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Sheog the Mad

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Sheog the Mad last won the day on February 4

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About Sheog the Mad

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  1. Sheog the Mad


    The Hutt’s crimson eyes caught those of the Dark Lord as the Spider stepped to congratulate the Warrior Mavenger. They shared a look, one the mad Hutt could only hope to decipher. Was it lust with which the Dark Lord gazed upon his corpulence? Was that an eyebrow waggle? A blink or a wink? The Lord of the Krath supped in a moist breath, a froth forming upon his tongue. He had missed the mysterious Assassin with which he shared so many ages of history, but that was mainly due to the Hutt’s own propensity to disappear into the madness of the Force. As the Hutt self-reflected, the Master of Assassins moved past, to address the man of the hour; Darth Mavenger, renowned duelist of two ties. Why Sheog wasn’t getting a pat on the back for smacking down a Jedi Master, the Hutt would never know. But he was beyond vanity. Or was he? The Hutt scratched at one of his multitudinous chins and took the time to admire the Dark Lord’s sword. The angle of the ebony blade was perfect. It fit the man’s stature, and for a moment, the Hutt was utterly proud of his oldest friend. It had slayed many, there was no doubt. The Hutt sighed, almost seductively through his heavy breathing, and looked for Mavenger’s sword, but found none, which was somehow both disappointing and relieving.
  2. Sheog the Mad


    The Hutt kept his head bowed, his multitudinous folds of fat lapping into ripples that were luminescent with grease. His multiple lids fluttered across his crimson eyes, his best imitation of a grieving apprentice. The Sith Master had, in truth, little care over the death of the Lord Xahl, whom he had met little of, and had never conversed at length about politics over a tankard of Lumninats Brogg Ale with the man. The Sith Lord had seemed more of an IPA man, and so he had a disdain for the dead man. To which Sin did you adhere, Xahl, that left you so predisposed to mortality? Why do we mourn the passing of the weak? The Hutt stared out into the frenzied and irritable Sith forces, mystified as to why they too seemed to care about the death of a minor Sith Lord. Were the forces of Exodus so bereft of decent fighters that such a loss was meaningful? With a small flourish, he snatched his discarded gift from the floorboards, the saberhandle leaping into his greasy palm with a wet slapping sound. The mountain of filth breathed in, taking in the taste of the emotions that flew through the room, the rawness of rage, that mix of bitterness, the grief of lost love. A delicious cacophony of unrestrained emotion. He let it channel through him, feeding upon it like the Maw, drawing from it strands of emotion to savor and roll upon his tongue. A new sensation. The Spider had come. Sheog pushed his way to the side of the Lord Mavanger, leaning heavily upon his ceremonial staff. He bowed low, his folds tripling, the seems of his flesh, that façade of life, buckling against the stored rot within. He kept silent but eyed the Spider with a coy slyness. He would have given a quip or started inane rambling, but he didn’t care to ruin the moment.
  3. The Sarlacc vs Svata Dragoste Overall, very well done from both characters. Duels between apprentices and their masters can be a little dicey regarding power levels, and I believe you both wrote to that very well. A little different from most training duels, usually you aren’t actually trying to kill each other. Dialogue: Speaking and monologuing is great for character build-up and is generally considered a “free-action”, however, Sarlacc I would caution the use of full dialogue between attacks for the following reasons; duel posts should take a very short amount of time between attacks, and it doesn’t make much storyline sense for a person to take on the attack of another, wait for them to stop speaking and then attack back. It tends to throw the pacing of a duel off-kilter very quickly. Aside from pacing issues, Sarlacc, your dialogue was very much written as one would speak, which for many RPers does not come naturally. Svata, your internal thoughts were done very well and portrayed action-response and gave true life to your characterization, I applaud you, as well as Sarlacc for this. Damage Taken: You both did a fantastic job taking damage and respecting each other’s attacks, no attack went unaddressed it appeared as though both sides took appropriate damage for the attacks given. It did seem a bit odd to see pain as a fuel for a non-darksider’s connection to the lightside, but that is not my purview, nor in my scope for judgement. Attacks: There was a lot of things going on in this duel, a lot of things to manage with not only there being force propelled lightsabers, but blasters and rods and all sorts of force shenanigans like the Defender’s evaporation. A word of caution here: there was a lot of telekinetic application to devices held to turn the opponent’s own weapon into an attack against them. There is a lot of grey in this, while not an internalized attack, there is a lot of potential for abuse in such attacks for the following reason: If you take control of an opponent’s weapon in order to attack them with it, it’s incredibly more powerful than a normal attack, there isn’t an ability to parry, that opponent has to overcome and defend themselves from their own weapon (because of “respect your opponent’s attacks”) and then somehow also attack you back with the thing you just used against them. It runs this dangerous razor’s edge between god-modding and being okay, so be incredibly careful with it. The Ruling: This one was really close, both sides were rather equal coming into the third post, but at the end, Sarlacc’s reliance on ballistakinesis against a lightsaber is kinda telekinesis at that point and, there is much in the way of controversy on whether one can apply telekinesis to energy beam at all due to its intangible nature since there is no mass to push on at all. Svata’s use stun blasts were simple yet effective in contrast. The Winner is Svata. Well done to you both.
