Dominion The Next Generation || ME Dominion of Bogden

Beskar · Sunday at 4:29 PM

THE NEXT GENERATION
"As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another."

The first thing anyone noticed about Bogden was the sound. A low, grinding tremor that rolled through the stone like the voice of something ancient trying to rise. The world was in constant motion, its continents shifting under the pull of too many moons, its canyons splitting open with sudden violence, its storms roaring across the horizon with a ferocity that made lesser planets feel tame. Nothing here held still. Nothing here offered safety. It was a world carved by conflict long before any Mandalorian set foot upon it.

For ages, Bogden’s broken surface belonged to whoever had the courage or cruelty to claim it. Outlaws raised camps in the shadows of ruined landing pads. Smugglers buried their stolen prizes beneath layers of dust and shattered hulls. Raiders stalked the chasms, answering to no law but their own. The planet rewarded those who struck first and punished those who hesitated. It was wild, unpredictable, and waiting for someone who understood that chaos was not a barrier but an invitation.

The Mandalorian Empire answered that call.

They did not come with declarations or ultimatums. They came with boots on stone, iron on their backs, and a certainty that fractured worlds could be reforged. Mandalorians did not bend to the land. They taught the land to recognize them. Bogden would be no different. And as the Empire began to press its claim, the planet became something more than a conquest: it became a proving ground.

Veterans saw its dangers and recognized opportunity. A place where the rising generation could learn to stand tall in a world that wished to swallow them. Foundlings looked upon the broken terrain and saw the path into their future. New warriors felt the pulse of the planet and understood that this was where they would take their first true steps into who they were meant to be. For Mandalore, Bogden was a challenge worth meeting and a world ready to be claimed.

Now the warriors of the Empire gather on its surface, the air humming with the promise of trials to come. Bogden offers nothing freely. It offers storms, shifting earth, hidden dangers, and the watchful silence of a world that has seen countless would-be conquerors fall. Yet it also offers a chance to learn, to teach, to carve bonds that survive beyond fire and dust. It offers the chance to live the Six Actions through sweat and struggle rather than words alone.

Across Bogden lie regions shaped by conflict and time, each one echoing a pair of the Resol’nare’s guiding truths. Here, growth is earned. Legacy is carried. Mentorship is given. The rising and the seasoned walk the same ground and learn from it together. The land itself becomes a teacher, carving lessons into the hearts of those who dare to step forward.

The only question left is simple. Where will you stand?

THE SHATTERED STEPPE
Wear Armor. Defend Yourself and Your Kin.

The Shattered Steppe is a landscape torn into drifting stone plates that grind together with a low rumble, trembling under every stride. Steam bursts from hidden vents, fissures open without warning, and the ground seems intent on punishing anyone who underestimates it. In a place where the earth itself tries to break you, armor becomes more than protection. It becomes a second skin. Every dent, scorch, and scrape earned on the Steppe is a reminder that survival depends on being prepared to defend yourself and the kin who travel beside you.

Veterans know how quickly this terrain exposes weakness, which is why they bring the younger warriors here. The Steppe teaches without mercy but never without purpose. New warriors feel the land testing them with each shifting plate, learning to trust their gear, read the motions of the ground, and reach for a comrade’s arm the moment they falter. By the time anyone leaves this place, the instinct to shield one another is no longer a lesson. It is part of who they are.

THE HANGING WARRENS
Raise Mandalorians. Contribute to the Clans.

The Hanging Warrens sprawl along the lip of a vast chasm filled with the skeletal remains of downed ships. The canyon walls rise in jagged tiers, and the depths below swallow light until only the outlines of shattered hulls remain. Smugglers once used this place as a graveyard, abandoning entire vessels as they fled across the system, and legends claim their hoards still lie hidden in the twisted metal. The same stories warn that native creatures nest in those ruins, turning every descent into a test of instinct and courage. Mandalorians cross this terrain astride Basilisk War Droids, keeping alive a tradition as old as the clans themselves as they learn to fly through narrow passages, skirt unstable wreckage, and brace for whatever stirs in the shadows.

Veterans guide the course with calm assurance, teaching their partners how to read the motions of a Basilisk and move as one with the living machine beneath them. Foundlings and new warriors feel the rhythm of the craft and the presence of the rider beside them, discovering that the bond between warrior and droid mirrors the bond between Mandalorians themselves. Every sweep through the chasm reinforces the truth that strength grows through unity, and every treasure claimed from the wrecks below becomes a resource for all. In the Warrens, the tribe is not something spoken into being. It is carried forward through motion, memory, and the roar of a Basilisk rising from the dark.

THE BROKEN CONCOURSE
Speak the Language. Rally to Mand'alor's Call.

The Broken Concourse sits at the heart of several converging canyons, a fractured junction where smugglers and outlaws once traded, repaired ships, and hid their contraband. Cracked landing pads jut from the cliffs. Abandoned signal towers flicker with stolen power. Storage crates lie half-buried beneath stone and rust, some cracked open, others humming with whatever secrets they still guard. Tunnels used for illicit travel wind beneath the surface, and figures still move through the ruins with the wariness of those who know their days of unchallenged rule are over. By the Mand’alor’s will, these outlaws will be confronted, but whether that unfolds through diplomacy, commerce, or violence rests in the hands of the warriors who step forward.

Communication is everything here. Veterans teach the rising generation how to rally to their leader’s call, how to signal across scattered terrain, and how to remain united when engagements flare in unpredictable ways. A conversation with a smuggler can shift from negotiation to ambush in a breath, and clear speech becomes the anchor that keeps partners aligned when the situation turns volatile. Every corner of the Concourse reinforces that Mandalorians move with purpose, answer their people’s summons, and understand that language is both a weapon and a shield. Warriors are free to negotiate, confront, explore, uncover hidden caches, or delve into the tunnels below, shaping their own path through the chaos.

