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Mon Calamari/Dac


Nikolai Kolchak

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"Excellent. It'll be a few days at the least until I can set my end in motion. Besides, I have some of my own projects I'd like to work in the meantime. Leave a way for me to contact you, and I'll let you know when things are ready on my end and we can plan the operation."

"Oh," Nok said standing and bowing his head to the Troig, "and it's Nok Morliss." He smiled.
 


Sensing the conversation was over, Shimsinblimp stood, the chair scraping the floor beneath him. “It has been an honor Mister Morliss. A few days time will allow me to ensure that things are prepared.” Removing a single computer chip from a pocket in his sleeve, the Troig places it on Nok’s desk. “Just plug it in when you are ready.” Shim smiled secretively as he turned towards the door.

 

“Then we’ll find you.” Blimp added, his voice low and cold.

 

With that they made their way out the door, summoning the vanguard to pick him up and whisk him away as soon as the two-headed saurian stepped outside. 
 

___________________________________________
 

Returning to the abandoned shop where he had started his rebirth of a life of crime, Shimsinblimp quickly descended the hidden stairway down to the lower levels. There it was hotter, the sweet smell of spice barely tangible over the odors of numerous offworld servants, workers and slaves carefully cutting, crafting, weighing, and packing the spice; all under the careful eyes of the pit-boss, a lithe black-skinned female twi’lek. The glint in her emerald eyes was cold and she barked orders at any that hesitated or fell behind. The energy lash at her belt testified to her brutal methods. Having come into money, Shimsinblimp had been able to track down Elsiene and convince her to join his little enterprise. Cold, cruel, and conniving, the woman was few beings that Shimsinblimp trusted at all. Thankfully, she had been willing to assist in overseeing the day to day tasks of the Mon Cal operation. After all, it was a far cry better than hiding from the Imperial Remnant and their blasted wanted posters.

 

With a knowing nod from Blimp, Shimsinblimp passed Elsiene without a word. The eyes of every servant and slave diverted to their work. In the midst of the spice and sweat, fear tinged the hot air. Making his way to the end of a hall in the labyrinthing underground lair.


Painstakingly it had been pieced out from the shop, ensuring dead ends were sealed and new avenues and escapes opened. Flickering lights and the buzz of low-grade electrical wires completed the seedy feel of the place. If one did not know any better, it would have seemed every bit a Hutt’s setup, save for the stairs  and carefully nailed down thick rugs and carpets. One could never be too careful. Shimsinblimp had even seen a Hutt with a caved in skull recover from what seemed like certain death.
 

At the end of the hall, Shimsinblimp quickly and methodically keyed in a mutlidigit passcode and then completed a palm scan before a vault hissed open to reveal hundreds of pounds of unprocessed ryll. Several shelves were already empty. It was amazing how quickly the Mon Cal and Quarren people took to this new form of pleasure; especially when everything else was looking so bleak.

 

Using his fingers, Shim whispered to himself, taking tally of the remaining spice. “We gotta get the crew. This won’t last us the month.” 

“We really do not have a choice if we are to keep this up. I shudder to think what may happen if we fail Mister Morliss.”

“That is simple. You worry too much.”
“You’re right. Even with his metallic murderer we can end him. Then what though?”

“We keep on making money and buying whatever and whoever we want. More powerful than . . .”

“The Hutts. More powerful than the Hutts. We will be like a god.”

“Lets call the men.”
 

Stepping out of the vault, Shimsinblimp sealed the door back shut with a hiss. Making his way back through the labyrinth, he found Elsiene, “Going for another shipment.”

 

The midnight hued woman smiled, her white pointed teeth an unsettling visage against her skin. “Bring me back something that smells better than this place.”

 

Blimp winked, “Anything for you deary.”

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  • 2 months later...

After the failed invasion of Kessel...

 

"Ziur Dvirat"

 

The table in front of Nok, illuminated by his frustration and holding a comm device, remained unchanged.

 

Nok's fists clenched as he reined in the impulse to sweep the comm off the table and smash it. Instead, he barked, "Computer! Reread page 27, lines 8 thru 11!"

 

"Would you like me to-"

 

"Yes! Translate!"

 

The computer, unperturbed, began reading. "The initial stage of any prospective user of mechu-deru is developing a sense of technological systems and their place as symbolic entities of the conquest of sentient will over nature. A simple incantation can assist true beginners with this process, although most users with an innate talent for the art develop the sense as an instinctive capability. The learning process should not take-"

"Enough! Cease reading."

 

Nok paced.

 

Days...days spent attempting to learn this basic art...and he was still no closer to unraveling its secrets. He could see the Dark Side shifting under the force of his will and the labyrinthine weave of what could only be loosely defined as "sorcery". But nothing came of it. It simply unraveled into the tumultuous aura of his growing irritation.

 

What was worse was that he had no idea where to even begin looking for the flaws in his technique. No master, not even a holocron to give him guidance. All he had were old texts uploaded into his computer and read aloud to him. He couldn't even read the books himself, blind as he was and reliant on the Force to see even physical shapes.

 

The calm, cold, calculating voice of his intellect reasserted itself over his emotions, an occurrence that was becoming concerningly more frequent. He would need to hone his control. In the meantime, he needed to try again. He needed to establish his control over this thing...and his life in general. The failure at Kessel had rattled him, and the silence from the scions of House Sovros only heightened his anxiety.

 

"Ziur Dvirat"

 

Again his will and power coalesced in the Dark Side, weaving into something...

 

The comm activated, and for the briefest moment Nok felt a sense of elation. Then it crackled with the calm voice of a medical droid.

 

"Master Nok, the subject is awake."

 

Nok grimaced, and sighed.

 

"Understood, I'll be right down."

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In the bowels of the basement of the sprawling tower that now made up the headquarters of Mon Cal’s new de facto ruler; the private medical bays of the elite rulers of the planet’s shipyards churned. The finest medicine money could buy. It still could not erase the pain.

 

There, drifting motionlessly in the green-hued bacta tank with a dozen lines arching upwards like reversed tentacles was the Troig formerly known as Shimsinblimp; although it was now sans Shim. Like an inverted Arkanian Jellyfish, Blimp drifted, his mind awash in a chemical cocktail of healing  and mind numbing medications. Numbed against the anguish that seethed within, Blimp healed having undergone the surgeon’s blade to reshape the jagged stump of Shim’s neck and reform his shattered leg.

 

He drifted in this nothingness for almost two weeks. But now, as gauges registered a return to semi-normalcy; the sentinel medical droids that stood watch over the Troig began to ween their patient off of his medications. It would take hours for Blimp to come to; but his mind slowly began to emerge from the depths of chemical nothingness.

 

Even if his body did not feel the pain anymore, there was something more. It was a base instinct; one deeper than that which could be detected by medical equipment. For a Troig, to lose a head quite literally made it half a being. Shimsinblimp had lost half his soul, half his persona, half his everything. Without Shim, he was just Blimp. A blimp adrift in the skies without an anchor. The loss of Shim, even as he came out of anesthesia, radiated in waves if psychological pain. 
 

As he was hefted from his tank and lowered atop a gurney, Blimp’s face twisted in the pain of loss; a fact not lost on the attending droids as they scurried to double check their connections and readings; but they could find no injury from which the pain radiated. Instead, it seemed to pulsate from every cell. With haste, a gangly medical droid pushed a button to alert the upper levels that their patient had begun to regain consciousness.


With the medications wearing off, Blimp began to writhe on the table. He twisted and began to roll to the point that the droids had to scurry to secure the large being to the table or risk him tumbling to the ground. His eyes were clenched shut in pain, still lost within the churning darkness of colors and chaos that the receding medications induced. The pain was still present. Even if he was not fully conscious, the pain existed.

 

As the lift doors open and the security measured recognized Nok Morliss and disengaged, a single medical droid scurried over to their master. “The half-Troig is in pain. All readings indicate it should be healed. It will need to be brought to full consciousness to ensure that the remaining head has not suffered irreparable cognitive damage. Damage that may make living untenable. On the other side, inducing intentional pain goes against our primary programming.”

 

In the background, a low gutteral snarl escaped the  tortured half-creature, twinges of anger vibrating upon the waves of pain.

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14 hours ago, Shimsinblimp said:

As the lift doors open and the security measured recognized Nok Morliss and disengaged, a single medical droid scurried over to their master. “The half-Troig is in pain. All readings indicate it should be healed. It will need to be brought to full consciousness to ensure that the remaining head has not suffered irreparable cognitive damage. Damage that may make living untenable. On the other side, inducing intentional pain goes against our primary programming.”

 

In the background, a low gutteral snarl escaped the  tortured half-creature, twinges of anger vibrating upon the waves of pain.

 

Nok's mouth twisted down into a frown. Emotional damage. Mental trauma.

 

"If he's going to live, he'll do it now. Wake him up." Either the spice jacker was strong enough to survive this, or not. A slow, costly rehabilitation to extricate a shell of the criminal from a medicated stupor wasn't something Nok was interested in. A jagged shard of a man, hard and brutal...that was something Nok could use.

 

The droid, programmed to prioritize Nok's' orders over medical regulations, turned back to Blimp. With mechanical callousness, it injected a series of hypodermic needles into the chest of the troig, flooding him with the chemicals necessary to cancel out the medication and bring him to full wakefulness.

 

One of Nok's vibroknives dropped into his palm, and he moved back, positioning one of the medical droids between him and the "patient"

 

 

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The pain of loss flooded through Blimp’s mind as consciousness took hold of the furtherest reaches of his persona. At the same time, his body ceased thrashing as he ascertained the foley that fighting against the restraints was proving to be. Instead, he lay there, his eyes clenched shut as if he refused to see what his body already knew that it would not be real.

 

He lay there, feeling, consciousness and life refilling his being. At the same time, his subcellular pain radiated from him causing the air to ripple with such subtlety as to be unconceivable to any but an attuned force user. In addition, as the single remaining mind of the Troig came back to full control, so did a burning ember of frigid vengeful desire.

