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Faust received word on landing that his advance troops did their work well and the coup as it were, was smooth, save for the burning of an asylum. Still making use of his covert ties to the Empire, the Hunter has an archeological team dispatched from Coruscant, guessing as well that broadening gap between the Sith and Empire would make them far from missed.

 

Landing, Faust makes for the former Palace in Iziz, once the home of Onderon's royalty, now set up as a temporary base of operations for his occupation of the planet. He has archeological teams set out about the place, as well as dispatching a few guarded ones to Dxun to investigate the tomb of Freedon Nadd and dredge up any artifacts that might remain. To Faust's dissapointment, he finds that Orbalisks, a staple of the Sith in ancient days, were driven to extinction years back by a cult on the planet and could no longer be found in the galaxy. In the meantime, there were thousands of small details to see to, which he was loathe to do, but...

 

His attention is swiftly taken by reports of Imperial activity in the past few days, involving the fire in Iziz he heard of, of a former war criminal being sprung. Instinctively sensing opportunity, or perhaps a kindred spirit, Faust orders three of his elite troopers to undergo "casual dress" in non-descript clothes (though still heavily armed and armored underneath) and tail him into hunting down this rogue unit and to asses its status as a threat, a neutral force, or if it would ally with him. Though he could send someone else in his place, a premonition stoked his curiosity and told him he should do this himself.

 

He finds himself in a typical bar, populated mostly by humanoids, given Onderon's xenophobic nature towards off-worlders. His senses, all six briskly scan the bar, finding someone vaguely familiar at the bar. Motioning for his men to stay back, Faust strolls up to the bar, making no point of hiding his identity: his pristine, shining white body armor, his trench coat, laden with weapons flowing behind him, and the cold, inhuman stare of his eyes.

 

The bartender gapes, recognizing one of the galaxy's most infamous men. Faust smiles, realizing the bartender wet himself and a few other patrons were on the verge of doing the same. Standing beside Julio, Faust gives an order.

 

"A drink. I'll have what he's having," he states, motioning towards the former Sith and Imperial.

In Italy for thirty years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, bloodshed - but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love, 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.

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Faust smiles, giving a gracious nod. Either this one was incredibly brave, stupid, or ignorant. Faust takes the drink, reaching out to probe the man's mind. There was a disturbing amount of emptiness in there, one that surprised Faust given how complete it was. Faust probed for a name, anything, but only got darkness and the recent memories of the escape.

 

"Curious," he murmurs aloud. "For one who did such beautiful work, you have no memory of the path that led you into the flames and back out again." Faust chuckles. "Truly magnificent. And I can see you killed heavily many people before then. Tell me, what do you suppose drives a man to not only kill, but make his victory over the vanquished absolute?"

In Italy for thirty years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, bloodshed - but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love, 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.

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Faust declines the offer of a smoke with a choice word.

 

"Cigarettes are for pussies," he states with a derisive snort, "though they'll do in a pinch." With the same measured slowness, he reaches into the folds of his trenchcoat and takes out a small silver case, which he flips open with one hand. Drawing out a cigar, Faust offers one to Julio before plucking the cigar into his mouth. "I don't smoke too much myself, but a cigar everyone once in a while hits the spot." He puts the case back and takes out a battered looking metal lighter. Faust gives a faint smile, knowing he's lit up more than cigars with his trusty lighter and soon the bar area is covered in the faint scent of tobacco, and almost something that reminded those who caught whiff of the smoke, burning flesh perhaps?

 

"Well, Julio Furion," Faust states, giving a content smile that looked strangely out of place on his face as he inhales deeply. "I'm of the mind that victory involves destroying an opponent utterly. Life as you've no doubt noticed is cheap, easy, and fragile, yet something that people cling desperately to. For some, giving them death is enough to destroy them, to break them into pieces in their last moments. One may take life, but destroying the soul, that is the challenge."

 

"Of course," Faust adds thoughtfully, "there are some who just won't die, at all. Armies of damn clones waiting in the wings for the next time their spirit gets shunted off the mortal coil." Faust wonders yet why he never made had a clone waiting for himself. He'd possessed other bodies when it suited him, but always kept his own, his original in cryostasis during those periods. Probably because he thought, no, knew himself immortal. Even when a horde of treacherous Vong ripped his body to shreds, or a cunning Jedi Master liquidized his insides with a bomb, he survived, sometimes relying on cloned organs or other tricks, but he never died.

 

Bringing himself out of his pondering, he continues. "Breaking their life's work, their dreams, turning their very world against them can break a man. It is very satisfying, is it not?" Faust quietly probes Julio's mind again and to Julio's ears, words echo back from inside.

 

Why did you do it? Why did you kill all those people? They did nothing to you, nothing! Do you just enjoy killing, or was there something more to it? Were you ordered to do it? What?! Just tell me why you did all the terrible things you did, so I can look for it in other men and stamp it out so the likes of you can never again plague this galaxy....

 

I can't... continue... I can't let you kill any more people! FIRE!

 

"That doctor was broken before you killed him. Magnificent how your mere being drove him to his death. That is power, true power, when your presence, your history, your very existence brings about that absolute destruction of your enemies. That is the self you seem to have forgotten, Julio Furion."

 

Behind the cigar smoke, Faust's cold eyes glitter, hungry for the carnage and bloodshed that Furio so briefly experienced. "I can give that back to you," he states in a matter-of-fact voice. "These sheep, the ones you see cowering around us, hating, can be mastered by that power. If you close your eyes and try to, you can literally feel it, thick in the air as the smoke from this cigar."

 

Faust takes a soft, quiet puff, deciding to make his formal introduction. "My name is Faust. Vladmir Faust."

In Italy for thirty years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, bloodshed - but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love, 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.