BRING YOUR OWN OBJECTIVE
This is Your Story. Shape it Well!

You have the freedom to carve your own path across Bogden. The planet is broken, lawless, and full of opportunity, and any canyon, ruin, or stormfront can become its own trial. Whether you are hunting outlaws, scouting terrain, guiding a partner, or exploring the Six Actions in your own way, you are free to shape the story that fits your warrior’s journey. Claim the piece of Bogden that calls to you.

Ajalurk-Chaidth Kryze

Inez

Sidonia

Maur

Perseus

Colden Renth
@Domina Prime

Elira Verd
@Viera

Nando

Tin
@Serra Toss

Kassandra Beskar'ad

Liorra

Conrad

Reshim

Red Mobius

Suleiman Lok
@Kyrida Verd

CT-312

Nephthys Nardithi-Verd

Hanna

Ren Ashbridge

Vyse de Valorous
@Varuun Rekaal

Aether Verd · Sunday at 4:49 PM

Assets: Beskar'gam | Basilisk
Darksaber | Resolute Dawn

THE SHATTERED STEPPE, BOGDEN

The Shattered Steppe rose to meet him in a slow, rumbling exhale that rolled beneath his boots like a challenge spoken through stone. Each drifting plate of rock shifted with restless purpose, grinding against the next in a rhythm that felt older than the sky above. Steam hissed through narrow vents as if the earth were testing the resolve of any who dared cross it. The Mand'alor welcomed the hostility, allowing it to settle around him like an old companion. Bogden had always seemed like a world carved for those who refused to kneel and the Steppe offered that truth with every trembling stride.

Overhead, the heavens churned with fire and iron. Basilisks streaked across the sky with the grace of hunting beasts, their engines roaring in long, echoing calls that rolled over the plains below. Jetpacks glimmered like scattered stars as warriors descended through the dust heavy air, while the deeper growl of starship engines carried the promise of swift conquest. Yet conquest was only the surface of the day’s purpose. What mattered was the lesson that would be carved into the next generation, not through recitation or ceremony, but through grit, movement, and the quiet understanding that the Resol'nare lived only when lived through action.

This was why he had chosen the Steppe.

His summons had gone out to those bold enough to answer. Some were newly sworn Iron Wolves whose formation he had guided with careful intention. Others were veterans who carried a desire to teach, or rising warriors eager to prove what lived inside them. All would arrive soon and each would find that Bogden’s unforgiving terrain rarely offered instruction with soft hands. The land stripped away doubt, hesitation, and ego, leaving only truth in its place.

Aether reached for the beskar rod resting against his hip and felt the familiar potential coiled within its metal length. With a smooth, practiced motion the rod extended into a full spear, the shift of its form clicking neatly into place as if eager to be used. He drew his arm back, feeling the pull in his shoulder that came from years of training rather than strain, and let the spear fly. It cut forward with unbroken momentum, arcing across the fractured terrain before burying itself deep into a distant stone slab. The earth reacted at once, cracking open beneath the impact and releasing sharp breaths of steam that spiraled upward in sudden bursts. The ground around the stone shifted in jagged ripples, making it clear that no warrior could cross it without risk.

The Mand'alor surveyed the distant plume of steam and allowed a low, satisfied huff to fill the inside of his helm. He rolled his throwing shoulder, feeling it settle back into a comfortable rhythm, then spoke in a tone that carried quiet amusement and absolute confidence. "Now there's a personal best...They've got this."

The air around him began to vibrate with familiar rhythms. The rise and fall of jetpack thrust. The heavy stride of boots approaching across unstable stone. The layered engines of Basilisks and transports settling into low orbits overhead. Each sound folded into the next until the Steppe itself seemed to hum with anticipation.

Aether remained exactly where he stood, an unmoving center in a world that refused to hold still. A smile curved beneath his helm as the first shapes drew near through the haze of dust and steam. Bogden had begun its lesson and he was ready to see who among his people would rise to meet it.

Open

Zel Sharratt · Sunday at 7:03 PM

The Shattered Steppe, Bogden
Tags: Aether Verd , Open

Clan Claiborne, The Rat's Nest, Junk Saber

Aether Verd said:
He drew his arm back, feeling the pull in his shoulder that came from years of training rather than strain, and let the spear fly. It cut forward with unbroken momentum, arcing across the fractured terrain before burying itself deep into a distant stone slab. The earth reacted at once, cracking open beneath the impact and releasing sharp breaths of steam that spiraled upward in sudden bursts. The ground around the stone shifted in jagged ripples, making it clear that no warrior could cross it without risk.

"Ah... the ground is as brittle here as the stories say," Zel mused as he hopped off his wheel bike, crouching down to collect a soil sample. "Su cuy'gar. Your form is immaculate, Mand'alor."

Zel was, of course, a warrior, but he wasn't here to train. He was here to observe. It was grounds like this where legends would be forged, under the watchful gaze of veteran visors. The scribe liked to be up to date on who he should keep his finger on the pulse of. After all, what culture but Mandalorian could make the sorts of individuals that moved stars. Not that he couldn't multitask. A sample of the soil would prove interesting. After all, this area was quite active. There was no telling how truly unique the geology was.

Of course, Zel could not help but be distracted by the pull of the moons above. He knew one at a glance. It loomed with the heaviest shadow.

"Taab'echaaj'la me'suum'ika... Kohlma hangs above us," he observed. "I can only wonder what sort of omen it seeks to share as the moon that looms the closest. It may be worth while to assess that ancient place in time. I recall reading about a Force cult that inhabited that place. Perhaps their ruins still remain..."

