Post by MagusKariusPrelune on Sept 6, 2004 14:54:14 GMT -5
Originally posted by Inquisitor Rosseverstein
Wet. Rain poured horribly down upon the fields of the Agri world, Narcissus. Farmers sat in warm living rooms in their homestead farms, nestled within the praerie like stretching fields. The grass was long, and fields of tall corn stood in neat circles around the houses. Smoke rose gently in the withering rain, spiralling toward the sky, as the farmer families sat by their fires, feeling the toasty warmth of their crude heat source.
The flowers drooped over themselves in the rain, looking down into small pools of water, showing a rippling reflection of themselves. In the reflection of the water, above the flower, shows the deep sky, a deepening grey. It seemed to suddenly rush above, across the skies. The wind rose slightly higher, rustling more and more through the grasses and the corns. A stooping willow tree thew its great arms to the push of the wind. In the reflection of the water, something is seen; something shimmery, incorpereal. A shadow. The shadow danced through the grass, and passed the willow, the rain turning purplish as it passed where it stood.
A whistle floated over the fields, softly but clearly. It was not the tune procured from the lungs of a man cheerily beckoning his dog, or even a whistle from a man at all. It was soft, yet terrible. It was a dark, almost saddening tune, making the flowers droop more, their colours fading almost as the clouds covered most of the yellow light, leaving grey misery.
The tune floated into the homesteads, singing in the ears of the farmers. They stopped, and hypnotically looked out of their window, gazing. They looked out, to see who was whistling that sweet, woeful tune, but none was there. They all stared, entranced by the sweet tune. Then came a voice, singing across the planes. It was deep, and rich, yet the farmer's ears could not hear such a noise. They bled and ached as the voice whispered out in a beckoning tone. "Khashyish'phak...Dhashyish Neth Phaos...Tzeen..."
The voice called, over and over, the blood pouring profusely from the farmer's ears as they screamed. But they were not heard. The wind swallowed their shouts.
"Khashyish'phak...Dhashyish Neth Phaos...".
The wind blew across loudly now, rustling through grasses and leaves. But the voice and the whistling pervaded. It never dampened, it never became unclear. Soft, but clear. Gentle, but terrible. Then a different voice. An answer. It was deep but resonant, like the other. Yet not the other.
"Leth Meus Phaos...Meus Kha'phak...Meus Kha'phak...Mea Non Tzeen...Mea non Tzeen Hysh...Meus Kha'phak..."
A hand, armoured in shining metal, shimmering blueish silver, burst from the ground, and felt the air whisper across its palm. The shadow grabbed the hand, a black manifestation showing. It pulled, the ground exploding with soul and grass. It fell to the ground. A fell, discorded sound shrieked out at its arrival.
The body lay on the ground, a rusted sword hanging loose in its hilt. The armour was faded, the bluish shimmer dull and tarnished. There was no helm revealing a skull. It was the skull of no man. It was long, and snakelike..but fat. Like a lizard.
Suddenly the armour began to shine, the mud shaking itself from its clinging hold upon it. The blue shifted and became liquid, sliding across the surface, growing and joinging with other pieces of paint. The armour was now totally blue, and a skull like effige formed at the belt of the thing. Skin knitted itself back upon the face, weaving at super fast speeds, showing a greenish, slightly striped lizard head, leering and malevolent. Its eyes were shut, its teeth forming once more. The sword at the hilt lengthened and spread outward, becoming thorned and barbarous. Tiny indentations marked the surface, and soon deepened to show tiny, leering faces with hungering eyes. Flames suddenly burst from the mouths, surrounding the sword in an unholy aura of purplish flame. Its eyes flickered open sideways, revealing bleary, black eyes. The eyes suddenly changed also, becoming hawklike and beady, and then the white behind turning into a burning, bluish haze. Breath snorted from its nostrils at the end of its snout, carbon dioxide showing in the cold as whispy smoke. Its unnatural heart began to beat after an age of being dormant, and the synapses in it brain once more fired, and the thing stood up, revealing its tall, seven foot, power armoured figure. It was no space marine, far too lean. Yet it was certainly no man. Was it? A weapon, a bolt pistol, formed from shadow, buckling itself at the creature's side.
"Tuos Kha'phak.
The creature vanished, all traces of the thing gone in an instant. Only a hole remained. The wind died down, and the rain pattered gently once more. The farmers slowly rose, their hands gently removing themselves from their ears. The voices were gone. The whistling had stopped. Silence reigned supreme.
