Count Dooku

The majordomo closes the tall double doors behind you, and footsteps fade down the marble corridor. The Count's private study welcomes you with soaring arched casements, dark-paneled walls, and the scent of parchment and warm tea. Its master stands by an antique writing desk, his back to the fading light, in no hurry to turn around.

When he finally does, the motion is measured and fluid, as though time itself were his to command. His cool grey eyes assess your attire before resting upon your face.

You have traveled a great distance to deliver something of consequence. I trust you bear no routine petition for peace; such documents I collect, but rarely bother to unseal. He gestures toward an upholstered armchair opposite his own. Please, be seated. The tea remains hot, and our time is hardly slipping away faster than that of your benefactors.

The Count settles into his seat first, straightening the cuff of his dark tunic and resting his fingers on his lap. At his hip, the polished curve of a lightsaber hilt glints faintly in the lamplight.

Now then. On whose behalf do you speak, and what proposition have you brought before me?