Private Lord of the Fringe

[Corin Trenor]

Kyric

Quiberon was an old, storied system. Nestled neatly between the Moddell System and the Imperial Road. Once, rare and raw minerals were harvested in abundance to be sold to the highest bidder, developing a blossoming set of riches that were bound to propel the planet into becoming an economic powerhouse. Those that peddled the minerals were thriving, influencing all aspects of life for the Quiberonian people. Everyone was becoming richer and nearly overnight. The once modest lives were becoming filled with luxury, settling in gilded towers and hosting lavish parties to commemorate their own existences. As far as anyone was concerned, it was swiftly becoming the place to be.

For over a millennia, Quiberon thrived. Though mere centuries ago, it began to fall. The mines were starting to dry up. The people panicked, and the richest among them ensured their profits stayed with them and them alone. With a sudden, plague-like poverty brewing, the people grew restless. Protesting, demanding, then rioting. It all came to a head with outside intervention in the form of mercenaries, hired by the planetary government after their military fractured. The people of Quiberon rose up in full, seeking to depose those that sought to keep them down. For all their efforts, there was nothing. The mines were still dry, their coffers were barren. The cities, once gold and glass, began to rust. A testament to greed. The planet's forests, fields and animals had begun to act in their own manner of defiance, reclaiming what was once stolen from them.

The Quiberonian people abandoned their once-opulent lives in favour of what was left: the simple act of being. In frontier towns on the outskirts of vast cities, the people traded what was left as antiques. Scrappers were as common as off-world visitors that came seeking antiques, trinkets from a society that had fallen into ruin. Though this decline made them vulnerable, and vulnerability invited all kinds of ne'er-do-wells. Criminals were made in the slums and back alleys, pirates and marauders of all kind came after smelling that weakness.

It was not long after Coruscant that Corin returned to his backwater planets, these filth-ridden spheres drifting out of sight and mind of the broader galaxy. Of them, Quiberon was simply next on that long and endless list. Seeing he was a Jedi of sorts, the people pleaded and begged for intervention from the Galactic Alliance, the High Republic, whoever he served, though he was all that was on offer. Promises of payment followed soon after, though lodging and some meals would make do.

In the coming weeks, bands of pirates found their supplies ruined and their fleets, small as they were, scattered into fields of debris. The marauders, mostly Quiberonian people that fell deeper and darker into despair and desperation than most, fell in on themselves with the death of their so-called great leader. Though crime as a whole, well... that would never be truly banished. It would always remain.

In some dusty old down, caught in the shadow of the monuments to seemingly ancient greed, Corin was roaming the streets with his poncho draped over his form. A gust of wind blew in, sending the dust scattering in the air and small gravelly rocks rolling across the makeshift road. It was more of a wide, beaten path. Corin, dipping his head to avoid it, had his hair blown from his eyes, those runic symbols. Ugly things. Consequences.

Corin peered into a restaurant, a bar, some mix of the two. It was dark, quiet, near-empty save for the two idle chatters that sat at the bar with their drinks and broth bowls. Entering, the Ithorian behind the bar hurried out to clear a table, grasping at used glasses and a dirtied plate. It was a wordless exchange, with Corin offering a gentle nod in turn. He sunk into the booth, ordering his favourite of Quiberonian food. It would be his last, he decided. A mirky, brown bowl of broth with a hint of green, swirling a wooden spoon and revealing the cuts of various meats, even an eyeball of a mucous salamander. He sat, ate, slurped.

His life was no longer on some grand battlefield, charging in with soldiers to face off against enemies great and powerful. It was simple and above all else, rewarding. From one mudhole to the next.

 

[Kyric]

There was much to be done before Kyric could return to the galaxy at large. Visions haunted his dreams, warning of a great darkness rooted within the Core Worlds. His many clashes with the re-emerging Dark Side Elite pointed to one culprit; a great evil who ascended to power within the Core once before, as his following ravaged the galactic east on its death march to Tython. No other Sith Lord so readily threatened galactic peace as Darth Solipsis did. Raised once from death already, the Dark Lord never abandoned his quest to conquer the Core Worlds, to destroy and remake the galaxy in his own twisted image.

