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Words slithered from the metal that barred the shelf of his face, a coded transmission that dispatched as if it were a touch of wind upon his eardrum. This small draft from Darth Luciferian was a promise that would undoubtedly break this vestigial bedrock of peace that their enemies swore to protect. Exodus found amusement in this, smiling behind that very same mask, watching Lord Haphaestus rise at last. There was a telling way in which the creature manifested his ego; the organized part of his personality structure, defensive in how he presented himself to others, leaving everything to the imagination for those that cared to know. He was a tangle of Darth Dominus, that and more was what the young Malacoda was witness too, and the empirical mind of the arachnid would extrapolate ever since. There were matters that far succeeded the importance of this however. The ascension of a primeval culture, the hungering Sith, and a Dark Emperor that would stop at nothing was the skin of it.

 

 

  • “..Soon, you will not have to journey far to see it.”

 

 

The pair of them offered their devotions, their respects, and Exodus closed his eyes to nod with reception. These two would enter the fold, and his legions would multiply yet again. Their potential for value was exceptional between the duo, but time would reveal if they could in fact live up to it. There were those that existed within the Sith that held a rotting complacency, suffering with the inability to sacrifice themselves to the necessary word of command, ultimately idling their own growth. Exodus was both the beast and the blade necessary to weed such sterile gestation, but in these two, time would come for them to prove their mettle. Exodus acknowledged his hosts once more before turning towards the exit. His arm lifted and brushed lightly against the Krath to signal their leave, the skin of the Hutt stewing with raw energy.

 

 

  • "You will hear from me." His response to the Lady covered both her, and the present Master, before exiting the private chambers.

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Scrubs was god damned right. These Nubians, rich as Coruscanti middle class just loved to watch the mayhem of hand to hand combat. Hezekiah despised them. Then again he despised most people and he never gave up an opportunity to show the rich up. The betting pool was squarely against him, and well her wouldn’t have it any other way. He waved almost absentmindedly to the crowd and squared off against his opponent. A blue chick. Always nice to punch ladies down in front of crowds.

 

Reminded him of his home life.

 

Hezekiah had been retired semi officially from the Black Sun organization for a few years since Smash passed on to the sunlit uplands of retirement. But these underground fighting rings were getting boring, and the money less splendorous since the Remnant had outlawed the practice. He scratched at his eyepatch and then..

 

Quick as a young attractive child sprinting away from Kevin Spacey, went in for a quick hammer fist the the girls head.

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((Ex’s movements posted with approval))

 

With the brush of the Dark Lord’s hand upon his oily flesh, the massive Hutt pushed himself to follow the man from the chambers of the factory. The air smelled far cleaner outside of the bonds of the facility, and there was a much clearer feeling in the force. No longer were things oddly obscured by enigmas. His hide rippled with a shudder. He spoke as they moved together towards the docking bay

 

<>

 

The Demented Madness rose from its moorings as they approached, and the apprentices were ushered in behind them as they moved. The girl and the beast were moved to the lounging area where their training would continue, while the Dark Lord and the Master of Gluttony made their way to the command bay, which also served as a throneroom. With greasy fingers, the Hutt placed a handful of salted meats into his gullet from a passing servant girl. The Dark Lord’s ship followed as they passed into the atmosphere. A departure path was plotted and approved from Lemnos industries, by the Imperial Remnant’s flight control

 

<>

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King Kheldar vos Correlli said:
Sheog, I have to ask, overkill much?
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Maeve’s white hair broke under the humid air that closed in around them, splitting the ends of each strand like they were smooth butter. The sounds of crashing steel, welding torches and hammers filled the air behind the raucous bleats from people that came to watch as two slabs of meat pounded each other to a pulp. But they couldn’t help it. Maeve couldn’t help it. Thrill, excitement, and exhilaration were intoxicating. And, even if you weren’t part of the fight yourself, you could still feel the energy that built in the tips of Maeve’s toes and climbed all the way up her body. With pupils wide, teeth bared and the touch of a smile tugging at her face, Maeve closed the distance between herself and the Alderaanian devil. It wasn’t hard. His momentum suggested he wished to do the same.

