her helm or pauldrons beyond those required by the Empire. No trophies hung from her belt. To those passing, she was simply another warrior preparing to depart.

Her attention, however, was fixed on something far larger.

The Kyr'bes-type Basilisk loomed over her, its armored frame partially opened as diagnostic lights pulsed along its chassis. Unlike the silent, impersonal efficiency of many war droids, this one bore signs of care. Plates were polished where others remained scorched, servos tuned beyond regulation standards, and paint retouched not for vanity but protection. The woman moved along its flank with a steady familiarity, her gloved hands resting briefly against the cold beskar as she inspected the cluster of shockwave generators at the fore of the construct. She gently reached under the cluster of weapons, her hand lightly scratching against the metal as though she were scratching an animal beneath its chin. Her effort was greeted by a low, trilling rumble as though the war beast was responding in kind to the attention.

She signaled to a nearby tech to pause their operation, as she wanted to run the final checks herself. Attention was provided to each aspect, power couplings, and command relays. Neural dampeners were calibrated just shy of aggression thresholds - just enough to unleash devastation when ordered, but not enough to risk losing control. The Basilisk responded with another low, mechanical trilling rumble as its systems aligned, almost conversational in its resonance. When she was satisfied, she keyed her confirmation code into the console, one that only she and the machine shared.

Soon, she would leave Sundari to command a Mandalorian Fleet against the Diarchy. She had done this countless times before in her lengthy life across several governments - The Commenor Systems Alliance, the Confederacy of Independent Systems, and most recently the Galactic Alliance. Soon, others would look to her for orders measured in lives and worlds, but here, now, she allowed herself this ritual; a moment of grounding, one that was familiar and honest. Around her, Mandalore prepared as it always had. Warriors moved between armories and forges, weapons stripped and rebuilt with methodical care. Basilisks were tended like living things. Voices carried, some sharp with instruction, others low with shared memory. No speeches, no dramatics, just readiness.

She watched it all from behind the visor, unseen and unremarked.

The galaxy believed her dead with the Galactic Alliance; that lie had become armor as essential as beskar, and it was a lie that she would keep alive for just a while longer. Even Ferrix, her new adopted home, knew her only through the measured voice and precise authority of a VOS-N1 Administrative Droid as she remained carefully sequestered in the shadows. Here, on Mandalore, she was neither Warden nor ghost - only another Mandalorian answering the Mand'alor's call.

She sealed the final panel on the Basilisk and stepped back, helmet tilting upward as the massive droid settled into standby. For a moment, forge-light reflected across her visor, throwing her silhouette large against the durasteel walls. When the order came, she would mount the Basilisk and rise with the rest - into cavuum, into fire, into command.

Until then, she would wait. War did not frighten her; it never had. It had become so ingrained in her as to be second nature, just like breathing. And like Mandalore itself, Amelia von Sorenn did not rest - she waited.

TAGS: Open

Tessa Thayne · Jan 30, 2026

0a6c17de094591524b03455b07f6a1a31e4d7508.pnj

Tags:

Adelle Bastiel

Dreidi Xeraic

Raum Varad | OPEN

Noise pressed against her from all angles, conversation were louder, laughs were harder and brawls broke out every few minutes. Each fight was short, broken apart by others and always ended with a handshake and a laugh and another drink. It had been a long time since Tessa had been around mandalorians in such numbers and it had almost always ended with a fight she'd had to escape.

She took a deep breath and released it slowly, trying to ease the tension from her shoulders. Whatever demons haunted her past, they were not created by these people. Aether had invited her home and she had come, not just because he'd asked, but because the fight was hers whether she wanted it to be or not and she could no longer ignore it.

Tomorrow they marched to war, tonight they reminded each other why.

