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Spite Station- the Maw


Jidai Geki

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All right... Uriel. Your post was... A bit excessive. And by a bit, I mean ungodly excessive. You cannot do so much in one post, especially inside an enemy base. Reading it over I found a few things that I shall list as unable to do, for multiple reasons.

 

A. Nanites: They’re not listed on your character sheet. They cannot replicate so fast as to burn through your restraints, the floor, the seat, another floor, a tube of some sort, and more. What, is your whole body made from nanites? For nanites to do such things, it would take... Months. To replicate to such a large mass, would take years. They cannot in any way, replicate so fast as to be able to retrieve your weapons for you. That’d be like you dropping the tip of a pin full on nanites onto the floor, and in five minutes expecting them to reach the mass of an elephant. You cannot create something from nothing. You also posted having "stealth reserves" of nanites... Something that seems impossible. They're not stealthed.

 

They acted according to whatever their collective needed, and in Uriel’s case that was to replicate rapidly and into three different forms. The first form became a series of nanite sized ants after the largest of the remaining stealth reserves of nanites made sure that Uriel was in the room alone and unobserved by any prying eyes, whether video or humanoid.

 

They cannot... Replicate so fast as to change forms. You cannot, physically or mentally, control your nanites to do so many things at once. It is impossible. Sure you can do one of those things, but you are not the entire borg collective. As a human, albeit an enhanced one, you do not have the processing power to communicate with such a... Collective.

 

As he went through the tunnel guided by faint memories of the nanites that had passed through here, he found himself wondering at the change in his nanites when he awoke. Granted, there were barely enough now present to maintain critical mass, but every second of freedom meant more were added and eventually his various prosthetics would again emerge including his light repeating blaster, but something about them just felt different than before. The nanites even reported that eventually they would be able to produce his whips and possibly a vibroknife and vibrosword.

You’ve posted cutting through floors with nanites, something that would take hours upon hours to corrode such metal. You’ve posted doing such to many, many floors. Also, nanites don’t conform to anything and everything you like. You have them growing into weapons, new arms, etc. Simply put, No. That would take months, and months. You have them disabling all the security systems... No. Perhaps one camera, but not so many.

 

Your nanites are not self-aware. They are not able to be communicated with, and talked to through The Force, as to give you a tactical advantage...

 

Lastly on this section, let us go to a previous post, by Lord Furion:

 

Prisoner protocol dictated Uriel be treated as any other would. Stripped of all personal effects and combed down through a series of bio and foreign materials scans to prevent anything from being smuggled in, the traitor would find himself strapped to a metal chair at the wrists, ankles and waist by a thick metal band electromagentically locked to the chair. Even the acolytes standing outside his cell, armed with high voltage stun batons, were trained to resist any attempt at mental trickery. Escape was not possible for a lowly apprentice such as he.

 

These scans would have caught all of your nanites, since they are traceable. It would have been very helpful to have these in your character sheet, so the mods and players can know whatever your character has.

 

B. Tactical NPCs: You posted actions of Sith NPCs throughout your entire post. You are not a Sith with rank to do so. You are a declared enemy, inside that enemy’s base. The stars do not align that far in your favour. You post getting past multiple tactical NPCs, with no regard to their power, or those playing them. To think your nanites can cut through hallways and everything without setting off a buttload of alarms is folly. You are in the middle of the station, a station filled with thousands of sensors, fullblown Sith, and roving patrols. You cannot simply slip out that easily. You cannot ignore all the defences, whip up a perfect picture for yourself, and then slide past everything and everyone, as you describe each and every action of NPCs you do not own. It might be allowable to sneak past one or two guards (if your escape was even conceivable, which it is not.) but to get through every conceivable area, by cutting through a spacestation’s ducts via nanites, along with this overstretched series of complex and vague actions is simply game-breaking, unsportsmanlike, and evasive.

