Mechis III

[Sheog the Mad]

'You could make a fortune selling the drugs and surgery those fools need. Not to mention, create a lot of havoc should you make one of those brutes lose his mind and jump into a crowd full of people."

 

Sheog raised a quizzical eyebrow (if he had eyebrows) at the man's surprisingly sound economical advice. He had simply invited him for a typically droll human conversation and feast, but was instead getting long-range economical prediction, as well as a chance to ruin the reputation of his least favorite sport. He made sure to have his business minions get right on the suggestion. According to them, there was an open market, rife for capitalization.

 

The girl that constantly accompanied the man, whose name was surprisingly angelic (contradictory to what the man apparently did to the poor girl at night according to Sheog's spies), was finally revealed to not be an assassin, but instead a scantily clad serving girl. Who apparently was good at handling a blaster.

 

The Demented Madness landed with a small bump upon the Sith landing platform at Mechis III. The countless slaves and serving droids prepared the landing ramp with the tanned hides of human hide of two pure black slaves, who had been prepared for just this occasion. The meat of the two slaves had been mixed into basted pies that were presented to the two guests, in bags of yellow and red, the cartel colors of Sheog's house.

 

The pies had been prepared by the ship's cook, (who had unfortunately committed suicide afterwards ((perhaps due to cooking another bunch of people into pies)) by throwing himself into the signature Rancor Brand Basting Sauce©...) to the exact specifications laid out by Sheog. The two slaves of pure white now walked behind the Hutt, elegantly dressed (and surprisingly well-dressed for female slaves of a Hutt) and carrying blaster rifles.

 

The large Hutt tossed one of the tasty pies into his eager gullet (noticing the wonderful basting... A bit crunchy... Slightly meaty...) as they made their way off The Demented Madness, onto the planet of animated metal. Perhaps they would meet their master at last...

[Sheog the Mad]

((Once again”¦ Sorry about the delay.))

 

Sheog grinned as the dark figure approached, surrounded by countless droids, which was no surprise due to Mechis III being most well known for its droid population. The figure was dressed in raven colors, hooded and cloaked like most Sith masters, but his stare could still be seen. The demon's heart, which Sheog gained through victorious battle, shook and trembled inside his side-pouch, as if in response to its master's approach. A power emanated from him. Then, the figure began to speak, his voice oddly loud (as if amplified through a some magical device).

 

"Welcome to Mechis III. I am Lord Antilles, but you will call me master. Your servants are to remain in your personal quarters at all times. This journey is a personal one.”

[Sheog the Mad]

"You of course may be guided by these two principals, but therein lies the problem. The common hedonist is but a whim to their immediate desires, a servant to their id. Once you expand your vision, both of you will know the dark side in a way that defies the limitations of speech and the logic of the starving masses."

 

Sheog smiled gleefully. His master was indeed wise, but his allegiance was not solely focused on his pleasure. He also fought to better his people through Sith support. It was support they gravely needed. Although pleasure was nice too.

 

"I ask you to accomplish the same task I asked of Uriel with this droid to my right"

 

A simple task, but very hard to accomplish. Sheog stared hard at the droid before him as his apprentice counterpart accomplished the task beside him. Sheog observed the man's wasteful and foolish use of anger. Anger was hard to obtain, yet somehow all those he encountered in the Sith forces easily found it inside themselves, as if it were as simple as dipping a bucket into a flowing river. Perhaps those that found their lot with the Sith had a ton of repressed anger. Family issues most likely. If the Jeedia truly wanted to destroy the power of the Sith, all they had to do was send in a few psychiatrists.

 

Channeling greed and gluttony was a harder deed to accomplish. Sheog focused upon his internal thoughts, and let them float to the surface of his maddened mind. His conscious mind went to the well of greed, which was drilled into his emotions, and let down a bucket. Bringing up the bucket, he slaked his thirst with the foul waters of greed. It roiled in his belly, but it was not strong enough yet. It needed a catalyst.

 

His stomach roiling, Sheog went next to the great feasting hall within his mind. Upon the great table was laid the feast of the perfect glutton. With every bite, the feeling inside his gut became power, faster and faster, the power of the greedy glutton. To finish the combination, and to refine it, he took from the table the finest of emotional wines; lust. He was no longer thirsty, but the crimson liquid was pleasing to his senses, he needed it. Once the goblet was drained, he had it all; a greed for the riches to be obtained, the gluttonous rage for knowledge of the Sith, and to focus it all into a directed force: the lust for power.