Song erupted from the far end of the table, off key and loud and Tessa laughed pushing herself off the wall and reaching to pluck a mug of ne'tra gal from the table in front of her. "Someone should gag them before they make our ears bleed."

ea781efab0e88ad91f5f7487ba1b6eefcdd91af1.pnj

Korda Veydran · Jan 30, 2026

Objective 2
tags: open

Korda moved through the armory like someone who already knew where everything was, whether he'd ever stood here before or not.

The Ashen Maw rested mag-locked across his right shoulder as he stopped at an ammo station, its weight a constant presence. He counted magazines by feel, not sight, sliding them into the mag holders mounted along his belt and thigh. One more than standard. Then another. After a moment's consideration, he added a third.

"Enough is a lie," he muttered through the helmet's filters.
He checked his vibroblade next, drawing it just far enough for the edge to catch the forge light before reseating it with a soft, final click. The retention clasp held firm. Good. Nothing worse than losing a blade when things went close and ugly.

Flamer fuel came next, canisters inspected, sealed, and locked into a reinforced satchel. Demolition charges followed, each one secured directly to the beskar plates of his armor, magnets and physical locks tested twice. They didn't shift when he moved. They wouldn't tear free on impact.

A heavy harness crossed his chest plate, purpose-built for drops and violent landings. Korda tightened it with a practiced pull, checking the tension where it bit into the armor. This wasn't decoration. This was for survival.

He crouched at a workbench and adjusted the locking clamps in his boots, deploying the retractable spikes with a sharp press of his heel against the durasteel floor. They bit cleanly. He tested them again. Satisfied, he disengaged them and stood.

Landing zones were rarely kind. He preferred certainty.
Around him, the armory thrummed with low voices, ringing beskar, and the steady cycle of Basilisk diagnostics, but Korda remained apart from it, a fixed point of quiet preparation.
When he straightened, Ashen Maw settling back against his shoulder, his helm turned slightly, just enough to acknowledge anyone watching.

Renn Vizsla · Jan 30, 2026

Tag: Tessa Thayne | Adelle Bastiel | Dreidi Xeraic | Raum Varad

The Feasting Halls of Sundari rang with the low thunder of voices, steel-rough laughter, measured debate, the scrape of beskar vambraces against stone tables polished by generations of warriors. Fires burned clean and hot along the walls, their light catching on armor sigils and clan colors. Plates were heavy. Cups were kept full. This was not respite. This was reckoning.

Renn Vizsla took his seat without ceremony.

He did not wear full war plate, only enough beskar to remind the room who he was and what he carried. The Warmaster’s sigil marked one shoulder, the branch of House Vizsla the other. His helmet rested within arm’s reach, visor turned outward, as if still watching the hall. He ate little at first, listening instead, eyes tracking the currents of conversation like troop movements on a holomap.

“Coruscant burns,” someone said two tables down. Approval, sharp and unashamed.

“The Confederation marches on holy worlds,” came another voice. A warning. A promise. It depended who you asked.

Renn lifted his cup once, not in toast, but in acknowledgment of the truth they all circled. When he finally spoke, his voice did not rise to dominate the hall. It cut clean through it.

“Everyone here has an opinion,” he said, setting the cup down. “Most of them were forged far from the firing line.”

A few heads turned. A few more listened harder.

“Chaos favors the bold,” Renn continued, “but it also buries the careless. I’ve fought wars that began with cheers and ended with names carved into stone. Coruscant and Corellia are not distant sparks; they are signals. The Confederation’s advance is not just about territory. It’s about who decides the shape of the galaxy when the shouting stops.”

He leaned back, finally taking a measured bite of his meal, eyes never leaving the warriors across from him.

“Mandalore does not rush blind into another people’s crusade,” he said. “But we do not pretend the fire won’t reach us. Alliances will be tested. Old grudges will resurface. Some of you will see opportunity. Some of you will see ruin.”

A pause. Intentional.

“I want to hear which is which.”

Renn’s gaze moved from face to face, clanmates, rivals, veterans with scars older than Sundari’s domes, younger warriors eager for a first campaign.

