![Newbie Guide](https://i.imgur.com/Uy7hIlu.png")
Post by Vocado on Jul 14, 2022 0:42:54 GMT -5
There was a relaxing breeze in the air.
Vocado walked the streets of the outpost with little regard for himself. It'd been ages, surely, since he'd had time to himself. When the war was won, he'd celebrated, like most did, but it felt hollow. He wasn't at the final battle. He had failed in the mission he'd been given, in fact. How disappointing that was. To allow his king to return to a broken city. The echoes of explosions still rang sharp in his mind, but Bonewood's rarely let the past define them.
As much as he wanted to be swallowed by his defeats, he resisted. To lose himself to failure was to fail again. Pitt wouldn't want that for him. His parents, slumped in the corner of some bar across space, wouldn't want that for him either, he would hope.
He had to help. To extend the prosperity of the Saiyan people. The victory over the Tuffles was a start, but that was all. The global stage still awaited them. Waiting for what, he wasn't quite sure, however. Taori's goals were still a bit vague, but he had to help in any way he could.
And today, he was starting a tad small.
Taking a very particular route through the outpost, Vocado arrived at a small building tucked away between two alleyways. The name of the establishment had been shot clean off the wall outside, and the multiple attempts to repair the sign or paint the name along the side of the building were thwarted by some miscreant or another.
The door of the bar swung open, creaking in that special way that denoted just how run down the place was. Paint peeled from the walls, and the ceiling fan, which looked surprisingly modern, swung back and forth from a frayed wire. The jukebox, beaten and bruised, skipped every third note in the song that was playing.
Nobody sat inside, save for the ancient barkeep, Toma, who seemed to be taking a rather powerful nap. Snoring came in sporadic bursts. As Vocado sat in a booth near the far wall, he counted the seconds between breaths. Toma got up to about 45 seconds once, but only once.
And from there, he waited. His glass, filled with some brown swill he'd swiped from the bar, twirled mindlessly in his grip. He'd brought the bottle, as well as a spare glass, but he wasn't sure Cato was the drinking type. If not, then she'd surely appreciate the gesture.
Vocado walked the streets of the outpost with little regard for himself. It'd been ages, surely, since he'd had time to himself. When the war was won, he'd celebrated, like most did, but it felt hollow. He wasn't at the final battle. He had failed in the mission he'd been given, in fact. How disappointing that was. To allow his king to return to a broken city. The echoes of explosions still rang sharp in his mind, but Bonewood's rarely let the past define them.
As much as he wanted to be swallowed by his defeats, he resisted. To lose himself to failure was to fail again. Pitt wouldn't want that for him. His parents, slumped in the corner of some bar across space, wouldn't want that for him either, he would hope.
He had to help. To extend the prosperity of the Saiyan people. The victory over the Tuffles was a start, but that was all. The global stage still awaited them. Waiting for what, he wasn't quite sure, however. Taori's goals were still a bit vague, but he had to help in any way he could.
And today, he was starting a tad small.
Taking a very particular route through the outpost, Vocado arrived at a small building tucked away between two alleyways. The name of the establishment had been shot clean off the wall outside, and the multiple attempts to repair the sign or paint the name along the side of the building were thwarted by some miscreant or another.
The door of the bar swung open, creaking in that special way that denoted just how run down the place was. Paint peeled from the walls, and the ceiling fan, which looked surprisingly modern, swung back and forth from a frayed wire. The jukebox, beaten and bruised, skipped every third note in the song that was playing.
Nobody sat inside, save for the ancient barkeep, Toma, who seemed to be taking a rather powerful nap. Snoring came in sporadic bursts. As Vocado sat in a booth near the far wall, he counted the seconds between breaths. Toma got up to about 45 seconds once, but only once.
And from there, he waited. His glass, filled with some brown swill he'd swiped from the bar, twirled mindlessly in his grip. He'd brought the bottle, as well as a spare glass, but he wasn't sure Cato was the drinking type. If not, then she'd surely appreciate the gesture.
