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Sheog the Mad

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  1. 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.))
  2. 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))
  3. 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.))
  4. 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.
  5. 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...
  6. 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?>>
  7. 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”
  8. 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!>>
  9. 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
  10. 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?>>
  11. Sheog the Mad


    Life. The Hunger moved, rising in waves to crash against the mind of the Lord of Gluttony. The overlarge Hutt settled his bulk, taking in the tobacco-smoke in small sips, channeling his hunger towards the smoke, so that the insanity would not overcome his mind. He could feel it still, echoed in the screams that vibrated against his fingertips, that siren song of the Maw. He let out a slobbering sigh, tapping his walking-staff against the decking. He could feel them now, approaching lifeforms. They were almost pitiful in their reflection on the force. So narrow minded, such paltry creatures. Sheog’s gummy mouth worried the pipe’s bit, coating the pipestem in a gobbet of thick saliva. He spat a stream of bile onto the decking as he focused upon the newcomers. Thirty-eight souls. He tasted the force, letting it wrap around the squad as they approached. Military in mind. His quivering tongue ran across hip malformed lips Imperials? Deton was it? Black? What Emperor was on the throne? Emperess? Emperperson? The echoes in his mind were telling him to kill, to slaughter and consume. He breathed out another slobbery sigh and let the Force draw back into himself. He would not risk the grandness of his future discoveries on the insignificant reward of a few Imperial souls. As the squad approached, they would find a Hutt of immense size, overly large even by Hutt standards, grotesquely pale, and reeking of stale tobacco. No clothing to speak of, a tattered bag of worn leather at his side. He would be leaning on an ornate walking staff and looked as weary as the warped steel that protested his enormous weight. Hungry. <<Greetings… Children of the Empire…>>
  12. Sheog the Mad


    Life. The Hutt’s many-lidded eyes focused as he breathed in another sip of the fine tobacco smoke. His own flesh was bound in the living force, that drained from the ship’s former occupants. He had taken his time extracting the energy from the living, basking in their horror while they yet lived. But that power was beginning to wane with each breath. He felt that fatal desire raise its head again as he felt the ship begin to move, shuddering under the pull of the tractor beams and the tugboats. It was an ugly feeling, the as was all the powers of the ouroboros; the more he drew in the more he hungered. The temptation was real, to reach out and consume every pilot that flew too close… <<To give in… is… Weakness…>> He breathed in another sip, tasting the spice of the perique blending with the bitter cavendish. It soothed him. His crimson eyes looked upon the ash that surrounded him. He had consumed far too much already. Sheog’s flabby fingers caressed the pommel of his ornamental staff, feeling the grooved metal of the soul reaper. Its crystalline tip sent sparks from the decking as he pushed himself across the warped metal. He could hear the screaming vibrating through his fingertips. He settled his bulk, staring at the passenger ramp, a grim smile disfiguring his already disfigured face. He tapped his staff in a slow rhythm, the pattern of the Slypheron Opera in G Major. He could the feel life, building in its potency. There was a reverberating thud as the ship docked. The rhythm increased, building towards to crescendo. The screaming continued, unabated.
  13. Sheog the Mad


