Faction To the Victor || Mandalorian Empire

Beskar · 2026-02-17T23:51:58-0500

VICTORY AT VJUNHOLLOW
"May the Victor be Justice."

YAGA MINOR, OUTER RIM TERRITORIES
Local Time: 1900 Hours

And so it was that the Diarchy was finally made to answer for the sins they had committed against Mandalore.

For cycles uncounted they had whispered to the Galaxy of their righteousness, cloaking ambition in sanctimony, wrapping conquest in virtue. They had spoken of themselves as an impregnable bastion, an empire beyond breach or consequence. They had sworn that Mandalore would be brought to heel, bent beneath their will, erased if necessary from the stars.

And yet Yaga Minor broke.

It broke beneath beskar resolve and disciplined fury. It broke beneath the storm of ships that tore through its orbit and the warriors who descended like falling comets upon its spires. It broke despite its Forgepoint defenses and its factories of war. It broke while the whole of the Galaxy watched their Diarch plead in private for genocide, his lies unraveling in real time before Lianna, Coruscant, Naboo, and Jutrand alike.

They had claimed righteousness. The Galaxy saw hunger.

They had claimed invulnerability. The Galaxy saw fire.

They had claimed dominion. The Galaxy now saw Mandalorian banners rising over Vjunhollow.

It had been mere hours since the last Diarchy vessel fled the system in full retreat. Their withdrawal had not been orderly, nor dignified. It had been desperate. Entire flotillas burned for hyperspace without formation, leaving behind shattered docks, silent defense grids, and a western frontier suddenly exposed to the void. With a single decisive campaign, the Mandalorian Empire had crippled a pillar of their industrial might and severed their hold on a swath of territory that comprised nearly a fifth of their dominion.

The Outer Rim had changed in a single day.

Thus was the innocent life on Vexis Station avenged. Thus were the raids, the incursions, the sabotage and bloodshed answered not with petitions, but with conquest.

Now the skies above Yaga Minor were clear of enemy transponders. The Mythosaur sigil burned bright across orbital space, reflected in shattered transparisteel and drifting wreckage. The capital city of Vjunhollow, once lit by the glare of anti-ship fire and falling debris, stood battered and smoldering beneath a darkening sky.

Questions of governance would wait for the morrow.

The fate of the abandoned citizenry would be decided in council, not in the echo of blasterfire. The factories would hum again in time, perhaps under new banners, perhaps under the same. That was a problem for daylight and deliberation.

Tonight belonged to warriors.

As the sun dipped low beyond the horizon, staining the smoke-choked clouds in crimson and gold, the avenues of Vjunhollow transformed. Where artillery had thundered hours before, laughter now rose. Where armored columns had advanced in disciplined silence, tankards clattered against ferrocrete and durasteel. Fires were kindled not for destruction, but for warmth. Helmets were set aside. Scars were compared. Victories were recounted with growing exaggeration and unrestrained pride.

The city that had once trembled under bombardment now reverberated with Mandalorian joy.

Stories were traded like trophies. Brothers and sisters clasped forearms in greeting and in gratitude. The fallen were named and honored. The living drank deeply in their memory. To the victor indeed went the spoils. And on this night, beneath alien stars and the broken bones of a conquered capital, the Mandalorian Empire did not merely celebrate survival. They celebrated supremacy.

THIS IS THE WAY.

Location: The Hole in the Wall, Vjunhollow

Vjunhollow smolders.

What was once a prosperous cantina now stands open to the evening air, one entire wall blasted outward during the day’s fighting. Transparisteel windows lie shattered across the floor. Tables are splintered. Chairs have been reduced to scrap and jagged planks. The ceiling sags in places where artillery tremors cracked its supports.

It should be abandoned. It should be silent. Instead, it roars with life.

Beneath the ruin, the cellar remains untouched. Shelves of liquor and aging spirits survived the bombardment intact, as though the city itself knew what would be required when the fighting ended. Bottles are hauled upstairs by armored hands. Crates are overturned and repurposed as seating. Fragments of durasteel become makeshift tables.

Among the broken stones of Vjunhollow, Mandalorians gather. This is not a ceremony. It is not polished. It is not dignified. It is victory, unfiltered.

Your mission? Take a seat among the ruins. Raise a bottle to the fallen. Test your mettle against your brothers and sisters in a contest older than most wars.

Drinking Challenge!

