Sheog the Mad

A message arrives for Darth Mavenger via secure commlink

Wookiee Jedi vs Mavanger This duel was a good read for the most part for myself and for my second for this duel, Darth Nyrys. This was a well fought battle from both perspectives, with good writing and references to character building that were for the most part an enjoyable read. These are both Master Level Characters with a strong history to draw on and a lot of background narrative. The Good Wookiee Jedi: I felt your narrative was very strongly written in the first and third post, and tied very well to your attacks and defenses. You respected your opponent’s numerous attacks well with good damage taken. Mavanger: There was a lot of great emotional narrative here, with the tumultuous nature of the Dark Side on display. There were strong attempts at personal growth, as well as a decent narrative of how your character perceives his opponent. The Need for Improvement Wookiee Jedi: The second of your posts I feel was your weakest, the attacks were less clear, and the narrative link and flow was weaker. Specifically here; The “Lifting his leg through his knee” was incredibly confusing by itself, a good tactic is to be more clear in how your attack can be interpreted. Mavanger: With your attacks, there was not a lot of overall description of where you are in space and time making it difficult for us to follow how things would look which would have allowed your opponent to better respond to your attacks. Your attacks felt highly condensed and numerous in the last paragraph, where they could have been much better used within the narrative you are spinning so the connection of attack and inspiration makes more sense. The Swords: I appreciate a good Irish name for stuff, but I ended up having to write down which sword was in each hand to better keep track of the attacks; a good way to differentiate them for the reader would be names that are quite different as well as color differentiation. The Overall Breakdown There is an issue with multiple strung-together attacks that hurt Mavanger overall more; if the first is appropriately defended against, your other attacks can fall apart narratively. Another is the ideals of quality vs quantity, when you have a post with 6 attacks in it, having to respect each of these in turn becomes a bit of a slog, or since they’re all linked together, stepping into the first defeats the following ones and they simply become ‘thrashing about’ as was so well worded by your opponent. Fewer attacks with more narrative link would give them more power. If you make multiple attacks, let them cook, take narrative between which allows them to become significantly more meaningful into the whole story. ‘Momentum’ played into this quite a bit, and both sides of this made attacks and defenses in contrary to their flow; A good example of this is Mavanger’s second post, where his defense to WJ’s shin strike was to jump upwards, in opposition to his whole flow. There was a lot of emphasis on being in close quarters, and narrative writing of who would be better at it; in theory you both are good at it, but for Mavanger, nothing was done to emphasize or take advantage, it was still slashes and cuts whereas WJ took more control in that zone. Both of you did great, however only one winner and so; Wookiee Jedi Wins

The bartender, an overlarge and gregarious Hutt watched the three clone trooper swho sat at the long table, their armor gleaming in the dim light of the cantina. They were a sight to behold, each one a perfect copy of the other, their faces set in determined lines. The bartender watched them from behind the counter, a feeling of unease settling in his many many stomachs. These were not ordinary soldiers, but fighting machines, created for one purpose: to serve the Republic and fight in the Clone Wars, or at least it was, many many many years ago As he mixed various, idiotic and fizzy drinks, the bartender couldn't help but wonder what horrors they had seen on the battlefield. What atrocities had they committed in the name of duty? And yet, despite everything, they remained stoic and resolute, their loyalty to, perhaps The Republic unwavering. Or was it the Empire. Or perhaps some form of Sovereign Alliance. Or maybe they were Jedi. The clone troopers lifted their glasses and clinked them together, their eyes meeting in a silent toast. The bartender watched as they drank, his greasy hand shaking slightly as he wiped down the counter. These were not men, but weapons, and he couldn't shake the feeling that their presence bode ill for the future of his comfortable and definitely not a mafia or Sith Front of a bar. The overfat Hutt couldn't help but notice a Twi'lek across the room. She was tall and slender, with a lithe grace that caught his eye. But it wasn't her appearance that captured his attention, it was the way she moved. It was almost as if she were dancing, her body flowing with an unconscious grace that he had only ever seen in one other person. Lallu. The name hit him like a physical blow, bringing with it a wave of memories and emotions that he had thought long buried. Lallu had been a dancer, or maybe a Sith Assassin or something, a Twi'lek like this one, with the same flowing movements and captivating presence. He had met her in a cantina much like this one, or maybe a Sith Temple, or maybe on a Mission, and they had spent a wild and passionate night together, at least in his mind. But in the harsh, and yet dim light of the bar, he had realized that he could never truly be with her. She was a dancer, and he was just a Hutt, he was a punk, she did ballet, what more could he say He had said goodbye and slithered out of her life, hoping that she would find someone who could give her the life she had deserved. And he had never looked back. Until now. As he watched the Twi'lek across the room, he couldn't help but feel a sense of longing and regret. He knew that he could never go back, that the past was the past. But he couldn't shake the feeling that he had made a mistake, that he had let something special slip through his greasy, chubby, dirty fingers. Great crimson eyes, welling with tears, stared from behind bright blue contacts while his greasy hand fiddled with the poorly made prosthetic beard and large hooked nose that adorned his face. He couldn't help but notice a Wookie, all too familiar, speaking to a young blonde woman at the other end of the counter, and what may well have been Admiral Ackbar himself. The Wookie was tall and muscular, his fur ruffled and unkempt. He gestured wildly with his hands as he spoke, a look of intense concentration on his face, as if reminiscing upon the time he slept with an Empress or something. The young woman listened intently, her blue eyes fixed on the Wookie as he spoke as if imagining his ringlets of fur deep in her nostrils. She was slender and graceful, her blonde hair falling in soft curls around her shoulders, something of a flitmoth. She seemed to be hanging on his every word, her expression one of the rapt attention that often graced the faces of mindless young women The Hutt watched the pair with interest, wondering what could have brought such disparate beings together in this seedy cantina. But he knew better than to ask questions, especially in a place like this, or meddle in a new budding romance, rife with shower scenes. He had learned long ago to mind his own business and keep his fat head down. So instead, he turned his attention back to those clone troopers, their presence a constant reminder of the dangers that lurked beyond the doors of the cantina, and that some people didn't know how to dress for a covert ops mission. With their distinctive armor and precise movements, they stood out like sore thumbs in the dingy cantina. It was as if they wanted everyone to know exactly who they were and what they were capable of. The overlarge and sweaty bartender watched them cautiously, his grubby hand never straying far from the blaster concealed beneath the counter. He had heard stories about the clone troopers, about their strength and their bravery on the battlefield. But he had also heard rumors of their ruthlessness, of their willingness to do whatever it took to win. His mind wandered to the Nightsister Quesadillaea, and how she had slept with a clone or two. He couldn't help but wonder what had brought them to this backwater planet, to this seedy cantina in the middle of nowhere, so filled with phermones. Was it a mission to retake the planet, or were they simply passing through on their way to somewhere else? Perhaps they could use a large Hutt for some nighttime activities... His multiple, greasy folds seemed to quake with potential excitement.

