Industrial Experiment
10-03-2005, 04:35
Deep within the bowels of the Earth, nearly a kilometer below the lowest basement of the Palace of Fire, sits a room that has never even imagined the blood red skies of Mainland or the charred landscape of Ra-oold. In fact, this room has never known anything except a moment of extreme pressure and power and than an eternity of deadly heat. This room, in all purposes of the phrase, is Hell on Earth. It also happens to be the personal meditation chamber of Lord Purgatto de Flamme, the Purifying Flame, the established deity of the Cult of the Purifying Flame. As it stood, he was occupying the room, but not entirely alone.
With him was one of his two oldest acolytes, the very first converts to his new religion. This man, a lifetime ago, had been a member of the resistance on Mainland against the facists on Ra-oold. A young, spritely lieutenant at the time, he was now the second most hated man by all the very few free peoples of Mainland. His god, the other man in the chamber, was the first.
It would have done the sparsely populated nation of cave-dwellers who were the only ones to escape Lord Purgatto's "recruitment" drive a very good deal of pleasure to know the amount of pain the man was going through at the moment. It would have done them a significantly less amount of good to know he could so easily shrug it off as to ignore it -- almost. He was still on the edge of having siezures on the red-stone altar he was strapped to, kept sane only by the constant heat of the virtual lake of fire that surrounded him and his high priest. Such heat would be enough to melt a normal man, indeed, the priest was suffering from considerable discomfort, putting up with it only because it was his unholy duty.
In his hands was an ashen bowl, deceptivily resembling clay but, in fact, made of a titanium composite. At the bottom of the bowl was nothing less than several ounces of liquid gold.
"My Great Lord, you must be still. I know your breathing becomes increasingly laboured and painful, but you must be still!"
Even though it would have been impossible for the Lord to have heard his acolyte from his nearly comatose state, he seemed to nevertheless understand. His convulsions slowed until they stopped entirely, leaving him resting on the stone slab in an almost zen-like state.
"Thank you My Lord, I shall begin the procedure now".
Placing the bowl of molten gold at the head of the slab only a few inches above his master's, the priest reached into his flowing robes of what looked like living flames and removed several medical instruments, already glowing red hot from the ambient heat of the room. He moved to the head of the table, reaching over the bowl of gold, muttered a pray, and went on with his task.
Almost immediately, the convulsions returned, Lord Purgatto thrashing against his restraints as his acolyte proceeded to dig out his eyeballs from their sockets with the antiquited tools. After a minute of struggle, the priest now held the two masses of gooey jello in his hands. He uttered another prayer as he turned and walked to the side of the small island in the sea of lava that the room was made up of.
When he reached the edge, he raised his hands, one eye to a hand, and began a louder, more powerful incantation in the language of fire, a derivitive of the language the men from the stars has spoken nearly a century ago.
Giyasu mishnu lakito bashar!
Repeating the same phrase several times over, he dropped the contents of his palms into the lava, never stopping his chant. He continued it as he walked once more to the head of his master's restraining table. The Lord himself had fallen completely comatose now, gone from the world but for a glimmering of tears from his now destroyed tearducts. The priest looked down upon the visage before him, seeing only beauty and purity, marred only slightly by blood. Reaching down, he brushed away the impeding fluid, ignoring the pain of his palms burning where they contacted his master's flesh.
Once the blood had been brushed off of the Lord's face and had fallen into channels on the side of the stone altar to slowly evaporate, the priest once more lifted the bowl of liquid gold and positioned it over the sockets that had just minutes before held the Lord's eyes. In one swift motion, he emptied the bowl, spilling half of it into one socket and half into the other. The thrashing returned, but on a smaller scale, allowing the priest to restrain his master's head enough to force the eyelids closed over their new occupants.
With that, he walked away, over the thin bridge that led across the lake of magma and up the thousands of stairs back into the Palace of Flame. His master would be able to release himself when he awoke and, once that happened, they would provide him with the breathing apparatus that would prevent his immense body temperature from scalding his throat.
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The orders were simple.
After the Lord had emerged from his meditations, the physical changes to his body had become obvious. All pigments had been burned from his body, his hair completely gone and replaced by a forest of swept back black metal spikes. His mouth and the front of his cheeks were completely covered by and equally black breaking mask, the heat that emerged from it visible as waves of air.
But his eyes were the most disconcerting. When he opened his eyes, you could see the gleaming molten gold that had replaced the things of poor flesh he had once had. The gold would never solidify, his body was far too hot: it would forever swirl in a mesmorizing whirlpool.
His first act had been to order the Cult to expand. Missionaries would be sent to nations around to find converts and to encourage as many as they could to make a pilgrimage to Mainland, to experience the wonderous world that was De gos Cullato cu Flamme, the Great City of Flame in the tongue of the starmen. There, they could be inducted as initiates of the Cult, personal and eternal servents to the one true god: Lord Purgatto de Flamme.
