Viceroy of Siskeen
The Plains of Tears, southern continent of Siskeen
Public Spaceport, The Hex
He stood on the cracked duracrete, the grey contours of the landing pad seared black in the centers from countless landings and take offs. At the center of this particular landing pad rested the five pointed, circular Ghtroc 720 freighter. It wasn’t necessarily pretty, but the Shattered Mirror would do the job required of it. Silently he checked the time on the chronometer in his pocket, a gift from his uncle. He sent out for a job position, outsourcing to personnel existing from the greater galaxy rather than the pool of available workers inside confederate space. A better chance to maintain anonymity with an unknown. There was still time for the contracted employee to arrive before becoming late. However, he was prepared to go alone if need to do so arose.
Stepping across the pad he looked out upon the open, grassy fields and noted the vaporous mists rising from hidden geothermal vents. The plain had acquired its name from the constant wave of humidity and mist which was almost mournful in emoting. A sense of whimsical melancholy enveloped those who looked upon the fields, the rustle of the wind through whipcord grass raising a keening whistle that eerily plucked at the heartstrings of those who heard the siren like call.
He ran a hand through his blackened hair before dropping his arm to his side. The shoulder harness swayed little, the pistol under the left arm and knife under right staying securely in place. The black tunic matched the obsidian cargo pants festooned with pockets. Keeping with the theme, his face wore a carefully crafted beard trimmed close and neat. Hands swept to the small of his back, one wrist in the grip of the other hand, just above an eight inch silver cylinder running horizontally in a sheath with his belt. Aviator glasses perched upon his straight nose, the mirrored reflection of the lenses hiding his focused eyes.
A twitch of a smile slightly curled the corners of his mouth before easing away. He rarely possessed the opportunity to do anything akin to this anymore. His lot was spent conversing, creating documents, guiding those who served beneath him, and otherwise fulfilling the duties of his position. Some would say he was recklessly throwing himself into the path of danger, an accusation he had laid at the feet of Metus on more than one occasion. This was different, was the way he justified himself yet he knew deep down that it was similar. However there was a clear difference between putting yourself on the front lines of a battle and doing a favor for a friend in friendly space.
Or so he mused.
Another glance at the chronometer revealed his impatience despite not having been more than a few minutes since he checked the time. He was still early.
K KAR
Public Spaceport, The Hex
He stood on the cracked duracrete, the grey contours of the landing pad seared black in the centers from countless landings and take offs. At the center of this particular landing pad rested the five pointed, circular Ghtroc 720 freighter. It wasn’t necessarily pretty, but the Shattered Mirror would do the job required of it. Silently he checked the time on the chronometer in his pocket, a gift from his uncle. He sent out for a job position, outsourcing to personnel existing from the greater galaxy rather than the pool of available workers inside confederate space. A better chance to maintain anonymity with an unknown. There was still time for the contracted employee to arrive before becoming late. However, he was prepared to go alone if need to do so arose.
Stepping across the pad he looked out upon the open, grassy fields and noted the vaporous mists rising from hidden geothermal vents. The plain had acquired its name from the constant wave of humidity and mist which was almost mournful in emoting. A sense of whimsical melancholy enveloped those who looked upon the fields, the rustle of the wind through whipcord grass raising a keening whistle that eerily plucked at the heartstrings of those who heard the siren like call.
He ran a hand through his blackened hair before dropping his arm to his side. The shoulder harness swayed little, the pistol under the left arm and knife under right staying securely in place. The black tunic matched the obsidian cargo pants festooned with pockets. Keeping with the theme, his face wore a carefully crafted beard trimmed close and neat. Hands swept to the small of his back, one wrist in the grip of the other hand, just above an eight inch silver cylinder running horizontally in a sheath with his belt. Aviator glasses perched upon his straight nose, the mirrored reflection of the lenses hiding his focused eyes.
A twitch of a smile slightly curled the corners of his mouth before easing away. He rarely possessed the opportunity to do anything akin to this anymore. His lot was spent conversing, creating documents, guiding those who served beneath him, and otherwise fulfilling the duties of his position. Some would say he was recklessly throwing himself into the path of danger, an accusation he had laid at the feet of Metus on more than one occasion. This was different, was the way he justified himself yet he knew deep down that it was similar. However there was a clear difference between putting yourself on the front lines of a battle and doing a favor for a friend in friendly space.
Or so he mused.
Another glance at the chronometer revealed his impatience despite not having been more than a few minutes since he checked the time. He was still early.
K KAR