 

The Troig’s chest rose and fell with each ragged breath. About him machines whirred softly interrupted by the occasional mechanized beep or boop.

 

Blimp’s mind churned in the pain and anger of his loss as it tried to come to terms with it. It was a nigh impossible task, but after a drawn out period of time in the relative silence, his mind had processed enough. Shim was gone, though he still existed within the Troig’s being. It was now up to Blimp to carry Shim’s legacy forward. A Mandalorian had taken Shim from him. The spice mines of Kessel, had they won? There were finances to be made and revenge to be wrought. All of these swirled together in a cacophony of direction within Blimp’s mind.


He could tell there was someone there; even if he did not know who. Finally, the power of desire overcame his denial and desire for the embrace of death and he opened a single golden-hued eye to see the Nemodian, Nok Morliss, standing across the room as if the blind lizard was silently watching him with his sightless sockets. 
 

“We had a deal Morliss. That deal still stands.”

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  • 2 weeks later...

Note: Questions asked by Blimp and answered by Nok are previously agreed upon

 

Nok stood passively by as the troig struggled through his own emotions. Then, something hardened, something Nok couldn't quite define. The troig opened his eye.

 

On 11/25/2020 at 12:22 PM, Shimsinblimp said:

“We had a deal Morliss. That deal still stands.”

 

A small smile tugged at Nok's mouth.

 

"Indeed. I believe we can still be of use to each other." Nok motioned to one of the droids, and a cushioned stool was wheeled under him as he sat down.

 

"Now, to business. Assuming those meds are working, I imagine you have some questions. First though, let me catch you up on Kessel."

 

Nok launched into a step by step recap of the failed Kessel invasion. The unexpected presence of the rebels, the fierce fighting in space and on the ground, the routing of the Sovros troops, and Nok and Blimp's ultimate escape.

 

"Unfortunately, another invasion is out of the question, at least for now." Nok's fingers twitched a hair as he said it. He had not given up on Kessel. It would be his. "House Sovros is unhappy with the loss of their troops and the lack of profit on their investment. I'm upping security in case of assassins." He rubbed his forehead. "Kessel would have been ideal for the plan's purposes, given its proximity, but there are alternatives, albeit more time consuming. Rest assured, the narcotics empire of Mon Cal is still very much the future."

 

Blimp's next question made Nok smile. "Your armor is most impressive, and may have been what kept you alive. Once we finished stripping it off you for surgery, I had it sent to one of the Shipyard's repair centers. It should be ready for you soon. Any gear that can't be repaired will be replaced, at my expense."

 

When Blimp asked what had happened to his head, Nok frowned. "Apologies, but we couldn't find your other head in the wreckage." Nok paused, unsure how to proceed. How did you talk to someone who'd lost a head? 

 

Thankfully the awkwardness didn't last long, as Blimp had a much more pressing concern. His attacker.

 

"Ah," Nok said, breaking into a wide smile, "That I can help with." He pulled out his datapad and said "Command: Display Kessel Mandalorian investigation. Specify: HADES"

 

A small, holographic image of a modified mandalorian Basilisk flickered to life. "One of the ships retreating from the fight noted the takeoff of this particular basilisk from the warehouse where I found you. As it turns out, this particular vessel has a bit of a history." He turned his eyeless, blindfolded gaze to look straight at the troig. "You were fighting Terra. Also known as 'Mandalore the Great', and the leader of the last Mandalorian Crusade." He frowned again. "At least, I think so. There's some confusion as to what happened to the last Mandalore. Supposedly she was killed on Coruscant, but there's no denying that that Basilisk is the one my reports call HADES. Also I can't find any reason for someone like that to be with the rebels." Nok put the datapad down. "Regardless, find that Basilisk and you'll find that mandalorian. As for her companions, you might not remember but you asked me to take their bodies before you fell unconscious. They're preserved in this clinic's morgue right now. Unfortunately their armor was stripped from them.

 

As for the more immediate future, I'm working on setting up our own drug production centers here on the planet. Balo mushrooms and death sticks. Not as convenient or popular as spice, but sufficient for what I need. However, there is another option for quicker results...

 

Command: Display Onoam Mine."

 

Nok's datapad's display flickered and a blocky structure cut directly into the stone appeared.

 

"Onoam Mine, one of the only successful spice mines outside of Kessel, is on one of Naboo's moons, and is a potential source of spice for our purposes. Unfortunately, it'll be more heavily defended and much further away then Kessel. If we're going to take it, we'll need to be much more careful and subtle."

 

Nok put away his datapad. "But I think that's enough for now. Come to my office once you're back on your feet."

 

Standing up and walking towards the door, Nok said to one of the droids in Pak-Pak "Get him functional again. Top priority."

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A little over a week later, the Troig that was Shimsinblimp, now known simply as Blimp, emerged not from the medical ward of Nok Morliss’ world class facilities; but from the growing darkened underworld of Mon Cal. The half Troig had walked out of the medical ward as soon as he was capable under his own power, despite the objections of the droids tending to him. One of those droids had been left a smoldering shell after Blimp had plugged the droid’s frame into the power supply of a nearby bacta tank. He then disappeared into the underworld throngs where he returned to the budding spice operations he and Shim had started to establish. His black-skinned twi’lek enforcer had seen to the growth of their business using many of the traits they had learned under servitude to the Hutts. The woman was as ruthless as Blimp and did not hesitate to cut down anyone who got in the way of progress.

 

After ensuring that the planet-wide operations were still humming, Blimp moved to ensure his offworld contacts were aware of their places. Blimp reached out through contacts, backroom channels, secured holonet transceivers and more to offworld contacts, buyers & dealers, pirates & spice jackers ,and everyone from fences to information brokers. He made sure that all of them were still expected to hold up any agreements in place and made acutely aware of the fact that Shimsinblimp still stood at the helm of the growing drug trade of Mon Cal despite the loss of Shim’s head to the Mandalorian upstarts. After spending over an entire planetary rotational cycle contacting offworld suppliers and brokers the half-Troig set out for the industrial park where Nok’s office overlooked the world’s most lucrative business investments.

 

With a slight limp in his right leg from where the Mandalor had ground her boot into his exposed bone, Blimp made his way through the areas of town no one of his class ought to be. He openly carried his underarm slung blasters, his usually hidden disruptor now openly carried aside an identical one on his chest. The swagger the Troig usually carried was gone. Blimp’s lips were set in a hard thin line and fire burned in his eyes as he stalked forward.

 

Walking into the office building, Blimp did not break stride as the receptionist cried foul at his passing. He did not even look back as he growled, “I am expected.” until he came to a halt before the turbolift doors. It took only a moment of consideration from the secretary before she activated the lift doors to allow the Troig inside, simultaneously keying in the emergency code for security regarding the possible intrusion. She did not get paid enough to dir at the hands of a half-mad looming half-Troig.

 

As the lift opened at the other end, Blimp was met by eight clean and sharp Quarren enforcers each armed to the teeth. Their weapons were pointed towards Blimp’s chest. Clearly they were expecting trouble.

 

Blimp did not move for his weapons. He did not move at all, not even his eyes turned from their prize, the door to Nok’s office. If they shot him, he cares little. Instead, he bellowed, his voice loud, guttural, and seething with a ice-like edge that had the potential to cut duraglass. “Morlissssss, we have business arrangements to discuss. Failure is not an option.”

 

Once Nok had called off the building guards, and some semblance of privacy was ensured, Blimp began to speak.“Kessel was an absolute failure. I now have debts to pay as I am sure you do as well. Naboo will take time and planning. Time we do not have.

Fortunately for you, I have experience in more hands on approaches to acquiring the goods we need. I have a crew, some whom I have served with before I came to work with you, others scraped from the bowels of the growing galactic hub of iniquity you have cultivated here. If you have no objections, we depart in three days time.”

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Several moments earlier

 

"This is not what we agreed on!"

 

Nok rubbed the sides of his head, the seed of a migraine coalescing behind his brow as the burbling voice of King Halargo filled the office. The comm device crackled for a split second as it struggled with the sudden volume change from the irate monarch's outrage.

 

"We-"

 

"You agreed to not interfere with my control of Mon Calamari Shipyards in exchange for allowing your government to continue even under Sith rule. It's because of me that this intergalactic salt puddle even has a king. And if you continue to shout, I'll knock that crown off your head and put it on a quarren!"

 

The king was unintimidated. Nok made a mental note to have future meetings with the king be done in person. The blubbery, overweight fish had no spine for direct confrontation.

 

"Yes! Exactly! I agreed to allow you to maintain your control over the Shipyards, not to dictate development on the surface!"

 

"The construction I'm proposing is for the Shipyards."

 

"Don't feed me that rot." Nok heard the sounds of plastic sheets rustling in the backround of the call. "Industrial humidifiers? Compost processors? Environmental controls? This is all biological development! I don't know what you're growing but I highly doubt it has anything to do with ship construction!"

 

"I'm expanding-"

 

"Stop lying! You may be in charge of the Shipyards, but I am king, and I will not be bullied by some upstart neimoidian slug cashing in on the Empire's-"

 

"ENOUGH!" Nok shouted. Across the room, a priceless 3000 year old durosian sculpture shattered under the pressure wave of Nok's rage. "Wake up! Did you honestly think you were still in control here? That this world was 'yours'? Are you that much of an idiot?! You sold the strings that hold your world together to me so that you could lie to yourself and say nothing has changed. You want to keep that lie going, you give me everything and anything I ask for! And if you don't, the last thing you'll see will be a Sith armada unleashing death and poison on your oceans as I gut your wife and children in front of you and the entire planet!"

 

Nok leaned forward, his migraine flaring into real pain. One breath. Two breaths.

 

As quickly as it came, Nok's rage vanished, hiding away as he reasserted control.

 

"Now," Nok said, cold and calm, "let me make something perfectly clear to you, your Highness.

 

I own you.

 

I own your world.

