By the time Tarn is finally well enough to be released from the Medbay, he is throughly stir crazy. Having spent most of the time restrained to his bed, thanks to York, he is eager to stretch his legs. His muscles are tight and his back sore as Tarn makes his way in a circuit around the gardens, sighing in irritation.
He pauses to stretch his achy shoulders before he catches sight of you. His instinct is to scowl, but he manages to keep and even mask, free on any perceivable emotion.
“I would have thought that the Cetagandans would have far more comfortable medical cots. A week in the medbay and I have a terrible crick in my back.”
[B: Around camp]
It’s easy to tell that something big is happening based on how frantically the patrols and personnel are rushing about. Everyone is trying to seem useful in some way—carrying out the tiniest menial tasks in preparation for…Something.
Tarn watches quietly, staying out of the way.
“One wonders what the emergency is. With the plague still an issue, and their forces so depleted, I would imagine that they would want to take it a bit easy.”
He’s missed the memo about the new arrival clearly. Perhaps someone should fill him in.
[C: Reception]
This is by far the strangest ritual that Tarn has seen yet on this base. Whoever this ‘Handmaiden of the Star Crèche is, she has made quite the stir. They treat her like a Prime— with such reverent respect that only serves to highlight this repulsive caste system that the Cetas have in place. She’s too above everyone to even be looked upon.
It makes rage build in Tarn. He wishes he could just pop that bubble and force her down to their level. It’s a fools wish, but he can’t help but fantasize.
Tarn makes for the exit, feeling sick. This time its not a filthy plague making him ill.
Tarn [Cetaganda]
By the time Tarn is finally well enough to be released from the Medbay, he is throughly stir crazy. Having spent most of the time restrained to his bed, thanks to York, he is eager to stretch his legs. His muscles are tight and his back sore as Tarn makes his way in a circuit around the gardens, sighing in irritation.
He pauses to stretch his achy shoulders before he catches sight of you. His instinct is to scowl, but he manages to keep and even mask, free on any perceivable emotion.
“I would have thought that the Cetagandans would have far more comfortable medical cots. A week in the medbay and I have a terrible crick in my back.”
[B: Around camp]
It’s easy to tell that something big is happening based on how frantically the patrols and personnel are rushing about. Everyone is trying to seem useful in some way—carrying out the tiniest menial tasks in preparation for…Something.
Tarn watches quietly, staying out of the way.
“One wonders what the emergency is. With the plague still an issue, and their forces so depleted, I would imagine that they would want to take it a bit easy.”
He’s missed the memo about the new arrival clearly. Perhaps someone should fill him in.
[C: Reception]
This is by far the strangest ritual that Tarn has seen yet on this base. Whoever this ‘Handmaiden of the Star Crèche is, she has made quite the stir. They treat her like a Prime— with such reverent respect that only serves to highlight this repulsive caste system that the Cetas have in place. She’s too above everyone to even be looked upon.
It makes rage build in Tarn. He wishes he could just pop that bubble and force her down to their level. It’s a fools wish, but he can’t help but fantasize.
Tarn makes for the exit, feeling sick. This time its not a filthy plague making him ill.