    The HSD Bourbonne erupted from hyperspace above the temperate world of Nubia, death in its wake. It had come from no particular hyperlane exit point and was far distant for a viable approach vector for any of the major cities. From a distance, the C-3 Passenger Liner looked alive with its hull painted in the blues and greens of the De’Subar crest, but to scanners everything was far from alive. The transponder had reverted to the long lost ISL Thesuvious, which had been designated as lost with all hands on the Pabol-Sleheyron route in Hutt Space nearly two decades past. There were no less than ten hull breaches which streamed oxygen like banners as the ship hurtled through the orbital space of Nubia. The hull at every breach was curled outwards as if by massive contained explosions, and parts of the scarred hull was stained crimson, pitted and marked by corrosion as by direct application of acid. The Passenger Liner’s speed began to decrease, its autopilot finally failing, leaving it at the mercy of the gravitational pulls of the Traxel planets and the other worlds of the Nubus system. A single repeating line of dialogue repeated on the longwave emergency broadcast: It showed a haggard humanoid, standing upon the bridge of the unfortunate vessel. His features were greyed, and his uniform was disheveled, but still showed his ranking as a boatswain’s mate, a man who had little reason to be in command. He stared at the decking at his feet, curled and corroded durasteel stained with greens and reds. His lip quivered and he could barely look at the camera as he spoke in a gravelly, frightened voice, “The hunger… it overcomes us all. It is our very nature." He took a bite of his own hand, screaming as he tore through the pale flesh, severing tendons, teeth grinding on bone. As he chewed, the camera faded to static and the message began to repeat.
  14. Hunger. The Maw continued its feast, unabated. The force storm began to die, consuming itself as it in turn was devoured by the gravity well, and its master heard… Nothing. There was no echoing call in the Force, no answer to the ravenous desire that bound itself within the Master of the Krath. It was no different than any of the countless storms and fires he had spilled from the bowels of the derelict station which clung to the gravity currents of this place, all to die in the formless hunger. The hulking mountain of filth moved, a creaking and hideous movement marked by a groan of wrath that shattered the stillness. Years of study without tangible result. The rusting decking protested his movement, having so settled under his bulk. A greasy hand passed across the bulkheads, grapsing and wrenching the durasteel free. He stared at the sheeting balanced on a sweaty palm, his crimson eyes taking in the speckled pattern of oxidizing rust. It was as beautiful to him as the stars themselves. Pure entropy. Within the eye of the force, that embrace of gluttony withing which the world appeared to the Hutt, there was a glimmer of something deeper within the steel. He breathed in a gasping breath, his offset nostrils flaring wickedly. Bacterial and fungal lifeforms. Another great breath and there; a pitiful flicker of his own power as the primitive life-forms were consumed by the Force. The bacteria was gone, stricken from the galaxy as by a plague. He had taken their life into himself a distorted reflection of the power of the Maw itself. He breathed out, distorting the forms of the fungi, changing them with the gift of the bacteria. There was subtle change as he placed within them his own hunger. The rate of corrosion increased markedly, but the life did not take to his gift as he had desired. Before he could take another breath, the fungal colony had devoured itself. His hunger was that of an ouroboros. The power to consume, but only eating itself. The Sith moved again to stare into the formless twisting of light that was the Maw. It had been ages since he had heard her voice, and he would have to wait another age for the Maw to speak to him once more. The ripples he had created in his early days had still not reached their shores. It came then, a feeling of subtle sweetness. It piqued his desire. Crimson eyes widened, their many lids slipping back to reveal the sulpheric yellow that stained his corneas. To the Hutt, it was the undeniable confirmation of his path. The blessing of the Lady, and of her daughter’s path. The sweetness changed to salt and smoke. The Firebrand had made Cathar her bed, following the wounds as he had suggested. A blubbering sigh came with the intrusion of brilliant life within the Maw. He felt it immediately, nearly two-hundred life-forms. His many-lidded eyes blinked slowly; sloth replaced by avarice. --------------------------------------------------------------- “WELCOME FOLKS!” The fake Corellian accent was stained with a backwater drawl, but the tourists aboard did not seem to care, barely looking up from their sabbac games. The HSD Bourbonne was a gambling ship, a salvaged C-3 Passenger Liner originally outfitted by Leonore Luxury Liners Incorporated nearly five decades past and had been run under the designation ISL Thesuvious for luxury passenger service along the Pabol-Sleheyron route in Hutt Space under their Sheny-Brior subsidiary. About a decade prior, the unfortunate Thesuvious had been impounded by Formos Port Authority and subsequently purchased by Thrillian De’Subar who had turned the vessel into a luxury gambling and tourism ship, for which it had come into great renown in the Unknown Regions for high-value tables and plentiful glitterstim. Now under the propriety of ex-corsec enforcer Picadillo Aldi, the starliner had been renamed the HSD Bourbonne, and focused more on sham tourism. “Look upon the Maw Installation fair tourists!” The girl who held the comlink that linked to the command deck could hardly be over twenty standard years old, but the blaster pistol on her side and green lapel marked her as lieutenant in the security service. She motioned with a finely manicured hand to the distant outline of a derelict station, highlighted by the plasma of the gravity well. The viewscreens panned the outline into better focus, showing the rusting holds of a long-forgotten station. “Our researchers tell us that this hulk was once called Spite Station, the headquarters of one Sith Master Furion, who some of you may know for popping up from time to time and then immediately disappearing once something goes slightly against his direction of plan.” The woman, named Gwenhyvar blinked. She had no idea where that information had come from. Another officer gave her a hard, sideways stare for her unauthorized impromptu. Had anyone been paying attention, they would have one of the many derelict ships that were caught in the soft gravity well around the station come to speed and head for the Bourbonne’s underbelly. Gwenhyvar stuttered for a second, a pounding headache beginning to overwhelm her senses. She felt so hungry too. She passed the commlink to lieutenant Fenhalmen, a Rodian of noble birth, and he continued the rehearsed spiel about the rarity and luxury of such unnantural views of the Maw Nebulae. She stepped from the gambling deck, slipping into the employee shamlift and dropping into the main cargo-hold. …Why even am I going here? The lieutenant glanced down at the handful of banquet rolls she had snagged while passing through the deck with surprise. She hadn’t eaten gluten in nearly a year, but even her own indignation couldn’t halt her hand from bringing the bread to her lips. She could smell the yeast and spices. The woman took a tender bite and then gulped down three like a ravenous strill. A voice in her mind, crashing through her hunger like a landspeeder running over a toddler. <<Good evening my dear. Tell me, how is the bread?>>
  15. Sheog the Mad


    A com message arrives from the deepspace intended for Quealala
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