Faction Tales of the High Republic | THR

[Aurelian Veruna]

Tales of the High Republic
(Open to all THR Characters)

Based on an idea from Jerec Asyr used for the BSS: Here

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Building the Bonds:
Inspired by an excellent concept pioneered by Jerec, we are thrilled to adapt this initiative specifically for the needs of the High Republic.

We recognize the common hurdles faced by members both new and old: How do you jump into character development? How do you forge meaningful connections? How do you initiate those essential (but sometimes challenging) training narratives?

This dedicated thread is our solution: a collaborative space designed to facilitate low-stakes stories. Think of these as casual encounters, passing conversations, training mishaps, or lighthearted meetings.

The Goal: Our aim is simple; we want every THR Character to know one another! By establishing these foundational relationships now, you will be much better equipped to find stories and partners when major faction threads come around, allowing you to jump straight into the action.


Creative Freedom and Collaboration:
We encourage absolute creativity! The interactions here can be as outlandish, strange, or simple as you wish.

We encourage on the collaborative principle of "Yes, and?" If you are tagged into an interaction, embrace the premise and enjoy the history between your characters.

If a passing moment sparks an idea, feel free to reach out to the writer privately to explore it further in a dedicated thread. No pressure whatsoever; this is simply an opportunity to plant seeds for future growth!

So the rules are simple:

This is an IC posting game unbound by location.

• Tag the person above your reply in a random one post, flashback story. It can be anywhere and anytime.
  
  • For the person who replies first, tag Aurelian Veruna for the first story!
• Create whatever story you want with that character you are tagging. Maybe it went well, maybe it very much didn't. Up to you.
• Feel free to participate multiple times as the same character or different ones. The more connections the better.
  
  • If you like the story told... Dont be shy! Reach out and create some cool behind the scenes, daily life type stories.

Did you cross paths with a character on the training ground, in the assembly hall, on a mission, in the mess hall? It's up to you!

This is open to ALL THR CHARACTERS. If you wish to introduce a new or old character, feel free to interact!

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

s

The sound of the slap echoed down the marble hall, sharp enough to silence even the guards who were stationed by the archways. Aurelian’s head turned with the force of it, dark curls flowing as the imprint of her hand remained in red against his cheek.
For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke.

Bastila stood before him, chest rising and falling, eyes alight with the restrained fury of a Jedi who had just forgotten to breathe. The faint hum of the hallway occupants began to refill the silence, attempting to break through the tension.

“What was that for!”

“Next time,” she said quietly, her voice steady but edged with the finger pointed straight at his face, “remember that masks don’t hide everything.”

Aurelian blinked once, slowly, as if wondering whether to laugh or bow. He did neither. Instead, he straightened his collar with careful precision, and turned to face Bastila with his expression showing humour that was trying to break through.

“My ego?” he said, a hint of wounded amusement threading his tone. “Bastila. Someone here needs to keep this word from eating her own argument alive. By the gods your unbearable sometimes.”

She stepped closer, the scent of peaches and rain clinging to her robes; remnants of the storm outside bending with her perfume. “GODDESS your so annoying!,” Bastila replied, with her eyes rolling. “You can’t be kissing your left hand girl and think people wouldn’t notice. Not when every piece of clothing you were wearing screamed exactly who you both were.”

Aurelian’s jaw tightened. “And what would you prefer, Bastila? We need to be allowed to enjoy ourselves when we want to. Besides who are you to talk about kissing people in…”

She shook her head slowly. “No. Don’t you dare.” Her voice softened, a dangerous kind of calm. “I will destroy you if you even say it.”

For a moment, the marble corridor seemed smaller, the air thick with unsaid things.

Bastila turned away, the hem of her robe brushing the polished floor. “Next time you want to play the romantic prince,” she murmured over her shoulder, “do it without the whole of Naboo watching.”

OUTFIT: XoXo | TAG: Aurelian Veruna EQUIPMENT:

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[SID-10S "Sid"]

Bastila Sal-Soren

Sid stood in silence as Briana's sibling vented her frustrations.

"I have had a similar conversation with my master about such things."

“That isn't reassuring Sid.”

"I did not say it to be reassuring."

Bastila stared up at him as he moved through the space between them. His manipulators picking up a dish and washing it carefully before setting it aside.

“So what do you suggest?”

"You meatbags and your need to have a path laid out for you." The motion of washing never stopped despite his looking at her directly. "I cannot suggest anything because to me, as an outsider, I can see that you are unhappy with what happened. However-"

The dish clacked as he picked up another.

