Lictoria
20-09-2004, 23:19
Echoes resounded through the chamber. A tall, wiry figure, his face the color of a bleached skull, his hair like snow, walked through the ancient structure slowly, his eyes growing wiser with remembering. Cobwebs lined the once magnificent chamber. It had been so long since he had been separated from this place. The torches along the wall were blazing for the first time in centuries. And yet, life was still not returned to this place of memories. It was so quiet, so tranquil. It brought back a flood of memories. Revolution. War. Bloodshed. Lives lost because of carelessness. The man who had cursed the albino king.
The walls of the chamber were not bare stone. They were marble, and covered in carefully laid tile. Each painted square inch of the beautiful material was painstakingly laid upon the wall. A snow white, bony hand swept dust from one tile, and it shimmered as if it had been polished only a second ago, regaining its marvelous mirror shine. The designs covered the floor and the ceiling as well, fitting in with the vaults and arches so that the picture was not warped, but enhanced. At first, he had forgotten. But now, he recalled. He recalled the gasps of guests as the entered and saw all around them this enormous masterpiece of tile, this magnificent room in which every square inch was decorated. The pictures had been elaborately designed, and it had taken years to complete, but when it was finished, the result was one of astonishing sophistication and beauty. And though all guests were astonished, few stopped to look at what was around them. It was not an abstract pattern laid along these walls but a representation. It was the story of a long, long war.
Crimson rivers went flowing from the veins of revolutionaries. The blood of farmers enriched the soil. Many nations had been pulled into the maelstrom, into the blazing chaos. They fought wildly and madly, defending themselves in the fray. The demon would not take the throne. Not only was the once rich land a battlefield, but the oceans and skies were soon blackened with the onslaught of invasion. The nations had all waged war with each other, and, without anyone knowing who had won or where the turning point was marked, they were all destroyed by the heat of a new nation being forged, and all were incorporated into it. Glorious nations were forgotten and joined together in the fire of creation, in the fire of a melting pot that emerged when the nations all simultaneously collapsed and, at the same time, all simultaneously were rebuilt into each other. And, through all the destruction, through all the lives lost, the demon took the throne.
And now, he was sitting upon it again, the massive chair of polished black stone. He craned his neck and looked above him, through stained glass in the skylight, and his thoughts ceased to dwell upon the great war of old and returned to what was to come. The protest. The leftover warriors. The assassins undoubtedly waiting to strike, waiting to claim him with a swift pull of the trigger. His hand reached for the runecarved blade, and slanted, moody crimson eyes scanned the room as he left, wondering what could be done to combat the threats within his nation.
(OOC: Go ahead and post as maybe an old friend Lord Neron's or one of his advisors, or maybe someone waiting to strike against him. All possibilities are open, including treason.)
The walls of the chamber were not bare stone. They were marble, and covered in carefully laid tile. Each painted square inch of the beautiful material was painstakingly laid upon the wall. A snow white, bony hand swept dust from one tile, and it shimmered as if it had been polished only a second ago, regaining its marvelous mirror shine. The designs covered the floor and the ceiling as well, fitting in with the vaults and arches so that the picture was not warped, but enhanced. At first, he had forgotten. But now, he recalled. He recalled the gasps of guests as the entered and saw all around them this enormous masterpiece of tile, this magnificent room in which every square inch was decorated. The pictures had been elaborately designed, and it had taken years to complete, but when it was finished, the result was one of astonishing sophistication and beauty. And though all guests were astonished, few stopped to look at what was around them. It was not an abstract pattern laid along these walls but a representation. It was the story of a long, long war.
Crimson rivers went flowing from the veins of revolutionaries. The blood of farmers enriched the soil. Many nations had been pulled into the maelstrom, into the blazing chaos. They fought wildly and madly, defending themselves in the fray. The demon would not take the throne. Not only was the once rich land a battlefield, but the oceans and skies were soon blackened with the onslaught of invasion. The nations had all waged war with each other, and, without anyone knowing who had won or where the turning point was marked, they were all destroyed by the heat of a new nation being forged, and all were incorporated into it. Glorious nations were forgotten and joined together in the fire of creation, in the fire of a melting pot that emerged when the nations all simultaneously collapsed and, at the same time, all simultaneously were rebuilt into each other. And, through all the destruction, through all the lives lost, the demon took the throne.
And now, he was sitting upon it again, the massive chair of polished black stone. He craned his neck and looked above him, through stained glass in the skylight, and his thoughts ceased to dwell upon the great war of old and returned to what was to come. The protest. The leftover warriors. The assassins undoubtedly waiting to strike, waiting to claim him with a swift pull of the trigger. His hand reached for the runecarved blade, and slanted, moody crimson eyes scanned the room as he left, wondering what could be done to combat the threats within his nation.
(OOC: Go ahead and post as maybe an old friend Lord Neron's or one of his advisors, or maybe someone waiting to strike against him. All possibilities are open, including treason.)