Though I will provide text here, I will also provide a google document in case you want to edit it. https://docs.google.com/document/d/1bMaPTHv6zq3kbuQm_DIUJF60OPbsAi_9yZ-p2X4equ0/edit

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Stygian Caldera
Classified Location

34 ABY

Aboard the ancient space station the cult - or Clan, as they referred to themselves - called home, a scarred Pantoran man, frail but in his prime, found himself in an especially unique position. Having been asked by the Dread Lord for a meeting, Laren had entered the large, square conference room to find the Dread Lord dead, and a masked assassin caught off guard by his arrival. Laren’s yellow eyes had focused within microseconds, and he had drawn his weapon and fired a bead faster than he had ever thought possible. The humanoid assassin had, as well, dropped to the ground in an unruly heap, the pair of bodies contorted in such a way that it was clear their bodies were limp with an all-too-recent death. This left Laren, his D-C-seventeen still billowing smoke from its short barrel. As far as Laren was concerned, and according to the traditions set forth in the ‘Clan’, Laren was technically the new Dread Lord.

The doors behind him opened, two heavily armoured and black-robed individuals entering, lightsabers already at the ready. Understanding Force-users a little more since he had been working with Plagueis, Laren assumed they must have sensed their Master’s death, and perhaps even the intruder who had seemingly killed their Master. Of course, the first thing they see is Laren’s blaster smouldering from a recent shot, and they slowly began to bare down on him.

“Okay, listen. This is some sort of mistake!” He began stepping back, as the guards drew closer and closer, lightsabers no deactivated but resting at their sides. “You know that I definitely couldn’t have shot the Dread Lord. Even I am not that good.” Laren had passed the elongated conference table, his back now against the wall of the room to the right of where the bodies stay lay. His blaster was held at the ready, waiting for the first strike of these dangerous individuals.

Suddenly the guards kneeled, their lightsabers laying atop their exposed knees, heads bowed in complete reverence. Though heavy heartedly and with a touch of hesitation, the two in unison said, “Dread Lord, we are yours to command.”

“Excuse me? Now, listen, I know you folks have your laws and your traditions,” Laren basically spat out the last words, pausing to catch his own train of thought. “But you can’t be serious in calling me your Dread Lord -”

“You think we want this, Dread Lord?” The guard to his left asked, his face covered by a black veil, but his blue eyes were steeled with defiance. “You are one of The Willing. How you ever became a Second, let alone now the Dread Lord? I should strike you down where you stand -”

As the man stood up, about to activate his lightsaber, Laren put his hand out in earnest, simultaneously also raising his blaster to the ready in his left hand. “You wouldn’t want to go doing that. I may not wield this so-called Force you all value so dearly, but I know as mere guards to the Dread Lord that you are not powerful enough to stand up to the other di Plagia who will surely try to usurp this position.” His two companions were now standing, Laren slowly making his way toward the far end of the conference near where the bodies lay. “Let me be your leader, your puppet. Your scapegoat. I may not know the Force, but I am not a fool. They will be making their moves, gathering their support. But if you throw your support behind me, the man who killed not one but two Dread Lords to assume the title, you would be unstoppable. The popular support would fall behind me, and thus you.” Laren could tell he was getting through to them. The dirtiest way he knew how to win a battle was with words. You could always do so much more with words than a gun.

“Do what your Clan namesake did. Plagueis ruled for years in the shadows, manipulating the Galaxy to his advantage. He was more than willing to leave his legacy to the shadows.” Laren holstered his blaster, pointing down at the bodies behind him.

“Greatness isn’t measured by history. It is measured by your own power, and the ability to wield it. Their power has been gifted to me - and thus, to you. Make me your power, your tool to be used, and take the Clan for yourselves. What say you?”

Laren had never been a gambling man. Gambling required chance, and chance was never a factor Laren relied on. He had taken many risks, and would hopefully take many more in his long, blood-filled life, but he had never gone in blind. Gambling was blind chance, the odds determined by the balance of the Universe. Laren always made his own odds, bending the circumstances to his will. But he was gambling his own life, now, with these two ambitious and power-hungry humanoids. He hoped that using them to suit his own ends wouldn’t be his own undoing.

They spoke in hushed tones, looking over at Laren and back toward themselves again. This went on for a few moments, though there was no time to dally on a decision the likes of this.

“It is decided, bounty hunter. You will be our Dread Lord.”

Laren’s face slowly lit up with a smile. It was devoid of any form of happiness. His smile was one of victory, one of resolve, and one of deceit. For the first time in possibly ever, though only partially so, a Non-Force User sat atop a throne of Clan Plagueis. Though he would not have the backing of the other Lords, and he may even face outright hostility, if he had the Legions on his side through his own overseers, there would be no denying his authority.

“Let’s get to work."