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Faust just enjoys the cigar and listens. While not one for smoking, giving how he tried not to occupy his senses too much anymore, especially in public, he found his custom blend a welcome relief: fine tobacco, mixed in with just enough ground flesh to give off that hint of burning skin, and a few stimulants for that extra boost.

 

"Everyone deserves to die. Everyone has it coming. Those who are aware of this fact, those who see reality as it is, get to make the choice. We know better and we can act on this simple truth." Faust discards some of the ashes casually on the counter-top. "The feeling you may be feeling is not hatred because they are not worthy of hatred and the effort hatred requires. That feeling for the masses, the sheep, is contempt. Contempt for that waste. Contempt because worlds will burn sooner rather than later. Contempt is the low fire that runs through people, leading to hatred when those we hold in contempt dare resist us. Contempt puts things into focus, clarifies, and distills the sheep from the wolves, the prey from the hunters."

 

Faust gives an amused half-turn, visually scanning the bar, now part of a world he was controlling. "The wolves will fight over the carcasses and the sheep will die. Worlds and galaxies will burn before all is done, and all will burn in the end. The question is where will you stand before the end, and how far will you go to get there?"

In Italy for thirty years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, bloodshed - but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love, 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.

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Faust gives a small smile, flashing his teeth. "I've had modest successes," he admits candidly.

 

He instigated at least two wars of genocide, one against the Wookies, nearly wiped out about seven different species, including the Gungans with a bio agent, assassinated a few world leaders and leading Jedi and Sith Council members, bombed an Imperial wedding, then latter killed the bride at the request of the husband, and topped it all by all but destroying Coruscant and the nearly trillion lives on it.

 

Of course, realizing that Julio remembered nothing, it stung Faust's vast pride that recounting these stories would mean absolutely nothing.

 

"As for these brutes," Faust states, "I have no reason to be wasteful at this time. They fear wisely in this case," he murmurs with a note of satisfaction, "but since this planet was just added to the Empire and I've made myself governor (at least as soon as I notify the current Emperor I "borrowed" some of his troops that were loyal to me using covert codes...). I want this place run... efficiently... and I'm content to let people be. It's if I get a whiff of rebellion, plotting, or worse that I will unleash my wrath and gladly so."

 

Naturally, Faust let his tone carry as he said that, making it perfectly clear to all in the bar what he intended. News would spread over the capital shortly and he expected the cooperation of the populace in short order.

 

"Speaking of rebels, Jedi, and the like, how much do you remember about them?"

In Italy for thirty years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, bloodshed - but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love, 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.

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"Ahh," Faust murmurs quietly. He raises his blaster into the air and fires off three shots in quick succession, sending out a shower of sparks. The rest of the bar immediately takes the hint and everyone leaves, giving Faust, Julio, and the Hunter's three elite troopers the place to themselves. Faust looks around, detecting no one remaining in the vincinity either visually or with the Force.

 

"A bit over the top, I admit, but effective." Faust's tone changes, taking a harder note. "What I have is a business proposal, pure and simple. I'm feeling inspired lately and realizing that this galaxy needs a bit of shaking up. I'm offering my services to the Empire and Sith because they need my services and share my vision when it comes down to it. I'm offering my services to you too."

 

Faust twirls the blaster on his finger before it vanishes back into his trench coat.

 

"I'm intending to disrupt the rebels, secure the Empire, position the Sith on firm ground, and if I can, make the Jedi rue the day they were born." Though grateful for the Jedi for healing him, Faust resented it even more. Furthermore he would prove himself right even if he had to plunge the galaxy into chaos and fire with his own two hands. Giving a sudden though, he taps his ear, having a comm relayed to his ship, and then to a few more friends in the Empire, giving Faust a small chuckle.

 

"I do appreciate your work, which is why I'm giving you this opportunity. Join up with me and you'll have a galaxy admiring and fearing your efforts. You will be in a position of authority yourself and you can force them to hide from you." Faust stands up, tossing a few coins on the counter- enough to pay for his drink and probably the damages to the ceiling, then grabs a vodka from behind the bar. "I'm calling together a strike force to start retaking this galaxy this very night I think. If you wish to join me, say so, and we can begin."

In Italy for thirty years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, bloodshed - but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love, 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.

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Faust just gives a quiet nod, giving an order to his men behind him, sending them a set of coordinates. "Have as many storm troopers as we can spare assembled at the following rendezvous location in space. We'll need the storm trooper outfits, ones able to fit myself and our new friend here, as well as unarmed transports. I don't want anyone knowing about this. Not the Moffs, the Admirals, and not the Emperor himself. We'll let him know after we succeed. We're going hunting and we need to be quiet about this." In some part of his mind, Faust still thought of the Empire as his, even though he willingly stepped down as Emperor during his investigation through countless lightyears of dead space. On the whole though, he didn't care who ran things as long as he was allowed free play with the galaxy.

 

The preditory gleam in the Hunter's eyes grows as he turns to Julio. "Don't worry about who you were. As we bathe this galaxy in blood, the memories will seep back to you. I sense that the course we steer will resonnate with who you were and who you will be once more."

 

Faust has the Bhelliom loaded into a somewhat battered looking Imperial transport and boards it, inviting Julio to accompany him. As he boards and feels Onderon vanish behind him, he wondered when and if the package from his earlier comm would reach Manaan. After all, he did owe Darex and the others much for patching him back together.

In Italy for thirty years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, bloodshed - but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love, 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.

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Faust hops out, giving a shrug. "They should. Either way, it's of no consequence." The Hunter honestly did not care if the Emperor called for his head, in which case Faust would beat down the would be assassins and make an exit from this galaxy for the near future to hide. In that regard, Jedi detachment, he ruefully admitted in an ironic fashion, was useful, especially when it was weighed up against saving one's own skin.