The Great Hutt breathed in, his corporeal form barely able to hold the air into his multitudinous lungs. The living Force, corrupted as it was by countless deaths, moved through him, folding into his blubber, filling his mind with its essence. With its addiction. With its hunger. Ruins hung about him, ancient and twisted from galactic destruction. The Bitter Feast’s hull shook with the impact of a hundred asteroids; the remnants of what had once been the Heart of the Sith: Ziost. The Master of the Krath could taste it all upon his waggling, greasy tongue; that corruption had a physical toll. He savored every death that had fed his power, the deep flavors that had been with him since the very beginning. Those he had slain on his path to power. That of his fellow apprentices. Luficer. Gelfast. Orion. The blood of his master, Ason Antilles. All those that had come after to feed his hunger, and yet he was never sated. Another breath and the power coalesced about him, streaming through him. His rotting flesh, streaming fluidous maggots joined itself with the Force itself, and all of him becoming the locus through which the dark side flowed. All the lives taken from Sullust, Corellia, Nar Shaddaa. Everything Consumed, bound itself to his essence, in a pulsing insanity of hunger, a primal madness. A heartbeat of gluttony and sin. A power that consumed without end. A Force Storm that crossed an entire star system and at its center; a wound in the Force The ruins, those shattered stones and starbleached bones reacted to the Hunger, drawn to the heartbeat like carrion to a bloated corpse. Spirits moved in echoes, matched in ravenousness by only the Master of Gluttony himself. The shattered, broken storm smiled for this place was more than the Heart of the Sith, it was the Soul of the Krath themselves. He could feel the greatest of their number, some long dead, others yet living in the fringes of darkspace. The heartbeat embraced them, inviting their spirits to inhabit what was to come. Even the dark mistress of the Maw spoke then, her dark fingers stretching out to him across the rushing storm, reflecting the galaxy within her glittering web. An invitation to devour it all, to feed upon the Jedi, the Republic, The Empire, even the Sith. On life itself. ...Devour or Create... For the first time and the last, what had been Sheog the Mad turned from it all; releasing it all into the heartbeat of gluttony. He could consume all the life in the galaxy, and yet at the end he would never be sated. To create was at least not a boring choice. To eat everything had become simply too cliché. He had passed the test. He would diminish, and go into the West, and remain Sheog. Bound as a shade to the same madness that would create the new heart of the Sith. The Force storm collapsed into itself, drawing the wreckage of Ziost into the wound at its center, binding it all to the heartbeat of madness. The Bitter Harvest became the core about which the planet, once sacred to the Krath, was formed once more. Mountains and valleys of crushed stone turned to magma and ice to ocean. The rebirth of life, yet corrupted in the image of its creator. A ravenous world and a Nexus of the Dark Side. -Ziost was made anew- A living wound in the Force, kept alive by a heart of madness, fed by veins of hunger.

<<Oh, did we win? I feel like we also lost…>> Large, cruel eyes stared at the disintegrating wreckage of the once great Misercordia fall into Nar Shaddaa’s gravity well. Thousands of deaths in an instant. Their horror froze in time within the Force, adding deepening the well from which the Great Hutt drew his power. Each shattered soul, each mangling mewing cry of death, each unmet desire, each unfulfilled dream fed his hunger. Sith ships fell, broken and venting oxygen into realspace, fragged and destroyed by Rebel fire. Cruisers and Corevettes, carriers and retrofitted transports. The Court of Madness dwindled. The Great Super Star Destroyer, that bitter throne of the Lord of the Krath seemed to pitch and warp under the combined firestorm. The Singularity seemed to pulse to the heartbeat of the Dark Side, drawing in light and life into great arteries to feed its ever-hungry master. The Great Hutt breathed in a monstrous, flabby breath into his multiple lungs, his bridgecrew following his unbidden orders, locking in the coordinates that would spell the doom of the light. <<I suppose I simply... don't care.>> With a blink, the singularity shattered into nothingness, its grotesque power taken in by its host. And with that, the Sith Command Ship disappeared into the starscape of hyperspace. The paltry remains of the fleet left behind seemed to scream into the void before detonating into starbursts of misshaped light,

The Grand Admiral watched the Squib-Hapan attack with a moment of terror, for they had somehow gotten through their own minefield to approach his fleet without losses from the mines that had claimed the lives of so many of his men. Sexy Chiss fingers steepled under his chin, a sign of brooding contemplation. Crimson eyes watched the Ardent-class frigate, Umbarian Nightsweats be torn asunder by the fierce attack of both Squib and Hapan. A starburst of light indicated the enemy’s Hutt allies gunline fracturing the hull of the Vigil-class corvette Fayne East. A sudden hunger rose in him to match his Terror. The Bridgecrew stiffened visibly, the Under Admiral nearly collapsing beneath the mental weight of the realization. Their fell Master had come to join the Battle. As the massive Hutt entered the bridge, The Master of the Krath called upon the fell powers of the Dark Side. He fed the Force his own hunger, corrupting space, tempting it to change, to shatter forth to consume all. The very front of the Vanguard of the Sith Fleet seemed to shake. The Tector-Class Star Destroyer, Billibringi Starlight, seemed to warp and change, the metal of its hull turning to red-hot iron, before collapsing into itself. All eight-thousand crew died instantly; their souls frozen in abject terror. A delightful meal of emotion, which the Former Dark Lord of the Sith fed into the Force. A feast of souls awaited. The many Krath scattered throughout the fleet joined into the psychic battle, feeding the growing singularity with both their power and their lives. Sheog joined it all to the heartbeat of the revel, that fateful dance of hunger and death. A gravemind, that fed upon all that had bound themselves to his cause. Into it all Sheog poured the doom of Sullust, millions of lives devoured, the defeat of the Masters of the Jedi, their shame, their terror, their shattered hopes and dreams. Of children torn from the breasts of their mothers to be devoured by demons. The doom of all life, a true perversion of the nature of the Force A wound in the Force appeared where that fateful star destroyer had been, a bitter ravenous, all consuming thing. It carried none of the storms or cliché lightning of those weaker Sith that had come before, it was purely the Maw. It lensed all light, devouring all before it, tempting all to join in the feast. Reaching tendrils of radiation into realspace, to destroy all before it. The Mad Hutt smiled cruelly. He offered the Hunger a most tempting prize, a planet of innocents, all their dreams and desires, to consume and devour. It would make Malachor V and Sullust look like the efforts of a child. The singularity surged forward, ripping the Sith’s Secutor-class battlecarrier Jenuax, and its crew of forty-thousand into nothing more than fractured starlight. A deep phlegmatic laugh echoed across The Bitter Feast's now lifeless bridge. It was time for the Rebels and their pitiful Empire to witness the true power of the Force.

The Grand Admiral of the Court of Madness observed the swirling mass of enemy ships before him, protected by their millions of mines. How the devil they had remained able to get civilian ships in and out of the sector was beyond him. He stroked his peppered goatee with long, slender, sexy blue Chiss fingers. He flipped a single finger towards the viewscreen and he channeled an open commlink to the enemy. “Greetings, Rebellion. Or Empire. Whatever you are. Fear not, stand down and stand by. We are here only to hunt Nar Shadaa’s famous Azov Battalion, and to rid you of the evils of fascism. Please disarm.” His subordinate, Under-Admiral Pog’Champ, stared up at him with similar crimson Chiss eyes. “Admiral Frawn, I believe it’s pronounced ‘Imperial Knights’” The Grand Admiral waved his had dismissively. He would suggest the Under-Admiral to throw himself out an airlock at some later time. His eyes caught several fleet elements within the Enemy ranks, of particular interest. He waved another hand indicating full fleet forward. “Admiral… The Mines?” A highly annoyed Chiss Admiral stamped his foot in dismissive rage. “Damn the mines, there are Squibs to kill. Sheog would not want any of them to escape.” The Grand Fleet lurched forward, losing countless ships to strike at the irritating creatures. Several Corevettes exploded almost immediately, whether it was the mines or just the will of the force, one would never know. No matter the losses, those Squibs would perish. Grand turbolasers lashed out towards The Rebels, and their beloved Squibs.

