Preliat Mantis
The Wolf
X
Preliat found himself, in the middle of a ashy field. It was a site of a recent battle, at least, to him, it was still recent. He had been wondering here for quite some time, armor worn more than it was more than the last time he was here. The wounds of the battle, had never really recovered on the planet. He passed the ruined city, traces of scorched blackness where the frightening ooze and blood. He ran his hand over a carbon scorch mark, sighing as he walked onward. He guessed, at one point, it was some sort of city plaza. He was alone, and the dust from the dead and small, decaying bodies littered the ground still.
The Keybed was in the center, alone, and empty. Preliat walked forward, setting the rifle atop of it. His shotgun was still around here somewhere, though he would never dare touch the weapon again. He tapped the keys a few times, standing still for a moment. He sat down in the ash-covered seat for a moment, brushing the grime and wear off the keybed, tapping it a few more times. His hands started to move, recalling the lessons he received as a child and as an adult. He had taken it to his own accord to take lessons, and it showed when he began to play. He tapped the keys several times when he was finished, and leaned his head on the piano, the memories coming back to the young man in a floodgate, though you couldn't tell behind the helmet. He was solemn behind his helmet, unsure whether to scream or to cry.
Instead, he began to play again, his mind wandering while his body remained focus on the keybed.
Preliat found himself, in the middle of a ashy field. It was a site of a recent battle, at least, to him, it was still recent. He had been wondering here for quite some time, armor worn more than it was more than the last time he was here. The wounds of the battle, had never really recovered on the planet. He passed the ruined city, traces of scorched blackness where the frightening ooze and blood. He ran his hand over a carbon scorch mark, sighing as he walked onward. He guessed, at one point, it was some sort of city plaza. He was alone, and the dust from the dead and small, decaying bodies littered the ground still.
The Keybed was in the center, alone, and empty. Preliat walked forward, setting the rifle atop of it. His shotgun was still around here somewhere, though he would never dare touch the weapon again. He tapped the keys a few times, standing still for a moment. He sat down in the ash-covered seat for a moment, brushing the grime and wear off the keybed, tapping it a few more times. His hands started to move, recalling the lessons he received as a child and as an adult. He had taken it to his own accord to take lessons, and it showed when he began to play. He tapped the keys several times when he was finished, and leaned his head on the piano, the memories coming back to the young man in a floodgate, though you couldn't tell behind the helmet. He was solemn behind his helmet, unsure whether to scream or to cry.
Instead, he began to play again, his mind wandering while his body remained focus on the keybed.