Public Swampy Cities and Swampy Spoils

[Scour]

"We got a problem here, buddy?" Stepping up near Jogon and eyeballing Scour. "Look, your bald head and facial tattoos don't have me hopeful that you know the merits of wealth accumulation and retention. But I am sure you got something in your wallet. So get it out, drop it in my colleague's bag and we will all be back home for dinner."

Her right hand, adorned with sickly living Sith runes, crunched into a fist.

Scour eyed the woman with slight interest, His demeanor and body language, if it was able to speak, would say something along the lines of; You dont know how many times I have seen this exact scenario playout before my eyes. And it always ended the same way.

Every.

Single.

Time.

His lightsaber came unclipped from his belt. The simple - maybe even crude by some standards - hilt was unadorned, cold durasteel.It snapped to life in his hand. Deep red. Who'd have thought, a gentle man like Jogon?"Stand up, shithead. Let's get this over with."

Another swig of the Mandalorian wine went down his gullet. That was the only response he gave the woman, that was in till her associate stepped forward and drew...a lightsaber. A blade that hummed high and glew a deep red. Sith. Scour's maw slowly etched into a crooked smile as his body boomed with sensory acuity. There was no detail his biology would not pick up on and the Dashades body was practically primed for a fight. His heart beat pumped strong and fast. Adrenaline. " Okay."

" Now im going to rip both of you karking maggots a new one." He growled and spat on the floor at the two sith. Slowly the "Man" rose to his full height and walked toward the sith duo with both hands at his sides. Casually he approached and as he did the crazier the look on his face became. Scour had no weapons. They were all locked up in the armory for the meeting, but Scour didnt need a weapon for these two.

He was the weapon.

Tags: Isar Jogon Mercy ​

 

[Isar]

The massive man who reeked of primal energy stalked toward Isar's two adopted companions.

"Really?" muttered Isar, sharing a glance with the monkey lizard. "What the hells am I supposed to do with this?" He gestured at the bejeweled cage.

His gaze shifted to the seated crime lords and assorted ilk, who looked on the verge of joining the "Shithead" and turning this into a battle royale. Isar didn't like their odds if that happened.

Pulling his blaster pistol, he callously pointed it at the head of the nearest kingpin - the Sephi - and pulled the trigger.

BWHAP.

He watched with detachment as brains and blood unceremoniously painted the table, followed by the thump of the Sephi's smoking head.

"Asses in seats, people. Asses. In. Seats."

While he waved his pistol around, Isar reached out with his mind. A tendril of thought sprang from the cimmerian well of his soul and slithered toward Scour . Isar wasn't sure the other two needed his help, but it didn't matter. He wanted to see what he was up against, since he couldn't recall this "Man" on the guest list.

He focused his will upon Scour's mind, drawing on the Force to warp reality as he wielded a technique known to cloud thoughts and slow the physical and mental reactions of a target. People who'd been victims of the technique in the past compared it to trying to string thoughts together coherently after two days without sleep, or after twelve Corellian whiskeys. Impossible? No. But it sure as hell didn't make it any easier.

 

[Scour]

Pulling his blaster pistol, he callously pointed it at the head of the nearest kingpin - the Sephi - and pulled the trigger.

BWHAP.

He watched with detachment as brains and blood unceremoniously painted the table, followed by the thump of the Sephi's smoking head.

"Asses in seats, people. Asses. In. Seats."

While he waved his pistol around, Isar reached out with his mind. A tendril of thought sprang from the cimmerian well of his soul and slithered toward Scour . Isar wasn't sure the other two needed his help, but it didn't matter. He wanted to see what he was up against, since he couldn't recall this "Man" on the guest list.

Anticipation grew and also gave way the closer Scour approached. It had been quite some time since he had let loose and force sensitives were always good pickings when Scour had found his "muse". And although it was apparent that Scour was lacking in the department of fear or morality at all, the prospect of his fat sephi business partner did nothing for the "Man" as far as the situation went. He could of complained about the potential loss of business, but his live experience knew that would be a wasted gesture and notion in front of sith.

Besides he had another problem now.

He focused his will upon Scour's mind, drawing on the Force to warp reality as he wielded a technique known to cloud thoughts and slow the physical and mental reactions of a target. People who'd been victims of the technique in the past compared it to trying to string thoughts together coherently after two days without sleep, or after twelve Corellian whiskeys. Impossible? No. But it sure as hell didn't make it any easier.

