Populate The Black Summer || MANDALORE STANDS [ ME Populate of Tandum III ]

Beskar · Monday at 10:58 PM

MANDALORE STANDS
"Fifty-one years we endured. Today, Mandalore thrives."

MANDALORE, OUTER RIM TERRITORIES

It has been fifty-one years since Mandalore fell to Sith occupation. Fifty-one years since the weakness of our forebears was laid bare before the Galaxy. In that moment our people were scattered to the stars and our homeworld was stripped of its lifeblood. The north was ravaged beyond recognition, torn open for its resources and infested by sithspawn and other horrors, until its surface was glassed and plundered. Our cities were razed and our people displaced, and what had once been the cradle of our strength became only a hollow shell of its former self.

From that day forward, the Mandalorian people have striven to reclaim what was lost. Mand’alors rose and wrested Mandalore from the hands of those who would abuse her. They struck back at the corruption which sought to consume the entire world, and they drove out the beasts that stalked its surface until the southern lands were freed. They sowed the first seeds of restoration, harnessing terraforming and will alike to heal the scars most grievous.

Yet time and again it was as if a curse clung to the soil itself. Each time Mandalorians rallied to see their world whole again, fate would bring them low. Sometimes by the blades of enemies, sometimes by the slow decay of Arasuum, sometimes by the very shifting of planets, every attempt rose with promise and fell with grief. For fifty-one long years Mandalore endured in halves: one thriving, one yearning. That season ends now.

The Mandalorian Empire, born of the will to reunite our people and make them whole, has followed the steps of those who came before. It claimed its place upon the ancestral homeworld. It welcomed dignitaries into Sundari. It called the Clans to gather in Keldabe. It stretched its hand outward, reclaiming and sheltering ancestral worlds. Yet through all of this, the north of Mandalore still wept. That day of weeping is finished.

Though the season of Khar Zuun yet reigns and war looms on the horizon for the Mandalorians, the Empire has chosen to see its home mended once and for all. The finest of its ranks now march across the North, determined to bring renewal where ruin has lingered. Dark beasts will be hunted to their end. The taint of the Dark Side will be purged from the land. And a city will rise from ash to become a beacon to every horizon. From this day forward, Mandalore’s north begins anew, and every Mandalorian will remember this truth: though our people faltered fifty-one years ago, we now rise stronger than ever.

THREADS REFERENCED:
KHAR ZUUN
THUNDERBRINGER
HERE'S THE THING

OBJECTIVE I: THE REKALI WAR COLLEGE
(PvE – Attn: Great Heathen Army, martial clans, mercenaries and warriors)

Once envisioned as a fortress-academy for future generations of Mandalorians, the Rekali War College has instead become a lair of nightmares. Its halls crawl with hydras and other Sithspawn, its underkeep riddled with eggs and dormant horrors. The objective is twofold: reclaim the fortress grounds by force, and determine the fate of the creatures within. Will the eggs be destroyed to end their threat, or preserved for study: a chance to turn the enemy’s weapons against them?

OBJECTIVE II: THE VESHOK GROVE
(Spiritual/Worldbuilding – Attn: Mandalorian Knights, the Spiritspeakers, and reflective writers)

At the edges of the city Ronion, the earth still carries the taint of the Dark Side. Here, a circle of Mandalorians gathers with soil and saplings, planting the first veshok trees to take root in the North since the devastation. Each tree is offered as both prayer and petition: asking the Manda to cleanse the corruption, and calling upon the ancestors to bless the rebirth of their homeworld. This is a rite of reflection, a moment of communion with what was lost and what will rise again.

OBJECTIVE III: REKINDLING RONION
(Worldbuilding/Settlement – Attn: Imperial citizens, settlers, traders, and builders)

Once a domed bio-city, Ronion fell silent during the Sith occupation. Now, with the north awakening, Ronion is to be its beacon. Terraforming equipment hums across its outskirts, while settlers work tirelessly within. Homes must be raised, shops and forges reopened, power restored to the dome’s core systems. This is the work of many hands, for Ronion is not merely a city...it is the promise of life returning to the North.

OBJECTIVE IV: ANCESTRAL CLAIMS
(Diplomacy/Politics – Attn: Clan leaders, representatives, and ambassadors)

Within the rising city of Ronion, banners of every clan are hung side by side as leaders debate the partition of the northern territories. Ancestral claims clash with the needs of the present: lands to farm, homes to rebuild, new opportunities to settle. Each clan has its voice, and each must be heard. The outcome of these negotiations will shape the balance of power and peace in Mandalore’s future.

OBJECTIVE V: BRING YOUR OWN OBJECTIVE
(Flexible – Attn: All clans and independents)

Alongside these efforts, you are encouraged to pursue personal goals tied to the restoration. Recover family relics from the ruins, claim forgotten strongholds, or settle long-held vendettas! Each act becomes part of the larger Renewal.

Elira Verd
@Viera

Nando

Tin

Liorra

Conrad

Reshim

CT-312

Nephthys Nardithi-Verd

Hanna

Vyse de Valorous
@Varuun Rekaal

Nando · Monday at 11:16 PM

Rekali War College

• Supercommando-type Beskar'gam– full-body T‑visored plates, vambraces rigged with weapons, scarred by countless battles.
• HV-37 Squad Repeating Blaster
• Jetpack – jetpack with burst rockets and grappling winch; for aerial supremacy in combat
• Rising Phoenix training – traditional Mandalorian rocket‑pack mastery
• Whistling birds – wrist‑mounted guided missiles that screech before impact
• S.A.N.D. Powder - Mass Produced - A mixture of powders, dusts, and other chemicals to make "Pocket Sand." to be thrown, or be used for other projects.
• Wrist‑flamethrower – for pyrotechnic flair in close combat.
• Whipcord launcher – hidden line for entangling foes or dramatic rescues
• Disruptor pistol – high‑power, incendiary sidearm for shock damage.
• Enclave's Herald
• Euk Siha Service Knife
• SM-10a
• Vibrodaggers (pair) – elegant melee blades ideal for dual‑wielding.
• Thermal detonators & tactical grenades – for crowd control and grandiose exits.
• Helmet‑integrated comlink & HUD – for covert signals…and swoon‑worthy battlefield monologues.
• Magnetized boots – tactical grip in zero‑G or metal environments
• Macrobinocular viewplate – enhanced visor for battlefield awareness
• Ammo & utility pouches – filled with field rations, spare whistling birds, RIDD-01 "Rids", and squawk‑worthy love letters.

