Faction To the Victor || Mandalorian Empire

[Aselia Verd]

Aselia did not respond immediately to the self-critique. She let Adelle finish, let the logic run its course, and only then spoke.

"You can know the risks and still choose someone else first," she said evenly. "Perhaps its foolish, but it speaks to who you are."

When the compression tank came off and Adelle swore, Aselia closed the distance without hesitation. The sight of the wound made her expression sharpen, not in panic but in assessment. The slug had skimmed along her side, hot and fast, tearing a shallow path that had partially cauterized itself. It was not deep enough to threaten anything vital, but it was more than surface. The melted fabric fused along the edges confirmed it.

"Don't move" she said quietly, stepping closer.

Only then did she truly register how exposed Adelle was. The compression layer gone, she was sitting there in little more than a sports bra and shorts, skin flushed from pain and exertion. Armor and distance had always framed their interactions. Now there was neither. The realization caught her off guard in a way she did not expect.

A faint heat crept up the back of her neck before she forced her focus downward to the injury. She had treated worse wounds. She had seen worse exposure. That was not what unsettled her. It was the sudden awareness of how close she was, how warm Adelle felt under her hand when she braced lightly against her ribs.

"It's a graze" she said after a brief assessment, her voice steady though her pulse had shifted. "But it burned as it passed. That's why the fabric fused. It sealed part of itself."

She reached for sterile solution and gauze, soaking the edge carefully before bringing it to the adhered fabric. Instead of pulling, she worked the moisture into it slowly, letting it loosen without tearing new damage into the skin beneath.

"This will sting" she warned, softer now. "Breathe."

Her hand remained steady against Adelle's side, anchoring her without pressing too hard. She could feel the tension in the muscle beneath her palm, the controlled breathing that replaced the instinct to flinch. The closeness lingered in a way that was no longer purely clinical, and she hated that she did not yet know what to do with that awareness.

When Adelle suggested she go celebrate, Aselia shook her head slightly.

"I'm not leaving. With as many brothers as I have you think I haven't done battlefield triage before? Our home was a battlefield" she said, her tone calm but final even with a slight smile.

She freed the last of the fused fabric without reopening the wound and applied a clean dressing with measured care. Her thumb brushed lightly over uninjured skin as she secured it, and she pulled her hand back a fraction slower than necessary before catching herself.

"It isn't life-threatening" she added quietly. "But it's deep. You should take it easy for a little bit."

Her gaze lifted briefly to meet Adelle's, and there was something conflicted there beneath the composed look in her blue eyes. Concern first, something unbidden second. Then she focused back on the practical, because that was safer ground than the heat rising in her cheeks and the unfamiliar pull she felt.

TAG: Adelle Bastiel
​

 

[Adelle Bastiel]

Occupied Barracks District, Vjunhollow
Tags: Aselia Verd

The quiet command carried the weight of attention. As Aselia stepped closer, Adelle removed her hand from the injury, palm wet with serous drainage and a small amount of blood. Her other arm moved back, hand lightly resting on the mattress for stability rather than to hold her weight. It beat having to do it blind or by a mirror. She’d done it both ways, treating wounds on herself she couldn’t normally see.

Adelle twitched when Aselia’s hands met her ribcage, the touch unexpected on sensitive skin. It settled into a steady pressure, as bodyheat bled between the skin-to-skin contact. The touch reminded of the wedding reception on Dosuun, when Aselia had put her hand on the small of her back to ground her. Grounding was good—the tang of bacta mingled with the stringent burn of antiseptic in the air and threatened to dredge up unpleasant memories.

"It's a graze" she said after a brief assessment, her voice steady though her pulse had shifted. "But it burned as it passed. That's why the fabric fused. It sealed part of itself."

That tracked with what she’d seen with some slugthrower injuries. And with what she’d just felt. Adelle nodded absently as Aselia grabbed a small bottle and gauze from her kit.

"This will sting" she warned, softer now. "Breathe."

Adelle’s breath paused for a moment, but not from pain. To be sure, the solution running into the wound absolutely stung like a Corellian wine-bee. But the quiet warmth, the care in Aselia’s voice caught her off-guard. Adelle refocused on her breathing and on her other pain management techniques rather than the sudden curiosity demanding to examine the tone more closely. She’d learned the hard way on the MIV Ironsides that sometimes it was better to ignore that compulsion.

Instead, Adelle debated whether or not to add another tattoo to her collection—although it could hardly be counted as one. She only had the rampant dire-cat on her hip now, having finally gone through with the removal of the krayt dragon skull from her lower back a couple years ago. Maybe she’d get the stars of the Corellian flag somewhere.

When Aselia shook her head in response to her suggestion, Adelle caught a whiff of ozone mixed with slugthrower propellant. It didn’t smell like something environmental or traces of the earlier battle. Adelle huffed a laugh at Aselia’s “home was a battlefield” and immediately winced when it moved the injured section of flesh.

Right, so she couldn’t be around anyone funny or make jokes herself. That was going to be hard.

Aselia placed another bacta patch over the near-puncture wound carefully, fingers gently moving over dressing and skin. Adelle nodded with the Verd’s quiet assessment before meeting her blue-eyed gaze. Again there was something behind the composure, and Adelle could feel some kind of tension in Aselia’s emotions. Care balanced with something deliberately left unnamed. Adelle couldn’t tell what without prying and she wasn’t about to do that to Aselia.

“Thank you,” she said, setting aside the need for self-reliance, the belief she had to be self-reliant. “For your help. It’s… hard. To let others—to let myself be cared for.”

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Yaga Minor, Outer Rim Territories

​

Waves lapped at the sides of the glass bottle, distorted by the flickering gloom of nearby fires; the clear spirits within swirled, building momentum with each clambering rise of the tide. Idly, Itzhal twirled the slim neck of the glass between his thumb and the curled stretch of his index finger. Through the glass, he saw the distorted reflections of his allies, near and far, forming a circle from the greater whole. Warmth radiated from the hollow of his chest, a half-forgotten memory in the shape of victory.

Aches and bruises thrummed underneath the layers of beskar and armorweave, more akin to a full-body workout than a life-or-death battle, dismissed for the moment with a shrug of his shoulders. His boots faintly litter-pattered against the bar wall, swaying back and forth from his seat on top of the ruined bartop—perched on overwatch, blue eyes panned over the crowded room, over familiar faces and strangers alike. All were welcome, all were worthy.

That did not, however, mean all were in harmony; with his bottle in one hand, he raised the other, palm exposed in a gesture of conciliation towards the pale nightsister, "Apologies, I didn't mean to imply that you required a lighter drink, only something with a better taste." At that, he raised his own drink high. "Not everyone cares for what people around here call beer."

Ethereal green mist coiled over the bar, sinking between the glasses, until it uncovered an unopened bottle of whiskey in a display that left Itzhal's words to fade into nothing; that was a new one, though, he could certainly see the worth of such unusual magics, he was still watching it slowly unwind when the drink landed in Dredi's hand with a wink offered his way, "Although, it looks like you've figured out a solution of your own regardless."

