Populate PRIMAVERA | ME Populate of Kol Huro

Mythra · 2026-05-04T15:14:50-0400

PRIMAVERA
"THE FUTURE AND ALL OF ITS PROMISE AWAITS YOU."

MANDALORE

The time for Mandalorian supremacy is now.

The Dirachy is no more. It did not fall with dignity, nor in some final blaze of defiance, but beneath the relentless weight of beskar and will. On Yaga Minor their threats proved hollow, and their banners were ground into the dust beneath our boots.

To the south, the Imperial Confederation fares no better. Once a looming presence, now little more than scattered remnants clinging to fading authority. They break where we strike, fracture where we press, and one by one they fall.

And still, the galaxy turns its eyes inward. Tension coils in the Core like a tightening fist, powers circling one another in quiet hostility, waiting for the spark. Let them wait. Let them scheme. Their concerns are not ours.

For Mandalorians, the war is done.

This is not an ending, but a beginning.

Across Mandalore and its systems, the fires burn not for destruction, but for celebration. Foundlings stand beneath those flames and rise as warriors, their names spoken with pride as they take their place among us. Our ranks swell, not just in number, but in strength, in unity, in purpose.

Clans gather. Old rivalries are set aside, if only for a night. Armour is worn, but burdens are not. Drinks flow freely, laughter cuts through the dark, and for a rare moment, rank and title lose their edge. Warriors stand shoulder to shoulder not as commanders and soldiers, but as Mandalorians.

OBJECTIVE I: FIRES OF KELDABE
Keldabe

Clans gather in the fields beyond Keldabe beneath the glow of a great pyre, built from the ruins of our enemies. Drums and besbevs echo into the night and smaller fires offer space for quieter truths. This is more than celebration, it is a moment of reflection.

Cast your own items into the fire, or simply come to enjoy the music and the warmth of the ne’tra gal. Drink, dance and converse as the flames cast embers high into the night sky.

Social | Attn: All

OBJECTIVE II: The Race
Sundari

Beneath a blanket of stars, the newly constructed Sundari Race track hums with life, speeder bikes line up along the starting line, engines roaring as the noise of the crowd presses into the night sky, cheers rising for all who have come to test their skill and resolve.

Join the racers with nerves of steel, or enjoy the thrill of the race from the safety of your seats.

Each racer will roll 1d6 per post. The higher your roll, the faster your speed. A running total will be kept and will determine overall placement.

The individual rolls still matter: Turns on the track have a speed limit. Rolling over the speed limit will cause racers to fly off the course and drop to last place. Racers can apply a Braking modifier (-1) or an Emergency Braking modifier (-2) to their rolls to control their speed through the turn. Modifiers must be declared in the post. A roll total of 0 does not mean your speeder has stopped, it just means you drop to the back of the pack. Rolls landing in the negatives will be counted as a 0.

The track is divided into nine segments: Five straightaways and four turns. A staff account will post a description for the upcoming segment, as well as dice totals and racing placements for the previous segments.

Contest | Attn: All

OBJECTIVE III: The Markets
Enceri

The markets of Enceri are alive with activity, colourful lamps keep the streets lit for the evening shoppers, the smell of fresh roasting meat and spice drift over the sounds of vendors calling to one another, shouting their bargains for all to hear.

Vendors from beyond the Empire’s borders have been invited to join, to sell their wares and conduct business as they see fit, provided of course, they pay a fee.

Social | Attn: All

OBJECTIVE IV: BRING YOUR OWN OBJECTIVE
Mandalore

Sundari and Keldabe alone offer endless opportunity, whether your intention is to join in the celebrations spilling out from bars onto the streets, or perhaps you prefer the quiet more intimate setting of the Kelita River. Mandalore is open for you to celebrate however you like.

BYOO | The Story is Yours

Kivah

Sylor

Kyran Thaln
@Coranth Renth

Cabur

Fiore

Kyramud Kass Holliday
@Ekka Batari

Mao

Alden Akaran
@Kael Varr

Hrist

Niijima Izumi

Vael Saren

Elian Abrantes

Serrik Skirata
@Astella Verd

Cabur Nau'ur
@Kotak Vikar'Ranov

Avast Verd

Pal Veda
@Dral Kar'taal

Zurak Bruul
@Ajalurk-Chaidth Kryze
@Arden Priest

Inez

Sidonia

Maur

Ferris Skirata

Veyla Krinn

Renn Vizsla

Perseus

Hubert Starhopper
E erida Lok

Acier Moonbound
@Colden Renth
@Domina Prime

Elira Verd
@Viera

Nando
@Tin
@Serra Toss

Kassandra Beskar'ad

Liorra

Conrad

Reshim

Red Mobius

Suleiman Lok
@Kyrida Verd

Ladante Mamba
R raef Malstadt

CT-312

Rhys Swynol
@Lysara Rynn

Nephthys Nardithi-Verd

Hanna

Siae Andronike

Zlova Rue

Runi Kuryida
@Ren Ashbridge

Vyse de Valorous
@Varuun Rekaal

Mythra · 2026-05-04T15:20:13-0400

SEGMENT ONE:

