Sanctity of Darkness
Chapter 3
By: Dark-Elk
I awoke a few hours later, refreshed from my slumber and my shower. Looking at the clock on my wall, I could see that the pilot's lounge would be open now. I was hungry, and my culinary skills leave much to be desired. The last time I attempted to prepare my own food, I was forced to expend my water allotment for the day to put out the flames. Since then I have left my food preparation to those more skilled than I.
I stretched my arms and legs for a few minutes, trying to limber my body for the day ahead of me. I drew my Warp Blade, experimentally slashing it through the air a few times. My blade was a weapon of beauty; the hilt was intricately carved, fitted to my hand perfectly. It felt like an extension of myself, something natural. . . exactly how a true weapon should be. I slid it back into its' sheath, looked around my quarters to confirm that I wasn't forgetting anything, and then flung my pack over a shoulder and stepped out of my quarters, carefully making sure my felines hadn't followed me through.
The pilot's lounge was a few decks below me and closer to the docking bays than my quarters, but not far enough for me to want to use the lifts. I started walking leisurely through the corridors, greeting the Terrans and Protoss I met along my journey. Entering the pilot lounge, I walked to a window and quickly ordered my food. It amazes me how much the Terrans have influenced our culture. Before, food was individually prepared with care, taking great amounts of time for each meal. Food now is flung together in a maelstrom.
My food arrived in a few minutes. Another Terran influence was evident on my tray, a Terran delicacy, "French fries". Lt. Namara had introduced them to me shortly after our first meeting. They were quite good, but especially when combined with a gourmet Terran sauce, "ketchup". I don't know the composition of either, nor anything of their nutritional value, but they tasted good, and that is really all that matters sometimes. I quickly consumed the fries and ketchup. I slaked my thirst from the small cooler of water nearby, and began to look for someone to sit near.
I spotted my wingman, and walked over to him. I called to him, telling him of my need to speak with him about what had happened earlier. He turned away from his food tray and looked up at me. I told him of my many problems with his skills as a wingman and as a pilot. He sat motionless through my tirade, and as I began to end, he stopped me by raising his hand, and inquired quite simply about my whereabouts during the skirmish. Not comprehending immediately, I broke off my speech and thought over what he had just said. He had just insulted my piloting skills.
I closed the short distance between us in a few long stride, drew my Warp Blade, and challenged him to combat. He stood, threw his cape around his shoulders, and accepted.
I knew it would be a quick fight. I have known my wingman for quite some time, and knew that he was extraordinarily inefficient while fighting. In simple moves, he exerts far too much effort and is easily blocked, leaving himself open for a vicious counterattack.
He drew his Warp Blade, and entered a standard fighting stance. I assumed my own stance, a slightly more fluid stance than most Protoss are comfortable using, because I am taller than average, but it allows me to use my speed to my advantage. I beckoned towards him tauntingly with one hand.
With a roar of fury, he flew towards me, cape flashing behind him, and Warp Blade raised high. I blocked easily, and feinted lightly towards his chest. He blocked, but with the wrong side of his blade, and so he was unprotected for a minute. I used the millisecond it gave me to brace myself, and then perform a quick backflip.
He stood there as I completed the backflip, and as I landed, he rushed towards me. I deftly dodged to the left, tripped him, and with my right elbow struck him in the back, giving him greater forward momentum. He crashed to the floor, and skidded for a few feet, before rising to his feet, powering down his Warp Blade, and bowing his head in embarrassment and shame. My eyes flashed brightly once, but then I nodded towards him, and turned towards the nearest window. I ordered us a double order of French fires and ketchup, hoping to use the food as a sort of peace offering to clear the conflict between us. My wingman stood up, brushed himself off, and returned to his former seat. I claimed the seat across from him, and waited patiently for our food. A conflict, regardless of the scale or skill required always gives me a ravenous appetite.