 

Soon, I will own your people.

 

You sold them all to me to keep what little you have. Are you really going to throw all that away out of childish ego?

 

My men will be arriving tomorrow to begin construction on Hakawa Islands. If they see so much as a picket line in their way, I'll have them build on the Mkbuto Islands instead. You want to make this a fight? Try to stay neutral when a filthy outsider like me is tearing up the dirt of your sacred land." Nok's finger jabbed down onto the comm screen, ending the conversation.

 

"...Far be it from me to question you..."

 

Nok sighed. "And yet?" He waved his hand for the speaker leaning in a shadowed corner of his new office to continue.

 

The man was an older human, weathered and wrinkled from far too many harsh years and dressed in a faded military uniform that hung off of him more than it fit him. A cybernetic arm crossed with its wiry, scarred counterpart.

 

"Is it wise to antagonize him like that? You've just put him in a corner, and kings are usually proud men. Proud people who feel cornered tend to...do stuff."

 

"I've seen his type before. Lifelong royal, afraid of messing up, too reliant on advisers. He's alone in that palace of his, his precious advisers either dead or hiding. He'll rage, but without them he won't be effective in trying to stop me. Soon enough his fear will return and he'll behave."

 

"Still, in the short term..."

 

Nok's sightless gaze did not shift, but his attention focused on the man. Commander Jaden Jorus. Nok's best military specialist. Otherwise known as a thug, but at least one with brains.

 

"I'm hoping he will do something," Nok said, leaning back and extending his hand, channeling the ball of repressed anger to draw a pitcher of a milky substance across the room along with a glass. "A few days ago, when my people were drafting this proposal, I had them leak some info to one of Halargo's spies on a shipment of Tibanna gas set to arrive at the Shipyards in two weeks. It's fake, the ship is an old husk set for scrap, but if we're lucky King Halargo will pass that info on in retaliation to someone who can use it. Malcontents on the planet, or maybe even genuine rebels, will answer. When they take the bait, they'll get caught in the trap, and it'll all go public."

 

Jorus smiled as he no doubt saw the shape of Nok's plan. "And when the King sees his 'allies' caught thanks to the info he gave them..."

 

Nok returned his smile. "The King will be burned as an intelligence source to any insurgents. They'll abandon him or suspect he's a traitor. Plus, he'll be scared that I'll trace the leak back to him. He'll keep his head down. " The pitcher poured a generous glass of the substance without Nok touching it. He sipped it, licked his lips, then took a longer draw. "Powerless and compliant. Exactly what I need out of him." He smacked his lips. "What did you say this was again?"

 

"Liquefied whaladon butter. Apparently drinking it straight is a delicacy in some places. Can't say I see the appeal, but it seemed appropriate given your new place."

 

Nok knew his commander well enough to know he wasn't just talking about the office or the world Nok now effectively controlled. This sort of aggressive takeover was a change for Nok, a signal that he was ready to play high stakes in a galaxy full of cut throats and monsters.

 

"I like it."

 

Nok's comm buzzed.

 

On 12/9/2020 at 10:19 PM, Shimsinblimp said:

“Morlissssss, we have business arrangements to discuss. Failure is not an option.”

 

The neimoidian mogul frowned, and for a moment a flicker of uncertainty crossed his face. Then he smiled.

 

"Excellent. Guards, let him in."

 

On 12/9/2020 at 10:19 PM, Shimsinblimp said:

Once Nok had called off the building guards, and some semblance of privacy was ensured, Blimp began to speak. “Kessel was an absolute failure. I now have debts to pay as I am sure you do as well. Naboo will take time and planning. Time we do not have.

Fortunately for you, I have experience in more hands on approaches to acquiring the goods we need. I have a crew, some whom I have served with before I came to work with you, others scraped from the bowels of the growing galactic hub of iniquity you have cultivated here. If you have no objections, we depart in three days time.”

 

"Marvelous. You are correct, the failure of Kessel has put me in a precarious position, but it sounds like you're exactly the kind of person I need on my side to pull us both out of it. You take your...hands on approach, and I'll be sure you have a safe haven to return to when you're done. Also, if you still need staff..." Nok gestured to Jorus, who was eyeing Blimp warily, the way a bantha eyes a krayt dragon sleeping in the sun. "...I'd like my Commander Jaden Jorus to go with you. He's a skilled enough smuggler and pirate that I imagine you can find use for him. Plus, he was access to many of my contacts and info brokers, so he should help you focus in on any targets you fancy..." Nok's smile was sanguine to the point of ridiculousness. It was doubtful anyone in the room could mistake Jorus for anything other than what he was.

 

Insurance. A spy. And a hostage if it came to it, so as to keep both Blimp and Nok relaxed.

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Blimp eyed the grizzled spacer with nothing less than unfiltered judgement before turning back to Nok and nodding his head curtly. “So be it. Four days and we will depart. Small freighters and personal craft only.”  With that, the underlord whirled and made his way out; his every movement carrying an aura of control in spite of his noticable limp.

 

________________________
 

Making his way out of the higher class neighborhoods, Blimp’s Mon Cal-made speeder zipped towards the city’s lowest levels, descending below sealevel as the white overhead lights mingled with the blue of the world’s seas outside the viewport in an eerie glow.

 

Pulling to a stop in front of a worn structure built into the very foundation of the descending city, Blimp and a duo of barabel enforcers made their way inside.

 

The inside matched outside. Well worn aged wooden floors, polished to a sheen blended seamlessly with the more aquatic designs of the walls as they curved into seemingly natural nooks abd crannies, each one once designed as a booth for some matter of dining establishment; but that was long ago. The original purpose of the place forgotten to most. Now, now the once regal eatery housed a hodgepodge of different terminals scattered haphazardly about with monitors and makeshift barriers protecting their users’ privacy jammed into the booths and corners. Wires ran seemibgly without reason from terminal to terminal and out of sight into the walls, ceilings and floor. The lights inside were kept almost off, their dimness offering just enough sight so as to allow the detail-oriented patron to not trip over bundled of cord running across the floor. The blinking of soft blues, greens, and reds were overshadowed only by the glow of certain screens that blared all manner of video streams, schematics, and other feeds behind their crouched viewers and makeshift shields.

 

Almost immediately upon entry, the trio were met by a rather oddly placed Quarren, attired in finery fit more for formal business meetings with offworld representatives than running an off the grid, non-Imperial holonet receiving cafe. The glowing eyes of two nigh invisible defels behind him spoke to the authority he carried and seriousness with which he would protect his patrons.

“I was expecting you. A little late.” The fishy being rubbed his fingers together by his hip, a universe symbol for ‘show me the money’ shooting a knowing glance to Blimp.

 

With a dark glare, Blimp elbowed the steely lizard to his left, prompting the display of a datachip being put into a handheld reader. The red digits of the display screen instantly scrolled to a rather hefty sum.

 

“That will do,” the information broker responded with a nod, removing a data chip from the inner folds of his sleeve and holding it out, his other palm held flat to receive the payment.

 

In a moment, the deal was done. Blimp and his entourage returned to their speeder and set off. The entire exchange having taken less than 3 minutes.


______________________
 

Several days later found Blimp and Nok in an undisclosed hangar, a massive warehouse populated by a little over a half dozen freighters and quick attack craft: the makeshift fleet of smugglers, pirates, and spicejackers assembled by Jorus and Blimp. For Blimp’s part, there were a spattering of former associates that had escaped the crumbling of the Hutt Cartel. Others had been recruited for their love of money, lack of morals, and willingness to undertake less than pleasant tasks.  Others were drawn for their skills relating to spicejacking with the promise of a safehaven to call home, free from extradition to worlds and governments seeking their heads (or more).  Desires for profit, spice, and revenge ran aplenty amongst the crews of the ships that Blimp had recruited.

 

Glancing at the ships Nok’s henchman provided and their crews, Blimp growled, “I suppose they will have to work. Your man,” he began before biting his tongue. Sometimes discretion was wiser, and an ally was not a thing to waste. Blimp did not know, nor did he trust Jaden Jorus. He would not think twice about leaving the aged space pirate to die or gutting him if he caused issues. Blimp did have a semblance of respect for the sly blind Nemoidian. Besides, they had an arrangement; an arrangement that ought to work out well for both sides. “If we find any religious artifacts or tomes, we will ensure they make their way back to you to add to your collection.”.

 

Turning to Jorus, he queried, “I will be aboard The Lady Legionnaire. Set your ships in line with mine and we will make Ord Mantell and be out before anyone knows we were even there. There will be a pair of Actions ((ACTION VI TRANSPORTS)) that will meet us on scene to stow any prizes.

Are your boys going to spicejack with us or provide cover and run interference?  I am hoping Black Sun won’t know we were there until we are gone.”

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Nonchalantly a pair of Delivery-class freighters reverted to realspace above the fledgling crime world of Mon Cal. All four Corellian crewman responsible for the two ships tensed as the azul orb settled into view. The world had been a stronghold of all things right and righteous for too long to assuage fears of a trap. Still, the pay was too good to turn back now; too good to ask too many questions either; too good to be just delivering Gunga-glow to the watery world.

 

The less than upstanding spacers knew better than to ask. They’d been delivering for far too long for the company and had grown accustomed to a certain level of living as they jetset about the galaxy delivering all manner of ‘cosmetics’ to some of the most unusual

venues in the galaxy.

 

Clearance with customs went easily and upon landing, quick visual inspections of the ships’ manifests were all the security seemed interested in, half-heartedly so. Truth be told, the guards had long since been paid off to avoid looming too closely; it was a perk of doing business with someone like Nok Morliss. It was a perk of being Jefsa J’feh. Nobody thought to question the reclusive portly Corellian, Booster Rann, the man was due a coronary any day now, and as long as his shipments kept arriving on time, who cared? The man even took a cut of his own profits to help fund humanitarian ventures where they could be found and his company, Gunga-glow, sponsored several exotic beauty pageants for the less fortunate of the galaxy. The winners tended to go on to trans-galactic competitions and do unusually well in competitions.

