Faction The Wild Calls [RNR]

[Michael Angellus]

​

Journal Entry:
.

Well, sometimes ambition can bite you in the butt, and pride can kick you in it. I was taught the lesson I needed here. Simply pathfinding as I spoke was not enough, as not only did Yasima take over doing so, the other Denko did as well. That is on me, not them, perfectly fine. Events like this are about teamwork and not egos, not like I have ever really had one anyway.

So, while they were spotting and pathfinding, I began to cut off the “older branches” and frauns to put on the ground to create “arrows” pointing back towards the encampment.This way, even if we got separated, the arrows would guide us back safely. It wasn't glamorous work, but it was necessary for the team's success.Even if a mishap occurred and the team became separated amidst the unpredictable terrain, a pre-arranged system of meticulously placed directional arrows would serve as a reliable navigational aid, ensuring everyone could trace their steps back to a designated safe point. This task, while perhaps lacking the excitement of other endeavors, was nonetheless deemed crucial for the overall success and well-being of the entire team, representing a fundamental layer of preparedness in the face of potential adversity.

Please do not take my lack of small talk as any indication that I am not a social person. I have a history of apparently saying the wrong thing, and am working on that. A true statement, perhaps not the correct method of approaching it, but if people were going to avoid me, they were going to do so with all of the information.

It was when I saw some vine that I was able to cut down that there was something else. I did not cut down branches, but I did cut some leaves. We may have to move the injured, and if the injuries are severe enough, we may need sleds. This may not be necessary, unless they disallow the use of the Force. Which makes no help from me as I have not been trained in telekinesis anyway, but at worse, we can build makeshift sleds to pull and carry supplies.

Abel Denko | Phillip Slate | Yasima Zyntra | Balun Dashiell | Isla Reingard |

 

[Balun Dashiell]

The Wild Calls | Royal Naboo Republic.
Inventory: Spacer Apparel, Lightsaber, Basic Field Kit.
Tags: Seth Denko | Michael Angellus | Yasima Zyntra

​

Seth gave a small, appreciative nod as Balun joined them, the man’s voice steady but honest. There was something familiar in it — that feeling of walking into an established rhythm and trying not to step on anyone’s toes.

“I get that,” he said, voice low and even as they moved. “I’ve only been with the Order and the Navy a little while myself. Still figuring it all out, but…” He glanced back in the direction of the camp, where voices still carried lightly on the wind. “It’s starting to feel like home. One step at a time.”

He gave a short chuckle at the comment about the weather. “Good call, too. Rain’ll turn that fire pit into a mud bath fast. I’ll make sure we mention it when we get back.”

It was a quiet relief for Balun to realise that someone else understood what he was feeling. To his eyes, the others moved and spoke with the ease of old comrades, as though they'd known each other for years. By contrast, Balun was still a stranger among them, an unfamiliar face in a well-worn circle. The Royal Naboo Republic itself was an entity he'd only recently brushed against, a banner under which he'd come seeking direction and purpose.

Before this new chapter, his life had been divided between the bustling demands of his corporate ventures and the fading echoes of a military past—first under the Galactic Alliance, and before that, as an Aquilian Ranger during the final days of the Tingel Arm Coalition. Back then, in the heart of conflict against the overwhelming force of the Empire of the Lost, Balun had felt like he understood his place in the galaxy. And then came defeat, dissolution, and the long, quiet search for something new.

"Well, anything you can tell me about the Order of Shiraya—I'd love to learn more," Balun said openly, his tone carrying a mixture of curiosity and humility. The Order remained something of an enigma to him. Were they Jedi? Or something else entirely—a fellowship of Force-users drawn from many paths, bound by a shared commitment to the Light? If the latter were true, there was much he stood to gain from their perspective. He knew the Jedi's teachings well, still shaped by the values he'd absorbed in his youth. Yet part of him longed to broaden that foundation, to weave new understandings into his practice of the Light, so long as those teachings held true to their essence.

Ahead, Michael Angellus spoke, cutting through the dense underbrush with steady strokes of his blade, apologising for his lack of small talk. Balun caught his eye and offered a faint, understanding smile, his head tilting in a subtle half-nod—no need for words to convey his meaning: No need to apologise. I understand.

