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EXAMPLES
Warpspace wrote:Thunderous drums carried through the ancient Saxon thicket as iron-clad hooves pounded the forgotten Roman road into submission- the chase was on. Two destriers -monstrous mounts of war bred to bear their noble lords into the fray with the greatest force possible- tore through the underbrush with violent force as they galloped on. Muscles visibly rippled under their thinly furred hide as their legs hammered away at root, stone, and brush with equal ferocity; primordial timber groaning in protest in their forgotten tongue as the two beasts trod upon their roots with abandon. The two steeds held opposed goals in their hearts- a great black stallion bore its knightly master down upon his traitorous quarry while a dappled mare sought to bring her hounded master to safety thanks to the stirrups embedded in her flesh. Both were flowers of nobility stemmed from peerless domestic mastery over the Equus genus. Both were paid for by a handsome ransom fit for the life of a Knight.
And both were fated to brutally die in mere seconds.
Lord Baldwin finally came to the grim realization- he wasn't escaping his pursuer. The game was up, and while he could potentially push his steed a little further, the mare would soon collapse from exhaustion. The berserk Knight had cut off his attempt to flee his besieged keep and hounded his Lordship in dogged pursuit for several hours now. There was no escape to be had, Baldwin's stamina had been claimed by advancement into middle age and now he was hemmed in by his own lack of the quality. His Lordship gritted his teeth behind his embossed conical helmet and tightened the grip on his lance; either he was to be cut down like an exhausted Deer in the hunt or stand like a cornered Boar, and he had no attention to be labeled a coward.
His Lordship spun his horse about to face the direction of his pursuer and charged... and that was when he broke through the brush bordering the old Roman road. The Knight exploded from the foliage, bearing down on his quarry with limitless fury; the Norman Knight failing to even note his prey's sudden act of bravery. Both parties leveled their lances and began the final charge, their steeds thundering across the ancient paved road as they sought to spear the other through the heart. Both Nobles were skilled in the art of equine mastery, trained from their youth to fight in this very exact manner. At the last possible second both riders jinked in opposite directions, twisting barely an inch out of the reach of their lances. Failing to strike their intended target both men instinctively lowered their lances and instead tore into their opposing mounts. The massive wooden pikes performed their lethal art well, steel tipped heads tore into horse-flesh and shredded both muscle and organ, the fine dagger-blades cutting deep into the pelvis and spines of both destriers. Both lances then shattered- showering the Nobles in splinters of wood while internally the Ash shafts exploded from kinetic force and perforated the organs of each loyal steed.
Wracked by pain, both destriers crumbled to the old cobbled road and pitched their riders into the forest floor. The Knight, spry from relative youth compared to the Lord, recovered swiftly and rolled with the fall to avoid injury. The aging Lord Baldwin was less fortunate- a sickening crunch was audible both to the Knight and the pair of gurgling horses as his ankle twisted at a painful angle. Still, a testament to the Lordship's strength of will, the old man fought through the pain and stood upon the contorted foot to face his foe as a man. Wrenching himself fully erect in noble stature, Baldwin drew his sword and gestured for parlay from his assailant.
"Why this lust for my destruction? Why must you dog my every move since attempting to seek solace in my estate? My head will bring you little reward when my ransom will grant you vast riches. I can surrender Wards from my estate, replace your destrier with a breeding pair, even commission my household blacksmith to fashion you a wondrous prosthetic. Yes, I know who you are Sir Knight. Sir Gefrei de Bataille, owner of the fortress in Ivry, a veteran of the wars in Italy. You are lauded as a man of Chivalry, a noble man burdened by a heavy past. Will you not see reason? Will you not spare me as a man of God? I have done no harm upon you Sir Knight, and more than grateful to forgive this transgression. Please, I beg of the, see reason!"
Sir Gefrei de Bataille stood motionless for a full minute with the moonlit Roman road behind him, contemplating the Nobleman's words. His response decided, Gefrei marched several paces forward, speaking as he prepared to set upon Lord Baldwin with every intent of slaying him.
"A man of God? You call yourself such after the actions in Winchester? You may have forgotten your misdeeds Baldwin, but I have not; not until I can hear your screams in the eternal flames below as you pay for your crimes upon this Earth. You are a traitor to your true Queen and a murderer Baldwin, and while these unholy crimes may have slipped your mind as you grew fat on venison of the false-king and drunk from ale, you must be sent to the Divine court to answer for them. The Siege Baldwin, do you remember? Not this one old man, but the fall of Winchester to your bastard King's forces. I remember it because the sight is burned into my memory. Along with thirty men you took prisoner during the siege of Winchester, you captured one who was but a young lad. Innocent, his hands had yet to be stained with the blood of any man. My squire. My cousin. MY WARD. WHO YOU THEN CUT DOWN LIKE A DOG WITH THE REST OF THE PRISONERS SEIZED FOR NO OTHER PURPOSE THAN TO DEMORALIZE THE GARRISON. REASON? REASON WAS GONE THE DAY YOU TOOK THAT PATH. THAT BOY WAS GOING TO BE MY HEIR UNLESS MY WIFE BEARS ME A SON. FOR AS MUCH AS I WILL EVER CARE, THAT BOY, WILHELM, WAS MY SON. ONLY GOD CAN DELIVER THE RIGHTEOUS PUNISHMENT YOU DESERVE WORM, AND I HAVE EVERY INTENTION OF ARRANGING SUCH A MEETING! DEUS VULT!"
