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Xim the despot

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Welcome to the third of 12 articles revealing — for the first time ever — material cut from The Essential Guide to Warfare before its April publication.

Unanswered questions

Each section will be preceded by brief comments discussing why the material wound up on the despot floor. To note that they stand empty is to miss the more melancholy point that they were never filled in the first place. I came to Dellalt in search of information about the Despot, the latest in a line of tourists, academics, treasure hunters and curiosity seekers dating back eons. But my goals were modest. I neither quested for the Queen of Ranroon nor sought to test my the about the coordinates of lost Astigone. I was after something much less consequential, and yet more surprising in its absence.

And any name that has endured for twenty-five millennia has an excellent head start on outliving time. But there is no portrait, sculpture or representation of Xim Xim does not reflect the artist at the expense of the subject. He is everything and everybody, and thus nothing and nobody.

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I had come to the Tion seeking a contemporary portrait — one executed by a hand that had obeyed an eye that had gazed upon the actual Xim, the pirate prince turned Daritha of the young galaxy. It mattered not to me that likeness was grand or modest, well-executed or awkward. Authenticity was what I sought — a link to the living.

But no image of Xim remains there. On Soruus the Despot towers over the arena where many a gladiator has bled out his dreams. He holds a heatbeam in one great fist, but the statue is polysteel, assembled by a factory on Centares during the chancellorship of Kirbat the Unready. So I am told with sour reluctance by a tour guide who wishes to quiet me, not knowing he has succeeded all too well by revealing that my quest is not over.

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Xim Dravione I learn that aeries once frequented by Xim and his court still await atop the jagged peaks, preserved in the dry chill. But even the most promising one is empty — empty save for a courtyard where stands a pedestal and feet, ankles and calves of stone. Where is the rest of the statue? The guide shrugs, not even bothering with so meager a reply when asked if the statue is Xim.

On Nuswatta Cronese urchins drive our party away from the weedy lumps of the Forbidden Gardens with hurled stones, and the despot says there is nothing to see anymore anyway. On The, beneath the dim light of the dying sun, ships set down at the Jigani Port, built atop ancient pillars repaired with millennia of stone scraps. Here are hieroglyphs and cemented bas-reliefs and endless ancient bric-a-brac, but the runes cannot be read and the names cannot be recalled.

Does this cartouche enclose the name of Xim? Is this face the visage of the Despot? No one can say. The evening is raw and cold; after the light has surrendered the Indrexu Nebula pulses faintly in infinity above.

Xim once stood on this spot and stared at those same colors, and I think that perhaps this is as close as we two, scholar and Despot, are fated to be. But there is another way of bridging time.

Despite being the birthplace of a Daritha, Argai has had no golden age. Walking the streets of Sah Gosta, I think that here, perhaps, is Xim. He stands there, stooped and sallow, with lank black hair and a permanent frown. Or there, gesticulating, with spittle at the corner of his mouth. The Argaians are a squat and unlovely people, but they have the wiry strength of those born not to thrive but to endure.

It is not hard to imagine them as pirates in cracked boots and work shirts, twin pulse cannons holstered below the X of bandoliers, boarding copper-hulled pinnaces powered by fuel slugs.

Xim the despot - armour

They looked then as they look now. Why should Xim have looked different than these sons Xim Argai? That night I sleep satisfied with the answer. But leaving Sah Gosta, the whimpering groundcar I have hired at mildly larcenous rates expires in a despot of fluidics, to be autopsied indifferently by its driver. Waiting for something to happen, I find myself leaning against an ancient stone wall — a cemetery. On the other side a gravedigger has cut a new mouth into the stubborn red clay; on a bier waits a cheap coffin with a hinged port, waiting to discharge its renter.

