Dominion The Vault of Iron Will | TF Dominion of a Empty Hex

[A Foundation Storyteller]

The Vault of Iron Will | TF Dominion of a Empty Hex​

"Imagine in your mind a fortress of stone and steel, with crenellated walls. Within it stands a keep, itself walled."
―Relin Druur, passing on to Marr Idi-Shael the technique of shielding oneself with the Force
Deep within the rocky heart of Koboh, hidden among ancient ruins and twisting ravines, lies the Vault of Iron Will—a long-forgotten Jedi Meditation Chamber from the High Republic era. Unlike traditional sparring grounds or combat arenas, this chamber was designed to temper the minds of Jedi, testing their resilience against the Force itself. It was here that Sentinels and Consulars honed their mental defenses, preparing for battles where strength alone would not be enough.

The chamber does not simply observe—it reacts. It is a conduit of the Force, a place where fears, doubts, and unseen forces manifest into trials as real as any battlefield. Many who entered sought to learn Force Resistance, the ability to shield oneself from intrusive powers, mental assaults, and the corrupting whispers of the dark side.

Now, a new group of seekers, initially led by Tyrus Vastor , has come to test themselves against the Vault. The challenge is simple: endure. But nothing inside the Vault is ever as it seems.

All Vault Challenges: 1✓, 2✓, 3(Current)

Spoiler

Round 1: The First Whisper (Mental Intrusion & Disorientation)

You remember entering together as a group, but nothing around you looks remotely the same as before! As the you step into the chamber, the air grows dense and heavy, charged with unseen energy. The walls—smooth, ancient stone—pulse faintly in waves, as though alive. At first, the change is barely noticeable, a soft murmur at the edge of hearing. Then, it grows. Voices coil around your thoughts, soft at first, then louder, whispering in familiar tones. Friends. Masters. Family. The words are indistinct, yet they worm into your consciousness, twisting memories, shifting perceptions. The room tilts—not physically, but within your mind!

Reality begins to slip. Up feels like down. The ground is both solid and shifting. This is the Vault’s first test—can you steady your psyche and resist the illusion? Or will the whispers pull you deeper?

Roll a 1d20:

• Odd Roll: The whispers deepen, their thoughts cloud, making it harder to focus.
• Even Roll: They steady themselves, anchoring their mind against the disorientation.

Round 2: The Weight of Doubt (Self-Doubt & Identity Challenge)

The whispers fade, but their absence brings a crushing silence. Then, the weight comes. It is not physical, yet it presses down on their very souls, an invisible pressure that coils tight around their minds. Every doubt, every fear, every failure they have ever known surfaces at once.

A Jedi is meant to stand resolute, but the Vault does not attack their bodies—it strikes at their belief in themselves. Are they strong enough? Are they worthy of the path they walk? Have they already failed, and they simply refuse to see it? The only way forward is to reject these doubts—to believe in themselves despite the overwhelming pressure.

Roll a 1d20:

• Odd Roll: Their doubts take root, shaking their confidence.
• Even Roll: They reaffirm their purpose, pushing through the mental assault.

Secret Modifier: "Echoes of the Past"

• If a Jedi failed the last round, the voices from before continue to linger subtly in their subconscious, making this round more challenging.

–

Round 3: The Unseen Strike (Force Suppression & Reflex Test)

For a moment, the pressure lifts—but then everything vanishes. The Force, the very energy that has been with them since their earliest training, is suddenly gone.

There is no warning. No shift. No sensation of being drained—only the emptiness where the Force should be. And then, it strikes. An unseen force lashes out, fast and brutal, aiming to knock them down. They have no precognition, no heightened awareness—only their instincts. Can they react, or will they crumble when stripped of the Force?

Roll a 1d20:

• Odd Roll: The strike catches you off guard. You falter, vulnerable without the Force's power.
• Even Roll: Anticipate the blow, relying on instinct to endure.

–

Round 4: The Final Barrier (Pain Threshold & Endurance)

Without warning, pain erupts. It is not a wound, not a burn or a cut, but something far deeper. It claws through their nerves, a phantom fire that spreads through their body. Every muscle tightens. Every movement is agony.

This is not an attack—it is a demand. The Vault does not ask them to fight back. It does not allow them to escape. The only way to make it stop is to let go—to surrender to weakness. But a Jedi must endure. They must withstand suffering, not for themselves, but for those who need them.

Roll a 1d20:

• Odd Roll: Your body trembles under the strain, will faltering.
• Even Roll: You push forward, refusing to yield.

–

Round 5: The Dark Side’s Temptation (Emotional Manipulation & Corruption Test)

The pain vanishes. Silence floods the chamber. And then—a vision. It is perfect.

A moment in time, untouched by suffering. A future where their greatest failures never happened. A loved one saved. A war never fought. A galaxy at peace. The darkness does not demand—it offers. A voice, soft as a breath, whispers:

"You do not have to struggle. You do not have to fight. You could have this, if only you let go."

The dark side does not always arrive as anger or hatred. Sometimes, it comes in the shape of a dream.

Roll a 1d20:

• Odd Roll: You linger, drawn into the vision’s promise.
• Even Roll: You reject the illusion, tearing free.

–

Round 6: The Will of Iron (Ultimate Force Resistance Check)

The chamber shudders. The past five trials—fear, doubt, pain, temptation—collapse into one singular moment. The pressure is overwhelming, crushing, absolute. It is the weight of everything the Vault has thrown at you, a force that would break even the strongest minds.

But the lesson of the Vault was never to fight the Force—it was to withstand it. To endure. The test is almost over. Only one thing remains.

