Faction Legends of Mandalore [ ME ]

[Aether Verd]

LEGENDS OF MANDALORE
"A single memory can forge a thousand friendships."​

Credit to Jerec Asyr of the Black Sun Syndicate for the original idea.
And to Aurelian Veruna of the High Republic for their fantastic version that inspired this thread!​

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Welcome to Legends of Mandalore! This is a simple, low-pressure IC posting game created for one clear purpose: helping Mandalorian Empire characters build connections with each other. No stress, no big plot commitment, just fun, character-driven moments that make it easy for our stories to overlap!

Think of this as a place for quick flashbacks, unexpected run-ins, awkward training sessions, messy missions, or casual conversations. Anything goes. The goal is to help every writer form natural bonds across clans, divisions, and backgrounds.

How It Works:

• This thread is not bound by location. Set your post anywhere, at any time.
• Tag the person who posted above you and write a brief flashback involving your character and theirs.
• Make it serious, funny, chaotic, heartfelt, or completely wild. You choose.
• Use the spirit of “Yes, and?” If someone tags you, build on what they wrote.
• Participate as often as you like with any of your characters. The more connections, the better.
• If something inspires you, feel free to message the writer and turn it into a full thread.

The Goal is Simple:

• Every Mandalorian Empire character should know someone!
• This thread gives you easy doorways into new relationships, new clan ties, and new story opportunities.

A Note from the Mand’alor:

The first person to reply should tag Aether Verd . I will be posting here regularly so everyone has the opportunity to build a personal connection with the Mand’alor.

Whether your character is a warrior, pilot, smith, mystic, diplomat, veteran, or newcomer, you are welcome here. Jump in, tag someone, and help shape the living network of stories that makes our Empire feel alive.

Open to all Mandalorian Empire characters, new and old. Have fun and start building your legend!​

 

[Vytal Noctura]

​

"Nightsisters do not wear armor. You might find the Nightbrothers more... accommodating. I will not tell my Sisters to be silent, however, if they catch you trying to convince them to your Way. Just as you are free to speak why they should adopt your Way, my Sisters are free to remind them of our roots."

Vytal had a hard enough time convincing some Sisters why Mandalorians should be allowed on Dathomir. To think some of them might think to speak of the resol'nare... Strangely bold and forward of them to come to a world steeped in magick.

"Hunting Rancor remains in designated hunting grounds only," the pale Witch reminded them. Another treat a warrior people thought they might explore freely. Certain Covens bred those beasts and trained them; it would good poorly indeed if their population dwindled too rapidly because of over zealous hunting. "And no explosive or incendiary ordinance or devices. Tis no small thing to perform a ritual and if you distrupt Sisters in their work you will pay severely for it."

That should be the important things for them to know. There were many others, but they could learn or suffer through them the hard way. For instance, certain 'games' that Sisters might invite someone to partake in that sounded enticing, full of carnal promise, but were nothing of the sort. Games to lure in the unsuspecting for the amusement gained in snaring the unaware. They were far from dangerous, however. Some of life's lessons were best learned the hard way.

"The Sanctum remains open at all times should you require its protection." A shadow of a smile graced her lips then. Someone would have had to have thrown themselves into the cauldron indeed to ask for 'protection.'

Aether Verd​

 

[Jonah]

Jonah Verd felt the familiar pull of Dathomir long before the moon resolved into view beneath the prow of his Komrk. The cockpit lights washed crimson across his visor as he dropped through the clouds, yet none of it carried the promise of war. These voyages had become routine in their rhythm, although nothing about them resembled his life as Warmaster of the Nite Owls. He came without banners or escort, without the cold authority of duty on his shoulders. He came because something quiet and personal waited for him on the outskirts of the Singing Mountain Clan's territory, something that had nothing to do with Mandalore, his brother, or the legacy of House Verd.

His fighter settled into the clearing with a low growl that rippled through the trees. Jonah rose from the pilot seat and collected what he had brought. Under his arm he tucked the smaller parcel, no bigger than a hand, wrapped neatly for the sake of the one who had written it. In his hands he carried the larger rectangular box, a burden he held with a kind of reverence as he descended the ramp. The bonfire ahead burned steady and modest, its glow painting the circle of logs arranged around it. He could feel the anticipation simmering in his stomach as he approached, heat meeting heat, nerves stirring beneath composed breath.

Eyes watched him from every shadow. Witches with crimson markings, Nightsisters with their pale intensity, a scattered few from the Iron Wolves and Spiritspeakers with silent stoic purpose. Their presence was intentional and heavy in its meaning, and Jonah felt every gaze as he crossed into the circle. He set the rectangular box upon a waiting stump, its surface worn from years of storms. The moment he straightened, he finally spoke, his voice low but carrying easily over the fire, “Apologies for my timing. The offering has arrived.”