“Speak freely,” he added. “Tonight, words are the weapons. Tomorrow, we’ll see which of them were worth sharpening.”

He raised his cup then, not in unity, but in challenge, an open invitation to debate, to argue, to boast, to warn.

The feast surged on around him.

And the measure of the coming war began.

Adelle Bastiel · Jan 31, 2026

Sundari, Mandalore
Tags: Interacting:

Dreidi Xeraic |

Tessa Thayne
Around:

Renn Vizsla |

Raum Varad

Dreidi Xeraic said:
Approaching one Mandalorian, Dreidi looked over to them with a somewhat expressionless appearance on her face. "Seems you have a lot weighing on your mind, Mandalorian. I'm Dreidi of Clan Xeraic from Dathomir." The witch introduced herself, offering a hand to shake. It was strange to see herself as the only one so far not in the heavy beskar armour.

Phantom alerted her to the stranger’s approach long before Adelle noticed the presence of Light coming towards her. The tiny spukami tensed and seemed to press her body closer into Adelle as if to hide. Adelle looked up and saw why: a vupltex walked beside the unarmored woman. At the introduction, Adelle set her glass down on the table and took the offered hand in a warrior’s grip, grasping the forearm instead of the hand.

“Adelle Bastiel, Clan Skirata,” she said. “With everything going on, it’s hard not to get weighed down by it all.”

A brawl broke out somewhere further down before it was broken apart and someone drunkenly started singing. Adelle reached for her drink when a hand reached for the pitcher of ne’tra gal nearby.

Tessa Thayne said:
Song erupted from the far end of the table, off key and loud and Tessa laughed pushing herself off the wall and reaching to pluck a mug of ne'tra gal from the table in front of her. "Someone should gag them before they make our ears bleed."

“For real,” Adelle said, taking a drink. “Phantom caterwauls better than that.”

The tip of a black tail gave an annoyed flick, even as Phantom kept trying to make herself invisible. Even with the noise all around her, it still couldn’t drown out the sound of flames the Holonet carried from Kor Vella in her head. Her fingers tightened ever so slightly on the glass.

She hated fire.

Adelle forced herself to set the glass down gently and put food on a plate. Going into battle on an empty stomach was not ideal.

Hubert Starhopper · Jan 31, 2026

Objective: Figure It Out

Tags:

Amelia von Sorenn

Gear: Tool-Kit, Custom Blaster Pistol

-----------

With a low roar-like grunt, the electrified womprat is flung out of the hangar door in a fit of rage, (By its tail nonetheless,) and quickly fades into the surrounding darkness. The only proof of it ever existing now being the weight of it landing... wherever it landed, with a surprisingly heavy thud. Hubert is fuming, practically foaming at the mouth with how fluently he is cursing under his breath, kicking small objects among the floor on his way back to the Star-Scraper.

His arms fold at his chest as he stares into the interior of the small ship from the outside, pondering over its uprooted grates, exposed wires and overall deteriorated state. He stares as if the act alone would reprimand it into ceasing its misbehavior, boiling over the odds of something like this happening again. Only last time, it was Jawas, and he had to meet a client. At least here, there is a chance what he needs will just be laying around.

He begins to examine the workshop, pilfering through belongings that don't belong to him, rooting through spare parts and the crates that hold them in a desperate attempt to find a needle in a haystack. The place is rather large in size, way bigger than any shop he's ever worked in. As his frustration grows, it is halted just as fast by some sort of robotic... Cooing..?

He follows the source, taking only a few moments before a behemoth of a machine presents itself to view. Huberts' jaw drops in shock and awe as his eyes do anything but sit still. Eventually in their screening, his eyes fall upon a woman standing next to the monster.

"Pardon, Miss? Sorry to pester- but I'm havin' a bit've a fiasco." He is covered head-to-toe in muck and grime from his ship, and in spite of his appearance- his manners usually seem to come from left field.

