Alndys
Mercenary, Artist.
There'd been a few battles along the outer rim lately. Force users, blasters, people fighting for liberty or justice or conquest or whatever the flavor of the week might be. The intentions behind the battle changed as often as the flagship model of a Hekler'Kok carbine, and Alna cared about as much about either. Wars were exhausting, good people died or became terrible people, and resources were squandered in the pursuit of flying flags over some transient bit of space that nobody cared about. No, thank you. The only virtue to be had in a war was in that they tended to make a huge mess, and those messes were little troves of treasure waiting to be snapped up.
Every wreck a story. Sonnets in blaster-scorched durasteel, epics penned across the pocked face of a free-floating bulkhead, and crashing crescendos to be read from overdrawn batteries and shattered hyperdrives. And the best part of it all was, when you were done with it? You could sell the pieces off to somebody else for a tidy profit.
Alna's tired old Pathfinder wove deftly through a cloud of shrapnel and garbage, her shields managing to send off the larger chunks before they hit anything valuable. The old ship wasn't happy, to be sure - never was - but she'd managed the engines long enough that they were more familiar to her than the back of her hands. The bits and stuff was only an obstacle; at the heart of the debris cloud lay the blasted-apart ruin of some massive capital ship, possibly from the recent fight over Utapau - but maybe older. Along her starboard side, the ship had been pierced by what looked like a Mandalorian cruiser. The pointed vessel had speared the larger ship in the belly, spilling the guts of the stately old dreadnaught like a harpoon in a purrgil.
Which led to the second most interesting part of this literal mess. The engines on that cruiser were still firing, albeit at a ponderous sublight speed. They'd carried the capital ship some distance, judging by the debris trail that had led her to the scene. Alna reflected that, perhaps, the cruiser had come upon the jet-black ship by unhappy accident and collided in a mundane fashion. It was entirely possible that it had been the desperate last strike of some ancient battle. She briefly wondered if they'd beat the impossible, incomprehensible odds and somehow collided in hyperspace - and wouldn't that be a find? Not that anyone would believe such an absurd tale.
The Pathfinder's feet made contact with the hull of the captial ship, near the breach in her hull, and a low humm confirmed that the maglocks had fired up properly. With haste that betrayed how eager she was, Alna Merrill pulled her suit on, strapped on a belt of tools, and grabbed a slightly bent crobar she kept by the cargo hatch. Airlocks hissed, warning lights came on, and in short order, she was out in the black once again. Svivren floating far below her, with her single cruel sun ever further away, and the gigantic wall of a city-sized ship providing ample horizon for a single salvager looking to make a quick buck in neutral space.
Every wreck a story. Sonnets in blaster-scorched durasteel, epics penned across the pocked face of a free-floating bulkhead, and crashing crescendos to be read from overdrawn batteries and shattered hyperdrives. And the best part of it all was, when you were done with it? You could sell the pieces off to somebody else for a tidy profit.
Alna's tired old Pathfinder wove deftly through a cloud of shrapnel and garbage, her shields managing to send off the larger chunks before they hit anything valuable. The old ship wasn't happy, to be sure - never was - but she'd managed the engines long enough that they were more familiar to her than the back of her hands. The bits and stuff was only an obstacle; at the heart of the debris cloud lay the blasted-apart ruin of some massive capital ship, possibly from the recent fight over Utapau - but maybe older. Along her starboard side, the ship had been pierced by what looked like a Mandalorian cruiser. The pointed vessel had speared the larger ship in the belly, spilling the guts of the stately old dreadnaught like a harpoon in a purrgil.
Which led to the second most interesting part of this literal mess. The engines on that cruiser were still firing, albeit at a ponderous sublight speed. They'd carried the capital ship some distance, judging by the debris trail that had led her to the scene. Alna reflected that, perhaps, the cruiser had come upon the jet-black ship by unhappy accident and collided in a mundane fashion. It was entirely possible that it had been the desperate last strike of some ancient battle. She briefly wondered if they'd beat the impossible, incomprehensible odds and somehow collided in hyperspace - and wouldn't that be a find? Not that anyone would believe such an absurd tale.
The Pathfinder's feet made contact with the hull of the captial ship, near the breach in her hull, and a low humm confirmed that the maglocks had fired up properly. With haste that betrayed how eager she was, Alna Merrill pulled her suit on, strapped on a belt of tools, and grabbed a slightly bent crobar she kept by the cargo hatch. Airlocks hissed, warning lights came on, and in short order, she was out in the black once again. Svivren floating far below her, with her single cruel sun ever further away, and the gigantic wall of a city-sized ship providing ample horizon for a single salvager looking to make a quick buck in neutral space.
