Seydon of Arda
Raquor'daan
@[member="Qae Shena"]
~Wild Space - Baxel Sector - Teth System - Teth
[24:21:019] - The Silent Temple
Recordings made via ink and parchment, no matter the quality of either, were considered archaic at best and stupidly foolish at worst. With the advent of digital analogue, the ability to forge an infinite degree of copies with faithful consistency was no longer the fevered dreams of overworked scribes and archivists. The old adage went, that anything broadcasted to the Holonet would remain there ad infinitum, drifting as immortal grey noise, spectral haunts of homeless data that was unable to see deletion. Helpful. Wasteful. Powerful and useless in the same vein. One could spend a lifetime seeking out tendrils of faint information while taking only a minute to see the latest broadcast-spill of some celebrity's sex-holo. It was content without context, as some saw.
A lad sitting down by the babble of cold brook, beneath a boxed skylight tressed with thin, rosewood brackets, was distracted by more pragmatic concerns.
Seroth Ur-Rahn, dressed for his morning exercises and regimes in a simple pair of green slacks and tunic, rubbed gloved fingers over his nose-bridge and continued regarding through a tattered journal. The pages were yellowed, edges crazed, crackling. The outer cover and spinal bindings were threadbare, eaten through by bug, chemical, and time. Patches of caked refuse still clung to dog-eared page corners. It'd belonged to an old Legionnaire, grizzled Shev Rayner, trainer, partner, friend and mentor to a whole two generations of fighting men and women. Seroth paled a moment, sighing aloud. ...He'd died slaying those same successive generations, before a bastard wove his high-frequency sword up through his ribs. Left to bleed out, Shev's last action was to simply leave behind a preservation of his life-long materials. Beside Seroth laid a battered footlocker, constructed in the ancient Maritime fashion of wood, leather, and brass buckles. The locks were propped open. Dozens of codices scrawled in shorthand were airing out. He'd retreated to a small sand and smooth-stone garden for general silence and privacy, reviewing each material in whole.
The lad scratched his shaven cheek, trying to make sense of a series of instructional diagrams. Of pertinence was a hastily penciled name: Dathan Gunn. Seroth's father, though he couldn't remember the man much in any reliant memory. ...A tall vaguery surrounded by ash mists, shouting back at menacing shadows. Then an impression of... caked blood and brain-gore scattering in sprayed splotches. Grey eyes hollowed by a haunt of pain and the weight of death blinked, looking back to what appeared to be forging diagrams. A four winged trill-bird, no larger than his thumb, whisked by his face and blew a whistle of multi-tonal song. Then it winged away, hungry, eager for the tree flowers open for pollination overhead. Rain pattered on the skylight plasteel glass, plinking tunelessly.
~Wild Space - Baxel Sector - Teth System - Teth
[24:21:019] - The Silent Temple
Recordings made via ink and parchment, no matter the quality of either, were considered archaic at best and stupidly foolish at worst. With the advent of digital analogue, the ability to forge an infinite degree of copies with faithful consistency was no longer the fevered dreams of overworked scribes and archivists. The old adage went, that anything broadcasted to the Holonet would remain there ad infinitum, drifting as immortal grey noise, spectral haunts of homeless data that was unable to see deletion. Helpful. Wasteful. Powerful and useless in the same vein. One could spend a lifetime seeking out tendrils of faint information while taking only a minute to see the latest broadcast-spill of some celebrity's sex-holo. It was content without context, as some saw.
A lad sitting down by the babble of cold brook, beneath a boxed skylight tressed with thin, rosewood brackets, was distracted by more pragmatic concerns.
Seroth Ur-Rahn, dressed for his morning exercises and regimes in a simple pair of green slacks and tunic, rubbed gloved fingers over his nose-bridge and continued regarding through a tattered journal. The pages were yellowed, edges crazed, crackling. The outer cover and spinal bindings were threadbare, eaten through by bug, chemical, and time. Patches of caked refuse still clung to dog-eared page corners. It'd belonged to an old Legionnaire, grizzled Shev Rayner, trainer, partner, friend and mentor to a whole two generations of fighting men and women. Seroth paled a moment, sighing aloud. ...He'd died slaying those same successive generations, before a bastard wove his high-frequency sword up through his ribs. Left to bleed out, Shev's last action was to simply leave behind a preservation of his life-long materials. Beside Seroth laid a battered footlocker, constructed in the ancient Maritime fashion of wood, leather, and brass buckles. The locks were propped open. Dozens of codices scrawled in shorthand were airing out. He'd retreated to a small sand and smooth-stone garden for general silence and privacy, reviewing each material in whole.
The lad scratched his shaven cheek, trying to make sense of a series of instructional diagrams. Of pertinence was a hastily penciled name: Dathan Gunn. Seroth's father, though he couldn't remember the man much in any reliant memory. ...A tall vaguery surrounded by ash mists, shouting back at menacing shadows. Then an impression of... caked blood and brain-gore scattering in sprayed splotches. Grey eyes hollowed by a haunt of pain and the weight of death blinked, looking back to what appeared to be forging diagrams. A four winged trill-bird, no larger than his thumb, whisked by his face and blew a whistle of multi-tonal song. Then it winged away, hungry, eager for the tree flowers open for pollination overhead. Rain pattered on the skylight plasteel glass, plinking tunelessly.