All participants roll a 1d6 with each post and keep a running total. The moment your total reaches or exceeds 20, you are too drunk to continue and may write the consequences as you see fit! The last warrior standing claims victory. Whether that prize is spoils, a token from the battlefield, or nothing more than bragging rights is yours to decide.

Social | Bar Scene & Stamina-Focused
Expect escalating dares, rivalries reignited, boasts turned into challenges, and consequences earned the hard way. This location rewards personality, humor, and the kind of pride that refuses to fall first.

Location: Occupied Barracks District, Vjunhollow

The Diarchy once called this block home.

Administrative buildings. Worker housing. Offices built to oversee production quotas and military logistics. Now the banners have changed. The sigil of the Mythosaur flies where Diarchy emblems once stood.

The Mandalorian Empire has established its foothold.

Armor is stacked near doorways. Weapons are leaned carefully against walls within arm’s reach. Cookfires burn in courtyards where clerks once hurried to meet deadlines. Field rations are supplemented with liberated stores. Laughter carries between buildings that once echoed with orders and compliance reports.

Not every warrior seeks celebration in a bottle.

Some prefer meat over liquor. Some prefer stories over silence. Some prefer sparring insults sharper than vibroblades. Victory takes many forms, and comfort is earned in different ways.

Your mission? Rest among your people. Feast. Trade stories from the battlefield. Roast your comrades for their mistakes and exaggerate your own heroics beyond recognition. Strengthen bonds that will be tested again soon enough.

Social | Character & Camaradie-Focus
This objective is open to all who wish to explore camaraderie, rivalry, romance, reflection, or quiet moments between storms. Whether you seek laughter, reconciliation, or a challenge thrown across a courtyard, it belongs here.

Location: Greater Vjunhollow, Yaga Minor

The capital has fallen.

Yet a city does not become quiet simply because its fleet retreats. Fires still burn in distant districts. Remnants of Diarchy sympathizers scatter into back alleys and industrial sublevels. Civilians peer from shattered doorways, uncertain of what conquest means for them. Supply depots remain unclaimed. Intelligence caches lie buried beneath collapsed infrastructure.

Victory has been declared. Occupation has only begun.

Your mission? Shape what comes next. Hunt down fleeing officers. Offer aid to the wounded. Secure key infrastructure. Claim trophies from the battlefield. Or carry the celebration into the streets and let the Galaxy see what Mandalorian triumph looks like in full.

BYOO | Bring Your Own Objective
This location runs parallel to the celebration. Ground sweeps, civilian interactions, political maneuvering, private confrontations, or personal arcs are all welcome. If it grows naturally from the fall of Vjunhollow, it belongs here.

Hrist

Serrik Skirata
@Astella Verd

Cyran Vaas
@Cabur Nau'ur
@Kotak Vikar'Ranov

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

Nephthys Nardithi-Verd

Hanna

Siae Andronike

Zlova Rue

Runi Kuryida
@Ren Ashbridge

Vyse de Valorous
@Varuun Rekaal

Aether Verd · 2026-02-18T00:28:15-0500

Wearing:
Beskar'gam - Darksaber

VJUNHOLLOW - YAGA MINOR

The day had been hard fought, and none among the Mandalorians were without scars. The Mand'alor's beskar'gam bore the same testimony. The struggle inside the Space Elevator of Yaga Minor had left its mark upon him; new cracks traced across the dark visor of his helm, thin fractures earned at close quarters. His armor was scored and blackened where enemy fire had struck true, and his cloak hung singed and burnt along its edges from heat that had come too near.

But he was whole, and Mand’alor stood unbroken before his people.

For one rare occasion, Aether allowed himself to set aside the invisible burden of command. For cycles he had led from the front while still remaining apart, the throne ever present even in the thick of war. Tonight, after shared sacrifice and shared pain, after ships had burned and the Diarchy had fled in humiliation, there would be no distance. This victory warranted celebration as one, not as ruler and subject but as warriors bound by the same crucible.

As he approached the ruined bar, his thoughts turned to

Persephone Halcyon . She had stood with him in the descent and ridden astride his Basilisk through flak and falling debris without hesitation. Twice now she had steadied him before battle, grounding him in a way few ever could. He had insisted she join him here among the revelry, but she had chosen instead to walk the avenues of Vjunhollow and check upon the wounded.