With a faint nod, he turned his attention back to the main event of this comedy show; Mand'alor by day, Comedian by night.

Maybe one day, he'd even meet the illustrious playmaker of House Verd; though, he couldn't imagine the circumstances now, his only hope was that it didn't include a charge of public indecency chasing them from the resulting drama of a one-night stand. Honestly, how did he even have the time?

At least, when it came to the expanding House Verd, their were plenty of individuals to choose from, even if outright stating it was perhaps the last thing Itzhal expected from tonight. No wonder they kept growing—audacity was a charm of its own, though, he couldn't help but wonder how many of them had run away from an angry suitor. Unfortunately, the Protectorate was still new enough and suffering from previous failing systems that he couldn't guarantee there would be an answer in the files. Not that it mattered on this occasion, as the Morellian glanced between Aether and the recipient of his most recent offer.

Ms Monroe shrugged off the latest offer from House Verd with an amused smile and distinguished composure; Itzhal's eyes lingered on the blackened soot spots that spread across her beskar'gam, paint bubbled around the faded edges of a faint line of char, where the mark skimmed against the outer layer of her right pauldron. He'd seen worse damage dealt in sparring contests. Certainly, his repairs would be far more intensive than whatever small buffs and fixes needed to be worked out on her beskar'gam. They'd both be ready the next time they were needed. With a shared glance, he offered a soft smile and a graceful nod.

Whether he'd be ready for whatever question Aether had planned was another matter.

Itzhal waited patiently, listening for the words that followed; he blinked when they landed, a short moment of doubt, followed by a glance at the equally amused and befuddled group of Mandalorians that spiralled into laughter and cheer. He found himself joining, though it was little more than a dry chuckle. His mind lingered on a flash of sunlight splayed behind the Mand'alor's back, as they rode to war.

"Aether, a little piece of advice, the next time you offer to expand the bloodline, save it for private. I imagine the special little lady would appreciate the privacy rather than all this," he gestured to encompass the room filled with laughing Mandalorians.

Then, because the kid clearly had to win, Itzhal took another drink—a bold strategy, let's see how it plays out.

"Now, who's next?"

Tags: Aether Verd Kurayami Bloodborn Mia Monroe Xerxes Verd Maya + Open​

 

[Ivalyn Yvarro]

The Zafarīn Guard disembarked first.

They moved with deliberate precision, boots striking the platform in synchronized cadence, polished navy and obsidian armor catching the harsh industrial light of Yaga Minor's annexed facility. They did not fan out aggressively; they simply occupied space.

Then Ivalyn descended.

The Pasha followed at an unhurried pace, one gloved hand resting lightly against the railing as she stepped onto Mandalorian ground. An assistant remained at her right, murmuring briefings, protocols, command structure updates, the most recent disposition of Aether Verd and his officers.

Ivalyn listened without interruption, eyes scanning the datapad handed to her.

Aether Verd. Manda'lor the Iron, a title now proven.

Jonah. Familiar.

Adelle Bastiel.

Her gaze lingered there a fraction longer than necessary.

She exhaled softly.

It was still faintly absurd that an invitation to a Mandalorian victory celebration had reached her through a drunken Corellian uncle. The galaxy never ceased to be theatrical.

"If one desires something done," she murmured, more to herself than anyone else, "one must attend to it personally."

What she desired was not spectacle.

It was leverage.

Trade routes.

Materials.

Stability along contested corridors.

She had sent word of her arrival ahead of time, of course. Courtesy cost nothing.

Even so, she and her entourage were held upon a landing platform while word traveled inward. Aether Verd was indisposed. Bloodborn likewise.

How… efficient.

The next authority available: Aselia Verd.

A foundling runner, young, breathless, armor not yet bearing the weight of long campaigns, had been dispatched to retrieve her.

Ivalyn watched the choreography with cool interest.

This was an empire now, was it not?

Recently annexed territory or not, she would have expected a logistical corps already embedded. Supply lines, reception units, formalized diplomatic pathways.

She said nothing aloud.

Her assistant continued to fill her in on Mandalorian protocol specific to Yaga Minor, dialect preferences, territorial formalities, the appropriate degrees of familiarity.

Ivalyn inclined her head once the briefing concluded.

"Thank you," she said, smooth and even. "Return to the shuttle. Remain on standby."

The assistant withdrew at once, retreating to where additional Imperial Guards waited in disciplined silence.

Moments later, Ivalyn and her reduced cadre were escorted inward.

The interior bore the unmistakable scent of recent conflict, ozone, propellant, metal scorched and reworked in haste. It was not a ballroom. It was not a capital hall.

It was functional.

It was victorious.

It was… slightly chaotic.

She allowed herself the faintest narrowing of her gaze.

How industrious, she thought dryly. Conquer first. Organize later.

Her heels carried her around a partitioned corner, to what appeared to be an officer's bedroom. However small it was...

There she stopped.

Not abruptly.

But decisively.

Aselia Verd stood over Adelle Bastiel, hands steady as she applied a bacta patch with careful precision. The younger woman's posture was composed, disciplined.

Adelle, however, was injured.

Not gravely.

But enough.

Ivalyn's expression did not fracture. The mask of the Pasha remained immaculate.

Still.

Her gaze softened by perhaps half a degree.

Guards on either side of the threshold, as not to crowd the Pasha.

"Well," she said lightly into the charged air of the room, voice refined and measured. "I see I have arrived at a most… industrious moment."

Her eyes shifted first to Aselia, assessing rank, composure, capability.

Then to Adelle.

The faintest arch of her brow.

"Miss Bastiel," she continued smoothly, Dosuunian cadence laced with cool silk. "I do hope this is not how the Mandalorian Empire customarily receives its guests."

A pause.

Measured.

Polite.

Not entirely unserious.

Her gaze moved briefly over the makeshift medical arrangement.

"I must confess," she added with a delicate tilt of her head, tone skimming that dangerous edge between aristocratic observation and quiet critique, "I had imagined an Empire might possess rather more… robust post-engagement infrastructure."

A beat. "Perhaps I could assist your Mandalorian Empire."

There it was, just the faintest bit of dryness in her tone.

Merely… an observation.

Her eyes returned to Aselia.

"You must be Aselia Verd."

Not a question.

A recognition.

"Ivalyn Yvarro," she said, as though the introduction were simply a formality rather than a fact already circulating through half the Outer Rim. "I was invited to celebrate your victory."

A fractional glance back to Adelle.

The corner of Ivalyn's mouth shifted, not quite a smile.

"Miss Bastiel," she said smoothly, gaze drifting over the bacta patch with clinical interest, "I had hoped Mandalorian victory celebrations involved rather more champagne and rather fewer puncture wounds."