A rank, slovenly, overlarge form slithered its way onto the Bridge of the Raven’s Bane, no longer hidden in the form of an mere apprentice Huttling, but a corporeal, rotting form of the Master of all Krath, and Necromancer of them all. His voice was far more jovial than the all-consuming hunger that paled his form and stained the Force with his presence <<Mavie my boy, what brings you to Naboo?>> Multilidded eyes drooped over rotting, pale eyes, that seemed ever out of focus as they passed over the battlemap to drill into the Lord of the Sith before him. A large snuffling, phlegm-ridden sniff came from the Hutt <<My, you smell like revenge.>> Another sniff, a deeper, horrifyingly seductive tone to it. <<My vanguard presses its advantage. I assume, as always I’ve jumped some form of gun.>> The leering mouth twisted into the sweet smile of toddler, absolutely grotesque on the half rotted face. <<Planning on wiping out that sweet Empress all on your onsie, are you?>>

There was a rending cry within the Force, the veil torn by ravenous jaws. The thousand stars of heaven’s field were awashed in black, waning like cooling embers before the power of the Dark Side. Hundreds of glittering ships twisted and tore their way into realspace; no organized fleet of uniform ships. It was the reflection of the entropy and diversity of the galaxy, all those bound to the heartbeat the revel. Sharp lines of Imperial Ships in contrast with the lurid waves of the Mon Cal design, battleships and cruisers, all broken and shattered things. The great warships stood as open wounds, spewing forth the pus and rust of their entropic master; corvettes and patrol ships; carrion, surrounded by the buzzing thousands of starfighters, TIE-Uglies and unrecognizable hulking ruins of millennia past. Some were biological beasts of living metal, others carpets of rotmoss, Rotted behemouth Purrgil… Amongst their number a sharp eye could see the bound carapaces of the collous-wasp and Neebray, rot and innards frozen by deepspace, sentience long since bound to the will of Hunger. At the very center of it all lay the hulking remains of a Summa-Verminoth, far from alive, but very far from dead. Its body had been all but consumed, stripped of flesh and lifeblood, replaced by living sithsteel in the form of the Vengence-Class Star Dreadnaught. Its heartbeat was that of the Maw, bound to the master of all Necromancers, bidden only by gluttony and avarice. The Flagship of the Court of Madness, The Bitter Feast. The Court of Madness had come for the Rebels. To bind them to the Heartbeat of the Revel. To feast upon the Rebel’s supple flesh and dine upon their agony

The great Hutt sipped slowly upon the bit of his longstem pipe, watching the deep black of the spiced smoke curl and dance across the briarwood bowl. The smoke took the shape of a small skeleton, dancing about the glowing, embers of tobacco. Crimson eyes, flecked with sulpheric gold stared through the wraith and to the Sith Lord before him. <<Every Sith has roots of power, that if not cultivated into greatness, wither and die into abject uselessness.>> The smoke dissolved away, as did the corpulent form of the Master of the Krath. Smoke shifted and smiled, rumbling with laughter. The voice was still the Hutt’s streaming from formless shadow. <<Eternity>> The word was spoken in a pondering and cruel way. <<You want to be remembered, and yet throw away the very path to that power.>> The smoke became the shape of the planet Aaris, split half aflame and half a populated with a metropolis the likes of Coruscant. <<Memories. Cruelty or Love. Wanton cruelty makes a man remembered in the bedtales of toddlers and the whispers of wisewomen in their curses. Great works, prosperity beyond measure makes a man loved for generations.>> The smoke smiled, more kindly. The echoes of the dead began to scream in the wind, the wound in the Force raw and ragged about them. <<Unite them before the cause of the Dark Lord. Build of your people a fortress of strength, a wall that can resist the winds of time. From them, either their deaths or their strength, you will be immortal. If you ever desire the elevation of power, do not let strife consume you. It is how the Sith have always fallen.>> A deeper sigh on the winds <<To consume a world, you first know how to reap souls, bending their will to yours, to consume and destroy them.>> The Hutt’s staff revealed itself in that spiced smoke. <<It must be created from the very heart of your power. You must kill someone powerful, and bind their soul to an object. That totem becomes the focus of power, all things flow through it, like a lens focusing light. For myself that lens if the sins of gluttony and greed, the souls of my former master, and that of the grandmaster of the Jedi.>> A great eye winked and the smoke disappeared, revealing nothing more than a dead world.

There was a new heartbeat within the storm of death and violence. Not a physical one, but one deeply held within the Force. The wind lashed the newcomer, bringing back the macabre perfume of Force-bleached bone and weathered sinew. The Master of the Krath breathed it in, letting the essence of a necropolis king whet his tongue like an old wine, just over the edge of becoming vinegar. Multi-lidded eyes of sulfur-stained crimson stared at the Sith as it fell to its knees before him. The words were like honey, slathered with formalities reserved for the courts of men. A fell diplomat who desired power. Disappointing, but like all broken things, the Necropolis King spoke of the thirst which was the estuary of the Dark Side, but betrayed not the wellspring from which that ambition flowed. The words that spilled then from the Hutt’s misshapen maw were kind, yet firm. Smoke came with them, spiced as if blown from a pipe to whirl about the fallen skeleton, caressing where there had once been flesh. <<I am the master of none, Lord of Bones.>> A shuddering breath that echoed within the ground itself, heaving with a grating, wheezing, laughter. <<Why desire power if you’re already a god? Or are the people of Aaris III so infantile that their praise feeds not that pride that grips your heart, Necromancer?>> The smoke pulled in, and the Hutt’s grandiose nature drew into itself like the waves that retreat from the shore before the tsunamis strikes. He was but now a mountain of a Hutt, scarred and grotesque, no longer reflected upon the landscape like the gods of heaven. Those eyes blinked and stared through the clearing sky, towards the stars of heaven's field <<There is always a lie we tell ourselves when first start down the path to the Dark Side, a good intention upon which we pile those dead and destroyed innocents to let us sleep at night. Rare and cliché are the psychopaths and sociopaths that consume a world for fun.>> The crooked mouth, stained with half-hardened phlegm and partially digested food, curled into a knowing, comforting smile <<So what is it that drives you to power?>>

Armalite whipped away, its edge gleaming in the fading light. The blade of the great axe glimmered as it drank deeply of the Mandalorian Iron, taking into itself its essence and beauty. It was a jealous thing, always eager to change when it saw something better. A bitter feminine, her name of secrets was Invidia, that serpent’s fang, that biting eye that sets upon the heart dissatisfaction with love. The fell breeze of rot and putrid death carried her back to the hands of her Master, the Lord of all Krath. Before the Hutt lay a broken opponent, alive, but listless. The Mandalorian rested upon the event horizon of infinity, pulled towards doom by a strange rhythm. A Thermal Detonator blinked in a gore-covered hand, lazily counting down to lonely catastrophe. Beneath its shell, the Baradium had taken on the Master of the Krath’s heartbeat, terrible and unending. Invidia’s bitter laughter, grinding and bright as fresh-forged steel, bid it to change, to follow the echoes of its master’s will. The axidate melded to it and with it the rest of the thermal detonator flowed into melted Aurodium, burning, and passing through the Mandalorian’s hands like water. The Hutt returned the lively axe to its worn leather sheathe, the laughter fading into nothingness. The beast of the quiets would utter no more curses. Eyes of yellow-speckled crimson stared at the Mandalorian before him. He could hear her fitful breaths. The creaking gasps of broken ribs. The pain that emanated from her was palpable and as delicious as a dumpling of spiced Ewok. He drank it in greedily, relishing it. Lifting her body before him, The Master of the Krath cast out an image of precious, honorable helmet, casting it to the dust and grime where it rolled aimlessly, no longer bright with electronic color. The hawk-fashioned T-Visor reflected the dying world and the grim colors of death. Brown hair fell in locks about her head, grey eyes fluttering in the fashion of all those that stood on the precipice of death, about to jump into oblivion. A child on the brink of death. <<You were foolish.>> The vile Hutt smiled, focusing the touch of the Dark Side, letting it fill the listless girl with curling, twisting pain. The smokey eyes shot open with a touch of bloodshot terror as the Master of the Dark Side shattered and devoured her mental defenses. With a grubby hand, the Sith Master picked up one of the Mandalorian’s fallen weapons, a modified shotgun, and held it before him like a wand. Her mind fell open to him, for a brief terrified second. <<A father’s gift?>> A great pillar of volcanic stone; obsidian, peridot and granite, rose from the shattered ground to loom behind the Mandalorian. That dripping evil darkness seemed to swirl about the shotgun, running into it with gleeful streams of liquid night. <<Becomes a curse.>> The Great Hutt rammed the Ori’kad through the woman’s chest like a stake, shattering through beskar’gam, flesh, viscera, and spine, to pin the Mandalorian to the pillar like a bug in a madman’s collection. As the twisting metal mixed with the woman’s blood, the shotgun became a lightning rod for the darkside. The death of an entire planet, shattered into reality, forced into the blood like a withering poison. <<Can you hear their screams?>> And with that, the Hutt left the girl to live or die, tormented in flesh and mind by the wailing dead. The planet had suffered a worse fate than being conquered by the Sith, it had been exterminated and consumed.