"Where can I find y'alls' wires? Had a varmit eat so many that I dunno' what needs fixed." His accent is backwatered- picked up from a life of growing around farmers and other slaves. Hubert knows a few now-freemen that feel as if their voice were a curse, to sound like the oppressed they grew around. Hubert however makes it a point to keep his voice the same. He finds pride in his past, enduring it, and freeing himself from it. Before too long, Hubert snaps back from these thoughts, realizing he spaced out and started to stare...

Hopefully, whoever this woman is, knows her way around the place. Otherwise, it looks to be a long night. He pulls the shirt hanging around his neck up to his face to wipe it off sweat, smearing the contents lackering his alabaster skin into black runny smears.

"Helluva' machine, Miss. Can't say I've ever seen sumn' quite that immaculate. Truly a work've art." His admiration continues as he inspects it further. It's fresh paint, craftsmanship, detailing- all the way down to the last rivet. It suddenly makes him feel somewhat ashamed of his machine, and the pissy-fit it's throwing. He pulls a cigarette out and checks his surroundings, stepping away from anything flammable before lighting it.

"Feel bad for the other guys." He chuckles out, pointing at the Basilisk with his cigarette between his index and middle fingers, returning the smoke afterwards.

A cloud leaves his nostrils with a sigh of despair as his brain returns to the task at hand, and the other tasks that hand will grab on its way out...

Cyran Vaas · Jan 31, 2026

		
Sometimes being cheap and frugal comes at a price. Beskar was often out of Cyran's reach. Very little of his gear actually made use of it, only a mesh-wire vest worn under the rest of his mostly blackened plastoid armor. Ever sense trying to be a more proper mandalorian he’s only ever had access to a single ingot of Beskar which had been used to make his vest. Stretched as much as it could to cover the vitals of his torso well enough.  

Over time the Zeltron had come to appreciate his less comprehensive armor. It was much easier to move around it, allowing him to make the most out of his athleticism and martial prowess with little to no restrictions. Even helping with the fuel economy of his jetpack as well.   

Cyran was paying a visit to Mandalore, a planet he’s only been to a handful of times. Hoping to give his small yet vital piece of beskar armor a bit of much needed maintenance. The kind of tender love and care only a genuine mandalorian armorer could provide after years of use and abuse.. Dropping it off as if he was merely visiting a dry cleaner to pick up later. 

However, the zeltron felt like he must’ve arrived at the planet at a special time. The domed city seemed rather lively. Almost festive even. Other than his semi-frequent visits to Vlemoth Port he rarely saw this many other mandalorians. Perhaps a local holiday that he wasn’t aware of. It was very likely. Even now Cyran wasn’t much of an expert on the culture. He knew the fundamentals but little beyond that.  ​

Raum Varad · Sunday at 5:20 PM

SING, FIGHT, DRINK

Raum laughed, loud enough to roll over the clamor of the hall, voice raw and proud. He stomped on the table in rhythm, knocking mugs and plates askew, sending bread and stew tumbling. The other Mandalorians shouted, half in protest, half in encouragement. He didn't care. Tonight was for chaos, for fire, for showing the galaxy what it meant to be alive before war swallowed them all.

He leaned into the edge of the table, chest heaving, grin wide, eyes sparkling with mischief. "What's that?" he bellowed, voice carrying across the hall. "You don't like our singing?" He kicked another plate for emphasis, meat tumbling onto the floor. "You averse to fun, friends?"

Heads turned, some scowling, some laughing, some wiping spilt drinks from their armor. Raum didn't flinch. "Maybe," he said, swaggering along the length of the table, "maybe you all should join me!"

He waved them on, arms wide, swaying dangerously with the rhythm of the shanty still in his head. Inside, his chest was light, the kind of reckless elation that only came when danger was near but not yet upon you. He imagined the Diarchy soldiers ahead, and the thought made him grin even wider. Let them mock now. Tomorrow, they would pay in fire.

