The Shepherd
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Post by The Shepherd on Oct 4, 2016 14:35:49 GMT -8
Old fart reporting in. I was one of the first Sith writers on the universe threads. Hell, I think I may have been the first ever to post on Dathomir, considering I laid claim to it unopposed. Also secured the Star Forge on Lehon after a particularly nasty rout by the Jedi, which may or may not have kicked off the arms race that resulted in a fleet of 50 Executor-class ships being on the low side, I claim no responsibility for that bit of mayhem. I joined the app because, hey, Star Wars on Facebook, what's not to love? And when the Universe kicked in, all the better! I'd always wanted to try my hand at RPing! A fun, creative outlet for my little nerd self.
And sweet merciful fuck, was I bad at it.
My first-ever character was a mad scientist Dark Jedi who quickly became a Venom ripoff who quickly became a Green Goblin ripoff who quickly became a Ghost Rider ripoff who quickly became a human-brain-in-robot-body who quickly died. I was a man of many horrifically unoriginal hats. Wasn't all bad, though; I met a group of writers that I clicked with and we all went gallivanting around the galaxy saving the day. One of my good, good friends came from that group. Hell, the woman that decided to put up with my bullshit for life and marry me came from that group. And for all the strife, all the drivel, and all the inanity and insanity from those first few years? I remember the bad, but I truly cherish the good. Hell, even some of the quirkier RP elements from that period have stuck around. The Venom ripoff, for example, became something unique in its own right and if Liya Tawaza and Galdaart Fel are to be believed, it went from cheesy and unoriginal to downright terrifying. The original character is still around, by the way, albeit with numerous hiatuses and enough begging and pouting and puppy-eyeing for me to break my long-standing, borderline-famous rule of keeping characters in the dust once they take a bite of it.
It's been a wild ride.
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The Shepherd
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Post by The Shepherd on Oct 2, 2016 5:54:10 GMT -8
"I trust it will be."
The shepherd had heard enough. The temple's AI had no concept of justice or conviction. It knew that Formidonis had to die because it advanced a plan, not because the man himself was an abomination or because the shepherd's former apprentice needed to be reminded of her call to serve the light. It knew that their history had been marked with violent events, not the very intimate, very desperate reasons why. The oracle had all the knowledge it could ever want or need. But like a child, it hadn't the faintest idea as to what any of it truly meant. The oracle would never understand the significance of its actions' or the shepherds; only that its actions - boiled down to little zeroes and little ones - might pan out the way it designed.
And they had better. Given its own origins, the shepherd was only slightly more tolerant of the oracle than it was of his prisoner.
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The Shepherd
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Post by The Shepherd on Sept 28, 2016 14:58:14 GMT -8
Stepping into the Praxeum's strategy center, the working flock immediately snapped to attention as the shepherd strode into the space. With a have of his hand the Zabrak bade them to leave, and the assembled men and women filed out, orderly but expediently. Their leader did not make his way into their domain often. But when he did, he only ever spoke to one. And those that worked there knew better than to try and eavesdrop on the shepherd's private words. He was their leader. He knew what was best for them.
As the last of his soldiers left and the old door slid closed behind him, the shepherd drew back his hood and strode towards the damaged central console. A gloved finger ran over a few of the buttons and found the one it was looking for. As the finger pushed inward, the button slid down; easier and faster than it had the first few times, just after the shepherd had discovered one of Master Man'sell's final additions to his precious jungle fortress. At first, the shepherd had disagreed with the decision, and had he been anything more than a Knight at the time he'd have fought tooth and nail against it. But now, he commanded the Jedi Praxeum. Now he was the master. And as the master, he had to admit that Master Man'sell had a point. After all, the AI that had been installed to automate Praxeum security had proven invaluable in slowing down the inexorable tide of Mandalorian soldiers. And when even the shepherd had been unable to advance his flock, the digital phantom that haunted the base's stone halls had provided direction. But it was critical that his flock remained ignorant of their relationship; their patience and their faith were already showing the faintest signs of doubt, and if it were revealed that their wise leader had been taking advice from a machine then all would be lost just as it was to begin.
That couldn't happen. That could never happen.
But the oracle had to be consulted.
As the circuits fired up and the vocal link was established, the patched-together holographic interface - prone to shorting out and garbling the visual representation - displayed the visual representation of the oracle, which took a form not unlike an atom. It hovered just over the circular display, waiting for the shepherd to speak.
