Viasperon's Story - Chapter 2 (First Draft)
(I hope you like it, but it's just a first draft at the moment and I tend to write a bit stream of consciousness so it might not read as easily as it should. Please let me know if it needs amending, though, as I want to improve my skills).
Breaking out of his reverie, he supped the wine from his force's latest conquest: the beverage was passable for such an unrefined and amateur race, but the remembrance of how it was gained was a much more fulfilling vintage:
Those that some called 'humans’ had put up a spirited -yet futile- resistance on the planet. As was their sole role in life, they had been prey to the Kabal’s ambushes and lightning-fast strikes which had torn the heart out of their armoured columns. The then-dismounted infantry had been gunned down by millions of venomous splinterweapon shards as they ran for cover.
The ones who found such refuge -perhaps half of their number- had swiftly discovered that their shelters were not empty: the vegetation and rubble hid slayers aplenty that had been drawn from the Cult and also the beast-cages had been opened to unleash the latest strains of ravenous beasts, bred-for-war in the arenas.
As Viasperon stood amongst the smoking remains of the shattered command bunker, he had replayed over and over the the delight he had felt as it’s walls eventually collapsed under the withering hail of dark- and void- lances arrayed against it. Even when it had fallen, several gunnners had become carried away and continued blasting at the rubble. It was a good sign that hatred ran strong indeed through their veins.
The enemy General and his adjutants would be some one of the last to perish, succumbing at their army's last gasp beneath the rising and falling double-handed klaives of his Incubi enforcers. Their final shouts of anger and piercing screams clung to the breeze, wafting like a playful zephyr around the remnants of the defenders’ dying forces, yet soon even these lone voices of defiance were drowned out by the sounds of weapons contacting the owners’ already-butchered bodies.
The years hurtled forwards as past victories made way for the present and the Archon recalled that -time and time again- he was becoming increasingly lost in old memory and faded campaigns. It was a "joyous side-effect of glutting upon souls", or so he had been told by his Chief Haemonculus, Maeroth.
Little that their race said could be fully trusted, but Viasperon held Maeroth's chains of loyalty as tightly as he did those of any other amongst his Court...Since their exile from Commorragh, there had been scant few others willing to supply the depraved surgeon with so many tantalising bodies to experiment upon and it had ultimately proven to be an offer that someone of Maeroth’s predilections could not refuse.
From the Northern corridor, he heard a gaggle of laughter, accompanied by a snarl and then the sounds of a body hitting the floor from the Eastern Walkway...both noises announced the arrival of the last of his Council:
The sounds of amusement were accentuated by multitudinous clicking of high-heeled boots upon the stolen marble as the Wych Cadre of his Lieutenant Velouria entered the dome-ceilinged chamber. Despite Viasperon's stern gaze, the hilarity did not stop until she wanted it to, deliberately teasing his senses (and those of others assembled) with the punchline of her not-so-private joke.
The blue-clad gladiatrix carried her weapons nonchalantly, but it was no mere resting pose: even whilst walking, her every movement was closely calculated and could be deadly in the right situation.
If he had lacked the self-control which prevented him from feeling admiration, Viasperon might -perhaps- have envied her skills, or even wished for a different life at the behest of the Cults, instead of the Kabals.
Trailing in her wake like jilted debutantes, her six followers tried to emulate their mistress' grace and finery, although each knew that they were not...yet...her equal. Vasperon could almost taste the jealousy in the askance glances that her squad gave their leader; Velouria saw his wide smile at their thoughts and hissed angrily at her minions, keeping the lesser-predators in line. Seeing this dissent was another sweet thrill that Viasperon would save for later remembrance. Impeccably timed to disrupt her, the scene came to an abrupt halt as the other guest made his entrance to proceedings, growling in fury at the xenos who had taken him from the sight of his god:
Although it must have chafed terribly (yet another comfort to warm the Archon's icy heart on cold nights) the snarling warrior knew that the ones he had once termed “aliens” now held his obedience even more securely than the Master of Humanity had ever done before and he hated them for it, yet knew that it was the inescapable truth.
Still permitted to bear the debased and misguided icons of a former life, the battered scraps of armour he used to wear had now been repaired to the same standards as any that his foresworn Army could have acomplished. With his helmet slung over the back of his head, long tangles of matted hair clung to his face, but ensured that his brown eyes took in the sight of his captors and gaolers.
At the sight of his ragged appearance, the newest and most alert of the Wyches let loose a shriek of alarm, drawing two of her long-daggers as the rest of the unit took up fighting stances next to their leader, even though she needed no protection.
Neither Velouria nor Viasperon had moved an inch to react to the situation, nor would they....it was to be expected, after all: few of the so-called “Emperor” 's lackeys gave up their oaths easily and this one had proven even more resilient to the Kabal's allure than all of the others who had gone before.
Yet, no matter how brainwashed the slave had been before, it's mind had still been broken and altered as predicted all the same; former allegiances slowly corroded until there was nothing else but hate...and the loyalty that came with intense pain, of course.
With a dejected sigh, he unclenched his hands and retreated from their gaze, realising that they were now his companions and allies.
Urgently trying to trace any living relatives of Private Sam/Samuel "Jock" Wilson (Black Watch, No. 6 Commando, UK Army Service ID 2764432, died 10.06.44). Any info/suggestions gratefully received.
"Mockles! Pent on silpen tree, blockards three a-feening. Mockles! What silps came to thee, in thy pantry, dreaming?"
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Last edited by andygorn; 10-26-11 at 07:56 PM.