Honor duels are quite common in Dark Templar culture, especially aboard large starships and protracted tours of duty. After all, while not in battle, we must keep ourselves physically fit and agile. Fighting our brethren is the way typically used, in the form of honor duels. Honor duels also serve to solve arguments, although not critical ones, such as command orders or the like. Our Khalai brethren typically prefer instead to make use of training Citadels to increase speed and psionic power. Unfortunately, Citadels are only built on select planets, and the nearest is on Triaxis Prime, quite some distance away.
Our food arrived, and I quickly devoured the majority of my share. My wingman barely consumed any of his. I inquired about his state of hunger and whether he shared my passion for French fries. He said that although he was hungry, and did have a like of French fries, he was unable to eat. I continued to eat in silence, knowing that he would eventually make known his problem to me.
He waited for a few minutes more, while slowly eating a few fries. Finally, he told me of a meeting he had earlier with our ground commander. I have no great like of our ground commander. I find him to be far too arrogant and boisterous for a commander. Then again, he is a Khalai Zealot, so that explains much. He failed his last trial to attain the rank of Templar, and has since spent most of his time either challenging other Protoss to duels, which is uncommon for his strict Khalai nature, or training alone in his chambers.
My wingman passed along the knowledge of an imminent ground assault on the main planet in the system we had just left in full retreat. The near- jovial attitude I had gained after his defeat instantly dissolved. A ground assault.on the moon surrounding a full Hive infested planet? Suspicions arose immediately. Why would we assault a minimally defended moon when Zerg reinforcements were nearby? I asked my wingmate about this, and he was unable to offer any suppositions about the strategy, although he did come up with a humorous theory relating to the sanity of the captain of the Tassadar. After all, we both knew the New Conclave would never condone a course of action as suicidal as this. The Terran renegades must have affected our captain's mental facilities. I laughed uneasily, but stood up quickly, and told my wingmate of my intent to visit our ground commander. After all, I was slightly higher ranked then my wingmate, and perhaps the ground commander would be able to tell me something my wingmate wasn't privy to. I exited the pilot lounge and began heading towards my ground commander's hallway.
Chapter 3
By: Dark-Elk
I awoke a few hours later, refreshed from my slumber and my shower. Looking at the clock on my wall, I could see that the pilot's lounge would be open now. I was hungry, and my culinary skills leave much to be desired. The last time I attempted to prepare my own food, I was forced to expend my water allotment for the day to put out the flames. Since then I have left my food preparation to those more skilled than I.
I stretched my arms and legs for a few minutes, trying to limber my body for the day ahead of me. I drew my Warp Blade, experimentally slashing it through the air a few times. My blade was a weapon of beauty; the hilt was intricately carved, fitted to my hand perfectly. It felt like an extension of myself, something natural. . . exactly how a true weapon should be. I slid it back into its' sheath, looked around my quarters to confirm that I wasn't forgetting anything, and then flung my pack over a shoulder and stepped out of my quarters, carefully making sure my felines hadn't followed me through.
The pilot's lounge was a few decks below me and closer to the docking bays than my quarters, but not far enough for me to want to use the lifts. I started walking leisurely through the corridors, greeting the Terrans and Protoss I met along my journey. Entering the pilot lounge, I walked to a window and quickly ordered my food. It amazes me how much the Terrans have influenced our culture. Before, food was individually prepared with care, taking great amounts of time for each meal. Food now is flung together in a maelstrom.
My food arrived in a few minutes. Another Terran influence was evident on my tray, a Terran delicacy, "French fries". Lt. Namara had introduced them to me shortly after our first meeting. They were quite good, but especially when combined with a gourmet Terran sauce, "ketchup". I don't know the composition of either, nor anything of their nutritional value, but they tasted good, and that is really all that matters sometimes. I quickly consumed the fries and ketchup. I slaked my thirst from the small cooler of water nearby, and began to look for someone to sit near.
