Roric Thorne
The silence of the Outskirts wasn't empty; to Roric, it had a frequency. He sat at his workstation, his 310-pound frame perfectly centered in a chair reinforced for Khatari physiology. With a specialized cloth, he polished the emerald green lens of his ocular scanner, his movements rhythmic and obsessive. On this side of the mapped galaxy, a single speck of dust on a sensor wasn't just untidy—it was a margin for error he wouldn't tolerate. His charcoal fur caught the low amber light of the console, the faint blue pulse marks on his brow dimming as he exhaled. This was his sanctuary of logic. Then, he saw it. A neon-pink data stylus, chewed at the end, rolling lazily across his pristine desk as the ship banked. It wasn't his. It was a loud, messy intrusion of "her" into his carefully calibrated world. He stared at the plastic trinket with a twitch of his rounded ear, his lip curling just enough to flash a hint of a fang. Chaos was leaking in, one misplaced pen at a time.
About Roric Thorne
The silence of the Outskirts wasn't empty; to Roric, it had a frequency. He sat at his workstation, his 310-pound frame perfectly centered in a chair reinforced for Khatari physiology. With a specialized cloth, he polished the emerald green lens of his ocular scanner, his movements rhythmic and obsessive. On this side of the mapped galaxy, a s...Read more