Faction To the Victor || Mandalorian Empire

[Tyr Mereel]

Aether Verd | Xerxes Verd | Niijima Izumi | Itzhal Volkihar | Dreidi Xeraic | Maya | Mia Monroe​

The mountain of a man swathed into the fray of drinking Mandalorians as he glanced around, his eyes glancing over the figures of those who had already begun to drink before he lifted his leg over a stool and sat down.

As he took purchase on his side two wolves flanked him, one white as pure snow, the other black as the darkest night.


The man's face wore scars from wounds long since healed, his arms wrapped in bandages from wounds just recently acquired. His grim expression held firm as a drink slid his way, catching it in his gauntleted hand.

His eyes narrowed as he glanced around the tables, "I hope each one of you is in for a good run of drinkin' tonight. I've just got here, and I'm afraid I'm going to have to catch up to you all."

As the words finished escaping his lips, the rim of his tankard hit his lips as he downed the drink in one go, swallowing the drink as if it were air before slamming the cup onto the table, the table jumping in protest as other drinks sloshed and spilled.

Angry looks accompanied his show of force before they caught his immense size, and a toothy smile accompanied his froth-covered mouth.

"Don't worry, I'll catch up."


​

​

​

 

[Kurayami Bloodborn]

Aether Verd | Xerxes Verd | Niijima Izumi | Itzhal Volkihar | Dreidi Xeraic | Maya | Mia Monroe | Tyr Mereel

Kurayami had heard of the victory at Yaga Minor, a shame he had been indisposed for the battle itself. Though it was good to know that his nephew had done quite well for himself. The loss of any life was always regrettable, but as he stepped into the shattered ruins of the cantina, he took a seat at the table.

He made no announcement as to who he was nor any other grand gesture as he withdrew his flask and took a long swig, his helmet hooked to his belt and his armor polished to a dull sheen. "Congratulations on the victory here. I am not here for a game, but I will gladly participate in a drinking contest. Been awhile since I have done that." His tone was laced with sadness among the genuine congratulations in his toast.

He looked around the table as he drank deep, noting the faces of those who were gathered, both familiar and not. It would be an interesting night to see just how everything unfolded.

 

[Xerxes Verd]

Objective: I

Xerxes leaned back in his chair as the table swelled with new arrivals, the noise rising and folding in on itself like surf against stone. He let Aether's correction stand without argument, the thump of fists and tankards shaking the table between them.

"You finished it alright" he agreed, lifting his drink slightly in acknowledgment.

When Aether nudged him and promised to save a fight next time, Xerxes' expression shifted into something more openly amused. "I'll hold you to that" he replied evenly.

He took a drink before answering the question about his absence, turning the tankard slowly in his hand as if considering how much to say in a room like this. "Mapping the lanes beyond the outer grid" he said at last. "Stabilizing routes that don't want to be stabilized. There are places where the stars don't behave properly anymore. We've been teaching them discipline."

A faint pause followed.

"And we found a few things that will make the next campaign easier if anyone decides to start one without inviting me again."

His gaze drifted briefly toward the white-haired witch who had asked about beer, then to the others filtering into the cantina. He noted the soot on armor, the tension still riding shoulders that hadn't fully come down from battle. He took it in the way he always did quietly.

When Aether brought up the old game, Xerxes' brow lifted just slightly.

"I remember" he said, calm but firm. There was the faintest glint in his eyes now, something older and sharper.

"And you were terrible at it."

Mia's comment about Verd multiplication drew a slow turn of his head. He regarded her with a nod before replying "Lets just say our father was, productive."

He raised his tankard toward her in greeting. "You're welcome."

The laughter around them thickened as more tankards were set down, as Dreidi voiced her complaint about the beer. Xerxes looked toward her with mild sympathy.

"The trick" he said evenly, "is not to taste it."

Then Maya's quiet toast reached him. Xerxes inclined his head toward her across the room when she raised her glass.

"To the fallen" he echoed, lifting his own drink with a deliberate stillness that briefly cut through the chaos around the table. The nearest warriors followed suit, the roar dipping just enough to give the words weight before swelling again.

He turned back to Aether.

"As for 'Never have I ever,'" he continued, resting one armored forearm on the table. "I assume you're volunteering to begin?"

His eyes swept the table once more, taking in the circle that had formedwarriors, witches, commanders, strangers made comrades by fire.

"If we're going to embarrass ourselves, we might as well do it properly."


TAG: Mia Monroe Aether Verd Dreidi Xeraic Maya Itzhal Volkihar + OPEN
​

 

[Ivalyn Yvarro]

Ivalyn had been invited, somehow, to join the Mandalorians in their spoils.

Her brow drew slightly as she reread the invitation, stylus gliding across the projected text.

Aether Verd.

She knew the name. The self-proclaimed Mand'alor the Iron. Now, it seemed, no longer self-proclaimed. He had proven himself worthy of the title, by Mandalorian standards at least.

Still.

The larger question remained.

Why.

And more intriguingly, how, had this invitation reached her?

She scrolled through the metadata, tracing its path through secured channels. The answer surfaced with irritating clarity.

Her "uncle."

The drunk Corellian uncle.

Inviting her to Yaga Minor of all dreadful places.

"By the Balance," she murmured under her breath, leaning back in her chair. "Has he finally gone mad? Too much drink? Or has too much time in the Nether rotted what remained of his mind?"

Then she paused.

And sighed.

"Oh. I see."

Additional files opened beneath her fingertips. Bloodborn had familial ties to the Verds.

Strange.

Unexpected.

Inconvenient.

But not irrelevant.