The starting line sits in the middle of the longest straight of the Sundari Speederway. Brilliant lights line the charcoal gray duracrete track, illuminating both the raceway and the stands beside it. Clan banners hang from the edge of the stands, flapping loosely in a light breeze. Pit droids and teams of medics stand ready to rush to the aid of swoop bikes that lose control. Anticipation hangs thick in the air.

A droid hovers in front of the racers, high enough for all of them to see the lit sign attached to it. Steady red light washes over the helmets of the racers then begins to blink. Red turns to yellow as the flashes quicken until a solid green bar signals begin the start of the race.

R-5 (Rathen Vex) · 2026-05-04T16:16:58-0400

A great pyre was lit to cast its glow among the faces of those who came for not only celebration over their foes, but of remembrance. R-5 did not play a part in their victory against the Diarchy, his arrival back home from his ancient slumber left him missing much of current and past events. The ancient Mandalorian warrior, more machine than man, had finally arrived home. If only he still had his eyes to gaze upon its skies once more.

His visor scanned over the horizon by the great fire, its burning light casting reflections off of his bright and thick armored body. The worn red cloak that clung to his shoulders swayed in the wind behind him, a relic of ancient but not forgotten times, not by him at least.

He was taken back home after his ship had been boarded and raided by pirates, accidentally activating his pod from the ancient Mandalorian ship. What they thought they had found were riches and weapons. These pirates did not know that it was the last walls they would see around them.

He had spent some time familiarizing himself with his new home, finding ways to cope with not only the loss of the original Mandalore from the Mandalorian wars, but the loss of the people he knew.

Much has changed since then…

Clung within the bend of his elbow was his Commander’s helm. Worn from time within a drifting ship that had since lost awareness of the generations that had passed. An ancient helm that once was decorated in silvers and coppers, its luster now dulled.

R-5 stood in front of that pyre, closer than most anyone deemed comfortable to them. His gaze peering into the flames. Memories flooding his mind as he remembered history before he was forced into shutdown.

Echoes of his fallen comrades whose voices were barely audible over blasterfire and mortar shells.

R-5 knelt by the flames, holding Commander Krell’s helm within both hands, looking deep into his visor. The last person he was able to talk to.

“Farewell, Brother…”

His arms outstretched towards the flames, placing the helm within. There he watched for a long moment, reflecting over the recent events, before he slowly stood up, and placed a closed fist over his chest.

Tags: OPEN

Perseus · 2026-05-04T17:01:17-0400

| OPEN |

Times of community, gathering in a path meant for those who fought side by side. It was a gift to those who lost brothers, and sister. It was a time of remembrance for some. However, wounds can still be fresh. There was a time when I had longed for such interactions. A time when I would have nearly fallen to my knees to be a part of something. Yet I could not here. It wasn't in me to join them currently. There was so much more I needed to do before I felt like this was acceptable. I was not truly part of them yet. A foundling as they called it. Someone who needed to earn the right to partake in various things. Nor would I sully their gathering with my own troubles of my people. They were not them.

Instead, I found time for myself. While others gathered, I isolated. Finding myself on the training grounds. A dagger in my hand. Practicing different strikes, and movements on a dummy. Slow and methodical. Learning placement and application. Being shown this time and time again, while a Kal, their word for a short blade, was one of the last forms of weaponry to be used, it was vital. A Kal was not just a weapon, it was a tool. One that could be used to dig into the ground just as well as it could pierce into flesh. To whittle wood into spears, just as it could form a work of art. The blade that was utility just as much as it was a life saver, and life taker. Holding it in a reverse grip, and combining grappling techniques while standing against a foe.