 

Another perk of doing business with a world-controlling being was that forgery only needed to be skin deep. Inside each box, clearly labelled as cosmetics, were crates full of balo mushrooms and spores. There were no false bottoms, no  legitimate crates for too-curious port inspectors.

 

The crewmen practically knew they were smugglers, they did not ask or snoop. Folks who did, usually didn’t last long. The less they knew the better.

 

Soon enough an entourage of local hired help were offloading the ships. Payment had been handled. As soon as the ships were offloaded, all they had to do was leave. The cargo was no longer their concern. Whatever the fish heads wanted with the cosmetics was none of the deliverymen’s concern.

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Beep Beep

 

Nok smiled. The mushrooms were here. Booster Rann might be a fat Corellian caricature with...questionable tastes in investments (why was Gunga-Glowtm so popular?), but the man delivered on time.

 

He returned his attention to Blimp and the thugs moving around them. All of Blimp's men were marked with a sharp hunger in their movements. Greed. Ambition. Pride. The emotions that kept the criminal heart of the galaxy pumping. Nok's thugs, on the other hand, moved with more silent resignation. As he had made his initial fortune forcibly taking over small, successful businesses and gutting them when someone looked too closely or profits dropped, Nok had accumulated quite a few pilots and their debts. So many star-jockeys got their first set of wings on loan from manufacturers and shipping companies, hoping to earn a vessel of their very own. A few succeeded. The rest dropped into the grease heap at the bottom with the rest of the failures. These weathered pilots and workers were just the ones Nok had scooped up in his purchases. After that, he'd start them on minor things like smuggling on the side or passing info, and would eventually work them up to dumping the bodies and evidence that Nok's style of business inevitably generated. Now they were stoic, hopeless, tough-as-leather minions for the neimoidian mogul, exactly the sort of assets Nok preferred in biological employees.

 

"Provide cover and run interference I think," Nok answered for his subordinate. "Jorus knows how to make noise, and has a particular knack for...how did you put it?"

 

"Flying suspiciously sir."

 

"That's right. And as for Black Sun," a smile crossed Nok's face, "I had the opportunity to take out some of their leadership on Kessel. I imagine they're a little disorganized at the moment." He turned to Jorus. "Three more years commander. It'd be a shame if that got messed up now."

 

Jorus's tired old face tightened for a brief instant as Nok turned away, before relaxing into his jovial apathy.

 

"Alright, let's steal some stuff. My boys will take off and clear the security check points around the planet to make sure your guys don't show up on some corporal's manifest. After that, we'll follow your lead to Ord Mantell." He turned to his men. "Load up!  Atmo in 2 minutes!"

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  • 2 weeks later...

Nok slammed his fists onto the table, sending half-a-dozen gadgets skittering.

 

Still nothing!

 

Over and over Nok had cast this simple incantation. And every time...nothing!

 

"Master Morliss, would you like me to reread the-"

 

With a scream, Nok tore the servant droid apart, the Force manifesting his rage as it scattered Nok's property across the room in a spray of hot oil.

 

Nok had heard the passages. Hundreds of times. He could quote them flawlessly. His hands were stiff from repeating the same arcane gestures for the last four hours. His voice cracked now, having both whispered and shouted the incantation again and again.

 

"What...am...I...MISSING!?!"

 

Mechu-deru. The art of manipulating technology through the Force. Nok wondered not for the first time if the problem was with him, not his technique. Maybe he lacked the talent for sorcery.

 

Gritting his teeth, he raised his hands again...then lowered them.

 

He was tired. He was so tired.

 

"...sir?"

 

The tinny, distorted voice of the servant droid broke the silence tentatively. The wreck was actually still functioning.

 

"What is it?" Nok asked, despondent.

 

"I am programmed to remind you of the opera tonight."

 

Nok rubbed his temples. "Opera?"

 

"Yes sir. The city hosts an annual opera performance of Brothers in the Deep. It's a story meant to symbolize the development of Mon Calamari society."

 

"Cancel. I'm not up for some self gratifying symbolic nonsense."

 

Nok froze.

 

Symbolic.

 

His mind raced. He'd been thinking of sorcery as control through comprehension, with passion as the exciting force. 

 

"But comprehension could never be perfect enough for a conscious mind to exert control," he said, voice rapid. "Sorcery needs a filter...an adapter. It's not about understanding, it's about perception. It's about will!"

 

Nok slammed his hand against the table, the pain illuminating it for him. He "saw" the nearest gadget, a comm link, and once more he performed the simple incantation. But this time, instead of trying to picture the devices code and parts, he imagined the device for what it represented.

 

And he saw it.

 

The feeling was faint, but growing stronger. Nok could sense the device's presence, its functions and untapped energy. He took the feeling and expanded it, and the table lit up as each bit of tech entered his field of attention.

 

"Now...that is something."

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Nok steepled his fingers as he listened to Jorus's message again. This new information changed things.

 

Blimp's moving fast. Focused. The man isnt looking to shoot his feelings away, this is deep. Personal.

 

He wants revenge.

 

Nok leaned back, sinking into the plush seat as he thought through the possibilities.

 

This presents...potential.

 

Nok stood up and briskly walked out of his office.

 

"Ready my ship," he muttered. "Full security detail, only droids, freshly wiped." His secretary droid immediately broke off and began humming and beeping softly as it sent out the half dozen security measures and checks programmed to precede such an order.

 

"Bring the texts I've been studying as well." He smiled as he kept walking. "Time for some hands on practice."

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  • 2 weeks later...

When Nok arrived back on Mon Cal, it was not in his normal ship, but on an old, beat up gunship. His droid servants were not programmed to be inquisitive, and did not question the conspicuous absence of The Bleeding Edge. It was just as well, as Nok likely would have shredded the first one to broach the subject.

 

Nok spent the next few days in solitude, pouring the dark well of hatred and rage that had been born into his studies. To lose something was not unusual, but to lose something truly precious...was a new experience.

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The S-161 “Stinger” XL, Eternus, pierced the cloud-covered sky of Mon Cal. It’s massive wing and exterior-mounted engine were starkly offset compared to the more bulbous craft built by the natives and the more traditional craft  that plied the spacelanes. It did not matter; however, for this was the craft of Darth Inmortos, a little known Sith Lord, who preferred to while away in obscurity allowing his contemporaries to provide him with the clay he needed to complete his grand designs. 

 

It had been simple enough to acquire landing permissions to the burgeoning criminal world that was seeping through the cracks of what had once been a stronghold of goodness and light. Scans of the ship would reveal no discernible lifeforms aboard; an empty vessel that had a very biologic-sounding individual at the comms.

 

Lying in repose, like a vampire of yore, the gold-skinned Firrereo looked sickly and pale. If one did not know any better, one might think the Sith Lord,amongst his trappings of sparse gear and mountains of jade was coming to his place of final rest. 

 

The pilot on the other hand had a look about him, his head held at an odd angle; having been snapped by a single blow to the back of the head from Inmortos’ neuranium handled walking cane. A cane that now lay in the seemingly dead Inmortos’ hands. The light was gone from the pilot’s eyes. In fact one eye seemed to bulge excessively from the socket, a result of the blow. Still, the lifeless pilot brought the ship in carefully and expertly towards the wide open landing pad designed to accept diplomats and representatives. Truthfully, it was the only spot capable of handling the ship and it’s obnoxiously lengthy counterbalanced wing. 

 

With a gentle rotation, the wing and engine righted themselves and the craft came to land on the pad to little pomp or circumstance. Such was the way of Inmortos, he had not declared his identity or true cause. It was not needed. Having Imperial transponder codes had been enough to gain clearance for landing with little question.  Those on duty ought know better than to press too hard of a vessel bearing an emissary of the Sith. 

 

As the ship settled, jets of steam erupted into the cool night. Exhaust ports  gave up their pressures of travel at long last. Hisses and creaks settling until all that could be heard was the warm lap of the waves against the edges of the pad.

 

Void of starlight, the landing pad was bathed in the faint glow of the adjacent city and the few guide lights that had not been destroyed or stolen in the uptick of criminal activity. It was all set against the inky blackness of the rolling sea that claimed much of the world as her own; only pierced by the occasional blip of light from a nightly fishing vessel or far off floating deepwater platform.

 

It was against this scene that the hatch of the Eternus swung open. It was silent on her well oiled hinged until the door slammed against the side of the ship with a resounding gong that pierced the night only to be swallowed by the bountiful call of the sea; lapping against any intrusion until it wore the invader to dust. Consumed into eternity. Forgotten against the backdrop of the rolling tides.

 

Striding forth, with a decided unnerving gait, a stride that cries of pain to any that beheld it, but with none of the audible or palpable agony, came the broke-necked pilot. His blood-drained skin reflecting the poor lighting in a way that one could only describe as etherial. Craning his bloated and lopsided head from side to side, his shoulders heaving to make up for the work the neck could not complete, the death-stained corpse cackled, “Where is your magistrate? Bring him before me.”

 

The living dead spoke and stood there, his eyes glazed and staring vacantly into nothingness. For several minutes he stood before finally collapsing in a pile. The odor of death beginning to rise from his body almost immediately, as if decay had been held at bay and now rushed to catch up.

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The hangar attendant stumbled back, conflicted between doing her job and running. As the creature rasped out its demand, the decision was made. Pivoting and running in a blind panic, her Mon Calamari eyes even wider, the attendant sprinted for the doors.

 

As the door seemed to grow closer agonizingly slow, she reached out her hand for controls. As if responding to her will, the doors opened of their own accord. Nok Morliss strode in surrounded by four battle droids.

 

The attendant skidded, trying to halt, managing to stop only a yard from colliding with the blind neimoidian.

 

"Sir! We-"

 

She didn't get the chance to finish as one of the droids struck her square in the face with the butt of its gun, and another two quickly dragged her out of the way. Nok didn't turn or slow, but continued towards the ship.

