Posts: 44
Affiliation:
Re: Barracks
*The conversation was as much steeped in hatred as it was in brevity, like the phrases were glancing blows intended to ward off each other├óÔé¼Ôäós presence. Sinistra felt of pure fury and anger, but also indifference, as if she had once cared for the man and trusted him, but was no longer anchored by such feelings and emotions. The taller man, only larger in height, was as quick to barge in as he was to retreat. He stood near a half foot higher than Walter, and looked as if he had just rolled out of a grave and fallen into another one. He smelled of hospital floor wax and bed sheets and old festering wounds, as if he had chosen to try and heal naturally. It was obviously the incorrect decision, the smell of the festering stab wound was almost enough to make Walter consider retching, just to fill the taste of his mouth with something more preferable. The bald man was succinct and to the point, his intentions well known. He planned to travel to Korriban to intervene in the coming Mandolorian attack. Whether his intent was to prove useful, loyal, or just capable, it was hard to tell. His head was covered in scars and he was balding, either by choice or genetically, and the sun reflected off his scalp like a giant glowing orb that threatened to blind. The beard on his face implied he had spent a great deal of time in the hospital or chose to allow age to take its course.
There was no greeting between Holy Man and Walter, though Walter knew who he was. He was one of the founding members of the Dark Tide, one of the fallen. And his speed to take action instead of recover did not impress the Lord of Battle, and he imagined it didn't impress Sinistra either. And Holy Man likely cared little for about the former, though was seemingly invested in turning things around.**He's going to get himself killed.**As the door slammed behind him and the bunker was closed once more, Walter felt a bit of comfort in the new freshness of the air.**It was starting to get stale.**He leaned forward and turned a nob on the transparisteel, cracking the window and letting in some air. It was an attempt to get the wounded smell out of the bunker, the smell of a man on his last leg and too proud to care for wounds the conventional manner. The smell of the need for pain to remember how to feel; to feel anything but shame. And he reeked of it.*
"I need to remember to get that door fixed. It seems that lock doesn't work. You'll get a key of course, it is your barracks after all."
*His helmeted visage turned from the door back to the window, watching as the lone figure walked back off towards the Hangar. He wasn't taking the most efficient route, but then again, Walter had built the barracks up to be a small dust bitten metropolis that resembled a maze as much a training facility. One could get lost in this place for hours and often did so. The shirt holy man wore was haphazardly attached to his torso and flapped in the wind as he walked, the waning sun just on the near side of setting in the direction he walked.**At least he has a purpose now.*
"It seems the Mandalorians will meet all sorts of characters in this war. Sith, Jedi, and the walking dead."
*Walter noticed a scuff in the window and pressed his finger against it, attempting to rub it clean. It was to no avail. Behind his hand, a group of men, carrying luggage as if they were about to take a trip, set up a make shift camp near the far end of the obstacle course.**I guess they missed the ship.**Commander Donavin, on his way to supper in his always timely manner, stopped and pointed off in the direction of the hangar bay. 'Maybe if they run, they'll make it in time to head to Korriban,' he probably told them. Their armor was painted gray with the brown caricature of a rancor squeezing a man between its hand, popping him like a tube of paste. They each had two or more packs and a few carried heavy rotary cannons and sniper rifles.**There seem to be almost a hundred of them.**Dust was all that was left as they followed a trough of grass towards the Hangar, perhaps passing the tall bald man on their way and giving him a better sense of direction.*
"Odd, how our ghosts tend to catch up with us."
There was no greeting between Holy Man and Walter, though Walter knew who he was. He was one of the founding members of the Dark Tide, one of the fallen. And his speed to take action instead of recover did not impress the Lord of Battle, and he imagined it didn't impress Sinistra either. And Holy Man likely cared little for about the former, though was seemingly invested in turning things around.**He's going to get himself killed.**As the door slammed behind him and the bunker was closed once more, Walter felt a bit of comfort in the new freshness of the air.**It was starting to get stale.**He leaned forward and turned a nob on the transparisteel, cracking the window and letting in some air. It was an attempt to get the wounded smell out of the bunker, the smell of a man on his last leg and too proud to care for wounds the conventional manner. The smell of the need for pain to remember how to feel; to feel anything but shame. And he reeked of it.*
"I need to remember to get that door fixed. It seems that lock doesn't work. You'll get a key of course, it is your barracks after all."
*His helmeted visage turned from the door back to the window, watching as the lone figure walked back off towards the Hangar. He wasn't taking the most efficient route, but then again, Walter had built the barracks up to be a small dust bitten metropolis that resembled a maze as much a training facility. One could get lost in this place for hours and often did so. The shirt holy man wore was haphazardly attached to his torso and flapped in the wind as he walked, the waning sun just on the near side of setting in the direction he walked.**At least he has a purpose now.*
"It seems the Mandalorians will meet all sorts of characters in this war. Sith, Jedi, and the walking dead."
*Walter noticed a scuff in the window and pressed his finger against it, attempting to rub it clean. It was to no avail. Behind his hand, a group of men, carrying luggage as if they were about to take a trip, set up a make shift camp near the far end of the obstacle course.**I guess they missed the ship.**Commander Donavin, on his way to supper in his always timely manner, stopped and pointed off in the direction of the hangar bay. 'Maybe if they run, they'll make it in time to head to Korriban,' he probably told them. Their armor was painted gray with the brown caricature of a rancor squeezing a man between its hand, popping him like a tube of paste. They each had two or more packs and a few carried heavy rotary cannons and sniper rifles.**There seem to be almost a hundred of them.**Dust was all that was left as they followed a trough of grass towards the Hangar, perhaps passing the tall bald man on their way and giving him a better sense of direction.*
"Odd, how our ghosts tend to catch up with us."