Private Back to Work

[Yuri Maji]

KESTRI | TOR VALUM
TAGS: Vara Maji

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TELL 'EM YOU'RE MINE​

It took much longer for the Haran's Call to get home, at least compared to the rest of the fleet. With the damage it sustained in the orbit of Abregado-Rae, extensive repairs had to be conducted before they could even think of jumping to distant sectors. The Mythos Yards did an amazing job of getting it space-worthy once again, but a lot of work still had to be done.

Yuri hadn't slept in days.

Between the repairs, debriefing and cleaning of the ship, the Hound was busy for far longer than he expected. The cleaning was the worst. He volunteered to help, he was in command of the ship at the end of the day.

What he saw would remain with him for a long time.

When the ship finally returned to Kestri, her hull was blackened with burns and punctures. Systems were busted, the interior was torn, whole sections were blocked off simply due to the structural damage. They had lost enough men in the battle, they didn't need to lose more to a drop in pressure.

What remained of the crew quietly boarded their ships and flew down to their homeworld. From what he saw, the rest of the Fleet either linked up with their brethren in the Core or returned to Kestri... he knew where she would be. He didn't waste any time to get home, didn't stop to hang around and talk to people. Maybelle dropped him off at the front door before she returned to the hangar, allowing him to simply open the door to their home and march in. His helmet was tossed aside, followed by his weapon belt and kit, finally his armour. The gash on his forehead luckily began to heal, though the bags under his eyes were evident even through his pelt. Without a word, the Hound retrieved two bottles of ale from the fridge and slammed into the couch with a sigh heavy enough to sink a starship.

Golden eyes stared ahead at the storm raging outside for what felt like an eternity. Finally his head turned to regard his Little Survivor as a laugh slowly crept forth. "You good?" He asked, a tired grin still plastered along his maw.

 

[Vara Maji]

THE FOUNDLING
Kestri | Tor Valum, Home
TAG: Yuri Maji

Спокойная ночь​

The days went on. Life continued.

But the anticipation in her only grew larger.

The fear never had left her. Not once.

Abregado-Rae. Lying in wait to ambush. She had barely refrained from keeping up with the real-time reports of the space battle. And finally, battle stole her when the time came to face the Sith.

But that fear? Of losing him?

It never once left her.

Not after they had pulled out and returned to the fleet. Not after she learned his ship had stood firm and resolute under the enemy’s cannons.

She would find relief, only when he came back.

Crimsons blankly stared at the ceiling. A wrong daub of paint held her attention hostage. It was just smeared unevenly. A small detail everyone overlooked in their day-to-day. Her snout scrunched in a drag for breath. Brows furrowed, her frown deepened as the pillow under her neck began to sit wrong, too. A snarl left her. She reached down. Empty clinks of glass cut through the din as Vara searched for a bottle among them, through memory alone while colors and silhouettes of the characters crowded the corner of her vision. The holovision played something on the large screen. A movie. A plot.

Meaningless.

A distraction, it was supposed to be. Something to keep her mind off of things. And it failed to be even that.

Luckily, the netra’gal did not fail her. A ghost of a smirk emerged from her lips as she finally found it. Digits closed around its neck, the Little Survivor gave the bottle a small swirl. The alcohol sloshed around inside. Half empty…

Half full.

She straightened. The rim found her lips in the same motion. The dark, sticky-sweet ale quaffing off. A heave of breath left her as she set the empty bottle. It joined to surround her from all sides at her feet, along with the other several dozen.

It was then she heard it. Amidst the background noise. Past her dulled senses. A distinct engine whine.

Maybelle.

The drunken haze disappeared from her eyes. Crimsons shot for the hallway. The door clicked open. And she saw him. Broad shoulders sagged under a weight she could not see. Sleepless, tired eyes. His pelt–his handsome black and brown pelt–could not hide this fatigue. The bags under his eyes…

She watched him as he threw aside his kit. The armor was unceremoniously done away, either the ground or the couch catching them. The Harpy stirred. The cushions shuffled softly as she arose. With the grace of an apex predator stalking her prey, she navigated the minefield of empty bottles of beer. Meanwhile, the Hound busied himself, grabbing two bottles from the fridge.

By the time he slammed the lid shut, the Harpy was on him. The Shistavanen pounced. Arms wrapped around him, tighter than a vice. The fridge shook as the lid caught his back. Crimsons settled upon gold. She held his gaze for a moment longer before her attention drifted to the gash at his brow. Her snout flared. A pulse of breath broke the silence between them. Her tongue flicked across the gash, as though she could soothe the pain there.

Her temple rested beside his before long. Eyelids, tired, they dimmed. She spoke not a word.

There needn’t be any.