Faction Packs of Iron | The Iron Wolves of Mandalore

[Vytal Noctura]

MANDALORE
"The only way is through. The only failure, surrender."​

The fires of affirmation never waned. Whether it be Mandalorian against another, another against Mandalorian, or even Mandalorian against Mandalorian there was always a challenge to become over, or an ideology to prove out. Most recently, the first domino that had led to glory had been Vexis Station. Now, the Mandalorian Emprie proclaimed a great victory over Yaga Minor and sought to secure an end to the Troubles upon Bastion.

And the fire burned unabated. The aftermath of the conversation with the Imperial Confederacy had yet to manifest. Flames danced, carried by the currents from Yaga Minor and the revelations of third-party involved. Soon, embers of one storm might beget another. How many more would follow?

It was not a blaze that could be contained. Whether one used a cold fire or a searing fire, plastered in ideology and coated with the banners of hosts, it would go on. And it was because of that the people should celebrate their victories as time allowed, cling to one another when they were harsh, and take every opportunity to grow as individuals and as a whole.

The Warmaster of the Iron Wolves had sent word out to all. Called to this plateau among the clouds in the wilds of their home, Witches and Wolves alike had set up a camp at the edge of a forest that sat at the foot of a towering peak. Even as the light still reached them, a fire burned. To cook. To draw warmth from a chill in the air. To study and find meaning in its nearly hypnotic dance. Every use was appropriate.

And as more Wolves appeared, some of the Witches faded into the shadows to make space. The Warmaster had given her silent thanks to the Sisters that had come. They had not all pledged to be called Iron Wolves, but they heeded the call of their Warden and Nethermother.

Today was a new beginning. A new offering.

After welcoming all those to camp, Vytal had those on drums set a beat for Wolves to dance if they will. Spirits would have drink passed among the membership freely, fulfilling every request for drink or food. It was a celebration! A time to meet others like themselves.

"To grow. To become more than that which we were," the Warmaster had declared.

After the welcoming, the pale Warmaster drew off to the side to use her magicks to form two diagonally beams out of the ground and over an edge nearest to the camp. Grooves burrowed into their length and Vytal Noctura tested the stout quarterstaff in her hands. The creation was wide enough for a body to pass through, but not wider than the staff. A Salmon Ladder that had the participant dangling over the cloud cover over the edge. Who knew how far below the ground might be among the mists?

With the staff in hand, the Warmaster of the Iron Wolves couldn't help but bring the weapon to bear and give it a thrust, step into the strike, and spin about to bring the end down toward an imaginary opponent. An excellent weapon in the right hands at close distances. Such martial or melee weapons were suited for the people from Dathomir; their tradition had not be forgotten over the centuries.

Attention: Mandalorian Iron Wolves
Adelle Bastiel | Siv Kryze | Persephone Halcyon | Kirae Orade | Torva Vikar | Veyla Krinn | Eenia Vahn | Aether Verd | Liorra | Vael Saren | Talohn Atar | Dreidi Xeraic | Kael Varr Basteil Skirata | Sanguina Krev | Incitrix | OPEN, Iron Wolves, Mandalorian Force Users, Witches & Mystics

 

[Kael Varr Basteil Skirata]

Mandalore

Kael... wasn't a huge fan of crowds; however, the war- mistress of the Iron Wolves had summoned all who could touch the force, and so he came. He lingered at the edge of the group, not ready to really show off or show out. He wasn't openly hostile, just kept his eyes down and focused on his drink and food. He watched the War Mistress shadow spar with her quarter staff, making him want to join in with his tanfa, but he wasn't as familiar with them yet since they were new to him. He also thought of his plasma bow on his back, if only he had a target to shoot.

 

[Veyla Krinn]

Veyla did not arrive with ceremony.

She came on foot from the tree line, cloak unfastened and draped loosely over one shoulder, boots quiet on the packed earth as she crossed into the fire's glow. The camp was alive in the way only gatherings like this ever were: drums threading rhythm through the air, laughter rising and falling, heat and smoke curling together beneath the open sky. Witches and Wolves moved in overlapping orbits, some dancing, some sparring, some simply watching and listening.

