Beltor "Bell" Cyrus, PHD.
Dantooine.
Stars, this was a beautiful place, and not just in the natural aspect. Rolling green hills, verdant valleys and adorable little thickets of pines, maples, and other trees he didn't quite recognize. The architecture of the temple it self was breathtaking in the way all the old temples and holdfasts of the order were.
Old, moss speckled stonework, flowing seamlessly with the land in that way typical of Jedi craftsmanship. Stars, he wish he could have been here during the era of its construction, the highpoint of it's use as a main temple....
The day was warm, the sun shined, and the birds of the land chirped their little songs as the tall man in oddly shabby smugglers garb walked the external paths of the Temple, taking it all in for once. His datapad, typically attached to his wrist and alight with his notes and written details, was switched off. His gun sat nearly forgotten in its holster under his left arm, only he was here enjoying it with a soft, goofy smile on his face.
He had landed earlier that day, setting the Jade Finch down in one of the landing pads that ringed the main complex, and had spent most of the morning going through the sections of the still extant section of the archives they'd let him. Eventually, he had to get outside, get some fresh air, take in the quiet beauty of the place instead of sit inside all day, his nose deep in books and holocrons.
He did have some one he was supposed to meet, one knight in particular with white hair...
He was so deep in to it he almost didn't notice it. The little twinge in his gut that had led him so many other times in his life, that feeling the defied all his academic attempts to classify it. He fallowed it, along the path, that little pull, and evidently found what it was leading him too.
He was serine, almost statue like in his reverence of the moment. He was also a damn sight shorter then he figured for a jedi knight, or at least compared to Bell's own towering frame. He shrugged to him self and took a few steps closer, trying to not make the interruption to his meditation any more painful then it need be.
He cleared his throat, gently, and spoke.
"Excuse me, I don't suppose you're Mr. Braze, yes?" Bell's own tone was polite, warm, and with the same odd twang a lot of spacer-borne folk had.