He lifted a spilled mug off the table, draining it in one gulp, and shouted over the hall. "Sing louder, fight harder, drink deeper!" His voice cracked with sheer delight. He could feel the energy of the room bending to him, if only slightly, as a few warriors joined his clumsy dance atop the table. Raum's laugh rang out again, harsh and triumphant, because tonight, he was untouchable.

The table shook beneath him, plates clattering, voices carrying, and Raum knew it was the closest thing to glory before the first shot was fired.

Tessa Thayne |

Adelle Bastiel |

Dreidi Xeraic

Dreidi Xeraic · Monday at 6:04 AM

Location: Sundari
Outfit: Dathomiri robes
Companion: Grisial
Equipment: Lightsaber, Ichor sword and Dathomiri Energy Bow
Tag:

Adelle Bastiel |

Raum Varad |

Tessa Thayne

Nodding her head to Bastiel, "well met." Dreidi did not know clan names or whether Adelle came from a high position within the Mandalorian Empire. It was something that she had not explored understanding up until this point since it was a hierarchy that did not matter for the Dathomirian people. However, as she stood here and looked over the differing Mandalorians that surrounded her. Dreidi realised that if she was going to fight with these people, if she was going to make more of an effort to stand amongst them as an equal, then she needed to demonstrate that she cared and knew their ways of life.

It would probably be best if she learned more Mandalorian language from Aileni so she could talk and understand them in their own tongue as well.

"Perhaps, but if we get weighed down by everything going on around us, we will drown. Focus on the present. Focus on what you desire to achieve and focus on taking care of those closest to you." Dreidi cautioned, it was something she had learned from being a Jedi and being a Witch. Emotions were inevitable but one did not have to drown within those emotions. "Can be easier said than done but one must be mentally prepared for battle not just physically prepared."

Hearing the conversation turn to the off-key singing that was happening not far from where she was stood. Being someone who had done performances on live stages and even earned money at bars for doing so, Dreidi knew how the song should be and what the notes were needed to achieve a more pleasant sound. It was something that Dreidi had not done publicly in a while since she devoted herself far too much to the enclave and the needs of her son. But she did sing with Aileni and taught him how to play her instruments since she believed it was an important form of expression.

Sighing, she wondered if she should be the one to sing. Something that would be enjoyed by the crowd.

"There's a fire starting in my heart." Her boot stomped the ground to a beat that would allow others around understand the rhythm of the song. "Reaching a fever pitch, it's bringing me out the dark." Her voice was husky as she sang, beautifully raw and powerful. "Finally I can see you crystal clear."

CT-312 · Tuesday at 12:46 AM

		
//: Sundari, Mandalore //:

//: Attire //:

//: OBJ III -BYOO //:

CT-312 kept to herself, as she always did. She found no need to rally with the Mandalorian Empire as preparation went underway. Those in Beskar had their own way of setting themselves up ready for the battle ahead. Final checks were everywhere. The sounds of jetpacks briefly flaring before cutting out and gauntlets snapping shut. Basilisk handlers shouting over the engine whine as last minute calibrations were being made.

She had already done her equipment check as she passed through. The Scout remained close enough to hear fragments of half-finished sentences that held confidence and anticipation. Yet far enough that none of it demanded or noticed her presence. BARCA filtered the noise down to threads that mattered: Names, groups, targets. External coordination for the day of. It was not just the Mandalorians. Wardens from outlying territories within their space were mobilizing as well. Eshan’s name surfaced more than once. The Queen was here. Somewhere.

The Princess… 
			 
		Quinn Varanin
 … had not asked her to come.

CT-312 did not need the Force bond to know something had shifted since Coruscant. Something had happened. Something unresolved. The bond only confirmed what observation had already told her. The Princess hasn’t been the same.

