Post by Skabbhatt on Mar 6, 2004 19:16:21 GMT -5
I just stumbled across a short piece of fiction on my hard drive, and I thought I would share it, just for the hell of it. Be adviced that it quite poetic in it language, and that it's written as a work of an Leon Eichmann.
I have the honour to introduce a most esteemed member of the Holy Ordos of the Emperor's Inquisitors, the devoted Inquisitor Nataliya Yakovna, herald of Imperial Justice, the ageing herald said with his vox-augmented voice.
All, all the Nobles, all of their wives, all their children, their lovers, their servants. All of them, all flinched. They flinched as an ancient woman entered, this Nataliya Yakovna, this Emperor’s Inquisitor. I assure you, she did not look in the slightest way ancient but her unearthly beauty was just that, unearthly. And her eyes, her black eyes were deep mesmerizing wells, filled to the very brink with dark knowledge, knowledge forbidden. Her head was shaven, tattooed with arcane symbols of mystic power. She was clad in a most fantastic creation. A white silken dress, one that seemed to be alive; as it flowed out of her back as the wings of an angel, or a daemon. But none of this was the reason for their emotional impulse, neither was it the unspeakable powers of her station. They flinched by the simple reason of her, deadly her, being drenched in still-warm blood. That beautiful red fluid dripped down her face, down her perfect white shape. The eerie dress seemed invigorated by it, red crystalline drops rolled over the flowing silk.
Their horror-stricken faces drew a small smile on her bloodied lips. Don't you worry, her elegant voice pierced their ears, it is not Blood of Mankind, nor of the Martyr.
She flowed toward the middle of the golden throne room, and the crowd did make way for her. All keeping their distance from that vision of pure terror.
It is but the Blood of the Weakling, she started, the Blood of the Heretic, of the Traitor, of the Cultist, the Damned, and of the Incompetent. The last she said with pointed emphasis.
And unnoticed until now a slender revolver was in her beautiful hand, a weapon delicate and exquite. A thing hateful in its purpose. As a thrice-blessed bullet lefted its chamber many a deal was dealt, a vows broken, screams heard, and dreams crushed, a lifetime in ultra rapid. And, but a nanosecond later, Death arrived.
A flurry of movement later left her standing, motionless, on that great floor, pools of death growing around her. As she left the room, the deadly silence was disturbed by the lone sobbing of a child. Imperial Justice had been dealt.
- As written by the Poet-Warrior Leon Eichmann, protégé of Inquisitor Nataliya Yakovna
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I have the honour to introduce a most esteemed member of the Holy Ordos of the Emperor's Inquisitors, the devoted Inquisitor Nataliya Yakovna, herald of Imperial Justice, the ageing herald said with his vox-augmented voice.
All, all the Nobles, all of their wives, all their children, their lovers, their servants. All of them, all flinched. They flinched as an ancient woman entered, this Nataliya Yakovna, this Emperor’s Inquisitor. I assure you, she did not look in the slightest way ancient but her unearthly beauty was just that, unearthly. And her eyes, her black eyes were deep mesmerizing wells, filled to the very brink with dark knowledge, knowledge forbidden. Her head was shaven, tattooed with arcane symbols of mystic power. She was clad in a most fantastic creation. A white silken dress, one that seemed to be alive; as it flowed out of her back as the wings of an angel, or a daemon. But none of this was the reason for their emotional impulse, neither was it the unspeakable powers of her station. They flinched by the simple reason of her, deadly her, being drenched in still-warm blood. That beautiful red fluid dripped down her face, down her perfect white shape. The eerie dress seemed invigorated by it, red crystalline drops rolled over the flowing silk.
Their horror-stricken faces drew a small smile on her bloodied lips. Don't you worry, her elegant voice pierced their ears, it is not Blood of Mankind, nor of the Martyr.
She flowed toward the middle of the golden throne room, and the crowd did make way for her. All keeping their distance from that vision of pure terror.
It is but the Blood of the Weakling, she started, the Blood of the Heretic, of the Traitor, of the Cultist, the Damned, and of the Incompetent. The last she said with pointed emphasis.
And unnoticed until now a slender revolver was in her beautiful hand, a weapon delicate and exquite. A thing hateful in its purpose. As a thrice-blessed bullet lefted its chamber many a deal was dealt, a vows broken, screams heard, and dreams crushed, a lifetime in ultra rapid. And, but a nanosecond later, Death arrived.
A flurry of movement later left her standing, motionless, on that great floor, pools of death growing around her. As she left the room, the deadly silence was disturbed by the lone sobbing of a child. Imperial Justice had been dealt.
- As written by the Poet-Warrior Leon Eichmann, protégé of Inquisitor Nataliya Yakovna
