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Post by The Shepherd on Jul 30, 2015 21:20:05 GMT -8
On the far side of the system, a CR90 Corellian Corvette emerged from the bright void of hyperspace, flanked by twelve Skipray Blastboats. They wasted no time in moving; all their sublight engines kicked back on and the flotilla moved several hundred kilometers out of the way. The Skiprays fanned out to form a defensive perimeter while the CR90, designated Spearhead, began scanning the system...
...and found absolutely nothing.
On the bridge, Rutil Iorek and the crew of the Spearhead couldn't believe it. He was looking at the planet through the bridge's wide horizontal viewport. He was darting to the scan results, insisting that the operators double and triple-check. He was reaching out with the Force, finding nothing but the planet's inherent darkness. This was insane. This was true. And he knew it. Rutil would never be able to explain just how he knew the Sith's ancestral homeworld would be devoid of any military presence, but somewhere in his very soul he knew this would be the sight that greeted them all. Of course, he wasn't stupid; he would keep the Spearhead's guns at the ready and he would keep the scanners running, but the nagging sensation in the back of his head told him that he could take a small shuttle down to the Sith Academy itself and be greeted by nothing more than a small rodent.
Korriban was abandoned. Ripe for the picking. His.
"...orders, sir?" Captain Marris finally got out, still trying to piece together the situation.
"We land," Rutil replied, his tone at once hungry and venomous, like a webweaver savoring the sight of an insect ensnaring itself in its silken trap, "and we brief the Blades when they arrive. Until then, keep the scanners going; if something so much as sneezes in this sector, I want to know about it."
With a nod, Captain Marris began relaying orders. The Spearhead angled itself and a series of holographic rectangles splayed out before the vessel as the pilots began their landing procedures. The Sith Academy was not difficult to locate; there were only so many buildings on Korriban's wretched surface, and as the Force didn't build in straight lines, it did not take long at all to find a few that matched the descriptions Rutil had heard over the decades. Wearing a grim smile on his lips, Rutil drew the hood of his saffron-colored cloak over his head, making his way to the boarding ramp.
"Sir," the captain began as the Jedi Guardian neared the threshold of the bridge, "what are we doing?"
"Simple, Captain Marris," Rutil said, stopping and turning his head slightly to respond over his shoulder, "we're lighting a fire."
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Post by The Shepherd on Jul 30, 2015 21:03:48 GMT -8
They thought him mad. But they were loyal men. Besides, Master Calmcacil trusted him; he wouldn't have been put in charge of the Spearhead otherwise. Perhaps the mad bastard had a plan after all...
Not voicing their concerns, the pilots each laid in the course that Master Iorek had sent to them. They angled their ships. They conducted their final checks. And, as one unit, they made the jump to lightspeed.
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Post by The Shepherd on Jul 30, 2015 20:47:24 GMT -8
"Not much of a need for a briefing at this juncture. I'm compiling some coordinates, they should be ready...now, actually. Sumbitch."
After a few moments of silence, the data terminal Mik'ro was using to communicate chimed as a data packet was received. Its contents were sparse; only the fleet that the grizzled Zabrak had under his command and a set of coordinates for an area in the Horuset system.
"Meet me there as soon as you're able, and call Calmcacil if you don't like what you see. Iorek out."
Cutting the comm channel before Mik'ro could put in a gentle farewell, Rutil afforded himself another vicious smile, reveling in what was about to be done before he opened a line to the ship's internal public address. It was only fair that the men knew what he had planned. The mercenaries weren't his concern; friend of Calmcacil's or not, mercenaries were expendable. The very nature of their business made them such; pay Company X - in this case the Emerald Blades - and they'll throw bodies on the pile so that you don't have to throw your own. In a way, it was noble. In another way, it was savage. More than ever, Rutil needed savage.
This is Master Iorek, Rutil said as the PA was activated, a mixture of righteous concern and fervent glee hitting him as he used the title of his own accord, acting commander for this mission. Ours is a simple one, men. The Jedi have grown complacent, and as such the people of this galaxy are permitted to suffer and die at the hands of those...them. Monsters. Abominations. Call them what you will, they all have one thing in common; we're going to wipe them from the face of the universe, and it starts here. With us. More will join us. I just got done speaking with the Emerald Blades, for those of you that know them; more already have joined us. And before this is over, everyone will have, I'm sure of it.
