Emboldened Bananas
17-05-2007, 08:59
In the creation of the Hordes, Alegna-Lancax, the Great Sky-Turtle, Lord and Commander of the Imperial Hordes of Burninatonia, Lucius Lancaster, had instilled only a vague sense of maternal instinct. In most instances, it was only vaguely necessary, as Horde reproduction took place so quickly, so efficiently, and at such odd moments that new children were often born on the charge into battle after being conceived mere hours earlier. It was in this way that the Horde kept its numbers at a peak despite their alarming tendency to die for any number of stupid reasons. The Hordes of Burninatonia had a remarkable tendency to eat one another, to kill one another during the procreative act, or to just randomly decapitate one another. Such was their nature: they were created, trained, and bred with a killer instinct that would make even the most vicious of animals squeamish. They believed in the survival of the fittest, and while not one of them on his own even resembled a strong, intelligent, adaptable creature, their ferocity and their numbers made them, at one time, one of the most feared forces in the galaxy. And with a commander like Lord Lancaster--with his swift mind and monstrous physique--they were, at one point, unstoppable.
Lancaster's role within the Hordes was unique. He had created them himself, and he held a bond with them that was almost telepathic--even as billions of them washed across the cosmos, they still answered to his every whim. Though the allies of Burninatonia--particularly within the Non-Democratic Alliance--were impressed with Lancaster's physical presence, it was his mind that was the most potent force he held. It was, however, the undoing of the Horde, for it was the energy that kept turning the gears of war. Within moments of Lancaster's death at the hands of an assassin, the Horde lost all control, becoming vicious, animalistic, violent, and ruthless.
But the power of that great mind was not entirely quenched, for even in his death, the apparition of Lord Lucius Lancaster still appeared over Io, hundreds of miles tall, a grim spectacle overlooking the great uprising on Io of those peoples oppressed by his dark conquests. Lancaster's final word on that grim day was Now. Even in his death, it was enough to drive the Hordes back to the Great City of Necron-II, to rip through its impossible walls, to descend upon Lancaster's great castle, the Bone-Cave.
It was Lancaster's dying wish that the Hordes take the city back themselves. And they did.
That was years ago.
The Great City today resembles itself on a rudimentary level. Old structures remain here and there, but they are shells of themselves, crumbling or collapsed in on themselves. The factories that once turned out Lancaster's grim devices of conquest are now halted in mid-production. The shipyards are quiet save for the occasional gibbering of their animalistic inhabitants, the vehicles unkept and full of stale fuel. The Great City is a treasure trove among scrapyards, yet no one enters it.
The Hordes are the reason. They still exist today, those leathery lizard-creatures, and they have evolved for a life of hunting and foraging rather than a life of war: wiry, quick, and with massive teeth that tear like saws. Their quick reproduction also affords them the luxury of quick evolution, and though their bodies have adapted, their minds have not. And in the absence of Lord Lucius Lancaster, this makes them solitary, mindless eating machines, meeting only to further the species--or perhaps create a new meal. They survive on a diet of intruders and each other, having already devoured the flesh of those within the city who fell with Lord Lancaster so long ago.
There is one area within the Great City, however, where even the Hordes will not enter. This is the Bone-Cave, the great tower at the center of Necron-II where Lord Lancaster once oversaw his solar-system-spanning empire. Though the Hordes have shed what limited intelligence they once had, they nevertheless hold an inborn reverence to the body of Lancaster himself. The first generation of the Hordes following the city's fall devoured the flesh of Lancaster--all of those who had partaken of his flesh, however, died almost immediately. Superstition, it seems, is an animal instinct as well, and the skeleton of the mighty Alegnan--the terrible turtle-dragon of brute strength and cunning--lies across the floor of the Bone-Cave, surrounded by the skeletons of those who would make a meal of their former master.
Yet it was just several years ago when a female Hordesman entered the Bone-Cave with her son in her arms. Such an event was unheard of in the history of this race. No Hordesman had ever shown such care for her young, and no Hordesman had ever gone so far out of her way to protect her child as to bring him to the forbidden Bone-Cave. Yet here she was, indistinguishable from the rest of her species, at the ancient age of one year old. She approached the skull of her dead master with her last ounce of strength and slid the child into the eye-hole. Though she could not speak, she could wail and gibber, and anyone who might have heard her could have mistaken her animalistic cries for a dirge-song as she died.
No one heard her but her son, who rested within the skull of that dead god Lancaster.
Anyone capable of observing him at this stage would have noticed the difference immediately. There was a particular perfection to his hide that was uncommon among the Horde, free of mottles and blemishes, with a dark shade of jungle green that shimmered when the light of the fires outside struck his metal-like scales. His eyes moved with an uncommon curiosity even hours after his birth, and though he hungered, he searched for other sights beyond a mate or a meal. His tail--which on most Hordesmen was merely a stabilizing mechanism--was long and sharpened on the end, with a point like a spear that even at this young age he could determine uses for. And from under his arms grew leathery flaps of skin. Somehow, he instinctively knew to move them, to gather wind beneath them. Within the skull of his dead master, the child hovered and flew for a moment before letting himself down.
He stood that day and walked to his mother, sniffing her with his long snout. His tongue darted in and out of his abnormal beak, tasting her and processing her. He looked down at himself, down at that strange perfection, and tasted his own skin. He looked back at the body of his mother and seemed to frown.
