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Post by Fromikeable on Dec 27, 2013 2:37:28 GMT -5
“You and I are very much alike. Archaeology is our religion, yet we have both fallen from the pure faith. Our methods have not differed as much as you pretend. I am but a shadowy reflection of you. It would take only a nudge to make you like me. To push you out of the light.”
Name: Doctor Rase Jones Hyul , Junior (Rah-say Hai-ool)
Race: Zeltron
Age: 29
Height: 5’ 10”
Weight: 180 lbs.
Birth place: Zeltros
Appearance: Rase Hyul is nothing if not dashingly handsome. His face is gorgeous, sharp, and sleek with the best that those of Zeltron genetics have to offer. His body, while not entirely buff, is fit and likewise sleek, almost as if they ask the eyes, “What do I feel like?” The answer is smooth, and more noticeably, crimson. Rase’s skin is almost as dark as the color of human blood; a deep, dark hue of red that, when accompanied by his reputation and signature grin, reveal him for the devil that he is.
In terms of build, Rase is of normal stature. His body gives off more of a flowing impression than an agile or strong one, and as such he tends to look like he’s moving seamlessly, even when he isn’t. It isn’t a natural grace so much as it is a natural suavity. It is normally cloaked by clothes of varying styles; formal, casual, suits, button-down shirts, and of course his more adventurous outfits, such as combinations of vanilla shirts with the sleeves rolled up, tan pants made of durable materials, and boots of varying kinds depending on what the situation calls for. Ultimately he can be expected to dress to impress, and furthermore be appropriately adorned for what he’ll face.
And above all, Rase has his hat; a brown fedora which sports a thin black band about its center, always clinging to his black, tossled-yet-neat, average-length hair. A gift from his father (or rather a left-over), he’s rarely seen in public without it, though occasionally in fancier atmospheres, he’ll forgo it or otherwise lodge some sort of elaborate feather in the band. While adventuring, he makes it a point to try and keep it on his head as well as he can, and will occasionally go to somewhat irrational lengths of effort in order to secure it.
Personality: If you were to go into the Galactic Standard Dictionary and look up the word “smooth”, you would find a great-looking picture of Rase Hyul.
Negotiation might as well be his fourth name, as years and years of practice have bestowed upon him a tongue made of gold and a personality made of silk. It’s incredibly hard to muster any sort of uncouth or otherwise outraged reaction from him. Naturally, he’s not made of stone, but after years of polishing his poker face, proper etiquette, amiable and agreeable speech, and incredibly economic and business-like approach to most scenarios, one might think him to be. Truly, the only thing that terrifies him are snakes. He. Hates. Snakes.
Rase is also a grade-A cheat and conman. Disguised behind that veil of proper manners and professionalism sits a mind constantly cranking out ways to secure what it wants at the lowest possible price to itself, meaning that if someone has something that the Zeltron desires, one way or another he will get his hands on it. This can result in any number of methods; negotiation, threats that may or may not be true (though such threats are rarely made), figurative choke-holds (in which the party opposed has little choice), a trade of information that may or may not be correct, etcetera. His preferred method, by far in fact, is a simple gamble; one that is fair and chance-controlled to the eye but is incredibly rigged and one-sided in its probabilities. Rase simply assures that he is on the correct side of those odds.
With that said, Rase’s hobbies include two very basic and ancient pastimes; charming and gambling. His silver-tongue is constantly used to make sure he’s never paying for his swindling, and his wit makes sure that he’s never running a deficit of chips or credits when in a game of chance. Of course, the man doesn’t particularly need the money, nor does he particularly back any of his warm or flattering words with their embodied emotions, but hey, if they worked for the ancients, they work for him.
Occupation: Xenoarchaeologist
Rank: Doctorate from the University of Agamar
Skills:
Extensive historical knowledge of the galaxy
Doctorate education from the University of Agamar in the field of Xenoarchaeology
Natural-born, silver-tongued speaker
Infamous womanizer
Expert gambler
Experienced Swordsman
Experienced martial artist
Crack-shot
High intellect
Ships/Vehicles:
The Ruined King
Attributes:
Physical Strength: 5
Intelligence: 8
Speed: 6
Leadership: 7
Unarmed: 6
Melee Weapons: 7
Ranged Weapons: 7
Bio:
I've Got a Lot of Fond Memories...
To say that Rase was born in humble beginnings would be a bit of an understatement, though not altogether accurate. First, one must know that his father, Rase Jones Hyul, Senior, was a gambler; a feather-hatted suavity moving through towns in the poorer parts of Zeltros, the backwater swamps of the planet that managed to stay out of the holos of partying Zeltrons and high-living. To every shining party, there was the inevitable morning after where everyone was passed out drunk on the sofa and had to clean up while suffering from massive hangovers, and just as the parties resided in the grand cities of Zeltros, the mornings afterward were embodied therein the swamps.
Still, livings could be made. Rase Sr. was no exception, of course, though he was cursed and jeered at for his occupation, known to most as the “Red Scourge” thanks to his crimson skin tone and habit of emptying wallets. The man was infamous the instant he walked into a shoddy, creaky cantina and colored into a poker game, or otherwise tipped his hat, black with a large exotic bird feather, at some poor saps at a blackjack table. Him and wagers seemed to be there one moment, and then the next be running out the doors as he soundly defeated (through arguable means) every challenger coming his way. Some nights, if he reaped a good reward, were spent in the nicest hotel rooms he could find (which in those parts of the planet weren’t much, but at least had sheets devoid of moth holes and warm food). Other nights were spent sleeping with hobos; it could all vary, like with most things the gambler did, on chance.