 

You cannot post this, as you are not a Faction-leader, or a ranking member of the Sith order, but simply their prisoner, the tactical placement of rooms, of weapon-stashes, and the like. That is simply bending everything to your will, in a place that is not yours to bend. Posting tactical advantage over NPCs that are not yours is something you cannot do. This is something that was made clear in LAP's ruling over Tobias, which is almost essentially the same situation here.

 

C. God-modding: Coming excessively close, and transcending god-like abilities to sense everything and everyone, controlling your nanites to such excess and distance... Using senses through the force that would be hard to achieve even for a master of the force... Following “the memories of nanites” to get out... Submerging yourself into the very veil of The Force, in order to communicate with your nanites, on a verbal level no less, whilst under the influence of stun...

 

D. This... I'm not exactly sure what this is:

A plan that Darth Ares missed in his arrogance and because the machines monitoring his slumber could not read the human consciousness when that consciousness separated itself from the body to which it belonged. Uriel’s consciousness, already submerged tenuously within the lightside of the force when Ares stun blasts hit him, detached itself from his body and floated among an empty white beauty without any features.

 

So... You’re dead then? Gone Lightside? You’re a darkside character and seemingly not dead...

 

Essentially... What you posted doing would have taken months, if not years. Your nanites are not able to do anything and everything. They have to be programmed to do something, like attack or heal. They cannot climb up walls, throughout an entire station to rewire the surveillance system, cut through ducts, etc. You have done far too much in one post, inside a faction-base that is not your own.

 

Your post is nulled. In its entirety. Start with smaller steps... Like setting up for an escape. For now, you are still captured. I'd recommend AIMing those that have you captive and working things out.

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King Kheldar vos Correlli said:
Sheog, I have to ask, overkill much?
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The overlarge, and opulent, heavily armoured luxury cruiser, The Cake is a Lie, exited hyperspace, outside of the newly formed, Spite Station. It was fitting, to have such a station hidden within the Maw, where the Death Star had been constructed with the assistance of Wookiee slavery, until the abolitionist New Republic had put an end to the mutually beneficial relationship the two groups, the Wookiees and the Empire, had had with one another. To prove the point that one could not exist without the other, The Empire had pointedly exterminated the workforce, sparing them the evils of freedom, New Republicanism, and voting Democrat.

 

The deal with Black Sun had been brokered, and it would only cost him the life of one he had already killed once. Hopefully, the new Dark Lord was consenting to Black Sun’s terms of agreement, and not a stickler for such things like interorder brotherhood, or in general had his head emerged too far into philosophy. Sheog truly hoped that this new Lord yearned for battle, but most of all, was competent in leading a war, and knew how to garner and maintain alliances.

 

Leaning upon his ornamental staff, the Lord of Gluttony and Avarice stretched within his armour of Sith iron. He felt like a tank, and thoroughly enjoyed it. With his overlarge smile covered by his Hutt deathmask helmet, Sheog pushed himself towards the landing ramp, as the ship began its landing procedures upon one of the finer docking platforms. The Hutt paused for but a moment at the liquor cabinet, and selected a millennia-year-old bottle of Cortyg Brandy©, worth at least a hundred-thousand credits on the Black Liquor Market (which was located, oddly enough in the asteroid belt that used to be the planet Alderaan, within a small space-station that held a liquor festival once per standard year, marking the destruction of the planet in typical style, with great drunkenness and debauchery), as a gift for the new Dark Lord. He selected a large bottle of cheap Aldrigayn Port for himself, and slaked his thirst with its contents as he manoeuvred his way to the lowering landing-ramp. Along the way, he nabbed a box of the finest Shallmak Cigars® for the Dark Lord as well. (Handmade by Ewoks upon the steps of the Fullbank Mountain range who were part of the Shallmak Cult of Eternity, which had ended abruptly and tragically, when a piece of burning space-trash had been mistaken as an omen, and they had all killed themselves by throwing one another into the tobacco thresher. The box Sheog had grabbed contained the cigars made from the rolled tobacco mixed with threshed Ewok, which added greatly to the flavour and aftertaste).

