"...Is dinner ready?"
A confused little voice, that of a Lalafell, piped up in his head, it was the souvenir of an encounter that had occurred not so long ago. From his bench, Kahn'a met the eyes of the hooded figure, and while he did not make out much, he saw a glint in those eyes, a glint he recognized. It must be him, he thought. The good Sergeant Zanzio. Newest addition to The Red Wings, and an upstanding one at that, as far as he could tell. The two men had shared words and stories over a pleasant dish. Pushed by curiosity, the Lieutenant had then looked up for his service record, and in it, what he saw fleshed out the hint of respect he knew the Lalafell deserved. So many fancy words to talk of a nicely wrapped little bundle of a good man. A man he could certainly learn loads from, if given the chance.
Chance... What was chance? Something he did not possess, perhaps he once did, but whatever amount he had, he exhausted it all over the course of the moons spent in the city-state. The Miqo'te had been burnt for playing the hand he was dealt relying on chance, this had been a hard-learnt mistake, and not one he was wont to make in the rest of his existence. Yes, chance seemed like the prayer of the fool; an alluring figure conjured by lust. Beautiful, but treacherous.
Kahn'a balled his hands into fists. Fortune had played him for what he had been: a gullible kid tricked into obedience. This would change...but not now. At the moment, all that mattered were friends and family. And for him to be met with success in that quest, he needed information, something the Lalafell must possess.
So when the tiny figure turned away, Kahn'a tucked the mask into the wraps of his robe and rose in an eerie fashion from his seat as if pulled by an invisible bond tied to the Sergeant. The soil of The Black Shroud was one he knew well, one he had learnt to move silently on. It was only natural then that the Miqo'te found himself right behind the cloaked Lalafell in barely a few leaps. The distance remained prudent, and his sight was clear.
"...It isn't a drill, that much I can tell you've figured out, Sergeant. Why else would you come here for, if not to fade out of sight? But now I must ask, what do you know? What of the others, what of...you?"
Words spoken, Kahn'a took a step back. A light cast over a roof and through the thick mantle of the tall trees revealed his messed up features and exposed flesh. The Miqo'te looked exhausted, but his tired eyes shone with a grim resolution. He would not give up on them until he had done all he could, and pulling off his escape had inspired some confidence back into him.
With trusted friends, he could do this.
A confused little voice, that of a Lalafell, piped up in his head, it was the souvenir of an encounter that had occurred not so long ago. From his bench, Kahn'a met the eyes of the hooded figure, and while he did not make out much, he saw a glint in those eyes, a glint he recognized. It must be him, he thought. The good Sergeant Zanzio. Newest addition to The Red Wings, and an upstanding one at that, as far as he could tell. The two men had shared words and stories over a pleasant dish. Pushed by curiosity, the Lieutenant had then looked up for his service record, and in it, what he saw fleshed out the hint of respect he knew the Lalafell deserved. So many fancy words to talk of a nicely wrapped little bundle of a good man. A man he could certainly learn loads from, if given the chance.
Chance... What was chance? Something he did not possess, perhaps he once did, but whatever amount he had, he exhausted it all over the course of the moons spent in the city-state. The Miqo'te had been burnt for playing the hand he was dealt relying on chance, this had been a hard-learnt mistake, and not one he was wont to make in the rest of his existence. Yes, chance seemed like the prayer of the fool; an alluring figure conjured by lust. Beautiful, but treacherous.
Kahn'a balled his hands into fists. Fortune had played him for what he had been: a gullible kid tricked into obedience. This would change...but not now. At the moment, all that mattered were friends and family. And for him to be met with success in that quest, he needed information, something the Lalafell must possess.
So when the tiny figure turned away, Kahn'a tucked the mask into the wraps of his robe and rose in an eerie fashion from his seat as if pulled by an invisible bond tied to the Sergeant. The soil of The Black Shroud was one he knew well, one he had learnt to move silently on. It was only natural then that the Miqo'te found himself right behind the cloaked Lalafell in barely a few leaps. The distance remained prudent, and his sight was clear.
"...It isn't a drill, that much I can tell you've figured out, Sergeant. Why else would you come here for, if not to fade out of sight? But now I must ask, what do you know? What of the others, what of...you?"
Words spoken, Kahn'a took a step back. A light cast over a roof and through the thick mantle of the tall trees revealed his messed up features and exposed flesh. The Miqo'te looked exhausted, but his tired eyes shone with a grim resolution. He would not give up on them until he had done all he could, and pulling off his escape had inspired some confidence back into him.
With trusted friends, he could do this.
