dan12x1
O'saam Echoy'la
It was a pain he knew well.
Burning pain through his shoulder, eyes watering. Stabbing feeling in his gut. Hand reaching out, clawing at dirt.
Can't reach her, the words blared in his mind. Careless mistake. Can't reach her. He began to black out, pain overwhelming what few senses he could remember that he had.
"Osaam!" He heard her scream. His eyes opened forcefully. Siha, he thought to himself. That was her name, that was his wife. He pulled his trench knife, stabbing the solid Beskar into the ground and pulling himself along with it. Across the ash, and charred timbers that framed his dugout previously. He found himself outside of it, an arm gripping her dress. They'd come in force, and they'd punished them. O'saam wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into him.
"Cyar'ika, why is it so hot?" She was burnt to piece, he knew that. And in the back of his head he knew her chances of making it were practically non-existent. He looked her over and said nothing, holding her gingerly. Tears streaked down his face. There was a pain in his chest, clawing at his skin.
Howling exited his lips, echoing into eternity.
He woke with a start, throwing his blanket back and pointing his weapon into the empty dark Cabin. His chest was heaving, and the internal computers beeped loudly.
Entering Mandalorian Space, Mister O'saam. Turning on ships transponders.
He'd pause for a moment, recollecting where he was. The War Games were an interesting watch, and he'd gone to rest. His feet padded across the room, stepping into a pair of open powered leg-pieces. Afterwards, he'd walk into where his chest-plate was hanging on a rail system, closing it around his torso and grabbing his helmet along the way. Most of his rigging sat strapped just behind the cockpit door. Once he was kitted out, he sat in his chair and broadcasted his ships name so that he wasn't flying unannounced. Didn't need too really anymore.
"This is The Black Death, coming into hyperspace lane 72 Arubesh,"
Burning pain through his shoulder, eyes watering. Stabbing feeling in his gut. Hand reaching out, clawing at dirt.
Can't reach her, the words blared in his mind. Careless mistake. Can't reach her. He began to black out, pain overwhelming what few senses he could remember that he had.
"Osaam!" He heard her scream. His eyes opened forcefully. Siha, he thought to himself. That was her name, that was his wife. He pulled his trench knife, stabbing the solid Beskar into the ground and pulling himself along with it. Across the ash, and charred timbers that framed his dugout previously. He found himself outside of it, an arm gripping her dress. They'd come in force, and they'd punished them. O'saam wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into him.
"Cyar'ika, why is it so hot?" She was burnt to piece, he knew that. And in the back of his head he knew her chances of making it were practically non-existent. He looked her over and said nothing, holding her gingerly. Tears streaked down his face. There was a pain in his chest, clawing at his skin.
Howling exited his lips, echoing into eternity.
He woke with a start, throwing his blanket back and pointing his weapon into the empty dark Cabin. His chest was heaving, and the internal computers beeped loudly.
Entering Mandalorian Space, Mister O'saam. Turning on ships transponders.
He'd pause for a moment, recollecting where he was. The War Games were an interesting watch, and he'd gone to rest. His feet padded across the room, stepping into a pair of open powered leg-pieces. Afterwards, he'd walk into where his chest-plate was hanging on a rail system, closing it around his torso and grabbing his helmet along the way. Most of his rigging sat strapped just behind the cockpit door. Once he was kitted out, he sat in his chair and broadcasted his ships name so that he wasn't flying unannounced. Didn't need too really anymore.
"This is The Black Death, coming into hyperspace lane 72 Arubesh,"