The premise was to control distance. Using the blade not just to stab or slash, but the back of it as a hook to hold their arms. Bind them together in a fashion to prevent movement, hold them down, or to restrict their ability to block a strike. Hands and arms wrapped around the appendages of the dummy, and slowly thinking through the process of what advantages this held. Gathering the arm under my armpit, holding it tight and sinching my hand to my chest, The close ability of such would leave the arm, shoulder and part of the chest open. When it occurred to me.

A shift of foot position, pressing my hip into the center mass of the dummy, the blade plunging into the armpit. Not just because it was a weak point in many armors, but it acted like a hold, with a twist of my body, and a tilt, I did a soft throw. Even then, the weight of the sand within the bagged dummy landed with a thud. The new position here was another spot for me to learn. Now that I had the "enemy" on the ground, where else could I go from here. Arm locks, wrist locks, or even throwing my leg over their midsection to mount their form. Controlling their hips and preventing them from trying to get up.

A soft smile on my face as I removed the Kal from the dummy. Lifting it back up and positioning it to stand so I could practice the throw again.

Prisoner #36929 · 2026-05-04T19:01:01-0400

Tags: OPEN
Equipment: X

The mood around Keldabe radiated with celebration. Thousands of Mandalorians gathered near the massive pyre, a jagged mountain of wreckage salvaged from the Dirachy and the Imperial Confederation. While the thrum of besbevs and the steady beat of drums vibrated through the soil, Prisoner stood at the edge of the light. The heat from the flames was intense. To the clans, this fire marked the end of a campaign. For him, it was a funeral for a man who no longer existed.

Heavy iron links weighed down his palms, the metal cold despite the proximity to the blaze. These were the literal chains from the Citadel, the very first things he had owned upon escaping. They represented a past he had spent weeks trying to piece together, only for the trail to vanish when the records on Lianna burned. That nameless man, the one who might have had a family or a home before the Imperials took him, was truly gone now. A hollow ache settled in his chest, a quiet mourning for the ghost of a person he would never get to meet. Looking at the fire, he realized that clinging to these shackles was no longer an act of remembrance, but one of self-inflicted captivity.

"I won't be defined by what was taken," he whispered, his voice lost to the roar of the pyre. The decision brought a sudden, sharp clarity. He was no longer a shadow searching for a body. He was a foundling of the Mandalorian Empire, forged in the same heat that was currently consuming the banners of his enemies. The weight of the galaxy seemed to concentrate in his hands one last time before he stepped toward the inferno.

With a final, decisive motion, the Imperial cuffs sailed into the heart of the flames. They vanished instantly beneath the glowing orange debris. As the metal melted into the collective ruin of the old galaxy, a strange lightness took hold of him. The past was cinders. Turning away from the heat, Prisoner looked toward the gathering of clans where drink flowed and laughter rang out. He walked toward the music, no longer a captive of his own mystery, but a man ready to be known.

Garo Vevut-Varkor · 2026-05-04T20:29:13-0400

OPEN

Garo was holding his helmet, sitting upright by the fire, leaning against his canine basilisk, silent but with a faint smile.

He thought of all the battles, wars, and victories of the Mandalorians, of the lives lost; perhaps because he was a shaman, he knew and could even sense where the others were, the greatest sorrow was for those left behind.

He sat there in silence until someone finally decided to approach him.

Kael Varr Bastiel Skirata · 2026-05-04T20:31:27-0400

OBJECTIVE 1- The Fires- Keldabe
Armor: Owl-type Beskar'gam
Blade: Tal'Alor Beskad
Primary Weapon: Plasma Bow
Secondary Weapon: Paired Beskar Tonfa

Arriving aboard his ship, The Cabur Rekr, or The Guardian Wolf in basic, Kael walked down the plank and into the wider festival. He came with a job to do, a few actually. First, he wished to start over with this festival. The Mandalorians had a concept, cin vhetin. Basically, it meant a clean slate, or fresh virgin snow. As he stood here, after the Ver'gotten, in new armor, arriving on a new ship, he was burying the failures of his past, the trauma of being abandoned, first by his parents, then by his first founder. He had found family, He had found his pack, He had found his clan. He would be excited to see his Buir, after her dealings with both the High Republic and the Empire, but she said she would be taking part in the races being held. That meant in his mind that he was on medic duties, should they be needed. Knowing this, he carries his medic's supplies that he started carrying since he had been studying under Adelle. In his other hand, he was carrying a bag containing the destroyed armor that he had worn for the Verd'gotten. This bag was destined for the fires. He moved over to one of the quieter fires and sat down, opening up the second bag and taking out the first piece of the scarred armor, and reflecting.

