Mʏsᴛᴇʀɪᴏᴜs Sᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇʀ
Wearing:
Tag: TBA
The Sarlaac Pit was by all reasonable standards, a dump. It reeked of spilled rotgut, unwashed Trandoshans, and the ozone tang of poorly shielded power cells. But Nar Shaddaa's charm lay in its filth; it was the only place in the galaxy where a man could disappear while sitting in plain sight, draped in five thousand credits worth of Corellian silk.
Lord Quern sat in a booth carved from the rusted hull of a decommissioned freighter, his pale skin appearing almost translucent under the flickering neon glare. Before him sat a plate of flash-seared gorgara meat, though he hadn't touched it. Beside his ear, the amphistaff shifted.
Its obsidian scales rasped against the high, stiff collar of his robes, a dry, papery sound that made the Weequay server's hands shake every time he approached the table. The other patrons kept their distance without ever quite admitting why.
Most wrote him off as another high-roller gone to seed, some Corellian gambler who'd bet his soul on one too many sabacc hands, or a disgraced Coruscanti noble fleeing creditors and scandal. Comforting lies they told themselves.
The truth was far more intoxicating.
Quern stood among the richest individuals in the Sith Order, second only to the Dark Lords themselves in liquid wealth and the leverage it bought. He possessed no spark of the Force, no midi-chlorians to whisper secrets or bend minds. To the uninitiated, that lack might seem a fatal weakness, a disqualifying wound in the eternal game of power.
He traded in what the Force could never touch, information that moved through hidden channels, assets that flowed unseen across borders no Jedi or Sith could openly claim. A single dataspike passed under the table could seed a rebellion, topple a Moff, or buy the loyalty of an entire mercenary fleet.
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