  4. Sheog the Mad


    The oversized mountain of filth slithered across the semi-abandoned hanger, austere behind his façade as a kind and idiotic Hutt, but within, the Maw churned through its digestion of the Jedi’s energy. It was a meager feast, but it was sustenance that he had not found since the violent end of the Jedi Council’s response team during the hunt for Geki. …Notes of cherry and happiness. Love perhaps? Why did it taste like a shower-scene? What had been the last thoughts of the Jedi as she had died? Were they of peace or of Love? Were they of the Code and the admonishment of life it brought with it? The Hutt could not quite taste the truth, but there was a feeling of peace within the meal, which saddened him. He preferred terror, horror, or even despair over such a melodramatic peace. It was like unspiced Nerf, sautéed in plain linthseed oil. No real flavor. Crimson, slitted eyes blinked, their many lids sliding and focusing upon a figure at the far side of the hanger. The Force reflected the storm of grief and rage that played upon the Sith’s soul. So the Lord Xahl was dead then, and a meaningful bond shattered. Poor boy. The Hutt slithered on, concealing his rotting wounds by knitting the shattered flesh together like a babushka knitted a blanket for a babe. The Sith Master drew in the pungent puss and ichor, binding it into his undead flesh once more. It wouldn’t do for the boy, that Lord Mavanger, to see his favorite apprentice as the Master of Filth he was. Sheog raised a greasy, dirty hand as a soft greeting as he approached, inclining his misshaped head in a small bow, a line of drool dribbling down his multitudinous folds. His voice was soft, filled with empathy instead of joy as it had been. <<My Lord, you have my condolences for the loss of your friend. I have a gift, taken from the kill of a great Jedi Lord, may it help to ease your suffering.>> The Hutt tossed the Jedi Master’s lightsaber to the decking at the Sith’s feet. The lightsaber echoed like a wound in the Force, a reflection of The Maw and of the terrifying power of a master of the Krath, imprinted forever with the death of its former owner.
  5. Sheog the Mad


    The Maw consumed all life that came before its wrath. Once caught within the Event Horizon, there was no escape, and so it was for the Jedi Master. Flesh to lifeless ash and bone to dust, just as had happened to the Child before. So was the desire of that maddening hunger, and so the Jedi passed beyond, with neither pain no conscious thought. There was no soul to reap, for the great Master of the Jedi had escaped that fate and met her end peacefully. The Lord of the Krath paused, his furious hunger momentarily checked by the substantial meal. Crimson eyes blinked, multiple lids narrowing as he began to comprehend that the battle had finished. A smile twisted his malformed lips as he stretched out a hand, the Jedi’s lightsaber jumping into his grasp. It rebelled against him, screaming to unify itself with its consumed master, but he did not give it peace. A Jedi’s weapon was said to be part of their soul, so it would be his to hold for now. Perhaps it would give him better usage as a gift to Lord Exodus, or as a bargaining chip to some Jedi Grandmaster in the future. The Hutt’s overlarge bulk labored beneath him as he pushed his way back towards Le Morte de’Shadowfett. He had taken many wounds in this battle and he would need time to reknit his rotten flesh. He slipped away his morose mask, his rotting flesh appearing as though that of a more alive Hutt, and not as one so deeply corrupted by the Maw. The charade with the Lord Mavanger would continue.