The world roared with fire and teeth. Hydras burst through shattered stonework, their serpentine heads lashing like whips across the ruined courtyard. Warriors cried out, beskads flashed, blasters screamed, and the old halls shook with the terrible music of war. One head lunged at Nando, its fangs shattering harmlessly against his pauldron before a rocket from his vambrace detonated half its skull in a wet blossom of gore. He did not flinch. His visor tilted, scanning the field.

So many brave vode. So many dazzling warriors, charging headlong into the abyss. Their armor gleams in the firelight, and their voices rise with such passion. Who among them might notice me?

He waded through the melee, each stride an avalanche. His beskad cut through a thrashing tail, sparks of black blood hissing against his boots, but his heart beat to a different rhythm entirely.

That one there, such poise with her blade. Or perhaps the one vaulting the rubble! What strength in his legs! Nando, you must say something heroic when you meet them. Not too heroic. Just… perfectly heroic. Something that makes them swoon as ichor drips from your beskad. What if they laugh? What if they only see you as another brute?

Another hydra screamed, its maw swallowing a warrior whole—until Nando tore its jaw apart with both hands and hurled the beast against a crumbling wall, driving a thunderous fist through its cranium and pulverizing the contents of its brain cavity. Dust rained over him, gilded in flame. He straightened, chest heaving, visor panning the battlefield once more.

Focus, Nando. Focus. The hydras are not going to stage off solitide. Victory means nothing if no one holds your hand when the song is over. Find your companion. Find your eternal muse. Find… a date.

Fear tugged at his heart, but he must be brave. He raised his beskad again, its silver edge catching the firelight. But his gaze lingered not on the monsters, nor the ruins, but on the warriors who fought beside him each clash of steel a chance at destiny.

I really am a sucker for vode in beskar'gam...

The centuries old Sangnir wiped ichor from his black and silver filigreed armor, and took a moment to approach another Mando'ad, joining in their fight.

@Open

Nando · Monday at 11:19 PM

Whoops double post

Dren Saxon · Monday at 11:23 PM

RONION, MANDALORE

Dren Saxon remembered.

He remembered what it was to be young, filled with the fire of certainty, certain that the banner of Mand’alor the Infernal would lead their people into strength unbroken. He remembered the passion that had burned in his chest when he marched as one of her warriors, believing that Mandalore could never fall. Yet fall it did. They had not seen the betrayal of their own kind when they should have. They had not raised their blades against the Sith with the fury required when they should have. The result had been ruin, their home carved open, their kin scattered, and only fortune sparing his life from the same fate. That was a lifetime ago, and the man who now sat at the head of the hall bore little resemblance to the youth who had once stood defiant against an inevitable tide.

The years had changed him. His hand still knew the weight of blade and blaster, but age was merciless, and he no longer pretended to be what he once was. Mand’alor the Iron had given him a different charge, one fitting the lines that cut his face and the wisdom tempered by half a century of scars. Gogi. Elder. Not a title won by conquest or cunning, but by endurance and the hard clarity of experience. It was as such that he sat this day in the city of Ronion, its walls humming with new life as if to spite the ghosts that once dwelled here. The hall where he now presided had been a mess hall of the old military, reclaimed and restored until its tables once again bore the weight of Mandalorian affairs. For this day only, he carried the voice of the Mand’alor himself, charged with keeping the proceedings of the Clans from unraveling into the chaos of pride and steel.

When the Alors began to arrive, filing in with banners raised and ambitions concealed, Dren rose from his seat. He planted both fists firmly upon the table, the sound ringing sharp against the chatter and pulling every gaze toward him. His eyes, aged but unyielding, swept across the room until he was certain he held the attention of all.

“There will be order,” he said, his voice carrying with the authority of one who had long since tired of wasted words. “Ancestral claims will be honored, and the Empire itself will hear and meet requests for aid. If a clan desires to raise its homes in the north, then it shall be so. But none among you will lay claim to what belongs rightfully to another. This is not the time for petty feuds or reckless ambition. This is the time for Mandalore to stand whole once more.”

The declaration made, he returned to his seat with deliberate calm. One hand lifted in motion, inviting the gathering to begin. The floor was theirs. Who among them would speak first? Who would claim their place in the north, not with blood, but with the will to see their people endure?

OPEN

Daiga · Tuesday at 12:04 AM

Daiga

LOCATION: Mandalore
OBJECTIVE: Objective 1
TAGS: Open

"The dead cannot cry out for justice. It is a duty of the living to do so for them."

Death. More and more death. It seemed like a lot more of her jobs recently had that little feature to them. Of course, that's because she had been taking more jobs for the Mandalorians. Sure, they were capable enough without her, but they were a lot more clean and professional than the usual contract givers she was used to. So who cares if the stench of death clung to her? She could taste it in the air. Feel it in her bones. For some reason, the stench was even more putrid here than anywhere else she had been. It didn't matter to her either way as she twirled her vibroblades for a moment to get off the blood

Her foot nudged the corpse of one of the creatures slain, wrinkling her nose in disgust at the stench. These freaks absolutely leaked off the stench of death. From what she understood, there weren't entirely undead but something about their nature was...well unnatural to her. What had she been getting herself into by hanging around with these people? Is this what her parents would have wanted of her?...No. They'd rather have her break the backs of those weaker than her and take advantage of them. Urgh. Why was she even thinking about them at a time like this? It's like there was something...pushing her to relive her worst experiences.

Rumbling and explosions from above snapped Daiga out of her thoughts. Probably some of those heavyhitters dealing with the Hydras. Wasn't exactly Daiga's kind of deal. Sure, heavy weapons could be pretty fun to use but they made a mess of things. Clean and surgical was the way she preferred to be. It was why whilst they dealt with the Hydras and brought their attention outside, Daiga was moving through the fortress and slaying these other...creatures, where she found them. Did they come from eggs? Or were those the Hydra? Daiga frowned to herself, kicking a few broken pieces of eggshell around the floor in thought...Hm...Maybe she should try to find some to procure. They could make for a pretty penny on the market.

Gear: Dual blasters and dual vibroblades

Aadihr Lidos · Tuesday at 12:23 AM

Gifts from Alpheridies

Objective 2: the Veshok Grove
Outfit: Clothes, Earring, Bangle
Weapons: Walking stick / Lightsaber Pike

The air was thick with the scent of freshly turned earth, with the weight of prayers rising on every hand that planted a sapling. Aadihr did not join in that sacred act. It was not his place to offer the veshok trees of Mandalore back to her soil. That duty belonged to her children, to those whose ancestors had bled for this ground.

