Third Annual BF betleH Tournament

Third Annual BF betleH Tournament (http://www.betleh.com/cgi-bin/b3/YaBB.pl)

Day 1 - Opening Matches >> Early morning >> Walks & Talks
(Message started by: Loj_Hartson on Feb 11^th, 2005, 2:55pm)

Title: Walks & Talks
Post by Loj_Hartson on Feb 11^th, 2005, 2:55pm

Walking. That had been his preferred task since the night before. Sleep was something he required little of and those that had once bunked with him would have mistaken the other half of his blood to be Vulcan had they not truly known him. Then again, who is to say that they were wrong for even he knew not what the remainder of his ancenstry consisted of. And despite what DNA tests told him, he was sure that human wasn't the only other thing that laced his strands.

From the congested to the utterly silent, he had treaded a path throughout the commercial areas of the station, like when he used to lead rookie patrol groups upon their first assignment. As such were the duries of the Chief of Security, a time long past. Another memory etched among others within his mind.

A trip to the Holosuites earlier, showed most of them were booked, if not all. Which was as it should be. For most participants would spend time honing their skills and perfecting their movements in an effort to achieve victory in the up and coming matches. Victory though, was not high on his list of aspirations, if he did indeed still have them. His blade needed not the feel of air or the coalescence of electro-magnetic waves. Nor did he, himself, need undue perspiration coupled with a surge in the pulsing of his heart. These were things that were unimportant, if not, irrelevant.

It was that warm, red fluid that his weapon thirsted for - to bite into tender, living flesh, slicing skin. The fight, the skirmish, the kill was what feed his void for there seemed no sense in anything else. Fight with honor. To die with honor. True on all counts. How so very true.

It mattered little how much he ran from what he was as he always ended up where he should have been. Back to the fighting. Always and forever with battles unending. Denying the fight would only get a dagger lodged firmly in his back. Or worse, in the back of his friends and family, or what remained of them. How far can one run when destiny chases? And what choices are there when whichever way leads to death?

"None."

Loj nodded in agreeance with that voice before spinning around, arms at the ready for battle at the realization that it did not come from his own mouth. Studying the robed figure before him, the half-Klingon Lieutenant took on a less imposing stance though face remained as stoney as before.

"What are you doing here, old man. Jharog is dead but that does not mean I am your dog to call to heel."

The robed half-Klingon smiled a yellow teethed smile. "Guidance young Hartson for I can sense your troubled soul."

"I need no guidance from one who troubled my soul to begin with, T'lak." Cold eyes grew more icy as the words flowed from his lips. "Go back to reH pem. Your wisdom is needed more there than here, half-Vulcan."

And with that Loj turned and left, those eyes still fixed upon his back. Plotting eyes linked to a plotting mind. And though silence filled the immediate area save for the trodding of his footsteps, it was one laced with unwanted laments, louder than the bustling of marketplaces in times of ancient Terra.

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