Word was getting out that Asminys was dead. At first the public was afraid to react. However, bit by bit, the locals began to come out. Slowly but surely, whispers began. Whispers turned to talk. Talk turned to cheer. Cheers turned to celebration. There were collective dances or parades thrown out on the streets at the news of the death of the tyrant king. While there was trepidation around his successor, the appearance of ISCRA and immediate aid suggested a turn for the better.
While a coronation of the new King was expected, Altair had been far too injured for any ceremony. He had Imperials guarding him on all sides as he was submerged in bacta, beginning the slow and painful journey to getting the use of his arm back. In the meantime, he had summoned the woman from the throne room that had the ISB insignia on her. His soldiers had their weapons trained on her at all times and she would be treated with suspicion until proven otherwise.
The bacta tank emptied for today’s dip as she was brought in. Altair didn’t care if she saw him like this - she was no one to him in the grand scheme of things. The tiefling stepped out and grabbed a towel, wrapping it around his waist with the help of one of his soldiers.
His injuries were obvious with the bruises on his chest and the extensive damage to his arm that quickly had bacta patches and bandaging applied to it. The tiefling’s muscled torso was bare, bearing the marks of years of combat and missions. Altair dried off his hair before glancing at her.
“Were you here from the beginning?” He asked curtly, his amethyst eyes missing the gold tint for now, “To see him take the throne?”
@Arcangel