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The bar was the kind of place where stories went to rot—low ceiling, cracked walls, the stink of old synth-oil and broken promises clinging to every surface. A storm howled somewhere outside, or maybe that was just the aging coolant system coughing itself toward death. Either way, no one looked up.
Kael Varnok sat alone at the far end of the counter, hunched over a battered tin mug half-full of Cornelian black ale—a brew known to peel paint, or souls, depending on the dosage. He was a few deep now, the burn no longer registering, his breath slow and uneven.
His helmet—iconic and unmistakable—sat on the bartop beside him, a beast-skull glare frozen in mid-snarl, daring anyone nearby to say his name aloud. No one did.
He dragged a scarred hand across his mouth, cloth wraps darkened by years of sweat, blood, and choices. His blue eyes flicked to the dusty mirror behind the bar. Two reflections stared back. One looked tired. The other... smiled.
"You think this place is quiet, don't you?"
The voice was his own. It always was. But the tone was off—smoother, meaner.
"You think you outran it. The war. The Order. Her. Me."
Kael exhaled sharply through his nose, the kind of breath that tried to be a laugh and failed halfway.
"Shut up," he muttered into his mug. "You're drunk."
"We're drunk. You just happen to be awake for it."
His fingers tightened around the mug's handle until it groaned. The bartender—a wiry Lutrillian with half a face and less patience—glanced up once, then wisely looked away.
Somewhere in the corner, a pair of mercs were arguing over credits. Their voices rose. Kael didn't move.
"You should let me out. Just once. Let me stretch. Let me deal with them like you want to."
"No," he growled, low and quiet, more to himself than anyone else. "We're done with that."
"Liar."
He leaned forward, elbows on the bar, head hanging low between his shoulders. The weight wasn't just the drink—it never was. It was the memories, the screams, the endless hum of igniting sabers, the feeling of blood—real or imagined—on his hands.
For a brief moment, his fingers hovered over the hilt of his right saber. Just the feel of it brought clarity. And then nausea.
He shoved it away, motioned for another drink. The Lutrillian obliged without a word.
As the glass hit the counter, Kael lifted his head, eyes glassy but alert, like an animal too tired to run but too mean to die.
Behind him, the door hissed open.
Heavy boots. Multiple. Not local.
Kael didn't turn.
"Tell me they're not looking for me," he whispered.
"Would that make it better?"
He smiled. No joy in it.
"I didn't think so."
Valery Noble
Kael Varnok sat alone at the far end of the counter, hunched over a battered tin mug half-full of Cornelian black ale—a brew known to peel paint, or souls, depending on the dosage. He was a few deep now, the burn no longer registering, his breath slow and uneven.
His helmet—iconic and unmistakable—sat on the bartop beside him, a beast-skull glare frozen in mid-snarl, daring anyone nearby to say his name aloud. No one did.
He dragged a scarred hand across his mouth, cloth wraps darkened by years of sweat, blood, and choices. His blue eyes flicked to the dusty mirror behind the bar. Two reflections stared back. One looked tired. The other... smiled.
"You think this place is quiet, don't you?"
The voice was his own. It always was. But the tone was off—smoother, meaner.
"You think you outran it. The war. The Order. Her. Me."
Kael exhaled sharply through his nose, the kind of breath that tried to be a laugh and failed halfway.
"Shut up," he muttered into his mug. "You're drunk."
"We're drunk. You just happen to be awake for it."
His fingers tightened around the mug's handle until it groaned. The bartender—a wiry Lutrillian with half a face and less patience—glanced up once, then wisely looked away.
Somewhere in the corner, a pair of mercs were arguing over credits. Their voices rose. Kael didn't move.
"You should let me out. Just once. Let me stretch. Let me deal with them like you want to."
"No," he growled, low and quiet, more to himself than anyone else. "We're done with that."
"Liar."
He leaned forward, elbows on the bar, head hanging low between his shoulders. The weight wasn't just the drink—it never was. It was the memories, the screams, the endless hum of igniting sabers, the feeling of blood—real or imagined—on his hands.
For a brief moment, his fingers hovered over the hilt of his right saber. Just the feel of it brought clarity. And then nausea.
He shoved it away, motioned for another drink. The Lutrillian obliged without a word.
As the glass hit the counter, Kael lifted his head, eyes glassy but alert, like an animal too tired to run but too mean to die.
Behind him, the door hissed open.
Heavy boots. Multiple. Not local.
Kael didn't turn.
"Tell me they're not looking for me," he whispered.
"Would that make it better?"
He smiled. No joy in it.
"I didn't think so."
Valery Noble
