Public Onderon: The Day of the Fallen Leaves

[Rann Thress]

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TAGS: Open!

Onderon never changes.​

Doesn’t matter what flag flies in town square, doesn’t matter what nations threaten to engulf the planet, doesn’t matter who the people call their Monarch. The rebellious spirit of Onderon, the people, the culture, the city never changes.

And that spirit was on full display today.

The Day of the Fallen Leaves, a thousands upon thousands of years old Onderonian tradition that was founded when they cast off the Mandalorians during the times of the Old Republic. A holiday that symbolized the end of Onderon’s oppression. One that, given the proximity of a new Mandalorian Crusade and Mandalorians being spotted on the Dxun moon, really garnered a new sense of appreciation from the people.

In the city of Iziz, the people danced and music blared. While you had your club-like dancing, in designated areas of the festival a more mosh-like style of dance was quickly gaining traction, as the music became louder.
Onderon exists as a challenge, an invitation. It wasn’t too long ago the streets of Iziz saw Imperial banners flying in the streets and firing squads shooting down civilians as a demonstration. Onderon celebrated The Day Of The Fallen Leaves when they left.
That was a party Rann remembered fondly. One he went to with his son who fought for Onderons freedom. As the damage was repaired, the dead counted and buried, Onderonians celebrated their freedom again. It was more of a jovial affair. One that saw a clan of friendly Mandalorians led by Jenn Kryze take up arms to help. defend the planet. Strange bedfellows, Mandalorians and Onderonians.

As Rann sat at a bar, thinking about the recent developments and watching as the people slowly began to be absorbed into this special occasion, he smiled, downing his drink and asking for another. The energy was infectious. The people had smiles, the people were happy.

“Another,” Rann ordered, setting his now empty glass down, and grabbing it again as the bartender filled it, drinking it steadily as he continued to observe the festival.

“One for the history books, huh?” A drunken bystander asked, bumping into Rann. Rann turned to him, threw his arm over the man, and clinked glasses together, “Absolutely! A night to never forget!” The two laughed together, and shared a drink. The air was filled with laughter, serenity. An acceptance. Because it doesn’t matter what flag flies in town square, doesn’t matter what nations threaten to engulf the planet, doesn’t matter who the people call their Monarch.

Onderon never changes.​

 

[Rann Thress]

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TAGS: Open!

As the night continued, the populace of Iziz continued their party, several people, strangers, gathered together in groups and started interacting with eachother.

Rann and his drunken new friend stumbled their way into one such group.

“Eeeeeeeeeeey!” The jovial fellow drunkards raised their glasses, welcoming the two, who responded in kind with a harmonious “Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey!” A ceremonial clinking of glasses and drinking of alcohol symbolized the welcoming of new friends.

“S’whatcha think? Think the Manalorians will attack?” One of them drunkenly asked. Rann chuckled and shrugged, taking a drink, “Manalorians, huh? The ones on the moon? I hope not, no. We don’t have the best track record with invasions. Manalorian, or Mandalorian,” they all shared a drunken laugh, “What about Imperials ey? I hear Sith are makin’ a fuss again, think they’ll come back? Or..like Sith Mandos? Sandos? Imperialorians?” Rann laughed, “Let’s make a bet huh? Wardroids or Star destroyers. Which will grace our skies first.” They all shared another laugh, “That’s something to bet on, yea! But I bet our own savior Mandos will be there to beat em' back too!"

All of a sudden, in an incredibly dramatic and somber voice, one asked, “Do you think Onderon will ever conquer the galaxy?” He held a hand to his chest, closing his eyes. “Pffbt hell no. We do our best work when we lose,” another responded, raising their glass.
“Bit weird thing to cheers ey?” Rann raised his glass, “S’history is all. We lose. S’alright to lose. We win eventually. We always do.” “Hell I’ll drink to that, my friend!” Another clink of glasses, another laugh, and another cheer.

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[Serina Calis]

Onderon: The Day of Fallen Leaves
Location: Onderon
Objective: Establish Relations with Locals
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Rann Thress

"Rebellion and rum, a match made in hell."​

The shadows of Iziz glowed amber and violet, lit by the pulsing lights of celebration and streaked with the long, golden arms of dusk. Beneath its alabaster towers, the streets choked with music and mischief, that seductive hum of bodies pressed together, of songs rising in waves only to crash into the thunder of raucous dancing. Onderon was aflame—not with war or rebellion, but with life. With spirit. With defiance.