No doubt a menagerie of artifacts waiting to be uncovered and documented. The mere thought made his heart race with excitement.

"Do you intend to teach the young and hopeful personally?" the scribe finally asked.

He was curious to see the guiding hand of Mand'alor the Iron for himself. After all, the glory of battle would carve a man into the stars, but it was the make of the man that carved him into hearts and minds. History was always more interesting with some nuance.

Liin Terallo · Sunday at 9:07 PM

OBJECTIVE: BYOO

I felt the tremor before I heard it. A low vibration running up through my armored boots, rattling the plating along my shins and sending a soft flutter through the skirt panels at my hips. Bogden never stopped moving. It was a restless, groaning world where the ground felt almost alive. Perfect for hiding something precious. Perfect for testing whether I would finally become something more than fragile.

A sharp chirrup sounded by my ear.
My companion - today shaped like a reptilian bat, wings folded tight, talons hooked gently into my shoulder guard - lifted his narrow head and tasted the air. Heat wafted upward through a nearby fissure, an orange glow pulsing in its throat like the planet’s heartbeat.

“I know,” I murmured. “We are close.”

The tracking beacon in my palm blinked in a steady rhythm, guiding me toward the cache buried somewhere beneath this unstable skin of rock. Every few steps, the ground cracked, hissing steam or shimmering with mineral deposits that reacted strangely to my presence. A useful environment for pushing my abilities… if I did not misjudge them. And I was very thankful to be dressed properly this time.

A distant quake rolled across the ridge, throwing grit into the air. I steadied myself, inhaled, and reached gently toward the pulse that I had been practicing with; that faint synthetic thread humming under my ribcage. The world felt sharper when I focused on it. Even louder, somehow.

Another step. Another tremor. “Alright,” I whispered to the creature on my shoulder as the ground rumbled again. “Let us see if all this practice was worth it.” And I moved forward into the shifting haze, toward the cache, the danger, and the test I could no longer avoid. I am not like the others that had arrived on this planet with me. I am not like the others that have come here before. But I just hope that I am enough.

Tag: OPEN

Aether Verd · Sunday at 10:24 PM

Assets: Beskar'gam | Basilisk
Darksaber | Resolute Dawn

THE SHATTERED STEPPE, BOGDEN

The low grind of stone shifted behind him, softened only by the distant roar of engines and the rising chorus of approaching jetpacks. Yet it was the sharp mechanical whir of a wheel bike that pulled Aether’s attention away from the cracked horizon. He turned, visor catching the glimmer of dust motes drifting through the air as Zel the Scribe rolled to a stop. The Mand'alor regarded him with a steady, welcoming stillness, the kind given only to those whose presence eased rather than interrupted the rhythm of the field.

Zel hopped down and crouched to gather a handful of the Steppe’s restless soil. Aether inclined his head in greeting, letting the warmth in his voice cut through the metallic filter. “It is good to see you again, vod. And I appreciate the compliment. The Steppe tends to bring out a man’s better form.”

The scribe’s gaze drifted upward toward the sky, toward the shadowed curve of Kohlma hanging close enough to feel like a watching eye. Aether followed it for a moment, studying the darkened moon with the calm deliberation of someone who had considered omens his whole life and never once let them steer his course. When Zel spoke of its meaning, Aether let a low chuckle rumble through his helm, the sound quiet but certain.

“That omen is not for us.” he replied, his tone rich with certainty rather than concern. “Kohlma warns the fools who still think they can oppose Mandalore on this world. And when Bogden is secure, the Great Heathen Army will take the moon as well. The dead and the living will both know who holds the sky.”

He watched Zel stow another fragment of soil into his kit, then lifted a hand in a subtle gesture of invitation. The Steppe cracked and hissed beneath them, yet Aether’s voice carried with the ease of someone entirely at home in such chaos. “If you wish to observe, you are welcome to join the Army when we move on Kohlma. I know your heart leans toward the old stories. Better to stand where they happened rather than read about them later.”

The question that followed carried far more interest, and Aether felt a smile draw slow and sure beneath the visor. The rising generation was why he stood on this fractured land to begin with. He let the breeze sweep across them, carrying steam and dust in uneven currents, before he answered with unguarded pride.

“I do intend to teach them...” he said, each word steady with conviction. “Two of the Six Actions, given through stone and struggle. Wear Armor, and Defend Oneself and Kin. Out here, those lessons sink deeper than any lecture. The land will teach them how to trust the skin they forged and the kin who stand beside them.”

He glanced toward the distant spear still jutting from the shattered stone, steam curling around its haft. The earth cracked beneath it in restless tremors, as if eager for more.

“I want them to feel the truth of it.” Aether added, voice low and certain. “Their armor, their instincts, their resolve for one another. By the time they cross what I have set before them, those truths will not be taught. They will be lived.”

Zel Sharratt + Open

Zel Sharratt · Monday at 12:12 AM

The Shattered Steppe, Bogden
Tags: Aether Verd , Open

Clan Claiborne, The Rat's Nest, Junk Saber

Aether Verd said:
“Kohlma warns the fools who still think they can oppose Mandalore on this world. And when Bogden is secure, the Great Heathen Army will take the moon as well. The dead and the living will both know who holds the sky.”

"I suppose that is the true power of such a sign," Zel mused, his voice wistful behind the helmet. "An omen is what you make of it. Fate is only made real by the hands of people."

