Unusually Stone Grey

[DeathToll]

There he stood, as planted as a statue and as grave as a tombstone; the silvery metal of his armor like the hard contours of the headstone, and the thick smooth of black material hanging between it like the morbid shadow in each stroke of etching that carve out the name upon it. It was Roran's name today, Roran Grey; carved into the gaze of those yellow eyes, piercing yet not malicious in their presence. His arms were folded over his chest tightly, white hair pulled back into a high ponytail, as he wait there in the sparring room.

The newly christened Battle Master, once Imperial Knight, had gone over several dueling events and had come across this one. Curious when the name came up in the records as expelled, but upon further reading found his expulsion to be recently revoked. The name seemed familiar, but he gave it no time to drift through his thoughts. Instead, he sought to bring a meeting to the Jedi returned in the only confrontational way he knew how. Had these circumstances been a year prior, Zsakriel would have greeted him with an entirely different and strange personality, but these days he was just all business and action. His two lightsaber dangled before his hips along the crossing belts, and the longsword hung strong at his side. He was as ready as always, even looking as if he might attemtp to behead the Jedi on first glance; but there was a control, a reserve, in his presence that spoke volumes.

 

[Cisco]

Seneschal, Knight-Commander, Battle master. Those three words echoed through his mind, Throughout the halls, As if someone was speaking to him from far away yet simply whispering in his ears. Yet he was the only one standing there, the only one in those clandestine halls bordered by the doors to various rooms. It was almost as if times pervasive grip on reality simply ceased the moment walked one walked into this place. It was so serene, peaceful, like a hospital. But like a hospital, Equally capable of giving one an unexplainable sick feeling in the pit of ones stomach.

A slight puff of air rapidly escaped him, A muted chuckle, as he gave his head a slight shake. Running into battles was fine, but duels always made him nervous for one simple reason. He knew what he was running into. He knew who was waiting for him on the other side of one of these doors. Those three words again. The thoughts brought up memories of an all too recent past. He had actually Joined the Imperial Knights a short while before the attacks that had crippled the imperial Knights and lead to the Battle-Masters leaving and joining the Jedi. Not that they had ever met face to face.

After having coming this far there wasn't any turning back. He stopped in his foot tracks, Looking to a small plate adorned on a door within the temple, A Sparring room. He could feel the presence of the man on the other side. Standing there, Feeling out who was there, was all too nostalgic a feeling. Kemp. He shook the thought from his mind as he moved forward, pulling the door aside and moving into the room itself, His arm swaying out behind him his eyes swept the room, The door closing behind him as if on its own accord.

He didn't immediately look to the battle master, No, Rather looked over the room itself with seemingly unfocused grey cloud like eyes that gave off an air of aloof disinterest, unbefitting both a Jedi or an Imperial Knight. The Sparring rooms as it seemed, Were larger than he had remembered. Finally, after the brief moment since he had entered the room, his eyes locked onto the Battle master who stood across the room. He had to hold back a quickly fading smirk as he took note of the appearance difference between him and the Battlemaster.

It was a man in armour, Older and wiser looking than he. Between the tied back hair, His sharp facial features, seemingly stern demeanor, and large size he had gotten some first impression of what this man was. A serious, Thoroughbred warrior warrior without an ounce of humour in his body. It directly contrasted his own appearance in a way. Short hair, An unzipped rather casual maroon leather jacket, A grey T-shirt underneath, loose Blue Denym Pants, A belt, Fingerless driving gloves, And finally a pair of black shoes. The only thing that betrayed his casual appearance was the presence of two lightsabers clanging together together as they hung from chains off his belt. The first was a white, a custom design. The second though would likely be much more familiar to Zsaekriel, A standard silver Imperial Knightsaber.

Though it had only been mere seconds since he had entered the room, To Roran it had felt like an eternity. It was time to break the silence. "Zsaekriel." He spoke acknowledging his presence. Whatever the circumstances though, He kept both a fair distance, and his mind at the ready.

 

[DeathToll]

"...Roran."

He answered back plainly, more stating the name as if listed somewhere rather than greeting him. He kept his arms folded, leaving silence to explain the progression of thoughts that would have been otherwise spoken. Instead, as Zsaekriel assumed, it was as if they were speaking; as time ticked by in this air-filled contest, a complete conversation stepped across their thoughts. How are you doing? Welcome to the Order. Welcome back to the Order. I know you from somewhere. I know of you too. Is this how you greet your superior officers, on a first name basis? Did we come here for a lesson in protocal or are we going to duel? Let's get to it then. Do let's.

All spoken... in the single reflextion of the eye. They could see each other now. And just as the nonexistent conversation took place, it had reached that level which both could no doubt feel; their energies built to that readiness, as if either was about to charge.

Zsaekriel started, keeping tightly folded arms and an emotionless face as he stomped forward; slamming a boot onto Roran's foot. All the while, his eyes kept on Roran's eyes.