The overlarge Hutt let out a blubbering, hissing sigh, which echoed with a crack of thunder. The Mandalorian, despite the power of his dark energy, had denied his corporeal desires for a deeply fried meal. His stomach lurched, turning and crawling within him, responding to unrequited gluttony. He could hear distant voices, those consumed and turned into his power. A flitmoth speaking into a storm, yet her voice was a clear tone within the Rhythm. Armalite rose into his other hand, held loosely beside the saber-staff, glimmering with the fire of its glow. Ice seemed to shimmer on its blade, curving the light about it into a dark rainbow. The Mandalorian’s words bore the truth, she was child screaming as if against a too strict parent. Strike a Mandalorian in their honor, and they crumpled into a petulant toddler, all tantrums and tears. Laughter echoed in the storm, and the world about the Hutt seemed to grow dark. His maddened mind turned to Maw, and that which devoured the light. <<You do not see my designs. The echoes that shall rise from this place…>> The Mandalorian’s redirection of lightning came swiftly, and Sheog had little time to catch it on his own saber, it wreathing the blade in darkness. His hand sparked and smoked, and the great Hutt let the staff fall to the ground. The lightsaber drove into the surface of the shattered world and remained ignited as a pillar of dark flame. Crimson eyes narrowed. The growing darkness continued to drip from his wounds, pooling like liquid night around him, gliding like mercury upon the ground, seeping like tendrils across the shattered earth, searching, clawing. He would have his satisfaction. The Mandalorian would be a paltry meal, but a morsel nonetheless. Hunger had nearly consumed all his control. When the fire came, the Hutt embraced it. It singed and burnt, boiling away chunks of steaming fat, but his designs were drawing to an end. The Storm withered away, consumed as the Hutt unleashed everything upon the lone Mandalorian. Emotions, passions. Pain coursed through the Hutt, but he dove deeper into the Heart of the Revel, that rhythm of madness from which his power grew. Rage came as it always did, overbold and unbowed. From that wave of fire would spring Armalite, that great alchemical axe cutting through the air towards the helmet of the Mandalorian. It was bidden by the force, by the spirit of Rage. The blade itself seemed to warp, bound as it was to the designs of its master, each part of the Sith weapon crying to be first to strike lifeblood. The voices of those that had been bound into the blade cried in terror, Jedi and Sith alike; Teravast, Black, Furion, Sarna, Dahar. Five of the greatest had been felled by it, and now corrupted forms of them bade the blade to sink into another victim and strike true. Gluttony followed with its sister in a wave of vomit, spewed from the great Maw of the Hutt. He would bid the fool to suffer, encompassed in an acidic river of rotting, denatured flesh and wriggling digesting undeath. It would rush towards the Mandalorion to devour her in its murky, fetid embrace. Stone smoked where the river ran, contaminating all it touched. He never minded a partially digested meal, and the Mandalorian’s acid-torn flesh would wonderfully tender. Avarice , that bitter jealousy that lurked beyond the stars. It was patient in its attack. Avarice corrupted all power, dripped contempt into compassion, and the bitter seed that poisoned love with doubt. The Master of the Krath had found her within the Maw, where it took all light into an embrace of nothingness so strong was its desire to take. Those grasping, crawling hands of night stole from the ground to leap at the Mandalorian. If she could, Avarice would drag the Mandalorian mewing into the void. The Hutt had become more than an insurmountable mountain of filth, he became that which fueled the Sith; unrestrained passion. The Mandalorian would be the rock upon which three loud-roaring rivers met; Steely rage, one of decay, the other of unfettered consumption. The void had been flung open, the shadows rent, and the true power of emotion had been belched forth in steel, bile, and darkness. The Mandalorian would die in streams of murky flame and noisome mud. She would be the star consumed by the Maw; broken and ripped asunder by forces beyond her understanding. The Heartbeat of the Revel would be disturbed no longer. ((3)) ((Lost the lightsaber to lightning, boiled away some extra chub with the flamethrower. Attacked with a three-pronged attack of a force-thrown Axe, Force-Vomit, and a radiation beam. Well done, very enjoyable duel.))

A haggard, greasy eyebrow rose in surprise as the Mandalorian just simply, didn’t die. Nor did the Wookie or his other apprentice. The lack of death was simply disconcerting. A flare of anger began to build in one of his many hearts, adding a staccato rhythm to the revel, a dangerous beat. One that pulsed nearly out of control, revealing portions of the madness that had been hidden by the emptiness of the Maw. Blasterfire scorched into the hide of the Hutt, digging deep in a gout of coagulated blood and wriggling maggots that sprayed the air. The maggots didn’t last long in the intense heat of the building volcano, the liquid in their bodies superheating into steam causing them to rupture in small pops of rancid vapor. The pain accumulated within the Hutt’s mind, adding itself to the rising madness. The dark lightning that swirled about the Hutt became more erratic, sparking with blackfyre, dancing to the heartbeat of the Revel. Then the detonation came and there was a new, unnatural rhythm spreading now, trying to unyoke the storm below and unleash what the Sith had restrained. The Hutt smiled, the invitation to chaos too great. What the Maw could not consume it would happily destroy. He didn’t need the city to stand, the lives had all but been consumed now by the howling, ravenous force. Such destructive impulses for a Jedi, perhaps this young one would prefer the natural chaos of the Dark? The Hutt took up a paving stone with the Force, holding it before him like a casual shield against any further blasterfire. The Hutt let the heavy weight drop from his shoulders. To restrain the geological storm had been an act of mercy to the planet, one that had outlived its usefulness. What had been a dribble of lava, became an estuary of steam, ash, and superheated stone. The last act of the Hutt upon the storm below was to redirect its fury from the steps upon which he sat his bulk. It raged out towards the city, to consume and devour what the natives of Sullust had built in their arrogance. The materials from which it had been built had been pulled from its depths, and now it would have its vengeance. Buildings began to collapse in a fury of flame from the unleashed earth. The Hutt gestured to the destruction with a clumsy wave of his saber. His own stomach began to growl, shuddering with an unending hunger. <<Are you sure you aren’t with Mandalore the Bloody? You've destroyed a city!>> Maddened eyes stared at the Jedi Apprentice, the words hanging on the storm above, thunder echoing. The Dark Lightning began to shiver down the lightsaber, reaching for a release. The Hutt’s words were coated in a mirth that was fitting such a show of destruction. <<Your actions are… ures ijaa… Wouldn’t that make you… Kyr'tsad?>> With a wave of a chubby hand, the Hutt cast the stone shield at the Mandalorian, aiming in an arc to attempt to hit the woman from the side, to cast her into the lavastorm she had created. At the same time, the dark lightning leapt forward in a shriek and crack, reaching to snag the Mandalorian in an embrace of withering electricity. ((2)) ((Took damage from the blasterfire and released the firestorm to consume the city. Attacks with a force propelled stone and chain lightning. Also insulted the Mandalorian’s beloved honor.)) Translation: ures ijaa is Mandalorian for without honor