 

Maeve watched the man’s movement and saw as his hand came crashing down toward her head. Instead of dodging or flitting out of the way, Maeve charged forward and slammed the crown of her head at his fist at the early part of its momentum, breaking the fist’s solidity and interrupting the strike before it could complete its arc. The concussion of the strike rocked her a little, but she followed it up with a wide right hook to his exposed face that ended in a hammer fist of her own. There was no guarantee it would hit -- so she used her other arm as a forearm bar to prevent damage to the left side of her face -- but she would press on to get every advantage she could.

 

The pounding sensation of his strike on her skull pushed at her, pushing at the lids of her eyes and the heels of her feet. But the smile never left. And her bright yellow and purple eyes never stopped their bleary stare.

 

 

(((1) - 3-post duel. ))

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The way the blue girl moved was fluid and all together all too sexual for Hezekiah's taste, but beatdowns were just too exhilarating for him to stop the dance that they had begun. His hand smacked the top of her skull with the force of a train against a wall. He grinned as the fist cracked hard against her skull and pain shot up in pulses up his arm, he let the fist relax into a knife hand and began his counter as she began hers. He ducked slightly and the blue girls fist cracked off the side of his head like George Takei smacking the ass of a young unwilling man. Stars shot across his vision but he continued the knife strike against her neck as he rolled his own head to the side and allowed her hammer strike to pass by whisper close so that his strong shoulder caught her wrist.

 

After the knife hand blow he kicked out savagely with his right foot into her knee. No reason to keep this fight going for very long. And he had beaten up enough women in his personal life to know a thing or two about taking this one down. Plus she was hot, so you know. Gottah show the love somehow. And there is nothing more loving than domestic abuse.

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  • 2 weeks later...

The blow of her right fist against the man’s head, coupled with the pop of his shoulder as she attempted to double up on her advantage, sent spikes of sensation tiptoeing across her scalp. If it wasn’t for the armbar she’d set up to protect her left side, his knife hand would have landed squarely on her exposed nape. But she wasn’t going to let him have an easy victory. If she was going down, he was going to hurt. That much was written all over her endorphin filled face.

 

The cheers of people littering the open steelyard of New Haven battered her delirium. When Maeve reeled around and spotted the man’s foot, it was almost too late. Instinctively, the half-breed lept to avoid it. The assailant’s boot caught her right foot and shin, sending her body into a tumble. A brief shock of neon panic slammed across her dizzy mind as the steelyard began to spin. But, gravity, it seemed, had an ironic sense of humor. Maeve’s tumble took her straight into her opponent's center-of-mass. And, although the move was uncoordinated, it was heavy and fast. To add a little spice to her unexpected strike, Maeve threw up an arm and readied herself for the collision.

 

((2))

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While fighters and bombers began the fuel up and prepare load for a combat patrol from the Golan and the garrison was put on routine alert the local garrison commanders bickered from their command vehicles about the ongoing fight. Commander Schillingsfürst had put a large amount of money down on Germaine. He would be damned if he lost it. He winced to see him struck by the blue devil.

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Pretender to the Galactic Throne

Leader of the Rebel Alliance

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Knife hand going blocked was the normal thing someone could expect from such a stupid move. Knife hands were things used by dumb holodramas and Germaine knew it. Playing with one’s food was always the best. It wet his appetite for destruction.

 

Her arm hit him in the chest and he was sent sprawling back a few steps. He took a deep breath of air and attacked the half breed again. Open hand strike to the face, leg sweep, double punch to the boobs. That’s right he wasn’t afraid of doing that.

 

Natural targets anyway.

 

He grinned savagely and kicked out his leg in a roundhouse to her stomach as well. It had been so long since he had such a good fight.

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  • 2 weeks later...

