Faction Into the Deep - The Evening Before [ ME ]

Beskar · 2026-01-09T00:35:38-0500

INTO THE DEEP
"No blade enters the dark alone."

BASE CAMP - RONION MINES

The frontier of Mandalore lay quiet beneath a cold and watchful sky, its silence broken only by the distant hum of generators and the steady rhythm of movement within the expedition camp. Floodlights cast long, angular shadows across stone and ice as banners snapped in the wind, their sigils catching the light like oaths forged in metal rather than spoken aloud.

This was not a battlefield, not yet, but it carried the same gravity all the same.

Warriors arrived steadily throughout the evening, some alone, others in small groups bound by history or reputation. Armor bore the marks of past campaigns, scorched plates and repainted sigils telling stories without words, while hands rested comfortably on weapons worn smooth by years of use. Old names surfaced again beside new ones, spoken with warmth, curiosity, or challenge, each acknowledgment a quiet reminder that Mandalore was never reclaimed by one blade alone.

As the camp grew, so did its pulse. Fires were stoked higher, equipment laid out and inspected with ritual care, and voices rose in low conversation that carried across the stone. Stories of battles past mingled with speculation about what waited below, while rivalries simmered just beneath the surface, sharpened by the knowledge that tomorrow would test more than steel.

Beyond the outer ring of light, the descent itself loomed, sealed for the night and guarded by sentries who knew better than to turn their backs on Mandalore’s depths. The earth beneath their boots felt heavier here, ancient and watchful, as though the planet itself listened to every vow spoken and every doubt left unvoiced.

Tonight was not about glory.
Tonight was about resolve.

This was the evening before the plunge, where bonds were tested, intentions laid bare, and the shape of the expedition quietly took form. When dawn came, there would be no turning back, only forward into the dark Mandalorians had sworn to reclaim.

THE PYRE
A massive bonfire burns at the heart of the camp, surrounded by seating, ration crates, and the constant movement of warriors coming and going. This is the social core of the encampment, where food is shared, stories are traded, rivalries spark, and alliances quietly take shape. Newcomers are sized up here, veterans hold court, and the mood shifts easily between laughter, tension, and quiet reflection as the night wears on.

THE WATCH
Set apart from the noise of the fire, this guarded stretch of ground overlooks the sealed entrance into Mandalore’s depths. Equipment is staged here, sentries rotate watch, and warriors come to stand near the threshold, whether to speak with commanders, check their gear one last time, or simply face the dark in silence. Words are fewer in this place, but intentions tend to settle with clarity.

BRING YOUR OWN OBJECTIVE
You are welcome to establish your own locations or moments within the camp, whether that means a private fire, a sparring circle, a quiet vigil, or a tense conversation away from prying eyes. If it fits within the camp and the tone of the night, it belongs here.

Azen Kast

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

Zurak Bruul
Ajalurk-Chaidth Kryze

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

CT-312

Nephthys Nardithi-Verd

Hanna

Ren Ashbridge

Vyse de Valorous
@Varuun Rekaal

Korda Veydran · 2026-01-09T07:09:22-0500

Objective 1: the pyre
Tags: Open

The crunch of boots against gravel announced him long before he reached the pyre. Korda Veydran strode through the camp like he owned it, voice carrying across the flames and chatter. "Well, well! Looks like someone's been keeping the fire warm without me!" he bellowed, letting a hearty laugh roll over the gathered warriors. The glow of the massive bonfire caught on his dark, fitted armor, highlighting the battle scars and scratches etched across the chestplate and shoulders, each one a silent story of a campaign survived.

As he walked, he gave a casual, teasing wink to a few of the nearby males and females, a flash of irreverent charm in the flickering light. Some laughed, some rolled their eyes, but Korda didn't pause, letting the firelight dance across his sharply featured face. Reaching the pyre, he flipped back his helmet with a practiced motion and hooked it onto his belt, letting the cool evening air brush against his jawline and the faint stubble along it. A scar traced the side of his face, catching the firelight, and his amber eyes glimmered with mischief and calculation.

He dropped onto a nearby crate with a loud, confident thump, settling comfortably. The warmth of the bonfire washed over him as he leaned back slightly, eyes scanning the scene: veterans holding court, newcomers sizing up their place, ration crates neatly stacked, the low hum of conversation, laughter, and occasional tension filling the air.

