Sorc Nenn
Character
Coruscant: A night out.
The core worlds provided an ample bounty of resources: sprawling space stations that cloak entire planets in orbital rings, not to mention the devouring industry, with factory complexes sprawling entire continents. But the most important resource of any empire is, of course, its people. The bright minds that develop beautiful technology, the brave bodies that fight the wars, and, of course, the dregs that feed on the state like leeches. That distinction was meaningless to Sorc, rich or poor, smart or strong, it didn't matter to his appetites. Yet here he was, stalking in the forgotten urban labyrinth of the underworld where the sun could not see his sins.
He was never shy about his depravity and cruelty; why would he be? It was not his fault; he was merely a puppet of the force. But it would be socially improper to slaughter on the surface level of this planet, and Sorc would never abide social impropriety when he couldn't get away with it. So he skipped through the dark alleyways, his crimson sabre flashing, leaving a trail of cauterised corpses in his wake. He wasn't doing this over some self-righteous eugenic crusade to purge the undesirables from society, to lessen the burden so the more deserving could enjoy a fuller life. Firstly, he could slaughter for days, which he had, and even then his excesses wouldn't leave a dent, or even a discernible mark that he had ever been here at all. Secondly, he would never throw on a pretence or some self-serving justification for his actions. He was bored, and he wanted to kill. Was it pedestrian? Of course it was; there was nothing inspired about this, there scarcely is among Sith Lords Sorc often thought. It was a simple, crude violence.
His latest act was in a low-class bar, the Winking Rancor. It was a low establishment with a low cilentell, with blood splattered screens playing the most common of galactic sports, metallic tables with indents from knife games or blaster marks from the occasional shootout. The patrons had even delighted him by putting up a fight. Despite deliberately choosing to hunt in a place no one would scarcely care about, Sorc was not subtle about his slaughter. In fact, he was goading something or someone to confront him, a hero or heroes. He allowed a handful to escape as he always did, after all what good was fear if there was no one alive to apperciate it?In anticipation of someone marvelling at his work, he walked over to a seat and gently toppled a corpse which was only a torso, the other half sprawled a few meters across the floor; even Sorc wasn't entirely sure how that had happened. He helped himself to the drink the corpse had been enjoying, putting his feet up on the table and watching one of the numerous playing sports that buzzed out of the holoscreen.
The core worlds provided an ample bounty of resources: sprawling space stations that cloak entire planets in orbital rings, not to mention the devouring industry, with factory complexes sprawling entire continents. But the most important resource of any empire is, of course, its people. The bright minds that develop beautiful technology, the brave bodies that fight the wars, and, of course, the dregs that feed on the state like leeches. That distinction was meaningless to Sorc, rich or poor, smart or strong, it didn't matter to his appetites. Yet here he was, stalking in the forgotten urban labyrinth of the underworld where the sun could not see his sins.
He was never shy about his depravity and cruelty; why would he be? It was not his fault; he was merely a puppet of the force. But it would be socially improper to slaughter on the surface level of this planet, and Sorc would never abide social impropriety when he couldn't get away with it. So he skipped through the dark alleyways, his crimson sabre flashing, leaving a trail of cauterised corpses in his wake. He wasn't doing this over some self-righteous eugenic crusade to purge the undesirables from society, to lessen the burden so the more deserving could enjoy a fuller life. Firstly, he could slaughter for days, which he had, and even then his excesses wouldn't leave a dent, or even a discernible mark that he had ever been here at all. Secondly, he would never throw on a pretence or some self-serving justification for his actions. He was bored, and he wanted to kill. Was it pedestrian? Of course it was; there was nothing inspired about this, there scarcely is among Sith Lords Sorc often thought. It was a simple, crude violence.
His latest act was in a low-class bar, the Winking Rancor. It was a low establishment with a low cilentell, with blood splattered screens playing the most common of galactic sports, metallic tables with indents from knife games or blaster marks from the occasional shootout. The patrons had even delighted him by putting up a fight. Despite deliberately choosing to hunt in a place no one would scarcely care about, Sorc was not subtle about his slaughter. In fact, he was goading something or someone to confront him, a hero or heroes. He allowed a handful to escape as he always did, after all what good was fear if there was no one alive to apperciate it?In anticipation of someone marvelling at his work, he walked over to a seat and gently toppled a corpse which was only a torso, the other half sprawled a few meters across the floor; even Sorc wasn't entirely sure how that had happened. He helped himself to the drink the corpse had been enjoying, putting his feet up on the table and watching one of the numerous playing sports that buzzed out of the holoscreen.