Populate The Gravesong War || Before the Storm [ ME Populate of Empty Hex ]

[Red Mobius]

Upon hearing a challenger stepping to the plate, Red transmitted a signal from her armor and a bunch of small hovering droids with manipulators rushed to send a spare bottle of her Mobius Tihaar and Kebiin Gal to Aether Verd , along with spare bottles of each to Aren D'Shade and Siv Kryze .

Red had not experienced anything like this in a while from her perspective. It was interesting to feel...

Welcome...

In the distance she already saw some Mandalorians lining up to take the challenge. One dude did two sips from a small cup and was stumbling around within minutes. Another took a single sip and became extremely numb and drowsy.

"Step right up! Give your liver it's own personal Verd'goten! Can YOU handle the infamous Tihaar or Blue Ale of Clan Mobius?! Free shotgun if you get past more than a few sips!" one of the serving droids announced...

Whottoomuzz Chantin

Delsin Shaw

Ladante Mamba

Maiz Tor'val

Liorra

Adonis Angelis IV

 

[Adonis Angelis IV]

Objective II
Tag: Whottoomuzz Chantin Aether Verd Red Mobius Ladante Mamba Liorra Runi Kuryida Xasin Dyst Maiz Tor'val Delsin Shaw

The Hutt's voice rolled out like thunder behind clouded glass, slow, heavy, ancient. Adonis didn't flinch. Didn't interrupt. He just stood there a moment, soaking in the meaning beneath the words.

"This armor was not made to honor the dead, but display the decadence of the living…" His eyes traced the faded gold across Whottoomuzz's chest, decayed wealth turned burden. The past hadn't been polished off that armor. It had been dragged. Worn down by motion, not time.

Adonis nodded once, the grin fading from his face.

"Then it's traveled farther than most who wore it ever dreamed," he said. His voice held no drunken slur this time, just weight. "It's not the polish that matters. It's the fact you're still moving under it."

He meant it. Maybe more than he intended.

For a long beat, neither of them spoke. It wasn't awkward. Just full, like the silence between verses in an old song.

Adonis turned slightly, catching motion in the corner of his eye. Aether Verd stood across the fire, raised slightly from his seat, one hand lifted in welcome. The golden blaze behind him lit his face in fierce relief. Not a throne. Not armor. Just a log. Just a man. And yet... Mandalore.

Adonis had seen him on the battlefield, had fought under his banner. But this was something else. Aether was part of the fire. Laughing with younglings. Accepting blades from strangers. Drinking with warriors like it was the most natural thing in the galaxy.

He wasn't above them. He was them.

Adonis's smirk returned.

"Well," he muttered, draining the last of his cup, "can't say no to Mand'alor. I mean, I could- but I like my head attached to my body."

He looked back to the Hutt with a grin, sharp and soft all at once. "I'll leave you to the flames, old mountain. You wear 'em better than most wear crowns."

That might've been the end of it.

But then came the sound: a soft whirr, the fluttering hum of servos cutting through fire-crackle. A cluster of droids buzzed low, one dipping toward him like a polite assassin, yellow bottle gleaming in its claws.

Adonis blinked. The droid chirped helpfully.

Another one rang out with the challenge.

His eyes narrowed. "...Is that the Tihaar?"

Chirp.

His gaze snapped back to the fire, and sure enough, there were the others, laughing around a drink of their own. They had even offered one to Mandalore himself. No fanfare. Just another warrior with calloused hands and a reason to toast.

Adonis sighed like a man about to commit to a poor decision.

"This is how I die, isn't it?" he muttered to Whottoomuzz.

He took the bottle, cracked the seal, and sniffed.

"...Yep."

And then he drank.

He coughed. He didn't stumble, not yet, but his eyes blinked hard, and he gave a short laugh like he'd been punched in the soul.

"Stars," he rasped. "That's fuel."

Still grinning, Adonis squared his shoulders, the bottle still in hand.

"I'll finish this walk to the fire," he said, more to himself than anyone. "But if I start singing halfway there, just tell 'em I died with honor."