It was a sentiment Balun knew all too well. Only minutes earlier, he had lingered at the edge of the group, hesitant to step in until Seth had called him over with a friendly wave. Balun had never been the smoothest in conversation, often prone to making an awkward moment worse rather than better. So when someone else admitted to feeling a bit out of step socially, Balun couldn't help but feel a quiet sympathy. Here, at least, was a kind of camaraderie he understood—a reminder that even among strangers, there were moments of shared experience waiting to be found.

Abel Denko | Phillip Slate | Lorn Reingard ,
Isla Reingard | Alina Grayson​

"Speech".
'Thought'.​

 

[Lorn Reingard]

​

Lorn watched the firelight flicker across Alina's face, the shifting glow casting long, soft shadows over the sharpness she'd worn in her voice earlier. Now, though, there was something gentler. Not fragile - he didn't mistake her for that - but human. Tired, yes. Maybe even uncertain. But standing still.

That meant more than she likely knew.

He exhaled through his nose, slow and even, the kind of breath that came from someone who had held silence like a weapon in the past and was learning, slowly, to use it as shelter instead.

"I think that's all anyone's looking for," he said after a long moment. "A place where you can stop bracing. A place that doesn't ask for everything just to let you belong."

His eyes tracked toward the Padawans in the distance - Isla and Phillip building something patient and functional together, others scattering and regrouping in the subtle rhythms of early teamwork.

"I don't think we're meant to keep walking forever. Even when the galaxy tells us we're supposed to be moving, fighting, chasing. Sometimes the hardest thing is staying still long enough to find out who you are when no one's watching."

He didn't look at her then. Just stared into the fire for a beat, the flames reflected dimly in his eyes.

"If you want to stay," he said gently, "you'll find your place. We're not in the business of making people into something else. Just giving them room to remember who they already were."

He finally glanced over at her, expression calm and open.

"And for what it's worth… I think you'd fit."

It wasn't a grand gesture. Lorn wasn't a man of flourishes. But in his voice was something solid, like stone settled into earth: quiet certainty that didn't need to shout to be real.

Abel Denko | Alina Grayson​

 

[Isla Reingard]

​

Isla worked steadily as Phillip spoke, folding leaves into one another like puzzle pieces, creating a low but sturdy windbreak that curved slightly toward the fire. Her hands moved almost without thought now - muscle memory born of careful observation and quiet repetition.

When he asked what she liked, she didn't answer right away. Not because she didn't know - but because it was the kind of question no one had ever really asked her before. Not like that. Not what do you see in the Force, not what do you know, but what do you like. It landed somewhere between disarming and strange.

"The mountains," she said finally, her voice softer than before. "Specifically, the Hollund range. On Mirater. I'm sure you don't know it."

She glanced over at him, eyes bright with something that felt like memory.

"When I was… away, the last few years… I had a room that looked out at them. Couldn't open the windows. Couldn't leave. But I could see the peaks."

She sat back on her heels again, hands resting in her lap now.

"They stayed the same. All year. Even when everything else was wrong, or loud, or aching - there they were. Steady. Cold. Too far away to touch. But they made everything feel smaller. Not in a bad way. Just... manageable."

She didn't dwell on the rest. The "away" didn't need defining. The locked doors and silent halls behind her now. If Phillip was curious, he'd ask. And if he didn't, that was okay too.

After a pause, she tilted her head slightly and asked, "What about you? What gives you peace?"

She wasn't asking politely. She wasn't making small talk. It was honest. Like she wanted to catalogue that part of him too—store it away for later, to understand the shape of him more clearly.

"You said painting. But is that peace or just the only place people let you be yourself?"

Phillip Slate​

 

[Phillip Slate]

Tags: Isla Reingard

"I'm used to painting mountains. Not those specific ones though. I'll do some research for you. If I'm going to paint them for you, I want to know what they specifically look like. I don't want to make some generic mountains."

If he was going to make something for someone else, it had to be better than his own standards. And he already expected perfection from what he made. It would have to be better than perfect. Of course, as he listened to Isla talk, he couldn't help but picture how...sad it all sounded. She had made it seem like the only companionship she could find was in a set of mountains. Unmoving. One of the only things you could wake up and know that it would still be there tomorrow.

He hesitated for a moment. There was a part of him that wanted to ask questions, but it was a matter of did he want to ask them to be nosy, or because he wanted to get to know Isla better. Of course he wanted to be nosy. You find out someone's been kept away for a few years and you wonder why...but Phillip shook his head, not asking the question...instead...