Gefrei bellowed out a feverish cry of war before throwing himself upon the cowardly nobleman with complete abandon. Baldwin was immediately overwhelmed, the old man utterly lacking any ability to counter the unrestrained fury of a man nearly two decades younger hellbent on caving in his face. Gefrei paid no attention to any defensive strategy, trusting his hauberk and Italo helm for protection as he hammered his kite shield into the old man's body and throwing the lord off balance. Baldwin however was also clothed in the same quality of armor, any assault by a blade would do little to their armor and utterly fail to land lethal wounds upon their flesh. It was only as Gefrei hammered the extended quillons of his broadsword into Baldwin's spangenhelm that his lordship realized the Knight's plan of attack.
Momentarily stunned from the light concussion sustained, Baldwin stumbled several more paces back as he attempted to gather his wits and stop his head from spinning. Gefrei held no intent to allow this, and charged at the puffed up nobleman again. Gripping his sword by the blade in his left hand, Gefrei twirled the sword to gain more concussive force before bringing the crossguard on the lord's helmet once more. And again. And again. By the fifth strike a visible dent had formed in Baldwin's nasal helmet; by the sixth an audible crack was heard as a hairline fracture was formed in Baldwin's skull as his own helmet was driven like a wedge between the bone plates. Blood welled up in the man's skull and leaked out from the helmet, spilling across his coif as the old fool collapsed against a nearby tree. Delirious from fear, Baldwin futilely tried to push the Knight away from his person with weakening limbs, resistance Gefrei casually powered through. Swiftly dropping his sword and drawing a dagger in what seemed to be a single, fluid motion, Gefrei struck the killing blow. Through watering, clouding eyes Baldwin looked down to see a dagger rammed down to the hilt sticking from his jugular as ichor gushed from his rent neck.
Desperately clinging on to life, the dying man clutched at his neck to close the wound in vain as his arteries spurt blood and lost pressure. His circulatory system began to fail entirely as blood ceased to travel to his brain and instead gushed across his chest and stained the ground. In his final seconds of consciousness Baldwin stared at Gefrei's primitive enclosed helmet and looked at its details through swiftly blurring eyes. A crown of metal thorns wreathed it like a crown while over the location of the mouth, the leering teeth of a skull were etched into the steel. But what caught his attention in the final second of conscious life were the eyes. Peering through the small curved slots in the face-plate were brown human eyes, glaring at Baldwin with the utmost contempt for his life. His last thought before slipping away into unconsciousness and hastily following death was just how much anger the copper orbs seemed to convey.
Gefrei tore his gaze from the bleeding corpse, content with having seen the life drain from the old man's eyes. He had claimed vengeance for his slain ward. The anger and lust for revenge he had bottled up was finally released and would trouble his choler no longer. The Knight could finally live in peace having avenged his fallen squire- return to his wife and soon-to-be-born child in Normandy. While he may yet stay in the fight for a few years longer out of loyalty to the rightful heir to the throne of England, he felt that he had earned at least some retirement from the field for now. His main motivation to stay in the fight was finished now with the death of Baldwin. Yes. Now was the time to live in happiness and revel in the glorious future that awaited the gestating Angevin Empire. Gefrei turned back to face the slumping corpse of the dead lord, deciding there was a final act to be done.
"Requiescat in pace, Wilhelm. You are avenged." Gefrei spoke in a hushed voice as he performed one final act of humiliation upon his lordship. Kicking the corpse to lie prone upon the forest floor in a pool of its cooling blood, Gefrei rammed his sword through the corpse's mouth and draped a crucifix necklace. It felt fitting to both slay and deface Wilhelm's killer with the sword he had intended to use to knight the lad upon reaching his nineteenth birthday.
The Knight turned to the two crumpled mounts on the ancient road and sighed. Destriers were ludicrously expensive, a single horse of their breeding would cost enough money to buy a thousand heads of sheep- to replace his mount would bite into his coffers. Worse yet he had chased after Baldwin alone and without a palfrey in tow, meaning he now had to walk back to the Angevin Camp.
+
Thankfully the old road was illuminated by moonlight and the light of the galaxy itself, creating what appeared to be an almost heavenly path as the silver light of space bounced off the cobblestone. The weather was also well suited to a long march in heavy, insulated armor that would make such a trip in the heat outright hellish. Hours passed as the lone Knight marched down the ancient road and began to tire. His shoes were simply pathetic in structure and little more than leather socks tied to his feet; debris on the road poked into the soles and rubbed painfully against his feet with each step taken. His energy was already drained by the several hour chase on horseback, the short but violent duel, and finally wandering in the late evening on this ill-maintained road. The forest flanking the cobblestone road looked so pleasant now, offering banks of moss to retire upon with mild comfort.