It became real clear, real fast that he was going all out.

 

When Maeve took a step to recover from her collision with Germaine, her hesitation bought her a black eye and a bludgeoned nose. She managed to dodge the sweep but caught his fists full on in the chest.

 

Maeve whuffed and groused at the cheap shot. Her chest throbbed with sore, lingering pain. And, her left nostril began to bleed. She could feel her left eye beginning to swell and slowly started to count down the moments until her left eye would be unusable. Her limbs felt heavy. Her head was spinning. She was starting to lose feeling in her right arm. But, despite it all, the adrenaline flowing hot through her veins was keeping her along, like a marionette on strings of fire.

 

His roundhouse kick scuffed her abdomen. And, as he swung his body, the momentum from his blow brought him right toward her. He was coming in hot. Maeve stuck up her palm and moved it into the path of his attack, placing the butt of her left hand against his scalp and the top of his nose. Then, trying to push her advantage, she jabbed roughly at his exposed abdomen.

 

((3 - Nice duel ))

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The strike caught him in the nose and the sickening crunch of broken cartilage signaled the end of his pristeen looks. Clever girl. He twisted his body to the side and her strike against his abdomen smacked into his hipbone instead. She was a strong thing and even that blow hurt immensely, his leg buckled beneath him and he fell back into the blood splattered mat. He kicked out with his legs at her ankles to bring her down to his level. Aiming the heel of his boot intending to catch her right ankle and bring it to smack into her left. Tumbling her down like a sack of Bothan potatoes where he would finish her off with a few savage kicks and punches to the head.

 

Not to permanently ruin her looks of course, just a temporary thing. Spoils of victory and what not. Plus the credits would be a nice way of ending his fighting career.

 

((3))

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Maeve v. Germaine

 

Interesting choice to immediately meet the hammer fist with the crown of Maeve's head, which although it broke the momentum of the fist, probably ended up hurting just as much all things considered, and probably concussed Maeve. Germaine's response is a bit confusing though; first you claim it connected, 'cracking off the side of his head' and move to set forth a flurry of knife-hand strikes against her neck, but then suddenly he dodged the hammer fist? Color me confused. Regardless, knife hands followed by good ol' classic boot to the knee.

 

Maeve's response to the knife strikes and kick are great; previously set up defense on the left side and the gut-reaction instinct to jump, only to catch the boot to the shin and go for a tumble. I'm not sure however, how leaping to avoid a strike like that would propel Maeve into her opponent, unless she literally was leaping AT him, which doesn't seem like a good idea, and even then the physics of it are a little in question unless I pull out a mathematical equation about opposing forces and momentum. In my mind, leaping and getting tagged in the shin would leave Maeve doing a faceplant, or at best, a belly flop onto the ground, not on Germaine. I also don't think Maeve would have the sense to throw an arm in that situation given the assumed concussion and instinctual nature of the leap.

 

Hezekiah took it in stride regardless, stumbled back, set himself and attacked again fairly straight forwardly; though 5 distinct attacks is pushing it a little, especially when he spent part of the 'time window' stumbling back and resetting. Maeve took the hits (which, btw I picture him just SLAPPING the **** out of her on that first blow, and while domestic violence is terrible, the mental image made me laugh anyway ) and is showing signs of just how knock-down, drag out these kind of fights can be, which Germaine is also feeling and showing signs of by the end. I don't see a reason for the roundhouse kick from Germaine to only 'scuff' Maeve, and while the move might bring him closer to her, the followup would indeed hit his hip.

 

 

In the end however, I am declaring Germaine to be the winner.

 

While neither of them are going to be winning any beauty pagents in the next week or so, it came down to the fact that some of Maeve's actions and reactions fell a bit too far on the "What I wish to do" side of things vs the "What is realistic to do" side, while almost all of Germaine's felt appropriately timed and reacted. There were inconsistencies on both sides for sure however, and at times left me confused and having to re-read your posts to try and piece together what the intent was.

