Prince of Nothing
Follow the grand spires of Coruscant's mighty skyscrapers down and you will find rot and corruption. The further down you go, the worse it is. Toward the bottom, near the city-planet's surface, the basest outcasts of civilization dwell - exiled from even the sight of the sky beneath such high towers.
Inside an abandoned store, Tydeus made his home. Preparing for his next attempt at infiltrating a Sith bunker that had been hidden within the city-planet. The Galactic Alliance had not caught onto it, despite this being their capital. But Tydeus did not want their help. Did not need their help. He would do it alone.
Past the store's double stores, the streets were ill-lit by the last gasps of the few remaining streetlights, most shattered and failed over the long centuries. Gangs still roved like packs of akk-wolves, or had their people posted on corners to peddle their deathstick drugs. So long as they stayed out of his way, Tydeus did not care.
In the corner, he had a bedroll, his go-bag, and his body armor. He wore only black combat fatigues and boots, shirt discarded on the bedroll. A pendant dangled from his neck, the only hint of ornamentation on him - out of place. The last remnant he had of a homeworld that had been autoclaved by the Sith. As he lowered himself to his knees, he fell into the routine stretches of the Way of the Steel Hand, warming up so he could perform his nightly routine. Thirty minutes of stretches. One hour of cardio. One hour of weights. Two hours of kata. One hour of meditation.
More or less half the day. He would have to make allowances... given his location.
Tydeus closed his eyes and tried to focus on his breathing.
Cathleen
Inside an abandoned store, Tydeus made his home. Preparing for his next attempt at infiltrating a Sith bunker that had been hidden within the city-planet. The Galactic Alliance had not caught onto it, despite this being their capital. But Tydeus did not want their help. Did not need their help. He would do it alone.
Past the store's double stores, the streets were ill-lit by the last gasps of the few remaining streetlights, most shattered and failed over the long centuries. Gangs still roved like packs of akk-wolves, or had their people posted on corners to peddle their deathstick drugs. So long as they stayed out of his way, Tydeus did not care.
In the corner, he had a bedroll, his go-bag, and his body armor. He wore only black combat fatigues and boots, shirt discarded on the bedroll. A pendant dangled from his neck, the only hint of ornamentation on him - out of place. The last remnant he had of a homeworld that had been autoclaved by the Sith. As he lowered himself to his knees, he fell into the routine stretches of the Way of the Steel Hand, warming up so he could perform his nightly routine. Thirty minutes of stretches. One hour of cardio. One hour of weights. Two hours of kata. One hour of meditation.
More or less half the day. He would have to make allowances... given his location.
Tydeus closed his eyes and tried to focus on his breathing.
Cathleen