First Reply The Flame’s Tithe

[Korda Veydran]

The night was quiet — too quiet for a city that should have been alive with noise. From the roof of the freight depot, Korda Veydran crouched low, the glow of red optics cutting through the dark. Below, the convoy of supply crates sat stacked and waiting, stamped with the sigil of some forgettable corporation. To most, it was just cargo. To Korda, it was the marrow of survival — munitions, ration packs, fuel cells. Everything his next campaign required.

His gauntleted hands moved with a brutal precision, wiring shaped charges along the security locks of the warehouse skylight. Each click and snap of the detonators was as steady as a prayer bead in a zealot's grip.

"Kad Ha'Rangir," he muttered under his breath, the words muffled by his helmet. "Bear witness to the fire I gift to this night."

One last charge in place. He straightened, the crimson skull emblazoned on his chest catching a sliver of moonlight. To any passerby, he was just another shadow among the machinery — until the quiet gave way to the low, ominous hum of primed explosives.

The timer began its slow count.
The silence before the storm.
And Korda waited, ready to tear the heart out of this depot and claim what he needed.

 

[Carisma Rostu]

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Gear: Basics
Tag: Korda Veydran

Carisma's Master seemingly found the strangest and oddly chosen missions for her, dispatching her to varying different worlds in her attempts to reshape Carisma into a perfect Sith. The teenage Sith was always successful, considering most of her missions dealt with political moving's and the occasional search and seizure. This time, Carisma had been dispatched to observe the movements of illegal cargo from a shady reputable corporation; or what her Master perceived to be shady reputable anyway.

Upon entering the city, with nighttime already in full bloom under a starry night, and guarded by the brightness of the enveloping moonlight, she noticed the quietness and easiness of the place. Very few activities were about, most eighter tucked away cozy in their homes or haunting the nearby drinking holes. This would be simple, she mused to herself, while walking through the streets. To the untrained eye, she was just one single, lonely teenager out past curfew strolling the streets, soaking up the nighttime air. Underneath that facade, she was dangerous; and growing more so by the day.

The shipping yards, where nearly all the cargo of the city passed through or was stored at it, was busy with activity. Late night workers earning that extra pay; unaware that tonight would forever change their lives. She was not to disrupt the transferring of cargo, only to steal the shipping logs without raising suspicion, such as not getting caught. If she were to be caught, her Master warned her of the repercussions for failing this mission. In layman terms, don't get caught; die fighting. Carisma had no grandiose ideas of dying tonight, or in the near future, she had come so far to fail herself; damn her Master.

Traversing and skipping from one rooftop to the next, she observed the worker ants earnestly, putting to memory their patterns. Her Master failed to mention where these logs could be found, and of course, that was the lesson. Nothing in life is easy or simply handed to you; you need to make your own destiny, fate, by any means necessary. And so, the game was afoot. So many buildings to search, and another tiny bit of information her Master also failed to mention was which building it was. Damn her Master.

​

 

[Korda Veydran]

The charge went off with a thunderous crack that split the night wide open. A wall of fire and dust blossomed outward, coughing smoke and molten sparks across the shipping yard. Stone and steel screamed as they tore apart, the shockwave rattling the stacked crates and scattering workers like startled animals.

The debris struck him in a shower — jagged shards clanging harmlessly against beskar, ringing in deep, metallic notes that rolled through the quiet like ritual drums. Korda did not flinch. Instead, he straightened, shoulders squared, and drew a long breath that fogged the inside of his visor. His lips curled behind the helm into a smile too small for joy and too sharp for sanity.

"Kad Ha'Rangir is fed," he rumbled, voice reverent in its brutality. Each word left his throat like a prayer dragged across steel.

Through the thinning haze, he saw her. A lone figure on a rooftop across the way, slight in frame, yet standing too still, too aware. The girl was no worker and no wanderer. His red optics narrowed, tracing her movements — noting the deliberate balance of one accustomed to watching, waiting, surviving.

He shifted his stance deliberately, a mountain of iron turning to face her. The satchel at his side clattered with the sound of shaped charges, the music of a siege priest. Rubble still slid down his armor in tiny showers, each ping a reminder of the joy he drew from destruction.

Silence stretched between them, taut as a tripwire, until Korda finally spoke. His voice cut low and heavy, reverberating off the depot walls.

"You stalk after words and records," he said, helm tilting slightly. "I claim fire and steel."

A pause, long enough to test her patience, long enough for the weight of his gaze to settle over her like an executioner's axe.

"We can bleed this place together. You take your logs, I take my spoils. No quarrel. No wasted blood." His tone was not a bargain but a decree, spoken as one who expected the galaxy to bend or burn.

Another pause. His red optics flared as the ruined wall behind him belched smoke and flame, casting him in a furnace glow.


"Or refuse me," he growled softly, almost hungrily. "And you will learn what it costs to stand in fire."

Carisma Rostu