 

Sheog opened his eyes, the power of all his workings coming to a crescendo. He reached out with his mind and imagined the droid before him, sparkling silver awaiting the power he was about to unleash. He focused on several locations on the droid. To each of the feet, he poured his emotional power, attaching them to his right hand with a thrice woven rope; greed, gluttony, and lust. The third focus of his mind was the very center of the droid's chest, and to that he channeled the thrice interwoven power of his mind. From his left hand sprung an invisible fist, the fingers of the greedy, the often full hands of glutton, strengthened with the urges of the lustful. He slammed the fist into the armored chest of the droid with all his mental strength, and simultaneously yanked the feat from under the unfortunate droid with the mental ropes attached to his right hand.

[Sheog the Mad]

"Good. Now do the same to each other."

Sheog was not all too surprised by the command from the Krath Lord. He was expecting some sort of job for both he and Uriel to do either in unison or in competition. So the Sith chose competition, as was so common amongst this group of angry warriors. Perhaps his master would teach them the benefits of cooperation and the strength of the many versus the will of one. Nothing ever got accomplished by in-fighting, in Sheog's experience, and the galaxy's citizens wondered why the Sith never held power for long? Perhaps it was because of exercises like this. Or maybe it was because of everyone's stylish look in black capes. The stylish ones were always treacherous. And generally poor fighters.

 

Sheog sighed and turned himself to see Uriel head on, shifting his bulk in a defensive settlement onto the duracrete ground beneath his grimy hide. To tell the truth, the last exercise had burned through the food that Sheog had eaten before leaving The Demented Madness, and his stomach yearned for a good filling. He sighed, placed one of his chubby hands upon his aching belly, and patted it, as if reassuring himself of an eventual feast he knew would never come. At least not yet. His stomach was not so easily fooled. It was unbearable.

 

Sheog glanced up at Uriel with his big red eyes, observing him as if in a new light. The red of his irises intensified into a dark crimson, overcome with an intense lust. The human before him, with the angelic name, was made of biological material. Material that could be ingested and digested, and if luck looked kindly upon his pallet, would also be delicious. The biotics would be dissolved by Sheog's exceptionally strong stomach acid if given a crack at the job. The man looked scrumptious, a dish to be prepared, but first it must be caught.

 

With the promise of an appetizing meal, the three powers of his subconscious began to work in unison, towards a delectable goal. At the forefront of the mission, (branded Operation Uriel by Sheog's maddened mind) was the obvious choice: Gluttony. That power had one strength over the others; it was always in excess, and easily accessible in Sheog's mind. It would accomplish its goal through overwhelming force. Sheog felt ravenous power flowing from his empty stomach, seeping through his blubbery layers, and into his grubby hand.

 

Gluttony was a great power, but weakened by a lack of support. Another power would provide that support, its covetous hands eager to join Operation Uriel, promised an increased strength through victory. Greed would cover all the other angles that Gluttony simply could not. From his mind the power flowed, moving down his flabby arm to join Excess in the briefing room of Sheog's palm. His hand was growing crowded with the mixing powers, but Sheog could not yet release them on their mission.

 

Overwhelming numbers and adequate support were vital, but without a leader, the mission was doomed to fail. Luckily, for Operation Uriel, Sheog's subconscious provided the perfect director. Pale and red she was, strong and wise. Lust. A desire insatiable. Unquenchable. From all of his seven hearts came the power, hot and fiery, causing Sheog to wince in pain as the burning pain entered his palm. He opened his eyes and gazed at Uriel, truly hungry.

 

Sheog let his maddened mind give way to the will of the force, letting the so called ”˜dark side' take him. Technically the color scheme of this power was not all dark, but a pallet of tasteful colors. Colors would intertwine and fly from his palm, if one could see the colors of the force. The black of Gluttony, darker than a black-hole, would snake out towards Uriel's kneecaps, to buckle them, and unsteady his feet. They would wrap his legs in dark tethers, binding them together. The green of Avarice, like a vast sickening forest, would bind with the darkened tethers, drawing them up to cover Uriel's arms and face, creating a black mummy with emerald trimming, powerless to hold himself on his feet. The Crimson tide of lust would come next, commanded by Sheog's connection to the force, sweeping the unfortunate angel off its feet. If all went according to plan, his master's challenge would be accomplished. Sheog surrendered himself to the force, releasing the power from his burning hand to carry out its duty. Let Operation Uriel begin.

