Populate N-1 Racing League | Race 1 | Mon Gazza | Populate of Secundus Ando

[Pillar of Faith]

Inaugural
N1 Racing League
Race 1 - Mon Gazza | The Vertical Crucible​

Race Overview
The N-1 Racing League launches its first official season amid the industrial thunder of Mon Gazza.

Once a lawless sprawl of mining guilds and spice syndicates, Mon Gazza has been reforged into a towering engine of profit and efficiency. Its skies are choked with refinery plumes, its cityscapes stacked vertically along massive pylons, and its upper atmosphere crowded with shipping lanes and traffic control beacons. For racers, it is a proving ground where precision matters as much as nerve.

The inaugural course begins deep within Mon Gazza's industrial canyons, climbs through the refinery spires and traffic corridors, and finishes in open space above the planet. Tight turns, turbulence, heat bleed, and sabotage are all part of the spectacle. Speed alone will not win this race. Control will.

Welcome to the Vertical Crucible.

SECTION I – THE REFINERY TRENCHES

The race begins at the Mon Gazza Starting Line, a narrow durasteel runway bolted to the side of a massive refinery tower. Floodlights cut through thick smog, hazard beacons flash red, and magnetic clamps hold each N-1 in place as engines howl. A countdown crackles over comms; then the clamps release, and racers launch hard into a tight industrial corridor with nowhere to go but forward.

This first leg throws pilots straight into Mon Gazza's worst terrain: low-altitude refinery trenches packed with smokestacks, pipework, and scaffolding bridges. The air is hot and dirty, visibility comes and goes, and the heat shimmer can distort sensors and sightlines. Every turn is close-quarters. Misjudge a corner and you'll scrape durasteel, lose control, or vanish into the haze.

Racer Challenges (choose one or both):

• Exhaust Burst: A vent blasts superheated gas across the trench. Do you push through for speed, or dodge wide and lose ground?
• Bridge Thread: A maintenance bridge cuts across the course with hanging cables. Do you slip under it for the best line, or climb over and risk turbulence and traffic?

This section is about surviving the chaos, staying clean, and grabbing early position before the course opens up.


SPECTATOR OBJECTIVE (For Observers & Non-Racers)

React in-character as spectators, sponsors, senators, journalists, mechanics, or intelligence agents. Discuss the ongoing wars in the galaxy, the race, future races, etc.


Dice Rolls:

• Roll a 1: Immediate crash. You are out of the race.
• Roll a 20: You cannot crash on your next post, regardless of roll.
• Roll a 7 or 11: You may sabotage one racer of your choice.
  
  • Target receives -1 to their next roll

Spoiler: Rules & Finances

RACE RULES

• Entry Fee: 35,000 credits per racer
• Sponsorship Bonus:
  
  • If sponsored by a faction, corporation, or organization, pay an additional 10,000 credits (goes to the league)
  • Sponsored racers gain one re-roll per 10,000 credit sponsorship (can buy multiple)
• Starfighter: N-1 Naboo Starfighter only
• Modifications:
  
  • Each racer may select up to two modifications
  • Must be declared before the race begins
  • Modifications should be reasonable and thematic (engine tuning, reinforced shielding, sensor packages, just extra RP flavor.)
• Race Structure:
  
  • The race is divided into 5 sections
  • 1 post = 1 section
  • Each section requires one 1D20 roll
• Dice Outcomes:
  
  • Roll a 1: Immediate crash. You are out of the race.
  • Roll a 20: You cannot crash on your next post, regardless of roll.
  • Roll a 7 or 11: You may sabotage one racer of your choice.
    
    • Target receives -1 to their next roll
• Scoring:
  
  • All rolls are totaled at the end of the race
  • Highest total score wins
  • In the event of a tie, tied racers make one additional roll to determine placement

Prize Pools
Each race purse is generated from entry fees.

80% of all racer entry fees go to the Race Prize Pool
20% of all racer entry fees go to League Operations Profit

LEAGUE CHAMPIONSHIP POOL (END OF 5 RACES)
To reward long-term performance, the League also funds a season-ending Championship Pool:

After each race, 50% of League Operations Profit is added to the Championship Pool
The remaining 50% is retained by the League



LEAGUE POINTS (For Season Totals)​

Position​	Points​	Per Race Payout (of Race Pool)​	Per Season Payout (of Season Pool)​
1st	15	35%​	45%​
2nd	12	20%​	25%​
3rd	10	14%​	15%​
4th	8	10%​	10%​
5th	6	8%​	5%​
6th	4	7%​	0%​
7th	2	6%​	0%​

(Placements beyond 7th receive no league points.)​

Spoiler: Racers & Re-rolls

Michael Angellus
Rojuhr Pouihl - 5 Sponsorships (5 Rerolls)
Phy - 5 Sponsorships (5 Rerolls)
Priesse Namada - 5 Sponsorships (5 Rerolls)
Devin Virell - 5 Sponsorships (5 Rerolls)
Feng Huang - 5 Sponsorships (5 Rerolls)
Nami Runda - 5 Sponsorship (5 Reroll)
Dani Stellaris - 4 Sponsorships (4 Rerolls)
Tintinallë Nyxara - 5 Sponsorships (5 Rerolls)
Aselia Verd - 5 Sponsorships (5 Rerolls)
Osira Perris - 5 Sponsorship (5 Rerolls)
Bettany Sal-Soren - 3 Sponsorships (3 Rerolls) Bettany bribed me so she starts P1

Threads:
X | X​

 

[Maëlys Amnen]

M O N G A Z Z A
Chairwoman Maëlys Angélique Amnen​

Location: Raceway Executive Barge
Objective: Welcome to THR, introduce the race
Tags: OPEN to anyone in the exective barge.

