Vega Ardellian
☠ N O B L E ⚔ P I R A T E ☠
They had called it blind ambition – and in the case of their meal ticket of the week; Captain Vega, they were half right. Their rumors and jovial contestations of being blind in one eye and not seeing out of the other were neither amusing nor worth his time. Though perhaps in some respect it was an accurate assessment of the situation – one that they knew precious little about; the way he preferred to keep it. The private pains and machinations of their employer were issues that did not concern them nor was it in their purview to attempt to suss out. They, like many others before them, had been hired to do a job; and were brought on in an ever-so temporary capacity that would serve his purpose and feed their stomachs. However, trying to sustain the implacable calm at the remarks he heard while aboard the Star-Opal was never an indefinite defense. Which in foresight was why this last crew had finally parted ways with Ardellian to likely squander their cut until they found another avenue of gain.
For Vega it was one more stroke in a master plan, one that had consumed him for years and was only starting to take shape. He'd mapped it out; literally – but it was his design and his goals that were unquestioned in his mind. He knew where to steer, but he was also wise enough to understand he'd never be able to do this alone; nor could he count on getting hired hands to step through the uphill battle he knew he was facing. All he had to do though was step one foot in front of the other to make progress. That phrase rang in his mind from the private instruction on Shu-Turon during the daily repetition of his favorite class. Swordplay.
~ Step in the center line Vega, one foot directly infront of the other. Lean into the thrust, know when to take a feint, and when to press forward. Think beyond the opponent, beyond the blade. Strike through the problem before you and aim for what lies beyond it. ~
He could hear those words as clear as the time they were spoken from the heavily decorated professor that had helped forge his love for the art. Even as his lithe form shifted on the cargo floor of the ship's primary quarters. A relatively narrow shaft of space carved out between durasteel crates and other sundry goods. The corridor was not the carpet lined halls of the royal palace, but it was as good as any place to practice with the rapier in his hand. Glimmering metal polished to a sheen cut through the air with precise and calculated strikes. His footwork matched that of his upbringing, honed into a motor reflex state and as natural as breathing.
It wasn't just a lesson about swordsmanship, but about being a leader and striking at a goal. Facing a problem infront of you didn't meant you had to zero in on it and forget the big picture. There was always going to be the next mission, the next target – and if he let himself be consumed by every obstacle he'd never progress. A great leader and tactician was supposed to look beyond the problem and strike at the heart. Simultaneously dispatching the obstacle and clearing the path for the next hurdle. Though specifically that quote came into play more literally after he had started to deal with the loss of his eye. Adjusting himself and moving through the handicap, he had to re-train himself to operate even better than when he had both eyes to himself.
Another couple of thrusts forward before the announcement from a protocol droid stirred him from his routine, and the exercise found it's conclusion. Vega shifted his stance to a salute and then down to his side, holstering the blastsaber in a smooth and graceful motion. Running digits through the lengths of his dark brown hair and shifting on booted feet towards the laid out garments that had been discarded in pursuit of further training. Digits lifted the pure white gloves of his station, sliding his fingers and thumb into each cloth sheath in a resolute manner. Next was the cloak and cape that denoted the nobility he wore as a source of pride and history. Fastening the clasp and adjusting the protective garment, Vega paced towards the stairs and took the elevation from the cargo bay to the upper decks, which led him towards the cockpit.
The hyperlanes whirl of blue and white vanished momentarily as he took his seat, letting the vessel break out of hyperspeed and into the starlit expanse of space before him. Off in the distance the large rotund station that had been his coordinates coming into view. Port Royal was a staple of many of his kind – and he'd found more than a few crews here on jobs in the past. It was also an excellent place for information, for some rest, and the occasional drink if he cared to mingle with those that were not as civilized as he would prefer. Pirates seemed to come in a number of packages – and were not always the most couth lot; but at least they did what they wanted.
:: Port Royal, this is Captain Vega Ardellian of the Star Opal. Transmitting clearance and requesting docking ::
Digits typed in a few key codes upon the console before him, awaiting the clearance and then adjusting his approach as detailed by the response that flooded viewscreen. Making port at this station was not as easy as he generally made it seem, but he wasn't new to the crew that ran this place; nor was he adversarial with them. They held a mutual relationship like many other who docked here on the regular. Maneuvering the craft in for an easy landing, the bastardized version of the Lambda shuttle touched down with the wings folding upwards as the landing gear spread out and braced the weight. The puff of steam and smoke issued out for decompression before the loading ramp began to descend.
Cutting into the smoke, the silhouette of a caped figure stepping down and out of the mist – Vega let his eye roam the surroundings as he approached the durasteel flooring and made a short walk into the station proper to find out what he might find use for this time around.
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