The Black Swordsman
A striking story, for sure, but maybe it didn’t hold any weight given the kinds of characters who relayed it, and one in particular. A gang member. A swooper of the Lost Cause, and oh boy were these idiots not wrong to be called this. But they sported some rather exquisite leather jackets and kuttes. One could give them that much.
Their leader had squirmed under the boot, had cursed beneath the fist, but when just one man was finished with him, that man detected no lies in his eyes, no deception on his lips. On the planet Adelphi in the Outer Rim, on the city of New Nalis, in the cantina The Old Nail, that man had left them alive, but beaten, broken and bloodied.
The Lost Cause’s leader had been more easily believed after revealing that the rumor of this treasure was first heard by a hermit in the Taraja Rainforest north of the city and by the beach. He just needed to have his story confirmed by an appropriate candidate more suited to the hunt. These swoopers were not it.
The leader’s bike, however, proved to be worth its weight in words. It had a new owner now, and that man was on his way through the streets toward the forest and its mysterious inhabitant. The bike was nice, he certainly had the outfit for it, the wind blasting at his jacket as he flew through the night, smiling wide.
The authorities might arrive on the scene behind him any moment, but it was unlikely that those criminals would spill the beans, though they weren’t the only witnesses to the powers of their attacker. A helmeted Sith, voice modular included, and his name was Drane T’keen. Though all they were privy to of his identity was that he was evidently versed in the dark side. Meanwhile, if this treasure proved its weight in words, then it would be his, as would its power.
Salis