Instead, he came with others of his kind. Miraluka robed in modest garb, carrying bundles wrapped in cloth. Seeds of grain, roots preserved in damp soil, and hardy sprouts from Alpheridies—the gifts of a distant world, carried across the stars to honor this renewal. Where Mandalorians planted their ancestral trees, the Miraluka laid down what they could grow, what might one day supplement Mandalorian harvests as the North was healed.

Aadihr bowed his head as the bundles were offered, hands lingering on the soil not to claim it, but as a visitor, a guest. The land still hummed faint with corruption, yet beneath it he felt the slow strength of lives returning. The Mandalorians’ prayers carried into the Force like sparks on the wind. He contributed his light of the Force, no more than any of the Mandaloriwn knights present. He was but a geographic citizen of the Mandaloriwn Empire, but they had kept his people safe, and in his eyeless view, kindness transcended borders.

Gratitude guided his steps. The Mando'ade had stood guard over Alpheridies turbulence of the fast years; now, he returned in kind, if only with seeds and presence.

“May these roots find strength in your soil, as our peoples have found strength in one another.”

With that, he stepped back, walking stick in hand, and gave the Mandalorians their space. His role here was not to speak loudly, but to witness. To honor. To give thanks.

Perhaps, given time, the Luka Sene of his homeworld could be restored. Perhaps their seers could be a boon to the Mand'Alor. But such discussions were inappropriate in a culturally sacred place as this, Aadihr presumed.

@OPEN

Zayid the Lion · Tuesday at 1:24 AM

V E N G E A N C E

Objective I - REKALI WAR COLLEGE

Fifty-one years had passed since Mandalore had been laid low. It remained a wound in the collective history of their people, a wound that no true son or daughter of the Resol’nare could look upon without feeling the sting of failure. Zayid had not been alive when the Sith betrayed Mand’alor the Infernal, yet he had heard the stories retold often enough to know them by heart. Stories of the occupation and the slow suffocation of their culture. Stories of survival and exile. Stories of leaving home. All of it weighed upon him now, for on this day he carried the distinct honor of helping to right such a grievous wrong.

The Manda was with him. He could feel it stirring in his veins, not as a whisper but as a thunderous roar, and he knew it was with every warrior who descended upon the northern wastes of their homeworld this day. With each step pressed into scorched soil, with each shot loosed in fury, the dead of the occupation were avenged. Today his focus was set upon the Rekali War College, a mighty bastion of stone and iron whose walls still bore the blackened kiss of ordnance fired long ago. It should have stood as a monument to the future of their people, a forge for generations of warriors, but instead it had become the den of nightmares.

Hydras, scaled monstrosities with too many heads and too much hunger, prowled within the courtyards and halls. Other abominations nested deep in the underkeep. Reclaiming such a place would be a bloody endeavor, yet Zayid knew there were none better suited to the task. The Mandalorians were up to the challenge. Death Watch was up to the challenge.

His jetpack carried him high above the battlements, fire trailing in his wake until he came crashing down into the chaos below. The ground trembled as his boots struck the ancient stones, his visor sweeping immediately across the battlefield. There! Mandalorians locked in combat with a hydra whose heads snapped like whips, its breath fouling the air with smoke and flame. Zayid wasted no time. He drew his pistol and leveled it with steady aim, sending a volley of crimson into the beast’s hide. The bolts burst against hardened scales, peeling them away in scorched fragments until one of the snarling heads turned toward him. Its eyes burned with rage, its teeth bared in hunger.

Zayid shouted to the warriors nearest him, his voice cutting through the din of battle. “Bring it down! For the Manda and for those who fell before us!” His cry echoed against the ruined walls as he charged, weaving aside as one of the massive jaws spewed a column of fire toward him. His beskad remained at his hip for now, his blaster spitting bolt after bolt, this time seeking out the creature’s eyes. Victory would not come easily, but he did not waver. This was the hour when Mandalore reclaimed its future, and he would see it done.

Daiga ,

Nando + Open

Domina Prime · Tuesday at 1:32 AM

I HEAR THIS VOICE KEEP ASKING ME
IS THIS MY BLOOD OR IS IT BLASPHEMY?

Daiga |

Nando |

Adonis Angelis IV

Objective One | Rekali War College

The Rekali War College loomed like a corpse of glory, its spires blackened against the pale northern sky. Where once Mandalorian minds were sharpened into weapons, now Sithspawn brooded in the bones of the fortress, their hisses seeping through shattered windows like whispers of damnation. The banners of Mandalore's past snapped against the wind, tattered and ashamed.

The colossal xeno strode with laughter in her throat and hunger in her eyes, her mythosaur axe dragging a furrow in the stone that screamed with every step, a scar carved for her kin to march upon. Sparks leapt from the ground as if even the earth feared her tread. New-bloods lingered at the threshold, their nerves gnawed by the growls echoing from within. They froze, until Prime's shadow fell across them.

She split their ranks like a warhead through water, claws clashing against armored shoulders as she shoved them aside, her presence daring them to move or be crushed. "Steel sings truer than scripture, brothers and sisters!" she roared, her voice shattering hesitation like glass. "Blood, spilled upon stone, is the only ink the gods will ever read!"

Her laughter cracked like thunder as she tilted her horned helm toward the spires. "The Sith defiled this hall with their beasts—let us make it holy again in fire and ruin! Learn your first lesson of Rekali: the gods do not want words." She gestured forward dramatically towards the grand hall. "They want wounds. They want screams. They want meat!"

From the dark of the College, eyes burned like furnaces. Hydras, spawn, horrors twisted by Sith hands. Blasterfire flared as Mandalorians already inside fed their gods with bolts and blades, the sound of slaughter echoing through the halls. The air reeked of ozone and blood.

Prime answered with action. She lunged forward, cursed axe rising high, her massive frame colliding with the tide of beasts like a warship splitting seas. The first creature lunged. She caught its tusk in her upper arms, snapped it with a twist, then heaved the monster away with her axe in one sweeping arc. Gore sprayed across the stone like anointing oil. Another beast, snapping hydra-mouthed, met her charge only to be hacked in half, its halves writhing as she trampled through.

Briefly passing by

Daiga and

Nando , she lifted her lower arms and gestured at them as they stood by their own slain trophies. "Woah hey now, save some for the rest of us you two. We got some rookies who need to get their stats up~" She teased in whimsical banter before suddenly shifting her focus like a razor back towards the surging masses ahead. Snatching one of the ducking foundlings shooting from behind her and shoving them forward like an older sibling just as

Zayid the Lion came crashing through the very ceiling from an upper level and scattering the swarm with impressive skill and accuracy. "Karkin hell brother. Making the rest of us look bad over here. Lets say we all make a bet huh? One with the least hides pays the tavern tab?" She teased with a sharp whistle and friendly challenge towards Daiga, Nando and Zayid.

