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Regret {Solo, Single Post}

Gilamar Skirata

Life before death. Journey before destination.
Writer
The fire was warm in the small room Gilamar sat in, the flames creating a steady, low rumble as the wood crackled and popped under the heat. Holding a datapad with new ship designs between his old, tired fingers, his glasses sat low on his nose. A yawn was permitted to escape, the fatigue of work starting to set in. He was startled as a familiar warmth wrapped around his neck and shoulders. Lowering the datapad he gingerly held the smallish hands that sat upon his chest and kissed them. "Come to bed cyar'ika." A smile came to the old man's face as tears streamed down his face. "Soon Karla, but I still have work to do." He felt the warmth slowly fade away accompanied by a disappointed sigh.

Snort!

As the dream began to fade into memory, so did the warmth as the fire began to fade into embers. Taking a metal rod, he prodded the embers, igniting the flame once again. Gazing into the fire, Gilamar's thumb found the silver band that wrapped itself around his finger, turning it slightly in thought.
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Regret. Regret was something many had, and all that did wished they hadn't. Well, most anyway. Gilamar took this regret, along with all of its negatives; the drinking, the sleepless nights, and made it into the thing that made him tenacious, made him unbreakable. But it was times like these that he wished his wife were here with him and not a part of the Manda...

Looking to the datapad that sat on the table he also regretted what he was about to do. Standing now, he walked to the back of his modest home, flipping a switch. The wall hissed and slid away, revealing a small duracrete room. The side walls were lined with weapons, exotic and traditional and on the main wall that stood before him, his armor. Simplistic in nature, the armor was what could be called "full" armor. Made almost exclusively of beskar, the kama made of blast-resistant leather.

Taking each part of the battle scarred armor, he strapped it on with precision and care, decades of experience in the armor guiding him. Instinct alone guided him. Clipping his cape into place he took his blaster pistols, though they would be virtually useless for the task he was preparing for. Picking up his beskad, he slipped it into the sheath at his waist, the metal blade sliding and almost clicking into place. Looking into the mirror, what stared back at him was not the face of an emotionless mercenary like so many in the Galaxy thought of his people as. What the black visor staring him back at him was decades of regrets, decades of should haves, could haves, and would haves. Gripping his left gauntlet, he felt the strength of the crushguant as it gripped the air, tighter and tighter.

He knew that this might add to the growing list of regrets, but he knew that should he not, his people might fall. With a heavy sigh, activating his com.

"Verz, we need to talk."
@[member="Verz Horak"]
 
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