Populate The Remnant War - Sularen's Folly [ ME Populate of Selnesh ]

Beskar · 2026-03-18T22:09:08-0400

THE REMNANT WAR
"Empires die loudly, but their corpses still know how to bite."

CHARROS IV
For seventy two hours...

The Mandalorian Empire had lived inside a storm of revelation. At the dawn of the first day, the news spread with such force that it seemed to reach every hall, forge, outpost, and warship at once. Reports brought in by the Nite Owls struck the Empire like a peal of iron thunder, carrying a truth so immense that even the most disciplined among the clans could not help but feel its fire. To the north, the Diarchy had fallen. To the south, the Imperial Confederation had fallen with it.

The particulars of their collapse remained under investigation, their final unraveling still hidden behind fragments of intercepted transmissions and shattered chains of command, yet the conclusion drawn by Mandalore was immediate and unshaken. After Yaga Minor, after the Empire had broken the Diarchy and cast its gaze southward toward the Confederation, both enemies had come apart in swift succession.

To the sons and daughters of Mandalore, there was no mystery in that outcome. It was vindication. Their cause had been proven. Their Empire had been proven. Their Way had been proven. So the first day belonged to celebration, and the Outer Rim heard the sound of a people who believed history itself had finally bent in their favor.

The second day brought no such noise.

Celebration gave way to vigilance as the Empire watched the dark in stillness, waiting to see what shape would rise from the ruins of two dead powers. Across the frontier, worlds once held in fearful obedience had gone quiet, and that quiet unsettled even the hardiest among the resolute. It was the sort of silence that did not soothe, but warned.

A void had opened where rival thrones once stood, vast and hungry, and Mandalore knew better than to mistake absence for peace. Patrols intensified. Orders sharpened. Eyes turned north and south alike, seeking the first sign of what would crawl forth from the carcasses of the fallen. Whether a new hand would seize the remnants, or whether the old dead would prove too stubborn to remain buried, none could yet say. So the Empire waited, watchful and armed, as the Outer Rim held its breath.

By the dawn of the third day, the answer came in fire.

The attacks began without pattern and without honor. Civilian lanes were struck. Commercial traffic was harried. Remote holdings at the edge of Mandalorian space found themselves bloodied by sudden violence, each blow delivered by raiders and broken fleets desperate to prove they still possessed teeth. Mandalore answered with the only language such creatures had ever truly respected.

Warships descended. Kill zones were established. Boarders cut through steel and flesh with disciplined fury, and in the wreckage of those first reprisals the truth emerged in full. Former Diarchy space had become a battlefield of splinter lords and grasping tyrants. Former Confederation territory was no better, its fractured remnants now ruled by predators too vain, too hateful, or too mad to accept that their empires had ended.

The regimes had died, but their leaders refused to do the same. Now Mandalore stood between two rotting kingdoms, each one tearing at itself while lashing outward at anything within reach. The Empire did not intend to endure that state of affairs for long.

Plans were drawn with ruthless clarity, and the first targets were chosen not for symbolism, but for necessity. The loudest offenders would be silenced first. The most brazen remnants would be cut down before chaos could gather enough strength to mistake itself for destiny. That road led to Charros IV, an unremarkable world by any measure that would have mattered in quieter times, now made significant by the fleet hanging in its orbit.

There, in the cold above that forgettable sphere, an Imperial Remnant had carved out a drydock and staging ground from which it could harry Mandalorian borders and encourage wider disorder throughout former Confederation space. Mandalore would answer with precision and with force. The fleet wouldbe addressed. A beachhead wouldbe established. The warlord commanding this nuisance would be found and put to the sword.

So the celebrations ended, and the work resumed.

Across beskar decks and within sealed war rooms, final preparations were made beneath the gaze of commanders who understood exactly what this moment demanded. The Empire had been given proof of its strength, then handed a frontier drowning in carrion ambition. It would answer both in the same fashion, with resolve, with steel, and with the old certainty that had carried Mandalore through every age worth remembering.

Charros IV waited beneath a crowded sky...

...and above it drifted the first throat the Empire meant to close.

OBJECTIVE I: TASK FORCE SULAREN'S GAMBIT
Orbit of Charros IV

Task Force Sularen's Gambit looms over Charros IV as the mailed fist of an Imperial Remnant too dangerous to ignore. This is no scattered pack of survivors clinging to broken banners, but a disciplined expeditionary force built to cow entire systems into submission. Cruisers, escorts, carriers, and support craft hold the world in a hostile embrace, forming a mobile fortress from which the enemy can raid Mandalorian interests, disrupt trade, and project strength far beyond this single theater. So long as the task force remains intact, it stands as both a threat to Mandalore's frontier and a symbol that the dead still believe they can govern the living.