It felt…honest.

She paused near the edge of the gathering, taking it in without rushing herself forward. Vytal's movements caught her eye first. The staff flowed like an extension of the Warmaster's will, each strike and turn precise, controlled, grounded in something older than doctrine or rank. Veyla watched for a few moments with quiet respect, recognizing discipline when she saw it.

Only then did she notice Kael.

He stood apart, not withdrawn enough to be rude, not engaged enough to be comfortable. Food and drink in hand. Eyes lowered. Attention split between the fire, the staff, and his own thoughts. The posture of someone who had answered a call out of duty, not certainty.

She recognized it immediately.

After a moment, she angled her path slightly and approached him without fanfare, stopping a comfortable distance away rather than intruding into his space. Her presence was calm, unassuming, boots planted easily in the dirt.

She glanced briefly toward Vytal, then back to Kael.

"You've been watching her like you're trying to memorize every step," Veyla said quietly, her tone warm rather than teasing. "That's usually what people do when part of them wants to try…and part of them is still deciding if it's allowed."

A faint, sympathetic smile touched her mouth.

"Crowds aren't everyone's strength," she continued. "Doesn't mean you don't belong here."

She shifted her weight slightly, resting her hands loosely at her sides.

"If it helps," Veyla added, nodding subtly toward the open space near the ladder and sparring area, "half the people out there are just pretending they're more confident than they feel. The rest are lying to themselves."

Her gaze flicked, briefly, to the shape of his weapons.

"Tanfa take time," she said gently. "So does learning when to draw and when to wait. Neither makes you weaker."

Then, quieter, more sincere:

"This place isn't about proving anything tonight," Veyla told him. "It's about showing up. You did that."

She lifted her own cup slightly in a small, informal gesture.

"Veyla," she offered simply. "If you feel like talking. Or sparring. Or just standing here until the noise makes sense. Any of it's fine."

Her eyes softened just a touch.

"No rush."

Kael Varr Basteil Skirata Vytal Noctura

 

[Vael Saren]

MANDALORE


It had been so long since Vael had been home. Even longer since he felt he was among peers. Even if all of the brothers and sisters here did not follow the Way as he did, they were all Force users. All of them had something beyond their connection to the Empire connecting them together. When the Warmistress called for all of Mandalore's Force Sensitive children to congregate here, he jumped at the call. Even with the training of the Jedi under his belt, he felt there was still much for him to learn in the ways of the Force. Being here could prove to be the best way to find someone willing to teach.

He sat, somewhat apart from the main group. Eager as he was, those years in solitude had left him... unprepared for mingling with a group that size. Instead, he sat down, cross-legged, and began to meditate. He used the Force to levitate his weapons from their places on his hip and began to disassemble them. Hopefully, he would be able to finish this session and reassemble them before anything got started.

 

[Kael Varr Basteil Skirata]

Mandalore

Kael looked to the newcomer, listening to her comments then responding in kind. “I watch her because that’s what I’ve known. I’m a hunter, and I have been a mechanic when times were lean. Watching is what I do best. My name is Kael Varr Bastiel Skirata…” he paused as if adjusting to the length of a name that had been short for a long time, “I came, yes, but I also want to meet the people I may serve beside, may become pack mates with whenever I’m sorted into my pack. That’s how I was told The Iron wolves were organized, no?” He would look down to his belt where his tonfa were mag clamped, “I used to use vibro-machete, but they don’t provide near the utility as these do. And I’m not as familiar with either as I am with my bow. What about you Veyla, what is your story?”

Veyla Krinn

 

[Vytal Noctura]

​

After a short time, the Iron Wolves' Warmaster set the quarterstaff aside and surveyed those nearby. Some seemed uncertain of their place. It was to be expected. Using 'abilities' was not common among Mandalorians and some still had outdated beliefs on such matters. Reminded her of when she'd setup educational facilities in the Confederacy to do much the same. Though those efforts had been largely for outsiders. This Gathering was more akin to the original purpose of educating its practitioners. Only, this time there was considerable overlap.

