Momanguise
30-12-2004, 14:09
The Prelude
The man, shrouded in darkness, ran his hands over the keyboard of the silent grand piano. Like Ovids flea his fingers jumped and hung like daggers in the silence, before plunging into a sea of music. A slow and graceful piece, Harlseare's Sarabande in G major, it rang through the empty halls of the Whitsun Palace like the voice of the kindly god. As the piece reached a great cresendo he modulated into the minor and withdrew at the moment that the awaiting cadance would fall, and the music hung uneasily unresolved in the silence.
The man himself stood, pen poised like a sword. And like a sword it was not mere cold metal at the tip, put immortal and all encompasing death. The power held in this simple object seemed to dance and entice him, the power over life and death held in the stoke of ink. Drawing a rough piece of manuscript before him, he penned a title, the swirling implications already manifesting themselves before his words.
The Recknynge, the Righteous and most Justified defence oft the Good peoples of Momanguise. To be pursued with Reckless courage and immediate execution.
The pen continued to fly accross the page, as the future played itself out in a pre-emptive strike of words. Late into the night, the document was finally finished, and the sound of the piano sounded once more.
The Broken Dream
The child was awoken by the low hum of an engine. She pulled her sheets from off her, and tiptoed to the open window. Below a truck had pulled onto the pavement and as she watched in innocent fascination, soldier after soldier poured from the tight cloth covering. They congregated, with a guilty look of excitment on their faces as the sergent let them into the neighbouring house, and the child let out a slow sigh of relief. This was broken by an explosion of light and a thundering crack of submachine gun bullets, and she flinched from the noise and dived back into bed as all around her pandamonium reigned. Now out of sight, the body of a young intellectual was dragged roughly, the spread of the bullets clearly visable upon his unarmoured person. The sergeant clicked his heels, and with a cruel smile made a note against the mans name, shote while resisting apprehension. As the truck, with the corpse in tow, sped into the night, the blood dried in the eire light of the dawn.
Morning came, and in another part of town a truck of the same make made a quiet vigil. Inside where the prisoners, two men and the youthful 'Countess' of Messex, the self styled Duchess of Momanguise. Now her wealth, her beauty even, accounted for nothing. Clad in a ill fitting sack garment, she was not even 'concealed' from the prying eyes of the accompanying soldiers. One leaned forwards, and with an eye fixed on her back, muttered to his campanion, "Looks like we have ourselves a Lady". He allowed himself a slow drawl on his last word, and it hung in the air like a waiting fury. His comrade chuckled, and with a leachorous undertone hissed at her, "Then prehaps the good lady would like to play the buttock ball with some lowly paupers". This was greeted with even more sardonic laughter, as he leaned forwards placing his hands on her shoulders. "Prehaps", he continued with a twisted snarl on his face, "The Fascist whore would not look down her nose at a heavy panting lover, taking her from her sins". She flinched and pulled away from him, but her chains kept her in place. The soldier slapped the back of her head and slipped a knife blade under her throat, and she stopped stock still, her breath caught in her throat. The soldier laughed again, and slid his free hand down her sack, grapsing and feeling with lustful abondunce. "Looks like the whore responds to the steel, and she will take the flesh that begat the steel too" he hissed in her ear, as his comrade began to take her by her shoulders. The truck stopped suddenly, and laughing they dragged her roughly to the square where the real punishment awaited.
Manhandled she was taken to the peoples square, where with a hundred other transgressors she would become an example. The prisoners were all stipped naked, and the jeering and learing crowds hoots of expectant crowd. If she had contemplated the nature of either her punishment or her crime, a great notice was pinned for all to see.
The Recknynge, the Righteous and most Justified defence oft the Good peoples of Momanguise. To be pursued with Reckless courage and immediate execution.
The corparel punishement to be enacted immediately for above mention defence oft Momanguise. For those Harlots that hath betrayed both themselves and their God by prostituting themselves to the bastard creed of Fascism, they art to be Whipped and humiliated in the eye of the publique domain, whereafter they will be consigned to the usage of the government services. God hath passed his judgement on these heathen, and rejoice their reiteous punishment.
It went on, but she could not read more for the tears welling in her eyes. Kneeling in a submussive position, the whip was raised and for fifty lashes she cried as the crowd shouted in delight of ecstasy. As her back bled, the soldier she had seen took her roughly by the arm and slipped back on the sacking. "I take thee for my paramour, to serve me in any form that I desire" he muttered in her ear, as they disappear into the darkness.