 

Signalling for his assistant and trusted Protégée, Hayley, to stay and shadow at distance, Sheog pushed himself down the landing ramp to the bare metal decking below, forsaking the offered hover-sled. He rather enjoyed moving about on his own, as it kept him in tip-top shape for a Hutt, and made him always ready to do battle with either his weaponry, or the strength of The Force. Suddenly, he felt a strange voice communicating with him through The Force.

 

Brothers... Our time beings now. Gather in the ballroom.

 

Sheog raised an eyebrow beneath his armoured helm and quickly consulted his datapad for the blueprints of the space station, as it had been his hard-swindled and stolen credits that had funded its creation. It had not been kind on his pocket-book, but a gift to so many brothers seldom came cheap. With a grunt, the Hutt summoned powers of The Force, and began to move towards the apparent location of the ballroom, swilling some of the port as he went, keeping his senses open for any attackers, friends, allies, Dathomiri witches, apprentices, clowns, ghosts, nanites, and the like. He could sense many familiar presences, ones he had fought beside and against, and others whom he had never once felt before. Other presences were strangely lacking, like that of Masters Geki and Ar-Pharazon, but that was hardly surprising, as they were technically considered rouges. He commed flight Greyjoy to land in their designated hanger, and follow him inside.

 

With a smile, Sheog swept off his helm as he entered the ballroom, and glanced across the assembling masses, quite pleased with the turnout. There was great potential within the hands of the Sith. He looked forward to being a general in the coming war, one which he had started, upon Gala, where several ranking members of The Jedi Order had been slain, and their temple demolished. As if to announce his arrival, the Mountain of Insanity belched loudly as he leaned upon his staff, his greasy hands carefully cradling the expensive bottle of Brandy and box of Cigars, brought for the new Dark Lord.

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King Kheldar vos Correlli said:
Sheog, I have to ask, overkill much?
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...The full might of The Order, in its maddening display of strength and power, all dressed in such opulent colours. Truly magnificent... Is that cake? Mhmhmh. Oh, it’s muja cake. Blast it, who in the Sith really thinks that is delicious? Well, there goes the cake-stripper idea. Really, healthy food at a Sith celebration? Nobody enjoys that. If that was my cook, he’d be basted in his own gizzards...

The Lord of Gluttony sighed and grabbed a slice of the cake to whet his appetite, for what would hopefully be a grand feast, fit for a crowning of a new Dark Lord of the Sith. At least that was what he hoped. The muja cake fright had undermined his confidence a bit, and set him worrying that the new Dark Lord might be a health nut, at which point he would take his leave of the order. He had no plans to turn in an exercise and nutrition plan, like it was once again the fifth grade.

 

With a small smile of disgust, he passed his uneaten cake to Hayley, who gratefully ate it with great gusto. He eyed her cautiously, concerned that he might be on her future menu. For but a moment, he envisioned her as an Exogorth, chowing down on an Imp Star Deuce. The girl had a high metabolism, and perhaps he had forgotten to feed her in the past few days. He turned to push himself away from the cake-table, but was stopped by the sight of the Greyjoys, his personal dozen Sith Masters (of varying races, as Sheog was an equal opportunity employer) who followed him loyally, gazing enviously at the cake knife he was holding. With yet another sigh, Sheog served up another dozen generous slices of cake and handed them to his men. They stood there awkwardly holding the cake, watching him until he could take it no more.

 

<

 

One, a fatter Rodian fellow, by the name of Rygal, spoke up joyously

 

“Actually, we were waiting for silverware and napkins, but a glass of punch would do nicely.”

 

Sheog shook his head and smiled, gathering up a dozen sets of silverware, along with napkins, and tossed them to his men, along with the punch, albeit much more carefully, as it was held in crystalline glasses, which looked expensive. Once each Greyjoy had his fill, Sheog turned to observe the rest of the ballroom’s occupants, and opened himself up to the full influence of Avarice and Gluttony, and the power of The Force that came with them.

