Nomad
05-01-2009, 04:36 AM
The sun rise was beautiful. As the red, fiery orb crested the horizon, the blue leaves of the many trees took on a purple hue and the yellow grasses of the vast plains were turned orange. None that witnessed the dawn that morning would have, could have guessed that it was the last they would witness. By evening the small planet would be a dead, lifeless rock floating through the void.
In one of the agricultural villages that dotted the plain, the inhabitants slumbered peacefully in the early morning before awakening to a day of labour in the fields that provided foodstuff for the less fertile moons and planets of the system. A sudden cry rang out in one of the small habitations and, as the echoes still reverberated around the room, a young woman sat bolt upright in her bed, her body slicked with sweat, her thin shift sticking wetly to her. As her concerned parents ran into the room, they found her staring sightlessly at the wall, shivering and crying. Nothing they said seemed to penetrate, nothing they did seemed to affect her. Carrying her from the room, they bathed her and prayed she was not falling ill. In fact, it might have been a mercy if she was merely sick.
By midmorning, the young woman's crying had subsided to a constant moaning and she rocked constantly forward and back. The concerned parents had called for the local healer, who, upon close examination, had pronounced her physically fit and well. As to her mental state, her constant moaning and spastic rocking suggested some sort of breakdown. What had caused it and how long it would endure, none could say.
As the morning dragged on, her moans became words. "They're coming for me!" repeated over and over again. Any enquiry as to who was coming, or why, was ignored. Indeed, she showed no recognition of anybody, no sign of actually hearing anything that was said to her. Her mother sat helpless, concern for her only child growing with every passing minute.
Far to the south, the air seemed to thicken and then a shimmering haze appeared, much like a heat haze, a mirage. As this haze grew in size however, a thick darkness became apparent in the center of it. A darkness broken by the movement of many misshapen figures moving within. Finally, as the darkness firmed and the haze abatted, these figures began to emerge. Slowly at first, then pouring out as if a dam had broken, flooding the plain with foulness.
First to emerge were lithe, sinuous forms, somewhat human in appearance, but sporting large, chitonous claws where their lower arms and hands should be. Twisting, dancing, leaping, these Deamonettes gave praise to their lord and master, Slaanesh, Lord of Dark Delight. Following these beautiful, deadly succubi came the warped and twisted forms of those who followed Nurgle, Father of Decay, Bringer of Death. Their foul bodies oozed puss from countless sores, slime dripped from every pore, poisoning and befouling all it contacted. These were in turn followed by many shapeless forms, their bodies seeming to flow like liquid, tortured faces and deformed limbs appearing and dissapearing so quickly a viewer could be driven to madness trying to discern a solid form. These were the followers of Tzeentch. Finally, striding purposefully through the rift, appeared large groups of sword bearing warrior deamons, each of them bearing viscous blades, each lusting to enter into battle, to slaughter as many of the weak beings that inhabited the mortal plane as possible. For these last were loyal only to Khorne, the Blood God.
As these horrible beings spread rapidly across the landscape, one last group came through the tear in reality. The Heralds, one representing each of the Chaos Gods, coalesced into solidity. Epidemus, borne on a palanquin supported by many hundreds of nurglings, representing Nurgle. The Masque, pirouetting and dancing , in honour of Slaanesh. Two squabbling, blue beings, each bearing many scrolls and books, small pads through to massive tomes in which they recorded the lost spells of Tzeentch. Last, Khorne's Skulltaker, his cloak clinking as he moved, the skulls adorning it moving against each other.
Across the plains, settlements fell to the fury of the deamon's attacks as the horrible beings swept through, seemingly senseless in their pursuit of something unknown to those humans who fell before them. Weaponless and defenceless, the mortals could only flee and die. The young woman screamed as the first of the attacks began and continued throughout the afternoon, her cries becoming more desperate as those who died became numbered in the thousands. Finally, Chaos spawned horrors reached her village, led by the deamonettes, followed by the Pink Horrors of Tzeentch. the door to her habitation were broken down, proving no impediment to the progress of the supernatural being which burst through. As her mother died, she uttered one last guttural cry and slumped unconcious. A malformed claw reached for her, but was stopped by a slight blue hand which encircled the deamonettes wrist.
"No, this one is my Lord's!" one of the Scribes growled. "She is powerful in the psychic arts, although she knows it not."
Gathering the form of the young woman to his breast, the scribe and his companion shimmered and dissappeared, taking the mortal girl with them to her place in Tzeentch's maze, to fulfil her role in his convaluted schemes.
As they disappeared, the deamonette howled in frustration, then turned to join her sisters in the ravaging of the village. Elsewhere, horrible plagues were now rampant across the landscape, destroying animal and vegetable alike. The Bloodletters were venting their rage, sending soul after soul to the Blood God. By the time darkness descended, no thing lived upon what, only a short period before, was a verdant and fertile landscape.
