THULE
Azar breathed deeply, flaring his nostrils and letting his tendrils dance in the dank air. This was Thule. A planet rich in the Dark Side, steeped in terror and malice of the great Sith who had come before him, or at least, when he was young. Some said there was even a Sith superweapon buried on the world.
But that was nothing to Azar. He was here to send a message and had chosen his world carefully. A Sith world, certainly, to add to the threat his message was implying. Nestled between the Empire and the Ashlan Crusaders, as well as two hyperlanes, the word would go out.
It would spread. And in time, eventually, it would reach his nephew. Tiland Kortun. Jedi Master. Hermit. Monk. Legendary, but very elusive. Somewhere, out there in the galaxy, he was tarnishing the name of clan Kortun and diminishing the reputation of the Guild of the Purple Lotus, to whom Tiland's allegiance rightfully belonged.
That was something he would not tolerate. Even as the madness pried at his consciousness and he felt his control begin to waver, he pushed himself to focus. To control his rage and his fury, narrowing them and sharpening them like icicles.
But now for the true message. He stood, cracking his back with a stretch just inside an old abandoned warehouse in the capital city. There were five bodies before him, all drained of soup, but still barely alive. The tremors of the Force were just barely detectable.
One was a Jedi, he knew not of which sect they belonged. Silver, New, Crusading, Pilgrim. Jedi were Jedi. Only the Jedi themselves were fool enough to think differently. Another was what these youthful organizations called an Imperial knight. Jedi who served an emperor or Sith who feared the Dark, Azar knew not. Nor, frankly, did he care. The third was a Sith, hunted down in the fringes of the galaxy. Claimed to serve some triumvirate. The fourth claimed to be a knight of Ren, although that too puzzled Azar, for what little amount of time he contemplated it. Who was Ren and why did he have knights? The last was a child, Force-sensitive, but untrained. It would infuriate the Jedi, he was certain. Arouse their protective instincts. Lure them in.
Over the heart of each of these, he placed a small, purple blossom, using gloved hands. Its sap was poison and would burn if touched with bare skin. That done, he stood and removed the gloves, dropping them to the floor. Let these agencies scrabble for fingerprints or genetic material.
He was Anzati. His physiology resembled that of a human corpse and there were no records to trace back to him. He was far too old for that. It might, perhaps, link Tiland to the scene, which would be better. Force his nephew to reveal himself and come out of hiding. Then Azar would break him, even if it was the last thing he did.
That done, he picked up his cane and stepped out of the doorway, reaching up with the cane and nudging a screen off the security camera. It was already turned around to see the scene he had prepared, but not him.
The news would spread. Jedi. Sith. Those he didn't recognize. They would see it. The overreaching intelligence services of the warmongers would ensure that was the case. He slid into the shadows and jumped lightly onto a roof, where he wrapped himself in the Force and a cloak, and settled to wait. Local security forces first, he suspected. They would sound the alarm.
His prey would come. It always did, if he was patient, and Azar was always patient. After all, after 5600 years, what were a few more days? He smiled and a cold, sinister laugh escaped his lips.
Soon.
Azar breathed deeply, flaring his nostrils and letting his tendrils dance in the dank air. This was Thule. A planet rich in the Dark Side, steeped in terror and malice of the great Sith who had come before him, or at least, when he was young. Some said there was even a Sith superweapon buried on the world.
But that was nothing to Azar. He was here to send a message and had chosen his world carefully. A Sith world, certainly, to add to the threat his message was implying. Nestled between the Empire and the Ashlan Crusaders, as well as two hyperlanes, the word would go out.
It would spread. And in time, eventually, it would reach his nephew. Tiland Kortun. Jedi Master. Hermit. Monk. Legendary, but very elusive. Somewhere, out there in the galaxy, he was tarnishing the name of clan Kortun and diminishing the reputation of the Guild of the Purple Lotus, to whom Tiland's allegiance rightfully belonged.
That was something he would not tolerate. Even as the madness pried at his consciousness and he felt his control begin to waver, he pushed himself to focus. To control his rage and his fury, narrowing them and sharpening them like icicles.
But now for the true message. He stood, cracking his back with a stretch just inside an old abandoned warehouse in the capital city. There were five bodies before him, all drained of soup, but still barely alive. The tremors of the Force were just barely detectable.
One was a Jedi, he knew not of which sect they belonged. Silver, New, Crusading, Pilgrim. Jedi were Jedi. Only the Jedi themselves were fool enough to think differently. Another was what these youthful organizations called an Imperial knight. Jedi who served an emperor or Sith who feared the Dark, Azar knew not. Nor, frankly, did he care. The third was a Sith, hunted down in the fringes of the galaxy. Claimed to serve some triumvirate. The fourth claimed to be a knight of Ren, although that too puzzled Azar, for what little amount of time he contemplated it. Who was Ren and why did he have knights? The last was a child, Force-sensitive, but untrained. It would infuriate the Jedi, he was certain. Arouse their protective instincts. Lure them in.
Over the heart of each of these, he placed a small, purple blossom, using gloved hands. Its sap was poison and would burn if touched with bare skin. That done, he stood and removed the gloves, dropping them to the floor. Let these agencies scrabble for fingerprints or genetic material.
He was Anzati. His physiology resembled that of a human corpse and there were no records to trace back to him. He was far too old for that. It might, perhaps, link Tiland to the scene, which would be better. Force his nephew to reveal himself and come out of hiding. Then Azar would break him, even if it was the last thing he did.
That done, he picked up his cane and stepped out of the doorway, reaching up with the cane and nudging a screen off the security camera. It was already turned around to see the scene he had prepared, but not him.
The news would spread. Jedi. Sith. Those he didn't recognize. They would see it. The overreaching intelligence services of the warmongers would ensure that was the case. He slid into the shadows and jumped lightly onto a roof, where he wrapped himself in the Force and a cloak, and settled to wait. Local security forces first, he suspected. They would sound the alarm.
His prey would come. It always did, if he was patient, and Azar was always patient. After all, after 5600 years, what were a few more days? He smiled and a cold, sinister laugh escaped his lips.
Soon.