 

His Greyjoys were immediately recognizable, each with their own personality traits and presences within The Force, each more loyal than any of his friends of old. Closing his crimson eyes, Sheog reached out with The Force, and widened his sphere of responsibility, approaching and recognizing the presences about him, of old friends and adversaries, and those that were much newer to him. One in particular was incredibly strong, yet at the same time ancient in its power and fully new to him. The overlarge Hutt’s eyes opened, and settled upon the newest arrival to the party; a tall being, with hair the colour of hay, with tips of chocolate, the very thought of which brought saliva to Sheog’s mouth. This was a Sith that none had seen within The Order for many a year...

 

In his studies within the Library at the now defunct Coruscant temple, before he had slain his master Ason, he had read of the Sith, within the histories. The Tails of the Trinity had him as a leading member, and The Official Cookbook of the Sith had a dish named specifically after him. It was Exodus, the Lord of Transcendence within the Trinity, and former Dark Lord. His masters were some of the most famous of the Order, the great Kakuto Ryu, and Nurgle, but in his own time, the Sith had eclipsed them in memory and fame. If Furion had called the phantom from the transitory mists, then none could ever challenge his right as Dark Lord.

 

The mountain of greed pushed himself through the crowd, angling to end his movement beside the man, but at a comfortable distance, as he knew some Sith preferred personal space. The Hutt Sith pushed himself to match the pace of Exodus, kindly pushing aside several Sith with his ornamental staff before he ran them over. With an insane twinkle in his eye, Sheog spoke in his inside voice, trying to not deafen everyone in the room

 

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King Kheldar vos Correlli said:
Sheog, I have to ask, overkill much?
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An interesting fellow... Remarkably well-spoken. The books do not bear him justice... Probably because there were no real pictures of him, just apt descriptions, written by love-struck authors.

The voracious Hutt smiled at the Sith, known as Exodus, observing the man’s countenance and posture, whilst keeping his own in a positive and friendly manner. His stomach growled stealthily, and he took a long drag at the bottle of inexpensive port, trying to calm his incessant hunger, before it drove him insane. Well, more insane. With a small wink, Hayley and the Greyjoys spread out among the crowd, setting the stage for a response, in the off chance that a guest did something stupid. Hayley returned to the ship, and retrieved a package. Making sure to not fling any spittle onto his esteemed conversational partner, Sheog spoke,

 

<>

 

He took another drag from the port, and then glanced down at the bottle guiltily.

 

<

 

With that, he motioned Hayley forward, and the chestnut haired hacker brought out a bottle of Fullbank Cognac 1077, made from the vineyards of the Fullbank Brandy Company more than five centuries before, on Alderaan, which was now, obviously gone. She also took from a her cloak, a goblet of silver, marked with the Diresto family crest, which was little more than the engraving of a Hutt wearing a monocle and tophat.

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King Kheldar vos Correlli said:
Sheog, I have to ask, overkill much?
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The insane Hutt smiled broadly at the great Sith Master before him, who had taken him up on his offer of the finest Cognac the galaxy could produce. Exodus was one of the few to accept his offers of drink and food in many a long year. The Sith were far too paranoid for their own good, and they should know the master of Gluttony never poisoned food or drink. The reasons were many, but the main was that he almost always forgot that he poisoned it, or more likely his hunger overcame him, and he was just as likely to eat the poison as his victim. He was no fool. With head bowed, Hayley poured many a fine shot of the Cognac into the goblet, pausing a moment to undo the wax wrappings, and to uncork it, before handing the fine silver chalice to Exodus, keeping her eyes dutifully downcast. With a smile, Sheog raised his own large bottle of port and finished it off in one swallow. The voice of Furion caused him to quickly stifle a belch that rose from his very depths.