And if any man were to make fate their own, surely it would be the hands of Mand'alor. That, to Zel, was an answer he would accept. When the Mandalorian Empire brought Bogden securely into it's arms, the presence of Kohlma would be remembered. Of course, the scribe could not help but perk up a little at the invitation to their impending move to take the Moon of the Dead. His helmet hid his grin, but his posture straightened ever-so-slightly.

"You honor me with your words, Mand'alor the Iron," he responded with a dip of his head. "I will accept your invitation and document your Army's prowess in the coming battle with pride. My spirit leaps at the opportunity to see the ancient spaces of Kohlma for myself, but there is no greater privilege for a scribe then to witness history as it unfolds in real time."

More for his ever expansive record of Galactic history as well. Zel was driven to gather as much of a database as he could before he departed to join his ancestors. That included both the past and what was yet to be. In an era where he had seen the rise and fall of many civilizations, the Scribe could not help but consider himself lucky to but one mouthpiece of many to tell those stories that defined countless cultures.

Aether Verd said:
“I do intend to teach them...” he said, each word steady with conviction. “Two of the Six Actions, given through stone and struggle. Wear Armor, and Defend Oneself and Kin. Out here, those lessons sink deeper than any lecture. The land will teach them how to trust the skin they forged and the kin who stand beside them.”

"The Resol'nare it is, then," Zel mused. "It is wise for you to choose this place. Even as it is in our nature to conquer the land, a fool forgets that she is not a passive beast."

He had the privilege of being humbled by that beast. His original sect was of Tatooine, secluded in the harsh desert. Zel had seen many disregard the perils of that wasteland, only to be swallowed up by it. As an aquatic being, Zel was never intended to grow up in such a place. It was only in the arms of his community that he rose above it.

But that was a story for another day. Zel was not the kind of man to tell his own tale.

"Ogir'olar, you will make it so. I shall continue to observe."

Hubert Starhopper · Monday at 3:54 AM

Objective: Watch Your Steppe

Tags: OPEN

Aether Verd

Gear: Tool-Kit, Custom Blaster Pistol

-----------

The very ground beneath Huberts feet trembles like an animal anxiously awaiting to open its maw and allow him to fall right in. The paneling of the Star-Scraper vibrates with rapid scrapes and squeaks as it rocks on it's landing gear. Cabinets begin opening, and their contents ejecting- metallic clattering and various different shatters resonate throughout his ship, along with a series of frustrated curses and hollers. Hubert didn't know what to expect when he recieved this invitation. Quite frankly- he had assumed his only value to them, lie within his mechanical ability.

But now he has been offered to learn like the others, fight like the others, be somebody like the others. Not just a shadow in the back, but a member of their ranks... His entire life he has been searching for where he belongs. A fugitive, orphaned ex-slave from a slum-plex on Tatooine isn't exactly resumè material, and to those whom it is usually aren't the best of company. The Mandolorians though, they saw Hubert- not the scattered mess he had become. The Mando Mechanic, and not the Manic Mess...

He flips the old lever to his drop-ramp. The hinges screech and the metal squalls as the rusty hull pries itself apart. The sound is only worsened by the unwanted jostling his ship is going through... a very distinguished look of disgust creeps across Huberts face as he watches the ramp in pity and disdain. As it finally extends to its full length, Hubert treks down it, his boots clacking against the old flimsy plating. Each step audibly warping the weak metal.

In a straight-shot from Huberts ship, stands

Aether Verd .

"Hubert Star-Hopper reportin', sir."

He pulls a cigarette from his coat pocket, lighting it with his fusion cutter swiftly. His words are spoken slowly with more of a drawl to it. Common amongst farmers and those to more, remote locale. He is a tall, lanky man. His skin, where exposed- is lackered in a splotchy coat of engine grease due to working on any urgent repairs he could before making his way here.

His blaster pistol hangs in a holster on his chest, unclasped and ready for action. A drag is taken from the cigarette he lit, and he allows the smoke out- watching it spazz and conform to the environments shaking. Hubert swears he can feel his teeth buzzing if they touch... Like some sort of human tuning fork.

"Who pissed off the planet?"

His words are playful, however his tone is anything but. Truthfully a quaking planet brings a particular level of uncertainty to the table. Especially when one barely has any idea of what they're doing here...

Kirae Orade · Monday at 10:26 AM

Location: Bogden
Tags:

Aether Verd

Hubert Starhopper

Zel Sharratt

Defend Yourself and Your Kin. An important lesson. One that Kirae preached herself. It was a constant weight on her shoulders. Both in a literal and metaphorical sense, as the shield she carried herself held the weight of the metal it was made from, alongside the names of those she had fought with. It wasn't something she had to do. Not some kind of ancient tradition of her clan, though there was part of her that debated adding it as part of Clan Orade. At the end of the day, it was reassurance for herself. A way to make sure that she would never forget. Every living moment was dedicated to that of the deceased.

With all that being said, she made her way through the dust silently. Finding three of her own people ahead of herself. Aether, of course she recognised. The Mand'alor. Yet the others were strangers to her. Not that it mattered to her. What mattered to her was the state of the landscape as she crouched for a moment, leaning forward to get a somewhat decent lay of the land. It was clearly a hostile world. It wouldn't be easy for anyone to walk here, but the life of a Mandalorian was never intended to be a walk in the park.

In a way, it was strange for Kirae. She was always dedicated to the idea of protecting her home. Their home. And here she was, taking part in an experience that was meant to teach how to defend. Yet she also knew she couldn't rely purely on being defensive. Perhaps that was what she would learn during this as she stood at the ready, turning her head around to look at the others around her.