"Formidonis said nothing."
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The Shepherd
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Post by The Shepherd on Sept 2, 2016 19:06:22 GMT -8
Two soldiers entered the room and dragged the crippled man back. He would rot with the rest.
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Post by The Shepherd on Jul 10, 2016 18:11:46 GMT -8
You need a Jedi Master, you've got one. HMU.
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Post by The Shepherd on Jul 10, 2016 12:21:30 GMT -8
Of all the individual areas of the Jedi Praxeum, the strategy center had taken probably the least amount of damage in the incursion. The walls were falling apart and several of the computers were beyond repair, but the functionality of most of the equipment was still good. Of course, that was limited to the terminals and processors themselves; if any equipment relied on external hardware - such as a satellite dish or a comms tower - it was as good as useless. What hadn't been destroyed by the Mandalorians on the surface of the Praxeum's main tower had fallen into disrepair as the moon tried to reclaim the building. Not that it mattered; the message that the shepherd needed to send was simple, short, and more than easy enough for his flock's jury-rigged setup to send.
There wasn't a full-scale hologram projector available to him. There wasn't even enough to create and transmit the same kind of message that had prompted so many to rally by his side. But on this day there didn't need to be. All the shepherd needed to spread his message today was a comlink and a simple signal booster, of which the Praxeum had an abundance of.
When he spoke, he didn't bother to name himself. The intended recipient would know exactly who beckoned her.
Yavin. Urgent.
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The Shepherd
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Post by The Shepherd on Jul 9, 2016 23:52:19 GMT -8
Let me know what you've got in mind, I'd love to work with you.
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The Shepherd
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Post by The Shepherd on Jul 8, 2016 1:06:10 GMT -8
"We'll see."
The shepherd reached out with the Force, running invisible fingers across his captive's body. There was an irregularity in the chest; metal and machine where lung, blood, and vessel ought to be. It was small and unobtrusive, but the scars on the man's body and the damage to his innards told the shepherd that this was not the first respirator fitted to him. Fortunately for him, there was enough lung tissue for Formidonis to keep breathing should the device fail. He wouldn't be able to do much more than breathe, of course, but it wouldn't prove fatal.
There was a flicker of the shepherd's mind. There was a crackling of metal and a small shower of sparks shortly afterward.
The shepherd strode away from the man, leaving him in the audience chamber and locking the door behind him. He wasn't especially worried. Even if he somehow found the strength to move, the only way out of the audience chamber was out a wide window and down what might as well be a sheer cliff face. Formidonis would lie there, fighting for each and every breath. And the woman they spoke of would rush to his side, either to save him or to finish the job herself. Regardless of her reasons, she would come. Of that the shepherd was certain. And at that point, it was simply a matter of convincing her of what she already knew.
As the shepherd walked towards the hangar bay where his shuttle had made residence, he threw the hood of his dark robe back, affording himself some relief from the stifling humidity that permeated even the deepest levels of the temple. The members of his flock that saw him made certain to avoid staring at the broken horn atop the Zabrak's head.
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The Shepherd
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Post by The Shepherd on Jul 8, 2016 0:32:50 GMT -8
Though the black-haired abomination would have been unable to see it, the shepherd's face expressed a grim smile. He had read the man's thoughts as easily as they'd flowed into his head, and he was making a poor attempt at hiding the fact that each of the proposed avenues was useless. He smiled not at the vain attempt of the abomination to keep his cards close, but that the Human thought that those were the reasons he'd been summoned to the temple's grand chamber at all. No, that reason was a much simpler one.
With solid footsteps that echoed deeply in the audience chamber, the hooded figure approached the kneeling man, hiding a grimace that worsened with each step. Being in the same fleet as this monster was irritating. Being on the same base as him was painful. But being in the same room, getting closer to the beast step by step, was nothing short of agonizing. That was part of the reason that the black-haired man had been brought before him. Something in the way the Force flowed through him was wrong. Not insane. Not evil. Wrong. It was as if the Force itself was wounded by his existence; every step he took was an act of defiance, and every breath he drew was a sin against it. The Force called out to the shepherd to heal its wound, and before their conversation was over he would do so. There could be no question of that, and a flicker of fear in the Human told the shepherd that his enemy knew it as well.
The other part of their conversation concerned the very reeducation of the Jedi that the shepherd had spoken of earlier. It wouldn't be as cacophonous or as harrowing as the oily monstrosity he had concocted. It wouldn't be as insidious or treacherous as the machine he had built to slay the gray-eyed woman. It would be simple. Straightforward. Violent, if necessary, but honest in its intent. More honest than this cretin had ever been, anyway.