The smile she offered him before parting had been enough.

He felt light in a way he had not anticipated, the tension of command loosening its grip for the first time since the campaign began.

When his armored hand pushed open what remained of the door, a raucous cheer surged to meet him, tankards raised high and voices praising the Mand’alor who had led them through orbit and inferno alike. The sound rolled through broken stone and timber, fierce and unrestrained.

Aether grinned beneath his helm and raised a fist in greeting, acknowledging their acclaim without encouraging excess. He then motioned with both hands for them to settle, the gesture calm and familiar, and the volume dipped to a restless murmur.

“Just for tonight...” he called, his voice carrying easily across the fractured room, rich with warmth yet edged with command that could never fully leave him, “I am off the clock. Can someone please bring me a drink?”

Laughter answered him at once, along with renewed cheers, and hands clapped against his pauldrons as he was guided toward a large, round table assembled at the center of the cantina. Armor brushed armor in passing, forearms clasped his in greeting, and there was no ceremony in it, only shared pride.

A heavy tankard slammed down before him, sloshing amber liquid against battered metal.

Aether wrapped his gauntleted hand around the handle with open approval. With an effortless tug he removed his helm and set it upon the table, the cracked visor catching the firelight as a quiet testament to what the day had demanded. He lifted the tankard and took a long swallow, the liquor burning down his throat and settling warmly in his chest as laughter rose around him.

It was just what the doctor ordered.

Open

Xerxes Verd · 2026-02-18T00:53:22-0500

Objective: I

The ruined cantina was loud enough to shake dust from the rafters, laughter and tankards colliding in uneven rhythm against broken stone. The firelight caught on scored armor and fresh fractures in beskar, turning every scar into a story retold in flashes of gold and ember.

The shift in atmosphere near the entrance was subtle, a few heads turned as Xerxes stepped inside.

He wore full armor, plates dark and travel-worn, fitted cleanly to a tall, broad frame that had not softened with years beyond the hyperlanes. No helm covered his face; his long hair was pulled back neatly, and his expression carried no tension only quiet assessment as his eyes found the center of the room. They settled on Aether.

On the cracked visor resting on the table. On the burn marks across cloak and armor. On the unmistakable ease in his brother’s posture as laughter surrounded him. A slow nod followed.

He moved forward at an unhurried pace, accepting forearm clasps as they came, offering firm grips in return. Warriors recognized him; some grinned wider at the sight of him than they had at the liquor. The return of the eldest Verd required no announcement. When he reached the table, he stopped just behind Aether and placed a broad hand on his brother’s shoulder. The grip was solid and unceremonious, the way it had always been between them.

He looked down at the cracked helm first, then at Aether.

“Seems I missed all the action.” Xerxes said, voice even but carrying the weight of genuine pride. “I leave for a few months and you go starting some wars.”

The corner of his mouth curved faintly. There was no trace of admonishment in it only admiration for the audacity of pulling victory from something that had clearly demanded it. He withdrew his hand and took the empty seat beside him without invitation, long frame settling comfortably. A tankard was pushed toward him and he lifted it in acknowledgment before raising it slightly toward Aether.

“Stopped by Mandalore on the way over, you've been busy.” he continued, eyes scanning the room with at the warriors who had fought beside Aether.

TAG:

Aether Verd | OPEN

Lysara Rynn · 2026-02-18T02:15:48-0500

Objective III - Greater Vjunhollow, Yaga Minor

Despite the growing silence following the echoes of thunderous battles, Clan Varkor would not rest for few among them knew how. At the front, Lysara stood on the streets with a single objective in mind, to see to the people of Yaga Minor, just as she had her own when she took over as Alor. For to her, a clan or a world are not the banners or symbols but the people themselves. Establishing a perimeter around a now ruined clinic the once thriving business would be turned into an aid station protected by her clan.

"Bring any injured here, if they will not come we shall offer them medical supplies provided we have enough. Secure the Eastern and Western approaches. Security is priority one, but lending aid to the wounded is just as important."

Stepping into the makeshift infirmary, her helmet would be set upon what remained of a desk, messy hair of dirty blonde strands tied up and braided. For an Alor, she was young but she had earned the respect of her Clan, weathering storms and combat which threatened to end them in isolation. Grasping her datapad, Lysara would pull up intel on the layout of Vjunhollow's streets from what recon had gathered prior to the battle, making marks for each point of security that was now being established. Though the fighting had ended and many vod were celebrating, she wouldn't. This was where she thrived, busying her mind with work. For now, she'd help the wounded then, rest would come later.

