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Falleen


Darth Heretic

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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>>

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

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

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

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.

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

The bartender, an overlarge and gregarious Hutt watched the three clone trooper swho  sat at the long table, their armor gleaming in the dim light of the cantina. They were a sight to behold, each one a perfect copy of the other, their faces set in determined lines. The bartender watched them from behind the counter, a feeling of unease settling in his many many stomachs. These were not ordinary soldiers, but fighting machines, created for one purpose: to serve the Republic and fight in the Clone Wars, or at least it was, many many many years ago

 

As he mixed various, idiotic and fizzy drinks, the bartender couldn't help but wonder what horrors they had seen on the battlefield. What atrocities had they committed in the name of duty? And yet, despite everything, they remained stoic and resolute, their loyalty to, perhaps The Republic unwavering. Or was it the Empire. Or perhaps some form of Sovereign Alliance. Or maybe they were Jedi. 

 

The clone troopers lifted their glasses and clinked them together, their eyes meeting in a silent toast. The bartender watched as they drank, his greasy hand shaking slightly as he wiped down the counter. These were not men, but weapons, and he couldn't shake the feeling that their presence bode ill for the future of his comfortable and definitely not a mafia or Sith Front of a bar. 

 

The overfat Hutt couldn't help but notice a Twi'lek across the room. She was tall and slender, with a lithe grace that caught his eye. But it wasn't her appearance that captured his attention, it was the way she moved. It was almost as if she were dancing, her body flowing with an unconscious grace that he had only ever seen in one other person.

 

Lallu.

 

The name hit him like a physical blow, bringing with it a wave of memories and emotions that he had thought long buried. Lallu had been a dancer, or maybe a Sith Assassin or something, a Twi'lek like this one, with the same flowing movements and captivating presence. He had met her in a cantina much like this one, or maybe a Sith Temple, or maybe on a Mission, and they had spent a wild and passionate night together, at least in his mind. But in the harsh, and yet dim light of the bar, he had realized that he could never truly be with her. She was a dancer, and he was just a Hutt, he was a punk, she did ballet, what more could he say

 

He had said goodbye and slithered out of her life, hoping that she would find someone who could give her the life she had deserved. And he had never looked back.

 

Until now.

 

As he watched the Twi'lek across the room, he couldn't help but feel a sense of longing and regret. He knew that he could never go back, that the past was the past. But he couldn't shake the feeling that he had made a mistake, that he had let something special slip through his greasy, chubby, dirty fingers.

 

Great crimson eyes, welling with tears, stared from behind bright blue contacts while his greasy hand fiddled with the poorly made prosthetic beard and large hooked nose that adorned his face. He couldn't help but notice a Wookie, all too familiar, speaking to a young blonde woman at the other end of the counter, and what may well have been Admiral Ackbar himself. The Wookie was tall and muscular, his fur ruffled and unkempt. He gestured wildly with his hands as he spoke, a look of intense concentration on his face, as if reminiscing upon the time he slept with an Empress or something. The young woman listened intently, her blue eyes fixed on the Wookie as he spoke as if imagining his ringlets of fur deep in her nostrils. She was slender and graceful, her blonde hair falling in soft curls around her shoulders, something of a flitmoth. She seemed to be hanging on his every word, her expression one of the rapt attention that often graced the faces of mindless young women

 

The Hutt watched the pair with interest, wondering what could have brought such disparate beings together in this seedy cantina. But he knew better than to ask questions, especially in a place like this, or meddle in a new budding romance, rife with shower scenes. He had learned long ago to mind his own business and keep his fat head down. So instead, he turned his attention back to those clone troopers, their presence a constant reminder of the dangers that lurked beyond the doors of the cantina, and that some people didn't know how to dress for a covert ops mission.

 

With their distinctive armor and precise movements, they stood out like sore thumbs in the dingy cantina. It was as if they wanted everyone to know exactly who they were and what they were capable of. The overlarge and sweaty bartender watched them cautiously, his grubby hand never straying far from the blaster concealed beneath the counter. He had heard stories about the clone troopers, about their strength and their bravery on the battlefield. But he had also heard rumors of their ruthlessness, of their willingness to do whatever it took to win. His mind wandered to the Nightsister Quesadillaea, and how she had slept with a clone or two. 

 

He couldn't help but wonder what had brought them to this backwater planet, to this seedy cantina in the middle of nowhere, so filled with phermones. Was it a mission to retake the planet, or were they simply passing through on their way to somewhere else? Perhaps they could use a large Hutt for some nighttime activities... 

 

His multiple, greasy folds seemed to quake with potential excitement. 

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

Wookiee Jedi vs Mavanger 

 

This duel was a good read for the most part for myself and for my second for this duel, Darth Nyrys. This was a well fought battle from both perspectives, with good writing and references to character building that were for the most part an enjoyable read. These are both Master Level Characters with a strong history to draw on and a lot of background narrative. 

 

The Good

 

Wookiee Jedi: I felt your narrative was very strongly written in the first and third post, and tied very well to your attacks and defenses. You respected your opponent’s numerous attacks well with good damage taken. 

 

Mavanger: There was a lot of great emotional narrative here, with the tumultuous nature of the Dark Side on display.  There were strong attempts at personal growth, as well as a decent narrative of how your character perceives his opponent. 

 

The Need for Improvement

 

Wookiee Jedi: The second of your posts I feel was your weakest, the attacks were less clear, and the narrative link and flow was weaker. Specifically here; The “Lifting his leg through his knee” was incredibly confusing by itself, a good tactic is to be more clear in how your attack can be interpreted. 

 

Mavanger: With your attacks, there was not a lot of overall description of where you are in space and time making it difficult for us to follow how things would look which would have allowed your opponent to better respond to your attacks. Your attacks felt highly condensed and numerous in the last paragraph, where they could have been much better used within the narrative you are spinning so the connection of attack and inspiration makes more sense. 

 

The Swords: I appreciate a good Irish name for stuff, but I ended up having to write down which sword was in each hand to better keep track of the attacks; a good way to differentiate them for the reader would be names that are quite different as well as color differentiation. 

 

The Overall Breakdown

 

There is an issue with multiple strung-together attacks that hurt Mavanger overall more; if the first is appropriately defended against, your other attacks can fall apart narratively. Another is the ideals of quality vs quantity, when you have a post with 6 attacks in it, having to respect each of these in turn becomes a bit of a slog, or since they’re all linked together, stepping into the first defeats the following ones and they simply become ‘thrashing about’ as was so well worded by your opponent. Fewer attacks with more narrative link would give them more power. 

 

If you make multiple attacks, let them cook, take narrative between which allows them to become significantly more meaningful into the whole story. ‘Momentum’ played into this quite a bit, and both sides of this made attacks and defenses in contrary to their flow; A good example of this is Mavanger’s second post, where his defense to WJ’s shin strike was to jump upwards, in opposition to his whole flow. 
 

There was a lot of emphasis on being in close quarters, and narrative writing of who would be better at it; in theory you both are good at it, but for Mavanger, nothing was done to emphasize or take advantage, it was still slashes and cuts whereas WJ took more control in that zone. 

 

Both of you did great, however only one winner and so;

 

 

Wookiee Jedi Wins

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