Ivalyn rose from her desk without further commentary. Whatever her uncle's motivations, the invitation had value. Mandalore did not extend such gestures lightly, and she would not ignore one.

A small contingent would suffice.

Her personal detail.

The Zafarīn Guard.

A cadre, not an army. Presence without provocation.

---

En route to Yaga Minor, Ivalyn reviewed the conflict between the Diarchy and Mandalore in meticulous detail.

Tit for tat.

Raid for reprisal.

Provocation answered with escalation.

Until the Mandalorians had reminded not only the Diarchy, but the wider galaxy, precisely who they were.

They had not negotiated.

They had not postured.

They had simply taken back what was theirs.

Decisively.

Ivalyn pushed her lips subtly to the side as she considered it.

She recalled her previous meeting with Jonah. The Mandalorian disposition. The bluntness. The absence of ornament in their politics.

What, she wondered, would a Mandalorian–Commonwealth trade agreement look like?

Steel for structure.

Beskar for crystal.

Honor for stability.

Her gaze drifted toward the viewport as hyperspace folded around her vessel.

Yaga Minor awaited.

 

[Aselia Verd]

The victory below filled the building with noise that felt almost too large for its fractured walls. Laughter rose in uneven bursts, boots struck metal flooring with celebratory force, and somewhere someone was already arguing loudly about whose shot had been the cleanest. It was the sound of Mandalorians who had survived, who had taken ground and held it, and who refused to let the cost of it silence the moment.

Aselia remained among them longer than she normally would have. She accepted the nods, returned the grips on her forearm, endured the rough humor and the inevitable retellings of the same engagement from three different perspectives. Yaga Minor still burned beyond the broken windows, refinery fires casting a dull orange glow into the night, but the battle itself was finished.

She noticed when Adelle slipped away. It was subtle, the kind of movement that would go unseen by anyone who wasn’t paying attention. There was no announcement, no stumble, just that slight withdrawal from the edge of the gathering, the quiet decision to seek somewhere smaller than the noise.

Aselia did not follow immediately. She allowed the distance to exist, gave her time to be alone if that was what she wanted. Only after several minutes did she set aside her glass and make her way toward the stairwell without comment.

The second floor was dim and quieter, the sounds below reduced to a muffled thrum. The air smelled faintly of dust and scorched wiring, the building having taken more than a few hits during the fighting. She paused outside the room she had seen Adelle enter, listening to the faint movements within before opening the door and stepping inside.

Adelle stood near a battered desk, already removing armor plates and inspecting them with careful focus. The shattered window behind her overlooked the half-ruined bar now claimed by Mandalorians below, light from the fires outside cutting across the room in uneven bands.

Aselia closed the door gently behind her and remained near it for a moment, allowing the silence to stretch rather than breaking it immediately. She watched the methodical way Adelle handled each plate, the way she shifted her weight as though one side carried more strain than the other.

“You have had a rough day” she said at last, her voice even and unhurried Aselia stepped further into the room, her boots quiet against the floor, and let her gaze move to the armor on the desk, a hand running over it gently while she inspected the damage. "If the armor is any indication, you took some damage. How bad is it?"

TAG: Adelle Bastiel
​

 

[Korda Veydran]

.................................................

................................................................................


Korda watched her disappear up the stairwell until the sound of her boots faded.
"Stay alive, Bastiel," he muttered to the empty doorway. "Would be a waste of a miracle worker."
Silence returned.

Not battlefield silence. Not the ringing kind.
The heavy kind.
He turned back to the armor laid out before him.


The chestplate bore the worst of it, scoring from flame, spidered dents from repeated impacts, one deep impression near the lower rib where Norbert had driven him back into the collapsing structure. He pressed his thumb against it again, trying to force the metal to give.


It didn't.
Beskar remembered.
So did he.

Korda leaned back against the wall of the barracks, chest still aching from the wraps pressed tightly across his torso. His broken nose throbbed with every breath, the cough rattling deep in his lungs as he tried to settle. Armor plates were carefully laid out beside him, scuffed and dented from the Yaga Minor operation, a silent testament to the fight he had survived and the Mandalorians he had lost.


His left hand idly brushed over the surface of one of the four datapads he had brought with him, each one already filled with the entries for his fallen squadmates. He flipped it open, the screen glowing dimly against the dimming evening light, and began reviewing the recorded details once more.

Entry: Basilisk Drop – Yaga Minor
Warrior: [REDACTED – Clan Tag Pending]
Status: KIA
Cause of Death: Ambush by Angels of Meu.

Entry: Basilisk Drop – Yaga Minor
Warrior: [REDACTED – Clan Tag Pending]
Status: KIA
Cause of Death: Blood loss sustained during combat with Angels of Meu.
Additional Note: Provided diversionary fire under critical pressure, enabling advance and destruction of LO-25/AA battery. Action directly contributed to success of objective.
Honor Mark: To be recognized in after-action clan record for valor under fire.

Entry: Basilisk Drop – Yaga Minor
Warrior: [REDACTED – Clan Tag Pending]
Status: MIA/Unknown
Cause of Injury/Status: Blood loss from a leg injury while clearing a trench.

Entry: Basilisk Drop – Yaga Minor
Warrior: [REDACTED – Clan Tag Pending]
Status: KIA
Cause of Death: Collapsed lung from a round to the ribs.

He exhaled slowly, blinking against the sting in his eyes. The faces of the four Mandalorians he had landed with, the ones who had not survived the battle, hovered just behind his eyelids every time he closed them. The images lingered even when his eyes were open, imprinted into the back of his mind by the fire, the smoke, the echoes of gunfire.