Longing for some well-deserved rest, the Knight abandoned the cobbled moonlit path and wandered into the forest; seeking a bed of moss to lay his heavy head upon. The further he wandered into the forest, the stranger the woods seemed. Gnarled trunks twisted upwards from the forest floor painted in the rusted shades of Autumn- seeming to groan in protest of his passing. Gefrei shook off the strange noises similar to the creaking of oak and ash floorboards as merely the wind tugging the old flora against their roots. It was nothing to be concerned about- to be anxious over such minor oddities was a waste of energy that would only further tire him.
Finally after nearly twenty minutes of aimless exploration, Gefrei spied a pleasant spot to rest on. An old tree sat in the center of a modest clearing, encrusted in lichen with roots draped in a sea of moss and ferns. Not even bothering to shed his helm, let alone his armor, the Knight collapsed in a corner formed by two great roots splitting the ground under them and rising up to form small walls. Gefrei's eyes grey heavy immediately upon relaxing into the natural bedding. He only bothered to remove the buckles that held the sanguine robe gifted to him by Roger of Sicily's house to his neck. Using it as a blanket, he tucked it around his armor to preserve warmth in what would be a cold British night.
The knight drifted off to sleep, slipping away into fantasies of killer rabbits and besieging Jerusalem on pegasi- ignorant of the world around him. As he slumbered Gefrei ceased to age with the world around him; forgotten by his people as his body grew covered by the overgrowth of surrounding plants. Roots twisted about his body as the years passed as bushes sprouted and wilted with the passing seasons. Over decades planets grew, died, and decomposed, leaving Gefrei buried under an increasing pile of dirt. Centuries past and the days of his status as a knight waxed and waned into oblivion with the invention of full plate armor and the subsequent spread of gunpowder. His wife was long dead, his castle had passed through countless hands of ownership until it too was forgotten, and Sir Gefrei de Bataille’s very existence was soon forgotten. Later aircraft would dance upon the wings of Mercury in the skies of Britain a full seven hundred and ninety-three years after his death; sundered German bombers screaming down into the channel as the canons of Spitfires unleashed righteous English fury.
But he was oblivious to it all. The wars, the kings, even his own legacy being swiftly ground to dust by entropy. Still sleeping in that ancient Saxon forrest, Gefrei was ignorant of all the world’s happenings. Buried under the ancient Oak tree he sought shelter under, the Knight was not even there for the mutually lethal birth of his stillborn son.
Eight Hundred and Sixty-Eight Years Later
It was the crack of dawn. Swallows fluttered through the air in flocks, chirping as they jumped between the trees in flight. The heavenly rays of Sol cracked over the eastern horizon,their slow rise was upon the western world as they left the east in shadow. The forests in the outskirts of Bielefeld were stirring from their rest, or what they had attempted to achieve during the previous day’s and night’s events. Nocturnal predators sulked through the undergrowth, seeking a peaceful den for retreat until the next night. Worms poked their indistinguishable heads from the surface of the dirt as they were naturally drawn to the dew coating blades of grass and moss.
A thick hiking-boot soon crushed the aspirations for the day (if non-sentient invertebrates could have aspirations) of an unlucky worm. The black leather and rubber footwear mashed the miserable invertebrate into paste before picking up and taking another step, ruining the existence of some insufferable insect. Its owner, a gardener, was blissfully ignorant of the life he ended with each step- although he likely would have done so anyway if conscious of his actions out of spite. They were good for the health of his plants- but in his opinion the gardener preferred everything spotless of life the squeamish might find objectionable- specifically in this plot of land.
Risen early to maximize the cool hours of the morning (and shake the memory of some rather embarrassing actions he had woken to find himself involved in), the man had called to find one of his menial laborers having similar thoughts. This was not the exclusive source of the gardeners motivation however, in truth his desire to get to work early was the object said work involved. It was a tree. Not just any tree, but an ancient great Oak plucked from a forest in Britain that sprouted in the days before Christ. While the gardener was not a religious man, the sheer age of the tree made it a relic of history in his eyes. The aging man stared at the great gnarled thing with watery eyes upon entering the workplace; it was a gift to do this job. He was grateful for such an opportunity to be passed his way by the mysterious benefactor of this plant “museum” being assembled on the edge of Bielefeld- who, come to think of it, had never spoken to the gardener outside of physical letter.
Then the gardener remembered the events of last night and the “colorful” characters who inhabited this city and honestly. In comparison your boss communicating with your purely through hand-written letters dumped in your mailbox wasn’t even the tenth strangest thing to happen in this odd place. Forgetting the observation, the gardener took his eyes off the Oak tree suspended in the air from a great crane and waved at the driver. Spotting the signal from his boss, the menial wrenched one of the levers in the crane’s cab- sending the oak tree plummeting into the ground and the holes excavated for its roots. The gardener cringed in sympathetic pain as he witnessed the ancient tree crash into the ground without grace or control, potentially risking the death of the oak itself. Fuming at the menial’s apathetic incompetence, the gardener rolled up his sleeves and marched over to the crane’s cabin to give the cheap labor a lengthy monologue on the subject of his stupidity. When passing the dropped Oak the gardener tripped however- his balance lost on some infernal root and leading to his face becoming embedded in the muddy ground.