Korda reached for The Ashen Maw, running his fingers over the worn grips and sliding a thumb across the etched skull on its side. A practiced glance checked the shoulder magazine lock, the mechanism clicking reassuringly under his touch. Satisfied, he lifted the weapon and snapped it back onto the shoulder mount, the familiar weight and balance settling against him like an extension of his own body. He let out a low whistle, amused.

"Social core of the camp," he muttered to himself, voice low but carrying enough to be heard by nearby warriors. "Stories, alliances, rivalries… all right, let's see who's worth talking to tonight." He leaned back further, one boot tapping against the crate in rhythm with the crackle of the flames. A few warriors nearby caught his gaze, and he tilted his head, letting a half-smile curl beneath the visor. "Don't worry," he said, voice teasing, "I only bite a little… and not always in combat."

Even as laughter and chatter swirled around him, Korda's eyes remained sharp, constantly evaluating, noting movements, alliances, and tensions. The pyre was alive with stories and the spark of camaraderie, but he knew tomorrow would bring fire, steel, and blood. And he would be ready. Always ready.

Sergeant Omen · 2026-01-09T14:54:55-0500

Obj 1

Omen sat down on the edge of the seating near the fire; his eyes focused on the flames as they curled into the air. He was in the same old pockmarked camo armor and cloak, trying his best to blend in among these warriors with the long-range Verpine shatter rifle slung over his shoulder. Even though I didn't think that was possible with all these blood thirsty warriors. He remembered when he was young and dumb, remembering his times wanting to fight. Now... he didn't know if the flame had gone out of him or if he was just becoming a tired old man.

The Clone took his helmet off, leaving his face bare in case anyone cared to notice. Taking a caramel candy out of one of his belt pouches, he popped it into his mouth, trying to focus on the here and now rather than letting his thoughts drift back to Aren and how long he would give the silent treatment if she knew he was here. Mostly, he had been curious about what this new Manda'lore was and if this new propaganda machine of his really represented him and his values. If so, he might discourage Aren from taking any more technical jobs with this new Mando State in the future. That video... seeing those crosses still gave him the shivers.

The laughter and noises from a group to his right made him turn to see a man in tan armor laughing along with his comrades. He looked like a veteran... whether of the battlefield or just the bottom of a beer mug, he couldn't tell, though. Either way, the way they cradled that personal weapon of theirs... it seemed like they meant business. It certainly would be something to see it used in action, though he couldn't see hauling that big skullbuster onto the battlefield, too much extra weight. But for someone his size, it seemed about right. Hopefully, he wouldn't ever see that Big Bertha ever aimed at him.

Korda Veydran , Open

Korda Veydran · 2026-01-09T15:55:39-0500

Korda caught the look. He always did.
The veteran's eyes lingered just a second too long on The Ashen Maw, the subtle shift of posture that came with someone instinctively measuring weight, balance, and lethality. Korda's grin widened as he rose from his crate, snagging a dented tankard of ale from a nearby ration stack before making his way over.

He moved with easy confidence, the heavy weapon mag-locked securely back onto its shoulder mount, skull-etched housing catching the firelight with every step. When he stopped near the seated man, he extended the tankard without ceremony.
"Fire's better with a drink," Korda said, voice warm and amused. "And ale's better shared."

He glanced briefly at the Verpine shatter rifle, giving an approving nod. "Long-range type, huh? Smart. Lets the rest of us loud idiots soak up the glory." A short laugh followed as he hooked a thumb toward himself.

Up close, the scars across his armor told their own stories. burn scoring, patched seams, wear earned rather than decorative. He rested a hand casually near The Ashen Maw, not possessive, just familiar.
"Korda," he added, offering a hand if the man chose to take it. "Welcome to the camp. Don't worry, most of the bloodthirsty ones mellow out after their second meal. Third if the ale's weak."

His gaze flicked back to the fire for a moment, then returned, sharp but not unkind. "You look like someone who's seen enough flames to know when to keep your distance from one. That usually means you're worth listening to."
A pause, then a smirk.

"So... what do they call you?"
Korda took a slow sip from the offered tankard, eyes drifting back to the dancing flames of the pyre. The laughter and shouts of other warriors seemed to fade for a heartbeat as the weight of that blasted transmission settled in his thoughts.