Emerald eyes shifted aside when someone asked a question. The pale woman gave a clip nod. "The magick of Dathomir is not that of Jedi or Sith. I will teach you neither of their ways. Our people -- Mandalore and Dathomir -- have more in common. A desire to survive. To grow stronger in order to survive. That is what the Iron Wolves shall do."

Her fingers unfurled to beckon a floating tray in her direction. "What you possess is nothing to fear nor be ashamed. Tis a power. A gift. A tool like any other. You are unique, but not special. Stronger than some, but not invulnerable. But you are not alone." When the tray drew near, a ghastly figure became visible beneath it. The tray was balanced on what one might consider their head as they hovered in midair. "Our duty is to change how others perceive us, as you might perceive them," Vytal gestured to the spirit. "Different, but not in the ways that matter. You are hunters, protectors, and warriors like any other. You defend what is yours from those that seek to take it from you. That is why we Gather. Where one is strong, two are stronger, and three stronger still."

"Take your time acclimating today, but such will not be afforded you any other time. We do not grow strong alone."

With that the spirit became invisible once more and Vytal began to drift toward others. She contemplated whose company to take even if to break the ice. Perhaps she would be... 'gentle' this time, but it was not the way of Nightsisters to watch and wait long.

Kael Varr Basteil Skirata | Veyla Krinn | Vael Saren​

 

[Vael Saren]

Vael completed his reassembly of his weapons and stowed them back on his belt. As the pale woman before them began speaking, he turned to listen. She spoke of the Light and the Dark, of how her teachings were separated from those doctrines. It was strange to hear, he had to admit. Everything he knew of the Force came from his time as a Padawan. Even as he walked the Way of the Mandalore, he was still following the code of the Jedi. He wondered just how different her teachings would be.

Saren rose from his seated position and approached Vytal, intent on getting some answers.

"Greetings," he began, "My name is Vael Saren. I must admit, your speech just now has riled my curiosity. You speak of your connection to the Force as something that is different from the ways of the Jedi... and of the Sith. What do you mean when you say this? The Force as I have come to understand it is either and ally or a tool, for Jedi and Sith respectively. How does your view differ?"

Vytal Noctura

 

[Ordo]

The fires of Mandalore could not sear his soul—there was no warmth here, not for him. The netherworld, that place of endless shadow, had forged him anew, but it had not tempered his fury. Ordo had returned from death's grasp, summoned by a force older than the stars, driven by a call he could not ignore. The Manda whispered through the wind, and the pulse of Mandalore called to him with an urgency he had not expected. But no welcome awaited him—no grand procession, no voice of honor.

He stepped from the shadows, his obsidian blade gleaming beneath the dying light, the mist rising around him like a shroud of ancient regrets. He was not a hero returning from a glorious campaign. He was a ghost—a weapon, forged for one purpose, and that purpose still burned with relentless clarity.

The camp ahead was alive, a chorus of drums and voices, the firelight dancing like spirits hungry for blood. Wolves and Witches alike gathered, united in their primal celebration, but Ordo did not join in the revelry. He stood at the edge of the fire's reach, his eyes scanning the camp, taking in the familiar faces of those who had once been part of his world. The warmth, the laughter—it was all distant, fading, irrelevant. He had walked through death, and now he had returned, not to play games of festivity, but to serve the will of Mandalore.

The Warmaster, Vytal Noctura, stood at the heart of the camp, weaving magic as if it were the very fabric of the world itself. He could see the raw power in her, the history of Dathomir wrapped around her like a cloak. But Ordo knew something deeper, something more unsettling: she was not the only one who could shape destiny.

He took a step forward, his armored boots silent on the rocky ground, his presence like a storm on the horizon. The fire crackled, the drummers paused, and for a heartbeat, the camp fell still.

Then, his voice broke through the silence, rough like gravel and as cold as the blade at his side.

"Celebration." He spat the word with disdain, each syllable dripping with a bitter edge. "For what? Victory? For Yaga Minor, or Bastion? Or are you celebrating your own survival?"