"We may have missed the fun, but we still have a part to play."

Tag: Open

Dreidi Xeraic · 2026-02-18T06:22:41-0500

Objective: 1 - Vjunhollow
Outfit: Nightsister Armour
Equipment: Lightsaber, Ichor Sword and Dathomiri Energy Bow
Tags:

Aether Verd |

Xerxes Verd | OPEN

The medics had finally cleared Dreidi for the injuries she had sustained during her fight. The Chiss

Zinayn had been more dangerous than Dreidi had initially thought, it was only fortunate that her Magick caused her to avoid anything more life threatening. And she was sure that there was going to be future encounters since Dreidi allowed him to flee once the Mandalorians declared their victories. Dreidi had not been there to take prisoners and she was never going to be one to hold a prisoner.

Celebrations were spreading across the planet and Dreidi was curious to see how these Mandalorians celebrated a victory. Did they show any mourning for the lives who were lost in the battle? Did they merely celebrate the dedication shown by laying their lives down to ensure Mandalore's success? It would be interesting to see how these celebrations unfolded. One of the best places to observe this cultural dynamic was to be present during drinking challenge. While Dreidi was not a big drinker herself, she knew it was a hub of conversation, battle stories and potential mentions of remembering those who ensured that victory was achieved today.

Walking into the bar, the witch spotted the Mandalore, demanding a drink already and another near him. Dreidi figured this was the right place to be since it was a chance to observe how the leader of these soldiers was going to be. Possibly a chance to converse and interacting with him as well. Dreidi took a seat not too far from where he was with his group, as soon as she sat down a large tankard was placed in front of her. Dreidi blinked in surprise, she knew that there was a lot of drinking going to happen in this area but she didn't expect to be given a drink so quickly.

She looked around surprised, the Dathomiri wasn't sure what to think but it was a kind gesture. Taking a sip, she gave a visible wince. Beer was not her favoured drink to have. It held a flavour that just never tasted nice. However, it was given to her and Dreidi knew that she needed to drink it all and get involved in the celebrations rather than act like an outsider.

"Is there a nicer beer option? Maybe something not so... beer?" Dreidi laughed after she finished the tankard.

Korda Veydran · 2026-02-18T06:59:09-0500

Korda slumped against the scorched wall outside a barracks, the rough duracrete biting into his back through the thin fabric of his undersuit. His armor lay disassembled beside him, meticulously arranged despite the chaos, pieces clean but useless until he could move freely again. His upper body was bare save for the thick, tight wraps around his ribs and torso, blackened in places from soot and blood, bruised in others. He shifted slightly, wincing as a jolt of pain ran along the new scars, a lingering echo from the battle that would not fully fade.

A cough ripped through him, harsh and ragged, shaking his chest and forcing him to clutch the wall for support. His patch-covered nose throbbed, every inhalation a reminder of the crushing impact it had taken, and his missing left canine made the simple act of clenching his jaw feel incomplete, unbalanced.

His gaze drifted downward to the ground at his feet. In the flicker of his vision, he saw them. the four Mandalorians he had landed with, the ones who hadn't made it through the chaos. Their faces were burned into his memory, frozen mid-motion as if the battlefield itself had paused for their final moments. His throat tightened at the recollection, a weight pressing against his chest heavier than any armor ever could.

He lifted his flask with a hand that trembled slightly, letting the bitter warmth slide down his throat. It burned, but in that burn was a fleeting comfort, a small anchor to reality. "Worth it," he rasped to himself, voice rough from smoke, dust, and blood. "Every strike… every sacrifice… worth it."

But even as he said it, the words rang hollow. He flexed his fingers, feeling the aches and stiffness that would linger for days, perhaps weeks, reminders that the flesh heals, but memory, rage, and grief do not. His ribs throbbed with a dull, unyielding pulse, and every breath reminded him of the close call he had survived. the explosion, the burning debris, the relentless hail of fire.

He closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling through his mouth to ease the pain, imagining the Destroyer God's gaze upon him. The thought was both solace and torment; Korda had survived, yes, but at a cost that would echo through every step he took from here on. The faces of the fallen Mandalorians flashed behind his eyelids, and he couldn't help but see them with him still, as though their spirits clung to him, waiting for him to honor them.