 

"The Jedi have a philosophy of worldly detachment, of being removed from that which binds us. In a sense that is correct," he muses aloud, repeating this thought, "when one needs to save his own skin, all else should be viewed as expendable. So if the Empire has issue with my actions, it can and will be sacrificed so I can do what needs to be done." Unspoken were two additional lessons. First, must have the power to do what ever is needed when one's plans go awry. Second, everything else is expendable.

 

Everything.

 

Including you, apprentice.

 

"Of course," he adds, "that should not stop one from enjoying life's pleasures when one may." Faust gives a grand sweep of his arms, making it no coincidence he now docked his ship at the royal palace in Iziz.

 

Heading inside once more, Faust muses aloud. "So, how much did the battle resonnate with you at Mon Calamari? How much did you try to reach out with the Force during it?"

In Italy for thirty years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, bloodshed - but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love, 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.

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Faust remains gives a brief nod.

 

"The Force is.... Consciousness and energy. It has a will and two sides, Light and Dark. Which of them is the dominant voice though, is... questionable." Faust bites his lip, remembering a conversation while he was bedridden on Yavin. "It may be there is no dominant voice and the Force itself is chaotic, schitzophrenic, and divided as the rest of us are. If it is the sum of all life, given power and sentience, why shouldn't it be?"

 

"The Dark side," Faust adds in a low voice, "is tapping into that power with anger, hatred, and over all, a desire for control. Perhaps there are other ways to seize it, but the control is the key and hatred gives one that edge. It is one's will to power that defines a Sith above all else. It is what defined you, Sith Lord Julio Furion, before you lost your memory."

 

Faust knew that much, though getting news about what lead to Furion's memory wipe, and his activities would be a lot harder than he thought.

 

"That will to control, that will to power is at the core of what all beings are." Faust's lips twist in a small smile. "You've realized that power is ultimately used for surviving in a burning, dying galaxy, populated by sheep and wolves. Everyone is a lone wolf at their core, even under all that wool, but they do find some common need to band together, to band and share their power for greater power still."

 

Faust suddenly stops, standing in Julio's path. There is no smile, his voice is ice cold and his eyes take on a frosty, dark tone.

 

"You've no doubt realized that if it came down to it, you would be expendable to me, given my last statement? And I hope, I would be the same to you if you've been paying attention. But, never forget that attachment can be useful, and if one is disciplined enough, one can engage in it, or better yet, expect it from others so it doesn't lead them to weakness or destruction." Faust finally gives a faint smile, his lips twisting once more.

 

"I consider you useful and see something of myself in you. I can see you're willing to question me, and even stand up to me. Is it because of attachment though? Or because I offer you a chance at power, the power you once held, the power over others? For that, how far are you willing to go for me? To my own end, I keep a small coda of honor, a small price that enables me to secure the trust of others and will even risk my life for it and those I hold protected by it, even if it is an artifical attachment, a construct if you will. It disciplines me and allows me to harness the power of others. Consider that into your equation and try to plan around that before you view me as wholly expendable."

 

Faust's right hand, covered in its gauntlet shimmers with a slow, electric blue as Force lightning crackles between the fingertips. "Dealing with Dark side is just like that. It expects, it demands a heavy price, and like any drug, it can consume you; just as your will to power seeks to dominate and seize it. Reliance on it can be afforded and is encouraged, but it is dangerous, especially when one's back is to the wall and all else is lost." Faust lets the lightning trail back down his arm, grounding out against his skin, forcing him to wince. "Discipline is what allows us to measure when to seize the Force and make it our own, and when to just rely on our own strength."

In Italy for thirty years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, bloodshed - but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love, 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.

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Faust tsks at that, crossing his arms and leading Juliio into a small, almost empty room, covered with small artifacts here and there, set in small alcoves.

 

"I cannot give you discipline. Like all things in life that matter, you must master it yourself." He surveys the room, seeing the first fruits of the archeology team's labors. "The best I can do is illuminate the path." Faust reaches into his pocket, taking out a large, heavy, round, and otherwise featureless grey stone, which he shows to Furion. Without another word, he crushes it in his right hand, breaking it into dozens upon dozens of small and irregular pieces, then lets them drop to the floor.

 

"Take as long as you need to reconstruct this rock," Faust orders, pointing to some strong paste on one alcove. "Use only what is in this room. Open yourself to the Force and sense the rock, and how it fits together. Once it's back in one piece, we can move onto the next step of your training."

 

With that, Faust walks out of the room, letting the door close behind him. It would be a while, he realized, remembering how Sith Lords like Barhom Zar and others used this technique to train apprentices back when Faust was just making a name for himself as a hunter.

 

In the meantime, Faust would treat himself to one small attachment and ordered a recording of one of the latest Coruscanti operas to play in his room.

In Italy for thirty years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, bloodshed - but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love, 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.

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"A brilliant effort, and exceptional time given your difficult task."

 

Faust took no pains to announce his entry into the room, slipping in quietly despite his heavy metal armor. Perhaps it was the faint sound of his music, still playing in the background. His face had a small, toothless smile on it, his eyes glittering with perhaps... Pleasure? Satisfaction? Something along those lines.

 

"A Sith's power comes from seizing control of the Force," Faust continues, going over to pick up the mended stone and examine it. "The one power that people seem to take for granted and is a Sith's most potent, is prescience or precognition."

 

The Hunter starts to juggle the stone in his hand, tossing it lightly back and forth. "By harnessing your anger, you can tap into the will or knowledge of the Force and know what it knows. It is everywhere, omnipresent, and would that make it any different than omniscient?" Letting Julio muse over that and meditate on it, Faust continues, the juggling picking up speed.

 

"It is my belief," he intones, his voice flat and regular, almost hypnotic to aid Julio in his meditation, "that when a Force user acts, they gain a flash sense of that omniscience: the Force's will in knowing everything around it, all at once, and the simple probabilities of cause and effect are laid clear. It is not merely seeing into the future, tearing through space and time, but seeing the most likely circumstances based on probability, given a snap-shot of reality. That is why Force users excell in combat and can use weapons like lightsabers. We reach out, we seize, and we know what the Force knows. The stronger the control over Force, the further they can see in the Force."