A strange sensation fell over the "Mans" mind and thus over his body as a "Veil" obscured his mental. As a Gen'dai, his biology constantly enabled him to feel his surrounding as if it were apart of him. Everything from minute details to the most obvious. In general his perception of time was... complex, The movements of force sensitives in general were slow for the Gen'dai species. Everything was slow, but now? Now things felt rather...human. A notion that not only disgusted Scour but caused a fire to burn in his mindseye. Scour stopped for a the briefest of seconds, flexed his hands twice and then continued forward. His body looked as if he were moving slightly slower or with more exertion but thus far either he was far physically stronger than he appeared or the application of this slowing down effect was acting on him differently. In truth it was both.

Scour muscled his way forward through sheer will. A sight that may raise alarm for someone that looks like a mere tattooed "Man".

What a buzz-kill. Why is it so difficult to move my body now? Who the kark did this? Yellow eyes shifted immediately to the Pink guy extending a hand at him. " Hahaha. A nice trick and thats all it is. A trick! The question is how long can you hold me like this?" Scour glared at Isar and flashed a new grin. Whatever force was press apon him to slow him down had to require concentration and to Scour that meant it was only a matter of time before he got his way.

In till then...

Managing to speed up his pace slightly a hand lunged at Jogon toward the Dashades throat. A movement hampered and most defiantly expected but not futile. They think im too stupid to know that I am out numbered or they have no clue what I really am. Hahaha. They will soon see.

Tags: Isar Jogon Mercy ​

 

[Jogon]

Mercy | Isar | Scour

​

The big man stood up and started walking towards them. Maybe man was the wrong word now that Jogon could see his full height. Big and tall, not unlike Jogon, but with a more monstrous bend by far. Bestial almost. Jogon offered a dark grin. Finally, this might actually be something worth writing home about. The pink man named Isar held out a hand, and Jogon could feel the subtle undulations in the Force... Warping reality around Scour, slowing it to a crawl.​

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Jogon sensed that would have been sufficient to reduce most to absent-minded salivation, but the beast-man kept walking, just with impediment. Like he was plowing his way through a snow drift. Was it fair to face him this way? With two allies at his back? No. But life is not fair. There would doubtless come a day when Jogon faced similar odds. He would not complain.​

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The monster lunged for his throat. Jogon's saber moved on pure reflex - the thought to defend hadn't even crossed his mind. It just happened. One quick rotation of the blade and Scour's hand was neatly severed at the wrist. There was a soft, faint thud as it hit the ground.​

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A light tap from a lightsaber was enough to knock most people out of the fight. Removing limb usually took care of the rest. But this guy looked nonplussed, and Jogon now observed a tight mass of tendrils wriggling out of Scour's stump. Gen'dai.​

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"Mm. Not like the other girls, are you?" Jogon observed.​

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The odds were less favorable than initially assumed. But there'd be no backing down now. He swung his lightsaber in a wide arc, aimed straight for Scour's neck. He didn't know too much, but cutting something's head off usually did the trick.​

 

[Isar]

“Bullkark,” Isar muttered as he saw the “Man” lose a hand to Jogon’s blade only to regrow it in seconds, revealing the antagonist’s true nature. A freaking Gen’Dai. They could regenerate lost limbs, even most of a body from pretty much anything. Isar never met one, but he’d heard about them. He barely knew the Dashade, so he had no idea if he was a match for this walking tumor.

He did not plan to find out.

The Gen’Dai might be muscling his way through the slowing effects of Isar’s technique, but he’d made an error. Compared to the other two, Isar was physically weaker. The smart play would have been to take him out first. Prevent him from ratcheting up the technique.

But no one ever accused big guys like Jogon and the Gen’Dai of being the brightest bulbs.

Too bad.

You see, the slowing technique didn’t start and end at just slowing physical movements. Given time to keep it going and it turned into an outright affliction of the body.

So while the gigantomachy raged, Isar drank in the Dark Side like a man in a desert until he practically overflowed with its aphotic power, then he channeled it into a deepening of the effects, bringing his full mind to bear.