Duty pressed in from all sides. Assignment or not… Purpose. CT-312 was here without the Queen of Eshan’s knowledge. An omission that sat heavy in her chest. She knew little of Eshan beyond what the Princess had shared in fragments with her. CT-312 knew just as she felt it, the planet mattered. It mattered to Quinn. The truth was unavoidable. War with the Diarchy threatened the Mandalorian Empire. And if Mandalore fell into chaos, Eshan would not remain untouched.

A familiar cold absence crept in, the same one CT-312 had recognized during the coronation on Eshan. She pushed it down, forcing it aside. Her hands moved to a strap. Gloved fingers pulled it taut, locking it into place with a solid clack. The sound echoed faintly through the scrapyard. An industrial graveyard not far from where the Mandalorian were rallying. Hidden in plain sight beneath stacked hull plates and stripped engines.

The LK War-X loomed beside her. It’s weathered plating scarred by past campaigns. As CT-312 leaned in to secure the final mount, the massive battle droid dipped slightly. Bumping its broad head against her side. Carefully, almost hesitant.

“Not this time.” she murmured.

At the far end of the yard, CT-312 finished fastening the last LK Pred-X to the ship’s frame. Two mounted to each side. One braced along the upper wing root and another beneath. The War-X emitted a low metallic groan. Its sound resonated and was unmistakably disappointed. “Stay with the others,” her voice was firm but quiet. “Just in case.” CT-312 placed her gloved hand on the battle droid’s head. Resting against the cool, familiar metal longer than necessary. When she pulled away, the War-X stepped back. Its massive frame repositioned itself as the remaining Pred-X units clustered around it in a silent formation.

CT-312 moved around to the front of her ship. Half-buried beneath the scrap and shadow, it waited. The Dûr'ashaarai. She could feel it. More clearly now than ever. The tension that ran through its hull. Their approach to Sundari had been rough. Controls were sluggish and responses were met with resistance. It was not happy.

“Open.”

The ship refused.

Suddenly, pressure flared behind CT-312’s eyes. A dull ache threatening to bloom into a headache as resistance pressed back against her mind. The Scout stilled. Drawing in a slow measured breath, grounding herself. A memory surfaced unbidden— the moment the bond had formed. The trial endured to claim the vessel. CT-312 hadn’t understood it then. Not fully… Now she did. 

The familiar emptiness surged again. Heavy and suffocating. To be set aside. Unused. Forgotten.

She raised her hand and placed it against the ship’s hull. Speaking softly, “Caligo,” The name carried resonance. The ship shuddered beneath CT-312’s touch. Beneath her palm, the metal responded with a faint vibration. “It’s been a while.”

A pneumatic hiss answered her. Its cockpit latch disengaged, but the canopy did not open. The hull groaned. Stressed and uncertain. The ache in her chest deepened, mirrored by the ship’s own reluctance. CT-312 leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. Reciting the words she had once been told of the fighter’s design in a serious and solemn tone. A creed etched into its very construction.

“Service is sacrifice.” 

Metal shifted in quiet acknowledgment as the ladder descended.

“When the pilot falls, the ship follows.”

At last, the cockpit door slid open.

CT-312 tilted her head up. Eyes resting on the cockpit as though seeing it for the first time. “Leftovers,” her breath pushed out through her noise in a faint almost amused hmph as she climbed aboard. “Together.” Settling into the seat, the systems began syncing around her. Immediately the bond deepened. It was not artificial as she thought before, nor was it simple machine logic. It was something older. Darker. Fused into the frame and reaching back toward her. It brushed against her mind like a presence acknowledging its equal, Caligo’s influence seeping into the Scout.