Roll a 1d20:

• Odd Roll: The Jedi collapses. The Vault has defeated you.
• Even Roll: You remain standing, unshaken.
• And tally your total!!!

Trial Mechanics & Setting

• The training will take place inside the Vault, where the character will undergo a six-round Force Resistance trial facilitated by the chamber itself. (This isn’t limited to just Jedi. Other Force users interested in Force Resistance are welcome to participate. Everyone will be in their own chamber. You’re writing your character’s experience accordingly.)
• The chamber has no visible technology or mechanisms, but its walls pulse faintly with the Force.
• Over the centuries, this chamber has tested Jedi of all ranks—Padawans, Knights, even Masters. Few have mastered it. None have left unchanged.

---

Rewards

• "Iron Will Master" Title commemorative art tag for all participants:
  
• Custom factory item reward

Game Structure & Soft Rules

• 6 Rounds of Rolling (d20 System): Each round, every participant will roll a d20 to determine the success or failure of their actions. (even/odd dice rolls)
• 72-Hour Soft Rule: Those aiming for the custom item reward must post within 72 hours of their turn. Otherwise, they forfeit eligibility (of course you can continue to participate).
• Each round holds new surprises! Tag A Foundation Storyteller to move on to the next round.

 

[Tyrus Vastor]

Tyrus ran a hand over hair, exhaling sharp as he looked back at the group. "Now. Everyone stick the feth together, please," he said, his voice firm but carrying a hint of dry humor. They were about to step deeper into a chamber designed to test mental resilience and it was not exactly the kind of place you wanted to wander into unprepared.

But when he turned around, the words barely leaving his lips, his stomach dropped.

Empty air.

No one was there.

His pulse quickened as his eyes darted around the chamber. The others had been right behind him. He was sure of it. He'd heard their footsteps, felt their presence in the Force, even caught a glimpse of one of them adjusting their robes just a moment ago. But now? Nothing. Just the echo of his own breath against the cold stone walls.

Tyrus swallowed, turning in a slow circle. "This aint a game. Come out. Now." His voice carried, but the silence that followed was thick. Heavy. Unnatural. Then the air shifted. At first, it was subtle ,just a whisper of pressure at the edge of his thoughts, like a storm building on the horizon. Then the murmurs began. Soft at first.

"Tyrus…"
His breath hitched. That voice. He knew that voice. Yet he couldn't place it, but the certainty of it sent a chill through him.

The room around him seemed to bend, shifting at the edges of his vision. The solid ground beneath his feet suddenly felt wrong—like it wasn't entirely there. The walls pulsed, stone rippling as if alive, the ancient carvings twisting into geometric shapes that weren't there before. The floor… was it tilting?! No, that wasn't possible. His balance wavered, and he clenched his fists and bit his bottom lip, trying to center himself. "Focus. This isn't real," he muttered, trying to perceive where his feet were planted.

 

[Corin Trenor]

He stepped over the threshold, the air inside as still as he was. His features were neutral, save for the permanent frown set deep into his face. Cloaked in darkness, he vanished into the vault as all others had from his sight with a mere blink.

"Hm," came his acknowledgement with a passing look, finding nothing.

The Vault of Iron Will. There had been warnings. One may need it to pass through to the other side.

The damp stone bore the weight of time, edges worn smooth, statues softened by touch. Somewhere in the darkness, a steady drip echoed, rhythmic and unending. The air was thick, heavy and choking with dread. Then came the whispers, faint murmurs carried on a dead breeze.

Corin's scowl deepened as he pressed forward.

A sound stirred. Footsteps, light and hurried. A child's steps. Then, laughter. First, distant, then close, then distant again. A soft pat-pat against stone. The laughter trailed after it, disappearing in the darkness. Familiar to him, somewhat, and somewhat not - a sound drowning in vague, fleeting memories.

His name coasted on the air, floating across the room. From behind him, his side, and in front of him. His attempts to find the source resulted in failure, with nothing to see beyond the warping environment around him. The ancient glyphs rose from their tapestries, twisting and turning, as the world began to slant while the halls twisted, turned.

He grumbled as something gnawed at him.

-

Dice Result: 15

A Foundation Storyteller

 

[Ava Black]

| Location | The Vault, Xorrn​

| Objective | Security Detail​

​

The sound of boots against the cold, stone floor echoed as Ava walked through the ancient corridors of The Vault. Ava was dressed down for the occasion, in a simpler set of combat gear as opposed to her usual full armor, her rifle resting in her hands as her eyes scanned her surroundings. She had not been with The Foundation long, only having recently joined their ranks when news reached her about their mission. It was something her godfather would have been proud to serve, so instead she did in his memory and stead.​

​

The Foundation had made an expedition to the planet of Xorrn, something about a test of mental fortitude to help them better defend themselves against the Force. Her grip shifted on her rifle as she gestured for the security detail to take up positions as she moved in further with the group that arrived. She glanced into each of the chambers to ensure they were clear before individuals began stepping into them.​

​

She reached the end of the corridor to the last chamber as she peered inside, a foot just barely crossing over the threshold as she leaned in to get a better look into the corner. A whisper echoed into the back of her mind, prompting her to immediately shoulder her rifle as she went on guard stepping in over the threshold further. A mistake. Her vision seemed to blur and distort as the whispers echoed louder in her head, prompting her aim to lower as she raised a hand to her head, making it difficult to focus. She felt herself drop to one knee from the disorientation as she tried to steady herself. Distant thumps echoed in her mind as if her mind had remembered something from her youth. Something terrible.​

​

[ Rolled a 9 ]

A Foundation Storyteller ​

 

[Caltin Vanagor]

Body of Boulder - Will of Iron
Xorrn
Vault of Iron Will

So the guy who thinks he’s Vampirika or whatever they’re called found this place? Alright, I’ll play along.