He was not altering the body, or introducing an agent through chemical manipulation like the Art of the Small. No, this was another product of telepathic training. Why try to create new chemicals when all he had to do was convince the cells in the body to attack themselves?

Scour might muscle through the seeping, nauseating weakness Isar sought to permeate through his limbs, but when that weakness became a poison rippling through the body, when his own immune system turned against him, what then?

At worst, a humanoid might feel poisoned, body turning in on itself, and maybe - eventually - die.

But for a Gen’dai? Well. Isar expected it would play hell with those regenerative capabilities.

 

[Mercy]

Jogon | Isar | Scour

Gen’dai, huh? She had heard of them. Their regenerative properties were apparently even more powerful than that of a Firrerreo. Even as Jogon and Isar were struggling with the beast, Mercy's boot came down on the wriggling shape of Scour’s cut-off arm and pinned it to the ground.

The beast didn’t need it as far as Mercy was concerned. It already regrown itself a new limb.

Maybe they could capture it… having a meal that constantly regenerated basically meant an eternal feast. What would a Gen’dai taste like? Mercy shoved the crushed limb behind her and stepped into the fray.

These two morons would kill the Gen’dai before she could get a bite in. Jogon was coming in to cut Scour’s head off and Mercy dashed in from behind. With the force of an accelerated boulder she’d try to ram her foot into his knee and snap it at its hinge right as the Gen’dai would react to Jogon’s cut.

Regardless of the success of her attack she’d follow it up by trying to grab the monster as forcibly as possible. She had fought off an Akure Leviathan. Sure, she had broken every bone in her arm when she punched it straight in the face, but Mercy was much more experienced now.

She could slam this humanoid into the ground. If he stopped wiggling all over the place anyway.

 

[Scour]

In my younger years the prospect of losing a battle was enough to send me ballistic and lose my head. Though for this situation, I was going to allow just that. Allow was not exactly the word to describe the events that unfolded. But for Scour there was little that he could do in this situation. Chalk it up to tactical error, arrogance or sheer insanity. But all of the above. There was no shame in this exchange though. Hindered in movement, flanked and attacked from the front. A dashade swinging a red blade, A zeltron observing with a grasp of Force Slow and the big woman directing a "execution". A tackle that caused his body to jerk toward the lightsaber. All that the Gen'dai was allowed was a simple but forceful jerk of the neck at the last moment. A move that was no accident.

Well played.

The strike was swift enough for Scour to display a brief expression of wincing pain before he allowed his wide grin to fade into a feign of death. Then his equilibrium was rocked off balance. Everything began to spin. His perception viewed the scene from a spectrum of angles. From the side, upside-down, right side up and many more. It was like walking into a Fun House when the circus was in town and it ended with a heavy moist thud of his head hitting the ground. His head was launched somewhere to the left and as soon as Scours body could react to this, it instinctively grew twice in size and seemed to flail about in hostile seizing motions. No longer did its form appear humanoid, but completely alien. Tattooed black Muscle and nerve tentacles whipped about feeling out the room grabbing loose objects, grounded objects and even people. Within the force there was a release of tension and use, as if Scour had been using his primal reserves of force energy to reduce his physical size from before and now it had been broken by his decapitation. A loss of control. Two of the seated crime lord's that witnessed the exchange of events were pulled into Scours constricting mass only to be contorted and crushed in till the last bones crunched and their breath forcefully escaped their bodies. A fate that Scour predicted would be fought off with fury by the woman Mercy , If she was still holding on to or adjacent the headless body. It was no doubt the woman would put up a fight to try and escape. At best maybe her conflict would serve as a distraction.

The reaction by Scours headless growing body was instinctive, though dangerous, it was clear that the array of muscle and nerve was not tactfully attacking everyone but searching for organic material of the same nature. It was looking for Scours severed head and the severed hand that was now somewhere in the crowded meeting chamber.

Okay where is that Dashade and fething Zeltron. Midst the pain of being decapitated and a lush pool of emotions to drink from, Scour took hold of the panic in the room and drank it into his psyche for empowerment and control of his inflicted pain. Slowly regrowing muscle and nerve from a lightsaber wound was maddening. Consume Essence. And within Scours mindseye a visual of the giant walking leech Jogon and pink man Isar came to bear and his focus became sharper. But it was not them that he was so fixated on. It was their weapons. A lightsaber hilt and a blaster that they held. The inter workings of the weapons and their power source. The darkside stirred about Scours head and then shuttered when his will was pushed a simple visual command. Obliterate! A word that attempted to become manifest by a sudden spontaneous combustion of the lightsaber wielded by the Dashade and Blaster handled by the Zeltron. A small display of power that he hoped would suit long enough to even the odds or give Scours uncontrolled mass of a body enough time to find his other parts.