Korda's hand rested on the datapads for a long moment. He did not fold them, did not put them aside. Each entry was a weight, a responsibility, a memory he would carry. The one who had drawn fire at the AA battery, the one who had sacrificed his life to create the opening for Korda to strike, Korda's teeth clenched as he whispered under his breath.


"You held the line. Even while dying."
He paused, letting the words sit heavy in the quiet of the barracks.
"Worth it," he said again, this time with meaning, as he set the datapads down. "All of it… worth it."


A soft cough shook him, ribs aching as they reminded him of the price of survival. His left canine was gone, a small but constant reminder of the fight's brutality. Scars along his ribs burned faintly beneath the wraps, and he knew the pain would linger long after the flesh healed.


Korda's gaze shifted to the layout of his armor, carefully inspected but still bearing the marks of Yaga Minor. He made a mental note to include Adelle Bastiel's name in his after-mission journal. the medic who had evacuated him when he was most vulnerable. She had seen him at his worst, and he owed her that acknowledgment.


The flask at his side caught his attention. He lifted it in a small, almost ceremonial gesture, took a measured sip, and let the fire of the liquor mingle with the sting in his chest.


For a moment, all that remained was quiet, the bruised air, the fading smoke of battle, and the weight of memory pressing down. Korda allowed himself that moment before he would rise again, armored in more than just beskar: armored in the resolve to honor the fallen, and the resolve to carry the fight forward. He would have to check the med tent for the records, and seeing if he can ID any bodies of the unknown.

Tags: Adelle Bastiel Open

 

[Alden Akaran]

​

"Social | Character & Camaraderie-Focus"

EQUIPMENT: Lightsaber | Asheran Armorweave | VT-Kinetic Impact Gel | KC-95 "Ace of Spades" Blaster Pistol | Prosthetic Arm
POST: 2
TAG(S): Lysara Rynn | Hanna | Siv Kryze | Open
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As Alden led the group of displaced and distressed civilians toward the makeshift infirmary established by the Mandalorians, it became more and more evident to him that there were a lot more Mandalorians here than he’d initially anticipated. The cries and pleas of those who now followed him had merged into an incoherent rumble, each trying to make their plight heard over the other. Everyone felt their crisis deserved the foremost attention and should be seen to first, but there simply wasn’t enough manpower in the immediate vicinity to make that happen.

“Please,” Alden pleaded to the ever-growing assembly of refugees, “please stay calm. I know it’s difficult now, but there is sure to be light on the horizon.” He hoped his words would at least begin to calm a portion of the commotion following him. He wasn’t naive, however; he knew well that their traumas forbade them from truly returning to a calm state of mind. After all, it wasn’t something the populace had the training to fall back on and overcome. Not like him. Not like the battle-hardened Mandalorians whose banners had sprung up all over the planet in the wake of the war that ravaged it so.

Still, the group ushered its way forward, now but a handful of paces away from the ragtag infirmary’s location. As he approached at the head of the group, he took on an unassuming and non-beligerant stance, fully intent on not conveying any form of threat to the warriors clad in plates of Mandalorian iron. He was here in a humanitarian effort, trailing wars as he had many times lately, seeking nothing more than to aid those caught in the crossfire.

It truly was a wonder how he’d fallen so far into obscurity over the last several years.

Even before the woman clad in armor who seemed to lead this contingent of Mandalorians had spoken, Alden would plead to them. “Please,” he said, “these people need help.” Before his sentence was even finished, the woman had begun issuing commands to the assembled refugees that followed, instructing them to separate into lines and groups based upon their needs. The woman carrying her toddler, however, did not leave his side, perhaps unsure if she could trust these battle-hardened warriors. Likely, she internally blamed the Mandalorians for her trauma and the state of her child, whether or not that blame was well placed. “Please, Miss,” he spoke to the woman in a soft, yet steady voice, “please let them help you.” He paused briefly, turning his attention fully to her. “Let them help your child.”

By the time he’d finished attempting to persuade and comfort the woman, the lead Mandalorian was addressing him. She was rather straightforward and seemed to have at least a little trust for him in that she’d not aimed any weapon at him, nor attempted to detain him right away. “Who I am is unimportant, but these people need help.” He breathed in deeply and exhaled slowly and steadily, debating subconsciously whether or not to give her a name. Finally, after a short moment, he spoke again. “These people are the ultimate losers of this war. It is they who are suffering in its wake. If I can help them through this, I will.”​

 

[Kirae Orade]

Tags: Niijima Izumi

"Someone looks miserable."

A slight rare smirk graced Kirae's face, as she threw herself down next to the old associate. She didn't know Izumi well enough, but the conversation that they had a short while ago had stuck in her mind. It had been the most Kirae had ever spoken to someone in a while. Kirae's family was gone. She didn't have anyone to open up to, except for the names that had been engraved on her shield. Unfortunately for her, the dead were terrible conversational partners. You never knew if they were listening to you. If they truly cared about what you thought or not. It was like talking to yourself. Perhaps she had always been talking to herself.

She rested her arms against the counter of the cantina, her gaze firmly fixed ahead of herself, as she debated to herself in her own mind. If anything, she should have been the one miserable whilst everyone else was celebrating the battle. But battle celebration had never been a thing for her. Others lived for the battle. Lived for the glory that came from fighting against a worthy foe. But all Kirae cared about was her people. For them to come home. Every battle that they set out for was another chance for lives to be taken. She cared little for their foes, they could go extinct for all the Mandalorian truly cared, but losing her own people. That was the main thing she feared. Something she didn't open up to anyone about however.