"Why do you need this other meatbag to feel content? Is this an issue stemming back to your parents?" He did not regret what he has spoken, despite the searing look she sent at him as she opened her mouth. "You will hurt your hand if you hit me. Just as a reminder."

The seething look now transformed into hatred as she sputtered and stammered for a brief moment.

“Are you always like this?”

Sid paused for a split second as he filed through his memory core. Photoreceptors clacking closed and opened before replying.

"Your sister says I am insufferable. But still tasks me with caring for you all. So. Does it stem back to your parents, or not?"

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[Vizion Trozky]

A light billow of steam wafted out of the fresher room behind Vizion as walked out, towel tucked around his hips, and barefoot. Briana's voice came from the common room — so she was awake, finally — and Sera's in reply over the household comm, talking breakfast, but he didn't notice the photoreceptors staring into the hallway, trained on him, until the towel he dried his curls with came around to the nape of his neck.

"I see you traded meatbags, master..." Vizion eyed Sid, while padding towards the room ahead and drying his ears. She had told him the droid was restored; that could only be a good thing when he almost lost her once already, this year, "...does this one at least put the toilet seat down?"

A one-note chuckle pulled the corners of his mouth, "This one," he parroted, reaching the room, "was raised and trained to not be an animal." Photoreceptors followed him as he traversed the morning light that streamed in through large windows, to where Briana sat curled with her morning tea. Not an animal where it mattered, anyway. Where it didn't matter, well, little else needed to be said.

"Then my master will be pleased to see you continue this pattern."

He only came out for one thing, and pressed that wordless good morning to Briana's cheek when he got to her. She murmured her reply, her morning greeting, over the edge of her teacup. He'd woken before dawn, and deftly slipped from bed to go get a workout in, like he always did... though with her, that became if he could get away with it.

"I would say she is," the grin infected his voice, hardly tamped down by her predictable thwap to his bare arm, which only made him continue with a laugh, "but I'll spare you the details."

Boy, that droid sure had missed a lot.

Briana Sal-Soren • SID-10S "Sid"​

 

[Raylin Fall]

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It was a common misconception that Raylin didn’t like Jedi. No, Raylin didn’t hate Jedi. The misconception was that he hated-

Most Jedi.

But, occasionally he’d have some that were more than capable of being called “tolerable”. Vizion Trozky was one such. He’d sat in on a reconnaissance and observation class, was polite, and so far, had not angered any of the new Pathfinders or Republic troopers there. The class was being held outside during one of their training exercises, and so far, he hadn’t hated the guy.

“This-“ Raylin said, crouching near a plant display. Local fauna laid out over a tarp, some dead, some not. He gestured to his right towards the display at the front of the class. “Is everything you can eat on Naboo safely. Anything else, you run the risk. Naboo wildlife is pretty tame and overall friendly, unlike some other places you’ll be going.”

He walked through the class formation, camouflaged and weary faces watching him- just the same, dirty fatigues, camouflaged face, faint smell of sweat, the whole nine. In other words: kinda bad. But real soldiers doing real work, kinda smelled bad. That was just the nature of it.

“Wherever you go in the galaxy, fauna will be different. Try and acquire whatever data you can- but otherwise if you have to ask… don’t eat it. Or make it for tea.” The last comment seemed to zero in on the Jedi. They liked tea, right? One of their things?

He shook his head and went back to the front of the formation.

“Now, back to reconnaissance- how do I tell what the enemy is doing? How do I report it higher? How can I look at a formation of bad guys and figure out what they’re doing based on what they have and what they are….”

And so on it went.

 

[Dominic Praxon]

The hum of the ship's engines provided a steady undercurrent to the low murmur of med-droids and the hiss of sterilizers. Dominic had been sitting for some time, his jacket folded neatly across his lap, an untouched glass of water resting at his side. The bacta patch on his neck still stung, though he pretended it did not.

Across from him, the medic had his sleeves rolled up, gloves half-off, the wear of too many long days and too little sleep etched into the set of his jaw.

"You're the one who insisted on staying behind the evac perimeter," said the man without looking up from his datapad, "Senatorial staff aren't meant to be hauling wounded."

Dominic's lips curved faintly. "I was told the definition of 'meant to' is a fluid thing in the field, Sergeant...?"

"Raylin," came the reply. The medic looked up then, blue eyes sharp and unflinching despite the clear exhaustion. "Pathfinder Recon Detachment."

"Dominic Praxon," he replied, smoothing a nonexistent crease from his sleeve. "Senator of Naboo."