Enter the scene of a small tailor shop, where one night, after winning a good hand, Rase Sr. decided that he would get his hat (one of a small collection he kept) touched up. He handed it to the tailor; a poor Zeltron woman, pink as chewing gum, giggling as he chanted her with tales and smooth words. As the night wore on, their passions only grew, and soon they were lying in a bed together, sweaty and convinced that they were in love (well, that was what Rase Sr. had said to get there, anyway).
Then, enter 9 months later. The Zeltron woman, by the name of Giralda, sat squatting in a bathtub in a ramshackle house in the swamps, a bottle of whiskey in her hand as she convulsed. Her face was red, Rase Sr. was nowhere to be found, and with tears streaming from her eyes, a small Zeltron boy entered the world, crimson as the blood that covered him after the birth.
Cursing the name and the child, Giralda named the child the only name she found befitting. Rase Jones Hyul, Junior.
A Position Unsuitable To Give Orders
Rase Sr., to no one’s surprise, had totally left Giralda. The Zeltron had slipped out of town after waveringly entertaining Giralda’s ideas of marriage and love, leaving her absolutely bitter and astonished. Left with the baby that was a living insult to him, the pink woman did her best to hold down the tailoring fort. Rumors would occasionally sift through town that he had snuck through during one night or the next, but he never once dropped in to say hello, and no one was ever particularly moved to do anything about something so unsurprising. In a way, they almost scorned Giralda; she had slept with a scoundrel and expected him to stick around? What a floozy.
Rase Jr., meanwhile, spent most of his toddler years in a high chair, being fed discount baby food and being taught colorful words like “Kuati Reacher” and “No-good Batha Feeler”. To be certain, Giralda was hardly a model parent, getting drunk a few times a month and not caring about much of anything. Her supposed lover’s betrayl was eventually accepted after a few months without a stop-in, and unfortunately her coping mechanism of choice was apathy and bitterness. For the most part, she cared for her child as humanely as possible, even if he was an absolute mistake. Rase was at least fed, and at least grew healthy, and at least had a warm roof over his head, leaky and beaten though it was. The only thing that he had to remember his father by was his mother’s unceasing cursing at the very mention of him, and a small brown fedora from his father’s hat collection that had wound up deserted in the shop. Sadly it was all the child would ever remember of his father; the memories of childhood are a fickle thing.
As the boy grew even more, reaching the age of 5 or so, with his hat on head (it began to and would be, forevermore, worn everywhere by the Zeltron), Rase began to strike out into the town; Grisom Bayou, as it was referred to. His childhood began with simple strolls around the town, his mother not particularly caring that he was out (nor anyone else). He would see men of questionable moral guidance feeling up some of the sleepers at the brothel, or see bar fights break out at one of the town’s five or six such establishments, or try and fit in with the other Zeltron children, regularly being smacked about or cheated in the process. The entire town essentially operated on an individualist mentality; one only had what they could get and secure for themselves. Rase soon learned to play along.
It started out small, at first. Rase would make small, insignificant bets, such as those on snail races or on how many men would come out of the bar and fall over in an hour. It wasn’t a good way for children to spend their time, but he quickly managed to fall into the crowd of kids, few though there were. He slowly began to learn the tricks of the trade; during the weekends, more men would go drink than on the weekdays. The smallest snails, despite their size, raced quicker. What began as ways for him to lose any coins he could find lying on the ground quickly became ways to make money, and as he aged, it did indeed escalate into a full blown hobby.
Also with age came the worsening of his mother. As she became more and more settled in the fact that Rase Sr. wasn’t returning (which he never did), she sank deeper and deeper into the demon drink until she hit the bottom of the glass. Rase would come home (when he dared to do so) to find her absolutely hammered, sprawled on the ground with whatever tailoring project she’d managed to talk her way into and a multitude of empty bottles. He would ask her if he should find his own dinner, and the answers became more and more violent until they essentially just consisted of her throwing a bottle at his general direction and sobbing. By the time he was 14, Rase attempted to stay as far away from home as possible.
Staying away from home was actually becoming easier and easier. For his 15th birthday, Rase treated himself to his real first poker game. Sauntering into one of the local taverns, he sat down and colored up; 200 credits. He made it through his first few hands… only to lose every solitary piece of his bets in one swift move. Appalled, he tried again the next day, only to lose another 100 credits. It was at this point that he admitted defeat; how could he support himself if he couldn’t win a simple game of cards? Conceding, he returned home for the first time in days…
… only to find an empty house. His mother had left during the week, and without so much as a passing remark, he was on his own.
It’s Not the Years; It’s the Mileage.
For the following month, the great and illustrious Rase Hyul was a beggar. He was still betting his way into meals, but his reputation as the town’s minor gamesman made sure that no locals dared show any charity. He would sit outside the bars, silently asking every so often for a few credits to spare simply for something to eat. He would spend his time watching poker games through bar windows, observing as some men sweat and others grinned, cock-sure of their hands. It was just another game. There were winners and losers, and ways to figure out which you could be…
2 months later, the Zeltron slumped into the bar. A month’s worth of credits was in his hand, and he gently dumped them on the table, sighing and asking for his chips. His final 50 credits. The other players grinned wide; he was just some hobo they’d seen on the steps when they’d came in squandering what little money he had on a gambling addiction. Perhaps they could use that handful of credits to get another beer, maybe help on a payment in a trip to the brothel later.