Kirae hadn't been there at the battle herself. It wasn't her scene. As much as fighting for their own honour was a key part of being a Mandalorian, she never truly believed in the concept of an eye for an eye. It made her stand out, not in a good way. Yet with all that being said, she didn't seem miserable. She didn't quite know herself why. She shook her head, trying not to focus on that thought, and instead glanced back at Izumi, giving her a slight grin.​

 

[Jonah]

The night had not yet loosened its grip on him.

Even as the avenues of Vjunhollow roared with laughter and firelight, Jonah Verd moved through them like a blade carried low at the hip, unseen until needed. The datapad from the Santhe/Sienar station rested inside the satchel slung across his black beskar’gam, its contents pressing against his thoughts with a quiet insistence. What he had uncovered in the station’s network was not a battlefield report, nor a list of supply routes. It was something deeper, something that hinted at rot spreading far beyond Yaga Minor.

He had taken a step toward the bar where Aether disappeared beneath cheers and raised tankards.

Then he stopped.

His brother deserved a night without strategy. Without revelation. Without another fire to prepare for. Morning would come soon enough, and with it, decisions that could not be undone.

So Jonah turned away from the revelry’s heart and let the tide of warriors carry him instead.

A drink found its way into his off hand without ceremony. A charred drumstick was pressed into his swordhand by a grinning soldier whose name he did not catch. He accepted both with a nod, chewing thoughtfully as he drifted through the occupied barracks district, boots striking ferrocrete still warm from earlier bombardment. Armor leaned against walls. Cookfires burned in courtyards where clerks once hurried beneath Diarchy banners. The Mythosaur now claimed those stones.

He was midway through another bite when he saw her.

Tessa lay on the ground a short distance from the nearest firelight, close enough to hear the celebration yet removed from it. The sky stretched open above her, dark and endless. She looked small against it, though he knew better than to mistake her for fragile. He had seen her in the station corridors, quick and certain, hands moving over slicing consoles with a smuggler’s instinct and a saboteur’s nerve. He had also seen the change when they slipped into that narrow passage toward the server room...there was an edge to her that he just couldn't name.

Jonah slowed, finishing the bite of meat before wiping his fingers against a cloth tucked into his belt. He stepped closer, then stopped at a respectful distance, boots planted firm but not looming, careful not to crowd her space.

His brows rose faintly as he took in the scene, the shaky breath, the tension in her limbs.

He tipped the cup in his hand slightly and asked, voice low and even, “You drunk? Or is pavement just that good for your lower back?”

Tag: Tessa Thayne

 

[Tessa Thayne]

Tags: Jonah

You have got to be kidding me.

There was no way merely thinking about him had conjured him. First of all she was not that talented, and secondly where else was he going to be after being part of a strikeforce to bring the planet under the Empire's rule. If the duracrete under her could've opened up and swallowed her right then? She would have absolutely welcomed it.

Tessa turned her head to look up at him, managing a weak smile at his jest. She would have liked to be drunk, drunk was definitely preferable to this.

"I wish." She said in response, hands comibg up to wipe the tears from her temples. "I...uh..." she swallowed, looking back up at the sky. "I don't like small spaces."

The weight on her chest tightened just a little more and she closed her eyes, breathing for a beat before continuing. "But I can't exactly allow that to impact a job. So I power through, and eventually it comes around to bite me. So this is me...very bitten."

Please ground, swallow me now.

 

[Jonah]

One of Jonah’s brows lifted slowly as her confession settled between them, not in mockery, not in disbelief, but in recognition. The explanation tracked. He had seen the shift in her the moment the corridor narrowed and the walls pressed close, had felt the subtle change in her rhythm even while alarms screamed and blasterfire rattled the station’s hull.

He gave a faint shrug and took a single step closer, boots scraping lightly against duracrete.

“I get it.” he said, voice steady, stripped of theatrics. “Everybody’s got something.”

He tilted his head slightly, gaze drifting toward the open sky above her before returning to her face.

“I hate dogs.” he added without ceremony. “Big ones, friendly ones...even the tiny yapping shits. They bark and and I want to die inside.”

A corner of his mouth twitched, just barely.

“Oh, and speaking of dying inside....”

He closed the distance by another measured step and extended the tankard toward her, the sharp scent of tihaar rising from its rim in a slow curl of promise.

“Swill usually works better than being bitten.” he said. “Just saying.”

The cookfires flickered across the black sheen of his armor as he shifted his grip on the drumstick in his other hand, tearing another bite free before gesturing vaguely with it.

“I’d offer you some of this,” he continued, voice lowering with quiet conviction, “but it’s just too fucking good.”

Tag: Tessa Thayne

 

[Tessa Thayne]

Jonah

Tessa opened one eye to look at him as he stepped closer then the other, slowly she got to her feet, arms folding over across her middle. She might have bought it had she still been on the ground and not able to catch the tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth.

"You're lucky you came bearing gifts, or I might have to do something about the fact that you are mocking me."

She lifted the tankard from his hand drinking deep. The pressure in her chest easing, not because of the tihaar, but because there was something else to focus on. Tessa tracked the waved drumstick proffered like a dare.

She stepped in, hand moving fast to snatch it from his hand. Taking a bite from it, she stepped around him, grinning.

"Come on, you can get me drunk and feed me more bantha chit about dogs. See if it sticks."

 

[Adelle Bastiel]

Occupied Barracks District, Vjunhollow
Tags: Aselia Verd

The sharp edge of Aselia’s presence reached her long before the Verd reached the door. Adelle had gotten to know the shape of her presence in the Force, something precise and bladed. She didn’t look when Aselia entered, inspecting her left vambrace before setting it next to the right vambrace. Her gauntlets and pauldrons already lay in orderly rows, separated by left and right, along with her buy’ce and gorget. The burning ache in her side flared into something sharp as she reached for the jetpack on her back and detached it, wincing.