"...Well. You aren't away anymore. You're here. And you've got us. And if anything gets loud for you, or goes wrong? I'll be here. I might not be...a huge mountain, but I'm sure I can help things feel manageable."

And with that, he went quiet for a while. He heard Isla's question but...he wasn't sure how to answer it. What gave him peace? What helped him to relax? The lad was racking his brain, trying to figure out what it was before he let out a sigh. Staring off into the woods as he finally gave his answer.

"I can't think of anything. I paint because it's what I know. Because it's something my family will approve of. I joined the Order, because I thought it'd help gain their approval. I won't be the best Artist in the family. I won't be the best Sculptor. But...I thought maybe I could be the best Jedi. But I don't think I'm even a good one."

 

[Isla Reingard]

​

Isla didn't interrupt. She didn't offer the kind of quick, reflexive reassurance people usually tossed into moments like that - no, you are good, or you're doing your best, or don't say that. She just let the words settle, quiet and raw between them, like a thread of exposed wire humming low beneath the wind.

Her hands paused mid-motion on a piece of bark she'd been fitting into place. Then she set it down gently beside her and looked at Phillip - not searching, not pitying. Just present.

"You don't have to be the best anything," she said quietly. "Not for them. Not for anyone."

She drew her knees up, arms resting on them, chin tucked slightly forward.

"I used to think I had to be perfect. That if I just behaved right - ate the right way, walked the right way, said the right words - they'd stop being afraid of me. The visions. The silence. The weird."

Her fingers idly traced a line in the dirt beside her boot.

"But it never worked. All it did was make me smaller. So small I almost disappeared."

She looked back at him, eyes steady, brown and dark and full of something deeper than her years.

"You don't sound like someone chasing peace. You sound like someone trying not to get left behind."

A breath passed. Not judgment. Just honesty. Then, softer:

"I think painting is your peace. Not because of your family. But because it's the only place where no one's telling you who to be."

She hesitated, just for a second.

"And for what it's worth… I think you're already a good Jedi. You listen. You care. That's rarer than most people think."

Isla didn't smile, not this time. But her presence was calm. Solid.

"And you're a better mountain than you think."

Phillip Slate​

 

[Phillip Slate]

Tags: Isla Reingard

"People will always be afraid of what they don't understand. What they think is weird..."

Well. That was partly a lie. Phillip wasn't afraid of Isla. Even if he did think she was somewhat strange. But he was making an effort to see past the strange. To see her as what he could see. A young girl who's had to grow up too fast because of other people. Because of the fear that others had. She was wise, far more than anyone Phillip knew near his own age.

"I've already been left behind. My sister's work gets plastered all over the house. My brother's music gets played every time we have some kind of event. Me? I just...get a "good job". That's it. But...it's fine. People have it worse than me."

Was painting his peace? It caused him so much stress. He had to make the perfect piece of art, he had to be great at something. Phillip had to stand out in some way. It was why he didn't see himself as a good Jedi. He wasn't some grand warrior, nor was he some selfless paragon. No, he was selfish. He was greedy. Phillip wanted to be seen and known. But known as what? He just couldn't figure it out...

"...I'm glad you didn't disappear. You don't need to be perfect Isla. It might not mean much from me, considering...I have my own problems I need to work through, but I think you're fine the way you are. Maybe not perfect...but striving for perfection can be the death of you."

Ironic coming from him. Striving for the perfect view to make but as he thought about it...It wasn't the view that made something perfect. It was the emotions and thought put behind a painting that made it good. A good Artist could make even the ugliest view a piece of art...Phillip stared off in thought, almost as if he had been struck with inspiration, before he carried on with his work.

"...Thank you Isla."

He didn't elaborate what it was for. But Phillip was grateful that he had came to this lesson. He had been hesitant that he'd make a fool of himself...and he still might. But he also made a friend. That was the most important thing.

 

[Isla Reingard]

​

Isla didn't answer him right away - not because she didn't have words, but because some things didn't need to be rushed. Some truths were like seeds: you just had to plant them and trust they'd grow.

She leaned back on her hands again, looking up toward the canopy where the last traces of daylight filtered down in soft gold lines through the branches. The sky beyond was deepening, stars beginning to flicker into being, one by one. Quiet things. Steady things.

"You're welcome," she said finally, and her voice carried the weight of something older than her years - soft but certain, like stone settling into place.