Raylin snorted quietly, the kind of laugh that wasn't meant to offend, but didn't ask permission either. "You look the type."

"That may be the kindest accusation I've received all week."

There was a pause. It was short, but deliberate. Outside the medbay, the ship's lights dimmed as they entered hyperspace. The stars stretched into lines. Inside, the only motion came from the medic's practiced hands setting down the final vial.

"You're patched up," Raylin said, standing, "next time, let someone else pull the troopers out of a fire zone."

Dominic nodded once, formal even in contrition. "Duly noted. Though between us, Sergeant, if I see another soldier fall and no one moves to help, I'd rather face your disapproval than my conscience."

Raylin's mouth twitched. "Yeah, that's the problem with your type. Put yourself in danger so more of us have to go in after you."

Dominic hesitated, confident expression faltering.

Raylin looked down at the tray of instruments. "We follow our orders into the fray...you choose to follow your conscience...until you don't. But we still do."

He turned to leave, and Dominic watched him go, thoughtful. When the door sealed, the hum of the ship returned. It was steady, measured, and unrelenting.

It sounded, he thought, a great deal like duty.

Raylin Fall​

 

[Elian Abrantes]

Dominic Praxon
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The polished marble floor of Theed Palace gleamed like a mirror, sunlight pouring through the arched windows and scattering gold across the hall. Elian Abrantes stood in the middle of it all, whistling to himself with suspicious cheer, one hand tucked behind his back. In the other carefully balanced and smelling faintly of berries and cream, was a perfect Nabooan pie.

His grin was all teeth and mischief. "Timing." he murmured, eyes flicking toward the doorway where his lookout, a young page from the kitchens, was pretending not to be part of the scheme. "That's what it's all about. She walks in, boom—pie to the face, and I run before she summons the entire Royal Guard."

The page's eyes went wide suddenly. "She's coming! She's coming!"

Elian straightened, poised for his glorious ambush. He raised the pie, took a step forward, and—

Splat!

Berry and cream exploded in a glorious, sticky halo across the fine velvet coat of… not Sibylla.

Dominic Praxon froze mid-step, the look on his face one of pure, horrified disbelief. Berry juice dripped slowly down his cheek, a scarlet trail marring the pristine white of his collar.

Elian's triumphant grin evaporated. "...Oh Shiraya..... I—uh—I thought you were someone else."

"Clearly." Dominic said, voice flat, a chunk of crust sliding from his shoulder and plopping onto the marble.

Elian blinked, then offered a nervous half-bow. "Terribly sorry! Family misunderstanding, you know how sisters are." He took one cautious step backward, then another, edging toward the nearest column. "I'll, uh, just—see myself out."

And before the stunned nobleman could so much as sputter a response, Elian Abrantes future terror of House Abrantes, vanished down the corridor at a full sprint, laughter echoing faintly behind him.

 

[Sibylla Abrantes]

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Elian Abrantes

Theed Academy was bustling that afternoon with sunlight warming the marble courtyards and ivy draped balconies. Students crossed between lectures with datapads in hand and the light drone of laughter and gossip floated in the Naboo air.

And then there was Sibylla Abrantes, interim Queen, Voice of the Royal Houses, master diplomat, and today… very bad spy.

She peeked out from behind a column, her intricate court robes half hidden beneath a borrowed Academy cloak that didn't quite fit. The crest of Dee'ja Peak still shimmered faintly through the fabric utterly betraying her cover. She held a small datapad like a field recorder, eyes narrowing as she tracked her target: Elian Abrantes the youngest and most infuriatingly frustrating yet charming of her brothers, who currently seated beneath the flowering pergolas with a group of students.

And there she was. The alleged crush.
Soft spoken, pretty, with an infectious laugh and a hand that brushed Elian's arm a little too often.

Sibylla leaned forward. Ah-ha! Progress. She'd managed to capture five minutes of them talking about…engine harmonics? Of all the things, her brother had found a girl who could discuss starship propulsion ratios.

A proud smile began to tug at her lips until her elbow bumped into a statue, and before she could grab it it fell to the ground with an unfortunate clang echoing through the courtyard.

Several students looked up… Including Elian.

He squinted.
Then frowned.
Then marched straight toward her.

"Miz Queen of Naboo, what exactly are you doing hiding behind a bust of Archon Vae?" he asked flatly as he reached her, crossing his arms over his chest.

Caught, Sibylla straightened, trying very hard to look regal and absolutely not guilty.

"Why, taking you to lunch of course!" she declared, a touch too brightly. "You've been studying so hard, I thought I'd surprise you!"