Ajalurk-Chaidth Kryze · Monday at 10:59 AM

“And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon‘s that is dreaming.” — Edgar Allan Poe

Objective - THE BROKEN CONCOURSE
Tags -

Itzhal Volkihar

[

The Revenant tore a silver scythe through Bogden's bruised skies, its hull glimmering with residual starlight as it slipped between cathedral walls of stone. Mountains reared on either side of the canyon like ancient sentinels frozen in mid-judgment, their peaks wreathed in ghost-colors and rivering mist. The wind howled at the ship's flanks, whispering forgotten names into its plating, but the vessel obeyed only one will. Within the cockpit, Ajalurk-Chaidth watched the terrain peel open beneath him, the fractured spine of the world exposed, until he threaded the narrow passage with a pilot's grace that danced on the edge of impossible.

With a low, reverent groan, The Revenant descended, its landing struts kissing the canyon floor where violet moss glowed faintly against blackened stone. Dust and luminescent pollen spiraled around the craft in a halo, briefly crowning it like a fallen star. Ajalurk-Chaidth disembarked into the alien hush, the air humming with unseen currents and distant, buried thunder. Above him the mountains leaned inward, as though to listen, as he stood framed between them; an intruder, a herald, perhaps even a reckoning upon forgotten ground.

Ajalurk-Chaidth raised the scanner and let its pale lattice of light spill outward, a fan of spectral threads weaving through the canyon air. The device murmured like a dreaming creature as it tasted the landscape; stone, spore, mineral, old blood and translated the world into quiet, luminous runes along its surface. Each mountain face answered with echoes of age and erosion, yet beneath those honest bones lay subtler disturbances: hollows that should not exist, heat signatures warmed by breath that did not belong to the wind, faint electrical heartbeats pulsing like anxious stars trapped in rock. His gaze followed the data streams up the jagged walls and along the serpentine shadows at their base, sensing the way the darkness clenched and softened as if something were practicing how to remain unseen.

The canyon itself seemed to conspire, folding its angles in deceptive ways, presenting innocent outcroppings that hid deeper mouths behind them. Ajalurk-Chaidth moved slowly, boots whispering against the violet moss, each step a question to the earth. There, where a curtain of stone bled into an unnatural seam, and the scanner's whisper sharpened into a low, conspiratorial tone, the scanners felt the presence of lives that had learned to rot in secrecy. Pirates, mercenaries, the unwanted remnants of broken systems clung there like barnacles between worlds, their hidden alcove breathing faintly, patient yet alert, awaiting either tribute or ruin.

Through the softly crackling com link, Ajalurk-Chaidth murmured to TERA, "Keep The Revenant on stand-by and let her engines dream of flight until my shadow returns."

Armor
- The Black Devil's Armor

Kandosii Ka'rta · Monday at 9:55 PM

The Broken Concourse

Equipment: Beskar'gam, JT-13 Multipurpose Jetpack, ENCL-21 Ra'ntisr Heavy Blaster Pistol (x2), Enclave's Herald, Mandalorian Vambraces w/chamber-shot slugthrower, Enclave Bowie Knife, Pack of Fiora Ivory Cigarras
Tags: OPEN

The last job Kandosii had done as part of the Journeyman Protectors, he had faced off against actual, honest to Maker zombies, real walking dead. That was definitely a first. But here, headed to a smuggler's haven, hunting for outlaws to be dealt with? Well shucks, it was like he was back home on Morellia.

Kandosii slowed his approach as he neared the Broken Concourse, easing his jetpack to land him atop one of the cracked landing pads that overlooked the canyons below. He removed his bucket and clipped it to its belt, then fished into one of the pockets of his oilcoat for his pack of cigarras. Lighting the cigarra, he puffed it with a contented sigh as he waited for others to arrive. Supposed to be trainin' the next generation, teachin' them how to be good little Mandos, he was.

Well, he never really thought of himself as much of a teacher, and in the past he had treated the Resol'nare as more of a suggestion. On more than one occasion he denied the rallying call of previous Mandalores to continue his life, content hunting bounties in the Outer Rim, but maybe his time with the Enclave, and now the Journeyman Protectors had made him a bit more of a proper Mando himself. Hell, even after all this time he didn't have any real place to call home, no real clan to call family. In the past he had told himself he was a good enough man on his own, that he didn't need no clan, no foundlings to look after, no place to kick his feet up and relax, aside from the bed in his ship? But now?

Now he wasn't so sure.

Liin Terallo · Monday at 10:34 PM

OBJECTIVE: BYOO

The tracker in my hand pulsed with a sluggish, intermittent blink. Bogden’s crust warped the signal each time the plates groaned beneath me. Somewhere under all this shifting stone was my cache: sealed vials, notes and spare biomolecular samples. Each of those were the pieces of my life I was trying to keep one step ahead of everyone else.

My companion clung to my shoulder, leathery wings tucked close, his fanged snout lifting as he tasted the air. A soft clicking hum resonated in his throat, which was his version of unease.

“I know,” I murmured to him. “It is close. I can feel it too.”

But the ground felt it first. A quake rippled through the slate I stood on; sharper, angrier, like two tectonic plates grinding their teeth. The flat stone bucked sideways, tilting hard enough that my boots lost contact. I stumbled, skidding toward the jagged lip of a drop I would rather not test.

My companion shrieked, wings flaring.

I reacted without thinking. The synthetic current ignited inside me. It felt like a violent jolt; like grabbing a live wire with both hands. It surged upward, too sudden and too hot. I threw my palm toward the slab to steady myself, trying to coax just enough force to anchor my body. But the ability did not obey. It over-fired. A crackling burst snapped out from my hand; striking the stone with far more force than I had intended. The slab shuddered violently with a spiderweb of fractures racing across it's surface. For a heartbeat I thought I had doomed us both and that the entire shelf would collapse under the backlash I had triggered. “Stop - stop, stop -” I whispered through clenched teeth as the current raged in my arm.

