For the fairytale tropes: tricking a knowledge spirit. That just screams Jaster
“I will not help you find anything that is not already yours,” the spirit warns, and it’s a sharp thing, a threat.
Jaster doesn’t let himself be moved. “It is mine,” he says, and it’s more or less true—the Darksaber is his by right, by tradition, even if Tor is the one who holds it right now. Seeking out a Jedi, a being purely of the Force, is a risk, will test his ability to obfuscate, but to bring the Mandalorians together and end the civil war, it’s worth it.
The Zabrak stares at him for another long moment, then inclines his head. His body shimmers, and the unearthly blue bleeds away as he steps out of his Temple, approaches the edge of the stairs. Ghostly light becomes tan robes, dark skin, long black hair, and he steps out of the nexus of the Force where all Jedi live and into the real world.
“If it is yours, how was it taken from you?” he asks, and Jaster smiles.
“It’s an heirloom, and it was stolen long ago,” he says, precisely the truth. It simply wasn’t stolen from him. Tarre's descendants stole it from a Jedi Temple, long before the Jedi retreated fully into the Force.
The Jedi weighs his words for another moment, apparently finds truthfulness in them, and starts down the steps. Jaster falls in with him, trying not to stare, and asks, “You’ll help me retrieve it, then?”
“Your words are the truth,” the man says bluntly. “And in return, you have my word. I will remain until it is in your hands once more.”
Jaster doesn’t smirk, because that’s unbecoming, but he grins a little more widely than is likely seemly. “Thank you. I'm Jaster.”
“Agen,” the Jedi returns. “What was stolen from you, that you would go so far to retrieve it?”
“The Darksaber,” Jaster says, and now that he has Agen's word he doesn’t hesitate to admit it.
Agen stops dead, staring, and Jaster takes two more steps before he stops, turns, looks back. He raises a brow, still smiling, and says, “I never lied. Your word holds.”
There's a long, breathless moment, and then Agen snorts, amusement rising in his face. “You're correct,” he says. “My word is my bond, even now. You are clever with your words, Jaster Mereel.”
“And you are as quick as you are lovely,” Jaster returns, offering Agen his hand. Agen takes it, and Jaster wasn’t entirely sure what to expect of a Jedi, but his touch is warm, familiar, soft skin and calluses and a strong grip. He smiles, raising Agen's knuckles to his lips, and says, “Come, Agen. The Darksaber awaits.”
“Tarre will be most disappointed that he was not the one to answer your summons,” Agen says, and keeps walking down the stairs before Jaster can even begin to comprehend the implication that Tarre is still alive.