A beat.

Her eyes flicked briefly to Aselia's hands, assessing technique, pressure, efficiency.

"Though," she added lightly, "I do admire the Empire's commitment to immersive pageantry."

Her gloved fingers adjusted at her wrist, subtle, controlled.

"Do try not to expire before I have secured my trade agreements, Adelle. It would be terribly inconvenient." More of that embedded Galidraani turned Dosuunian dry humor.

Aselia Verd | Adelle Bastiel​

 

[Adelle Bastiel]

Occupied Barracks District, Vjunhollow
Tags: Aselia Verd | Ivalyn Yvarro

The door to the officer’s room slid open with a hiss. Adelle blinked, hard, just to be sure she wasn’t hallucinating from pain or a concussion but the straight-laced figure of Grand Vizier Ivalyn Yvarro did not disappear. The room chilled in an instant. Yvarro’s cool, assessing gaze flickered over her and made Adelle painfully aware just how exposed she was.

"Well," she said lightly into the charged air of the room, voice refined and measured. "I see I have arrived at a most… industrious moment."

It had been years since Adelle last felt self-conscious of her own body but now every scar felt larger and the black ink of her hip tattoo seemed darker against her pale skin. The flicker of expression in Yvarro’s face pricked Adelle’s contrarian—or Corellian—side.

"Miss Bastiel," she continued smoothly, Dosuunian cadence laced with cool silk. "I do hope this is not how the Mandalorian Empire customarily receives its guests."

“Hardly, Grand Vizier,” Adelle said dryly, every defense and wall locking into place immediately. Yvarro wasn’t catching her off-guard again.

"I must confess," she added with a delicate tilt of her head, tone skimming that dangerous edge between aristocratic observation and quiet critique, "I had imagined an Empire might possess rather more… robust post-engagement infrastructure."

It wasn’t quite a veiled insult but Adelle felt the barb all the same. It had been three, maybe four local hours since the last Diarchy vessel fled the system. Possibly five since the Diarchy fleets had fractured and started breaking. Star Corps had been contacted as soon as reports came in that Vjunhollow had fallen, their arrival from the closest Mandalorian-held system imminent, if not happening now. She’d heard rumors that Aether’s older brother—seriously how many brothers did that man have?—Xerxes Verd, Field Marshal of the Star Corps, was planetside already.

But the barest hint of slyness in Yvarro’s tone stayed Adelle’s retort.

As Yvarro turned her attention to Aselia, Adelle reached out and called her datapad to hand, since she needed to keep weight off her left leg. She looked through the Mandalorian leadership channels, noting the timing of messages from when the Mandalorian fleets first logged the hail from the Commonwealth ships, and the chain of messages trying to determine where to send this government leader in the middle of a still active warzone.

Mand’alor the Iron. Indisposed. Good for him but also grossly inconvenient.

Mia Monroe, Warmaster of the Great Heathen Army. Indisposed.

Jonah Verd, Field Marshal of the Nite Owls. Indisposed.

Xerxes Verd, Field Marshal of the Star Corps. Arrived, indisposed.

Itzhal Volkihar, Field Marshal of the Protectors. Indisposed.

Which left Aselia, as Aether’s right hand, before the planetside chain of command shifted down to Aether’s advisors—which would include her.

"Miss Bastiel," she said smoothly, gaze drifting over the bacta patch with clinical interest, "I had hoped Mandalorian victory celebrations involved rather more champagne and rather fewer puncture wounds."

A beat.

Her eyes flicked briefly to Aselia's hands, assessing technique, pressure, efficiency.

"Though," she added lightly, "I do admire the Empire's commitment to immersive pageantry."

Her gloved fingers adjusted at her wrist, subtle, controlled.

"Do try not to expire before I have secured my trade agreements, Adelle. It would be terribly inconvenient."

“Official celebrations certainly do,” Adelle answered evenly, setting the datapad aside. Her awareness sharpened at the use of her first name instead of ‘Ms. Bastiel.’

“I’ll do my best not to, but I reserve the right to continue to make—” Adelle allowed herself a sly smirk, ‘questionable life choices’ on the tip of her tongue, “—high-risk, high-reward maneuvers.”

 

[Kurayami Bloodborn]

There was the ping. It seemed that Ivalyn Yvarro had arrived finally, though she was perhaps wisely avoided the cantina. What was strange however, was the fact that he didn't get a message from her about anything. Admittedly he could go find her, it wouldn't be hard, but if she had everything under control for the time being he would leave it be. He shook his head and took a long swig from his flask, enjoying the burn of the namana nectar. The sweet helped numb the burn a bit but, it was always there no matter what.

He chuckled listening to Itzhal Volkihar and Dreidi Xeraic as they bantered back and forth. The way he reacted to Mia Monroe addressing Aether Verd was absolutely perfect. He nodded shaking his head slightly with a slight smirk as he took another long drink, waiting to see just how this all played out.

Dice total 14.

 

[Aselia Verd]

Aselia did not look up immediately when the door opened. Her attention remained on Adelle's side, steady hands finishing the placement of the bacta patch along burned and abraded skin, careful where the slug had fused fabric into flesh. The antiseptic still hung sharp in the air. She would not rush simply because someone important had arrived. She felt the shift in the room before she saw it. The temperature changed. The air tightened.

And so did Adelle.

Aselia caught it in her peripheral awareness the subtle way Adelle's shoulders squared, the way her expression smoothed into something practiced and guarded. The softness that had been there a moment ago folded away behind clean lines and Corellian steel. Walls up. Instinctively.

That, more than the Grand Vizier's entrance, irritated her.

She did not move abruptly, nor did she bristle. She rose with the same controlled deliberation she brought to everything else, and in doing so shifted just slightly so that she stood nearer to the doorway than Adelle did. It was not dramatic, not possessive, but it was unmistakably protective.

Her blue eyes lifted to Ivalyn Yvarro without hesitation.

“Grand Vizier" she said, voice calm but edged with something harder than courtesy. “You’ve arrived at a warzone that hasn’t finished bleeding yet.”

Her gaze tracked the immaculate lines of Ivalyn’s attire, the poised guards at her back, the faint arch of aristocratic critique that lingered in her expression. “Yes, our infrastructure looks rough” Aselia continued evenly. “We took the system hours ago. We prioritized securing it over polishing it.”

When Ivalyn’s attention returned to Adelle with that silk-threaded commentary about pageantry and puncture wounds, something tightened subtly in Aselia’s posture. Not anger. Not theatrics. Just a quiet drawing of a line.

“Adelle will not expire” she said, tone firm and unyielding. “And if she had, she would have done so saving lives while the Diarchy still thought this rock belonged to them.”

She did not raise her voice. She did not need to.

“You’re are welcome to celebrate with us that. If you’d like champagne, I’m sure someone can find a bottle that survived the bombardment.”

There was the faintest trace of dryness there, but it did not tip into mockery.

