Location: Gos Hutta, City Square
Objective: F/A (Gain favor with Sempra the Hutt through manipulation of the homeless and now seeking to approach the Mogul.)
Allies: The Hutt Cartel & [member="Sempra the Hutt"]
Enemies: Innocent Pack of Hobos
NPC: N/A
Posts: 3/20
Drip.
Astoach was not yet simply God's granted buzzkill, with two feet hereby planted upon this earth to enact a sour poise and cut short all that he saw. He was an amorphous, amalgamate being of sheer sloppy behavior, indulging in not only his lecherous desires of
eroticism -- a deed in which most of us would define as murder -- but also through sheer sloth. He was a slob, through and through, and such inconsistent disconcert with cleaning has often contributed to his own horrifying repute as a brutal, monstrous creature, who not only sought to assault and molest, but to defile. He would splatter gore about, in and out, through every open area that though victim should trek in, taking knick knacks and stuffing them into whatever open crevice her tore in the carrion. By the Force, he would even shift through the most minute crevices of home should he be attacking there, digging through closets and underwear drawers and smearing the clumped fists of blood across all that he saw as sacrilege, often not withholding the urge to dig through the victim's fridge, often preferring to bite from half-eaten leftovers rather than the fresh food. It was not about the act of righteousness that tickled his salaciousness, but the act of
intense violation.
Drip.
But that was in the past now, for Astoach no longer wandered without purpose. He had found his light in conquest and soon he would take upon himself the mantle of control, lead armies, and
violate worlds! There would be no heaven above, no hell beneath, that would stop this Seraph, this Dark Comedy. It would be black humor through genocide. Yet, old habits are the hardest to shed, and in some cases, will never leave you, for they are who you truly are. Astoach no longer held wanton need to cull Force-Users, placing that beneath his tremendous task of compiling a military, but the act of
violation remained his sole companion, his drive, his
need. Thus, those who may stumble upon the Ghetto would find not streets clogged with rain, but with spewed cadavers, flyblown and bloated in stagnant, greasy rainwater, pink and red splayed through shattered windows, impaled upon fractured posts and columns, whereas skin would be stretched throughout the alleys and internal organs were torn free, flung to the rooftops and dangling like flesh streamers. Yet it was only a habit, Astoach was
changed now.
Drip.
Astoach had learned from his past defeat, there was no strength in isolation. He had been turned upon, his shame consuming him and grown manifest in combat. He had fallen, perhaps he had even died. But the dead may never die and after years of obscurity within the whirlwinds of time, Astoach had returned. He approached the growing crowd on the horizon, situated beneath a great ornate statue of a golden hutt. He cared not for the slight trail of crimson liquid that pooled in a train behind, it was simply a matter of symbolism. The blood would represent the
bond, chaining from his act of allegiance to the moment of spindled friendship, like a timeline wrought in spilled life. In his hand he held a sack, bulbous and soaked in dark scarlet, taught in tattered burlap. It swung to and fro with either step as Astoach gingerly approached the congregation centered around the Hutts, slapping against his leg in squishy splendor, squelching with each soaking slap against the black-clad shin. These were his trophies and as such
hallowed objects, they would be presented as a gift, served upon the platter of dishonesty, certainly, but in good intentions. Regardless of what he did, he proved that it could be done, would be done, and that, in his eyes, was all that mattered.
He shoved through the crowd stiffly, not one to cave in by the bodies of others, and with the subtlety of a rancor he breached the body of men and women alike, some of which skittered away to avoid the soaking web of splattered blood that trailed across his body, briefly edging onto his mask in a thin trail of red. He had reached the edge of the crowd, bare and nude metaphorically before the party before him in his dark, bloodborne presence, his etiquette, and his purpose. A cyborg, hutts, guards, bodyguards, it was so exciting, it was like streaking, or perhaps voyeurism that he should stand here and expose his purpose. Yet, his sharp grin, that wicked expression, remained buried beneath the that new face of false-flesh, the black mask, his
Polyp, and he showed little emotion through his puckered vision of black, streaked with white. Instead, he silenced himself, watching the gathering with such intensity so he might instinctively gather attention, as if it weren't already his provided his near-assault upon the crowd. He provided no words, only giving the sack a light toss, and from its depths rolled the head of a young man, face caked in dirt and jaw lined with a faint beard, though too drenched in blood to discern immediately.
Astoach followed the action with a kneel, his head bowed, shrouded in the locks of grimy hair. Both hands clasped the end of his sopping, black knee, and subsequent his formal grace he spoke with a chilly voice, one that was smooth and controlled, but beneath the surface, to the instinctive ear, they would hear the grating of malevolence in his tone, like metal upon metal, sparking violently and hotly.
"O Great Sempra the Hutt, Mogul of the Hutt Cartel, I have come from afar to seek an audience and, as my gift to you, I have brought you the head of dissenters who sought to rile against you from the depraved holes in which they crawled."
