Solomon
Memento
Voss
Acrean Village, Tavern by the Sea
-------------
The lights of distant ships shone ever more brightly as the sun began to descend further into the horizon and the moon became distinctly visible in the sky. Gentle crashing waves were the only sound that permeated the air beyond an occasional gust of wind. No bustling streets filled with the howls of the damned. No constant hum of engines. No bloodletting or stench of sewers where the desperate killed one another for scraps.
The moment of peace brought a smile to Solomon's face. His one eye scanned the scene with a sort of surreal calm he'd not experienced often in his young life. From slave, to pirate, to mechanic, to Padawan? The math on such a thing was incalculable. At least for him. Zizek had skimmed a bit on the math lessons.
Solomon gave a polite nod as the server brought him another ale and pretended not to focus too much on the eye patch or ugly tattoo with his name and old slave number plastered on the left side of his neck. An antiquated six shooter slugthrower sat on his hip in a handmade holster. Similar to the handmade variety he'd used in the sewers of his home world, but better maintained and much more accurate. His clothing was practical and not too dissimilar to his garb from his piracy days. Leather and cloth you could wear for weeks and would hold up at least briefly in a fight.
Old habits and all that.
Acrean Village, Tavern by the Sea
-------------
The lights of distant ships shone ever more brightly as the sun began to descend further into the horizon and the moon became distinctly visible in the sky. Gentle crashing waves were the only sound that permeated the air beyond an occasional gust of wind. No bustling streets filled with the howls of the damned. No constant hum of engines. No bloodletting or stench of sewers where the desperate killed one another for scraps.
The moment of peace brought a smile to Solomon's face. His one eye scanned the scene with a sort of surreal calm he'd not experienced often in his young life. From slave, to pirate, to mechanic, to Padawan? The math on such a thing was incalculable. At least for him. Zizek had skimmed a bit on the math lessons.
Solomon gave a polite nod as the server brought him another ale and pretended not to focus too much on the eye patch or ugly tattoo with his name and old slave number plastered on the left side of his neck. An antiquated six shooter slugthrower sat on his hip in a handmade holster. Similar to the handmade variety he'd used in the sewers of his home world, but better maintained and much more accurate. His clothing was practical and not too dissimilar to his garb from his piracy days. Leather and cloth you could wear for weeks and would hold up at least briefly in a fight.
Old habits and all that.
