The Plight of a Playwright

Talyth Vakor sat and sat and sat. It seemed that he did little else these days but sit, a thing that no krogan should do. Their blood demanded action, fights on the fields of war, and yet here he was, stuck in rooms where the only weapons were his words. Of course, he knew how to wield those quite easily, having perfected the art of speaking long ago with his study of writing plays. Given how untouched the Protectorate was, there were many applicants for resources, space, whatever they could try to take. Each was dealt with by him and the rest of the Chand that was still alive.

He looked around the room with bored eyes, looking over each of his twelve brothers with all the slowness in the galaxy as he sat upon the head chair. He knew Talyth Kova should be sitting here or failing that, Talyth Mellas, but they were both dead, long dead, killed in actions long before the Reapers had shown themselves to the galaxy. So it fell to him, Talyth Vakor to fulfill these duties. And fulfill them he did. Reconstruction of what little needed reconstruction was complete, finished two months ago with the aid of a company of geth which had then gone on to another nation in the Abyss. An idle thought about where those geth were now and then he focused on what Macul was saying, something about agriculture output.

Then the situation shifted as it is wont to do. He blinked, wondering what had changed. He stood and the conversation stilled, each krogan sensing it then. Slowly, they all turned to look at the door, some of them standing as well. Then the doors opened, swift as swift could be, a gray box flying out into the center of the room, a fiery explosion emanating from it as it hit the ground. Krogan flew in every direction, the pressure wave throwing them around like sacks, white phosphorus coating them all.

Talyth Vakor stood once more, this time on fire, a small problem for one such as himself. He surveyed the room, seeing what he could see through the smoke of the explosive. Four of his brothers still stood in various states of existence, the rest were lying. Sounds of an alarm reached his ears seconds before another krump filled the room and he was forced back onto his throne.

There he sat, in quiet repose, continuing to watch as a figure moved through the smoke, thirteen flashes of light seen by him as he sat there regenerating. Then the figure drew itself towards him and he blinked. He sniffed, glad he had sent the very final draft of his now last play to the editor three days prior, and then stood, a smile on his face as he used his legs one last time.

There was a fourteenth flash of light.