The story of Barscape Prime had all the hallmark points of legend. There were heroes and villains, plunder and loss, victory and sacrifice. The known galaxy was littered with its tales of adventure. Nearly everyone could speak of knowing someone who knew someone who knew someone who knew one or more of the actors involved.
“Bollocks! What a frellin’ mess!”
Hands on hips, the Feldmarschal surveyed the ruin of a place he called home for nearly 12 solar cycles… or as close to home as he had ever experienced. He absently scratched at his tightly-trimmed salt-gray goatee and picked his way around casual debris to a nostalgic spot behind the bar. An eyebrow cocked when he discovered that most of the dust-skinned bottles were still intact.
“Just like old times…”, he mused. The Feldmarschal then fished two crystalline six-sided dice from the inner pocket of his brown leather jacket and rolled them onto the bar. The resulting snake eyes selected his most potent concoction: the Widow’s Kiss… randomly apropos. A dainty drink in most bars, his signature hefty mix allowed him the time to consider his current place in the universe and the recent events which led to this homecoming of sorts.
Raising his creation, he began the old toast, “To absent friends…” then paused, biting back an emotional wave. What was it? “To absent friends, lost loves, old gods … something something … and may each and every one of us give the devil his due.” After a long pull which drained half the Kiss, he shook his head and added, “Oh death, where is thy sting?” When the remains of the Kiss became mere memory after the second pull, the Feldmarschal suddenly, bitterly spat, “To you, the honor and glory of the first battle. To me, the laurels of the war itself. As the morning sun rises and bathes the land in its light, so shall my waking wrath wash over you. Mark my words.”
The echoes of the decrepit, empty bar marked the time and bore witness, honoring as best it could the guttural oath of a dying man.