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Bara
The desolate world.
The desolate world.
Sulfur. The air reeked of it. Etching the throats of all who set foot on the planet's surface.
A place, not fit for any living being, inhumane and unforgiving. Just like those who had been placed upon it's surface. This was their punishment. Their judgment. As seen fit by the Onderian hierarchy. Reclamation was never the purpose of the Bara Colony. Onderon did not wish to see it's incarcerated return to society. Bara was an absolute solution. It offered but one thing, and that was to suffer. Suffer for crimes committed against the great Houses that ruled the planetary system. For they were a force to be reckoned with, and this method of dealing with the deplorable skum that plagued their lands and skies appealed to them greatly. It was an example of might. Many that had found themselves captive on the planet's surface deserved death, yet they lived because the ruling houses had allowed it. It was a statement. Any that crossed Onderon would suffer till the end of their days, under Onderon guard, on Onderian lands. Sith, Jedi, royal, merc. It did not matter who committed the transgressions, or where they came from, once claimed by Bara, the planet would hold them, until their last breaths were that of sulfur, and all hope that remained in their minds had been eaten away by the heat.
Xanthier recoiled as the foul air entered his nostrils, it felt so dry in his throat, his acute sense of smell making it all the more pungent, his eyes watered as he opened them. He felt numb. His head swimming, voices on either side of him were dulled, and his muscles like rubber, immobile and loose, but still there all the same. Louder that that of anything of the outside world, was the pounding within his skill, a throb which pulsed with his heartbeat.
Inhaling deeply, his dry throat rebelled, the sound it made was raspy, that of something dying. Lifting his head, he tried to process just what was going on, and what had become of him. Strands of his own black hair obscured into his field of vision. Hair that was stuck together with sweat and body oils, the temperature unforgiving, his body still covered in the armor he had worn for so long. It insulated, only increasing the fatigue.
Of one thing he was certain, he was being dragged. Through the numbness, he could feel the hands which where wrapped tightly around his upper arms. His ears could hear the sound of his worn boots being dragged across the rocky ground. Ground which had every color of rust and darkness mixed into it, jagged and broken pieces of earth passed below him as he watched. This ground gave way to metal and darkness. For a short time, his feet still scraped across small rocks as he was taken within the structure, where the only sounds that remained were that of the footfalls of those who carried him, and the soft sound of his own boots sliding across the metal floor.
The pounding in his head had subsided to a dull pulse. His vision, slowly sharpening, along with his hearing, returning to what they had been before all this.
He began to recall..flying. Piloting a ship. The controls as his hands moved over them. The way the stars looked from within the cockpit.
What had gone wrong? Who's hands now grasped him so tightly? Where...was here?
Xanthier heard a great shifting piece of metal behind him, and the sound of two heavy pieces locking together. Something had closed. The rivets within the plates of the floor beneath him had rust attached to them. Crimson streaks of red.
Daring to look up just a bit, he could see that the room he had just entered was round and large, the metal black with oxidation. Filled with noise. Noise which was not pleasing in the least. That of calls, shouts and hollers. Some from far above his head. For it was a wide tower of cells, filled with undesirables. Stretching many stories up within the compound. Some of the inmates tried to spit down at him and the guards which carried his body, throwing whatever small bits of anything they could lay their hands on at the beings below. But their aim was off, and the walkway designed to prevent just such things from happening, so the drops of spit splattered down unto the metal floor like rain. Only the back-splash grazed Xanthier's face, and he began to realize just what kind of a place this was.
Gaining composure, he fought the numbness within his body. Willing it to be driven out. To be burned. To succumb to the hatred in which his very being revolved around. They passed through many halls, corridors, and gates, up winding steps. The guards were silent, uttering not a sound. Some areas were just as loud as the first, yet other were silent as the grave, and felt cold, like the metal which the facility was made out of.
Finally, when they reached the top of a set of steps, Xanthier rebelled against the arms which held him. Kicking forward off his feet which had been dead weight a moment before, he lifted them up, the shackles which bound them clinking as he did so, and shoved off the top step as hard as he could, forcing him, and those that held him, to tumble backwards down the unforgiving metal steps. This would hurt.
@Green Ranger @Black Noise @christhebarker @Comrade Matt
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