Mandalore's objective here is simple in its purpose: cripple the fleet by any means necessary. Whether that comes through sabotage, direct assault, boarding actions, capture, or utter annihilation is left to your ingenuity. From piracy to direct capital warfare, the options are limitless - so long as the Task Force falls.

PvE | Attn: Crimson Dawn & Great Heathen Army

OBJECTIVE II - EYE OF LIANNA
Orbit of Charros IV

At the center of the task force rests the Eye of Lianna, the flagship around which the rest of the enemy fleet takes its shape and purpose. It is the beating heart of the operation over Charros IV, and thus is a priority target for Mandalorian wrath. Its halls are thick with stormtroopers, armored support, and even Inquisitors who will make every deck a battlefield in its own right.

This is where Mandalore means to cut off the head of the serpent. The objective is to infiltrate the flagship, fight through whatever steel and blood stands in the way, and eliminate the architect behind this fleet, the self-styled Grand Admiral Tygen Sularen. He will not be easy to reach, and harder still to put down, but Mandalore will not be denied.

PvE | Attn: All Divisions

FORT HARDHOME
Surface, Charros IV

While battle unfolds in orbit, Fort Hardhome rises in quieter fashion upon the surface below. Still under construction, this Mandalorian forward operating base is being established as a listening post, staging ground, and mustering station for future campaigns into former Confederation space. It is not yet a polished stronghold, but that is precisely what gives it life. Walls need raising, supplies need sorting, defenses need organizing, and the machinery of occupation must begin turning before the next phase of the war can truly take shape.

Yet Fort Hardhome is more than logistics and labor. Because of its quieter nature, it offers a rare chance for Mandalorians and service members from different arms of the war machine to meet before the next major clash begins. Here, bonds may be forged while towers rise, names may become familiar over shared duties, and future comrades may find one another before the coming battles test them in earnest. In that sense, this place is not only the foundation of a fort, but the foundation of the force that will carry the war forward.

Social | Attn: All Divisions

OBJECTIVE IV - THE STORY IS YOURS
Charros IV

Charros IV is a world alive with danger, uncertainty, and opportunity. Between the fleet action in orbit, the growing Mandalorian foothold on the surface, and the wider chaos spilling outward from the collapse of the Confederation, there is no shortage of space for stories beyond the main objectives. Reconnaissance, scavenging, bounty hunting, rescue efforts, private rivalries, patrols, chance encounters, or personal missions all have room to breathe here.

If you have an idea that does not fit neatly into the listed points of interest, bring it to life. Charros IV is the kind of battlefield where initiative matters, where smaller actions can carry real consequence, and where a warrior with vision may carve out a story all their own.

BYOO | Bring Your Own Objective

Cabur

Fiore

Kyramud Kass Holliday

Mao

Alden Akaran
@Kael Varr

Hrist

Niijima Izumi

Vael Saren

Elian Abrantes

Serrik Skirata
@Astella Verd

Cabur Nau'ur
@Kotak Vikar'Ranov

Avast Verd

Pal Veda
@Dral Kar'taal

Zurak Bruul
@Ajalurk-Chaidth Kryze
@Arden Priest

Inez

Sidonia

Maur

Ferris Skirata

Veyla Krinn

Renn Vizsla

Perseus

Hubert Starhopper
E erida Lok

Acier Moonbound
@Colden Renth
@Domina Prime

Elira Verd
@Viera

Nando
@Tin
@Serra Toss

Kassandra Beskar'ad

Liorra

Conrad

Reshim

Red Mobius

Suleiman Lok
@Kyrida Verd

Ladante Mamba
R raef Malstadt

CT-312

Rhys Swynol
@Lysara Rynn

Nephthys Nardithi-Verd

Hanna

Siae Andronike

Zlova Rue

Runi Kuryida
@Ren Ashbridge

Vyse de Valorous
@Varuun Rekaal

Jonah · 2026-03-18T22:16:29-0400

"Remember, breathe. Dinner's on me."

Jonah's words were uttered quietly in his helm, echoing across a private channel to the smuggler standing in earshot. He spoke in Mando'a. His tone was light and supportive. Why? Because the two of them, along with some fellow Mandalorian warriors and...goddamn pirates of all people... were crammed in a boarding pod, hurtling through the abyss of space. Now, when Jonah looked upon the woman who his words were meant for, she appeared to be the pinnacle of confidence.