[Sheog the Mad]

Sheog slid himself into his normal position, firmly set upon his tail. He sighed, a bit depressed about being knocked down. His master began to speak, seeming oddly pleased.

 

"Good... good. You have both done what I have asked. You've demonstrated loyalty and both given me invaluable information at the same time. This task was not a competition, but an individual test for each of you.”

[Sheog the Mad]

Sheog bowed in response to his master's rebuke. He most likely deserved it. Maybe. Without another word to either his master or his fellow apprentice (who seemed in no great hurry to speak to him either) he pushed himself in the direction of his room, the whereabouts of which he hadn't a clue. It wasn't like Ason had given them a map of the facility with their rooms marked in bright colors. He considered asking one of the nearby droids for directions, but then remembered his master's orders of not a word should be uttered until he was in his room. This would be a problem. At least he had packed a supply of food, and for that he was glad, he had no intention of munching of deactivated droids, which seemed to be the only thing that this food-forsaken planet.

 

He pushed himself past countless rooms with doors he could never fit through, so many that he felt like suing the Sith for specist accessibility, but instead he decided to eat. From his side-pouch he withdrew several handfuls of white-worms and munched on them as he pushed himself down yet another deserted corridor. As he reached the end of it, he drained his expensively decorated canteen of harsh liquor dry, and spotted a much larger door. This door was conveniently his size. He glanced to his left and saw where he had just been, an hour before training with his master. He had come in a complete (and utterly useless, except perhaps for sightseeing's sake) loop from the training area. He shook his head and opened the door into his room. Before closing the door, he placed a crocheted (of the finest ewok fur and wookie-pelt blend) nameplate upon the door and hung it from the handle. He didn't want his lack of direction to lead him astray again.

 

He gazed slowly around the room and moved himself over to the table in the center of the room. From his side-pouch he withdrew his prize from the Kaminoen test; the heart of a demon. He stared at it for a few minutes before placing it in the very center of the table (upon a conveniently located silver plate) and sat back, waiting for a new order from his master. Beside the plate he placed his oversized vibro-dagger, in the case of an emergency.

[Sheog the Mad]

((OOC: What a series of unfortunate events... From this point on I'll be able to make posts in a much more timely manner...))

 

Sheog stretched and ate white worms as he waited for his master's call. He was happy, eating and thinking. He had not had the time or the opportunity, (or were those the same?) to sit and contemplate for many a long year. He was always on the run, or whatever is the Hutt equivalent. As his mind worked over inane issues and philosophical revelations, he heard a strange voice come floating down the hall. He moved closer to the door, for some reason carrying the plate with the demon heart, in order to hear better.

 

"Now use that same power you used to push each other and force it to your legs... or whatever musculature you use."

 

He had no clue whatsoever who was speaking or the reason why. He had barely heard his master's voice, but that who was speaking seemed to be talking about the previous training... Perhaps it was his master...

 

”œThis room will self destruct in seconds.”

[Sheog the Mad]

Sheog raised one of his large, slightly greasy, eyebrows, quizzically and perhaps suspiciously at the serving droid as he slid past, waving his arms slowly, as if to stimulate a slow-motion experience. As he continued to slide down the long hallway, he spotted a minor obstacle; the great doors to the dining hall. Unable to slow his slide, he smashed into the great oaken doors, but unfortunately, they did not budge. Apparently, they did not believe in doors that did not need a knob turned to open. Oh the inconvenience! And the pain.

 

Mumbling to himself about the Sith's stubbornness to getting doors that were accepting to species larger and not as dexterous as the average humanoids. Upon entering the dining hall, glancing slowly back at the long slime trail (that would overload the programming of a dozen or more cleaning droids) he had left behind, he noticed a most pleasant smell.

 

Perhaps it was the smell of a roasting nug, (Wait, what is a Nug one might ask? Sheog had not a clue but it sounded delicious. Had the same ring as Chicken McNugget. Maybe it was a shortened word for the delicious pieces of white meat, frozen for a decade before being dunked in week-old grease by a dirty worker, disgruntled at his/her minimum wage, and without washing his/her hands. Delicious. Simply wonderous.) or a basted bantha, or the bubbly yeastiness of a malt ale. Probably it was the strong odor of a powerful Sith, intent on testing them at the cost of the structural integrity of his own temple. Actually, it was probably the nug. Either or. Or both? A voice broke through his food monologue.