Wearing

The stage was set for spectacle, the opening race to the new N1 racing season was being held, here, on her world and she couldn't be prouder. Her position her and the strides the planet was taking had been years in the making and today felt like a celebration of that as much as anything. The High Republic had wrapped around her system like a blanket and were the largest overall single trading partner, although the Sith and Hutts still bought more spice.

The woman stood in her elegant black and golden ensemble in an exclusive, luxury executive barge that was now floating over the paddock across from the starting grid. Invitations had been issued to dignitaries from the Republic and to business people of appropriate standing. The barge had started the journey from the corporate tower taking its guests on a scenic tour of the capital, Ool Dinne and had explored some of the more accessible parts of the race track to give the dignitaries a feel for the track. Of course much of the track was in underground tunnels, inaccessible to the luxury barge, but high fidelity screens saw to that problem. The rest of the barge was lavishly decorated in a style that Maëlys enjoyed, the barge was older than her premiership, but successive planetary heads, or whichever person could get the best consensus at the time, would have it redecorated to their tastes. In Maëly case it was a mostly white colour scheme with black accent and golden satin drapes. The service was exquisite and high quality food and drinks would flow freely.

The race would be due to start soon and Maëlys needed to give the opening speech. She stepped out onto the balcony of the barge and looked around at the hundreds of thousands of Mon Gazzans and foreigners alike that had filled the grandstands, this was just a fraction of the total audience as similar stands were in other prime locations around the track, it was beautiful. She smiled as she saw the giant screens turning to images of her face and she held up her drink.

”Good morning citizens and honoured guests!

Allin p'unchaw llaqtayuq runakuna, yupaychasqa invitadokuna ima.”

Her initial greeting she made in both basic and Huttese but the rest of her speech would be in basic with loudspeaker translations for the stands.

”It is my proud duty to welcome everybody to the inaugural N1 championship race, brought here by our Republic friends, hosted by Mon Gazza…” she paused to allow the eruption of cheers of local pride to die down across the stands. Everybody was in a particularly excitable mood, in addition to the usual price capped tickets for locals, Maëly had added a personal gift to the people. Anyone who used work leave to attend today's race would be entered onto a lottery and half a million of them would have their leave day recredited back to them, funded personally by herself. The day was a gift from her to them, her approval rating ahead of the planet entering the Republic was their gift back to her.

”A special welcome to the Chancellor of the Republic and other members of her government, I am certain they will love our planet as much as as we do. And most importantly, please show your appreciation for today's pilots who are ready to entertain you, hoping to start the competition off on our amazing circuit with some real excitement.”

There was a few other political platitudes, cheering and celebration before a large lever was elevated into a position in front of her. She placed her hand on the lever and grasped.

”Without further ado, lets get this race underway.” she pulled the lever and her face disappeared from the screen replaced with a silent down of the number from 30 in aurubesh accompanied by fireworks. The fireworks would continue until ten seconds when music would stop and the massive crowd would count down from ten in unison and then the lights would go green.

Unless someone decided to join her to watch for a time from the balcony, Maëlys would return inside the barge to watch on the giant screens with the other dignitaries.

​

 

[Dani Stellaris]

You good? The voice on the other end asked her. Dani had recently picked up some group of refugees in a fairly high energy environment. Her Gallofree was ready to go, no guns, all throttle. The member of House Sato was more than happy to be helping. Naboo was going to be taking these refugees and helping them get acquainted within the High Republic. Her engines were green and the ship had taken off.

Moving forward, this Gallofree was free of the atmosphere, TIEs on her tail. People were seeing her as a solarpunk, helping others as best she could. Her ship had drained itself of water on the world she was in, and she could fit more people.

It was a good feeling.

These runs were common place for her now. And the shields were holding as she saw the hyperspace buoy on her HUD.

And the lines of stars.

Today, though, she was back in the cockpit of the Manta II, her faithful droid Mack in the slot behind her. Her hands moved over the controls, turning on the battery, operating the port engine, the radar and shields, then prepping the starboard engine. Ships and all her systems were green.

“Ready, Mack?” She smiled as the droid tweeted positive. He always ready for a race, to get out there and get moving.

She’d reviewed the course, this first leg was the Refinery. Smog, and tight corners. She was going to have to trust her emory of what she saw, and her instincts. It was going to to be tight, and she was going to have to push it.

But Dani knew her skills, she knew her fighter, helped rebuild the damned thing after all. The droid beeped again, and the lights were on. So that she could focus on her own craft, she watched the countdown from Mack. Good. Good.

Red… red… green.

She felt the ship drop, her engines were warm but no throttle yet, giving herself a few feet to drop, she saw the other fighters, and kick started her engines. The throttle roared and she was pushed back in her seat.

There was a bridge and yeah, it was risky, but she knew how low she needed to get. There were the construction cables but she could get below them, and thread it.

“Mack, keep your sensors on that bridge, and shields up. Hopefully that’ll keep us going.”

 

[Ayumi Pallopides]

Dominique Vexx Melanie Sato Maëlys Amnen

The vertical sprawl of Mon Gazza rose like a forest of blackened steel and venting flame far below the private landing platform. Repulsorlifts hissed as Ayumi's sleek, unmarked shuttle settled onto the polished deck, its hull still warm from the drop through the planet's choked upper atmosphere. The hatch parted with a soft pneumatic sigh, releasing a breath of filtered, jasmine-scented air into the refinery-tanged wind. Ayumi stepped out first. She moved with the unhurried certainty of someone who knew every eye in the sector would turn toward her the moment she appeared. The outfit was pure theater deliberately so.