"See, follow his example and get in there Rook, The Gods witness us! FORWARD!" she bellowed, snapping her tail across the conscripts backside to pivot them into motion as her voice was drowned only by the shrieks of dying spawn as he let his blaster off violently. "Into the belly of the beast! If fear has your throat, carve it out with your blade! If weakness lives in you, let it die here upon the stones of Rekali! The gods do not feed on your prayers, they feed on what you kill!"

And so she advanced, carving a steady crimson path through the College's grand hall, her axe singing the scripture her people understood best: destruction.

Jonah · Tuesday at 1:36 AM

RONION, MANDALORE

Jonah had only ever known the stories. The occupation of Mandalore was something he had grown up hearing of from his sire, told in quiet moments as if the gravity of it had never truly left the man’s bones. It was curious to him, how someone rejected so many times by his own kin could still hold such reverence for the world that had spurned him. Stranger still that decades later Jonah would find himself upon that very soil, not as a child hearing tales but as a man tasked with helping restore what had been lost. In its own way, it felt like honoring those who had come before, both his father and the many who had perished beneath the Sith boot. His brother, the Mand’alor, spoke true about what had occurred fifty-one years ago. However one framed it, Mandalore should have seen the betrayal, should have been strong enough to resist, yet it had not been.

That truth sat heavily upon Jonah’s shoulders, and in his mind it shaped his purpose. Now as Warmaster of the Nite Owls, he understood his role with absolute clarity. It was his duty to make certain that Mandalore would never again be caught unprepared, that when storms rose in the years ahead they would break against a people who had long since learned the cost of weakness. And strength did not always come clad in armor and rallying banners. Sometimes it thrived in places most would not care to look. Sometimes it required unconventional methods.

So it was that Jonah had called a gathering, summoning his Nite Owls and the remnants of the Haxion Brood who yet bent ear to his commands. Ronion would be rebuilt as a beacon, yet as every city before it had proven, where light shone brightest there would always be shadow. The underworld would come whether they willed it or not, and Jonah meant to have it in hand before it could run rampant. His Owls would be organized, deliberate, and ever-watchful, aware of all threats that would try to take root beneath the dome.

He chose his meeting place carefully, a secluded alleyway just beyond the reconstruction efforts where the hum of terraforming equipment masked the cadence of their voices. Seated upon a few crates of supplies, Jonah waited with a patience he had learned through years of command. A few of the Brood had already arrived, their hulking silhouettes leaning against the walls, their presence drawing a wicked smile across his lips. The rest of his Owls were yet on their way, and he would wait for them to come. When they did, they would begin.

Tag:

Velda Nar-Donna ,

Aren D'Shade + Open

Aether Verd · Tuesday at 11:43 AM

Assets: Beskar'gam | Basilisk
Darksaber | Resolute Dawn

RONION, MANDALORE

The time had finally come. For all his people, the desire to see Mandalore made whole had burned for generations, and for him it was no different. The work of those who came before had paved the way, and though the Graug had been scoured from the North years ago, their absence did not mark the end of the struggle. There were still wounds in the earth that begged to be healed, still shadows left behind by the Sith occupation that lingered in the soil. This was why the Mand’alor stood now at the edge of Ronion, surrounded by his people. Together they would call upon the ancestors to cleanse the rot that remained, and together with the steady hum of terraforming machines working across the wastes, they would see the last stains of that dark age purged at last.

Aether took his place among them, a circle of Mandalorians drawn from many clans, gathered outside the city to take part in a sacred act. Yet what moved him was not only the sight of the Mando’ade answering this call, but the presence of citizens from across the Empire who had come to stand beside them. It warmed his soul to see that his vision of unity was no longer only spoken in words, but alive before his eyes. Mandalore was not alone.

He stepped forward, inclining his head as a pair of his peers accepted the gifts brought by their Miraluka neighbors. To the one who had spoken, Aether laid a hand upon his shoulder and said, “You honor us with these gifts, and with your presence. Mandalore does not forget those who stand with her people. Join us, and let your hands bring new life to this soil alongside ours.”

With a motion of his gauntlet he beckoned the Miraluka to follow, to take their place within the circle. Aether then secured a spade, the tool firm in his grasp as he stepped to the fore. He broke the quiet reverence of the moment with his voice, steady and carrying.

“The veshok tree is as much a symbol of Mandalore as the beskar that shields our flesh. From its wood our homes were raised. From its roots our tools were fashioned. It has been the lifeblood of our people as surely as the iron in our veins. Fifty-one years ago, when our strength faltered, the veshok tree was nearly wiped from the Galaxy. In its place, this land was poisoned and defiled. That is what we undo here today.”

With that, he pressed the spade into the soil and turned the earth with a steady motion. He then set the tool aside and lowered to one knee, pressing his palm to the freshly unearthed ground. His helm lifted, gaze sweeping across Mandalorians and citizens alike, shoulder to shoulder in the circle.

“Through this act we finish the work of reclaiming our home. We purge the Darkness. We restore vibrancy to our ground. And we show the ancestors that Mandalore endures.”

He paused only long enough to rest his hand upon the soil once more before lifting his gaze again. His voice came softer now, but carried no less weight.

“Who will plant with me?”

Aadihr Lidos + Open

Delsin Shaw · Tuesday at 1:03 PM

|| Objective I: - Rekali War College ||
|| Equipment: Armor | Sword | Energy Sword | Ring | Cybernetic ||
|| Tags:

Nando |

Daiga |

Adonis Angelis IV |

Domina Prime |

Zayid the Lion ||

There comes a time when one must face their own creations. The Sith for Generations have used Sith Spawn as their form of weapons and combat units. Some were dignified with given the position of guarding something. Namely, relics or a Nexus. Some were left in old tombs. But for this one, it was a hive of them that had survived. Given the chance to thrive on the Northern half of the planet Mandalore. Over 50 years ago now, the planet was decimated by the Sith. And I was here to fix that. To aid the Mandalorians. However, knowing that Battle Hydras were the primary target for such things, I could not resist.

Apparently, they were able to procreate. Which was normally a very difficult thing to accomplish. Very few could do so of their own and required an Alchemist of higher powers to replicate them. As such, I was very intrigued. And sought out to aid this mission. Not truly to defeat them, but to gather samples and maybe even a specimen or two. Not just for my own personal fun, but to study them and determine how they could have done this. And if they could be replicating fast enough that they could become a problem later.