Korda leaned back onto the crate with a loud thump, the flames of the pyre casting dancing shadows across the scratches and burn marks on his armor. He hooked a thumb toward the gathered firelight and chuckled. "Speaking of lessons in balance," he said, voice carrying just enough for Omen to hear, "did you catch Mand'alor the Iron's little display with the crosses?"

His amber eyes glittered as he let a low whistle roll out. "Now that is justice. In the Diarchy, there is no innocence. Everyone's got debts to pay, and some folks… well, they just go too far. Finally, someone who doesn't flinch at making them face it."

Korda's fingers brushed The Ashen Maw on its shoulder mount, tapping the etched skull with a mischievous grin. "I won't lie," he continued, voice rising with excitement, "I wouldn't have minded being there myself. Seeing the scales tip, standing in that field… eye for an eye, that's the way it should be. Feels good just thinking about it."

He lifted his tankard, letting the flames reflect off the metal as he offered a mock toast. "Here's hoping there's more of it to come," he said, the gleam in his eyes sharp, dangerous, and somehow… delighted.

Sergeant Omen Open

Mia Monroe · 2026-01-09T18:06:22-0500

Tags: OPEN

Boots stirred dust that settled upon the stone, their steps slow and steady. Flickering light from the camp behind her twisted and stretched shadows in a way that made them dance. The sentries glanced towards her as she passed them, stiffening slightly. Mia Monroe held no rank in this Empire, but her name was etched in the stone they stood on. She had made Manda'yaim bleed just as much as she had bled for it. A century of life, cycled between deaths that took a little away from her each time.

The armour of black and gold glittered in the low light as she pulled a gauntlet off freeing her hand as she settled into a crouch, the buy'ce hooked on her belt shifting to knock against her armour, the noise jarring in the quiet pressure that surrounded her. She set her bare hand on the stone and closed her eyes, opening the door within to let the force in. She spread her awareness passed the stone at her feet, pressing down into the depths of tunnels below her, feeling the rot within, a pulsing twisted thing.

It was the last of it. The last of the stain that He had left on her world. The Protectors had laid the foundation that Aether's Empire built upon, restoring their home to what it used to be. He had done everything he had promised and she wondered if

Isley Verd felt the same pride that she did? She opened her eyes, pulling back from the darkness below them.

"Mhi cuyir get ogir, ner Manda'yaim" she whispered softly before withdrawing her hand and rising slowly, replacing the gauntlet. She had stayed out of the light, letting this generation lead the way as they should. That had been what she had told Ijaat when he'd had Ashin hauled her out of the Nether. This was their world, their life. Their choices and mistakes were theirs to bear. But she owed Manda'yaim, more than any of this generation would ever understand.

She stood in silence, the distance sounds of the camp pressing at her back, a warmth that had once called her now offered only an ache of longing for a time when it had been surrounded by her brothers in arms. She took a breath, lifting her gaze to the stars above and letting out a heavy sigh.

Vytal Noctura · 2026-01-09T20:23:39-0500

A thin, pale figure slowly drifted through the camp. Every now and again a singular beat of the drum would hail her progress. Intermixed were short sequences of thumps that rang out all the clearer. Her bare feet carried her toward the raging fire. The leather straps snug against her body provided 'decency,' but let little to the imagination compared to the crimson scales she wore ready for battle.

Emerald eyes slid over the faces of those on either side, but their gazes in turn did not slow her gait. Whether they followed or continued in their own way was not of her concern. It was not the way of a Nightsister to command, but to lead. They were the shadow that danced in the dazzling light of a galaxy that burned. That which watched, waited, and willed thought into being.

Tonight was a time when the many sought to bend the future to their will. And despite some of her Sisters being hesitant, Vytal Noctura had never shied away from walking among Outsiders. Not since the beginning. Not since Ryloth. A world that had shown her there were many spirits and people of sex and shape that could command power; and that a humble Witch as herself had still much to learn. Perhaps too the same was for those gathered at this fire. On this night. Dangers lurked ahead. Challenges and tribulations brewed. Now was a time for them to bask in the power of the ancients and each other; to bolster their resolve for the way ahead.