 

An all too familiar and annoying presence broke through his thoughts, as the Sith Kiffar Lucifer meandered up, clanking noisily in what appeared to be at least four layers of armour. Sheog narrowed his eyes, trying to cast a silent signal to the man that they were in the middle of a conversation, and that interrupting two Sith Masters in the middle of one such as theirs was plain stupidity, but the Kiffar seemed to not notice them, and clattered up to them. He reached out with The Force to get a reading on his intentions, but all he got was a residual wish to see a house aflame. Always happy to oblige the insane, as long as it meant a lack of conversation, the Lord of the Krath projected into Lucifer’s mind the sight of a great mansion ablaze in orange, yellow and red. From the windows, a never-ending conga-line of blazing clowns came leaping to their deaths, trying desperately, and in vain, to extinguish the flames consuming their hilariously dying brethren with pressurized soda water, and creamed pies. Unfortunately, such a vision could not ward off the kiffar, and the man spoke up, even as the Dark Lord was speaking.

 

''Forgive my intrusion gentlemen, but I couldn't help myself. Might I join you two in this moment of glory. It is rare that I meet a true legend. My former master spoke much of your exploits Lord Exodus. You are a true inspiration to us all. And Sheog, last I heard you were Dark Lord I am curious as to your latest exploits, afterall we have so much to catch up on.''

 

Sheog sighed and pointed silently up to Furion, who was in the middle of a tirade, about them attacking Gala, and getting minions lost at Coruscant, which Sheog didn’t have all too much to do with, other than leading the assault to Gala, which had been a moderate success, as they had killed countless Jedi. Reaching out with The Force, he touched Lucifer’s mind, and spoke to him through it

 

...We shall speak after The Dark Lord is finished with his lecture, for now, silence is golden, and might allow you life...

 

While you contest for transitory power, I will be transcending my very fate. Now...kneel to your Dark Lord.

 

...Hmm... Kneeling... This is perplexing... Kneeling is a bit impossible for Hutts. Perhaps he will take a bow. I think I can do that...

 

The Master of Gluttony bowed his bulk in response to The Dark Lord’s query holding his gifts for Furion, and in unison, Hayley went to her knee, still cradling the bottle of Cognac. At the same moment, the Greyjoys bowed as well, scattered throughout the crowd, and though many kept their eyes downcast, through The Force, they were wary of the Kiffar Sith who stood before their leader.

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King Kheldar vos Correlli said:
Sheog, I have to ask, overkill much?
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((The Actions of Gonzo Lockjaw, posted here, were with his permission))

 

With his crimson eyes, Sheog observed his old apprentice, the Barabel Sith Gonzo Lockjaw, take to a knee with the rest of the crowd. One figure seemed to still be standing, holding aloft a Cognac-filled goblet of silver, etched proudly with the insignia of the House Diresto; The Sith Master Exodus. Ever jolly, even in the face of adversity, Sheog smiled and watched cautiously, prepared to act, to defend Hayley and the crowd from any coming blowback. Hopefully, this was a pre-planned toast to the new Dark Lord, as a typical Sith took no pleasure from surprise.

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

Slowly spinning a large domination credit-chit between his chubby, greasy fingers, the Lord of Gluttony moved swiftly towards the refreshments, quite satisfied with the day’s outcomings. Patting a young apprentice on the shoulder, (Rez), Sheog let a small amount of Sith energy into the man, which gave him the temporary feeling of great hunger for the Force, as well as a feeling of power. With a small sigh, Sheog reached out in the Force, towards the mind of the Dark Lord,

 

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

With a flair for the dramatic, Sheog pushed himself quickly into Julio’s office, paying no heed to the duel going on nearby. It was certainly not the first time those kiffar had gone at it. To speak the truth, it was annoying, and he had had just about enough of them. Speaking out with a loud voice, the overlarge Hutt moved inside the door

 