The premise was to thin the herd. To lower their numbers so that we could continue to rebuild Mandalore. As Zayid had landed down from above. Near the same position as a much larger figure with multiple arms. The individual commended them. However, that was not the end of the fight. He got a couple, but I wanted more.

The Flash of Lightning swept across the field. Bouncing back and forth. Hitting creature after creature before stopping in front of the man as he charged forward. A smile hidden by the helmet. The white helmet turned to him and cocked to the side.

"I got Eight. What you sitting at?"

I didn't wait. My hand opening up into a flare of lightning that formed into a solid projectile. Launched through the crowd to slam through the chest of a Hydra. Splitting it down the center where it's necks came together. the hole large enough to fit a man through it. Body dropping as I drew my blade once more.

"Correction, Nine."

Tarre Priest · Tuesday at 1:27 PM

|| Objective IV: Ancestral Claims ||
|| Tags:

Dren Saxon ||

The others were fighting. Their voices over who owned what land. Bickering like children. For years the various Clans have all sought to rule their own locations. Each having a place on Mandalore. Manifesting their destiny to try and hold onto whatever they could. This massive land grab was for the purpose of trying to divvy up who could control what. And it was doing us no good. Each group wanting a larger and larger portion when finally, the Voice of Mandalor spoke up. Silencing all who would speak. Voicing and proclaiming that everyone will have their share, but it will come as peaceful solution without inter-clan wars and conflicts.

Standing up from my chair, I walked forward to the center of the room. Standing on the Dias that others were already attempting to proclaim what was their rightful place. My hands shooing them away. Their squabbles could be dealt with later. One stood defiant. Attempting to keep their ground and not move. He wanted to jika kaysh dayn. So would I. I moved to stand at the center.

"Sara'gar! I am not here to determine who owns what. Doing so is a child's game. Trying to one up your vod, in who owns land is touching on the end of imbecilic."

My visor looked to the man ahead of me. I knew not from what clan he hailed from, but now was not the time for a fight. So I put it very plainly.

"Mandalore for generations before us was a haven of life and forests. Home to great beasts we revere greatly. We wear it on our armor, and in our hearts. And to snatch land up to create a world that would become like that of Coruscant or Tython. Filled with people proclaiming to love nature and trying to be better for their people. Yet they are not. We have to cultivate this world to the way is was before, but better. With livestock, creatures to teach our children to hunt, farms to produce food for our families. We already have plenty of worlds to make weapons."

Drawing out a literal physical copy of the Resol'nare, and letting it fall to the ground. A slam as it did so.

"In our own laws, we educate ourselves. And protect our tribes. Clans! Houses! That means not just ours but others."

Drawing out the physical copy of the Supercommando Codex. Letting it follow to the ground as it slammed.

"The Codex states we hold not just ourselves in honor. But also those who follow us. Who stand beside us."

Next and the final one, was my own hammer. Drawn from my back. Held up and turned to face the others. Letting everyone see it.

"For those who believe in neither of the Laws of Manda, or our Kin, I give you this."

Dropping the hammer, so it hit the ground without a bounce.

Korra Kast · Tuesday at 3:01 PM

Korra Kast stepped forward from the circle, her armor catching the light of Mandalore's sky. Her helmet tucked under her arm, she revealed her face, one carrying the sharp strength of someone who had seen too many battles and yet refused to break. She let the silence linger just a moment longer, allowing the weight of Aether's words to breathe in the air between them.

Then, her voice rang out, clear and resolute. "I will."

She crossed the short distance to him, each step steady, deliberate, and lowered herself opposite Aether at the edge of the freshly turned soil. She pressed her hand into the earth as he had, her fingers sinking into the dirt. The roughness of it grounded her, reminding her of the battles fought for this very soil, the blood that had been spilled upon it.

"For too long, Mandalore has been made to bleed, and we have been forced to carry the scars of other peoples' wars. But today…" She glanced up at him, then around at the circle of gathered Mandalorians and allies, her eyes fierce with conviction. "…today, we choose to choose to build, not bury. That is the victory our enemies never wanted to see."

Korra straightened, her hand still against the soil.

"Let the roots we place here dig deeper than any wound. Let them remind our children that Mandalore's strength is not only in fire and steel, but in the life we bring forth together."

She turned her gaze back to Aether, lips set in a firm line before softening into the faintest of smiles.

Aether Verd + Open

Dren Saxon · Tuesday at 3:06 PM

IV - ANCESTRAL CLAIMS

From the outside looking in, one might have called the scene within the hall bickering. Others, less charitable, might have called it chaos. The voices of clan heads rose and fell, each laden with the weight of conviction, and the air itself seemed thick with demands and counterclaims. Yet Dren did not condemn his countrymen for this display, for he understood what stirred beneath their words. Passion such as this was born from loss, and every clan in that chamber bore its scars from the Sith occupation. They had all been displaced. They had all seen their homes leveled, their ancestral lands burned, their roots severed. In the years that followed, more than one clan had attempted to settle again in the same places, each seeking to reclaim what they believed was rightfully theirs.

It was inevitable then that the questions would come. What did home look like now? Whose claim was most righteous, and whose roots most true? Which families would be allowed to remain, and which would be asked to uproot once more? These were not simple matters, and Dren would not trivialize them by pretending they were.

When Tarre stepped forward, Dren’s attention fixed upon him. He regarded the young Mandalorian with a steady gaze as he spoke, rebuking those who argued and laying out his case with the fire of one whose heart had not yet grown weary from years of debate. By the Resol’nare, by the Codex, and finally by the hammer in his grasp, Tarre reminded his peers of what bound them together. His words cut through the din like a blade, and for a moment the hall fell to silence in the wake of his conviction.

But silence is fleeting. The man who had been the object of Tarre’s rebuke bristled, his shoulders tightening as he prepared to rise and meet fire with fire. Dren would not permit it. He pushed himself up from his chair, his movement deliberate, his dominant hand raised high above the table. The gesture was enough. The room quieted once more beneath the weight of their liege's authority.

The Gogi regarded Tarre first, offering him the faintest nod. “You have spoken well,” he said, his voice carrying across the chamber, rich with the authority age and experience had carved into him. “You are right to remind us of what binds us together. We are one people, united by Creed and by Codex. None among us should forget this.”

He let his gaze sweep over the gathered clans before continuing. “But I would be remiss if I did not speak to the other truth that lies before us. Many here were displaced when the Sith came. Many saw their roots torn out and their ancestral homes reduced to ash. What was once their land has been lost, and when they returned, they sought to settle again. Some came upon places that others also claimed. And so we find ourselves here, not as squabbling children, but as people who have all suffered the same wound.”