Soon, her pale body was bathed in orange, red, and black from the flames that rose ever higher and invited the living to dance among them. The beat of the drum grew steadier and more frequent as her feet lifted, stretched forth, and touched upon the skin of the planet once more. The Witch's body answered the flames in silent communion, each waving and flowing with the unseen and scarcely felt currents.

A clear, wordless voice called out to the night and joined the beat of the drum. A beckoning that seemed to gather the flames; instead of a chaotic dance of many smaller tufts, they united into taller, thicker branches that swayed in unison about the pyre of fuel on which they feasted. Heat that had been confined to drawing nearer to them spread further out to where the living sat apart from their touch.

Open

Adelle Bastiel · 2026-01-10T00:55:00-0500

Mobile Medbay
Tags: Open

Adelle put the last vac-sealed bag into the autoclave to be sterilized for potential injuries. Beyond the APC-speeder that served as a mobile medbay, she heard warriors new and old sharing conversations and jokes. But there was still work to do to set up the medbay in preparation for tomorrow. Adelle stared at the bar that served as the autoclave's timer, watching it lower slowly but surely.

Tomorrow would bring a whole host of nightmares.

She wore the red sigil on her right pauldron. A master Healer with the Jedi, a doctor on Karre Noba's farm, it felt right for her to work with the Mandalorian medics. They'd be facing Sithspawn tomorrow, every Mandalorian that gathered here. Leftovers from the Sith destruction of Mandalore years ago.

Tales from that time period had inspired nightmares, Clan Skirata surviving only by abandoning their home. The damage to Kyrimorut and Port Skirata could still be seen. None of the nightmares were quite as bad as her usual ones, but the harrowing stories of sithspawn attacking and the genocide the Sith wreaked were enough.

The autoclave chimed, the timer gone. Adelle opened up the machine and pulled out the bag of surgical implements, putting it away in a cabinet nearby. She looked around the surgery compartment of the armored speeder, looking for other tasks to complete. To prepare.

"That everything?" she asked the others preparing the Medbay.

Sergeant Omen · 2026-01-10T06:29:57-0500

Well, this was going to be an interesting conversation... Omen would have thought this massive veteran would have been too invested in the laughter and revelry of his comrades to notice him, but he guessed the man hadn't survived this long by having tunnel vision. Nodding his thanks as he took the tankard, he took the mug and tipped it back, letting some of the contents spill into his mouth. Savoring its sweet taste, the smile the clone took on seemed like he was thinking of a better time in the past that he was nostalgic for. "Yup... That's Ne'tra gal, alright. Thank you for sharing Vode." Hopefully, this man's generosity meant he wouldn't mind someone with a different take on events than he did. Just like

Hesitating only a moment, Omen did reach out and take the outstretched hand, letting out a nervous chuckle at the man's sense of humor. "I've managed to avoid the friendly brawls so far that these things tend to spawn so far. And Omen." The Clone wanted to say that Korda had probably seen more flames recently than he had, but instead, he managed a shrug like his opinion was inconsequential. "I've been through a couple scuffles... Doesn't make my voice any louder than anyone else's," though the various decorations on his own armor told Korda he was understating the matter.

The uncomfortable twisting of the Clone's face told the Big Man he didn't exactly agree... He had seen both the video and the Diarchies' response and he had come to his own opinion on the matter. "I think it's regrettable that people, innocent or not innocent, got caught in the middle of two powers...For the people wanted to see our kind as Barbarians now they got a reason too." He left unsaid what he really thought, that it was a fucked up situation that the Leader didn't exactly help to solve. Maybe... possibly... the Diarchy Intelligence could have attempted to pressuade those people to "riot". But at the moment, all there was crosses and dead people, nothing concret that would point that way. And when meeting Diarch Rellik in person, he didn't seem like the sculldugerry type to order anything like this. Others in their government... maybe there was something there to latch onto.

Trying his best to change the subject, he tried to best to joke the awkardness away. "Whose your wife by the way? She seems like alot to handle." The signature gun in its rig defintly seemed like more than he would usually lug onto the battlefield. "Unlike you, my body isn't built to take the recoil that thing puts out, espessially as I get older. Guess I'll have to stick with my peashooter." He wasn't one of those soldier's who needed something that could turn a charging Reek into swiss cheese anyways. His mind was usually all he needed to get out of trouble. It also could be said what it got him into trouble too.