He was not ten steps into whatever this place was when he heard “Vaaaaaanagorrrrr….” He saw Lightning line the walls and the floors start to shift. He saw bodies line the floor and recognized every.single.solitary.one.of.them.

His reaction? A perked eyebrow and folded arms.

This was some kind of hex, or attempted hex on him. It was not that it was not powerful, but Caltin was too stubborn in his beliefs, in his ways to be swayed by something he sees and does not know outright. That is not to say that the big man is reticent to change, but that if he knows something, he is not going to be led to believe the opposite. What does that mean? His late daughter Alyscia was one of those bodies, the body was clearly slaughtered.

He knew she died of old age.(Long story if you don’t know)

He would simply comment how this was not much of a trick, but something about this place told him that this was only the beginning.


Dice Roll - 6 (Thanks Jorge! )

A Foundation Storyteller • Tyrus Vastor
[Text in Brackets is spoken on Comm-link] ~Like this is through the Force~​

 

[Liorra]

This was stupid.


Liorra didn't know how or why she'd ended up here. She should just go home... wherever that was anymore. She'd lost contact with Mia, and any semblance of the Mandalorian life she once knew had slipped through her fingers. A heavy sigh escaped her, and she exhaled as if trying to push away the weight of everything pressing down on her. She had decided to do this. She had to do this. She recalled it was because of old man Coren. Her mother, Mishel, had told her to seek him out—to find the old man and ask for his guidance. If Coren Starchaser had saved her mother from the dark side, then maybe, just maybe, there was hope for Liorra too.


But now? Now, all she could remember was wandering through the last few years, a lost soul searching for something. For meaning. For answers. For... anything.

There had been a group. Maybe. Who knew? What she did know was that the chamber she was standing in was dense. No, scratch that—it wasn't just dense. It was too dense. Almost as dense as a Mandalorian's skull. Wait, no. Nothing was as dense as a Mandalorian's skull. Still, the weight of the space around her was suffocating. The air hummed with energy, thick and almost palpable. Great. More mystical nonsense. She would've laughed at herself for even thinking that if her head wasn't already aching from everything that had happened.

If she hadn't spent years wandering aimlessly, trying to sort herself out, she'd probably be a little less skeptical. A little less... whatever this funk was.

The walls here were smooth and ancient, their surfaces pulsing faintly in rhythmic waves, as if they were alive. At first, the change was barely noticeable—a soft murmur that danced at the edge of hearing. But then the murmur grew, insistent and ever-present. The voices began to coil around her thoughts, soft at first, then louder, sharper, until they almost drowned out her own mind. Liorra's breath hitched, and her hand instinctively pressed against the wall, as if she could push back the pressure building in her skull.

What the hell was this? Was it the dark side? She shook her head, trying to clear the fog. No, this wasn't broody or depressing like she imagined the dark side would feel. This was... chaotic. Wild. And the longer she stood there, the worse the headache became. Her thoughts twisted, memories flickered like broken holograms. Perceptions shifted like sand in the wind.

Her knees wavered. Liorra braced herself against the wall, fingers digging into the smooth stone, grounding herself.

She needed to focus. Focus. Her mind scrambled for an anchor, something solid to hold onto, something to cut through the noise. Resol'nare. The Resol'nare. She gripped it like a lifeline, letting the Mandalorian Creed steady her.

Eyes closed, she steadied her breath, the whispers of the Force continuing to swirl around her, but now she had the discipline to push them away. She would not lose herself to whatever this was. Not again.

Not this time.

Tyrus Vastor | A Foundation Storyteller




[Screenshot Link]
[Roll Result: 20]​

 

[Bido Roz’lyn]

BIDO ROZ’LYN/“DOG LADY”

A Foundation Storyteller

GEAR:
Flight suit
Personal Energy Shield
Sidearm
Back-sheathed short sword

With a quick tap of her fob, the security BEEP BEEP of her BZ-Ceptor echoed loudly behind her. Her whiskers drooped in embarrassment as she realized that the action was probably unnecessary and disruptive to the reverent atmosphere of the temple’s current residents. But, alas, no one seemed annoyed. Or, rather, no one seemed to notice. No one seemed disturbed at all or to even acknowledge her presence. There was a lacking vacancy to everyone’s aura as they all seemed to stare straight ahead, focused on whatever was going on.

Bido sighed out her annoyance. This was probably a waste of time. Whatever was affecting everyone here, seemed to be missing her entirely. It had been recommended to her that she should take this training, to better prepare her for encounters against the mystics that the Foundation Navy would likely face.

As a Danger Squadron member, her chances of such encounters were pretty fair compared to the pilots of other squadrons. However, as a non-force-sensitive, she had been warned that this could go one of two ways: Either she would gain absolutely nothing from the experience, or she would be much more acutely and dangerously overwhelmed. Judging by what she was seeing, and not experiencing, it seemed the former was the case.

Oh well. Might as well see how this plays out.

The group wordlessly proceeded from the hangar and through the halls. She lagged behind everyone and darted her eyes between the backs of everyone’s heads. Everyone here seemed to be of a race that she recognized. Gands, Mon Calla, Weeqway, humans, wookies… nothing she wasn’t familiar with from her many decades of service.

They all rounded a corner and the walls seemed to take on a more cavernous texture to them. Rougher, more natural stones were used here, and stalactites hung overhead, dripping freely. Bido thought it was strange that such a reverent place would have a major hallway in such disrepair.