“You’re also welcome to discuss trade or anything else you wish to discuss. That conversation will happen. But you’ll have it with the understanding that this” her hand gestured briefly to the still-smoldering reality outside the half-broken window “is what victory looks like out here.”

Her expression did not soften, but neither did it harden further.

“We secured Yaga Minor. We held it. We’re stabilizing it. The rest will follow.”

Her gaze lingered on Ivalyn a moment longer, measuring and measured in return.

“If you’re here for leverage you’ll find we respond better to respect than commentary. That said welcome to Yaga Minor” Aselia finished evenly. “Now tell me what you actually want.”

TAG: Adelle Bastiel Ivalyn Yvarro
​

 

[Ivalyn Yvarro]

Ivalyn did not interrupt.

She listened.

Fully.

The word warzone did not unsettle her. The scent of ozone and propellant did not wrinkle her composure. If anything, something faintly evaluative moved behind her eyes, not discomfort.

Assessment.

When Aselia finished, silence settled, not awkward, but weighted.

Ivalyn inclined her head slightly. Not in submission.

In acknowledgment.

"Aselia Verd."

She allowed the name to rest there. Not hurried. Not softened. Simply placed.

"I do not require a briefing on what a warzone looks like."

Her tone held no visible edge. That was the unsettling part.

Behind her, one of the Zafarīn Guard shifted almost imperceptibly at Verd's firmness, a protective instinct responding to tone rather than threat. The faint hum of armored servos whispered through the room.

Ivalyn did not turn.

She did not even glance back.

Two fingers lifted slightly at her side.

Still.

The Guard stilled immediately.

The message had been delivered without spectacle.

Her attention returned to Verd.

"I do not mistake the scent of propellant for perfume," she continued evenly. "Nor do I confuse raw victory with incompetence."

Her gaze drifted briefly toward the fractured window, the smoke beyond it.

"You secured a system in hours. That is not disorder."

A fractional pause.

"That is discipline."

Her eyes flicked to Adelle, measuring, not alarmed, then back to Verd.

"Miss Bastiel and I are well acquainted," she said lightly. "Which is precisely why I am not particularly alarmed."

A breath.

"And why I am not inclined to dramatics."

There was a subtle tightening in the air as she stepped half a pace forward, not invading, not yielding.

Present.

"You speak of respect."

Her eyes did not waver.

"I flew to Yaga Minor personally, in the hours following your conquest."

A faint, almost imperceptible smile curved her mouth.

"That is respect."

Now her tone shifted, lower, strategic.

"You have demonstrated strength, Verd."

No title.

Just the name.

"Strength is admirable."

Her gaze swept once more across the damaged interior.

"Sustainability is rarer."

Silk.

Steel.

"If Miss Bastiel had fallen," she continued calmly, "I would not have questioned her courage."

A beat.

"I am not here to critique your victory."

Her hands folded neatly before her.

"I am here to ensure it becomes profitable."

There it was.

The shift.

"I have capital," she said plainly. "Investment. Industrial capacity. Logistics capable of stabilizing newly acquired systems within months rather than years."

Her gaze sharpened, not cold, but precise.

"You have secured Yaga Minor."

A small nod.

"You will stabilize it."

Another breath.

"I can make that stabilization lucrative."

Her eyes held Verd's.

"You asked what I want."

A quiet pause.

"I want a Mandalorian Empire that thrives long enough to remain worth negotiating with."

No condescension.

No flourish.

Just fact.

"And I would prefer," she added lightly, that faint Dosuunian dryness threading through the words, "not to negotiate over the sound of emergency triage alarms."

The ghost of humor.

Then stillness.

She did not glance to her guards.

She did not shift her weight.

She simply waited.

Ivalyn's gaze shifted, deliberately, away from Verd.

"Miss Bastiel."

Her tone softened by a degree. Not intimate. Not warm. But familiar.

"When you have secured proper medical coverage," she continued smoothly, "I would appreciate a conversation."

A fractional pause.

"One conducted without distraction."

It was not said sharply.

That made it worse.

Her eyes lingered on Adelle, not challenging, not pleading.

Selecting.

"If you and your Mand'alor intend to entertain my investments," she added lightly, "I prefer to negotiate with those who understand both steel and sustainability."

The faintest arch of her brow.

"And you, Miss Bastiel, understand both."

Only then did her gaze drift, almost lazily, back toward Verd.

No hostility.

No apology.

Simply acknowledgment.

"Of course," she finished evenly, "when you are ready."

And she stepped back half a pace, as though she had merely inquired about the weather.

Aselia Verd | Adelle Bastiel ​

 

[Adelle Bastiel]

Occupied Barracks District
Tags: Aselia Verd | Ivalyn Yvarro

Perhaps more surprising than the sudden appearance of Ivalyn Yvarro—seriously, who the hells invited her—was the protective stance Aselia took. Granted, Adelle had become guarded the moment she saw the Grand Vizier but she had personal reasons for it. Maybe Aselia was trying to obscure Adelle’s exposure from view of the dignitary and her personal guard.

Adelle half-listened to the conversation as she started rapidly sending out messages, using her new field promotion to envoy to leverage whatever she could. A better meeting room, one that had been untouched by the fighting, clean furniture, whatever wine or champagne the broken bar still had, arrangements for food to be brought. There was no trouble at all, which somehow still surprised Adelle, even though she knew she now had pull in the Empire for some reason.

Her head snapped up when Aselia said “Now tell me what you really want.”

Shab.

“Udesii, vod,” Adelle said quietly to Aselia. "Dar’sol’akaan, a’vor entye."

Adelle typed up one final message, even as her ears burned with Yvarro’s calm and ironclad reply. Her eyes flicked up from the screen when motion came from one of Yvarro’s personal guards. And caught the lift of two fingers that stayed a fight. Adelle took a deep breath that strained against the fresh bacta patch. Whills help her, she was going to have to throw herself into the middle of this before it devolved further.

<:Can you bring my duffel with my clothes to Building 302, second floor, officer’s room in the northwest corner please? Urgent. Oh, and an ankle brace, thanks. :> Adelle sent the message to a trusted friend among the medics, Eenia Vahn. She was a Healer, she was professional, and the only reason she’d bat an eye would be because Adelle was visibly injured. Nia would absolutely deliver her duffel with spare clothes.

“You have demonstrated strength, Verd.”

Ah osik. Based on the very few interactions she'd had, Yvarro chose her words carefully and the inclusion, or exclusion in this case, of titles or means of address meant a lot.

“Strength is admirable. Sustainability is rarer. If Miss Bastiel had fallen, I would not have questioned her courage.”

Oh so now they were back to last names again. Good, that was safer, neutral territory.

“I am not here to critique your victory. I am here to ensure it becomes profitable. I have capital. Investment. Industrial capacity. Logistics capable of stabilizing newly acquired systems within months rather than years. You have secured Yaga Minor. You will stabilize it. I can make that stabilization lucrative. You asked what I want.”