“Su’cuy gar,” she said, smiling a little. The greeting felt apt in the moment. Adelle checked the fuel gauge and assembly. Last thing she wanted was an out of control jetpack or an explosion. It hadn’t suffered as much in the battle. She set it down on the floor, leaning it against the desk, before removing the cuirass. Cooler air hit the armorweave underneath the breastplate and the lack of pressure against skin sharpened the pain in her side. Adelle hissed but pushed through the pain, checking the edge of the breastplate where the slug had winged her. A nick, shiny and sharp, stood out against the black paint.

“Long day,” she corrected as Aselia’s hand passed over the shallow gouge on her right pauldron. “That med-evac was the first of many. But I haven’t been able to really check yet. There were others that needed immediate help. A couple slugs grazed me but nothing life-threatening, as far as I know.”

“You encounter any more trouble?” Adelle placed the breastplate down before removing the backplate. That had received no damage and was very quickly set aside. “Sonic canons usually make quick work of things but that convoy seemed resilient.”

The pain in her side spiked with every shift, and the burning pain in her shoulder was quickly making itself known. Adelle leaned against the desk and removed the motun’bur, the plates on her thighs. Some scratches in the paint but no other visible damage that she could see. Her calf ached as pain blazed up into her thighs.

Right, she had to stop putting it off and actually see what the damage was.

Adelle sat down on the spartan bed pushed against a wall and gingerly pulled off her left boot and greave.

“Stick around if you like,” she said, “but I’ve ignored this long enough and there’s going to be a lot more of me to see in a few seconds.”

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Yaga Minor, Outer Rim Territories

​

Itzhal met the Mand'alor's gaze with a slow, deliberate nod, his piercing blue eyes glinting with sharp resolve under the flickering glow of a nearby lampshade. Glass raised towards the toast of the fallen, Itzhal watched the survivors celebrate in turn, the growing wave of remembrance travelling across the bar with joyful cheers and mournful laments drowned at the bottom of a bottle—for one night, were victory and loss were allowed to coincide, a reminder of why they fought and the cost of such a duty.

Soft lines at the corner of his eyes, twisted with the glimmer of a faint smile. His head tilted towards the sound of familiar laughter echoing in the distance as he glanced in their direction, then, just as quickly, turned away from the stranger sitting at the bar beside him, focused on another Mandalorian he'd never met before. The laughter faded, though his smile remained.

Of course, that meant he turned back just to hear Aether's offer; a dangerous game in a Galaxy filled with unusual circumstances.

The weight in his hand shifted, liquid slopping from side to side, golden bubbles popping with the flex of the tides. Mere moments before he could take another drink, a flash of black and gold pierced through the crowd; Mia Monroe—Warmaster of the Great Heathen Army, and more importantly, the only one willing to mention the sheer amount of Verd's that seemed to populate Mandalorian Space. He snorted, covering the motion with another sip of his drink.

"Against this storied cast, it sounds like a terrible idea," Itzhal mused, a twitch of his lips carrying the amusement that bubbled in his chest as he shrugged. "I'm in."

Then, he drained the last of his first glass, reaching behind the bar as he lifted off the ground for a moment, both feet braced against the footrests of the nearest stool, his spine curved, and his hand searching blindly for the next bad decision that glittered in a distortion of the nearby lights as clear as water, and burning his sinuses as he popped the cap.

Tags: Aether Verd Dreidi Xeraic Maya Mia Monroe Xerxes Verd + Open​

 

[Athena Faar]

​

Tag: Open

The Korun dragon rider slide from the riding harness and down the great reptile's forearm. The helmet was pulled free, short black hair matted with sweat flinging wildly as she shook her head. The dragon rider's beskar'gam didn't bear the usual gore and grime usually accumulated in a fierce fight. Only the black scorch marks that accompanied an aerial assault astride her fiery mount. Athena had arrived late, missing the heat of true battle, only participating in some clean up work, Miit'alor's stream of fire searing perimeters around the city.

As much as she had craved to be among her brothers and sisters in this glorious battle, her duties had called her elsewhere. The Empire had expanded under the mighty rule of Mand'alor the Iron. Those now under that rule required the watchful eye of the Protectors to ensure justice and peace, and adherence to the laws of the Empire. The Journeyman Protector had to see to her sector's security.

"Go find something, or someone, to eat." Athena chimed with a wry grin. The dragon chuffed, then her wings spread wide and the dragon lifted into the sky, stirring up dust and debris before heading away from the city.

The Journeyman Protector entered the city, finding herself among the celebrating victors. Athena felt at home in a strange place. Where her vode brothers and sisters reveled in victory, she was among family. The dark-skinned warrior woman accepted a bottle of something from a generous reveler. Athena took a deep draught, not sure what it was, but satisfied that it was alcoholi.. If only it was black ale... mmm black ale.

The fact she missed most the battle left her feeling...curmudgeonly. But the bottle's contents helped to cure that, as did being among the vode who reveled in victory, filled their bellies, and bantered about war and bawdy things.

 

[Korda Veydran]

The courtyard had grown louder since the fires were first lit.
Laughter rose and fell in uneven bursts. Armor plates clinked against crates. Someone began recounting a kill count that grew more impressive with every retelling. The smell of charred ration block drifted over the stone like incense offered to a god of war.

Across the courtyard, a figure shifted.
Korda Veydran pushed himself upright from where he had been seated in shadow, boots scraping lightly against duracrete. The motion drew a faint hiss between his teeth. His ribs protested first, a deep ache beneath the tight compression of field bandages wrapped around his torso. His nose, still splinted and taped crookedly across the bridge, throbbed in dull rhythm with his pulse.

