Private Ruins of a Broken World

[Talohn Atar]

Ruins of a Broken World

Talohn had been positioned at the space station orbiting cathar for about a month or so now. As both a rally master and the uncle of Mandalore the Iron, the accommodations were nice. A spacious captain quarters with endless amenities for he and Zlova both, whenever she chose to stay at the station. He found it hard to complain, really. But there was something wrong. Zlova would have likely noticed it. He kept up that typical jovial exterior for the sake of troop morale on the vessel. Yet when alone or unoccupied, a grave sadness would overcome his features as he gazed down upon the withering planet below the station through whatever viewport he happened to be looking through at the time. When bothered during those moments, he would instantly shove down whatever he was feeling, returning to that Jovial default.

It was one such evening again. The day's work had been finished. Paperwork done, scouts sent out, orders directed. All the things that came with the task of his current position. All that remained was to sit and recuperate in his room. Yet he wasn't recuperating. He was at the viewport window of his quarters, orange colored eyes gazing down upon the rapidly withering planet of cathar. A glass of iced tea sat idly in his palm, which he would occasionally take a sip of. The occasional sigh would leave his lips, but no other noise. It was easy to notice that he'd become less social and less talkative as the past month had gone on. Yet the other men on the vessel, even if they wanted to check on him, were not sure how out of fear and respect for the chain of command that had been trained into them, whether Talohn cared for that chain of command or not.

Occasionally, he would break up his staring to pace about the room, thoughts racing through his mind. He would even attempt to lay on the bed and stare at the ceiling. But no matter what, he'd always find himself standing before the viewport again, taking in the horrible sight of his home. His dying, broken home.

Zlova Rue

 

[Zlova Rue]

Zlova cared, of course. About many things. Mostly just those within her arm's reach, but the chain of command was one of them. For Talohn's sake. Which meant the entire facility knew once the red Twi'lek returned if she heard stories about people taking advantage of the Cathar's jovial nature they'd have to deal with a totally-not Sith and totally Mandalorian woman. Either alone was terrifying; both together promised a great swell of agony and no release into the next life. Even though she wasn't always physically there, the threat of no one knowing what the unstable, temperamental woman would do was enough to avoid the serious infractions.

Today was not one of those days when she was away, however.

The Lethan strode down from her ship wearing just enough to cover her chest and legs as usual. Countless Sith glyphs lined every inch of her body, which made it impossible to feign not having once been a Sith. Well, "once." She used to be a Master of the Dark Side; she still is, but used to too. Though everyone there knew of her connection to Talohn, and his to the Mandalore, so no one had made a fuss. With recent diplomatic developments that went double now, which frustrated her to no end.

With the ship parked, she strode through the corridors. Passing acknowledged and check-ins were made along the way. No one decided to volunteer any of their concerns about Talohn for fear of being thought of as a gossip or out to undermine her mate's authority.

Finally, she hit the button for the door to their quarters to open. Responsibilities were for other people. Why she had to be saddled with them was an unfathomable mystery. At least, now, she could harass the Blue-furred Cathar and eat something that wasn't in an insta-ready pack. "Talohn, I'm here," she announced as she stepped through the door. She unbuckled a blaster and hung it up near the door. The lightsabers stayed at the small of her back, however.

Talohn Atar