Adelle used the Force to pull her utility belt to her and opened a specific pouch, and grabbed a bottle from it. She shook out two analgesic pills and popped them into her mouth, swallowing them dry. This had rapidly become a headache.

"I want a Mandalorian Empire that thrives long enough to remain worth negotiating with. And I would prefer," she added lightly, that faint Dosuunian dryness threading through the words, "not to negotiate over the sound of emergency triage alarms."

There was a subtle dryness to the tone of the additional comment that signified a shift away from the very precise language being used. The growing strain she had felt throughout the conversation eased a touch.

"Miss Bastiel."

Adelle met her gaze directly, mismatched eyes alert and observant. There was a request coming, she just knew it.

"When you have secured proper medical coverage," she continued smoothly, "I would appreciate a conversation." A fractional pause. "One conducted without distraction."

She kept her face composed but she absolutely caught the implication behind that last sentence. And it was the strength of her Jedi training alone that kept the flush off her face. This was absolutely not anything remotely like what that word choice hinted at. Aselia was Aether’s right hand and had been her sister-in-arms earlier that day. This was triage, a friend helping administer aid.

What in the fething Nine Hells did Yvarro mean by calling it 'distraction.'

"If you and your Mand'alor intend to entertain my investments," she added lightly, "I prefer to negotiate with those who understand both steel and sustainability." The faintest arch of her brow. "And you, Miss Bastiel, understand both."

Feth.

"Of course, when you are ready."

“Arrangements have been made for a proper reception,” Adelle said evenly, electing to ignore the earlier implication of Aselia being a distraction. Her datapad chimed, and a glance gave her an ETA. “If you’ll permit me ten local minutes, I can show you a more deliberate Mandalorian celebration and we can have that conversation.”

Adelle leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, and clasped her hands in front of her mouth.

“Gedet’ye," she said quietly, angling her head toward Aselia. “Gedet’ye, vod, ne gotal’ur ibic maje aarayc.”

 

[Dreidi Xeraic]

​

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

Hearing the Manda'lor's first statement caused the witch to chuckle and shake her head. "What a curious thing to confess so openly." The witch teased as she poured herself a very large shot. Holding it up and cheering to the group, suggesting that she was going to be drinking the beverage. That she was confessing to the statement. But as the cup moved closer to her lips, there was a pause before she downed the shot. "Hmmm, seems it was not a statement that would get everyone in this room."

Placing the cup back on the table. She had not kissed a woman. Her finger idly caressing the rim of her cup as her mischievous gaze only grew bolder. If the leader of this group was going to play things that way then Dreidi was going to ensure that she would get him drinking every statement that she had the chance to give.

Starting with the most deadliest first one. "Never have I ever worn beskar." Dreidi laughed as she knew that every Mandalorian in the room was going to have to drink. The metal was most synonymous with the group so it would be highly surprising if any of them had never worn any beskar, whether it was partial armour or full armour set.

 

[Aselia Verd]

Aselia noticed the guard's shift before she consciously processed it. The faint mechanical whisper beneath armor, the subtle redistribution of weight, the kind of instinctive adjustment that preceded escalation. Her own posture answered in quiet reflex, shoulders settling, presence firming without overt aggression. She did not step forward, but she did not yield ground either.

Then Ivalyn's fingers lifted slightly at her side.

Two. Still.

The guard obeyed immediately.

When the word distraction entered the room, Aselia understood the implication without needing it spelled out. The Grand Vizier's gaze had not strayed to the fractured window or the scent of antiseptic in the air. It had rested, briefly but deliberately, on her. The meaning was clear enough. For a measured heartbeat something sharp flared in her core, the urge to correct but before her mouth could move, Adelle moved first.

Arrangements made. Ten minutes.

The shift in her was unmistakable. The wounded soldier receded and the envoy stood in her place, walls rising clean and deliberate. Aselia recognized it for what it was. This was no longer a private moment of triage. It was negotiation.

She reached for her gauntlets where they lay on the table beside the neatly arranged armor plates. The motion was steady and unhurried, metal sliding back into place over her forearms with soft, familiar clicks as she sealed the clasps. It was practical. Necessary. It also created distance.

Her helmet rested beside them, the dark visor catching fractured light from the broken window. She lifted it and lowered it over her head. The seals hissed softly as it locked into place, the filtered air cooling her skin, the world narrowing behind tint. It was not retreat. It was control.

From behind the visor, her voice emerged level and composed.

"You will have your meeting" she said evenly, directing the words toward Ivalyn without challenge or deference. "And you will have it properly."

Her helmet inclined slightly toward Adelle.

"I'll leave our guest in your capable hands."

There was no edge in the phrasing, no trace of concession. Only confidence.

"If I'm needed" she added, and though the room heard it, the assurance was meant for one person alone, "call."

She stepped back from the bedside, creating space deliberately rather than abruptly. The tension in the room did not spike. It settled.

"I'd better check on our operations. It would seem, leadership is otherwise engaged." she continued, tone pragmatic and steady. "Victory still needs managing."

The statement carried weight without theatrics. There were ships to account for, prisoners to process, supply lines to secure. It was not an excuse. It was fact.

Then she turned and walked from the room without haste, passing the guards without brushing them, without acknowledging the choreography that had unfolded moments before. Armor sealed, expression hidden, composure intact, she removed herself from the board not because she had been displaced, but because she chose the stronger position.

And she left the negotiation exactly where it belonged with Adelle.

TAG: Adelle Bastiel Ivalyn Yvarro
​

 

[Ivalyn Yvarro]

Ivalyn watched the choreography without appearing to. The way Aselia slid her gauntlets back on, the helmet lowering, the hiss of seals. She understood perfectly what it had been, control, not retreat. For her part, the Pasha's expression did not change. Although something faint and almost satisfied moved behind her eyes. Aselia Verd had chosen position over posturing.

Good.

When the helmeted voice emerged to the effect of having a proper meeting. Ivalyn inclined her head a fraction, "of course." No correction or rank, nor any sting. Just the simple agreement, as it was no longer a matter of irritation it was about outcome. Her gaze followed Aselia's exit for precisely the amount of time required to acknowledge strength without chasing it.

Ivalyn turned back to Adelle. This time the mask shifted almost imperceptibly. The aristocratic dryness softened into something sharper, more precise. Behind her, the Zafarīn Guard remained statuesque, but the tension had fully dissipated. The moment of near-escalation had passed, and Ivalyn had not so much as raised her voice to contain it. "Ten minutes." She repeated lightly, her eyes flicked to the datapad in Adele's hand, the analgesics, the forced steadiness.

She stepped aside, not out of submission, but to signal that she would allow the Mandalorian envoy to lead this next movement. "I appreciate the efficiency." She added, a subtle glance toward the fractured window, "and I appreciate leaders who understand when a battlefield becomes a boardroom."