Then he made his way toward the blaze, toward Mandalore and whatever foolish second sip lay waiting for him.

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Objective II: Feastfire
Tag: Red Mobius Siv Kryze

When one of the Mandalorians approached her, Aren finally started to feel welcome. She didn't pull away from him or try to block his conversational advance. Accepting the friendly drink he offered, she took it from him and looked at his helmeted head in an attempt to meet his eyes. That wasn't easy to do, but she did try.

"Aren D'Shade."

Glancing at the man behind the grill, the smells coming from it were divine, and she was expecting the feast to be exceptional.

"Not a thing tastes quite like that. Thank you."

Tilting the drink slightly, she took a sip as she listened to what he was saying.

"Do these kinds of celebrations happen regularly? I want that quiet spot you pointed out. Getting trampled certainly is not on my list of things to do."

He said there was a rhythm, and Aren was clearly not getting it. If something like this happened again and she was called to be present, she would definitely come.

Not long after, she asked to try the drink that was in the offering before Siv approached; it was presented to her by one of the droids. Looking at the droid, she wanted to make sure it wasn't being held here against its wishes. Seeing it was happy to serve, she left it alone to go about its business.

Keeping a firm hold on both of her drinks, she turned her attention back to Siv with a less nervous smile.

 

[Delsin Shaw]

Objective II: No one Drinks like Gaston Delsin
Tags: Runi Kuryida | Open

There is always a time when I was open to intermingling. However, these people, the Mandalorians, were much different to what I had dealt with in the past. Normally it was wine and Champaign in flute glasses with imperials, or dignitaries of some political regime. It was different. Strange, but not unwelcomed. The jovial enjoyment of people feeling like it was normal to walk and be within their own skin. It was a new feeling to me. That was when Runi came up to me.

I had seen her in passing and knew of her. Though we never interacted much. Likely because Aether was having me do something else within my contract for the Writ of Iron. Tis the duty to serve him directly. However now, even as he looked over and threw a nod my direction, I returned it before turning to address the woman. Her words of attempting to have me join the others. To join in.

"I do see how enjoyable this is. Just my first time really experiencing something so... carefree?"

My head tilted at her as though the word of carefree was asking if it was the right word to be used in that context. Either way, I turned and looked at the hearth that burned brightly of various woods and other flammable objects. Apparently someone had thrown other things in there and it just continued to burn and release a rather pungent but welcomed scent.

"Not sure where to start I guess. What would you recommend?"

 

[Sanguina Krev]

​

Objective II

A fixture lingering at the edge of the fire, Sanguina sat on a rough hewn log, used as a stool. Unlike most of the armored vod wandering around the event, she wore only simple brown and earth tone garments, a sleeveless tunic revealing slender arms hiding lean muscles, a long skirt slit high on the sides. Rough-crafted tribal bands of gold embraced her upper arms and wrists. Salt and pepper dreadlocks were draped over her shoulders. A simple knife was sheathed at her side.

The spiritspeaker drank from a wooden mug, enjoying the collection of drink provided by Red and others. A mild, content smile touched her lips as she watched the vod. Drinking, feasting, playing, fighting, it lifted her heart to see them reveling, knowing the savage battles those warriors had fought without relent of late. Many of them passed by Sanguine, offering a nod of reverence for the Ora'rade elder.

Then her light gray eyes fell upon one who entered from the wood, hesitant. She was a warrior woman without a doubt, tall and strongly built, with a crimson mane and an uncertain look in her green eyes.

Sanguina stood, drink in hand, and fetched a second. She tread over to the redheaded vod. "Warrior," she spoke, her voice soft but firm. "Do you watch like an owl, wisely assessing the scene?" The shaman asked cheekily. Her gaze fell to the woman's breastplate, to runes only vaguely familiar to her, but most certainly unusual upon a Mandalorian's armor. From the woman herself, as well, the shaman discerned something notable, brushing against the metaphysical.

The spiritspeaker handed the fresh drink to the redhead. "I am Sanguina." She offered. "Welcome to the firefeast."