 

 

 

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I ate a hippo. It was delicious.

May the Forth therve you well...

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One punch, two punch, and a kick.

 

Woops.

 

Is she dead? He felt the pulse of the unconscious blue chick. Not dead, but a little cracked skull here a bruised bewb there, not too worse for wear. Germaine sat back and let the cheers roll over his tired body, lots of credits made from a fight always helped his meagre retirement. Plus an unconscious chick to take home. He pulled her up over his shoulder and walked off the stage.

 

Several hours later the young lady would awake, still clothed, with some aspirin and water on the bedside table. In an empty room of the Germain-Corun mansion. Unmolested. And unharmed, save for the bruises and scrapes from the night before.

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Ow…

 

The sound of blankets smashed against her ears. The dull push of her heartbeat as it thundered in her chest, pounded at every corner of her body. And painful throbbing, coupled with a bunch of tingles, spread up and down her body. The darkened room around her, even with zero to no visibility, swam, as she tried to take stock of her surroundings.

 

Instinctively, Maeve reached her left hand up to her forehead to try and push away the pain. But a hot white lance shot through her side, causing her to gasp and fall back to the bed.

 

A small man came to her bedside with a small light and bowed politely. His face was a little pinched and his demeanor seemed undeniably posh.

 

“Sorry madame, your injuries are quite severe. You will not die. But you may wish to stay in bed a little while longer to let your body heal. I have a glass of water here for you and a few pills of pain-relieving chems to keep you level… Is there anything else you need?” The man said cleanly, and professionally.

 

Maeve thought she could see the attendant, but resigned to leave her neck alone until spikes stopped stabbing into her backside. “Where am I?” Maeve rasped her throat a bit hoarse and torn.

 

“You are currently at the Corun estate, madame.”

 

Estate? Oi… What have you gotten into now?

 

“Well… Okay. Do you have any idea when I’ll be able to leave?” Maeve asked.

 

The attendant’s lip quivered into a small sarcastic smile. “Well, miss, you could leave right now if you truly wanted to. But, to adequately assess and treat your injuries we will need a few days.”

 

A few days… well kriff...

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  • 2 weeks later...

Germaine's family mansion was above and over the top, finery dripped from every mantelpiece, and the finest wines from every bottle.

 

He walked into the fair lady's room carrying two gin and tonics and placed one down beside her bed on the table. Downing his, he made a scene of taking her pulse and checking her temperature with the back of his hand. He tutted about for a second before handing her two more anti-pain tablets.

 

"Are you feeling better lil miss? I bet you are pretty bruised up!"

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The blue scrawny mutt of a woman had been confined to bed-rest for the past couple of days. Despite her best efforts, she wasn’t able to leave her comfortable confinement. The amazing fibers of her billowy cell beckoned to her. It was a divine sleeping experience that defied the depths of her imagination. Every effort ended in a disappointing bout of exhausted wrestling and awkward sleepwalking. Eventually, she resigned to her slumber. That is until Germaine entered the room and the smell of liquor burned the hairs of her nostrils.

 

Maeve’s purple-yellow eyes lit up. And, like a flash, she was propped on her elbow and downed the gin and tonic like it had gone out of style. Seconds later, defying any sense of decorum, feigned or otherwise, Maeve let out a large and unapologetic belch. Then, ignoring the possible side-effects of taking pain tablets with alcohol, she washed them down with the dregs of her drink and grunted, wiping the remnants of drool from her face and fiddled with her messy short white hair.

 

“I’m good.” Maeve lied, feeling a burn deep in the base of her spine and sore pangs all up and down her body. “However, before I get carried away and ask for another delicious G and T, why have you brought me here? You won the fight. Why did you take me to your house?”

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“Darlin all heard out of that is that you want another Gin and tonic, and well bless my soul that’s what you are going to get.”