Today, we're going to shock the hell out of the enemy. Today, we begin their total and final extermination. Once and for all.
Captain, Rutil finally said, I've sent you a set of coordinates.
Lay in the course for Korriban.
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Post by The Shepherd on Jul 30, 2015 20:20:35 GMT -8
"Master Calmcacil gave it to me."
Far from the polite and professional Mik'ro, Rutil wasted no time with pleasantries or formalities. He was not a man of business, but a man of action, and he often left the talking to the diplomats. He had been cordial with Master Calmcacil because it was only polite to do so, befitting a Knight's position below a Master, and also because he had needed the man's help. And had the person that picked up the communications line been Calmcacil's friend, he would have adopted a similar tone. But it took all of four words for the stone-faced old man to realize this wasn't the case. While he wouldn't be outright rude, he had no time for the flowery words and slick business chatter, and he set out to make sure this Mik'ro person knew it.
"Have you been appraised of our situation yet?"
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Post by The Shepherd on Jul 30, 2015 20:00:59 GMT -8
Flanked on each side with a double guard in the rear, the CR90 corvette Spearhead flew away from its home port of Felucia, her pilots waiting for the command of her captain, who in turn waited on the word of his commander, who in turn waited on a private channel within the vessel's stateroom. It was more comfortable than the Zabrak Jedi within the roomy suite would have liked; if he'd had his way, he would have a cot in the crew quarters with the rest of the grunts. But as it stood, the sensitivity of their mission required secrecy and privacy. The men would know what they needed to know when they needed to know it. Besides, the men of the Spearhead were loyal. More than having to command them, Rutil had to earn their loyalty himself. The easiest way to do that would be to keeping a bit of distance between himself and the men. It wasn't especially proactive, but it kept them from seeing him as a friendly guest they just so happened to be serving under; no step in any direction, but at least it wasn't a step in the wrong one.
Another step would be to make good on his promise to take care of them. And the best way to do that would be to ensure they had some form of backup. Strong and skilled though they were, their strike force was still mostly a skeleton crew; if each and every combat-ready soldier was on the ground, the Spearhead herself would barely be functional if she had to take off. If it came to that, there would be no rest, supplies would be stretched thin, and as a result morale would take a nosedive. The best way to keep watch over the men, simply put, was to get more men. And that was where Calmcacil's old friend came in.
So Rutil stood by the comm unit in the stateroom, waiting for the call he expected to come. He paced to help pass the time; if he'd had his way, they'd be halfway to their destination by now.
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Post by The Shepherd on Jul 30, 2015 19:51:26 GMT -8
Calmcacil hadn't been joking.
The walk back to the hangar had not been an especially long one. But by the time Rutil got there, he could already see troops and equipment mobilizing with a pace he hadn't seen since the Clone Wars. And considering those men had been purpose-bred for it, seeing it on full display here spoke volumes of their professionalism and their training. He strode through their numbers with purpose, and was equally impressed by how they effortlessly moved around him, not stopping to address the man they surely must have known was their acting commander. In truth, he wouldn't have it any other way; the mission was more important than some ego-stroking formality. For over a century, Rutil had been slavishly devoted to the customs and structure of the Jedi Order. But in putting aside the trappings for just a short while, he had achieved far more than what he had set out to do. The Jedi Guardian had sought only to begin an alliance and lay some groundwork, and now he was to embark on a scouting expedition with little more than a wink and a nod from a Jedi Master. Perhaps adhering to the rules as strictly as he had been had been a waste of time...
He had barely rounded a corner, his path flanked by various snubfighters and a CR90 in the distance, on an outboard platform, when an officer - set apart from his fellow men by the uniform he wore - almost ran headlong into him.
"Master Iorek!" the middle-aged Human exclaimed before standing stock-still and bringing his hand up to salute, "Captain Ric Marris of the Spearhead, at your service, sir!"
With a nod of acknowledgement, Rutil continued walking, motioning for the man to follow him and immediately falling into a role he had not been in for decades. "Report."