Tag: Xasin Dyst , OPEN

 

[Xasin Dyst]

Feastfire

Location: Bonfire Grounds, Kalevala Wilderness​

There was a lot to take in. The numbers at the Feastfire were growing to exceed those of Xasin's entire village. Still she knew this was something that needed to be witnessed. Something she would need to be part of in order to properly answer the demands of the spirits. No matter how anxious this made her, Xasin needed to become part of something bigger.

The Mandalore made his presence known. At his invitation Xasin started to take in what refreshments were offered and which she would partake in first. Then she heard the call of a challenge from Red Mobius to withstand the potency of her drink. Xasin paused for a moment. She could call upon the gifts of the spirits and more than likely pass the test. Would that impress those around the bonfire? Or would that paint a target on her back.

Fortunately, hesitation had action come to Xasin instead of the other way around. She was surprised to be addressed as "warrior" by the one that questioned her. Xasin could sense the power of the spirit on Sanguina and gave the woman a smile.

"The spirits have brought me here. I am not used to a gathering of this many strangers. Trying to figure out how to best fit in without calling too much attention. It is good to meet you. I am Xasin Dyst. I am not a true warrior like most of those in attendance. But I am no meek pacifist tree higher either."

Tag: Sanguina Krev | OPEN

 

[Runi Kuryida]

Runi regarded Delsin Shaw as he contemplated the scene in front of him. A nod was spared for Aether Verd as he passed silently at a distance. "Duty brings much honor, but communing with vod brings meaning to duty. Best set aside obligations for now to see the people that surround you rather than their titles."

The Shaman paused and then turned her head in the direction of the gathering. When her hazel eyes turned back to Delsin, she lifted a finger to point at those drinking. "A game with no stakes. Win. Lose. That you join them is all that matters. It is a beginning." The shotgun would be nice, of course, but hardly a matter of honor.

"Or," a small smile touch Runi's lips, "you could dance before the fire. I could beat the drum if you need a rythm. Or beginning singing a song of glory, of companionship, or of... bawdy indulgence. A far bolder introduction that, but not for everyone. What is it that speaks to you? What would you do so they might know you wish to forge bonds with them outside of the battlefield?"

 

[Maiz Tor'val]

OUTFIT​

Aether moved into the crowd with the stature of one familiar with command. Even if she had not already known the look of the man, Maiz would have known him for a leader. A ruler. It was still extremely new -- and even a little uncomfortable -- seeing a man in charge of a state. Her striking blue eyes beheld several women present; they did not appear demur or lacking in personal strength so why were they not those that held ultimate power? How had these people of another... What was word? Galaxy! How did those of another galaxy come to have men in such lofty positions. And entire planets full of creatures.

Why there was one now! Maiz's eyes widened slightly at the sight of Whottoomuzz Chantin 's armored girth. It did not have near as much definition as Maiz would expect from sentient creature or otherwise. Yet, the way Adonis Angelis IV interacted with him said they were roughly equal in social stature. Was it a man? It could be a woman. Maiz had no way of knowing with these all these aliens!

Maiz kept her chin aloft despite her insecurity. In fact, her shoulders were squared and chest pushed out just so in defiance of that insecurity. She was a Princess of Elamshan! They would learn not to look down on the women of Elamshan no matter what their cultural norms were.

Though this did pose a problem with how to interact with them. Maiz would just have to make do as if she were back home. Well, perhaps not exactly as if she were back home. "Come. Let us explore," Maiz said to Liorra abruptly as the black woman started toward the girthy being.

"Mighty one, I am Maiz Tor'val of the Goddesses' realm Elamsha," she announced proudly as she drew near Whottoomuzz Chantin . "I have not met your like before. Could you tell me of yourself?" Her tone was forthright, expectant of a response, but neither snide nor demeaning. Maiz literally had no frame of reference with which to classify a Hutt. That he wore armor was of no mind to her; if anything now it might be surprising to see one completely bereft of outer material at all later.

OPEN​

 

[Siv Kryze]

Tag: Aren D'Shade + Open

The firelight glinted off Siv's Nite Owl visor as he tilted his head slightly, studying Aren with quiet consideration. "You're adapting well," he observed, his modulated voice carrying a note of approval. "But I'm curious—what brings you to our fires tonight?"

