Location: High Plains of Concord Dawn
What had happened in the years of his life had enough dramatics to fill a holo-drama. Hero. Villain. Mentor. Exemplar & cautionary tale. The wind outside howled fitfully, desert sand filtering and slithering in eddies from outside, and for the dozenth or more time, Ijaat grumped at himself to secure the joins of the cheap pre-fab his shop was in. Tools were precious to his work, and the sand would ruin the delicate instrumentation. Turning back to the bench, he sat on a rickety durasteel stool, the lurid foam green paint chipped to reveal dull metal underneath, the floor worn and cracked wood, with a sandy pit in front of an anvil and forge. The bulk of the space in the building was given over to racks and racks of weapons, with the walls being covered in peg boards holding tools, and benches with vises holding various projects or scattered with drawings.
At one such bench on the East side of the hab, a window portal shuttered by a scarred iris portal shed a little light on a face as weathered and beaten as the piles of smooth rock he had drawn from a former creek bed. The windward side of the hab was sagging a bit. Shoring it up with stone might slow or even stop that issue. It was near twilight, so the light was fitful at best, and shadowed his face heavly, almost dramatically. A full beard, not the famed scruff of old, covered his lined and leathery face. Dark eyes, once reputed to be bright and sharp as a hawk, were lined with crows-feet wrinkles and shadowed by the dark circles of pain and loss, grief etched in sweeping lines across his cheeks as well, and the shaggy hair at the top of his head thinner than before, and streaked grey like his beard. Overall, almost anyone would struggle to connect the crumbling visage in front of them with the Clan Chief of Mereel. But that was his goal, wasn't it?
The Force, a withered connection as it was, pulsed telling him someone was near his hab. Grabbing under the bench, he checked to find the DE-10 still there, and thumbed the safety off to wait, his hand sliding back to the scarred work top of the bench as it eased the blaster pistol in it's hard-case to be easier to draw. A visitor meant either a customer who had somehow heard of the old mad-man in the desert who could fix broken tech like a miracle, or someone had finally found who he was, and death had come to claim him. A grimace crossed his face as he rubbed at his right shoulder, in the midline of his clavicle, as if an old injury briefly pained him. Either way, today would be exciting. So, with a grim sigh, he picked up the tweezers with laser micrometer, clicked several lenses down over the monocle vis-amp headbaned he had, and turned back to repairing the buc'ye in front of him, waiting.
Edited by Ijaat Mereel, 08 January 2018 - 01:21 PM.