Olan Teff
Freebooter
Reason
Time always seemed to stand still out here to Olan. It was nice. Standing atop the sand, feeling like the world stood quietly rapt-waiting for you to make the next move.
Only example to the contrary was the soft gusts of wind which pushed and pulled the sand like a child at play. All for a whim.
Thus was Tatooine, full of life and a lack of it-a land of few morals and even fewer friends. Two things it was not short of was drink and sand. Which Olan thoroughly enjoyed. Actually partaking of both this very minute.
Taking a sip of the stout beer in his hand, he looked up at the twin suns high in the sky above him.
"Another wonderous day...to work inside." Voice a bit forlorn as his blue and brown eyes went from the suns to his ship in the distance. Bright white and red, it blended in with the heat mirage and the blistering light. Only the bulbous Shadow it cast on the ground really gave its position away from this distance.
Huffing a deep sigh, he began to make his way to the ship.
Why do you do this?
To be strong.
Strength with no purpose is almost just as bad as being weak with a purpose.
I miss you, brother...I miss mom...father...
The voice he heard for a thousand times over, always haunting him. It was always one of his brothers. He felt that anger well up in him again. Feeling his hands clench so hard, he nearly tore the skin on his palms.
I will never be so weak again...to lose those I care for. Nothing will stop me.
Soon he found his feet had lead him up the ramp to his ship, the Avalon. Empty bottles of alcohol layered the ships interior, thankfully the incense he had been burning covered the smell. In the far corner a red and white R unit was deactivated and recharging.
With a sigh he moved towards his room. Posters stared back at him. Dead eyes of droids and drones alike stared back from the opposing wall. A dog sized pursuit dronenhung from the ceiling in a action pose by heavy cables and metal bars.
But where Olan went was to his workstation. A thick piece of durasteel for him to work on anything his mind came up with. Pieces of technology from across the galaxy lay to the side, tools of every shape and size hung comfortably in their holsters on the wall adjacent to the bench for easy access.
To the side of the bench this day was a large metallic box, it looked ungodly old. The words 'Tulst Trade' written across its body. Reaching within he pulled out one of the reasons he had braved a innumerable amountnof dangers for.
It was a handle..to what was once a grand weapon. Even though a rough copy of said weapon, and broken, it was still beautifully worked and made. Each curl and edge of the handle was worn but showed expert craftsmanship.
Seventy eight times.
That is how many times he had taken it apart and peered at its internals, how they worked, how they meshed together. To make a weapon. A weapon that he needed.
In lieu of that, the copy of this design was coming along. The handle. The guard. All finished. The internals were coming along from old parts-as well from scalped pieces from the weapons cousins. The main issue was its power source and the compound within.
He had not found a stable solution yet, to either of those issues.
It is why you have been here so long...
Shaking his head at the phantom of his elder brother, he reached into the box again and pulled out the holodrive. Plugging it once again into the projector so he could begin his search anew.
Too many names, too many faces.
But Olan knew it, he knew he had to have kin. He had to know his roots.
...and how far they went.
Time always seemed to stand still out here to Olan. It was nice. Standing atop the sand, feeling like the world stood quietly rapt-waiting for you to make the next move.
Only example to the contrary was the soft gusts of wind which pushed and pulled the sand like a child at play. All for a whim.
Thus was Tatooine, full of life and a lack of it-a land of few morals and even fewer friends. Two things it was not short of was drink and sand. Which Olan thoroughly enjoyed. Actually partaking of both this very minute.
Taking a sip of the stout beer in his hand, he looked up at the twin suns high in the sky above him.
"Another wonderous day...to work inside." Voice a bit forlorn as his blue and brown eyes went from the suns to his ship in the distance. Bright white and red, it blended in with the heat mirage and the blistering light. Only the bulbous Shadow it cast on the ground really gave its position away from this distance.
Huffing a deep sigh, he began to make his way to the ship.
Why do you do this?
To be strong.
Strength with no purpose is almost just as bad as being weak with a purpose.
I miss you, brother...I miss mom...father...
The voice he heard for a thousand times over, always haunting him. It was always one of his brothers. He felt that anger well up in him again. Feeling his hands clench so hard, he nearly tore the skin on his palms.
I will never be so weak again...to lose those I care for. Nothing will stop me.
Soon he found his feet had lead him up the ramp to his ship, the Avalon. Empty bottles of alcohol layered the ships interior, thankfully the incense he had been burning covered the smell. In the far corner a red and white R unit was deactivated and recharging.
With a sigh he moved towards his room. Posters stared back at him. Dead eyes of droids and drones alike stared back from the opposing wall. A dog sized pursuit dronenhung from the ceiling in a action pose by heavy cables and metal bars.
But where Olan went was to his workstation. A thick piece of durasteel for him to work on anything his mind came up with. Pieces of technology from across the galaxy lay to the side, tools of every shape and size hung comfortably in their holsters on the wall adjacent to the bench for easy access.
To the side of the bench this day was a large metallic box, it looked ungodly old. The words 'Tulst Trade' written across its body. Reaching within he pulled out one of the reasons he had braved a innumerable amountnof dangers for.
It was a handle..to what was once a grand weapon. Even though a rough copy of said weapon, and broken, it was still beautifully worked and made. Each curl and edge of the handle was worn but showed expert craftsmanship.
Seventy eight times.
That is how many times he had taken it apart and peered at its internals, how they worked, how they meshed together. To make a weapon. A weapon that he needed.
In lieu of that, the copy of this design was coming along. The handle. The guard. All finished. The internals were coming along from old parts-as well from scalped pieces from the weapons cousins. The main issue was its power source and the compound within.
He had not found a stable solution yet, to either of those issues.
It is why you have been here so long...
Shaking his head at the phantom of his elder brother, he reached into the box again and pulled out the holodrive. Plugging it once again into the projector so he could begin his search anew.
Too many names, too many faces.
But Olan knew it, he knew he had to have kin. He had to know his roots.
...and how far they went.