He gestured casually toward the celebration around them—the clusters of armored warriors swapping stories, the younger bloods testing their strength in friendly spars, the elders passing down songs that predated the starships overhead. "Not many outsiders seek out Mandalorian revelry without purpose. Are you here to learn? To trade? Or simply to see what happens when warriors remember how to celebrate?"

There was no suspicion in the question—just genuine interest, the same way he might inquire about a traveler's path through Concordia's valleys. He took a measured sip from his own drink before adding, "Whatever the reason, you chose an interesting night to visit. First Feastfires always have... energy." His helmet tilted toward where two verd'goten were now attempting (and failing) to outdrink a grizzled veteran three times their age.

"But if it's peace you're after," he continued, nodding toward the quieter spot he'd mentioned earlier, "that corner stays relatively sane. Good place to watch without being pulled into the chaos."

He left the invitation open, his posture relaxed but attentive. Whether she was here on business, curiosity, or something else entirely, he'd listen. That was what Feastfires were for—stories given and received, with no obligation beyond the sharing.

​

 

[Varuun Droskaar]

​

OBJECTIVE II- Kalevala
OPEN

The skies above Kalevala were pale and stretched thin, streaked with high clouds that moved like ghosts across the horizon. Winds cut across the tundra in long, low howls, rustling the dry grass that clung to the cliffs like the last remnants of memory. Far below, the coastline churned with iron-grey waves. The land was cold and ancient, untouched by war, untouched by time, watched only by the cliffs and the sea.


From the shadow of a descending ship, a lone figure emerged.


Varuun Droskaar stepped down from the ramp in silence. His armor was the color of ash and night, forged in the old ways, unadorned save for the mark on his pauldron—a broken white fang within a dying star. No clan crest. No paint. No trophies. He had come here not for credits, not for glory, but for something older. Something earned in blood and silence. The rite of the hunt.


He moved across the tundra without haste, the cold wind tugging at his cloak, the crunch of frost beneath his boots. He carried no companions. No droids. Only his gear, his rifle, and the weight of what he sought to prove. Far beyond the cliffs, the high ranges loomed like the bones of giants, their peaks veiled in mist and legend. Somewhere within that stone slept the creature. A krayt dragon, far from its desert kin, migrated across star systems long ago, nesting now in the deep hollows of Kalevala's forgotten crags.


There were stories of it. Hunters who followed its trail and never returned. Skeletons found picked clean. Tremors in the stone after it moved through the earth. But no cries for help. No villages burned. The land was too vast. Too proud to speak of fear. Which suited Varuun.


This was not about conquest. It was about measure.


He reached the edge of a ravine and knelt, placing a gloved hand to the frozen ground. The soil was dry, but warm beneath the surface. Displaced rock. The smell of deep breath beneath the frost. It had passed through here recently. Not in haste. In patience. In dominion.


Varuun stood again. The wind brushed across his visor. He looked to the mountains and saw nothing, but he knew it was there. He could feel it. Waiting in the cold, as ancient as the stone itself. It was the kind of enemy worthy of his steel. No words. No politics. No betrayal. Just the hunt.


He pulled the disruptor rifle from his back and slung it forward. His footsteps carried him up into the pass, swallowed by the mist and the silence of the high places. There was no war drum to mark his passage. No chant. No firelight.


Only him.


And the dragon.

 

[Mig Gred]

Objective 2

Mig was a bit late as the Echo’s Light touched down, and him and his boys, Souma and Ilyushin, would start to head towards the celebrations. Mig was calm as usual, and the twins… well were getting on each others nerves like most siblings. Kark they sometimes reminded him of himself have Vaux when they were kids.

It had been a while since his clan had really interacted like this with the others. Surviving. Keeping to the stars. Now though, he figured figuring some things would wouldn’t hurt. He wasn’t exactly sure who to expect at this feast, and he wasn’t exactly up for a hunt tonight. That was already too much of his time, though the prey was different.

“Bet I can beat you there!”

