Private Prophecies of Cron [Ryv and Voyance]

[Darth Voyance]

Ryv ​

[Music]​

Spoiler

​

Cron Drift, Auril Sector​

Outer Rim​

Epsilon XVI was an asteroid spaceport engraved into the bowls of a hulking chunk of planetoid debris that once was a world within the ancient Cron Cluster. Aeons ago, in legendary times, the world was a member of a multitude of other worlds in the resplendent nebula. The ancient Sith Sorceress Aleema Keto would destroy this beatific paradise by way of Sith Magic that caused the stars to super novae. Now all that remained was the large asteroid drift that gave it, its name.​

Swerving through this cosmic graveyard, was a sleek blackened chrome yacht. Passing by a ring of Sith-Imperial patrol satellites the yacht broadcasted an Imperial ID that marked itself as a Belderone Imperial Vessel, in use by the Tion Hegemony. The yacht swooped down below a drifting fleet of rocks and locked onto the entrance hangar of Epsilon XVI. Flying softly, it slowed and used the station’s focusing tractor beams to tug it into port. The yacht entered, hovered over the landing deck and then gradually descended. Its insectoid like landing limbs touched down and embraced the weight of the yacht with a sighing wheeze of its gears. The port doors slid open and a gangplank extended out to touch the deck.​

From a mist of ventilation efflux, a figure draped in a black hooded cloak, black and red slender helm and black padded space suit beneath strode out. It was hard to tell who was beneath all the clothing, whether a male or female, alien or human. They approached a Deckhand who was flanked by a pair of laborer droids. The Deckhand, taping his datapad, was logging in the vessel data of the landed yacht. He searched for the owner’s name. When they had finally come upon them, the Deckhand looked up and greeted the new arrival.​

“Welcome to Epsilon XVI….uh…” he looked down briefly, “Rasmus Belderone.”​

The name hung in the air between them for a moment. It was unfamiliar. Then again, Sith being anywhere near the Cron Drift was unusual. The asteroid belt may have had its Sith lineage, but, it was not a place of frequent activity. It mainly had become a rest stop for the trade fleets that slinked up and down the Parlemian Trade Route. The Deckhand squished his brows together and his open mouth lingered gaping before his voice stuttered back to continue.​

“Will you be visiting here long, my lord?” he asked.​

“I will not,” replied Rasmus.​

Their voice was mangled by a synthesized metallic ring that betrayed no sex, accent, tone, or melodic clue as to their origin or galactic cultural heritage. The voxscrambler in their helmet only produced a grinding, gargling, and deadpan electronic audio. Accompanied by an echo of the suit’s hissing respiratory system.​

“I want my ship resupplied and prepared for departure, immediately,” Rasmus said.​

They looked away from the Deckhand and towards a blast door that led into the spaceport itself. Rasmus stepped aside and walked past the Deckhand. Confused, and little bit frightened, the Deckhand merely watched silently as Rasmus left him, only to be startled by the sounds of a small BB Unit rolling behind and following the mysterious Sith. Passing through the blast doors, Rasmus stopped in the corridor and turned to face an computer panel. The small BB unit rolled towards their feet. Rasmus pointed to the port.​

“Find it,” they commanded.​

The BB unit, named Iunoksiqsa, Little Demon, rolled up to the port and injected its scomp link into the jack port. The scomp turned and stopped, only to turn again, as Iunoksiqsa scoured the spaceport’s astrogation records and vessel logs. It was searching for loggings of a location and if any vessels had visited it. The astromech droid whistled as it halting the scomp link’s twirling. It ejected the connecting device and spun its cylindrical top head towards Rasmus. It beep and clicked. Rasmus looked down to their droid and then up to the end of the corridor.​

‘So that is how they disguised it,’ Rasmus thoughts studied, ‘...as a ‘Tionese Mining Colony’…how clever of the Krath.”​

Rasmus growled at Iunoksiqsa, “Come.”​

The two departed for the corridor’s exit, entering the dome encased the small cluster of building modules that was the spaceport for Epsilon XVI. Spacefarer’s crowded every street, engaging with mechanics, merchants, and with Sith Imperial Troopers that marched in patrolling groups. Rasmus cut into the crowd and moved towards the Spacefarer’s Guild module. Rasmus had come to find the means to travel to this disguised Tionese Mining Colony. A route controlled by the private fleets that the Tion Hegemony controlled. That is why they had come all this way. The Dark Side had foretold that somewhere in the Cron Drift, in the ambient power that radiated the asteroid belt with the remnants of the scattered ghosts of Sith Old, a prophecy would be revealed to them. A living prophecy. They needed to find this 'person of prophecy', and perhaps it would reveal itself where the dark side residue of Aleema Keto was most potent.​

The Krath, those that had carried on the legacy of Sebban Keto and had hid their heritage away from the Sith Empire, would be dogged in their refusal. Rasmus knew they would not part with their colony locations so easily.​

But, Rasmus had not come to negotiate.​

 

[Ryv]

"Oi, Kiffar, get the kark out of my seat!"