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King Kheldar vos Correlli said:
Sheog, I have to ask, overkill much?
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The mountain of avarice winked a large, crimson eye, in the direction of Raia as she made her way from the room. He liked the look of the girl, and he fullheartedly believed that one day, her power would eclipse many of The Sith Order’s current Lords and Masters. With a slight curl of a grime-soaked lip, he listened to what The Dark Lord had to say. The man was all he had read about in the libraries, and much more powerful in person. Power was like an aura emanating off him, like the foul stench of death that rolled off a desiccated corpse in the heat of the sun. Unlike many of the Sith, Sheog had no wish to feed off the power, like a vulture, but was more akin to a bloatfly, heading to the source of the power to which within it would lay its eggs, choosing to create, instead of devour. His voice sounded soft as he spoke, slowly rising in volume like a wave about to strike a ship and drive it to the bottom of the sea

 

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King Kheldar vos Correlli said:
Sheog, I have to ask, overkill much?
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A smirk passed over the Hutt’s grotesque features, as if a knife slashed across the side of bountiful, fattened slime. Knowledge, was to Julio, what food was to Sheog; the thing that drove him. Julio was his own type of insane, and Sheog liked that. Brothers in Avarice and Greed. With a hearty laugh, Sheog pulled out his canteen of expensive brandy, (taken from the Relbaquen Frontier, when Separatist Troops used the brewery as a base during the Clone Wars. This particular brand was fermented during that time, and still had a metallic, oily taste, with a quiet aftertaste of blood, due to the bodies of political prisoners being disposed of inside the containment drums.), and used it to slake a bit of his thirst.

 

The mountain of Greed slowly extended a slimy, greasy hand towards the Dark Lord of the Sith, like a stranger were to take the hand of a child, before a long walk in the park, to a van written on the side with “Free Candy,” and before the eventual Amber Alert, that would be vain. As he did so, his large nostrils flared, like those of the bloodhound that was about to stumble across a long decomposed body, as Sheog opened his sluggish lungs to draw upon the bitter taste of The Force. Letting it flow about him, it began to tear upon his mind, like a serial killer to his victims clothes, and his crimson eyes flew open incredibly wide. Within them, lay a fully engulfed with maddened flame, like a criminal burning a van full of evidence. His voice was gravelly as he spoke

 

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King Kheldar vos Correlli said:
Sheog, I have to ask, overkill much?
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Tremors, like the tectonic plates of a dying world, (whose population were completely terrified at the gushes of lava, groundquakes, plagues, and their imminent death) shook Sheog’s maddened mind, as the Dark Lord tore his way into his mind. Thoughts rose unbidden to his mind, ripped from his subconscious, to rise before his eyes. Friends long dead, food eaten and enjoyed, deaths by his hand.

 

There arose the vision of a grand feast lying at a marble table before a poor family, who Sheog had rescued from a pack of Dinkos, and whom had eaten quickly, scarfing down large gulps of food, basking in the beauty of gluttony, before the master of it. Eyes narrowed, Sheog strikes them all down, all because they do not give him the courtesy of a thank you. At least they had died with food in their gut, albeit poisoned food. Still delicious though...

 

* * * * * * * * * *

 

...You are the Lord of Madness, rise my apprentice. You are worthy in the eyes of the Krath Order...

 

* * * * * * * * * *

 

...What were the name of that Jedi I killed? Was it Marak? Wookiee Jedi? No, no... Little Shelly, the sandle-maker's daughter? The whore of King Lycera? That’s not even a guy. Or was it... Yes! Stanley, that talking plant from Vertigo. Oh, and there was that terrorist who looked like Lando...

 

* * * * * * * * * *

 

They say… That the galaxy was once immersed completely darkness, before the evolution of life-forms, the advent of sentience, and finally, of The Force, or was it with us always? So are the mysteries of the galaxy… So much lost to the shadows, to destruction, and to simple entropy. From where came Midi-chlorians? Who in the Seven Corellian Hells truly knows? Obviously they evolved with us? Or were they a gift from the hand of God himself?