A long, tailored overcoat of liquid-white materia silk cascaded to mid-calf, its surface shattered with geometric panels of mirror-bright gleaming aurodium plate. Each diamond-shaped facet caught the harsh blue-white glare of the dome lights and threw it back in blinding prisms. Thicker bands of aurodium ran along the cuffs, collar, and hem, etched with micro-repeating Atrisian latticework that shimmered like living circuitry. Crystal studs real Hapen rainbow gems clustered along the shoulders and down the chest in controlled constellations, winking every time she breathed. Beneath the coat, a draped ivory blouse of weightless chiffon crossed in soft folds across her torso, secured by a wide gold sash that accentuated her narrow waist and the long lines of her frame.

Matching high-waisted trousers hugged her legs like they were poured on before flaring subtly at the ankle, their fabric so fine it moved like smoke around her boots white leather with aurodium toe-caps and discreet armor weave hidden under the shine. A wide-brimmed hat, white with a midnight-navy underside and aurodium piping, sat at a precise angle, shadowing her face just enough to make the dark honey-amber of her eyes glow like embers when she tilted her head. Her long, dark-honey hair spilled straight and silken down her back, the natural golden threads catching light in subtle streaks that matched the metallic accents of her ensemble.

The scars remained deliberately uncovered where they could be seen: the pale nick below her lip flashing when her mouth curved in the faintest half-smile. They were not flaws she hide; they were provenance. Four Denon senate bodyguards disembarked behind her in perfect formation, two to each flank. Their armor echoed her outfit in military register: pristine white hypertech materia plates edged and inlaid with the same geometric aurodium plate, but cut sharp and functional. Angular pauldrons, segmented vambraces, and tactical chest rigs replaced the flowing drapery, yet the same crystalline clusters and diamond patterning tied them visually to her.

Gold-mesh visors concealed their eyes; comms units curved along their jaws like elegant filigree. Each carried a compact blaster carbine slung low and ceremonial vibroblades sheathed at the hip ornate enough to pass as parade gear, lethal enough to end a conversation in half a heartbeat. They moved like extensions of her shadow: silent, synchronized, unmistakably dangerous. Ayumi paused at the edge of the platform, letting the wind tug at the hem of her coat and send the chiffon at her throat fluttering. Below, the Vertical Crucible waited canyons of pipe and pylon lit by exhaust flares, the first racers already arriving and Denon had built an N-1 for the race, gotten a skilled pilot for it.....

Then she had proceeded to look at all of the beautiful pilots that weren't racing for her here. She could hear the crowd roar even from this height, a low thunder that vibrated up through the deck plates. One gloved hand brushed the brim of her hat, settling it more firmly. "Let's see who remembers how to fly today," she said quietly, voice low and amused, carrying just enough for her escort to hear. The lead bodyguard gave a curt nod. The group turned as one and started down the private concourse toward the executive skybox level Ayumi at the center, coat flaring behind her like a banner of white and molten gold, the four armored figures forming a moving fortress of matching opulence and menace.

The N-1 season had begun. And she intended to watch every second of it. Ayumi was wanting to see more and she had set aside space in the observation area for others like Melanie to come and join her. Her chief of staff worked hard and deserved a chance to experience what they were working to change after all. SHe had also invited the chancellor... a small thing and she didn't know if such a thing would be fulfilled but she did miss spending time with her. Others were welcome as her hats tilt was there and at the ready for any glare.

 

[Bettany Sal-Soren]

Location: Mon Gazza
Objective: Race

Note : She has entered under the pseudonym Bastila Sal-Soren

Bettany Sal-Soren sat in the cockpit of her flame red N-1 starfighter, looking at the dials in front of her and getting ready to race. She shouldnt be her, her lawyer would kills her, her agent would disown her, this was so ridiculous. But this was her reward for herself for actually trying at Jedi school. If the jedi valued balance then surely an episode of abject recklessness would marry well with lessons on control and meditation.

She looked up the race board, she was in position one on the grid through a little bung she had slipped the organisers, so her name was at the top. Except it wasnt her name. In order to not have the staff in her life put a bounty on her, she was racing under the name of her cousin Bastila Sal-Soren and now there it was in twenty foot tall words that made her laugh. She heard the voice of the annoncer loudly make the same announcement just as she closed her cockpit and flipped all the engine switches. She wondered what Bast might do when she found out.

Less than a minute later she was ready to go. She put her hands on the joy, flipped the launch control unit on and braced herself for the green light. What had the race guy she had chatted too said about the start? She ran it through her head, she wasnt a racer but was turning into a bit of a car girl, especially after Phillip bought her a sports car as a gift. "Here we go."

She hit the boost and off she went like a rocket. The roadway was clear in front of her when it started and nobody overtook her immediately so she would assume that she got a good start. She jinked quickly left to avoid a blast from a gas furnace. That was odd, she didnt even know that was there but just... reacted. Interesting.

Bettany rolled a nat 20 on discord

​

 

[Rojuhr Pouihl]

​

FLIGHT LOG – Entry #
Location: –
Assigned Craft: Normally Mine, For this race Denon Model: N-1 Racer "Danger Zone"
Astromech Partner: R8-D0 (Radio) - What can I say? I like them old school.
Current Mood: A Bit Nervous
Background Noise: Crowds, Engines

It’s weird that in all of his time in this universe, and his “less than legal” past that Rojuhr had never been a part of a race. This model racer was quite cool actually. He could feel “Radio”’s fan as the droid slotted behind him under the canopy. It tickled. It had been a long time he had been in an N-1, but since meeting with Senator Ayumi and being her sponsored racer here, the Shi’do was able to do his research on this and have some fun with it.

