Ad Vizsla

Saga Drinking Hall
Zsoldos

The hall of Saga roared with laughter, the low clink of beskar armor and the crackle of flame adding to the familiar chaos. Zsoldos’ moon hung above in the smoky sky, casting a silver hue through the high windows. At the central table, Dracaryis sat with Mako, Valhavoc, Arcia, and Zednich, all relaxed and half-drunk, credits and datachips scattered across the table between empty mugs and half-eaten nerf ribs.

Dracaryis leaned back, swirling his drink, a datapad flickering in his other hand. “She’s pushing two million now,” he muttered.

“Two million?” Valhavoc raised an eyebrow.

“That’s more than Arcia and Zednich combined.”

Arcia elbowed him, grinning. “Still less than me, though.”

Mako laughed, and Zednich shook his head, mock offense in his glare.

Dracaryis smirked and tapped a button on his vambrace. “Get Socorra in here.”

Moments later, the hall doors slid open. Socorra entered, her armor still marked with soot from her latest bounty. Her presence, steady and silent, shifted the tone of the group.

Dracaryis raised his mug. “Speak of the warrior.”

“Hope you left something of that station intact,” Mako quipped.

“A wall or two,” Socorra said, removing her helmet and setting it on the table. “Figured that’s all you needed.”

Zednich chuckled. “That’s generous of you.”

Dracaryis slid a mug across the table toward her. “First drink’s on me.”

Socorra caught it mid-slide. As she lifted it, something caught her eye—just beneath the base of the mug, half-concealed in a smear of spilled ale, was a coin.

Black and silver. The Vizsla sigil, engraved in striking relief.

She paused, breath catching. Slowly, she lifted the mug fully, revealing the coin in full.
There was a beat of silence. The others were watching now, serious.

Dracaryis leaned forward, voice quieter but no less proud. “You’ve earned it. Two million credits, clean hunts, no missed targets.”

Arcia nodded. “Not many get that far. Fewer still make it look easy.”

Dracaryis tapped the table beside the coin. “By these numbers, and the fire you carry, you’ve earned the title.”

“Ad Vizsla,” Valhavoc said with a respectful incline of his head.

Socorra stared at the coin a moment longer, then picked it up and held it between her fingers, the weight of it more than metal.

She looked around the table—warriors, legends in their own right—each nodding in quiet approval.
Dracaryis raised his mug again. “To Socorra. Ad Vizsla.”

The hall echoed with the sound of mugs slamming together, of cheers in Mando’a, of armor shifting with pride.

Socorra raised her mug last, voice steady. “I accept.”

Dracaryis grinned. “Good. First drink’s on me. The rest,” he motioned to the bar with a thumb, “are on you.”

Mako laughed. “She can afford it now.”
The hall roared again with laughter, but beneath it all was something heavier. A title earned. A place claimed.

Socorra took her next drink without flinching.

Congrats Socks!

Amassing 2 million clan credits is no small task. It takes dedication, a lot of effort, and patience.

Socks demonstrates all three.

Socks has served as our Consul. She has participated in and created competitions to drive both personal and club activity. She has been a constant advisor to the leaders who followed her.

I am honored to bestow the Clan title of Ad Vizsla to her.

Congratulations, Socks!

This is the Way.

-Dracpool, out.