She was strong. Armored. Looked the part of badass Mandalorian warrior who could keep anyone's throat in if they so much as sneezed at her incorrectly. But, past experience and post-battle chats had revealed to the Warmaster that

Tessa Thayne hated sardines.

Well.

Okay.

She hated cosplaying as a sardine, cooped up in a can that was way too tight. Thus, he had taken to being a pillar of support in his mind. Reminding her that, after this brief, uncomfortable voyage in the black, there awaited a reward. A light at the end of the tunnel, so to speak. He would shower her with a meal of her choosing, no matter how fancy, or expensive, or outlandish it ended up being. Why?

Because this boarding pod foray was his idea. And he wasn't about to hear the end of it.

"Only a few moments until impact, you've got this."

He hoped.

Tag:

Tessa Thayne + Open

Aether Verd · 2026-03-18T22:24:07-0400

Wearing:
Beskar'gam - Darksaber

CHARROS IV, SURFACE

Aether's gaze was on the Heavens.

Even from the surface, he could see the fury of the operation unfolding. Mandalore moved to cut the head off of a troublesome serpent. And just like Yaga Minor, Aether believed in the might of his people. He believed that they would lay low this adversary, not in a matter of days, but in a matter of hours. The sight of Mandalorian Supremacy unfolding above Charros IV set his very heart athunder.

He wanted more than anything to be astride his Basilisk in the void of space. To revel in the rush of crushing his enemies underfoot. To finally allow his blade to taste the plastoid of stormtroopers who thought themselves better than Mandalore's finest. However, the work demanded that he be on the surface.

The Great Heathen Army had this.

He had the future.

Thus, Mand'alor the Iron strode forth through the forward operating base. All around him, the din of construction filled his ears. Walls were being raised. Mandalorian voices were shouting with urgency. Soon, they would have a valuable foothold. Soon, what remained of the Imperial Confederation's might would fall to Mandalore. But for now, his gaze swept across the faces that rushed by. Searching.

"Where are they?" he muttered under his breath.

Torva Vikar ,

Kirae Orade + Open

Renn Vizsla · 2026-03-18T22:44:12-0400

Abrion Sector

Alone

Renn rested his gauntlets against the armrests of his Helm as he looked around the bridge of The Iron Hound, his flagship and home for the last month. His eyes scanned over the readings that continuously fed from the scanners, shuffling and murmurs escaping around the bridge as officers went about their business dutifully.

It was an eye-opener to see two major players in the game of Galactic dominance burn away to disarray and chaos so quickly. The news from outside the Empire came swiftly, two voids created by the loss of control over large swaths of space. As soon as the news reached the Warden, he had swiftly assembled his forces to lock down the sectors of space the Mandalorians controlled around Roon, whether he liked it or not. Chaos would spiral out of control and would soon reach across borders if not swatted down with a firm hand.

Swift action happened across the Empire, not just in the halls of Roon. The Great Heathen Army rallied its forces to ensure the safety of the border planets that might otherwise not be able to defend against remnant forces. Word of Task Force Sularen's Gambit reached the Warden as forces were raised to assault the remnant forces and halt any advance into Mandalorian space. Renn dispatched a Task Force through his Hypergate to assist in the defense of the Heart of Mandalorian space, but he knew that he could not keep his home unattended for long, in fear that he might not be able to stop a targeted assault against his Sector if he was caught lacking.

An officer dragged him back to the present as he glanced towards a outstretched datapadd, recieving it with a nod the Warden went to glancing through the report, his eyes glancing through the report of the assembled forces facing the Task Force, Nothing more I can do for them now, just going to have to pray they make the fight swift and decisive, I don't care to lose more over frivolous engagements. A gentle sigh escaped his lips as he handed the padd back to the young officer beside him with a nod.

His hand reached towards his forehead, his gloved fingertips running across his forehead as he sat there silently, May the Manda guide all that ride into battle in the name of the Mandalore, and may the sons and daughters of Roon return home in one piece.

Vode An

Sidonia · 2026-03-18T23:35:51-0400

O B J E C T I V E O N E

Tag: @Open

Sidonia did not arrive like a commander. She arrived like a contradiction.

The hangar bay of the Veil of Ashes yawned open to the cold, distant light of Charros IV’s orbit, and in that dim glow she stepped forward, not clad in armor, not wrapped in anything that spoke of rank or war, but in a long black dress that trailed behind her like a shadow reluctant to let go. The fabric moved slowly with each step, softening the hard edges of the warship around her, as if she had brought something quieter, something more intimate, into a place that had no use for it. The silver heels were worse. They gleamed with every shift of her weight, catching the sterile light in sharp flashes, wholly unsuited for steel decks and military purpose. Each step echoed just a fraction too clearly, a sound that didn’t belong; like laughter in the middle of a funeral. Sidonia didn’t seem to notice. Or perhaps she did, and simply refused to care.

