Sheog the Mad

The Demented Madness dropped into realspace above the unfortunate planet of Sullust, and with it came hunger and madness unrivaled in the galaxy. The ship was a tattered starbarge, scarred from its time under the pulls of the Maw and its master. It was a dead thing, a lifeless hulk propelled by no living crew. A transponder beacon labeled it as the skybarge Soulless Fancy out of Veruna by the Hydian Way. The Hutt pondered the world as it approached. Sullust was the gem of Rimma Trade Route, well known for its mineral wealth. With it under his control, the Sith Empire’s constant hunger for raw materials would be sated, for a time. Would his own? A blubbering sigh echoed across the rusting bulkheads as the ship set down in the quarantined dockyards. Even the Jedi Master, Sarna, had been but a momentary pause in his consumption. Her essence had barely filled him, and only for but a moment. Another blubbery breath, this time of the harsh Sullustian air. Crimson eyes stared up into the polluted skies. Hunger crawled through him, twisting his visage. Around him was a loading yard, all scattered machinery and cargo ships, all waiting for the bureaucrats to complete their lengthy inspections. To pay their tolls and tax their cargos. Dockworkers bustled about, looking busy in the laziest way possible. The Dark Side moved, sparked to action by the Greed and Gluttony of the Maw, overpowering the insignificant emotions of bureaucrats and dockworkers. Beside their simple lusts for credits of leisure, the Maw was an all-consuming desire for more. He could feel the lives about him change, bending unknowingly to the will of Hunger. They were delicious. As each was brought under his control, life began to ebb away. Just as starlight streaked into a Black Hole, unknowing its death until beyond the Event Horizon, so too were the lives about him. The more power he consumed, the more he could devour. Beneath his great bulk he could feel the patterns of the world itself, the echoes of distant tetonic plates, their constant grinding played across his malformed lips. The polluted sky began to shift, unnatural forces overtaking those of Nature. It was not the Hutt’s desire to cause such change, it was but the consequence of such power moving, the physical manifestation of the Dark Side. A storm was building

Another com-message addressed to the Sith Master, Darth Mavenger from a loyal Hutt apprentice “I see, my Lordy master that you left me on read and didn’t respond. It seems that most don’t tend to actually respond to my messages, so I’m not that offended, but anyway, I will be scouting and or taking over a planet for the Sith Empire. I know that Sith Masters desire…. Initiative in their students." The scene cuts to a blindfolded Hutt holding a dart before a map of Unaffiliated or Rebel-Held planets. The Hutt tosses a dart, missing the map completely. “Well scouting the Unknown Regions is a silly Thrawn-ish sort of thing to do.” Another dart thrown, landing on Mon Calamari. “Hm. This planet seems cliché at this point, and I know the Sith consider the cliché anathema” Yet another dart thrown, this one landing on the Sullest system in the Rebel-Held Brema sector, in the heart of the Rimma Trade route. The Hutt nodded with a smile that showed absolute trust. Throwing darts truly allowed for the Force to act. “Ahh, Sullest, that volcanic wasteland of those multi-jowled rodent-like creatures. Thankfully, I have enough jowls to fit in!” The commlink cuts off.

A comlink-call, addressed to: Mr/Mrs. Sith Master, Mordahcai Mavanger, Esquire " Good morning fine sir Sith, it is I, your wayward Hutt apprentice, chief among your horde. I have finished the conquestication of Falleen and require further orders! Where should I invade next, in order to set the stage for the greatness of the Sithpire. Sith Empire. Sith Imperium? The Imperium of the Sith? Mavangers Avengers? Anyway, call me back. Love yo- Son-of-a " The comlink-call cuts off

The Hutt paused, sipping upon his ornamental pipe, savoring the spiced taste of the perique blend as he watched the Princedom of Falleen fall into ruin. The Lord, Karys seemed to have the combat well in hand, alongside that beloved clone trooper. The Hutt spoke up from the rear of the Sith line as he squeezed his bulk among his own troops to return to his ship, <<Well done… Karys, you may well be the new Lord of Wrath! Keep up the good work, I’m sure Exodus will have great things in store for you.>> He waved a greasy palm at the clone trooper, a wry smile curling across his malformed features <<Sorry, spaced out, you know how it is. Sometimes these damn invasions are but skirmishes. I kinda hoped for a few Jedi to devour…>> He breathed out a spicy trail of smoke. <<Anyway, I’ll probably show up again randomly, you know how it is. Could be a week from now, or randomly at the next fight. Hah, could be never, you never know!>> And with that, the great Hutt was gone, his ship roaring away towards the heavens and doubtless another damnable invasion. Galactic conquest was an unending game, and one the Hutt had much disdain for. There was little mischief to be had, and far too little to eat.