 

When he had sensed this...thing, he had made his way to the spaceport immediately. It was...impossible to describe. Like waves breaking against a rock, the Dark Side seemed to swirl about the craft. Nok frowned as he sensed the...man? No, not a man. Emotion came from it, and it stirred the Dark Side, but it was like listening to an echo underwater. No creature could live with a body like that.

 

"I believe I am the one you are here to see." Nok said to the corpse. He stayed a good several yards away, and his droids took a protective position ahead of him. If this thing came for violence, then the droids would fire on a single word, and the reinforcements Nok had stationed around the spaceport would pour in.

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The lurching being blinked once, forcibly, as the attendant ran away in fear. It was almost palpable, that fear, it was so strong. Still, it did not matter. Such things mattered little to the dead. For that was what this being was, the dead; his corporeal shell reanimated by the spirit of the  ragged Sith within the ship. 
 

Not even making a motion to shamble forward, the dead stood their awkwardly, simply watching the world unfold. It was always interesting, taking in the galaxy from the eyes of another. Colors shaded just slightly different and senses dulled. As if a pilot expertly settled into the cockpit of an advanced craft, so it was for the spirit of Darth Inmortos within a host body.

 

With the arrival of the droid escort and their leader, the force swirled as two fonts of power brushed one another. He felt it, not physically within the husk, but on a more spiritual level. The power welled up within the approaching being. No matter of exterior decor could hide what Inmortos saw within; dark swirling power waiting to be unleashed.

 

With a bony crunch and pop, the shambler craned his head atop it’s broken neck, looking over the battle line that drew up before him, a sole emmisary.

 

With a ethereal gurgling cry, the shambling corpse lunged forward. One oversized large inertial plod towards the Nemoidian before it crashed to the decking. With a ghostly sigh, a whisp, no more than a shadow of the wind, escaped through the body’s mouth, swirling upwards into the atmosphere. On it, tendrils of chill arced gently outwards into the air. Meanwhile, the body, now left to succumb to nature’s call, hurried began to befall the punishments of rigor and livor mortis. The twisted broken neck cracked and popped, echoing across the deck as the muscles tensed one final time, snapping the head upwards at an even more unnatural angle. The skin sagged in an instant, the putrid odors cadaverine, putrescine, hydrogen, and dimethyl disulfide started to permeate from the body, rising up in the still air. There before all that beheld it, the usual hours long process of death unfolded in seconds as the rigor of the bent and flexed body relaxed into a state of final flaccidity.

 

As the changes overtook the body, the wraith that had been released upon final forced exhale circled and swirled in the air. A shimmer of light upon which all the dsrkness that was bore by the deceased was carried back unto the resting ship to return to the unnaturally unmoving body within. Finding purchase within it’s unnaturally twisted natural point of rest, the spirit settled and the eyes of the pale gold firrereo fluttered open; each eyelid heavy with the weight of death.

 

Ever so slowly and carefully, the nightmare-clothed figure sat and then stood, a veiny knuckled hand reaching out for the cane that had been tumbled aside. Grasping it and with what seemed to be extreme physical effort, the bony being stood; his  seemingly feeble frail body shrouded by the abyss-hued nanosilk robes that flowed in layers across him. Visible beneath his cowl in the shadows born within were a lair of glassy yellow eyes, shrouded by pale gold skin.

 

Clutching the cane, the dark visage began to walk, slowly, as a wizened elder of some primitive society. Each footfall was gentle yet wrought iron firm with decision. Each heavy thud of his cane resounded with an authority of movement born by those only who were sure about their direction. And slowly, ever so slowly, Darth Inmortos descended the ramp into the air of Mon Cal’s night.

 

With his slow steady pace, the spectral sentinel approached Nok and his mechanized guards. With each thud and step, he took them in with his chill-piercing eyes. Coming to a stop just short of their mass, Inmortos inhaled deeply, allowing the warm humid night air to flow through his nose, across his tongue, and into his prematurely aged lungs. Upon the air, where one might taste the saltiness of the sea or the pulse of the city, Inmortos tasted something else. He tasted death, untold millions lost to the call of the expanse of the sea-covered world. With a brush of his tongue, snake-lime as it crept from his cracked and dry lips, he brushed the darkness of the one who stood before him, tasting the fount of power that was there and seeing within to feel and size up the sorcerer’s very soul. “Magistrate,”  his voice scraped, a gravelly undertone offset by the rattle of phlegm deep within his own throat. He beheld the eye covering of the green-skinned royal before him. “The incantations foretold of your comings, he paused before sinisterly adding as if a thought that he had to consider before voicing, ”and goings.”

 

Turning to regard the sea that stretched beyond the inky blackness of the clouded sky, a smile cracked the pale gold of his face.  “You have amassed for yourself a world richer in wealth and resource than you may even know. Once released, darkness may swirl here beyond eternity.” The unsettling wizard-of-a-being turned back to face Nok, stepping closer, within reach of he if he but stepped out and lunged. Inmortos kicked the body of his fallen undead transport, releasing the odors of death exponentially anew about them. His voice dropped to a whisper, grating and raspy across the stillness of the night. As he spoke his hand slid beneath his arm within the hanging folds of his robe, passed the cursed saber he carried hidden within, to grasp a small bag and withdraw it. “I do not ask something for nothing. As a man of business and darkness, this will be greatly arousing to you. Let us cement a bond in life and death; in more than blood. Eternity.”  The small blood-red silken bag was weighty to be held as Inmortos offered it forward on spindly arm outstretched from the warm recess of it’s sleeve. Within, 30 coins of jade, each a soul taken by the necromancer. Wealth and power twisted as one. 

Edited by Leena Kil

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As Nok watched the man...creature descend the ship, the first thing that became apparent was that this was truly the source of the entity he'd sensed puppeting the corpse a moment ago. As if opening a door to a symphony, Nok was a struck by the coils and surges of the Dark Side orbiting the figure. Nok had spent years studying and practicing to attain his grasp over the Force and his own emotions, but this man was different. He seemed to exist within the Force, as if his own body was merely an afterthought, the Dark Side his reach and mind all in one.

 

Nok couldn't help stepping back. He had seen warriors, like Darth Akheron, and the nexus of power that radiated from him like a sun. He had seen possibly the greatest Sith assassin yet alive battle on this very planet, moving through the Force and drawing it along the edge of his will like a cloak. But this man was like Nok. He did not wield the darkness, or move with it.

 

He understood it. He lived in it.

 

And he was better at it than Nok.

 

His feet would not move as the entity in robes and the tapping cane came closer. Fear clutched at him, a deep fear with no logical source. It was...death.

 

Dead in the cold and dark.

 

Nok stopped, then calmed, his fear radiating out in his own aura of will.

 

This planet was his. His. He might be challenged, but he would not surrender here.

 

He stood calm and poised as the dark warlock spoke his peace and handed him the bag. Much of what he said Nok did not understand, but Nok recognized the familiar clink of coins.

 

What could he have in one bag?

 

Fishing out a single coin and holding it between his fingers, Nok realized they weren't metal. Then he saw it in ripples of the Dark Side.

 

It's...a soul.

 

Nok only recognized the entity of a living creature from the soul snares he'd already seen. This was refined though. Concentrated and without the presence a soul snare allowed the occupant. A jade soul coin. Nok had heard of such things but never thought he'd see one.

 

"...My lord, a hangar is hardly the place to do business. Please...this way."

 

______________________________________________________________________________

 

Inside a large, plush office, Nok placed the bag on the desk before seating himself behind it, another set of attendant droids wheeling in an elaborately cushioned hoverchair for their master's guest.

 

"Now...what can I do for you, my lord?"

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Inmortos regarded the agent of darkness that now offered to take him from the platform. It was expected. From beneath his cowl, Inmortos saw that the Nemoidian still carried his physical being, a sign that he had not given himself over the the ravages of the dark side. Still, he regarded the Nemodian, there was a reason that this world had been placed under his watchful gaze.

 

Silently and slowly, with a deliberateness that carried with it the same aura of finality as the pronunciation of death, Inmortos nodded his consent, his gnarled hands withdrawing into the folds of his oversized sleeves as he shuffled alongside Nok Morliss flanked by the clanking droids; their mechanized steps blending with the heavy dull thud of his Ithorian wood cane weighted by the concealed blade atop it. Inmortos did not move as quickly, but each step was made with finality and control as he set the pace without a word. Dark invisible tendrils of evil radiated from the openings of his robe, as if the nanosilk somehow contained the reaper within. 
 

Upon entering Nok’s ornate office, Inmortos leaned heavily on his cane as his head turned to the left and then the right, scanning the room. Silently he searched for the collection of ancient, cursed, and forbidden tomes and relics he knew that the Sith before him sought to collect. A veritable collection of immeasurable power in the hands of one that did not know what he had. It was enough of a thought to audibly make the Firrereo’s teeth grate and grind. 
 

As the mechanized chair was offered, Inmortos perched his spindly frame atop it, barely sinking into the plush cushioning. He was a perched like a rock-vulture prepared to swoop in at the first sign of weakness. Extending from his nightmare-hued sleeves, the pale gold hands of the wraithe within templed together; his long boney fingers barely intertwining at their tips. Their log cracked nails scraped against one another as the dark being regarded the lavish wealth and life of the one before him.

 

As Nok spoke, Inmortos’ sickly cold yellow eyes bore down on him, staring beyond the green mottled skin and lavish trappings. He regarded the man’s soul, the darkness that swirled about them and urged to fill the room with it’s power; if only it had the proper receptacle. Nok Morliss had so much potential. It needed to be but released. The Dark Lord had different priorities for having appointed such a short-minded Sith to oversee such a potent world. It was a world that Inmortos sought to claim for his own use. A lesser informed being would have felt that the force had willed such a situation. Inmortos knew better. Nok Morliss appointment to this world was the herald to prepare the world for true greatness.