There was always a compromise if combat was not the answer.

Depending on how this goes, I may have a proposition for these three. A job if they like the credits. Heheh.

 

[Jogon]

Mercy | Isar | Scour

The Gen'dai lost its head. Jogon cracked a wry and eminently self-satisfied smile. It was just as the wise men of his village on distant Urkupp had said: teamwork made the dream work. They had failed to dispense any wisdom for when the dream made the transition into a nightmare, of course. The Gen'dai devolved into a mass of thrashing tentacles, grappling just about anything it could find and dragging it into the mass.​

​

It wiped the smile off of Jogon's face. He dove away rather inelegantly. A pair of the crime lord's hadn't been so quick: dragged in and crunched up. At this point, there was nothing anyone could say to calm the rest of them down, so pandemonium followed immediately. Screaming, terror, a stampede for the door. Jogon was of a mind to follow them out. Where the fuck was the loot?​

​

Jogon was hiding behind some table that had been welded to the ground. His eyes searched for Isar in the chaos. "Grab the bag!"​

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Mercy was still wrestling with the terrible thing. Truly he wished her luck. But this had transcended Jogon's paygrade. He was still considering his next move when he felt his lightsaber shudder in his hand.​

​

"Fuck."​

​

Diatium was no joke. A miniature explosion erupted where Jogon squatted, utterly subsuming the dashade and the table in a bright flash of light.​

 

[Isar]

The blaster in his hand grew hot. Way too hot. It was the only warning he got.

He tossed the pistol. It exploded a dozen centimeters from his extended hand, white-hot and searing. Fire engulfed his hand and he felt pain rip through his nerves. His eyesight flickered, the light of the explosion seared into them, when it cleared he looked down and saw the bloody, blackened stumps on his hand

Isar let out a strangled cry of pain and stumbled away, holding the wrist of his injured arm with his other hand as blood and bubbling flesh oozed down it. He let out a stream of obscenities, even as the crime lords around him got swallowed up by the writhing tentacles of the Gen'Dai's organic mass.

"Kill that karking bastard," he screamed.

 

[Mercy]

Isar | Jogon | Scour

Sometimes Mercy's arrogance was a positive thing.

For instance when she saw that in short order two of her companions were seemingly taken out of the fight in a row. A reasonable person would have wondered if it wasn't time to pack it up and leave. A normal person might have waved the white flag. Nobody who knew Mercy would ever accuse her of being reasonable or normal.

This was a creature who as a Sith Apprentice face punched an Akure Leviathan. Sure, she had broken every bone in her body, but in the end she had survived and been Knighted by Ashin Varanin herself. Empress of a Thousand Worlds! Her idol to boot (Never meet your heroes, she really ended up being disappointing in a number of ways).

She had faced down flesh-eating trees and made their branches into stew.

This was nothing but simply another speed bump on a long road of self-actualization.

"Kill it?" Mercy growled as she was bounced back by the tendrils, being forced several steps back. "I am going to keep it in a karking jar." Right as it tried to snatch its head back up Mercy kicked said head away like a football... and jumped right back into the fray. Her large bear arms seizing the hissing and gorging mass in a back lock. The tendrils tore at her flesh, biting, chewing and Mercy screamed in... pain.

It had to be pain.

It couldn't be karking joy.

"Regrow from this." The Sith hissed into its gaping headless torso and if it had ears it would realize what was just about to happen. Both her fists, shining with a blue hue, suddenly had ticking thermal detonators and she'd do her best to shove them as deep as possible in the tendril mass... and if she didn't manage that, she'd sure as feth simply hold on to detonate it as close as possible.