Rase Hyul exited the tavern that night with a thousand credits. He bought a room, had a hot meal, and even payed for a dozen extra pillows before sleeping on an actual mattress and waking up along with the sun. As far as he was concerned, that marked it; his luck was changing.
Only at the age of 16, Rase began to venture out. He wouldn’t venture far from the swamps that marked his birthplace, but ultimately he became a bit of a nomad, simply traveling where his reputation was either unknown or had been absent long enough to have been downplayed and forgotten. Some games were lost, some were won, but as the hat-bearing Zeltron became more of a master at his game, he began to excel in others, soon dominating in any game involving cards, dice, chips, or some combination thereof. It was hardly a glamorous lifestyle, and even less so a respected one, but just as it had worked for his father, Rase came to do moderately well for himself (by swamp standards, at least).
Going on past his 17th birthday, Rase also began to whip out an ancient tool of devils and scoundrels alike; charm. Having gambled a man out of everything he’d had in his bag that day, Rase touched a Galactic Standard dictionary and thesaurus for the first time in his entire life. The trips between towns were long, and finding no one who wanted it, Rase began to thumb through, aimlessly picking up words here and there. “I’d like…” slowly started becoming “If you happen to have any…” just as “Hey guys” started to morph into “Greetings gentlemen”. It was by no means a seamless, effortless, or quick transformation, but the Zeltron couldn’t seem to help it; he liked “speaking in riddles”, as his fellow gamblers started to call it. Prose and grammar had nicer rings to them than jargon and the swamp drawl he heard daily, and even with his life-long immersion into the swamps’ accent, he managed to sound damn-near educated, luring his opponents into pretentious sneers and even catching a few wandering eyes (a fact that the hormonal Zeltron boy did well not to forget). But in the swamps, it was simply a hobby of sorts; he slowly began to speak better and better as time went on, even going so far as to purchase a few books on speaking, language, and other languages on his good nights.
And so gambling proved to be a lucrative trade by swamp standards. Rase never ached for credits or food as in his younger days, and with his newfound free time set his attentions to the damsels of the swamp and the emptying of wallets. Life was good.
… And yet… enclosed. Rase had never noticed the feeling before (mainly because it hadn’t been there prior), but starting one odd morning over breakfast as he looked out into the swamps plotting his wanderings for the day, Rase couldn’t help but sigh. The swamps were his home, weren’t they? Sure, he’d managed to shed his old accent thanks to that old dictionary and be able to afford slightly nicer clothing. Hell, just the other day he’d gotten a falcon feather for his hat, just to be corny. He had no obligations, no responsibilities, and no worries beyond what he would be eating later that day for dinner and whether or not it would be on a clean plate or a piece of tinfoil. So why did he feel such longing? It wasn’t just a desire to head to the next town; that was normal. He’d had that feeling, that need for years now. It was a desire to go to the town next to that one, and then the next one, and then the next ten, and then the next continent. It was wanderlust on a brand new scale.
And so it was satiated. Rase began to strike out further than he had before. Escaping his usual circuit of swamp towns, the young Zeltron soon found himself in the plains, and then at the coast. At the coast he hopped aboard a ship and was soon on the next continent. Then the next. For 6 months, Rase Hyul found himself wandering Zeltros, taking in its glory and betting people out of cash and food the whole while. That was the only constant he needed; wherever there was people, there was dinner.
The only other constant was history. Rase hadn’t saved many books he’d won back in his home swamps; he hadn’t exactly had a place to keep them, and while interesting, they were worth more as something to buy food with. But as the years passed and Rase escaped the need to worry about money and food every day, the Zeltron found himself craving to know about the places he visited. He didn’t particularly like reading as a hobby or find himself particularly academic, but history, he soon found, was different. History was a story. Not many people in the swamps, not even his own mother, had ever told Rase much in the way of bed-time stories or long tales. In an odd sort of way, it was like his wanderlust; a thirst to be quenched. On every planet, he would try and pick up at least a few books, some about the places he was in, some about where he had been, and some about places he would like to go,, skimming through them all in transit or while enjoying his spoils from that night’s game. They were a sort of cherry on his day; a rare place of solitude.
And after 12 months, the wanderlust only grew. Eventually the red Zeltron had enough confidence, desire, and credits to purchase a ticket off-world, taking nothing but his hat and a sandwich he’d gambled for waiting for his flight at the terminal. He found himself on Woostri. 2 months later, Thisspias. 1 month later, Cato Nemodia (a challenge to gamble in initially, but after purchasing a nice suit, it was “business” as usual). Months quickly turned into years, and by the time he hit 20, Rase had seen a nice chunk of the galaxy, or as he like to put it, “Successfully wagered on every planet from Zeltros to Coruscant.” It was a boast, but not by much.
Rase’s travels also found him learning rather unconsciously how to handle himself in a fight. Gambling was by no means a safe profession, especially when done with regards to the more seedy characters at game tables. In a particularly quick game on Metellos, for instance, the Zeltron’s nice evening was quickly drawn to a chase through the streets as his opponents accused him of cheating. Rase hadn’t stood much of a chance against the three large Cathars, but between running, dishing out a few smart hits, and even a bit of disguise-work in a heavy crowd, the Zeltron managed to come out of the encounter relatively unscathed. This sort of thing would happen once in a while fairly regularly; if one could find gambling in most parts of the galaxy, one could find people who didn’t like losing and were prepared to punish the victor for it. On Zeltros, Rase had known these individuals by heart and had managed to evade them, but at the galaxy at large, he learned that he needed to be prepared to fight or flee at a moment’s notice.
