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The dim-blue and gray shirt plopped onto the bed, wafting a cloud of dust into the air. Another article flew towards the bed, spreading dust and dirt across its untucked and opened covers. He picked up his belt and nearly threw that too, but hesitated. He held the belt closer to eye and found a long hair hanging from a pinch where a pocket overlay the belt itself. It was Ebberla's. Had to be. He just stared at it. A finger and thumb reached up slowly to take hold of it. They did, and he felt the tug of how tight it was secured there somehow. Before plucking it free, he couldn't take it anymore and threw it down to the seat he stood behind. The belt bounced off of the seat and onto the floor beneath the desk, and he realized he'd thrown it too hard. His hand clutched the back of the seat and he leaned into it, his shoulders rotating into the frustration that coiled in his aching neck.
"Where are you?"
Tristian-Ambrose asked himself, he asked that question that'd been on his mind since he got here. Where was Ebberla? Then he happened to notice the dirty clothes he'd tossed onto his bed. The place was an absolute mess, and it pained him to want for some kind of cleaning service. He wasn't one for cleaning up after himself, and the time spent away from the Temples had easily reminded him of his royal childhood. He'd recently come by an employee, a personal mechanic of sorts, and he'd always had his pilot. But this was all becoming tiresome, and in the absence of a familiar face he only saw that destruction he'd seen on Coruscant. Those clothes, he'd still kept them since returning to Coruscant, since coming to Tython in those clothes, and had yet to wash them or even put them some place that might give him some reprieve.
Tris was in a particular mood today, having skipped his morning workout yet another day in sequence, and he wanted to get the hell out of here. But even he realized you couldn't just go from Temple to Temple asking where Ebberla was. He could, and he would, but he knew how she was. Besides, he couldn't let anyone see him like this. The great Dario of the Baptiste line could not be so head over his heels that he forgot which way was up. So he grabbed an exact duplicate, though much much cleaner, of the belt he'd just thrown down and strapped it on. He'd received the shipment of his clothes, just yesturday, after arriving days ago. He was finally rid of those rediculously neutral colors and unfavoring lines lent to him, now, once again, accented properly and looking royally noble as he should.
He made for the door, rather aggressively, and flung himself out into the passing traffic in the halls. Head held high, he began his treck through the rabble and towards the training rooms; knocking nearly every shoulder he passed. The Jedi walked closely here. It seemed that the fact that no one knew who he was couldn't stop being reminded to him. Yet, with his head held high, he let little more than a pruned face of frustration surface with each hit; ignoring the looks of surprise and doubt. He just had to get to the training rooms and he'd be fine.
"Outoutout!"
Tris' voice trumpeted his arrival from the training room doorway, declaring the space as his alone. In the back of his mind, he was almost hoping that someone denied him what he wanted so that he could properly vent his momentary frustration. But he was not necessarily looking for a fight. Which was why he was telling everyone to get out now. Most obeyed as if an order from a Master, but some lingered hesitantly. After his entrance a week ago, being confronted by that Jedi in white and his Padawan and almost being arrested right in front of the Temple for a possible connection to the Coruscant bombing, he'd made quite the name for himself as a competent duelist. It just wasn't a name that people recognized. He'd, at first, seemed the better and in fact cleared his name with his harmless defense and Jedi-like approach to the situation; a fluke. He'd simply been overwhelmed and unable to choose how he responded at the time. The longer he stayed, the more he sullied the impression.
"Where are you?"
Tristian-Ambrose asked himself, he asked that question that'd been on his mind since he got here. Where was Ebberla? Then he happened to notice the dirty clothes he'd tossed onto his bed. The place was an absolute mess, and it pained him to want for some kind of cleaning service. He wasn't one for cleaning up after himself, and the time spent away from the Temples had easily reminded him of his royal childhood. He'd recently come by an employee, a personal mechanic of sorts, and he'd always had his pilot. But this was all becoming tiresome, and in the absence of a familiar face he only saw that destruction he'd seen on Coruscant. Those clothes, he'd still kept them since returning to Coruscant, since coming to Tython in those clothes, and had yet to wash them or even put them some place that might give him some reprieve.
Tris was in a particular mood today, having skipped his morning workout yet another day in sequence, and he wanted to get the hell out of here. But even he realized you couldn't just go from Temple to Temple asking where Ebberla was. He could, and he would, but he knew how she was. Besides, he couldn't let anyone see him like this. The great Dario of the Baptiste line could not be so head over his heels that he forgot which way was up. So he grabbed an exact duplicate, though much much cleaner, of the belt he'd just thrown down and strapped it on. He'd received the shipment of his clothes, just yesturday, after arriving days ago. He was finally rid of those rediculously neutral colors and unfavoring lines lent to him, now, once again, accented properly and looking royally noble as he should.
He made for the door, rather aggressively, and flung himself out into the passing traffic in the halls. Head held high, he began his treck through the rabble and towards the training rooms; knocking nearly every shoulder he passed. The Jedi walked closely here. It seemed that the fact that no one knew who he was couldn't stop being reminded to him. Yet, with his head held high, he let little more than a pruned face of frustration surface with each hit; ignoring the looks of surprise and doubt. He just had to get to the training rooms and he'd be fine.
"Outoutout!"
Tris' voice trumpeted his arrival from the training room doorway, declaring the space as his alone. In the back of his mind, he was almost hoping that someone denied him what he wanted so that he could properly vent his momentary frustration. But he was not necessarily looking for a fight. Which was why he was telling everyone to get out now. Most obeyed as if an order from a Master, but some lingered hesitantly. After his entrance a week ago, being confronted by that Jedi in white and his Padawan and almost being arrested right in front of the Temple for a possible connection to the Coruscant bombing, he'd made quite the name for himself as a competent duelist. It just wasn't a name that people recognized. He'd, at first, seemed the better and in fact cleared his name with his harmless defense and Jedi-like approach to the situation; a fluke. He'd simply been overwhelmed and unable to choose how he responded at the time. The longer he stayed, the more he sullied the impression.