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The Creator's Game
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<blockquote data-quote="Ralan" data-source="post: 6810" data-attributes="member: 35"><p><strong>The Creator's Game</strong></p><p></p><p>1</p><p></p><p>A roaring wind beat at the black mountain?s peak, fruitlessly lashing out with smoky tendrils of red mist at the unmoving figure resting there on his barbed, bloody throne. Around him, likewise untouched by the violence of the storm, lay black, cruel weapons and cracked skulls, damp and dripping with fresh blood. Standing, the figure was two men tall, and bulky like a bull. What appeared to be mechanical black armour, studded and hanging with chains, was in truth his body; an exoskeleton of metallic bone, lit by the faint glow of his fiery heart encased within, escaping through numerous slits and grates on his chest. Upon his head sat a terrible crown of white, bloody horns protruding from a rough, cracked dome. Across his forehead lay a cast plate of black metal, depicting the death of a human at the hands of another, the symbol of his role. He is the bringer of hate, lord of spite and malice. He is a tool of the Prophecy. War gazed out from empty black eyes at the image forming before him as the red clouds parted.</p><p> It was faint at first, crackling with wild electricity and partly covered by the wisps of still retreating cloud, but as he waited, it clarified and grew until it took up most of the sky above him. War looked through the rift into the human world. He surveyed a burning city from a distance. It was large, and though imperfect, once prosperous in its own, human way. Now it was torn and ravaged; buildings crumbling from explosions, roads cracked and covered in scattered rubble from vehicle mines. He lifted a pointed black finger, and the image suddenly grew, focusing on the street dividing the town, cutting through its heart. Now he saw the bodies, lying motionless in weak, pocked armour, half blown off helmets and cracked data visors. Around them lay their smoking guns and bloody knives. At the edges of the street, survivors wept and bled. Both sides had lost too many men for victory. There was only defeat, for all. This time, no one came to claim the city; there was no one left. War smiled.</p><p> The mortal world was failing. Elsewhere, his brothers wasted away the people with hunger and disease. Above, their father Death watched over them, and gathered their bounty. Soon the Apocalyptic Prophecy would be fulfilled, the Aevus Pectum cycle broken. Soon, War could die, his task finally complete after an eternity of labour. </p><p> The Eternals were amassing their strength for their futile war to rule the All, but War knew the true shape of the future; Death had seen the mind of the Creator, and of him War and his brothers had been born. Earth would soon collapse, and Purgatory would follow it, while the Eternals destroyed each other. The end is nigh, thought War to himself. He rose to his feet, spread his arms and laughed out at the clouds as they swirled back into place over the rift.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Ralan, post: 6810, member: 35"] [b]The Creator's Game[/b] 1 A roaring wind beat at the black mountain?s peak, fruitlessly lashing out with smoky tendrils of red mist at the unmoving figure resting there on his barbed, bloody throne. Around him, likewise untouched by the violence of the storm, lay black, cruel weapons and cracked skulls, damp and dripping with fresh blood. Standing, the figure was two men tall, and bulky like a bull. What appeared to be mechanical black armour, studded and hanging with chains, was in truth his body; an exoskeleton of metallic bone, lit by the faint glow of his fiery heart encased within, escaping through numerous slits and grates on his chest. Upon his head sat a terrible crown of white, bloody horns protruding from a rough, cracked dome. Across his forehead lay a cast plate of black metal, depicting the death of a human at the hands of another, the symbol of his role. He is the bringer of hate, lord of spite and malice. He is a tool of the Prophecy. War gazed out from empty black eyes at the image forming before him as the red clouds parted. It was faint at first, crackling with wild electricity and partly covered by the wisps of still retreating cloud, but as he waited, it clarified and grew until it took up most of the sky above him. War looked through the rift into the human world. He surveyed a burning city from a distance. It was large, and though imperfect, once prosperous in its own, human way. Now it was torn and ravaged; buildings crumbling from explosions, roads cracked and covered in scattered rubble from vehicle mines. He lifted a pointed black finger, and the image suddenly grew, focusing on the street dividing the town, cutting through its heart. Now he saw the bodies, lying motionless in weak, pocked armour, half blown off helmets and cracked data visors. Around them lay their smoking guns and bloody knives. At the edges of the street, survivors wept and bled. Both sides had lost too many men for victory. There was only defeat, for all. This time, no one came to claim the city; there was no one left. War smiled. The mortal world was failing. Elsewhere, his brothers wasted away the people with hunger and disease. Above, their father Death watched over them, and gathered their bounty. Soon the Apocalyptic Prophecy would be fulfilled, the Aevus Pectum cycle broken. Soon, War could die, his task finally complete after an eternity of labour. The Eternals were amassing their strength for their futile war to rule the All, but War knew the true shape of the future; Death had seen the mind of the Creator, and of him War and his brothers had been born. Earth would soon collapse, and Purgatory would follow it, while the Eternals destroyed each other. The end is nigh, thought War to himself. He rose to his feet, spread his arms and laughed out at the clouds as they swirled back into place over the rift. [/QUOTE]
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