As such, the Zeltron became something of an experienced street brawler, learning the trades of quickly incapacitating or otherwise subduing his opponents long enough to escape. He also began investing in weaponry; his first purchase was a crappy little blaster pistol he kept tucked under his belt, just as a precaution. The Zeltron first had to use it in Hutt space when an angry Duro man flipped over their Pazaak table and drew a knife. Afterwards, Rase was understandably shaken, and quickly discovered a distaste for death; he would concede it to be a necessary evil, but he began to shift his efforts into researching non-lethal combat. He tried just about everything his travels brought him to; vibro-swords, stun batons, and even a few stun guns. Some he liked, some he didn’t, and as such they were in constant shift.
But his biggest bet would find him on Nal Hutta, back in the swamps.
Throw Me The Idol; I’ll Throw You The Whip!
Rase never learned the man’s name, nor his occupation, nor even his business in that lounge that night. He’d decided to take a trip to a local gambling house; a high-class casino-esque, perfume-filled, no heels, no tux, no entry establishment prime for high-stakes wagers and discreet dealings too big to do in the streets of Hutt space. Rase, in a fine tuxedo he'd won in a coin flip just that morning, was scouting the tables shortly after entering, attempting to find the most lucrative game.
The one he found was pretty hard to miss. A chubbier Human man clad in a silk suit and ruby glasses, a curly afro, and exceedingly large hands was ushering rather loudly a challenge to anyone unfortunate enough to walk by; a 20 million credit wager on a single game of Pazaak. All any possible opponent had to do was match the wager, either in credits or enslavement. It was a challenge Rase considered over a fine Kuati scotch and an hour of observing more daring individuals take up the man's challenge (in credits, of course). Finally making his choice, Rase walked up to the Human's table, sat opposite him, and slid forward his ID.
He didn't have that many credits. Yet.
The game lasted 7 hands. Rase was colored in for 20 million in chips, and for the first 6, he and the Human traded wins and loses, leaving their balances about equal. It was the last hand in which Rase caught onto his secret; tucked into the palms of those large hands were extra cards. Fighting fire with fire, the Zeltron covertly slipped a card of his own up his sleeve as the table was reset.
On the 7th hand, the Human wagered 10 million. Rase wagered 20. The human called, revealing a hand of a count of 20. Rase quite literally one-upped him, grinning wildly as the dealer handed him a bag of 2,000 ten-thousand credit pieces.
The Human was... disgruntled. Rase quickly found himself making out like a bandit rather literally, flipping the table, chips and all, as the man drew a gun. Around him, men defying the dress code clearly on the loser's payroll began zeroing in as the Zeltron bolted for the door, his credits slung over his shoulder as he shouldered past, dodged, shot, and socked his pursuers in a scene straight out of the movies (only with a very real threat of death). Fleeing with speed and finesse only know to those who had definitely done this sort of thing prior, Rase was off-world within a few hours, grinning wide as he caught his breath by counting credits.
Fortune And Glory
Giddy with a small fortune and motivated by the buying habits of man not interested in future-planning, Rase went on a spending spree. In the course of about a month, the Zeltron managed to spend 7 million credits alone on anything and everything his heart desired; possessions, books, silk sheets, high-class penthouses hotels, higher-class clubs and establishments (ripe opportunity to earn back some money had he cared enough to actually try and turn a profit. Alas, he didn’t, so they were money pits), and a wardrobe of such etiquette and class that it was hard to imagine that he’d ever been a swamp kid. But by far, Rase’s more elaborate purchase was a yacht; a 2.6 million credit yacht being sold by an old trillionaire who had wanted it in red, not blue, with every luxury imaginable; a full bar, Catharian furnishings, Coruscanti exterior, and even rugs imported all the way from the Outer Rim. Truly, it was a gem to behold, and even though it normally would have needed a small support staff, it only took one person to fly.
Yet as the cash rolled out of his pocket just as easily as it had rolled in, Rase found himself… quickly becoming unhappy. He came to possess everything he could have ever desired in the swamps; a gorgeous ship, beautiful women (whom he hadn’t bothered to seduce, but were rather there for his money), high-stakes games in high-cost tuxedos in high-class casinos. Life was spent in silk sheets and imported cotton, and was about as far from swamp life and the conditions in which he had matured as he could get. It should have been perfect.
But it wasn’t, and it slowly started to drive the Zeltron insane. His spending started to die down until he actually had to gamble for a living again, having a good month where he lost constantly as he shook out the cobwebs of his trade. But even gambling didn’t quite feel right. Him actually winning his keep did, but after the games where he would piss away his credits on whatever lusty desire he held that night, he found the victory hollow. He had made it to his idolizations, and yet he found them bleak and boring.
Just like the swamps. Just not quite as smelly.
Confused, Rase finally, after years of wandering, returned home. He was 21, rich (compared to the folks he mingled with), and was whispered about both in admiration and in despisement. Wading back into the swamps of Zeltro’s southern hemisphere, he sighed daily.
