Post by MagusKariusPrelune on Sept 26, 2004 9:36:41 GMT -5
Originally posted by Inquisitor Rosseverstein
The planet of Narcissus was quiet, the farmers long gone into bed. It was the dead of night, the 'night of ghosts', they called it. It happened every year, at the same time, ever since it actually did happen. They lock their doors, and hurriedly get to sleep, so that they do not have to hear the screams of those long dead. On the agri world of Narcissus, something stirred.
The wind rose slightly, rustling the trees, unsettling the animals which lived within them. Birds flew up into the sky in great swathes, and dogs suddenly went beserk for no apparent reason, sending them barking and yelping around the basement where they were locked. The farmers knew they could sense what was happening. It happened every year. So on that night, animals were caged brutaly in their own basements. The farmers did not wish to stir at this time.
The wind was calm, but breezy, hauntingly whisper like, and the grass rustled gently. A rustling footstep stirred across the ground, and a figure appeared, tall and proud, and faded. His figure was whispy, and as fluid as the air around him. A black, red eyed warhorse stood next to him, and the man flung himself atop the horse, and pulled on his horned helm. His armour was ornate and silver and dulled, his helmet deep blue and shifting purple, the horns twisting unnaturally like gnarled tree branches. His sword lay in its hilt, strapped to his side.
The wind blew a harsh gust, and the ethereal whisps of his body swirled for a moment away from the whole, before hissing back into place once the breeze was gone. It pulled its sheild off the strappings on his back, tied it to his arm, then drew his great, furred coat over his shoulders, as whispy as the rest of him. He beckoned his horse, and the ghostly charger cantered across the plain, and crested the hill. He stopped, atop the hill, gazing from within his helm across a great sea. Once, long ago, much of these grassy plains was water bodies, but that had long since disappeared in the sands of time.
A great fleet sailed to shore, bearing black sails with a moon like symbol upon them. Across the whispy seas we travel, and ships sail toward the land. Suddenly everthing that seemed incorpereal and smoke like draws together, becoming very real. The dance of the ghosts has begun.
Upon the great battleship leading the ships to the shore stood a man. Or not a man at all. His head was that of a great lizard, and he bore upon him armour of thick, blue metal. "ANCHOR THE WARFLEET HERE! LET THE TRANSPORTS CONTINUE TO THE SHORE!"
"Aye, sir!" A black anchor suddenly was thrown overboard, and splashed heavily into the water, holding the ships firm. The lizard thing turned its great head to his side, where a man stood, a good 2 feet shorter than him. "Prepare the cannons. I want you to make sure they are warm for when we hit the fleet."
"Aye, Sir!"
His red eyes moved to the shore, where the great transports rowed toward, and where a distant figure sat upon a horse. "Good luck, my brother," he said softly to himself.
The man stood waiting at the shore, as the dark transports his the sands, sliding slightly upward. Ramps smashed down onto the sandy shore, and men, thousands of them, marched off the boats. His army had arrived. The time had come. This was the final push, the battle that would make the the world their master's, or destroy them utterly. It was what they had fighted for for so many years. he was not prepared to lose.
"The transports have made landfall, my lord." The creature nodded.
"HAUL UP THE ANCHOR! BEARING EAST OUT OF THIS BAY! HEAD TO THE PORT OF THE GREAT CITY!" He knew his task. If he failed, then all was lost. They had to keep the great fleet of the enemy from getting within bombardment range of their army. He had to keep them occupied, and he had to crush them.
After making hefty landfall, the army had assembled upon a hilltop, the towering city walls glittering brightly in the distance. The enemy army had seen them, and was sallying from within the gates, forming outside into a formidable defence to break the host. They were marching.
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
The planet of Narcissus was quiet, the farmers long gone into bed. It was the dead of night, the 'night of ghosts', they called it. It happened every year, at the same time, ever since it actually did happen. They lock their doors, and hurriedly get to sleep, so that they do not have to hear the screams of those long dead. On the agri world of Narcissus, something stirred.
The wind rose slightly, rustling the trees, unsettling the animals which lived within them. Birds flew up into the sky in great swathes, and dogs suddenly went beserk for no apparent reason, sending them barking and yelping around the basement where they were locked. The farmers knew they could sense what was happening. It happened every year. So on that night, animals were caged brutaly in their own basements. The farmers did not wish to stir at this time.
The wind was calm, but breezy, hauntingly whisper like, and the grass rustled gently. A rustling footstep stirred across the ground, and a figure appeared, tall and proud, and faded. His figure was whispy, and as fluid as the air around him. A black, red eyed warhorse stood next to him, and the man flung himself atop the horse, and pulled on his horned helm. His armour was ornate and silver and dulled, his helmet deep blue and shifting purple, the horns twisting unnaturally like gnarled tree branches. His sword lay in its hilt, strapped to his side.
The wind blew a harsh gust, and the ethereal whisps of his body swirled for a moment away from the whole, before hissing back into place once the breeze was gone. It pulled its sheild off the strappings on his back, tied it to his arm, then drew his great, furred coat over his shoulders, as whispy as the rest of him. He beckoned his horse, and the ghostly charger cantered across the plain, and crested the hill. He stopped, atop the hill, gazing from within his helm across a great sea. Once, long ago, much of these grassy plains was water bodies, but that had long since disappeared in the sands of time.
A great fleet sailed to shore, bearing black sails with a moon like symbol upon them. Across the whispy seas we travel, and ships sail toward the land. Suddenly everthing that seemed incorpereal and smoke like draws together, becoming very real. The dance of the ghosts has begun.
Upon the great battleship leading the ships to the shore stood a man. Or not a man at all. His head was that of a great lizard, and he bore upon him armour of thick, blue metal. "ANCHOR THE WARFLEET HERE! LET THE TRANSPORTS CONTINUE TO THE SHORE!"
"Aye, sir!" A black anchor suddenly was thrown overboard, and splashed heavily into the water, holding the ships firm. The lizard thing turned its great head to his side, where a man stood, a good 2 feet shorter than him. "Prepare the cannons. I want you to make sure they are warm for when we hit the fleet."
"Aye, Sir!"
His red eyes moved to the shore, where the great transports rowed toward, and where a distant figure sat upon a horse. "Good luck, my brother," he said softly to himself.
The man stood waiting at the shore, as the dark transports his the sands, sliding slightly upward. Ramps smashed down onto the sandy shore, and men, thousands of them, marched off the boats. His army had arrived. The time had come. This was the final push, the battle that would make the the world their master's, or destroy them utterly. It was what they had fighted for for so many years. he was not prepared to lose.
"The transports have made landfall, my lord." The creature nodded.
"HAUL UP THE ANCHOR! BEARING EAST OUT OF THIS BAY! HEAD TO THE PORT OF THE GREAT CITY!" He knew his task. If he failed, then all was lost. They had to keep the great fleet of the enemy from getting within bombardment range of their army. He had to keep them occupied, and he had to crush them.
After making hefty landfall, the army had assembled upon a hilltop, the towering city walls glittering brightly in the distance. The enemy army had seen them, and was sallying from within the gates, forming outside into a formidable defence to break the host. They were marching.
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