A dry, bitter laugh escaped him, ragged but low. "You see this, brothers?" he whispered to the air, the walls, the wind. "I carry you still. I carry your deaths, your valor… and your honor."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, fingertips tracing the rough wraps over his ribs. Every movement sent a fresh ache through him, a reminder that these injuries would not be forgotten, even when the wounds closed, they would throb, stiffen, and flare with the memory of the fight. And yet, despite it all, he drew in another breath, tasting smoke and ash and the faint tang of blood, and steeled himself. He would see this fight through, and the legacy of his fallen comrades would ride on him.

Slowly, he sipped from his flask again, letting the bitter warmth soothe the scratch of his throat and the edge of his pain. Outside the wrack of war, the battlefield hummed quietly, distant explosions, the faint whistle of wind over metal, and the weight of memory pressing down on him. Korda's eyes opened, burning with red determination as he scanned the horizon, already plotting the next step, already preparing to honor those who had given everything beside him.

tags: open

Hanna · 2026-02-18T07:39:20-0500

Location: Makeshift Infirmary, Greater Vjunhollow - Yaga Minor
Thread Objective: III
Tag:

Lysara Rynn

Hanna laid waiting on a stretcher in the makeshift infirmary, her breathing shallow from the pain throbbing up her legs. The Mandalorians had won the battle and she, along with

Siv Kryze , had been successful in their mission to disable the shipyards’ sensor and tractor beam control station. However, that success had not come without cost. For Hanna, that price was a lightsaber burn on her left calf, deep bruising and a sprain on her right leg, and a pounding headache which one of the medical droids had already diagnosed as a concussion.

Although she had yet to remove her armor, she had already taken off her repulsorlift skates, which were placed next to her on the stretcher. Even wounded, the mercenary wasn’t willing to let them leave her sight until one of the medics, or at least someone trustworthy, came to take care of them in her stead.

Still, she knew that Siv had gotten the worst of it. It was him, and other Mandalorians in similar states, who were quite rightfully being treated first. She could wait.

Nevertheless, with the pain blurring her awareness, her thoughts drifted like smoke. She had heard rumors that she was being considered for an award owing to her actions in the shipyards. The thought of it might have drawn a laugh were she not in so much pain. A Domarian mercenary being commended for taking part in a Mandalorian operation? It had seemed absurd, so much so that she had dismissed it at first. However, that was not the only surprising news that she had received since the end of the battle. What was even more unexpected was the fact that had been offered a full-time active-duty contract with the Death Watch.

All she needed to do was sign her name on the contract to make it official. She would be a warrior, armed, trained, and funded by the Mandalorian Empire. She would no longer have to take desperate side jobs for quick cash. Her position with the Mandalorian Empire would be effectively permanent, and secure by tenure.

Hanna shook her head. It seemed that all there was left was for her to take the Resol’nare. But that was a consideration for later.

For now, grimacing against the ache in her limbs, Hanna pulled up the page for the Death Watch contract on her gauntlet-mounted holographic interface datapad. Her finger hovered over the dotted line for only a moment before she began inputting her name.

Alden Akaran · 2026-02-18T09:12:51-0500

"Social | Character & Camaraderie-Focus"

EQUIPMENT: Lightsaber | Asheran Armorweave | VT-Kinetic Impact Gel | KC-95 "Ace of Spades" Blaster Pistol | Prosthetic Arm
POST: 1
TAG(S):

Lysara Rynn |

Hanna | Open
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The ruined structures of a wartorn world cast a saddening image over the streets of this place. War had been brought here by governments that had likely lost touch with the people's needs. So focused on their internal machinations and posturing upon the intergalactic stage that empathy and care for the innocent, non-combatant lives caught in the crossfire of their quarrels had fallen upon deaf ears. The collateral damage inflicted on populations by the folly of their governments often left both tangible and intangible casualties in their wake. While neither the Mandalorian Empire nor the Diarchy could truly know the plight of the innocent of this world, their pain was plainly there for all to see.

Lives had been lost. Businesses destroyed—homesteads left in ruins, smoldering in embers and ash. War made for orphans and widows, tearing families apart and filling the void left in their wake with ire and pain.

