(OOC: I just felt like making a little Citadel starter here! ^^ Try to quote the post you're replying to so there's a bit of organization! There will probably be some spoilers, a little bit of continuity issues I'm sure, but it's all in good fun.)
In Council space, the Citadel was a bustling hub each day, the enormous station the central spot for anything and everything in the universe. Tourists, locals, and visitors mingled in the station's largest dock, where every race saw more than enough opportunity to set up shop in a marketplace where all of the ships had to land. The massive marketplace was nearly always full of a throng of people: hanar politely calling out their wares, krogans bulldozing through the crowds, humans gawking in awe of the aliens, volus waddling between knees and over feet, and the occasional vorcha starting a fight.
In the very center of the Citadel was the Presidium, a beautiful sight of artificial gardens and bodies of water. Overlooking it stood the largest hospital on the Citadel, Huerta Memorial. Opposed to this, in the seedy soul of the Citadel, bars and clubs seemed to bounce with booming music, flashing lights accentuating every curve of human and asari dancers alike.
It was in one of these bars that the Commander had settled himself, hiding as a civilian rather than the merc he was. Head ducked, sipping at his liquor, the young turian had traded in his usual blue and white armor for civilian clothes, a robe of black and white that tossed over one arm and his chest, and a modest cowl cover that was structured with light metal. In this darkness, he felt comfortable, knowing that none would recognize him as a Blue Suns Commander here.
Here, he was just 'turian,' from the flirty human who breezed by, smelling of fruit, fingers dancing over the slate grey structures of his crest, or 'friend,' from the easily-amused turian bartender.
The human had since left him, seeing that he had little to say to her and no intent on complimenting her figure. Metal mandible flaring temporarily, where his gold eyes settled off in the distance of the dark room, he heard nothing but the loud pounding of the music, saw only the faint glimpses of the flashing red lights behind him. He wondered how his sister was doing, and that he should perhaps visit her before he left the Citadel, perhaps it would be his last visit. The captain -- ha! Captain, as if the flighty asari he had found had any right to call herself a captain -- had them on a death sentence: They were going to follow in the footsteps of the much-talked about Alliance Commander Shepard and help colonies, help destroy Reapers. He was certainly only going to have one more chance to see his twin before he died.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, the turian let out a sigh, louder than he liked, and tipped back the last of his alcohol. Welcome to the Citadel, Kaesna, he told himself, this'll be your last visit.
In Council space, the Citadel was a bustling hub each day, the enormous station the central spot for anything and everything in the universe. Tourists, locals, and visitors mingled in the station's largest dock, where every race saw more than enough opportunity to set up shop in a marketplace where all of the ships had to land. The massive marketplace was nearly always full of a throng of people: hanar politely calling out their wares, krogans bulldozing through the crowds, humans gawking in awe of the aliens, volus waddling between knees and over feet, and the occasional vorcha starting a fight.
In the very center of the Citadel was the Presidium, a beautiful sight of artificial gardens and bodies of water. Overlooking it stood the largest hospital on the Citadel, Huerta Memorial. Opposed to this, in the seedy soul of the Citadel, bars and clubs seemed to bounce with booming music, flashing lights accentuating every curve of human and asari dancers alike.
It was in one of these bars that the Commander had settled himself, hiding as a civilian rather than the merc he was. Head ducked, sipping at his liquor, the young turian had traded in his usual blue and white armor for civilian clothes, a robe of black and white that tossed over one arm and his chest, and a modest cowl cover that was structured with light metal. In this darkness, he felt comfortable, knowing that none would recognize him as a Blue Suns Commander here.
Here, he was just 'turian,' from the flirty human who breezed by, smelling of fruit, fingers dancing over the slate grey structures of his crest, or 'friend,' from the easily-amused turian bartender.
The human had since left him, seeing that he had little to say to her and no intent on complimenting her figure. Metal mandible flaring temporarily, where his gold eyes settled off in the distance of the dark room, he heard nothing but the loud pounding of the music, saw only the faint glimpses of the flashing red lights behind him. He wondered how his sister was doing, and that he should perhaps visit her before he left the Citadel, perhaps it would be his last visit. The captain -- ha! Captain, as if the flighty asari he had found had any right to call herself a captain -- had them on a death sentence: They were going to follow in the footsteps of the much-talked about Alliance Commander Shepard and help colonies, help destroy Reapers. He was certainly only going to have one more chance to see his twin before he died.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, the turian let out a sigh, louder than he liked, and tipped back the last of his alcohol. Welcome to the Citadel, Kaesna, he told himself, this'll be your last visit.
Oop: Are you still wanting to do this rp?
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