That was, of course, until one day, about a month and a half after he returned, that he found out about his mother.
He had been playing a game in a tavern, dressed in normal clothing, his hat perched upon his head, when, in passing, one of his opponents jabbered on about an older Zeltron woman in town, pink from what he’d heard, was just about ready to kick the bucket. Making idle chit-chat (mostly to distract the man from the game), Rase inquired about who she was. The man, thinking nothing of it, elaborated that she was some tailor who had been drinking away every credit she could find over the last few years, and that from what the town’s doctor had said, her liver was as dead as dead could be with alcohol poisoning. Rase hummed, nodding along, only to drop his cards when the man remembered that her name was Giralda; the same name as his mother.
Lingering around town for a few days, Rase eventually, in additional passing conversations, learned the details of where she was staying; the doctor’s office, being put up on a bill she could probably never pay. He was torn; on the one hand, he wished to see her. She was his mother. On the other hand, she had abandoned him, and he was her son. Deciding to be selfless (for the first and most likely last time in his life), the crimson Zeltron stopped in at the doctor’s office around twilight, inquiring as to the status of his patient. The doctor, being of a rare breed, sighed and informed him that she was, quite literally, on her deathbed. Stepping into the room where she was being kept, Rase found her awake, coughing and looking very clearly ill.
He introduced himself and sat by her bedside on a small stool. She just groaned. They didn’t really talk, despite a few half-hearted attempts by Rase to see how she was feeling. Every attempt made led to her asking why the hell he was there, which led to a small argument that left her coughing violently. They would both get quiet for a while after she managed to stop.
Their last conversation was by far the worst. Rase asked how she had been doing in town. She asked cynically the same of him. He relayed that he had become a millionaire. She hissed at him and called him a selfish bastard, letting his mother starve while he had been out. He replied that he hadn’t even known where she was. They bickered in increasingly violent prose and volume until eventually Rase was screaming at her, asking her why she couldn’t have “sucked it up and been a damn mother”.
With her dying breath, Giralda spat in her son’s face. “Just like your father.”
For the first time in a long time, Rase cried. Throwing some credits at her freshly dead body, Rase yelled at the doctor to throw her into the river for all he cared, then stormed out toward the hotel room he had rented. He stayed there for a few days before returning to the city and boarding his ship. He had made his decision. He wasn’t going to die some meaningless death after a pointless life in some backwater swamp town. If Rase Hyul Jr. was going to die for anything, it would be for something he wanted. Something people would remember.
It was with that in mind that Rase decided over the course of a few soul-searching days that he wanted to become a xenoarchaeologist. He didn’t care what it took; the only thing that he had loved throughout his entire life had been his books on ancient history (the collection of which had grown into a small library on his ship), and dying educated and working toward something sounded a hell of a lot better than dying bleak and boring. It was with a moment’s worth of research that he learned about the University of Agamar; the foremost authority on xenoarchaeology in the galaxy. Setting his course for Agamar, the Zeltron set of, never to return to his homeworld.
He Suddenly Remembered His Charlemagne
The primary obstacle to becoming a xenoarchaeologist, Rase found, was his education. The swamps hadn’t exactly been very educating, but between his general knowledge of the galaxy and what he had learned in his travels and books, Rase took a quick placement exam only to find that he officially had a nearly complete 8th grade education in terms of math and science. That fact was a little humbling, but he didn’t let it sting too badly; he had beaten the odds before, and he could do it again now. Not bothering to apply through normal channels, Rase set up an appointment with the Dean of the entire university as a “prospective benefactor”, meeting the man at a rather high-class cafe with a briefcase and business suit, sitting on a balcony sipping coffee.
The Dean, of course, laughed when he told him that he, in fact, wished to attend his university. Presenting his educational placement test, the Dean laughed harder, commenting only that his prose didn’t sound like an 8th grader. Shmoozing through the meeting, Rase at least managed to get the man, named Charles San’ata’ford (a rather intelligent Zabrak man with a Coruscanti accent), to relax, finally entertaining the idea. He, of course, said no again and again; Rase didn’t even have a high-school diploma, ignoring the fact that he had a bank statement proving that he could and would pay the tuition 20 times over and then some (“A donation to the university, purely”). The problem simply was that the Dean would never be able to pass him through the admissions process without a bit of under-the-table dealings.
So Rase gave a conceded sigh, stating that if enrolled, the Dean wouldn’t have to worry about his education level after a few remedial classes. Thusly, he proposed a bet. If by the time a fresh cup of coffee had cooled to room temperature, he could answer every single question about general history the Dean could throw at him, the Dean would see him through admissions and nothing more. If he failed even a single question, the Dean would walk away scot free and the Zeltron would be left to his designs elsewhere. The Dean, half sure that the Zeltron was full of it and half charmed by the the red man’s demeanour, threw up his hands and agreed. At worst, he would just be another cocky dropout. The Dean paused for a few seconds as the hot coffee arrived before beginning his questions.
“... during the First Kiffar Civil War, what led to the the demise of the rebel’s Confederate Republic of Kiffex?”
Rase thought for a moment. “The economy of their planet. Kiffu had superior fleets and industrial power, and had the capability to hold out longer without food trade from their sister world than the rebels were without ammunition. Kiffex also had a much smaller army, suffered from over-farming of cash crops, and suffered infighting.” He only stopped when the Dean nodded, satisfied. Another moment passed as he thought of another question.
