Kresal Malis
Member
Kresal stood in the middle of the training room, eyes locked onto the scene of chaos in front of him, he heard the voice of Sith Vintaka ask if he had plans to train that night after getting back. It was easy enough to laugh off the idea. A quick glance back to the Nautolan and a shake of his head before she continued onwards to the Medbay, like so many of his new allies. He stepped forward enough to let the doors close behind him, he ran a hand through the newly grown mess of his hair, thick and greasy. He let out a quiet sigh before moving to sort out some of the chaos.
Normally thoughts of this kind of work being beneath him would permeate his mind. But given how he had seen the crew look as they inhabited the ghost of a ship the Tyrant felt like... he pushed away such ideas and got on with it. First came the blades that had been thrown across the room, one by one the Incipient gathered them, all with their nicks and scars, telling silent tales of training sessions long gone by.
It was a simple routine. Something to keep his mind working, his brain from thinking about exactly how much they had lost, all just to stop one woman. But this... this was simple.
Sabers belonged on their racks. Crates needed to be kept against the wall, and a room. Even this one could be kept clean. The fate they had all just suffered was not one of things thing. War was not clean. It wasn't simple. As he pulled another crate from the pile, he found underneath.
An Imperial blaster rifle, it had clearly been well taken care of, fresh binding tape around the stock, small maintenance markings across the battle. Even the power pack looked to have been cleaned recently. This was very clearly a soldiers weapon. And as he held it in his hands, there was a gnawing at the back of his mind...
It felt oddly heavy in his hands. Not physically. But... there was something more there. It was an Imperial weapon... someone who didn't and couldn't feel the force. Whoever held this was clearly someone who could never be deemed important. And yet... Something still struck him.
A thousand thoughts ran through his mind, alongside the distant memories of the fighting. Imperials dying, laying down their lives in a fight with their own Empire. For a man who likely did not care for their lives. Not in the same way that they cared for eachother. A small sigh escaped the Sith as he rose to his feet, old wounds pushing back for a moment. He very carefully moved back to a rack before placing the rifle gently amongst the others. Leaving it there for its owner to reclaim.
If they still could.
Normally thoughts of this kind of work being beneath him would permeate his mind. But given how he had seen the crew look as they inhabited the ghost of a ship the Tyrant felt like... he pushed away such ideas and got on with it. First came the blades that had been thrown across the room, one by one the Incipient gathered them, all with their nicks and scars, telling silent tales of training sessions long gone by.
It was a simple routine. Something to keep his mind working, his brain from thinking about exactly how much they had lost, all just to stop one woman. But this... this was simple.
Sabers belonged on their racks. Crates needed to be kept against the wall, and a room. Even this one could be kept clean. The fate they had all just suffered was not one of things thing. War was not clean. It wasn't simple. As he pulled another crate from the pile, he found underneath.
An Imperial blaster rifle, it had clearly been well taken care of, fresh binding tape around the stock, small maintenance markings across the battle. Even the power pack looked to have been cleaned recently. This was very clearly a soldiers weapon. And as he held it in his hands, there was a gnawing at the back of his mind...
It felt oddly heavy in his hands. Not physically. But... there was something more there. It was an Imperial weapon... someone who didn't and couldn't feel the force. Whoever held this was clearly someone who could never be deemed important. And yet... Something still struck him.
A thousand thoughts ran through his mind, alongside the distant memories of the fighting. Imperials dying, laying down their lives in a fight with their own Empire. For a man who likely did not care for their lives. Not in the same way that they cared for eachother. A small sigh escaped the Sith as he rose to his feet, old wounds pushing back for a moment. He very carefully moved back to a rack before placing the rifle gently amongst the others. Leaving it there for its owner to reclaim.
If they still could.