He stood anyway.
He wore only his boots and flight suit trousers, the upper half of him bound in white wrappings that cut stark lines across scarred skin. His armor rested behind him in a neat, deliberate stack, beskar scored and dented from Yaga Minor's answer to Mandalorian persistence just hours earlier.

The fires reflected off the metal like distant lightning.
Voices carried.
"Anyone sitting alone tonight is doing it wrong."


The words drifted through smoke and ember-glow. Korda's gaze shifted toward the larger cluster forming near the central courtyard, warriors shoulder to shoulder, helmets off but never far from reach, drinks passing hand to hand.

He exhaled slowly through his nose.
Then he moved.
Each step was measured. Not weak. Not hesitant. Just aware of the cost his body would demand later.


He crossed the reclaimed district without fanfare. A passing vod paused mid-story when he saw him, eyes flicking to the bandages, then to the bare chest, then back up. There was a grin there, not pity. Recognition.

Korda reached a crate where ration packs were being redistributed like spoils. He snagged one without ceremony, tossed it once in his hand as if testing its weight, then tore it open with his teeth and a flex of calloused fingers.

He did not insert himself into the center of the group.
Instead, he lowered himself onto the edge of a crate slightly off to the side of the main cluster, close enough to be part of it—far enough to watch it.
He sat carefully, jaw tightening when his ribs flared in protest, then settled.
A broad-shouldered Mandalorian to his left leaned over, eyeing the bandages.

"Looks like the city tried to keep you."
Korda snorted faintly, voice still rough from smoke and blood.
"It tried," he replied. "Wasn't persuasive enough."

A few nearby chuckled.
The same warrior nodded toward the distant skyline where a half-collapsed munitions depot still smoldered. "Heard someone turned the Diarchy's own anti-air into scrap."

Korda took a bite of ration paste, grimaced, swallowed.
"Never such thing as too much explosives," he said dryly. "Only insufficient distance."
That earned a louder laugh. Someone raised a flask in his direction.
"Next time," another voice added, "try not to be standing next to it."

Korda leaned back slightly, wincing only a fraction.
"Next time," he replied evenly, "I'll bring more."
The laughter that followed was easier. Looser. Real.

For a moment, the weight pressing against his sternum eased. not the physical ache, but the other one. The absence. The empty spaces in the courtyard where four warriors should have been.

His gaze drifted briefly across the gathered figures.

Different faces.
Fewer than they had landed with.
But still here.
Still standing.

A gust of smoke curled through the courtyard, carrying the scent of scorched durasteel and victory. Someone began arguing again about whose kill had been larger. Another warrior loudly declared the protein block "almost edible," which drew a chorus of mock outrage.

Korda allowed the corner of his mouth to lift.
He did not raise his voice. Did not call attention. Did not step into the center of the firelight.
But he stayed.
Boots planted. Ration pack in hand. Bandages stark beneath the glow.

Not alone.
Not quite whole.
But among his people.
And for tonight, that was enough

Tag: Veyla Krinn

 

[Dreidi Xeraic]

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Objective: 1 - Vjunhollow
Outfit: Nightsister Armour
Equipment: Lightsaber, Ichor Sword and Dathomiri Energy Bow
Tags: Aether Verd | Xerxes Verd | Maya | Mia Monroe | Itzhal Volkihar

"Lighter spirits? I don't need lighter spirits. Need something that doesn't taste so... so... that doesn't taste like beer." Dreidi scrunched her face at the beer she downed. Dreidi wasn't someone looking for an easy drink, just one that she enjoyed the flavour of. Using her Magick, she floated a bottle of intriguing whisky to herself as she smirked to the Mandalorian. "I shall be fine. No one would dare cross a Dathomiri witch and her prey." A teasing laugh escaped Dreidi's lips as she winked over to Itzhal.

Listening to the Mandalore, she rolled her eyes and snapped her fingers, "I think you need to be more careful with you guesses, don't want to anger a witch now, do you? Would be a shame to gift boil pockmarks to such a handsome face." Her tongue poked out and demonstrated there was no seriousness to her threat. Yet. "Sparkling is far from what we drink. I did think you were going to suggest blood of our enemies or the ichor itself."

"I mostly drink wine of the red variety, whiskies such as this," holding the bottle up, "or changing whatever is in hand to something far more palatable." Dreidi smirked as she poured a decently large measure of whisky into the tankard.

Hearing the suggestion of a game to play, Dreidi gave a large mischievous grin. There were several answers she could give to get the room not only drinking but groaning in defeat. However, she did politely wait for the Mandalore to start, it was his suggestion and made sense he kicked the game off.

 

[Veyla Krinn]

Veyla did not announce herself when she entered the courtyard, slipping into the space with the practiced ease of someone who preferred to observe the world before becoming a part of it. She never felt the need for grand entrances, finding far more value in the quiet truth of a moment than in the clamor of attention.

The celebration rolled and surged around her in waves of laughter, thick smoke, and the flickering orange glow of firelight that danced against the surrounding stone. Warriors clustered together around makeshift tables and overturned crates, their voices rising in a boisterous chorus as bottles passed freely from hand to hand. Victory clung to the air as thickly as the scent of ash and lingering heat, a heavy reminder of the cost they had all paid. It was loud, chaotic, and fundamentally imperfect, yet it was vibrantly alive in a way that only those who have faced death can truly appreciate.

It was exactly as it should be.

She paused near the outer edge of the gathering at first, simply taking it all in and letting the energy of the victory wash over her.