Changing his opinion of the ancient tree in the instant he blamed it for his fall, the Gardener’s monologue of curses switched targets from the menial to the oak. If this was a sign of how the rest of the day was going to unfold he was going to run up an enormous tab at the local pub. Continuing to curse, the gardener rolled his face out of the mud and pivoted on his hip to see what in the seven rings of hell had arrested his motion and sent him tumbling into the muck. The action was pointless though- he knew very well it was a root that had tripped him. Or at least the gardener was confident in that sentiment until he saw the true cause; his blood chilling at the sight. It wasn’t frightening in the same sense as the “abbies” that roamed around this city, but it was wrong. Out of place, too perfectly preserved to be natural.
Punching through the mud and roots was a single perfectly preserved steel gauntlet, its fingers wrapped tightly around the gardener’s leg. While a historical piece of armor may not be entirely unusual to be found wrapped up in the matter of a plant so ancient… one of this perfect quality was wholly unnatural. It looked unblemished by entropic forces of time- free of any rust or weathering. In fact it looked like it had been maintained by an artificer for how many centuries it was entombed by the oak tree, the only flaw was caked mud from the surrounding dirt pit. He could have kept his senses at this point and waved it off as some unnatural, but not unfathomable preserved corpse of an old knight, at least until the arm twitched and began to move. A left arm ripped from the mud and began to carve away that kept its owner trapped underground, the gardener looking on in shock as a man hauled himself out of the ground.
Dirt and blobs of mud sloughed from the man’s armor as he wrestled himself from the ground. Beneath a phrygian conical helmet, the man gasped for air while audibly spitting muck from his mouth against the liner of his helmet’s faceplate. The knight of yore stood tall for only a brief period after wrenching himself from the earth- falling to his knees in exhaustion in a metallic chime as maille links jingled like bells from the impact. This mysterious man risen from the ground was wholly ignorant of the gardener’s existence for the time being; he was consumed with the basal functions of life as his brain demanded oxygen from his stasis. Only after taking numerous great gulps of air did the knight turn to see the aging gardener sprawled across the ground before him- eyes still wide in shock. Realizing the strange knight was not gazing upon him, the gardener scrambled backwards from his position in fear, unsure of the stranger’s intentions. The knight however had no intention of malice, but his advance looked frightening irregardless due to the nature of his armor. His helmet was phrygian in fashion, meaning its top curved forward and due to personal adornment, was topped with a “topknot” made of horsehair. Spikes ran about the crown of the helm to signify his christian piety and the forging process of the face-guard left indentations that could be mistaken for a skull’s leer. Understandably all these elements factored together could pose quite a horrifying sight for a startled man on the edge of hysteria.
Sensing the man’s fear from his own experience in war, the knight removed his leather-maille gauntlets and let them hang from the ties that affixed them to the armor on his forearm; holding bare hands to calm him. The knight repeated the word “Pes” to the startled gardener, unfortunately unaware that the early Anglo-Norman french language was all but extinct- the only true remnant spoken by a small population in modern Normandy. But the accent and the word sounded close enough to Pais, which was something the gardener understood from french lessons taken in childhood. Recovering from his state of terror, the gardener stuttered “Oui” multiple times in response as he picked himself up from the mud.
The apparently Norman Knight began to babble in his forgotten tongue, mistaking the gardener’s response for affirmation of his understanding (Oui sounding terribly similar to his word for yes) and thus allowing for a discussion to be held. The gardener shook his head the knight continued to talk, attempting to convey his ignorance of what the medieval man spoke of. The point eventually was delivered by sign-language, and the knight shook his helm bearing head in frustration. He tried the filthy tongue of the Saxons and even the little Italian he knew to no avail. Furious at this language barrier he had stumbled into during his great slumber, a lightbulb went off and the Norman immediately grabbed the shoulders of the gardener, fervently repeating a single phrase.
“Anno Domini!”
Greater Istanistan wrote:The guttering lights of a thousand burning metropoli illuminated Earth. In Vancouver, Husks picked over the corpses of civilians. Streams of refugees fled the ruins of their once-normal lives, clutching whatever personal possessions they could take as their rank tides emptied out into the wastelands. Many would starve. Many more would die. Such was the order of things. It could not be explained. It could not be changed. It could only be accepted - that things would never be the same. Nobody could change it. There was no fighting it. There was no reasoning with it. The human spirit - a joke! A sham! It had fallen apart once the pathetic masses had realized that there was no weapon they had, no hero they praised, and no god they worshipped that would intervene to protect them when they got a whiff of real power. A power that needed no explanation, that brooked no dissent, that cared not for the beggings, pleadings, and petty defiances of the tiny beings below them. The humans had fought, throwing their wondrous armaments and dreadnoughts as large as cities at the invaders. But what was human science to beings which thought on a plane beyond anything that any human save Lovecraft could comprehend, who had outlived suns and were ancient, ancient as the days while humans were still living in caves and shitting in the dirt? Nothing. Sand. Ash. Dust in the wind. Humanity had been arrogant, thinking itself special within the cosmic order, thinking its perspective important.
