Generic empire
05-12-2004, 05:31
“Cowards! Come out from your vile holes and face me like men! Or are you slime-washed dogs instead?!”
“Hear that! The son of the weaker one calls us cowards! If it was the same blood that coursed his father’s veins as courses his, then I can see why he didn’t last long! Do you recall his death?! Murdered on his own throne! Now the bastard brandishes the word coward!”
Laughter resounds from hidden sources.
“Octavius, fool! Come down here and do penance for your slandering of my father’s name!”
“Look at him now! Standing in broad daylight in the middle of the street! Have you inherited your father’s common sense as well? You wave that saber about like a fucking dancer! What do you say, boys? Let’s see him dance!”
Gunshots ring out in a wide street in a quiet town. The figure who calls from the street dives to the side as mountains of dust and concrete explode about his feet, products of the red dots that move quickly across the pavement, searching for a target.
“Look at the great man now! Running like a startled rabbit! What’s the matter, Varus? Afraid of a little sport?”
The figure who runs now crouches behind the corner of a building, hiding from the red dots. He breathes heavily, waiting. He is alone.
Several minutes pass.
“Afraid of death, Varus? Well then, if you won’t come to us, we’ll have to go get you. Alexander! Bring our friend up to us!
Footsteps fall heavily on a wooden staircase behind a closed door. A large, bearded man barrels out into the street. He bears a shotgun and a wild grin. The figure who hides stops breathing, but continues to wait. The large man calls in strange tongues as he slowly approaches the hiding place.
The large man draws closer. He stops suddenly and chuckles under his breath as his eyes catch sight of a quick flash, glinting metal. He begins to move forward again, his weapon raised. He rounds the corner to find the hiding man crouched, his back to him, praying, apparently. The large man laughs again as he reaches forward with a powerful hand to grab the man’s shoulder, and apprehend him.
The hiding man is in fact not praying, but instead huddling over a sharp, shining steel cross, a present from a day long gone. He feels the hand coming up behind him, and he strikes. The figure spins around to face the man, the cross flashing through the air, burying itself deep in the large man’s side. The large man’s expression is no longer one of suppressed amusement. Now his features contort into the mask of excruciating pain brought about by a steel object lodged in one’s kidney. The shotgun falls to the ground.
The man who kills draws the cross sharply out of the still breathing man, and turns the body, so that the eyes no longer stare into his. The large man gasps for breath as his blood coats the hands of the man who now uses him as a shield to protect himself. The figure returns the cross to his pocket, and picks up the shotgun. He then moves out into the street.
“You can shoot at me to your heart’s content! You will hit nothing!”
“Wipe that smile from your face! He was always just a worthless sack of lard! I should thank you for taking the oaf off of my hands!”
“A worthless sack of lard, yes, but one who is quite adept at stopping bullets!”
The man who is made bold by his shield begins to move forward towards the building where the man who taunts him waits. Occasional shots are unleashed at the figure, landing with a meaty thud in the belly of the large man. The shield groans at the impact of the bullets, and breathes his last.
The man nears the building, and suddenly drops his shield, sprinting towards the open entrance, the door blown away by a stray grenade. The man enters the dark tenement building, and his eyes begin to adjust to the dim.
There is a staircase directly in front of him. He approaches it and begins to ascend. On the level above, the floor creaks. The man stops, and raises his weapon. He continues to ascend, slowly now. He reaches the top of the staircase, and takes a left. He moves slowly, with great caution. There are six doors on either side of the hallway, some open, some closed, some locked.
Then there comes a sound, a sound that stops the man’s heart. A metallic ‘tink’ as a small cylinder rolls out into the hall from an open door. The man stops, breathes, and dives to the right, through another door. The roar of the explosion deafens him. Another man appears in the doorway. The man fires a shotgun round into the other’s chest. The man who kills twice stands and returns to the hallway in time to catch a second man running into the hall. The man fires, and the second man’s legs are no longer one with his body.
The man will proceed to the end of the hall, whereupon he will open a door. When he enters the room on the other side of this door, he will set in motion a series of events that he cannot at this moment hope to percieve.
The man’s name is Quintus Varus Alexei, son of the late Tiberius Alexei. Tiberius Alexei held, for a short time, the esteemed position of Emperor of Generia. Tiberius lost his life in the same war that claimed the lives of his sister, brother, and father, the war that led to the rise of Antonius I, now sovereign lord of Generia. Varus, as he is commonly referred to, holds the rank of Captain in the Imperial Praetorian Guard. He is twenty-seven.