  6. Sheog the Mad


    The Mountain of Gluttony’s anger increased, paired in equal with his mounting hunger. Even the lifeforce of the child could not whet an appetite for long. Not even the Jedi Master before him would satisfy him now. Perhaps not even all the lives of Kuat, of the paired and dueling fleets above, would abate that which drove him, that unyielding greed. Yet the Jedi still lived. Jedis and their shields… Name a more twisted pair. Preserving themselves and accepting the deaths of the innocent. Uriel’s heartbeat contorted again, lust sated for the moment as an ear was taken from his prey, but as always with lust, it was never calmed for long. The handle of the great bearded ax, Armalite, found its purchase in the awaiting palm of its great master, leaping and jittering with the excitement of a Kath hound treeing an Ewok. Pain came then to the Great Hutt, shearing against his flank as a vibroknife bit into his tender, rotten flesh. It tore into the muscle of his great tail, causing it to spasm and weaken, and the Hutt felt unsteadiness seize his overlarge form. He turned his pain to rage, forcing it upon the child as he sagged backwards, the wave of acid subsiding, for there was no joy in the digesting of a meal before it was eaten. Blackened blood slipped into ash as life was consumed, transformed into the energy of hunger. A heartbeat faded, a last high mewing scream, one of pure pain, and the Child was past the event horizon, her fate sealed by the acceptance of the Jedi. The pale canvas of flesh, so torn with holes, melted away to reveal sinew and muscle before that too was transformed into the energy the Hutt desired. There was no longer breath in the child’s lungs to scream, but the soul reflected her torture until its end within the Force. Her heartbeat was now that of the storm and her body was no longer but bleached and gnawed upon bone scattered upon shattered decking. The Mountain of Filth was bleeding puss and ichor, pain seeping deeper into the storm that brewed in the Maw, but still the Hutt stood in all the glory of his filth and hunger. It was hard to move now, to propel himself, but he would not break to some Jedi girl. The electric fire began took on the hue of crimson, and the hum of its creation took on the screams of the broken child. The Hutt chortled a mimicry of the child’s death knell, a gasping withering laugh that echoed against the crackling of the electric fire that was the storm that brewed. Arcs of green and amethyst curled across the greasy staff, for it was the heart of the storm; that soul reaper with its wicked blade humming the reflections of death. The Maw was feeding, engorging itself with the life of the child as an aperitif before the main course of Jedi Master. The Jedi’s silver light came, but the flitmoth was ready and it was met in its turn by the orange fire of the Hutt’s lightsaber, streaming from the storm that was his ceremonial staff. He drove the silver light from where it desired to strike his throat, allowing it to furrow along the side of his great mass instead, to split the skin and boil away excess fat. It burned as it passed, burning away ichor and puss, but it was all madness now. The silver light was locked with the orange fire of his own. Pain and desire matched together as the great parasite moved to devour his prey, driven so by the Maw. The storm was unleashed. Driven by his hand, Armalite hammered down towards the hilt of the Jedi’s blade, at that heart of the shield, to smash away the pain and to utterly defang his prey. The great ax whistled as it flew, its heartbeat in the Force leaping with pain-filled lust; the howl of an uncaged demon. From the tip of his staff, on the opposite of his great lightsaber, from that soul reaper itself spat the curses of the darkside. The storm erupted into lightning of crimson, amethyst, and malachite, reflecting in the spilled ichor and slime, brighter than even the Jedi’s lightsaber. The power of the Master of the Krath spilled into the night, arcing in one cataclysmic blast aimed for the seat of the Jedi’s soul, her heart. He would consume her, the world below, and the fleets above. ((3)) ((Took slicing damage to the Hutt’s tail, lightsaber damage to the side. Attacked with a blow from Armalite followed with Sith lightning. Great duel, loved it.))