 

“You have amassed a wealth that even you do not know the value of Nok Morliss. Your world, your baubles, I desire them. Not for the wealth and power Nok Morliss desires in his mind. For more. For eternity.” With a haunting gesture that seemed to stir the very air of the room with a faint cold breeze that seemed to emanate from everywhere but nowhere, Inmortos gestured to the bag of jade coins. “There is immeasurable more where that came from. From the depths, the last treasures of life can be seized and used to empower Nok’s machinations. If only you knew how to unleash that which desires release from Nok’s soul. If only, your fears did not stop you, Nok Morliss, you could rule this world as a true master, beholden to none.” Slowly, Inmortos leaned forward, the odor of death shedding from the shifting of his robes. In a voice barely above a breath he whispered, “Beyond the webs of the spider.” The warlock sat back, his body creaking like a rusted hing, his voice returning to his usual rasp,  ”With me, Nok could be free of his fear and you could rule. All I require is the forgotten of this world. The industries and living wealth of the world are yours to exploit. The cold dark recesses mine. What say you?”

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On 1/22/2021 at 11:19 PM, Darth Inmortos said:

“You have amassed a wealth that even you do not know the value of Nok Morliss. Your world, your baubles, I desire them. Not for the wealth and power Nok Morliss desires in his mind. For more. For eternity.” With a haunting gesture that seemed to stir the very air of the room with a faint cold breeze that seemed to emanate from everywhere but nowhere, Inmortos gestured to the bag of jade coins. “There is immeasurable more where that came from. From the depths, the last treasures of life can be seized and used to empower Nok’s machinations. If only you knew how to unleash that which desires release from Nok’s soul. If only, your fears did not stop you, Nok Morliss, you could rule this world as a true master, beholden to none.” Slowly, Inmortos leaned forward, the odor of death shedding from the shifting of his robes. In a voice barely above a breath he whispered, “Beyond the webs of the spider.” The warlock sat back, his body creaking like a rusted hing, his voice returning to his usual rasp,  ”With me, Nok could be free of his fear and you could rule. All I require is the forgotten of this world. The industries and living wealth of the world are yours to exploit. The cold dark recesses mine. What say you?”

 

 

Nok stood up. He stepped out from behind his desk.

 

"I say that I don't know you."

 

He walked forward, slow measured steps circling the Firrereo's chair.

 

"I say that your 'deal' sounds like a trap."

 

He stopped directly behind the chair, facing the necromancer's back.

 

"I say yes."

 

A smile creased Nok's face.

 

He lifted his hand, and the bag of jade coins lifted from the table, floated over the floor, and dropped in the Firrereo's lap.

 

"Keep your baubles, and I'll keep mine...for now. If you want to buy something with them, then make the offer." Nok turned and walked back towards the office door. "I say I'll take whatever power...whatever freedom you promise." The door whooshed open as Nok commanded it with a gesture and a thought. "Deliver on that, and you can have any of the cold, dark places you want on my world." Nok turned back to the necromancer. "And when...if you turn on me, I will use every ounce of this planet's resources to burn you from the stars."

 

The room's tapestries rippled almost imperceptibly as the waves of Nok's swelling darkness boiled out into the Force.

 

This was his world.

 

If this Sith could give him the power to master it, all the better.

 

"The droids will show you to your room. Please accept my hospitality as an honored guest. When you are ready to deliver on that promise of freedom, of conquering my fear, let them know and they will summon me.

 

Do not wander too far. We are not partners yet."

 

Nok left the office.

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Inmortos sat as he felt the ripples of Nok’s anger. It coursed after the Nemoidian like the train of an exotic cloak trailing behind it’s wealthy benefactor. The Sith Lord sat there unmoving, his emotions unstirred by the attempted show of power. ‘So many Sith are too content to show their power to claim the here and now, rejecting the powers of the ages, the powers that extended beyond time.’ A slow twisted smile crossed Inmortos face, his lips cracking to reveal his yellowed and jagged teeth. A soft chuckle escaped from his dark maw as he slowly stood, one hand on his knee to brace as he pushed his other hand against his cane and hefted his form from the chair.

 

Inmortos shuffled after the droids. Their guidance was stifled and stiff, hurrying the ailing Firrereo forward at a pace that initially pained the wizened Lord. With each hurried step, a dark evil aura began to emanate from the black robed being; the aura darker than the midnight robes that swished about  the thin form within. The darkness dampened the pain of his footsteps. It fed on something deeper, opened up by the decaying form of the Firrereo as his natural healing abilities fought against the inevitable darkness. It was as if the darkness fed on the very decay of the Sith Lord’s form, a form that every move of the dejarik board progressed one step towards the inevitable. It would be on his terms though. He would welcome death on his terms. This sureness and pride of purpose were dark and twisted and it was this that gave the swirling darkness it’s power. The dark tendrils crept from beneath the lord’s cloak clouding the area about he and his escort in a slight haze that darkened. In that cloud the spark of life was choked and death reigned supreme. Anyone they happened to pass hurried to get away from the shuffling Sith and his escort, spurned by the touch of cold death at their souls, an inexplicable fear that had them withdraw their breath in a hiss as they hurried for warmth somewhere else.

 

Eventually, the droids deposited their ward in his room. Inmortos was left alone. He had come to this world alone. In fact, he was used to being alone within the passages of time. Yet, here, in his ornate fish-themed room, Inmortos knew he was not alone; not here, not in a room provided by another who desired the power of the Sith.

 

Inmortos surveilled his room with little regard. The gently curving lines of the bedframe cradled the thick mattress. The smooth furniture blended in with the room as if it belonged. The window seamed effortless with the wall, providing a view out over the city at large; at least what was above the seas that stretched out into the inky blackness of the night. He surveilled the room and cast it aside at a glance. With a hiss of inhalation, the corners of Inmortos mouth drew in the air about him with a breath, the temperature dropping suddenly as the lights flickered and extinguished bathing the room in darkness. The pale glow of the city below the only light. It softly outlined the shrouded man within the room in a cold aura of blue.

 

With a flourish of his hands into the air, a surge of cold laced forth. The sleeves of Inmortos robes falling back and exposing his thin bony arms. Icy tendrils laced forth through the air, crystalizing the floors, furniture and walls, as they zig zagged forward. The whole of the room was soon filled with his ritual chanting in a long forgotten tongue. Icy fingers spread out until the floors were solidified in a sheet of ice; and still he chanted, driving the ice onwards. Inmortos did not stop until the ice embraced the door in a thick sheet of life and energy craving ice. Only then did he lower his arms. The Firrereo’s breath escaped his lips in a clouded puff of moisture as the vapors crystallized against the frigid air.

 

Here within the icy tomb of Inmortos own creation darkness crept. It did not swirl. It was too cold. Even the Sith lord’s robes stiffened against the cold. In this cold though, only one life remained, any other choked out in an eternal tomb of cold stillness. Machinery ceased working and energy was drained into the ice, lost against it’s cold embrace. And yet, the cold aura only briefly extended from the room, stopping when the chanting ceased; leaving Inmortos truly alone in a crypt of Nok’s choosing.

 

Turning, Inmortos shuffled to stare out the window. He smiled widely. There was no joy in his twisted evil grin. His smile was one of power. The icy crypt a shield against the outside world for when, inevitably, Nok Morliss would come calling.

 

“So you want to taste of the power and freedom that I offer.”  Inmortos whispered darkly as he hefted his cane, grasping it by the smooth Ithorian wood length. The Neuranium handle had to but tap against the ice-embraced window to send arcing popping cracks along it’s length and breadth. A second tap shattered it into icy spears of death that rained down into the night below “See what I offer for the cold and dark places Nok Morliss.”

 

Inmortos’ hands began to wave back and forth, his gnarled bent fingers twisting dark intricacies into the cold air. The force began to curl about his hands, drawing tendrils up from the ice in blue whisps of pure cold power. They twirled and wound about Inmortos form mingling with the vengeful darkness the Sith lord poured into his hissing incantations;

 

 “Ddyfnduffern, copa oeraf y mynydd, galwaf allan stiller amser yn dragwyddol. Chi yw fy ngorchymyn. ymchwydd ar bopeth a welir ac nas gwelwyd a'i flancedi yng nghofleidiad tragwyddol y gaeaf. O'r awyr rwy'n galw taranau'r nos allan. Ymchwydd gyda'ch pŵer. Ymunwch â dwylo gyda'r tywyllwch. Ymunwch â dwylo gyda'r oerfel. Blanced y byd o fy mlaen mewn cwsg tragwyddol. Rhwystro geiriau ein gelynion. Malu eu machinations i stop gan eich cyffyrddiad. Diffoddwch y fflamau sy'n disgleirio bywyd. Dewch â'r tywyllwch oer y mae bywyd yn ofni ei gydnabod”

 

Inmortos chanted as his arms swirled faster and faster, even here in the cold lifeless dungeon he had constructed energies surged forth; regurgitated from their icy tombs. The dark skies above swirled as an icy wind blew from the sea increasing in intensity as the temperatures across the city began to plummet. A thunder clap shook the skies as the clouds poured forth the darkness they contained within their vorpal vortexes.  If it was possible, the skies grew even darker blotting out the faintest edges of sunrise as it fought to break free from the horizon. Darkness was king here. Continuing his chanting, Inmortos gave himself over to the storm. His presence in the force surged out beyond his vision, calling the dark powers of nature to him. Icy winds twisted the blackened clouds as thunder and lightning raced across them. The temperatures continued to plummet until even machinery would begin to gum up and freeze. Through it all, Inmortos harsh force powered voice chanted into the gathering storm. Cold dark power poured into the storm giving it a life of it’s own; one even Inmortos could not control. Still, he poured power into it as the ice at at his exposed fingers turning them from pale gold to a blue-hued metallic. Darkness swirled and Inmortos pressed on until the first flakes of cool snow whipped through the air, icy razorblades carried by the force of nature. And they continued to fall, multiplying with each passing chant and incantation until even they blotted out the dark clouds above. Amongst the blinding swirl, lightning struck randomly, seeking out it’s own targets with no master to direct it. Thunder crashed in the distance and at the center of the storm stood Inmortos, his robes thrashed by the winds and his frail form rocked and buffeted in the jagged circular embrace of the broken window.