“You’re on Ily!” Mig just shook his head. Good. They were calm at least.

 

[Whottoomuzz Chantin]

"Peetch naga kouba… mee patka tah nek bai fa baha hatkocanh."

The Hutt’s words followed in the wake of Adonis Angelis, whose footsteps and laughter faded toward the heart of the fire-ring.

Whottoomuzz watched him go, expression unreadable, though something in the line of his neckplate suggested... approval. Or envy. Or the memory of youth centuries past.

One of the tihaar droids hovered too close, chirping brightly as it tried to offer a bottle. His shoulder blaster whirred in a lazy half-turn, just enough to suggest it would be a mistake to insist.

He called off the turret and waved the droid away without looking.

A second voice approached—clear, feminine, regal. He turned slowly, plated form shifting like old machinery. The figure before him was unfamiliar: humanoid, strong-backed, adorned in colors strange to the smoke-lit glade.

She called him mighty. He blinked once.

"You are kind to say so."
"Kee mombay mi tah… tah kee bu wamma yoieu hatkocanh."

A pause. Then, gently, in Basic—slow, measured:

"I am Whottoomuzz of the Chantin Kajidic. Once a Lorda of the Cartel. 587 standard years of age. Now…"
His massive form shifted, subtly. His mind flickered through memory. Nursing Jobbi in his birth pouch for half a century before she emerged, an infant huttlet at age 50. She would be 85... No, 86 years old now. Almost an adult Hutt. Her first words. The way she timidly ate her first live paddy frog. When she chose the female identity with help from his spouse.
One day, he would reunite. One day this armor would be hers.

The Hutt let out a low, slow sigh.

A One hand spread to gesture at the fire, the people, the stars above.
"Now I am only a guest. A witness to the Mandalorian flame."

He responded more clinically, speaking in basic slowly, deliberately to ensure accuracy.

"I am a Hutt. We are not born so large. We begin small—soft, alert. But we grow our entire lives. There is no hurry when you live for centuries. Our kind heals from what would kill others. A Hutt can regrow what’s lost... though not always what matters. Our children are few, but they carry the Kajidic name—our ancient clans. Clans of power, not affection, heritage of wealth. The galaxy calls us slugs. Crime lords. Gluttons. That is not false—but it is not the whole of us. We are survivors. Born of Varl, discovered Nal Hutta as a paradise for our kin. Where others conquer and fade, we endure."

"...Though sometimes, endurance begets adaptation."

He studied Maiz Tor’val—not suspiciously, but carefully, as one might study a newly drawn map.

"You speak with poise, and with pride. Elamsha must be a place of strong hearts."

A faint rattle of breath followed. Could’ve been a laugh. Or a cough. Or the weight of words withheld.

"And you are brave, to speak to me so directly. Most prefer to... stare from a safer distance."

He inclined his head—an oddly courtly gesture for so monstrous a silhouette.

"Sit, if you'd like to speak. I do not promise wisdom, but I have memories to share, and I am unfamiliar with Elamsha."

Adonis Angelis IV | Maiz Tor'val | @Open​

 

[Maiz Tor'val]

Maiz did not find the large Hutt's words annoying in their speed. She, herself, was far from versed in this Basic language. Cheap shots taken at others easily turned back on yourself was just foolish noise unbecoming of her station. Even then, unless a petitioner earned such disregard it was good etiquette to hear the words of others -- especially when you had invited them to speak. If anything, his speed was pleasing for the Elamshan as she listened carefully to how he spoke.

Bright blue eyes widened at the man's age. Nearly six hundred years of age! Whottoomuzz was not only mighty, but long-lived. Her own Matron Mother was near of age, but not quite. Maiz still her tongue when it was clear the Hutt seemed... forlorn rather than proud. Matrons of a city from home might be dismayed at being supplanted by the younger as well. If a Lorda of the Cartel was kin, perhaps the man missed his role among his people?

Whottoomuzz did not leave Maiz wanting long, however, as he recounted dutifully. A curl of lips accompanied their remarks about being long-lived. A mirth that turned somber as the white-haired woman nodded -- survivors, she understood.