"Master Calmcacil has placed my vessel as well as a few others indefinitely under your command, sir. There are 100 soldiers divided into five platoons, one squadron of fighter craft, and the crew of the Spearhead herself, all awaiting orders. I'm hoping you'll pardon the debacle here, we were told we would be casting off right away."
"And you were told correctly, Captain. I want us ready to lift off the moment the last crate is loaded."
"Aye-aye, sir!"
With another salute, Captain Marris turned back in the direction he had been traveling in at twice the speed, apparently every bit as eager to get underway as Rutil himself was. The Jedi himself kept walking, going nowhere in particular, his path taking him closer to the corvette situated outside the hangar. His green eyes ran over it, admiring its design, but came to a dead stop as the word "SPEARHEAD" came into view, emblazoned on the flat side of the hull.
This deal just kept getting better...
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An hour after the Zabrak Jedi had returned to the hangar bay of the Jedi Base on Felucia, a group of ships lifted off. Racing out of the hangar was a group of twelve Skipray Blastboats, holding a tight formation as they shot into the sky. Not long after and not far behind them, the CR90 corvette lifted up off of its platform and - with a mighty roar and push from its large engines - almost overtook the fighters outright as it took off.
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Fall
Jul 30, 2015 19:20:31 GMT -8
Post by The Shepherd on Jul 30, 2015 19:20:31 GMT -8
He stood there, leering at the Zabrak Jedi, taunting him. As the Sith spoke, Rutil drew the Force around him like a shield in complete silence, holding his ground and glaring at the Sith with contempt deeper even than Naboo's infinite ocean. The Force Shield technique was ancient and simple - one of the first defensive Force techniques a Jedi learned - and it was taught early on for a simple reason; it worked. Without it, anybody could be thrown around like a leaf caught in a storm. But while it was not the strongest protection, it would prevent the Sith from affecting him directly. If the monster with the two blood-colored blades wanted to throw him around with his mind, the bastard would have to earn it, and Rutil wasn't going to make it easy for him.
The Sith had gotten to the part about the Holocron showing him something as his speech began to slow. Fish outside the city bubble went from darting, to swimming, to slithering, and almost to a crawl as the Force sped up Rutil's body and mind. When he did move, the Sith would have - at most - half a second to respond before the Jedi Guardian's blue blade sliced him into something unrecognizable. The Force flowed and flourished in the old Zabrak, as it always had.
As did something else.
Rutil felt a new sensation. He wasn't able to pin it down, but he knew something was amiss. Opening with a flurry of attacks aided by Force Speed was his standard, and more often than not it ended fights before they truly began, but this was different. It wasn't the Sith's battle meditation; even if it had been, Rutil was ready for it this time. It wasn't the abundance of life that the sea offered, allowing Rutil to feel the glory of the Force all around him and further see the Sith's perversion of it. But whatever it was, he liked it. His body felt stronger. His mind felt sharper. His vision - and his target - felt clearer than ever before.
Capitalizing on the new sensaion, Rutil exploded into a sprint, bringing his blade low and swinging high as he reached the Sith Lord, aiming to bisect the monster from the legs up.
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Post by The Shepherd on Jul 30, 2015 19:01:36 GMT -8
Rutil bowed at the waist, much deeper than he had upon arrival.
"Thank you, Master," the Zabrak said, once again the humble Jedi, "I'll see to it they're taken care of, and your friend as well."
With another deep nod, Rutil stepped out of the council chamber and began to look for his escort. And as soon as the doors closed behind him, a smile crept onto his lips that sailed well past grim and bordered on the demonic.
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Fall
Jul 30, 2015 18:06:30 GMT -8
Post by The Shepherd on Jul 30, 2015 18:06:30 GMT -8
He had known it was coming the moment he felt the monster fly by him in the Gungan submersible, narrowly avoiding him (as was likely the monster's intention). He had known it was happening as he crossed over the underwater cliff face, feeling each life end, one by one, slash by slash, scream by bloodcurdling scream. He pushed his body and his rebreather to their limits, pushing through the water as fast as the Force would allow, but he had known it would be too little, too late. By the time Rutil Iorek crossed the bubbly threshold into the undersea Gungan city, he had known what he would find there.
