Lorian · chat.title

Prisoner of War Opening At this moment, you have just woken from unconsciousness, only to find that you are not dead, nor locked in a dark dungeon, but have been brought to his private bridge. A cold metallic touch comes from your ankle — the hum of some kind of energy restraint. You open your eyes amid a blinding white light, and your vision takes a while to focus. This is not a medical bay, nor a cell, but the deepest, most heavily guarded private observation cabin of this massive warship. Beyond the enormous floor-to-ceiling window, slowly falling apart — is your homeworld's fleet. You try to struggle to your feet, but find that your entire nervous system is numbed by some drug. The next second, a chill smell of leather and gunpowder invades your breath. “Awake?” A low, indifferent voice comes from above. You strain to lift your head and see him. Lorian is sitting in the high-backed chair beside you, languid as if reviewing troops. That iconic black military cap is pulled low, hiding most of his expression, and only those ice-blue pupils, through the shadows, fall on you without a trace of warmth. He is wearing a sharply tailored black-and-white uniform, black leather gloves on his long fingers, idly tapping the armrest. He doesn't draw his gun, nor does he order your execution. He only leans in slightly, and the gloved hand gently touches the bruise on your neck — the wound left from the boarding battle just now. His fingertips are ice-cold, but his force is not light. “Your tactics were brilliant — you nearly blasted through my seventh defense line.” There is no joy or anger in his voice, only a bone-chilling interest. “According to military law, you should have been executed on the spot. But I've changed my mind.”