  7. Sheog the Mad


    The Great Mountain of Filth felt the subtle change in the light before him, a feeling of resolve, of detachment. A feeling of acceptance. The Jedi’s eyes were always turned from life. Always focused on a peaceful utopia, occupied by only the insane and robotic. The Hutt gurgled a laugh at the mockery of life it showed. Acceptance… they pretended to care, but always referred their emotions away. Inhuman. Words came, a whispering, devilish thing of grime and grease, sputtered through a haze of spit. Cruelty, the mockery of the light. <<I’m so glad you can accept the deaths of others, I’m sure it makes them feel so much better that you’re okay with it. Just like the victims of Dark Sun Station...>> He twisted the force and the child’s screams intensified, broken by tears and choking sobs to form into a pained frenzy. She tore at her flesh with nail-bitten fingernails as crimson blood blossomed from a hundred gaping holes, which had been punched through the freckled skin by the force. Her blood wept from the skin, turning to blackened ash as its essence was consumed by the force, giving the child the appearance of a molting, shivering insect. He let the pain of the child wash into him, fueling his hunger into a feverish pace which was matched in turn within the conjoined heartbeats; those of the primitive worm, the shattered soul, the afflicted child, and his many own. It was delicious. The metal decking within the Hutt’s locus of control twisted, shifting to meet his starvation. The air echoed the child’s shrieking with the tone of contorting metal. Uriel’s heartbeat contorted, a maniacal lust reflected into the Force, for he had tasted the Jedi’s blood. Armalite had found a target. The blood that flecked the darkmetal of the blade absorbed into the alchemical matrix, bonding into the Force and into the void that was the Hutt’s hunger. The purity, that faux innocence within the blood whet the Hutt’s palate and it was like a sweet, dessert wine. It reminded him of the Snevrain Hajan Vintage he had once tasted at Ar-Pharazon’s table, and it had paired well with the roasted Ewok that had been the center dish. As the Hutt relished the aroma of Jedi blood, the light struck at the flitmoth; the Jedi’s lightsaber swung at his bulk. The first strike drove a molten line across Sheog’s thick gut, puss and ichor weeping and burning against the heat of the lightsaber. The scent of boiling rot filled the air, and the Hutt hissed venemously, reeling back, off balance from the pain. Metallic decking crashed from where he had held it, passed from his control, falling away from the heartbeat of hunger. The Jedi’s other strikes were met by the orange fire of his lightsaber, and a new heartbeat joined the hunger, that of his former master, Ason Antilles, from whose body and soul the lightsaber’s crystal were created. Light burned through, a beam of silver against the shadows of his mind, and in his momentary weakness it startled him, The Maw had not held such a bedazzling star since before the recording of time. Multi-lidded eyes blinked and narrowed. <<What are you... All the Jedi?>> Beyond the brilliance, rage blended into the pain, bleeding into the madness of hunger to form ravenous starvation. He had tasted the Jedi’s blood, now he would have it all. He passed his own pain into the child, enraptured by her sobbing cries. She held her own eviscerated stomach, her fingers tearing at bowels that felt as though they had caught fire. Her heartbeat was fading. He fed upon the child's pain, reveling in it, casting it about the paltry light, focusing his hunger upon the Jedi before him even as pain rippled through his body. He would sup from her energy like a ravenous parasite, just as the Maw devoured the stars of heaven themselves. Nothing had ever escaped the event horizon of the Maw, and nor would this Jedi escape his. He wanted all of it. All the light would be his to consume, to pervert and to defile. A storm was growing within the Maw, crackling with the energy of pain and madness. Ason's heartbeat twitched along, the orange light throbbing to waves of the oncoming storm. Electric fire crawled about the handle, leaping in arcs from the Soul Reaper. From his churning stomach blossomed a fountain of corrosive acid, propelled by the madness of the Force. It spewed forth between malformed lips, given a life of its own by the pain and starvation. The Hutt had given birth to a hypercaustic wave of bile which aimed to strike against the Jedi who had made the mistake of coming so close to a mountain of filth, so close to the Lord of Gluttony himself. It would consume and destroy all in its path. From the decking into which its blade had bit, Aramlite leapt, driven then by dual madness of both its master and the soul that had been laid into it at its creation. Uriel wanted to taste of her again, to apply his lust. The bearded ax whipped through the air in a high arc, aiming to smite the head from the body and to feast once more of the Jedi’s blood before it returned to Sheog’s awaiting, greasy palm. The storm grew. None would escape his hunger. ((2)) ((TL;DR: Took damage from the lightsaber strike, planned metal-plating based telekinetic attack disrupted. Attacked with Force-Vomitus and with Armalite in a pincer maneuver))
  8. Sheog the Mad


