When true hearts lie withered

[Sciamach]

// closed

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Valetta Shipyard | Habitat Quarter | lower decks
| 823 AS |

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[img float=right]http://i.imgur.com/CkKwZws.jpg?1[/img]
A dissonant cacophony of noises reverberated throughout the massive hollowed halls; the hum of ship engines coming to an end or still spooling up, the clanging of maintenance equipment against machinery, or the occasional loud banging of cargo crates being offloaded and maneuvered around by the over-head cranes mounted to the ceilings. Loudest of these was the low hum, the drone of human voices; calling out, barking orders or just merely relaying simple instructions how to perform a task from halfway across a fighter's maintenance catwalk.

It was an unremarkable evening for a shipyard so busy as Valetta, and one that none saw as anything more than another day at the never-ending grind. Cargo barges came and went, shuttles landed on the flight deck and offloaded their payload of troops, engineers and assorted personnel. All of them bore different insignias and uniforms than the last: some crisp yellow and violet, another lavender and emerald, the next a disheveled maroon on red. Standing out among them was a pristine white offset only by a stark crimson trim with minimal presence. Those bearing these colors disembarked and unilaterally marched their way towards a marked opening in the bulkhead opposite the mooring bays, emblazoned in a bright ruby color and flanked by a quartet of stoic guardsmen, their expressions hidden by the featureless helmets they bore.

The posse of sundry men and women shuffled their way through the reinforced gateway, a dull murmur of exchanges passed between them as they spoke of plans for their off-hours, future and past deployments, and various other topics. Having passed security, the group made their way through what had become known as the "Crimson Halls," a section of the station dedicated to the operations of the crusaders and mercenaries of the Church of Tarxien. The bustle of the previous compartment dropped to near silence within the Halls, a quiet that turned to mere whispers and the clanking of boots on the decks. The aptly-named Halls were adorned in the flag of the Crusades, assorted banners of vassal families and organizations, and several other pieces of familial and religious imagery, all either hung or projected throughout the pseudo-sanctuary for the members of the Church and their associates.

Though some of the group dispersed amongst the populace of the crowded halls, many filed their way to a single location on the promenade; a stylized entryway adorned in a brass-colored trim that led into a large darkened room with a series of window panes framing the far bulkhead, a room packed nearly to the brim with the populace of the station. Dockworkers, business associates, transport crews, soldiers and engineers all of the rank and file of the Crusaders made up a throng of people within the bar. The slow beat of the ambience played out throughout the club's confines drummed in the ears of everyone present, milling around the room in various states of inebriation. A single phrase was displayed above the large window screen along the back-wall, glowing in an amber light reminiscent of a morning sunrise: "Avalon Dawn"

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[ sci·am·ach ]
/sīˈamək/

A simple, angry man casually working his way through life on a personal quest to acquire copious amounts of street cred.