Jake Reynolds
Wordslinger
- Joined
- Sep 24, 2010
- Messages
- 638
Sorry for being cheeky with my posts! Very short end here.
He became aware that he was on his knees again, but thought it fitting. His tattered clothing was gone, and in its place he wore a long, sleeveless black coat that had a high, stiff collar, melded together all the way to his feet, and he marvelled at the texture of it. It seemed to be made of woven steel, as if his skin was suddenly armour. On his forearms were polished vambraces, their black metallic sheen reflecting the candles at the ends of the cross, and around each bicep was a band of the same black metal, like liquid given form by man’s evil. They too felt as if they were somehow part of him, and he looked to the Master for guidance as he had always done, as he would always do.
‘You are forged, Aphasto,’ Kareshi said solemnly. ‘No mortal blade may pierce the darkness that now surrounds you, just as no mortal needs and wants shall pierce your faith in me or your faith in the Ruin. Arise , my servant, and leave upon the floor the petty barbs and wants of man that have plagued you, the scornful looks and the poisoned words. This, my servant, is the last day that Aphasto Drathis shall ever kneel.’
Dusk darkens the pathetic Shaboleth.
Built from the broken backs of whipped slaves, poisonous Shaboleth, bulging cyst of the Assymian Dominion, was home to ineffective philosophers, indulgent craftsmen, greedy merchants, diseased concubines and one Aphasto Drathis, once a skinny little man who had watched the first rays of Sahamdra’s sun hit the pearly stone of the city at dawn.
He stood in the little garden on the roof of his little house and scowled as he watched them scurry, watched them try to wring more profit from the day’s misery. He dared to think that the night chose him alone as the moons shone onto him.
With a pulse of his will and the great hum of their hunger his army obscured the stars like ink, their lustful stings directed by his desire, and on the ground the pink tails of his footmen whipped as they swarmed into the streets.
He knew he was destined for greatness.
He became aware that he was on his knees again, but thought it fitting. His tattered clothing was gone, and in its place he wore a long, sleeveless black coat that had a high, stiff collar, melded together all the way to his feet, and he marvelled at the texture of it. It seemed to be made of woven steel, as if his skin was suddenly armour. On his forearms were polished vambraces, their black metallic sheen reflecting the candles at the ends of the cross, and around each bicep was a band of the same black metal, like liquid given form by man’s evil. They too felt as if they were somehow part of him, and he looked to the Master for guidance as he had always done, as he would always do.
‘You are forged, Aphasto,’ Kareshi said solemnly. ‘No mortal blade may pierce the darkness that now surrounds you, just as no mortal needs and wants shall pierce your faith in me or your faith in the Ruin. Arise , my servant, and leave upon the floor the petty barbs and wants of man that have plagued you, the scornful looks and the poisoned words. This, my servant, is the last day that Aphasto Drathis shall ever kneel.’
Dusk darkens the pathetic Shaboleth.
Built from the broken backs of whipped slaves, poisonous Shaboleth, bulging cyst of the Assymian Dominion, was home to ineffective philosophers, indulgent craftsmen, greedy merchants, diseased concubines and one Aphasto Drathis, once a skinny little man who had watched the first rays of Sahamdra’s sun hit the pearly stone of the city at dawn.
He stood in the little garden on the roof of his little house and scowled as he watched them scurry, watched them try to wring more profit from the day’s misery. He dared to think that the night chose him alone as the moons shone onto him.
With a pulse of his will and the great hum of their hunger his army obscured the stars like ink, their lustful stings directed by his desire, and on the ground the pink tails of his footmen whipped as they swarmed into the streets.
He knew he was destined for greatness.
