Rotovia-
25-06-2006, 12:02
The limousine was heavily scented with a mixture of fine perfume, new leather and a gentle whiff of cigar smoke, the purple-velvet curls of which licked the roof.
Semi-lit, shadows danced off the walls as Queen Helena Bacchus XIV, Empress of Rotovia, rolled her wrist, allowing the brilliant refraction of light to glimmer off her jewellery laden fingers.
In her other hand sat a cigar, which from time to time she would tap into an empty champagne glass -the contents of which had finished off before an annoying aid could dissuade the aging monarch from consuming before a diplomatic briefing.
Despite her growing age, she was not an unattractive woman. Though, in her day, she had courted many a young man's heart and to this day, her face bore the distinctive structure and poise of a woman whom nature had endowed the gift of gentile beauty.
Brushing a snow white feature from her starched white blouse, she stopped, looked towards the roof and gasped.
Casting the cigar to the ground, her fingers danced in the air, the corners of her mouth covered in froth, her body violently pulsating and retching... and just like that, without order or grandiose befitting a Queen, she was dead.
It was not until the car reached the Diplomatic Offices that anyone was to know, the Queen invoking ancient tradition and never riding with a commoner. The press, gathered to question her on the report she was about to receive on a Rotovian colony who's name was no doubt longer than the land mass, watched on, as the door was opened and body of the single most powerful woman in the Commonwealth rolled to floor, her tongue rolled from the corner of her mouth and onto the pavement.
Aides quickly rushed to cover the embarrassment of the regal corpse, and in the first time plebeian hands would ever press royal flesh they attempted to check her pulse.
"The Queen is dead!" came a cry from the crowd.
Gasps were soon to follow.
-----
A young, black robed, noble-lady ran across the street, to perform the solemn duty of her house. Summoning two Praetorian Guardsmen she ordered the doors to the Senate House splintered open.
Without question her orders to destroy the three hundred year old doors was followed, she rushed in.
"This House is dissolved! The Queen is dead! Long live the King!"
In a tradition not observed for a hundred years, the Queen having reigned for over a century, the Senate was ordered from chamber and elite military force, The Praetorian Guard assuming command of the nation.
Semi-lit, shadows danced off the walls as Queen Helena Bacchus XIV, Empress of Rotovia, rolled her wrist, allowing the brilliant refraction of light to glimmer off her jewellery laden fingers.
In her other hand sat a cigar, which from time to time she would tap into an empty champagne glass -the contents of which had finished off before an annoying aid could dissuade the aging monarch from consuming before a diplomatic briefing.
Despite her growing age, she was not an unattractive woman. Though, in her day, she had courted many a young man's heart and to this day, her face bore the distinctive structure and poise of a woman whom nature had endowed the gift of gentile beauty.
Brushing a snow white feature from her starched white blouse, she stopped, looked towards the roof and gasped.
Casting the cigar to the ground, her fingers danced in the air, the corners of her mouth covered in froth, her body violently pulsating and retching... and just like that, without order or grandiose befitting a Queen, she was dead.
It was not until the car reached the Diplomatic Offices that anyone was to know, the Queen invoking ancient tradition and never riding with a commoner. The press, gathered to question her on the report she was about to receive on a Rotovian colony who's name was no doubt longer than the land mass, watched on, as the door was opened and body of the single most powerful woman in the Commonwealth rolled to floor, her tongue rolled from the corner of her mouth and onto the pavement.
Aides quickly rushed to cover the embarrassment of the regal corpse, and in the first time plebeian hands would ever press royal flesh they attempted to check her pulse.
"The Queen is dead!" came a cry from the crowd.
Gasps were soon to follow.
-----
A young, black robed, noble-lady ran across the street, to perform the solemn duty of her house. Summoning two Praetorian Guardsmen she ordered the doors to the Senate House splintered open.
Without question her orders to destroy the three hundred year old doors was followed, she rushed in.
"This House is dissolved! The Queen is dead! Long live the King!"
In a tradition not observed for a hundred years, the Queen having reigned for over a century, the Senate was ordered from chamber and elite military force, The Praetorian Guard assuming command of the nation.