Ivalyn's hands folded neatly before her, "your empire has secured Yaga Minor, cut the Diarchy in half so it seems." Facts came forth from the Pasha, her next line landed gently, but heavy with meaning. "I look forward to seeing how Mandalore intends to secure the decade."

A faint, ghost of a smile curved her mouth.

"Do take your ten minutes, Miss Bastiel."

There was no impatience in the tone. Only expectation. The room would be ready. The conversation would proceed. The Mandalorians would present something worthy of negotiation.

Ivalyn did not sit.

She remained standing, hands folded loosely before her, posture impeccable, as though the fractured walls and lingering scent of antiseptic were merely inconvenient décor rather than evidence of fresh conquest.

Behind her, the Zafarīn Guard maintained their disciplined formation, statues in navy and obsidian. But a subtle shift passed through them as two of her own stepped forward from the contingent.

They approached without haste, without spectacle.

One inclined slightly at the waist and leaned just close enough for his voice to remain contained.

"Pashá, oi epicheiríseis sas é̱choun archísei."

Ivalyn did not startle. She did not glance around.

She responded as though she had expected the timing to the minute.

"Kalá. Enimé̱ro̱sé me ótan i̱ Hyperpýli eínai asfalís. Thélo plí̱ri anaforá apó tous Michanikoús mas."

Her tone remained level, unhurried , as though the securing of hypergates and engineering reports were no more dramatic than ordering tea.

She held the man for a moment longer, her fingers brushing his forearm, not affection, not intimacy.

Authority.

"Aposteílate mínyma pros Dromuund Kaas, Kórriban kai Brosi."

A fractional pause, measured.

"Zíto oi Ieroí Kósmoi."

The words carried weight far beyond the walls of the damaged chamber.

When she released him, he bowed with one hand closed into a fist over his heart.

"Vevaí̱os, Pashá. Katá to thélima sas."

He withdrew.

The exchange had lasted less than thirty seconds.

To anyone unfamiliar with Dosuunai cadence, it might have sounded like routine military dispatch. But those who understood the structure of empire would recognize the implications. Operations were already underway. Hyperlane corridors were being secured. Messages were moving toward worlds that carried ancient weight.

And she was conducting it all while waiting for a Mandalorian envoy to change her boots.

Ivalyn's gaze returned forward as though nothing of consequence had occurred.

Whilst she waited, it had been not been lost on Ivalyn the conversation Ms. Bastiel had had with the... what was it? Commander? Aselia Verd, nonetheless and the nature and tone in which it took. She had made an internal note of it, something to file away for another time.

Adelle Bastiel | Aselia Verd ​

 

[Maya]

And so it continues…

Maya watched as one of the others, a beautiful woman, picked up her glass. At first, Maya raised an eyebrow, though it was not unheard of for a woman to have kissed another woman. Maya recalled having seen an exchange of similar actions once before. It had been on one of her missions working under the Nite Owls. She had seen a woman get dangerously close to another, though one could argue that no boundaries were crossed.

And so she wouldn’t be one to judge.

However, when the woman se her glass down without taking a sip, Maya gave a little scoff. Were such theatrics necessary, she wondered. This was a woman perhaps seasoned in such manners, that much was apparent. Somewhere in the deepest parts of her heart, Maya didn’t appreciate this, though she presumed she was alone in this sentiment.

"Never have I ever worn beskar."

When the same woman continued the game, Maya gave a more genuine smile, listening to her words. She doubted anyone wouldn’t drink to this one…she mused, picking up her own glass quietly. Her lips touched the rim of her cup and with one fluid motion, she allowed the contents to travel down her throat and into her body. She loved drinking; the silky smooth liquid was like a double-edged sword.

Cold to the tongue that burned the farther it travelled.

Glancing at Aether, she was rather jealous that he seemed to be having quite a bit of fun, the alcohol having visibly hit him. She couldn’t imagine what being drunk felt like. In Maya’s line of work, being truly intoxicated was almost criminal, for it meant she would lose control of her thoughts, movements and perhaps the most deadly; her words. As a spy skilled at infiltration, she had grown a remarkable tolerance to alcohol, only allowing her to ‘be calculated drunk’. Would tonight be the first time she could experience alcohol for its true potential? Or would she leave this place with the same disappointment and frustration she carried with her coming in?​

Dreidi Xeraic Aether Verd Xerxes Verd Kurayami Bloodborn Itzhal Volkihar Mia Monroe​

 

[Jonah]

Jonah’s mouth curved into a knowing smirk when she winked at him, the firelight catching in his eyes as he regarded her with open approval.

“You’re spot on, actually.” he said, voice low with quiet pride. “Let's just say that my mother raised me right.”

There was no irony in it, only certainty. Whatever else the galaxy had forged him into, that foundation remained unshaken.

He followed her across the courtyard as she claimed a pair of upturned crates, the sounds of laughter and clattering tankards rising and falling around them like a distant tide. He set his bowl down with care, then accepted the bread roll she offered, their fingers brushing only briefly before he tore off a piece and dipped it into the stew without hesitation.

Steam rose between them, fragrant and grounding.

When she admitted she had not eaten the day before, Jonah froze mid motion. His eyes widened slightly, the spoon hovering over his bowl as he stared at her.

“You did all that on an empty stomach?” he asked, the surprise plain and unfiltered.

For a moment his expression shifted, concern threading through the admiration that followed close behind. He had watched her slice into a fortified network under fire, had seen her steady hands in a corridor that threatened to swallow her whole. The revelation reframed it all. A slow exhale left him as he shook his head faintly, then he lifted his spoon and pointed it toward her in emphasis.

“Remind me...” he said, tone settling into something firm but not unkind, “whenever you finish a mission.”

He took a bite of his own stew before continuing.

“I’ll have something edible waiting for you.”

It was a promise delivered as casually as if it had always existed between them.

Tag: Tessa Thayne

 

[Adelle Bastiel]

Occupied Barracks District, Vjunhollow
Tags: Ivalyn Yvarro || Mentioned: Aselia Verd | Eenia Vahn

Adelle watched Aselia in her peripheral vision, the gauntlets and vambraces pulled back on, the hiss of seals as the buy’ce clicked back into place. The armor went on and distance returned. Necessary distance. She was an envoy now, albeit officially to the High Republic. The Grand Vizier was a visiting dignitary. This was a matter of ambassadorship.

She hated it.

Hated that she couldn’t rest for the night. Hated that she couldn’t hang out with a friend and someone she’d fought alongside. Hated how isolated and alone she felt again. For one brief moment, the officer’s quarters had felt like her home on Dantooine. Improvised, unvarnished, unglamorous.

Honest, safe, warm.

“If I’m needed, call.”

Only then did Adelle turn her head towards Aselia and nod acknowledgement. Aselia left the room, professionally calm and sure she made the right play. Adelle agreed that it had been the right move and it seemed to ease the remaining tension from the room when she left.