Her gaze lifted past the threshold of the hangar, out into the void where Sularen’s Gambit held its formation. Even at a distance, the structure of it was obvious, cruisers locked into place, carriers held close and guarded, escorts moving with rehearsed precision. It was the kind of order that tried to look inevitable, the kind that wanted the galaxy to believe it was already decided.

Crimson Dawn had never believed in that kind of certainty.

They didn’t come here for Mandalore’s victory, or its pride, or the clean simplicity of a fleet breaking another fleet apart. That wasn’t their place, and it never had been. What mattered was what came after—what always came after. Empires didn’t die cleanly. They fractured, and in those fractures, things slipped through. Smugglers, warlords, desperate men trying to become something more than the ruins they crawled out of. Without control, without structure, that chaos spread fast. It didn’t stay contained to battlefields. It bled into trade routes, into civilian space, into the quiet places Mandalore couldn’t afford to let rot and that was where Crimson Dawn lived.

For years, the shadows within Mandalorian space hadn’t been left to grow wild. They had been gathered, shaped, disciplined into something that could exist without threatening the whole. Crime still existed, but it had boundaries. It had rules. It served a purpose, whether anyone beyond closed doors admitted it or not.

Sidonia was the one who made sure it stayed that way.

And now she stood watching a fleet that threatened to unravel that balance; not because it was reckless, but because it wasn’t. Sularen’s Gambit wasn’t just another desperate remnant lashing out in its final moments. It was organized. Measured. Capable of becoming something stable, something others could gather around. If it survived long enough, it wouldn’t just raid or disrupt, it would start to mean something again. Meaning was dangerous because meaning turned remnants into movements which turned into power. And power, left unchecked in the wrong hands, didn’t stay contained to a single system.

That was why Crimson Dawn was here. Not to challenge Mandalore, but to ensure that nothing rising from the wreckage ever could.

Sidonia had come herself because this moment sat in the narrow space between order and chaos, and she understood that space better than anyone. This wasn’t her kind of battlefield. There were no whispered alliances to twist, no courts to hollow out from within, no careful manipulations hidden behind polite words. This was steel and fire, clean lines and direct force.

It feels like she didn't belong.

She stood there for a moment, still, the faint current of recycled air shifting the hem of her dress just enough to remind the room she was real. Alive. Present in a place she didn’t quite fit.

Her head tilted slightly, as if reconsidering the thought. “Strange,” she murmured under her breath.

Behind her, Crimson Dawn waited in silence. No one questioned the way she was dressed. No one ever did. They understood, in the way people eventually learned to understand her, that Sidonia never stepped into a situation by becoming part of it. She would rather re-create it or reshape it somehow. Her fingers brushed lightly against a nearby console as she moved, not for balance, but as if grounding herself for a brief second in something tangible. The metal was cold, unyielding, honest in a way most things weren’t.

Out beyond the hangar, the fleet still held its perfect shape, a problem meant for soldiers. She turned then, the motion smooth and deliberate, silver heel pivoting against the durasteel as she stepped fully into the hangar; into a war that was never meant for her, but one she had no intention of letting spiral beyond her reach.

Aten Karr · 2026-03-19T02:36:16-0400

OBJECTIVE I

"You are all in arrears, indebted to the Dawn."

Aten stood at the forefront of a formation of raiders, the humming of their transport vehicle filling the pause between the drawl of his words. His gilded armor dripped with gold against the room's dim lighting.

"Which is precisely why you have all been brought here." He pointed at the enemy fleet, marked on the holomap of the transport, a cloud of red that grew larger and closer with each passing moment.

"This is no battle, it is an opportunity. We took you in, looked past your transgressions, furnished you with arms, with kinship, with purpose. Do not mistake our generosity for charity." He looked at his band of misfits in crimson, a few brandishing their beskads, oiling them to a pristine shine, others checking the plasma cartridges of their blasters, but all helmets turned to him in attention. They were Mandalorians, even if anchored with their affiliation with the Crimson Dawn. Warriors of honor, but honor could be twisted when mingled with the criminal element.

"Settle what you owe, to the Dawn, and to the Mand'alor. Strip this fleet bare, and I give you my word: the credits will begin to flow." His retinal scanners swayed behind his helmet, cybernetics synchronizing with the systems of his armor, his implants winding up to combat capacity, rybcoarse stamped muscles flexing and unflexing in anticipation.