"There are many who agree with us, but find themselves..." the shepherd paused, curbing his instinct to find the most direct word, "...unwilling, shall we say, to join us. They require a bit more motivation. A Jedi, for instance. I saw the light as we're supposed to see it, and hundreds - thousands - flocked to me. How many more do you believe would answer the call if another were to be enlightened as I was?
"You're asking yourself now, what Jedi would follow me? They're all cowards, hiding in jungles and contemplating their navels as the galaxy burns around them. But we're in luck. I know of one such Jedi that would jump to the call."
Ignoring the screaming in his nerves as he strode behind his prisoner, the shepherd turned sharply, looking down at his prize, hiding another grim smile in spite of his pain.
"I believe we both do, Formidonis."
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The Shepherd
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Post by The Shepherd on Jul 7, 2016 23:42:01 GMT -8
The shepherd regarded the kath hound in his presence coolly, raising his head only slightly to turn his gaze at the guards holding him in place. Without a word, the guards released their prisoner and left the room. As they left, the doors that slid open for them slid closed once more, and the clang that echoed throughout the chamber was the only sound to be heard. For a long moment, the shepherd continued to say nothing, breaking the silence only when he felt the Human ready himself to speak.
"Thank you."
His voice was rough, gravelly, and carried absolutely no pretense of pleasantry despite the politeness of his words. Yavin IV was a humid moon - sweltering, in fact - and the shepherd's words could have sent a chill down the spine all the same.
"I've long thought of how to begin our reeducation of the Jedi. I believe you've provided us with a way."
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Post by The Shepherd on Jul 7, 2016 22:57:22 GMT -8
It had been a long time since the man they called the shepherd had set foot in this room. The whole of the moon still bore the scars of the Mandalorian invasion, but it was here that the mauraders had thrown everything they could at the Jedi, and they - like their base - remained standing. Damaged and broken, but standing. It did the old man proud, knowing that some of the people he trained in their youngest years had stood fast against a horde of armored thugs with more firepower than brains. Such courage and steadfastness was a bright light in the old man's mind, which only served to darken the shadow cast by the decadence and complacency that the Jedi Order had fallen to in recent years. They licked their wounds on Felucia while the remnants of the Sith rebranded themselves as the First Order, free as ever to continue their wanton violence that marked their history.
This simply wound not do.
Fortunately, the Jedi he had once been had sent out a message to the galaxy, and it had been heard. They came in trickles at first. But by the end of the month, they had come in droves. Victims of the Sith, eager for some payback. Innocents that the Jedi had failed. Mercenaries, discharged veterans, bored youths looking for something to believe in, it didn't matter. Droves upon droves had answered the shepherd's call, like a flock of loyal bantha. And now that they had their home - set up in the ruins of the great temple of the Jedi Praxeum - the time had come to turn the banthas that comprised the Jedi Order into the krayt dragons that they ought to be.
Fortunately, the shepherd knew just where to start. The Praxeum didn't have much; most of what was valuable had been taken when the Jedi left this place. But it still had plenty of rations for the comparatively small flock, and plenty of power to operate (provided, of course, they not overtax the generators too fiercely). It now had a master that knew the ins and the outs of the temple. It had plenty of followers willing to tend to its needs. And it had a fully-stocked brig, capable of holding all of their prisoners.
"Send them in," the shepherd said, "and bring him to me."
Behind him, two armored soldiers offered curt salutes and went to relay the broken-horned Zabrak's orders.
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Post by The Shepherd on Jan 24, 2016 15:57:21 GMT -8
Rutil had trained enough younglings to know that the situation he found himself in could go one of two ways.
The first way was that Kent would stand up. She'd still be sniffling, trying to hold herself together as mucus shot out of her nostrils, but she'd stand up. It was an order, but it was also a challenge; to come back, to face him down, to fight. It would be her first step on the journey that Rutil was - in a roundabout way - inviting her to take. More importantly, it would be a step away from the path she seemed determined to take. She'd be sad. She'd be angry. But she'd push herself to her feet and set a precedent for what may well be the years ahead (albeit under a different master, Rutil had never been one to take on a Padawan) if she could get her act together.