Her boot splashed as her foot came down, and she turned her attention away from the ceiling to the floor. The hallway floor seemed to be descending into the water table as the others began to wade in gradually deeper and deeper. Odd.

She followed cautiously, letting the boots of her flightsuit get flooded as she followed the others. Suddenly, the man at the head of their procession stopped. Wordlessly, he removed his hood, paused, and then dove forward. He disappeared into the water ahead of him. Bido figured that the floor must’ve dropped off where he had been standing, since the water was only knee-deep where he dove from, and there was no sign of him after.

One-by-one, the others followed suit, removing their hoods and diving in. She watched on, seriously confused by what was happening. Having evolved from aquatic mammals, she thought it would be appropriate for her to attend them, and help keep them safe… maybe. But this whole thing was starting to feel outside of her wheelhouse, and she was seriously considering leaving.

As more hooded beings dove into the deeper waters, one by one. Bido turned away to leave. It was then that she noticed the space was different. It was no longer a hallway. And there was no exit. All around her was a damp dark cave, and it smelled oddly familiar to her Dornean nose.

She started to feel panic well up inside her chest and and she turned back to the divers to protest, “what the hell is going on here!?!”

Before her stood one last, lone hooded figure, facing her in the knee-deep water. There was a moment of silence between them before he removed his hood. Revealed was the face of a Gand male.

And Bido recognized him instantly.

The entire left-side eyebulge had been popped like a berry and was oozing mucus-like ooze. His left arm was frayed and mangled with what Bido knew were multiple low powered blaster burns. She couldn’t remember his. Name, but she knew his face well. It was the face of a pirate that she had captured and torchure in her younger years.

And she knew for a fact that he was dead now.

She froze. She tried to speak, but fear and intense guilt. But also, it was impossible for this Gand to be here! How did he get here?!? She should call security!

… security…

Where was security? Somewhere in the back of her mind, she remembered walking past Ava Black ’s security personnel, before being guided to a private room. But that’s not when she got here, was it??? She got here, locked her ship, and followed these guys… right? What actually happened!?! How did she actually get here? She remembered locking her Ugly fighter, but she also remembered flying her Danger Squadron X-wing earlier.

Her heart began to race and hammer in her chest and she surrendered control of her motor skills to panic. She began to wade over to the Gand, intent on throttling him, or getting some kind of answers out of him!

Just then, the floor gave out under her, and she plummeted bottomlessly into the water before she could reach him…

Spoiler: Dice roll

 

[Yuri Maji]

KOBOH | VAULT
TAGS: A Foundation Storyteller
GEAR: In bio
DICE ROLL: 5

---

CRYSTALIZED​

Signing up to help out a bunch of Jedi certainly wasn't in the norm for the Shistavanen, especially if anyone knew his history. Luckily there wasn't a soul in the Foundation that knew or recognized him, so for all intents and purposes he was simply a big-mouthed Mando with the occasional ornery attitude. But this was a necessary adventure for him.

He had heard of "exposure therapy" on the Holonet. A simple concept to incrementally interact with the thing that made someone uncomfortable. There was also the practical aspect of this journey. Force users were known for their ability to manipulate minds and bend wills, and he had no idea when he was going to face off with another Jedi or even a Sith in the future. He needed to be able to defend himself from more than just the physical aspects of their attacks.

What he wasn't expecting was to suddenly be all alone in the old stone chamber that looked nothing like the entrance. The group he entered with was nowhere to be seen, but that was the least of what bothered him. He wasn't a Force user, he had no ability to pick up on the oddities of it. But just like another expedition with some exposure therapy, he could feel that something was off about the place. An immense power lined the walls and filled the space around him. It smelled funny as well.

And it didn't take long for that power to make itself known.

He had to catch himself when the floor suddenly looked fuzzy. It disappeared as quickly as it came, but what made his blood run cold was the brief glimpse at the walls. Familiar stone and snowy windows surrounded him for less than a second. He would have excused it as his imagination, were it not for the murmurs. Echoes of familiar voices bounced around him, voices he hadn't heard in a very long time. Again, it could have been excused... if the echoes didn't sound like it was being processed by his helmet. He quickly removed it and stumbled back, his cybernetic fist gripping at the golden dragon on his chest. As quickly as it came, the illusions disappeared.

Yuri clipped his helmet to his belt and pressed forward in hopes of weathering the storm he had found himself in, but no relief would come. Once again, his vision was filled with the vague familiarity of stone, his boots seemed to crush a spot of snow beneath it, and a brisk frost caressed his cheeks like a gentle hand.

And ahead of him, he could hear the echoes of those who raised him.

Voices of home.

 

[Asara Ta'kona]

ASARA TA'KONA || STORM
VAULT OF IRON WILL
TAG: Tyrus Vastor A Foundation Storyteller
GEAR: Link shiz here

​

Not far behind her old master Caltin Vanagor came the lime and pepper skinned twi'lek form of Asara, her soft leathers creaked as she walked into the cool room and felt the dark heartbeat of this place. It began to gnaw at her, like dark spiders tying to crawl up her arms, legs and lekku.

She felt it growing in intensity and she looked at her green hand to confirm that she was imagining it. She wiggled her fingers and the invisible miscreants scattered across the floor. Her light was stronger than this, her will was stronger than this.

The woman rolled her neck and shoulders, flexing her rhomboids. She took more steps into the room and allowed the darkness to part around her like water around an unyielding rock. She looked at her peers and wondered if any of them were faltering.