A figure stepped from the gathered. Vytal Noctura moved like a ghost given flesh, her presence both regal and unyielding. She was the Warden who carried Dathomir’s voice to the Mandalorian Empire, the one who kept the fragile accord between their worlds balanced across her shoulders. Jonah dipped his head with deliberate respect, offering greeting without presumption. She did not return a bow or a word at first. Instead she opened the box he had carried, her expression brightening with slow satisfaction.

“This offering is acceptable. May we all partake in this bounty.”

Relief washed through Jonah in a steady wave as he allowed himself a small smile. He dropped onto the nearest log with a comfortable exhale, listening to the rustle of robes and armor as those present drew closer. Vytal plucked a pastry from the box, her delight obvious in the gleam of her eyes. The simple joy of it settled something inside him and tightened something else entirely.

That was when Jonah shifted the smaller parcel into his hands. A modest little box, holding a book that had been written by one of the Witches themselves. A romance story. Soft. Human. Honest. He held it with far more care than he ever gave a vibroblade. Tonight existed for this story, for the arguments and theories and laughter it sparked among this unlikely circle of warriors and mystics. A club formed not from battle or creed but from a shared affection for the tender craft of the writer who had dared to pen it.

He glanced toward Vytal as she oversaw the gathering she had organized. The fire crackled. The pastries disappeared one by one. Jonah rested the parcel across his palms, the corner of his mouth lifting as he spoke quietly, “Let’s get started. I have thoughts about chapter three.”

The circle leaned in, and the night began.

Tag: Vytal Noctura

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Smoke and ashes

Through the dust-streaked window of his speeder, Itzhal observed Bev Tower. Its looming silhouette was shrouded in a haze of swirling smog, poised to leak into the worn and cracked foundations, metal plates stained a dull grey with age. The dying light of aviation guides swayed in the strangled wind, their faint red light a guttering ember under the red haze of roaring bellows from nearby steelworks, their every breath spraying poison into the air. Old shutters, once a temporary measure to be deployed in times of need, hung low over the streaked, cloudy windows. The people within sealed away like prisoners behind bars.

In the corner of his visor, Itzhal checked the chrono and the coordinates he'd received. It was time.

A red light, cloaked in smoke, flickered twice against the background of scratched metal plates. Their frames groaned, a lumbering effort that peeled the massive doors apart, guided on rails that screeched throughout the ordeal. He guided his speeder through the gap, a swift descent that scythed through the air, leaving an impression in the darkness, before the doors closed with a mechanical clank.

Outside the speeder, a ghastly white light from rusted spotlights illuminated the hangar bay. Old power generators lined the walls, their power sockets covered in a layer of webbing and dust. Cables, frayed and torn, littered the floor, where they did not hang from fractured ceiling segments.

In the midst of it all, a single silhouette stood highlighted under the bleak light that obscured their body, a loose trenchcoat distorted it further.

With a harsh flick of the control switch, Itzhal disengaged the speeder locks with a sharp pop. His boot plopped against the steel surface, a puddle of something green beneath his feet, before he flicked it away. The door slammed behind him.

"I heard you can help find people," Itzhal stated, unwilling to waste any further time.

Sensors in Itzhal's helmet, adapted, a soft glow spreading out from the centre of the Mandalorian's visor until the entire room was illuminated, the figure included, their beskar plates visible beneath the coat and swooping hood.

"Believe me, when I say that your hunt has not gone unnoticed. I know who it is you refer to, and you are right to deliver them to justice," They admitted, calm as the still lake of an endless horizon and yet, something lurked beneath, a threat left to linger. "I wish I could help. However, there is a complication."

Tags: Jonah​

 

[Nephthys Nardithi-Verd]

Itzhal Volkihar hated the Ashlan Crusaders almost as much as Nephthys, herself. The religious zealots had a long bout of stealing children from all across the galaxy, Nephthys included from Dathomir when she was very young. Often the children were made orphans as the crusaders murdered their parents for heresy upon snatching the children, who were then deposited into a large remote private school and constantly hand fed religious lies regarding strict morality and forcing harsh reparation for sins, often defined by their heritage.

Nephthys came into her power during her eighth year of captivity and forced compliance. She had stormed the records department with a few other abductees, a number of them Mandalorian teens. The group led by Nephthys ended the future of the operation by burning the place to the ground and rescuing every child.

The records which they gathered gave detailed information of each of the youth's sometimes completely forgotten histories, the brainwashing had been quite extensive for many, in order to force compliance. The next of surviving kin listed in everyone's files were only the hit list of the Ashlan Crusaders next victims.

A woman in her elder years at the time Nephthys freed the captives, had been forced to labor in the gardens, was a long lost child of Veir and Ciala Kallor, snatched while on a hunting trip while her parents had been performing other duties for the clan. An ambush and slaughter left her parents distraught and searching for her for years. She would be returned to her homeland shortly after an intensive search to locate her surviving kindred, and her story would be told in detail, about the children of many different races, Nephthys most of all, who would save her from bondage while they utterly destroyed the child prison.