It did not. Not immediately. The energy lashed outward again; uncontrolled, skittering across the ground like lightning trapped inside a glass jar. My vision flickered at the edges with a nauseating static; an echo of something real Force users feel but twisted, fractured through the lens of my own biology. Then finally it guttered out. The slab settled. I hauled myself upright with my knees shaking and my breath ragged in my throat.

My companion crawled closer to my cheek, pressing his forehead against my jaw in a grounding gesture.

“I am alright,” I lied to him, though my fingertips still tingled sharply from the misfire. “It was just… too much.”

The tracker blinked again; weak but steady as if it was mocking me. I glanced in the direction of the signal. Dust drifted through the fissure like smoke. My cache was still here and within reach. But so were the consequences of using an ability I still did not yet understand.

I swallowed hard, adjusted my grip on the tracker, and stepped forward. “Let us find my things before this planet decides to finish what it started.” Another chirp was given by my companion in response, signalling his affirmation. Filled with more resolve than I had had moments before, I began to press on.

Tag: OPEN

Eenia Vahn · Tuesday at 4:39 PM

		
TAG:
			 
		Aether Verd
 |  
			 
		Zel Sharratt
 |  
			 
		Hubert Starhopper
Wearing: [X]

The unsettled beat of the very floor of Bogden was actually somewhat comforting to Eenia. The heat, the combination of dust and steam, it was almost homey in a way. And for someone who was admittedly not the most agile of person, Nia strode across the ground without tripping over her own feet. In fact, there was even something akin to actual grace in her steps as she closed the distance between herself and those who had already gathered.

Maybe it was the strange comfort she felt from the planet, or maybe it was the fact that she was gathering with numbers that included the Mand'alor, and up to this point Nia had not had the pleasure of meeting this King in person. While she had dealt with her share of royalty in the past, this was not anywhere near the same circumstances. Yet there was no fear as she made her way to the gathered.

It was nice to see that she wasn't the only one without armor, though she gave 
			 
		 Hubert Starhopper
 a curious look as she was finally close enough. Her gaze did not linger however and instead the ocean color of her gaze found its way to the reason she was here in the first place. She nodded in both greeting and respect to Aether, and only afterwards did she allow herself to look around the immediate area.

"Should I ask about the spear?" Nia questioned, her brow tightening as she observed the weapon tucked into the ground like the most unwelcomed of splinters.

Adelle Bastiel · Wednesday at 4:35 PM

The Hanging Warrens
Tags:

Siv Kryze |

Veyla Krinn |

Vytal Noctura

Wind rushed past her helmet, the sound muffled by the buy'ce, and Adelle had to remind herself again that a Basilisk was not an animal. Granted, it wasn't just a machine either, but something in-between, sentient enough. It was the sentient enough part that worried her: despite having a master that had mastered Animal Friendship, Adelle was terrible with it. She took a deep breath and focused on guiding the Basilisk through the canyon with the rest of her Iron Wolf pack.

Her Basilisk. Marked with Clan Skirata's sigil, black paint already scratched, scarred, and worn silver in some areas. Not one of the newer models but not terribly old. Its metal bulk dwarfed her, which was both a comfort and mildly terrifying. So far, it had proven more reliable than the one she'd ridden at the jousts, more responsive than the one she'd trained for the jousts on.

Most of her pack flew around her on the same war droids, flying single file through the canyon as they wove around the skeletons of old starships. There was a lot that could be recovered from a graveyard like this, especially on as hostile a planet as Bogden seemed to be. Siv Kryze led the way, guiding them to their objective. Salvaging on Bogden carried a high risk but Kryze had seemed to take it all in stride. Adelle extended her awareness in the Force to the walls of the canyon, trying to support her pack how she could.

If something tried to ambush them, she'd know.

For now, she silently followed the veteran Mandalorian's lead.

Vytal Noctura · Wednesday at 6:08 PM

"Most Nightsisters never leave Dathomir. Our home has everything our people need to survive. To learn and grow. Having lived among the stars, I am not so eager for them to change that way. However, I remain certain the technology can be used to ensure my sisters' -- and brothers' -- future. A concern shared with many of my home, but they do not know you as I do; so they do not trust you. Were that they had simply trusted me," the Pale Witch breathed into the forlorn air of Bogden. "Much as young Mandalorian should learn from their elders, however, so too shall I instruct my kin. Help them find balance in communing with you."

Emerald green rings peered out from the side of the Basilisk over the ruined landscape around them.

"Here is a thought: why would smugglers discard their ships in a graveyard?" Vytal turned to regard those with her. "If they were rich they wouldn't be smuggling goods. They need their ships. Much effort had been poured into customizing their ships so their cargo would go undetected. A waste for them to simply throw it in a hole." Her gaze swung back out over the land. "T'would seem to me there is more to the story than legend recounts."

Adelle Bastiel |

Siv Kryze |

Veyla Krinn

Veyla Krinn · Wednesday at 8:28 PM

Bogden greeted Veyla Krinn with a roar.

Not the roar of beasts or engines, but the long, grinding groan of a world in constant violent motion—stone shifting under pressure, canyons splitting open, the distant thunder of something massive breaking and reforming somewhere beyond the horizon. Even with her buy'ce sealed, she could feel the vibration running through the Basilisk beneath her, a deep tectonic growl that threaded up through armor, bone, and breath. Bogden wasn't simply a planet. It was a test. And it wanted everyone to know it.