A breath through uneven, collapsed nostrils brought in the smells of a world, teetering on the edge of environmental chaos and sterilization. It had happened before, many species had faced extinction from climate change, a stars detonation, or proliferated nuclear holocaust, but it had been generations since a planet had died due to the influence of that power which drove him to consume. The last had been on Katarr, and before that at Malachor. Yet there was something new, an encroaching rhythm on the heartbeat of the Revel. The overlarge Hutt sighed, a deep and throaty sound that was accompanied by a spray of globs of phlegm and partially digested food. The matted hair of the Wookie picked up a few wriggling maggots, and large chunk of rancid Ewok. Yet another interloper. The great Hutt was forced back once again, fire from a starfighter stitching the still-molten lava surrounding the fallen Jedi with gouts of flame. The ground beneath him surged against his control like a bantha trying to throw its rider. The yokes of geomancy were heavy indeed. The Master of the Krath leaned again on his ornamental cane, shoulders sagging as if under great weight. Crimson eyes blinked blearily at the newcomer as they disembarked. Mandalorian. Female. Young. The many-lidden eyes squinted, focusing on the creature’s armor, stance, the way they carried themselves. What was Terra doing here of all places? No, no touch of ruin. No rhythm of darkmetal. But there was… fear. The Hutt’s face, even with his torn maw, curled into a wicked smile. A lightsaber’s glow illuminated the swirling ash, bathing the Mandalorian in a halo of light. When it spoke, it was of a mocking tone that smacked of misplaced arrogance. "Is this the part where you belt on about some weird Darkside BS, or go on about some evil plan that's been going on for some vaguely impressive amount of time?" The Hutt’s unsinged eyebrow sagged upwards in relative surprise. He hadn’t even thought to monologue, but now that the girl had said it, he felt in the mood for a grandiose speech. His stomach roiled in protest, a digestive bile building in his gullet. How he desired to eat this creature before him, but first he’d have to crack open the tin can all such warriors billeted themselves in. "I just want to make sure you get it all out of your system before I shove this fancy laser stick down your throat." The Hutt’s many-rolled neck rippled as he nodded to the Mandalorian, considering the words. Greasy fingers held up the ornate staff upon which he had leaned, waving it like a wand in the ash-filled air. His voice came not from his broken jaw, but from the rumbling storm above, each word that of thunder. The ground seemed to bend with his words, and an electricity piqued the air. If the Hutt had any hair, it would have stood on end. <<I half expected a darksaber. They seem so… in chic amongst your… sort.>> The last word was one of deep distaste, a cycnical hate that surged in a wave of heat from the ground. Orange light streamed from his cane, the blade shimmering with golden lightning as if embodying the storm above. There was a rhythm to it, a heartbeat that echoed in the air, a madness in which restraint was fading. The Hutt latched onto the fear that he had felt before, and into it he pushed his own madness. His pain from the last fight was wearing on his physical form, and a sickening, dark light seemed to leak from his wounds like electrified sewage. <<You see, I have a laser stick too…>> The Krath swung the blade with stubby fingers like it was a baton, like a sugar-high toddler swings at a pinata as he stared across the distance to the Mandalorian. He hoped it would draw the eye, distract his young opponent. He latched onto the storm below, tempting it into the darkening sky, to consume and make the world new in its own image. The forces of change, that which made up the magma of many worlds was so easily bound by promises of rebirth, of exploration, of consumption. A great rush of volcanic ash belched from the earth before the Mandalorian, followed by superheated lava that seemed to shatter the air itself from its very heat. Magma belched forth, unbridled by the earth, shimmering in the same lightning that bathed the Sith’s lightsaber, for it was a mirror of the Hutt’s unrestrained madness. It would come as a great wave to wash the Mandalorian from Sullust like the vermin her kind was. ((1)) ((Attacked with geomancy in the form of a volcanic eruption aimed at the Mandalorian while trying to distract with rather... unwieldy lightsaber flourishes))

Time itself seemed to roll out before the Hutt’s bleary eyes, echoes of actions taking form. Ripples from these Jedi, becoming waves across the galaxy, changing the Force itself. Laughter, sardonic and dark boomed across the dying planet. He allowed the indignation of that storm below to consume itself, redirecting its outrage from the Jedi. The Krath filled their minds with the echoes he saw, such disasters and death, the result of their failure here to stop him. The Maw was insatiable. It would consume all life. And they had failed to stop it. The Wookie and his apprentice fell to the ground, as the Hutt devoured the very essence of life. He bound them then to the fate of that world, their Force, their essence attuned to the rhythm of the Revel. The bonding of master and apprentice became a shimmering light that passed between them, appearing like the web spun by an arachoaus catching the misted dew-light of the morning. The Hutt touched that web, letting the soul reaper taste of it. A dark light began to spread across it, or perhaps it was simply the light dying. What was pure became corrupted with excess. Desire becoming insatiable. Appetite to Gluttony. The temptation was there, to devour them in whole, but who would remain to carry the account of their failures here? Was not the greater torture to let them live to see the galaxy die? To watch the light of the stars wink out, one by one, each a testament to their failure? He would leave them to an embittered, broken world. Devoid of all life but their own. He leaned heavily upon his staff, exhaustion sagging his grotesque shoulders. He took from the life of his opponents, sealing broken flesh. The civilians of the city had been fully consumed, and now the rest of the planet was the main course to come.

A great, blubbery sigh echoed across the desolate wasteland that had once been a metropolitan oaisis. It echoed in the storm, becoming resounding of thunder. A weariness. The Jedi had become… Tiresome. Did they not know they were attempting to stop nature itself? That bittersweet embrace of entropy, of consumption. Of decay? Lightning had not felled them, even as the storm raged against them. The loose, split jaw of the wounded Hutt twisted into a smile, lips adorned with hardened phlegm and the wriggling of maggots. The Jedi’s blade had suffered, as had his apprentice. Their emotions reflected into the Force, added to the screaming terror of thousands. Yet their tune was off. They had not joined the Revel, that cacophony of madness, they stood apart; like how the whimpering mewing of an abused choirboy ruined the beautiful inflections of a holy chorus. Crimson eyes flicked from the Wookie to his present apprentice, a malformed eyebrow hooking upwards in derision. The Force moved, the storm reflecting in the stones beneath him. A new sound that had been building across the whole battle. Another tone had joined the heartbeat of madness. That quaking ground had, at long last, answered to his temptation. It had longed to devour, and now it would. The Storm Beneath had joined the rhythm of the one above. The Hutt’s smile widened, letting the lightning die as the Wookie bloomed before him as a beacon of light. It was quite the sight, like some hairy god come to preach the furry gospel to the imbecilic masses. The illumination caused the Hutt to ask the eternal question; what would the offspring of a Wookie and a Hutt look like? What would they name them? Would they lucky and have triplets? Would they care for their aging parents like good fuzzy worms, or would they lock us away in a rest home? A spark of danger. Oh, it had been a distraction, not an invitation. Alora had tried it on him before, but she hadn’t been the Hutt’s type. He preferred the muscular and masculine. And maybe now… Hairy. Crimson eyes looked to his side-satchel, made from the woven fur from Kiralocca from the last time he had killed him. He would put it to use, but after the fight. So, they had decided to run at him. One last charge of the Jedi Brigade, The blitzkrieg of a Wookie and his apprentice was a treacherously perilous thing. To charge a Master of the Krath headlong was both tactically ill-advised, and a deep study in one’s own mortality. And perhaps a decent way to test the theory of an afterlife. But Kiralloca should know that answer already. Sheog embraced the storm, drawing himself back to his time within the Maw. It had been an unending embrace of twisted gravity and malformed light. Gluttony and Greed pulled upon his flesh as if desiring to devour him, but the Hutt turned that attention to the elevated steps of the crumbled building that loomed behind him. He offered the temptation of his trap to the Force. They were walking right into it. A dark offering, a sacrifice of Jedi life, but a small price for the death of a planet. He could see a smile twist upon the starless darkness. Light and matter began to distort, as if the Hutt had become a dark prism through which light itself was distorted and warped. To move across distances, even short ones, was a process that took time, and as the blades of the Jedi struck into his supple flesh, the Hutt distorted further. Both lightsabers ripped into him, tearing holes in dead flesh, exploding guts in wet bubbles of superheated rot. He pulled upon the Wookie's lightsaber, tempting the crystal within to join the Revel. And then he was no longer… there. A booming, wheezing laugh came from the stairs behind where he had been. Sheog leaned heavily on his cane, the pain of the Jedi’s attacks causing him to release the Force Storm that radiated above them. Unfettered by his control it began to shatter the sky. All that was left now, was the other storm that had been brewing for the entire fight; the storm below. His laughter seemed to rip open the cobblestone street, rending it like it was flesh. Molten stone surged at its master’s call, ripping free from the bonds that had restrained. The roadway had become a volcanic fissure and from it came an explosion. A great wave of magma, bubbling and frothing like a Salazian Ale, ripped through the street to reach for the Jedi like spice-crazed Twi’lek, wanting to trade some physical attention for but a few credits. Joining with it, came a rain of superheated ash and stone. All of it surged to consume the Jedi, to banish them from a world whose natural order had been corrupted by the Dark Side. ((3)) ((Was dazzled by the Wookie Presence, took damage from both lightsaber attacks and from it lost control over the Force Storm in the atmosphere. Used the Force to escape close quarters, tempted WJ's lightsaber more, and then attacked with geomancy in the form of a volcanic eruption aimed at the Jedi. It’s been an absolute pleasure.))