"We have much in common, Whottoomuzz of the Chantin Kajidic. I am not as wise as either you or my Matron, but old enough to have grown up at the end of generations of war against the vile Darthiir. Many perished by their hands, but the Goddesses were with us. They were sealed away, and our people have begun to rebuild our sparkling cities and the Web transport system connecting our people across the world."

With a glance, the dark woman found a seat with which to linger in the much larger one's presence. This seemed an excellent opportunity to learn more about a people and a person in particular.

"You have an imposing stature, but the Elamshan are not to be diswayed. I have heard the Mandalorians have met with horrors recently. Twisted creatures unlike the Darthiir, but their passing is much the same. As your kind has steeled their hearts, mine as well." Maiz smiled as she regarded the twelve-foot Hutt. "Still, if it were not for the gifts of the Goddesses I doubt I would stand a chance against you in battle." The weak would be terrified of someone as strong as him, she reasoned. She'd already long settled on Whotoomuzz being more of muscle than blubber.

Whottoomuzz Chantin | Open​

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Objective II: Feastfire
Tag: Siv Kryze

She was not yet brave or stupid enough to try a drink of the ti'haar given to her, and Aren appreciated Siv reaching out to her. He observed she was adapting well to the celebration, and she couldn't help but smile slightly at him. When he asked what brought her here, she motioned to the Mand'Alor.

"I was recruited by his brother and was told to come when called. I was called, so I came."

Aren had not actually met the man, but she didn't go searching for him tonight. It didn't feel right to her, and she was learning about the culture she had been recruited into. Maybe she would even become one of them. Not tonight, though. His follow-up questions caught her interest, and she agreed she had come to an interesting night.

"Not trade. That's not my business. To learn. That would be good. I know next to nothing about your culture or people. I can do with a quieter spot. I'd like that a lot.

"My name is Aren D'Shade."

Finally taking a drink of the one he had given her, she just held onto the other that was part of the contest.

 

[Delsin Shaw]

Objective II: No one Drinks like Gaston Delsin
Tags: Runi Kuryida | Open

A rather intriguing offer proposed. Dancing and Singing with them. Bawdy or not made no difference. The aspect of the gathering was to allow one's self to more directly connect with others at such a gathering. To enjoy each other's company without a title, or rank to reduce or raise one above another. This was to produce a larger group of people to become closely linked together. Not just people, but to keep their culture alive. It showed. The Mandalorians have been around for generations when others had fallen and been rebuilt. This aspect was to hold them together and prevent a break down. Morale needed to be fostered for a culture like this to thrive.

"Oh I dare not sing or dance alone while finding myself in a lacking state of inebriation. My own people do dance, but it's more of a rite and tradition than a flow of emotional brevity. However, I do wish to learn of your own Song and Dance. Would you teach me as such? It fascinates me the differences and similarities."

I knew not of dancing like they did. Nor of their singing tongues. Mando'a was a language I understood, and could speak of, but not in its real form. Really understanding who they are, and how they operate in such a field prevented me from singing in any tongue other than Galactic Basic. However, dance was much easier for me to learn. Firedancing was a sway of blade and limb. While this was much the same without a weapon in hand.

"I guess you could say, I am asking for a dance?"

 

[Siv Kryze]

.​

​

Tag: Aren D'Shade

The firelight danced across Siv's scarred armor as he considered Aren. His Nite Owl helmet tilted slightly when she admitted her unfamiliarity with Mandalorian ways—not in judgment, but in quiet assessment.

"Then understand this first," his modulated voice carried over the celebration's din. "Our people recognize many beginnings. Some are born to the armor. Some choose it. And some..." His visor turned toward a group of young warriors laughing by the fire, their armor gleaming in various states of completion. "...are found."

He tapped the Mythosaur skull on his pauldron. "Foundlings are our legacy as much as blood-children. They come with nothing but their worth, and leave with clan, purpose, and a name etched in steel."

A gauntleted hand gestured to the revelry around them. "What you see here is more than celebration. It is proof that Mandalorian is not just blood—it is choice. The Resol'nare binds us—armor, language, loyalty. But the Caburian Creed offers another path for those who would stand with us without taking up the full weight of our ways."

