Wittiza
Son of a Dead Nation
The debate was growing more idiotic with each plodding second.
He watched from his perch above the arming hall with growing disinterest. His comrades, Lucian, the bald giant, and Caffix, a Gammorean they'd picked up some weeks ago, were squealing at one another about the ethics of drinking 'Sith Wine'. The cohort had come into possession of several caskets of the stuff after their latest raid on an unfortunate passenger liner that happened to be broadcasting an IFF code that hailed from Sith Space. The target was designated viable as a vessel of tainted bourgeoise aristocracy, and the passengers had been lucky enough to leave only the slightest bit maimed. The cohort had sabotaged the ship's engines and left it on an aimless spin toward open space once they'd liberated all the supplies their hulls could carry. Whether those animals were intelligent enough to repair their communications array and call for help or not was a nonfactor for Wittiza.
Had he known his people would be so dogmatic as to assume their alcohol would 'taint them with the Bogan' he would have burned it all. As it was, he was forced to listen to them drone on, neither side willing to budge, and he wondered why he'd been stuck with all the legion's idiots.
"I blame the aliens," his second, one Withurd Selmin mused. He was dark skinned and less scarred than most of the legionaries, far more handsome too. He made for a good second face when Wittiza wasn't willing to show his own.
"You always do." Wittiza let the corner of his mouth tug up into a half-smile. "But you know, these debates were going on back during the days of the crusade. I'm afraid our idiocy is endemic to the legion, foreign blood or otherwise."
"You going to end it?" Withurd cocked a brow.
"No," Wittiza shook his head, "We've another hour or so before the hyperspace engines are ready to spool again and I'm rather bored. If I have to sit and read any more reports my eyes are going to roll out of my head."
Withurd looked away for a moment, a hint of a chuckle shaking his barrel-chest. "I suppose I should just tell you this one then."
Wittiza cocked his head, "Go on."
"We've received a communiqué from someone new. They're looking to talk business."
"Business I can do," the prospect of fresh credits to grease the wheels of his tiny fleet's upkeet lightened Wittiza's mood. "Put them through, or invite them aboard, whatever they like. I'll throw on my good coat."
"The red one?"
"Black. We need to at least pretend to be professional."
Laphisto
He watched from his perch above the arming hall with growing disinterest. His comrades, Lucian, the bald giant, and Caffix, a Gammorean they'd picked up some weeks ago, were squealing at one another about the ethics of drinking 'Sith Wine'. The cohort had come into possession of several caskets of the stuff after their latest raid on an unfortunate passenger liner that happened to be broadcasting an IFF code that hailed from Sith Space. The target was designated viable as a vessel of tainted bourgeoise aristocracy, and the passengers had been lucky enough to leave only the slightest bit maimed. The cohort had sabotaged the ship's engines and left it on an aimless spin toward open space once they'd liberated all the supplies their hulls could carry. Whether those animals were intelligent enough to repair their communications array and call for help or not was a nonfactor for Wittiza.
Had he known his people would be so dogmatic as to assume their alcohol would 'taint them with the Bogan' he would have burned it all. As it was, he was forced to listen to them drone on, neither side willing to budge, and he wondered why he'd been stuck with all the legion's idiots.
"I blame the aliens," his second, one Withurd Selmin mused. He was dark skinned and less scarred than most of the legionaries, far more handsome too. He made for a good second face when Wittiza wasn't willing to show his own.
"You always do." Wittiza let the corner of his mouth tug up into a half-smile. "But you know, these debates were going on back during the days of the crusade. I'm afraid our idiocy is endemic to the legion, foreign blood or otherwise."
"You going to end it?" Withurd cocked a brow.
"No," Wittiza shook his head, "We've another hour or so before the hyperspace engines are ready to spool again and I'm rather bored. If I have to sit and read any more reports my eyes are going to roll out of my head."
Withurd looked away for a moment, a hint of a chuckle shaking his barrel-chest. "I suppose I should just tell you this one then."
Wittiza cocked his head, "Go on."
"We've received a communiqué from someone new. They're looking to talk business."
"Business I can do," the prospect of fresh credits to grease the wheels of his tiny fleet's upkeet lightened Wittiza's mood. "Put them through, or invite them aboard, whatever they like. I'll throw on my good coat."
"The red one?"
"Black. We need to at least pretend to be professional."