Michael Angellus was in the race, he didn’t know where the kid was, but he was SO talented, he would be okay, and frankly, if Rojuhr wanted a good showing… It meant that the kid was on his own.

The race began, and Pouihl was barreling the Starfighter down a narrow durasteel runway bolted to the side of a massive refinery tower. Running hard into a tight industrial corridor with nowhere to go but forward.

This first leg was already difficult, throwing him straight into Mon Gazza's worst terrain: low-altitude refinery trenches packed with smokestacks, pipework, and scaffolding bridges.

Radio, lock down the intake dampeners. We’re going to run into some interference… and get the floodlights ready!

The air was getting ridiculously hot and dirty, visibility came and went. Those floodlights were coming in handy with the heat shimmer distorting the sensors and sightlines. The astromech was giving him flightlines to take, every turn being tight. Misjudge a corner and you'll scrape durasteel, lose control, or vanish into the haze.

One of the turns he took was a little too tight as Rojuhr was dead in front of a bridge loaded with low hanging cables. He could move around it, but there were exhaust stacks, or climb above and hit a ceiling.

Have to make a choice here! Frak it!
Gunning the engines forward, Rojuhr JUST missed one of the cables that swung into another. This gave Rojuhr the speed to explode through a burst of exhaust.

He was clear.

TAG: OPEN
This is where he is speaking
Opening Roll (at the bottom)

 

[Kinley Pryse]

You've been hit by... you've been struck by...

The Force doesn't guide Kinley Pryse, it takes notes​

The heat hit first, oil-slick warmth rolling off the track, engines snarling in their cradles like hungry animals. Mon Gazza was showing off for its inaugural N-1, banners snapping in the wind, grandstands packed tight with gamblers, mechanics, and people who swore they were just here for the race. Kinley Pryse leaned against the rail with the lazy confidence of someone who knew exactly where every exit was. Aviators on, boots hooked casually on the lower bar, she looked like another thrill-seeker chasing noise and speed.

A man drifted up beside her, said her name like he wasn't sure it belonged in his mouth. Kinley didn't look over. She reached into her jacket, produced a slim vial that caught the sun just long enough to sparkle, then slipped it into his palm when the first test engines screamed to life. Credits passed the other way, folded once, tucked away without ceremony. No hushed voices. No drama. Just business, clean, quiet, and already forgotten by everyone who mattered.

The racers began their prep runs, repulsors whining as N-1s glided toward the grid, polished hulls flashing gold and chrome. The crowd roared. Kinley finally pushed off the rail, a half-smile tugging at her mouth as the smell of spice, fuel, and anticipation mixed in the air. She was here for the race, sure, but like most things worth watching, it was better with a little side hustle. And if Mon Gazza was going to make history today, she might as well make a profit while it did.


Aiden Porte

A Smooth Criminal

 

[Michael Angellus]

​

PERSONAL FLIGHT LOG – Entry #333333333333 (man, that’s a lot of 3’s)
Location: Mon Gazza
Assigned Craft: My X-wing
Astromech Partner: BRED (BB-30)
Current Mood: Energetic
Background Noise: I can’t hear anything over the spherical Diva.
NOTE- ** STARTING GRID ** and anything passed it is written in real time and not the “log approach like usual for Michael.

THE DAY BEFORE THE RACE:

There it was, a stock N-1
“Wooo-beeep.” [Translation: Seriously? I still can’t believe what we are doing here.]

What is wrong with an N!?
“Weeep-bwoo.” [Translation: Compared to either X-wing you fly?]

I like this. We’re all flying the same units.

“Chrrp.” [Translation: You WHAT?! You KNOW that pilots can modify their ships, right?]

Yes, but anyone who does that is a wuss.
“ChEEp.” [Translation: Yes, GREAT Strategy! You had better be ready tomorrow.]

We’ll be fine. I have a plan.


** THE STARTING GRID: **

The Paddock was abuzz with activity as final preparations were coming together until ultimately…

The flag dropped! The locks released Starfighters roared in a thunderclap of energy to life and zoomed across the starting line with a feral animosity towards all that is peace and quiet. All except for one.

A pathetic whine, a cough of fumes and a wheeze of a stalled engine 2 and the ship dropped and slammed into the ground.
“Wooo-beeep.” [Translation: We have achieved decorative status! Is this a part of your plan??!!]

What is wrong with this thing?

“Weeep-bwoo.” [Translation: You want the long or short list? Fine. It’s a rattletrap. It’s an antique. It’s a bicycle, you’re used to a speederbike.]

I forgot to initiate the intake dampeners…

“Chrrp.” [Translation: You WHAT?! Oh.my… YOU had ONE JOB!]

Yes. Thank you! Helpful! Toaster! Did you turn the heat on??!! I’m burning up!

Having to slowly remember how to get the engines back up to speed took a moment, then a cough, a wheeze, a “gear jump” and a sputter later. They were going again.
“ChEEp.” [Translation: We’re wall art. Fast wall art, but wall art! LOOK OUT FOR THAT BRIDGE!] In their maniacal path, they flew through and around smokestacks right into the cables dangling from a bridge that was just hit by an unlucky racer.

RELAX! I got it!

In an incredible flash of brilliance, or insanity (insanity if you ask Devin Virell , or any member of Striker Squadron), Michael dodged a huge energy spouting cable that wanted to turn them into ions.

Right into an exhaust burst.

“Wooo.” [Translation: If a droid could have an aneurysm, I would have by now.]

– Michael A.
This is gonna suck!

Opening Roll (at the bottom)
TAG: OPEN!

This is where he is speaking

 

[Aiden Porte]

Kinley Pryse
Indirect: Feng Huang​

He seemed slightly out of his element.