As the cockpit sealed shut, the hollow feeling ignited into a low controlled burn. Heat laced with restrained violence with a quiet craving for destruction, CT-312 kept it tightly leashed. “BARCA, Pull all available data, feeds, and analysis from the battles on Arkania and Death Star III.” Her HUD bloomed to life as tactical overlays, grainy footage, and sensor readouts appeared. “Isolate and enhance. Subject: Jedi Master 
			 
		 Dynamis "Dynas" Ultra
 ” CT-312 leaned back. Combat recordings slowed and dissected frame by frame. Replaying and rewinding constantly. Eyes fixated, breaking down the data before her. She would keep watching and learning throughout the night.

Until it was time.

Tessa Thayne · Thursday at 5:12 PM

Tags:

Raum Varad

Adelle Bastiel

Dreidi Xeraic

She cast a small if somewhat nervous smile towards the woman with black cat on her lap, its amber gaze watching Vulptex with a cautiousness that Tess felt in her soul. Her eyes shifted back down towards the men standing on the end of the table, their singing and swinging feet, challenging those who were complaining to join in.

Tess brought the drink to her lips, smiling into it as she drank. The more he bellowed encouragement, the more of the room joined in.

“Feth, I’m not drunk enough for this.” She drained the mug, reaching for a refill when the dathomirian began to sing, the husk of her voice carrying the tune as it should. She felt goosebumps run over her skin. “Well, damn.”

Those nearby quietened to listen, a sudden stillness settling over them, the noise at the other end still pressing upon them. Tess reached for a bread roll, and launched it with precision for Raum’s head.

“Shut up and let the woman sing.”

Hubert Starhopper · 2026-02-06T21:39:02-0500

Objective: Fix 'Er Up

Tags:

Gear: Tool-Kit, Custom Blaster Pistol

-----------

Huberts' patience runs thin almost immediately while waiting for a response. Either he wasn't heard, or was, and is being ignored. A huff rolls a puffy cloud of smoke from his nostrils as his eyes begin to scan, looking for what is needed. It takes forever, sifting through dirty old boxes and crates, making a pile of parts on the floor in search of what he needs, only to have to lug everything back inside to no avail. It seems hopeless, finding what he needs in here will take forever...

Taking what he needs, however- won't...

Along the wall, Hubert sees a couple of old ships, rusted, beaten, broken...

Forgotten...

The sight alone would usually be enough to bring a tear to his eye- however his hopes of stripping what he needs from the junker are plowing over the top of any remote twinge of sadness that tries to pull at his heartstrings. With a hurried jog, he approaches the old ship. The drop ramp hangs open, leading upwards to a gaping maw of shadow that seems darker than the deepest void of space. Over time, rust has run down the edges of the ship, coagulating the water that moves it in petrified drops- giving the ship a rather predator-like appearance. Its rusty teeth pointed out from it's silenced scream of agony.

Suddenly, the hope is replaced with dread. Hubert has never been Force Sensitive, but he has always been good at feeling when something bad has happened. Call it luck- call it instinct, but he usually knows...

This ship feels... broken. Not just physically- but mentally? Like a piece of its soul that it never possessed is crying out in pain, stuck in a loop of its final events. Hubert can see a lone Mando, frantically trying to keep his ship afloat as a barrage of artillery pelts its hull. Finally the engine goes, and this ship comes barreling down into the ground below, left to burn- left to rot.

Hubert snaps back to reality, a few rapid blinks wetting the orbs that fixated themselves in that trance. And with a deep breath, and his right foot first, Hubert steps into the ship, turning his light on to see where he is going.

Hopefully it won't take too long to find these pieces, delving further into the belly of this time-worn monstrosity isn't doing Hubert any favors when it comes to his comfortability, and the eerie feeling that seems to only rise as he climbs further in.

Populate High Steaks | ME Populate of Vaal

Character

Character

Trouble

Member

Jedi Witch

Character

E N D U R E

Warden of Concordia

The Spacepiress of Chaos

Character

Character

Factory Judge

Trouble

Member

Fraudalorian

E N D U R E

Jedi Witch

Character

Character

Member

Users who are viewing this thread