I spotted my wingman, and walked over to him. I called to him, telling him of my need to speak with him about what had happened earlier. He turned away from his food tray and looked up at me. I told him of my many problems with his skills as a wingman and as a pilot. He sat motionless through my tirade, and as I began to end, he stopped me by raising his hand, and inquired quite simply about my whereabouts during the skirmish. Not comprehending immediately, I broke off my speech and thought over what he had just said. He had just insulted my piloting skills.
I closed the short distance between us in a few long stride, drew my Warp Blade, and challenged him to combat. He stood, threw his cape around his shoulders, and accepted.
I knew it would be a quick fight. I have known my wingman for quite some time, and knew that he was extraordinarily inefficient while fighting. In simple moves, he exerts far too much effort and is easily blocked, leaving himself open for a vicious counterattack.
He drew his Warp Blade, and entered a standard fighting stance. I assumed my own stance, a slightly more fluid stance than most Protoss are comfortable using, because I am taller than average, but it allows me to use my speed to my advantage. I beckoned towards him tauntingly with one hand.
With a roar of fury, he flew towards me, cape flashing behind him, and Warp Blade raised high. I blocked easily, and feinted lightly towards his chest. He blocked, but with the wrong side of his blade, and so he was unprotected for a minute. I used the millisecond it gave me to brace myself, and then perform a quick backflip.
He stood there as I completed the backflip, and as I landed, he rushed towards me. I deftly dodged to the left, tripped him, and with my right elbow struck him in the back, giving him greater forward momentum. He crashed to the floor, and skidded for a few feet, before rising to his feet, powering down his Warp Blade, and bowing his head in embarrassment and shame. My eyes flashed brightly once, but then I nodded towards him, and turned towards the nearest window. I ordered us a double order of French fires and ketchup, hoping to use the food as a sort of peace offering to clear the conflict between us. My wingman stood up, brushed himself off, and returned to his former seat. I claimed the seat across from him, and waited patiently for our food. A conflict, regardless of the scale or skill required always gives me a ravenous appetite.
Honor duels are quite common in Dark Templar culture, especially aboard large starships and protracted tours of duty. After all, while not in battle, we must keep ourselves physically fit and agile. Fighting our brethren is the way typically used, in the form of honor duels. Honor duels also serve to solve arguments, although not critical ones, such as command orders or the like. Our Khalai brethren typically prefer instead to make use of training Citadels to increase speed and psionic power. Unfortunately, Citadels are only built on select planets, and the nearest is on Triaxis Prime, quite some distance away.
Our food arrived, and I quickly devoured the majority of my share. My wingman barely consumed any of his. I inquired about his state of hunger and whether he shared my passion for French fries. He said that although he was hungry, and did have a like of French fries, he was unable to eat. I continued to eat in silence, knowing that he would eventually make known his problem to me.
He waited for a few minutes more, while slowly eating a few fries. Finally, he told me of a meeting he had earlier with our ground commander. I have no great like of our ground commander. I find him to be far too arrogant and boisterous for a commander. Then again, he is a Khalai Zealot, so that explains much. He failed his last trial to attain the rank of Templar, and has since spent most of his time either challenging other Protoss to duels, which is uncommon for his strict Khalai nature, or training alone in his chambers.
My wingman passed along the knowledge of an imminent ground assault on the main planet in the system we had just left in full retreat. The near- jovial attitude I had gained after his defeat instantly dissolved. A ground assault.on the moon surrounding a full Hive infested planet? Suspicions arose immediately. Why would we assault a minimally defended moon when Zerg reinforcements were nearby? I asked my wingmate about this, and he was unable to offer any suppositions about the strategy, although he did come up with a humorous theory relating to the sanity of the captain of the Tassadar. After all, we both knew the New Conclave would never condone a course of action as suicidal as this. The Terran renegades must have affected our captain's mental facilities. I laughed uneasily, but stood up quickly, and told my wingmate of my intent to visit our ground commander. After all, I was slightly higher ranked then my wingmate, and perhaps the ground commander would be able to tell me something my wingmate wasn't privy to. I exited the pilot lounge and began heading towards my ground commander's hallway.