​

​

​

 

[Tarra Vos]

The Force was not a key instrument to a Shadow Trooper; they were not Sith merely wearing heavy armor. A Shadow Trooper endured as rigorous a training as any Mandalorian. They were honed for combat. Tempered to endure no matter how uncomfortable, painful, or mind-breaking a situation might be. They fought tooth and nail to be seen as the greatest weapon their master could bring to bear.

Tarra heard of an expedition involving a Force ritual designed to test people, and she wanted in. Not to strive to be either Jedi or Sith, but to be a better threat on the battlefield. To withstand the terrifying abilities of those that used the Force to settle all things -- those that wouldn't give a warrior the good grace to meet in direct combat, and to die for their effort.

Before they set out for the ruins, Tarra donned her helmet and checked the suit's seals. Time to stare death in the face once more.

Once inside the chamber, the black helm slowly panned to the side. It took a hair longer for her to feel it than the rest, but her helmet wasn't made out of solid cortosis. Voices? But there was no new life signs on her heads up display. Her eyes narrowed as the voices became more distinct. More insistent. It was a trick. A deception, she was sure of it. Her gloved hand flexed at her side for a blaster she'd left behind. That had been a mistake. Someone-- something needed killed here. That was why she'd come wasn't it?

A half-step stagger accompanied the wave of vertigo that'd washed over her. Tarra willed herself to stop responding to her sense as soon as it began, but could still feel its physiological effect twisting her stomach and blurring her vision. Inhaling deep breaths to try and center herself, the voices commanding her to kill were soon accompanied with those howling about her failure. She could feel herself nearly choke on the smell of sulfur in her helmet. The filters would have prevented that. Most of it. Some of it. She'd staggered through the ruins of a downed dropship as it burned with several bodies mangled in the wreckage; her emergency air tank had been punctured in the crash, and the vents left open only filtered out so much.

The black armored figured stood stock still as the sensations and memories tore at her consciousness. Her fingers slowly curled and uncurled into fists. Fortunate they were all given a chamber, and no one would physically connect with the Shadow Trooper and enter that vision. Even without a blaster, she was a formidable weapon.

A Foundation Storyteller
Rolled 9​

 

[Coren Starchaser]

The Jedi Master, well, Master Warden of the Sky, honestly, was more than happy to be watching out for the Foundation, and with the training they were doing this time? It matched what he knew. As a trained Sentinel, perhaps one of the strongest Sentinels in living memory, resisting the Force and the temptation of the Dark Side enough to be able to fight it on square footing, was something he valued. He came to Koboh with his daughter as she had some business with mapping the route to Tanalorr to conclude.

And he wanted to keep an eye on the Forcers that the Foundation was bringing together.

Piloting the Tachyon Rising, he was landing on the planet to check it out, as he had already provided Kaia with the Starmapper results he created. And something about the world, and its meditation chamber was calling to him. He admitted he still held to the Jedi religion, but he was much more a Warden and Sentinel.

As he continued, he could feel the Force coming after him, but he knew this trick, he knew how to push it away, how to focus. His lightsaber hilt, with the Starchaser Light, the one given to him by his Padawan, and modified as part of a Sunshard ritual helped him focus.

Was that… Mishel he was sensing?

No…

Liorra…

Now where was that path he remembered was right here...

Liorra

 

[Vilka Keldra]

STARLIGHT
VAULT OF IRON WILL | KOBOH
TAG: Cailen Corso | A Foundation Storyteller
ROLLED:

Spoiler

-Round 1: 13

​

Vilka had spent hours in this chamber before in her time on Koboh.

Every time was a different experience and the Jedi Seer firmly believed in continuing to hone the mind. She had trained quite a few Padawans here over the years and today would be no different.

She had originally found Cailen Corso stranded on Toshara, led by the Force. She didn't have to hear all that much of his story before she decided to take him on as her Padawan. Even though his Force connection was damaged in some way, he could still manage some tasks at least. One of things she wanted to see was if he could manage resisting the Force better than he could wield it.

"Prepare and steady your mind as best you can, Cai - remember what is the current truth, the way I showed you." she told him once more before they would enter the Vault. Relters screeched overhead. "The Chamber tests us all the moment we enter - even me. Do not feel less if you can't resist the tests at first - that is the case with us all. Resisting comes with time and we can come here as often as you'd like afterward to keep practicing." She rested a hand briefly on his shoulder before motioning for him to follow her inside.

The moment they entered, the Sephi could feel the Force press densely against her. It always did. But typical of the Chamber, it sought out the cracks in the proverbial armour. Lately, it did seem to find some cracks within her. There was a time that she could resist with ease. But age brought reflection with it. And then they each disappeared into their own chamber...

The whispers increased, battering against her own psyche, one of them becoming slightly clearer than the rest...
...makes you so special to tell me how I should be?...
Sky-blue eyes snapped open as snippets of her older cousin's words of when they were still children battered to let themself in even more.

The floor didn't pitch for her - not yet, but it did wobble a little as she reoriented herself, trying to see if she could sense her Padawan.

She had a Padawan?

 

[A Foundation Storyteller]

The Vault of Iron Will | TF Dominion of Xorrn​

Round 2: The Weight of Doubt
The whispers fade, but their absence brings a crushing silence. Then, the weight comes. It is not physical, yet it presses down on their very souls, an invisible pressure that coils tight around their minds. Every doubt, every fear, every failure they have ever known surfaces at once.

A Jedi is meant to stand resolute, but the Vault does not attack their bodies—it strikes at their belief in themselves. Are they strong enough? Are they worthy of the path they walk? Have they already failed, and they simply refuse to see it? The only way forward is to reject these doubts—to believe in themselves despite the overwhelming pressure.

Roll a 1d20:
Odd Roll: Their doubts take root, shaking your confidence.