His hand lowered then, though his voice remained steady. “There must be space for the clans to return to the corners of Mandalore they call home. That is just. And that is what the Mand’alor has decreed will be done this day. Each voice will be heard. Each claim will be weighed. None shall be denied their place, but none shall take what belongs to another.”

With that, Dren returned to his seat, his hand gesturing for the floor once again to open. The message was clear: passion was welcome, but order would prevail.

Tarre Priest

Velda Nar-Donna · Tuesday at 4:33 PM

WEARING: Black Obsidien Sith robes.

 WEAPONS: 2x Lightsabers and The Dark Side

TAG: 
			 
		 Jonah
  | 
			 
		 Aren D'Shade
  | OPEN  

OBJECTIVE III​

The clandestine meeting had been plotted with intricate care, every detail carefully curated for its very stage on Mandalore, amidst the ongoing pulse of its magnificent restoration.

Both the lingering Haxion Brood remnants and the Nite Owls were slated to convene. The Brood was already present, having arrived ahead of Velda. 

It was prudent to scout, always; for any unforseen entanglements....

Stepping into Ronion, the biodome overhead felt reminiscent of Echnos City’s own once-proud shield. Both had been cocoons against their own respective planet’s raw, caustic environments, but that’s where their kinship ceased. Echnos City, when she’d left it, was ragged and torn by war, its very streets peppered with the blackened streaks of scorch marks courtesy of blaster bolts and the precise, searing incisions of lightsaber blades. 

Duracrete, what was once a part of sidewalks and building sides, had crumbled into desolate heaps, a landscape of broken promises.

And all thanks to the Alliance and the Jedi.

Ronion, in stark opposition, hummed with a purposeful energy. Rebuilding was taking hold. Buildings slated for demolition would gracefully give way to new foundations, allowing the entire city to resurrect itself, starbird-like,  from the dust of past conflicts.

Velda arrived in shadow, going back to being cloaked in mystery and intrigue. Unlike on Roon, where she found that dressing as her royal self and out in the open, was the best option.

She approached Jonah, who waited, on a stacked crate of rough supplies. No other Nite Owls were yet visible within the alley’s confines, but she knew they would be coming.

“Good to see you are well Jonah.” The words were a low, silken current in the air, barely a ripple above the distant, sonorous hum of the terraforming equipment, a lullaby of reconstruction.

“I’ve always rather admired your knack for bold thinking, and I am most impressed it hasn’t waned...” Her gaze drifted, momentarily, to the nascent skeletal frames of new constructions. 

Quite an audacious gambit, convening the galaxy's shadowy elements, here, on Mandalore of all places, was nothing short of daring. A fool's errand, some might call it. She called it a stroke of brilliance.

Hanna · Tuesday at 5:28 PM

Location: Rekali War College - Mandalore
Thread Objective: I - The Rekali War College
Mission Objective:

Secure the fortress.
- Clear out the Graug and Sithspawn.
- Capture or destroy eggs.

Tag:

Delsin Shaw

The interior ruins of the Rekali War College had been transformed into a theater of carnage. Fire roared against stone, beskads screamed in arcs of steel, blasters shrieked, and the guttural bellows of dying hydras mingled into a discordant chorus that battered the walls like an orchestra gone mad. With every contract that she accepted, Hanna understood more why Mandalorians referred to such things as songs. Not merely because they sang of them later while drunk on revnog, but because of how such chaotic close-quarters engagements, in spite of their outward discordance, often had a flow—a melody that gave as much as it took.

For her part, Hanna much preferred to regard it as a ballet. And she its swiftest dancer.

In that, the small-statured repulsorlift skater surged around the edges of the courtyard at breakneck velocity as the battle hydras crashed through the stonework. One of the beasts shifted its heads towards her, roaring as it shifted course, then charged in her direction. Hanna didn’t let it get far. Her verpine shatter pistols cracked in rapid sequence, sending a volley of hypervelocity slugs into the hydra’s alloy-infused hide, punching holes deep into its flesh. The hydra’s roar broke into a ragged shriek, but briefly pressed on in spite of the onslaught, before giving a final, strained gasp as the Qilin’s last salvo tore deep into its lungs, sending the beast crashing to the stone floor.

Hanna didn’t stop. Recognizing her as a threat, another hydra swept down from above, its winged form soaring overhead before suddenly diving down, serpentine heads lashing out to rip her in twain. The Qilin skated towards it in turn, before suddenly kicking her feet out ahead of her trajectory, throwing herself into a slide. As the hydra passed overhead, her verpine shatter pistols spat hypervelocity doom into its exposed, less-armored underbelly, instantly ripping through the creature’s lungs and heart.

Emerging from the opposite side, Hanna grunted and pushed herself back up into the air, once more hovering a few centimeters above the ground. The hydra, now behind her, leaked its crimson essence into the stone, before giving one last gasp as its massive form collapsed with a resounding thud, lifeless.

All the while, Hanna quickly took stock of the others, skates flaring as she accelerated around the courtyard. From above,

Zayid the Lion soared on wings of searing flame, raining down a volley of crimson tibanna into the hide of a beast. Not far was

Daiga , her twin vibroblades having cleanly cut down one of the twin-headed monstrosities. Then, there was the imposing figure of

Nando , ripping the beasts apart with his armored fists, form clad in heavy Supercommando-type beskar that made his already massive form titanic.

Nearest to her was

Delsin Shaw , his preternatural lightning cleaving a hydra in twain to add yet another of the beasts to his already impressive kill count. Finally, there was the towering, four-armed figure of

Domina Prime , her axe carving a path through towards the grand hall!

Sparkle Velocity
- Gauntlets and Vambraces
  
  Modular Weapon Mount (3) - R
  
  PC-05V Plasma Caster
  
  Ammunition
  
  Medium Plasma Gas Canister
  
  NML-02VTB Nano Missile Launcher
  
  Ammunition
  
  Depleted Baradium-tipped Baradium Nano Missiles (12)
  
  Modular Weapon Mount (3) - L
  
  IceJet Miniaturized CryoBan Projector
  
  Ammunition
  
  CryoBan Canister
  
  Repulsor Projector
Hanna’s HB-42 Disruptor Pistols (2)
- Ammunition
  
  FAE/AM-01-S2 Energy Weapon Cartridge - Ethaerium X Gas and CryoBan Coolant (4)
  
  FAE/AM-01-S2 Energy Weapon Cartridge - Ethaerium Gas and CryoBan Coolant (8)
- Attachments
  
  1-5x FAE/S-08 Electro-Sight
Glitter Roses (2)
- Ammunition
  
  Extended Magazine - Standard Penetrator: Void Stone Treatment (2)
  
  Standard Magazine - Antimatter Explosive: Void Stone Treatment (4)
- Attachments
  
  1-5x FAE/S-08 Electro-Sight
FAE/MDE-01-S2 Semiautonomous Seeker Thermal Explosive (2)
Infrared Smoke Grenade (2)

Acier Moonbound · Tuesday at 6:55 PM

Location: Mandalore - Ronion

Equipment:
Training Jumpsuit | Lightsaber | Modified DL-27 | Tic

Sibylla Abrantes |

Aether Verd |

Aadihr Lidos |

Korra Kast

Mandalore. The name carried weight in his chest. Every step felt heavier, as if the ground itself remembered what he was, what bloodline he carried. He hadn't asked for any of it, yet the galaxy never let him forget. And still, here it didn't feel like a burden. The sting of Mandalore's air, the grit of her soil... it grounded him.

