It was no larger than a clenched fist, if it was particularly brawny, a precisely machined cut of psychopathic quartz radiant with inner-glows, all chased by noetic modules of layered crystal-matrix diagrams fashioned from conduction gold, platinum, silver, precious metals. Some of which, he knew, held no names on widely established periodic tables.
It was also incredible ancient, valued, and probably sought after by the galaxy's most voracious and hungering treasure hunters. Crowds of their ilk would kill and kill again to have it in their possession. If not for the sake of its archived, deeply entombed engrams of priceless, ageless wisdom, then simply for petty bragging rights.
Prior to his untimely, much maligned demise at the cruel, talented hands of Exar Kun, Vodo-Siosk Baas laboured to create a sort of... thought-machine. A Holocron. An infinitely complex mechanism of spiritual energies and memories encoded into the analogue language of processed information, transformed thrice-over into a compressed spark of immense faculty and computational power. They were permanent grafts of personality, and were known to always hold immense engram-libraries that discussed from politics and the realities of complex morality down to lectures on the differences of introns and exons.
Seroth was laid in the berth of a ship drifting between nameless stars, systems hunkered down to bare minimum requirements to host life support. He was bleeding. Winterfang, Bane of Beasts, Haunter of Spawn, laid across in his lap, idle and flecked with tissue matter and no small amount of ichor-stained gore. All across he sported terrific cuts and such savaging rents that it seemed assured he'd perished. Pale pallor grimacing, the man reached for [member="Jorus Merrill"]'s datapad missive and read over his briefly conducted summary of harrowing episodes.
The Baas Holocron laid on a small pillow by his outstretched boots. In time, wakened by furtive thoughts mixed with tremulous strokes of Force power, a ghost flit into a half realized, ghostly profile. A wizened Krevaaki male, crustacean features aged by a subtle expression of perpetual anguish, greeted him.
"...My young friend, you do not look well," He said, voice watery and phlegmatic.
"No..."
"What trouble has given you cause to consult with me? What portion of the elder ages had coaxed your curiosity?"
Seroth waved a torn glove, palm bleeding from a length of gashed, opened skin. "Nothing like that, Old One."
"What is it then? You wear heartache with all the solemnity of a funeral mask."
"...I am very tired," He said in close murmurs, nodding his chin against his clavicle. "And I've walked very long trails and I've come from the hunt. I... I slay monsters, you see. The ordinary definition, just... beasts and creatures of ill-make that go about with unsubtle plans to terrorize and eat the flesh of the living. It's a good cause. A good calling. I like to think so. But this last hunt... Did not fair so well."
"...And you are compelled to ask me something in close connection."
"Master Baas, you would know better than anyone living how heavy decision weighs. I need to ask you something..."
"Then speak, friend."
"...Have I done right?"
A terrible, long silence followed and echoed silent, ringing peels off the riveted bulkheads.