 

"That is how you could see the rock, and sense the fit of its its pieces. You took that knowledge, that sense of rightness and order from the Force, and used your body as a channel to impose it on this stone." The juggling turns into a blur, Faust's gauntletted hands coming closer together, the rock traveling between each hand faster than the eye could follow. He steps in front of Julio, standing a good seven feet distant. "Open your eyes, apprentice, and know!"

 

Both of Faust's hands extend, one empty, one holding the rock. Both arms launch forward with amazing force, the trajectory of his open palms capable of sending the rock spiraling at speeds capable of cracking open a human skull and splattering its brains, Julio's brains if he did not do something about it.

 

Only one hand held the rock though, amid two different possible trajectories. Which way to dodge in that possibly fatal split second?

In Italy for thirty years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, bloodshed - but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love, 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.

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Faust was far from dissapointed. He knew then his appretice had reasonable skill, cunning, power, and will. If either of those were lacking... well... someone else would have had to clean up.

 

Faust's gloved hands clap softly, giving out a steely ring through out the room.

 

"Well done, well done, Furion." The hunter chuckles. "You've done very well, though there is still much to learn." The moment passes and his eyes narrow. "I think it's time we started to give you a suitable weapon to focus your energies on." Faust draws a blade from his belt and snaps on his pale blue lightsaber. Though blue, the pale, frosty color set it apart from traditional Jedi blades. It almost matched the Hunter's eyes. "Our next project is going to be shaping a crystal from scratch, and building you a weapon that will make your enemies cower."

 

*****

 

As Faust instructs his apprentice, a handful of engineers make an underground requisition through all but impossible to trace Imperial back channels, seeking to obtain a new prototype baradium missile, four of them with accompanying Ysalmari, for fitting in Faust's Bhelliom. As they do, modifications are made to the Hunter's ship to accomidate these new, fearsome weapons.

In Italy for thirty years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, bloodshed - but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love, 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.

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For a brief moment, Faust blinks, taking a deep look at his apprentice, as if he caught the entirety of his flashbacks. It had been done before, yet, there was still something holding Furion back. The Hunter frowns, shaking his head. This would not do. Faust believed in control, and having these repressed memories surface presented a variable that could interfer with his remolding of Julio Furion.

 

Faust, as haughty as ever, sought to remake Furion in his image, even as he had Furion shape the crystal.

 

Outloud, he states something a bit different.

 

"You need to show some enthusiasm. You will be channeling your all into this. Consider the blade a work of art, and one that your passions will need to be channeled into. Anger, hatred, and all that other fun stuff." Faust's frown turns into a wan smile. "And with this art, you can extend your true calling to further heights, painting with your blade over the canvass of mortality."

 

*****

 

A short time later, Faust is pouring over a set of machines, each carrying varying amounts of minerals and synthetic substances in forms of being ranging from solid to plasma. Half constructed shells of lightsabers hang about the lab.

 

"A small workshop I had imported here," Faust explains modestly. "Your final blade will be a formidable weapon. It will be one capable of killing your enemies, inspiring terror, and great destruction. Yet," he adds raising a gloved hand, "you must consider the merit in being able to adapt and reinvent yourself. Even the great Palpatine could not seize power all at once, working in steps: Senator, Chancellor, then Emperor." Of course, Faust also thought Palpatine a fool, given how his reign endured, then ended, but that was something else for another day.

 

"As you grow, you will learn, and adapt; and I would think, your weapon would adapt with you. As you grow more skilled in the Force, you will build more power, fine weapons, until your ultimate blade is achieved, if it is even a blade at all." Faust takes out his own blue lightsaber and activates not the blade, but the sonic weapon in a controlled burst, shattering several small beakers along a wall. "And, if worse comes to worse, you have your previous identities, your previous weapons, to fall back on."

 

"A Sith believes in seizing power and control from reality. Here, you have enough toys to make anyone envious. Use whatever technology and skill with the Force you have to make a blade, and we can put it in any one of these sabers."

In Italy for thirty years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, bloodshed - but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love, 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.

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Faust doesn't return the smile, his eyes hardening. Humor could work here, but the Hunter was determined to dfrive his lesson home.

 

"Until you regain your memories, the Julio Furion that made that blade is dead. The weapon you forged in the past belongs to a deadman as well. It isn't your blade, not any more. When you do regain your memories, there is a chance it still won't be yours." Faust only then softens the look on his face. "This is a chance to start anew, from the ground up, and shape yourself alongside your weapon."

In Italy for thirty years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, bloodshed - but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love, 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.

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"For the Hijarna stone, it will need to be harvested." Faust frowns, making a note to find some way to cut out his apprentice's patronizing streak. It was all well and good for unsettling an opponent. Mockery was one of the Hunter's favorite weapons. But to one's equal, or superior...

 

"An excellent choice, given its properties," he continues, trying to recall exactly what Hijarna stone did. "However, I think a small field trip is in order given the work you'll be putting into this stone. We'll be going to Mustafar first, and after that, we can hit up Hijarna for the other item. This way, you can pick out the materials yourself. We'll worry about shaping the crystal itself later."

 

A comm in Faust's coat goes off, and he frowns after answering it, putting it back inside his coat. "You'll have to go on ahead to Mustafar alone. Wait for me there."

 

*****

 

Having given the order to his apprentice, Faust takes off, boarding his ship, making sure his new missile firing system was in proper order. He figured sending Furion off to Mustafar would give him something to sweat about, find his materials, and when Faust arrived, he did have something fun and education planned for a new lesson.

 

But business was business. Faust punches in his coordinates, and the Bhelliom vanishes into hyperspace.