The man who taunts Quintus Varus Alexei is Octavius Marus, a rogue. This man also once held the rank of Captain in the Imperial Praetorian Guard. The number 796100 is tattooed on his left forearm.
The two have never met in person.
The city, or more appropriately town, is Garograd in the north of the Generian province of Buchiana.
Varus opens the door to meet the muzzle of a high caliber rifle pointed directly at his heart. Octavius is on the other end of this rifle. Two gunshots ensue; one is a distinct crack, the other a loud roar.
Fortunate Son
Three figures sat around a polished table in a darkened conference room. A screen on the wall displayed a photograph of a man’s face.
“He looks remarkably pleased with himself, for a corpse.”
“He would be pleased though, wouldn’t he? Bastard’s caused us a lot of trouble in the past few months.”
“True. I was afraid I would not live to see him punished.”
“Justice has always been kind to the Empire. Those who betray her are seldom able to avoid her wrathful hand.”
“Yes. A shame that her agent lost his life in the process, though.”
“A shame.”
--------------------------------
Emperor Antonius stroked the stubble on his chin as he raised a glass to his lips. The sunlight bathed the long dining room, reflecting off of the silver platters that held the Emperor’s breakfast. A man stood beside the Emperor’s chair.
“Your grace, you will be pleased to learn that your nephew is alive.”
“Is he indeed?”
“Indeed, your grace. He now rests at a hospital in New Bucharest. Unfortunately, he is not conscious.”
“Well, I suppose fortune is not that generous, is she?”
“Apparently not, Lord.”
“Still, the service he has performed for the Empire is well worth any personal harm he may have sustained as a result.”
“Yes Lord. This he knows.”
“I am sure. And what of Octavius’s remains?”
Chancellor Rubellai fell temporarily silent.
“Your eminence, I fear not even you are aware of this…”
The Emperor broke from his dining and turned to face the Chancellor.
“He breathes also.”
“Octavius?”
“Yes Lord. His heart beats still, though we hold him in our custody.”
“Where is he?”
“Nod.”
((OOC: Continued at another time.))
“Hear that! The son of the weaker one calls us cowards! If it was the same blood that coursed his father’s veins as courses his, then I can see why he didn’t last long! Do you recall his death?! Murdered on his own throne! Now the bastard brandishes the word coward!”
Laughter resounds from hidden sources.
“Octavius, fool! Come down here and do penance for your slandering of my father’s name!”
“Look at him now! Standing in broad daylight in the middle of the street! Have you inherited your father’s common sense as well? You wave that saber about like a fucking dancer! What do you say, boys? Let’s see him dance!”
Gunshots ring out in a wide street in a quiet town. The figure who calls from the street dives to the side as mountains of dust and concrete explode about his feet, products of the red dots that move quickly across the pavement, searching for a target.
“Look at the great man now! Running like a startled rabbit! What’s the matter, Varus? Afraid of a little sport?”
The figure who runs now crouches behind the corner of a building, hiding from the red dots. He breathes heavily, waiting. He is alone.
Several minutes pass.
“Afraid of death, Varus? Well then, if you won’t come to us, we’ll have to go get you. Alexander! Bring our friend up to us!
Footsteps fall heavily on a wooden staircase behind a closed door. A large, bearded man barrels out into the street. He bears a shotgun and a wild grin. The figure who hides stops breathing, but continues to wait. The large man calls in strange tongues as he slowly approaches the hiding place.
The large man draws closer. He stops suddenly and chuckles under his breath as his eyes catch sight of a quick flash, glinting metal. He begins to move forward again, his weapon raised. He rounds the corner to find the hiding man crouched, his back to him, praying, apparently. The large man laughs again as he reaches forward with a powerful hand to grab the man’s shoulder, and apprehend him.
The hiding man is in fact not praying, but instead huddling over a sharp, shining steel cross, a present from a day long gone. He feels the hand coming up behind him, and he strikes. The figure spins around to face the man, the cross flashing through the air, burying itself deep in the large man’s side. The large man’s expression is no longer one of suppressed amusement. Now his features contort into the mask of excruciating pain brought about by a steel object lodged in one’s kidney. The shotgun falls to the ground.