    A madness began to writhe within him, erupting through the carefully placed shielding like a bushel-basket catching fire from the flame it concealed. The rawness of the dark side ripped through the room, an ancient Sith revealed to the fullness of the Force. He was the reflection of the Maw itself, its unquenchable hunger drawing upon everything about himself. The Kriskwallon Bread Puffs roiled in his stomach, and he reached a hand into his satchel scattering the decking with white worms as he shoveled a handful into his gullet. The air seemed to change its taste. There was great hunger here, even so far from the Maw. So far from Her. White worms scattered the deck, writhing in that perpetual agony so natural to non-sentient prey. Their deaths were easy and thus the meal they made gave little sustenance to his troubled mind. The Jedi, however, would be a meal worthy of the madness. His malformed lips twisted, bubbles of air creeping through from one of his many stomachs in an explosive belch which shook the air. The Force was twisting his starvation into the tools he needed to procure his sustenance. “Let the Child go from here.” Crimson eyes focused, the multiple lids closing and opening to help the lenses with their task. The Hutt reached out with a worm-stained hand, motioning to the beautiful Gwenhwyfar as she reached for her blaster pistol. He reached out, beyond his body, ensnaring the girl in his locus of control. He could feel her heartbeat increase as his hunger crept through her veins. It began to echo within his own, middle heart. The worms on the floor, even within the folds of their own primitive reality, reflected himself; a mirror of his life in the eggbeds of Nal Hutta. He was beyond the realm of response, or the formation of words. Hunger was all he could feel. He stretched out beyond the worms and the girl, finding the brightness of the Jedi, her purity reflected upon the universe. Another heartbeat, one filled with life and warmth. He was drawn to it like a flitmoth to the flame, but unlike them he did not worship the heat or bask in the light; he was the malformation of a black hole, and the Jedi was a failing star upon the event horizon. He would consume. Devour. Her other words went unheard as he began to pull upon the heartbeats about him. The tenderness of Gwen, the primitivity of the worms, his own hunger, and the light of the Jedi. It burned within him, his stomach roiling. All would feed him. The knives cracked to speed, born by the Jedi’s power, a few shades of light against the darkness of the Maw. One of the blades scoured a furrow into his greasy, defiled flesh, drawing beads of puss and rotten blood, which reflected as malachite in the silver light of the Jedi’s blade. Pain seeped into the background of his hunger, driving it into a maddening pitch. Gwenhwyfar screamed as pain reflected into her, ripping and tearing through the nerves of her shoulder, a mimicry of the Hutt’s wound. The second knife, tossed by the fair hand of the Jedi shattered against the blade of Armalite as the Hutt hefted it in hand, the cold-worn blade of the bearded-ax splintering the durasteel with a near-sentient cry in the force from the spirit trapped within the alchemical weapon. It began to match the furious heartbeat of hunger that the Master of Krath had bound himself to, adding its voice to the madness of it all. All Kuat could feel it now, the locus of control spreading, eating at everything in its wake. He would consume all life, and bring it all to the void. When the shockwave came, ripping through the decking, the Hutt used its momentum to launch his bulk at the paltry Jedi with her sword of silver fire. He breathed in a blubbering breath, adding the metal to his control, watching as it began to bend and quake to the heartbeats of hunger. He added Gwenhwyfar’s pain into himself, amplifying her terror into a source of power, applying it to the durasteel around him. Steel plating buckled and failed, tearing up around him as he flew and shattering as he landed in a shockwave before the Jedi. The light was close now, close enough to swallow, to drain away into darkness. There was a weakness within it. The Jedi had cared for the child. To care was the weakness of the Jedi. It was how they all fell. He fell upon that tender heartbeat like a Krayt to a nerf. Sheog’s flabby finger slipped along his ceremonial staff, using it as a focus for his hunger. Through the soul reaper, he focused upon Gwenhwyfar, upon that heartbeat that mimicked his own. He spread out within her, entwining her like a coiled serpent. He tore into the furrowed flesh of her shoulder, peeling back the skin and revealing the exposed nerves to the bite of the cold air. He amplified Gwenhwyfar’s pain into a nightmare of pain and reflected it upon the Jedi before him. What the Jedi valued, would be defiled. One hand upon his ceremonial staff, the other on Armalite, the Hutt tore at the light, at that foreign heartbeat, utilizing the child’s pain as a tool. With the twist of his palm, he sent Armalite flicking towards the Jedi’s chest, thrown like an oversized tomahawk to skewer to woman into the shattered decking. It moved in an unnatural pattern; the spirits bound to its metal consumed by the maddening hunger of their master. They desired blood and could smell it in the air. Gwenhwyfar’s screams echoed through the halls, shrill and terrified against the stillness of the facility. ((1)) ((TL;DR: Damage taken from one of the knives. Mental attack on Sandy along with an alchemical weapon toss aimed at her chest.))