She tasted it on the air.

Serina sat perched on the ledge of a second-floor balcony, her legs crossed leisurely, one boot dangling over the side. The veil of her disguise remained intact—an elaborate hood draped over her crown, hiding her striking features in elegant shadow. Her robes were flowing, dark violet trimmed with gold, veiled enough to pass as noble yet common enough to escape scrutiny. The mask that shielded her eyes shimmered subtly in the neon hues of the festival fires below, refracting the revelry through slits like serpentine eyes. And in her gloved hand, she held a slender crystal glass of Chandrilan wine, the deep red liquid catching the firelight like fresh blood.

She sipped it slowly, lips pursed around the glass like a lover whispering secrets.

Her gaze slid across the square, hunting. Observing. Feeding. There—clusters of men and women tangled in dances that left little to the imagination. There—musicians swaying with their instruments like conjurers in a trance. And there, below her, them: the gathering of drunken souls who had declared themselves philosophers and prophets for the night, all too eager to drown wisdom in local spirits.

One in particular—Rann as they called him—caught her attention. He moved with the ease of a man shaped by loss and battle but unbroken by it. His laugh was real. It vibrated in the air like a challenge to fate itself. There was something beautiful about that. Something she could ruin.

Serina let her tongue flick across her lip, catching the last trace of wine, and leaned forward slightly, her posture indulgent, deliberate. The fabric of her robes slipped just enough to expose one bare thigh through a carefully orchestrated opening, catching the eye of a passing drunk who very nearly dropped his drink. She smiled beneath the mask.

She loved Onderon.

Not for its nobility. Not for its rebellions. She loved it because it lied so beautifully to itself. The illusion of freedom. The pride of survivors who danced not because they had won—but because they had not yet lost. It was a masquerade of resilience. A playground for someone like her.

Her eyes returned to the little drunken roundtable of revelers. Their speech was half slur, half poetry.

"S'history is all. We lose. S'alright to lose. We win eventually. We always do."

That line.

She whispered it back to herself, the taste of it electric on her tongue. "We always do."

Serina tipped her wine toward them from above, a silent, mocking toast.

How very hopeful of you.

Another sip. The wine burned now, not in flavor, but in memory. Chandrila. Her home. Her cage. She had stolen this bottle from the cellar of her parents about a year ago, on the night she prepared their demise.

She watched Rann throw his arm around a stranger, watched the swarm of camaraderie grow around him like ivy. And in her heart, the darkness stirred. That twisted, sensuous hunger that wanted to unravel all of it. Not out of malice—but out of art. Out of desire. To take something whole and teach it the pleasure of being broken.

She would descend eventually. Not yet. The hunter does not pounce while the prey still dances.

But when she did, she would be someone else. The charming foreigner. The lost noblewoman. The mysterious lover. She would let them find her. She always did.

And when Rann raised his glass again, when he laughed too loudly and looked up just long enough to catch a glimpse of a figure above, with bare skin in firelight and a glass raised in secret toast—he would not remember why she seemed familiar. But he would feel something.

Serina drank deeply. The festival raged below.
Onderon never changes.

And she was going to love tearing it apart.

 

[Rann Thress]

TAGS: Serina Calis

The bond of the drunken stranger, not at all a uniquely Onderon experience, was one Rann enjoyed embracing and not one he embraced as often as he’d liked. It never was proper, and he never felt…safe. But now? Being here, on his homeworld surrounded by his people? Come what may, he would enjoy himself.

After another round of drunken cheers, Rann excused himself, “Alright fellas. I’m gonna go grab myself a new bottle, and see what other trouble I can find, huh?” He clinked his now empty glass against theirs individually, “Yer all gentlemen and scholars, all o’ya. True patriots of Onderon and I love you,” with his exit made, Rann walked, almost steadily, towards the bar.

All of a sudden a feeling entered his mind. He furrowed his brow and stopped dead in his tracks. The feeling was akin to an alarm underwater. He could tell there was…something. More a dull blur, a gray blob. Something was there to be noticed from somewhere. But with a shrug of his shoulders, he cast the feeling aside.

