Barkeep
The cold had never bothered Salem Norongachi, then again that was before he'd lost his armour. The ebon coloured mandalorian armour had been a second skin to him for as long as he could remember but it, like his fleets and his men, were as dust in the face of time. Now he felt a shiver travese his skin, the heavy gloves he wore were no match for the biting wind of Alzoc III, nor was the dark shirt and faded grey bomber jacket that adorned his body.
The snow crunched with every footfall of his black boots, his path winding across the icy white tundra toward the ramshackle hut that lay in a thicket of trees far from any form of civilization the planet had to offer. It was not of the standards he was used too, so below them in fact that they might have been in seperate Galaxies, but he made do. Material wealth had simply been a byproduct of his machinations and not something he'd set out aquire over the course of his life, but he had and he'd aquired more than he or a billion sentients could ever need. That was before his long sleep, before the Galaxy had gone to hell around him. Someone had once said to him, during his early years in the service of the Corporate Sector Authority, that he should keep his credits in socks rather than trust the banks. He'd laughed at the time, now he wished he'd listened.
"You have no more than you had when you came into this world a broken amnesiac..." He thought grimly, his face chaffed and raw by the snow specled wind that whipped at his meagre clothing. The hut was made of logs from the local trees, its roof lined with dry bark and moss that kept the heat from fleeing its interior. A makeshift chimney jutted up from the thatched abode, wisps of grey smoke being tossed hither and tither by natures fury.
He stepped through the wooden door and felt the change in heat like a slap to the face. It was welcomed, however, after his morning fishing upon a frozen lack two miles from him, any heat was welcomed even if it stung his reddened face. Norongachi set the days catch down upon a rickety table by a basin that served as his sink and then pried the gloved from his numb fingers before throwing them onto a worn armchair that sat infront of the dying fire in its hearth. He kicked his boots against the earthen walls and displaced whatever snow had gathered upon them before slipping of his jacket and hanging it upon a hook to the right of the doorframe.
Finally, with a sigh of comfort, he slumped into the chair and reached for the bottle of corellian whiskey he had managed to aquire on his last supply run from its place upon a small side table next to the chair. He unscrewed its top and gulped down a few mouthfuls from the bottle, letting the warm caramel liquid burn its way down his gullet and begin to spread its heat across his body.
A look was all it took to rejuivinate the hearth with unnatural flame, the cabins interior brightening as the Force worked its wonders upon the embers and then he sat there, as he did every night and contemplated his path. The long hard road back to the top, whether it would be worth traveling it again or even if he had the stomach for the journey. As always he found no answers and drank deeply again from the bottle clutched desperately in his hands. It was the only solace one could hope to find when you were displaced from time and all you knew.
@[member="Hayato"]
The snow crunched with every footfall of his black boots, his path winding across the icy white tundra toward the ramshackle hut that lay in a thicket of trees far from any form of civilization the planet had to offer. It was not of the standards he was used too, so below them in fact that they might have been in seperate Galaxies, but he made do. Material wealth had simply been a byproduct of his machinations and not something he'd set out aquire over the course of his life, but he had and he'd aquired more than he or a billion sentients could ever need. That was before his long sleep, before the Galaxy had gone to hell around him. Someone had once said to him, during his early years in the service of the Corporate Sector Authority, that he should keep his credits in socks rather than trust the banks. He'd laughed at the time, now he wished he'd listened.
"You have no more than you had when you came into this world a broken amnesiac..." He thought grimly, his face chaffed and raw by the snow specled wind that whipped at his meagre clothing. The hut was made of logs from the local trees, its roof lined with dry bark and moss that kept the heat from fleeing its interior. A makeshift chimney jutted up from the thatched abode, wisps of grey smoke being tossed hither and tither by natures fury.
He stepped through the wooden door and felt the change in heat like a slap to the face. It was welcomed, however, after his morning fishing upon a frozen lack two miles from him, any heat was welcomed even if it stung his reddened face. Norongachi set the days catch down upon a rickety table by a basin that served as his sink and then pried the gloved from his numb fingers before throwing them onto a worn armchair that sat infront of the dying fire in its hearth. He kicked his boots against the earthen walls and displaced whatever snow had gathered upon them before slipping of his jacket and hanging it upon a hook to the right of the doorframe.
Finally, with a sigh of comfort, he slumped into the chair and reached for the bottle of corellian whiskey he had managed to aquire on his last supply run from its place upon a small side table next to the chair. He unscrewed its top and gulped down a few mouthfuls from the bottle, letting the warm caramel liquid burn its way down his gullet and begin to spread its heat across his body.
A look was all it took to rejuivinate the hearth with unnatural flame, the cabins interior brightening as the Force worked its wonders upon the embers and then he sat there, as he did every night and contemplated his path. The long hard road back to the top, whether it would be worth traveling it again or even if he had the stomach for the journey. As always he found no answers and drank deeply again from the bottle clutched desperately in his hands. It was the only solace one could hope to find when you were displaced from time and all you knew.
@[member="Hayato"]