The second was that she'd continue to sit there in a sad heap of a puddle, refusing to try and better herself or her circumstances. And if that was the case, there wasn't a single Jedi there that would be able to help her. Even if they were willing after this little display.
"On your feet. Now."
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Post by The Shepherd on Jan 23, 2016 22:35:11 GMT -8
Though Rutil made no effort to stop her tirade, he stopped listening around the time that Kent got to the word "respect". It was clear she had no idea what the word meant. He snapped his hand away from her chin, letting he rail against the injustices and the tribulations she'd had to face in the last few days, as if she were looking for some kind of pity. The Zabrak couldn't help but roll his eyes. For someone that was apparently so tough, it hadn't taken much for her to start sobbing. For someone that was apparently so smart, she didn't seem to take to the whole "adapt and overcome" idea that would've suited her very, very well in her current situation. She played the part of tough street kid well enough, but all it took was a minor crack in the veneer and the whole illusion had come crashing down, revealing the street-smart, Nar Shaddaa-tough Kent Austin for what she really was.
A petulant, ignorant child.
As she collapsed to the ground, the old man initially said nothing. He merely regarded here, his expression somewhere between curiosity and contempt. What master would take her like this? What hope did she have of becoming a Jedi? She sat there, sobbing in front of the man who had - as the woman who had collected her could attest to - once served to train initiates before they became Padawan learners. It had been years since Rutil had served the order in that capacity, but his standards had become inflexible as the creases on his skin. And if this was what counted as "respect" to the young girl, she would never find herself accepted among the order. Not if Rutil Iorek had his say.
But just as he was about to turn and walk away, the alternatives slapped Rutil across the face as firmly and as forcefully as his own hand had been about to slap Kent. The girl's emotions ran strong within her body, and there was no small amount of Force potential, either. She would be rebuffed from the Jedi, and at her age, this betrayal - not that it would be, but to a girl as irritable and as entitled as Kent, it would certainly be seen as such - would stay with her forever. That sort of resentment would latch onto her with durasteel talons, and poison her little by little, day by day, slowly drawing the girl into darkness. From there, it would only get worse. Sooner or later, she'd learn to use that power. Perhaps by herself, rolling dice in her favor or seducing some young dumb rich boy and using him as a personal bank account and repeating the cycle until she got bored. Worse yet, perhaps from another. If the Jedi wouldn't teach her, there were no shortage of others that would. At best, a similarly-minded amoral vagabond. At worst, a Sith. The rejection Rutil was about to serve her could very well be the catalyst for another enemy to strike down.
Rutil Iorek was all too happy to rid the galaxy of dark side users. But he wasn't about to add to their number. Not this day.
With a growl, he turned his gaze back to the sobbing child, preparing to flex muscles he thought he'd never use again.
"Stand up."
After the failure that was Caoimhin Shan, Rutil was sure he'd never attempt tutelage again. But Caoimhin was a lost cause; bitter, vengeful, hateful, and completely insane. The lightwhip tucked in the back of his belt was less of a trophy for the Zabrak and more of a reminder. Kent Austin was no model student either. She was petulant. Whiny. Entitled. She broke easily. She had no idea what genuine suffering was.
But Rutil could work with that.
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Post by The Shepherd on Jan 23, 2016 19:54:18 GMT -8
Whatever light-heartedness Rutil had offered the girl evaporated in an instant as the old warrior shot to his feet, standing to his full, imposing height as he stared this newcomer down. Trauma or not, quick study or not, given leave or not, the youngling had absolutely no idea what she was doing, absolutely no sense of where she was or who she was with, and - and this was what Rutil took umbrage with more than anything else - absolutely no respect. She was a guest. In his house. And it was high time she realized it. When the Zabrak spoke, he could feel a spark of the inferno that had been burning ever since his encounter with the Sith on Naboo, and had only intensified on Kashyyyk. He could almost feel flames roll off his tongue as he began to dress the insolent youngling down.
Na'an told Kent Austin to find a master. She was about to.
"The first idea," Rutil almost hissed through gritted teeth as he circled Kent almost like prey, "I have is for you to learn a little respect. Make no mistake, child, you are a guest of our order, and nothing more until told otherwise. This is not Nar Shaddaa. This is not some slum you can run around like you own the place. Here there is peace. Knowledge. Serenity. Harmony. And I will not have that besmirched by a child."
Rutil didn't have much in the way of ideas for the fair-haired youngling. None he could utilize on a guest of the Jedi Order, anyway. Had she been an initiate, it would have been a different story; push-ups, wall sits, running the length of the fortress wall until her feet bled, the list went on. But for now, the shock-and-awe would have to do.