 

”œDo you hold any contempt for me for those attempts on your life?"

 

Sheog considered his master's words, for a few moments, weighing the pros and cons of different answers. He formulated a sentence in his mind, with only minor mind wandering and food monologues.

 

<>

[Sheog the Mad]

"I'm glad. I have a mission for you two."

 

Sheog frowned at the details for his mission. He had to work with the fallen angel, and go to Hoth. Two things he didn't necessarily want to do. He read a bit more. Harvesting Wampa pelts was part of their mission? That was a little messed up, but it did sounds like fun, more fun than ordering the pelts from his supplier. Hunting. A bit barbaric, but this was after all the Sith. Barbaric and Sith seemed to go hand in hand quite often.

 

"Act as a team."

 

Sheog sighed and looked up to his master, a bit intrigued by the mission, and perhaps a bit hungry. He bowed his head, acknowledging his master's orders and turned to Uriel.

 

<>

 

Finishing his speech, Sheog rushed (or more specifically slithered) to his pleasure craft and boarded it. Leaving the landing ramp down long enough for the Fallen Angel to board, Sheog ordered another grand feast prepared and the navi-droid to direct them to Hoth. As The Demented Madness rose from the rickety platform, the cooks were slaving away at the stoves, preparing a delicious Gungan and Ewok casserole, (one of Sheog's favorite dishes. Perhaps he enjoyed eating and destroying species that he felt should never have evolved, or he found them bloody annoying. Either was a good enough reason for the casserole to be Sheog's favorite.) which would be served in three courses, interlaced with sauce made from a variety of endangered species and served with a side of what Sheog referred to as ”œRancor Fries”

[Sheog the Mad]

As the great Hutt vessel dropped from the comforting blue folds of hyperspace, the piloting droids quickly began the proper landing procedures, selecting the location of Ason's temple, where Sheog had once before pushed himself about. Within the communication station, the Hutt sent forth a highly encrypted set of messages to through the proper Com relays towards the location of the selected force users.

 

The Demented Madness landed lightly upon the decking of the landing platform, sending up a small wave of dust and random bits of paper. Sheog pushed himself quickly down the landing ramp, hopefully followed by his honored guest, and began to summon the force about himself. With a burst of gluttonous power, Sheog let his presence become a beacon, hopefully one his old master would follow. There was also another presence here that Sheog now felt... One that had given him enough precaution to come down the landing ramp heavily armed.

[Sheog the Mad]

Sheog breathed in the polluted air and laughed heartedly. It was good to be back to the home of his master. His smile broadened as he saw a figure approaching, feeling a new presence through the force, one he had never felt before. He quickly pushed his way down the ramp, leaning on his ceremonial staff, and laughed once more as his compatriot spoke beside him.

 

"Hullo old bean. Here about that ad in the paper?"

 

Sheog nodded in agreement, continuing to pour power into projecting his presence, if his master had cloned himself, he would find them very easily. In order to support his gluttonous connection to the force, Sheog removed another handful of white worms from his side-bag and placed the struggling, delicious, worms into his gullet. He concealed a belch, for the politeness of company, keeping his eyes open for any approaching figures, and his force senses open to sense any type of danger. Uncorking his large canteen of Cortyg Brandy, and fishing three very clean, large, glasses from his side-bag, he suspended them in the air with the force, like they were sitting upon a barroom table. He laughed and filled the floating glasses to the brim with the amber, intoxicating liquid. With a small tweak in his mind, he sent one glass floating to Darth Ares, one to Gren, and then nabbed one for himself. Raising it high, he spoke a toast.

 

<>

[Sheog the Mad]

Sheog nodded slowly as he listened to Gren's monologue. The idea was a good one, and something that would have his full support. His grimy hand played across the length of his ceremonial staff, feeling the knobs and grooves of the soul reaper that adorned one end and the indent from where the lightsaber's ginger blade would leap on the other. He smiled as the other man walked slowly past them both and entered The Demented Madness, where he would be greeted by a serving girl bearing a large platter of delicious foodstuffs. He turned to Gren and nodded once more.