That much showed in the way he moved through the crowds without armor,, dressed in simple civilian clothes that marked him as just another spectator caught up in the noise and heat of Mon Gazza. The only thing that betrayed him was the lightsaber clipped openly at his belt, worn with the quiet, habitual ease of someone who had stopped thinking of it as a symbol long ago.

He slipped through the press of bodies with practiced calm, letting the Force nudge him through gaps before they fully opened. The air was thick with exhaust and anticipation, and beneath it all, the familiar undercurrent of tension that came with crowds, credits, and competition. His attention drifted naturally, as it always did, brushing against conversations and intentions without prying.

That was when he saw it.

The exchange was quick and unceremonious. A vial, a fold of credits, no attempt at subtlety beyond timing it with the scream of engines. Aiden could not help the quiet laugh that slipped from him. He shook his head faintly as he continued walking.

The race had not even started, and contraband was already moving through the stands like sweets at a festival.

As he passed her, he slowed just enough to make his presence known. He cleared his throat gently, not unkindly, and spoke without stopping.

"You should probably try to be more smooth with that next time."

There was no accusation in his voice. Just observation, wrapped in dry amusement. He did not look back to see her reaction. That was not his role today.

Aiden found his seat moments later, settling in as the announcers' voices boomed across the industrial canyon. He clapped along with the crowd, genuine enthusiasm rising in his chest despite himself. It surprised him how easily it came. The last time he had been at a race, he had been nine years old, small enough that the world had felt impossibly large and endlessly exciting.

His gaze tracked the N Ones as they lined up, engines snarling, hulls gleaming through heat shimmer.

"Come on, Feng," he called out, cupping his hands around his mouth as he clapped again. "Focus. You got this."

The countdown lights ignited one by one.

Aiden leaned forward in his seat, grin tugging at his expression as the final tone sounded and the racers launched into the Vertical Crucible, engines screaming and history tearing itself free from the starting line.

 

[Aileni Ifor Xeraic]

Location: Mon Gazza
Attire: Suit
Tag: OPEN

Checking over the fake ID that Aileni had made once again, he had heard about there being some big fancy barge that spectators were able to get on but it was reserved for the elites and with invites specifically for them. Aileni figured he would take this as a chance to test his ability to forge an identity, create a cover that allowed him to infiltrate and see how long he could last before being detected. Currently, the best plan was simply to be the son of a rich CEO of a large company. Someone who didn't have a too public family so that Aileni wouldn't have stood out too much as someone who did not belong.

Aileni worked on the forgery and cover story for days before the event, he was super keen to see how effective this could get and it was the focus of seeing how to blend into a society that he never even thought about before now. He also had to find some appropriate clothing as well for the event since his usual wear was never going to be convincing in terms of the son of a CEO. He needed a suit and something new and different to the one he wore at the gala event.

Arriving at the royal barge, Aileni flashed his ID to the security and walked on through. His nerves were squashed and he held a cool appearance. One that belonged at this event as he looked over the screens. He spotted Michael in his ship, "you got this." Aileni whispered hopeful that his friend would get the chance to show how skilled he was as a pilot. The other names and faces were less familiar to Aileni, there was one that seemed to be connected to his aunt Briana. But he wasn't sure who would be a favourite for this race.

For now, he just walked around, wondering what he might be able to overhear.

 

[Osira Perris]

OSIRA PERRIS

ROGUE THREE

The bar was bolted to the race hub like it had been an afterthought; an enclosed blister of transparisteel and scarred durasteel hanging off the side of Mon Gazza’s lower pylons. It shook constantly, a low industrial tremor that rattled glasses and set the lights humming. Outside, traffic beacons strobed red through the refinery smog. Inside, it smelled like ozone, coolant, and cheap liquor that burned going down and stayed with you long after.

Osira Perris had one boot hooked around the rung of her stool, chair tilted back just far enough to annoy the safety-minded. Her flight jacket was half-zipped, helmet sitting on the counter beside her like a dare. A crowd had gathered around her, not because she was loud (she wasn’t), but because she looked like she belonged everywhere she wasn’t supposed to be.

“...telling you,” some dockhand was saying, voice raised over the hum, “Vertical Crucible’s going to chew pilots up. Trenches first. No room to breathe.”

Osira smirked into her glass and took another slow sip.

“Chew?” she said mildly. “That’s optimistic.”

Laughter rippled. Someone slid a datapad across the counter, betting lines scrolling fast. Osira didn’t look. She never did.

A horn blared outside, ut was long and metallic. The pre-grid warning rolled through the structure like a war call.

A mechanic at the end of the bar frowned, checked a chrono, then looked back at her. His eyes widened.

“Aren’t you supposed to be there?”

For half a second, Osira froze.

Then she swore.

It wasn’t loud, but it was heartfelt. She tipped the glass back and finished it in one go, slapped it down on the counter, and was already on her feet before the bartender could protest.

“Put it on my tab,” she called, already moving. “If I die, you can keep the change.”

“You don’t have a tab…” The complaint never reached her ears.

She vaulted the low barrier at the bar’s edge, boots hitting the deck in a run. The hub doors irised open as she approached, blasting her with hot, polluted air and the distant scream of engines spooling up. Crew scattered as she tore through, jacket flaring behind her.

The N-1 waited on its clamp like a predator straining at the leash—polished metallic green dulled by grime, Naboo lines cutting clean against Mon Gazza’s brutal geometry. Her assigned crew chief was shouting something about timing windows and magnetic locks. Osira didn’t slow.

She leapt into the cockpit, hands flying, fingers dancing across familiar switches. The canopy dropped. The world narrowed.