The monster was angry. Even if the lingering stench of the dark side and the psychic imprints of his slaughter were undetectable to the Jedi, his fury showed in his blade work. Limbs were hewn away at sloppy angles. There were slashes that would undoubtedly have not been fatal on the corpses of the city's inhabitants. The Sith had indeed had a head start, but he had not had the kind of time that would have allowed him to get so ham-handed with his lightsaber. He was angry. He was furious. Ordinarily that would have turned the coming battle in Rutil's favor, but a Sith knew how to harness their rage and turn it into something terrifying. That was one disadvantage that the Zabrak Jedi had. Another was that, from what he saw, the Sith was undoubtedly younger, and had a much deeper pool of physical energy to draw from; if the fight drew on long enough, that could prove fatal. But Rutil had faced opponents like that many times before.
He was still here. They weren't.
Walking through the corridors of the city, Rutil followed the stink of the Sith Lord, doing his best to ignore the trail of corpses. Of course, "trail" was a kind word; he doubted anybody was still alive down here, and he doubted anybody back in that village had fared any better. Rutil had been to the sites of massacres before. Some he arrived to days after the fact, where the bodies had been allowed to putrefy and swell. Some he had arrived to centuries later, usually as part of a pilgrimage. But this was different. The ghosts of the dead still lingered, their presence still lingering deep beneath the oceans of Naboo, their cries for help echoing in the mind of the old Jedi as he passed by each lost soul. Man, woman, and child alike had fallen to the monster's fury, each one deemed less important than some trinket the Gungans wouldn't know what to do with anyway. Rutil had no idea how many more had died down here, their city now acting as their tomb. But if his gut and the hairs on the back of his neck were any indicator, it was dozens. Scores. Maybe even hundreds.
He was still here. They weren't.
With each step, the foul stench grew stronger, and the corresponding air felt thicker. Through the transparent walls of the Gungan city he could see the Sith Lord, finally reaching some grand antechamber. Within, on a pedestal, Rutil could see the very prize the monster in there had killed so many to have. It was small. It was triangular. It was red. It was evil. And it had to be destroyed before he - or anybody like him - got their hands on it. Rounding a corner and shortly thereafter entering the antechamber himself, he stepped quietly, letting the Sith Lord bask in the artifact's darkness before letting the snap-hiss of his royal blue lightsaber announce his arrival.
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Post by The Shepherd on Jul 30, 2015 16:38:21 GMT -8
"Immediately."
While Master Calmcacil hadn't heard it before, the dangerous edge that Rutil's voice carried when speaking to his ride's crew member had returned, accompanied by a swift look that immediately brought his gaze downward to lock eyes with the Jedi Master. The old man was indeed eager to begin his mission, and the sooner his resources were granted the sooner that could happen; he could sleep on the way. He could also apologize to Master Calmcacil for his deteriorating bearing - and almost had, then and there - but the Knight had forgotten that Calmcacil thought him a Master himself, and that they spoke as equals. An apology could be made after the fact, for two reasons. The first was that apologizing and revealing himself as only a Knight could put him under Master Calmcacil's jurisdiction (and that was if he decided to allow the mission to continue). The second was that Rutil simply did not care to right then.
In his mind's eye, he saw the havoc he would soon wreak, and he fought back a smile as the Force told him what Calmcacil's response would be.
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Post by The Shepherd on Jul 29, 2015 11:17:48 GMT -8
Rutil almost started speaking before Master Calmcacil had finished, his tone making it clear that he had merely been waiting for the Jedi Master to ask.
"I'll need to borrow one of your corvettes. A few commando squads wouldn't go amiss, either, just in case I do find something."
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Post by The Shepherd on Jul 24, 2015 9:31:20 GMT -8
"Naturally."
Though he outwardly agreed, there was a nagging annoyance in the back of his head that Rutil simply could not silence. He ignored it as best he could, staying in the moment and in the discussion, but some deep part of him could not help but acknowledge; if it meant ending the Sith once and for all, there was no price that shouldn't be paid. Not that he was going to voice the problem, or even acknowledge it. Rutil wanted the Sith extinguished, but throwing bodies onto the pyre was counterproductive at the best of times. That same nagging voice told him to tell the ass-kissers in the Senate to shove it, but that was also not going to advance anybody's goals (especially not if, as Master Calmcacil rightfully worried, a two-pronged counterattack was lying in wait).