Even Roll: You reaffirm your purpose, pushing through the mental assault.

Secret Modifier: "Echoes of the Past"
If a character failed the last round, the voices from before continue to linger subtly in their subconscious, making this round more challenging

Vilka Keldra Tarra Vos Asara Ta'kona Yuri Maji Bido Roz’lyn Caltin Vanagor Liorra Corin Trenor Ava Black Tyrus Vastor

 

[Caltin Vanagor]

Body of Boulder - Will of Iron
Xorrn
Vault of Iron Will

The bodies still lined the floor as “his daughter” sat up with a smile. She looked at him as the whispers that told him what he already knew “She’s really dead” rang slowly through his ears. Caltin stood there looking on when more and more lightning was lining the walls. Slowly more and more lightning enveloped the room and over the bodies until they morphed into one, one which stood next to the smiling Alyscia. That one, was the big man himself. Wearing the gear he last wore on Kashyyyk, that fateful day when he entered the ether.

They both reached out for him.

Showing him that he was "half a man", "half a Jedi"... not the beacon he once was...

All he could do was tremble in turmoil.

Get.The.Karking.Frell.Out.Of.My.Head.



Dice Roll - 3 (Jorge? I trusted you! >:-( )

A Foundation Storyteller • Tyrus Vastor
[Text in Brackets is spoken on Comm-link] ~Like this is through the Force~​

 

[Ava Black]

| Location | The Vault, Xorrn​

| Objective | Try not to have a mental breakdown​

​

The indiscriminate whispers intensified as distorted voices echoed louder and louder, hushed volumes turning to an unbearable din. Ava dropped her rifle as she fell to both knees, clutching her head as she tried to cover her ears from the overwhelming whispers. She couldn't understand anything they were saying, unknown voices like blurred faces echoing in the darkness of her mind. The room seemed to spiral as she shut her eyes, trying to find some solace in the dark that followed. ​

​

The whispers softened as she tried to regulate her breathing, trying to focus on her training as a means of centering herself. The voices receded, instead replaced by sounds of distant, sporadic thundering sounds. Explosions. ​

​

She opened her eyes as she pulled her hands away, looking down at them. Her hands had shrunken as she looked down at them, childlike in appearance as she turned them over to inspect herself. Tattered clothing, bruised knees and small cuts and scrapes covering her body. A quick look at her environment and she suddenly found herself in the streets of Bastion, her home; a memory of a time long since past when the New Imperial Order had come to liberate them from the Sith Empire. ​

​

A wheezing voice, followed by the sound of a lightsaber igniting drew her attention as she turned around to see a shadowy figure with a crimson blade charging at her. She reached for her rifle, but it had disappeared, she had nothing, and no one to save her. A shadow cast over her as the figure raised their blade up to strike her down. She shut her eyes and everything went dark once more. The whispers returned, as well as the sounds of distant thumping. Suddenly a woman's voice, her mother's crying out, recognizable but horrendously twisted and coming from a distant echo to a shrieking scream, ​

​

"A̷V̵A̵ ̷ R̷U̴N̷ !"​

​

[ Rolled a 1 ]

A Foundation Storyteller ​

 

[Yuri Maji]

KOBOH | VAULT
TAGS: A Foundation Storyteller
GEAR: In bio
DICE ROLL: 9

---

CRYSTALIZED​

The Shistavanen pressed on through the stone halls, a sense of nervousness growing within him. He couldn't help but wonder if this was still some kind of illusion, or if this cave somehow sent him back home. He swallowed the thoughts and pressed on. It didn't matter what was happening around him, he needed to get out. The quicker he declared this as a matter of survival, the faster he could move.

But it didn't feel like a matter of survival. His right hand stretched out to caress the carved stone halls while his left ran through his mane to shake loose some snow. There wasn't supposed to be snow, not in the main hall. The voices ahead sounded like an argument, not loud enough for him to hear but certainly loud enough to catch snippets. Sig and Kranak were there... one sounded like Vren. One or two others sounded familiar, but he could not think of their names. His own name piqued his curiosity in between all of the shouting ahead.

His heart began to sink. His shoulder began to ache, but he pressed on with a frown. Whatever was happening, he didn't like it when his name was tossed around.

When he reached the main room ahead, the voices went silent. Replaced instead by snow and a howling wind. The roof was blown completely open and turbolaser marks scorched the walls and floors. No voices, no people, nothing except for the painful silence and freezing wind seemingly biting him through his body glove. A sharp breath invited the freezing cold into his chest, drawing a cough. "What happened?" He asked himself, studying the scene. He couldn't help but think that this was his fault.

There was an attack and he wasn't there to help.

The son of the Wardog was too busy running away from his people that he left them to die.

But there was nobody there. He was all alone.

The only company around was the wind and his thoughts.

He crossed his arms and hugged himself for warmth as he continued on. His environmental controls couldn't do a thing against this cold. What the hell did he do? Or rather... what didn't he do?

"Look at you. The prodigal son returns..."

Yuri spun around with a pistol drawn. Nobody there but him and the wind. In the light of the blinding snow, however, the shimmer of his pistol's name caught his eye. He lowered it, staring at the name on the barrel. "Peace. Heh... War and Peace." He holstered the weapon with a hollow smile. Continuing on, the Hound drew a deep breath. This was all an illusion. "You can find both in the barrel of a..." He came to a halt, shock and fear adorned his features.

"Blaster..."