Mentioned:

Adelle Bastiel
Tags: @open

Aren D'Shade · 2026-05-04T23:17:51-0400

Objective: 3

Jett Vox

Sergeant Omen

Korda Veydran

Aren did not arrive in Enceri for the celebration; she arrived because the markets were open, and the distinction mattered to her even if no one else would ever think to notice it. Where others came for the noise and the color and the easy sense of victory that hung in the air like smoke, she moved through it with quieter intent, her attention drawn not to the banners or the music but to the structure beneath it all, the trade routes that had reopened, the supply lines that had shifted, the materials that were suddenly easier to acquire now that the war had settled into something steadier and less desperate.

Still, even she could not ignore the atmosphere entirely. The streets were alive in a way that felt different from ordinary commerce, lanterns casting warm light across rows of stalls where colors bled into one another, and vendors called out over the hum of conversation. The smell of roasted meat and spice drifted through the sharper scents of metalwork, fuel, and freshly unpacked goods, and somewhere nearby, laughter broke out, loud and unrestrained, followed by the heavy rhythm of music that carried farther than it should have in a place built for function rather than festivity.

Aren slowed slightly as she moved through the crowd, not because she was drawn into it but because she was accounting for it, adjusting her path without breaking stride. Her hands stayed free at her sides, her posture relaxed, but her awareness never dulled; even here, especially here, she watched, because old habits did not disappear simply because the war had.

She paused at a stall without announcing the decision, her attention settling on a neat spread of components arranged with more care than most vendors bothered with. These were not decorative pieces meant to catch the eye; they were functional parts with real use behind them: power regulators, micro-actuators, interface chips from manufacturers she recognized and a few she did not. It was the unfamiliar ones that held her attention, the small irregularities in their design that suggested someone had taken the time to modify them rather than accept the limitations of mass production.

Unknown variables.

Her fingers hovered over one of the pieces before she picked it up, turning it to catch the light and examining its internal structure through the casing. The craftsmanship was uneven but intentional, the kind of work that came from someone who understood the function well enough to break the rules on purpose. Better than most things here.

"You made this," she said, not a question, just a quiet observation, lifting her gaze to the vendor for a moment before returning to the component in her hand. The exchange that followed was simple and efficient, credits transferred and parts wrapped with no wasted words, the transaction almost secondary to the evaluation itself.

She moved on.

The market shifted around her as she walked, the density of the crowd changing, the rhythm of it pulling her deeper without effort. She still noted materials, still tracked what might be useful later, but somewhere along the way, the purpose of her being there blurred at the edges, the noise no longer something to move through but something she found herself existing within. A group gathered around a food stall laughed over something she did not hear, their voices overlapping with the ease of people who no longer needed to measure every word. Ahead, two armored figures stood shoulder to shoulder with their helmets off and drinks in hand, their posture loose in a way that would have been unthinkable days ago. Even the vendors carried themselves differently, less guarded, more willing to engage than simply transact.

Victory had changed the shape of the space.

Aren slowed again, this time without a clear reason, her gaze lifting to take in the stretch of lantern-lit streets ahead. The pull of it was subtle, not something she would have named if asked, but it was there all the same, a shift from pure observation into something closer to consideration. She could leave. She had what she came for.

Instead, she remained where she was for a moment longer, letting the sounds of the market settle around her, the warmth of it pressing in just enough to be felt. Keldabe was not far. The fires would already be burning. Her friends would be there.

Her expression settled back into something neutral, familiar, but the thought did not disappear; it stayed, quiet and steady beneath everything else. She turned slightly and continued deeper into the market, letting the path unfold without forcing it, her presence blending into the movement of the crowd as easily as it always did.

But she did not forget where she might go next.

Adonis Angelis IV · 2026-05-05T00:15:15-0400

The fires licked at the stars, plumes of smoke losing themselves into the sky, burning away the enemies of Mandalore, dust to dust, ash to ash. Next to the fire, as many of his vode were, stood Adonis. He was unceremonious in his attire, his beskar'gam still pristine, but his usual eye for detail was lacking. Truth be told, Adonis hadn't been himself since he was imprisoned. He had come face to face with everything he feared losing in his life, everything he had fought for, and he had lived, if barely. Those moments of loss, or near loss in his case, ground someone into seeing what it is they truly want. And what Adonis wanted was power. The power to stop the galaxy from ever making him feel that small again, the power to destroy those who came before.