 

*****

 

Business as usual continues on Onderon, though under Faust's instructions, the research and delving into Onderon and Dxun's archeology continues, and following a few well placed instructions among troops loyal to him personally, even above the Emperor, word begins to spread on the down and low about a new cult, attracting those seeking status and power...

In Italy for thirty years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, bloodshed - but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love, 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.

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  • 9 months later...

While former Dark Lord and current Sith Master Vladimir Faust was engaged in a battle of cat and mouse, life and death on Mon Calamari, one of his conscripted and corrupted followers, a human archeologist by the name of Van Isel used a vibro machette to slash his way through Onderon's sweltering jungles. The other hand lay gripped at his side, resting near his only other a weapon- a single, modified sporting blaster.Armed with 3 days rations and a comm, he left his speeder behind in a secure spot a half day back from here.

 

Van's mission, delegated down from above was simple- go into the jungle and bring back Sith artifacts for the Order's splinter group on Onderon's capital, Iziz, for study and eventual shipping back to the main Temple on Coruscant. Van looked wearily over his shoulder, his normally brown eyes flickering briefly with a cold blue gleam, a sign of Faust's taint along with the Sith tattoo forcibly ingrained over his heart, hidden beneath his shirt. Dressed in white explorer's gear, he checks his only other companion on this venture- a modified Spelunker probe droid. The four legged droid, formerly used for mining, then combat during the Clone Wars, received additional modifications to scan for artifacts and read some of the ancient languages used on Onderon and Dxun including the Sith tongue and Mando'a.

 

Van Isel comes to an abrupt halt when he hears a loud cry pierce the jungle. His initial thought is it might be a beast of some sort. Ducking behind a tree and motioning for the droid to hide as best he can, he listens, hearing the call not too far in the distance:

 

"I AM ZCUTH AUSOTH! OF THE MINOR CLAN OF GNAST! SPLINTER OF CLAN BRALOR! I HAVE COME TO YOU, BROTHERS!"

 

Van scratches his stubbly chin as he hears this. While not too versed in Mandalorian history, he knew of their involvement here in the time of Revan 4,000 odd years ago. He recognized the clan name at least. A curious turn of events. If there were Mandos in the area- and this would be a dangerous gambit- he could spy on them and ply them for information.

 

And if he could find a spot where Mandos and Sith fought or worked together, perhaps a few artifacts to send back could be found- weapons, lore, alchemic pieces unheard of before, or, he thought, almost drooling at the thought, a holocron of lost knowledge.

 

Sheathing his vibromachette, he tries to slip through the trees as silently as he can. He meant no malice for this young Mando, closing in and catching sight of a bare back in the distance. No, he would wait and see what happened, and if the opportunity to run off with artifacts presented itself, he would do so.

In Italy for thirty years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, bloodshed - but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love, 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.

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Intreagued, Van Isel, servant of Faust, trails behind this new Mandalorian, leaving on the faint rustle of leaves and the snap of a solitary twig or three to mark his passing. His eyes widen in wonder and horror when he realizes he has stumbled upon a whole encampment of Mandalorians here in the jungle. Once more scratching his stubbly chin, Van Isel considers his next course of action carefully. Should he alert the Order? Or should he investigate further and try to querry some artifacts and further information?

 

Motioning his hands up and down to weigh in the two options, he decides on the latter. Nearing the outpost and motioning his droid to follow closer, Van moves out into the open, and in curious mix of feigned and real good natured hailing, he waves towards the outpost, trying to get their attention. He would be honest, that he was a scholar, seeking lost artifacts and he hope this turn of events did not lead to his death. If he died though, it would be in service to the Order, so why fear?

In Italy for thirty years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, bloodshed - but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love, 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.

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Van Isel, as a servant of Faust, brooked no fear as he answered. Not a Force user despite his sensitivity, he had at least enough schooling in the arts to know that fear must be mastered. With that said, a sense of extreme caution measured his words as he stared down at the timeless armor of the Mandalorians. He slowly raises his hands.

 

"I am Dr. Isel, Van Isel. I'm an independant archeologist from the capital of Iziz, specializing in antiquities, particularly artifacts dating back to the Sith Wars and Jedi Civil War that wracked the Old Republic." Even as he speaks, his eyes study the armor, noting the descrepancies between the modern and ancient armors of the Mandalorians and how little has changed. "I'm out on an expedition into the jungles to procure research specimins. I had reason to believe there was an old battleground by Sith loyalists around here and to have my modified spelunker droid aid me in excavating it."

 

That was pure truth, though not the whole truth at all. Confident, Isel continues.

 

"I am rather surprised... and fascinated to find so many Mandalorians here. I've reviewed records of Mandalorian Beast Riders on Dxun. I did not know that enclaves still existed." He pauses, then tries a formal greeting in Mando'a, which he fumbles over. "My apologies," he adds hastily. "I am unpracticed in your tongue, though my droid can translate it."

In Italy for thirty years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, bloodshed - but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love, 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.

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No fear.

 

Van Isel's remains confident as he answers. "Is that really the best thing to do, warrior? Granted, Onderon's jungles are dangerous, but if I fail to return, there will be others coming to look for me. Can you kill them all before your secret gets out? Or do you think you can depopulate this entire planet?"

 

Isel's calm is broken momentarily as a psychic shock hits him. Something was happening to the Master- something sending out waves of anger, pain, and madness. The scholar's eyes almost take on a cold blue glint as it hits. This gives the normally mild scholar and Sith worshipper take a more assertive, if not beligerant stance. Besides, these were Mandalorian warriors. Bravery and confidence alone would get him out of here.

 

"I'm going to suggest a bargain. Take it or leave it," he responds cooly. "Your culture is bound by its traditions and history. My job is to record those histories and traditions. You help me search, let me record your history, and I'll keep your secret. The alternative, is things get messy."