Hunger flicked in the air, twisting and rising above the Hutt like the acrid smoke of a spice-pipe in the hands of a Twi’lek preschool teacher. Artillery fell around the Sith like rain, and from them the Krath drew deeply of their energy, bleeding it into his veins. A sprinkling of shrapnel richocheted from the AT-PT, spraying across the Hutt’s bicorn and wig. The superheated metal seemed to warp and bend as it flew close to the Hutt, bleeding away mass as if it were being drawn into The Maw itself. A voice spoke up from beside him, and the Hutt eyed the newest addition to his group with consternation and displeasure, the man smelled of pure-blooded arrogance and misplaced wrath. The Hutt bowed slightly to the man and spoke, <<Ah… Lucifer was it? Didn’t I kill you at some point?>> The Hutt’s eyes rolled back and his tongue waggled across his misshapen gums as he tried to remember if he had tasted of the man’s soul in the past. A finger wound through the ringlets of powdered wig, feeling the coarseness of the wampa-and-wookiee hair blend. <<Hm, perhaps not. Well… Darth Lucifer, I will trust you to disable their anti-aircraft.>> The Master of Gluttony smiled next to Delta, giving him a quizzical raise of a rolled eyebrow <<Not quite sure if battle meditation still works as it used to, the Force is oddly fickle these days... Wouldn't surprise me if it was restricted to the Jedi Con->> Hunger surged as the Hutt trailed off, lazily squelching himself to the side of his saddle, causing the whole speeder to list dangerously. A mass-driver round cut through the air, setting part of his wig alight and the whole speeder toppled over in a horrendous crash. The AT-PT driver was unlucky, being cut in half by another round, while his co-pilot leapt from the burning walker. The Hutt chortled a dark laugh as he pulled his mass from the tangles of his reigns. The Sith Master’s crimson eyes sparkled with hints of flaming gold as he looked upon the distant skyscraper from where the blast had come from. <<That was my finest stallion… Cost me damn near a hundred ginnies.>> The AT-PT’s co-pilot began to screech and dove to the ground and roll as if he was on fire, as hunger began to consume him. Flesh turned to ash, serrating nerves and eliciting pain to drive a frenzy of emotions, a dualistic feast upon which the Hutt could sup. The Sith channeled the man’s pain and flesh into raw power. The rearmost rank of landspeeders from the Emperor’s Household Hussars leapt forward, driven into the darkening sky by the power of the Force, snatched from the ground as if by the winds of a tornado. The flaming AT-PT was wrenched into the air, its metal howling and shrieking as it was bent and warped by the Hutt’s power. With a derisive sniff, the Hutt whipped all seven landspeeders and the AT-PT to the speed of sound. The crackling booms of the sound-barrier being broken added to the cacophony of war, and the Hutt sent the eight missiles towards the skyscraper. The terrified screams of their crews echoed from the Hutt’s own wrecked speeder and the Hutt’s laughter continued. <<Oh, well I hope your prince isn’t in there…>>

As the distant artillery began their rumbling report, a low whisper came from the jolly Hutt, accompanied by the smell of stale tobacco and partially digested rum <<I never tire of the taste of Jedi, damn good stuff no matter the age.>> The Hutt’s eyes blinked several times, <<Well that sounded better in my head.>> The sound of air-fighter engines began to whine in over the verdant hills. The Hutt Master smiled again, a crooked and ugly thing. Hunger began to whip through the evening wind as he called out orders <<Hussars, to the rear, pour anti-air fire into the bastards as they try a strafing run, free fire by platoon.>> To Delta, he smiled again, rather whistfully. <<If we had someone to duel and tie, I’d volunteer that boy Mavanger for the Forelorn Hope, poor lad just wants recognition… Despite his proclivities.>> With a whip of his reigns, the Hutt began to move his landspeeder to work down the line of Sith forces, to inspire them with his charismatic smile and to feast upon the fear and trepidation that battle brought with it.

A troop of landspeeders were on the move, flying tightly in formation, the air filled with fluttering banners. The sound of the pulsar-engine’s droning whine was drowned by a cacophonous speaker system that filled the dusk with the sound of synthetic hoofbeats, a façade of ancient calvary noises. At its head was a massive LAVr QH-7 Chariot, painted in obsidian black, with a fake horsehair tail fluttering from the rear. Upon a leatherbound saddle, sat a similarly massive Hutt, his corpulent mass hoisted into the crimson jacket with leather crossbelt of a bygone age. Upon his bald head was a distressed powdered wig, windblown and matted beneath a black bicorn from which an avian feather streamed. The massive Hutt pulled upon the reigns that came from the windows of the repulsarcraft, turning it to slew beside the Sith Forces and greeted their leader with a bray of obnoxious laughter. He reached a greasy leather riding glove down and patted the roof of the speeder. <<Delta, my boy! Don’t you love her, picked her up from a breeder in Borkuna for a small fortune in ginnies.>> The Hutt caressed the metallic roof and gave the clone an eye glittering with mirth. <<You don’t see many of her speed and handling outside of the Pokmanian Rim these days.>> The Hutt looked upon his old friend’s invasion force with a crooked smile and gave them a wave of greeting from his saddle. <<My Emperor’s Household Royal Hussars are at your command>>

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.))

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))

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.))

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.

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...

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?>>

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”

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!>>

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

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?>>

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…>>

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.

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.