He did not enjoy coming here. It reminded him of her. Each passing face of a prospective Padawan; each hooded apprentice skulking late at night along the holo-desks, reading the long-forgotten lore of the Order's past. That was then, though-- before the Civil War had shattered the backbone of the Jedi and scattered their ranks to the endless stars. At the very least, he could be satisfied with the fact that not a single soul stalked the halls of the Archives, now. Not since their doors were closed from the public; the rest of the Temple was soon to follow. Aorri had arrived as soon as he had heard the news from Zatoq, and had evaded being kicked out by virtue of his ability to stay out of sight from the Jedi Guardians that yet remained within this husk of a temple.
Rakata Prime was an elusive bit of folklore within the Republic's history. There were rumors, of course, of its ancient significance-- tens of thousands of years ago, when a long-forgotten empire reigned the cosmos-- but Aorri had never heard, nor had he been told, anything concrete. It seemed both the Jedi and the Republic wanted nothing to do with the backwater exoplanet, but Knight Besh couldn't help but feel a gnawing at the back of his mind as he had glanced over the star-charts of the Chancellor's datapad. A hunch-- or some odd fixation. An idiotic obsession. Whichever the case, it allowed him to get as far away from Coruscant as possible, and avoid Nar Shaddaa in the process. Both reasons were more than enough for him to take on the task. His journey to the archives were for the explicit purpose of finding out more about these elusive Rakatans-- but such information was, unfortunately, restricted to Knights such as him.
It was surreal, walking along the dimly-lit corridors of the Archives without another soul in sight. So much knowledge, locked away indefinitely. Permanently, even, if Revan was able to tighten his chokehold upon the Jedi ranks. Rani would have hated to see that, he thought. Such a waste. Nothing but memories and ghosts, now, and the two were one and the same. Aorri approached the Planetary Archives with a silent step, not daring to wake the dead.
It was a small room beyond the aisles, sequestered beyond a single door at the end of the corridor; Aorri input his credentials and entered the databank storage chamber. The azure light which bathed the room was peaceful, almost. Tracing a finger along the wall, he stopped upon the identification he needed, gave a small breath, and input the code for access. Jedi Knights, unfortunately, were unable to access this sort of data-- hidden from view, closely guarded.
A forgotten shade, thankfully, still retained access.
ACCESS GRANTED - WELCOME, MASTER: ULTEN SYVOR.
He had taken Syvor's credentials after taking his life aboard his own ship; it had been a choice he'd regretted, in the moment, but paid dividends in the recent years. The only thing slower than Republic bureaucracy was the Order, after all, and even now, Ulten's identification and information had not yet been removed from the Jedi's databases. A final use for his old master, it seemed. A way to make his death mean something, in its own way. If only Ulten were here, now, to help him with this mess.
The shard withdrawn from the wall was a luminescent cyan, as if carved from light itself; a cursory scrub of the information revealed boilerplate data upon Rakata Prime's atmosphere and inhabitants. Aorri furrowed his brow, at that-- there was supposed to be more. The shard was slotted back in, and the process was repeated for the one beside it. The same-- this time, a brief historical overview of the Rakatans, and nothing else.
"Impossible." He muttered to himself. Perhaps the Archives were incomplete-- they had to be. Until, after a few minutes of poring over the databank, he found what he was looking for.
With a twist of his hand and a pull from the Force, the shard was freed from the wall, hovering above Aorri's palm as his fingers almost seemed to curl around an invisible base. His other hand rose, brushing along the air around the shard and working his fingers as if he were manipulating something deeper within the brilliant azure piece of technology; a few moments passed, and Besh's breathing picked up, neck tensing and eyes narrowing. Pain. This hurt to do, his sense of the Force atrophied and marred by the uncountable losses across the galaxy. It was as if the very fabric of reality fought against his manipulations-- a moment of agony turned to two, which turned to three as he let out a grunt--
-- and then the shard began to shift, folding from its flattened, chip-like shape and curling into a polyhedron. The outer edges of the shard's casing seemed to curl over themselves to form the outside edges of the shape-- and within the center, that brilliant blue remained. A holocron, converted to a flat chip and stored within the databank's walls. Aorri held the device a few inches above his palm, closing his eyes as he sought to check its information with the aid of the Force; a sigh soon followed, and the prism dropped into his hand fully.
A translation module for the Rakatan language, stored within the holocron. Once the Temple's, now his. For now. They certainly wouldn't be using it any time soon. Once he got this properly interfaced with M3-M8, he'd be well on his way to figuring out if there was anything worth investigating upon Rakata. A lead, however faint, was still a lead.
First, though, he would need help. Pulling the sleeve of his jacket back to reveal his wrist-bound communicator, he quickly relayed a message to one of the only men he knew to be reliable upon this Force-forsaken planet.
Captain Tavos. This is Jedi Knight Besh. Meet me at our usual haunt-- I've a job for you.
And so he left, a final ghost in hand-- the remnants of a long-dead civilization, and the first piece to realizing the location of Revan's war effort, if the Force prevailed in guiding him.