Her Basilisk dipped into formation behind Adelle, metal wings folding as it banked between jagged rock spires and the skeletal remains of long-dead starships. Veyla guided the beast with a steady hand, though she still marveled quietly at the living-machine hybrid under her. It responded to her like it understood her weight shifts, her focus, her tension. She wasn't entirely convinced she deserved that level of trust from something this old or this powerful—but it gave it anyway. Mandalorians forged strange bonds, even with metal.

Dust kicked into plumes as the pack thundered through the canyon, Siv Kryze leading them like the spine of a spear aimed straight into the planet's throat. The Iron Wolves moved with confidence born of shared purpose—Force-sensitive or not, every vod here understood the unspoken rule: Bogden would not bend for them. They would bend it.

Veyla felt the planet's pulse in her teeth, in her armor, in the vibrating air that shimmered with static heat. The storms in the distance clawed the sky in jagged blue lines, and every shift of the earth sent small avalanches tumbling down the canyon walls. A place like this didn't care who you were. It respected only those who endured.

The pack stretched ahead and behind her, silent save for the rhythmic thrum of Basilisk engines and the occasional metallic echo as debris clattered down onto stone. She glanced toward Adelle, reading the focused posture, the quiet stability the Wolf wore like a cloak. Then Veyla extended her awareness—not through the Force, but through instinct sharpened by years of battle and survival. The air smelled wrong in places. The shadows between ship hulls were too still. Bogden was rarely quiet unless something else was listening.

Veyla adjusted her grip on the Basilisk's reins and shifted her weight.

"Bogden doesn't like us," she muttered into the internal comms, her voice wry beneath the vocabulary of a born warrior. "Good. That means we're in the right place."

The Basilisk huffed beneath her as if in agreement.

She activated her visor's scanning overlay and swept the canyon ahead. Heat signatures flickered between crashed hulls, some faint, some too regular to be natural. Salvage was never salvage on a world like this. Someone always wanted what you were taking.

She leaned forward, her Basilisk accelerating with a low, rumbling growl.

"If something's going to try and jump us," Veyla said calmly, "I'd prefer it happens while I'm warmed up."

The canyon narrowed. The ground shook.

And Bogden waited.

Vytal Noctura

Adelle Bastiel

Siv Kryze

Siv Kryze · 2025-12-04T01:22:20-0500

.

The Basilisk beneath him rumbled like a siege engine ready to wake the dead, its wings cutting the canyon air in precise, disciplined arcs. The deeper the Iron Wolves flew into the Hanging Warrens, the more the world around them seemed to grind its teeth—stone shifting, metal groaning, wreckage whispering with the ghosts of smugglers who thought they could outrun their own fate.

Siv guided his Basilisk through the twisting descent, the machine answering him with the kind of trust earned through scars, time, and shared danger. Bogden's canyon walls loomed close, jagged enough that any sloppy maneuver would get a rider scraped off their mount like rust from an old blade. Good. It kept everyone sharp.

Vytal's voice drifted through the comms, cool and measured. He listened as she questioned the old tales—why smugglers would abandon ships so heavily modified, so necessary to survival. A fair point. One he'd been considering since they first mapped this grid.

Siv angled his Basilisk lower, scanning a field of shattered hulls below—some too intact for the legends to make sense.

"You're right to be suspicious," he said, voice steady over the channel.

"Smugglers don't throw away a tool unless something stronger made them choose between the ship and their life."

A pulse on his HUD—heat signatures beneath the wrecks.

Movement.

Too steady.

Too deliberate.

He adjusted formation without ceremony.

"Eyes up, Wolves. The dead ships here aren't dead."

Another rumble shook the canyon, heavy and localized—a switch in vibration that told Siv the source wasn't the planet this time.

His Basilisk growled, metal talons flexing as it shifted into a combat-ready posture.

"Vytal's right. There's a story under all this scrap."

A beat of silence as the wind howled through a broken hangar bay.

"Let's make sure we don't end up part of it."

He veered toward the deeper shadows of the Warrens, leading the pack into the heart of the mystery with the calm certainty of a Kryze who'd flown into worse storms and flown back out again.

"Stay tight. Something down there wants company."

Tag:

Adelle Bastiel

Vytal Noctura

Veyla Krinn

Itzhal Volkihar · 2025-12-04T17:28:46-0500

| Location | Bogden, Inner Rim

Wary figures shifted through the crumbling tunnels, their shaky movements obscured by the dim light of flickering mining equipment and the shattered pieces of former starships, left to rot in the dark: their former glory, a memory forgotten by scavengers and outlaws alike. The rats scoured in the darkness, hoods raised, and heads on a pivot, hunted by a threat they could not see. An unconscious weight pinned against their shoulders, a sense of dread that seeped beneath the skin, deeper into the marrow of their bones as something neared closer. Instincts begged them to leave, a plea to forsake the greed that had led them here, where only the cruellest remained powerful, their thrones built upon a pyre of devastation.

Change was coming. Either they adapted or found themselves lost in a world unlike anything they remembered.

Itzhal Volkihar had something of an experience in both cases, burdened with the memories of yesterday, held close to his chest, a priceless treasure in an entire Galaxy altered so profoundly that not even the stars were the same. Months had passed since that fateful day, when he'd opened his eyes and found everything different. Some days, it felt like nothing had changed. A day like this, hunting down criminals and bringing fugitives to justice, it was almost possible to close his eyes and imagine another presence at his back, their complaints a quiet monologue of every struggle to follow, ignorant of the possibility they could leave at any point. They never did. He'd been the one dragged away in the end, forced to leave while others had fallen around them.

The Mandalorian paused, a slight shift in the weight of his body. Dust floundered in the air, barely reaching the height of Itzhal's calves before it tumbled back towards the earth, where a small veil of debris lingered, left to sink into the cracks within the stonework. Sound echoed in the distance: cries of entertainment and disdain, distorted by the cavern walls and the many bodies ahead, packed between makeshift storefronts and warehouses.