“... what year were the first recorded Houk-Weequay conflicts? And why?”
Rase needed two moments for this one. “... two-hundred and eighty… three, I believe.” He nodded; that sounded right. “Just a year after the Huok colonists landed. They were encroaching on Weequay lands, misinterpreting treaties, etc.”
“If you could call them colonists…” the Dean chuckled. The two of them sparred with these questions, occasionally dipping their fingers in the cup of coffee, until finally it was decided that they had time for one more. The Dean thought incredibly hard about this one, and smirked with devious intent. This Zeltron was proving to be surprisingly worthy of his boasts, but it was about time the game ended. “This is one some of the grad students fail to get right. What sparked the Hyperdrive Riots on Woostri two years before they joined the Repubic?”
Sithspit. Rase couldn’t remember anything about Woostroid history. He doubt that he’d even been there; Woostroids were hard to gamble with. Think Zeltron, think! What did he know?… hm… uh… The Dean sat there with a smug expression, smiling.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Hyul. You set the bet and it seems that you have lost.”
... techno nuts, love order… lots of administration in their history… first recorded file-keeping systems…
“You certainly surprised me though. I would be happy to refer you to other schools should yo-”
“Wait.” He grinned wide. Of course, how could forget that old chant? “Minister Bak, his mind made black, by the cry of ‘ORI’?” He laughed in relief. “He abbreviated the name of the Order of Regulation of Intelligence in one of his public addresses; you know, the espionage agency of the government at the time. Woostoids took him to the courts and had him killed. Half the planet was convinced that interacting with other species was causing them all to get sloppy.”
The Dean cycled through shock, then anger, and finally a loud laugh. “Very impressive, Mr. Hyul. Very, very impressive.” Laughing off his shock, he sighed. “... I’m guess I’m stuck now, aren’t I?”
He was, in fact. Rase was enrolled the following semester.
”Who?” “Top... Men.”
Rase ploughed through his remedial courses with ease, keeping his end of the bargain with the Dean about his education. The first two years of school were all catch-up and general knowledge; a few of the history courses were actually a bit easier for the Zeltron, as he had read about them prior and had varying degrees of knowledge going into them. The Zeltron lived off-campus in a small apartment he rented, and essentially lived off his savings; about 200,000 credits sitting in a savings account after all the money he had “donated” to the University. Fortunately, though, the school lived up to its reputation, and Rase was soon challenged with harder courses.
School, Rase found, was a natural talent of his. Having been barely educated in any formal setting (the small schoolhouse in the swamps had been below-average at best, and he hadn’t been in regular attendance), he found the classes simple and easy. Show up. Read. Listen to the lecturer. Go home. Read and study like hell. Do the assignments. Hope that you had studied well enough and listened hard enough to pass the tests. Truly, those damn exams were the only struggling point, with him failing his first few and coasting on grades that didn’t exactly lead the class, but passed all the same.
And, of course, he resorted to his old ways. The college life around the University allowed for the Zeltron to find many a student and townie that would happily make a bet on a sure thing, only for him to walk off whistling with a heavy pocket. It served as both entertainment and a way to buy a few things, primarily coffee for his earlier classes. He didn’t mingle with students much; they were a tad bit younger than he, though he did come to befriend some of the upperclassmen.
One such upperclassman was an interesting fellow by the name of Joseph Yultz; a Zeltron with red skin, indeed, but not quite as dark a hue as Rase’s. Rase found himself chatting with this man, who was about his age, about advanced classes and occasionally asking him for advice as he studied. There was something about him for Rase; he had a sharp wit he didn’t see elsewhere, and he said the same of Rase. Ultimately they challenged one another; Joseph with his superior knowledge and Rase with his array of learned tricks resulting from years of gambling for a living. They were both intellectual stimuli.
But alas, another two years dragged on, and soon Rase was preparing to move onto his graduate work, having nearly earned his Bachelor’s degree in Xenoarchaeology. Joseph, by this point, was just about a Doctor, and indeed struck out on his own. Rase would come to miss him as he continued to attend school, his companion being wished farewell on Rase’s 27th birthday. He left his fellow Zeltron with a handshake, a teasing remark about not picking up too many women, and a very important conversation.
The conversation came about after Rase asked what Joseph was going to pursue on a grant he had received for specific research. His fellow Zeltron have waved a hand in boredom, replying about a dig he was organizing on Duro’s polar ice cap and how bland it was going to be. What he really wanted to look into was the Six.
“... The Six?” Joeseph didn’t reply with much, but simply claimed that it was something important that he wanted to focus on. When he said it, however, Rase couldn’t help but notice a small change in his demeanour. Joeseph had been quite suave, not too unlike himself, but as he talked a little more about this “Six”, he adopted this… malevolent quality, as if he was trying to stab his partner in conversation with words. He even had a small twitch in his eye every time he said the word. Dropping the subject, Rase abandoned it for the rest of the night until wishing his friend well.
That had been creepy. Yet… curious. The next day, having some free time between classes, Rase began a search in the library for this “Six” his friend had talked of. He didn’t find much, save for a handful of reports of death; numerous individuals had been found at numerous sites of antiquity, the majority of which dated in their creation and usage in the Pre-Hyperspace Era of the galaxy. The reports ranged greatly, but the vast majority seemed to be rather extreme; one fellow at an old monastery buried in the sand-dunes of Tatooine, for example, had revealed via forensic science that he had turned on his crewmates, killed them all in cold blood, seized some sort of note from ancient Empress Teta, and wandered the halls of the monastery for weeks before dying of dehydration. Another slightly less psychotic report was of a duo of female researchers that had struck deep into the lower levels of Coruscant. The report actually ended there, listing them as “lost persons” but making note of two bodies resembling the women having been seen by salvagers being carried off by creatures that hadn’t been identified.