"Make ready those ships. Every sound piece of equipment is to be taken—sold where it will fetch a price, or stripped for what profit it yields. If you judge a thing of value, you take it. Spill blood if you must, but bear this in mind—they're worth more to us alive." His voice lowered with a synthetic growl, the gravel amplified by the audio systems of his helmet.

"Settle your debts, fulfil your oaths, and I shall see to it, personally, that you are duly rewarded."
@OPEN

Korda Veydran · 2026-03-19T06:52:24-0400

The hangar bay of the Veil of Ashes thrummed with restrained violence.
Mag-clamps groaned. Engines idled low like beasts held on chains. Crimson Dawn operatives moved in disciplined silence beneath the skeletal glow of overhead strip-lights, their armor catching faint reflections from the void beyond the bay's open maw. Charros IV hung distant and indifferent beneath a sky crowded with war.

Korda Veydran sat on a durasteel crate near the shadowed edge of the bay.
Helmet off.
Knees apart.
One boot tapping. Then bouncing. Then forcing itself still.

A cigar burned between his fingers, the ember flaring bright whenever he drew from it. The smoke curled upward in slow, deliberate spirals before being stolen by the hangar's ventilation. He let it sit in his lungs a second too long before exhaling through his nose.

Calm down.
His armor lay open in sections before him like a disassembled confession. He checked it again.
And again.

Gauntleted fingers ran along the seals of his chest plate, pressing firmly at each locking point until he felt the reassuring resistance of engaged mechanisms. He leaned forward, inspecting the micro-grooves of the helmet's neck seal, ensuring the magnetic compression ring would hold vacuum integrity if the bay lost atmosphere mid-operation.

He didn't rush.
He never rushed this part.

The Ashen Maw rested across his thighs, its darkened frame almost swallowing the light around it. He ran a thumb along the housing, checking the heat vents, the stabilizer assembly, the alignment of the muzzle shroud. His grip tightened briefly.

Solid.
He set it aside carefully, like something alive.
Next came the detonators.

He pulled one free from its slot at his belt and turned it slowly in his hand, feeling the weight. Compact. Clean. He adjusted the activation dial half a notch, then returned it. Checked the others by touch alone. Counted them without looking.

Then the vibroblade.
He drew it just enough for the hum to whisper against the air. The vibration was steady. Healthy. The edge shimmered faintly as it caught the hangar's cold lighting. He tested the grip tension, then re-seated it at his hip with a controlled push.

His knee started bouncing again.
He noticed.
Forced it still.
Another drag from the cigar.

"Yaga Minor…" he muttered under his breath.
The words felt heavier than they should have.

He'd fought worse battles. He'd walked through cities reduced to slag and bone. He'd eradicated his own clan without losing sleep. That memory didn't twist his stomach. It didn't sit under his ribs like a splinter.

So why that world?
Why that sky?
Why those screams?
He exhaled smoke slowly, watching it blur the silhouette of a Basilisk droid being prepped across the bay.
"Get a grip," he muttered to himself. "You've carved through worse."

His eyes drifted across the hangar.
Warriors loading boarding pods.
Crimson Dawn operatives checking blades.
The distant figure of Sidonia somewhere deeper in the vessel's architecture like a shadow wearing silk.
He felt out of place.

Not because he didn't belong.
Because he cared.
That irritated him more than anything.
He ground the cigar against the crate beside him, extinguishing it with unnecessary pressure. The scent lingered, sharp and bitter.
Korda rose.

He rolled his shoulders once. Twice. Sealed his chest plate with a firm press. The armor locked with a mechanical hiss, the HUD flickering to life as he lifted his helmet and pulled it down over his head. He felt the small imprint of the newest thing he made, it was the Kyr'amyc Shriek Node, should it work. Then he would work to improve it.

The galaxy narrowed to targeting reticles and readouts.
Better.
He reached down, lifting his gear in practiced sequence:
• The Ashen Maw, secured across his back.
• A cluster of high-yield thermal detonators locked firm at his belt.
• Vibroblade seated at his hip, hum muted but ready.
• Reinforced shock gauntlets primed, systems synced and lethal.

His breathing steadied inside the helmet.
Charros IV waited.
So did the Eye of Lianna.
And whatever part of him Yaga Minor had unsettled would either quiet itself… or burn out in the corridors of a flagship.
Either way, something was going to die tonight.

Tags: @open

Populate The Remnant War - Sularen's Folly [ ME Populate of Selnesh ]

More options

Beskar

M A N D A L O R E

Jonah

S H A D E

Aether Verd

I R O N

Renn Vizsla

Character

Sidonia

Warden of Thule

Aten Karr

Mandanator

Korda Veydran

Korda the unyielding

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