Part of power was loss, you could never gain something without losing something else. That was trained into the warrior since childhood by his father, and his father before him. The House of Angelis was a proud people, and they didn't get that way without loss. He was also shown that loss was not always bad, sometimes loss led to growth. Just as the dry season on Vaal started fires that were only put out by the rolling storms of the spring, and in their wake they left nourishment for growth to occur. Growth led to power.

In his gauntlets rested a piece of his past, wrapped in a piece of his catalyst. He held the helmet of his father, one of the last pieces of him he had left, and it was wrapped in the remnants of the uniform he had been forced to wear while under Imperial imprisonment. Both things represented what he had to leave behind in order to grow, the same as it was on Vaal. There was a hesitation in Adonis, however, something that he didn't quite like. He hesitated because these fires were lit to celebrate a battle Adonis had largely not been involved in.

While the Mandalorian warrior had been imprisoned by the Imperials, his people had been waging a campaign against the Diarchy. The first true test of battle the Mandalorian had, and he wasn't there for it. He had been present for the beginnings, but what he wouldn't give to have been there to crush the Diarchy beneath the boots of Mandalore. It was a bitter edge in Adonis's thoughts as he weighed his actions. The celebration was just as much his as the rest of them, but he still couldn't shake the sense of absence. Of something he missed, a debt he owed.

Adonis took a slow breath as he tossed the two items into the raging fire, watching as it devoured the uniform instantly before beginning to consume the helmet's inner workings. There was a brief moment where the fire struggled against the steel shell, flames curling and grasping at something that refused to yield. He watched that too.

Then he let it go.

A breath left him, quieter this time, but heavier. Relief came with it, though not cleanly. He promised himself that the rest of the night would be spent celebrating his brothers and sisters, standing among them as one of their own. But first, he mourned the death of his innocence.

Now, he had a destiny to fulfill, and an old friend,

Athena Faar , to catch up with.

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Tekton Artez · 2026-05-05T07:02:42-0400

Tekton was enjoying himself. There were times when being a Mandalorian could become a burden. When the actions of his people became hard to defend, whether it was their impressment on others or their own internal divisions. Tekton was pleased to be at a Mandalorian event where that was not the case. This was what it truly meant to be Mandalorian to Tekton's mind. What other cultures failed to understand that if all Mandalorians wanted was bloodlust or a warriors code of honour without anything else then they wouldn't have wouldn't need moments like this, celebrations like this. If anything Tekton scoffed at those who called Mandalorians a bloodthirsty people. The whole point of this celebration was to celebrate the end of the war and the rearing of a new generation, the next generation. Not for blaster fodder on the front lines, but for family, for clan, for the Mandalorian people.

Tekton walked amongst the fires, allowing himself rare soft smiles, as Mandalorians, some boisterous with drink half welcomed him half challenged him to drinking games. Tekton merely smiled and shook his head. He understood their mood, but he had never been neither much of a heavy drinker to the point of inebriation, although he did enjoy A Quiet Drink every now and then nor was he much one for games. Tekton preferred to maintain a clear head on his shoulders as he enjoyed the spectacle of Mandalorians at rest. It wasn't that he feared attack. What fool would attack a gathering of Mandalorians such as this?

It was merely both personal preference, and a desire not to break the habits of a life time either at work or on campaign. Nor was he adverse to the socialisation offered. If anything Tekton considered it his duty to mingle, and make friends. To counter act his seemingly stand offish behaviour, Tekton offered to referee the contest of Five Hands. Tekton stayed for the full three rounds and declared the winner.

Then he shook his head regretfully and continued to peruse the scene around the fires. Tekton wondered if he should be doing more to establish contacts amongst the other Mandalorian Clans. It was a conundrum. Clan Artez had some liberal notions that not all other clans appreciated. As much tradesmen as warriors they believed in applying both sets of skills to the service of others. Not all Mandalorians believed in such sentiments.

Tekton shrugged. If they had a problem with it, it was there problem to deal with. Besides it was not as if they were likely to start anything at a holy celebration such as this one. Even if they did Tekton was not one to cower from opponents over his Clans beliefs and principles. If some belligerent drunken fool said something well… Tekton would stand his ground calmly, respond as it deserved and go from there.

Making up his mind to approach a ring of Mando's around one of the fires, tekton turned in a slow circle trying to identify an ideal fire. One where the drinking hadn't gotten to the point of slurring and half hearted challenges yet.

As he turned he bumped into someone.

"Oh my apologies" Tekton said turning to the other person.

Quinn Varanin

Populate PRIMAVERA | ME Populate of Kol Huro

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