Time has passed since his passing. The return of the heretic has been prophecised, and the prophesy has become reality. Change is the only constant. Change is inevitebility. In the gloom of the future, the saviour has returned
I am strangely compelled to post this link...
kevan.org/brain.cgi?Rosseverstein
Wet. Rain poured horribly down upon the fields of the Agri world, Narcissus. Farmers sat in warm living rooms in their homestead farms, nestled within the praerie like stretching fields. The grass was long, and fields of tall corn stood in neat circles around the houses. Smoke rose gently in the withering rain, spiralling toward the sky, as the farmer families sat by their fires, feeling the toasty warmth of their crude heat source.
The flowers drooped over themselves in the rain, looking down into small pools of water, showing a rippling reflection of themselves. In the reflection of the water, above the flower, shows the deep sky, a deepening grey. It seemed to suddenly rush above, across the skies. The wind rose slightly higher, rustling more and more through the grasses and the corns. A stooping willow tree thew its great arms to the push of the wind. In the reflection of the water, something is seen; something shimmery, incorpereal. A shadow. The shadow danced through the grass, and passed the willow, the rain turning purplish as it passed where it stood.
A whistle floated over the fields, softly but clearly. It was not the tune procured from the lungs of a man cheerily beckoning his dog, or even a whistle from a man at all. It was soft, yet terrible. It was a dark, almost saddening tune, making the flowers droop more, their colours fading almost as the clouds covered most of the yellow light, leaving grey misery.
The tune floated into the homesteads, singing in the ears of the farmers. They stopped, and hypnotically looked out of their window, gazing. They looked out, to see who was whistling that sweet, woeful tune, but none was there. They all stared, entranced by the sweet tune. Then came a voice, singing across the planes. It was deep, and rich, yet the farmer's ears could not hear such a noise. They bled and ached as the voice whispered out in a beckoning tone. "Khashyish'phak...Dhashyish Neth Phaos...Tzeen..."
The voice called, over and over, the blood pouring profusely from the farmer's ears as they screamed. But they were not heard. The wind swallowed their shouts.
"Khashyish'phak...Dhashyish Neth Phaos...".
The wind blew across loudly now, rustling through grasses and leaves. But the voice and the whistling pervaded. It never dampened, it never became unclear. Soft, but clear. Gentle, but terrible. Then a different voice. An answer. It was deep but resonant, like the other. Yet not the other.
"Leth Meus Phaos...Meus Kha'phak...Meus Kha'phak...Mea Non Tzeen...Mea non Tzeen Hysh...Meus Kha'phak..."
A hand, armoured in shining metal, shimmering blueish silver, burst from the ground, and felt the air whisper across its palm. The shadow grabbed the hand, a black manifestation showing. It pulled, the ground exploding with soul and grass. It fell to the ground. A fell, discorded sound shrieked out at its arrival.
The body lay on the ground, a rusted sword hanging loose in its hilt. The armour was faded, the bluish shimmer dull and tarnished. There was no helm revealing a skull. It was the skull of no man. It was long, and snakelike..but fat. Like a lizard.
Suddenly the armour began to shine, the mud shaking itself from its clinging hold upon it. The blue shifted and became liquid, sliding across the surface, growing and joinging with other pieces of paint. The armour was now totally blue, and a skull like effige formed at the belt of the thing. Skin knitted itself back upon the face, weaving at super fast speeds, showing a greenish, slightly striped lizard head, leering and malevolent. Its eyes were shut, its teeth forming once more. The sword at the hilt lengthened and spread outward, becoming thorned and barbarous. Tiny indentations marked the surface, and soon deepened to show tiny, leering faces with hungering eyes. Flames suddenly burst from the mouths, surrounding the sword in an unholy aura of purplish flame. Its eyes flickered open sideways, revealing bleary, black eyes. The eyes suddenly changed also, becoming hawklike and beady, and then the white behind turning into a burning, bluish haze. Breath snorted from its nostrils at the end of its snout, carbon dioxide showing in the cold as whispy smoke. Its unnatural heart began to beat after an age of being dormant, and the synapses in it brain once more fired, and the thing stood up, revealing its tall, seven foot, power armoured figure. It was no space marine, far too lean. Yet it was certainly no man. Was it? A weapon, a bolt pistol, formed from shadow, buckling itself at the creature's side.
"Tuos Kha'phak.
The creature vanished, all traces of the thing gone in an instant. Only a hole remained. The wind died down, and the rain pattered gently once more. The farmers slowly rose, their hands gently removing themselves from their ears. The voices were gone. The whistling had stopped. Silence reigned supreme.
Time has passed since his passing. The return of the heretic has been prophecised, and the prophesy has become reality. Change is the only constant. Change is inevitebility. In the gloom of the future, the saviour has returned
I am strangely compelled to post this link...
kevan.org/brain.cgi?Rosseverstein