 

It is said The Force was first felt upon Ossus… I believe it was first felt at the very onset of the Universe, where it all began. Perhaps, it was the spark that ignited the Big Bang, or whatever they call it now. After all, when I worked with that damnable hacker Slicer, we discovered that according to the ancient order of the Jedi, that The Force… Binds us. Connects us… And is everywhere, ready for the grasping by those who are worthy. That was on Haruun Kal, about twenty galactic standard years ago, and it was the discovery that started both of us on our path.

 

I am beginning to research the very depths of The Force… I am going to ask my father if I might once again explore the ancient places of the Galaxy. I shall go to Malachor...

 

* * * * * * * * * *

 

...Ahh... Another death threat from my stalker... This time written on the back of a gerbil, in what appears to be the blood of a Jawa. Oh, and he stuffed the Gerbil with Caderzing Chocolate. He at least has some taste. Interesting... Perhaps I should give this Alex another look...

 

* * * * * * * * * *

 

With a roar, Sheog ripped himself back to the real world, with a cry reminiscent of beached whale. His head ached far more than it had ever had before, even when he had been hit with lightning whilst on Malastare. He felt a bit violated, a crime for which he had slain Uriel Stonedog, when he had assaulted his guests on Hoth. Shaking with adrenaline, the Lord of Avarice pulled himself up to his full height, dwarfing the Dark Lord before him, a grin spreading over his pallor features, as his madness began to feed upon the pain, like ravenous wolves, tearing into a lost child. He held up his flask, offering it to the Dark Lord.

 

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

The storms, so full of madness, that had for so long beat against their confines, and blotted out the sunshine of true thought, were beginning to calm. The veil of insanity, which had bound him within madness, separating him from the truth of the Living Force, had been torn. The Mountain of Avarice and Gluttony, was no longer constrained by the Cardinal Sins through which he had once viewed The Force. He was free of mind, but not of body. The massive Hutt smiled broadly, a twisted, disgusting thing for one to witness, as he observed the Dark Lord of the Sith, become overrun, for but a moment, by insatiable hunger and greed.

 

As had he, the Dark Lord began the thrashings of madness, reaching out through The Force, to strike down inanimate objects, in blindness, and hate. Reaching down to his core, Sheog brought forth a stream of Dark Side energy, like diverting a river’s flow, and began to weave The Force about himself, creating a shield through which no strike which The Dark Lord sent his direction could pass. Nothing was left whole, as was the consequence of madness, and overreaching sin. Such was the price. Sin let loose with abandon, destroyed all along its path. The darkness was fading from his mind, and with it, so fell the scales from his crimson eyes. Reaching out with The Force, he laid a steadying hand upon the shoulder of the Dark Lord, as the man began to draw himself from the madness. In response to his query, the overlarge hut answered in a rumbling voice, like distant thunder, a hint of sadness buried within.

 

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

Hunger.

The Maw continued its feast, unabated. The force storm began to die, consuming itself as it in turn was devoured by the gravity well, and its master heard… Nothing. There was no echoing call in the Force, no answer to the ravenous desire that bound itself within the Master of the Krath. It was no different than any of the countless storms and fires he had spilled from the bowels of the derelict station which clung to the gravity currents of this place, all to die in the formless hunger.  

The hulking mountain of filth moved, a creaking and hideous movement marked by a groan of wrath that shattered the stillness. Years of study without tangible result. The rusting decking protested his movement, having so settled under his bulk. A greasy hand passed across the bulkheads, grapsing and wrenching the durasteel free. He stared at the sheeting balanced on a sweaty palm, his crimson eyes taking in the speckled pattern of oxidizing rust. It was as beautiful to him as the stars themselves.

Pure entropy.

Within the eye of the force, that embrace of gluttony withing which the world appeared to the Hutt, there was a glimmer of something deeper within the steel. He breathed in a gasping breath, his offset nostrils flaring wickedly.

Bacterial and fungal lifeforms.