 

At that, his spelunker droid whirls, locking on the Mandalorian pointing its carbine at its master. While it was a mining droid, it was at one time used by the CIS during the Clone Wars and as such, was modified to include lasers and grenade mines. Recommissioned, it still possessed that initial fitting. Ironic Isel thought in the back of his mind if it was called into service once more against the template for the clones it once faught. Isel held no fear, but he would fight to defend himself.

 

"It's your move, warrior," Isel responds, unflinching, staring the Mandalorian right back and meeting his gaze.

In Italy for thirty years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, bloodshed - but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love, 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.

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  • 2 weeks later...

A small beep from the droid gives Isel the heads up that more Mandalorians were gathering at the gate, alerting the scholar when he would have been otherwise caught off guard. The idea of punching the guard in the throat and running for it became a lot less feasible at this juncture... or did it?

 

With the guard captain, carbine still raised at Isel's face, staring off into space for an inordinate amount of time contemplating the Sith scholar's counter-offer ((well past 3 days...)), Isel acts, one hand flying out to bring its edge right against the Mando warriors throat. The scholar winces in pain as he hits the metal collar, but it's enough to daze the guard. He moves quickly, launching into a half-spin and batting the carbine that the guard raised up to his mouth away. With a feat of dexterity that amazes even himself, Isel grabs the carbine by the barrel and the stock, and rams into into the guard's face, smashing his helmet and sending him to the ground. Reversing the gun, he levels it at the guard, then giving the rest of the assembled Mandalorians a cool look, tosses the gun aside.

 

"If I'd wanted trouble," he declares loudly, "I'd have not approached your gates so brazenly. My name is Van Isel, or Professor Isel for my friends in the city. I am an archeologist and scholar, here with my mining droid, intent to excavate ruins from ancient Sith heritage sites here in the jungle. It was chance that lead me here, though I find your hospitality lacking. I do not appreciate being threatened." He glances down at the guard who raised the carbine to his face and a faint blue flash enters the scholar's eyes, gone in a second.

 

"Now, I wish to speak to your leader," he states cooly, "I am not a warrior, but I will fight to defend myself. You can overpower me, but I promise on my honor you will bleed for your effort if you try to kill me." Again, a gambit, one Isel wagered heavily on, but he figured above all, earning their respect was paramount by showing courage and a baskar will. He avoided looking down at the guard at his feet as he spoke.

 

"I am interested in your historical records, particularly any tales on clashes you may have had with the Sith during the era of Revan. I also admit I would be curious to learn how your culture survived here to this day, but," he shrugs, "it's up to you."

In Italy for thirty years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, bloodshed - but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love, 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.

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From the research journal of Prof. Van Isel:

 

My archeological expedition for Headmaster F's special project took an unexpected turn earlier today in the jungle. The histories and artifacts I searched for are being brushed aside for a new and very interesting find. I will record my data on this find for the campus in Iziz, to be reviewed at a later and safer date.

 

I confirmed findings that a group of Mandalorian warriors are active on Onderon. They have a fairly large encampment. My mining and excavating droid was deactiveated, so I cannot get a proper scan of the area. I since approached a series of Mandalorian warriors and broached the following questions, recorded as follows:

 

 

Q 1: Good day, warriors. My name is Prof. Isel, Van Isel of Iziz. I am an archeologist and historian. Your culture interests me. I have a few questions concerning your arrival here. Does your clan trace its ancestry back to the Mandalorian Civil War at about 60 before Yavin? Did any of your clans ally with the Sith Empire during its reign about 3,700 years ago? Revan's time? Or even during the Sith Wars of Exar Kun?

 

As an ansilary question- would you consider yourselves Neo-Crusaders? Death Watch, or True Mandalorians?

 

Q 2: How much of your culture and practices have changed since the days of the Old Republic?

 

Q 3: What is your given reaction to various Mandalorians that have stepped up onto the galactic stage? Moon Knight, Emperor Black, and various others of Mandalorian descent have struck it alone. How are they viewed? Additionally, your reactions to the exploits of Boba Fett and the various Clone Troopers that impacted the galaxy during the Clone Wars.

 

Q 4: Have you any records of battles with or alongside the Sith here on Onderon or Dxun, and if so, are there battlefields that might be of interest to historians such as myself interested in collecting past relics?

In Italy for thirty years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, bloodshed - but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love, 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.

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Dr. Isel concludes his research around the camp, gets a small inkling of possible dig sites from a few other commandos, then with all due politeness, heads back to his speeder, his reactivated droid in tow.

 

The rest of Isel's trip proves dangerous and rather fruitless, though exacavations closer to Iziz do yield something on the Mandalorian side. An encrypted and secure report is filed with the "Coruscant campus"- aka- Sith Temple on Coruscant, addressed to "Headmaster F"- Vladimir Faust aka- Darth Luciferian, or any other ranking Sith:

 

I'll need to send an expedition to Dxun for further research on those artifacts. Biological sciences also wishes to look around there further as the tampering done to the orbalisks makes them lethal to any sentient, dark sider or not and we do not believe there is any way to make them safe for us to use.

 

During my research in the jungles of Onderon, I came across an encampment of Mandalorians in the jungle, hiding and holding true to the old tenants. They seem to be Death Watch in nature, though I suspect a Neo-Crusader outlook underneath. They appear to be formidable warrors, though transient in nature.

 

My recommendations are to set up watchers from the temple in Iziz to watch the closely and keep updates on their movements in case we are threatened somehow. Our own hidden presence on Onderon cannot be jeopardized either, so taking any outward moves could be hazardous- a secret is more potent when no one knows of it. If there is a situation where we need independent muscle and cannot rely on the Empire, we might be able to approach them with a mutual offer of conquest as was done in the old days. Until then, we shall just watch in the shadows mindful of the warriors, and conduct our own research into the Sith's glorious past.

 

-Van Isel, Adept of Luciferian

In Italy for thirty years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, bloodshed - but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love, 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.