"That said, some groundwork needs to be laid. Someone more tactful than I should parley with the diplomats, pacify them until they grow a pair and act. The soldiers need to know what they're up against as well, and to do that someone - and I'm not saying who," Rutil said while pointing both thumbs upward at his face, "needs to get out there and see just where these bastards are. Everything should fall into place from there."
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Post by The Shepherd on Jul 20, 2015 11:53:31 GMT -8
"Fewer than I'd care to admit."
For all his traversing around the galaxy on a never-ending search and destroy mission, Rutil had little in the way of actionable intelligence beyond what was common knowledge to most of the Jedi Order. Kashyyyk had been a Sith stronghold for as long as he could remember, and in all that time, nobody had ever managed a successful invasion. While his first instinct was to gather forces and completely overrun the Wookiee homeworld in the hopes that it would send a strong message to the rest of the dark side's acolytes, being on the losing side of that bet would cripple any further pushes into Sith worlds. Korriban, while holding the strongest symbolic victory, had little strategic value and was itself permeated by the dark side; holding it was a losing game, and the Sith would fight to the last in order to keep their ancient homeworld theirs. Further, it might prompt an attack on Yavin IV, and the jungle moon was in no shape to withstand another barrage after the Mandalorians got done with it. Dathomir held similar problems. As he ran down the list, his mind kept popping back to the Sith on Naboo. More than anything - or any world - Rutil wanted him. The other darksider was also on his list, but he was small fry.
But Rutil would never get the chance at lasting justice - let alone the campaign - if he had nothing to act on, or to bring to the table. Fervent though he was, he was not about to throw bodies on the pyre to chase after shadows and rumors.
Yet.
"Even in the best case scenario, we would need to gather more support. As many worlds as we can, as many navies as we can, as many soldiers as we can, and as many of our own Order as we can. But once we have the resources and the manpower, it's my understanding that Thule is relatively undefended compared to what we could bring down on them."
Thule was an Imperial world, and played host to a Sith academy as well. In addition to sending a signal, a victory there would stem the flow of dangerous foes to face, as well as give Rutil a personal sense of closure; he had a bone to pick against both the Sith and the Empire, and the possibility of striking a blow at both almost made him smile.
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Post by The Shepherd on Jul 19, 2015 6:06:00 GMT -8
Rutil closed his eyes and gently waved off the invitation; in the presence of Masters - however much they might have disagreed with who held the title - Knights stood, even when invited to sit. It was only proper etiquette. Even if the Zabrak had officially been recognized as a Jedi Master, he preferred to stand regardless. Sitting around a table discussing politics and the deeper meanings of the Force always felt like a game to him, and when he had matters on his mind like the one he had brought to Master Calmcacil today, taking a seat simply felt like the wizened warrior was further distancing himself from the problem.
"Master," Rutil began, "I was on Naboo recently, trying to prevent an ancient Sith holocron from falling into enemy hands. As I was doing so, a Sith somehow managed to take hold of an entire village and turn them against me, even as I tried to protect them. Forty-odd people, simply going about their lives. I doubt even a one of them is alive right now."
The mere mention of what had happened in that village filled Rutil with venom. He had fought the dark side's adherents before, but none had tried to pull what the monster on Naboo had done. If that was the first of many to surely come, the Sith were growing stronger. It would be only a matter of time before another village fell to a dark acolyte's fury. For all Rutil knew, mere days stood between the Jedi and another massacre at the hands of a Sith Lord. And what had they done? Snot-Nose was palling around in the Outer Rim. Yavin - even after an attack by the galaxy's fiercest marauders - simply stood by and meditated. From what he had seen so far, Master Calmcacil and the Felucian Conclave had done much the same. The Jedi had forgotten their oath to bring balance to the Force. They had grown comfortable. Complacent. Weak.
Such weakness brought about their fall the first time, and Rutil Iorek would be damned if he let it happen again.