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Nok whipped around.

 

The hall was empty. Silent.

 

Nok stepped to the center of the hall as he pivoted.

 

What is that?

 

It was like a chill.

 

Dead in the cold and dark.

 

Then it struck.

 

Nok's breath left him as the wave of pure darkness rippled out like a explosion and washed through the building and beyond. The Dark Side twisted and roiled as if some toddler had grabbed a thousand threads and was shaking them.

 

For a moment, Nok couldn't identify what was real, lost in the cascade. Then, a shrill beeping brought him back. His comm was going wild.

 

Nok picked it up and thumbed it on. A dozen different callers competed for a line, and systematically Nok went through each until the picture became clear.

 

That Sith had conjured a storm.

 

_________________________________________________

 

As the door to Darth Inmortos' room opened, a blast of chill air rushed out, eager to leech into the rest of the building now that the way was clear. His robes blowing violently back in the sudden gust, Nok braced himself against the wind and stepped inside. The Dark Side coalesced so strongly around this sorcerer that Nok had no issue seeing him, anymore then he might have trouble seeing a maelstrom.

 

Grimacing at the raw power on display, Nok struggled in a few more steps as the cold tore at him with each step.

 

How is this even...possible?

 

Nok extended his hand, calling on the Force...and drew the room's rime-coated desk chair over to him.

 

He sat down.

 

He waited.

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The shattering of ice into shards of jagged razor needles that whipped into the storm accompanied the frozen doors of Inmortos’ room being forced open.  The cold slick floors and walls sapped the life and energy out of the very air as it sent the dwindled surges of energy up into their master. Inmortos was aware of the breach. He had expected it to come as the storm reached it’s zenith and remained there; held in full white tempest by the intricate gestures of the deathly white knuckled hands and cackles of ancient words before they were swept up in the gale.

 

As the snow continued to whip, drifting even in the open window, Inmortos slowed. The city was blanketed in an uncharacteristically heavy covering of snow. Doorways, even entire narrowed streets drifted shut buffeted by the winds that whipped off of the icy sea as it began to solidify and crystallize against the walls and docks of the citadel.

 

Turning his whitened face towards the Neimodian as he took a chair, Inmortos frozen face cracked into a twisted smile. Black bubbling ichor ran from between the Firrereo’s teeth and across his rough colorless lips. He lowered his hands, his robes falling to obscure them once again. Outside, the storm suddenly began to slowly fall back into line with the laws of nature. It would continue for hours; but the winds bit slightly less and the storehouses of snow began to empty their overabundant warehouses in the clouds.
 

The darkness that swirled around and through Inmortos tempered and fell off leaving in it’s wake the image of a frail being swathed in black nanosilk. Snow and ice clung to the robe, weighing it down, pulling at the man’s sleeves. Waves of exhaustion radiated from the Sith Lord as the sapping of his energies caught up with him. Even his Firrereo abilities could not keep up with the tac that the dark side demanded. Inmortos thin skin, bruised from within as his very vessels gave way to the taxman. Some of these bruises formed beneath the man’s frozen cracked skin, spilling forth dribbles of lightless black delicate ichor until it dripped with pops of hissing heat onto the frozen floor.

 

Falling more than leaning, Inmortos caught himself on the couch within the cold room and less than gracelessly reclined into the crunching frozen cushions. Looking up at Nok, the Sith Lord blinked heavily.

 

“Power comes with a price. Too many are unwilling to pay it fully. Peace may be a lie, but fear is not. Fear holds too many of our brethren back. You seek this power don’t you Nok Morliss?” Inmortos wheezed through clenched teeth, taking in a gasping deep breath before he continued. “I can help you find this power. You have sought it in many places, the most wise being the totems of past masters of the darkness. From that, I hope you have something that I desire; a sword, a dark evil sword possessed by a malevolent spirit that seeks to overthrow the user’s mind. If you have such a damned razor, I will teach you to overcome that which you fear. I will guide you towards freedom. Inmortos fell back in his chair, the darkness washing over him in waves as his soul fought to survive in it’s tattered vessel.

 

Outside, the winds still buffetted the tower upon which Inmortos room topped. The broken window caught the raging blizzard and wafted glistening flakes of snow through the room. Against this nigh-heavenly sight the storm sucked any warmth the building fought to provide. Below, the storm clouded the entire city, leaving the exposed tower alone amongst the storm; a ship lost on the waves of the storm, anchored only by the unseen.  
 

As he lay there, tendrils of darkness crept along the ice grasping for Inmortos, seeking to draw him into the blackness of the eternal abyss of gloom and murk.

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Nok stared without hesitation at the sorcerer, though without eyes he wasn't sure if he looked intimidating or ridiculous.

 

Then Inmortos mentioned the sword.

 

...A dark, evil sword possessed by a malevolent spirit?

 

The words tugged at his mind. Something...something...

 

Ah, the antique showpiece from Dromund Kaas!

 

Nok's mouth twitched in the hint of a frown. He remembered now. The blade had been old, but the museum he'd gotten it from hadn't even been able to prove it was a Sith artifact, beyond being dug up on a formerly Sith planet. There had been rumors of staff who handled the blade acting strangely, and at least one custodian had offed himself after cleaning the sword's case. The rumors had intrigued Nok...but the sword proved to be nothing special. No Sith technology in the blade, nothing that might indicate a connection to the Force. Nok stole it anyway along with a few other Sith trinkets on display and locked it up, thinking it nothing more than junk, and dismissed the stories as people's morbid imagination seeing Sith in the shadows of the mundane.

 

"I may have what you're looking for," Nok said, "looking" down as he brushing snow off his robe nonchalantly. "I'll send out a ship to retrieve it. It'll be here tomorrow morning." He turned his face back up to Inmortos, non-existent lips set in an annoyed, thin line. "In the meantime, if you wish to speak with me again, there is an intercom." He stood up. "I can assure you that you've made the impression you intended to. You are, indeed, very powerful, and can probably kill me. That's why I hope this display of yours was just that...a display, to educate me." His teeth gritted as a heat built in his chest, and the Force thickened with his rising storm of emotion. "Because I will not let someone push me around in my own house." He smiled, slime almost dripping from the expression. "Not unless I intend to kill them later."

 

Nok's robe flared out at the unexpected venom in his words.

 

No...

 

Nok breathed in and knotted up his anger. He had always prided himself on control, and lately it had been slipping more and more.

 

"I don't expect someone like you to be scared of me, especially after that little trick of yours. If you were, then you're either lying and plan to kill me, or you're not the person I need. However...if we are to work together, there are two things that need to be made perfectly clear.

 

One. We are equals. Otherwise, we're just going to end up killing each other.

 

Two." The ice and shattered glass clicked and rattled as Nok's anger burst its bonds again, and the faint echoes of something deeper and blacker rippled out to twist the Force into a sickening distortion. "Don't break my things.

 

Fair enough?"

 

Nok's face turned back into a unreadable mask, and his voice was again that of the conciliatory, compromising negotiator.

 

Just one more scheming neimoidian.

Edited by Nok Morliss
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“. . . heh . . . “

Inmortos chuckled beneath his breath as he felt the force curl out from Nok. There was potential yet; and yet this man, this worm, made demands for that which Inmortos considered beneath him, even beneath a Sithling who was still feeling for his own power.

 

Turning, Inmortos gingerly raised his legs to recline and rest on the frozen divan; the cushions cracking under the pressure of his stickly figure. He allowed the exhaustion from his display of power to sweep over him in a wave, his eyes fluttering shut. The room was filled with a stillness interrupted only by the swirling jetties that interrupted  the glistening particles of snow and ice that hung in the frosty air.

 

“My hands shall be staid from your holdings; but do you only desire equality Nok Morliss? Or do you desire more? A great many Sith lords are equals in the eyes of the empire and yet they are cut down, cast aside, and forgotten, contented to feed upon the scraps dropped to them from the table of the Spider. And for what price? An unattainable eternal demand of servitude and loyalty, to stay your hand at the order of one who knows not of the ravages we are capable to bear?”

 

Inmortos eyelids slowly opened as he regarded the Nemodian in his room, an icy breath of wind from the storm outside sweeping in to flutter the bed curtains and pull at their robes before a shattering crack of thunder in the distance seemed to call it back.
 

“I sense a greater darkness in you though Nok Morliss. It is a darkness that needs unleashed to blossom into true power. Equality is a desire of the weak. You are not weak. So I ask you again Nok Morliss, what do you truly desire? For this blade that you have fettered away, to augment my own goals, I offer to pay a price in riches or in power, dependent upon your desires.”

 

Inmortos eyes fell shut again as he turned his head to point upwards, his body shrouded in his robes, the dark tendrils of the force swirling about him like icy serpents of death.

 

With a deep sigh, the Firrereo’s breath bloomed into the air in a fog that crystalized above him. “Perhaps you can think upon it and we might dine and exchange our prizes and you can answer then. Such an exchange would be befitting a more noble locale. For now, my body desires rest.”

Edited by Leena Kil

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"...I think perhaps I was unclear.

 

No, I dont desire equality. However, I find if two parties can make pretenses of equality, they tend not to...strain each other as much." He chuckled. "Its the entire lie civilization itself is based on, and it's such a useful tool.  So allow me to clarify." Nok held out his hands in a gesture of conciliation. "Pretend to treat me as an equal, and I shall do the same for you.

 

Because you are right.

 

I am not weak. Nor do I aspire to mere equality.

 

What I desire, Darth Inmortos, has no limit."

 

Nok turned, but before he stepped away, he paused.

 

"My apologies for my brusque words before. I'm usually far more in control, and I'm sorry if you took offense at my rudeness. I shall endeavor to be more polite in the future."