Rase was mystified. These were all insane treasure hunters, from what he could tell. Every report made reference to them chasing some old loot. Even still, the topic still managed to captivate the Zeltron, and so as the days passed, he researched it in passing between his classes. From what he could find, well… there wasn’t much to find. Even at a place such as the University of Agamar, there was scant mention of the Six in anything aside from a few old, random documents. Rase found a couple of antiquated shipping manifests, the journal of an ancient priest claiming that the Six were gods, a few more reports of expiration, a few ancient legends… nothing helpful. The only prevailing feature he could find, in fact, was the name; aside from that, every source he found claimed different things.
Even still, searching a little more, Rase came to find actual papers written on the subject of the Six by credible and even well-known archaeologists; the same people he was learning about, many of whom were responsible for great archaeological finds throughout history, ancient and non. The first, for example, was Yon Huletz; a Duro man especially famous for his discovery of a Sith burial site on Rekkiad. Yon, who had and still was considered a pioneer in every regard, had written at length, essentially having combed over the same things Rase had. What he had come to theorize, judging from the paper, was that the Six were something universally recognized across the galaxy shortly after the hyperdrive was created, signifying universal significance. Another paper, this one by the famous mathematician Hedrax, suggested numerous historical mathematical theories that all pointed toward a theoretical force that existed around the number 6 itself in the culture of number systems, and suggested that such a number, while not inherently powerful, may have been important for past cultures, resulting in its indirect focus.
But it all sounded a bit too much like a conspiracy theory to Rase. His interest was hardly satiated, but his studies continued uninterrupted. The Six, while fascinating to him, sounded like a myth; a fairy tale told by religious nuts and overzealous treasure hunters, both in search of their respective dreams. The papers by such recognized authorities and men of past intelligence did indeed deter him, just for a moment, to raise it above an old legend, but Rase had never been a man of faith, and so he only regarded them in passing. School dragged on, he stayed up to snuff on his gambling skills with his trips into downtown and further, and as he progressed further into his specialization, he found himself beginning to lead his class.
Beyond that, however, Rase also kept maintaining a healthy dose of time dedicated to the arts of combat. He didn’t get into the fights of the underworld gambling lifestyle quite as much since most that gambled against him had done so before and knew that they were going to lose (or, at least, realized it in retrospect), however he found the need to maintain his skills in the event that they should ever be… needed. He kept experimenting with non-lethal methods, soon finding a particular medium that struck his fancy; the bullwhip. It was strong, durable, storable, versatile, non-lethal, and overall had a particular flavor and style to it that the Zeltron couldn’t help but love; fighting with a few debilitating cracks of air. He also acquired a taste for older guns, such as revolvers and actual slug-throwers; he found them to be like the bullwhip, stylized and effective.
X Never, Ever Marks The Spot
The years rolled on further, however, and soon Rase had obtained all the credits he needed for a basic degree in xenoarchaeology. He was 24, educated, and ready to strike out… almost. Despite his wanderlust spirit goading him out toward the yacht he still had in long-term storage in the city, the Zeltron decided to further his studies, deciding, in a gambler’s move, to go for broke; doctorate or bust. There wasn’t much to lose, and furthermore his craving for learning had only grown as he’d studied; he had learned of things to learn about, more than anything.
And so for another year he studied hard, finally beginning to earn internships and research positions off world. Among the first was a dig on Duros in an ancient temple supposedly belonging to a long lost empress who had nearly conquered her continent. Then came an exposition into a few nameless Outer Rim planets in a search for supposed objects on supposedly accurate ancient maps (all that was found was an old wreckage of an early-hyperdrive-age ship that had probably gone barreling out of control in ages past). The work was exciting to Rase, though he still studied and tested; he was simply out in the galaxy applying what he knew, finally. Of course, with every pitstop and break planet they visited on these incursions, the Zeltron was back to his old tricks, gambling the team into a fine dinner and otherwise batting eyes at and winking toward any women who so did the same to him. Life was good…
… and yet… the Six persisted on his mind. Rase still researched them in passing, always finding very discreet and yet very odd claims and papers. More credible sources had written on the treasure than he had thought, or at least he supposed it was a treasure; it was valued by everyone from religious leaders to scholars to fortune-seekers to emperors, all of ancient times long gone by. The further he looked, the more they didn’t seem to be centralized. Individuals thousands of years apart claimed similar things, and yet the theories and descriptions put forward still varied wildly, as if all of them had been seeing different things. The entire notion was still too murky for Rase to accept in any interpretation, but nevertheless it kept his interest, and he studied further.
So when finally it came time for the Zeltron to choose a topic of specific study for his doctoral thesis, he decided to go for broke (once again) and create a document on the Six; a summarization, collection, verification, and disapproval of the numerous theories based on other sources, and finally a general consensus. The thesis took the Zeltron a good year to complete, of course, which was composed of long nights (the kind he wasn’t accustomed to) as well as full days spent doing nothing but reading.
