Post by Fromikeable on Jul 11, 2014 1:48:20 GMT -5
Yavin IV was arguably one of the most Darkside-infested celestial bodies, moon or otherwise, beyond Korriban. Not one, but two Sith Lords had set up shop there, one turning the population into slave labor to build his own temples of worship and act as fodder to his dastardly experiments, the other imprisoning the very souls of that population for some such ritual and even going to war with the Jedi Order, scaring them so badly that they make an effort to purge (yes, purge) his workplace and hide its existence.
Such a sinister little moon.
And yet, for all their apparent wisdom about the inner-workings of the galaxy, no one had ever taught the Jedi how to effectively cover their tracks. At least, so it seemed to Rase.
Admittedly it hadn't been easy to find the moon. The only references to it were in documents crafted long before either Sith was ever so much as a twinkle in their fathers' eyes. Rase had been required to make a few trades, broker more than a few negotiations, and surely not keep his nose as clean as society would think he would. And yet there he had been earlier that morning, a cup of coffee in one hand, the other dancing across an old desk littered and plastered with older documents, ancient star charts, and even written accords of the moon's (and respective planet's) discovery, all while his ship had glided through the atmosphere looking for a place to land. To the naked eye, the desk was chaos, but to the scholar it was controlled chaos, with each paper close to one that it corresponded to, forming a web of knowledge streaming forth from the ancient world.
All gathered in the name of his own raving quest. Had they known of his intentions for their work in the future, it made the Zeltron grin to think that the authors might've groaned and took what they knew to the grave.
And what a grave it might've been, on such a moon as Yavin IV. The jungles were so thick that you quite literally needed to cut them with a knife (a machete, to be precise). The moon loaned itself to all sorts of legend and myth, ranging from that of the indigenous Massassi to warnings and ravings of Force-users, Jedi and Sith alike. Some spoke of a power on the planet unlike any the galaxy had ever seen, be it the lustful ravings of Sith passages or the terrified forebodings of Jedi. Others condemned misfortune and travesty, such as the scant record of the Massassi that had bothered to have been taken by the outsiders who had corrupted their world. A moon of minuscule imposition, and yet seemingly endless distraught.
Alas, those antique and ancient beings had failed to hold their tongues, and so he was there, a few hours later, his hat firmly upon his head, his whip at his side along with his guns, his sleeves rolled up and his boots scuffing against rock as he shot his arms up to grab the top of a small boulder. Latching to the surface, his crimson arms pulled him up onto his stomach, which he stayed on as he rotated around and drew a slim machete. The blade shimmered in what little light made it to the ground under the thick canopy of jungle that seemed to drape everything without question, and soon a few vines that had made his climb all the more difficult lay vanquished, limp and split, freeing the path.
Putting his machete away, the doctor reached an arm down, a little sweat glistening on his forehead as the heat constantly barraged both him and his partner for the day. "Half a kilometer to go, Ms. Tikaris." Hardly her real name. He knew it, and she knew it, but it was all she'd given him to call her by. That nose of his that could dig up and obtain maps older than civilizations could certainly turn enough stones to deduce that she worked for the Sith Order. She wouldn't be here otherwise, and she certainly wouldn't be this secretive and organized if she was merely a rogue Jedi or a legitimate one. Beyond that, he suspected, she was of some remote importance or rank; no Sith he'd ever heard of would trust a subordinate to gather secrets with the potential Naga Sadows' tomes might hold. Even still, he had enough assurance in what he knew to think that she wouldn't kill him and that he would indeed get what he needed out of what they sought, one way or another. That was enough for the time being. "Watch for the moss patches if you value your footing."
Such a sinister little moon.
And yet, for all their apparent wisdom about the inner-workings of the galaxy, no one had ever taught the Jedi how to effectively cover their tracks. At least, so it seemed to Rase.
Admittedly it hadn't been easy to find the moon. The only references to it were in documents crafted long before either Sith was ever so much as a twinkle in their fathers' eyes. Rase had been required to make a few trades, broker more than a few negotiations, and surely not keep his nose as clean as society would think he would. And yet there he had been earlier that morning, a cup of coffee in one hand, the other dancing across an old desk littered and plastered with older documents, ancient star charts, and even written accords of the moon's (and respective planet's) discovery, all while his ship had glided through the atmosphere looking for a place to land. To the naked eye, the desk was chaos, but to the scholar it was controlled chaos, with each paper close to one that it corresponded to, forming a web of knowledge streaming forth from the ancient world.
All gathered in the name of his own raving quest. Had they known of his intentions for their work in the future, it made the Zeltron grin to think that the authors might've groaned and took what they knew to the grave.
And what a grave it might've been, on such a moon as Yavin IV. The jungles were so thick that you quite literally needed to cut them with a knife (a machete, to be precise). The moon loaned itself to all sorts of legend and myth, ranging from that of the indigenous Massassi to warnings and ravings of Force-users, Jedi and Sith alike. Some spoke of a power on the planet unlike any the galaxy had ever seen, be it the lustful ravings of Sith passages or the terrified forebodings of Jedi. Others condemned misfortune and travesty, such as the scant record of the Massassi that had bothered to have been taken by the outsiders who had corrupted their world. A moon of minuscule imposition, and yet seemingly endless distraught.
Alas, those antique and ancient beings had failed to hold their tongues, and so he was there, a few hours later, his hat firmly upon his head, his whip at his side along with his guns, his sleeves rolled up and his boots scuffing against rock as he shot his arms up to grab the top of a small boulder. Latching to the surface, his crimson arms pulled him up onto his stomach, which he stayed on as he rotated around and drew a slim machete. The blade shimmered in what little light made it to the ground under the thick canopy of jungle that seemed to drape everything without question, and soon a few vines that had made his climb all the more difficult lay vanquished, limp and split, freeing the path.
Putting his machete away, the doctor reached an arm down, a little sweat glistening on his forehead as the heat constantly barraged both him and his partner for the day. "Half a kilometer to go, Ms. Tikaris." Hardly her real name. He knew it, and she knew it, but it was all she'd given him to call her by. That nose of his that could dig up and obtain maps older than civilizations could certainly turn enough stones to deduce that she worked for the Sith Order. She wouldn't be here otherwise, and she certainly wouldn't be this secretive and organized if she was merely a rogue Jedi or a legitimate one. Beyond that, he suspected, she was of some remote importance or rank; no Sith he'd ever heard of would trust a subordinate to gather secrets with the potential Naga Sadows' tomes might hold. Even still, he had enough assurance in what he knew to think that she wouldn't kill him and that he would indeed get what he needed out of what they sought, one way or another. That was enough for the time being. "Watch for the moss patches if you value your footing."