In the years since the collapse of the Confederacy, Alden had found himself disillusioned with the machinations of war. He’d imposed upon himself his own exile, relinquishing titles and positions he once bore on the planet of Eiattu VI and throughout the Confederacy before. No longer was the man a High Marshall. He was no longer a Minister of War. No longer was he a king. He’d forsaken the name of Alden Akaran, taking on a Coran M’lar instead. He’d faded away from the galactic spotlight and the attachments he once held to it. Instead, he allowed himself to fade into obscurity in the shadowy underworld of Yesmireen and the ragtag workings of various smuggling crews he’d fallen in with in the years that followed. Of late, however, he found himself bouncing from warzone to warzone, treating wounded and innocents unfortunate enough to be trapped in another man’s quarrel.

As he stepped from the cockpit of his T-77 “Talon” Stealth Interceptor, a relic of his days in the Confederacy, the smell of burning buildings and singed flesh surged across his senses. His ears were filled with the cries of the distraught, while in the distance he heard the rumble of celebration.

He pulled his jacket around on his right, doing what he could to obscure any direct sight of the lightsaber that hung there, with the blaster holstered opposite.

‘I fight like a man who’s tired of watching people die for nothing.’ Why was it that the last words he’d spoken to a Mandalorian echoed through his mind so constantly? Was it because the Mandalorians had a history of waging war, and his selflessness to save the young man on Kowak had ushered in a new age of these warring ways? Had that Mandalorian fought here in a fight that undoubtedly led to hundreds, if not more, dying for nothing?

He shook his head, shaking the thoughts out of the forefront of his mind. There’d be a time and place to dwell on that later. For now, the people of this world needed him. He breathed deeply and exhaled slowly, centering himself. When he scanned his surroundings, he saw plenty of distraught civilians, but beyond that, he saw people clad in Mandalorian armor sifting through the crowds and gathering those in need of aid. There was definitely a method to these things, and he assumed the Mandalorians providing aid had some kind of triage system in place to ensure those with the most significant injuries and concerns were seen first. This... this was not what he’d read about Mandalorians in holorecords among many worlds’ archives. Perhaps the records were wrong, but maybe this was a new leaf the famed warriors were turning.

Alden had a decision to make. Would he approach the Mandalorians and try to join their effort, or stick to the periphery and work to treat those unseen, triaging them appropriately? A moment passed before he settled on what he intended to do. For now, he’d stick to the peripheral. Not so much as to completely avoid the Mandalorians, but in a sense that he could observe them and better understand the intent of their actions while also offering aid where he was able.

“Sir,” a woman said, approaching him in obvious distress. She carried a small child - a toddler - in her arms, blood oozing from wounds over the child’s head. The woman’s clothes were tattered and dirty, the same as any of the civilians suffering the aftermath of armed conflict here.

“Sir.” She reached with a quivering hand to place it on his arm, desperate to gather Alden’s attention. “She’s not moving! Please help my baby! Please!”

Alden paused and assessed the situation. After a short moment that must have felt like an eternity to the woman, Alden let loose a breath and ushered the woman with a hand. “Let’s see to both you and your child.” He didn’t outright like the idea, given his history with the Mandalorians, but with the number of desperate people around, it would be far too much for him to handle. As they moved toward where Alden had seen the Mandalorians before, the group behind him began grow in size, each with their own issues and concerns to bring forward.

Niijima Izumi · 2026-02-18T10:32:33-0500

Niijima Izumi paused at the threshold where stone gave way to splintered wood and shattered transparisteel. Evening air moved freely through the wound in the building, carrying with it the scent of smoke and cooling metal.

She stepped inside without hurry. Dark red and black silk draped her frame in clean, deliberate lines, the kimono unmarred by ash despite the city’s condition. The fabric caught the firelight in subtle waves as she moved. A wide straw hat cast a gentle shadow across her features, obscuring her eyes just enough to make others look twice. From beneath the brim, her glowing earrings pulsed softly, twin embers swaying with each step.

Laughter filled the ruined cantina. Bottles clinked. Boots scraped against durasteel fragments repurposed as tables. The warriors who had brought a system to its knees now argued over who had done it more spectacularly.

Izumi listened.

There was a rhythm to victory, much like there was a rhythm to a blade. Loud at first. Exaggerated. The ego rose before it settled. A samurai learned to let that first wave pass before speaking. A geisha learned to let others fill silence until they began revealing truths they did not intend to share.

She did neither.