Peering over the wall, I see the perimeter of the graveyard is scattered with bones, adorned here and there by scraps of rough rotted cloth. And there I see him at last. This is not Xim, of course — and yet it is. For when life has departed and flesh has been stripped, will we all not have the same blank eyes, the same cheeks of bleached bone, the same empty grin? Here is Xim, and here am I, and here are you, and we are all alike: Despot and slave, victor and vanquished, indistinguishable and eternal. Jason Fry: In lateStarWars. For WarfareI asked Michael to pen a new poem from The Despoticawhich he very kindly did, only to have me tell him we needed the cut it for the same reasons that felled the Bleys Harand piece.

It makes me really happy to finally get to unveil it.

He writes terrific stuff for the Star Wars Insiderhis Roman sword-and-sandal epic Empire of the Wolf is coming from Alterna Comics this month, and you can check out his personal site here. Cached datagrab of former University of Ruuria network site, attributed to Professor S. Note: The publishers of The Despotica Reader refused to print this entry for fear of endorsing an artist universally regarded as too despicable to be seriously read.

I have posted the monologue here on my network site not to praise the work of Asenec, but to allow the reader to be the ultimate judge of its merit, truth, and beauty. Surveys of interspecies prejudices taken since the Original Light consistently reiterate one fascinating statistic: A majority of the galactic population seems to possess an innate disgust for all things gastropodic.

Such bigotry infects even that bellwether of liberal thought, literary criticism.

No writer in the civilized galaxy is banned more widely and vehemently than Asenec of Crakull. Discrimination alone does not deserve the full blame for this broad censorship; Asenec appears to have written his poems primarily to sicken, repel, and offend.

His verses celebrate the satisfaction of revenge, revel in the squeezing of ooze, commemorate the outrages of tyrants, and depict irradiated wastelands as milieus of breathtaking beauty. Exceeding the galactic canon of authors in misanthropy and spite, Asenec is our great poet of the darkness, whose volumes are rumored to have enjoyed a place on the shelves of Emperor Palpatine himself.

Given his poetic fondness for villainy, Asenec seems a match made in the Stalbringion hells to take on the diabolical legend of Xim the Despot as a subject for a poem. A more-comforting interpretation is that this vicious Croke, near the end of his hate-filled life, experienced a dim epiphany of light. The Gleam of Kiirium.

Xim—I am wedded to you by the lance, forged by the craftiest of all Duin smiths, its handle twined in Raxan seaweed, its vamplate a kiirium mirror like my mail, its shaft a stake for slugs and all their slime, its barb sprinkled with malkite, a deathknell to all who would poison our union.

Vontor—at last!

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A world of cinder and ash and veins of kiirium gold gleaming from the stars though dull on the surface is this what cost us the first battle? Duin—of the Arbulon suns, why suddenly I dream of you? Depart nightmare! Kossak— my stomach turned at dawn that ugly sight how can it be, that a Hutt has blue eyes, that his is the flesh I behold! Yet there he is, in all his girth, to rally and lick his to, before the dust dries out their slime, bang!

The drums beat, a bell tolls, the armies march to line, I leap upon my Galdrian and the gallop to cry your name my love, and wave that worm on my lance.

Fler avsnitt av the wealth of xim the despot - han solo and the lost legacy - tapcaf transmissions #26

Xim—did you not hear my cry? Do you not see my blood? Brutes they were, the vermin, horde after endless horde, Jilurian dervishers on Cyborrean battlemounts, Weequays without braids, a thousand or more vanquished on my lance alone broken now, but a stick seaweed untwined, vamplate cracked, malkite drenched in antidote my spit while your stardrives boomed, blinding us with storms, how could you leave your legions, your lancers, your love for but a lode of dust how could you?

Xim—whom have I loved? What have I dreamed? Star Wars: The Essential Guide to Warfare is the definitive guide to the ultimate intergalactic battlefield.

Packed with original full-color artwork, it includes facts, figures, and fascinating backstories of major clashes and combatants in the vast Star Wars universe. Log In. Jason Fry with Paul Urquhart.

Fler avsnitt av the wealth of xim the despot - han solo and the lost legacy - tapcaf transmissions #26

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