Another great breath and there; a pitiful flicker of his own power as the primitive life-forms were consumed by the Force. The bacteria was gone, stricken from the galaxy as by a plague. He had taken their life into himself a distorted reflection of the power of the Maw itself.  He breathed out, distorting the forms of the fungi, changing them with the gift of the bacteria. There was subtle change as he placed within them his own hunger. The rate of corrosion increased markedly, but the life did not take to his gift as he had desired. Before he could take another breath, the fungal colony had devoured itself.

His hunger was that of an ouroboros. The power to consume, but only eating itself.

The Sith moved again to stare into the formless twisting of light that was the Maw. It had been ages since he had heard her voice, and he would have to wait another age for the Maw to speak to him once more. The ripples he had created in his early days had still not reached their shores. It came then, a feeling of subtle sweetness. It piqued his desire. Crimson eyes widened, their many lids slipping back to reveal the sulpheric yellow that stained his corneas.

To the Hutt, it was the undeniable confirmation of his path. The blessing of the Lady, and of her daughter’s path. The sweetness changed to salt and smoke.

The Firebrand had made Cathar her bed, following the wounds as he had suggested.

A blubbering sigh came with the intrusion of brilliant life within the Maw. He felt it immediately, nearly two-hundred life-forms. His many-lidded eyes blinked slowly; sloth replaced by avarice.

---------------------------------------------------------------

“WELCOME FOLKS!”

The fake Corellian accent was stained with a backwater drawl, but the tourists aboard did not seem to care, barely looking up from their sabbac games. The HSD Bourbonne was a gambling ship, a salvaged C-3 Passenger Liner originally outfitted by Leonore Luxury Liners Incorporated nearly five decades past and had been run under the designation ISL Thesuvious for luxury passenger service along the Pabol-Sleheyron route in Hutt Space under their Sheny-Brior subsidiary. About a decade prior, the unfortunate Thesuvious had been impounded by Formos Port Authority and subsequently purchased by Thrillian De’Subar who had turned the vessel into a luxury gambling and tourism ship, for which it had come into great renown in the Unknown Regions for high-value tables and plentiful glitterstim. Now under the propriety of ex-corsec enforcer Picadillo Aldi, the starliner had been renamed the HSD Bourbonne, and focused more on sham tourism.

“Look upon the Maw Installation fair tourists!”

The girl who held the comlink that linked to the command deck could hardly be over twenty standard years old, but the blaster pistol on her side and green lapel marked her as lieutenant in the security service. She motioned with a finely manicured hand to the distant outline of a derelict station, highlighted by the plasma of the gravity well. The viewscreens panned the outline into better focus, showing the rusting holds of a long-forgotten station.

“Our researchers tell us that this hulk was once called Spite Station, the headquarters of one Sith Master Furion, who some of you may know for popping up from time to time and then immediately disappearing once something goes slightly against his direction of plan.”

The woman, named Gwenhyvar blinked. She had no idea where that information had come from. Another officer gave her a hard, sideways stare for her unauthorized impromptu. Had anyone been paying attention, they would have one of the many derelict ships that were caught in the soft gravity well around the station come to speed and head for the Bourbonne’s underbelly.

Gwenhyvar stuttered for a second, a pounding headache beginning to overwhelm her senses. She felt so hungry too. She passed the commlink to lieutenant Fenhalmen, a Rodian of noble birth, and he continued the rehearsed spiel about the rarity and luxury of such unnantural views of the Maw Nebulae. She stepped from the gambling deck, slipping into the employee shamlift and dropping into the main cargo-hold.

…Why even am I going here?

The lieutenant glanced down at the handful of banquet rolls she had snagged while passing through the deck with surprise. She hadn’t eaten gluten in nearly a year, but even her own indignation couldn’t halt her hand from bringing the bread to her lips. She could smell the yeast and spices. The woman took a tender bite and then gulped down three like a ravenous strill. A voice in her mind, crashing through her hunger like a landspeeder running over a toddler.

 

<<Good evening my dear. Tell me, how is the bread?>>

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