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OoC: Hello, finally putting this storyline to use. Feel free to RP a Cult missionary's calling of a meeting in your nation (with varying degrees of acceptence among your populace), I will be sure to respond properly. If this goes well, I will be willing to continue an RP with any number of you as various groups of peoples from your nations come to Mainland to be "converted" (read: brainwashed) into members of the Cult.
With him was one of his two oldest acolytes, the very first converts to his new religion. This man, a lifetime ago, had been a member of the resistance on Mainland against the facists on Ra-oold. A young, spritely lieutenant at the time, he was now the second most hated man by all the very few free peoples of Mainland. His god, the other man in the chamber, was the first.
It would have done the sparsely populated nation of cave-dwellers who were the only ones to escape Lord Purgatto's "recruitment" drive a very good deal of pleasure to know the amount of pain the man was going through at the moment. It would have done them a significantly less amount of good to know he could so easily shrug it off as to ignore it -- almost. He was still on the edge of having siezures on the red-stone altar he was strapped to, kept sane only by the constant heat of the virtual lake of fire that surrounded him and his high priest. Such heat would be enough to melt a normal man, indeed, the priest was suffering from considerable discomfort, putting up with it only because it was his unholy duty.
In his hands was an ashen bowl, deceptivily resembling clay but, in fact, made of a titanium composite. At the bottom of the bowl was nothing less than several ounces of liquid gold.
"My Great Lord, you must be still. I know your breathing becomes increasingly laboured and painful, but you must be still!"
Even though it would have been impossible for the Lord to have heard his acolyte from his nearly comatose state, he seemed to nevertheless understand. His convulsions slowed until they stopped entirely, leaving him resting on the stone slab in an almost zen-like state.
"Thank you My Lord, I shall begin the procedure now".
Placing the bowl of molten gold at the head of the slab only a few inches above his master's, the priest reached into his flowing robes of what looked like living flames and removed several medical instruments, already glowing red hot from the ambient heat of the room. He moved to the head of the table, reaching over the bowl of gold, muttered a pray, and went on with his task.
Almost immediately, the convulsions returned, Lord Purgatto thrashing against his restraints as his acolyte proceeded to dig out his eyeballs from their sockets with the antiquited tools. After a minute of struggle, the priest now held the two masses of gooey jello in his hands. He uttered another prayer as he turned and walked to the side of the small island in the sea of lava that the room was made up of.
When he reached the edge, he raised his hands, one eye to a hand, and began a louder, more powerful incantation in the language of fire, a derivitive of the language the men from the stars has spoken nearly a century ago.
Giyasu mishnu lakito bashar!
Repeating the same phrase several times over, he dropped the contents of his palms into the lava, never stopping his chant. He continued it as he walked once more to the head of his master's restraining table. The Lord himself had fallen completely comatose now, gone from the world but for a glimmering of tears from his now destroyed tearducts. The priest looked down upon the visage before him, seeing only beauty and purity, marred only slightly by blood. Reaching down, he brushed away the impeding fluid, ignoring the pain of his palms burning where they contacted his master's flesh.
Once the blood had been brushed off of the Lord's face and had fallen into channels on the side of the stone altar to slowly evaporate, the priest once more lifted the bowl of liquid gold and positioned it over the sockets that had just minutes before held the Lord's eyes. In one swift motion, he emptied the bowl, spilling half of it into one socket and half into the other. The thrashing returned, but on a smaller scale, allowing the priest to restrain his master's head enough to force the eyelids closed over their new occupants.
With that, he walked away, over the thin bridge that led across the lake of magma and up the thousands of stairs back into the Palace of Flame. His master would be able to release himself when he awoke and, once that happened, they would provide him with the breathing apparatus that would prevent his immense body temperature from scalding his throat.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
The orders were simple.
After the Lord had emerged from his meditations, the physical changes to his body had become obvious. All pigments had been burned from his body, his hair completely gone and replaced by a forest of swept back black metal spikes. His mouth and the front of his cheeks were completely covered by and equally black breaking mask, the heat that emerged from it visible as waves of air.
But his eyes were the most disconcerting. When he opened his eyes, you could see the gleaming molten gold that had replaced the things of poor flesh he had once had. The gold would never solidify, his body was far too hot: it would forever swirl in a mesmorizing whirlpool.
His first act had been to order the Cult to expand. Missionaries would be sent to nations around to find converts and to encourage as many as they could to make a pilgrimage to Mainland, to experience the wonderous world that was De gos Cullato cu Flamme, the Great City of Flame in the tongue of the starmen. There, they could be inducted as initiates of the Cult, personal and eternal servents to the one true god: Lord Purgatto de Flamme.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
OoC: Hello, finally putting this storyline to use. Feel free to RP a Cult missionary's calling of a meeting in your nation (with varying degrees of acceptence among your populace), I will be sure to respond properly. If this goes well, I will be willing to continue an RP with any number of you as various groups of peoples from your nations come to Mainland to be "converted" (read: brainwashed) into members of the Cult.