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Ziost


Tarrian Skywalker

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The Great Hutt breathed in, his corporeal form barely able to hold the air into his multitudinous lungs. The living Force, corrupted as it was by countless deaths, moved through him, folding into his blubber, filling his mind with its essence. With its addiction. With its hunger.

 

Ruins hung about him, ancient and twisted from galactic destruction. The Bitter Feast’s hull shook with the impact of a hundred asteroids; the remnants of what had once been the Heart of the Sith: Ziost.

 

The Master of the Krath could taste it all upon his waggling, greasy tongue; that corruption had a physical toll. He savored every death that had fed his power, the deep flavors that had been with him since the very beginning. Those he had slain on his path to power. That of his fellow apprentices. Luficer. Gelfast. Orion. The blood of his master, Ason Antilles. All those that had come after to feed his hunger, and yet he was never sated.

 

Another breath and the power coalesced about him, streaming through him. His rotting flesh, streaming fluidous maggots joined itself with the Force itself, and all of him becoming the locus through which the dark side flowed. All the lives taken from Sullust, Corellia, Nar Shaddaa. Everything Consumed, bound itself to his essence, in a pulsing insanity of hunger, a primal madness. A heartbeat of gluttony and sin. A power that consumed without end. A Force Storm that crossed an entire star system and at its center; a wound in the Force

 

The ruins, those shattered stones and starbleached bones reacted to the Hunger, drawn to the heartbeat like carrion to a bloated corpse. Spirits moved in echoes, matched in ravenousness by only the Master of Gluttony himself. The shattered, broken storm smiled for this place was more than the Heart of the Sith, it was the Soul of the Krath themselves.

 

He could feel the greatest of their number, some long dead, others yet living in the fringes of darkspace. The heartbeat embraced them, inviting their spirits to inhabit what was to come. Even the dark mistress of the Maw spoke then, her dark fingers stretching out to him across the rushing storm, reflecting the galaxy within her glittering web. An invitation to devour it all, to feed upon the Jedi, the Republic, The Empire, even the Sith. On life itself.

 

...Devour or Create...

 

For the first time and the last, what had been Sheog the Mad turned from it all; releasing it all into the heartbeat of gluttony. He could consume all the life in the galaxy, and yet at the end he would never be sated. To create was at least not a boring choice. To eat everything had become simply too cliché. He had passed the test. He would diminish, and go into the West, and remain Sheog. Bound as a shade to the same madness that would create the new heart of the Sith. 

 

The Force storm collapsed into itself, drawing the wreckage of Ziost into the wound at its center, binding it all to the heartbeat of madness. The Bitter Harvest became the core about which the planet, once sacred to the Krath, was formed once more. Mountains and valleys of crushed stone turned to magma and ice to ocean. The rebirth of life, yet corrupted in the image of its creator. A ravenous world and a Nexus of the Dark Side. 

 

-Ziost was made anew-

 

A living wound in the Force, kept alive by a heart of madness, fed by veins of hunger.

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King Kheldar vos Correlli said:
Sheog, I have to ask, overkill much?
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