Saga, Clan Vizsla's great drinking hall, roared with laughter and the clink of beskar-clad hands against tankards. At the Great Drinking Table, Valhavoc—known simply as Val—sat with his closest comrades: Zed, Kodo Obrim, and Dracaryis. Each chugged a Triple Stout Unicorn IPA, its frothy amber head catching the dim light of the hall’s braziers.

“This stuff’ll put hair on your tongue,” Val muttered, eyeing his half-empty tankard with mock suspicion.

“Better than the swill from Kodo’s stash,” Dracaryis quipped, earning a hearty laugh.

Kodo raised his tankard in faux protest. “Swill? That ‘swill’ got us through the blockade at Ferren Junction!”

Zed leaned back, smirking. “Pretty sure it got us into trouble at Ferren Junction.”

The camaraderie was interrupted by the thunderous clanking of boots. The hall grew quiet as the ceremonial guard entered, their silver and blue beskar gleaming under the flickering light. Leading them was none other than Declan Roark, the founder of Clan Vizsla. His imposing helmet displayed a glowing holographic projection of past Ad Vizsla awardees: Hector Von Ricmore, Ikarri, Mako Henymory, Zoron, Arcia Cortel, Rulvak Qurroc, and Vynn Salm.

Val blinked, then smirked, taking another long sip of his beer. “Well, this is either a promotion or a trial. Anyone want to take bets?”

Zed chuckled. “My credits are on trial.”

Roark stepped forward, his voice commanding yet warm. “Valhavoc, rise.”

Val set down his tankard, wiping foam from his beard as he stood. “Guess I better listen, or he might charge me for all this beer.”

The guard parted, revealing an ornate box engraved with the sigil of Clan Vizsla. One of them presented it to Val with a bow.

“For earning two million credits for the Clan,” Roark declared, “you join the honored ranks of Ad Vizsla. You embody our creed: ‘Credits, not words.’”

The hall erupted in cheers, and Val opened the box to reveal the clan coin—a small, intricate token. Its surface bore the Vizsla sigil on one side and the clan’s motto on the other.

Val held it up, inspecting it. “So... no drink credits, huh?”

Laughter rippled through the crowd as Val raised his tankard. “To the Clan! To credits! And to this beer, which somehow keeps getting better—or maybe it’s just the company.”

Roark shook his head, a chuckle rumbling beneath his helmet. “You do us proud, Val. Now, sit. Drink. Celebrate. And don’t spend that coin all in one place.”

Val grinned, pocketing the coin. “Wouldn’t dream of it. But I will need another round—on Zed’s tab this time.”

The cheers grew louder, the hall alive with celebration as Val reclaimed his seat, lifting his tankard high among his comrades. For Clan Vizsla, it was a night to remember.