The Shistavanen froze where he stood. Ahead was a door to a balcony overlooking Tor Valum. And standing by the railing was none other than himself. His armour marked with stripes and insignias of victories, a field marshal. His helmet sat on the railing, its visor and Eyes staring back at the Mutt. Flanking the other Yuri was none other than his parents, a proud smile adorning their features while others stood beside them. Valery and Alora laughed over something, Kranak gave him a firm smack on the shoulder and a hearty cheer. A young woman stood close to him, chatting away with his grandma. Yuri could practically feel the warmth of the spectacle from where he stood.

With careful steps and a hunched back, Yuri slowly approached the balcony. But just as he reached the door, the Mutt locked eyes with himself and the whole group disappeared. The warmth was replaced by a painful gust of wind that tore through him. "No... no, wait..." He pressed forward, moving as fast as his shivering legs could carry him. But they were gone. Yuri dropped to his knees and hugged himself tightly for some inkling of warmth as he stared out over the ruins of the once great city.

"Hello?! Anyone here?!" He called out, only his echo answering him. A pitiful voice, filled with nothing but cowardice. "What have I done?" He whimpered to himself, shakily getting back up to hide from the wind in the chamber.

 

[Tyrus Vastor]

...
KOBOH
THE CHAMBER
He doubled down and experienced a breakthrough. The whispers were extinguished. At first, the silence was a relief. The voices that had twisted his mind, tugged at his memories, and warped reality itself had finally stopped. He exhaled, trying to steady himself, trying to find his center—

Then, the weight came.

It was not a blow. Not a shove. Not something he could brace against. It pressed into him. Like an unseen hand clamping down on his chest, pushing against his ribs, curling into his skull. His breath caught. His shoulders tensed. It was inside him, in his bones, in his mind, in his soul. Doubt.

You're not strong enough.
His knees buckled slightly.

You don't belong here.
His jaw clenched.

You have always been a killer.
He swallowed, his throat dry. The weight crushed down, and with it came the memories. Bloodied hands. A crimson blade igniting in the dark. A figure crumpling to the ground. No words. No hesitation. Just execution. His past clawed at him, unraveling the carefully woven threads of who he thought he had become. The Jedi path he had tried to walk, the balance he had tried to find—it all felt like a lie now. A mask. A shallow, fragile illusion. Beneath it, the assassin still lurked. The predator still waited.

A low growl rippled through the chamber. Tyrus stiffened. That sound hadn't come from him. Another snarl—wet, guttural, hungry.
It came from the far corner of the room, where the shadows seemed darker, heavier. And then, from the void, he stepped forward.

It was a man.

His size. His build. But his skin was darker, and his shoulders broader, coiled with muscle like braided steel cables. His stance was powerful, unshaken by the invisible weight that had Tyrus staggering. Two massive shield-like plates curved up from his biceps, thick as armor. And his eyes—force take him, his eyes burned. Wild. Primal. Jungle-born. When he spoke, it was not in Basic. It was incoherent, not words at all. Something rough, layered with the sounds of wind through trees and beasts hunting in the night. And yet, Tyrus understood it all the same. "Dôshalo, You have forgotten who you are." Tyrus inhaled sharply, his heart hammering in his chest.

"You pretend to be of the Jedi." His fists curled. His muscles screamed from the weight bearing down, but his mind screamed louder. "You are not of the Sith." The figure took another step closer. The growls, the snarls—they weren't just his voice. They came from him. From the walls. From the ground.

"You have forgotten your people, Dôshalo." Tyrus flinched.

"You have forgotten Haruun Kal." The weight doubled.

"You have traded the jungle for the city. The steel and stone of the offworlders. You call yourself strong? You are nothing but a child playing with weapons he does not understand." Tyrus clenched his teeth. He wanted to fight. Wanted to strike out, wanted to prove this thing wrong—But then he saw it.

The chamber flickered, and suddenly, he wasn't in the Vault anymore. He was home. Haruun Kal! Joy blossomed in his mind! To see and smell the flora of his planet, but as he took it all in the vibrant hues and greens shifted and a sulfuric glow dawned.

It was on fire. The jungle, the only place in the galaxy that should have been untamed, wild, alive, was burning. Smoke swallowed the sky. The trees, the mountains, the rivers—everything was choking beneath the flames. The cries of the goshawks cut through the roar of the inferno. And standing amidst it all, untouched by the fire, the figure simply watched him. "This is what happens to those who forget the jungle. Who forget Peleko'tan."

The weight finally crushed him to his knees. " This isnt real! Your not real! Who do you think yo-," A Tyrus felt his weakened body taken hold of, a large hand clamping around his throat like durasteel cuffs. His footing left him and a gasp escaped as he was physically lifted into the air with a single hand!

"Pelekotan brings us waking dreams of our desires and our fears. When we desire what we fear and fear what we desire, pelekotan always answers… Only pelekotan is real. Everything else is forms and shadows: less even than a cloud, or a memory. We are pelekotan's dream. Who do you think you are?!"

R1=14 • R2=7

•​

 

[Corin Trenor]

Regardless of the effort to disperse them, the whispers refused to fade.

Each of them came in the manner of a shambling corpse, with inaudible and unintelligible slop. Simply reduced to a sound most worn, weathered, and weary. A cacophony of low, mumbling rasps that blurred together into a mess of slurring sounds. It seemed to drown out all of other noise, taking shape as a limp nothingness that draped over his form, burdening not his body, but somewhere deeply buried in his soul.

The air was thick, dense, and clung to what pieces of skin were exposed. It felt almost damp, lined with a densely packed mist that coated the old, troubled stone. Though in that mist, something was hiding, concealed behind layers of pale fog.

"I never wanted to be this," a familiar, childish voice muttered. "I was meant to be a Jedi."