 

<>

 

He smiled kindly and pushed his way past the Galactic Alliance Soldier Diplomat towards where he felt a darker presence emanating. Sheog followed the presence slowly, and after a few minutes, it guided him to a laboratory. With one grimy hand, he flipped a few switches on the wall and the lamps mounted on the ceiling ignited, bathing the room with warm, yellow light, reminiscent of the sun. On one wall, there rested an oversized tank, in which lay the cloned body of his master. Sheog's eyes widened, and he quickly set to work preparing for his master's imminent rebirth. He found a set of dark robes, the approximate size of the Sith Lord and laid them beside the tank, along with a towel for the Sith to dry himself with.

 

Upon the centre table, he laid out his master's weapons: the red mist shurikans, the long-blade of Orik Bendan, and lastly his master's soul reaper. He filled the tip of his staff, where the soul reaper was located, with more power, and tapped it twice against the side of the tank, letting the power seep into the tank, like a dye into a cup of water. It would awake Ason, and perhaps make him slightly less pissed. Bendan was in hell, and would never possess another soul, so Sheog believed himself to be in relative safety.

[Sheog the Mad]

The Sith Acolyte, Grace, whom Sheog had recruited during his fight against Ason Antilles, noticed the stranger's (Lockjaw's) entrance into The Demented Madness, the oversized feasting-craft of her gluttonous master. She adjusted her jet-black robes and slipped past the two talking men, (Ares and Gren) and lightly tapped a control panel on the wall. A silent alarm buzzed in the security room, which was in turn sent on by one of seven technicians to the armory section of The Demented Madness. An alert was also sent to Sheog's datapad, labeled: INTRUDER ALERT.

 

Grace, the skin on her face and arms still bandaged from the fire's burning grasp, slowly approached the sitting Barabel, her black-gloved hand resting on the holstered DL-44 on her hip. She smiled at the reptilian creature, and stared into his eyes with her corrupted, yellow gaze. Called forth from their electronic slumber, two of the YVH-class battle-droids slowly approached the sitting barabel from behind, prepared to gun him down if he were to attack the young Grace. The girl's smile brightened and she extended her hand toward the sitting figure, and spoke in a peppy tone,

 

”œHey! I'm Grace! What exactly is your business aboard master Sheog Anjiliac Diresto's grand craft?”

[Sheog the Mad]

Grace's golden eyes narrowed slightly at the Barabel's icy countenance and apparent ability o see through the back of his head. She smiled again, taking her black-bound hand from the holster on her side and motioned from for the YVH-1's to stand down. She laughed slowly, her white teeth complimenting her scarred, ashen skin.

 

”œPerhaps if you were to give me your name, I could help you further... Just as master Gren just said.”

[Sheog the Mad]

Grace cracked her neck by placing a fist against her jaw and pushing a bit, placing the pole vertically in the other hand. The time to fight was now. A giggle escaped her lips as the man introduced himself, not at the name itself, but at the Barabel's fierce tone. They were not fighting each other to the death, but only to test one another's combat skills. Her golden eyes played across the Barabel's scaly skin, watching for the muscle tremors of an incoming assault. Grace's vigilance was rewarded as she watched Lockjaw's scales bunch and tense as the reptile prepared for a leap. With a lunge of her own, she jumped to the side, but underestimated the speed of the reptilian beast, and felt a sharp sting across her back as the pole crashed down.

 

She stumbled, but turned the momentum into a spin, aiming a full-weight swing at the side of the Barabel, where it would hopefully land under his outstretched left arm. Pain swirled on her back, like a thousand knives were plunging their blades into her shoulders. Her face distorted from the pain, but she did not lose focus on her attack. She would make the Barabel pay for landing the strike.

 

*********

 

Sheog bowed low as his master spoke to him, once more as a friend and trainer, and no longer as the demon that the Krath had once been possessed by. He was now a Sith Lord, a title of great value and one that would allow him to take on an apprentice. It would create a great opportunity to share his knowledge and philosophy. He bowed his head low, leaning on his Ceremonial Staff.

 

”

[Sheog the Mad]

((OOC: I would not recommend posting the actions of other's named tactical NPCs... Others will get a wee bit pissed.))

 

The half dozen security droids began to fetch crates of thermite explosives from the stockpiles of the Krath and place them into the hold of The Demented Madness, where the technicians would begin to place them around the ship in discreet places (such as in hatches and compartments). A set of 50 kilograms of thermite would be positioned in every hold and room, as well as at the entrances, such as the various ramps and at the entrance to the escape pod. Each explosive set would be linked up together and placed at Sheog's control via encrypted command in his datapad. The control, once launched could not be undone, and only could be reversed by disarming each bundle individually.