<<Perris, you’re late,>> crackled race control.

“I know,” she said, voice bright, engines whining up beneath her. “Adds drama.”

The countdown began anyway. Floodlights flared. Smog churned.

Mag-clamps released.

Osira punched it.

The N-1 didn’t fly so much as felt like an extension of her.

The moment the clamps released, Osira felt it in her bones; the subtle shudder as repulsors took full load, the way the starfighter’s nose dipped half a degree lower than spec as it bit into the air. Most pilots fought that correction.

She didn’t.

She rode it.

The refinery trench closed around her in a rush of heat and shadow, walls screaming past close enough that she could see scoring marks left by racers who hadn’t judged it right. The air here was filthy; thick with particulate, ionised exhaust, thermal wash from a thousand vent stacks, it was the type of air that made it hard to see; but Osira didn’t rely on the sensors. They lagged. They always did in places like this.

She flew by pressure and instinct.

By the way the control yoke pushed back when the airflow changed.
By the way the engine note shifted half a register when the intake skimmed hotter air.
By the faint, intimate vibration through the seat when the hull skimmed turbulence instead of punching through it.

The N-1 was a thing of beauty. She couldn’t help but be impressed.

An exhaust vent ahead belched superheated gas across the trench, the plume boiling like a living thing. Warning runes flashed.

Osira eased the throttle up.

Heat licked across the N-1’s shields, rolling the craft just enough to make another pilot flinch. She felt the resistance build, adjusted her angle by instinct alone, and threaded the starfighter along the edge of the burst,close enough to steal speed from the pressure wave without letting it shove her off-line.

The ship surged.

She laughed a breathless and electric noise.

A maintenance bridge loomed, durasteel girders and hanging cables slicing across the corridor. One racer ahead pulled up hard, engines screaming as they climbed into dirty air.

Osira dropped instead.

The N-1 rolled onto its side, skimming under the bridge with meters—centimeters—to spare. Cables whipped past the canopy in a blur. The craft shuddered as turbulence slapped at her, and she corrected without thinking, fingertips light, precise, almost lazy.

This was the part she loved.

Not the speed. Not the crowd.

The fact it was just her and the ship. No one else but the conversation she was having with it.

Mon Gazza pushed at her from every angle; heat bleed, crosswinds from refinery stacks, the violent wake of other racers, but she answered each challenge in kind. A fractional yaw here. A throttle feather there. Never wasted movement. Never panic.

Smoke swallowed the trench ahead, visibility collapsing to nothing.

Osira didn’t slow.

She flew blind, guided by the echo of airflow along the hull and the memory of the course burned into muscle and instinct. She did scrap durasteel once; just a kiss along the starboard stabiliser, she felt it through the frame and adjusted instantly, slipping free before the trench could claim her.

When the corridor widened, when the air finally thinned enough for the N-1 to breathe properly, she opened the throttle and let the starfighter stretch its legs.

Her heart was hammering. Her hands were steady.

This was where she belonged, balanced on the knife-edge between control and catastrophe, feeling every beat of the machine beneath her, every demand the course made of her.

And Osira Perris was smiling the whole way through.

​

DIALOGUE GUIDE
"Speech." // <<Comms>> // <MESSAGES> // Thoughts

​

 

[Phy]

Mon Gazza
Tags: Osira Perris , Michael Angellus , Bettany Sal-Soren , Dani Stellaris , Others...

Droid Body​

"Alright. Straightforward. Just need to put on a good show for Mr. Pazarro Krimenon III and get a good finish. Maybe win. That would be nice."

The Kai'el family astromech, Blip had tagged along to be her co-pilot. He warbled out a melodic string of beeps and whistles, the astromech having a strange quirk that made it sound like he was always beat-boxing. The little droid inquired on if Phy was nervous.

"Maybe excited," she noted. "Nervous I'm not sure. I know I want to do well. That would make me happy, and I'm sure the sponsors would like that. We'll see."

The countdown felt like an eternity. The radio chatter of her Krinemonen Hydraworks Racing team had stilled as they all waited with baited breath for the start of the race. Phy was fortunate to not be organic in the way folks made of flesh were. She couldn't sweat nervously for starters. The Shard could appreciate some aspects of her nature as a crystal, even if it made it difficult to relate to others from time to time. Then, after waiting for what seemed like forever, it happened.

The fireworks would continue until ten seconds when music would stop and the massive crowd would count down from ten in unison and then the lights would go green.

Green. Her synthetic smile became a grin, and the young pilot throttled up with quick reflexes. The N1 screamed and raced forward, kicking up a cloud of dust behind it. Everything started nice and clean. No errors or faults, no stuttering. Just a clean ride. Not all of her peers were as fortunate as her...

The flag dropped! The locks released Starfighters roared in a thunderclap of energy to life and zoomed across the starting line with a feral animosity towards all that is peace and quiet. All except for one.

A pathetic whine, a cough of fumes and a wheeze of a stalled engine 2 and the ship dropped and slammed into the ground.

"Poor guy," Phyla remarked. "Glad we checked our equipment ahead of time."

Blip chirped in agreement in his musical way.

What lie ahead now was the coming maze of pipes and scaffolding, an industrial maze reaching out like a horror beyond comprehension, eager to drag you into its fold. Phy had to be sure to not get drawn into the beast.

And perhaps have a little fun.

Roll:

 

[Kinley Pryse]

You've been hit by... you've been struck by...

The law considers Kinley Pryse a "recurring problem."

​

"You should probably try to be more smooth with that next time."