Beside him, concealed against the dark and faded stonework, a small activator switch, dulled with time and lack of use, caught his attention. With one more glance towards the busier sections of the Broken Concourse, he reached out, and with a screech, a section of the nearby crevice retracted to reveal a new passage.

He followed, through winding steps and claustrophobic tunnels, each movement catalogued and recorded. Until, eventually, at another doorway and a set of stairs, he stepped out of the tunnels. Into the harsh wind, an echo of the dying remnants of countless lives, their bodies dashed across the bitter landscape. His own steps muffled by the weather, he looked across the jagged weld of hull plates and stone that clacked beneath his feet, shaped into a perilous landing pad.

He was not alone.

Tags:

Ajalurk-Chaidth Kryze

Kandosii Ka'rta

Aether Verd · 2025-12-05T00:26:25-0500

Assets: Beskar'gam | Basilisk
Darksaber | Resolute Dawn

THE SHATTERED STEPPE

The ground churned beneath Aether’s boots as the first of the arrivals stepped into the fractured plain, each new presence folding into the landscape’s restless hum. Zel’s thoughtful cadence lingered in the air, touched with that familiar poetic reverence he carried for omens and stories. The Mand'alor inclined his head toward the scribe, letting his voice carry a warm rumble through the vocoder. “You see clearly, vod. Fate belongs to the ones strong enough to shape it. And you will stand with us as we do exactly that.”

Another tremor rolled across the Steppe as Hubert Star-Hopper descended from his rattling vessel, a trail of smoke curling from the cigarette set between his fingers. The Mand'alor took in the mechanic’s lanky frame and grease stained skin with an approving nod, unbothered by the drawl or the humor threaded through his tension. “Welcome to Bogden, Hubert. And no one pissed it off,” Aether replied, his tone carrying an easy confidence that cut through the quake beneath their feet. “The planet just knows warriors are coming.”

Kirae arrived next with the quiet discipline of someone shaped by loss and loyalty, her shield gleaming in the dust heavy light. Aether held her gaze for a moment and valued the steadiness he found there. This world would test her resolve, but resolve was something she never seemed to lack.

Then came Eenia, her stride surprisingly sure across the shaking ground, her presence bright against the harshness of the terrain. Her question reached him with a note of curiosity that coaxed a brief laugh from behind his helm. He gestured toward the distant plume of rising steam where the spear still stood buried in the stone. “You can ask,” he said, amusement rich in his tone, “but the only answer that matters is how you plan to help retrieve it.”

He let the gathered settle into place, then stepped forward with the quiet authority of a man who knew exactly what the land intended to teach them. The Steppe cracked beneath him, yet he moved with the ease of someone who had long since made peace with hostile ground.

“Listen well,” he said, turning so his visor swept across every face. “Your first lesson is simple in its shape, but not in its path. You will traverse this land together. Not one at a time, not as scattered souls, but as a unit. The goal is to reach my spear and return with it.”

Steam hissed between the stone plates, the vents pulsing like the planet’s heartbeat. Aether pointed toward them with calm certainty. “The Steppe will erupt with geysers of immense heat. They can hurl a man into the air if he is careless. But your beskar’gam will shield you from the burn. Trust your armor. Trust each other. Let the land test you, but do not meet it alone.”

Silence settled for a moment, shaped not by fear but attention. Aether let it hold, then dipped his chin in approval.

“If you have questions, ask them now,” he said, his voice steady with purpose. “Once we begin, the Steppe will not wait for you.”

Zel Sharratt ,

Hubert Starhopper ,

Eenia Vahn ,

Kirae Orade + Open

Micah · 2025-12-05T00:37:16-0500

THE BROKEN CONCOURSE, BOGDEN

The cracked landing pads rose from the canyon edge like the ribs of some great fossilized beast, their fractured plates trembling beneath the restless pulse of the planet. Micah descended into that tremor with the uncertain sway of a man still learning how to trust the jets strapped to his back. The pack sputtered once, then steadied, carrying him in a shaky arc toward the figure who waited atop the battered duracrete.

Kandosii stood framed by the drifting dust and the faint glow of his cigarra, the ember catching the wind as if marking him as the anchor Micah had been told to seek. The young warrior touched down with a firm thud, boots scraping across the aged surface before he found his balance. For a moment he simply breathed, letting the heat and grit settle around him, then he reached for the locks of his helmet.

The visor lifted free, revealing a youthful face shaped by a lineage of blended earth and sun, a complexion that spoke of more than one world’s heritage woven together. Light facial hair traced his jaw, barely enough to be called a beard, yet carried with the earnest pride of someone who believed it might fool the eye into thinking him older. The only true splash of color was the crimson bandana tied around his head, a stubborn thread of defiance he had carried long before he knew what it meant to be Mandalorian.

Micah stepped forward, then lowered himself onto one knee before the seasoned hunter. The gesture was not dramatic, nor was it forced. It was simply the clearest way he knew to show respect to a man whose presence carried the quiet gravity of lived experience. He lifted his gaze just enough to meet Kandosii’s eyes, letting a brief nod break the silence between them.

“Sir,” he said, voice steady despite the nerves that hummed beneath it, “think I could bum one of those cigarras?”

The question was simple, almost too simple for the weight of what today represented, yet Micah hoped it might be enough to bridge the space between stranger and mentor. One small spark to cut through the dust and uncertainty. One shared breath before whatever this planet chose to teach them began in earnest.

Kandosii Ka'rta

Dominion The Next Generation || ME Dominion of Bogden

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