Foolishness. They had been, in a matter of hours, humbled to a degree which had not been seen before. Abased. Shown the futility of their own existences, the worthlessness of their toil towards some half-imagined utopia. What rubbish. What idiocy. They would live. They would die. It had always been so. It would always be so. For the entities that passed aeons slumbering in the dark, that harnessed unholy science and power beyond comparison as a matter of fact, the lives of humans meant nothing.
In the fetid clouds above, rank with the sickly-sweet smell of roasting flesh and broken arrogance, gods moved.
With the coming of the Reapers, Earth had burned. In the first fifty minutes of the assault, almost a billion people had been wiped out. In the weeks to follow, billions more would follow them in their return to dust.
-London-
The First walked the ruins, an eye-aching canker on the face of reality which warped the universe itself as it moved. Wan fires of annihilation flickered across its skeletal frame, and a horrific jagged-toothed grin split the infinite fractal madness that one might call a face. It was humanoid, roughly nine feet tall. At the edges of Its being it rippled and flickered, as if it was forcing itself into three-dimensional form through the power of its infinite will alone. Ahead of it lay some famous structure - it honestly couldn't care what the biological garbage that built this shit hole of a city called it. Street lights, sensing the artificial night made by the billowing spirals of smoke, guttered in the half-dark. The First shone. Like a dead star, it shone in the midst of the twilight of Man.
It cocked its head. Something was moving. It sensed a threat. As it turned the blazing pits of its eyes left and right, searching in dimensions undiscovered by any species for over three hundred thousand years, it felt a shift in the air currents. How curious. It turned its face, and promptly caught a sniper round in the middle of its forehead.
For a moment it flickered, and then grinned.
"Well well, lookie here Johnny boy", it spat in words that curdled the atmosphere around it, "somebody thinks they're special."
And in a moment, it... folded, for a lack of a better word, and was in front of an extremely befuddled SAS operative clutching an absurdly customized rifle.
"Oh my, what a bad boy you are! You think you're so very very unique, don't you?", the First declaimed as its lighting-veiled fist smashed through the man's helmet at something past the speed of sound and sank into the unfortunate man's brain. The sniper began twitching madly as the First tilted its head.
"Coates", it drawled. "Cccooooaaaaatttteeeeessssss. Maaaaaaajjjjjorrr Ccooooaaatttteeesssss..... Neeed Coates. Ned Coates. Wow. Real home-grown hero here, aren't you? You think you're hot shit, don't you Coates? You're the best of the best of the SAS, ain't that something? Think you're one of the best in the whole damn galaxy at killing people in cowardly ways. Well. Way things are going, that's getting a fair bit easier, innit?"
Coates foamed at the mouth in response and rolled his eyes back into his head. Having a pseudo-physical fist rammed into your brain by a demigod tends to do that.
The First grinned its papercut smile. "Well sorry Ned old chap, but I'm in a bit of a tizzy at the moment. This is a pretty neat body, innit, but the problem is Neddy boyy that I can't keep it up for long. You see, I've got a redhead to kill and so I'll have to stick around for a bit. So I'll have to borrow you from you for a bit. Maybe I'll give you back to you when I'm done with you, hehehe, so that you can see me strangle the hero of your worthless little species to death in front of you. OK, mister Coates?"
Coates foamed some more, choked, and released his bowels into his pants.
The First grinned.
"Oh don't feel so very bad about this, Coatsey. Because you'll get to be me for a bit. Meeee. The First. The very First. Four-eyed fuckwads didn't get one - we'd been working them for ages - but your lot definitely do. Otherwise, how do we kill off your great big hero that you put in jail for annoying Harby? You'll be a host to the one that ends your race and teaches it a lesson, oh Neddy boy. You'll be the face of the Herald of Despair. When soldiers die, they'll curse your face. When children starve, it'll be your body that they remember because of it. When people see what we've done to their pretty little planet and realize they're never getting it back, it'll be you that they'll blame. When I kill their heroes, you'll be the traitorous bastard what done it. Because the Masters - the great big god-machines, the Inevitable Ones, the Head Honchos, the Big Kahunas, call them what you will - are pretty darn effective, but they lack a personal touch. You'll be me. And I'll be that. Ready?"
The First folded. Major Ned Coates of the SAS screamed. Even as his personality was annihilated and his individuality chased back into a small dark corner of his own mind, he had the bizarre feeling that there was something wrong about this. Very wrong. He wasn't supposed to DIE now. Not yet. Not yet. He hadn't met Shepard - wasn't he supposed to do that? Why would he even think that?
After that, Ned Coates didn't do much thinking at all.
The First stood in Coates' body, stretching it, before snapping its new fingers. Reddish light shone through them. Its eyes glowed, and lightning spiralled across its suddenly floating corpse-body.
"Right-o, fellas", it yelled in something approaching ecstacy. And just like that, it was on every screen in the galaxy.