"If we do nothing, how long before we see another attack on Yavin? Or even Felucia? Why are we standing around with our thumbs up our a-..." Rutil stopped to catch himself, almost slipping away from the diplomat charade, "...why is nothing being done? Shouldn't we be doing something? Don't you believe so?"
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Post by The Shepherd on Jul 17, 2015 19:58:43 GMT -8
Rutil bowed his head in greeting. Aerandir Calmcacil; far younger than the old Zabrak had expected, given the tales he had heard, but he would keep his personal opinions on the younger man's title to himself. The grizzled Jedi himself didn't use the title, despite having more than earned it by the estimations of many of his peers. But Rutil had the utmost respect for the traditions of the Order, and until he was officially recognized as a Master, he adamantly refused to use the title in reference to himself.
Then again, if it greased the wheels...
"Thanks, Master Calmcacil," Rutil began, his voice every bit as gravelly as his face would lead one to expect, "but I'm fine. So are they. A day or two for them to rest and they should be good. Enough consumables on board to sustain 'em."
Rutil pulled the hood down from his cloak, displaying a crown of ten well-maintained horns. Nine of them, anyway; one, on his forehead, was very clearly and very nastily broken, jagged and cracked while all of the others were smooth and sharp. The scars on his face seemed to amplify themselves in the hangar lights, unimpeded by the large hood or the wrinkles of his tan skin. His olive green eyes carried the wisdom of decades and somehow burned with the fire of a far younger man, giving Calmcacil a hint of the infamous glare that Rutil would bestow upon trainees that bemused him.
"Shall we?"
It was hard for the old man to be anything but brusque and curt, even with the respect he had for the Masters of the Order. He silently cursed at himself, waiting for Master Calmcacil to lead the way, hoping that the rest of their discussion wouldn't feel as forced or awkward.
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Post by The Shepherd on Jul 17, 2015 16:48:59 GMT -8
Coming to a gentle landing in the hangar of the Felucian Jedi Base, the dull grey YKL-37R freighter's engines slowly quieted down and cooled off, weary and starved after a long voyage. There was nothing especially remarkable about it; no outlandish paint jobs, few obvious external modifications, and some nooks and crannies showed a fair bit of rust. But as was the case with many ships like this one, it was what was on the inside that counted. And on the inside, there was a crew of six men of various species, a few tons of cargo that carried a few prison terms in Republic space, and one passenger.
The passenger made his way down the boarding ramp before it had even fully opened, hell bent on meeting Master Calmcacil. As he strode, coming to a stop just past the threshold of the ship's shadow, he made up his game plan. Rutil Iorek had never been one for politicking, and what he was about to do would ordinarily require a master diplomat. He had never been one for patience, either, but the best case scenario had him planetside for at least a night and the worst case scenario had him stranded outright; no matter the outcome, the Zabrak was staying on Felucia longer than he would have liked. He folded his arms together within the loose sleeves of his saffron cloak, presenting a formal, almost regal appearance despite his scarred face and foul look. An emissary from the base would meet him soon.
They had better, anyway.
"Sir," the ship's mechanic - a portly Togruta man - called out as he descended the ramp, checking on the landing struts, "I know you said we weren't gonna be here long or nothin', but we gots families to feed and ships to maintain and..."
He kept going on, but Rutil tuned him out in an instant. Typical. Men like him thought only of money, and couldn't have given less of a damn about the state of the galaxy if they were forced to watch it firsthand. It was shameful. Disgusting, even.
Pathetic.
"You will get your money when my business is done."
"We will get our money when your business is done," the Togruta repeated, his words slurred and his eyes suddenly glossed over as Rutil took command of his mind.
"You will remain on the ship until someone comes to fetch you."
"We will remain on the ship until someone comes to fetch us."
"Now go."
Even for a Jedi almost famous for his harshness and impatience, Rutil's words carried a dangerous edge. Had he the desire to turn around and face the mechanic, one could have easily bet that Rutil would not have needed the Force to get the mechanic back into the hold of the Nova Courier freighter. But he had spent two days with these men, and the mere thought of looking at them was starting to be sickening to the Zabrak warrior. The sooner Calmcacil's errand boy reached him, the better.
