He had changed.
Not the gradual, well-medicated change that time drew a person slowly through. Not the change whose subtleties were noted by only the keenest of observers, intent on noticing the smallest of intricate deviations. Not the creeping gradient that invited the traveller over the hill with only the slightest of incremental elevation.
He had changed entirely.
High Marshal Verin Oldo had seen some of the Confederacy’s staunchest combat. He had served at Talay, he had been a key player at Dantooine, had served and fought bravely on countless occasions, deserving his various promotions and commissions ten-fold within the NAVCOM.
Rhand.
The Disaster above Rhand had been an unexpected entry in the portfolio of his workplace endeavours. He had watched the near-absolute destruction of an entire Line under his direct command. Thousands of lives smashed and pulverised in the atmosphere of the dread planet, countless singular experiences of torment, anguish, pain and, ultimately, death in the falling debris of the Skyforge.
Verin had barely escaped with his own life and the toll weighed heavily on him. He would be relieved of his duty for a short while, recuperating in the comfort of his homestead, his husband by his side. He would walk in the golden fields, enjoying the permanent and unlimited source of fresh air, filling his lungs full and well.
The atmosphere above Port Sorrow had an oxygen-enrichment of 2%. Anybody alive as they entered the low atmosphere above Rhand was duly unconscious or rendered incapacitated. When they came to, they would find themselves rapidly approaching the…
Verin shook his head, his hands trembling as he stood frozen to the spot, his right foot covered by water as the stream trickled ravenously, filling the new quagmire that his boot had crafted as he fell into it. He looked around, hoping to find help. The sun was setting, and it was going to get colder. He turned back towards the house, a fifteen-minute walk away from the stream, a water-filled bucket filled with small fishes, various species teaming and flapping in the water, little knowing their fate was approaching in the shape of a manual kitchen unit. Oldo enjoyed some of the more archaic ways of doing things and felt it gave him a sense of decorum and prestige.
He had made the call two days later, surrendering his commission and taking leave of duty. It was accepted, with regret, that he would serve out a short but uneventful period of notice, overseeing various training missions, commissioning ceremonies and the decommissioning of some of the vessels from his personal battleline.
The concussive implosions knocked out life-support systems within seconds, making all opportunities to escape near impossible. The fire that tore through the fuselage would have, with some certainty, killed all on board.
He knew that the next time he returned home he would be a civilian, retired from his post and his commission. He would, in some instances, retain the honorary use of his rank, having formerly led an entire Sector Armada for the Confederacy of Independent Systems. He figured he’d leave it a while.
His fortune made, Oldo began to make plans for himself, without a schedule and without beck and call to disrupt the simplicities of his wants, needs and desires. He only fought, he had told his husband Senat, ‘when it was necessary to do so’. His fighting days would rest far behind him, enjoying an early retirement not on the board of the NAVCOM, as so many did, but as a free man to do as he wished. He had a considerable income saved, with investments and spoils tucked away. He would live out his days a very wealthy man, even by Confederate standards.
Which was why when a memorandum from Hefi, a planet in the Wild Space, had courted his favour and asked if he would consider paying a visit, he was in two minds. He knew that former high-status, influential Confederates were approached by boards of business, pressure groups and lobbyists to throw their weight behind causes, usually for large sums of money, so wasn’t certain he was ready to enter the after-dinner speaking circuit quite yet.
However, some elements intrigued him. Even the fleetest of dispatches he had still been privy to after his tenure and position had afforded such a luxury even in retirement, told him that a large Mandalorian colony had spread their influence in the system, building a large and reputable city-state in the region. He could almost feel the sense of adventure bubbling from within him.
Senat had nodded sagely.
“We’ll go.”
And, once again, Verin had packed up his life to sail the stars. They had boarded a cruiser of Corellian design and made for New Krosport, Hefi. It would be a long journey but uneventful.
Senat had asked from the sofa in their suite “Have you ever worked with Mandalorians before?”
Verin nodded. So much of his work had been strictly classified but Verin felt he could share a little these days, safe in the knowledge he wouldn’t be sold out or used as a weapon.
“A few times. The chiefs of this lot used to run security for us. I ran into them a couple of times, running blockades, that sort of thing. I didn’t like their…ways.”
Senat laughed, his dark hair catching the artificial lighting perfectly.
“Their ways? What does that even mean?”
Verin sat next to him, holding a cup of tea to his right. He nudged the laughing Senat with his elbow, playfully budging him a few inches over.
“It means that they are an obtuse lot, roguish. They like to do things their own way, no real regard for protocol or rules.”
Senat sipped his tea, raising his eyebrows comically.
“Obtuse? I had no idea the Confederacy allowed such a thing! How ever did you survive?”
Oldo grinned and hit Senat on the arm, catching his laughter infectiously and pulled him closer in to enjoy the views from the viewing port opposite where they sat, a planet of some description sitting like a red marble beneath them.
When he had arrived, things became...interesting.