Tic chirped on his shoulder, lens flickering as he scanned the circle of Mandalorians planting saplings. Ace smirked faintly, tapping the droid's side.

"Yeah. Feels different when it's ours, huh?"

His gaze found Aadihr among them, calm and steady, laying seeds of his own people into the soil. Ace gave him a half-smirk and the smallest nod, respect between different paths, but ones that always met when it mattered.

Then he saw her. Sibylla. No beskar, no weapon, yet she stood with a quiet poise that drew his eyes before he could stop himself. It unsettled him, that flicker of attraction he couldn't name. Tic chirped again, almost teasing, and Ace hushed him quickly before catching her gaze. A lopsided smile tugged at his mouth. Not cocky, but genuine.

He lingered as Aether and Korra pressed their hands into the earth, their words stirring Bonadan's scars in his mind. Empty streets, alleys where nothing grew. Mandalore was healing in ways his own world never could. That was enough to move him.

"I'll plant with you."

Ace knelt, pressing his palm deep into the soil until the dirt clung dark to his skin. From his satchel, he drew a small bundle of scavenged seeds, hardy sprouts carried since the Rim, and set them beside the veshok. Not as kin, not as Mandalorian, but as someone who understood loss. When he rose, his hands were black with soil, his chest strangely lighter. For once, he wasn't running from his lineage. He was standing in it.

Adonis Angelis IV · Tuesday at 8:57 PM

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Adonis appeared as just another Mandalorian in the crowd, blending in as armor and muscle, except he wasn't. He had been adopted through the Resol'nare, not born into it. When the Sith tore families from their homes and scarred the planet beyond recognition, he had lost nothing. His ancestors had lost nothing. That meant he was owed nothing. He wasn't here to argue for land, Adonis was here to add perspective.

He hadn't been born into the culture, but he had embraced it with the conviction of a thousand suns. He had followed every tenet, he had sworn allegiance, he had guarded Mand'alor's flank more times than he could count. By every measure but blood, he was Mandalorian.

So he had taken a seat near the back, content to listen and learn. His body had been called to battle, but his soul had been called to this forum. If he was ever to lead Vaal, if House Angelis was ever to rise under his hand, he needed to understand how Mandalorians fought with words as well as weapons. His homeworld would one day fall within Mandalorian politics. The Knight meant to be ready when it did.

The air in the hall had been taut as wire, every voice wild with conviction, every warrior clad in armor that promised violence if patience failed. Tarre had spoken with fire, Dren had answered with wisdom, and the tension only seemed to grow. Adonis knew Mandalorians respected each other too much to descend into brawls, or so he hoped. Still, it was clear things were reaching a breaking point.

"If I may," Adonis said, rising.

His vocoder carried his words across the chamber as he made his way down the aisle. Nearly seven feet of armored steel moved with purpose, and he could feel the eyes on him, some disdainful, some curious. He shook it off. In truth, he could take most of them in a fight, and among Mandalorians, that fact carried its own weight.

"Contribute to the honor of your clan." His voice rang out as he reached the dais. He did not seek to overtake those already there, only to make his point known. "While we argue over who claims the largest plot of land, our enemies sharpen their blades. Some Sith who did this to us still breathe, and they would do it again in a heartbeat."

His arms spread toward the gathered clans. "Even now, the Diarchy toys with fire on our doorstep. They set blazes and hope they can put them out. Mand'alor has decreed that each of you will have your share. So take it. Plant your crops, build your homes, but be prepared."

His visor turned toward Tarre, then to Dren, "Until the work is done, no one here owns more than the blood they are willing to spill to defend it." At last, Adonis dipped his head, then raised it again with steady conviction.

"Mandalore belongs to all of us… or it belongs to none."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

TAG: Dren Saxon Tarre Priest

Runi Kuryida · Tuesday at 9:58 PM

Runi knelt upon the surface with her cloak of feathers fanned about her. One hand stretched out before her and hovered in the air for a moment. Her hazel gaze was for the soil. There had been an intent to drive life out from the world. From the galaxy. A hunger of hatred and spite, which turned to simply hunger not born of those that came before. The Shaman's lips pressed together. Dangerous times. It sought to resist and establish its own roots.

Dark tendrils reached up from the soil and stretched toward her hand. They began to twist together as the Shaman drew in steady breath to excise a portion of darkness from the immediate area. Darkness was not evil as most thought it. Light was not good as many championed it. They were facets of life. Visions of what might be. A vision not meant for this world; someone else's vision that Runi would remove so that a new one could grow.

Slowly, the cloaked figure rose to her feet and turned her head to spy a group nearby. Aether invited others to join them and to view the trees they would plant as the beginning of reclaiming their home. Yes, trees would be a far better sight than ruins or waste.

She watched patiently to see which in attendance choose to participate. The Warmaster of the Knights listen as each spoke their thoughts aloud.

Aether Verd |

Aadihr Lidos |

Korra Kast |

Acier Moonbound

Aiden Wolf · 2025-08-20T02:42:13-0400

Pacts bound in bloodshed

LOCATION: Rekali War College
OBJECTIVE: I - Retake the college
Tag:

Nando ,

Daiga ,

Domina Prime ,

Zayid the Lion ,

Delsin Shaw ,

Hanna , OPEN

Above Ground- Rekali Courtyard

The ground above had a familiar weight for the Wolves who had endured the Rift. Too long had they lived beneath a sky poisoned by a nexus, where monsters of impossible scale had prowled the dark. When the Mandalorians spoke of their home cursed in the same way, the Wolves knew they could not stand aside.

Tanks and IFVs rumbled through churned earth until the outer walls of the Rekali College loomed before them. Their mission was simple: form a perimeter and give the warriors inside a fair chance at storming the fortress.