 

[Scour]

"Gah!!" Scour exclaimed as the hardened toe of a boot came to bear against his temple. A move that sent his vision of the scene and consciousness somewhere else. The pain he had endured for that entire duration fused with other injuries and conditions applied to him was more than enough to place the Gen'dai in hibernation. There was an eerie glow as the twin explosions ripped through the air with a deafening roar. The heat is palpable, searing the very atmosphere as it engulfed everything in its path. The decapitated flailing figure of Scours body, once intact and formidable, was reduced to a grotesque spectacle. The sudden detonations seemed to tear into the Gen'dai's chest region, sending chunks of its burnt, torn nerve and muscle flesh hurtling through the air like overcooked macabre confetti. It hung from all angles. Scours body was a mangled mess, scattered throughout the chamber from the fiery short yield, but powerful inferno. The acrid scent of burning flesh filled the air and mixed with the metallic tang of spilled alien fluids.

Even directly after the devastation, there was seemingly no end to the instinctive regeneration that was Gen'dai biology. Thick, viscous liquids pulsated atop the walls, floor and dripping off ceilings. Over tables, crates and consoles the charred organic meat began the process, knitting together torn muscles and sinews with almost instantaneous speed of neighboring adjacent parts of Scours desolated body. As the seconds tick by, once again chunks of muscle, nerves and sinew began to grovel across the walls, floors, and ceilings of the chamber seeking out ways rebuild. Of all the wounds Scour had endured, this was one of his firsts and the memory of it would forever be seared into the memory. Humiliating. The regeneration, though amazing to behold, was going to take days to complete.

And despite the mess littered across the chaotic scene of destroyed bodies, equipment and decor. Despite the ashes wafting down with gravity, there were also other items that fell. Intact credit chips by the dozen fell to the ground with a clings and clanks on the durasteel floor. No doubt money stolen from Scours last victim, albeit a wealthy one, these credit stacks were worth thousands and they had been stored within Scours own body. The credits were a bit slimy, but so was everything else in the room now and from the goop covered ceiling a strange sidearm also fell aloft. Its impact was heavy against the ground and it rattled slightly before assuming stillness.

It was the only weapon Scour had on his person, but now? The Gen'dai had no use for it in his sorry state.

Finders Keepers...

Tags: Isar Mercy Jogon

OOC: K.O! Exiting thread.

 

[Jogon]

Mercy | Isar | Scour

When the smoke cleared, the table was gone and blasted to bits, but Jogon was still there. Still kneeling like he was hiding behind something, although he had also been blasted to bits. His lightsaber arm was a stump at the elbow, from which hung loose strands of flesh, synthetic ligaments, and a shiny plexisteel bone. The rest of him hadn't fared much better. His armor was shredded and most of the skin had been blown off the right side of his face. That eye was gone, too.​

​

Beneath Jogon's flesh there was no muscle: only dark grey strands of rybcoarse intertwined with quantum fiber. The blood was certified organic, though, and that dripped pretty much everywhere. Jogon was very few things, but built to last was one of them. He, which sounded like someone running broken dishes in a drying machine, and started to stand.​

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Jogon often thought of the emotional spectrum as a circle: 12'o clock is neutral, then the further clockwise one goes, the more pissed off they get. This was to explain the rare phenomenon of getting so pissed off that a person arrived back at pure indifference. Which was precisely where Jogon now found himself.​

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He watched Mercy and Isar struggle the rest of the way with the Gen'dai. His only contribution from that point on was to watch with his remaining eye, occasionally blinking. And then the Gen'dai exploded. Jogon barely reacted to the guts smacking into him, but it was nonetheless sufficient input to move the hour-hand forward once more.​

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"Fuck this." Jogon wiped his face with his one good hand. "You carry the bag."​

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It was not immediately clear who he was speaking to. The dashade stormed out, leaving a quaint trail of dripping blood as he went.​

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"I'm waiting in the speeder."​

 

[Isar]

"Mother karker!" Isar slapped with his good hand at scraps of Gen'dai gore covering his body, becoming progressively more frantic as the scraps starts to squirm.

He shuddered, disgusted.

His hand throbbed and the endings of his blown off fingers felt like they were on fire. Isar glanced around the room. Maybe the monkey lizard - nope, there was its fried corpse over in the corner.

"Right," he snatched up the bag, or what was left of it, pausing only to scrape some of the goopy credit stacks into the bag to be decontaminated later. "This?" he held up the bag to Mercy, "A third. Mine."

Then he turned and left in search of the exit. It wasn't hard, just follow the puddles of Dashade blood.