Under her kimono garments, she produced a flask. From the outside, it looked like some fine porcelain dishware, something too fragile to fit the current setting. From it, she poured her drink into a small ceramic cup she carried for such evenings. The cup was plain, ivory with a faint crackle in the glaze, meant to be held with both hands.

Atsukan.

Warm sake, heated with intention, not haste. The liquid shimmered faintly in the firelight, clear with the slightest golden hue where the flames caught its surface. Steam rose in thin, graceful threads, carrying a fragrance far more delicate than the sharp liquors being passed around her.

It smelled of steamed rice and faint sweetness. There was something rounded in it, almost like baked grain, softened by warmth. No harsh sting of raw alcohol. No bitterness clawing at the air. Just quiet depth.

Atsukan was not meant to shock the senses. It was meant to settle them.

She lifted the cup slowly, feeling the heat seep into her palms. The warmth traveled through her fingers first, then into her wrists. A small comfort against the cool draft drifting through the broken wall. The temperature was precise, hot enough to bloom the aroma, not so hot as to scald. Careless heating ruined sake. Patience elevated it. She took a small sip from the cup, her lips gently touching the rim, her wrist gave a familiar flick.

The first sensation was silk. Warmth gliding across her tongue without bite. The rice sweetness deepened as it lingered, revealing subtle umami beneath. It did not demand attention. It invited reflection. The heat descended into her chest in a steady wave, not a blaze. It spread outward, loosening the tightness behind her ribs left by hours of battle. Atsukan did not intoxicate quickly. It persuaded.

Around her, she'd notice others having a more lively time. It was a time of celebration; one that was deserved but not to her personally. If anything, she had been holed away in her little corner, as though oblivious to the world around her. And so it was only natural that she didn't participate now.

Izumi exhaled softly, giving a small smile of sympathy for herself before taking yet another sip out of the ceramic cup.

Maya · 2026-02-18T11:22:42-0500

Objective 1 - Drinking Game

The Hole in the Wall breathed like a wounded beast. Smoke curled through the shattered cantina, twisting around broken beams and shards of transparisteel scattered across the floor like fallen stars. Evening air slipped in through the gaping hole where a wall had once stood, carrying the scent of dust, char, and something faintly metallic. Somewhere beneath the ruin, the cellar had survived intact, and she could hear the faint clink of bottles being hauled upstairs. Crates served as makeshift tables and seats, jagged durasteel fragments gleaming under lantern light. The city outside smoldered, and yet here, in the ruins, life roared. Laughter and shouting filled the space, the noise rough and unpolished, the kind that made it clear victory was being celebrated, raw and unfiltered.

Maya stepped through the threshold carefully, silk brushing over splintered wood and shards of glass. Her gown was long and flowing, black with wine-red embroidery that flickered in the firelight whenever she moved. The sleeves trailed past her wrists, the hem followed her like spilled ink, and beneath it, armor was hidden in folds, subtle but there. Her hair, wine-red and glossy, fell in controlled waves down her back, dark until the firelight caught it, streaks of crimson flashing in the glow. Her blue eyes swept the room briefly, noting the movement of others, sensing the quiet rhythms of the gathering without needing to interact. She acknowledged them with a tilt of her head or a brief, polite nod, but she minded her own business, careful to stay at the edges of the chaos.

She moved to an overturned crate, lowering herself so that her gown pooled gracefully around her legs. Her posture was deliberate, her shoulders straight, her back rigid in the way of someone used to keeping herself measured, even when the world around her had gone unhinged. She could have been anywhere; a palace, a garden; but here she was, in the ruins, blending elegance with practicality. The faintest curve of her lips betrayed a quiet anticipation, nothing more.

When a bottle came near, she shook her head gently, letting it pass. “Something a little more… refined, if you have it,” she said, her voice soft but audible. She wanted a drink that fit the setting, certainly, but one that suited her own style; warm, smooth, something more lady-like than raw spirits straight from the cellar. When the drink arrived, she accepted it with a small, polite nod. The glass was cool in her hand, the amber liquid catching lantern light like a trapped fire. She studied it for a moment, inhaled its scent, and raised it just enough.

“To the fallen,” she said quietly, voice calm and measured. She drank, letting the warmth slide smoothly down, preparing herself for the contest without needing to announce her presence. She had not come to boast. She had come to endure.