Troopers spilled from their hatches, weapons barking as they fanned out in disciplined arcs. Assault droids clanked into position beside them, heavy repeaters belching red fire as they raked the ruins. Sergeants shouted for squads to the walls, firing canisters skyward. Rappel lines thudded into stone and ascenders hissed, Wolves clawing their way up to seize the battlements.

Then the screeching started.

The spawn came not only from the walls but from the shattered grounds beyond, a tide of scaled bodies intent on encircling the assault. Blasters cracked, slug throwers roared, beskads flashed in silver arcs. Wolf troopers and Mandalorian warriors fought shoulder-to-shoulder, their weapons different but their rhythm the same.

But the hydras… the hydras were another matter.

One burst through a crumbling gatehouse, its three heads snapping in unison, jaws dripping a corrosive ichor that hissed against the stone. The tanks were too far back, hemmed outside the walls, leaving only squads and droids to slow the beast.

"Get those doors open!" a sergeant bellowed into his handset. "We need heavies inside now!"

A three-man missile team scrambled into place, the gunner bracing the launcher as the bearer slid a round from his pack. Their security man kept watch, until a shriek and crunch stole him away. One of the spawn dragged him screaming into the rubble before the others cut it down. The bearer plunged his vibroblade into its gut, emptied his sidearm into its skull, and still died screaming as another limb tore his head from his shoulders.

The gunner worked through the horror, hands moving on instinct as he slammed the round home and fired. The tube belched fire, the missile streaking into the hydra's chest. The explosion rocked the square, shattering scales and searing flesh, but the beast only reared higher, its roars shaking stone from the battlements.

The gunner dove for another round, clawing at his fallen comrade's pack, only for shadow to fall across him. A Raptor gunship swept overhead, its bay doors opening to disgorge Wolves into the square.

They weren't Ghost Company, not yet, but line commandos and assault droids, their armor painted black with streaks of crimson, their helmets all bearing the snarling head of a wolf in blood-red. They hit the ground hard, repeaters and rifles spitting fire in disciplined arcs as they advanced shoulder-to-shoulder with the Mandalorians.

The Hydra loomed through fire and smoke, wounded but unbroken, its many heads lashing in fury. And above the battle, more Raptors circled wide, their holds still sealed. The first blade had struck the walls. The second was waiting to fall at the heart of the College.

The hold of the Raptor was quiet. Too quiet. It wasn't the silence of men unafraid, it was the silence of those who had lived too long in the Rift, who had carried its frost back with them. The pilot didn't speak, didn't need to. The Ghosts knew their work.

Yellow light. Weapons checked. Safeties clicked off. Heavy machineguns racked, actions slamming home. Aiden glanced over his sniper rifle, his pistol, his sword. The rifle might be useless indoors, but if he found height, he could still cover the Wolves outside. Here though, here was a suicide run. A spoiling attack, straight into the heart of the College.

The door opened. The central building writhed with monsters, bodies heaving over one another in their hunger. Aiden didn't hesitate. He stepped from the ramp like a man descending a stair. Forty feet blurred into a heartbeat, his blade drawn midfall. He came down on one of the spawn, sword flashing, cybernetics driving strength through his arm as he tore its head from its body as if plucking fruit from a branch.

The message was simple.

I'm a lot scarier than you are.

Two more fell to his blade, another pair to his pistol. Then the ground quaked as the rest of Ghost Company landed. Helmets painted with snarling white skulls rose from the dust, crimson visors burning in the dark. Droids crashed down beside them, thunder rolling as their repeaters opened fire.

The spawn surged toward them in a wall of flesh and teeth. Outside, such a rush would have broken squads apart, here, it only tightened the formation.

The Ghosts moved like machines, every strike measured, every step placed with intent. Aiden's sword sheared through one beast's torso as his partner droid pivoted low, driving a serrated arm-blade through another's knee joint and hosing its skull with fire before it hit the ground.

They worked in pairs, always in pairs. Each commando's HUD streamed directly into the systems of their linked droid, each droid feeding sensor data back in turn. A flick of a Ghost's wrist became a signal for a droid to flank. A step back opened a lane for the droid's heavy repeater. Their movements were uncanny, more like duets than squads, men and machines weaving through one another's arcs without hesitation, without waste.

It was a slaughter, but not a frantic one. Outside the fortress walls, chaos reigned, the roar of hydras, the crash of tanks, the mad symphony of Mandalorian war. Inside, it was surgical.

A Hydra that might have taken a platoon outside met a Ghost-droid pair in a narrow hall. One head lunged, only to be pinned against stone by a droid's hydraulic grip while its partner severed vertebrae with a single rising cut. The body slumped, and the Ghosts advanced without breaking stride.

Their discipline wasn't born of training manuals or drills. It was something colder. The Rift had stripped them of hesitation and burned away excess. To fight beside them was to watch the uncanny at work, and to see in the way they moved that they had crossed some threshold the rest of the galaxy never should.

Aiden carved another spawn down and raised his pistol in the same motion, his shot snapping a monster back mid-lunge before it could reach the Ghost at his flank. The droid paired to him surged forward, splitting the creature's skull in a burst of crimson sparks from its wrist-mounted talon.

"Anchor here," Aiden ordered, voice clipped and low. "Droids, form hardpoints. Ghosts, stagger pairs and press into the underkeep. We keep the pressure in the center, let the courtyard breathe."

Acknowledgments clicked across the net, brief, toneless, absolute. No bravado. No cheers. Only affirmation.

The War College's interior shook with the sounds of precision, bursts of repeater fire, the wet snap of blades through sinew, the heavy crash of monsters collapsing. Where the Mandalorians outside sang their war with chaos and flame, the Ghosts wrote theirs in silence and efficiency.

Aiden's visor flickered as new traffic came across the Wolves' battlenet. Outer forces reporting progress: breaching teams on the walls, Mandalorians pressing into the halls, tanks positioning to punch through. The push was working.

The Ghosts held their ground, steel and fire cutting down anything that dared lunge. They weren't here to win the objective alone, only to buy the time and space for the rest of the blade to strike true.

Populate The Black Summer || MANDALORE STANDS [ ME Populate of Tandum III ]

M A N D A L O R E

The Beskar Bachelor

The Beskar Bachelor

P A T R I A R C H

Character

Sene Seeker

S O L

W A R W I T C H

S H A D E

K I N G

A T R O P O S

Priest Alor

Character

P A T R I A R C H

Countess of Corellia

Aspect of Devotion

Forcebound Rebel

The Basilisk

S L A Y E R

Character

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