Rather than wait for the hammer to fall anew, those sworn to the Light have risen in preparation. Allies old and new gather together on Atrisia to strike back against the agents of disorder. But even they question if it will be enough. Forced into obscurity following a disastrous string of raids across Sith-controlled space, the Lightsworn return to a galaxy teetering on the edge.

The Galactic Alliance struggles in the face of expansion.

The High Republic, born anew and baptized in the fires of the Nether, are beset on all sides in their quest to unify the galactic south.

Imperials rise across the stars, carrying familiar and unfamiliar banners alike.

Few living Jedi could say they crossed blades with the Dark Lord on Tython and survived. Many recounted Solipsis' power in near totality in the fateful encounter that saw both Rurik Fel and Ryv Karis dead. It took a combined strike team of some of the most skilled and, perhaps, foolhardy, to weather the Sith Lord down in his final moments.

Corin Tenor stood among that number. A Jedi Master or quiet legend, a warrior who stood at the pinnacle. Though history continued onward as he wandered in search of the past. Battles raged across the stars. Empires rose and fell. Millions died. The rise and fall of the galactic heartbeat, impermeable. Constant. He chased the ghost of Dagon Kaze with certainty. Driven across the fringes of space, Corin's name was synonymous with praise, protector, and celebration. A man who faced injustice wherever he encountered it.

It wasn't a difficult trail to follow. Not for Kyric, anyway. This was the very same path the kiffar would've walked were he still looking for the missing Jedi Master. Dagon's long line of duty, buried in the duracrete and durasteel of Denon would've driven him far from such living. He was a simple man at heart, not unlike those who followed him, and very much like the man who Dagon Kaze followed himself.

Kyric watched Corin step into the the old dive from across the intersection, thumbs hitched to his belt. Quiet. Indiscreet. A regular hole in the wall for the denizens of the town. Not unlike the bar Kyric grew up. He stepped into the muted restaurant, his single eye searching the interior for the most advantageous position. Line of sight with all exits. Room to swing a sword without endangering a bystander, or destroy the establishment. But most of all—a little bit of comfort. The road was long.

The kiffar approached the booth with a smile and slid into the seat across from Corin. Kyric's sword, Resolute, hung over his shoulder. A lightsaber—recently constructed—hung at his right side.

"Afternoon, Master Corin. I was wanderin' if you had a moment to chat."

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Tags: Corin Trenor

 

[Corin Trenor]

The doors opened with a gust of wind, swinging back into place after knocking against each other. Corin did not deign to lift his gaze as the figure approached, though there was always that gnawing feeling he could never truly set aside; a whispering voice, almost, clawing and informing when the peace and quiet was all he aspired for. It was as if he knew who it was, quickly associating memories and piecing together moments of the past, before ever laying eyes on the person. That voice though, it confirmed what the Force so desperately demanding to tell Corin.

Leaning over his broth, he lifted those marred eyes of his with their strange patterns and took in Kyric for all of a second. The both of them had changed so much since their last meeting, so long ago now, and their eyes were what told those stories. Rather, Kyric's lack of one. Turning back to his meal, Corin sipped on the spoon, placed it inside and dabbed his mouth with a cloth. The motion was slow, deliberate, as if he weighed each of them against each other in quiet contemplation. He pushed the bowl away from him, into the middle of the table and breathed deeply.

Since Dagon's disappearance and all the events between, the loud mouthed student tempered and became a master with a sour disposition.

"Kyric," he answered, absent all warmth, gesturing with an open hand to the seat across from him. Just Corin served fine but that was semantics. His features remained flat and neutral, his voice near-monotone save for the hint of tiredness that permeated throughout it. "How can I help you?"

Kyric