Momanguise
13-11-2004, 15:24
The shadows, augmented by the flickering flame danced upon the walls. The soft drone of hushed voiced uttering the passage of death reverberated throughout the chamber as the dying man was taking his last breaths. The man who had taken Momanguise out of the ashes of the great fall was on his death bed, the high pitched straining of his failing lungs mixing into a macabre counterpoint with the crackle of torches and the incessant murmur of the wardens of death. The torches dimmed, and the chant grew louder.
Nobody outside of this secluded compound had seen or heard of Ernesto Sanchez for over three weeks. Ever since he succumbed to the advanced cancer that he had hidden from the his adoring public, he had been hidden quite successfully from their prying eyes. Now though, the old man was to be laid to rest at last. As the chant of the wardens grew into a great crescendo, the tallest stepped forwards, his face shrouded in shadow as he pulled his jet black hood high over his head. He was a mountain of a man, easily seven feet tall he exuded a sense of authority and destiny that most men die for dreams of that mere impression of power. A voice rang out from beneath the layer of cloth, a cold and mighty voice that contained no vocal imperfection, a rich tone that contained inside it a endless void of meaning. As he spoke, the chant of the wardens dropped a tone, keeping in perfect syncopation with the steady words of the stranger. ‘A new age is dawning,’ he began, a steady and irreversible rhythm playing on his lips, ‘When the old who have served their purpose must wane and finally pass out of the sight of men, for like the sun is eclipsed by the moon, the new order must usurp the past and lead us out of this night, for a new, red dawn is rising!’
His voice betrayed no excitement, but the sheer power within his tone commanded respect and authority. On the stone bed, the final altar, the dying man croaked incoherently as he tried to protest. The speaking figure, his massive frame silhouetted against the dark wall, showed no recognition of this pathetic attempt to assert the forgotten authority of an age past. A drum began to sound, a slow and steady beat that moved with a sense of ultimate intention while the figure continued, his rich voice sounding like a death knell, a tolling bell. ‘Now, now the blood must run of that forgotten epoch must run as time itself runs. The cry of pain must sound as a crowing trumpet sounded in the glorious battles of old. Now the flesh must burn as the pyres of the heroes of old consumed themselves in an ecstasy fire. Now! Now the blood must run as the river, as time, as the blood of the people themselves.’ The drum beat rose into an orgasm of rhythm and the chant dropped into a beautiful cadence the figure drew a shining ornamental knife, an embodiment of death itself, from the folds of his cloak. He raised the gleaming blade high above his head, his own voice falling into a mesmerised chant, ‘The lamb of God, we perish you for our sins as we ourselves will perish for our sins. Man, from dust you came and to dust you shall return!’
The knife fell. It sung through the air, effortlessly driving itself through skin, vessels, bone. As the moral blood blossomed from the open wound, he retracted the knife, and the figure remained without any emotion of pity or empathy for the wretched man lying prostrate before him, raking his lungs and coughing up sickly black blood. Sanchez broke the silence with a ghostly death rattle, like the howling of the wind it permeated every corner of the room, and the hearts of the assembled men. They let out a collective drone of finality, as the epoch of Sanchez ended, and the age something new and terrifying had begun. The figure, up till now shrouded in total darkness slipped the hood from his head, revealing himself for the first time. His thick set and pale face, contrasted by his black as the night hair, emulated a sense of power, of authority, of leadership. He took a flaming torch from the wall, and threw it unceremoniously unto the dead man. As the flames feasted on his flesh, the unhooded man spoke again, a cold fury in his voice that reeked of a sense of destiny. ‘Let them know,’ he uttered, his throat chocked with pride, ‘That Koda the Ruin of Ages has arisen, and the world must take notice.’
As the funeral pyre roared in life, he turned his back upon the smoky chamber, his duties as leader of Momanguise already playing like devils upon his mind.
Nobody outside of this secluded compound had seen or heard of Ernesto Sanchez for over three weeks. Ever since he succumbed to the advanced cancer that he had hidden from the his adoring public, he had been hidden quite successfully from their prying eyes. Now though, the old man was to be laid to rest at last. As the chant of the wardens grew into a great crescendo, the tallest stepped forwards, his face shrouded in shadow as he pulled his jet black hood high over his head. He was a mountain of a man, easily seven feet tall he exuded a sense of authority and destiny that most men die for dreams of that mere impression of power. A voice rang out from beneath the layer of cloth, a cold and mighty voice that contained no vocal imperfection, a rich tone that contained inside it a endless void of meaning. As he spoke, the chant of the wardens dropped a tone, keeping in perfect syncopation with the steady words of the stranger. ‘A new age is dawning,’ he began, a steady and irreversible rhythm playing on his lips, ‘When the old who have served their purpose must wane and finally pass out of the sight of men, for like the sun is eclipsed by the moon, the new order must usurp the past and lead us out of this night, for a new, red dawn is rising!’
His voice betrayed no excitement, but the sheer power within his tone commanded respect and authority. On the stone bed, the final altar, the dying man croaked incoherently as he tried to protest. The speaking figure, his massive frame silhouetted against the dark wall, showed no recognition of this pathetic attempt to assert the forgotten authority of an age past. A drum began to sound, a slow and steady beat that moved with a sense of ultimate intention while the figure continued, his rich voice sounding like a death knell, a tolling bell. ‘Now, now the blood must run of that forgotten epoch must run as time itself runs. The cry of pain must sound as a crowing trumpet sounded in the glorious battles of old. Now the flesh must burn as the pyres of the heroes of old consumed themselves in an ecstasy fire. Now! Now the blood must run as the river, as time, as the blood of the people themselves.’ The drum beat rose into an orgasm of rhythm and the chant dropped into a beautiful cadence the figure drew a shining ornamental knife, an embodiment of death itself, from the folds of his cloak. He raised the gleaming blade high above his head, his own voice falling into a mesmerised chant, ‘The lamb of God, we perish you for our sins as we ourselves will perish for our sins. Man, from dust you came and to dust you shall return!’
The knife fell. It sung through the air, effortlessly driving itself through skin, vessels, bone. As the moral blood blossomed from the open wound, he retracted the knife, and the figure remained without any emotion of pity or empathy for the wretched man lying prostrate before him, raking his lungs and coughing up sickly black blood. Sanchez broke the silence with a ghostly death rattle, like the howling of the wind it permeated every corner of the room, and the hearts of the assembled men. They let out a collective drone of finality, as the epoch of Sanchez ended, and the age something new and terrifying had begun. The figure, up till now shrouded in total darkness slipped the hood from his head, revealing himself for the first time. His thick set and pale face, contrasted by his black as the night hair, emulated a sense of power, of authority, of leadership. He took a flaming torch from the wall, and threw it unceremoniously unto the dead man. As the flames feasted on his flesh, the unhooded man spoke again, a cold fury in his voice that reeked of a sense of destiny. ‘Let them know,’ he uttered, his throat chocked with pride, ‘That Koda the Ruin of Ages has arisen, and the world must take notice.’
As the funeral pyre roared in life, he turned his back upon the smoky chamber, his duties as leader of Momanguise already playing like devils upon his mind.