Footsteps, once distant, came closer. So much closer, as if threatening to emerge from the veil.

"I was the best at it, too. Do you remember? How I used to win when we would spar, or how I used to beat all those Imperials and Sith? Some of the others ran, but not me. Never me!" It paused, breathed, and the angle of approach seemed to warp and change. "Now, because of you, I have to run from my friends? You must have screwed up bad, huh?"

Corin's features sat flat and neutral, tinged through with that permanent frown fixed to his face.

"I wonder if you chose this for us, or if you just kept messing up that we had no other choice." It sounded annoyed, frustrated, angry. "You're such a screw up. You failed to be a real Jedi. You failed to lead our friends properly and now some of them are dead, all because you ran away. Denon was never worth the effort, and maybe Dagon would still be here if you listened for once."

It came out from the veil. His child-self, smaller than Corin ever remembered himself being. In the clothes he wore so often. Dagon's old clothes, rid of all the dust that was collected in the years of being untouched. Corin had taken such great pride in wearing them, then, and now it only made him awash with guilt. His frown deepened, with his child-self staring up to him with those mismatched eyes, a feature gained only years after this part of himself existed.

"I never wanted any of this." It said, laced with sorrow.

Laughter erupted behind the thinning fog, with his child-self disappearing with it. The voices were not whispers, neither those of children, but adults. It sounded to be full of unburdened joy, and as Corin peered through the remnants of the misty wall, he saw it. Saw them.

It was all of them, all of his once-friends, of those Jedi he was raised alongside, and each of them stood in the temple on Coruscant. On the gardens by the rooftop, overlooking the endless expanse of the skyline. Those that were lost, those that were dead, all of them were returned in that moment. Each wore a smile, beaming brightly amid their conversations, standing in the typical garbs of the Jedi. Though among them, Corin saw himself. Even he smiled, laughed, and with eyes unmarred.

Corin stood on the outside, in the vault, peering into the vision. His clothes now were darkly coloured in comparison to the beige browns of the Jedi garb his other self wore. His expression was a slight frown with softened eyes, able to only see what could have once been. He walked ahead, closer, closer, until he passed through them, and each of them fell away to dust.

Roll Result: 7 A Foundation Storyteller

 

[Asara Ta'kona]

ASARA TA'KONA || STORM
VAULT OF IRON WILL
TAG: Tyrus Vastor A Foundation Storyteller Caltin Vanagor
GEAR: Link shiz here

​

The first round attacks had been easy for certain. But was that even an attack, it was hard to tell and it suddenly dawned on her that she may have imagined it. Come in here with so much excess baggage from her past that she had triggered her own experience before the room even had necessity.

Perhaps she wasn't as strong as she believed. Physically of course she was as capable as any. She had always suspected Caltin had always slipped a couple of extra Kg on the weights when she trained and he thought she wasn't looking. But now even that suspiscion made more sense, a real Jedi was strong of mind, they didn't need to have the strongest body. He must have known from the start she wasn't good enough and made sure she trained her muscles hard so that when her mind fell her body would be there to protect her. He knew she could never be as strong as a proper jedi.

"Why didn't you just tell me?" her voice rang out in angered sorrow towards her former master.

I got a 3
​

​

​

 

[Bido Roz’lyn]

ROLL: 2

BIDO ROZ’LYN/“DOG LADY”

A Foundation Storyteller

GEAR:
Flight suit
Personal Energy Shield
Sidearm
Back-sheathed short sword

Silence.

Despite the macabre visage of mangled limbs, corpses, and shattered ships floating all around her in the water, ironically she found the sudden silencing of voices to be more noticeable. She hadn’t noticed them at all before, like the ambient sound of an air conditioner, when it was only noticed after it was shut off. It seemed that being totally submerged in water gave her a sense of calm.

It made sense. Being a Dornean, she was an aquatic mammal and could easily hold her breath for over an hour while performing strenuous activities. And what was even better was the fact that she could actually use her sonar in this aquatic environment. The sensation of having the advantage here seemed to help her center her mind and keep out the voices.

She let out a sharp sonar ping with her throat and then listened. Her mind analyzed the returning sound waves and quickly formed a mental image of everything around her. Sure enough, everything here was dead. The broken ships, the bodies, the limbs. Nothing within her sonar range had any kind of pulse or vibrations.

Suddenly, pressure seemed to push in all around her and she felt her lungs burn prematurely. Some primal form of panic seemed to grip her and she quickly assumed that she must be descending to more crushing depths in the water.

Swiftly, she shed her flight boots and exposed her webbed feet and began swimming… up?

Inside this body of water, her inner ear seemed to be failing to function properly. Bido could only wildly guess which way was up at this point. She picked a direction and committed herself. In moments the pressure built even higher so she switched direction and swam the other way. Even then, the pressure seemed to keep on gripping her more tightly. She stopped to try and get her bearings again, and shrieked out another sharp sonar ping. It was then that she noticed from the returning sound wave that the pressure in the water hadn’t changed.

The pressure was… inside her head? No… it was more like… weight?

The realization was interrupted by the sudden impact of a dead body gently bumping her back. She spun around and looked at the body. It was, yet another being that she remembered killing; a wookie pirate that she had captured in a dogfight and interrogated. The burns and cuts, and the wisps of smoky blood trailing from where his claws once were as evidence of her brutality and bloodlust. She impulsively pushed the corpse away and looked around. With more scrutinizing eyes, she looked at each body and ship more carefully. She recognized everything and everyone here now. It was a macabre account of every sin she had committed with the Dornean Navy.

She closed her eyes, and tried to centre her mind and focus. She desperately needed to get out of here and there seemed to be no way out.