Still.

She respected the woman and it didn’t sit well that this was how they parted.

She stepped aside, not out of submission, but to signal that she would allow the Mandalorian envoy to lead this next movement. "I appreciate the efficiency." She added, a subtle glance toward the fractured window, "and I appreciate leaders who understand when a battlefield becomes a boardroom."

Ivalyn's hands folded neatly before her, "your empire has secured Yaga Minor, cut the Diarchy in half so it seems." Facts came forth from the Pasha, her next line landed gently, but heavy with meaning. "I look forward to seeing how Mandalore intends to secure the decade."

A faint, ghost of a smile curved her mouth.

"Do take your ten minutes, Miss Bastiel."

“Thank you for your patience, Grand Vizier,” Adelle said.

Yvarro decided to wait inside the room. Alright, that was fine. Adelle still needed to check her boots and then her armorweave bodysuit, especially after the slugs tore through it. Movement by the door caught her eye and she looked, hoping it was Nia with her duffel bag. It was just some of Yvarro’s personal guards, leaning in to speak quietly with her. Adelle finished repacking her field kit, watching out of the corner of her eye. She didn’t understand the language but body language could be interpreted. Stillness. Deliberate motion. Fingers on an arm to delay. A brief pause and a salute. Adelle filed it away to analyze later and picked up her greaves and armored boots to inspect for damage.

No sooner had the guards finished speaking than there was a startled gasp outside in the hall. Adelle recognized Nia’s presence in the Force. She had forgotten that someone like Yvarro would travel with a small group of bodyguards and that the two inside were just two of several. A warning should have been sent to Nia.

“It’s fine, Nia, come on in please,” Adelle said, setting down the armor with more care than earlier.

The blonde healer appeared in the doorway, the strap of the duffel slung over one shoulder. Her usual robes were coated in dust and blood from working in her assigned med-station. Eenia’s usually bright aqua eyes were shadowed and lined. She’d been working in the med-stations all day. Had probably still been working when Adelle sent her message.

Eenia nearly startled at seeing Yvarro standing off to the side, questions forming on her face.

“Who are all these—” She stopped short when she saw the bacta patches on Adelle. Ah, kriff, she'd forgotten. Adelle heaved a sigh and braced herself.

“Why—”

Here we go.

“—are you not getting triaged in a med-station?” Eenia asked sharply. What followed was less of a lecture and more of a very one-sided interrogation. Adelle tried twice to interrupt the Healer's aggressive hovering so that she could put on the brace and get her fething clothes on. The third time she had to use the Force to give her voice unnatural clarity in order to finally snap Eenia out of her professional takedown.

“Eenia. Did you bring the items I requested?”

There was a sharp point at the duffel bag Eenia had deposited by the bed and she yanked an ankle brace—more like a compression sock—out of a pouch at her side. Adelle reached for the brace but Nia held it out of easy reach, a stern and tense look on her face. Adelle gave her an annoyed look and held out her hand. She was not about to make this any less professional than it had already devolved into.

“The brace, please,” Adelle said, dangerously quiet. She could feel her patience slipping.

“Only if you agree to be properly triaged when whatever this is,” Eenia said as she waved a hand at the guards, “finishes.”

In hindsight, she should have known better. She should have known better than to call Nia to bring her clothes—Nia had always been like this. Adelle gave her a hard stare but really only had herself to blame for this awkwardness.

“Fine,” she said, taking a steadying breath. Let the Healer do her work, that was the professional thing to do. Adelle, however, got the distinct feeling it was giving Yvarro ammunition.

“Which foot?” Nia asked.

Adelle released the breath she just took in a strained sigh before using the Force to pull her duffel bag onto the bed. “Left.”

She pulled her navy tunic on while Nia strapped the brace over the swollen ankle with some sharp words about the injury on her calf. Her initial “What the hell did you do?” was quickly followed by a “Never mind, I know you, I don’t want to know.” The Healer left with a terse reminder to go to a med-station for proper triage later and one last curious glance at the Grand Vizier. Adelle finished dressing and carefully pulled on socks and boots over the now-braced ankle, testing weight before pushing herself to standing.

Simple longsleeve tunic, straight black trousers, sensible boots. It wasn’t anything anyone would receive dignitaries in. Then again, she hadn’t expected to be made an envoy earlier that day, much less meeting with fething Ivalyn Yvarro.

Her datapad chimed again, a message letting her know they had found and cleaned a room matching the specifications she requested. She memorized the route to the room’s location. The food and alcohol was actively being prepared. Adelle checked the timing—the encounter with Nia had taken longer than she’d liked but they were hovering around the six minute mark. Underpromise, over-deliver. At least she had that going for her.

Adelle shifted her weight, still feeling out how well her ankle could hold up in the brace.

“The room is ready, Grand Vizier,” she said, “and refreshments are on their way. If you would please follow me.”

She led the way out of the room with only a slight limp.

 

[Tessa Thayne]

Tess looked up from her bowl briefly, pausing as she caught the shock on his face at her revelation, she smiled, that was twice in one night she’d caught him by surprise.She nodded turning her attention back to her stew. “I’m not normally running missions where I’m responsible for anything other than cargo and my own skin.” She admitted between mouthfuls.

“Give me that mission again, but put a few boxes and just me in the Relentless, I would have snacked the entire flight.” She shook her head. “Something about other people’s lives in my hands made it impossible to put anything in my stomach besides ne’tra ga, and believe me, I tried."

She straightened, her empty spoon gesturing, “Plus, if shit had gone sideways and I’d lost the Relentless?!” she sounded more horrified about that prospect than anything else. “That old girl has been my home for a little over a decade. It’d be like…” she wrinkled her nose trying to find a metaphor that might fit. “I dunno, losing a limb or something.”

She gave a small shrug. “There was a lot riding on it.”

Tess tore another piece of bread off, dunking it in the spice rich sauce. “I will absolutely take you up on that offer though.” Bright blue eyes lifted back up to look at him. “Good food and good company? What more can a girl want?” She popped the morsel into her mouth, smirking.

Jonah

 

[Jonah]

Jonah listened without interruption as she spoke, as the smuggler peeled back the curtain of her world just enough to let him see the machinery beneath. He dipped his spoon into the stew and brought it to his mouth, savoring the warmth and the layered spice. It grounded him. It reminded him that they were alive, that the battle had ended, that this was real and not another simulation flickering across a tactical display.

When she finished, he gave a quiet chuckle and gestured toward her with the spoon again, not accusatory, just acknowledging.

“That makes perfect sense, actually.” he said evenly. “Having lives hang in the balance will ruin anyone’s appetite.”

His gaze drifted briefly toward the surrounding fires, where warriors laughed and tore into meat as though the day had cost them nothing.

“I don’t know how my brother does it...” he continued, a faint shake of his head accompanying the words. “Aether can scarf down half a cow and conquer a planet without blinking. He makes it look so easy.”

