"The lie must be elegant."
[NJO] The Shattered Acord | Kindling
"Peace is a fragile flame. When war returns, the Jedi walk the fireline."
"Peace is a fragile flame. When war returns, the Jedi walk the fireline."
Vicondor bleeds again.
Once a quiet world of verdant plains and old Force traditions, Vicondor had no place in the great games of galactic power. It was neutral. Unimportant. Safe.
Until it wasn't.
The flames of civil war nearly consumed it. The Jedi came—not as warriors, but as mediators, guardians, healers. A fragile accord was struck. For a time, the guns fell silent. For a time, the people believed peace had returned.
But peace was only the surface. Now, old fires burn beneath the soil.
Settlements once protected by Jedi are in ruins. Force enclaves vanish without word. Mercenaries roam unchecked, bound to no cause but blood and credits. Whispers in the dark speak of something else—something ancient stirring in Vicondor's forgotten corners.
The Jedi return, not to make peace... but to hold the line.
The skies over Southern Vicondor were choked in grey.
Heavy clouds pressed low over the valleys and broken hills, casting a dim pall over the once-vibrant forests and fields. Smoke drifted lazily from shattered settlements, scattered like bones across the land. From the highland plateaus to the rivers that once fed the fertile plains, the world bore the scars of a war that had supposedly ended.
Supposedly.
The ceasefire was already crumbling. The ink on the treaty barely dry. And now the galaxy's oldest protectors—the Jedi—had been called back once more, not as mediators, but as shields against a fire reigniting in the dark.
You were among them.
Word had come from the outposts first: strange raids against Force enclaves, sudden disappearances, entire convoys swallowed by silence. Fear gnawed at the edges of every settlement, growing louder by the day. Something was moving behind the scenes—something more than simple banditry or broken promises.
Two missions were drawn from the chaos.
Two paths into the unknown.
Strike Team Orders — North
Valery Noble
Kahlil Noble
Caelan Valoren
Drystan Creed
The gunship shuddered as it pierced the mist.
Above, only roiling clouds. Below, the skeletal remains of the highlands — a country of sharp ridges, broken stone bridges, and forests blackened by old fires. The ruined enclave lay hidden somewhere beneath that mist, half-swallowed by the folds of the mountain.
Through the viewport, you could see it: a shattered structure crouched against a cliff face, its towers broken like snapped bones. No lights. No movement. The wind howled through the ruins, carrying with it the faint smell of ash and something older—stone dust mixed with the coppery bite of blood.
The gunship touched down hard in a clearing just beyond the ruins. The pilot's voice crackled over the comms:
"No signals coming out of there. No signs of life either. We're pulling back to orbit—can't risk losing another ship. You're on your own now. May the Force guide you."
The hatch dropped open with a hiss, spilling you into the cold, thin air. Your boots sank slightly into mud streaked with ash.
Ahead, the ruins waited.
Silent. Watching.
Somewhere within, the answers you sought—or the enemy you feared—was already moving.
> Objective:
An old enclave in the northern mountains, known for housing scholars and Force sensitives, had gone dark. No distress signal. No survivors. Scattered mercenary activity was reported in the region, but local intelligence was incomplete—and the terrain made mass deployments impossible.
It is somehow worryingly untouched by the violence to the South.
A handpicked Jedi strike team would go in first:
Investigate the ruins of the enclave, recover survivors if any remain, identify the attackers and their motives, pursue any leads pointing to deeper threats.
This was not a mission for negotiation. It was a mission for clarity—and for action.
You are the blade in the mist. Find the truth before it slips further into shadow.
Main Jedi Group Orders — South
Anthony Gray Sun
Phoebe Winsloe
Reina Daival
Mykel Dawson
Jin Kimura
Tel Ahren
Dezorath Barcu
[OPEN]The refugee convoy stretched like a wounded animal across the broken road.
Rusting speeders groaned under the weight of families packed into every corner. Wagons pulled by weary beasts creaked and swayed. Civilians huddled together against the chill wind—dozens of faces looking to you, their would-be guardians, with a mixture of hope and silent dread.
The fortified camp was still a day's hard travel away through rough territory. Mercenary patrols had been spotted along the ridges; insurgent groups had already attacked smaller caravans trying to flee.
As your shuttle set down beside the convoy, the landscape unfolded before you: rolling hills flattened by long-ago battles, fields riddled with abandoned trenches and half-buried weapons. Every hill could hide an ambush. Every shadow could birth an attack.
A grizzled local leader—tall, cloaked in worn armor—approached quickly, bowing stiffly.
"We're glad you're here. Too many have already fallen. If you can get us through the Hollow Pass ahead… maybe we'll live to see another day."
Somewhere far to the north, you could just barely hear thunder—or something deeper. Something older.
> Objective:
Meanwhile, the southern refugee corridors had begun to collapse. A caravan carrying hundreds of displaced civilians was moving from the embattled lowlands toward one of the last fortified camps. Their route cut through contested zones, rife with rogue militias, embittered secessionists, and mercenary raiders.
The main Jedi force would rally there:
Secure and defend the refugee convoy, escort civilians to the safety of the fortified camp, repel any threats with minimal bloodshed, if possible, gather intelligence on enemy movements along the route.
These civilians were not warriors. They were farmers, artisans, children, and scholars—symbols of what peace had briefly promised. You are their hope. Stand the line.
Images for the needy:
OBJ 1: https://ibb.co/XZ0Qxr7K | OBJ 2: https://ibb.co/VYJCZy2J
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