 

*********

 

Sheog entered his grandiose craft and immediately sensed the dark tremors of intense battle coming from the training room. He rolled his eyes and hefted his ceremonial staff and entered the training chamber, his mind beginning to swirl with the hunger for the flesh of whoever was in combat. His maddened eyes took in the site of a barabel, whom Grace had described as the intruder, throwing his acolyte against the bulkhead and lowering a jagged piece of wood at her. Gluttonous rage filled his multiple hearts, at the thought of losing the girl whom he had worked so hard to convert to the dark side of the force, and had saved from a terrible fate at the hands of his former master.

 

From within his mind and stomach, Sheog summoned the ravenous powers of the dark side and hurled the force at the Barabel, letting it take the form of a grasping hand, like the hand of a fat child, reaching for a cookie. The power of the force would envelop Lockjaw, and send him hurtling across the training room, but would not smash him into a greasy, scaly stain on the bulkhead, but hold him suspended. Sheog coughed, trying to turn the attention of everyone in the room onto him. With another application of the greedy hand of the force, the Hutt Lord brought Grace back onto her feat.

 

<>

 

Sheog gave Lockjaw another squeeze with the force, as if to punctuate his words. He turned slowly to Gren.

 

<>

 

Sheog smiled and dropped the Barabel on the decking in front of himself. He gave him a casual look over, before summoning the force once more. This time, the insatiable power was not to smite or destroy, but to sense the intentions and force potential of the Barabel before him. A small smile played across his disgusting face.

 

<

[Sheog the Mad]

”œThat is why I came to this planet, to give myself to order of the Sith, I am here so that you may teach me in the ways of the force, to make me stronger, and to strike fear and chaos to all who stand before me.”

[Sheog the Mad]

A story from the depths of an exile's past. Such history led to delinquency in most youths, and now, Lockjaw would be another exceptional felonious lizard, whose natural instincts had led them to the darker side of the force. Unfortunately, most individuals with issues about their past friends and family usually only cared about power, and not the true tenets of the Sith or the Dark Side. A small flare of anger swept through Sheog's maddened mind, like a gentle breeze, but was quickly swept away by resolve. A firm belief in the ability to change. Anger was a strong ally in battle, but far too often did it lead astray. Sheog nodded solemnly and began to speak slowly.

 

<>

 

Sheog chuckled to himself, enjoying his first lesson as the master. The massive Hutt was distracted from his insanity by the light footsteps of a running Grace. She looked excited, a smile running across her bandaged face, replacing the cringes of pain earned from her duel with Lockjaw. Her glee crashed upon the heap of sloth like ocean waves upon an unyielding cliff. She spoke hurriedly, her voice charged with enthusiasm.

 

”œMaster! There has been an attack upon a hospital on Corellia! It's rumored to be Sith ser! The source came directly from the Corellian police department! It's the marauders!”

[Sheog the Mad]

A spirit of hunger. A devouring demon shattered the stillness of the water. The moss and algae began to wilt and curl as life itself began to be consumed. All would die and be consumed. All but this girl. His Apprentice.

 

<<What brings you to call upon me… After all this time?>>

 

A deep laugh roiled in the water

 

<<My Fieldgrey…>>

[Sheog the Mad]

The demon transformed into water-bound smoke. The familiar curl of pipesmoke. It held itself with bemusement. A broken, deep laugh wrapped itself around the naked girl. Visions of Corellia’s destruction, the death of the Jedi Council, all at The Hutt’s Hands.

 

<<Why would you turn away from power?>>

 

The spirit flooded into the water his power, charging the pond with the Force. What was consumed had been turned into energy. Tantalizing her with his gift of eternal power.  

[Sheog the Mad]

The spirit drew away, taking with it the power and strength that had been offered. Far beyond the galactic rim, The Hutt smiled. Instead of a demon, now there was only a fainter feeling of the Hutt beside the girl.

 

<<You have turned away from power. Away from power not your own.>>

 

The stagnant pool fell away, dropping the girl into mud and darkness.

 

<<You have made the choice that few Sith could make. You are strong enough now to be on your own.>>

 

Sheog reached out, across the galaxy and felt the skin of her shoulder upon his hand. One last physical touch before madness would consume his once more.

 

<<Build a lightsaber and become a Lord of the Krath… Darth Awenydd…>>