Character
| Location | Ord Radama, Outer Rim
Thick sheets of rain descended upon Livien Magnus in a never-ending downpour that turned the cobbled streets to streams of mud and muck, separated only by small islands of slick stone that carried the few unlucky enough to be outside on their way to safety—never looking up towards the towering buildings on either side, framed with gothic statues that sneered down at those beneath them, even as swooped wings and stooped shoulders provided the mearest semblance of shelter from the storm.
A bolt of lightning tinted the world a deep purple, and shadows stretched long and thin in the moment before a thunderous echo pushed them back into place. Those who remained outside moved a little quicker, the drumbeat of desperate fists shuddering against the metal frame of nearby doors, while others skittered like rats, descending deeper into the depths of the undercity.
Sheltered in the warmth of a fire and the grating hum of an air conditioning unit tortured to its last days, Itzhal Volkihar sat alone by the corner of the bar, his arms settled against the frame of a chair older than even him, worn synthetic leather in an awful shade of green pressing against the grooves of his armour and the exposed segments of his bodysuit. His buy'ce was placed on the chair beside him, while one hand lingered closer to the pale golden glass on the edge of his table, half-finished, though no one was in a particular rush to finish their drinks on a night like this.
Black clouds hung ominously in the air, visible through a circular glass window not far from where he sat, though most people found their attention stolen by the stone architecture of the local cathedral; he could not dismiss the flickering shapes above, warped and distorted by the storm. A threat to any who dared to brave the skies, though Itzhal knew it wouldn't stop everyone. He'd dropped through worse. The last time he'd fought someone in a similar scenario, they'd been the one to create the storm in the first place. It hadn't been the Diarchy that time, but still, he doubted they were all that different.
Lifting his drink towards the light, Itzhal mused upon the fact that they were only a few hours away from the Diarchy lines. Yet, if everything continued as usual, the only thing he had to worry about was the next dispute he would have to break up or an investigation into the latest Protectorate matter that was under his jurisdiction. He almost missed the first days since waking up, when he'd had nothing better to do than travel across worlds on whatever job that gathered his fancy.
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