Ryv perked up, an inquisitive glance was thrown back over his shoulder at the rowdy cantina goer howling for his attention. He dropped his head, released a heavy sigh, and returned his attention to the fizzy drink resting on the dirty bartop. It bubbled over the rim, lazily rolling down the side of the glass to eventually pool around it. He reached out and took hold of the drink, casually twirling it about before gulping down a third of its contents. As the Jedi set it down, a pair of meaty hands clamped down on his right shoulder and bicep, thick, strong fingers digging past the leathers of Ryv's jacket, pinching at the flesh and muscle beneath. The Jedi winced in turn, one of his eyes clenched shut as his jaw tightened. Slowly, he looked back, his amber gaze settling on the towering Basiliskan.

"W'at, you didn't 'ear me? I said," the Basiliskan reached out with his other two arms, now holding tight to the Jedi with all four hands. "Yer in my karkin' seat, you no good, dirty karkin' spacer!" the monolithic lizard man heaved upward, pulling Ryv from the chair before pivoting on his back foot. With a swift twist of his waist, the colossal alien turned and threw the Kiffar across the room, sending him tumbling through stacked chairs and an overturned table.

Tucking his chin, Ryv braced himself, both arms lifted upward to shield his face. His left side made contact with the chairs, sending them over sideways as he flew past, only to impact a table turned over on its side. His momentum carried the already ruined table sliding several feet across the dirty floor. It came to a jarring halt as the remaining three legs each splintered on impact with the wall. Ryv felt the side of his face slam awkwardly against the top of the table's surface as the bottom met the wall behind it.

Ryv groaned in pain, a hand nursing a bloody nose and bruised cheek. "Dammit, man," he looked up through teary eyes, his vision blurred as a half dozen customers erupted into laughter. He pushed himself to his feet, his remaining hand clenched into a fist tight enough to whiten his knuckles.

"W'at I tell ye, lads?" the Basiliskan asked the crowd. "Not a single soul takes my karkin' seat!" a number of the spectators cheered, while others returned their attention to their drink.

"Whatever," Ryv groaned as he stood. The tension in his hand relaxed as it pressed into his lower back. He pushed outward, stretching until he heard a series of satisfying pops and cracks from his many joints. "You're not worth it," he waved the scene away with his stump, already heading to the entrance to the dive. Only a few feet from the door, his attention on some distant stall, did the Jedi Knight realize he'd left his bag behind him. He cursed his luck and turned back, pushing his way into the building. Seeing it untouched where he'd left it, he hurried to the countertop, knelt down, and scooped it up without making eye contact with the surrounding patrons.

As he turned about, the rowdy Basiliskan's meaty hand took hold of one of the pack's straps.

"Where ye think yer goin' with my bag, Kiffar?"

Ryv looked back. "What?"

Two small, beady eyes glared down into Ryv's face as the lizard-like alien leaned inward. The Jedi could smell the liquor on the creature's sour breath, his nose crinkling up in retaliation.

"This is my bag," the large man said. "You need me to teach ye another karkin' lesson about takin' w'at don't belong to ye?" he reached out, his three free hands snaking forward as if to grab Ryv again.

"You know what?" Ryv released the bag. "Eat this," his good hand shot upward, tightening into a fist that soon collided with the meaty and rotund flesh of the Basiliskan's neck. Before the rowdy reptilian could recover, the Jedi took a step towards the stumbling man, took hold of his lower jaw as he gasped out in pain, and pulled downward. Like a hulking snake with four limbs, the Basiliskan's body followed its head downward, unable to stop the Jedi's arching knee as it slammed up into the drunken man's jaw. Bone snapped, a pair of teeth shot out, and the light left the man's eyes as he tumbled over and dropped to the floor.

Without a second glance, Ryv lifted his pack and strode from the bar, returning to the busy streets of the packed space station.

Darth Voyance ​