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  • 1 month later...

"Excuse me, are you Admiral Onderin Starlisk?"

 

Behind Onderin is a man dressed in the garb of a university professor. About 5'5" with dark brown hair and brown eyes, the man appeared harmless, though he wore a sporting blaster openly in a holster at his side. His hand however, extended forward in an open and friendly handshake.

 

"My name, sir, is Dr. Van Isel. I'm a researcher and archeologist here at the university here in Iziz. It was a most fortunate occurance that I heard word of your appearance here." Isel's eyes seem to glint, recognizing the young woman next to Onderin. "Ah, this would be your padawan learner, would it not? My subject at the university is ancient religions here on Onderon, particularly the religions related to ah..." he coughs, almost looking embarassed, "the ah, Naddists and the Sith as a whole. They were rather powerful here on Onderon and did some great things here in their time." He continues, sensing his enthusiasm was unwelcome, speaking directly to the girl padawan. "Oh, terrible indeed by any standard, but still great and able to do amazing things on the galactic stage. Always a fascinating subject of study, young lady, and one I'd recommend you look into."

 

Clearing his throat, he turns to Onderin. "Anyhow, your reputation as a Jedi Master is well known, even on a now backwater planet like this. If I am not intruding, I am curious about your purpose here, and if I could interview you for a paper I am presenting on Sith-Jedi relations and origins."

In Italy for thirty years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, bloodshed - but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love, 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.

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"I understand sir, and I wish you luck." He turns to the lady. "Again, if you're curious, I do have some journal articles and history books that might interest you greatly. I know by nature that Jedi oppose the Sith, but it never hurts to study the art of one's enemies to better understand them." With that, Isel graciously gives the lady a card, showing his number and room at Iziz's university.

 

WIth that Dr. Isel nods, quietly backs away and takes a seat across the way from Onderin and his apprentice. He looks at Luna with curious interest, then discretely punches in a small, encrypted comm, as he lounges to enjoy his drink and keep his eyes and ears open.

In Italy for thirty years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, bloodshed - but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love, 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.

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Dr. Isel smiled as he watched Onderin, trying to keep his easy going and relaxing attitude, though his eyes still carefully watched everything, per his orders. With eyes around the city and trying to keep an eye on their pet Mandos- which was really how Faust's followers thought of them, Onderin's appearance at the spaceport created a buzz, especially since this was nominally a Republic world. Isel was chosen for his role simply because he was in part what he said he was, a scholar, and he survived exploring the Mando camp before.

 

Van Isel's history started on Iziz as a researcher at the university in his chosen field. As a native, he was proud of his history, and the good and the bad. Later, when shadows moved in over the planet from Dark Jedi, things forced him to study harder and quieter. When that lifted, a new shadow appeared in the form of Vladimir Faust- aka- Darth Luciferian. Isel, already knowledgable, was taught that knowledge was power and learned how to better acquire and wield that power. As an Adept of Luciferian, he was marked, though his curious nature and academic sense still burned brightly.

 

And ever curious, he would be an excellent spy for the order to guard their temple operations while doing his research. He would like to give the padawan a lecture on the Sith as well. If he could bring her into the fold somehow, and let the master teach her, that would be beautiful.

 

After his encrypted comm, notifying operations of Onderin's presence, as well the means to relay that back to Headmaster F as had surely been done by, word came back that a handful of the pet Mandalorians were grouping outside the city. The temple were secured, ready to let the storm pass by and weather it through anything short of a complete pogrom. Isel noted it with care, and remained on his guard, absently wondering whether to mention this to the Jedi. Refraining, he just keeps a more vigilent eye, nursing his drink with more measured sips.

In Italy for thirty years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, bloodshed - but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love, 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.

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Isel knew that some Force users developed an inate sixth sense of danger and suspicion, able to sense moods of those around them- like Onderin's suspicion of him, or the impending doom about to fall on the spaceport and everyone inside.

 

Despite his initiation as a low level acolyte and the thought he might have touched on the Force once, maybe twice durin ghis research, Isel had no sixth sense and no precognitative warning of danger.

 

Thus, when the news comes of a ship rapidly dropping through the atmosphere, punctuated by an emergency comm from friends of the dark at the starport, coupled with instant warning sirens, his surprise is great, even numbing from terror.

 

"What the ****?"

 

Covering from his split second shock, as the historian/archeologist/acolyte of the Sith, quickly stumbles out of the cantina in a dash. Rather than seek shelter, he hops into his near-by speeder and fires it up, glancing overhead at doom spiraling down from above, ready to crash in about a minute. While he stood his ground bravely which marching into a camp full of Mandalorians, the shock and completely unexpected nature of this incident unnerved him.

 

Refraining from a last minute escape, he pulls up near the entrance of the cantina, watching as others, panicked try to flee, or futiley in his opinion, duck and cover. Still reved up, he gives a shout to the Jedi, motioning to the back seat, sweat pouring down his face, his heart facing in absolutely terror.

 

"GET IN!"

 

His bravery and regard for the Jedi had nothing to do with any sense of loyalty, but duty- duty to discover why they were here, duty to try and sow a few seeds with the padawan, and saving their lives and the good graces of his guests couldn't hurt. With that said though, anger most terrible clouds his face.

 

The shuttle drop was too timely with Onderin's arrival to be a coincidence. Isel wondered if it was some act ordered by Headmaster F to kill the Admiral, where the master moved to sacrifice him like a pawn. At the same time, the secrecy and research of the temple, going into the Sith's ancient art and its alchemical and sorcerous research was too important even for that, right? Either way there would be hell to pay.

 

((If the Jedi and company wish to hitch a ride and post Isel spiriting away to safety- or even taking the wheel themselves, they can post my actions here. If the PCs take some other option, assume Isel let them go and left on his own at top speed))

In Italy for thirty years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, bloodshed - but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love, 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.