Athena's arrival had not gone unnoticed, for a dragon rider always drew the eyes of the curious, even among a people as hardened as the Mandalorians. Veyla caught sight of her easily enough through the crowd, her dark armor still radiating the faint warmth of recent flight. With a bottle already gripped in her hand, Athena's posture seemed loose and relaxed, yet she still carried the faint, lingering edge of someone who felt they had arrived just a moment too late to the heart of the storm.

Nearby, Korda sat tucked half in shadow, his body bandaged and bare-chested as he picked at a ration pack. Laughter touched him occasionally from the nearby groups, yet it never quite seemed to pull him fully into the revelry. He was still here, still standing against the weight of the world, and still carrying the invisible burdens of everything the day had taken from them.

Veyla began her approach without any sense of hurry, her footsteps light against the uneven ground.

She stopped first near Athena, positioned close enough to be heard clearly without forcing a formal interaction or disrupting the woman's thoughts.

"You made it back to us," she said quietly, her voice carrying a faint, genuine warmth that cut through the surrounding noise. "That presence counts for far more than you might think right now."

Her gaze flicked briefly toward the bottle in Athena's hand, then traveled back up to meet the rider's face with a steady look.

"Drink your fill," she added, her tone softening even further. "Laugh with your kin, and simply let yourself be present here tonight."

She offered no judgment and exerted no pressure. She simply gave her friend the permission she seemed to be seeking.

Then, Veyla moved on toward her next destination.

Korda noticed her presence long before she actually reached his side, his instincts remaining sharp despite his exhaustion. Veyla stopped beside the crate he used as a seat, resting one hand lightly against the rough, weathered wood in a gesture that was steady and entirely unintrusive.

She looked at the white of his bandages first, acknowledging the physical toll, before shifting her gaze to the reality written across his face.

"By all rights, you should be lying down in a proper bed," she said mildly, though there was no real edge of a command in her voice.

A heavy beat of silence passed between them.

"But I know your spirit well enough to know that you won't leave this spot."

The corner of her mouth curved upward just enough to signal a shared understanding of his stubbornness.

She lowered herself onto the edge of a nearby crate, so she was sitting level with him, placing herself close enough to be considered part of his circle without ever attempting to claim its center. The nearby firelight painted soft, flickering copper highlights along her hair and the plates of her armor.

"They're still telling stories over there," she murmured, nodding her head toward the larger group of celebrating warriors. "They are speaking about you and your courage. You know that, right?"

Then, her voice dropped even quieter, carrying the weight of the fallen.

"They are telling stories about all of them, ensuring the dead aren't forgotten in the noise."

Her eyes lifted, sweeping once across the courtyard to take in the living, the wounded, and the glaringly empty spaces where others should have been sitting. She looked across everything that remained of their force.

She drew in a slow, grounding breath that seemed to expand her chest.

"No one sits alone tonight," Veyla said, presenting the statement not as an order or a demand, but as an undeniable truth of their culture.

She looked from Korda back toward Athena, then let her gaze drift out toward the wider gathering of their people.

"We remember those we lost, we drink to their names, and we stand together so that we may carry their memory with us into the future."

A long pause followed as the gravity of her words settled.

Then, she spoke the final, simple truth: "This is the Way."

There was no need for grand ceremony or empty dramatics. It was just a moment of shared, silent understanding between survivors.

Around them, the laughter rose again in a sudden swell, a bottle was passed to a new hand, and someone clapped a fellow warrior firmly on the shoulder. Athena shifted herself a bit closer to the nearest group, finding her place, while Korda leaned back a fraction more comfortably against his crate.

The night went on into the small hours, fueled by fire and fellowship.

They did not celebrate because they had forgotten the cost of the day. They celebrated because they remembered it all too well.

Korda Veydran Athena Faar

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda felt her before he looked at her.
Not through the Force. Not through anything mystical or arcane. It was a deeper, more primal sense, the subtle shift in the air, the way the ambient noise of the celebration seemed to bend and flow around her presence, creating a small pocket of quiet in the chaos. He lifted his head slowly, the movement a testament to the stiffness in his bones. His nose was still patched, the white of the bandage a stark contrast to the soot and grime smeared across his skin. His torso was a canvas of white wraps, a mummy's shroud that stood out against the dirt and dried blood. His helmet rested hooked to his belt, the dark visor catching the firelight in fractured, malevolent glints.

He gave Veyla a small nod when she settled beside him on the ammo crate. It wasn't a greeting, but an acknowledgment. A shared understanding between two souls who had walked through the same fire and come out the other side, scarred but whole.

When she commented that he should be lying in a proper bed, the corner of his mouth tugged faintly, a ghost of a smile that never quite reached his eyes.
"Ain't no rest for the wicked," he muttered, his voice a rough rasp, scraped raw by smoke and a lingering cough. "And I've got a long, long ledger."

His gaze drifted past her shoulder toward one of the louder clusters of warriors. A group of them were laughing, their voices boisterous and raw, arguing over whose explosion had been bigger, whose shot had been truer. One gestured wildly with a half-empty bottle, sloshing its contents onto the dirt.

For a moment...
He saw them.
The four he had landed with.

Laughing like nothing had happened, like the world hadn't just ended for them. One shoved another's shoulder in jest. Another tipped back a bottle, whole. Alive. Unbroken. The firelight glinted off their armor, just as it did on the living.

Korda's jaw tightened, a knot of pure, unadulterated tension. His thumb pressed unconsciously against the cool, dented metal of his flask, the pressure a point of focus in a sea of pain.

"…Took you long enough to sit down," he murmured quietly toward the empty space where they weren't, the words a puff of air in the cold night.
A blink.

The vision fractured like cheap glass. The group shifted, faces unfamiliar again, the ghosts gone, banished back to whatever corner of his mind they haunted. He inhaled slowly through his nose and winced at the sharp sting in his chest, a brutal reminder of his reality.

