Post by Cid on Jun 20, 2010 21:53:37 GMT -5
We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell.
~Oscar Wilde
---
Lighthouse spun, and all was at ease. But not nearly. Apart from the gigantic floating space station, something else was amuck. Instead of mere empty space as was common in these parts, there swam an enormous, vengeful-looking fleet of war vessels. At absolute attention, the ships waited. For what, only one man truly knew--or comprehended fully with the keenness necessary. They were coming, pushing nearer with every minute. He felt them approach as a seahag feels the winds change before a storm. Unlike any sane sailor, he called to it--welcomed its tumultuous rasp. Begged for it.
The Wraith stalked the halls of the station's lower gravity decks admiring the numerous dead, as well as the many scorch marks upon the walls and ceilings with which his Martian lieutenant decided to redecorated. The fight had been righteous and, above else, a sight to see. He had been highly entertained, and though he now walked with a hobble, he had no notion of handicaps or disabilities--only gratification. He had laughed the entire time, not even bothering to join in the fray. Ol' Jaco and his boys had had the bloodlust in their eyes, and even he wasn't fool enough to get in their way when a pack of Martians were in heat. Instead, he had watched the show from the Kraken's deck, hands to his belly as he nearly chuckled himself into a coma.
Riley had personally thanked the Martians for their show and had taken to something else entirely with the swiftness of mind that was characteristic of him. Now with this all behind him, something greater was afoot and little time could be wasted. He had let his men ransack the colony bastard's pantries, raping and eating whatever they could get their hands on. This had provided another source of joviality, and it was hard to estrange himself from it.
But the Wraith could only be so happy for so long. His true aim was not the sniveling CMC, nor their pitiful holdings. Though he was a man to hold a grudge, he had paid them back twice fold and felt the case closed. His true goal was, and always had been, the illustrious Jove Empire. He chided them internally for venturing outside the confines of Jove Prime, where their temporary safety was partially guaranteed by tertiary defenses and remoteness.
Remoteness that was indicative of his current location. Remoteness he, himself, thrived in. The cold, vast darkness of space carried the souls of the dead far from God's Kingdom, trapping them. Sam would gobble them all up until his gullet was brimming with the screams of the damned, and all wrongdoers felt the tinge of unease, the silent whisper of remorse, of having unleashed such a creature as he upon the world.
A smile crested his lips and angled his mustache into a mirror of sin.
He walked among the dead and almost felt compassion.
~Oscar Wilde
---
Lighthouse spun, and all was at ease. But not nearly. Apart from the gigantic floating space station, something else was amuck. Instead of mere empty space as was common in these parts, there swam an enormous, vengeful-looking fleet of war vessels. At absolute attention, the ships waited. For what, only one man truly knew--or comprehended fully with the keenness necessary. They were coming, pushing nearer with every minute. He felt them approach as a seahag feels the winds change before a storm. Unlike any sane sailor, he called to it--welcomed its tumultuous rasp. Begged for it.
The Wraith stalked the halls of the station's lower gravity decks admiring the numerous dead, as well as the many scorch marks upon the walls and ceilings with which his Martian lieutenant decided to redecorated. The fight had been righteous and, above else, a sight to see. He had been highly entertained, and though he now walked with a hobble, he had no notion of handicaps or disabilities--only gratification. He had laughed the entire time, not even bothering to join in the fray. Ol' Jaco and his boys had had the bloodlust in their eyes, and even he wasn't fool enough to get in their way when a pack of Martians were in heat. Instead, he had watched the show from the Kraken's deck, hands to his belly as he nearly chuckled himself into a coma.
Riley had personally thanked the Martians for their show and had taken to something else entirely with the swiftness of mind that was characteristic of him. Now with this all behind him, something greater was afoot and little time could be wasted. He had let his men ransack the colony bastard's pantries, raping and eating whatever they could get their hands on. This had provided another source of joviality, and it was hard to estrange himself from it.
But the Wraith could only be so happy for so long. His true aim was not the sniveling CMC, nor their pitiful holdings. Though he was a man to hold a grudge, he had paid them back twice fold and felt the case closed. His true goal was, and always had been, the illustrious Jove Empire. He chided them internally for venturing outside the confines of Jove Prime, where their temporary safety was partially guaranteed by tertiary defenses and remoteness.
Remoteness that was indicative of his current location. Remoteness he, himself, thrived in. The cold, vast darkness of space carried the souls of the dead far from God's Kingdom, trapping them. Sam would gobble them all up until his gullet was brimming with the screams of the damned, and all wrongdoers felt the tinge of unease, the silent whisper of remorse, of having unleashed such a creature as he upon the world.
A smile crested his lips and angled his mustache into a mirror of sin.
He walked among the dead and almost felt compassion.