She glanced at him again, watching how his hands moved now with just a little more intention, a little more ease. Maybe he didn't see it, but she did. The shift. The spark.

"Keep painting," she added, voice like a leaf brushing across the forest floor. "Even if it's not perfect. Even if nobody puts it on a wall. You don't need anyone's applause to make something matter."

She stood slowly, brushing dust from the knees of her trousers. The lean-to was done. The fire was burning steady. The windbreak stood its ground.

For tonight, that was enough.

She took one last look at Phillip, her expression unreadable but not cold. And then she offered the smallest of smiles - not big, not showy, but real. The kind that was earned.

"I'm glad I met you." she said simply.

Then she turned and walked toward the treeline to gather more leaves, her silhouette framed in the warm firelight, blending into the night like a thought half-finished—but not forgotten.

-Exit Thread-

Phillip Slate​

 

[Yasima Zyntra]

Location: Forests of Naboo
Gear: basic field rations, a waterskin, a coil of rope, flint and tinder, Knife made by father
Tag: Seth Denko Michael Angellus Balun Dashiell

​

As they walked and made their way through the thick undergrowth Yaz had just outed her master to a young man but he seemed baffled.

“I… uh. I don’t know what to do with that information,”

"I dunno, asked her out or something. Just don't tell her I told on her." She laughed, having her mischief cut in half by the THWACK of a branch that seemed to come out of nowhere lashing her face and leaving her with a welt on her cheek like she had been slapped. "What the f... fine, I'll shut up." Her eyes were watering where her cheek stung, but she still had the evidence of laughter on her face. The force worked in mysterious ways.

Finally, they cut through to the river that opened wide between them allowing the sunshine to beat down. It was stunning and after checking there wasn't an angry carnivore waiting to pounce, she made her way down to the water's edge. The gap in tree cover gave them a little view of the hills in the distance that acted as the river's source. "If I'm building a tower, I'd put it over there, let the ground give you some free elevation." She splashed water onto her face to cool it down then carefully allowed some of the flowing water into her canteen before taking a drink of it. She hadn't realised how warm she had gotten moving through the overgrowth and this was pure bliss.

"If it was just me and Tay we would definitely be taking a dip mid-mission" she joked before standing up and looking about.


​

 

[Seth Denko]

NABOO - WILDERNESS

Seth kept up the rhythm—one, two, three… scrape. The bark peeled cleanly under his blade, and he nodded to himself, content with the steady pace. It was good work. Simple. Grounding.

He glanced back briefly, catching sight of Michael moving through the underbrush, not just clearing but laying branches, setting signs. The guy wasn’t loud about it, but it was clear he thought ahead. Thorough. Practical.

“Man’s got a contingency for everything,” Seth murmured under his breath, half in admiration. “We’ll be fine out here with him around.”

To no one in particular, he added, “Far as I know, use of the Force is allowed. Though I think they’d still rather us know how to build a sled before we try levitating one.”

He continued marking trees, though his timing slipped as Balun’s voice reached him—curious, open. Not challenging. Just genuine.

Seth glanced over his shoulder, giving the older man a respectful nod. “The Order’s been kind,” he said honestly. “Not sure I know all their history yet, but so far… they seem like good people. Honest. The kind who’ll actually walk the walk.” He motioned to the path ahead, the cut branches, the mud on their boots. “Not above getting their hands dirty if it means teaching the next bunch how to survive.”

But even as he spoke, his mind tugged elsewhere—back to a certain name Yasima had tossed out like it was no big deal. Tasia. Cute. Thinks you’re cute, she’d said. Seth blinked. Then blinked again.

He marked the next tree with the enthusiasm of someone running a program in the background of their brain while pretending everything was fine.

Then Yasima doubled down.

"Ask her out or something."

That brought him to a full stop.

“I—uh…” He fumbled with the blade, lost his count completely. “That’s… probably not the best idea,” he said, voice a little too quick. “Dating your co-worker never ends well, right?” He tried to laugh it off, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Might be safer to just, y’know… keep cutting trees.”

Then came the sudden THWACK.

He turned just in time to see the branch whip across Yasima’s cheek, and despite himself, a stifled laugh escaped—more a surprised exhale than anything mean-spirited.

“You alright?” he asked, concern slipping past the amusement as he stepped up beside her. “Force works in mysterious ways, huh?”