Elian blinked. "In disguise?"

"Disguise is such an ugly word," she said primly, looping her arm through his before he could protest. "Come along, little brother. I'm starving, and you can tell me all about… engine harmonics."

As they walked off, Elian groaned, "You're impossible."

"And yet," Sibylla said, smiling to herself, "you love me anyway."

 

[Ravion Corvalis]

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The luncheon was an affair of sunlight. The upper gallery of the Corvalis estate overlooked the skyline of Naboo, the far distant view of Theed upon it’s cliffs dominating the main angles with its crystal awnings catching every shimmer of the noon rays. Silver trays floated silently on repulsors, carrying bottles of Corellian white and plates too delicate to have ever known hunger. Every detail had been arranged to perfection, a right theatre of civility, and Ravion was its quiet conductor.

He stood at the head of the long glass table, flanked not by his own kin, but instead the members of the Abrantes family that he had chosen for this particular day. At pride of place was Lady Abrantes, the senior Lady Abrantes Ravion had to remind himself, carrying herself like an empire in repose, her voice as calm as ever, as she engaged with every civil conversation he put on the table. The younger Lady Abrantes was also sat nearby. Ravion had to use far to many favours to plant the invite on Sibylla’s desk. A lot had happened since they last spoke at the auction, and power was apparently attracted to the Voice, turned temporary Queen.

On the far wall, new works from the Corvalis Collection glowed in gentle frames: Naboo impressionists beside bold Hapan chromatics, the latest acquisitions Ravion had brought back from his tour of the Core Worlds. He may be a Senator now, but he was still an art dealer at heart.

“Art,” he said, as he poured for Sibylla, “is the purest form of ambition. Not because it lasts, but because it dares to. It makes sure it has it’s statement in your head so you cannot ever forget it. That is how it endures.”

Lady Abrantes smiled faintly, one brow arching. “Are you making a political reference again Ravion?”

Ravion’s eyes flicked to her, their reflection mirroring the light off the wine. “Merely stating it’s likeliness to canvas. A place for talented artists to leave their mark.”

They spoke of Malastare next, of Ravion’s recent and quiet surprising election to the Senate seat, his victory framed not as conquest but as inevitability, a choice of the working class people. A few at the table toasted him with restrained admiration, while Lady Abrantes noted, with that subtle precision of hers, that his new position would require allies who could see beyond their own provinces. Not everyone was taken with Ravion’s speedy ascent into the political world. The word allies hung between them, deliberate.

“The Abrantes have always had a refined taste for alliances,” Ravion replied. “And for making sure it is truth told in the quiet rooms.”

The conversation drifted between commerce and art, between whispers of votes and the silent language of patronage. Each topic was a brushstroke, each compliment a calculated exchange of colour and intent. Outside, the wind combed through the garden’s ivory trees, scattering the scent of blossom through the open veranda.

When the plates were cleared and the servants withdrawn, Ravion rose from his seat and stepped toward a small velvet case resting on a pedestal.

“Before I forget,” he said, “a gesture of appreciation, and perhaps, prophecy. I promised Miss Abrantes that one day I would allow her the privilege of seeing more pieces from a particular collection.”

He opened the case. Inside were two small statues, forged in brushed electrum. One was a figure of Set, proud and defiant; the other, Veré, reaching toward him with sorrow in her gaze. From certain angles, they seemed aligned; destined to touch, yet their bases had been cast with a fractional misalignment. No matter how one turned them, they would never quite fit together.

Ravion’s voice softened, his eyes locked in on the statues like he was suddenly in a separate world.

“The Lovers’ Pain. They were meant to be joined, but the galaxy had other designs. A reminder that when fate draws its line, even the strongest will cannot erase it. From what we can gather the legend is these particular statues were created by the very curse that was placed upon them. It does indeed hold a certain…power.”

Sibylla studied the figures in silence. Her fingers brushed the cool metal of Veré’s face. There was something in her eyes. reflection or recognition, he could not tell, before she looked up at him.

“They are beautiful,” she said quietly. “Cruel, but beautiful.”

Ravion inclined his head, a faint smile touching his lips.

“As all true art must be. They are also yours, a gift for your recent endevours.”

The wind shifted again, carrying the faint chime of the city below. Between the gleam of electrum and the glint in Sibylla’s eyes, Ravion knew the real exchange had already started to take place. The statues were only the symbols.

“Now Sibylla, let us speak of our Republic and the need for a strong and agreeable voice to take charge in this state of disaster...”

Sibylla Abrantes​