“Come what may,” he said to himself as he leaned against the bar, tapping his robotic right arm against the hastily constructed bartop.

“Heya Barkeep. Gimme a uh… What do you recommend?” The bartender looked at him, raising a brow, “I’d recommend the most expensive one,” he responded with a chuckle, “How about a Beastmaster’s brew?” Rann countered, chuckling back and tossing a credit on the bar, met with a stone mug filled with a dark liquid. Rann picked it up and brought the mug to his lips, taking a long drink. He was met with a deep, rich flavor that screamed Onderon. A blend of local fruits and spice only found on Onderon. “They don’t make drinks like this out in the Galaxy,” he said quietly to himself, staring at the mug before setting it down and turning back around to the festival.

Rann clicked his tongue, furrowing his brow again as he brought the stone mug back to his lips and took another deep drink of the ale. He raised his eyes, looking around, as the distant, muffled feeling came back. He tried to find the source of the feeling, scanning the crowd. He cast his glance upwards and spied a woman in a mask, locking eyes. He smiled, raising his glass to the woman before taking another drink and looking elsewhere.

People of all kind tonight for the Fallen Leaves.​

 

[Vivia Rompdew1]

A pair of Jedi, both clad in armor, appear out of thin air, dueling. One, a middle aged human male wearing a silvery mandalorian looking chestplate wielding a blue lightsaber, and the other a younger female echani with crimson hair and arctic blue skin in golden armour. She wielded an orange lightsaber, as orange as geonosis. as the duel continued, bystanders ran in fear. The man was on the backfoot. he was using form III, but it was obvious that it wasn't his usual form, as he was forced onto the defensive. The woman however, seemed to be a jack of all trades, switching between multiple forms, though mainly using form V to overpower her opponent. The man missed a block, and the woman sliced his throat, killing him instantly. The echani breathed heavily as she took the man's lightsaber.

The echani, named Vivia Rompdew sensed something was wrong. You see, in her time, the force was dominated by light, yet now she sensed it was more even. She was on the outskirts of a city, so she carefully walked towards the center, trying to figure out where she was. It was obvious that there was some sort of celebration going on. By asking around she learned that she was in the city of Iziz on the planet of Onderon. She found a robe and donned it in case anyone recognized her armor and was hostile. She found a tavern and entered, immediately sensing something strange, something undescribable, as well as a force user who's allignment was grey. She looked around and identified the sources of the sensations. The unaffiliated force user was a human male with brownish grey hair. the other, hidden presence was that of a woman in a mask, who wore golden and purple robes, almost royal looking. The whole situation made her uneasy. What were the odds that she would just happen to bump into 2 other force users, right after she finished a fight with a third? Not very high at all. And especially considering that the woman was hiding her identity, Vivia needed to be extra careful.

But right then, she needed to find out what was wrong with the force. she had an idea, but she didn't want to confirm it. It was too frightening, even for a Jedi Battlemaster. She considered asking the force sensitive man why the force was balanced now, but she figured it was too risky. She eventually mustered up the courage to ask the bartender the question she already knew the answer to.

"Bartender" she breathed heavily,
"What year is it?"
"917 ABY. Why....?"
He answered her, and confirmed her fear. Though she did not know what the year notation he used meant, she knew that she was a long way from home. Not through just through space, but through time as well. She knew the world between worlds was rumored to be a sort of lobby for different places and times, but she didn't want to believe that she had travelled through spacetime, away from her friends and... Maya. She could try to go back to the temple on Lothal and go back to her time, but there was no guaruntee that the temple had been built yet, or that it hadn't been destroyed. if so, she would need to find another means to get back. She wiped away a tear, and asked the bartender,
"What's ABY stand for?"
"After the battle of Yavin of course! What, ya been frozen in carbonite for a millenium?" he chuckled. At least a millenium. Damn.
"Sorry I just need... I just need a..." She puked all over the ground, then began panicking, thoughts racing through her head
"Whoa... can I... can I help ya lassie?"
"No I'm fine, I just need a moment" She turned to the door and was about to go outside and begin using the strategies her master taught her to deal with her anxiety. Sit with it and remember that anxiety thoughts are just that, thoughts.