The end product gave Rase the first pangs of nervousness and fear that he’d felt in a while. The paper itself was impeccable; he had directly quoted every credible source he could find, cross-referenced them all, contrasted and conflicted them all with one another, and gone about speculating and nay-saying as to the Six’s true nature while including piece of evidence that was rock-solid. All in all, it greatly resembled the papers he had been referencing; it was a clear-cut and considered thesis. The thing that had him fearing for it was the simple discredibility of the actual theory of the Six. Despite the many references he had found, Rase could hardly call most of them concrete and bulletproof; most were vague and just as speculative as his own. Even those great pioneers of times past that had predated his line of thinking seemed, in retrospect, just as befuddled and mysteriously informed about the Six as he had. He even noted this towards the end of the paper, proposing, among the few theories he found most likely, that the Six was actually a simple legend established shortly after the creation of the hyperdrive, and that it’s peak was at such a time when the galaxy was first beginning to connect civilization to civilization, causing much variation in terms of specification and actual lore.
Submitting the paper, Rase waited several agonizing weeks before it was returned to him… along with a certificate with a giant “PhD” on the front. He was officially a doctor of xenoarchaeology.
That night, he celebrated with a massive party, inviting just about everyone he knew, including fellow peers and professors, friends from town, friends from other planets that he had met before and during his studies, and even a few past flings he didn’t mind seeing again and had ended on good terms with. Nearly everyone showed up to mingle and celebrate… except for Joseph. No one had seen nor heard of the man for weeks.
After a short respite period to enjoy his newfound freedom, Rase quickly found a position open at the university for him; a researching job where he would receive funding, staff and resources when needed, and relative freedom in his chosen areas of study, so long as they yielded benefits to “the collective knowledge of the University of Agamar and the xenoarchaeological community at large”. Accepting, Rase settled into the job with his wanderlust, quickly coming to rove in his yacht once again, going on digs and expeditions left and right. Occasionally his superiors would demand him to return to directly report his findings (which usually entailed small detours he would take for the university; recovering artifacts or otherwise obtaining them in ways… unconventional to the normal professor), and even teach a class or seminar occasionally. He didn’t mind the duties usually, though they quickly proved to be a bit of a nuisance. Even still, they were tolerated.
Ultimately, however, Rase came to find a single clue… it had been while combing over the libraries at the university that Rase had discovered an old scrap of a ledger, documented and preserved, stowed away on file. On it, transcribed in ancient Cathar, was a manifest of trade, denoting a sum of money ungodly to anyone on Cathar at the time (approx. 1.3 billion credits if some assumptions were made in its conversion, along with guessing a few times about inflation) to an infamous trader at the time from the crown of an ancient Cathar kingdom; Rase was willing to bet that the king had spent every precious metal and drop of blood on the trader that he could procure, practically bankrupting his own empire, and for what?
Something not denoted. The ledger merely denoted the character for “6” in the ancient Cathar alphabet, offering nothing that the number might quantify.
It was a stretch, but given his newfound freedom of mind and pursuit, Rase couldn’t help but give the old legend one try. Considering how much he had studied it over the years, what was the harm in trying one run on a potential lead? Worst case? It was a dead-end and a total stretch, and he could simply take in the air and credits of Cathar once again. Hopping on his yacht, the Zeltron zipped off on a lone voyage.
What he found, after a week or so of traveling through Cathar’s less populated regions, was an old fortress, formerly belonging to that same old king, in a state of decay perched upon a cliff overlooking a vast coast. He’d studied it on the way over; not too long after the ledger was dated, the kingdom that had purchased the item had been invaded by numerous neighbors, even having this fortress, once a stronghold for the nobility, sieged from the sea it was meant to defend against. It was therefore in an understandable state of disrepair, and Rase tread lightly, his hat on his head.
What he found waiting for him, aside from a few old fortifications, a few sections of the fortress having fallen into the sea, and a few ruined robes from antiquity, wasn’t much. It was only when he found the king’s quarters that he began to find documents; old records. Among them he found a set of beautiful ancient Cathar revolvers; the king’s himself, if he wasn’t mistaking the engravings on them. Keeping them, the Zeltron also managed to locate a small letter, written from the king during the siege to his queen, which was sadly incomplete and seemed to have never been mailed. It outlined his last wishes and longings for her… including notifications that the Six had been smuggled out of the fortress toward the tribes to the north. Pocketing the parchment, Rase set out once more.
The tribes to the North took a bit of convincing, but soon they pointed him toward a few old caves that their ancestors used in times of great strife. There, the Zeltron consulted with and negotiated his way into an ancient treasure cave, which had been robbed days after the letter had been dated. Reading the written accounts of the priests guarding the trove at the time, they had been planning to pursue the robbers, who "seemed to have taken nothing but Yokta". After inquiring, Rase found that Yokta was simply a word for six in the priests' dialect, and that the current tribes had just presumed that it was meant to quantify something never mentioned. Smirking, Rase followed the directions in the account, which led him to Duros, where local legend sent him to Coruscant, where a biology of an ancient statesman directed him to Dantooine...
And soon he was in the pattern of bread crumbs, jumping about the galaxy following leads and directions and legends and stories. He did, of course, still make the occasional trip for the university, or take the occasional divergence from his quest to find a less challenging treasure or something of personal value (his yacht quickly became a veritable mobile museum of the ancient galaxy), but ultimately he would find himself coming full circle back to his pursuit of the Six, returning every time with his passion rekindled.
