Thunder shook the heavens as Harlon Wayde trudged across the plains of Nyriaan. A prospector and salvager, he'd been to a whole lot of miserable rocks in his forty years of life, but at the moment he couldn't think of a one of them he detested more than Nyrian. It was cold, squalid little rock, and pausing momentarily, he cast a sour glance up at the roiling clouds overhead, mentally evaluating whether it was about to rain. Again. It seemed a safe bet; he'd been on Nyriaan for three days now, and storms had raged for most of that. Of course, the onboard weather scanners on his shop had told him the storms would hold off for another day now, but he should, he realised with a bitter grimace, have known better than to expect them to be accurate. Spitting irritably on the ground, he fished a datapad from one of the many webbed pockets on his grubby, torn jacket and glanced at the map displayed upon it.
Three klicks out from his ship. No way he'd make that before the storm broke. About typical, really. He spat again, and lowering his gaze found them falling upon a marker on the map. It was a wreck, if he recalled correctly, just a burnt out husk of a ship. Worthless, really, but for the fact that it was a whole lot closer than his ship. "Any port in a storm," he muttered, thrusting the 'pad back into his pocket and stomping onwards, dark eyes now peering out toward the mist shrouded horizon in the hopes of spotting the wreck his ship had detected.
He almost made it before the rain began. It was there, mocking him, when the first droplets, heavy with the promise of the coming storm, fell from the clouds. But by the time he reached it, the winds were a howling gail tearing at sheets of lashing rain that stung the flesh and soaked through clothing in a heartbeat.
Force, but he hated this rock.
Stumbling through a gaping rent in the side of the wreck, Wayde slumped back against the side of the chamber - a cargo hold? - beyond. Tearing his soaking cap from his head, he flung it on the ground and dragged an arm across his forehead, wiping away the worst of the water that was running down across his leathery skin toward his eyes. "Blasted rock," he grumbled, glancing back out toward the plain where all but the closest of his footprints had been consumed by the raging storm, "It ain't bloody natural." Still muttering unhappily, he fished a ration bar from his jacket, peeling the packet from it with practised hands even as he let his gaze sweep over the interior of the hold. t was mostly empty; either looted long years ago or devoid of cargo when it had crashed. "Course it's empty," he muttered, tossing the packet down onto the corroded deck, "Can't have the galaxy giving ol' Harlon a break, eh? Still, might as well take a look while I'm stuck here." Flicking a switch on the luminator clipped to the front of his jacket, the salvager blinked in the sudden brightness before moving off into the darkness, loving a trail of rainwater in his wake.
At first, his search was fruitless. Doorway after doorway revealed just empty chambers or crushed sheets of hull, twisted and mangled from the ancient crash. But then, just as he was beginning to consider trying to trace his way back through the maze of corridors, he stumbled into another hold, one that was easily twice the size of those he had previously encountered. One that wasn't empty.
"Well," he whistled, scratching at his chin thoughtfully whilst his eyes drank in the sight before him, "Force be damned. They did miss something."
'Something' was right - it was a box of sorts, both taller and wider than he and crafted from a metal so dark it seemed to drink in the light from his luminator. And there was something about it, a silent siren's song that simultaneously set his teeth on edge and drew him forward on stumbling, unsteady feet. "What the hell're you?" came his whispered words as he pressed a bare palm against the metal, feeling it thrum beneath his flesh. Like it was breathing.
And then.... nothing. It was as though a noise he hadn't even been aware of hearing had suddenly been vanished. The shadows seemed to deepen around him, and the gentle thrumming of the black metal box faded into nothingness.
"That ain't good," he noted, eyes flickering back a darkness that his luminator was now struggling to penetrate, before focusing on the box once more as a line of purest darkness, like a glimpse of the deepest void itself, appeared in what had previously appeared a single seamless piece of metal. "Oh hell, that really can't be good." He wanted to run. Force above, but he wanted to run. Only problem was that his feet seemed to have decided to stop listening to his brain. So he was stuck there, forced to watch as the line grew and the metal shifted, seeming to part without actually moving at all. And within...
Darkness.
No...
Not just darkness. There was something - someone - in the darkness.
