Revenchent
Dungeon Master
Kripes, that ride was awful.
It had been around three galactic rotations since the events on Coruscant. It all happened in what seemed to be a blur of synonymous events to the Sergeant now. He'd met a pretty lady, a Dark Jedi--they actually existed!-- and fought off what he would have thought were his own boys. CSF was supposed to be part of the good guys, right?
All this had led him, and his only true ally, to Bothuwai. The Jedi Order had turned on them so very long ago; the Republic had exposed its own corruption. Both were rotten to the core; willingly enslaving young men to fight their wars. It was disgusting. The news of a Sith Empire had only succeeded to set the old Commando's mind in a mild state of panic. Force users were everywhere; they were dangerous, not to be trusted.
He had learned of the Galactic Empire, these Lords of The Fringe, an various other organizations. It was amazing how wide the galaxy could be split open given a few thousand people with a few million different ideas.
Now here he was, standing at in front of the metallic door. A barrier between himself and a very dangerous obstacle. An obstacle that could send he and his brother off into the streets if he said the wrong word.
Keep it together Sergeant. For Galaar's sake. You still need to talk with him about the others boys. Your boys.
Calico gulped so many times that his mouth grew arid and dry. He stood in his full kit. Dulled gray armor that may have been gray at some point with deep green stripes down the helmet, sides, and shoulder pauldrons. His armor was standard, old tried and true Katarn; with the command pauldrons ARCs liked to wear. He'd received them from a brother during the explosive climax of the war.
Shame he's dead.
He removed his helmet and set it under his arm. His hair had grown out enough to be cropped up in the front; though it was still uniformly short. His now pale complexion and the dilation of his brown eyes was still unsettling. Carbonite could change you.
"Lock it down Galaar. We kark this up; and we're done. No more free caf or scantily clad ladies for you." He grunted to the junior commando. He put on a strong, orderly face, clicked the console to slide the door open, and strode in with a confident gait.
He'd always been a good, orderly soldier. Playing the part of professionalism came easily. "Good evening Sir."
@[member="Darth Metus"]
It had been around three galactic rotations since the events on Coruscant. It all happened in what seemed to be a blur of synonymous events to the Sergeant now. He'd met a pretty lady, a Dark Jedi--they actually existed!-- and fought off what he would have thought were his own boys. CSF was supposed to be part of the good guys, right?
All this had led him, and his only true ally, to Bothuwai. The Jedi Order had turned on them so very long ago; the Republic had exposed its own corruption. Both were rotten to the core; willingly enslaving young men to fight their wars. It was disgusting. The news of a Sith Empire had only succeeded to set the old Commando's mind in a mild state of panic. Force users were everywhere; they were dangerous, not to be trusted.
He had learned of the Galactic Empire, these Lords of The Fringe, an various other organizations. It was amazing how wide the galaxy could be split open given a few thousand people with a few million different ideas.
Now here he was, standing at in front of the metallic door. A barrier between himself and a very dangerous obstacle. An obstacle that could send he and his brother off into the streets if he said the wrong word.
Keep it together Sergeant. For Galaar's sake. You still need to talk with him about the others boys. Your boys.
Calico gulped so many times that his mouth grew arid and dry. He stood in his full kit. Dulled gray armor that may have been gray at some point with deep green stripes down the helmet, sides, and shoulder pauldrons. His armor was standard, old tried and true Katarn; with the command pauldrons ARCs liked to wear. He'd received them from a brother during the explosive climax of the war.
Shame he's dead.
He removed his helmet and set it under his arm. His hair had grown out enough to be cropped up in the front; though it was still uniformly short. His now pale complexion and the dilation of his brown eyes was still unsettling. Carbonite could change you.
"Lock it down Galaar. We kark this up; and we're done. No more free caf or scantily clad ladies for you." He grunted to the junior commando. He put on a strong, orderly face, clicked the console to slide the door open, and strode in with a confident gait.
He'd always been a good, orderly soldier. Playing the part of professionalism came easily. "Good evening Sir."
@[member="Darth Metus"]