Kinley Pryse raised an eyebrow at the man who was passing her, but before she spoke, she noted the lightsaber hanging on his belt. Fraking Jedi always poking their noses in where they didn't need to be poked. Surprisingly, he kept walking though, which made her nervous. She would have to see how much of a problem he was going to be today if she had any chance of enjoying the race.

She climbed the stands and took a seat next to him, tipping her hat with a grin. "Smoothness is overrated if its absence lends to an interesting conversation with a stranger." She took a toothpick out of her pocket and popped it into her mouth.

"So... tell me Jedi.... you here to have some fun or just to ruin mine?" The tone was playful. Clearly if he wanted to ruin her day, he would have done it already, but still Kinley liked to know things.


Aiden Porte

A Smooth Criminal

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Mon Gazza, Mid Rim Territories
| Objective | Spectate

Itzhal Volkihar stared at the flickering holographic map of Mon Gazza's racing circuit. An uneven skyline of towering smokestacks billowed toxic gases into the air, visible through a hazy mix of different-coloured fogs, each promising a different death, warped by the insidious pollution of a world that had turned death into just another statistic. Massive structures dedicated to the works of multi-sector corporations reached outwards and upwards in a display of power and status, efficiency, another pipeline to be exploited and pursued. And yet, all around him, others watched with painted-on smiles, eyes gleaming at the spectacle that awaited them, as if the glitz and the glam could cover up the smell of decay.

Maybe it could, in a way.

Maybe it only stood out to those who cared to look beyond the blazing spectacle of high-octane racing.

In the corner of his vision, another screen flickered with an assortment of interviews—colourful, exciting and filled with willful braggarts and skilful racers fueled with a lust for victory. Test footage from the track below, intermingled between the entertainer's clips, captured by probe droids that skittered like an ant hive over the course, while emplaced cameras spread to fill the gaps, in search of the perfect angle.

Idly, he glanced over the assortment of drinks at the nearby bar, embellished in gold plating that framed the smooth, darkened wood; some of the labels on the drinks listed brands that had existed in his own time. If the prices were anything to go by, he wouldn't be surprised if a couple of the spirits stored had been left to age for centuries as well.

"I think we've found the wrong spot to spectate," Itzhal remarked with a slow drawl, tinted with amusement that the Mandalorian did little to hide from his fellow companion, as he tilted his head towards the bar worth more than either of them were likely to ever make.

Tags: Adelle Bastiel​

 

[Jared Starchaser]

He really should be out there racing, but it wasn’t his kind of fighter. Nor was it really the race he’d excel in. Jared Starchaser knew what his gifts were, and sure, flying was one, but hyperspace? That was even better. Just like his father, and his sister. He could do that.

But for now? He’d sit and watch. Kattada was calm at the moment, and there weren’t exactly missions for him to run. So why not visit Naboo and see what shenanigans were going on here? Racers racing, and observers observing?

And oh, look, a beer girl. That was a good sign. Maybe coming in from the cold of the Rim was not always so bad. His jacket had all the buttons this time, and he still wore his saber. Didn’t carry a card for the High Republic Jedi Order, but that was something he was arguing more with Vodet about than anyone here.

Floating barge, drinks, N-1s zipping around. A good day.

 

[Feng Huang]

Feng's heart was pounding, even more so than when she was in combat, her knee's weak, palms were sweaty, she felt like she was going to vomit already. Everything was lowed under her muffled helmet, the roar of the crowd, the roar of the engines, the whirling of maintenance droids dashing about. It was all heightened.

Breathe Feng. Just Breathe. Focus on the track.

Feng knew she was being silly she'd been in combat risking her life what felt like dozens of times, but this was different, this was important, this was racing! She'd been working on the modifications for her ship The Fire Bolt for weeks. Reinforced shielding, and booster thrusters.

She had agonized over the decision of what modifications to make, but in the end decided getting there in one piece, the fastest, were the priorities of the race. Feng wasn't sure about her little modifications, and dearly hoped they wouldn't turn her ship into a fireball. She had been sponsored for this race, meaning she felt some responsibility to do well. Or at least not you know explode at the start line.

Mostly though she just didn't want to come last. First would be amazing, but Feng would be happy just to finish. If she could finish in the top three she would feel proud. Though she supposed a Jedi wasn't supposed to feel pride.

Focus Feng!

The race was about to start. Feng took a deep breath and as soon as the signal turned green she launched it. Feng got frustrated with herself as she fell behind the lead pack of the race, then made a decision and took it easy, the opening moves races weren't just about gunning it and hoping for the best . It was about getting a measure of the other racers and seeing where they landed.

Feng almost lost her concentration and her ship when an exhaust burst flared up. It ejected into the air out of nowhere.

"Blargh!" Feng pulled the controls sharply veering to the left and sweeping wide. It would cost her some ground but she didn't want to test her shielding so early on in the race. Feng bit her lip she was falling behind of the lead pack.

There was a maintenance bridge with cables across the track coming up ahead, she'd have to risk cutting underneath it. Feng breathed in measured breaths. Feng took it at a steady pace, waiting for the opportune moment, hoping she wasn't making a mistake, by playing it safe.

Calm, be calm and focus. You'll get your chance.

 

[Wuxia Wukong]

Wuxia was enjoying himself, he normally didn't attend sports gatherings, but he felt it important for Feng to know that she had his support. She would be crushed if he didn't attend, besides Wuxia was proud of her for stepping up, he knew she adored events such as these on the holonet, she so rarely got a chance to participate in them herself. Wu just hoped she wasn't building up the pressure in her head. Berating herself for slight mistakes that turned into a spiral. It was something they were working on, but as much as he worried for her, he would be even more worried if she didn't enter this event. Being the guardian of a youth was a confusing circumstance at times. Wanting to protect them while wanting them to succeed, wanting them safe while exceeding. At some point you had to step back and let them go.