 

He spun on his foot and walked over to a pristine minibar and assembled the ingredients, a light shake over ice and he brought another glass beside her and placed it in a blue hand. The glass was emblazoned with the black spiked circle of the Black Sun Criminal Syndicate, embossed around the edges with gold leaf. He laughed off the other questions with a wave of his hand.

 

“Well did you read the fine print on your dueling contract? Because if you didn’t lets pull that up.”

 

With a flick of his hand he brought up the contract. His voice was a drawl as he read.

 

“And the winner of the duel shall take the other as a slave for a period not less than a full year…..”

 

He rattled on for a couple more sentences of legaleze before he ground to a stop.

 

“But really you are no slave here little one.” He walked to her bedside again and placed a finger on the middle of her forehead.

 

“I pardon you.”

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  • 3 weeks later...

"Bless my, darlin... What game you playin' at?" Maeve grumbled in between large pulls of her freshly refilled gin and tonic.

 

The watered-down blue and black zabrak leaned with a distinct lack of grace against the bedpost. Her legs were splayed on the bed and her left elbow naturally rest against the wood while her right arm was delivering yet another swig of burning tonic. Her eyes, bored and slightly sensitive, picked their way across the bedroom. It was undeniably posh and flashy. Either Germaine was fabulously wealthy, or he was getting some from a fanciful space dandy. She didn't really think herself a sophisticated palette when it came to interiors. But she had decent judgment when measuring wealth. The important stuff though, was what she focused on: there was only one exit, and it was right behind fancy pants and however many lackeys he had. Moof-milking son-of-a-Hutt, Nerfherding kriff bag...

 

Her blue cheeks turned a slight shade of purple as her anger and the drink started to mix. And, when she was done with her interior storm of full-flavored awesomeness - otherwise known as 'swearing like a spacer' to the more affluent and well-mannered people that Germaine seemed to rub elbows with - Maeve's eyes fell on the curious symbol emblazoned on the cup in her hand. It was a target... kind of. It had spikes all around it. It was an appealing symbol, but Maeve had no idea what it was. Whatever it was though, it was emblazoned in gold-leaf, which screamed fancy.

 

Ignoring her introspection and anything else that she might have realized, Germaine kept talking, as arrogant men often do. When the word 'slave' passed Germaine's scraggly mouth-hole, Maeve's eyes narrowed for the space of a second. She still felt like a spectator to a lot of what was going on. But, with alcohol, she often didn't care what was going on.

 

So, when Germaine walked over to her and molested her forehead with his well-manicured hand, Maeve was able to stifle the urge to pop him in the face. She wasn't able to prevent her reaction completely, however. She still waved her drink hand frantically at him to ward him off, spilling a little of the drink on the sheets. Though it was clear, even as the feeling of wetness hit the tops of her thighs, she didn't really care about the blan--- WAI?

 

Maeve removed the blanket a little and saw that she'd been disrobed...

 

I... um... what? When did that happen? Kinky? ... maybe?

 

Maeve shot a look at Germaine. "We didn't... Did we?" Her mind was slightly conflicted by the idea. On the one hand, she didn't mind getting rowdy. On another hand, she didn't like getting rowdy when she was unconscious... She couldn't enjoy it then. Also, there was the case of getting rowdy with someone who beat her. A lady's got to have her principles.

 

"Regardless..." Maeve continued, in a futile attempt to redirect the conversation, "If I ain't-a slave, what are you keeping me around for. And, as a slightly... dif-ferent question, where did you get all this money?"

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Hezekaih let out a little laugh, “We certainly did not smash last night.” He returned to the bar and prepared him a Hothian Blue. A little extremely expensive imported vodka from the desolate wasteland of Hoth and a bit of blue milk mixed over ice made a delicious morning drink. “Though you did moan for it in the night. The slaves disrobed you while I was cleaning myself up. I think they treated your injuries, but they might not have since you know. Slaves and all.”

 

He took the whole drink in a single gulp and began to make himself another.

