G I L D E D
BLACK AND GOLD
The Gilded Hearth - Chapter 1
OUTFIT: Black and Gold Beskar’gam
TAG:
Darth Empyrean
THE MAN WHO SOLD THE WORLD
The Gilded Hearth - Chapter 1
OUTFIT: Black and Gold Beskar’gam
TAG:
Darth Empyrean
THE MAN WHO SOLD THE WORLD
IRON CHEF’S KITCHEN, THE GILDED HEARTH, NAR SHADDAA
The back service entrance of Iron Chef's Kitchen hissed open, letting in a swirl of the Smuggler's Moon's toxic, neon-tinted smog before the atmospheric scrubbers forced it back out.
Inside Iron Chef's Kitchen, the midnight rush had faded into the low hum of cooling units and the rhythmic slosh of a mop. The air was a heavy cocktail of expensive spices, industrial-grade degreaser, and the metallic tang of recycled oxygen.
Uros Wren stepped into the heat of the kitchen, his Black and Gold Beskar'gam bore fresh, ugly takeaway dish. Scorch mark of a heavy blaster bolt across his chest plate, faint smell of ozone clinging to his jetpack, and a smear of dark, drying blood across one gold-trimmed gauntlet.
He stopped in his tracks, his gaze snagging on the lone figure at the far prep station.
It was the new hand. The one who worked the closing shift with a ghost-like efficiency. Even in the dim, pre-dawn light of the kitchen, the man was an impossible contrast to the grime of the Smuggler's Moon. Hair as white as a supernova, skin that looked like carved marble, and eyes... eyes that held a steady, haunting glow of pure gold.
In his line of work, people who looked like that didn't usually end up in a basement kitchen on Nar Shaddaa.
The Warden leaned heavily against a prep table, his armor clanking softly. He reached into a compartment of his utility belt and pulled out a crumpled pack of Corellian cigarettes. He shook one loose and held the pack out toward the white-haired man, his gold-trimmed fingers steady despite the adrenaline still humming in his veins.
"Long night?" Uros asked, his eyes never leaving his employee’s golden’s.
He sparked a small lighter, the flame dancing in the reflection of his black breastplate.
"The kitchen's closed, the credits are counted, and the wolves are finally heading back to their dens," Uros murmured, offering the smoke with a faint, knowing tilt of his head. "Tough time to be the only one still awake."
He took a slow drag of his own cigarette, the smoke curling around his scarred armor.
"Uros Wren. But you probably know."
Inside Iron Chef's Kitchen, the midnight rush had faded into the low hum of cooling units and the rhythmic slosh of a mop. The air was a heavy cocktail of expensive spices, industrial-grade degreaser, and the metallic tang of recycled oxygen.
Uros Wren stepped into the heat of the kitchen, his Black and Gold Beskar'gam bore fresh, ugly takeaway dish. Scorch mark of a heavy blaster bolt across his chest plate, faint smell of ozone clinging to his jetpack, and a smear of dark, drying blood across one gold-trimmed gauntlet.
He stopped in his tracks, his gaze snagging on the lone figure at the far prep station.
It was the new hand. The one who worked the closing shift with a ghost-like efficiency. Even in the dim, pre-dawn light of the kitchen, the man was an impossible contrast to the grime of the Smuggler's Moon. Hair as white as a supernova, skin that looked like carved marble, and eyes... eyes that held a steady, haunting glow of pure gold.
In his line of work, people who looked like that didn't usually end up in a basement kitchen on Nar Shaddaa.
The Warden leaned heavily against a prep table, his armor clanking softly. He reached into a compartment of his utility belt and pulled out a crumpled pack of Corellian cigarettes. He shook one loose and held the pack out toward the white-haired man, his gold-trimmed fingers steady despite the adrenaline still humming in his veins.
"Long night?" Uros asked, his eyes never leaving his employee’s golden’s.
He sparked a small lighter, the flame dancing in the reflection of his black breastplate.
"The kitchen's closed, the credits are counted, and the wolves are finally heading back to their dens," Uros murmured, offering the smoke with a faint, knowing tilt of his head. "Tough time to be the only one still awake."
He took a slow drag of his own cigarette, the smoke curling around his scarred armor.
"Uros Wren. But you probably know."