 

____________________________________

6 hours later

 

Nok gasped for air, and the din of clattering metal filled the underground complex.

 

His pale, sickly gray-green hands twitched, and the normally unpleasant smell of the neimoidian people was amplified into something mythical as his body oozed oils approximating something similar to human sweat.

 

"Again," Nok commanded.

 

DG-S1D, one of the new Deepguard models fresh off the assembly line, stepped forward and pushed the pile of scrap off the otherwise bare floor in front of his neimoidian master.

 

DG-S2D followed, bearing another copy of what the pile of scrap had once been. A gonk droid.

 

"Master..." DG-S2D began

"...Perhaps it would be..." DG-S1D chimed in.

"...better if you started..."

"...with something..."

"...less complex..."

 

Nok took a deep breath, then slowly released it.

 

Millions of credits in research and development...and yet 50 programmers couldn't get rid of that kriffing tic.

 

Nok had gone so far as to use Mechu Deru on these two.

 

Apparently it hadn't worked.

 

"...Stand back," was all Nok said.

 

Complexity wasnt the issue. This was a matter of will.

 

He extended his hand, and began to chant.

 

"Dewch wrth i fy ewyllys ddod, yn unmake fel y mae fy ewyllys yn ei wneud, fod fel y mae'n rhaid i'm hewyllys fod"

 

The sluggish currents of the Force, stagnant in the sterile, stale air of Nok's droid factory, quickened to Nok's touch. Crazed whorls spun into existence, before settling into something that almost betrayed a pattern as the chant and Nok's will shaped them. The currents twisted and bucked as Nok narrowed his focus, like snakes writhing in his hand, but his command was absolute.

 

The nexus of the currents drew tighter and tighter together, and the air rippled in protest to the unrefined sorcery.

 

Then the currents collapsed.

 

Nok felt...joy. Awe. He gazed on the Force, the infinite connections that bound together all living things. Was...was this what the Jedi saw? What they felt?

 

Was this the Will of the Force?

 

Then the moment was over, and Nok stood before the squealing gonk droid, frantically stepping back and forth while its octave of tones gave the approximation of a scream. Nok wasn't sure how long had passed.

 

Not slag. Good.

 

Now the moment of truth. Nok extended his awareness into the droid, the act almost second nature now.

 

And there it was. The droids power source, slightly altered.

 

The droid was now a bomb.

 

The droid's screams continued, and Nok wondered if it understood what had been done to it, but he quickly dismissed the thought in the face of the triumph that rang in his mind. Transformation. The fourth level of mechu-deru. Assembly hadn't held much challenge after Nok figured the trick, but Transformation had stymied him. Sensing, controlling, and altering technology simply through will...it only worked by avoiding comprehension. Each level of mechu-deru required new forms of forced ignorance, the ability to deny what was real and bring his own desire into certainty.

 

"I suppose we should test it."

 

Nok extended his hand again, and with a practiced thought sent a command to burrow into the droid's most basic programming.

 

Walk

 

The droid, interestingly, did not stop screaming. Its legs however obeyed. Even as it wailed, it rotated and walked where Nok desired, into the test bay.

 

DG-S1D slid the reinforced door shut behind it.

 

Nok sent another command to droid, still clear to his senses behind the door.

 

Die

 

BOOM

 

The room shook and quivered while the sliding door groaned, but it was over as quickly as it begun.

 

Nok smiled.

 

____________________________________

The next night

 

The banquet hall glittered and gleamed in the soft, artificial lights. Tapestries commemorating the triumphs and trials of the peoples of Mon Cala hung beside the skulls of sea beast down centuries ago in hunts only remembered by names and dates. Soft, low music echoed through the chamber from hidden speakers, and servant droids moved through the room on padded feet, to better ensure their masters were undisturbed by their attendance.

 

However, the sight that dominated the eye was what lay on the table itself. Surrounded by platters of fruit, sauces, and side-dishes, sat a slab of golden-browned meat. As large as a person and lacking any definable shape, one wouldn't be able to determine where it came from until the smell hit. The succulent, heady aroma of oil and seasoning mixed with the distinct smell of fish that enticed but never overpowered, and only one creature in Mon Cala's seas was known to produce such a mouth-watering combination. Nok had paid well to dine on the flank steak of a whaladon tonight.

Edited by Nok Morliss
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Inmortos lay in a state between deep sleep and death for countless hours, his body temperature dropping to a level where it would barely register on thermal scans. Outside the storm ravaged and eventually blew itself into dissipation against the setting sun of the following day. The air over the city was cleaner, colder, and crisper than any could remember, the pollutants and particulates having been wrenched from the skies and thrown down beneath feet of powdery icy particulates.

 

As his eyes opened, Inmortos’ eyelids cracked against his frozen skin, black bloody ichor beginning to ooze from his skin as it cracked anywhere it had been left exposed to the life-sapping cold. Slowly, ever so slowly, the Sith Lord stood and regarded the clear skies and setting sun. There amongst the lengthening shadows in his room, the darkness swirled beneath Inmortos feet, pulsing up through his body as he beheld the city below. Even now, the local government struggled to offload the drifts of snow into the endless expanse of sea.

 

Turning, the sorcerer called his staff to his hand, the heavy handle of the half-concealed dagger smoothly finding rest in his hand. Leaning on the Ithor wood cane, Inmortos slumped forward as he shuffled from the room.

 

It took him some time, but Inmortos made the grand dining hall of Nok Morliss just as the meal was being served. His gliding steps across the snowbanks carried the lord mysteriously over that which would have inevitably delayed him.

 

As the ornate doors swung open on an unseen wave of death, they slammed into the walls; a herald to the arrival of the solitary being. The resounding echo announced Inmortos arrival. With careful steps, each taken with the finality of one walking to the executioner’s block, he made his way to the table, his robes swirling about him darkly.

 

With a scraping screech, Inmortos drew back his chair and lowered himself into it, not a being of age approaching death, but a solitary beacon of dark power.

 

Turning to face Nok across the table, Inmortos lowered his hood to reveal his cracked and bleeding face, his sagging skin and stringy hair marking the toll of darkness; offset by the intensity of his eyes. “The fish smells extravagant Nok Morliss. Let us sup and then get to business.”

 

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The shing of the knife sliding against the fork as it parted the soft meat was the only sound for a moment as Nok cut into his meal. A pitcher of a thick, yellow sauce floated on unseen threads of the Force and drenched his meal as he popped the first morsel into his mouth.

 

"Please," he said, swallowing, "serve yourself. I've ordered that we not be disturbed." Another bite, dripping. "Eat as much as you like. These creature provide far too much for a single meal."

Edited by Nok Morliss
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The Sith Lord gently leaned his cane against the table, the hilt of the walking stick and knife handle clunking heavily against the ornate table. With a raised hand, Inmortos readily tore a chink of flesh from the meatiest part of the massive beast, calling the still steaming massive hunk of meat to his own plate.

 

As soon as it touched down, the man’s frail hands lashed out to pick up the flesh, seemingly ignoring the heat as he sunk his teeth into the fatty whale flesh. The melted fat ran down his hands and arms and coated the man’s mouth and face. He ravenously tore at the meat like a half-starved orphan who had not eaten in weeks and did not know when he would see food again.

 

Finishing his meat, Inmortos reached for a foreign piece of shiny green fruit, the fatty juices dripping fro his hand as he loudly suckled the juices from his other hand. He only paused when the fruit was in hand and coming towards his mouth. With a sharp crack, he bit into the delicate fruit, chewing it aggressively and swallowing before taking another bite.

 

Before the fruit was gone, the Sith Lord was wrenching another piece of meat from the carcass. That too he devoured ravenously.

 

And so Inmortos’ continued to devour the food before them for the better part of an hour. His portions much more than a normal man ought be able to eat in one sitting. He only paused when his plate was again clear and he had licked every last bit of flavor from it. The man’s robes were stained with dried bits of fat, runs of drying liquids tattooing both his robes and skin about his face, hands, and arms. With a full belly that pushed against the flowy robe, Inmortos reclined in his seat with a sigh. 

 

“Excellent meal Nok Morliss. Now shall we to business?” The Firrereo fished a small stoppered flask, covered in what seemed to be fine ash that had set upon the glass so long as to obscure the jostling liquid within, from his robes. With an air of authority, he placed it on the table before him. “I bring you what I have offered. You just need the strength to survive the power that you seek. Did you bring the blade?” he queried, his hunger for the weapon palpable in the air. As if an afterthought he added, “Have you a lightsaber Nok Morliss?”

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On 2/10/2021 at 7:16 PM, Darth Inmortos said:

“Excellent meal Nok Morliss. Now shall we to business?” The Firrereo fished a small stoppered flask, covered in what seemed to be fine ash that had set upon the glass so long as to obscure the jostling liquid within, from his robes. With an air of authority, he placed it on the table before him. “I bring you what I have offered. You just need the strength to survive the power that you seek. Did you bring the blade?” he queried, his hunger for the weapon palpable in the air. As if an afterthought he added, “Have you a lightsaber Nok Morliss?”

 

Nok leaned back in his chair, and kept his silence for several long moments.

 

The room was dim to him, the pair of Sith not providing sufficient emotion to much more than provide the equivalent of candle light. But Nok could hear, and the barest of outlines showed him the glass the liquid faintly sloshed in.

 

Extending his hand towards Inmortos, Nok called on the Force, drawing on a burning anticipation and desire to stir the currents of power. It came easily, and pushed him deeper into it.

 

He wanted power. He would have power.

 

Instead of the glass lifting though, the table cloth beneath him parted, and out floated an ancient, sheathed blade. Still polished from the museum it had been stolen from, and untarnished by year in the vacuum of space where Nok had hid it, it gleamed like a showpiece on first glance. Closer inspection revealed its true age. Weathering and scratches along the sheath, and the faded color of the leather wrapping around the hilt, served to convey the weight of time that hung on the weapon.

 

"Yes, I have your weapon."

 

Nok smiled.

 

"And I have three lightsabers."

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