The man who kills draws the cross sharply out of the still breathing man, and turns the body, so that the eyes no longer stare into his. The large man gasps for breath as his blood coats the hands of the man who now uses him as a shield to protect himself. The figure returns the cross to his pocket, and picks up the shotgun. He then moves out into the street.
“You can shoot at me to your heart’s content! You will hit nothing!”
“Wipe that smile from your face! He was always just a worthless sack of lard! I should thank you for taking the oaf off of my hands!”
“A worthless sack of lard, yes, but one who is quite adept at stopping bullets!”
The man who is made bold by his shield begins to move forward towards the building where the man who taunts him waits. Occasional shots are unleashed at the figure, landing with a meaty thud in the belly of the large man. The shield groans at the impact of the bullets, and breathes his last.
The man nears the building, and suddenly drops his shield, sprinting towards the open entrance, the door blown away by a stray grenade. The man enters the dark tenement building, and his eyes begin to adjust to the dim.
There is a staircase directly in front of him. He approaches it and begins to ascend. On the level above, the floor creaks. The man stops, and raises his weapon. He continues to ascend, slowly now. He reaches the top of the staircase, and takes a left. He moves slowly, with great caution. There are six doors on either side of the hallway, some open, some closed, some locked.
Then there comes a sound, a sound that stops the man’s heart. A metallic ‘tink’ as a small cylinder rolls out into the hall from an open door. The man stops, breathes, and dives to the right, through another door. The roar of the explosion deafens him. Another man appears in the doorway. The man fires a shotgun round into the other’s chest. The man who kills twice stands and returns to the hallway in time to catch a second man running into the hall. The man fires, and the second man’s legs are no longer one with his body.
The man will proceed to the end of the hall, whereupon he will open a door. When he enters the room on the other side of this door, he will set in motion a series of events that he cannot at this moment hope to percieve.
The man’s name is Quintus Varus Alexei, son of the late Tiberius Alexei. Tiberius Alexei held, for a short time, the esteemed position of Emperor of Generia. Tiberius lost his life in the same war that claimed the lives of his sister, brother, and father, the war that led to the rise of Antonius I, now sovereign lord of Generia. Varus, as he is commonly referred to, holds the rank of Captain in the Imperial Praetorian Guard. He is twenty-seven.
The man who taunts Quintus Varus Alexei is Octavius Marus, a rogue. This man also once held the rank of Captain in the Imperial Praetorian Guard. The number 796100 is tattooed on his left forearm.
The two have never met in person.
The city, or more appropriately town, is Garograd in the north of the Generian province of Buchiana.
Varus opens the door to meet the muzzle of a high caliber rifle pointed directly at his heart. Octavius is on the other end of this rifle. Two gunshots ensue; one is a distinct crack, the other a loud roar.
Fortunate Son
Three figures sat around a polished table in a darkened conference room. A screen on the wall displayed a photograph of a man’s face.
“He looks remarkably pleased with himself, for a corpse.”
“He would be pleased though, wouldn’t he? Bastard’s caused us a lot of trouble in the past few months.”
“True. I was afraid I would not live to see him punished.”
“Justice has always been kind to the Empire. Those who betray her are seldom able to avoid her wrathful hand.”
“Yes. A shame that her agent lost his life in the process, though.”
“A shame.”
--------------------------------
Emperor Antonius stroked the stubble on his chin as he raised a glass to his lips. The sunlight bathed the long dining room, reflecting off of the silver platters that held the Emperor’s breakfast. A man stood beside the Emperor’s chair.
“Your grace, you will be pleased to learn that your nephew is alive.”
“Is he indeed?”
“Indeed, your grace. He now rests at a hospital in New Bucharest. Unfortunately, he is not conscious.”
“Well, I suppose fortune is not that generous, is she?”
“Apparently not, Lord.”
“Still, the service he has performed for the Empire is well worth any personal harm he may have sustained as a result.”
“Yes Lord. This he knows.”
“I am sure. And what of Octavius’s remains?”
Chancellor Rubellai fell temporarily silent.
“Your eminence, I fear not even you are aware of this…”
The Emperor broke from his dining and turned to face the Chancellor.
“He breathes also.”
“Octavius?”
“Yes Lord. His heart beats still, though we hold him in our custody.”
“Where is he?”
“Nod.”
((OOC: Continued at another time.))