"If you do learn quickly, then learn this," the Zabrak growled, "if I hear so much as a rumor that you've shown even a child here the slightest disrespect again, I will see to it personally that you're returned to the slag heap that Knight Vidalu pulled you from. We'll see how well you can take care of yourself then."
Rutil almost smiled as he threw the child's claim back at her, enjoying it entirely too much. The girl was apparently quite sensitive to the Force, and was allegedly smart enough to survive as a street rat on Nar Shaddaa. Between those two factors, the girl had chosen to talk back to him. Of all people. Her judgment, it seemed, was as in need of an adjustment as her attitude.
"Now," Rutil said as he seized the girl's chin, firmly - but not forcefully - forcing her eyes to meet his, "am I making myself absolutely clear?"
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The Shepherd
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Post by The Shepherd on Jan 23, 2016 15:32:03 GMT -8
Rutil took a seat on a nearby stone bench as the young girl told her story, watching her intently. Had it not been for her earnestness, the Zabrak would have immediately thought her a liar. The story had definitely grown in the telling; tearing down a building with the Force despite not really knowing how to explain what the Force even was might have just been a wall, her heart telling her to stick it through was likely just the survival instincts kicking in, and hell breaking loose on Nar Shaddaa may well have been the only solid truth in the girl's entire story. But she had been brought to Felucia by his old student, and even though she had been Padawan to another Jedi, it was clear that he had left his mark on her. She wouldn't have brought the girl here without good reason. And the reason - while clearly embellished, seen through the eyes of a youngling - wasn't an altogether bad one. Rutil was almost amused.
"You're following them, and yet you're out here alone."
It wasn't meant to be a cutting remark, but Rutil's attempted warm expression didn't reach his dark green eyes.
"Listen, snot-nose," Rutil began, "I don't doubt you're here for a good reason. But you can't just go running around without adult supervision, especially not if you just got off the ship, and especially not after what you've been through recently. Regardless of what they might've told you, you're supposed to be under some kind of watch, and you're supposed to be identified by now.
"So," the Zabrak finished, "let's start with your purpose here."
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Post by The Shepherd on Jan 23, 2016 14:21:00 GMT -8
"Rutil Iorek," the Zabrak said, seeing no reason not to tell the young girl, "I'm a Master of the enclave here."
She was reserved, that much was obvious. Obvious, but not altogether unexpected; Felucia itself was a strange world by most standards, and it was a rare thing for one to find oneself in a Jedi temple without actually being a Jedi. The combination must have elicited a sense of wonder and bewilderment (but apparently, the broken-horned Jedi noted, not caution). But as the seconds ticked past, Rutil couldn't help but wonder why the girl had no escort. As a guest in a secure facility, she was a possible security risk, however minor. The very least the healers could have done was to assign someone to watch over her if she was given free reign to traverse the grounds, if only to ensure she wasn't exposed to further harm. And this was all done without anybody even knowing exactly why she was here in the first place.
That simply couldn't stand.
"And as such," Rutil continued, doing his best to not make his line of questioning sound like an interrogation, "I'd like to know exactly how you came to be our guest here."
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Post by The Shepherd on Jan 23, 2016 0:34:39 GMT -8
Rutil Iorek's jade eyes fell to look at the youngling that had run into him, dazed as much by the firmness of his leg as the relative splendor of the gardens. He stood tall, the shadows of the horns around his bald, leathery head crossing his stony face, looking almost like war paint Standing tall in dark brown robes and a moderately lustrous durasteel breastplate amidst the lush, colorful flora of the gardens, the Zabrak Jedi Master was a hard man to miss. It led to one of two possible conclusions. The first possibility was that the girl wiping the dust off of her clothes wasn't nearly as aware of her surroundings as she ought to be. The second was that his practice of Force Stealth - a near-constant thing now - was far more effective than he would have guessed, given his nearly complete lack of experience with it.
Either way, it took a second for Rutil to recognize her face; this was the girl that had suffered when that Shan woman went postal.
"You seem better."
If she was out and about already, the healers must have been exceptionally good at their jobs; psychic backlashes like that, "disturbances in the Force" as they were called in larger-scale terms, were nothing to be joked about. Rutil had felt it, but between experience in the field and a stern focus on the Shan boy, he hadn't allowed himself to be overwhelmed by it. A girl with no experience in their effects being exposed to one of that intensity at that close a distance could very well have been rendered comatose. And here she was. Running around. Better prepared for the next attack. It was good to see.