Not the gradual, well-medicated change that time drew a person slowly through. Not the change whose subtleties were noted by only the keenest of observers, intent on noticing the smallest of intricate deviations. Not the creeping gradient that invited the traveller over the hill with only the slightest of incremental elevation.
He had changed entirely.
High Marshal Verin Oldo had seen some of the Confederacy’s staunchest combat. He had served at Talay, he had been a key player at Dantooine, had served and fought bravely on countless occasions, deserving his various promotions and commissions ten-fold within the NAVCOM.
Rhand.
The Disaster above Rhand had been an unexpected entry in the portfolio of his workplace endeavours. He had watched the near-absolute destruction of an entire Line under his direct command. Thousands of lives smashed and pulverised in the atmosphere of the dread planet, countless singular experiences of torment, anguish, pain and, ultimately, death in the falling debris of the Skyforge.
Verin had barely escaped with his own life and the toll weighed heavily on him. He would be relieved of his duty for a short while, recuperating in the comfort of his homestead, his husband by his side. He would walk in the golden fields, enjoying the permanent and unlimited source of fresh air, filling his lungs full and well.
The atmosphere above Port Sorrow had an oxygen-enrichment of 2%. Anybody alive as they entered the low atmosphere above Rhand was duly unconscious or rendered incapacitated. When they came to, they would find themselves rapidly approaching the…
Verin shook his head, his hands trembling as he stood frozen to the spot, his right foot covered by water as the stream trickled ravenously, filling the new quagmire that his boot had crafted as he fell into it. He looked around, hoping to find help. The sun was setting, and it was going to get colder. He turned back towards the house, a fifteen-minute walk away from the stream, a water-filled bucket filled with small fishes, various species teaming and flapping in the water, little knowing their fate was approaching in the shape of a manual kitchen unit. Oldo enjoyed some of the more archaic ways of doing things and felt it gave him a sense of decorum and prestige.
He had made the call two days later, surrendering his commission and taking leave of duty. It was accepted, with regret, that he would serve out a short but uneventful period of notice, overseeing various training missions, commissioning ceremonies and the decommissioning of some of the vessels from his personal battleline.
The concussive implosions knocked out life-support systems within seconds, making all opportunities to escape near impossible. The fire that tore through the fuselage would have, with some certainty, killed all on board.
He knew that the next time he returned home he would be a civilian, retired from his post and his commission. He would, in some instances, retain the honorary use of his rank, having formerly led an entire Sector Armada for the Confederacy of Independent Systems. He figured he’d leave it a while.
His fortune made, Oldo began to make plans for himself, without a schedule and without beck and call to disrupt the simplicities of his wants, needs and desires. He only fought, he had told his husband Senat, ‘when it was necessary to do so’. His fighting days would rest far behind him, enjoying an early retirement not on the board of the NAVCOM, as so many did, but as a free man to do as he wished. He had a considerable income saved, with investments and spoils tucked away. He would live out his days a very wealthy man, even by Confederate standards.
Which was why when a memorandum from Hefi, a planet in the Wild Space, had courted his favour and asked if he would consider paying a visit, he was in two minds. He knew that former high-status, influential Confederates were approached by boards of business, pressure groups and lobbyists to throw their weight behind causes, usually for large sums of money, so wasn’t certain he was ready to enter the after-dinner speaking circuit quite yet.
However, some elements intrigued him. Even the fleetest of dispatches he had still been privy to after his tenure and position had afforded such a luxury even in retirement, told him that a large Mandalorian colony had spread their influence in the system, building a large and reputable city-state in the region. He could almost feel the sense of adventure bubbling from within him.
Senat had nodded sagely.
“We’ll go.”
And, once again, Verin had packed up his life to sail the stars. They had boarded a cruiser of Corellian design and made for New Krosport, Hefi. It would be a long journey but uneventful.
Senat had asked from the sofa in their suite “Have you ever worked with Mandalorians before?”
Verin nodded. So much of his work had been strictly classified but Verin felt he could share a little these days, safe in the knowledge he wouldn’t be sold out or used as a weapon.
“A few times. The chiefs of this lot used to run security for us. I ran into them a couple of times, running blockades, that sort of thing. I didn’t like their…ways.”
Senat laughed, his dark hair catching the artificial lighting perfectly.
“Their ways? What does that even mean?”
Verin sat next to him, holding a cup of tea to his right. He nudged the laughing Senat with his elbow, playfully budging him a few inches over.
“It means that they are an obtuse lot, roguish. They like to do things their own way, no real regard for protocol or rules.”
Senat sipped his tea, raising his eyebrows comically.
“Obtuse? I had no idea the Confederacy allowed such a thing! How ever did you survive?”
Oldo grinned and hit Senat on the arm, catching his laughter infectiously and pulled him closer in to enjoy the views from the viewing port opposite where they sat, a planet of some description sitting like a red marble beneath them.
When he had arrived, things became...interesting.