It is a cliche to say that evolution is slow and sometimes takes a remarkable leap forward. In certain filmic adaptations, this leap forward is categorized by an odd change here or there--the ability to hear thoughts as well as sounds, the ability to quickly recover from wounds, the ability to fire energy from one's eyes. Sometimes, however, the potential of a species' evolution can be exemplified in a single paragon, a single instance of a particular creature that portrays the unexpected future of all others like it.
Somehow, the paragon had appeared. And it was no small moment when all of Necron-II seemed to suddenly fall into silence when he looked over that body and opened his mouth.
"Mother?"
Lancaster's role within the Hordes was unique. He had created them himself, and he held a bond with them that was almost telepathic--even as billions of them washed across the cosmos, they still answered to his every whim. Though the allies of Burninatonia--particularly within the Non-Democratic Alliance--were impressed with Lancaster's physical presence, it was his mind that was the most potent force he held. It was, however, the undoing of the Horde, for it was the energy that kept turning the gears of war. Within moments of Lancaster's death at the hands of an assassin, the Horde lost all control, becoming vicious, animalistic, violent, and ruthless.
But the power of that great mind was not entirely quenched, for even in his death, the apparition of Lord Lucius Lancaster still appeared over Io, hundreds of miles tall, a grim spectacle overlooking the great uprising on Io of those peoples oppressed by his dark conquests. Lancaster's final word on that grim day was Now. Even in his death, it was enough to drive the Hordes back to the Great City of Necron-II, to rip through its impossible walls, to descend upon Lancaster's great castle, the Bone-Cave.
It was Lancaster's dying wish that the Hordes take the city back themselves. And they did.
That was years ago.
The Great City today resembles itself on a rudimentary level. Old structures remain here and there, but they are shells of themselves, crumbling or collapsed in on themselves. The factories that once turned out Lancaster's grim devices of conquest are now halted in mid-production. The shipyards are quiet save for the occasional gibbering of their animalistic inhabitants, the vehicles unkept and full of stale fuel. The Great City is a treasure trove among scrapyards, yet no one enters it.
The Hordes are the reason. They still exist today, those leathery lizard-creatures, and they have evolved for a life of hunting and foraging rather than a life of war: wiry, quick, and with massive teeth that tear like saws. Their quick reproduction also affords them the luxury of quick evolution, and though their bodies have adapted, their minds have not. And in the absence of Lord Lucius Lancaster, this makes them solitary, mindless eating machines, meeting only to further the species--or perhaps create a new meal. They survive on a diet of intruders and each other, having already devoured the flesh of those within the city who fell with Lord Lancaster so long ago.
There is one area within the Great City, however, where even the Hordes will not enter. This is the Bone-Cave, the great tower at the center of Necron-II where Lord Lancaster once oversaw his solar-system-spanning empire. Though the Hordes have shed what limited intelligence they once had, they nevertheless hold an inborn reverence to the body of Lancaster himself. The first generation of the Hordes following the city's fall devoured the flesh of Lancaster--all of those who had partaken of his flesh, however, died almost immediately. Superstition, it seems, is an animal instinct as well, and the skeleton of the mighty Alegnan--the terrible turtle-dragon of brute strength and cunning--lies across the floor of the Bone-Cave, surrounded by the skeletons of those who would make a meal of their former master.
Yet it was just several years ago when a female Hordesman entered the Bone-Cave with her son in her arms. Such an event was unheard of in the history of this race. No Hordesman had ever shown such care for her young, and no Hordesman had ever gone so far out of her way to protect her child as to bring him to the forbidden Bone-Cave. Yet here she was, indistinguishable from the rest of her species, at the ancient age of one year old. She approached the skull of her dead master with her last ounce of strength and slid the child into the eye-hole. Though she could not speak, she could wail and gibber, and anyone who might have heard her could have mistaken her animalistic cries for a dirge-song as she died.
No one heard her but her son, who rested within the skull of that dead god Lancaster.
Anyone capable of observing him at this stage would have noticed the difference immediately. There was a particular perfection to his hide that was uncommon among the Horde, free of mottles and blemishes, with a dark shade of jungle green that shimmered when the light of the fires outside struck his metal-like scales. His eyes moved with an uncommon curiosity even hours after his birth, and though he hungered, he searched for other sights beyond a mate or a meal. His tail--which on most Hordesmen was merely a stabilizing mechanism--was long and sharpened on the end, with a point like a spear that even at this young age he could determine uses for. And from under his arms grew leathery flaps of skin. Somehow, he instinctively knew to move them, to gather wind beneath them. Within the skull of his dead master, the child hovered and flew for a moment before letting himself down.
He stood that day and walked to his mother, sniffing her with his long snout. His tongue darted in and out of his abnormal beak, tasting her and processing her. He looked down at himself, down at that strange perfection, and tasted his own skin. He looked back at the body of his mother and seemed to frown.
It is a cliche to say that evolution is slow and sometimes takes a remarkable leap forward. In certain filmic adaptations, this leap forward is categorized by an odd change here or there--the ability to hear thoughts as well as sounds, the ability to quickly recover from wounds, the ability to fire energy from one's eyes. Sometimes, however, the potential of a species' evolution can be exemplified in a single paragon, a single instance of a particular creature that portrays the unexpected future of all others like it.
Somehow, the paragon had appeared. And it was no small moment when all of Necron-II seemed to suddenly fall into silence when he looked over that body and opened his mouth.
"Mother?"