Jonah’s expression shifted, less amused now, more reflective.

“Me?" he added, voice lowering slightly, “If lives are riding on my call, I can force a ration bar down for the calories and call it a day.”

He let that sit between them for a moment before speaking again, quieter still.

“That’s why I prefer working alone.” he said. “Risking my own ass is fine. Risking someone else’s is not.”

His spoon traced a slow circle through the stew before he continued.

“That's why...I’ve been thinking about stepping aside as Warmaster of the Nite Owls. The war with the Diarchy took good Mandalorians. Men and women I sent behind enemy lines so we could stay ahead of the fight. There were moments I had to decide who lived and who died..."

He exhaled through his nose, the sound restrained but heavy with memory.

“It’s a nasty spot of business, choosing which of your own might not come back. I don’t know if I’m built to carry that forever.”

Silence lingered only briefly before he looked back at her, the intensity easing.

“I can’t imagine losing a part of myself.” he said, nodding once when she spoke of the Relentless. “So I get it. A ship like that, a home like that, it’s not just metal and circuits.” A small chuckle returned, softer this time.

“You’re fine company yourself.” he added. “And I’ll make sure the meal waiting for you next time is good enough to share.”

He leaned back slightly on the crate, spoon resting against the rim of his bowl as he studied her with open curiosity.

“Any favorites I should keep an eye out for?”

Tag: Tessa Thayne

 

[Tessa Thayne]

Tessa’s attention shifted fully to him as his tone shifted before his expression did, her spoon resting against the bowl’s edge as she listened not wanting to interrupt his reflection, his words weighing heavy on her. She didn’t even know the names of those who had fallen, she’d been so far removed for so long.

“I couldn’t do it.” she admitted quietly, “Deciding who lives and who dies?” she shook her head. “The compartmentalisation required for that is damaging, not just to yourself, but to the people you hold close. I watched my mother lose pieces of herself doing it.”

She paused, idly stirring the stew, her gaze drifting outwards. “I still see it, but she’s been doing it so long I don't think she knows how to do anything else.” A sad smile brushed her features before she sighed and looked back at him. “Sometimes, you have to do what's right by you, if stepping down feels right then you should. There’s no shame in protecting yourself, Jonah.”

She chuckled at his compliment, spooning another mouthful, smiling as she chewed, relishing the heat the spices left on her tongue for a moment as she contemplated his question, acutely aware of how he was studying her. Something fluttered in her stomach as she met his gaze again.

“I like hearty foods. Stews, casseroles, ramen. Things that take time to make, because it's more than just food when someone puts that much care into creating it.” Her head tipped sideways, a grin creeping across her face. “That said, if you put a bantha burger and fries in front of me after a long fething day, I’ll be putty in your hands.”

Tess set the spoon back into the bowl, tearing at her bread again with both hands. “What about you?”

Jonah

 

[Mia Monroe]

Drink total: 12

Maya Dreidi Xeraic Kurayami Bloodborn Itzhal Volkihar Aether Verd Xerxes Verd

Mia shook her head lifting her eyes to the ceiling when Xerxes addressed her, an amused smile still settled on her face. “Wayii, Manda bruk ni teh mies adiik.” she muttered with a sigh, drinking deep and shaking her head as she looked back at him.

“I’m not interested. I wasn’t then and I’m definitely not now. You’re all mini Isley’s and that, for me, is terrifying, so I’m good.”

She took another drink, reaching a sympathetic hand to pat Aether’s shoulder.

A collective groan went up from the bar as the witch Dreidi made her contribution to the game, Mia tipped her drink to her in salute for a good move before taking a sip. A game that was normally used to learn more about the crowd around you was rapidly becoming targeted to ensure everyone left drunk.

So be it.

“Never have I ever won a war.”

There was ripple of cheer before the bar drank.

 

[Niijima Izumi]

Izumi listened without interruption.

She did not rush to soften Kirae's words, nor did she flinch from them. The cantina roared again behind them, someone howling with laughter at a detail that would grow more embellished with every retelling. The sound felt distant somehow, as if it belonged to another building entirely.

Kirae's voice did not.

There was no performance in it. No attempt to sound hardened or tragic. Just fatigue shaped into honesty.

When Kirae took the flask, Izumi's fingers loosened without hesitation. She watched the Mandalorian drink, not in scrutiny but in quiet attention. The sake was not meant for swigs, yet she said nothing about that either. There were moments when etiquette mattered, and moments when it did not. This was the latter.

"You mistake yourself for a storm," Izumi said after a while, her tone calm and even. "As if your presence alone bends the course of battle."

She accepted the flask when it was returned, pouring a measured amount back into her small ceramic cup before continuing.

"Men die in war because war demands it. Not because you stood too near."

Her gaze drifted briefly to Kirae's gauntleted hand, to the way it traced the metal as though searching for something solid to anchor to.

"You believe that if you step onto a battlefield, the outcome worsens. That your judgment falters. That others pay for it." She paused, weighing the next words carefully. "That is not a curse. That is memory."

The firelight flickered across her features, softening the sharpness of her expression.

"You remember every mistake. You carry them forward. Most soldiers bury theirs beneath pride. Or noise." Her eyes flicked briefly toward the celebration behind them before returning. "You do neither."

Izumi took a slow sip, letting the warmth settle before she spoke again.

"You ask whether this is spectacle or massacre painted beautifully. It is both. It always is. History prefers beautiful language. The dead do not care what we call it."

There was no bitterness in her voice. Only quiet acceptance.

"But refusing to cheer does not make you fragile."

She studied Kirae for a long moment, something thoughtful passing through her gaze.

"You speak as though you are a brute in a glass store. As though your convictions are too heavy for the people around you." A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. "And yet you were not at the front today because you feared harming them." Her head tilted slightly.
"That is not the instinct of a brute."

The noise swelled again, then faded into the background hum of revelry. Izumi set her cup down gently against the counter.

"You are not breaking them," she said, softer now. "You are afraid of being the reason they break."

A subtle distinction. An important one.

"At the ryokan, you held your cup like it might crack if you gripped it too tightly." Her gaze lowered briefly to Kirae's hands again. "You are careful. Almost painfully so."

She leaned back slightly, posture relaxed despite the ruin around them.


"If you truly brought only suffering, you would not question it. You would not step away from the front lines out of caution. You would chase them."

Her eyes met Kirae's fully now.

"The fact that you do not celebrate death does not make you ill suited for war. It may simply mean you understand its cost."

She lifted her cup once more, but did not drink yet.

"And if you are fragile," she added quietly, "then you are fragile in the way tempered steel is fragile. It bends only so far before it refuses. That is not weakness. That is structure."

The cup touched her lips at last, her gaze never fully leaving Kirae.

"You are allowed to exist without being the weapon," she said. "Even if others expect you to be one."


​

Kirae Orade​