The Hutt watched with glee as the undead struck, but the glee began to pass into anger as his enemies refused to die so quickly. Though there was not the feast of death, there was pain that would whet his appetite. Perhaps they were stronger than he had envisioned. Would these pitiful Jedi be the last living things upon this cursed world? A blaster shot burrowed into the Hutt’s flesh, rippling into the fat, spilling maggots in their swarms from the torn flesh. The Wookiee’s lightsaber came then, tearing into the flesh and muscle of his face. Its power ripped through him, cutting his lopsided smile far beyond its nature. His flabby jaw hung open now, dripping globs of spit and partially digested food. The pain was truly immense. The corpses, that danse macabre, dropped to the ground, the Hutt’s pain overwhelming his ability to control them. They returned to the Revel, devouring themselves instead of their enemy. The Hutt tried to smile at the irony, but there was no longer the control he needed to do so. Instead he sighed, feeding his pain into the Storm overhead and below. The heartbeat of the ground was beginning to join truly with that of the Revel. One, listless, yellow eye stared at the circling saber as it passed by from its strike. He could hear its defiant heartbeat. In his formal years, in those playful days of ignorance and mass killings, he would have been worried about the possibilities of death, but he no longer cared. The Power he had tasted was beyond the veil of mortality. The world of mortals was but a pale reflection of life as it could be and he was the mirror to the underworld. All the same, a lightsaber was the weapon of a Jedi, and he didn’t care to leave such a thing uncorrupted. Be unto the river, devoured. Starless night streamed from a greasy hand, reaching to strike at the lightsaber’s handle, at the very heart of its soul. He could almost taste the crystal within, its life calling to him. He would devour its power unto himself, and with it slay its master. Somewhere, lingering upon the wind, came the apprentice’s voice, questioning the power he saw. How am I doing this? The despotic voice was that of a lingering wraith, roiling forth in its hate from the veil of the Force. There was an unsubtle power to it all. It invited the apprentice to partake. To consume. To join the revel of madness, that fell stream from which such magnificent power could be drawn. Deep, guttural laughter came from about them all. Behold, The Dark Side of the Force. There was a sudden charge to that wind that blew about them all. Hair would stand on end, inky blackness playing upon the shadows. The heartbeat of the Revel began to pound loud and fast, a primal call to gluttony, to consumption; to that delightful, devouring greed of the ouroboros. The wounded Hutt’s laughter began to take on a derisive edge, and from the seeping wounds and dripping maggots, dark lightning began to curl and play. His strongest opponent was, for now, disarmed of his greatest weapon, and it would be a cruel mistake. The Master of the Krath opened himself further to the madness that drew him, letting himself seep into the power of the Maw, to feel its pull upon his mind. The Hutt tasted of the emotions on the wind, the terror of the recently dead, the pain and devastation of a planet in its death throes. He would channel it all towards the Wookie and his hapless apprentice. Dark lightning rippled from his flesh, from those seeping wounds, churning the air with the smell of death and ozone, the putrid scent of scorched fat and rot. With a waggling tongue, the Hutt thrust the tip of his ornamental cane towards the two and unleashed the storm. Chain lightning, dark and cruel, would rush towards the unarmed Wookiee and his blaster-toting apprentice, fracturing the wind with the deafening rumble of devastating power. He would cast them into the heart of the storm. The ground shook, a rush of geomantric energy coursing from the storm, channeled as it was through the Hutt. ((2)) ((Took damage from blaster and lightsaber throw, loses necromantic control due to damage taken. Attacks WJ's Lightsaber with consuming darkness, attempting to drain the life from the crystal and make it useless. Attacks Johan and WJ with chain lightning.))

Bleary eyes, yellow and red, set deep into their malformed sockets, stared into the veil of the Force. The Wookie had come to fight, followed by an apprentice, both strong signatures within the Force. A grotesque smile played across the crooked face of the Master of Gluttony and Greed. Those that came for him were bright stars, burning bright and hot, but once a star crossed the event horizon, it could not escape the clutches of the dark. Misshapen nostrils flared, sucking in a slobbering breath as Sheog licked his pale lips with a quivering tongue. They would join the heart of the revel, that torturous display of consumption, and in turn be devoured by the Maw. The Wookie’s voice echoed, and the Hutt stared upon them, incredulous, leaning upon his dark staff as though old and decrepit. It had called his work… Filth. Barking, twisted laughter, flavored with phlegm and salted with the sighing whispers of overworked, obese breaths. Gluttony’s foul song, that shuffling heartbeat of madness rang out into the winds of Sullust, the storm echoing the refrain of Avarice. The words that came were of two voices, split, but echoes of each other. It churned not only from the Hutt’s crooked tongue, but from the jaws of the withered dead strewn about the fountain ...Biters and Reprobates… Sheog’s joyful demeanor was all but gone, replaced by a wicked thing, all faux grace and poise fallen away to the embodiment of the Dark Side. It beckoned the two to fall into its embrace, that temptation to consume. To join in the corruption of soul, for it gave such sweet pleasures. The black stream erupted into a river, rolling in black flame like the fierce Phlegethon, yet carrying a woe deeper than the Acheron. Temptation was beheld within its waters, for it crested in dark fire. It held a dark energy, attuned as it was to the Revel of Gluttony and Avarice. Crimson light smashed through the storm, burning a line of char across the Hutt’s immense side, streaming from the apprentice’s blaster. Pain seared with it, and the Sith Master’s laughter took on an even darker madness. The Wookie’s bladework came next, and the Sith Master lurched backwards, springing back upon his massive tail. There was little point in the attempt to block the Jedi’s blade, but Sheog attempted to give the blademaster some respect to it, using his strength to move one of the three strikes from their intended target with his staff. The other two found purchase, slicing deep gouges into the flabby, thick flesh. Façade dropped away under the combined assault, and the Wookie’s lightsaber exposed rotted, decomposing flesh. Maggots crawled about the wound, white and dark, undead even in themselves, spilling onto the dark ground in wriggling heaps as the Hutt completed his backward leap. He needed distance from their blades. Pain from the combined attack bled into his control, and the great storm above leapt with dark lightning. As if answering to the wounds of their master, the bodies that surrounded the corrupted fountain awoke from death. Scrambling, shrunken forms of unlife leapt to swarm the Jedi, aiming to hold and delay them with a dozen grasping, desperate hands. Their wilted tongues carried the shrieking pain that they felt. They were shambling husks, but sloppy clones of humanity. With a flabby hand in the Force, the Mountain of Gluttony admired his creations, consuming the pain he felt from his wounds. Weapons made from rags of skin, emotions marionetted by inhumanity, a feeble interpretation of the breath of life. They had enjoyed life’s once, but they had turned their eyes from Heaven, to seek Greed and the all-consuming desire for more. More than can ever be gained. All they wanted was to rejoin their revel, the dying joys of gluttony’s overreach. Oh, such beautiful Sin, and these Jedi were stopping them from it. They would tear and howl, seeking to consume the Jedi as though a meal. <<Drink now of the Acheron, revel in her woe, and drown in her flame… Be awash in this... Filth...>> A deep wave came from that broken, black river, as though a dam had burst, bringing with it all manners of evil. It would coil and lash towards the Jedi, aiming to break against them and tear them away into the clutching hands of the undead. It was no longer the waters of Sullust, but some dark and decrepit thing of the Maw. It roiled with dark flames, within which lay the extinguished light of a thousand stars. It waters reflected naught but night, and even then, it appeared as though the fires came as through a dark mirror, for they were made of radiation. It aimed to burn them to nothing but bone. With slow and slithering movements, the great Hutt continued to back away from the Jedi, reaching into the tectonic depths below, inflicting it with his pain, letting it echo into the storm above. His belly roiled, churning with pain and rot. The Jedi would not escape the Maw. ((1)) ((Took damage from Johan’s blaster pistol as well as two of the strikes from Kiralocca. Attacked using an undead swarm combined with a vast wave of radiation.))