 

[Aether Verd]

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

RYLOTH - A LIFETIME AGO

The fortress rose from the cliffs of Ryloth like something the planet itself had forced upward in a moment of rebellion. Jagged towers jutted into the sky, each line carved with the confidence of a warborn dynasty. To those outside its walls, the structure looked like an accusation hurled at the horizon. Yet within those armored corridors lived pockets of warmth, small sanctuaries that defied the fortress’s grim exterior.

One such sanctuary lived behind a half-open door where sunlight filtered through tall windows and settled over rows upon rows of books. The library breathed quietly around its readers. Pages rustled. Old bindings creaked. Holocrons glimmered. Treasure maps curled with age. Every shelf held another story waiting to be unburied.

At a table tucked into that warm glow sat a young woman far from her birthplace. Her eyes moved quickly between two open tomes, drinking in the histories of a world drenched in sorcery and red earth. Dozens more books lay stacked beside her, each a small doorway into the culture she now tried to understand. She read with a hunger that could have lit the room on its own, so focused that she did not see the small shape waddling her way.

Boots pattered against the floor in uneven rhythm.

A helmet far too large dipped with every step, the visor nearly brushing the tabletop as the tiny figure leaned up just enough to peer over the edge. The voice that emerged from behind the helmet was small and curious and utterly unafraid.

"Whatcha doing?"

The woman jolted, nearly tumbling from her chair, before her gaze fell to the child and softened into a smile. She reached out and tapped the oversized helmet as though greeting an old friend. Her voice carried a gentle warmth as she explained that she was researching a place very far away.

The helmet tilted, visor narrowing as the child squinted at the scattered pages. After a long moment of scrutiny came the unimpressed verdict.

"Sounds boring."

Her laughter rose bright and easy. She lifted the child with practiced care and settled him onto her lap. With one hand she turned a book toward him, revealing a page marked by a vivid emerald rune. She told him that this one spoke of magick, the kind that could twist the world in strange and wondrous ways.

To prove it, she wiggled her fingers.

Emerald sparks bloomed into existence, swirling playfully around the helmet’s brow. Light danced across the visor, painting the glass with living green fire.

A small breath of awe escaped the child, almost a gasp, and he leaned into her with a half-embrace that felt as natural as breathing. From behind the visor came a muffled, earnest declaration.

"Big sister, you're not boring. You're cool!"

Her laughter softened into something gentler, something that held both surprise and affection.

"And you're not boring either, Aether."​

Nephthys Nardithi-Verd

 

[Adelle Bastiel]

Some time after Zeltros . . .


Adelle read through the file again, more stumped than ever. Aether Verd sat in one of the chairs of the medbay, buy'ce resting on one knee. The Mand'alor exuded the same authority, the same confidence and calm patience as ever, but there was an undercurrent of uncertainty. He had no idea what was going on. Unfortunately, neither did Adelle.

"Can you think of anything that might have been present during the times you felt your symptoms?" she asked. On flimsiplast, his symptoms said cardiac event at least if not cardiac arrest: heart palpitations, sweating, a sense of unease and discomfort in his stomach and chest. But none of the diagnostic tests done picked up on them. Persephone Halcyon had been thorough in her examination. Even then, even when Aether said he'd felt his symptoms, nothing showed up.

"No, nothing," Aether said. He tapped a few fingers on the crown of his helm. "I could ask Per-- Healer Halcyon if she remembers anything. She was there every time."

Adelle stared, frowning in thought. Persephone had been there every time? And nothing had shown up on their diagnostic equipment. Sweaty hands, heart palpitations, something uncomfortable in the stomach and chest . . .

It clicked in Adelle's head finally. And she rested her forehead in a hand as it did.

"Right so, let me get this straight. Every time you're around Healer Halcyon, you feel all these symptoms, yes?"

"That's correct, yes. Do you think I might be allergic to her perfume?" he asked in all seriousness.

Whills, he was dense. Had no one talked to him about this? "No. No, I think I know exactly what's going on." Adelle leaned against the examination table. "You have a crush, Aether Verd. You like Persephone Halcyon romantically."

"No, that can't be--"

"Do you get excited and nervous to see her? Does her opinion matter a lot to you, more than it probably should?"

Aether seemed struck dumb, wheels in his mind visibly turning. It was strange, seeing the Mand'alor like this. It reminded her of the first time she met him in some bar: a Mandalorian with a commanding presence, yes, but just another Mandalorian.

"Look," Adelle said gently. "It's easy to stop feeling all those things, if you want that."

His voice was calm and steady but nerves flickered almost too fast to catch through the Force. "How?"

"Ask her on a date. If she rejects you, you probably won't feel nervous around her anymore." Adelle only let the silence breathe for a second. "But. If she accepts, the nervousness will give way to familiarity. Eventually. It's not exactly a science, in spite of everyone's claims of 'chemistry.'"

Aether nodded and stood, grabbing his helm and making to put it on.

"And Aether?" Adelle said.

He looked up at her, sharp and attentive.

"If you don't ask her out," she warned, with all the seriousness she could muster, "I will put it down in your medical file that you are romantically hopeless."