As Aren sipped her drink, Siv gave an approving nod. "Good. Tihaar doesn't lie. Neither do we."

He stepped aside, revealing the quieter spot he'd mentioned earlier. "Watch. Listen. When you're ready to ask about the difference between walking the Resol'nare and swearing the Creed..."

With a final, deliberate pause, he added: "Siv Kryze. Warden of Concordia. The answers will still be here when you are ready to hear them."

His departure was unhurried, the other Mandalorians instinctively making way—not out of fear, but respect. A silent lesson in how their society valued deeds over words, and patience over haste.

The invitation remained, clear as the stars above them: Learn first. Choose when you are ready.

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Objective II: Feastfire
Tag: Siv Kryze Ladante Mamba Red Mobius

Siv didn't seem to judge her when she admitted she was unfamiliar with his culture. She was thankful for his carefully controlled words of education. When he turned to face the Foundlings, her face followed and returned to him when he tapped his shoulder. Gazing at the emblem he pointed out, it was one she had seen many times before.

Looking at the visor of his helmet, she listened to his knowledge and wanted more. There was a misunderstanding, and that was disappointing. She wanted his company in the quiet corner to make it easier to talk to him. Watching as he walked away, she would remember his name and seek him out when it wasn't a night of partying. A night when they could talk without being interrupted, and she could ask him all the questions she had.

Breathing in the air, she let out a sigh of irritation at herself and took a drink from the bottle that was part of the contest. And promptly fell over.

 

[Dominique Vexx]

.

 

[Runi Kuryida]

OBJECTIVE 2​

Runi regarded Delsin Shaw for a moment after his polite inquiry. It wasn't often someone thought to ask the Shaman to dance. "I know many dances. Come," she extended a hand out toward him, "I will show you some, and you can tell me how they compare." It was an opportunity to learn of the traditions Delsin knew, but more importantly to learn about the man himself.

If he accepted, Runi would lead Delsin closer to the roaring flames. Not too close, but enough to be clearly seen in its radiance. Unlike those of the ballrooms, she would not continue to hold his hand. Many dances held a root in the martial ways of their people rather than the need to whisper sweetly in another's ear. They dazzled audiences with precision, meaning, and passion rather than bending someone over one's arm miming a loving embrace.

For Delsin's sake, Runi would pick a somewhat 'simpler' and slower form so he could mimic her movements. Clean, fluid movements of the arms, and sharp, precise placements of the feet carried a warrior over the ground around the fire. A romantic ballad of battle with the ebb and flow that came with combat -- the presenting of arms, eventual regrouping, and one's resurgence. Perhaps they would change to a dance with chants or song that accompanied it so onlookers could participate in their own fashion.

 

[Delsin Shaw]

Objective II: No one Drinks like Gaston Delsin
Tags: Runi Kuryida | Open

She accepted the asking of a dance. I was nearly surprised she had agreed. However, this was not some ballroom dance. At first she extended her hand. Leading me closer to the flames of the would be dancing area. No special waxed floor, or setting. Dirt and the earth itself would be our stage tonight. She had invited me to even compare them to their own. At first, Runi danced alone. A small stint where I could understand and see the "question" she was asking through her foot work and movements.

And I had to find a way to answer. So I did. Dropping quickly into a contemporary Fire Dance. and shifting ever slowly to follow her lead. Changing the flow and menstruations to be in sync. It was unique. A flow of graceful movements with the arms, hands and flowing down her form only to snap at her feet. Kicking up dirt and the earth in their precise placements. At first my own foot placement was off. As Fire Dancing of the Echani people was about complete fluidity. A form where it was grace all the way through. Yet the translation to sudden stops, starts and shakes to be a formation of the rigidity of the dance.

It was impossible for a smile not to break from my face. Following her suit and seeing how it looped all together. I was keeping with her more easily now. A light chuckle before I spoke up.

"Iviin'yc ibic ca'nara!"

I didn't let up. Speeding up with my movements to match her. Actually starting to enjoy this.