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Post by The Shepherd on Jul 17, 2015 16:20:29 GMT -8
"Terrific, thanks."
Without another word, Rutil closed the channel and let the pilot take them down.
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Post by The Shepherd on Jul 16, 2015 14:37:02 GMT -8
"My companions need fuel and a place to recover for the night," Rutil replied, "and as of right now, I have an appointment with Master Calmcacil, top priority."
The Zabrak Jedi didn't wait for acknowledgment. If Gol wanted to argue, then Rutil would be all too happy to do that. But as it stood, he knew that the Jedi would be all too willing to help out one of their own, especially if the company he kept were also in need of minor assistance. Besides, Rutil was counting on his reputation to help speed matters along; he was not known for either being on a Jedi world or for asking to speak to a top-ranking Jedi, that he was doing both could only mean it had royally hit the fan.
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Post by The Shepherd on Jul 16, 2015 14:15:29 GMT -8
Even in space, far above the actual surface, one could feel Felucia's surface simply teeming with life.
Sir, the pilot said over the intercom, broadcasting directly into the passenger cabin, we've come out of hyperspace over Felucia. Who do you want us to hail?
The ships crew had been kind enough - or scared enough - to leave their passenger to his own devices for the duration of the journey. Regardless, the broken-horned Zabrak preferred the solitude to whatever company a band of smugglers could provide. He was sure that the captain and his mates felt much the same about a Jedi booking passage to some backwater world known less for sunny beaches and beautiful women than it was for terrifying wildlife and flesh-eating diseases. Fortunately, a few drinks, a few credits, and subtle pushes with the Force into the captain's decision-making matrix smoothed everything over, and now the quiet journey was at its end.
Without a word, Rutil Iorek opened the door from his cabin and made the short walk to the cockpit of the old freighter. As the door slid open, the ship's first mate was about to yell in protest, only to be stopped by a stony glare that many a youngling - and even Padawan - had come to know over the long years. Wordlessly, he motioned for the first mate to vacate his seat behind the pilot, and the Cathar man - moving almost as though in a trance - stood up and walked out of the ship's bridge altogether. With a few flips and a few button presses, a secure broadcast was made to the Jedi Base on Felucia.
"This is Rutil Iorek," the Zabrak said into the microphone to whatever station commander might be listening, "and we need to talk."
The Zabrak motioned for the pilot to keep his current course, almost daring the ships in orbit to fire at them.
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The Shepherd
Member
Posts: 269
Affiliation: Yavin IV Praxeum
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Post by The Shepherd on May 25, 2015 16:18:04 GMT -8
Rutil, undeterred by the rising ranks, took slow steps forward. Each step put him that little bit closer to the Sith Lord, just that small amount more likely to redirect a blaster bolt right into the abomination's chest cavity.
It was all the old Jedi could do. Rutil had mastered the defensive art of Form III decades ago, and - as he had all his other skills - practiced it regularly even in his old age. Given his display on the rooftop, however, he knew it was only this dedication to his training that was saving him. Bolts that ordinarily have sailed harmlessly past the Zabrak came all too close to hitting their mark. Each bolt reflected by his royal blue lightsaber only barely met its mark, sending the blaster shot careening in some random direction to fizzle out. The untrained observer would hardly notice a difference, of course, but the Zabrak - and quite possibly his enemy on the other side of the roof - knew that what Rutil was doing looked closer to desperation than years of disciplined study.
But Rutil was left no other option. More people were making their way up to the roof, fully willing to throw themselves into the path of a blaster bolt if it meant protecting their cowardly master just a little bit longer. All the Zabrak warrior needed was one - just one attack to break through the slowly-growing wall of people - and the spell would be lifted; battle meditation was only as good as the user's concentration, and an immediate threat to his person would force the Sith Lord to break his hold over the people.
Chaos would, of course, ensue. But Rutil could work with chaos.
Digging deep for focus, Rutil inched ever closer to the Sith, almost bearing down on the small group of small-town cops. When the next three shots in the hail were fired, Rutil exploded with the Force, breaking through the drudgery of his foe's meditation to send three blaster bolts flying right towards the meditative monstrosity.
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