Location: Gos Hutta, Southern Ghetto
Objective: F. (Gain favor with Sempra the Hutt through manipulation of the homeless.)
Allies: The Hutt Cartel & [member="Sempra the Hutt"]
Enemies: Innocent Pack of Hobos
NPC: N/A
Posts: 2/20
Astoach had shed his cavernous devastation, resting upon the imploded balcony, situated above the murky streets littered with garbage and debris. He was like a treacherous beast, a clever monster situated among the mires of ruin and stalking amongst the foul stenches of deterioration, creeping among the tattered shambles of society, as his teeth gnash hungrily, barren to the earth and lapped by a rough tongue, splattering spittle over bloodborn gums. There was smoke in the air, expelled from some unknown chimney, dedicated to the warmth of a downtrodden family, banished from the worlds of wealth to dwell amongst the cold chills of the poor, and that odor of misery smelled delicious to the nose of Astoach, hidden beneath the counterfeit leather mask that sunk over his face, adorned with splattered chalk, smeared across the eyes and down the cheeks into the twisted stitch-smile. Oh, by the righteous sacrifice of the exiled true birth through Legion would commence and by the sons of man and make-believe it would be exalted through flesh via knife. Through this he would begin his work and through his reborn purpose, Astoach would raise Hell to Heaven by sheer drive alone.
He approached the tramp clique with smooth ease, his black boots dancing across the downpour-sodden road of derelict cobblestone with suspenseful care as if he trod on glass. They stiffened at his appearance, the fear of the weak, the hungry, swallowing them, yet biding no movement, for as the monster which was Astoach intruded, they knew, deep down in the layers of instinct, that movement would serve only as a trigger for demise. So they stood, silently weeping, hearts rising to their congealing throats, and watched as the Dark Comedy fell upon them on phantom wings. The first among them, greasy hair matted with a gray boater, shivered immensely, knees buckling and bouncing their bony caps against each other, clacking a rhythm to the step of Astoach. The monster sunk among them and raised a hand to the first, the hat-wearing man, and slipped a hand to his chin, black nails, like claws, sinking into the loose flesh of his jowls. “My good friend, have you come aware?” he inquired with cooing tone, his voice dancing with ginger delicacy like silk thread through a spindle. “The Hutts have come for us, invading Gos Hutta on the iron wings of starbound angels. They will kill us!”
He released his grip and the man fell to his knees, splashing up rainwater which soaked into his slacks, now tattered further by the descent and scratches bled through the denim. “S-Sir, we don’t intend to engage in any battles!” exclaimed the tramp only the be silence by the swift return of Astoach, whose hand slipped from the man’s skeletal shoulder to massage the rump of his Adam’s apple. “But, my friend, they will kill you regardless. You must take a stand for yourself, lest you be slaughtered, along with friends, family even. Fight for yourself!” He released, the man falling further into a fetal position, coughing. His group remained simply observant, trembling as Astoach advanced further within the gang’s ranks, inspecting the prospected rioters. “Who among you would fight this threat with me? Why negate your lives, your home, to the vile Hutts? Stand for your right to live and attack them with me, Sempra, their majordomo, their leader will be likely present and with that advantage to our side, while his forces involve themselves among the planet, we can attack!”
“But sir, violence is not the answer!”
The voice echoed unknown amongst the party and as that ragged voice whispered forth from the mellow tongue of its speaker, Astoach turned about with the raging fury of a hurricane, his eyes a twister of black, molten slag staring deep from the pits of Hell, practically emitting cascades of sulfurous brimstone. “Who the HELL said that?” he thundered, cloak, fettered in black cloth, tattered and held by loose thread, roaring about his form in a storm cloud of midnight. He flooded back into the frey of men, assaulting them with the gaze of the Devil and sniffing out the speaker. “Do you think Sempra will abide by peace marches, you stick-shoving groveler? What kind of reality has your head been shoved into via-anal entryway? I swear if you don’t answer me your head will only be shoved so deeper you’ll be congregating dark matter where the sun won’t shine as your head travels so far up your-“
A young man stepped forward, jawline thawed in a grizzled five o’clock shadow. As his sandy tunic rustled about him in the wind, he challenged Astoach with an equally intense gaze and snorted with defiance. “I said it, sir. We won’t be bullied into fighting your battle!”
Astoach only stared, with black eyes of grim light cast upon the vagabond.
n the surface with Jemba