He looked around the gathering crowd for a good vantage point, which was when he noticed an acquaintance and comrade.

"Aiden." Wuxia bowed with a wide smile as he approached Aiden Porte

"I see you have come to support Feng as well, perhaps we may do so together." Wu stopped as he realised, he had interrupted a cordial exchange with a figure Kinley Pryse who if Wuxia were the type to judge from appearances would not be out of place at a saloon on Tatooine. Then again many people judged Wu on his appearance incorrectly, so Wu tried not to make the same mistake.

"Pardon me, I am Wuxia Wukong. My Padawan Feng Huang is racing today." Wu gave a broad pleased grin in explanation.

Wu had precious little time for small take as the race started and Feng was off... she was flying more conservatively then she normally did. Wu didn't care one fig if Feng won or not, he would be happy if she made it out alive, but he knew for her own self confidence she would like to do well. Wu knew his padawan well enough to know that when she was flying this conservatively she was stuck in her own head, her nature was closer to boosting the thrusters over and over until she shot ahead.

"Breathe Feng just breathe."

 

[Aiden Porte]

Wuxia Wukong Kinley Pryse
Indirect: Feng Huang​

Aiden chuckled softly as she tipped her hat, the sound easy and unguarded. He answered the gesture with a small smirk of his own and a simple nod in her direction, settling back into his seat as the engines below continued their restless growl.

"I am here for fun," he said, tone light but certain. "And trust me, you do not want me ruining your day."

Another quiet laugh followed, the kind that carried no threat and no challenge, only truth. His eyes drifted briefly toward the track as the racers lined up, the glow of the countdown reflecting faintly across his features.

"I am here to cheer a friend on," Aiden added, genuine excitement slipping through now as his hands came together in a brief clap with the crowd. He glanced back to her, curiosity clear but unforced. "And you? What is your name friend?"

The Jedi heard his name as he turned to see whom it was, and it was Wuxia.

Aiden rose from his seat to greet him, the movement unhurried but sincere. A warm smile crossed his face as he extended a hand, the familiar ease of friendship settling comfortably between them. "Wuxia! It's good to see you." Aiden said, his voice carrying genuine warmth over the noise of the crowd. "And I would not have missed this for anything."

And me and my friend here were just getting acquainted. Aiden looked over to Kinley.

His gaze shifted briefly toward the track, where engines thundered and light cut through the haze, before returning to Wuxia. There was quiet certainty in his expression now, a calm pride that needed no embellishment.

"I am sure Feng will feel better knowing she has friends here," he added. "Sometimes that matters more than any amount of preparation."

 

[Kinley Pryse]

You've been hit by... you've been struck by...

Kinley Pryse didn't survive this long by being reasonable.

​

"And you? What is your name friend?"​

Kinley leaned forward in her seat, elbows on her knees, eyes tracking the racers as they screamed off the line in a blur of engines and color. The Jedi mentioned he was there to cheer on a friend, and she found herself idly wondering which poor soul had earned Jedi loyalty today. Not that it mattered. Curiosity was just something to chew on while the race warmed up.

She opened her mouth to answer and was promptly interrupted.

​

"Pardon me, I am Wuxia Wukong. My Padawan Feng Huang is racing today."

Kinley blinked once. Ah. Of course. So the first one was Aiden, and this one had the look too, the posture, the calm, the quiet certainty that screamed Jedi. This was officially getting ridiculous. Then again, what had she expected? She was slumming it at a Republic event. No refined criminals here, just sanctimonious heroes and villains who liked to pretend they were different.

"Kinley Pryse," she said at last, tipping her hat as she leaned back against the bench. She didn't bother standing the way Aiden had. Respect was expensive, and she wasn't shopping.

Her eyes flicked back to the track, following the pack as they tore around the first bend.

"So," Kinley added lightly, glancing between the two of them, "which one are you rooting for?" As she spoke, a wicked little thought crossed her mind.

Were Jedi allowed to gamble?


Aiden Porte | Wuxia Wukong

A Smooth Criminal

 

[Nami Runda]

Current Outfits
Modified N1 Starfighter


"Ohh this is sooo wonderful!" Nami clapped her hands with glee as she went over the controls of the Starfighter. She loved flying but she never been in a race before. Though races were exciting to watch, Nami never partook in them. Partially because she was never a competitive person, she always preferred cooperation to individualistic accomplishment. Nami didn't want to make people sad nor did she want to dominate her opponent. She just wanted to help people. Yet Nami found herself in the cockpit ready to compete with people from all walks of the Galaxy. Also, they were racing in a spice mining planet filled with scum and villainy...... how exciting!

She was being bankrolled by a person named: Nolle Tron . Nami didn't know who she was but she did represent a company named: Zenith Point Ventures and was impressed with Nami's piloting skills. "Stay calm....." Nami said to herself feeling a mixture of nervousness and excitement. She hoped that she won't let Nolle down. "I'll do my very best!" Nami said flipping on a few switches as the engines roared to life.

Nami began to accelerate giggling in the process. That rush of speed filled her heart with joy, she loved flying as much as she loved helping people. She couldn't decide which she liked more. Maybe both! Both is good! "Gripping on the controls, Nami spotted a vent bursting in front of her. Flames started to pop out. "Oh no!" Nami gulped but she couldn't hesitate. The moment Nami hesistates, she could be seriously hurt. Squinting her eyes, Nami accelerated through the superheated gas trying to catch up with the other racers.

"I must stay focused!" Nami said to herself. "I can do this!"


From Discord:



<@433159111027195904> rolled 1d20: (15) = 15