"Heya chums. 'Sup, tally ho wot wot? Just want you all to know something. The Reapers, who your governments have been hi-dinng from you, are re-al! Super duper real, realer than chips and gravy, realer than the morning cab fare, realer than that kinda cute fella you smiled at every morning and were thinking of asking out that was just impaled on a goddamn spike, shortly to become brainless cannon fodder. We're here, gents, and we're the realest thing you'll ever goddamn see. We're here. We always have been. From the dawn of your useless little existences, we have been here. We'll be here for a while yet, and don't plan on stopping that. Now of course you'll naturally try to contest that. That's what dumb pathetic meat bag sacks of garbage and inefficient biology always do. Sure as sure, you'll fight us. But there's one thing in this universe that's for certain. Your hopes, your dreams, your aspirations, and your imagined futures are about to all go up in a cloud of smoke - pufft. You're fucked. Doomed. Damned to annihilation, sure as sure. Nothing you do will ever change that. What am I? I'm the First of many. I'm the last human to be born on Earth. I'm the alpha and omega of this accursed little species. I'm more. I'm the prophet of your incurable demise, planned out long before your sweaty retard ancestors wiped their hairy bums on leaves and thought they were clever little duffers. I'm the Messenger, folks. The Messenger of Despair. And I'm here to teach the galaxy its first lesson. Your resistance is worthless. Fight? Die now. Run? Die later. Everyone dies eventually. The message is this - fuck you, dirty little organics, 'cuz you're all going to die. Sure. As. Sure.
Oh yeah, and a note from my sponsors - Shepard? Commander Shepard? Something like that. Whatever. I'm coming for you. You gonna die, Sheppy, and you gonna die badly. Get prepped. Are you ready to race each other to your demises, puny organic dunce-a-trons? Are you prepped? On your mark! Get set! GO!"
The First Snapped. It was suddenly in front of the building - Parliament, it helpfully picked out of Coates' brain. It giggled.
"Look at your history. Now look at me. Now look at your history-"
A Thanix Cannon's shot hit the historic building, annihilating the foundation-place of modern liberal democracy.
"Oh wait", it tittered, "you can't. Because I blew it up. See y'all soon!"
Regular scheduled programming was resumed soon after.
There could be no doubt. The Reapers had come.
Zarkenis Ultima wrote:A melodious but frail voice at the twilight of life could be heard speaking softly inside the room.
"Oh, yes, that day. I remember it as if it was yesterday..."
It was a cool winter morning; on the northern half of Earth, at least. But I wasn't there that morning. I had wanted to take a small trip after designing a new engine for the ISSR spaceship model, and I had decided to visit some old friends in our Hell, so that morning I was at Hell's Garden, a park of sorts right in the middle of Pandaemonium, Hell's capital city, which was built to replace Dys after the Abrahamic War and contiinued to grow under Alastor's rule. Hell had prospered quite a bit under his rule even back then, really, especially after he married the Queen of another Hell. I've only heard stories of how it was before he seized power, and it's a paradise in comparison. But anyway, Hell's Garden is a very beautiful place, full of trees with leaves of many colors and all sorts of exotic plants. I'm pretty sure I've shown you all the drawings I made of it, oh, and Lillia, you've probably seen it yourself. I heard it was a wedding gift of sorts from the Demon Lord to his wife Alia, which goes to show love can literally trascend our reality.
Where was I? Oh, yes. I was at Hell's Garden talking to a friend who saved me a couple times during the war ten years ago, Ciel Taka, who was good friends with the Queen of Both Hells, apparently. You've probably heard of her; she quickly monopolized production of cannolies across the world. She introduced me to her child, though I was rather confused when she said she and her husband were expecting another, since she didn't seem pregnant at all. I chatted a long time with her, and also with the King of Both Hells, who was my old teacher at Elfen High, as you know. He had plenty of children too, I lost count of how many, to be honest. Lisa, you're engaged to one of them, aren't you? Yes, yes you are. I'm sure you'll be very happy together, he's a good man.
It was a pleasant morning at Hell's Garden, but like most things, it had to end- Oh, don't make that face, Liam. Come on, smile for your mother. See? That's much better. Anyway, I had a busy schedule with my new job as an ISSR engineer, and when I received a call about an urgent meeting with the rest of my team, I had to leave. Fortunately, as I was saying farewell to my friends, the Demon Lord offered to teleport me back to the center of Paris, so I wouldn't have to walk very long to get to the office.
What I didn't expect, though, was that it was raining in the city when I arrived. The streets were empty and the clouds were pouring waterfalls on the City of Lights, so I quickly put myself under the cover of the overhang of the entrance of a nearby restaurant and pulled out my notepad to draw myself an umbrella. From where I stood, I could see that it would only be a few blocks until I reached the office, so I began leisurely walking there while appreciating the sight, because Paris, as I had found out long ago, was a very beautiful city under the rain, though the numerous puddles weren't quite as beautiful.