The man, shrouded in darkness, ran his hands over the keyboard of the silent grand piano. Like Ovids flea his fingers jumped and hung like daggers in the silence, before plunging into a sea of music. A slow and graceful piece, Harlseare's Sarabande in G major, it rang through the empty halls of the Whitsun Palace like the voice of the kindly god. As the piece reached a great cresendo he modulated into the minor and withdrew at the moment that the awaiting cadance would fall, and the music hung uneasily unresolved in the silence.
The man himself stood, pen poised like a sword. And like a sword it was not mere cold metal at the tip, put immortal and all encompasing death. The power held in this simple object seemed to dance and entice him, the power over life and death held in the stoke of ink. Drawing a rough piece of manuscript before him, he penned a title, the swirling implications already manifesting themselves before his words.
The Recknynge, the Righteous and most Justified defence oft the Good peoples of Momanguise. To be pursued with Reckless courage and immediate execution.
The pen continued to fly accross the page, as the future played itself out in a pre-emptive strike of words. Late into the night, the document was finally finished, and the sound of the piano sounded once more.
The Broken Dream
The child was awoken by the low hum of an engine. She pulled her sheets from off her, and tiptoed to the open window. Below a truck had pulled onto the pavement and as she watched in innocent fascination, soldier after soldier poured from the tight cloth covering. They congregated, with a guilty look of excitment on their faces as the sergent let them into the neighbouring house, and the child let out a slow sigh of relief. This was broken by an explosion of light and a thundering crack of submachine gun bullets, and she flinched from the noise and dived back into bed as all around her pandamonium reigned. Now out of sight, the body of a young intellectual was dragged roughly, the spread of the bullets clearly visable upon his unarmoured person. The sergeant clicked his heels, and with a cruel smile made a note against the mans name, shote while resisting apprehension. As the truck, with the corpse in tow, sped into the night, the blood dried in the eire light of the dawn.
Morning came, and in another part of town a truck of the same make made a quiet vigil. Inside where the prisoners, two men and the youthful 'Countess' of Messex, the self styled Duchess of Momanguise. Now her wealth, her beauty even, accounted for nothing. Clad in a ill fitting sack garment, she was not even 'concealed' from the prying eyes of the accompanying soldiers. One leaned forwards, and with an eye fixed on her back, muttered to his campanion, "Looks like we have ourselves a Lady". He allowed himself a slow drawl on his last word, and it hung in the air like a waiting fury. His comrade chuckled, and with a leachorous undertone hissed at her, "Then prehaps the good lady would like to play the buttock ball with some lowly paupers". This was greeted with even more sardonic laughter, as he leaned forwards placing his hands on her shoulders. "Prehaps", he continued with a twisted snarl on his face, "The Fascist whore would not look down her nose at a heavy panting lover, taking her from her sins". She flinched and pulled away from him, but her chains kept her in place. The soldier slapped the back of her head and slipped a knife blade under her throat, and she stopped stock still, her breath caught in her throat. The soldier laughed again, and slid his free hand down her sack, grapsing and feeling with lustful abondunce. "Looks like the whore responds to the steel, and she will take the flesh that begat the steel too" he hissed in her ear, as his comrade began to take her by her shoulders. The truck stopped suddenly, and laughing they dragged her roughly to the square where the real punishment awaited.
Manhandled she was taken to the peoples square, where with a hundred other transgressors she would become an example. The prisoners were all stipped naked, and the jeering and learing crowds hoots of expectant crowd. If she had contemplated the nature of either her punishment or her crime, a great notice was pinned for all to see.
The Recknynge, the Righteous and most Justified defence oft the Good peoples of Momanguise. To be pursued with Reckless courage and immediate execution.
The corparel punishement to be enacted immediately for above mention defence oft Momanguise. For those Harlots that hath betrayed both themselves and their God by prostituting themselves to the bastard creed of Fascism, they art to be Whipped and humiliated in the eye of the publique domain, whereafter they will be consigned to the usage of the government services. God hath passed his judgement on these heathen, and rejoice their reiteous punishment.
It went on, but she could not read more for the tears welling in her eyes. Kneeling in a submussive position, the whip was raised and for fifty lashes she cried as the crowd shouted in delight of ecstasy. As her back bled, the soldier she had seen took her roughly by the arm and slipped back on the sacking. "I take thee for my paramour, to serve me in any form that I desire" he muttered in her ear, as they disappear into the darkness.