He advanced slowly, the weight of his armor sinking into the earth beneath him, as if the very soil recognized the fury he carried with him.

"I've walked through the flames," he continued, his eyes locking on Vytal's with a gaze that could pierce mountains, "and I have seen what is to come. This war... this bloodshed—it does not end with a feast. It ends with the collapse of all things that stand against us. If you think your victory is assured, you are already lost."

Ordo's grip on his obsidian blade tightened, the mist swirling around him, coiling like serpents drawn to his presence. "So dance. Drink. Celebrate. But know this: I am no longer the man who fought at your side. I am the fury that will consume this galaxy. I am the storm that shall sweep away the weak. The Manda has called me home. And I will walk through Mandalore's fires again and again, until nothing remains but dust."

He let his words hang in the air, a challenge, a promise. The camp had grown silent once more. Ordo could feel the weight of their gazes, but he did not flinch. The fire that had once burned in his heart had grown into a dark inferno, consuming him from within, and it would burn until Mandalore was reborn—or until it was all ashes.

He turned then, as if dismissing the gathering entirely, his voice drifting back to them. "Find your strength, Warmaster. For when the real war comes, you will need it."

And with that, he disappeared back into the shadows, leaving nothing but the sound of his retreating footsteps and the murmur of uncertain whispers in his wake.

Mia Monroe

 

[Liorra]

The fires of affirmation burned brighter than she expected.

From where Liorra stood at the edge of the plateau, the flames seemed less like celebration and more like a living thing, shifting, breathing, fed by victory and ideology alike. Smoke curled upward into the thinning air, vanishing into cloud cover as if Mandalore itself refused to let the fire be contained.

Drums rolled across the stone in steady cadence. Not frantic. Not chaotic. Intentional.

She had fought beside Mandalorians before. Bled for them. Bled with them. But this was different. This was not battle. This was belonging.

Wolves and Witches moved among one another in quiet confidence, exchanging words, drink, gestures of solidarity that felt ancient and earned. The forest at the base of the towering peak swayed in the wind, and the air carried a chill that slipped between the seams of armor.

Liorra remained near the edge of the gathering, helmet on, visor reflecting firelight in fractured gold.

The Warmaster's presence was impossible to ignore. When Vytal shaped the beams from the earth itself, Lio felt it, not through the Force alone, but through instinct. Power made manifest. Tradition hardened into structure. A test waiting to be taken.

The Salmon Ladder hung over nothing but clouds.

Liorra's gaze lingered there longer than she meant it to.

Victory had been declared. Growth proclaimed. A new beginning offered.

And yet, she felt suspended, not unlike the apparatus itself, between ground and sky, between who she had been and who she was expected to become.

The drums continued.

The fire crackled.

The Wolves gathered.

And Liorra stood among them, armored and uncertain, wondering if this was meant to feel like home. It was supposed to, but it didn't feel like it, she still felt weird, very weird...

"Do I have to?" Lio asked, turning her helmet slightly toward Mia Monroe "Couldn't I just… pretend to do this and say I did?"

A beat.

"What do you mean I have to interact with others?" She tilted her head, visor glinting faintly. "No. Helmet stays on. Stop. My armor is fine."

She gestured vaguely at herself as if the beskar'gam itself were proof of her argument.

"What even is an Iron Wolf? Is someone about to throw me into a crucible? Am I carrying an Iron Banner? Do I get a fancy sigil? An emoji? At least some cool paint for the beskar'gam?"

A long, theatrical sigh crackled through her vocoder.

"No, I'm not being a-" She caught herself. Cleared her throat. "Take that back. I am not a child."

Her hands settled on her hips in what might have been confidence if not for the restless shifting of her weight.

"I'm doing fine. I'm fine. It's all fine. I do not have any trauma." She paused, then slowly turned her helmet toward Mia again. "Don't look at me like that."

Another breath.

"Fine," Liorra muttered. "I pledge allegiance to the underclass. To the Mandalorians who are not elitist sellouts."

A sharp smack landed against the back of her helmet.

"-Ow! What was that for?!"