They broke through the tree line a moment later, and Seth let out a low whistle as the river revealed itself. Sunlight glinted off the flowing water, and the breeze was cleaner here, cooler.

He took a long look across the river, following Yasima’s line of sight toward the hills in the distance.

“Alright,” he said, voice settling into something firm, steady. “We can refill here. Rest a beat. Then we move toward that ridge. Good vantage, decent elevation. If there’s trouble to be seen, we’ll spot it from there.”

He looked to each of them in turn, the faintest hint of confidence edging into his tone.​

Yasima Zyntra , Michael Angellus , Balun Dashiell​

 

[Abel Denko]

The fire cracked again, low and steady, as Abel listened.

There was no rush to fill the space between their words. Alina had earned that quiet—earned being heard without interruption or interpretation. So had Lorn. And so, Abel let it breathe, let it settle.

When he finally spoke, his voice came low, shaped by the warmth of the flame and the weight of everything left unsaid.

“Then that’s it,” he said simply. “You’ve got a place here.”

He didn’t say welcome. That felt too formal. Too distant for what this moment really was. It wasn’t about invitations—it was about recognition. Alina had stepped out of the storm, and instead of keeping her guard up, she’d looked around. She’d spoken not just to answer—but to be seen.

That mattered.

He gave a small nod toward Lorn, something firm in the gesture. “He’s right. We’re not here to reshape people into perfect fits. We’ve all been broken too many ways to believe in molds.”

His eyes found Alina again, steady but gentle. “But we do believe in second starts. Fresh ones. Whatever number it takes.”

For a moment, he just sat with that truth—then shifted slightly, glancing toward the trees.

“The kids are making good time,” he remarked, the faintest flicker of a smile touching his lips. “Found their rhythm quicker than I expected. I’ll head out soon, just to keep an eye on their progress.”

He reached down, brushing a bit of bark from his knee, then looked back to the fire. His tone softened again—less mission, more meaning.

“You’ve both carried weight a long time,” he said. “No shame in that. But tonight, we sleep under stars that aren’t trying to kill us. And in the morning, you’ll wake up part of something steadier than where you’ve been.”

A final glance toward Alina, and a quieter smile followed—genuine, if weathered.

“And don’t worry. If Aiden dragged you in from the storm, I’ll be the one who makes sure you’re not just dropped at the doorstep.”

He leaned back slightly, hand resting on the log beside him as the fire popped again, its glow dancing across his features.

No more pressure. Just space. Just time. Just the promise of something worth staying for.

Tag: Alina Grayson , Lorn Reingard

 

[Alina Grayson]

The firelight shifted across Alina's face as she listened. The kind of honesty that didn't demand attention, Lorn's steadiness. Abel's certainty. Both felt like anchors in a galaxy that too often insisted on motion without direction.

She hadn't expected this. Not here. Not yet.

Her gaze dropped to the fire for a moment, the light catching in her eyes as if she were trying to read something in its flicker. Then she exhaled slowly not the breath of someone retreating, but someone releasing tension she hadn't realized she was still holding.

"I think I've been walking so long I forgot what stillness actually felt like," she said softly, a note of something distant but not evasive threading through her tone. "The idea of stopping… choosing to stay... it always felt like a luxury I couldn't afford."

She looked up, first at Lorn, then at Abel. The quiet around them didn't press it held.

"Maybe that's the trick. Maybe it's not about whether you've earned it maybe it's just about recognizing when a place finally lets you put your weapons down. Even the ones you don't carry in your hands."

She straightened a little, not with formality, but with something resolute. Her voice didn't need to rise it already carried.

"Then I'll stay," she said simply. A small, honest smile touched her lips worn around the edges, but real. She leaned back slightly, allowing herself to rest in the presence of the fire, the stars, the unspoken understanding between them. The heaviness hadn't disappeared, but it didn't feel like hers to carry alone anymore.

"I'll do what I can while I'm here. Teach, learn. Maybe find what I've been missing, and help others do the same."

Her gaze shifted to Abel, a faint glint of wry humor behind the quiet.

"And if Aiden did drag me in from the storm, I'm counting on you to make sure I don't wander back into one just because I forget how to sit still."

The fire popped again, the warmth of it settling into her bones. For the first time in a long while, Alina didn't feel like she needed to move.

Not yet.

TAG: Lorn Reingard Abel Denko