Fleshy yellow cords entwined the fates of three beings, pulling a broken heart back together, at the expense of the others. That mangled black nest held together by will power and stolen vitality, the whole room withered to the embrace of Darth Durablis' presence. The Sithspawn howled, and shrieked as they clawed and ate at the seemingly absent members of Sage Bane's tour group... a storm of black flashing forms, venomous, and acidic in their presences alone. In the center of all this however, stood only the Hutt, and
only the Hutt.
All now, revolved around him, and him alone... all else becoming cursory as the showdown of the century unfolded, between Capturer and Captured. Black empty eyes burned with chilling ice directly into the heart of Sage Bane, fixated upon that frustrated eye, noticing every microbial vibration of that vitally important organ. That face that looked upon the Hand of the Dark Lord was dead, but yet that thudding heart... that dread, awful,
sickly, thudding heart. Even an amalgamation of parts, that dying organ refused to do anything but thump. Thump.
Thump thump.
Thump Thump!
Despite his singular proclamation, Darth Durablis merely stared blankly, unresponsive to Sage Bane's remark. A silence seemed to surround that midnight flesh, a silence that would not tolerate interruption. There was a longing void between these two pairs of eyes... but the other was filled with wasps, larvae, spiders, serpents, and thousand tendrilled black crawling things, reaching... no,
clawing at the very inner retina of the alien's eyes. The enormous cacophony that filled that undying head provided silence to its sole orchestrator...
Three black urns had broken that charmed spell which held him aloft in time, above the mortals in their place. Like three knolls of death, each clattered to the ground after impact, as that face was numbly knocked to the side to acknowledge not the singular visage of Sage Bane... but something else entirely. Great undead arachnid serpents reared their heads from within his domain, etching the silence with pain... unbelievable rage filled
crimson pain. For a solitary moment, a spider web of red tendrils cut their way through the retina, as if the urns had shattered the windowed glasses to the soul... and were about to unleash a flood of mortal fluid to wash out the world in death.
Within his broken pane of view, Darth Durablis' vibrated and screamed with his arms thrown to the air, and his head unnaturally contorted in a spazztic rage, the featureless face ripping itself apart into something that almost resembled a ravenous mouth. The cause for such rapid deterioration of character? The arrogant red face of a dead man.
Violet flame bathed the Zabrak, and touched upon the burning tendrils of his flesh pulling him closer to his final destination: The Hand of Durablis. The strange unknowable effects the 'Hand of the Dark Lord' attempted to procure, appeared upon the vongified flesh... and did nothing. It was as if he was not there, yet still he demanded the eyes of Durablis, he wanted his attention like some
savage child who had not been taught his proper manners. A moment later, and the flame had touched upon the pure white calcium of Zambrano's skeletal hand, and an ear shattering roar without warning boomed from the Hutts unmoving mouth, assaulting mind and flesh in unison with its cacophonous roar. Immediately, the writhing tendrils fondling the Hand of the Dark Lord, pinched down upon its encased bone, unperturbed by its force eating effects, and smothered it under its flesh as it jerked the Hand even farther into his doom. When the roar was slowed, a voice would hammer words into Ferus's head like nails into a coffin.