Around the great mountain of filth, a world continued to die, bleeding away into the void of the Maw. The sands beneath his bulk had been sterilized even down to the bacterial and fungal life that had made up the majority of the industrial world’s flora. The world seemed to shift and surge, tectonic plates crashing like the titans of the underworld beneath the power of the Force. Yet... There was another presence that stood out against the background of death and gluttony. A song that was opposed to the resplendent beat of the heart of the revel. The Wookiee and his Apprentice. The Hutt smiled in the heart of the storm. How many of this Kiralocca’s apprentices had he killed? What was one more death in this storm? A voice leered, distorted by the lensing of the storm, erupting around the Jedi like the volcanoes about them, <<Come then, Kiralocca. Let us have a fight, blade to blade. The fate of a world hangs in the balance.>> A drifting laughter came then from the shifting sands, rippling them like waves. <<I won’t explode a shuttle this time, I swear. Geki is long dead, just as is Ar-Pharazon. Against me fell Darex and Fitt, Dahar and all the others. Will your fate be different?>> The Hutt would await them, in the heart of the broken city, beside a still running fountain. The water had turned an inky dark with the soot of a dying world. He was the heartbeat of the darkness, his veins rooted into the world, a horde of dead about him. ((Feel free to join into the duel Johan, I will not kill you no matter the outcome. It'd be a good dueling lesson, feel free to read the dueling guide. I'm happy to walk you through it if you need it, as is WJ))

A flavour emerged from the background, like a fish-head rising to the surface of a good soup, where the eyes seem to stare back at you, waiting to be devoured. Hunger changed its attention from scouring the planetside, upwards towards a new morsel. The flavor of it was somehow familiar, but lost to the fog of time, like a mince-pie you had in a dream, but whose taste you always pursue. The Mountain of Filth stared skyward, beyond the circling clouds, beyond the consumption of the Maw. He could see it now, on the Event Horizon, a powerful force. All he had to do was tempt it to stray further, and he would be sated for a time. Half a planet had died and yet he was still unfulfilled, perhaps this would fill him. Familiarity crystalized, and into the Force the Hutt greeted the approaching one with a wisp of desire, the grumble of a stomach. An invitation to consume. Come and join the heart of the revel, for what fun was eating if there was no one to share the meal with? The Hutt looked down to a small droid nestled in his palm, a trophy from long ago. <<I haven’t tasted of you since Corellia… My it’s been a long time. If you can't talk, I do still possess your tongue.>>

The Diviners of the Maw Sorcerer Subclass: All Krath of the Court of Madness are Diviner’s of the Maw, and train aboard the Ghost of Zakharyina, a derelict Super Star Destroyer that resides within the Maw Installation. The powers gained are those below. Reminder, guides such as these are merely a spectrum of power, on which you may expound within your own creativity On Radiation Damage: This is like any other damage-type, it is not the ultimate power in the universe able to churn through the finest beskar, or something to shrug off. It has killing power, treat it with the respect any attack deserves, but don’t expect to lose a duel because you got hit by it or something. Abeloth’s Gaze: This attack harnesses the Force through the eyes of the Maw, and thus concentrates the Dark Side into a concentrated attack that takes on the stylization of a beam of radiation. The Dark Side would act to denature flesh and break the chemical bonds that hold flesh and bone together. Although most radiation is invisible, this takes on the visage of liquid night, reflecting the Maw’s consumption of light. (Allows it to be dodged, redirected, etc) Dimensionless Rift: This is a gravitational-based attack that harnesses the Dark Side to change gravitational pull within a specific zone, starting with a few meters of area, and increasing to that of several dozen meters at Master Level. This takes a few seconds to summon with a growing darkness over the specified zone. In this area, tendrils of darkness begin to pull whatever within it down towards the ground. The rift acts like a glue-trap to those that step on them, and can disrupt the flight of those that sail over it. Gravitational Lens: The Diviner bends reality about them, using the change to leap a short distance across a battle-zone. Even within the veil of the Force, such a change takes time, and a gravitational lens will take a few seconds to activate, and is as such not an insta-teleport button, so don’t use it like one. In a technical sense, it is a reskinned force jump, but can be better used to maneuver on the battlefield and confuse opponents. Breath of the Unseen: The Diviner reaches into the Maw and harnesses the Dark Side into a rush of radiation and applies it to the enemy in a blast like a coronal mass ejection, throwing dark radioactive fire in a wave about him/herself. Eclipse of the Gods: The Diviner draws in light about him, bathing the battlefield in darkness with the effects of a warping eclipse. Used to draw in power externally if internal power begins to wane. Devourer of Stars: The Diviner is consumed by hunger, reaching out with the Dark Side with ravenous hands of distorted light to devour their opponents piecemeal. These ethereal hands carry radiation damage and will begin to eat away anything they hit, be it their opponent or any material in the area.

Hunger, that insatiable starvation tore across the planet, spreading out like a ravenous cancer from the capital of Byllurun, taking everything living into the storm. The planet’s heartbeat, those tidal flows of magma that swirled through the planet, took on that of the Hutt, reflected in his madness. There was a volcanic rush, tectonic plates fighting against each other in a mad scramble of fire and groundquakes. Pyroclastic flows reached across the cities like searching fingers, finding the hiding life within and devouring it to ash and fire-gnawed bone. About the Hutt, a world began to die. The power of the Maw had come, and Sullust was crossing the Event Horizon. That life which was not directly consumed, such as fungi and bacteria, began to whither away from the radiation that poured from the atmosphere. The Storm was growing, rippling with radiation and gravitational abnormalities. Sheog consumed everything about him, corpses whithering away, their consciousnesses eclipsed by his own. All that was left was sardonic mimickry of life, shattered bones tottering like zombies through a wasteland that had once been a capital.

Something like Hunger moved across the surface of Sullust. A Lust for Indulgence. It struck with the fury of a famine. Gluttony in all its forms. Five spectors with it came, all the fell offspring of famine: Laute, that of exotic indulgences. Studoise, that of the excess. Nimis, that creature of unending insatiability. Praepropere, that animalistic instinct of the ancients from which feasts are born before the famine. Last was Ardenter, that fell bastard of Avarice and Hunger, which drove men to horde and devour. All were manifest in the mountain of Filth that channeled the storm. The ground itself cried out in the cravings of famine, churning with ravenous tectonic rage. A Storm rose above Byllurun, the capital of the falling world, and into it, Sheog channeled the very heart of depravity. Avarice and Gluttony ruled and was reflected in the Maw. What could be eaten, was in overindulgence, but still they starved. They were like rats in their warrens, feasting on their own young but still starving. Insatiable. It was all a reflection of the Madness that was the Master of the Krath. Dark clouds began to fall from the sky, ripping into the city of Byllurun with howling wind. It was assaulted from above by the sky, with lightning and ice, while from below the ground quaked in its insatiable rage. The city was a ouroboros, the populace devouring themselves and each other in an orgy of hunger. At the very heart of the revel, was Sheog. He relaxed, leaning against the stout bark of a Vyspian tree, in a field of death. He took in life itself, ripping it into shreds just as the maw devoured light. Flesh crumbled to ash, bone to dust. He feasted on life and on the emotions of the tortured populace. The Maw had been unleashed.