Such is the power of the Chaos Gods...
:cool:
In one of the agricultural villages that dotted the plain, the inhabitants slumbered peacefully in the early morning before awakening to a day of labour in the fields that provided foodstuff for the less fertile moons and planets of the system. A sudden cry rang out in one of the small habitations and, as the echoes still reverberated around the room, a young woman sat bolt upright in her bed, her body slicked with sweat, her thin shift sticking wetly to her. As her concerned parents ran into the room, they found her staring sightlessly at the wall, shivering and crying. Nothing they said seemed to penetrate, nothing they did seemed to affect her. Carrying her from the room, they bathed her and prayed she was not falling ill. In fact, it might have been a mercy if she was merely sick.
By midmorning, the young woman's crying had subsided to a constant moaning and she rocked constantly forward and back. The concerned parents had called for the local healer, who, upon close examination, had pronounced her physically fit and well. As to her mental state, her constant moaning and spastic rocking suggested some sort of breakdown. What had caused it and how long it would endure, none could say.
As the morning dragged on, her moans became words. "They're coming for me!" repeated over and over again. Any enquiry as to who was coming, or why, was ignored. Indeed, she showed no recognition of anybody, no sign of actually hearing anything that was said to her. Her mother sat helpless, concern for her only child growing with every passing minute.
Far to the south, the air seemed to thicken and then a shimmering haze appeared, much like a heat haze, a mirage. As this haze grew in size however, a thick darkness became apparent in the center of it. A darkness broken by the movement of many misshapen figures moving within. Finally, as the darkness firmed and the haze abatted, these figures began to emerge. Slowly at first, then pouring out as if a dam had broken, flooding the plain with foulness.
First to emerge were lithe, sinuous forms, somewhat human in appearance, but sporting large, chitonous claws where their lower arms and hands should be. Twisting, dancing, leaping, these Deamonettes gave praise to their lord and master, Slaanesh, Lord of Dark Delight. Following these beautiful, deadly succubi came the warped and twisted forms of those who followed Nurgle, Father of Decay, Bringer of Death. Their foul bodies oozed puss from countless sores, slime dripped from every pore, poisoning and befouling all it contacted. These were in turn followed by many shapeless forms, their bodies seeming to flow like liquid, tortured faces and deformed limbs appearing and dissapearing so quickly a viewer could be driven to madness trying to discern a solid form. These were the followers of Tzeentch. Finally, striding purposefully through the rift, appeared large groups of sword bearing warrior deamons, each of them bearing viscous blades, each lusting to enter into battle, to slaughter as many of the weak beings that inhabited the mortal plane as possible. For these last were loyal only to Khorne, the Blood God.
As these horrible beings spread rapidly across the landscape, one last group came through the tear in reality. The Heralds, one representing each of the Chaos Gods, coalesced into solidity. Epidemus, borne on a palanquin supported by many hundreds of nurglings, representing Nurgle. The Masque, pirouetting and dancing , in honour of Slaanesh. Two squabbling, blue beings, each bearing many scrolls and books, small pads through to massive tomes in which they recorded the lost spells of Tzeentch. Last, Khorne's Skulltaker, his cloak clinking as he moved, the skulls adorning it moving against each other.
Across the plains, settlements fell to the fury of the deamon's attacks as the horrible beings swept through, seemingly senseless in their pursuit of something unknown to those humans who fell before them. Weaponless and defenceless, the mortals could only flee and die. The young woman screamed as the first of the attacks began and continued throughout the afternoon, her cries becoming more desperate as those who died became numbered in the thousands. Finally, Chaos spawned horrors reached her village, led by the deamonettes, followed by the Pink Horrors of Tzeentch. the door to her habitation were broken down, proving no impediment to the progress of the supernatural being which burst through. As her mother died, she uttered one last guttural cry and slumped unconcious. A malformed claw reached for her, but was stopped by a slight blue hand which encircled the deamonettes wrist.
"No, this one is my Lord's!" one of the Scribes growled. "She is powerful in the psychic arts, although she knows it not."
Gathering the form of the young woman to his breast, the scribe and his companion shimmered and dissappeared, taking the mortal girl with them to her place in Tzeentch's maze, to fulfil her role in his convaluted schemes.
As they disappeared, the deamonette howled in frustration, then turned to join her sisters in the ravaging of the village. Elsewhere, horrible plagues were now rampant across the landscape, destroying animal and vegetable alike. The Bloodletters were venting their rage, sending soul after soul to the Blood God. By the time darkness descended, no thing lived upon what, only a short period before, was a verdant and fertile landscape.
Such is the power of the Chaos Gods...
:cool: