Character
The garden was carved into the heart of the city like a wound that refused to close. Neon towers loomed above, their cold light bleeding through the canopy of engineered trees. The air smelled faintly of wet soil and ozone, the kind of sterile peace only wealth could buy. A stark contrast to the streets outside, where noise and smoke never slept.
Korda Veydran sat on a stone bench near the edge of a fountain. His helmet rested beside him, its scarred beskar catching the lamplight like a dull star. Heavy plating clung to his frame, blackened and battered, but for once he wasn't moving like a battering ram through some breach. His gauntleted hands rested loose on his knees, claws of scar tissue visible beneath the armor's edges.
His red eyes caught the reflection of lanterns rippling in the water. For most, it would've been a moment of quiet. For Korda, it was an interrogation.
Monster, the word echoed again, as it always did when silence pressed too long. They had branded him with it — his clan, his kin, his enemies. Perhaps it was true. He had torn down walls, reduced squads to ash, detonated charges close enough that even brothers-in-arms had recoiled. A warhead in human flesh.
And yet, looking at the flowerbeds — carefully arranged, blooming where nothing natural should thrive — the question coiled tighter. Could a man like him even exist in places like this? Or was he only a shadow cast by fire and ruin, out of place in a world that built instead of broke?
He muttered to the night, voice low and rough as gravel ground beneath a boot.
"Don't belong here."
A soft clack echoed along the path behind him — the scrape of boots on stone. Someone else was here. The garden wasn't as private as he'd hoped.
Korda didn't move for his blade, though his shoulders tightened like a storm waiting to break. His red gaze lifted, catching the flicker of another presence through the lantern-lit leaves.
"...Strange place to find company," he growled, words carrying more weariness than threat.
Korda Veydran sat on a stone bench near the edge of a fountain. His helmet rested beside him, its scarred beskar catching the lamplight like a dull star. Heavy plating clung to his frame, blackened and battered, but for once he wasn't moving like a battering ram through some breach. His gauntleted hands rested loose on his knees, claws of scar tissue visible beneath the armor's edges.
His red eyes caught the reflection of lanterns rippling in the water. For most, it would've been a moment of quiet. For Korda, it was an interrogation.
Monster, the word echoed again, as it always did when silence pressed too long. They had branded him with it — his clan, his kin, his enemies. Perhaps it was true. He had torn down walls, reduced squads to ash, detonated charges close enough that even brothers-in-arms had recoiled. A warhead in human flesh.
And yet, looking at the flowerbeds — carefully arranged, blooming where nothing natural should thrive — the question coiled tighter. Could a man like him even exist in places like this? Or was he only a shadow cast by fire and ruin, out of place in a world that built instead of broke?
He muttered to the night, voice low and rough as gravel ground beneath a boot.
"Don't belong here."
A soft clack echoed along the path behind him — the scrape of boots on stone. Someone else was here. The garden wasn't as private as he'd hoped.
Korda didn't move for his blade, though his shoulders tightened like a storm waiting to break. His red gaze lifted, catching the flicker of another presence through the lantern-lit leaves.
"...Strange place to find company," he growled, words carrying more weariness than threat.