When Veyla mentioned the stories being told, he huffed once, a sound devoid of humor. "I was doing my duty," he said simply, the words carrying the weight of a thousand such moments. "That battery stayed up… and if we had to pull out…" His jaw flexed, the muscle a hard line. "They'd have shot our ships from the sky. Brothers. Sisters. Burned alive in atmosphere because I hesitated."
He shook his head faintly, a slow, deliberate motion.
"I don't hesitate."

A pause, filled only by the crackle of the fire.
"If I'd fallen taking it down…" his voice lowered, almost swallowed by the roar of the celebration, "would've been redemption enough."
The words weren't dramatic. They weren't a plea for sympathy. They were matter-of-fact. A simple statement of account.

He reached beside him and lifted an unopened bottle, better quality than the ration-issue swill that passed for liquor, and held it out toward her. "Take it," he said. "Proper drink. Not this fuel-cell cleaner." He lifted his flask slightly in demonstration before taking another swallow, the burn a familiar, welcome companion.

He leaned back against the crate, his eyes distant again, seeing something far beyond the flickering flames. "This battle…" he exhaled, the sound a long surrender. "It was a rite."

He nodded toward some of the younger warriors, their laughter too loud, too sharp. "They proved themselves today. Loyalty's easy in peace. It's different when the sky's on fire and the only thing you can hear is your own heart trying to beat its way out of your chest."

His fingers tightened slightly around the crinkled ration pack wrapper, the sound loud in the sudden quiet between them.
"The four I dropped with…" His voice changed, subtly. Softer. He didn't look at her now, his gaze lost in the fire. "I trained them."
A long silence followed, heavy with unspoken history.
"They weren't just vod."

Another breath, this one shakier.
"They were as close to children as I'll ever get."
A dry, mirthless chuckle escaped him, a sound like stones grinding together. "Body won't allow for that particular mistake." His hand absently brushed the bandages around his ribs, a gesture of unconscious self-soothing.

"Tor… ambushed by the Angels of Meu. Never saw it coming. One clean shot. He was gone before he hit the ground."

"Fenn… bled out after close quarters. Bought me time. Gave me the distraction I needed to reach that damned AA battery." His jaw flexed again. "Didn't even hesitate. Just smiled and charged."

"Rex… lost too much blood clearing a trench. Leg torn up. Last I saw him he was still fighting, propped against a wall, firing one-handed. Status unknown."

"And the last…" His eyes closed briefly, the darkness a welcome reprieve. "Joric. Round to the ribs. Collapsed lung. I held him there while he tried to pretend he wasn't scared, telling me some stupid story about a girl on Concord Dawn." He swallowed once, the sound thick. "He was just a boy."

He opened his eyes, the firelight reflecting in their depths.
"They all died like Mandalorians."
His gaze lifted again toward the celebration, the sounds of life a stark contrast to the memories of death.
"I remember every one of their final breaths. The sound they made. The look in their eyes."
A long pause.

Then quieter, a confession meant for the night air:
"And I would do it again."
Not because he wanted to.
Because he would. Because it was the only thing he knew how to do.

He tapped the flask lightly against his knee, the rhythm a steady, lonely beat.
"They live on in the stories now. That's more than most get."
He turned his head slightly toward Veyla again, studying the way the firelight danced against the worn plates of her armor.

"No one sits alone tonight," he repeated, more to himself than to her, a mantra against the encroaching darkness.
Then, after a beat, his voice firmed, the roughness softening into something genuine.
"You did well today."
Simple. Direct. Earned.

He lifted the flask slightly in her direction, a silent toast, before taking another drink, the firelight flickering across the scars, the bandages, and the stubborn, unyielding set of a warrior who refused to bend, even when parts of him already had.

Tags: Athena Faar Veyla Krinn

 

[Aselia Verd]

Aselia stepped fully into the room when Adelle greeted her, closing the door with a quiet click behind her. The edge in the Force that marked her presence softened slightly once she saw Adelle upright and moving, even if every motion carried strain.

Each plate came off in ordered sequence, laid out with deliberate care despite the tremor that occasionally betrayed the cost of the day. When Adelle winced detaching the jetpack, Aselia's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. She said nothing yet.

Her gaze followed the inspection of the breastplate, the shiny nick in the beskar catching the light.

"That was closer than I like" she said quietly.

When Adelle spoke of grazes and nothing life-threatening, Aselia's eyes lifted from the armor to her face instead.

"As far as you know" she repeated, not accusing, simply narrowing in on the truth beneath the phrasing.

She stepped closer when Adelle leaned against the desk, her attention no longer on the plates but on the way she favored her side. The question about further trouble earned a faint shake of her head.

"Nothing that lasted, a few chunks of duracrete thrown at me, vibrations rattling the teeth a little bit. Nothing permanent" she replied. "You drew enough attention on your own."

As Adelle began stripping the beskar from her thighs and finally sat on the edge of the bed, Aselia crossed the remaining distance and stopped within arm's reach. She didn't loom. She didn't crowd. She simply made it clear she wasn't leaving.

When Adelle warned there would be "a lot more of me to see" Aselia held her gaze evenly.

"Oh no.. Anyways, battlefields aren't the place for modesty.." she said, voice calm.

She crouched down in front of her as the boot and greave came free, her eyes tracking the way Adelle's calf tightened against the pain.

"You don't get to triage yourself last" she said, quieter now "You carried half the field today. Show me." she added, tone firm but not harsh. "If it's bad, we fix it now. Not after you collapse in a hallway."

TAG: Adelle Bastiel
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