"Uhh," Harlon Wayde mumbled, his throat suddenly a whole lot drier than should have been possible on a world as wet as Nyriaan, "Hey, I... uhh... I'm not lookin' to hurt nobody. Didn't realise this was your ship." He was shaking, entire trembling like a leaf before a raging hurricane, but still he couldn't move. In fact, suddenly, he couldn't feel his feet at all.
Looking down, he realised why.
"Oh," he muttered, raising one hand numbly to the hilt embedded in his chest, to the spreading patch of crimson that stained his clothes, "Oh, bloody hell."
Three klicks out from his ship. No way he'd make that before the storm broke. About typical, really. He spat again, and lowering his gaze found them falling upon a marker on the map. It was a wreck, if he recalled correctly, just a burnt out husk of a ship. Worthless, really, but for the fact that it was a whole lot closer than his ship. "Any port in a storm," he muttered, thrusting the 'pad back into his pocket and stomping onwards, dark eyes now peering out toward the mist shrouded horizon in the hopes of spotting the wreck his ship had detected.
He almost made it before the rain began. It was there, mocking him, when the first droplets, heavy with the promise of the coming storm, fell from the clouds. But by the time he reached it, the winds were a howling gail tearing at sheets of lashing rain that stung the flesh and soaked through clothing in a heartbeat.
Force, but he hated this rock.
Stumbling through a gaping rent in the side of the wreck, Wayde slumped back against the side of the chamber - a cargo hold? - beyond. Tearing his soaking cap from his head, he flung it on the ground and dragged an arm across his forehead, wiping away the worst of the water that was running down across his leathery skin toward his eyes. "Blasted rock," he grumbled, glancing back out toward the plain where all but the closest of his footprints had been consumed by the raging storm, "It ain't bloody natural." Still muttering unhappily, he fished a ration bar from his jacket, peeling the packet from it with practised hands even as he let his gaze sweep over the interior of the hold. t was mostly empty; either looted long years ago or devoid of cargo when it had crashed. "Course it's empty," he muttered, tossing the packet down onto the corroded deck, "Can't have the galaxy giving ol' Harlon a break, eh? Still, might as well take a look while I'm stuck here." Flicking a switch on the luminator clipped to the front of his jacket, the salvager blinked in the sudden brightness before moving off into the darkness, loving a trail of rainwater in his wake.
At first, his search was fruitless. Doorway after doorway revealed just empty chambers or crushed sheets of hull, twisted and mangled from the ancient crash. But then, just as he was beginning to consider trying to trace his way back through the maze of corridors, he stumbled into another hold, one that was easily twice the size of those he had previously encountered. One that wasn't empty.
"Well," he whistled, scratching at his chin thoughtfully whilst his eyes drank in the sight before him, "Force be damned. They did miss something."
'Something' was right - it was a box of sorts, both taller and wider than he and crafted from a metal so dark it seemed to drink in the light from his luminator. And there was something about it, a silent siren's song that simultaneously set his teeth on edge and drew him forward on stumbling, unsteady feet. "What the hell're you?" came his whispered words as he pressed a bare palm against the metal, feeling it thrum beneath his flesh. Like it was breathing.
And then.... nothing. It was as though a noise he hadn't even been aware of hearing had suddenly been vanished. The shadows seemed to deepen around him, and the gentle thrumming of the black metal box faded into nothingness.
"That ain't good," he noted, eyes flickering back a darkness that his luminator was now struggling to penetrate, before focusing on the box once more as a line of purest darkness, like a glimpse of the deepest void itself, appeared in what had previously appeared a single seamless piece of metal. "Oh hell, that really can't be good." He wanted to run. Force above, but he wanted to run. Only problem was that his feet seemed to have decided to stop listening to his brain. So he was stuck there, forced to watch as the line grew and the metal shifted, seeming to part without actually moving at all. And within...
Darkness.
No...
Not just darkness. There was something - someone - in the darkness.
"Uhh," Harlon Wayde mumbled, his throat suddenly a whole lot drier than should have been possible on a world as wet as Nyriaan, "Hey, I... uhh... I'm not lookin' to hurt nobody. Didn't realise this was your ship." He was shaking, entire trembling like a leaf before a raging hurricane, but still he couldn't move. In fact, suddenly, he couldn't feel his feet at all.
Looking down, he realised why.
"Oh," he muttered, raising one hand numbly to the hilt embedded in his chest, to the spreading patch of crimson that stained his clothes, "Oh, bloody hell."