 

“I kept you around because you are beautiful, and men like me like beautiful things.” He drank another full Hothian Blue in a single swig and prepared a third. “I am a minor agent for the Black Sun afterall. And if you don’t know what that is, then baby can I give you a learning.”

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  • 2 weeks later...

"Well that's a relief," Maeve remarked.

 

Oddly, there was a sense of disappointment in the aspect of not rolling around. But, again, a lady's got to have her standards. The blue alien mutt grumbled a little and sat up a bit more, letting her posture change as she made toward the edge of the bed. "Honestly, that was probably more due to pain than longing, fancy pants, but whatever floats your boat."

 

And if Maeve wasn't already sitting, Germain's last comment would have sent her reeling to the covers with fierce laughter. As it was, Maeve grabbed her gut and began to laugh with a rough alto sound. "That's rich! Me, beautiful?" Maeve choked out between big guffaws. "I've seen Banthas with more charisma than me. But thanks for the compliment. I think I'll keep it on those long cold nights."

 

Maeve scooted over to the edge of the comfortable bed, wincing as her side spiked with icy pain, and started to clothe herself with the bundle of washed stuff on the edge of the bed. "While you're at it though, tell me about this Black Sun. I've heard of 'em, but I ain't seen em. What are they all about?"

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Hezakiah laughed heartily. His laugh echoing off the cold marble halls and drawing the attention of the slaves in the halls. All beautiful women of course.

 

“Well you are no Bantha sow little miss. Though you might hit like one.” He rubbed his jaw appreciatively. “The Black Sun is the widest spread criminal underworld organization known in this galaxy since the Exchange. We deal exclusively in smuggling, credits, heists, assassinations, strongarm robberies, and of course the fun spice running game. Though what I was mostly involved in was the military mercenary wing. We currently have the largest privately owned fleet in space, this side of the Rishi Maze. If you want to make quick credits, I’m your man.”

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"All is prepared, then?" Lady Angelia murmured, wrapped in her cloak of midnight velvet. In her hands, she clutched a datapad with the readout of the large contingent of Enyo-class droids which had been packed aboard one of the cargo ships operated by Lemnos Industries. In the months since the Lord Exodus had paid them a covert visit, Lemnos had redoubled their efforts and exponentially increased production numbers. Though the bulk of their business was now conducted from their factory and showroom on Talus, Nubia still kept a special place in Kitaara's heart as the foundation of their great success and the place where she had left her shackles behind her.

 

From their profits, they had assembled a large order of droids to be delivered to the Academy on Korriban as a show of Lemnos' immediate contribution to the strength and might of the Sith Empire. Owing to the size of the order, Darth Angelia was to oversee the delivery personally--not least because it afforded her the opportunity to view the trappings of Exodus' Empire first-hand.

 

"Affirmative-Director-Shiri," the droid captain droned in reply.

 

"Very well," she replied dismissively, tossing the datapad back his direction. "Inform Designer Vulkas that I will make contact once successful delivery has been made."

 

With a rustle of velvet, she disappeared up the ramp of the Helios and shortly after, the Nubian craft slipped in among its brethren and blasted outsystem as effortlessly as a lightsaber might cut through nerf butter.

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For when devils do the blackest sins put on, they do suggest at first with heavenly shows...

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“Credits you say?” Maeve commented, fastening the last part of her boot before setting it on the ground and testing it.

 

“I like credits. Maybe you can tell me more over some grub? I’m starving.” Maeve grunted, limbering her shoulders and attempting to get out of bed. It wasn’t impossible. But every motion was accompanied by a chorus of snaps, pops, groans and winces. She shook her head to a mild pop and the looked at the space dandy with a light smile.

 

“So whaddaya have to eat around here?”

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  • 2 years later...

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.

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

 

“Commander. Incoming transmission from the colonial militia.” 

 

Commander Schillingsfürst looked up from his ale, then quickly wiped off his desk from the scattered datapads and covertly placed the jar of homebrew ale under the counter where the hologram would not pick it up. He wiped at her moustache and beard, the ran a hand through his greying hair. 