The Basic Rules of Dueling Do not disrespect your opponent: What this means, is to treat them not as a hostile writer, but as another character in your narrative that is worthy of your respect. This is an over-encompassing ideal that sets the stage of this RP. Under this umbrella are further rules Do Not God Mod: This is another umbrella term, which means do not make yourself a mary-sue or a gary-stu. In the context of a duel, you are not the god of the scenario. For example, if you are an apprentice, you do not have the lightsaber skill of a master. Posting far too many attacks for your power level is another example of god-modding. Posting attacks your opponent cannot mitigate or defend against is another example of God Modding, or internalized attacks as will be outlined later. Unmitigatable Attacks are Unacceptable: Attacking your opponent by collapsing the entire room around them in a sphere of death. Attacking from every angle simultaneously. On Internalized Attacks: These can be taken literally, you CANNOT under any circumstance use the force to pull on your opponent’s internal organs. Or post your lightsaber actually hitting. Or directly ripping into someone’s mind. Those things are forbidden directly. You can attempt to open someone else’s mind to the force, and it is on them to let you do so or make up a legitimate defense. Every Attack you make must be defendable by your opponent: It cannot be internalized or overpowered. You cannot, for example, whip out a concussion missile and shoot your opponent in the face and laugh because there is no way for them to escape the detonation zone. Do Not Make Closed Attacks: What constitutes a closed attack is as follows; (and is not an exhaustive list, but only the flavor of it so that you may avoid doing so) posting an attack on the opponent AS WELL AS the outcome of that attack. If I were to swing a lightsaber at your face, I should post that, NOT that it strikes and takes out your pretty jaw and your pearly whites. Don’t throw a grenade and have it also explode in your post, this removes the narrative ability of your opponent; maybe they wanted to toss the grenade out an airlock, or smother it in the heroism of a sacrificial NPC, or a variety of other things. Do not, for example throw a grenade, bring it to your enemy with the force and then hold it there making its detonation unavoidable. This allows your opponent to make a defense against your attack and take the damage themselves in the way THEY see fit. After a duel, you should discuss the outcome, and don’t demean the enemy in death. On Taking Damage: Part of respecting your opponent is in the respect of their attacks. If you simply block every attack because you’re an uber-jedi who is an invincible god, you will get a smackdown. You do not have to take damage from EVERY attack, but a good rule of thumb is to take one to two hits per round. Damage can be taken in a variety of ways, but it should always be meaningful and doesn’t have to be debilitating or fatal. Damage should be carried over in your further posts of narrative. (Ask yourself this; If you’ve taken a shot to the leg and then it proceeds to not at all interfere with your movement, concentration, etc, have you really TAKEN damage at all?) Physical Damage: Taking a scoring hit from a lightsaber or blaster Be sure to balance this out with your own survivability, overdoing it can be a trap has you bleeding out by the end of the duel. At some point during a duel, you SHOULD be taking some form of physical damage, otherwise it’s a feel-bad moment for your opponent and you aren’t truly respecting their ability to HARM you. The Displacement of Good Positioning: You planned on attacking head on, now you can’t. It ought to screw up your plans a bit, and you ought to speak to that in your narrative, or it really isn’t taking damage. Loss of Set-up Attacks: You had planned on lambasting your opponent from a leftward swipe with a telekinetic attack or lightsaber blow, but now you cannot. Now, this implies the following: Set up your attacks beforehand. You cannot just say, oops now my force storm won’t work, if you didn’t speak to a force storm in a previous post, or else you aren’t taking any damage. Loss or Damage to NPCs (This is specific to classes that use these in their arsenal): Your favorite Mandalorian squaddie just lost a leg or something, now he can’t shoot as well or be as mobile. Loss of Weapons or Armor: Getting your blaster cut in half by a lightsaber, or a piece of your armor being slagged, or a weapons system becoming inoperable. This should be meaningful to your player or narrative. (Oh no, I just lost the ability to play music in my helmet, is not meaningful damage. Think instead of losing multispectral readout from your HUD, or nightvision, or something that indicates actual harm from your opponent’s attacks.) On Attacking: Set up your attacks, you should be hinting at those to come throughout the duel, because you cannot pull out force powers like party tricks, there is always a setup, a buildup. Give them life and meaning, it helps those who are reading it, because this is a story with two writers. If you’re going to swing a lightsaber at a person’s throat, don’t just say that, give meaning behind it, indicate your character knows what they’re doing, and your opponent and mod will find it easier to give the attack weight Example: “Terra cut at Ar-Pharazon’s chest with her lightsaber” turns into “Terra threw her full might into the blow she aimed at Ar-Pharazon’s chest, hoping to drive her sword deep into his black heart” See? Much easier to respect and gives the attack some character. On Thermal Detonators and Disrupters or anything that will kill the opponent if it touches them: Generally, don’t use these, they aren’t banned per say, but how can someone respectfully defend against your attack if they insta-die if it touches them? Typically such items are used only for inspiring movement from an opponent in a fortified position. On Mental Attacks: Some attacks may be considered “undodgable” in a physical sense, such as some mental-based attacks (Like Force Insanity, or Malacia, or a variety of mental attacks that exist in Star Wars Canon). These can be “resisted” through the narrative of the defender in the same way that one may dodge a blaster bold or a thrown grenade. Like all attacks, the defender has the prerogative on what kind of damage they actually take from a mental-based attack. On Tactics: Setting up attacks, movement patterns, and diversifying your attacks are especially important. If you swing a lightsaber at your opponent’s face again and again, you have become predictable and boring. If your only arsenal is in the swing of a lightsaber, vary it up, add in some leaps, some diagonals, try to get the high ground. Always discuss the layout of the battleground with your opponent, don’t just go “I now have the high ground good luck idiot, or gotcha you’re in a chokepoint now this is Thermopylae now” there should be a consensus and give and take. Setting up the taking and giving of ground is important to narrative and to those reading the story. On Equipment: You can only fight with what is on your Character Sheet in the databank. Don't be tossing out random secret weapons, tactical nukes, exploding ships, a fleet of Star Destroyers, etc. It should be in line with your class. On the Basics of Writing and Narrative: This is a story written by two authors. You should both write like you are the protagonist and make the story interesting. No one wants to read a sterile instruction manual of combat. Give your emotions and your thoughts some layout, it will help the readers and the mods take an interest. At the end of the day, you can throw out a million attacks and still lose because reading it was a slog for everyone. We have all types of writing advisors here, seek us out on Discord, set up conversations and advice. We have all read great stories, and we want to read yours. Other Assorted Rules The Three Day Rule: Try not to take longer than three days to post a response to your opponent. After this time has run out, they can legally kill you. We discourage people actually doing this because of hurt feelings, so talk about it if you have a family emergency or work stress or depression. Everyone is understanding. Moderator Rulings For Mod Rulings: Every Duel is ruled on by a Moderator with the assistance of an Advisor (from the Admin/Mod Team) to determine the winner. Mods take the following things into account: Were both opponents respectful to each other? Were all attacks accounted for properly and was the damage taken appropriate and respectful? Did anyone God-Mod? Were the tactics sound for both sides? Was the story good to read for both sides? What determines their giving the win to one side or another will be discussed with another mod or admin who will also be reading the duel, as to minimize blindspots and hurt feelings.