The Feldseers Fall
Station Tavern | Calphiria Mining Station
Outer Rim
The Feldseers Fall was not a welcoming place. It was a miners dive bar. The music played from an audio system that was breaking down and the lights were dim more from shorted fuses than an intentional ambience. Advertisements for long since defunct companies were on the walls as well as long since dried stains from bar fights past. The clientele were as destitute as one would expect, what few of them there were. The scent of tubaac sticks lingered on whisps that hovered through the air, hanging about due to a poorly maintained ventilation system.
Here sat Cyrian Vrax, a professional and lifelong soldier, more uncomfortable than he had been in his whole life, all due the civilian clothes that wrapped his body. They were not military fatigues nor formal attire, but true civilian clothing.
Not long ago he stood upon a battlefield, carrying out his duty for Emperor and Empire. Perhaps it was not going well, but there was always time to turn it around.
And now... the Sith were expelled from the Empire... to secure a peace?
That was not his Empire. The Empire would never turn its back on those that founded it. To those that they owed their undying allegiance to. And just to secure a peace for some wealthy lords to hold onto their own power, and surrender all that they stood for.
Cyrian had well earned the leave that he put in for... but he had never returned. How could he? That Empire was more a stain than a shadow of what it was.
He was a Soldier. He would always be a Soldier. Loyal to the Sith until he was no more.
But his wise masters were gone, and he knew not how to find them. First he would have to find himself.
To do that he can to the Feldseers Fall... where he smoked and drank to find clarity, and to take the moment he needed to find what came next.
Station Tavern | Calphiria Mining Station
Outer Rim
The Feldseers Fall was not a welcoming place. It was a miners dive bar. The music played from an audio system that was breaking down and the lights were dim more from shorted fuses than an intentional ambience. Advertisements for long since defunct companies were on the walls as well as long since dried stains from bar fights past. The clientele were as destitute as one would expect, what few of them there were. The scent of tubaac sticks lingered on whisps that hovered through the air, hanging about due to a poorly maintained ventilation system.
Here sat Cyrian Vrax, a professional and lifelong soldier, more uncomfortable than he had been in his whole life, all due the civilian clothes that wrapped his body. They were not military fatigues nor formal attire, but true civilian clothing.
Not long ago he stood upon a battlefield, carrying out his duty for Emperor and Empire. Perhaps it was not going well, but there was always time to turn it around.
And now... the Sith were expelled from the Empire... to secure a peace?
That was not his Empire. The Empire would never turn its back on those that founded it. To those that they owed their undying allegiance to. And just to secure a peace for some wealthy lords to hold onto their own power, and surrender all that they stood for.
Cyrian had well earned the leave that he put in for... but he had never returned. How could he? That Empire was more a stain than a shadow of what it was.
He was a Soldier. He would always be a Soldier. Loyal to the Sith until he was no more.
But his wise masters were gone, and he knew not how to find them. First he would have to find himself.
To do that he can to the Feldseers Fall... where he smoked and drank to find clarity, and to take the moment he needed to find what came next.