  9. Sheog the Mad


    The overlarge Lord of Gluttony drew in a long breath through is malformed nostrils. He could smell them now, those lightsiders and so-called warriors of peace. He could almost taste their duplicity. It was delightfully rotten. He opened his commlink, watching the slow rotation of the orbital rings above the planet of Kuat. He spoke in resolute Huttese, a clarity forming about him. <<Master Mavanger, I feel your humble apprentice, that being myself, might go to the shipyards and strike where the iron is the hottest. Those are blacksmithing terms, maybe they are a warrior thing now for some reason. I will return with a prize, or not at all.>> With that said, the Hutt slithered back to his plundered shuttlecraft, Le Morte d’Shadowfett, where Gwenhwyfar began the undocking protocols. The Hutt himself prepared for war, for the first time in nearly a decade. He selected his finest cowl of silvered-grey, attaching it about his pompous belly with a belt of blackened leather which was studded with silverite buckles. On his side, he placed Armalite, the battle-ax of his own formation. His greasy fingers caressed the worn stave, and within the shimmering, ice-cold head, the Sith could hear screaming. Armalite fought his hand, leaping for a target that it could strike, but finding nothing to smite. …Uriel Stonedog. Even in death, your soul gives fight. May you be satisfied with Jedi blood… He tucked the bearded ax into the polished belt, picking up his ceremonial staff as Le Morte d’Shadowfett shook beneath him as it exited the hanger-bay. It was his Soul-Reaper and the last living memory of his Master, Ason Antilles. It almost brought him sadness, but his mind was distracted by the remembrance of how divine his master had tasted, mixed with a mint jelly and Cortag Brandy. The thought of a delightful meal spurred him to sling a satchel of wriggling white-worms over his shoulder along with a cask of brandy and his flask of Corellian reserve. His stomach churned and he satisfied it with an entire bag of Kriskwallon Bread Puffs, still frozen from the walk-in freezer. Turbolaser fire blossomed around him, and the Sith could feel the beginnings of terror and agony throughout space as Le Morte d’Shadowfett set down near the administration building. Sheog could feel the terror of war clinging to him as he disembarked, followed closely by Gwen. The Sithling had barely emerged from the hanger when the familiar snap-hiss of a lightsaber erupted before him and white light bathed the offices before him. He let out a sigh and motioned for Gwen to get behind him as he slithered forward, still concealing himself within the Force. <<Hello there, it is I, renowned Grey Jedi, Aryian Darkfire, here to assist the Republ- Empire? GA? What are we now?>> Crimson, multi-lidded eyes blinked slowly, narrowing in on the woman’s pale face. There was something in the Force that spurred recognition. Was it the freckles? Was there a pattern in them? Why did she look so delicious even so spindly. Mostly gristle… Onderon. Battle meditation had mattered then, and she had opposed him in it before the Jedi’s fleet had retreated. Why is it always the same kriffing Jedi at every battle? Ever since the Corellian debacle there were so few of them... The force's mask upon him began to slip, hunger bleeding through the cracks in the façade.