As I walked, though, I noticed someone following me. At first I didn't pay him much attention; surely he's just another person with an unfortunately-timed appointment, I told myself. But soon I realized that wasn't it at all, and he seemed to notice as well, because he started catching up. I tried to pull out my notepad and draw a weapon to defend myself with, but my luck was such that I stumbled and dropped it on a puddle, making it useless. I stood there in shock for a moment before turning around, only to see that my stalker was right next to me by now. He was a werewolf- yes, Lillia, just like in the song, though this one was far less friendly. Most of them were adapted to society by now, but this one clearly wasn't, so I brought up my umbrella to try to defend myself, while shouting for help, because I knew I couldn't fight off that thing on my own. All my life I've been an artist and a designer; I was a soldier once, but never really a fighter, though I wasn't too bad with that umbrella, for some reason.
It still made a poor weapon, though, one that the werewolf easily tore apart after a bit, but just as I was going to try to bite my finger and draw something else to defend myself with, a bolt sailed past my head and into the creature's chest. It screamed before collapsing to the ground, and I winced at the sound, the death throes of a beast are not very pleasant to hear, after all. I was confused, wondering who had saved me, but then I saw him, wearing that silly red cape of his. His blond hair was long back then, tied up in a ponytail, but his moustache was just as absurd as it was eight years ago. To me he looked perfect, though. To me, he always looked perfect.
"Silver-tipped crossbow bolts, they never fail putting down these beasts. Oh, some werewolves think that it's unfair for us to keep these in stock when they're trying their best to blend in with our society, but what do they have to say about these incidents, hmm? Ah, but where are my manners. I am Alexei, a pleasure to meet you, mademoiselle. I hope that this beast has not caused you too much trouble."
Don't laugh, Lisa. Yes, that's exactly what your father said, and he even bowed to me at that last part. I was speechless, barely able to thank him and say my name. I must have been blushing furiously as well, because he caught on instantly and offered to walk me home, saying that I was probably scared after such an incident and that it would be very ungentlemanlike of him to refuse to offer his support during such time, that sort of thing. His boss and some of his associates appeared soon after, though- Yes, Lisa, I'm talking precisely about that man. I probably wouldn't have noticed him there, focused as I was on trying not to make a fool of myself in front of your father, but I recognized him. I recognized that steely gray hair of his, that stern gaze, the aura of power that seemed to surround that man at every moment.
Oh, yes, the machine gun tipped me off, too.
I think he recognized me too, because he did a double take and then told Alexei not to take too long in heading back, instead of taking him away with the rest of his apprentices and going back to the Society's headquarters. Your father looked at him, nodded, and then turned to me with a smile, offering his hand. I was still surprised from having met that man in Paris, it was a stunning coincidence, but either way, I smiled back and took his hand as we started walking back towards my apartment, chatting awkwardly at first but warming up to each other very quickly.
I nearly got fired that day, but to this day I still look at you and tell myself it was worth it.
"And that's the story of how I met your father. I know I've told it a lot, but I felt like telling it again." The voice concluded with a tiny laugh.
But then came the coughing. Lyra's health was quite fragile now. She was old, after all. The hair on her head was still white, but now it was thin, frail, and her skin was wrinkled and creased, though she smiled even through all of this, she smiled for her children, who sat beside her as she lay in bed.
Three in total, they were. Two of them women, and one of them a man. Lisa, Liam, and Lillia were their names. Liam and Lisa were twins, nearly identical to each other, one sporting short hair and the other long. They took after their father in both looks and hair color, though they had Lyra's eyes. Lillia, however, was the living image of her mother when she was younger. She had the same soft features, the same white hair. She was the youngest of the three, being five years younger than her siblings. All of them were Lyra's beloved children, though all of them had lives of their own by now.
Liam had taken after his mother, in a sense, as he was a world-renowned artist, famous for his uplifting depictions of how the world was progressing, having healed after the myriad of wars and destructive conflicts Earth and Hell and the other realms had gone through in the past several decades, wars that he had not seen, but whose longer-lasting effects he was able to observe. He had been in many a relationship, but none of them lasted very long due to his fleeting nature, and so, he remained alone. A new muse had visited him as of late, however, so perhaps that was the one?
Lisa on the other hand, had taken after her father Alexei. Alexei had taken the mantle of leader of the Slayer Society after the death of the first High Executioner and founder of the society, Frederick, and now, that same mantle had fallen on Lisa's shoulders, as her father had died eight years earlier in an unfortunate accident. Whereas her twin brother was emotional and artistic, she was stoic and sarcastic, making many a person wonder how they could look so similar yet be so different. Years of leading an order of hunters of supernatural threats to humanity had hardened her, though she still had a soft side, as evidenced by her engagement to Aldurn, twenty-seventh prince of Hell.
Finally, the youngest, Lillia, had taken a far simpler path than either of her siblings, settling down in Pandaemonium and setting up a convenience store. She was fairly successful in her endeavors, simple as they were, and lived comfortably in the capital city of Hell, dating a police officer. She was also the only one among her siblings to have inherited Lyra's gift, as even though the others had some of her artistic savvy, she was the only one who could will art into existence. Of course, her mother had taught her extensively about the uses of this power and the responsibility of having it, and Lillia was a woman of strong morals, so she never abused her power, and only used it for the benefit of her community.
All of them sat beside Lyra on that day, that fateful day when her story finally came to an end.
