This Run On coincides with the timeline of the Run On: [Old Guard] Present Arms.
The Consul’s Stateroom
Aboard Dark Prophet II
The stateroom was just as Zasati remembered: tidy and militant, yet somewhat inviting. She was pleased to see only two place settings at the table. Soft light reflected on the silver cutlery with a clinical coolness. She raised a slender brow expectantly as Rhylance moved across the cabin to greet her.
“Lord Consul,” the Hunter swept into a gentle bow, hindered slightly by her lingering injuries. “My apologies,” she shamelessly let the neckline of her new dress dip forward.
“Thank you for joining me this evening.” He briefly allowed a faint smile to pull at the corner of his lips. The Chiss waited as she smoothed the silken material of her dress. “How are you feeling?” He extended his hand, watching as a loose wave of obsidian hair tumbled over her shoulder.
Gratefully, Zasati accepted his hand. Though Rhylance had tended thoroughly to the wounds inflicted by her Master, she was still not completely well.
As they moved towards the table, the Chiss couldn’t help but study the enigmatic tattoo on her cheek. The way it shifted colors with every bend of her brow or twitch of her lips. Sometimes a color would hold for a long moment. She could sense that it fascinated him.
The woman leaned in close as a bright lavender illuminated her cheek. “Perhaps you’d like to examine me closer, Blue?” She laughed softly, as he guided her to her seat.
“I would never pass on the opportunity to examine such a specimen,” he grinned as he helped to push in her chair.
Her blue eyes met his glowing red ones for a brief moment. It had been so long since someone had matched wits and quips with her. She welcomed the reprieve from her demanding position beneath Vodo.
The Consul took his seat and gracefully unfolded his napkin. He was eager to continue the conversation they had started in the Med Bay. However, she would surely need time to feel comfortable before speaking on the matter.
Much to his surprise, her entire demeanor suddenly changed. Her honeyed words turned to ice, shoulders pushed back, brows furrowed. “My Consul,” Zasati set down her glass. “Permission to speak freely?”
He raised a brow quizzically and nodded. It was so unlike her to follow protocol.
She breathed deeply, her tattoo changing to a vivid green. “It is possible to make no errors and still lose.” He watched her intently, intrigued by the abrupt change in her persona. She continued, “I trust your intelligence. I fear many do not.” The woman reached her slender arm out across the table and clenched her fist, “When you strike at a tyrant, you must finish him.”