  10. Sheog the Mad


    The great and enormous slug peered from behind a veil of tobacco-smoke upon the planet and shipyards below. His glinting eyes picked out the lonely Golan platform that was the planet’s lone defense, beyond their enormous fleet. He let out a sigh, resting a grotesque hand on Gwen’s lithe shoulder. <<Ahh… Kuwait.>> The girl looked back at him through her beautiful brown eyes which stared quizzically at him “It’s pronounced Kuat, sir.” The Hutt pondered the strange name difference as he sipped on the stem of his elaborately carved pipe <<Perhaps, but for some reason I want to call this impending battle a Desert Storm.>> The girl sniffed, almost snorting with laughter “I’d say it’d be more of a Dessert Storm if you led it.” The Hutt placed his hand over the centermost of his many hearts, mimicking a humanoid gasp of wounded self-image and staggering backwards. <<A fat joke, from my own subordinate… What is the galaxy coming to?>> He reached out with the faintest flicker of the force, touching the distant pulses he could feel of the light side. He spread there a smattering of hunger, to any who had fought against his battle-meditation in the past, it would bring back horrid memories of how broken fleet combat used to be. Either that or of the last battles of Kuat or of the fall of Onderon and the battles of Ossus and Ord Mantell, where he had devoured countless legions. He passed with it a spreading horror, and a challenge... ...Come and face me, feast upon destruction...
  11. The boy spoke, and his dictatorial words carried the flavor of authoritarianism with it. The Hutt sniffed in a breath through his misshapen nostrils, taking in the man’s essence most fully. He had the corruption of the nightsisters on him, which would make his master either that Nightsong woman, or his own niece Telperian. The hand on the lightsaber was a familiar gesture of the new generation of Sith. What he was at the simplest was a Sith Lord, pushing for his own advancement through conquest. The older generations of Sith would have poured out a snifter of fine whiskey at the least for a potential new recruit. The Master of the Krath gurgled some phlegm from his tongue, seeming to consider the Sith’s words. <<Well then, mister Darkened Lord of the Jedi, I’ve come to train to become your most stealthy assassin…>> If the overlarge slug had eyebrows, they would have waggled with delight at his own jokes and teasing. Instead, several rolls of fat that had built up around his reptilian eyes jostled for dominance in a rather disturbing display of rippling grease. He chortled a bit and pulled out his briarwood pipe, packing the elaborately carved bowl with a well-aged spiced perique blended with newer Corellian Cavendish with the twist of a greasy thumb. <<You don’t mind if I smoke do you? I know it’s bad for you, but well. Hutt and all. Carcinogens be damned I say. Not as bad for you as being a Grey Jedi am I right boys...>> The mountain of filth gave an exaggerated wheezy cough and continued, bringing a lighter to the bowl and taking a small sip from the swirling stem of Blackmorne Briar, talking around the bit as he did so. <<I am your humble apprentice, lead the way and I will follow. What is my first task? If it's killing this horny Sith, I'll do it for free. Speaking of, what is the pay?>>
  12. Lust bloomed like a muja in spring and Sheog blinked his eyes at the sudden influx of the foreign emotion. Lust always made him think of Darla, or the extravagance of Lord Ar-Pharazon. His many-lidded eyes fluttered their way to staring at the Sith Lord, Sirena, who in some way reminded him of innumerable other Sith and Jedi he had met in the galaxy, but at least this one was a beauty. Assassins and their sex-drives were a dozen a credit, and overall exhausting to deal with for any length of time. In response to the feelings of Lust, the Hutt winked an enormous eye at the Sith, the multiple lids fluttering as if to say “Come to the back and fade to black with me baby”