"What's your name, girl?"
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Post by The Shepherd on Jan 14, 2016 18:38:30 GMT -8
There was so much to consider yet, and so much in the darkness that they didn't know about. Would he be like Rutil and just get going? Or would he hold back a moment and look things over? Prepare a little? Surprise wasn't an element that favoured only those who were bold, but they whom they would hunt too. Finally casting the concern aside, he reminded himself that he needed to learn to trust the Adhartim Jedi as well. So after a brief pause to think it over and process Rutil's words, he said only one word: “Yes.” "I'm glad, Taralorn." Rutil offered his compatriot a short, curt nod; as strong a symbol of approval as the Zabrak had ever been able to give. If the Jedi by and large had their way, they would still be mired in bureaucracy and politicking, far too much so to actually answer the threat that could be on their door at any moment. Rutil would need people that could get the job done, and weren't afraid to actually venture forth and see its completion. And since Kashyyyk, that list had grown shorter. Master Varro was likely helping to smooth the transition as the Hapes Consortium absorbed the Republic. Master Calmcacil had to help see the running of his operation here on Felucia. Master Rawkill had to help oversee the operations of the entire order. If Taralorn would be one of those ready-to-roll Jedi, as Rutil - and the galaxy itself - needed, then perhaps there was hope for them all yet.
With a quick turn on his rear heel, Rutil Iorek was gone from the balcony.
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Post by The Shepherd on Jan 10, 2016 21:49:49 GMT -8
"I do."
The Sith were still out there. Hidden, perhaps, but the darkness in the galaxy hadn't simply up and vanished because Rutil and his coalition had driven one single Sith faction into oblivion. The threat they presented was every bit as dangerous as it had been before Kashyyyk, if not more so; the Jedi had driven them into the shadows, but the shadows were where a Sith worked best. They couldn't simply wipe the dust from their hands and call it a day. They couldn't sit idly by until the counterattack. For the time being, the Jedi still had the initiative, and for all Rutil knew they might not get it again. All they had to do was find the bastards, which, unfortunately, was much easier said than done. The Zabrak Jedi had done it long enough to know.
The Empire wasn't as grave a concern; the last Rutil himself had heard, it had been dissolved, its worlds divided along unknown lines. But that was a political fight at its core, and Rutil had as much place in a political arena as he did in this glorified daycare of a military installation.
"I'm not going to pitch it to you, Taralorn. The Sith are still out there. And from what I've seen, our order doesn't seem especially equipped to handle them as needed. They're going to appear again, and when they do, I'm going to be on the first ship out to face them.
"More than anything, I need to know if you can say the same."
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Post by The Shepherd on Jan 10, 2016 20:53:41 GMT -8
The more his fellow Jedi spoke, the more Rutil was convinced that he was reciting some kind of fairy tale. An army of darkness? Beings from beyond the galaxy? A ruler made of shadow itself? A lone hero that had escaped where an entire cadre of Jedi had failed? It had all the makings of a children's holodrama. Had it not been for Taralorn's earnestness and seriousness of expression, the Zabrak Jedi Master would have walked away laughing. Had it not been for the holocron, Rutil would have guessed that Felucian mushrooms were to blame. Nevertheless, nothing about his companion's demeanor pointed to deceit.
But as it had been a few moments ago, it wasn't time to be making enemies.
"I empathize with you," the gargoyle-faced Jedi said after a moment's consideration, "but your fears are misplaced. If they had infiltrated, we'd know about it. And if they do come this way, we're more than prepared to deal with them."
It was as close to a dodge as the Zabrak could get without being impolite, and as far from his own personal thoughts as he could stray without alienating the yellow-eyed man. Not that Rutil outright disbelieved the man; he was good at spotting a liar and knew that Taralorn was telling the truth, or at the very least believed that he was. But the galaxy was in enough turmoil as it is, and Rutil's enemy was far closer and far more tangible than Force-benders from the black reaches of space. If they were coming - if they even existed - they could wait. The threat of the dark side was there. It was now. And if 'The Watcher' was going to keep his golden eyes on the threat beyond perception, then he was as naive as he was misguided.
Naive and misguided, however, Rutil could work with.
"Listen," Rutil continued, "we've got bigger problems. Closer problems. You'd be better suited turning your attention here."
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