Managing a smile, he let their tankards clink together, his own toast following after. "Shereshoy" It was all the needed to be said. Taking another sip, he noticed the Witch's pale skin out of the corner of his eye, almost spitting out his drink at the sight of her and her... excessive outfit. He didn't think he could covience Aren to dress like that in a million years. She clearly wasn't a born Mando, atleast not by genetics. "I... see the Mando tradition of adoption is still going strong..." even though that young woman seemed everything but traditional.

Korda Veydran ,

Vytal Noctura , @Open

Veyla Krinn · 2026-01-10T14:03:13-0500

Objective: 1

Dral Kar'taal

Veyla Krinn arrived without fanfare, the muted thrum of her ship fading into the broader rhythm of the camp as she disembarked and took in the frontier with a measured, assessing gaze. Floodlights washed across her armor in cold whites and steel blues, catching on worn edges and subtle scoring that spoke of battles she did not feel compelled to recount. She moved with the ease of someone accustomed to hostile ground, each step deliberate, unhurried, as though Mandalore itself had already been accounted for in her calculations.

The camp carried a familiar weight. Not danger, not yet, but resolve. The kind that settled into bone and stayed there. Voices drifted through the air, low and rough, punctuated by the occasional bark of laughter or the scrape of armor as warriors shifted their stance. Old names resurfaced. New ones hovered, untested. Veyla let them all pass through her awareness without stopping on any single thread. This was not a night for posturing. It was a night for watching.

She paused briefly at the edge of the light, adjusting a strap at her vambrace more out of habit than necessity, before angling toward the heart of the encampment. The pyre burned high, flames throwing long shadows that danced across beskar and stone alike. It was there—amid shared food, half-told stories, and the subtle measuring of unfamiliar silhouettes—that first impressions were made and quietly remembered.

Veyla did not claim a seat immediately. Instead, she circled the fire once, eyes lifting to take stock of those gathered. Veterans holding court with easy confidence. Younger warriors listened more than they spoke. Strangers who carried themselves like they were deciding whether this place would become a proving ground or a grave. Her posture remained relaxed, but attentive, a hand resting lightly near her belt as she slowed near the fire's edge.

Tomorrow would be about descent, about endurance, about what waited beneath Mandalore's skin.

Tonight, she was content to let the fire reveal who stood beside her.

Reina Daival · 2026-01-10T16:15:40-0500

Tag:

Adelle Bastiel
Location: Mobile Medbay
Outfit

"Unless you have double of everything, no."

Reina muttered to herself. It didn't matter how much equipment you had. You'd always need at least double. Logistics nearly always went out the window when push came to shove. Especially in some kind of big operation like this. She wasn't entirely sure what was going to be happening. The past of Mandalore, with Sithspawn and the Sith was lost on her. She wasn't some kind of historian. If anything, she herself was a Sithspawn. There wasn't any inherent darkness about her being an Ersansyr but...

She shook her head, staying focused on her own thoughts, as she didn't pay much mind to what she'd consider faceless members of the Mandalorians rummaging around her. She was here to get paid. The Sith paid decently. The Black Suns were alright. It was time for her to see how well the Mandalorians were. Sure, there had been that job on Eshan...but that had been more personal.

Either way, she had checked over her own things, Reina leaned against the wall of the medbay, frowning as she took things in. The Red Sigil that one of the Mandalorians was wearing seemed pointless to her. It just made you more of a target. Sure, the Sithspawn might not understand what it meant, but if you were going against an intelligent threat...By the Spirit, when did she start thinking like that? Reina pinched the bridge of her nose, letting out a long sigh.

Faction Into the Deep - The Evening Before [ ME ]

More options

Beskar

M A N D A L O R E

Korda Veydran

Character

Sergeant Omen

Arc Trooper Sergeant of the 41st Elite Corps

Korda Veydran

Character

Mia Monroe

The Liberator

Vytal Noctura

N E T H E R M O T H E R

Adelle Bastiel

Trouble

Sergeant Omen

Arc Trooper Sergeant of the 41st Elite Corps

Veyla Krinn

Character

Reina Daival

Character

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