Private Inverted Arcana.

[Ulrich]

The world of gamblers and that inhabited by the practitioners of sorcery was not so far apart as some might suspect. Entrusting your future to the capricious dictums of fate or the inscrutable plans of that vast roiling sea of umbral souls that some foolishly termed the darkside. It should come as no surprise to the trained adept that there were times in which these realms crossed over. One such case was the legend of the black sabbac. Far more than a simple parts of a gambling game or a divinitory tools its true powers were murky and hotly debated within the relevant communities. But your fate has become entwined with these cards.

You have, in a seemingly serendipitous turn of fate, received a strange letter. The envelope in which this correspondence is kept is made of the highest quality paper, scented with rosewood and spice. As you either carefully prize off or yank vociferously at the wax seal that holds the letter shut you notice that it bears a stylized signet with the initials GH imprinted into the wax. Nestled inside the envelope are two things , firstly the expected letter penned in a spidery script , and secondly an almost entirely opaque sabacc card with the slight outlines of a fuligin figure barely perceptible to the eye. On the back of the card there is a number between 1 and 13 , but nothing else to illuminate its purpose.

Turning to the letter for some answers you find that the missive is written by a certain Gorlo Nal Huttar, a particularly strange member of the Hutt species. Unlike many of his race Gorlo had the distinction of being on all accounts a perfectly legitimate and honest businessman. Despite, or perhaps because of this, Gorlo was wealthy even beyond the scope of most hutt crime lords capable of leveraging his vast financial empire to fulfill his every desire. To compound the strangeness it seemed that Gorlo lived a spartan existence as a recluse, his few public appearances being very drab affairs bereft of pageantry. What was known about the mysterious mollusk was that he had a fascination for the supernatural. Despite never having professed any actual talent for force manipulation himself Gorlo was rumored to have amassed a colossal trove of ancient Sith and Jedi artefacts, as well as those from cultures that predated both. In certain circles it was clamed that those with arcane knowledge were paid exorbitant amounts of credits to work as 'consultants' on various projects that Gorlo had pursued throughout his long life.

One final fact about Gorlo comes to your mind. He died, 10 months ago. It was a natural death, with the hutt expiring at the ripe old age of 1116. His funeral was played on the holonet , complete with public cremation and his ashes being scattered into the blackness of space. Curiously, this letter is dated to seven days ago. Even more curious, is that the letter states that Gorlo has chosen you as one of his beneficiaries. It is what this entails that really takes your breath away. Whomever wrote this letter be it Gorlo , his ghost or some imposter knows things about you that no one should be able to glean. Your hearts desire is spelt out there on the page. As if ripped from the pages of your subconscious, the letter spells out something that you may not even admit to yourself, and then promises that it can be yours should you be willing to accept Gorlo's legacy

Later

I'm not usually one to travel if I don't have to. My 'unique circumstances' coupled with the hit the Mandalorian enclave has on me is not conducive to pleasant dalliances abroad. This is however a completely different matter. As a sorcerer the acquisition of magical items and knowledge is paramount. And someone has just baited the perfect hook to reel me in. As my craft draws closer to the remote space station I take the card that I have been sent in my claws. It bears the numeral 5. My powers such as they are are adequate to know that whatever the card is it is certainly a darkside artefact and potent as any holocron.

To say that the station is large would be an understatement. Where it not so isolated it could easily serve as a full military outpost or tourist destination. As it is the only signs of life are several ships that seem to have entered the projected screen of the landing bay. Voicing my intentions to my ship's AI the bulky vessel docks into port. A few minutes later and I am striding out of one hanger and into another on an entirely different scale. While I easily dwarf most humanoids the scale of this room along is enough to even impress me. The place is cavernous with ceilings hundreds of feet above. From what little I can see of the walls they are affixed with grotesques and covered in runes of various origins. For someone who professed to be a layperson Gorlo clearly intended whatever this abode was to be heavily magically protected.

I hear the sounds of voices echoing from a passage to the side. While this place is large enough that I might even take to the wing if I so desired I disregard the idea and simply make my way over on foot. Through a corridor hung with tapestries and scenes from prehistory and into the dim light of another cyclopean chamber I spy the figures of others who have been drawn here by the sirens lure of knowledge and power.

Zoyût

 

[Zoyût]

Zoyût had difficulty travelling away from Rhen Var. While unfussed with her own appearance, the grim simulacrum of life itself bears too much on the minds and souls of those unaccustomed to the Dark Side of the Force. It was for that reason she lived a secluded life within the ancient temple of her cult, hidden away in the frozen valleys. That was why it had been supremely unexpected when a missive had been delivered to her as if she was a known figure within the grander galaxy. Very few that found her temple ever lived to leave it with their minds intact enough to relate what it was they had witnessed, let alone to tell people where she resided.

It was a carefully considered message, and one that played into the depths of her own personal desires. The Pureblood had a love for the esoteric, and deeply craved ancient eldritch knowledge that most Sith would deem as mere myths and legends. It was this coupled with the implication that she was indeed known, that prompted her extremely rare trip away from Rhen Var. Zoyût did not travel alone, as she brought with her a handmaiden chosen from the cultists of the Order of Flesh that could attend to her should she require the completion of menial tasks beyond simply piloting her transport.

The card was the most peculiar element of the missive. A playing card no less, bearing the number 13. Whomever it was that sent the letter either had a very basic sense of humor or simply chose to add the cards randomly. Regardless, there was at least a small bit of mirth to be had from the notion that she had been given a card bearing a number that many folk regarded with fear and superstition. Triskaidekaphobia held no sway over her though, as she had communed with spirits beyond mortal comprehension. Zoyût had committed rituals so profane that to witness them would drive those unprepared to madness. A mere number did not frighten her, but the presence of the Dark Side in the card itself drew her curiosity beyond anything else.

Her arrival at the location was heralded by an aura of dread and agony. Zoyût was a creature of perpetual pain and had become so inured to her suffering that it was merely there to fuel her power in the Dark Side. It took years and years of conditioning both mental and physical, as well as the alchemical work to create her as she now was, to become as such. She towered over most other humanoids at eight feet tall, and her limbs were long as well, creating an unsettling look about her as she moved. Every step was accompanied by a metallic tap, and when she spoke it was as if her very vocal chords were metallicized in some way, "Return to the ship, my child." she commanded her handmaiden. The young woman bowed and returned to the vessel.

Zoyût rolled the playing card over her knuckles as she took a seat among the strangers therein. Eyes fell upon her and she could feel a sensation of fear, awe, and even anger. Upon a closer look at her, it was clear that her armor was not worn, but grafted to her body. Flesh met metal, and the metal was akin to bone now. Nothing about her was natural anymore, spare for her natural desire to discover ancient secrets. The closer one came to her, the more oppressive her presence in the Dark Side become. She was, to those who could sense it, a powerful figure in her own right, and clearly not someone to be trifled with in the slightest. Zoyût crossed one leg over the other, and waited patiently for the festivities to begin, opting so far to speak to nobody until she got a greater sense of the company she shared.