The Holonet. A dark, brooding land of mistrust, misinformation and of course, bargains of the greatest and highest calibre. It was here were Thraxis dragged his finger, a pad coated with burn marks and a range of cuts and bruises that made running a finger along the screen more similar to a god running his finger along a mountainside than along a flat ocean bed.
"Left swipe that. Oh and left swipe that. Another advertisement for credits. Neato and this is for... Oh?" A brow raised in comical amusement. Afterall, it wasn't every day one encountered such a goading list of Holocrons. Alas, he saw pressed up there, in that little wonder of a time stamp the time that had passed. Rare things tended to go for a lot of money, and exceedingly fast. That was the problem with them after all. If one's finger wasn't on the buzzer the minute the answer came to mind it was washed away by another stealing the prize, and he could tell from this list, a lot of that had been snatched and stolen, but tiny marks left in the fabrics of the web told him another story, of three items he wanted.
The first, the Purple Rejects. In such turbulent times one always needed a good group of cannon fodder, and this lot sounded like they were a shared deathstick away. The next, an Unferground Facility? Who doesn't want one of them, especially a place to host these rambunctious rabble-rousers? And finally, those Bathrobes? Some Sith bloke? Bane, popped up once every day or so, but what ancient Jedi or Sith didn't? Now, at first glance they seemed useless to a Non-Force USer, but he had his plans. Mainly, nice clothing and to misguide people in the belief he could control the force and all the strings that came with it.
But then came the price. When the pen was put to Paper the Jackal had far more than one might expect. Resources long since lost, not in the idea of artefacts, but in far more credits than he knew what to do with. "Rabble Rousers... Twenty Thousand credits to them outta their hair, another thirty for the base but those robes..." A useless pen danced between his gnawing teeth, bouncing with a sway before spitting it out and finishing up his bid and final price to the respective retail salesman.
With a rapid dance of his fingers, he inputted numbers and words like a madman driven by passion. "Hello, their fair lady I see I may have arrived a tad later than expected to this swarie of a bidding and expenditure! But I am here to make an offer I hope thy can't refuse. Though gift of gab I was never blessed I offer Twenty Thousand for the Purple Rejects to whisk them from your hands and into the lap of Deathsticks. For the base on Mytus VII I offer a grand Thirty Thousand and alas, for those breathtaking robes of finest silk, quality or whatever they may be forged, Five Million Credits." He paused, he may have overshot for what amounted to fanciful dress-where, but Thraxis was not known to undershot. "Oh, and if any of those Holocrons do go unnoticed for what reason or another, I open the bid for the leftovers at a Million Credits each. Like they say, knowledge is power and in this finite universe one can never have too little."
[member="Ella Nova"]