 

“Understood, send it through.” 

 

The light haired woman in the uniform of a militia subaltern. A Lieutenant of lesser rank, and one that had apparently taken the short straw of perimeter duty. 

 

“Commander, a floating hulk just emerged from hyperspace, the derelict is marked from the De’Subar line. A defunct passenger service from  the time of the last war. Archivists can find nothing about it, but initial scans mark it as lifeless.” 

 

Schillingsfürst nodded solemnly to the screen. “Send tugs and a TIE escort, bring the reck into the quarantine port of the shipyards.” 

 

He sighed and keyed off the comm and holo transceiver. Then went back to sipping the delicious ale that had lost most of its foamy head while hidden. 

 

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Pretender to the Galactic Throne

Leader of the Rebel Alliance

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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. 

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King Kheldar vos Correlli said:
Sheog, I have to ask, overkill much?
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The boarding team were old hands at this kind of operation. While derelicts were not a common occurrence above Nubia, the Imperial Remnant had kept the boarding and operation teams at top most shape. While the Imperial Remnant was now the Rebel Alliance, and Moff Astyanax was now the esteemed Governor General Astyanax, the insignias had not changed. No one on the old imperial world wanted to trade the steel grey emblem for the pale red phoenix. That change would come of course, just later. And the boarding team sat in their grey plastoid armour using imperial frequencies, call signs, and tactics. 

 

And they were all human. 

 

Lieutenant Andrea Chryseis, her pale blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun at the top of her head stared vaguely into the black padding of the helmet cradled on her lap and looked back at the double airlock. She looked behind her and nodded to the thirty seven young men and women that formed the first boarding company. 

 

“Weapons check.” 

 

And with precise motions, the men and women ran their slides back and slapped fresh magazines into the receivers. A quick tile to look at the gas readout near the grips, and they were set. Next came helmets, then seal checks. 

 

Then with grim determination they entered the dismal ship. 

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Pretender to the Galactic Throne

Leader of the Rebel Alliance

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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…>>

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King Kheldar vos Correlli said:
Sheog, I have to ask, overkill much?
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  • 3 weeks later...

“Spasting hell, what is that?” 

 

The horrible voice came first. Slithering into their ears, propelled by the will of the evil Hutt. The looming creature lurched out of the dark interior, looking as horrible as he likely smelled. 

 

“Vervain!” 

 

Cried the captain as their blaster slung glowrods illuminated the grotesque figure. And the battalion’s medic, a sallow looking girl who was straight from the academy, sprang forward with a salute. She had tucked her pale blonde hair tightly under her helmet, but still several small strands had plastered across her sweaty forehead and she wished beyond anything that she could tuck them back in. It itched horribly.

 

“Give him an assessment.” The Captain motioned towards the hutt with his rifle. “Now Mr. Hutt, we mean you no harm, let us heck you out and get you medical attention allright?”

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Pretender to the Galactic Throne

Leader of the Rebel Alliance

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  • 2 weeks later...

The gigantic Hutt breathed in a blubbery sigh of the new air the Imperials had brough with them. It smelled as it always did, of strict discipline and protein cubes, dry-processed in the Kandra-cha factories of Coruscant. He breathed in another breath, frothy spittle bubbling on his twisted lips; he smelled deeper. The soldiers were fans of the stimcaf flavour.

 

Disgusting. The additives make it far too sweet in a chemical way.

 

The Master of the Sith shrugged his sluglike shoulders, the rolls of fat bulging and twisting, sending off a pungent flavour of yeast and rot.

 

<<…You’re welcome to check me out…>>

 

The Hutt spun the smoke about them all, the vapours taking on the forms of contorting snakes as if they were all sinking into a nest of vipers. The Hutt winked an enormous, greedy eye, flecked with gold and crimson.

 

<<See anything you like, big boy?>>

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