"ͨ̉͌ͦ̏̌̊͌̎̉͜͏̸̛͘T̷̢̆͌͋͒͜Ḧ̷̨́ͧ͊ͮ̂ͭͤͩ̔͢͡E̷̸ͫͪ̓̈́̌͋̈́̌ͩ̿ͫͭ͗̂̀ ̸̨ͤ̍͗̌̓̀͜҉D̾͌ͬͭ̔ͧ̅̈́̈́̊̂̉͟͝Ǐ̧́̒̽̚͘͟R̸ͯ̇ͭ͆̋̋͊̀ͫ̌̀͢͜͠Tͤ͋͌̐̾ͮͥ͆̆͏̸̢ ̢ͤͭ̈́ͯ̉ͯ̇ͣ͆ͬ̀̈́ͧ̌̑̐̉͞I̷̛̛̾̈͑̔͗͑̾ͦ̌ͪ̿ͮͨͩ́̕S̷͆̅ͯͮ͐͐͋̅̒̂̌ͩ̑ͯ͒ͤ̕͘͠ ̷̵̧̡ͦ̀̍̽̆͋ͤͥ̋́N̷ͯͭͩͬ̔͆͆̿̈́͆ͮ͌̔̓͗ͨ̚͠Ŏ̷̧̡̀ͬ͊͑͛̓͢T̡̛̀̔͗͒͋ͨͫ͛ͧͯͮ̾̒͟͞ ̆̽͒̐̾͆ͭ̓̇̒̉̎͋̀͜͞W̶̨̨̋̂͂̆ͯ̈̚͡͡Ȏ̢̌͌ͪ̏̈̀̿̆͋̓ͩͮͯ́̏͘͢R̴ͨ̀ͭ̃̋͛́T̶̴̋ͧ̐̍̔ͯ͆ͤͤ͢Hͭ̋̂̎̕ ̇͋̓̽̃̈̓ͣ̎̂ͨͨ̀͆ͪͬͯ̓͠͠T̵ͫͤ͛̏̊̏̏ͬ̀͡Ḩ̸̽̑ͦ͂̈́͒͢͠Ẻ̶̀̾̆͛͂̄S̶͂̌͒ͫ̅̐̌̽͟͏Ẽ̷̴̴̀̈́̊̄́̚ ̢͐̇ͬ́͛ͫͪ̍̃͗̿͐ͯ͋̀̕͢͡E̶̢̡̐̒̌ͦ̂̅́͐͐̽̾ͭ̏̒̾̃͝͞Y̧͒͗ͦͣ̓̏ͩ̅̑̌ͦ̋̍ͬ̽ͬ̚Ĕ̴̿̃ͩ͗̉̽ͥ̋͌̆̓́́͞S̷̢̨̛̉ͨ̄̊̎̆̐̃̚̕"ͤ̅͑̎̊͝͡
In an instant, the deadened face of Zambrano the Hutt would appear to Darth Ferus as if it were burning with an oil black tar, as blood burst from its bubbles, landing upon him and burning there as well, welling and burning into bubbling tar. An affliction of mind-altering pain would soak into his malleable feral mind, seeing Darth Durablis for what he was inside... showing him a piece of what truth was behind the folds of flesh... it all melted and burned as that formless being emerged from the candle wax of mortality, presenting that featureless face torn asunder but wearing the very same eyes that bore into the Darth's heart... all around Darth Ferus, in a haze of midnight wasps nicking away at his burning flesh... everything living would become this ephemeral demon, as a cacophonous sardonic chanting of the same words were set within his skull. It surrounded him, it penetrated him, it became his
reality.
Without the flesh, the mind is dead; yet likewise, without the mind, the flesh is dead. One cannot exist without the other, so if one must obsess over the flesh, they must understand the function of the mind. Thus was the relationship dear Zambrano had before his untimely demise, yet it was a trait all of his available incarnations had come to understand eventually. Flesh holds memories, worn upon them, yet the mind held the deepest memories, and that sacred battleground was where the soul lived... and although Zambrano the Hutt nor his past incarnations had ever found the soul... they had always speculated that if it should be anywhere, it would be located within the fleshy anals of a mind. Centuries had been dedicated to this pursuit, and while no progress was made... the mental intricacies of the former Darth were incredibly elaborate whose presence in the dark side merely continued to regrow from a weaker form.
This volatile concoction of factors, is what allowed the psychotic Sith spirit to penetrate so deeply into that animal mind with seeming simplicity... offering up all of the available horrors he could procure with nothing but a hypnotic dance of his empty eyes. The Dark Lord had offered a Hand to the Master of Flesh, and rather than accept it in a well meaning greeting, he slapped it away and nailed it to a wall, in defiance of his arrogance. All Darth Durablis had to do now, was to take the other Hand, only then could the Dark Lord be crucified with both hands... with only his Voice to speak his blasphemy.
Back within reality, the yellow cords had been severed from Sage Bane and Darth Ferus both, yet at the cost of the Aspect of War's mind being reeled into the fearful influence of the Mad Hutt, whose head slowly snapped back into place so as to look once more upon Sage Bane. Removing the tendrils from the Sith Lord, Darth Durablis raised 'Bane' in the air, so that his arm would be level with the ground, only staring. He was issuing a challenge to engage... there was however, something...
off, about the look of his hand holding the vicious whip. A significant bulge could be seen, and it writhed in an uncomfortable looking fashion. His off hand, formerly holding the Sith Lord, then pointed forward towards [member="Sage Bane"], prompting to influence [member="Darth Ferus"] to attack Sage Bane as if he were to attack Zambrano the Hutt...
"You shall pay your penance... f̈͗̀rͩ̐i҉̠̦͇͍eͬ̃́n̜̩̱̅͐ͅd̟̭̘͘."