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Dr. Isel speeds on, glancing over his shoulder nervously a few times at the sounds of massive explosions, made in part by the planetary defenses blowing the ship up and holding the debris aloft with tractor beams to keep the worst from rainig down. There was some damage, but mostly superficial? He would need to inquire with his contacts later.

 

Isel however, did not stop, instead using his knowledge of the city to follow Luna's coordinates, taking a few lesser known backstreets to get there, moving at top speed at first, then slowing to a more non-descript change of gear to blend in with the city. Doing that, he still glances behind him cautiously, feeling a growing sense of paranoia.

 

Now calm, anger coursed through him. This was not a coincidence, he guessed that much. The question of who raised several possibilities. There were the Mandos, but it wasn't there style based on what he sensed. The Empire doing sabotage? A bounty hunter? Or, he grimly considered, something from above that wrote him off as expendable? Either way, he would find out. He silently repeated a few mantras in his mind, turning fear into anger and into strength, channeling it onto his current task, driving to safety, then getting more intel.

 

Pulling the speeder to a stop at Luna's ship, he breathes a sigh of relief, giving one last glance behind him. He gives the trio a very direct look, one eyebrow raised.

 

"So tell me, does that kind of thing happen around you all the time? I cannot think of the last time something like that happened around here."

In Italy for thirty years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, bloodshed - but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love, 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.

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Isel remained seated, lost in thought, trying to piece together what happened. His temper cooled slightly, he tried to reconstruct what he saw, brought out of his meditative train by the padawan.

 

"Oh, you're very welcome." He flashes a bashful smile, genuinely touched by the gratitude, though in the back of his mind he still knew that, ideologically, the Jedi were the enemy. "Well, I was partially just saving my own butt as well, that's all. And it seemed the right thing to do." He flashes another smile. It was truth. Not the whole truth, but still truth none the less.

 

The meeting with Mandalore put things in perspective, as well as his speech. Onderin came to Onderon to secure the aid of the Mandalorians or to negotiate with them to some degree. The Sith would need to send an envoy soon, or miss this opportunity to gain their martial power. His eyes closed, gauging what to do. To spy, to disrupt, or to breach some counter offer for the Mandalorians? Used to following orders, Isel realized this would be touch and go. Help would be needed, but keying it while in close scrutiny by two Jedi and an ally of theirs was high impossible. But if he broke distance, he might lose out on hearing what was said and reporting back.

 

To spy, or to contact the other powers to work a counter offer? Well, only one way to find out.

 

"So, Admiral," he states cheerfully, resting his hands on the controls of his speeder. "Do you need a ride back to the cantina?"

In Italy for thirty years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, bloodshed - but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love, 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.

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((Isel's a developed NPC acolyte- Faust himself is elsewhere....))

 

With a wave, a grin, and a cheery, "well, best of luck to you, Admiral," Dr. Van Isel punches the speeder into high gear and takes off. "And next time you're on planet, hit me up."

 

Twisting his way through the backstreets, Isel heads back to his office at the university, punching in a series of comms to the other acolytes staffing the Sith's research center and temple here, briefing them on what happened. Receiving reports that confirmed that some unknown agent was likely responisible he feels relief.

 

That done, he had some artifacts to date, and a fragmented inscription to decipher, detailing the history of...

 

***

 

Two people arrive at the cantina shortly after Mandalore. Both are human, though one appears to have much finer clothes, complete with a garish outfit and cape, befitting a noblewoman on the planet. The subservient nature of the other, wearing more simple clothes, suggests he is a manservant of some sorts to the female noble. Neither are visibly armed, though there are a few suggestive bulges in their robes.

 

"We will take a corner seat," the noblewoman announces, following her manservant to murmur, "Yes, countess." Taking a seat, the countess faces the door, a haughty, bored look on her face.

 

They would wait for the admiral and his party to arrive, hear him out, and then present the Mandalorian with an offer he wouldn't refuse. If things went smoothly, the Mandalorians and Sith would be allied once more...

In Italy for thirty years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, bloodshed - but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love, 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.

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The moment Onderin darted inside, the Countess and her manservant made a quiet a approach. Despite the Mandalorian's orders not to be disturbed, a quiet display of a weapon, followed by a quick exchange of credits allowed her to gain access.

 

As much of an acolyte as Isel, but with a stronger grasp of being able to at least sense the Force, the Countess was a minor noble with some wealth and power. After the first shadow lifted off Onderon with the depature of the Dark Jedi Order, she too embraced the Sith, becoming one of Darth Luciferian's first followers. Haughty and vain, she believed her skill on par with a Lord, even a Master, though her power was far, far below that of an actual apprentice. Carrying a small ceremonial scepter with a few nasty surprises, she listens, ear at the door, then bursts in, followed by her servant- just as loyal to the Order and his mistress in equal measure.

 

"Rubbish! Absolute rubbish," she declares boldly, not even bothering to introduce herself. "Since when do Mandalorian warriors fight for the Republic?" Her head tilts at a side angle, her eyes, normally brown, taking on a faint blue tinge as her temper rises. "Tell me Admiral, do you think a Mandalorian would be content to sit here like tame dogs, heeling when you obey?" With a glare of pure venom, she glances between the two. "I know of your encampment in the wilds, Mandalore. Your kind always seek to fight, to conquer, and to live for battle. Do you think the Republic would allow you this discretion without putting you on a leash. And you, Admiral, would you really leave us, citizens of this planet, in a cage with these wolves? We were here long before these interlopers showed up and we have no wish to be governed by these brutes! What right have you to give our planet over to these people?"

 

Glaring at each, the manservant stands quiely behind her, hands behind his back, staring at the Jedi and Mandalorian with open hatred. It was a perfect act of Onderon xenophobia, not without natural prejudice nestled in the Countess' heart.

In Italy for thirty years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, bloodshed - but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love, 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.

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