The stars formed a backdrop for the misery. Ryven sat in the captain's chair, the lifeless body of his only family laying propped against his feet, head cradled in his arms. Shiny rivulets of tears streaked his face, and his own self-hatred peaked. He was the agent of his worst pain, the queller of his bloodline, scourge of all that was right. He trembled.
The guristas compound was naught but a glowing red ember, and as far as Ryven could tell, so was his life. His world was shattered, a fractured glass leaking his own stain into the void. This pain was his penance.
***********************
Titus's funeral had been a very private affair. The news of Ryven's selling of HSG and it's assets was met positively. Most of the crews felt he was bad luck anyway. So, Ryven engaged in the oldest form of self-flagellation: he sat in a bar and drank alone, hoping to drown his pain. This carried on for a week or two before his neocom began to buzz, and for some reason, he answered.
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