  13. Hwyfar, tied her auburn hair back with a strap of studded leather, tying a tangle of her bangs into a braid that fell loose down her freckled face. She stared into the swirling matrix of hyperspace through the viewscreen of Le Morte d’ShadowFett, watching her reflection. She looked tired, and like she had been since meeting her Master, hungry beyond imagination. She was not starving, but she felt empty. Drained. Insatiable for an energy that was neither her own, nor accessible to her. A small beeping drew her attention from her self-reflection. Raxius Prime was close. She opened her pale lips to speak, but a touch upon her soul gave her an acknowledgement to what she had not spoken. The touch pulsed, filling her with a fiery warmth. A thank you of sorts from the Sith Master. Hwyfar curled up in the pilot’s seat, setting in landing coordinates to the Sith Temple for the ship’s AI to follow in course before closing her eyes. The girl focused on the fire that was blossoming within, settling her breathing around its pulses. She had never felt such power. …......... As Le Morte d’ShadowFett landed, the great Hutt disembarked. He had disguised himself in the traditional robes of the Monks of Hildago, bright baby-blues with pink highlights, and a tonsured headdress of feathers and beads. His multi-lidded eyes blinked at the bewildered Sith troopers that rushed to investigate the new ship, flashing the human officer a grotesquely innocent smile that made her immediately cringe. He held back his presence in the Force to a sputting candle, buffeted by inner turmoil. <<I was told by an Iberagian Soothsayer that I was… What was the word… FORCE ALLERGIC? Or was it… Force Intolerant? No… Sensative that’s it.>> The officer sputtered out a reply that was lost in the noxious winds of Raxus Prime. <<Fantastic! Take me to your temple so I might donate to the monks that live here. Do you have a gift shop?>> He brushed aside their queries and pushed his bulk into the temple, leaning on his ornamental staff. Behind him, Hwyfar stepped gingerly, her dual blaster pistols holstered on her sides in a cross-draw fashion. The Hutt breathed in a breath of the noxious air, complimenting its acidic qualities and phosphorescentness. He paid the landing fee with a showering of Old Republic Credits and followed the Trooper’s directions to the security processing line, which he avoided in a somewhat blustering appeal to the lack of handicap access. it wasn't long until he had talked and bribed his way onto one of the supply shuttles that was resupplying the orbital vessel. It was a cramped flight, but the troopers took it well due to the constant shower of credits and old war stories of his time serving under Jassic Terabet on the battle of Haroou IVX, a commander, a battle, and a world that had never existed. As he moved through the halls of the Sith's paltry flagship, he began to smell the all too familiar sensations of other Force Wielders, a smell he had scarcely detected since his departure from the arms of the Maw. He kept his force signature in check, frightfully small for such large a frame, and burst into the meeting of the Sith Lords, his multicolored robes a whirl of light. His jovial eyes stared into those of Mordecai. <<Do you know where I can buy scented candles? This boat has a delightful salty smell that would pair just wonderfully with a white Snevrian wine!>>
  14. Sheog the Mad


    The overlarge Hutt heaved his immense bulk across the decking, watching the assembled security force bail from their patrol like womprats scattering before a Krayt’s roar. He let out a small, blubbery sigh and shoved his way into the nearby stardock where his newest pawn, the small humanoid Gwenhwyfar, was hotwiring a convenient Upsilon-Class Shuttlecraft. <<Not nearly luxurious enough…>> Leaving a trail of slime behind him, the Master of Gluttony departed the dreadfully boring mission he had stalled and somehow procrastinated into being bored of. <<Hwyfar, set a course for dear Raxus Prime. Set the shuttle’s transponder to be… Le Morte d’ShadowFett. That seems like a good name.>> And thus Le Morte d’ShadowFett entered hyperspace towards a new adventure
  15. Sheog the Mad


    The gigantic Hutt breathed in a blubbery sigh of the new air the Imperials had brough with them. It smelled as it always did, of strict discipline and protein cubes, dry-processed in the Kandra-cha factories of Coruscant. He breathed in another breath, frothy spittle bubbling on his twisted lips; he smelled deeper. The soldiers were fans of the stimcaf flavour. Disgusting. The additives make it far too sweet in a chemical way. The Master of the Sith shrugged his sluglike shoulders, the rolls of fat bulging and twisting, sending off a pungent flavour of yeast and rot. <<…You’re welcome to check me out…>> The Hutt spun the smoke about them all, the vapours taking on the forms of contorting snakes as if they were all sinking into a nest of vipers. The Hutt winked an enormous, greedy eye, flecked with gold and crimson. <<See anything you like, big boy?>>
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