They spoke for a moment- Hours, perhaps, but it was but a moment, an instant in her long life. But then, her children looked at her with sadness. They had displayed remarkable emotional fortitude in the face of such an event, as it had been long in coming and she had discussed it extensively with them, mitigating the impact, but even then, she could read the great pain they bore by just looking at their faces. None of them said anything anymore, and she wondered why, but then, after a moment, she understood everything.
There was a fourth figure beside her.
"I TRUST YOU HAVE LED A GOOD LIFE?" The fourth figure asked. Lyra nodded, a smile on her face.
"I know that this is probably the last thing you expected to hear, but it's nice to see you again." The old woman stated. It was Death's turn to nod.
"I DID NOT EXPECT THAT, NO." The shrouded figure conceded. "ARE YOU READY TO COME WITH ME, LYRA?"
"Yes, I am. But could you give me just a moment?" She said as she sat up on her bed- a feat that she would never have been able to accomplish in her frail state, had she still been alive. But this was only her soul now.
"IF YOU WANT MORE TIME WITH YOUR FAMILY, I'M AFRAID I CAN'T-" Death began, but was swiftly interrupted by the old woman's giggling.
"Oh, no, nothing like that. I have had more than enough time, thanks to many people, you among them. No, what I wanted was to give you a parting gift." She said.
Death paused. "A PARTING GIFT?"
"Yes, a parting gift. I imagine your job is very lonely, and while I can guess you have grown accustomed to it, I still want to ease your burden, if I can. Of course, if you don't want to think of this as charity, then you can think of it as me replacing what I once gave you." Lyra said. Then, she pulled a white crayon from behind her ear. Nobody ever noticed it there, concealed as it was by her snowy hair, but she always kept it there, right up until her death. She knew it would be useful to her one day, and indeed, it was.
Using this white crayon, she drew something on Death's somber cloak, and willed it into reality. A humanoid figure, of stony skin to withstand eternity, with long strands of hair black as Death's hood, and bright beads of glass for eyes.
"It can make terrific tea." She smiled, recalling a servant she had long ago, a servant that Death was well acquainted with. "It is bound to you now, so it can be with you forever." Her smile grew wider. She had helped a friend.
"We can leave now."
And so, Lyra left this world with a smile.
Giovenith wrote:As Giovenith remained silent and listened to her friends talk about the going-on's about their world, she mentally pulled herself inward tighter and tighter to fasten against the ever-growing thoughts rattling around in her head and heart. They were not nice thoughts. At first they were merely angry, but then they grew nasty, and now they were outright dark. They were blackened by the descriptions bouncing around the table and the distressed, heartbroken looks that came with them. Tighter she pulled herself, for she did not want to show that she had reached an understanding that she had gratefully lacked for most of her life, but was now upon her with a grim acceptance. For the first time in her life, Giovenith understood why deities became so furious over dishonor.
Every single fear, struggle, pain, heartache, panic, and death scare from the numerous invasions they faced was flashing before her mental eye one way, while the processes of the mundanes' disdain from them raced the other. She remembered blood on her hands from scars she had tended with the sniffy faces of the ignorant superimposed on them. She remembered her trip with Naomi to Elohim and the souls they'd put back to proper homes, souls now using their new lives to wander the streets looking for innocents to use as symbols for their petulant sense of self-righteousness.
I want to take it all back, chilly thoughts misted around her mind, almost reaching her lips but never quite making it. I want to pluck every blessing we've ever given them from their fingers one by one and see their eyes fill with that horrible realization, that you don't know what you have until you don't have it anymore. I want to rip all the bandages, and crutches, and buttresses, and padding we slaved over away, watch them fall back into the dust, and only offer forgiveness when we are good and ready. I want them to see what they had, and how they are without it, without us--pathetic, spoiled simpletons who would be bone dust and ash by now if it weren't for people here doing every little damn thing for them.
The girl found herself in a paradox, where one part of her was scared by those thoughts and another couldn't bring itself to care. Both those parts, however, understood the one fateful truth of the matter: there was nothing Giovenith could do about it. For all she had gone through, she was little just a little girl. There wasn't anything they could change. Or could they?
What now? What about downstairs? she thought bitterly, narrowing her eyes at her lap. What's decided to smash into the peaceful little land of Bielefeld this time? More Drones? Alien invaders? Some mad god? Mutant robot chimpanzees from the eighth dimension? Oh, but we'll just fix that right up for them too, won't we? Once that's handled they can have more time to focus on the important things, like repaying us with half-witted crime accusations and attacks on our character if not our bodies.
The embittered teen felt like spitting at the idea of bandaging some fool while he spewed obscenities at her for reasons a toddler could poke holes in. They forgot what happened just over two years, what would any of it change? Why should they suffer because the people of Bielefeld had the memory capabilities of goddamn squirrels?
Because it's the right thing to do, some small part of her quipped from the shadows.
Nice things come at a price, she reminded it.
Outwardly, Giovenith politely coughed into her clenched fist.
(Special thanks to Nightkill the Emperor for the first Exceptional Posts thread.
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