Fireblade Stillwater smiles at his kinswoman, happy to hear the dialect of his home sept. He looks her over, takes a deep breath, and has a seat.<span style="color: #808000">"Well, comrade, long story short?"</span>He closes his eyes for a moment and smiles - almost as if he finds his present predicament amusing.<span style="color: #808000">"Drones. A number of them had gotten stuck and could not reach the evacuation craft. I detatched myself from the Shas'la I was fighting alongside, and tried to free them. Alas, I was pinned down and did not manage to reach the nearest evacuation point in time. I've been looking for a way home ever since."</span>He gestures around him.<span style="color: #808000">"Why else be in this filthy hole of a bar?"</span><br/><br/>He leans back, nonchalantly, not offering anyone else in the bar any heed whatsoever. He pulls a waterskin from under his cloak and has a sip.<span style="color: #808000">"And what about you? Desertion, or evac gone wrong?"</span>He leans forward with a sly grin on his face, his old wrinkled face looking inexplicably wicked.<span style="color: #808000">"Espionage, perhaps?"</span>He pulls back and looks at her with sharp, clever, smiling eyes, quite a stark contrast to his envoirnment.