Dice Roll Result (1)

Itzhal Volkihar · 2026-02-18T13:42:21-0500

| Location | Yaga Minor, Outer Rim Territories

Itzhal Volkihar sighed with the full expanse of his chest, breathing deep of the curling smoke that carried a hint of enticing spices and the deep warmth that settled against his skin. Slumping forward with a grunt of pain, the harsh tread of his boots clattered against the cobbled stonework, slick with rain and mud dragged through the city; another step, kicked aside an antenna caked with blood, left to collapse back into the mud, as he looked over the battered tavern.

Brickwork stretched outwards like open arms, welcoming all those who neared, while the main door clung to the remains of a battered frame, a suggestion of an entrance-way used for the sake of courtesy rather than convenience. Overlooking the gap, Mandalorians had dragged the ruined corpse of a speeder to frame the impression of a couch; though, whether the jagged cuts had occurred during the battle or afterwards, Itzhal couldn't say, he was just hopeful if it was the latter, then whoever had done so was sober when they started cutting. He doubted it, though. It hadn't taken long for celebrations to begin.

Running a hand over the beskar plates that covered his chest, Itzhal's bodysuit peeled away with another layer of soot, and the blackened specks of paint that crumbled to ash beneath the rub of fingers. His armour had survived much today, speckled with slashes of sparkling silver, where pure beskar peeked above his preferred blend of black and crimson; it was probably for the best, he'd blended in well enough with the burning city when he'd finally made his way to the medbay—fortunately, none of the medics had been ones he'd recognised.

Still, they'd cleared him, enough for a drink at least.

Ducking his head underneath a bowed support beam, Itzhal stepped through the hole in the wall, one step after another, leading him closer to the warm mix of cheerful laughter and clinking glasses. On all sides, Mandalorians surrounded him, a horde of beskar'gam in a dizzying array of colours and styles that blended under the haze of smoke and swaying bodies. One man cheered, close to Itzhal's ear—loud and thunderous, a weight smacked against the old Morellian's pauldron with the dull echo of beskar, then just as quickly dissipated, lost in the crowd. Another hand, covered in bandages, offered a bottle, golden ale bubbling against the sides, the cap still firmly attached, until, with a quick movement, Itzhal popped it against the rim of his gauntlet.

"You'll probably have to take the Diarchy up with that suggestion, though they don't seem to be around here anymore," Itzhal said, voice brimming with amusement as he answered Dreidi's question, blue eyes tracing over her pale skin marked with tattoos and the distinct lack of beskar'gam—a Nightsister, or at least something similar. "In all seriousness, I think there were a few lighter spirits going around; you might even have something of a selection near the chillers before they run out."

Leaning against a remainder of the bar, far from where a mortar shell had turned part of the structure into a crater, Itzhal took the moment to pause, glancing over the many figures that dotted the bar, then, with a slow motion, started to sip at his drink.

Tags:

Dreidi Xeraic , Open

Adelle Bastiel · 2026-02-18T13:56:47-0500

Occupied Barracks District, Vjunhollow
Tags:

Korda Veydran | Open

A moment of quiet.

She just needed one moment.

Adelle walked towards the barracks, armor scuffed, scratched, and dented from the building, a slight limp in her left leg. The scrape she’d gotten on her calf burned fiercely and she’d jammed her ankle when she’d dropped from the basilisk. Her side and shoulder ached and burned as well but the grazes were nowhere near top priority on the list of injuries the medics had to deal with.

And as a medic herself, she refused to burden them with a body that wasn’t in danger of death or permanent damage.

The first Mandalorian she had evac’d, Kord or Kordin or Korda, sat slouched against the exterior wall of one of the barrack buildings. He held a drink in his hand with his armor arrayed in orderly rows beside him, and she saw at least one bandage over the broken nose she herself hadn’t healed.

“Still alive, I see,” she said as she approached the building. “You listening to the medics’ orders or is your skull actually made of beskar?”

Faction To the Victor || Mandalorian Empire

More options

Beskar

M A N D A L O R E

Aether Verd

I R O N

Xerxes Verd

Director

Lysara Rynn

Night Talon

Dreidi Xeraic

Jedi Witch

Korda Veydran

Korda the unyielding

Hanna

Aspect of Devotion

Alden Akaran

Well-Known Member

Niijima Izumi

Character

Maya

Character

Itzhal Volkihar

Character

Adelle Bastiel

Trouble

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