Outskirts of Sundari
Approaching [member="Gilamar Skirata"].
The speeder's dust and sand kicking up was the mark of his arrival. Preliat looked upwards, as the battle raged overhead. He had fought his fight already. He had done the unthinkable, something that would haunt him until the day he died. The guilt weighed heavily on him, even now. The battle overhead seemed far away, seemed distant and petty compared to the one he endured not even a few moments ago. He thought it best to approach Sundari, to see if he could regroup there.
Then, he saw it. He could spot the man a million miles away.
Preliat saw when he saw Gilamar Skirata. He was weary, and he didn't want another fight. He didn't want to take the life of another brother, another father. Gilamar and him had been through hell. Preliat groaned, as he made his way off the speeder. He was out of blaster range (the one he carried, anyway), and more importantly- melee range. However, Gilamar didn't look any better than he did. Preliat's face was torn, a jagged scar now raged across his face, where his own beskad was hastily swiped across.
A desperate action from a dying man.
Preliat approached the aged warrior, and looked upwards at the battle above. He held his side, and slowly walked forward. He had no helmet on. Jasper crushed the visor and all his means of communication. He wondered where [member="Silas Mantis"], [member="Yasha Mantis"] and her merry band of misfits were. He had no idea of who was winning, or what was going on. But what he did know, is that Gilamar and him were out here, in the sands.
Preliat spoke first, walking closer to Gilamar.
"How did we get here, brother? How did we stoop so low?"
He obviously had no intent of a fight anymore. The fight was gone out of Preliat for the day- perhaps for a while. In a way, he wanted Gilamar to tell him he'd be alright. That everything would be okay. Like he had done before. It was Gilamar who saved him from being another casualty in the Dark Harvest. Who pushed him to be strong. Who pushed him to persevere through the darkness. Although, looking back, there were some times that Preliat wished he had been consumed by the darkness.
"How did we get here?"
Preliat made his way to Gilamar. He was nearly fifteen feet away now. He sat down, leaning against his helmet.
"I wish this was different. I wish that this dispute was with words, not with weapons."
He looked to the sky. His eyes began to water. This was the world his daughter was going to grow up in. This was supposed to be his home. This was supposed to be his sanctuary. His magnum opus of peace. Instead, it was only ash and war.
"I wish that it were not so, that we found ourselves here, Gilamar. So close, and yet so far away."
Preliat took his face into his hand and began to cry.
"She took her from me, Gilamar. She took her from me and so many of our friends- and we sit upon their monuments, their statues, their graves- and we fight. We fight-" He ran a hand through his hair, trying to consul himself, trying to gain some sort of composure. He failed to do so.
"When will it end, Gil? When will it stop?"
Preliat Mantis, on the outskirts of Sundari, for a few moments, stopped being the Wolf of Manda'yaim. Stopped being the bane of Clan Ordo. Stopped being the Field Marshal he was. Stopped being the Null-Hockey Goon that turned into a machine of war, a nearly unstoppable force of rage that consumed more than he gave. He became a scared kid again, a scared boy in need of comfort. He wasn't sure if he was going to find any in Gilamar, a man whom he considered to be the closet thing to a father that he would ever have. If Gilamar wanted to fight, he could. But Preliat sat idle, tears mixing with the blood, sand, and ash that caked his face. He looked broken. He looked beaten. He was suffering defeat, even in his victory.
